Without a word, Kirov stepped over to the chest of drawers. He knelt down, knees cracking, and set his ear against the side panel. For a moment, he remained there, motionless and listening.
Then both men heard a strange and high-pitched sound, like that of a trapped bird, coming from the same location.
Caught off guard by the noise, Kirov tipped backwards, landing heavily upon the floor. He scrambled backwards, then jumped once again to his feet. ‘What was that?’ he whispered to Pekkala.
‘I think it was the sound of someone crying,’ replied Pekkala. Stepping over to the chest of drawers, he gently tapped the barrel of the Webley against the wood. ‘Come out,’ he said gently. ‘No one is here to hurt you.’
‘I can’t,’ replied a voice, so faint that they could barely make it out.
‘Why not?’ asked Pekkala.
‘You have to move the chest,’ replied the voice.
‘It’s a child!’ gasped Kirov. Setting his weight against the chest of drawers, he moved the structure aside, revealing a hole in the wall behind. It had been crudely excavated, the sides hacked from the plaster. The stumps of wooden laths protruded like the ends of broken ribs. The hole itself was narrow, far too small for anyone to stand inside and too short to lie down in. Curled in a foetal position, with her knees drawn up to her chin, was a young girl, no more than ten years old. She wore a tattered blue coat and worn-out shoes, fastened by a strap with flower-shaped buckles, which must once have been saved only for special occasions.
Immediately, Pekkala put away his gun and knelt down beside the hole. ‘What is your name?’ he asked gently.
‘Shura.’
‘It’s safe to come out now, Shura.’ He beckoned to her with his blood-stained fingers.
The girl stared at him, her eyes reddened from hours of weeping.
‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Why was there shooting? Why is the table tipped over? Who is that lying on the floor? Is that the general?’
‘We are trying to answer those questions,’ Pekkala shifted his stance to block the girl’s view of the carnage, while Kirov removed his tunic and laid it over the dead woman’s face. Then he gathered up the once-cheerful white and yellow table cloth and heaped it on the shattered ruination of the general’s skull. Pekkala kept talking to the girl. ‘And I think you might be able to help us, but first tell me, Shura, who put you in this place?’
‘My mother.’
‘And your mother’s name is Antonina?’
‘Yes,’ she told them. ‘When the general comes to visit, my mother takes me to my grandmother’s house. But if there isn’t time, she makes me hide in here.’
‘Why? Did she think that the general would hurt you?’
‘No, that’s not it,’ she replied. ‘She said that if the general knew about me, he might not come at all. She didn’t want him to know that she had a child. He brought food with him, you see. My mother always saved some for me. But then, last night, someone came up the stairs.’
‘How many of them were there?’
‘Only one.’
Pekkala narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you certain, Shura? Only one?’
‘I heard his footsteps. If there were more, I would have heard them, too. I thought it was the general’s helper, Molodin. He knows I live here, but he promised not to tell. Sometimes he would come by with gifts for me.’
‘How do you know it wasn’t him?’ said Pekkala.
‘I heard a voice and I knew it wasn’t Molodin. And I heard my mother’s voice, too. But softly. I couldn’t tell what they were saying. After that, the gun went off again.’
Pekkala nodded, trying to conceal his emotions. Just then, he noticed the blood on his fingers, tucked his hand behind him and wiped it on the back of his coat.
‘Are you hurt?’ asked the girl.
‘No,’ replied Pekkala. ‘I’m fine, Shura. Won’t you come out now? It’s safe. No one is going to hurt you.’
The girl crawled out of the space and Pekkala swept her up in his arms.
‘Is that my mother lying there?’ From the flat tone of her voice, it was clear that she already knew. In the hours she’d spent huddled in the blindness of that hiding place, the girl had pieced together images from what she’d only heard.
‘Look at me,’ said Pekkala.
As if lost in a trance, Shura continued to stare at the hulk of the dead general, his stiffened body like an island on the blood-daubed floor, and the granite pallor of her mother’s legs protruding from her skirt.
‘Look at me, Shura,’ he repeated.
This time, the girl obeyed.
‘I want you to do something for me,’ Pekkala told her. ‘I want you to close your eyes and let me carry you downstairs. It is better not to see what’s here. Do you understand?’
The girl’s eyes slid shut like those of a doll tilted on to its back.
Pekkala carried her down, stepping over the body of the guard, and out into the street.
‘My God,’ said Malashenko, his gaze fastening upon the little girl. ‘What is she doing here?’
Hearing a familiar voice, Shura opened her eyes and looked around, squinting in the harsh daylight.
‘You know this girl?’ Pekkala asked Malashenko.
‘I do,’ he replied.
Pekkala set her down and she walked over to Malashenko, who crouched down and placed her on his knee.
‘Shura,’ said the partisan, ‘do you recognise me? I was a friend of your mother’s.’
‘I know who you are,’ replied Shura.
‘Do you know where her grandmother lives?’ Pekkala asked Malashenko. ‘Can you take her there?’
‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but I am supposed to be guarding you.’
‘Meet us at the safe house when you’re done. We’ll manage until you get back.’
‘Yes, Inspector. I promise to return right away.’
‘Move fast, Malashenko,’ said Kirov. ‘Here come Yakushkin’s men.’
They all heard it now, the sound of a vehicle fast approaching from the direction of the hospital.
‘You had better leave with me, Inspector,’ said Malashenko. He shifted the little girl off his knee and rose to his feet. ‘Your friend might be safe in that uniform of his, but you won’t be safe among the soldiers.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Kirov assured him. ‘I guarantee Pekkala’s safety.’
‘Your guarantee?’ asked Malashenko. ‘What use is that? The promise of a commissar is no better than the oath of a whore.’
The words were not even out of Malashenko’s mouth, before Kirov’s gun was levelled at his face.
The speed of Kirov’s draw left Malashenko wide-eyed with astonishment. ‘You see?’ spluttered the partisan, not taking his eyes off the weapon. ‘You see who these men really are?’
‘Major,’ said Pekkala, ‘you will put the gun away. And you!’ he turned to Malashenko. ‘Go now, before that mouth of yours gets you in more trouble than I can get you out of.’
Fascinated, the little girl had watched all this. Now she reached out her arms to be carried as Malashenko slung the sub-machine gun on his back, and he lifted her up and vanished down an alley just as a Red Army truck appeared around the corner, and began speeding towards the yellow house.
‘What was that just now?’ demanded Pekkala. ‘Have you completely lost your mind!’
‘No,’ Kirov said through clenched teeth, ‘but that’s what I’d like him to think.’
Internal Memo, Office of Immigration and Naturalisation, US Embassy, Moscow. December 28th, 1937
Application for replacement of US passports for Mrs William H. Vasko, aged 42, her son Peter Vasko aged 16 and daughter Rachel Vasko, aged 9.
Filing of application delayed pending payment of $2 US Dollars per passport. Applicant did not have required US Dollars and will return shortly.
*
Police Report, Kremlin District, December 29th, 1937
Arrest of Betty Jean Vasko and two children, charged with illegal possession of foreign currency pursuant to NKVD directive 3/A 1933.
*
Minutes of Central Court, Moscow, March 4th, 1938
Prisoners G-29-K Betty Jean Vasko, G-30-K Peter Vasko, and G-31-K, Rachel Vasko convicted of currency manipulation and illegal possession of foreign currency. Sentenced to 10, 5 and 2 years respectively. Transport to Kolyma.