‘And to stay alive!’ shouted Pekkala. ‘Do you remember that?’
‘I do, old friend,’ said Barabanschikov, ‘but I’m tired of treading softly through this world.’
A gunshot clapped the air, deafening in the confined space of the room.
But it wasn’t Pekkala who fired.
In the second when Barabanschikov turned his head towards the Inspector, Kirov had reached for his gun. He shot the partisan almost point-blank in the side, so close that the cloth of Barabanschikov’s jacket was smouldering as the partisan slipped to the floor.
At the moment of the gunshot, Stalin cried out and shrank away, hands covering his face. Now he slowly lowered his hands and looked down at his chest, searching for the wound which he felt sure he must have suffered. Frantically, he swept his fingers up and down his arms and dabbed his fingertips against his cheeks in search of blood. Finding nothing, Stalin began to laugh. He stepped over to the dying Barabanschikov and began to kick at him savagely.
The partisan was still alive, but he was barely breathing. He kept blinking his eyes, as if to clear the darkness that was closing in on him.
‘Comrade Stalin. .’ Kirov said gently.
Cackling obscenely, Stalin continued to jab his foot into the man’s stomach where the bullet had gone in, until the toe of his calfskin boot was slick with red.
‘Enough!’ Pekkala’s voice exploded.
Only now did Stalin pause. He whipped his head around and stared at the Inspector, madness in his yellow-green eyes. ‘Filthy partisans!’ he snarled. ‘I’ll wipe them all off the face of the earth.’
‘The partisans were not behind this,’ said Pekkala.
‘Then who was?’ Stalin demanded.
‘Admiral Canaris.’
At the sound of that name, Stalin froze. ‘Canaris,’ he whispered, and a look of terror passed across his face. He stepped away from Barabanschikov, walked around behind the desk and sat down in his chair. With trembling hands, Stalin lit a cigarette, the burning end crackling as he sucked the smoke into his lungs. Slowly, the madness faded from his eyes. ‘You took your damned time getting here,’ he said.
Two guards skidded into the room, sub-machine guns at the ready. They looked around in confusion, until their gazes came to rest upon the partisan.
Barabanschikov was dead now, his clawed hands still clutching the wound.
Shouting echoed through the hallway as more guards rushed up the stairs, scrambling in their hobnailed boots.
‘Send all the others away,’ ordered Stalin, ‘and you two can clean up this mess.’ He gestured towards the body of the partisan, trailing smoke through the air with his cigarette.
The guards dragged Barabanschikov out by his feet, smearing the red carpet with the darker shade of blood.
‘Poskrebychev!’ Stalin called into the outer office.
A moment later, the secretary peeked around the corner. As soon as he had heard the shot, he crawled under his desk and stayed there. Only when the guards ran into Stalin’s room did he feel it was safe to come out. ‘Yes, Comrade Stalin?’ he asked in a quavering voice.
‘Send a message to Akhatov. Tell him that his services are no longer required.’ Stalin took one last drag on his cigarette, before stubbing it out in his already crowded ashtray. ‘Major Kirov,’ he said, as casually as he could manage, ‘I owe you my thanks.’
‘You owe him more than that,’ said Pekkala, before Kirov had a chance to reply.
Through gritted teeth, Stalin managed to smile. ‘I see that your time among the savages has done nothing to improve your manners.’
‘Inspector,’ Kirov said hastily, ‘the car is waiting.’
‘By all means go, Pekkala.’ Stalin waved him away. ‘Just not so far this time.’
*
That evening, after a visit to his apartment, where he took his first hot bath in more than a year, Pekkala returned to his office. As he climbed the stairs to the office on the fifth floor, a wintry sunset cast its brassy light upon the dusty window panes, illuminating the chipped paint on the banisters and the scuffed wooden steps beneath his feet. It was so familiar to him that, for a moment, all the time since he had last set foot in here held no more substance than the gauzy fabric of a dream.
As Pekkala reached the fourth floor, he smelled food. ‘Shashlik,’ he muttered to himself. The grilled lamb, marinated in pomegranate juice and served with green peppers over rice, was one of his favourite dishes. Then he remembered that it was Friday.
Kirov had not forgotten their old ritual of a dinner cooked on the wood-fired stove in their office at the end of every week.
Pekkala smiled as he opened the door, turning the old brass knob with the tips of his fingers in a movement so practised that it required no conscious thought.
Inside, Kirov was waiting. ‘You’re just in time,’ he said. He had cleared off their desks and dragged them together to make a table. Laid out on the desks, whose bare wood surfaces were stained with overlapping rings from countless glasses of tea, lay heavy white plates loaded with food.
Elizaveta was there, too, clutching a platter of jam-filled pelmeny pastries — a gift from Sergeant Gatkina.
‘Tell the Emerald Eye,’ Gatkina had whispered in Elizaveta’s ear, ‘that there’s more where those came from!’
‘I hope you’re not surprised to see me here, Inspector,’ Elizaveta said nervously, as she laid the platter on the table.
‘I would have been surprised if you weren’t,’ replied Pekkala.
‘Before we sit down,’ said Kirov, rubbing his hands together, ‘I have an announcement to make.’
‘You two are getting married.’
Kirov rolled his eyes. ‘You could at least pretend you hadn’t guessed.’
‘You wouldn’t have believed me if I tried,’ remarked Pekkala. ‘Besides,’ he nodded at Elizaveta, ‘she is wearing a ring.’
‘I wondered if you’d notice,’ she said, holding out her hand for him to see.
‘It’s only a small diamond,’ muttered Kirov, ‘but the way things are. .’
‘Small!’ Taking Elizaveta’s hand, Pekkala studied the ring. ‘I can barely see it.’
Elizaveta snatched her hand away. ‘Why would you say such a thing?’ she demanded, anger rising in her voice.
‘Because I think you can do better,’ said Pekkala. As he spoke, he produced a dirty handkerchief from his pocket and tossed it on to the table.
‘What are we supposed to do with that?’
‘Consider it as a gift.’
‘You are crazy!’ said Elizaveta. ‘I’ve always said you were.’ She snatched up the handkerchief and threw it at Kirov. ‘Get rid of that filthy thing!’
‘Now then,’ said Kirov, as he caught the handkerchief. ‘I’m sure there is a logical explanation for this,’ adding in a quieter voice, ‘although what it could possibly be. .’ He lifted one of the round iron plates from the stove and was just about to toss the handkerchief into the fire when he noticed a knot tied in one of the corners. Returning the iron plate to its place on the stove, he began picking away at the knotted cloth until something fell out and rattled on to the floor.
‘What’s that?’ asked Elizaveta.
Kirov bent down and peered at the object. ‘It looks like a diamond,’ he whispered.
Now Elizaveta came to look. ‘It is a diamond. It’s the biggest diamond I have ever seen!’
Grinning with satisfaction, Pekkala regarded their astonishment.
Kirov bent down and picked up the gem. ‘Where on earth did you get this, Inspector?’ he asked, holding up the diamond between his thumb and first two fingers.
‘From an old acquaintance,’ replied Pekkala and, as he spoke, he thought of Maximov, heading out alone across the frozen lake. ‘I think he would have wanted you to have it.’
Elizaveta placed a hand to her forehead. ‘And I just called you crazy, didn’t I?’
‘From what I hear,’ replied Pekkala, ‘you’ve called me worse than that.’
Elizaveta turned to glare at Kirov.
Kirov opened his mouth, but the phone rang before he could speak.