Stefanov was just about to set off, having lifted Barkat once again on to his shoulders, when he heard a sound he felt certain must be thunder. It can’t be, he thought. But the thunder grew louder and more deafening until he could feel its vibration in the ground beneath his feet. At that moment, three German Stuka dive-bombers flew over the ridge, one after the other, heading west. Fixed landing gear jutted from their bellies like the extended talons of huge hunting birds and thick lines of exhaust soot trailed back along the fuselage, which was painted with tiger stripes of grey and yellow.
The Stukas flew so low that Stefanov could see their pilots, heads cocooned in leather flight helmets. One, with goggles pulled down over his eyes, glanced down at Stefanov. Sunlight winked off the lenses, as if sockets of that pilot’s eyes were crammed with diamonds.
Stefanov knew that there was nowhere for him to run. Since they had already seen him, there was no point even in taking cover, so he just stood there, looking up at the planes, with Barkat draped over his shoulder, the man’s long arms dangling in the tall grass.
Whether the men in those planes took pity on him, or else were low on fuel or ammunition, Stefanov could only wonder.
The Stukas continued on their way. In a moment, all Stefanov could make out were their hunchbacked silhouettes and a faint blur of smoke in the sky.
Arriving at the far end of the field, Stefanov discovered six freshly dug graves. Jammed into the dirt at the head of each grave was a Russian Mosin-Nagant rifle, its bolt removed, rendering it useless. The wooden stock on one rifle had burned away and its leather sling hung blackened like a dead snake from the swivel.
Robbers had dug up the bodies.
The dead lay with earth-filled mouths, purple lips drawn back and dimpled fingertips like badly-fitting gloves. Their boots and their watches were gone, and their pockets had been turned inside-out.
Moving on, Stefanov experienced the unmistakable sensation of having crossed an invisible border between the world of men and that of monsters, and every step he took now carried him deeper into the country of the beast.
Even though he was not sure why he continued to carry Barkat, or even why he had begun carrying him in the first place, it never occurred to Stefanov to abandon his old friend. His mind had fixed itself upon some path beyond his reckoning and he could no more question it than glimpse where it might end.
As he neared the Russian gun pits, Stefanov picked up the scent of machorka, its smell like damp leaves smouldering in the rain.
During those last moments, with a dozen weapons aiming at his heart as he walked into a Soviet encampment on the outskirts of the town, Stefanov was more afraid than in all the time he’d spent behind the lines. By this time, a downpour was pelting the road into mud.
The first building he reached was a schoolhouse which had been converted into a field hospital. Peering through the shark’s teeth of a broken window pane, Stefanov watched a doctor, stripped to the waist, operating on a man laid out on two school desks. Behind them, a black slate chalk board still showed a lesson in arithmetic.
In the school yard at the back of the building, Stefanov found an army cook, sitting in a horse-drawn food wagon. Rain popped off the wagon’s canvas roof. Stefanov realised he was hungry. Gently, he laid Barkat down and reached behind him for his mess kit. It was only when his fingers grasped at nothing that he remembered he had left all his equipment in the bunker.
The cook nodded towards a pile of field gear which had been removed from wounded soldiers before bringing them inside. From the soggy tangle of belts, canteens and ammunition pouches still crammed with bullets, Stefanov scrounged up a mess tin.
The cook handed him a slice of brown bread. Then he ladled some cabbage soup out of a large enamel-lined canister. Hot, greasy liquid dripped down the metal sides.
Rain fell through the hole in Barkat’s chest, splashing off the school yard underneath.
‘Mother of God,’ said the cook.
Stefanov sat on the concrete and drank the soup, using the bread to wipe out the insides of the mess tin.
The cook watched him from under the wagon’s canvas roof. The horse stared at him too, water dripping from its chin.
Artillery thudded in the distance.
Two medical orderlies appeared in the doorway at the top of the steps. Seeing Barkat, the medics hurried down to help him but they were not even at the bottom of the stairs before they realised the man was dead. They glanced back at Stefanov, confusion on their faces. ‘Are you hurt?’ asked one of the medics.
Stefanov did not reply, because he wasn’t sure.
‘Don’t touch him,’ whispered the other medic.
The two men walked back up the steps and shut the door behind them.
Stefanov lay down on the ground next to Barkat. He put his arm across Barkat’s chest, as if to shield him from the rain. Threads of consciousness snapped one by one in silent, dusty puffs inside his brain. And then he was asleep.
It was the middle of the night
It was the middle of the night when Pekkala arrived at the Kremlin.
Poskrebychev was still at his desk. He jerked his head towards the double doors. ‘The Boss is waiting.’
Stalin’s room was dark, except for the lamp at his desk. The Boss sat in his red leather chair. In front of him lay an ashtray, overflowing with crumpled cigarette butts. Another one, still burning, lay wedged between his fingertips. ‘I heard what happened to Kovalevsky.’
‘Let me go after them‚’ said Pekkala. ‘Let someone else arrest Engel. Give me a week and I’ll track down whoever murdered Kovalevsky.’
‘I don’t care who murdered Kovalevsky.’ Stalin inhaled deeply. The tip of the cigarette glowed fiercely in the gloom.
‘But I do!’ Pekkala exploded. ‘Kovalevsky was my friend!’
‘What would your friend say about the thing you’ve just proposed?’
‘He would say nothing. He’s dead.’
Stalin sat forward suddenly‚ grinding out his cigarette into the hammered brass ashtray. ‘Exactly! He does not care who killed him. He does not care whether revenge comes now or later or if it never comes at all. The dead do not seek vengeance. That is a curse the living heap upon themselves.’
‘I am seeking justice, not vengeance.’
‘I wonder if you know the difference any more.’
‘Without Kovalevsky, the mission-’
Stalin slammed his fist on to the desk. ‘The mission has already begun! We must assume that whoever killed Kovalevsky was either sent by the traitor in our ranks or else is the traitor himself. I agree with you that finding this person is important, but not enough to call you off the case. That is why I am assigning the task to Major Kirov. He will remain here in Moscow and investigate Kovalevsky’s murder, while you and Lieutenant Churikova pursue Engel.’
In spite of the fact that Kirov would be sorely missed‚ Pekkala knew that Stalin had made the right decision to divide the team‚ in order that both Engel and his accomplice here in Moscow could be pursued simultaneously.
‘A plane has been allocated to bring the two of you from Moscow to an airfield near the front‚’ continued Stalin. ‘Once you arrive, you will be handed over to Glavpur, Military Intelligence. They will do what they can to see you through the German lines. I know what I am asking of you, Pekkala. Even with Kovalevsky’s help, this would have been the most difficult task I had ever set before you. But we can beat them, Pekkala, because they have already made a fatal mistake.’
‘And what was that?’
‘When they shot Kovalevsky, they did not kill you, too.’ With his elbows on the desktop, Stalin folded his hands together, fingertips pressing down on knuckles. ‘When you return to Moscow with your prisoner, you will have done more than simply help to stop the robberies of Gustav Engel and his kind. Your actions in the coming days will fill their hearts with doubt and fear, because they will know that nowhere is safe for them and that, even when our country appears on the verge of collapse, we are still striking back in any way we can.’