‘You’d better have this, too,’ said the clerk, setting before him a stack of German Reichsmark notes. ‘Spend it quickly, if you have the chance,’ he advised. ‘Pretty soon, it won’t be worth the paper it is printed on.’
Kirov picked up the brick of cash and turned to leave.
But the clerk called him back. ‘You’re not done yet!’ he said. ‘You’ll need another set of clothes.’
Led through the office to a room at the back, Kirov found himself in a room full of garments, all of them in various states of disrepair. Here, he was handed an old set of clothes by an even older clerk whom he had never seen before.
The man wore a tape measure around his neck, although he never put it to use. Instead, with a squinting of one watery eye, he judged the length of Kirov’s arms and legs and the width of his narrow chest, of which the major was slightly ashamed.
As Kirov held out his arms, the clerk piled on shirts and trousers and a tattered coat for him to try on.
‘I do have things at home besides my uniform,’ Kirov complained, his nose twitching at the smell of other men’s sweat and dogs and unfamiliar cigarettes which had sunk into the cloth.
‘But not like these,’ explained the clerk. ‘You’d be spotted as a Russian the minute you arrived in Berlin.’
‘But how?’ asked Kirov. ‘Clothes are just clothes, after all.’
‘No.’ The clerk shook his head. ‘And I will prove it to you. See here,’ he said, holding out the collar of a shirt with a Budapest maker’s label. ‘The collar of a Hungarian shirt is more pointed than a Russian shirt and the way that the sleeves are attached here is different from what you would find on a German shirt. Even the way the buttons are attached, in two straight lines of thread as opposed to a cross are different from, say, on an English shirt.’ With his thumb, he levered up one tiny mother-of-pearl disc, letting it wink in the light to show the manner in which it had been stitched. ‘Even if those around you aren’t specifically aware of these details, they will nevertheless sense that something is not right. These clothes were carefully gathered from people who had travelled to Hungary before the war.’
‘Didn’t anybody have anything newer?’ asked Kirov. ‘Or cleaner, for that matter?’
The clerk laughed. ‘That is all part of the disguise! Nobody has new clothes in Berlin any more, or Budapest for that matter, and they haven’t for quite some time. Nor do they have the opportunity to clean their clothes as often as they should. Believe me, Major Kirov, you may not like the way you look when I am finished with you, but you will fit right in where you are going.’
‘Can you do the same thing for other countries?’ he asked.
‘Of course!’ boomed the old man and he began to sweep his hands around the room. ‘Over there is England. There is Spain, France. Turkey. Wherever you go, Major, my job is to make you invisible!’
‘Inspector Pekkala is also . . .’ began Kirov.
The man held up one hand to silence him. ‘Do not speak to me of that barbarian! What he wears does not belong in Russia, or Germany, or anywhere else on this earth! His tailor ought to be shot. And even if he would agree to let me outfit him for this journey, which he wouldn’t, it is hopeless anyway. Pekkala will never fit in. Anywhere! It’s just who he is. There is no camouflage for such a man.’
At last, Kirov arrived at the records office on the fourth floor, to share the good news of his promotion with his wife.
Elizaveta was in her mid-twenties, head and shoulders shorter than Kirov, with a round and slightly freckled face, a small chin and dark, inquisitive eyes.
Few outsiders were ever permitted past the iron-grilled door which served as the entrance to the records office. But Kirov had that privilege. Thanks to Elizaveta, Kirov had been welcomed into their miniature tribe.
They retired to what had once been a storage room for cleaning supplies used by the maids at the hotel. The space had been converted by the three women who managed the records office, led by the fearsome Sergeant Gatkina, into a refuge where they could smoke and drink their tea in peace.
Elizaveta, wearing a tight-collared gymnastiorka tunic, dark skirt and navy-blue beret, sat upon a filing cabinet placed on its side against the wall.
Kirov paced about in front of her, animatedly describing his promotion. He expected that, at any moment, Elizaveta would leap up from her makeshift seat and embrace him.
But this did not happen.
All she said, at first, was, ‘Stalin is no fool.’
‘How strange,’ remarked Kirov. ‘That’s just what the Inspector told me!’
‘Stalin is not raising you up,’ she told him, leaning forward and lowering her voice, as people often did when mentioning the name of Stalin. ‘In fact, he might as well have sentenced you to death.’
‘You’re not making any sense!’ blurted Kirov. ‘I have been promoted!’
‘In order to do what?’ she demanded. ‘Give orders to Pekkala? That’s just not possible. As soon as you cross the border into enemy territory, that Finn will do exactly as he’s always done.’
‘Which is what?’
‘Whatever he chooses,’ she replied, ‘and if that choice is to simply vanish off the face of the earth like some phantom in a fairy tale, who will be held responsible?’ She raised her eyebrows, waiting for the answer which both of them already knew.
‘He wouldn’t do that,’ said Kirov. ‘He’s knows the kind of trouble I’d be in.’
‘Of course he does,’ answered Elizaveta, ‘and that’s what Stalin’s banking on. You are his insurance policy against Pekkala’s disappearance, but do not think for a minute that you are actually in charge of this mission.’
‘If that’s what you think,’ Kirov said indignantly, ‘then maybe I’ll surprise you.’
‘That may be so,’ she told him, ‘but there’s something I still don’t understand,’ she added.
‘And what is that?’ asked Kirov.
‘Even if you do find this woman, does Pekkala really think they stand a chance of getting back together?’
‘I’m not sure,’ he answered honestly. ‘I do know he still loves her.’
‘And how do you know that?’ she demanded. ‘Has he told you so?’
‘Not in so many words.’
‘Then what makes you think it is true?’
‘Pekkala used to send her money every month,’ explained Kirov. ‘You see, he knew exactly where she lived in Paris, at least until the war broke out. After that, he lost track of her.’
‘So they were communicating up to that point?’
‘No,’ Kirov told her. ‘He never told her where the money really came from.’
‘Well, where did she think it was coming from?’
‘It was transferred from a Moscow bank under the name of Rada Obolenskaya, the headmistress of the school where she had worked before the Revolution. According to Pekkala, Comrade Obolenskaya had always taken good care of Lilya and so she had no reason to doubt that Obolenskaya was actually the source.’
‘But why on earth wouldn’t he tell her?’ Elizaveta exclaimed in exasperation.
‘Until today, when Comrade Stalin told him otherwise, Pekkala was under the impression that Lilya had got married, and that she even had a family. He did not want to take the risk of damaging the new life she had made for herself. But he never fell out of love with her and I don’t think he ever will, whatever happens when we reach Berlin.’