Red Moth (21 page)

By the time Kirov reached NKVD headquarters, he was drenched in sweat. He had run the whole way, having left behind the Emka at his office. Waving his pass book in the face of the guard at the entrance, he clattered down the stairs to the armoury and found Captain Lazarev in the middle of his lunch. Scattered among weapons parts, cleaning rods and loose rounds of ammunition lay a slice of raw potato, a piece of dried fish and a jar of sauce made from raisins and sour cream.

‘Ah!’ Lazarev held out his arms and waggled his fingers, like a child waiting to be picked up. ‘What have you brought me now?’

Kirov untied his handkerchief bundle and presented the gun fragment to Lazarev. ‘It was in a drain, just up the street from where the shooting took place.’

With a sweep of his arm, the Chief Armourer cleared a space on the cluttered counter top, jumbling bullets and dried fish into a heap. He fixed his gaze upon the revolver and wiped his sour-cream-smeared fingertips across the chest of his grimy shop coat. Slowly, he reached down, picked up the barrel and squinted at the tiny symbols etched in a circle across the back end of the cylinder.

‘Well?’ asked Kirov, unable to wait any longer for an answer.

‘Type 26,’ replied Lazarev. ‘Koishikawa Arsenal.’

‘Koish . . .?’

‘. . . ikawa. It was standard issue for Japanese non-commissioned officers.’

‘You think they had something to do with this?’

Lazarev smiled. ‘I can say almost for certain that they didn’t.’

‘And why are you so confident?’

‘Because,’ said Lazarev, ‘it hasn’t been standard issue since 1904. It was still in use as late as the 1920s, but has since been replaced by the Nambu Mark 14.’

Kirov stared at Lazarev, trying to make sense of the dates and numbers which were now rattling around inside his head.

‘What you have here, Major,’ explained Lazarev, ‘is a souvenir of the Russo-Japanese War, and one which long ago ran out of ammunition.’

‘What do you mean “ran out”?’

‘The Type 26 requires a special cartridge. Whoever used this did not have access to such particular ammunition. That’s why those Mauser bullets had been modified. As you can see, it was in poor condition even before someone tried to smash it to bits. It looks as if it has been stored in a barn or a damp cellar somewhere. It hasn’t been oiled recently. It’s surprising that the weapon worked at all.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Kirov. ‘In a time when there are tens of thousands of soldiers passing through this city every day, each one of them armed with a modern gun, why would someone take the risk of using a relic like this when they could have borrowed or stolen one from a member of the Red Army?’

‘You are right that all those soldiers carry guns, Major, but most of them are Mosin-Nagant rifles, unsuitable for the purposes of an assassin. What this person wanted was a handgun, which, as a general rule, are issued only to officers and security personnel. It cuts down on the chances of stealing such a weapon, and also on the chance of persuading someone to part with it temporarily.’

‘And also on the odds of the killer being an officer.’

‘Or a member of State Security. Such as yourself.’

‘You talk as if you think I killed this man,’ objected Kirov.

‘No, Major. That isn’t what I think, although I know you could have done. You have won the NKVD marksmanship award six years in a row.’

Kirov had the little NKVD trophies lined up on his mantelpiece at home, but those weren’t his only awards. He had dozens of others: for rifle shooting, pistol shooting, clay pigeon shooting. Kirov didn’t know why he was a good marksman. He had received no particular training, other than the basic courses in weapons handling that all NKVD men received. There were many things, most things in fact, at which Kirov had to struggle even to be average. But the aiming of a gun, the measured breathing and the gentle closing of his finger on the trigger all came naturally to him, as if he had been born with the skill.

‘You might be surprised,’ continued Lazarev, ‘at how many times I have been consulted by members of NKVD about shootings which turned out to have been carried out by members of our own branch of service. In this case, however, I do not believe we are dealing with a professional.’

‘You may be wrong there, Comrade Lazarev. I was able to trace the path of the bullet, and I can tell you it was a magnificent shot.’

‘Luck can also be magnificent. We may never know what role was played by skill and what by chance. But ask yourself this, Major.’ Lazarev held up the remains of the gun by the tip of its barrel and swung it back and forth as if it were a pendulum. ‘Why would an assassin entrust his task to a weapon as old and decrepit as this?’

