The breath snagged in Kirov’s throat as he recognised the familiar patterns and materials. ‘Are these clothes for Pekkala?’
‘It would appear so,’ answered Linsky.
‘And this is from two weeks ago!’
‘Yes.’
‘So you have seen him!’
Linsky shook his head.
Kirov held up the piece of paper. ‘Then where did this come from? Was it mailed to you?
‘Somebody slid it under the door.’
‘So how can you be certain that these are for the Inspector? I admit I don’t know anyone else who dresses like this, but. .’
‘It’s not just the clothing,’ explained Linsky. ‘It’s the cloth. No one but Pekkala would have requested Crombie wool or Bedford cord. Those are English fabrics, of which I just happen to have a small quantity. And the only person who knows that I have them is the person who brought them to me before the Revolution, when I ran my business out of the Gosciny Dvor in Petrograd! He left the cloth with me so that I could use it to make the clothes he wanted. And that is what I have done for many years, for Pekkala and for no one else. The measurements are his, Major. There can be no doubt about who placed the order. They are exactly the same as he has always ordered from me. Well, almost exactly.’
‘What do you mean by ‘almost’?’ asked Kirov.
‘The coat had some modifications.’
‘What kind of modifications?’
‘Little pockets, two dozen of them, built into the left inside flap.’
‘What was the exact size of these pockets?’
‘Four centimetres long and two centimetres wide.’
Too wide for a bullet, thought Kirov.
‘And there was more,’ continued Linsky. ‘He also ordered several straps to be fitted into the right inside flap.’
‘For what purpose? Was it clear?’
Linsky shrugged. ‘The specifications were for double-thick canvas straps so whatever things he intended to carry with them must have been quite heavy. It required reinforcement of the coat’s entire right flap.’
‘More than one strap, you say?’
‘Yes. Three of them.’
‘Did they correspond to any particular shape?’
‘Not that I could tell. I puzzled over them for quite some time.’
‘And did you make the clothes?’
‘Of course, exactly as instructed.’
Kirov turned his attention back to the piece of paper in his hand. ‘According to this, everything should have been picked up by now.’
‘Yes, Major.’
‘But you say you haven’t seen Pekkala.’
‘No.’
‘Then where is the clothing? May I see it?’
‘No, Major. It’s all gone.’
‘Gone?’ Kirov’s forehead creased. ‘You mean somebody stole the clothes?’
‘Not exactly, Major.’ Linsky pulled back a dark blue curtain directly behind him, revealing a grey metal bar, on which hung several sets of newly finished clothes, waiting to be picked up by their owners. ‘On the day before everything was due to be picked up I placed the garments here, as I always do with outgoing orders. But when I arrived here for work on the following day, the clothes were missing. The lock had been picked.’
‘Did you report the break-in?’
‘No. Nothing was stolen.’
‘But you just told me you were robbed!’
‘The clothing was gone, but payment for the order was left in a small leather bag, hanging from the bar where the clothes had been hanging.’
‘And there were no messages inside?’
‘Just the money.’
‘Do you still have that leather bag?’
‘Yes, somewhere here.’ He rummaged in the drawer and pulled out a bag of the type normally used by Russian soldiers to carry their rations of machorka tobacco. The bags were made from circles of leather, which then had holes punched around the edges. A leather cord was threaded through the holes and drawn tight, forming the shape of the bag. The bag Linsky held out to Kirov was, like most bags of this type, made from soft, suede leather, since it was intended to be worn around the neck of the soldier, where the tobacco stood the best chance of staying dry.
‘What type of payment was used?’ asked Kirov. ‘Gold? Silver?’
‘Nothing so exotic, I’m afraid. Just paper notes. That’s all.’
‘Was anything written on them? There might have been a message.’
‘I thought of that,’ Linsky replied, ‘but it was just a fistful of money, the likes of which you’d find inside the pocket of every person walking past this shop.’
‘And all of this happened almost a week ago.’
‘Five days, to be precise.’
‘And why didn’t you tell anyone until now?’
‘I did,’ answered Linsky. ‘I told Comrade Poskrebychev the day after the clothes disappeared, when he came in to pick up a new tunic for himself.’
‘Let me get this straight, Linsky. You don’t trust me enough to let me know that Pekkala himself, with whom I have worked for over a decade, was, in all probability, standing right here in this shop when the whole world thinks he is dead and yet the only person in whom you choose to confide is Poskrebychev?’
Now Linsky leaned across the counter. For a moment, he did not speak, but only stared at Kirov, his pupils the colour of old glacier ice. ‘Would you mind if I spoke plainly, Major?’
‘I imagine that you’re going to, whether I mind it or not.’
‘There have only ever been a handful of people I trusted in this world,’ said Linsky, ‘and you and your Internal Security thugs killed most of them a long time ago. I do not question your loyalty, Major, only I find myself wondering with whom that loyalty ultimately rests. As for Poskrebychev, he and I have spoken about Pekkala many times before and I know he would do anything, just as I would, to help the Emerald Eye. I can only hope his instincts are correct and that you will use whatever help we can offer to guarantee Pekkala’s safe return.’
‘That much, at least, we can agree upon,’ said Kirov, as he handed Linsky the leather tobacco bag.
Linsky held up his hands in refusal. ‘Hold on to that, Major. Perhaps, one day soon, you can return it to our mutual friend. Now,’ he gestured towards the platform on the other side of the room, ‘if you would not mind standing over there, we can get you fitted for your new uniform.’
‘Is that really necessary now?’ asked Kirov.
Linsky glanced at him knowingly. ‘Why else would you be here, Comrade Major?
*
After his brief conversation with Major Kirov in the hallway outside Stalin’s office, Poskrebychev had returned to his desk and immediately resumed his rubber-stamping of official documents. But his hands were trembling so much that he kept smudging the facsimile of Stalin’s signature. Eventually, he was forced to set it aside. He folded his hands in his lap and breathed deeply, trying to slow the tripping rhythm of his heart.
Ever since Linsky had confided in him, Poskrebychev had known that he could not go to Stalin with the news. As far as the Boss was concerned, Pekkala was either dead or soon would be if he ever reappeared. In spite of what Stalin had said to Major Kirov, Poskrebychev knew from experience that death warrants, such as had been issued for Pekkala, were rarely, if ever, rescinded. Only Kirov could help Pekkala now, and Poskrebychev’s loyalty to the Inspector demanded that he pass along to the major what he had learned in Linsky’s shop. But how? He couldn’t place a call to Kirov. All of the Kremlin lines were monitored, even those originating from Stalin’s own office. The same was true for telegrams and letters. Poskrebychev didn’t dare go in person to the Major, in case he was observed along the way. If that happened, questions would be asked and those questions would end with his brains splashed on the wall of Lubyanka prison. Days passed as Poskrebychev struggled to find a solution. Valuable time was being wasted. Just when Poskrebychev was on the verge of despairing, Stalin had summoned Kirov to a briefing. Poskrebychev knew that this would be his only chance, but he couldn’t just blurt it out there in the halls of the Kremlin, where ears were pressed to every door and unblinking eyes peered from each polished brass key hole. All he could do was to point the Kirov in the right direction and hope that the major did as he was told.