Red Moth (16 page)

Once the column had gone by, Stefanov shouldered the body and continued on beneath grey clouds tasselled with rain.

Pekkala arrived at the Café Tilsit at 5.30, half an hour before the meeting was due to take place. It was his custom to arrive early for meetings. This gave him time to study his surroundings, even those which were as familiar to him as the Tilsit. Out of habits that had been drilled into him since his first days of training with the Okhrana, he never sat with his back to a window or a door, but always positioned himself against a wall by an exit, preferably the kitchen, through which he could escape if needed. The other advantage of being near the kitchen was that anyone entering the restaurant through the service entrance would inevitably be halted by the staff. The change in tone of their voices was as good as any watchdog, even if he could not hear what they were saying. And if, as was likely, the intruder responded by pulling a gun on any waiter or dishwasher who tried to bar his way, even if he did not pull the trigger, the sudden silence from the kitchen was equally efficient in warning him that something was not right.

No matter how safe Pekkala knew his surroundings to be, whenever circumstances forced him to sit facing away from a window or a door, he felt the skin crawl on the back of his neck.

These rules of survival had been so engrained into Pekkala’s mind that he no longer gave them any conscious thought.

The café was bustling as usual for that time of the evening. Most of the customers sat at long tables, elbow to elbow, strangers side by side, enjoying the strange solitude that came with being alone in such a crowded place. As Pekkala made his way towards his usual table at the back, he saw that it was already occupied. As he turned to look for an alternative, the figure at his chosen place raised a hand and smiled.

It was only then that Pekkala realised the man was Kovalevsky, who had arrived even earlier, no doubt with the same instincts as Pekkala’s.

The two men sat hunched over the little table, elbows resting on the bare wood, not knowing where to begin after so many years apart.

In spite of the years since they’d last seen each other, Pekkala felt immediately at ease with Kovalevsky. Their shared past had given them a particular angle of vision on the world which could not be blunted by time.

‘Did you think I wouldn’t show?’ asked Kovalevsky.

‘You’re here now‚’ replied Pekkala. ‘That’s what matters.’

‘I see you are not wearing your weapon.’

‘I knew I wouldn’t need it.’

With a smile, Kovalevsky drew open his coat, showing that he’d also come unarmed. ‘Ever since you stepped into my classroom this afternoon, I’ve been wondering how you tracked me down.’

‘You talk in your sleep,’ replied Pekkala.

‘I what?’

Without offering any further explanation, Pekkala asked a question of his own. ‘How on earth did you know I came here to the Tilsit?’

‘I come here myself from time to time. I’ve seen you here.’

Now it was Pekkala who seemed baffled. ‘How is it that I didn’t spot you?’

‘One thing I did not forget from my days with Myednikov is how to vanish in a crowded room. Besides, when a man is dead, you do not look for him. In that way, at least, Dzerzhinsky did me a favour.’

Valentina, the owner, arrived at their table with two wooden bowls of sorrel and spinach soup, into each of which a dollop of sour cream had been ladled. ‘Ah,’ she said to Pekkala, ‘I see you have made a new friend.’ And with those words, she bent down and kissed Kovalevsky on the cheek. ‘The professor is my favourite customer. Aren’t you, Professor?’

‘I try to be,’ he replied.

Pekkala smiled politely as he watched this exchange, but he couldn’t help remembering his last visit to the Tilsit, when Valentina had touched his shoulder. And he was embarrassed now at how that touch had made him feel, even if only for an instant.

‘So we are to go on a mission together,’ said Kovalevsky, when the two men were alone again.

‘The last one you will ever need to do.’

Kovalevsky nodded as he spooned some of the bright green soup into his mouth. ‘A fitting end to my career, since you were also my companion on the first mission we ever undertook.’

‘A humbling experience,’ remarked Pekkala, ‘thanks to Chief Inspector Vassileyev.’

In the course of their Okhrana training, Vassileyev had familiarised the two young recruits in the use of secret codes, disguises, bomb defusing and firearms, which included so many hours spent firing their Nagant revolvers in the underground range beneath Okhrana Headquarters that Pekkala and Kovalevsky resorted to dipping their index fingers in molten candle wax before the sessions began every day, since the skin had been worn off the pads of their fingertips by the triggers of the guns.

