Red Moth (14 page)

In the Tsar’s Secret Service, Pekkala and Kovalevsky had both trained under the guidance of Chief Inspector Vassileyev.

But within days of completing their course of instruction, Kovalevsky disappeared. One day he was there, in the stuffy, stone-walled basement of Okhrana headquarters where Vassileyev conducted his lessons, and the next he was gone, without a word of farewell or forwarding address.

‘What has happened to him?’ asked Pekkala, staring at Kovalevsky’s empty desk.

‘He has been chosen for Myednikov’s Special Section,’ replied Vassileyev.

‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Most people haven’t,’ said Vassileyev, and he went on to explain.

The Myednikov section trained men for duties so secret that their very existence was denied. They lived in the twilight of Russian society, without recognition, without family contact, without even their own names to track the passing of their lives.

‘What are these men? Assassins?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Vassileyev. ‘They are killers when they need to be. But that’s not all they are. As part of Myednikov’s Section, Kovalevsky will be trained to move unnoticed through the streets of this city, and of all the cities of the world. In London, New York, Rome and Paris, there are apartments where the rent is always paid but no one ever seems to come or go from them. The addresses are known only to Myednikov and it is there that his men will find not only food and shelter but also money, weapons, passports and everything they need to change identities as easily as snakes can shed their skins. They are travellers through all the walls and wires of the world, thrown up by the governments to offer the illusion of safety. For men like you and me, the bars of such cages will hold. But they cannot stop Myednikov, or anyone who’s trained by him. He is like the boatman on the river Styx. There are journeys all of us will make some day, but not without a guide to bring us to our final destination. For some of us, those guides are Myednikov’s men.’

‘Will I ever see him again?’ asked Pekkala.

‘It is doubtful,’ replied Vassileyev. ‘You may pass an old man in the street, or sit beside a soldier on a train or drop a coin into the hand of a beggar, and any one of them might be your old friend Kovalevsky. You will never know, unless he’s there to save your life, or else to end it.’

In later years, after Pekkala took up his duties as the Tsar’s Personal Investigator, he would hear an occasional rumour about the man known to have been Myednikov’s finest pupil. Once‚ the Tsar confided to Pekkala that Kovalevsky had arrived in a fishing boat in the city of Trondheim in Norway, to rescue an Okhrana agent whose cover had been blown.

‘And he had even filled the boat with fish,’ laughed the Tsar, ‘which he managed to sell at a profit!’

In another story, which took place at the Hôtel Président in Paris‚ Kovalevsky had appeared, wearing the short red tunic of a bell boy, at the door of a Spanish diplomat, who had been acting as a courier of military secrets between a Russian agent and the government of Japan. When the diplomat opened the door, Kovalevsky sprayed the man in the face with potassium cyanide, using a woman’s perfume vaporiser. The poison constricted the blood vessels supplying oxygen to the brain, causing immediate loss of consciousness and death within two minutes. The lethal vapour ensured that the diplomat would not survive, but it also put Kovalevsky himself at risk of exposure to the cyanide. Anticipating this, Kovalevsky had brought with him an antidote, which consisted of a vial of amyl nitrate and two syringes, one containing sodium nitrite and the other containing sodium thiosulphate.

After inhaling the vial, Kovalevsky stabbed himself in the chest with the two syringes, staggered out of the service entrance to the hotel, dropping his red tunic along the way, and vanished into the crowds along the Champs-Elysées. By the time the diplomat was discovered dead on the floor of his room, the effects of the cyanide had worn off, leaving no trace. An autopsy showed the only likely cause of death to be a heart attack.

After the storming of the Winter Palace by Red Guards in October of 1917, Kovalevsky disappeared, probably on the orders of Myednikov himself.

Soon afterwards, the roster of Myednikov’s agents was discovered in the infamous Blue File, which contained documents kept by the Tsar for his personal use, whose contents had been known only to him. Within the Blue File, Bolshevik agents discovered the names and covers of operatives working under the highest levels of secrecy, including Myednikov’s men. With their identities revealed, members of the organisation were quickly tracked down and liquidated by the newly formed Bolshevik Secret Service, the Cheka. Its director, Felix Dzerzhinsky, personally undertook the hunt for Kovalevsky.

Dzerzhinsky was so determined to catch and kill the man he considered to be the most dangerous of all Myednikov’s agents that when a Bolshevik operative stationed in Paris reported that a waiter at the famous Brasserie Lipp bore a resemblance to Kovalevsky, whom the agent had known as a child, Dzerzhinsky had the waiter gunned down in the street without conducting any further investigation as to the waiter’s identity.

Dzerzhinsky had risked an international incident, which could have pulverised the already fragile relationship between France and the fledging Soviet government. But Dzerzhinsky’s instincts turned out to be correct. French authorities, while expressing their displeasure at a targeted killing on their own soil, conceded that Kovalevsky’s expertise could have posed a serious threat to the new Russia. Kovalevsky’s death was officially confirmed and his file was sent to the warehouse known as Archive 17, the graveyard of Soviet Intelligence.