‘He might have had no other choice.’

‘Precisely, and the choice of those who have no other choice is invariably the Black Market, which has always been a reliable, if eccentric, source of weaponry,’ said Lazarev. ‘Relics like this Type 26 are the orphans of war. After being picked up off the battlefield, they are sold or traded, stolen or misplaced. Eventually, they just fall through the cracks and are left to gather rust and dirt until at last they end up in the hands of people who cannot pick and choose the tools with which to carry out their crimes. I think you will find that the shooter, whoever he may be, was neither an agent of a foreign country, nor someone for whom killing is a trade.’

More puzzled than before‚ Kirov made his way up to the ground floor. Instead of leaving the building, he continued to climb the stairs until he reached the records office on the fourth floor. There, he found Elizaveta, sitting with two other women in the tiny, windowless space which served as their break room. They sat on old wooden file boxes, drinking tea out of the dark green enamel mugs which were provided in every Soviet government building, every school, hospital and train station café in the country. One heavy-set woman, with a square face and a tight mesh of grey hair, was smoking a cigarette, which filled the room with clouds of acrid smoke.

The women were laughing about something but they fell silent as soon as Kirov came to the doorway. Noticing his rank, they eyed him nervously, all except Elizaveta, who smiled and set aside her mug. Rising to her feet, she stepped over the legs of the other women and embraced him.

Awkwardly, because he was still not used to being seen as part of a couple, Kirov returned the embrace. At the same time, he attempted to smile at the other women, who were now studying him with completely different expressions on their faces. Their fear had vanished. The appraisal had begun.

‘This is Yulian,’ said Elizaveta. ‘He is with Special Operations.’

‘Special Operations.’ Through crooked lips, the woman with the cigarette whistled out a stream of smoke. ‘You must know Inspector Pekkala.’

‘I know him very well,’ said Kirov.

‘Is he as handsome as they say?’

‘That depends,’ Kirov told her, ‘on how handsome they say he is.’ Before the woman could think of a reply to that, he turned his attention to Elizaveta. ‘Come with me,’ he said.

‘But I have work! My break is almost over.’

‘No one will notice if you take a few extra minutes.’

‘I would notice,’ said the woman with the cigarette.

‘This is Sergeant Gatkina,’ explained Elizaveta, ‘keeper of the records office.’

‘And her superior,’ added Sergeant Gatkina, stubbing out the remains of the cigarette against the thick sole of her shoe.

‘Ah,’ Kirov said quietly. ‘My apologies, Comrade Sergeant.’

Sergeant Gatkina replied with a grunt.

‘I am also her superior,’ said the other woman, a matronly figure, whose face appeared set in a perpetual glare of disapproval. ‘I am Corporal Korolenko and I say . . .’

‘Shut up!’ barked Sergeant Gatkina.

The woman’s mouth snapped closed like a mousetrap.

‘I’ll see you later,’ Kirov whispered to Elizaveta.

He was just about to step out of the room, when Sergeant Gatkina’s voice cut once more through the smoky air.

‘Go!’ she commanded.

‘I am going,’ Kirov told her.

‘Not you!’ growled Gatkina. ‘Kapanina!’

‘Yes, Comrade Sergeant?’ answered Elizaveta.

‘You will be back in half an hour.’

‘Yes, Comrade Sergeant.’

‘And then you will tell us all there is to tell about your major.’ As she spoke, she aimed a glance at Kirov, as if daring him to speak.

But Kirov knew better. Nodding solemnly, he took his leave.

Outside the building, Kirov and Elizaveta walked out across the Lubyanka Square.

‘I hope I didn’t get you in trouble,’ said Kirov.

‘As long as Sergeant Gatkina knows she is in charge, and as long as she knows that you know, then there is nothing to worry about.’

‘I’m sorry I haven’t come by sooner,’ he said. ‘Things have been very busy since I saw you last.’

‘Does this have anything to do with Inspector Pekkala?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will we not be making dinner for him, after all?’

‘He’s doing some work out of town.’

‘Will he be returning soon?’

‘I don’t know. When I said goodbye to him, he spoke to me as if he knew he wasn’t coming back.’

‘Perhaps you’re imagining it.’