Vassileyev’s favourite topic, however, was the hunting down of suspects. He was, in spite of the fact that he had lost one of his legs in a bomb blast, still considered to be the finest practitioner of the art of tailing and pursuit in all of Russia.

So it struck the two men as particularly strange when, after only an hour of preparation, Vassileyev assigned them the task of following a courier named Worunchuk from the telegraph office he visited each afternoon to the point where he crossed the Potsuleyev bridge.

‘But you must go no further than the bridge!’ commanded Vassileyev.

Perplexed by this cryptic order, Kovalevsky and Pekkala did not know what to think.

‘Inspector . . .’ Pekkala began hesitantly.

‘Yes? What is it?’

‘Are you sure we are ready for this? We’ve been shooting at targets for months, but we spent less than a day learning how to tail suspects.’

‘You are exactly as ready as I need you to be! Now go!’ He shooed them out of the room. ‘Get to work!’

Following Vassileyev’s instructions, Kovalevsky and Pekkala waited at a tram stop across the road from the telegraph office. Each time a tram halted to allow passengers on or off, the two men would step back until the tram had departed and resume their observation of the telegraph office. It was a small building, painted bone-white except for a red sign, outlined with black and gold, above the entrance, which read, ‘Government Signals Bureau’.

‘I don’t think he’s ever coming,’ muttered Kovalevsky, after they had been standing there for an hour.

‘Vassileyev taught us to be patient,’ replied Pekkala, although he was beginning to have his own doubts.

It was three hours before Worunchuk finally arrived. The physical description Vassileyev had provided them made the suspect easy to identify. He was a heavy-set man with an olive complexion, sharp, sloping nose and a black moustache. He wore a black, velvet-lapelled overcoat that came down to his knees of the type commonly seen on lawyers, bankers and office managers.

Worunchuk had chosen the time of day when most businesses were closing, and the streets were filled with people heading home from work.

Rather than risk losing him in the crowds, Kovalevsky and Pekkala hurriedly crossed the road as Worunchuk ducked into the telegraph office. They waited two doors down, outside a woman’s clothing shop, until Worunchuk appeared a few minutes later, tucking an envelope into the chest pocket of his coat.

He set off at a brisk pace along the road which ran beside the Moika River. Several times, he crossed the street and then crossed back again for no apparent reason, forcing Pekkala and Kovalevsky to reverse direction in the middle of the road. Once he stopped in front of a butcher shop, eyeing the cuts of meat on display behind the large glass window.

It was not long before Worunchuk crossed the Potsuleyev bridge, leaving his pursuers sweating with exertion as they watched him disappear among the commuters. As soon as he was out of sight, Kovalevsky and Pekkala hurried back to Vassileyev.

They found him sitting behind his desk, whittling out the inside of his wooden leg with a large bone-handled pen knife. ‘Did you find him?’ asked Vassileyev, without even looking up to see who had entered the room.

‘Yes.’ Kovalevsky removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the sweat from his forehead. ‘He moves quickly!’

‘And he crossed the Potsuleyev bridge?’

‘That is correct, Inspector,’ Pekkala confirmed, ‘and from there, we let him go, just as you ordered.’

‘Good!’ Vassileyev laid his wooden leg upon the table. ‘Tomorrow you will do the same again. Follow him to the Potsuleyev bridge.’

‘Yes, Inspector,’ both men chorused.

Vassileyev aimed a finger at them. ‘But no further. That’s an order!’

The next day and the next and the next, the two men took up their station at the tram stop.

Worunchuk kept a tight schedule, arriving at the telegraph office at three minutes to five every day. The route he took to reach the Potsuleyev bridge also remained unchanged, and varied only in those places where he zigzagged mindlessly across the road. But he always stopped at the butcher shop, standing before its large glass window to study the cuts of meat.

‘Why doesn’t he buy anything?’ muttered Kovalevsky. ‘If he can afford a coat like that, he can spring for a few links of sausage!’

When, once more, Worunchuk vanished across the Potsuleyev bridge, Kovalevsky turned angrily and began striding back towards Vassileyev’s office.

Pekkala struggled to keep up.

