Mother. Father. Child. The picture was perfectly clear.
Stalin’s purpose in showing the photo to Pekkala had been equally clear – to persuade him to remain in Russia, and carry on the work he had begun when he first attached the gold and emerald badge beneath the collar of his coat.
‘You must not blame her,’ Stalin had told the Inspector. ‘She waited. She waited a very long time. But a person cannot wait forever, can they?’ Better, Stalin had explained, that Pekkala should learn the truth now than to arrive in Paris, ready to start a new life, only to find that it was once more out of reach. ‘You could still go to her, of course. I have her address if you want it. One look at you and whatever peace of mind she might have won for herself in these past years would be gone forever. And let us say, for the sake of argument, that you might persuade her to leave the man she married. Let us say that she even leaves behind her child . . .’
Pekkala held up a hand for him to stop.
‘You see my point,’ continued Stalin. ‘You and I both know that you are not this kind of man. Nor are you the monster that your enemies once believed you to be. If you were, you would never have been such a formidable opponent for people like myself. Monsters are easy to defeat. With such people, it is only a question of blood and time, since their only weapon is fear. But you, Pekkala, you won the hearts of the people of Russia, along with the respect of your enemies. I do not believe you understand how rare a thing that is. Whatever your opinion of me, those whom you once served are out there still.’ Stalin brushed his hand towards the window, and out across the pale blue sky. ‘They know how difficult your job can be, and how few of those who walk your path can do what must be done and still hold on to their humanity. They have not forgotten you, Pekkala, and I don’t believe you have forgotten them.’
‘No,’ whispered Pekkala, ‘I have not forgotten.’
‘What I am trying to tell you’, Stalin had explained, ‘is that you still have a place here if you want it.’
Until that moment, the thought of staying on had not occurred to Pekkala. But now the plans he’d made held no more meaning. Pekkala realised that his last gesture of affection for the woman he’d once thought would be his wife must be to let her believe he was dead.
Now Stalin opened a file and from it he removed a picture, which he slid across the desk towards Pekkala.
It was that same photograph which he had set before Pekkala all those years ago.
A sigh escaped Pekkala’s lips. Even though he had recalled every detail of the picture, it still struck him to see it again. It was as if a hole had opened up in time and he found himself again, in this same room, in that moment when the course of his life had been altered by this single frozen image. ‘Why show me this again?’ he asked.
‘The photograph is not complete,’ Stalin said quietly, as if hoping that his words might pass unnoticed.
‘Not complete? I don’t understand,’ said Pekkala.
Now Stalin removed a second picture from the file. It was the same size as the first one, and showed almost the same image, but this one appeared to have been taken from several paces further back.
The second photo showed not only Lilya Simonova and the man beside her, as well as the pram that stood between them, but also the tables on either side. From this expanded view, it was evident that the man had been sitting at a separate table and that he was with another woman. The woman was holding a baby in her arms. The baby was laughing and it was this which had drawn the attention of Lilya and the man. The other thing which this photo made obvious was that Lilya Simonova was sitting at the table by herself. A stack of notes, perhaps the uncorrected papers of her students, lay neatly on the table top, and her hand, with a pen tucked in her fingers like a cigarette, lay on the notes, to stop them from blowing away.
As he stared at the picture, Pekkala realised that the first image he had been shown, all those years ago, had, in fact, been cropped to hide the presence of the other woman, the baby and the positioning of the tables.
In the second picture, the narrative had been completely changed.
The first picture was authentic, but the story it told had been a lie.
Pekkala’s mind reeled as he tried to grasp the magnitude of the deception.
‘I needed you here,’ explained Stalin, ‘and it would have done no good to force you to remain. The decision had to be yours. That picture came across my desk just as you were completing your first case for me. The subject of the photo, taken by one of our agents in Paris, was actually the man sitting next to your fiancee. His name was Kuznetsk and he was one of the founding members of the French anti-Bolshevik League known as the White Hand. The picture was taken to provide confirmation that the man was, in fact, Kuznetsk, prior to my issuing a liquidation order.’
Pekkala looked down again at the photo. He stared at the woman and the laughing child.
‘It was only when the picture was handed to me for approval that I noticed your fiancee, and I realised it could be useful in persuading you to stay and work for us.’
‘Why tell me this now?’ demanded Pekkala, as he struggled to contain his rage.
‘Because you would have learned the truth yourself within hours of reaching Berlin, and I would rather you heard it from me than from her.’
‘What difference would that make?’ asked Pekkala. ‘You’re the one who lied to me, not her.’
‘And the British are lying to both of us, which is something else we need to talk about if you can hold on to your temper long enough!’
Pekkala stood there in silence, waiting for Stalin to continue.
‘In case you haven’t realised this already,’ Stalin told him, ‘the British don’t care about Lilya Simonova, at least not enough to come to us and beg for help as they have done.’
‘They why would they do such a thing?’
‘Because she has something they want.’
Pekkala narrowed his eyes. ‘You think this is about the Diamond Stream?’
Stalin nodded.
‘But the officer in the prisoner-of-war camp, the one Kirov spoke to. He said they couldn’t make it work.’
‘And, at the time of his capture, that was probably the truth,’ agreed Stalin, ‘but much could have happened since then.’
‘Assuming you are correct,’ said Pekkala, ‘and that this device is now operational, that still does not explain why you are in such a hurry to rescue a British agent. Even if they are our allies, you can’t honestly believe that they will share the secrets of this weapon.’
‘They won’t,’ confirmed Stalin, ‘but Lilya Simonova might.’
Pekkala breathed out sharply through his nose. ‘And why would she do that?’
‘Because of what I am about to offer you,’ replied Stalin.
‘And what is that?’ asked Pekkala.
‘A future for the two of you in Moscow.’
‘Her home is in Paris, not here.’
‘No, Pekkala. That is where you are wrong. Paris was never her home. She did not go there by choice, the way you chose to come to Russia, all those years ago. Bring her back to the place where she is from and I give you my word you can both live out your days in peace, as you were always meant to do.’
‘For a price,’ muttered Pekkala.
Stalin shrugged and smiled. ‘Nothing is free, Inspector. Especially not diamonds.’
‘You will have my answer soon enough,’ Pekkala told him as he turned to leave.
‘That is all I ask,’ replied Stalin. ‘Now, if you could send in Major Kirov on your way out, I will explain to him what must be done.’
Kirov was waiting in the hallway, having chosen not to linger in the outer office, under the squinting stare of Stalin’s secretary Poskrebychev. It was cold in the marble-floored hallway and a pale afternoon light seeped in through the tall windows. The two guards who stood outside Stalin’s office had come prepared with winter greatcoats and dense ushanka hats which bristled with a brownish-grey synthetic pile known to the soldiers as ‘fish fur’. With hands balled into fists inside his pockets and shoulders hunched against the shivers that crabbed across his back, Kirov paced about, wondering what could be taking Pekkala so long.