Churikova told the rest. ‘The director of antiquities at Pushkin, Professor Urbaniak, was assigned the task of formally accepting those paintings from the Germans, which were to be presented at the time of their visit to the palaces. Semykin and I were brought in to examine the paintings as soon as they’d been handed over.’
‘You mean in case they tried to pass off forgeries to you?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Yes, but, as it turned out, the paintings were genuine. All of them.’
‘Only the treaty was fake,’ grumbled Stalin. ‘As we have now learned, the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, which was supposed to have guaranteed peace between our countries for the next ten years, wasn’t worth the paper on which it was written.’
‘Go on,’ Pekkala urged the lieutenant. ‘What happened when you arrived at the palace?’
‘We got there before the presentation of the paintings had taken place. While we waited, Semykin asked Professor Urbaniak for permission to inspect the art works which were already part of the Catherine Palace collection. He gave us the go-ahead and it so happened that we were viewing the art works at the same time as the delegation from the German Ministry of Culture. Most of them just looked like graduate students to me, but one man was clearly in charge. He was older than the rest, and wore a heavy three-piece suit. Semykin and I had taken the opportunity to view the palace collections for ourselves. That was when we ran into the man in charge of the German delegation. He introduced himself to us as Professor Gustav Engel, head curator of the Konigsberg Castle Museum. He already seemed to know a great deal about the paintings in the Catherine Palace and he seemed particularly fascinated by the Amber Room.’
Stalin turned his head towards the door. ‘Poskrebychev!’ he boomed.
In the outer office, there was the sound of a chair scudding back across the floor. A moment later, the door opened and Poskrebychev stepped into the room. ‘Comrade Stalin!’ he shouted as he crashed his heels together in salute.
‘See if we have a file on Gustav Engel, Head Curator of the museum at Konigsberg Castle. If we have one, bring it to me now.’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’ Moving with the confidence and gracefulness he had perfected during his many years as Stalin’s secretary, Poskrebychev exited the room. But the second the door closed behind him, the secretary hurled himself into motion. He pushed past Kirov, who had wisely remained in the outer room when Churikova paid her unannounced visit to Stalin, and set off at a sprint towards the department of records. With his arms flailing and head thrown back, he propelled himself down the long hallway like a man pursued by wolves.
Behind the doors of Stalin’s office, Churikova was still answering questions.
‘When you ran into this man Engel,’ continued Stalin, ‘did Semykin already know him?’
‘By reputation, I believe, although I don’t think they had ever met.’
Stalin turned to Pekkala. ‘Go to Semykin. See if he can tell you what a museum curator is doing in the SS.’
The thought of another visit to Lubyanka sent a jolt of dread crackling like static electricity across Pekkala’s mind.
Moments later, Poskrebychev returned, red-faced and panting, a dull grey file clutched in his hand. The folder had a green stripe running vertically down the centre, indicating that it contained documents relating to a foreign national who was of interest to Internal State Security. He lifted his chin, breathed deeply, then opened the door and walked in. Advancing stiffly towards Stalin’s desk, Poskrebychev placed the file before his master.
Without even a glance at Poskrebychev, Stalin opened the file. Hunched over his desk, his face only a hand’s length from the print, he squinted at the documents. ‘Where is the man’s picture?’ he asked.
‘No picture was obtained,’ replied Poskrebychev.
‘Everyone who has a file must have a picture,’ Stalin told him in a low voice. ‘How are we supposed to find the man if we don’t even know what he looks like?’
Nervously, Poskrebychev cleared his throat. ‘No picture was-’
‘It must have fallen out.’
‘No, Comrade Stalin. It says quite clearly in the file that no picture-’
‘I don’t care what it says!’ roared Stalin‚ bringing his fist down with a crash onto the desk. ‘All files are to contain a photograph of the subject. Go and find it. Now, you fool!’
On the other side of the room, Churikova shuddered, as if the rage in Stalin’s voice had struck her physically.
But Pekkala had been present at many such exchanges between Stalin and Poskrebychev. Now he stood by, his jaw clenched, silently waiting for Poskrebychev’s customary subservient bow, followed by the man’s swift return to the labyrinth of the Kremlin records office. But something was different this time. Poskrebychev remained frozen to the spot, his eyes fixed upon the Boss. An expression of disbelief spread across the face of Stalin’s secretary, but for once the source of Poskrebychev’s perpetual anxiety did not seem to be Stalin. Instead, it appeared to be coming from Poskrebychev himself, as if he were suddenly unsure whether he could control the secret thoughts which were parading through his skull.
‘What is the matter with you?’ demanded Stalin. ‘Did you not hear what I said?’
Without a word Poskrebychev spun on his heel and left the room.
As Pekkala watched him go, he wondered how much of Stalin’s bullying Poskrebychev could stand before he cracked. A man like that, moving almost unnoticed through the halls of power, could change in an instant from a harmless, grovelling servant into someone who could bring down an Empire.
‘What is wrong with that man?’ Stalin muttered to himself.
Pekkala felt a drop of sweat run down his cheek, wondering how close Stalin had just come to being murdered by a man whose blind loyalty he took for granted with a blindness even greater than his servant’s.
Stalin returned to his inspection of the file. ‘Medium height, regular features, dark hair. Approximately fifty-five years old. Known to be employed at Konigsberg Castle, where he has been curator of antiquities since 1937. Member of National Socialist Party since 1936. Applied for permission to visit Catherine and Alexander Palaces. Permission granted by Minister of Cultural Affairs. Arrived August 1939. Departed August 1939. Appeared to be fluent in Russian.’ He stopped abruptly.
‘What else does it say?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Nothing,’ replied Stalin. ‘The file was only opened on him when he came to visit the Catherine Palace. Before that, it’s as if he didn’t exist.’
‘And after his visit?’
‘He vanished back to Germany and that’s the last we heard from him.’
‘Until now.’
Stalin closed the file, pushed it away to the corner of his desk and turned his attention to Polina Churikova. ‘That is if these two men are the same person, and I am beginning to think they are not. The man in this file is fifty-five years old, which makes him a little too old for someone with the rank of lieutenant colonel. Someone of this age would either have been promoted or would have retired by now. So you see‚ Comrade Churikova‚ it is clear you are mistaken.’
‘But, Comrade Stalin. .’ she began, but then words seemed to fail her.
Stalin had made up his mind. Now he behaved as if Churikova was no longer in the room. He reached for his box of cigarettes and then began patting his pockets as he searched for his lighter.
Pekkala touched Churikova on the arm. ‘It’s time for us to go,’ he said quietly.
‘It is him,’ Churikova insisted to Pekkala as they stepped into the narrow side street where Kirov had left his car waiting. ‘It’s Gustav Engel. That Gustav Engel‚ I’m telling you.’