Red Moth (27 page)

A breeze passed over the Rachel and dust sifted between the bridge planks. They blinked as it peppered their eyes. Above them, the steppe grass rustled with a sound like running water.

‘The truck is bound to be carrying an escort of armed guards,’ said Stefanov. ‘If we can stop them here, when the vehicle slows down to cross the bridge, it might give us an advantage. It’s too bad we can’t destroy the bridge before they reach it, but that would give away any hope of surprise.’

Pekkala handed over the grey canister. ‘Would this be enough for what you had in mind?’

Stefanov opened the lid of the canister and peered inside. Then he raised his head and looked at Pekkala. ‘Inspector,’ he gasped, ‘there is enough dynamite here to destroy this bridge and a dozen others like it!’

Immediately, they set to work. Pekkala scooped out some of the thick, dough-like mixture and packed it against two of the four main bridge supports. The marzipan smell of the mine’s Amytol explosives sifted into their lungs. Meanwhile, Stefanov unravelled the coil of wire for the instant fuse, the ignition battery stored safely in his pocket.

Once the charges had been laid, they dug out a space in the tall grass about twenty paces from the bridge, which was as far as the wire would stretch.

The whole process took less than half an hour, by the end of which the two men crouched sweating in their hiding place.

‘When this goes up, assuming we even survive the blast, your eardrums will hurt for a month,’ said Stefanov, as he hooked one wire to the negative battery terminal, saving the other, its filaments splayed like a skeleton hand, for connecting with the positive terminal.

Pekkala opened the black leather ammunition pouches on his belt and found that he had only three clips of bullets, fifteen rounds in all.

Stefanov fared better, with four magazines for the Schmeisser, each one containing thirty rounds, but it was no cause for celebration. Even that amount would soon disappear if they found themselves in a running battle with a squad of heavily armed soldiers.

There was nothing to do now but wait.

With fear and hunger scuttling like crabs behind their ribs, the two men lay hidden in the tall grass.

It was not long before the sound of engines reached them on the breeze. A minute later‚ an armoured car lumbered around a bend in the road. It was a type the Germans called a Lola. Riding on four large, heavy-treaded tyres, its sides were shielded with angled metal plates so that it resembled a monster folded out of paper by some Japanese origami master. On top was a small turret, almost flat, with a small cannon sticking out the length of a man’s outstretched arm. A soldier stood in the Lola’s turret, hands gripping the sides of the hatch covers. He wore an old style officer’s cap, its soft crown flattened against his head and turned around so that the visor was facing backwards. A pair of goggles shielded his eyes. From the eagle on his arm, instead of his chest, Pekkala knew the man was SS and not regular army.

A Hanomag truck followed in the Lola’s path, its canvas roof battened down tight. Judging from the way the wheel cowlings hung down over the tyres, the vehicle was carrying a heavy load.

Both machines rumbled slowly towards the bridge, diesel engines rattling in low gear.

While Pekkala drew back the bolt on his rifle to make sure that a round had been chambered, Stefanov took up the battery in one hand and gripped the loose wire in the other, ready to connect the circuit and detonate the explosives.

Pekkala had planned to destroy the bridge before the truck had a chance to cross it but the presence of the armoured car demanded more drastic action. Even though it would increase the risk, not only to Stefanov and himself, but also to the amber in the truck, Pekkala knew he had no choice.

Just short of the bridge, the armoured car slowed and then stopped. The trucks bunched up behind it, engines puttering in neutral.

The officer in the turret of the armoured car jumped down to the road and started walking towards the bridge.

Now the driver climbed out of the Hanomag. It was Gustav Engel wearing a knee-length double-breasted coat of the type normally issued to motorcycle drivers. Strapped to his waist on a black leather belt was a Luger holster. ‘This is the fourth time we’ve halted in the last hour!’ Engel raised his voice above the patient rumble of the engines. ‘We are running out of time!’

The SS officer spun around, one hand raised as if to cast a spell on the man who had broken his stride. ‘And this is the fourth time you have brought it to my attention, Professor!’

‘The train departs from Wilno at 4 p.m.,’ Engel told him. ‘Everything has to be loaded aboard by then. They will not wait for us. We must remain on schedule!’

‘I must inspect the bridge before we try to cross it,’ explained the officer. ‘I have to be certain that it will hold our weight.’