‘This is doing no good at all!’ Kovalevsky’s voice was filled with frustration. ‘As far as I can see‚ he’s doing nothing wrong.’

‘Yet.’

Kovalevsky stopped and turned to face Pekkala. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said “yet”. He hasn’t done anything wrong yet.’

‘This city is filled with people who haven’t done anything wrong yet. Are you suggesting that we follow all of them?’

‘No,’ Pekkala replied, ‘only the one Inspector Vassileyev has ordered us to pursue.’

Kovalevsky grunted disapprovingly, then headed off again towards Okhrana headquarters.

The next day, on Vassileyev’s orders, they were back at the tram stop, opposite the telegraph office.

Kovalevsky was in an even fouler mood than he had been the day before. ‘This is not what I signed up for.’ He glared at Pekkala. ‘Did you sign up for this?’

‘No,’ Pekkala told him. ‘I did not sign up at all. It was the Tsar who sent me here.’

At two minutes past five, when Worunchuk made his usual departure from the telegraph office, Pekkala and Kovalevsky set off after him, following at a safe distance.

As he did every day, Worunchuk paused before the butcher shop.

‘For pity’s sake,’ growled Kovalevsky, ‘go in and buy something today!’

Suddenly, as if Kovalevsky’s suggestion had forced itself into his mind, Worunchuk stepped into the shop.

‘Finally!’ groaned Kovalevsky.

The two men slowed their pace and came to a halt one door down from the butcher shop.

‘We shouldn’t stop here,’ said Pekkala. ‘We’ll walk slowly past the shop and wait for him on the other side. He’s bound to come out soon.’

As the two men strolled past the butcher shop, they were shocked to find Worunchuk standing in the doorway.

He had not entered the shop at all, but only stood at the entrance, waiting for the men to walk by.

Stunned, Pekkala and Kovalevsky met his stare, unable to hide their true purpose.

Angrily, Worunchuk pushed past them and set off towards the Potsuleyev bridge. He did not run. Nor did he turn to look back. It was as if he knew they could not touch him.

Pekkala had taken only one step in the direction of the fleeing man before he felt Kovalevsky’s arm on his sleeve, holding him back.

‘It’s no use,’ whispered Kovalevsky. ‘He’s made us. Somehow he figured it out. We might as well go back and tell Vassileyev we have failed.’

Gloomily, the two men watched him disappear into the crowd.

Half an hour later, Pekkala and Kovalevsky presented themselves at Vassileyev’s office.

Vassileyev was sitting at his desk, smoking a cigarette which he had taken from a gold and red box labelled ‘Markov’. ‘Well?’ he demanded, raising his chin and whistling a thin jet of smoke towards the ceiling.

‘He spotted us,’ explained Pekkala.

‘How?’ Vassileyev’s face showed no emotion.

After a deep sigh, Kovalevsky continued with their story. ‘He was waiting for us in the doorway to a butcher shop. He stopped there every day but never went inside. This day, he finally went in, at least we thought he had . . .’

‘Did the shop have a window?’

‘Yes, for displaying the meat. Every day he went to see what they’d set out. But he never bought anything!’

‘He wasn’t looking at the meat,’ said Vassileyev. ‘He was studying your reflections in the window.’

As the truth became apparent, Pekkala lowered his head in shame and stared at the floor.

Kovalevsky’s lips began to twitch. ‘But when he crossed the road, back and forth, he never looked back. He didn’t see us then.’

‘He didn’t need to. He was testing who kept pace with him. Anyone not following him would maintain their speed along the pavement, but you would return to the exact same distance behind him. And all the confirmation he needed would be there for him to see in the shop window when he stopped.’

‘I am sorry,’ muttered Kovalevsky,

‘
We
are sorry,’ added Pekkala.

For a moment longer, Vassileyev’s face remained stony. Then, all of a sudden, he began to smile. ‘You have both done very well.’

The two men stared at him in confusion.

‘You did exactly what I hoped you would do,’ explained Vassileyev.

‘You mean to let him see us?’ asked Kovalevsky.

‘You didn’t let him,’ said Vassileyev. ‘He outsmarted you. That’s all.’

‘And that was what you wanted?’ asked Pekkala. ‘I don’t understand, Chief Inspector.’

