‘Will he be returning soon?’
‘I don’t know. When I said goodbye to him, he spoke to me as if he knew he wasn’t coming back.’
‘Perhaps you’re imagining it.’
‘I hope so.’ Kirov breathed in deeply and smiled. ‘There was something else he told me, though. It had to do with you.’
‘Yes?’ She sounded suddenly nervous.
‘He said it would be a mistake if I ever let you go.’
She stopped and turned to face him. ‘Well, I still think he’s strange, but I also believe he is right.’
‘He was almost killed, you know, right after you first met him.’ Kirov went on to describe the shooting outside the Cafe Tilsit. ‘I’m supposed to be investigating the case, but there’s not enough evidence, and what little I have had leads nowhere. I can’t shake the idea that, even though it was Pekkala’s friend who died, Pekkala might have been the target, after all.’
‘In that line of work,’ said Elizaveta, ‘there must be no shortage of people who would want you dead.’
As her words sifted into his mind, Kirov thought back to what Pekkala had said to him after Kovalevsky had been killed — ‘It could have been you lying there in the gutter with your throat torn out.’
Even though Pekkala had taken back everything he’d said, Kirov wondered if he might have been right. Maybe their lives were indeed too fragile to be shared, especially by those who loved them.
‘There is no shortage of such people,’ admitted Kirov.
‘But fortunately,’ replied Elizaveta, ‘most of those must be in prison now.’
‘Most.’ Then suddenly an idea took shape in Kirov’s mind. ‘But not all.’ He stepped back. ‘I have to go.’
‘Did I say something wrong?’
‘No! Quite the opposite!’ Kirov stepped forward and kissed her. ‘I’ll speak to you soon.’ Then he bolted across Lubyanka Square, headed for the Kremlin.
‘Goodbye!’ she called, but by then he was already gone. Returning to work, Elizaveta glanced up at the fourth floor of NKVD Headquarters in time to see the faces of Corporal Korolenko and Sergeant Gatkina staring down at her intently.
Pekkala watched
Pekkala watched as the bodies of the executed men were dragged out of sight into the field. ‘Why did you have to kill them?’ he asked Leontev. ‘You only wanted their clothes. Surely something could have been found for them to wear instead.’
‘We would have killed them anyway,’ Leontev told him matter of factly. ‘Glavpur does not take prisoners.’
Stefanov hesitated. ‘Does the Comrade Captain realise what the enemy will do if they capture us in these uniforms?’
‘It would be no different,’ replied Leontev, ‘than what we’d do to them if the situation was reversed. Which it often is. Switching uniforms is also a habit of the Germans. They even have a special group known as the Brandenburg Kommando. They entered Smolensk ahead of the main German advance, all wearing Red Army uniforms. They stopped us from blowing up the bridges. That’s why the city fell so quickly. And as for you, our reports indicate that the troops currently occupying Pushkin village are a brigade of cavalry belonging to the Waffen SS. What they’ll do if they catch you will be every bit as vicious if you’re wearing Russian uniforms as it would be if you’re dressed as Germans and they realise who you are.’
Churikova glanced uneasily at the heap of dirty clothing. ‘There are only two uniforms here.’
‘You are better off keeping your clothes,’ advised Leontev. ‘There are plenty of women serving in the Soviet Army, as snipers, stretcher bearers or truck drivers, and their uniforms are nearly the same as those of the men. But the Germans don’t mix women with their front-line troops. Some of these uniforms belong to German Military Police. Travelling together, it will appear that you are a prisoner being brought back for interrogation.’ Leontev jerked his chin at the pile of black leather belts and field-grey wool. ‘The rest of you, find something that fits. Leave everything else behind except your Russian pass books. You will need them to establish your identities once you have returned to our lines.’
‘And if they find our pass books on us?’ asked Stefanov.
‘Then I hope for your sake that you’ll already be dead.’
Gritting his teeth, Pekkala rummaged through the dead men’s clothes. He selected a tunic belonging to one of the military policemen, some trousers and some boots and carried them into the next room, which was the kitchen. A smell of boiled meat hung in the air. Pekkala was about to lay the clothes upon the pleeta stove when, out of old habit, he spat on the iron plates to check that they weren’t hot.
After stripping off his own garments, Pekkala dressed in the German uniform. It was still warm from the man’s body heat. Fumbling with the pebbled metal buttons, he smelled the man’s sweat and the unfamiliar machine-oil reek of German wool. It was the socks that troubled him the most, since he had long since grown used to Russian portyanki, which wound about the foot like a bandage. Next, Pekkala picked up a pair of jack boots and held the muddy soles against his foot, trying to gauge their size. He tried the other pair and pulled them on. His own foot settled on the imprint of the dead man’s.
At that moment, Leontev appeared at the kitchen door, carrying several German helmets, which he tossed into the room. The heavy metal crashed on to the wooden floorboards. He nodded approvingly at Pekkala and Stefanov. ‘Excellent!’ he grinned. ‘I feel like shooting you.’
‘These clothes may fit,’ said Pekkala, ‘but the average soldier in this or any other army is a good deal younger than I am.’
‘The average soldier, yes, but not the average member of the military police. In wartime, these men are often recruited from the regular police force. As a result, most are older than the people they’re sent to arrest. Chained dogs. That’s what the Germans call their military police. With any luck, as soon as they see those gorgets around your necks, they’ll turn around and walk the other way. Military police do not mix with the rest of the army. They do not sleep in the same barracks. They do not eat at the same tables. They do not drink at the same bars. They prefer to be left alone and the rest of the army, whether it is Russian, German or any other nationality, is most often happy to oblige.’
The soldiers returned from the field. They washed their hands in a puddle in the road. Then they began setting fire to the barn.
‘Take what you can and get out,’ ordered Leontev. ‘They’re burning the house down as well.’
‘But why?’ asked Stefanov. ‘This is a Russian farm!’
‘We burn everything,’ replied Leontev. ‘By the way, Inspector, I have been told to give you this.’ He held up a grey metal canister, of the type German soldiers used for storing their gas masks, suspended on a heavy canvas strap. ‘A gift from Comrade Poskrebychev. He said you would know what to do with it.’
Momentarily confused, Pekkala reached out and took hold of the canister. It was heavy. ‘What’s in this?’ he asked.
‘Enough explosives to blow us all to vapour. The canister also contains two pencil timers, in case you need to divide the charges.’
‘Pencil timers?’
‘A glass vial of cupric chloride is housed in an aluminium and copper tube, along with a detonator and a striker, which is held back by a tiny wire made of lead alloy. Break the vial by crushing the copper end of the tube with the heel of your boot, then pull the safety strip on the side of the tube and the timer will begin. There are five timers in the set, each one with a different coloured band, wrapped in a paper bundle which tells you how long each coloured tube will last before it detonates. You have anywhere from ten minutes to an hour, depending on which colour you use. Once you’ve pulled the safety strip, jam the sharp end of the timer into the explosives and get as far away as you can.’
Cautiously, Pekkala slung the canister across his shoulder.