‘I hope so.’ Kirov breathed in deeply and smiled. ‘There was something else he told me, though. It had to do with you.’

‘Yes?’ She sounded suddenly nervous.

‘He said it would be a mistake if I ever let you go.’

She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Well, I still think he’s strange, but I also believe he is right.’

‘He was almost killed, you know, right after you first met him.’ Kirov went on to describe the shooting outside the Café Tilsit. ‘I’m supposed to be investigating the case, but there’s not enough evidence, and what little I have had leads nowhere. I can’t shake the idea that, even though it was Pekkala’s friend who died, Pekkala might have been the target, after all.’

‘In that line of work,’ said Elizaveta, ‘there must be no shortage of people who would want you dead.’

As her words sifted into his mind, Kirov thought back to what Pekkala had said to him after Kovalevsky had been killed – ‘It could have been you lying there in the gutter with your throat torn out.’

Even though Pekkala had taken back everything he’d said, Kirov wondered if he might have been right. Maybe their lives were indeed too fragile to be shared, especially by those who loved them.

‘There is no shortage of such people,’ admitted Kirov.

‘But fortunately,’ replied Elizaveta, ‘most of those must be in prison now.’

‘Most.’ Then suddenly an idea took shape in Kirov’s mind. ‘But not all.’ He stepped back. ‘I have to go.’

‘Did I say something wrong?’

‘No! Quite the opposite!’ Kirov stepped forward and kissed her. ‘I’ll speak to you soon.’ Then he bolted across Lubyanka Square, headed for the Kremlin.

‘Goodbye!’ she called, but by then he was already gone. Returning to work, Elizaveta glanced up at the fourth floor of NKVD Headquarters in time to see the faces of Corporal Korolenko and Sergeant Gatkina staring down at her intently.

Pekkala watched as the bodies of the executed men were dragged out of sight into the field. ‘Why did you have to kill them?’ he asked Leontev. ‘You only wanted their clothes. Surely something could have been found for them to wear instead.’

‘We would have killed them anyway,’ Leontev told him matter of factly. ‘Glavpur does not take prisoners.’

Stefanov hesitated. ‘Does the Comrade Captain realise what the enemy will do if they capture us in these uniforms?’

‘It would be no different,’ replied Leontev, ‘than what we’d do to them if the situation was reversed. Which it often is. Switching uniforms is also a habit of the Germans. They even have a special group known as the Brandenburg Kommando. They entered Smolensk ahead of the main German advance, all wearing Red Army uniforms. They stopped us from blowing up the bridges. That’s why the city fell so quickly. And as for you, our reports indicate that the troops currently occupying Pushkin village are a brigade of cavalry belonging to the Waffen SS. What they’ll do if they catch you will be every bit as vicious if you’re wearing Russian uniforms as it would be if you’re dressed as Germans and they realise who you are.’

Churikova glanced uneasily at the heap of dirty clothing. ‘There are only two uniforms here.’

‘You are better off keeping your clothes,’ advised Leontev. ‘There are plenty of women serving in the Soviet Army, as snipers, stretcher bearers or truck drivers, and their uniforms are nearly the same as those of the men. But the Germans don’t mix women with their front-line troops. Some of these uniforms belong to German Military Police. Travelling together, it will appear that you are a prisoner being brought back for interrogation.’ Leontev jerked his chin at the pile of black leather belts and field-grey wool. ‘The rest of you, find something that fits. Leave everything else behind except your Russian pass books. You will need them to establish your identities once you have returned to our lines.’

‘And if they find our pass books on us?’ asked Stefanov.

‘Then I hope for your sake that you’ll already be dead.’

Gritting his teeth, Pekkala rummaged through the dead men’s clothes. He selected a tunic belonging to one of the military policemen, some trousers and some boots and carried them into the next room, which was the kitchen. A smell of boiled meat hung in the air. Pekkala was about to lay the clothes upon the
pleeta
stove when, out of old habit, he spat on the iron plates to check that they weren’t hot.

