Stefanov’s fire ceased sharply as a spent cartridge jammed in the receiver. He ducked back into the cover of the grass and immediately set to work clearing the crumpled stub of brass.
Pekkala loaded his last remaining bullets into the Mauser as a shot from the ditch passed close over his head and he felt the paralysing stun of the near miss. He raised his rifle, ready to fire, when suddenly he heard Churikova’s voice.
‘Pekkala!’ she called.
All firing had ceased and now the silence was overwhelming.
‘Inspector, is that you?’ she called again.
Pekkala did not reply, but only watched and waited, refusing to give away his position.
Stefanov was still struggling to prise loose the jammed cartridge. Sweat and dust burned in his eyes and blood from his torn fingernails seeped across his fingers, banding them like rings of red glass. ‘It’s no use,’ he whispered as he set aside the gun.
‘Pekkala!’ shouted the lieutenant. ‘I know you’re out there. Let me talk to you. Let me explain.’
‘I could try to work my way around them,’ whispered Stefanov, ‘but for that I’ll need your rifle.’
Pekkala handed Stefanov the Mauser, then drew his revolver from its holster, feeling the brass handle smooth and cool against his palm.
After a nod from Pekkala, Stefanov vanished like a snake into the tall grass.
At the same moment‚ Churikova clambered from the ditch and stood in the road, staring out across the grass. ‘Where are you? Talk to me!’
Slowly, Pekkala climbed to his feet, the Webley clenched in his fist. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked, his voice gravelly with the dust that lined his throat.
‘For the sake of the amber.’ As she spoke, she took a step towards him, then another. ‘This war left me with no choice.’
Pekkala watched her and said nothing, his face unreadable.
‘Russia is about to fall,’ she continued. ‘The Catherine Palace and everything left inside it will soon be nothing more than a heap of rubble. The Germans have made up their minds. Its fate has already been sealed. Nothing you or I can do will change that. But we can save the Amber Room.’ With an exasperated sigh, the lieutenant held out her hands, palm up, begging him to understand. ‘For now, we have no alternative but to allow our enemies to be the guardians of what we have left. You understand, don’t you, Pekkala?’
Whether it was fear or hope that creased her wind-burned face, Pekkala could not tell.
In that instant, a shot rang out. Churikova stumbled. For a moment, she righted herself, but then another bullet struck her and she fell hard to the ground.
Behind her, on the edge of the ditch, stood Gustav Engel, still holding the Luger which had brought down the lieutenant.
Pekkala raised his revolver. ‘Why did you do that?’ he asked.
‘Because she never understood,’ replied Engel. ‘Polina thought that she was saving Russian history, but what she failed to grasp was that, by the time we have finished with this country, it will have no history, because Russia will cease to exist. Fond as I was of her, I have only done what Hitler would have done eventually. You see, his love of Russian treasure does not extend to the Russian people themselves, no matter how helpful they have been. And Stalin would have done the same. But that’s not what he has in mind for me, is it, Inspector Pekkala? He wants me alive. He needs to know what I know. That’s why, now that you finally have me in your gunsight, you are forbidden to pull the trigger. Polina told me all about your plan to bring me to back to Moscow. And she explained how Stalin has ordered you to obliterate the Amber Room, but you and I both know that Stalin doesn’t really care about the room. What he cares about is that I have taken it from him. What he wants, even more than having it, is for Hitler not to have it. Polina told me what Stalin said that day you brought her to the Kremlin — that the only way Russia can survive is if you are prepared to sacrifice everything. But there is one thing Stalin will not sacrifice, and that is his vanity. To protect it, he would have you set fire to what he has called an irreplaceable treasure of the State. But who will get the blame for that, Pekkala? It won’t be me. It won’t be the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg. It would be you‚ because Stalin will deny that he ever gave you such an order. So where does that leave us, Pekkala? You can deliver me to Stalin and face a firing squad because you ruined the Eighth Wonder of the World, or you can do nothing and be shot for that, instead.’ Confidently, Engel put the Luger back in its holster. ‘Fortunately, I have a solution. Once you’ve heard it, you will see it is the only one that makes sense.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Come with me. Let me protect you.’
‘Like you protected Churikova?’
‘What the lieutenant had to offer, she had already bartered away. But you are different, Pekkala. You are famous, far beyond the borders of the country you have called your home, and your skills are valuable, no matter where you go. Besides, you’re not a Russian. You are a Finn, and the Finns are now allies of ours. What I am offering you is a chance to start again.’
Suddenly, like a golem taking shape out of the earth, a figure rose up from the grass behind Engel. It was Stefanov. With two long strides, he crossed the ground between himself and Engel.
Too late, Engel turned, alerted by the sound of footsteps on the road.
There was a sharp crack as the butt of Stefanov’s rifle connected with the side of Engel’s head.
The professor collapsed in a heap into the ditch.
Leaning over the unconscious man, Stefanov removed Engel’s Luger from its holster and tucked it into his belt.
Pekkala, meanwhile, walked over to the place where Lieutenant Churikova had fallen. She lay on her back, returning his stare. A layer of dust had settled on her eyes.
‘I heard what he told you,’ said Stefanov. ‘What are you going to do‚ Inspector?’
‘Do you think you can carry the professor?’
‘Yes. I’m sure of it.’
‘Then you should set off now‚ back towards the Russian lines.’
‘But what about you, Inspector? Aren’t you coming with us?’
‘There is something I must do first‚’ replied Pekkala.
Stefanov pointed towards a hillside in the distance. ‘I’ll wait for you on the crest of that ridge.’
‘Go quickly,’ said Pekkala, ‘someone might have heard the shooting‚ and it’s only a matter of time before they come to investigate.’
Without another word, Stefanov set off towards the east, with the professor slung over his shoulders in the way a man carries a deer that he has hunted down and killed. The going was not hard. He weighed less than Barkat had done.
It took Stefanov about twenty minutes to reach the base of the hill. There, he stepped beneath the canopy of trees and began making his way up to the ridge. The ground was soft and strewn with fallen leaves, causing him to slip and lose his footing several times. The professor groaned as he slowly regained consciousness.
On the crest of the hill, Stefanov found a clearing that looked out over the valley below. Here he stopped to rest, rolling Engel off his shoulders and into a bank of dried moss.
Engel’s eyes fluttered. Lifting himself up on one elbow, he looked around blearily.
‘Do you speak Russian?’ asked Stefanov.
The professor turned to see a man in a tattered German uniform, sitting with his back against a tree, covering him with his own gun.
‘Yes,’ replied Engel. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am Rifleman Stefanov, sole survivor of the 5th Anti-Aircraft Section of the Red Army’s 35th Rifle Division.’
‘You’re the one who came here with Pekkala.’
Before Stefanov could reply, a hollow boom sounded in the distance. Both men turned to see a ball of fire rising from the fields. The flames were capped with thick black smoke, which Stefanov knew must have come from a gasoline explosion. It took only a second’s calculation for Stefanov to realise that the location of the blaze was exactly where he had last seen the Inspector.