‘But how did you manage it, Polina?’ Engel spun around to face her once again, grasping her hands in his. ‘How did you get away from them?’
As Churikova recounted her alibi of desertion from the ranks of the Red Army, Engel stared at her intently. The professor appeared so entranced by Churikova’s presence that he barely listened to her words. She was halfway through explaining about the artworks hidden on the estate, when Engel interrupted. ‘Forgive me, Polina! You must be cold. You must be hungry. How terrifying it must have been for you as you made your way alone to this place, surrounded by soldiers who might easily have taken your life instead of taking you prisoner. You are a brave woman, and such bravery will not go unrewarded. But I understand why you had to do it. The thought that these panels might be left to rot in their makeshift hiding place is not only unbearable, it shows the depth of ignorance of those who claim to be its guardians. There is nothing to worry about now. Hitler has taken a particular interest in the Amber Room. He considers it, as I do, to be a German work of art, and obscenely out of place in Stalin’s Russia. That is why he has given his chief architect, Albert Speer, instructions to include a special gallery in the Linz Museum where the Amber Room could be displayed. And, to me, he gave the order that I was to locate it at all costs, even if I had to travel the length and breadth of Siberia to find it. When I first heard the radio broadcasts about the panels having been moved to safety somewhere in the Ural mountains, I imagined I might spend the rest of my life hunting for the amber. That was why, when I was back in Konigsberg, I ordered the construction of special transport cases for each of the panels. They are lined in zinc, with built-in handles, shockproof and waterproof. I even had wheels attached to the cases in the event that suitable carrying devices couldn’t be found once I’d arrived at the palace. I planned everything out in such detail that I could dismantle the panels and transport them by myself if I had to. In spite of Stalin’s announcement, I knew that my search had to begin here. You see, I suspected that the radio broadcast might be a hoax, but I take little consolation in the fact that I was right. As your countrymen have discovered, the panels are too fragile to be moved in their present condition.’
Up until now, Engel had been oblivious to the grizzled military policeman standing beside the lieutenant.
Realising that the sooner he left Churikova alone with the professor, the more quickly she would be able to lure him out to the cottage, Pekkala cleared his throat noisily.
His attention momentarily diverted from Churikova, Engel shot Pekkala an irritated glance. ‘This woman is now in my charge,’ he snapped. ‘You are no longer needed.’ Then, as if his words had caused Pekkala to vanish into thin air, Engel took hold of Churikova’s arm and the two of them strolled away across the room. ‘Later we will go in search of these art works you say are hidden on the estate, but for now our first task must be to find you some new clothes!’
Having left the Amber Room, quietly closing the door behind him, Pekkala strode out of the palace. The crash of his steel-shod boots echoed off the once-pristine floors. The weight of the canister, packed with explosives, dragged against Pekkala’s spine. He was glad to know he’d never have to use it.
It was dark now.
As he had done so many times in the past, Pekkala made his way along the Dvortsovaya road, past the old Kitchen Pond and the Alexander Palace and from there along the path that would take him to his cottage by the Pensioners’ Stable. The view to his left stretched out across the Alexander Park and there were moments when it was almost possible to believe that the war had not touched Tsarskoye Selo.
This thought was wrenched from Pekkala’s mind by the thundering of hoof beats. In the next moment, he saw a dozen soldiers on horseback galloping past the arsenal monument down the long straight road towards the Parnas Gardens. He remembered what Leontev had said about the presence of an SS Cavalry Division in the area.
The breath stalled in Pekkala’s throat as he caught sight of the cottage where he had lived for more than a decade. The building did not seem to have suffered any damage, although the picket fence which once separated it from the path had been flattened by a vehicle that had veered off the road.
Rather than going in through the front door, he went around the back. The door leading into the mud room was open and past it he could see the familiar brick-red tiles of the kitchen floor. Before entering the cottage, Pekkala waited by the rain barrel, which stood beneath the gutter at the corner of the house, watching the road in case he had been followed. As he inhaled the musty smell of still water, which was both distant and familiar, Pekkala had to force himself to believe that any time at all had passed since he had last stood here.
Pekkala walked into the house. Through the closed shutters, a faint glimmer of moonlight painted zebra stripes of moonlight on the floor. He felt his way forward, fingertips skimming the walls, but had only taken a couple of steps before he felt the presence of someone standing right behind him. At the same moment, a gun appeared out of the shadows.
The blue-ringed eye of Stefanov’s rifle barrel seemed to blink as he lowered the Mauser and stepped out of the gloom. ‘Inspector,’ he whispered. ‘I had to be sure it was you.’
‘Not again!’
‘Not again!’ Fabian Golyakovsky, Director of the Kremlin Art Museum, muttered under his breath as he watched Major Kirov stride into the building. ‘What have you come to borrow now? The last time Pekkala showed up here, half the pieces in the Byzantine wing ended up on the walls of Lubyanka!’
Kirov held up the piece of paper which had fallen out of Churikova’s book.
Golyakovsky had breathed in, ready to continue his tirade, but now he paused abruptly. Stepping cautiously forward, he peered at the document. ‘Where did you get that?’
‘Is that your signature?’
Removing the letter from Kirov’s hand‚ Golyakovsky studied it for a moment before replying. ‘Yes. The signature is mine. I gave Polina Churikova permission to work in our laboratory. She was a student at the Moscow Art Institute and came highly recommended by our mutual friend, Professor Semykin. Why is this letter damp?’
‘Never mind that‚’ answered Kirov. ‘What was Churikova doing here?’
Golyakovsky struggled to recall. ‘It was something to do with viscosity.’
‘Viscosity? What does that have to do with studying art?’
‘Well, I don’t know exactly. Polina was in a special programme devoted to art forensics. Finding out forgeries and so on. They often requested samples of paints and varnishes from works that arrived in our collection already damaged beyond repair. Sometimes, even though the paintings can’t be salvaged, we are able to reuse the frames.’
‘Why did they want paint samples?’
‘To determine their chemical composition. From that, they could often tell when a painting had been made. Some forgeries use colours that weren’t invented until centuries after the paintings were supposed to have been made. But that’s not always something you can tell just by looking at it. You have to be able to look at its chemical structure.’
‘This document also gives her permission to enter the archives.’
‘Yes. That means she was allowed to search in our inventory for particular samples on which to conduct scientific research. She couldn’t just walk out with it, you understand. It all had to be approved. I took charge of that personally.’
‘And what did she want for this experiment in viscosity?’
‘Well, it seemed very strange,’ he began, ‘but the whole business of forensics is strange to me.’