Their moment of relief was cut short by a grinding, squeaking, metallic sound, like that of a huge machine whose moving parts required oil, which reached them on the night breeze from somewhere to the west.
‘Tanks,’ said Barkat.
‘Can you tell if it’s ours or theirs?’ asked Stefanov.
It was Ragozin who replied. ‘Whoever they belong to, they’re headed straight towards us.’
While Pekkala reported
While Pekkala made his report about the map to Stalin, Kirov and Churikova waited in the outer office.
‘You should have told me we were coming here!’ she whispered urgently to Kirov.
‘Would it have made any difference if I had?’
‘Perhaps she would have told you no,’ remarked Poskrebychev‚ ‘as perhaps she already has.’ He had not only been eavesdropping on their conversation but had also been listening to them in the next room via the intercom that connected the inner and outer offices.
Kirov shot him a hostile glance. ‘You are an irritating little man, Poskrebychev.’
‘And you are not the first to tell me so.’
Behind the closed doors, Stalin sat in his red leather chair, a cigarette wedged between his fingers. Several piles of paperwork had been swept aside to make room for the canvas, which Stalin examined carefully as Pekkala, standing on the other side of the desk, explained where the maps lay buried in the picture. ‘Remarkable,’ muttered Stalin. Not taking his eyes from the picture, he fitted the cigarette between his lips. The tip glowed red, crackling faintly and Stalin drew the smoke into his lungs. ‘Devious. Diabolical!’
‘It may be all those things,’ Pekkala told him, ‘but it is also useless now, as Lieutenant Churikova will explain to you.’ Pekkala gestured towards the door. ‘If you will permit me to bring her in.’
‘Before you bring in this expert, tell me what you think. Have we deciphered the full meaning of the map or haven’t we?’
‘Not all of my questions have been answered,’ admitted Pekkala, ‘such as who made it and who was its intended recipient‚ but I do think the map no longer serves the purpose for which it was intended. As you will recall from the broadcast on State Radio, the amber itself has been moved to a safe location in the Ural mountains, along with all the other treasures in the palace. .’
‘Ah.’ Stalin leaned back in his chair, stroking his moustache with tobacco-yellowed fingertips. ‘Then we may have a problem, after all.’
‘What kind of problem, Comrade Stalin?’
‘The removal of those treasures was not carried out as efficiently as the news broadcast implied.’
‘You mean they didn’t move the art works?’
‘Oh, they moved some of them.’ Stalin brushed his hand casually through the air, ‘but there were too many objects and too little time. The curators ran out of packing materials. In the end, they resorted to using the Tsar’s collection of luggage, which was itself extremely valuable, for transporting things out of Pushkin. Huge statues had to be protected. They couldn’t be moved, so engineers blasted craters in the palace ground and buried them. It was a monumental task, but, in the end, dozens of paintings, priceless vases and entire rooms of furniture were left behind.’
‘But what about the Amber Room, Comrade Stalin? Surely that would have been a top priority.’
‘Indeed it was. The panels were to have been included in the first transport and, if everything had gone according to plan, they would, by now, be safe from the clutches of the Fascists. But when the curators attempted to remove the panels from the walls, they turned out to be too fragile. The curators quickly realised that the amber would never have survived the journey to Siberia.’
‘So what did they do instead?’ asked Pekkala.
‘The curators decided that their only option was to leave the panels where they were, but to conceal them beneath layers of muslin cloth, which were then papered over in order to give the impression that the space had been transformed into an ordinary room.’
Pekkala tried to imagine the amber muffled behind wallpaper, but in his mind its honeyed light kept burning through, as if the whole palace was blazing.
‘Afterwards,’ continued Stalin, ‘I approved an announcement on our national radio that the amber had been transported far from the palace. We knew that the Germans would be listening to the broadcast, and gambled that they might believe what they were hearing, especially when all they found was ordinary paper on the walls. Adding to the illusion, I also declared the Amber Room to be an irreplaceable State treasure, banking on the fact that the Germans would never believe I would do such a thing unless I knew the amber was safely out of their reach. If the gamble paid off, and the Amber Room was not discovered, then it would, in fact, be safer in its original location than if we were to try to move it the entire length of Russia.’
‘So whoever made that painting,’ said Pekkala, ‘must have known that the radio reports were false. They were trying to warn the Germans that the amber was still at the Palace. It’s fortunate that we intercepted the map before it could be delivered.’
Viciously, Stalin stubbed out his cigarette in the already overflowing ashtray on his desk. ‘But it still means we have traitors among us!’
Their conversation was interrupted by loud voices coming from the outer office. A moment later, the door burst open and Churikova stepped into the room.
Close behind her was Poskrebychev. ‘Comrade Stalin, I apologise! I tried to stop her!’
Stalin fixed his eyes on the woman. ‘You must be the expert‚’ he said.
‘Comrade Stalin,’ Pekkala announced, ‘this is Lieutenant Churikova of the Army’s Cryptographic Section. She has assisted us in this investigation.’
‘Ostubafengel,’ Churikova blurted out. ‘I’ve just figured out what it means!’
Stalin glanced towards Pekkala. ‘What is she talking about?’
‘The word on the back of the canvas. Ostubafengel.’
Frowning, Stalin picked up the painting, flipped it over and squinted at the letters. ‘Well?’ he asked.
‘It represents a name,’ explained Churikova. ‘The person to whom it was supposed to be delivered is called Engel.’
‘And the rest of it?’
‘Ostubaf is the abbreviation for a rank in the German military, specifically the SS. It means Obersturmbannfuhrer. Ostubaf.’
‘What rank is this man?’ asked Stalin.
‘The equivalent of a lieutenant colonel in our military,’ replied Churikova. ‘Since the war began, we’ve intercepted many such abbreviations, particularly from the SS, in which the system of ranking is not only different but abbreviated by the men who use it. For example, they use the word “Ustuf” for Untersturmfuhrer, “Stubaf” for Sturmbannfuhrer and so on. I had never come across Ostubaf before, but when the Inspector spoke the word aloud while we were driving here, I began to put the pieces together in my head. Forgive me for intruding, Comrade Stalin, but the meaning only just became clear to me, and I assumed you would want to know immediately.’
‘I don’t see how this helps,’ he told her bluntly. ‘Now we know there is some colonel in the SS who hasn’t got his painting. What good does that do us?’
‘It would do us no good at all, Comrade Stalin,’ said Churikova, ‘except I know this man.’
Stalin’s expression froze. ‘Go on,’ he said quietly.
‘Before I joined the army,’ she explained, ‘I was an art student at the Leningrad Institute. As part of my studies, I was sent to work with the authenticator, Valery Semykin, in order to learn about the detection of forgeries. He had many contacts in the art world, and was often brought in to appraise whole museum collections. One of these collections was the paintings of the Romanov family, located at the Catherine Palace.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Stalin nodded. ‘I remember. That was in July of 1939, not long before we signed the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact with Germany. As a gesture of good will, the Germans had offered to return several paintings which had been stolen from us in the last war. In return, their Ministry of Culture requested the opportunity to view the art collections of the Catherine and Alexander Palaces. We granted the request, as a way of greasing the wheels of the upcoming diplomatic talks.’