‘Worunchuk is not the man we’re after. As I told you‚ he is only a courier.’

‘Then who are you trying to arrest?’ asked Kovalevsky.

‘A bomb maker named Krebs. We believe he might have been the one who built the device that killed Tsar Alexander III. He has no politics, no convictions. He simply builds bombs for whoever can afford to pay him. We learned from an Okhrana agent at the telegraph office that messages had begun arriving regularly for a certain Julius Crabbe, a known alias for Krebs. The messages are coded, of course. We have no way of knowing exactly who he’s building for now, or what will be done with the bomb when it is ready. Our only chance is to arrest Krebs before he has a chance to deliver the bomb.’

‘But why not simply follow Worunchuk to the place where he’s delivering the telegram?’ Kovalevsky asked exasperatedly.

‘Oh, we’ve done that.’ Vassileyev dismissed the suggestion with a wave of his hand. ‘He lives in a flat across the road from the Petersburg Wind Instruments Factory.’

‘And why not arrest him there?’ asked Pekkala.

Vassileyev smiled patiently. ‘Because we happen to know that Krebs has prepared explosive devices strong enough to destroy the entire building, along with half the others on the street, if anyone should try to force their way into his apartment. We need to catch him when he is out on his own. Otherwise, he will kill as many or more people than would have been killed by the bomb he’s constructing now.’

‘But Worunchuk will have told him by now that he was being followed by the Okhrana. Surely he’ll be on the next train out of town.’

Vassileyev shook his head. ‘Worunchuk is a professional. He probably realised you were following him the first day you showed up outside the telegraph office.’

‘Then why would he come back the next day, and the next and the day after that?’

‘He was studying you,’ said Vassileyev, ‘seeing how well you were able to track him without being noticed.’

‘Not well at all, apparently,’ said Pekkala.

‘Exactly! And Worunchuk would quickly reach the conclusion that he was not dealing with agents of the Okhrana, who would have undergone months of training. What he would have seen were a couple of amateurs. Forgive me, boys, but what I needed from you these past few days was not your expertise but rather your lack of it.’

‘Then who will he think we are, if not government agents?’ asked Kovalevsky.

Vassileyev pursed his lips and let his hands fall open. ‘Most likely, just a couple of local thugs looking to shake him down. The fact that you would only follow him as far as the Potsuleyev bridge would have convinced him of this, since the gangs in this city co-exist by operating in specific territories. The bridge is one such boundary marker, and a line gang members would not dare to cross.’

‘We could have gotten him,’ said Kovalevsky. ‘He was standing right in front of us.’

‘It’s lucky for you that you didn’t try,’ replied Vassileyev. ‘He would have killed you both for sport.’

‘So what do we do now?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Do we simply show up tomorrow at the telegraph office and start following him all over again?’

‘There would be no point, ‘Vassileyev told him. ‘Worunchuk won’t be there. The fact that he was being followed, even if it was only by a couple of thugs such as yourselves, means that he can no longer function as a courier for Krebs. As soon as he has informed Krebs of the situation he will vanish, probably to another city. No doubt we will run into him again someday. But, for now, that leaves Krebs without a courier to receive his messages. He hasn’t got time to engage another courier.’

‘He will have to collect them himself,’ said Pekkala.

Vassileyev nodded. ‘And when he does, we will be waiting.’

‘What about the person who is paying for the bomb?’

‘In the city of Kiev, there is another equally humiliated pair of young Okhrana agents, and a courier who thinks he’s gotten the better of them. It won’t be long before the man who ordered the bomb is face to face with the oblivion he had planned for many others.’ Vassileyev stubbed out his cigarette and immediately reached into the box to find another. ‘Congratulations, boys. You have just completed your first successful mission.’

‘And what is this last mission to be?’ asked Kovalevsky, as he carefully spooned up his soup.

While Kovalevsky ate, Pekkala explained everything.

By the time he had finished, Kovalevsky’s bowl was empty. With a sigh, he pushed it to the centre of the table, sat back and folded his hands across his stomach. ‘What I don’t understand, Pekkala, is why you need my help at all. It has been years since I practised my old trade. Surely Stalin has his own men to do this job!’