‘We don’t have time,’ said Engel. ‘The other bridges held us fine. I am ordering you to proceed immediately.’

The officer paused, ready to continue his protest, but then he seemed to think better of it, turned and strode back to the armoured car, footsteps soft as heartbeats on the dirt road. He climbed aboard, hobnails scraping on the metal plates. A moment later, the armoured car ground into gear and trundled forward.

Pekkala’s heart began flailing in his chest as he watched the armoured car move forward. The instant that its front wheels rolled on to the bridge, he whispered, ‘Now!’

Tyres thudded over the planks.

‘Now!’ he said again, staring helplessly as the Lola continued across the bridge.

‘I’ve already connected the battery,’ Stefanov replied frantically. ‘It should have gone off by now.’

In that moment, the mine exploded. A flash jumped from under the armoured car and a deafening boom shuddered through the air.

A wall of concussion swept past the two men in their hiding place as the Lola reared up and a blue flame, like the fire from a gas oven, swept around the metal. For a moment the whole machine was encased in this strange glow. Then the Lola exploded with a sound like the slamming of a huge metal door. Pieces of armour plating trailed sparks as they were torn loose by the blast. A wheel spun off, clattering and smoking, through the grass. Then the bridge collapsed. The Lola crashed into the gully. Dust and smoke unfurled into the sky.

At first, it looked as if Engel’s truck was going to follow the Lola into the Rachel. Then, with a shriek of brakes the vehicle came to a stop.

A man crawled out of the gully. It was the officer. His clothes were smouldering. One hand was held to his face. The other hand groped the air in front of him, as if he were pawing his way through cobwebs.

At the same time, the gate of the truck clanked down and three soldiers tumbled out, carrying their rifles. The soldiers looked about wildly, then dived into a shallow ditch at the side of the road.

The officer stumbled towards them, trailing smoke from his burned clothes.

One of the soldiers, unable to recognise the wounded man, raised his gun and fired.

A cloud of blood appeared behind the officer, lit up like a ruby shadow in the sunlight. He went down so fast that the spray was still hanging in the air after his body hit the ground.

A shout came from the soldiers as they realised their mistake, but it was soon drowned out by the clatter of Stefanov’s sub-machine gun and the single
pak-pak-pak
of rifle shots as Pekkala fired the Mauser, ejected an empty cartridge, slammed in a new one and pulled the trigger once again. Bullets skipped off the road in puffs of orange dirt.

The soldiers in the ditch returned fire, but their aiming was wide and erratic. They seemed to have no idea where their enemies were concealed.

The same was true of Engel, who now steered his truck off the road. Tilting precariously, it crossed over the ditch and started out across the field, directly towards the place where Pekkala and Stefanov were hiding.

Stefanov fitted a new magazine into the sub-machine gun.

‘Don’t aim for the driver!’ shouted Pekkala, but Stefanov had already pulled the trigger, and his voice was drowned out by the hammer of the gun.

The truck’s front tyres blew out. Dull clunks sounded as bullets impacted against the tyre rims. Chips of paint flew off its bumper and then the windscreen exploded like a spray of water. The truck rolled to a stop, its punctured radiator sighing as one last wisp of steam escaped.

The door of the truck swung open and Engel jumped out. He ran back to the ditch, leaped in amongst the soldiers and, a moment later, the flinty snap of a pistol joined the barking of the German guns.

Stefanov’s gun fell silent as the magazine emptied. Smoke wafted from its barrel. A smell of raw gasoline filled the air from the Hanomeg’s ruptured fuel tank.

Now another figure climbed down from the back of the truck. Even though she was wearing a heavy German greatcoat several sizes too big, Pekkala could see at once that it was Lieutenant Churikova.

Stefanov raised his gun, ready to shoot her down.

Pekkala shoved the barrel aside, feeling the heel of his palm sizzle against the super-heated metal.

‘You want to let her live?’ Stefanov called out in disbelief. ‘After what she did to us?’

‘I want to know why,’ replied Pekkala.

Churikova reached the safety of the ditch, but no sooner had she taken cover than the soldiers made a run for it, sprinting down the road in the direction from which they had come. They hunched over as they moved, rifles gripped in one hand, leather slings trailing beneath.

Engel called to them, ordering the soldiers to return.

One of the soldiers turned and beckoned to Engel, urging him to join in their retreat.

Once more, Engel ordered them back.

The soldier turned and ran after the others, leaving Engel and Churikova alone in the ditch.