‘Comrade Stalin,’ said Pekkala, ‘Valeri Kovalevsky was assassinated on the orders of Dzerzhinsky himself. You know that as well as I do.’

‘What I know,’ replied Stalin, ‘is that when Dzerzhinsky ordered the murder of an innocent Frenchman and had him liquidated in broad daylight on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, he made the biggest mistake of his career.’

‘You mean that waiter wasn’t Kovalevsky after all?’

‘He was not,’ Stalin confirmed. ‘The mistake almost cost Dzerzhinsky his career. If the truth had become known, it would have created such an uproar that Lenin would have been forced to replace him. In all probability, Dzerzhinsky himself would have been shot. The only thing he could do was to claim that Kovalevsky was actually dead. Dzerzhinsky couldn’t even take the chance of continuing to search for Kovalevsky in secret. The only thing Dzerzhinsky could do was to close the file on him. That’s how Kovalevsky got away!’

‘And how do you expect to find him now, after all these years?’ asked Pekkala.

‘He has already been found,’ replied Stalin, ‘hiding in the last place Dzerzhinsky would ever have looked for him.’

‘And where is that?’

But Stalin was enjoying Pekkala’s helplessness too much to give him the answer just yet. ‘If you had known that Dzerzhinsky would not rest until he tracked you down and killed you, where would you have gone?’

‘As far away from him as I could.’

Stalin raised one stubby finger. ‘Exactly! That is what
you
would do. It is what I would do, as well. It is also what Dzerzhinsky thought your friend would do. He used to pace up and down in my office, shaking his bony fist as he swore to track down Kovalevsky. He became consumed with the hunt. That is why, when that Cheka agent came to him with some theory that a man he hadn’t seen in twenty years was working in a café in Paris, Dzerzhinsky didn’t take the time to check the man’s story. Instead, Dzerzhinsky had his hand on the phone receiver, ready to dispatch every assassin in the Cheka to France, before the agent had even left the room. Kovalevsky’s genius was that he understood Dzerzhinsky even better than Dzerzhinsky understood himself. That is why Kovalevsky did not travel to Tahiti, or Easter Island or any of the other places where Dzerzhinsky had imagined he might be. This man, who could have vanished to the farthest corners of the world, did not even leave the country. Kovalevsky did the thing Dzerzhinsky never considered. He stayed right here in Moscow.’

‘Hide in plain sight,’ muttered Pekkala, recalling one of the maxims of their former teacher, Vassileyev.

‘Kovalevsky became a teacher of history at Moscow School No. 554. He coaches the cross-country running team. He sits on the boards of nutrition and community service. Three times, he has been awarded the Teacher of the Year Prize, as voted by the student body.’

‘All under the name of Alexander Shulepov,’ said Pekkala.

Stalin nodded. ‘And‚ as Alexander Shulepov, he would have lived out his life as a model Soviet citizen, except . . .’

‘Except what, Comrade Stalin?’

‘Except that Professor Shulepov is accustomed to spending his lunch breaks asleep at his desk, a ritual he observes with impressive regularity, making sure to delegate a student to wake him up in time for the next class. Unfortunately for the Professor, he sometimes cries out in his sleep. And what he happened to cry out one day was the name of Myednikov. What he didn’t realise was that the student who had come to wake him was already standing in the room. The student said nothing to Professor Shulepov but, being curious, mentioned the name to his parents when he returned home that day. The father, now an executive at the Moscow City Gas Works, was a former member of the Cheka and had heard that name before. Suspecting that it might be valuable information, he reported it immediately to my office. Poskrebychev himself took down the details, including a request for promotion from his current place of work in the suburbs to the Central Office of Gasprom. The enterprising man had even picked out an apartment block, where he hoped that suitable lodgings would be made available to him as soon as he received his promotion.’

‘And did you grant this request?’

Stalin sat back and laughed. ‘Of course not! I had Poskrebychev look into the matter and, as soon as he returned to me with confirmation that this Professor Shulepov was not only a Myednikov agent but was, in fact, the very man Dzerzhinsky had spent the last years of his life trying to find, I had the informant and his wife convicted of an unrelated and fictitious crime, then sent to Mamlin-Three.’

‘And what about the child?’ demanded Pekkala.

‘He is in an orphanage. Do not concern yourself, Inspector. The young man is well fed. He is educated. He lacks for nothing.’

‘Except his family.’

‘My point, Pekkala, is that the best way to protect him was to hold on to the secret of his past, which means that the only people who know Kovalevsky’s true identity are you and me and Poskrebychev. I kept it that way because there are too many people who would want a man like Kovalevsky dead. Wherever this traitor is within our ranks, it’s safe to say that he is not aware of Kovalevsky’s existence.’

‘But why did you protect him, Comrade Stalin?’

‘Because, unlike Dzerzhinsky, I believe there is more to gain from studying a man like Kovalevsky than by simply erasing him from the earth. Kovalevsky is like an animal in the zoo, who does not understand he’s in a zoo. The ones who know they’re in captivity are not the same. It is always better to study creatures in their natural habitat.’

