When Pekkala finally emerged, Kirov sighed with relief. He was anxious to be gone from here, and not just because of the cold. Although he had visited the Kremlin many times, and had always been impressed with its architectural beauty, Kirov never felt comfortable there. Maybe it had to do with the hidden passageways he knew existed behind the wood-panelled walls, along which Stalin was known to tread at all hours of the day or night, carrying his shoes so as not to make a noise. Or perhaps it was the lack of voices. Everyone in this building seemed compelled to speak in hushed tones, as if they knew that whatever they said would be overheard by someone else, invisible and dangerous, judging their every word. Although he had no proof of it, Kirov did not doubt that this was true. And the last thing which made Kirov nervous whenever he stepped into this labyrinth was the fact that he knew he didn’t belong here. Although he had reached the rank of major and was, after all, frequently summoned to this building by none other than the Vozhd – the Boss – himself, Kirov had come to realise that he would never belong to Stalin’s inner circle. Neither would he ever achieve that indispensability that Pekkala had been given from the start. If it weren’t for the Inspector, thought Kirov, Stalin wouldn’t even know my name.
‘He wants to see you,’ said Pekkala.
‘What?’ asked Kirov. ‘Just me?’
‘That’s what he said.’
‘What about?’ Have I done something wrong, wondered Kirov.
‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ replied Pekkala.
Unable to hide his nervousness at this unexpected summons, Kirov made his way back through the lair of Poskrebychev and returned to Stalin’s study.
Out in the hallway, after only a few paces, Pekkala came to a halt, so overwhelmed by what he had just heard that he could no longer bring himself to place one foot in front of the other.
But it was not rage which sapped him of his strength.
In his years of working with the Kremlin, Pekkala had learned never to apply the rules of other men to Joseph Stalin. With him, different logic prevailed. Only a fool would believe what Stalin said, and most of them had long since paid with their lives for such naivety. With Stalin, what mattered were his actions, not his promises.
The Russians even had a word for this. They called it maskirovka. Translated, it meant ‘camouflage’, but in the minds of men like Stalin it transformed into the art of deception.
In order to survive among men like the leader of Russia, and those who carried out his will because they had been mesmerised by fear, Pekkala had taught himself to see beyond the outrage of dishonesty. Instead, the task became to answer one simple question – What does Stalin want? – knowing that no amount of blood, hypocrisy or lies would sway the Boss from his desires.
As long as Pekkala proved himself useful in fulfilling Stalin’s wishes, he was perfectly safe. The trick had become to carry out his master’s will, and not lose his soul in the process.
Terrible as it was to know that he’d been lied to all these years, Pekkala was not surprised to hear it. He even understood. Stalin had needed him, and so the Boss had done whatever was necessary to continue their fragile alliance.
It served no purpose to be angry with Stalin, now or ever. How could it, when all traces of guilt or remorse had been scalpeled from his character? There were times when Pekkala even pitied the man, existing in the spiritual wasteland of someone whose word counted for nothing.
For Pekkala, what mattered now was not how to grapple with the depth of Stalin’s betrayal, but to judge whether the offer he had made would ever be matched by his deeds.
Kirov, meanwhile, stood before the desk of Joseph Stalin.
‘Sit down!’ the Boss commanded, nodding towards the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
Kirov subsided into the chair like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
‘I am placing you in charge,’ Stalin announced.
‘In charge of what?’ Kirov asked breathlessly.
‘Of the journey you are taking to Berlin.’
These words so confused Kirov that, at first, he could not bring himself to comprehend their meaning. Blankly, he stared at his master.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ asked Stalin.
‘I heard you, Comrade Stalin,’ replied Kirov. ‘I just don’t understand why you are saying it. I work for the Inspector. It is he who gives the orders. That’s the way it’s always been.’
‘You work for me,’ Stalin corrected him, ‘and it is I who give the orders.’
‘Of course, but . . .’ And suddenly he faltered.
Stalin raised his heavy eyebrows. ‘Yes?’
‘Very well, Comrade Stalin,’ answered Kirov, finally coming to his senses.
‘Good.’ Stalin pressed his palms together. ‘Then you may go.’
Kirov knew what he was supposed to do next. He should have risen to his feet, saluted and left. Instead, halfway out of the room, he all but skidded to a halt and wheeled about.
Stalin was staring at the Major, as if he had just placed a wager with himself on whether Kirov could make his exit smoothly. From the look on Stalin’s face, he had just won that little bet.
‘Why?’ gasped Kirov. ‘Why are you doing this to Pekkala?’
‘Because I don’t trust him,’ came the answer.
‘Forgive me for saying so, Comrade Stalin, but you have never trusted him.’
‘That is true,’ agreed Stalin, ‘at least with regard to his following my instructions, but he has always managed, one way or another, to carry out the task I set for him. I make no secret, to you or to anyone else, that I find Pekkala to be the most disobedient person I have ever allowed to keep on breathing. We have an unspoken truce, the Inspector and I. We may be very different, he and I, but we do have one important thing in common.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Kirov.
‘The survival of the country,’ answered Stalin. ‘This has been enough to secure our allegiance to each other. At least, it was until today.’
‘What has changed?’ asked Kirov.
‘This business with Lilya Simonova. For years, she has existed as a kind of dream for Pekkala – a beautiful image of the past, frozen in time since the Revolution began. But now that past has collided with the present, or soon will anyway, if you can get her out of Berlin in one piece.’
‘We will do everything we can . . .’
‘That is not what concerns me, Major Kirov. If she is there, Pekkala will find her. I have no doubt of that. It’s what happens after that which troubles me.’
Now Kirov had begun to understand. ‘And you are worried he will not return?’
‘What I’m worried about,’ answered Stalin, ‘is that he will not return with the information these Englishman are so desperate to obtain that they would come to us, cap in hand, to ask for help. I want that information here in front of me.’ He jabbed one thick, blunt finger on polished wood. ‘And only when I know exactly what it is, will I consider passing it along to those temporary gentlemen from London.’
‘I understand,’ said Kirov. ‘Would you like me to bring in the Inspector so that you can inform him about the change in command?’
‘You can take care of that yourself,’ muttered Stalin. ‘I have another meeting.’ And he began to fidget with the papers laid out in front of him.
Kirov didn’t tell Pekkala right away. He would rather not have told him at all.
The whole drive back to Pitnikov Street, the two men remained silent.
Pekkala did not press him for information, since it was clear from the look on Kirov’s face that a storm was brewing in his head.