‘Are you sure?’ asked Pekkala. ‘You have spoken to the other bands?’
Barabanschikov nodded. ‘On one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘That the promises made by Colonel Andrich will be kept.’
‘You will have those promises,’ said Pekkala.
‘Not from you, my friend,’ said Barabanschikov, resting his hand upon Pekkala’s shoulder, ‘although I do not doubt your good intentions. Let me stand before the leader of this country and hear him make those guarantees in person. Otherwise, they’re just the words of other men.’
‘Moscow is a long way from here,’ said Pekkala, ‘and do you really think that looking Stalin in the eye will make a difference?’
Barabanschikov swept his hand towards the crowd of partisans. ‘It makes a difference to them. To know that I have actually spoken with Stalin carries more weight than anything that you or I, or anyone sent here to speak for him, could ever say. You know these people, Pekkala. You have shared their suffering. You know they deserve nothing less.’
Pekkala nodded in agreement. ‘I will notify Moscow immediately.’
*
‘A telegram!’ shouted Poskrebychev. As he knocked on the door to Stalin’s study, he was already entering the room. ‘A message has arrived from Rovno!’
‘Finally,’ growled Stalin. Although it was a sunny day, he had drawn the curtains, shutting out all but a few stray bands of light which had worked their way in past the heavy sheets of red velvet. ‘And what does Kirov have to say?’
‘The message is not from Kirov, Comrade Stalin. This one is from Pekkala!’
‘Give it to me!’ Stalin held out his hand, snapping his fingers until Poskrebychev was close enough to have the message torn from his grasp. For a while, there was silence as he studied the telegram. Finally, Stalin spoke. ‘He says partisans have agreed to lay down their guns, on condition that I meet personally with their leader, Barabanschikov.’
‘And will you meet with him, Comrade Stalin?’
Stalin scratched thoughtfully at his neck, fingernails dragging across the scars of old pockmarks. ‘Send word to the garrison in Rovno. Tell them to call off the attack. And have a plane dispatched immediately to the nearest airfield so that Barabanschikov can be transported back to Moscow, along with Major Kirov and Pekkala. Tell the leader of these partisans that I will meet with him, if that is the price of their allegiance.’
‘At once, Comrade Stalin!’ Poskrebychev clicked his heels, then turned and left the room, closing the doors quietly behind him. No sooner had he returned to his desk than the intercom buzzed. Poskrebychev leaned over and pressed a well-worn button. ‘Yes, Comrade Stalin?’
‘Once the plane is in the air,’ Stalin told him, ‘have the pilot maintain strict radio silence until they reach Moscow. Air-to-ground messages can be intercepted by the enemy and I don’t want anyone shooting them down before they get here!’
*
Ten hours later an American-made DC9, on loan to the Red Air Force, landed at the Obarov airfield. The aircraft had been on its way from Kiev to the Arctic port of Arkhangelsk with a cargo of submarine propellers when, on emergency orders from the Kremlin, it was diverted to the small airfield outside Rovno. The heavily loaded plane landed hard on the short runway, which drew gasps of morbid fascination from the onlookers, followed by wild applause when the aircraft, smoke pouring from its brakes and engines screaming in reverse, finally managed to stop, only a dozen paces from the tree line.
Earlier that day, Kirov had returned from the cabin and reported his findings to Pekkala, who agreed that the assassin, whoever he was, had been killed in the explosion. Now that the case was closed, they immediately turned their attention to the business of transporting Barabanschikov to Moscow.
The pilot of the cargo plane, wearing heavy brown overalls lined with sheepskin, climbed down from the cockpit. Warily, he looked out at the jumbled assortment of clothing, weapons and head gear of this ragged welcoming committee. Some appeared to be Red Army, while others, judging from their uniforms, could have laid claim to membership in half a dozen nations. ‘Well, I can’t take all of you!’ he shouted.
Kirov stepped forward. ‘There are only three passengers.’
‘Four!’ announced Sergeant Zolkin, as he pushed his way to the front of the crowd. ‘I’m coming too, on the orders of Inspector Pekkala.’
‘Your new driver,’ Kirov muttered to Pekkala.
‘But what about your Jeep, Zolkin?’ asked Pekkala.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Zolkin turned and tossed the keys to Malashenko. ‘Looks like we both get our wish,’ he told the partisan.
Ever since he’d returned to the cabin, Malashenko had been pleading with Zolkin to transport him to Kiev. He had overheard Pekkala telling Kirov that the case was officially closed and realized there was no hope of persuading Pekkala to revisit the cabin. His only hope now was to get as far away from Vasko as he could. When Zolkin refused to drive him, Malashenko revised his destination to anywhere at all, as long as it was somewhere out of Rovno. In exchange, Malashenko offered the sergeant a lifetime supply of salt, to which Zolkin only shrugged and shook his head.
‘Now you can drive yourself!’ said Zolkin.
Clutching the keys tightly in his fist, Malashenko bowed his head in solemn gratitude. There would be no gold, but at least he might escape with his life.
Barabanschikov waved farewell to his men and climbed aboard.
Zolkin went next, clambering into the aircraft without so much as a backward glance, as if afraid that his luck might give out before the plane’s wheels left the ground.
Now only Kirov and Pekkala remained.
‘Be quick!’ called the pilot, as he beckoned to them.
Pekkala bid farewell to Malashenko, but as he shook hands with the man, Pekkala noticed the gun which Malashenko had tucked into his belt. ‘That Walther,’ he said. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘At the cabin,’ replied Malashenko, not thinking fast enough to lie. ‘It belonged to the dead man. It was lying on the floor, so I took it.’
‘But the gun used to kill Colonel Andrich was 7.62 mm,’ said Pekkala. ‘A Walther P38 takes 9-mm ammunition.’
Malashenko was barely listening. His thoughts were focused on the idea that Pekkala might try to confiscate the gun as evidence for his investigation. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ he said defiantly, ‘it’s the least that bastard could part with after blowing my cabin to bits.’
But Kirov understood. ‘Do you think there might have been two agents?’
Pekkala turned to Malashenko. ‘That bullet you gave to Major Kirov. Are you certain it came from the cabin?’
‘Of course I am certain!’ spluttered Malashenko, as panic swirled through his mind. Does he suspect? he wondered. Are they accusing me? ‘Maybe he had two guns. So what?’
Pekkala shook his head. ‘It is unlikely that he would have been carrying two pistols, of different calibres. If there is another agent, the fact that he abandoned his colleague without trying to conceal any of the evidence means that he left in a hurry. He may even have been wounded, in which case he might not have gone far. Whatever the answer, the cabin must be searched again for any sign that the dead agent might not have been there by himself.’
‘But, Inspector,’ Kirov protested, ‘Stalin himself has ordered us back to Moscow and the plane is about to depart!’
‘That is why you must be on it,’ Pekkala told him. ‘Deliver Barabanschikov to the Kremlin. Tell Stalin that I will head for Moscow as soon as I have some answers. In the meantime, Malashenko and I will return to the cabin to search for more evidence.’
Hearing this, Malashenko could scarcely believe his good fortune. ‘I will take us there at once!’ he said, holding up the keys to Zolkin’s Jeep.
Minutes later, with Kirov aboard, the plane taxied for take-off. Its engines roaring, the machine rolled slowly forward, gathering speed until the wheels lifted off the ground and folded upwards into the belly of the fuselage. It climbed and climbed, the sounds of the motors already fading, until it vanished completely in the clouds.