After leaving the apartment, Vasko had returned to the ruined house where he had hidden for the past two days. Knowing that even in the uniform of a Red Army officer, his solitary presence at that time of night would attract unwanted attention, Vasko decided to wait until first light before returning to the cabin, which was some distance outside the town. Once there, he would enlist Malashenko’s help in tracking down Pekkala.
Shortly before dawn, a group of partisans arrived in a battered truck and entered the house where Yakushkin and the nurse had been killed. When Vasko recognised Malashenko among them, he knew that this must be the famous Barabanschikov Atrad. They departed soon afterwards, leaving Malashenko behind to guard the place.
While Vasko was debating whether to leave cover and approach Malashenko, to see if the partisan knew anything of Kirov’s whereabouts, the Barabanschikovs returned.
Vasko was astonished to see Major Kirov climb down from the truck, along with a tall man in civilian clothes. The moment Vasko realised he was looking at Pekkala, he felt his whole body go numb. His first thought was to open fire immediately and keep shooting until he ran out of bullets, in the hopes that a lucky shot might bring down the Inspector. It took all his self-control not to squander the only chance he knew he was likely to get. With a truckload of partisans between him and the Inspector, and only a pistol for a weapon, especially one loaded with bullets which were only accurate at close range, Vasko knew that he would never make the shot before the partisans gunned him down.
At the same time, Vasko realised that since Pekkala was now investigating the murder of Commander Yakushkin, it was only a matter of time before the Inspector tracked him down.
Vasko knew his best, perhaps his only, hope, was to let Pekkala do precisely that. Only in this way, thought Vasko, can I lure him to a place of my own choosing, where his death will not come at the cost of my own life.
For now, though, his primary concern was to leave this hiding place where, if discovered, it was clear he wouldn’t stand a chance. Vasko decided to make for the cabin in the woods; the only place he could think of where he might be safe.
No sooner had the Barabanschikovs left, however, than Red Army soldiers arrived and began patrolling the streets, obviously looking for whoever had murdered their commander.
The Red Army continued its patrols until just after sunset, by which time Vasko was cold, exhausted and hungry.
Just as he was preparing to move out, gangs of partisans appeared and began going door to door, intent on capturing whoever had murdered their leaders in the bunker the night before.
Vasko was trapped in the ruins, as a routine quickly established itself whereby the Red Army controlled the streets by day and the partisans took over after dark. By the morning of the second day, he had eaten his way through the small tin of emergency rations he always carried with him on missions. The rations came in a small, oval tin and consisted of chocolate heavily laced with caffeine, which offered him little more than an upset stomach and a case of jangling nerves.
Vasko knew that time was running out. Pekkala was still out there somewhere, and Skorzeny would not wait forever.
Vasko decided that, if the situation had not changed by the following morning, he would walk out in the daylight, hoping that the green metal lozenges on his collar tabs, denoting the rank of captain, might buy him at least a moment’s hesitation from any Red Army patrol which crossed his path. A moment would be all that he needed. As for trying to slip past the partisans, Vasko did not think much of his chances.
That night, wild dogs howled among the ruins. Vasko heard their snarling as they feasted on the dead. With frozen fingers locked around the gun, Vasko curled up in a ball beneath a sheet of corrugated iron. Sleet and rain pelted down upon him, the sound of it amplified against the rusted metal. That night, over the muttering of the wind, Vasko picked up fragments of voices and the noise of babies crying. Once, he caught the sound of balalaika music.
At last, when the dawn began to glimmer in the sky, Vasko was preparing to leave cover when a gunfight erupted between a crew of partisans returning to their base and a Red Army squad just heading out on patrol. From his hiding place, Vasko witnessed the battle. Some of the stray shots even slammed into the woodwork above his head. The Red Army soldiers pulled back, bringing their wounded with them as they headed for the safety of their headquarters, which had been fortified with barbed wire and sandbags. The partisans carried away two of their men who had been killed in the skirmish, and faded back into the darkness. In a matter of minutes, the streets were empty and quiet. But Vasko knew it might not stay that way for long. Both sides would almost certainly return with reinforcements. Taking advantage of the lull, he slipped away and was soon beyond the outskirts of the town.
*
‘I’ve searched the whole place,’ said Kirov, as he trampled down the rickety stairs of the safe house. ‘There’s no sign of Malashenko anywhere.’
‘He should have been here by now,’ muttered Pekkala, as he walked over to a window and peered out through a crack in the shutters.
‘So much for our bodyguard,’ grunted Kirov as he sat down in one of several mismatched chairs, tilted back and set his heels up on the table. ‘I’d gladly trade him for a plate of blinis.’
‘Blinis,’ Pekkala echoed thoughtfully.
‘With sour cream and caviar,’ continued Kirov, locking his hands behind his head, ‘and chopped red onion and a glass of cold vodka.’
Pekkala stared at the ceiling with a distant look in his eyes. ‘I can’t even recall the last time I had a good meal.’
‘We’ll soon put that right,’ Kirov assured him. ‘Once we get back to Moscow, we can return to our ritual of Friday afternoon meals, at which, with your permission, Elizaveta will become a permanent guest.’ The major smiled happily, his thoughts returning to their cosy little office, with its temperamental stove and wheezy samovar and the comfortable chair which they had salvaged off the street. ‘What do you say to that, Inspector?’
But there was no reply. Pekkala remained by the window, staring out into the street. Snow had begun to fall again. Fat, wet flakes slid down the weathered old shutters.
There was something about the way he stood; sombre and alone, which made Kirov realise that the fears he had secretly been harbouring ever since he’d found Pekkala might come true after all. ‘You’re not coming back to Moscow, are you?’ he asked.
*
‘Skorzeny, you idiot!’ Seated at his desk, in a high-ceilinged office on Prinz Albrechtstrasse in Berlin, Heinrich Himmler, lord of the SS, roared out his disapproval. ‘Why didn’t you inform me about this mission?’
‘I received a direct order from the Admiral not to share details of the mission with anyone. Anyone at all.’ Skorzeny shifted uneasily, knowing that his excuse was unlikely to appease the Reichsführer.
‘I am not “anyone”!’ barked Himmler, fixing Skorzeny with his grey-blue eyes, which appeared strangely calm, in spite of his obvious rage. ‘I am commander of the SS of which, as of today, at least, you’re still a member!’
‘And Canaris is an admiral,’ replied Skorzeny, ‘and his orders were perfectly clear.’
‘If your orders were to tell no one,’ Himmler leaned forward, placing his hands flat upon the desk, the thumbs side by side, in a way that reminded Skorzeny of the Sphinx, ‘then why are you telling me now?’
‘I believe that something may have gone wrong. Vasko was parachuted over the abandoned village of Misovichi, not far from the rendezvous point. There he was due to meet with a partisan named Malashenko, who has been working with the Abwehr’s Secret Field Police. Vasko made a low-level jump over the target and his chute was seen to open properly. Twenty-four hours ago, a reconnaissance aircraft reported seeing smoke rising from the chimney of a cabin where the meeting was due to take place.’