Berlin Red (30 page)

One week later, Kirov stood before his master at the Kremlin.

On Stalin’s desk lay the dynamo torch that Lilya had left in the suitcase. The day before, as soon as he arrived in the city, Kirov had handed it over to the Lubyanka armoury, along with the Hungarian pistol he’d been issued.

‘What is that doing here?’ asked Kirov.

‘We found a roll of film inside.’

Kirov thought of the number of times he had almost thrown it away on his journey back to Moscow. Although it barely worked, he had kept it because it was better than nothing, and because regulations required him not to abandon any useful equipment acquired while in enemy territory.

Now Stalin shoved across the desk a stack of newly printed photographs. ‘Go on,’ he said. ‘Look.’

Kirov leafed through the images before him, but all he could make out was a tangle of lines, forming shapes which made no sense, and German words, all of which appeared to be abbreviated, whose meanings were all lost to him.

‘What you see there,’ Stalin explained, ‘are details of a missile guidance system which might have won Germany the war if they had managed to build it in time. If only it could have been ours.’

‘But surely now it is,’ said Kirov.

‘Yes and no,’ replied Stalin.

‘What do you mean, Comrade Stalin? Are the details incomplete?’

‘Oh, no, Major Kirov. It’s all there. Unfortunately, we have just learned that a certain General Hagemann was recently captured by American forces in Austria and he was carrying an identical set of plans, which he promptly handed over to his captors. Since our marriage of convenience with the Allies will soon be coming to an end, the fact that we both now possess the same technology more or less cancels things out. Nevertheless, you are to be congratulated for returning with such valuable information,’ and then he added, ‘even if it was by accident.’

Kirov felt his heart sink.

‘Along the way, however, you appear to have lost something of great value to me.’

There was no need for Stalin to elaborate.

Kirov wanted to explain how Pekkala and Lilya had simply disappeared while he was sleeping, and even though that might have been the truth, it would never have passed for an excuse. ‘I could try to find him,’ he suggested faintly. ‘If you give me some time, Comrade Stalin . . .’

Stalin laughed. ‘Do you know how many lifetimes that would take? If we ever see Pekkala again, it will be at the time and place of his own choosing and not ours.’

Kirov bowed his head, knowing that Stalin was right. He guessed how things would play out now. The drive to Lubyanka in the back of a windowless lorry. The walk to the cellar down the winding stone staircase towards the dome-shaped cells, which he would never reach, because the guard escorting him would put a bullet in the back of his head just as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Kirov bowed his head and waited for sentence to be passed.

Just then, he heard a rustling sound.

Glancing up, Kirov saw that Stalin was holding out to him a single sheet of paper. It was old, discoloured and dog-eared at the corners, as if it had passed through many hands before arriving on the master’s desk.

In the upper left-hand corner, neatly printed in blue ink, was the hammer and sickle seal of the Soviet Union, surrounded by two sheaves of wheat, like hands at prayer. The document, dating back to June of 1929, had been issued by the Central Committee of Prison Labour for the Region of Eastern Siberia. It stated that Prisoner 4745, a tree-marker in the valley of Krasnagolyana, was assumed to have perished of natural causes in the winter of 1928. His body had not been recovered. It was signed by someone named Klenovkin, commandant of the camp at Borodok.

‘Do you know the identity of prisoner 4745?’ asked Stalin.

Kirov shook his head.

‘It was Pekkala.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Kirov. ‘This says he died seventeen years ago!’

‘That document was prepared as part of my agreement with the Inspector, back when he first agreed to work with me. The deal I made was not simply to release him, once he had solved his first case, but to wipe him from the memory of this country, as if he had never been here. So you see, Major Kirov, I can hardly punish you for failing to return to Moscow with a man you never met.’

Kirov opened his mouth but no sound came out.

‘Consider yourself lucky,’ said Stalin, ‘and I suggest that, first thing in the morning, you return to work before this streak of good fortune runs out.’

Dazed, Kirov turned to go.

But Stalin wasn’t finished yet. ‘Will you ever forgive him for leaving?’ he asked.

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ replied Kirov.

When Stalin was alone again, he got up from his desk and walked over to the window. Standing to one side, so that he could not be seen by anyone looking from below, he gazed out over the rooftops of the city. The sun had set, and dusty purple twilight fanned across the sky. For a long time, he stood there, as if waiting for something to appear. Then he reached out with both arms and drew the blood-red curtains shut.

Emerging from the Kremlin, Kirov set out through the darkening streets, bound for the tiny flat where he knew his wife would be waiting. As Kirov strode along, he reached into his pocket and closed his hand around the oval disc of gold, feeling the emerald press against the centre of his palm. Kirov did not know how long he’d have to wait before its true owner returned, but he swore a quiet oath to keep it safe, until that day finally came.

At that same moment, far to the north in the wilderness of Finland, the Walker in the Woods lay down to sleep. Beside him lay his wife, her hair glowing softly in the moonlight.

Sam Eastland lives in the US and the UK. He is the grandson of a London police detective.

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