His gloomy thoughts were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps climbing the stairs. As Kirov listened, each monotonous tread of those hobnailed boots became like a kick in the face.
He stared at the door, half hoping that the person would find himself mistaken, turn around and go back down the stairs, and the other half wanting to get it over with and hear the news now instead of later. The one certainty in Kirov’s mind was that the news would not be good.
The person stopped.
Seconds passed.
Kirov remained at his desk, his hands beginning to sweat. At the first knock, he launched himself out of his chair and strode across the room towards the door.
He had no sooner opened it when he felt himself shoved violently backwards into the room. Kirov tripped on the carpet and fell and by the time he realised that his visitor was Victor Bakhturin, he was already face to face with Bakhturin’s Tokarev automatic.
Bakhturin was breathing heavily from his walk up the five flights of stairs. ‘Why the hell do you have to live up in the clouds?’ he barked.
‘If you’re going to shoot,’ replied Kirov, ‘get on with it.’
‘I’m not going to shoot you!’
Kirov stared at the gun. ‘It looks that way to me.’
‘I’m protecting myself,’ Bakhturin explained gruffly, ‘so that I get a chance to talk to you before you pull a gun!’
‘Then may I get up off the floor?’
‘Yes.’ Bakhturin hesitated. ‘As long as you understand that I have not come here seeking vengeance for what happened to my brother.’
‘You haven’t?’ Kirov climbed to his feet, dusted off his elbows and kicked the carpet back into place.
‘The only thing that surprised me when I heard that Serge had died was that he’d managed to survive for as long as he did. Don’t misunderstand me‚ Major‚ I loved my brother very much‚ but the truth is I have been preparing myself for his untimely death for so long that it is almost a relief not to have to worry about it any more.’
‘Then why are you here, Bakhturin?’
‘I heard that Pekkala has been lost behind enemy lines.’
‘He is not lost!’ Kirov shot back. ‘He knows where he is! It’s just that we don’t. That’s all.’
‘Do you still think he might be alive?’
‘I am sure of it, and I have no interest in hearing otherwise until somebody shows me the proof!’
‘I admire your stubbornness, Major. Believe me, I do. But you and I both know that he is never coming back.’
‘If you came here to tell me that,’ snapped Kirov, ‘then you have wasted your time.’
‘That is not the reason for my visit.’ From his pocket, Bakhturin removed an envelope and laid it on the desk in front of Kirov. ‘This is.’
Unable to hide his curiosity, Kirov snatched up the envelope. Inside, he found papers signed by Chief Clerk Yuri Tomilin of the People’s Commissariat for Justice, commuting the sentence of Valery Semykin to time already served. The documents were countersigned by Anton Markovsky, Director of the Recording Office of Lubyanka Prison. ‘He is being released?’ asked Kirov.
‘Even as we speak,’ replied Bakhturin.
Kirov put down the document. ‘Why have you done this?’
‘Call it a peace offering. Now that the Emerald Eye is gone, you and I must look to the future.’
‘When I know that he is gone, I’ll look. In the meantime, I will wait.’
‘My friend,’ said Bakhturin, an unfamiliar tone of gentleness suddenly present in his voice, ‘only a miracle can save Pekkala, and you must resign yourself to that.’
When Bakhturin had gone, Kirov remained at his desk, arms folded resolutely across his chest, resigned only to the miracle he felt certain would occur.
Less than an hour
Less than an hour after his release from solitary confinement, Valery Semykin approached the doors of the Museum of the Kremlin. His beige prison pyjamas had been exchanged for a set of clothes that did not belong to him, as well as a pair of shoes that did not fit, which caused him to limp over the cobblestones.
From the moment he left Lubyanka, Semykin had thought of nothing else but wandering the halls of the museum and reacquainting himself with the works of art which he had worried he might never see again. But when he finally reached the doors, some force beyond all reckoning compelled him to continue on his way.
All through that day and on into the evening, Semykin walked and walked, as blocks of flats gave way to single-storey houses which in turn gave way to thatched-roof peasant huts.
By then, he’d tossed away the shoes that did not fit. Barefoot now, and with the cool autumn air like electric sparks across his wounded fingertips, Semykin pressed on down the wide roads lined with poplars. As gusts of wind shook loose the yellow leaves, he raised his hands to catch the ones that tumbled past his face.
Only when the light was gone and stars winked from the darkness did Semykin turn at last, and head for home.
One week later
One week later, Obersturmbannfuhrer Gustav Engel passed safely through the Russian lines in the company of Rifleman Stefanov, who immediately exchanged his German uniform for the clothes of a Red Army soldier.
Within hours, they were on a transport plane to Moscow, where Engel was delivered to NKVD Headquarters. They had not even entered the building before an unmarked car pulled up to the kerb and two men wearing the dark brown, knee-length double-breasted jackets popular with Special Operations commissars emerged. One of the men flashed a Kremlin Security pass at the NKVD escorts, who immediately relinquished their prisoner. Engel’s demand to know where he was being taken was met only with silence as the two men handcuffed him, put him in the back seat of the car and sped away.
By the time Stefanov fully grasped what had just taken place, the NKVD escorts had disappeared into the building and he found himself alone on the sidewalk. Not knowing what else to do, he entered the headquarters and cautiously approached the duty sergeant at his desk in the main hallway.
‘Name?’ asked the sergeant, tapping a pencil against his thumbnail while he awaited the reply.
‘Stefanov, Rifleman.’
‘Ste. . fa. . nov.’ The sergeant scrawled the name into his book. Then he glanced up at the rifleman’s dirty and ill-fitting uniform, whose various components had been scrounged from the battlefield when Stefanov crossed through the German lines. ‘Are you delivering a message?’
‘I was delivering a prisoner,’ replied Stefanov.
The sergeant tilted his head to one side, looking past Stefanov towards the entrance. ‘And where is this prisoner? Have you lost him?’
Stefanov explained what had happened.
‘Wait a minute!’ said the sergeant. ‘You’re the one who captured that German general.’
‘I believe he is a colonel, not a general. His name is Gustav Engel.’
‘That’s the one! Here, I have something for you.’ The sergeant lifted a crisp white envelope from a tray on his desk and handed it to Stefanov. ‘These are your reassignment papers, and take a look at whose signature is on them.’
Stefanov opened the envelope and peered at the scribble. ‘I can’t read it.’
The sergeant leaned forward across his desk. ‘Stalin,’ he whispered. ‘You’re some kind of hero now, let me tell you.’ Slowly, the sergeant settled back into his chair.
‘Then I had better leave now,’ replied Stefanov. ‘According to these papers, my train leaves in two hours.’
‘Before you leave the city,’ said the sergeant, ‘you must report to Major Kirov.’
‘Who?’
‘Assistant to Inspector Pekkala.’
‘Does the major know what happened?’