Unable to get a clear shot from where he crouched, Stefanov stood and fired at the soldiers. The burst caught the lead man, suturing his chest with bullets. The other two tumbled into the line of fire and vanished as if the ground had swallowed them up.

Stefanov’s fire ceased sharply as a spent cartridge jammed in the receiver. He ducked back into the cover of the grass and immediately set to work clearing the crumpled stub of brass.

Pekkala loaded his last remaining bullets into the Mauser as a shot from the ditch passed close over his head and he felt the paralysing stun of the near miss. He raised his rifle, ready to fire, when suddenly he heard Churikova’s voice.

‘Pekkala!’ she called.

All firing had ceased and now the silence was overwhelming.

‘Inspector, is that you?’ she called again.

Pekkala did not reply, but only watched and waited, refusing to give away his position.

Stefanov was still struggling to prise loose the jammed cartridge. Sweat and dust burned in his eyes and blood from his torn fingernails seeped across his fingers, banding them like rings of red glass. ‘It’s no use,’ he whispered as he set aside the gun.

‘Pekkala!’ shouted the lieutenant. ‘I know you’re out there. Let me talk to you. Let me explain.’

‘I could try to work my way around them,’ whispered Stefanov, ‘but for that I’ll need your rifle.’

Pekkala handed Stefanov the Mauser, then drew his revolver from its holster, feeling the brass handle smooth and cool against his palm.

After a nod from Pekkala, Stefanov vanished like a snake into the tall grass.

At the same moment‚ Churikova clambered from the ditch and stood in the road, staring out across the grass. ‘Where are you? Talk to me!’

Slowly, Pekkala climbed to his feet, the Webley clenched in his fist. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked, his voice gravelly with the dust that lined his throat.

‘For the sake of the amber.’ As she spoke, she took a step towards him, then another. ‘This war left me with no choice.’

Pekkala watched her and said nothing, his face unreadable.

‘Russia is about to fall,’ she continued. ‘The Catherine Palace and everything left inside it will soon be nothing more than a heap of rubble. The Germans have made up their minds. Its fate has already been sealed. Nothing you or I can do will change that. But we can save the Amber Room.’ With an exasperated sigh, the lieutenant held out her hands, palm up, begging him to understand. ‘For now, we have no alternative but to allow our enemies to be the guardians of what we have left. You understand, don’t you, Pekkala?’

Whether it was fear or hope that creased her wind-burned face, Pekkala could not tell.

In that instant, a shot rang out. Churikova stumbled. For a moment, she righted herself, but then another bullet struck her and she fell hard to the ground.

Behind her, on the edge of the ditch, stood Gustav Engel, still holding the Luger which had brought down the lieutenant.

Pekkala raised his revolver. ‘Why did you do that?’ he asked.

‘Because she never understood,’ replied Engel. ‘Polina thought that she was saving Russian history, but what she failed to grasp was that, by the time we have finished with this country, it will have no history, because Russia will cease to exist. Fond as I was of her, I have only done what Hitler would have done eventually. You see, his love of Russian treasure does not extend to the Russian people themselves, no matter how helpful they have been. And Stalin would have done the same. But that’s not what he has in mind for me, is it, Inspector Pekkala? He wants me alive. He needs to know what I know. That’s why, now that you finally have me in your gunsight, you are forbidden to pull the trigger. Polina told me all about your plan to bring me to back to Moscow. And she explained how Stalin has ordered you to obliterate the Amber Room, but you and I both know that Stalin doesn’t really care about the room. What he cares about is that I have taken it from him. What he wants, even more than having it, is for Hitler not to have it. Polina told me what Stalin said that day you brought her to the Kremlin – that the only way Russia can survive is if you are prepared to sacrifice everything. But there is one thing Stalin will not sacrifice, and that is his vanity. To protect it, he would have you set fire to what he has called an irreplaceable treasure of the State. But who will get the blame for that, Pekkala? It won’t be me. It won’t be the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg. It would be you‚ because Stalin will deny that he ever gave you such an order. So where does that leave us, Pekkala? You can deliver me to Stalin and face a firing squad because you ruined the Eighth Wonder of the World, or you can do nothing and be shot for that, instead.’ Confidently, Engel put the Luger back in its holster. ‘Fortunately, I have a solution. Once you’ve heard it, you will see it is the only one that makes sense.’