After stripping off his own garments, Pekkala dressed in the German uniform. It was still warm from the man’s body heat. Fumbling with the pebbled metal buttons, he smelled the man’s sweat and the unfamiliar machine-oil reek of German wool. It was the socks that troubled him the most, since he had long since grown used to Russian
portyanki
, which wound about the foot like a bandage. Next, Pekkala picked up a pair of jack boots and held the muddy soles against his foot, trying to gauge their size. He tried the other pair and pulled them on. His own foot settled on the imprint of the dead man’s.

At that moment, Leontev appeared at the kitchen door, carrying several German helmets, which he tossed into the room. The heavy metal crashed on to the wooden floorboards. He nodded approvingly at Pekkala and Stefanov. ‘Excellent!’ he grinned. ‘I feel like shooting you.’

‘These clothes may fit,’ said Pekkala, ‘but the average soldier in this or any other army is a good deal younger than I am.’

‘The average soldier, yes, but not the average member of the military police. In wartime, these men are often recruited from the regular police force. As a result, most are older than the people they’re sent to arrest. Chained dogs. That’s what the Germans call their military police. With any luck, as soon as they see those gorgets around your necks, they’ll turn around and walk the other way. Military police do not mix with the rest of the army. They do not sleep in the same barracks. They do not eat at the same tables. They do not drink at the same bars. They prefer to be left alone and the rest of the army, whether it is Russian, German or any other nationality, is most often happy to oblige.’

The soldiers returned from the field. They washed their hands in a puddle in the road. Then they began setting fire to the barn.

‘Take what you can and get out,’ ordered Leontev. ‘They’re burning the house down as well.’

‘But why?’ asked Stefanov. ‘This is a Russian farm!’

‘We burn everything,’ replied Leontev. ‘By the way, Inspector, I have been told to give you this.’ He held up a grey metal canister, of the type German soldiers used for storing their gas masks, suspended on a heavy canvas strap. ‘A gift from Comrade Poskrebychev. He said you would know what to do with it.’

Momentarily confused, Pekkala reached out and took hold of the canister. It was heavy. ‘What’s in this?’ he asked.

‘Enough explosives to blow us all to vapour. The canister also contains two pencil timers, in case you need to divide the charges.’

‘Pencil timers?’

‘A glass vial of cupric chloride is housed in an aluminium and copper tube, along with a detonator and a striker, which is held back by a tiny wire made of lead alloy. Break the vial by crushing the copper end of the tube with the heel of your boot, then pull the safety strip on the side of the tube and the timer will begin. There are five timers in the set, each one with a different coloured band, wrapped in a paper bundle which tells you how long each coloured tube will last before it detonates. You have anywhere from ten minutes to an hour, depending on which colour you use. Once you’ve pulled the safety strip, jam the sharp end of the timer into the explosives and get as far away as you can.’

Cautiously, Pekkala slung the canister across his shoulder.

‘There is one more thing they’ve given you, Inspector,’ said Leontev.

‘What is that?’

‘A coil of wire and a battery, for constructing an instant fuse. Simply cut the wire in half, embed one of each end in the explosives and one of the other ends to the negative battery terminal. As soon as you touch the fourth end to the positive terminal, you will complete the circuit, which sends an electric charge into the explosives and detonates them.’

‘Which means I have no chance of escape,’ Pekkala concluded.

‘It looks to me, Inspector, that they have put more value on this mission than they have done on your life.’

Red Army soldiers moved past them and into the house. In a minute, the place was ablaze. They had just left the building, when a heavy thump of mortars sounded on the ridge. Immediately the men set off at a run towards their gun positions.

‘Any moment now,’ said Leontev, ‘the Fascists will begin advancing up the slope. When you hear the shooting start, follow the cart path. It veers to the west in a couple of kilometres. You must not talk. You must not smoke. If you get lost, you must not cry out.’ He jabbed two fingers at his eyes, as if he meant to blind himself. ‘Never lose sight of the person in front of you. After one hour, you will come to a river, beside which are the ruins of a house. A man is waiting for you there. He is one of ours. He will show you how to get across the river. From there, the road runs straight to Tsarskoye Selo.’

The thatched roof was burning now. Whirlwinds of sparks vortexed into the sky. A loud explosion echoed through the trees as a wave of fire rolled across the ridge. More explosions followed, each one a dusty red plume punching out of the darkness.

Pekkala turned to look for Leontev, but the man had already vanished into the night.