‘I am only passing through,’ Pekkala explained to Maximov. ‘There is someone I must search for.’
‘Who?’ asked Maximov.
‘A woman to whom I was engaged,’ replied Pekkala. ‘She left for Paris, just before the Revolution. I was supposed to meet her there. It had all been arranged. But by the time the Tsar gave me permission to leave, the borders were already closing. I was arrested by Revolutionary Guards as I attempted to pass through into Finland. From there, they sent me to prison. And after that, the Gulag at Borodok.’
‘Does she even know you are alive?’ asked Maximov.
‘That is only one of many questions I must answer,’ replied Pekkala, ‘which is why, as soon as the snow melts, I will turn my back on Russia once and for all.’
‘Then you and I are bound in opposite directions, Inspector.’
‘It seems that way,’ agreed Pekkala.
Winter was ending. The snow began to melt. Often they were startled by the gunshot echo of ice cracking out on the lake. The time of the Rasputitsa was coming. Soon everything would turn to mud.
One morning, the camp awoke to find that Maximov had gone. There had been no warning. No goodbyes. He had simply disappeared.
Troubled by the man’s sudden departure, Pekkala tracked his movements through the half-melted snow to the edge of the lake, where Maximov’s footprints set out across the ice. There Pekkala stopped, knowing it was suicide to continue.
The surface was rotten and unstable. No one who knew anything about the conditions at this time of year would ever have set foot upon it, for fear of falling through into the freezing water beneath. And once beneath the ice, it was almost impossible to find your way back to the surface. Even if you could, it was extremely difficult to climb from the water and make your way from there to firmer ground.
Pekkala scanned the horizon, hoping for a glimpse of Maximov, but there was nothing. He knew that, even if this former soldier of the Tsar survived the crossing of the lake, the chances of him living through this war, with enemies on either side, were slim to none.
But maybe, thought Pekkala, those odds mean nothing to him.
In Siberia, Pekkala had seen men fall into a dream that blinded them to their true limitations, until both the wilderness and the freedom that lay beyond it became more symbol than reality. Out on those ragged edges of the planet, the false promise of how far a person could go upon the power of his dreams alone inevitably proved to be fatal.
Standing at the edge of that lake, Pekkala wondered whether Maximov’s dreams had led him to his death. He doubted if he’d ever know.
Returning to his cabin, Pekkala discovered Maximov’s clockwork mouse resting on a log which jutted from the wall of the hut. It had been left there as a gift.
Pekkala brought the little toy inside the hut, determined to restore it to working condition if he could. By the light of a lamp made from deer fat floating in an old tin can, with a scrap of old shoelace for a wick, he carefully removed the outer shell. It was only then that he realised why the mechanism had been jammed. Placed inside the humped back of the mouse was a diamond as large as a pea, beautifully cut into an octagon. As soon as he removed it from the toy, the tiny wheels began to buzz and spin and the key in the side of the mouse revolved, moving slower and slower, until it finally clattered to a stop. Pekkala held the diamond in his palm, tilting his hand one way and then another, studying the way each facet caught the lamplight. Then he wrapped it up in a dirty handkerchief and tucked it in his pocket.
‘The beast has come to keep me company!’ cried Barabanschikov, when he caught sight of Pekkala later that morning. The partisan leader was sitting on a tree stump beside the smouldering remains of the previous night’s fire.
Pekkala sat down beside his friend.
Barabanschikov picked up a stick and stirred it in the grey dust, turfing up embers still glowing like fragments of amber. ‘He’s gone, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ replied Pekkala.
‘And soon you, too, will be leaving on your journey to the west,’ said Barabanschikov. ‘I have not forgotten our agreement.’
‘I might not be leaving, after all,’ said Pekkala.
The stick froze in Barabanschikov’s hand. Slivers of smoke rose from the blackened wood. ‘I thought that your mind was made up.’
‘It was until Maximov appeared.’
‘What did he say to talk you out of it?’
‘It’s not what he said,’ answered Pekkala. ‘It’s what he is doing that convinced me. He left behind everything that was safe to come back here, even though the only thanks he is likely to get is to be killed by the very people he has come to help.’
‘You’ve been on that same journey all your life,’ said Barabanschikov.
‘There were times,’ admitted Pekkala, ‘when I thought that journey would end here in these woods.’
Barabanschikov slapped him gently on the back. ‘We have managed to survive so far, haven’t we? I am no longer afraid of death, Pekkala, only of squandering the memory of every good thing I have achieved in this life by burying it beneath terrible deeds that I have done to stay alive.’
‘You have saved more lives than just your own,’ Pekkala told him.
‘And will it be enough?’ asked Barabanschikov.
‘There is no judgement that an honest man should fear,’ Pekkala told him.
‘That is an easy thing to say, Inspector, but how can an honest man live in a country whose leaders are not?’
‘The answer,’ replied Pekkala, ‘is to tread softly, to stay alive and to do whatever good you can along the way.’
‘No matter what happens from now on,’ said Barabanschikov, ‘let us promise to live by those words.’
*
‘I made that promise to him,’ said Pekkala, as the memory of that day faded back into the darkness of his mind.
‘So you are coming back to Moscow?’ stammered Kirov.
‘Yes,’ replied Pekkala, ‘and I would have told you so earlier if you’d given me the chance.’
‘But that is excellent news!’ In a moment, Kirov was back on his feet. He slapped Pekkala on the back, raising a haze of dust from the soot-powdered wool of the Inspector’s coat.
Their conversation was interrupted by the tearing sound of heavy machine guns followed, soon afterwards, by the roar and clank of armoured vehicles.
‘Could those be ours?’ asked Kirov.
Pekkala shook his head. ‘There is no Soviet armour in Rovno.’
‘So the enemy has broken through.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Pekkala, ‘which means we need to find a place to hide, if it isn’t already too late.’
*
Luther Benjamin moved cautiously through the woods, passing through the deserted town of Misovichi on his way to the rendezvous site. He had set out before sunrise that morning, hiking south to clear the combat zone before turning east and crossing into enemy territory. Although he had met with no difficulties so far, Benjamin had been warned by Skorzeny that the cabin was difficult to spot and he was worried that he might miss it altogether in this wilderness. If it had been anyone other than Vasko, Benjamin might have considered turning back before travelling any further.
But Vasko was a friend.
He and Benjamin had gone through training together at the School of Special Weapons and Tactics, located in the Berlin suburb of Zossen, before Benjamin was transferred to the SS, while Vasko was chosen for service in the Abwehr. Of the fourteen men and women in that class, he and Vasko were the only ones still living.
In the case of Luther Benjamin, that was due to nothing more than luck. He had just returned from three months’ recuperation after being injured in a gunfight after his cover was blown in Zagreb and he barely escaped with his life. Although Benjamin had made a full physical recovery, according to the medical report, his mental state was such that the doctor recommended he not be sent on any further missions.