Its jarring clatter startled everyone in the room.
Pekkala picked up the receiver.
‘Hold for Comrade Stalin!’ Poskrebychev’s shrill command drilled into his ear.
Pekkala waited patiently.
A moment later, a quiet voice rustled through the static, like a whisper in the dark. ‘Is that you, Pekkala?’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’
‘I thought you might like to know,’ said Stalin, ‘that Commander Chaplinsky was able to negotiate a ceasefire with the partisans. They have laid down their arms. Those men may not realise it, Pekkala, but they owe you their lives.’
‘It’s Barabanschikov who deserves the credit,’ replied Pekkala.
‘Barabanschikov!’ Stalin spluttered into the telephone receiver. ‘That traitor got exactly what he deserved and I intend to let those partisans know what kind of man was leading them.’
‘What makes you think they will believe you?’
‘They have to! It’s the truth.’
‘And when you tell them he was shot in the Kremlin, by a commissar of the Red Army, while under your personal protection — all of which is true — how long do you think it will take before they pick up their weapons again?’
There was a pause. ‘You may have a point,’ Stalin conceded. ‘What do you suggest I do about it?’
‘Give Barabanschikov a medal,’ said Pekkala. ‘The highest one you’ve got.’
‘What?’ growled Stalin. ‘Have you forgotten that he just tried to kill me?’
‘Would you rather that Admiral Canaris knew exactly how close he came to liquidating you,’ asked Pekkala, ‘or would you prefer to have him think that he was betrayed by a man who had been loyal to you all along?’
In the silence that followed, Pekkala could hear a rustling sound as Stalin raked his fingernails through the stubble on his chin. ‘Very well,’ he muttered at last. ‘As of this moment, I declare comrade Barabanschikov to be a hero of the Soviet Union.’
‘Will that be all, Comrade Stalin?’ Pekkala glanced at the steam curling up from the food on the table.
‘As a matter of fact, it will not. There is something that I need to know.’
‘Yes?’
‘If you had walked into this room fifteen seconds later, I would be dead now. You knew that, but you walked in anyway.’
‘Yes.’
‘Why did you let me live, Pekkala, after all I’ve done to you?’
‘Do you really want the answer, Comrade Stalin?’
There was a long pause. ‘No,’ said Stalin. ‘On second thought, maybe I don’t.’ Without another word, he hung up the phone. For a moment, Stalin looked around his study, at the red velvet curtains, the picture of Lenin on the wall and the old grandfather clock standing silent in the corner, as if to reassure himself that everything was as it should be. Then he opened a drawer in his desk, removed a can of sardines in tomato sauce and peeled back the top with a small metal key. He took off his jacket‚ rolled up his sleeves and tucked a large grey handkerchief into his collar. But before he began his meal, Stalin lifted the headset, with which he had been listening to the conversation in Pekkala’s office. He had waited for the precise moment when they were sitting down to eat before ordering Poskrebychev to place the call. Now, as Stalin heard the sound of cutlery on plates, he slipped one of the greasy, headless sardines into his mouth. While he chewed, he felt the soft bones crush between his teeth. Pausing to lick the tiny, glistening fish scales from his fingertips, Stalin imagined he was there among them in that cosy little room, sharing the warmth and the laughter.