‘And what have you learned from your study of Kovalevsky?’

‘That Professor Shulepov has become a model Soviet citizen. The genius of the man is in the impeccable mundaneness of his daily life.’ Stalin slid a small piece of note paper across the desk towards Pekkala. ‘This is the address where you will find him. Now I leave it to you to persuade your old friend to emerge from the shadows and help us.’

‘It’s been years since he worked for the Myednikov section,’ said Pekkala, as he picked up the piece of paper and tucked it into the pocket of his coat. ‘What makes you think the skills he learned back then are any use to us now?’

‘Just because a man stops being an assassin does not mean he has forgotten how to kill.’

‘And what can I offer him in return for his help, Comrade Stalin?’

‘The chance to live out his days in peace, as Professor Shulepov, teacher of the year at Moscow School No. 554. You have forty-eight hours, Pekkala. Three days from now, you, Kirov and Churikova are leaving for the front, with Kovalevsky or without him.’

Before going to see Kovalevsky, Pekkala returned to the office in order to tell Kirov where he was going.

When he arrived, he was surprised to find a young woman sitting at his desk.

She took one look at Pekkala and launched herself to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Inspector!’ she said.

The woman was in her mid-twenties, head and shoulders shorter than Pekkala, with a round and slightly freckled face, a small chin and dark, inquisitive eyes. She had on a dark blue skirt and a grey, hand-knitted sweater, but Pekkala guessed from the faint but particular rub mark at her throat that she had recently been wearing a tight-collared
gymnastiorka
tunic, and the skirt itself was the same cut and colour as that issued to women serving in administrative and medical positions in the Red Army. His notion was confirmed when he spotted the dark blue beret, with its brass and red enamel star, issued to women in the Soviet military. ‘You must be the friend of Major Kirov,’ said Pekkala.

‘Elizaveta Kapanina.’

Pekkala felt his neck muscles tighten as he recalled his unfortunate conversation with Kirov at the Café Tilsit.

‘And this,’ announced Kirov, slouched comfortably in the chair from Hotel Metropol, ‘is Inspector Pekkala.’ Behind him, late-afternoon light filtered through the kumquat tree and other potted plants lined up along the window sill, casting jungly shadows on the floor.

Did he tell me just to be myself? Pekkala struggled to recall. Or was it not to be myself? And if I’m not supposed to be myself, then who the hell am I supposed to be?

‘It is a pleasure to meet you, Inspector,’ said Elizaveta. ‘Yulian has told me all about you.’

Pekkala nodded. ‘Yulian‚’ he repeated slowly.

‘That’s my name‚’ said Kirov‚ ‘which you would know if you ever used it.’

‘Yulian,’ continued Elizaveta, ‘says that your father ran a funeral business where you lived in Finland.’

‘Yes, do you have undertakers in your family?’

‘No, but I was thinking how strange it must have been, growing up with dead people in your house all the time.’

‘It did make my mother nervous,’ admitted Pekkala. ‘She worried that their souls would stay behind when the bodies were taken for burial. And besides, my father talked to them.’

‘To the dead?’

‘That’s right,’ said Pekkala. ‘I used to sit at the top of the stairs and listen to the things he said.’

‘What things?’ asked Elizaveta.

‘He talked about his life. Sometimes, it was just about the day he’d had.’

‘And that never bothered you?’

‘The thing is,’ explained Pekkala, ‘that he believed they spoke to him as well. The only thing that worried me was that I believed it too.’

‘This is how you introduce yourself?’ muttered Kirov.

‘I’m sorry I can’t stay‚’ said Pekkala. ‘I have a meeting I must get to. I just came to drop something off.’ He took off his coat and removed the Webley in its shoulder holster. Then he laid the weapon on his desk.

‘I’ve never seen you do that before,’ said Kirov.

‘Do what?’ asked Pekkala.

‘Leave this room without your weapon.’

As he buttoned his coat again, Pekkala tried to accustom himself to the unfamiliar lightness across his chest and shoulder blade. ‘For this particular meeting, my only weapon is defencelessness.’

When Pekkala had gone, Elizaveta Kapanina slumped back into his chair. Her breath trailed out. The tips of her fingers were shaking.

‘Why did you do that?’ asked Kirov.

‘Do what?’ she replied.

‘Of all the things to ask him about . . .’

‘I’m sorry. I was just trying to make conversation. Besides, it was all I could think about. He dresses like an undertaker!’

‘I know,’ Kirov groaned. ‘He buys his clothes at Linsky’s.’

‘He’s a very strange man,’ said Elizaveta, ‘in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Strange or not, I think he likes you.’

Elizaveta laughed sarcastically. ‘And I think you are a liar, Major Kirov.’

‘No, I mean it. I’ve never heard him tell that story before, to me or to anyone else.’

‘You almost sound as if you’re jealous.’

‘Perhaps I am, a little.’

‘You are as strange as he is, Major Kirov,’ Elizaveta told him. ‘Maybe even more so, since you’re pretending that you’re not.’

From the shelter of his kumquat tree, Kirov shot her a quizzical glance.