The Red Coffin (26 page)

Pekkala stood out in the wide expanse of the Alexander Park.

It was an evening in late May. The days had grown longer,
and the sky remained light long after the sun had gone down.

The pink and white petals of the dogwood trees had fallen,
replaced by shiny, lime green leaves. Summer did not come
gradually to this place. Instead, it seemed to explode across the
landscape.

After a long day in the city of Petrograd, Pekkala would
finish his supper and walk out on the grounds of the estate. He
rarely encountered anyone else this time of night, but now
Pekkala saw a rider coming towards him. The horse ambled
lazily, its reins held slack, the rider slouched in his saddle. He
knew instantly from the man’s silhouette that it was the Tsar. His
narrow shoulders. The way he held his head, as if the joints of his
neck were too tight.

At last, the Tsar came up alongside him. ‘What brings you out
here, Pekkala?’

‘I often walk in the evenings.’

‘I could get you a horse, you know,’ said the Tsar.

And then the two men laughed quietly, remembering that it
was a matter of a horse which had first brought them together. In
the course of Pekkala’s training with the Finnish Legion, he had
been ordered to jump his horse over a barricade on which the drill
instructor had laced a coil of barbed wire. By the time the exercise
was halfway through, most of the animals were bleeding from cuts
to their legs and bellies. Blood, bright as rubies, speckled the sawdust
floor. When Pekkala refused to jump his horse, the drill instruc
tor first threatened, then humiliated him and finally attempted to
reason with him. Pekkala had known before he said a word that a
refusal to carry out an order would mean being thrown out of the
cadets. He would be on the next train home to Finland. But it was
at this point that the sergeant and cadets realised they were being
watched. The Tsar had been standing in the shadows.

Later, as Pekkala led his horse back to the stables, the Tsar was
waiting for him there. One hour later, he had been transferred
out of the Finnish Legion and into a special course of study with
the Imperial Police, the State Police and the Okhrana. Two years
and two months from the day that he led his horse out of the ring,
Pekkala pinned on the badge of the Emerald Eye. Since that time,
he had always preferred, whenever possible, to travel on his own
two feet.

That spring evening, the Tsar removed a pewter flask from the
pocket of his tunic, unscrewed the cap, took a drink and handed
the flask to Pekkala.

That was the first time he ever tasted slivovitz. At first,
Pekkala did not know what it was. The aftertaste reminded
him of a liquor his mother used to make from a distillation of
cloudberries, which she gathered in the forest near their home.
They were not easy to find. Cloudberries did not always grow in
the same place year after year. Instead, they sprouted unexpect
edly and, for most people, finding them was so much a matter
of chance that they often did not bother. But Pekkala’s mother
always seemed to know from one glance at the undergrowth
exactly where cloudberries would be growing. How she knew this
was as much a mystery to Pekkala as the Tsar’s reasons for making
him into the Emerald Eye.

‘It is my wedding anniversary tomorrow,’ remarked the Tsar.

‘Congratulations, Majesty,’ replied Pekkala. ‘Do you have
plans to mark the occasion?’

‘That is not a day I celebrate,’ said the Tsar.

Pekkala did not have to ask why. On the day of the Tsar’s
coronation in May of 1896, the Tsar and Tsarina sat for five
hours on gold and ivory thrones while the names of his domin
ion were read out – Moscow, Petrograd, Kiev, Poland, Bulgaria,
Finland. Finally, after he had been proclaimed the Lord and
Judge of Russia, bells rang out across the city and cannon fire
echoed in the sky.

During this time, a crowd of half a million had gathered
on the outskirts of the city, at a military staging area known as
Khodynka field, with a promise of free food, beer and souvenir
mugs. When a rumour spread that the beer was running out, the
crowd surged forward. More than a thousand people, some said
as many as three thousand, were trampled to death in the panic.

For hours afterwards, carts loaded with bodies raced through
the streets of Moscow, while their drivers searched for places
where the dead could be kept out of sight until the wedding
cortege had passed. In the confusion, some of those carts, with
the legs and arms of the dead lolling out from under their
tarpaulin covers, found themselves both ahead and behind the
royal procession.

‘That afternoon,’ the Tsar told Pekkala, ‘before the wedding
ceremony began, I drank a toast to the crowd on Khodynka
field. That’s the last time I ever touched vodka.’ Now the Tsar
smiled, trying to forget. He raised the flask. ‘So what do you
think of my alternative? I have it sent to me from Belgrade. I own
some orchards there.’

‘I like it well enough, Majesty.’

‘Well enough,’ repeated the Tsar, and he took another drink.

‘It wasn’t your fault, Majesty,’ said Pekkala, ‘what happened
on that field.’

The Tsar breathed in sharply. ‘Wasn’t it? I have never been
sure about that.’

‘Some things just happen.’

‘I know that.’

But Pekkala could tell he was lying.

‘The trouble is,’ continued the Tsar, ‘that either I am placed
here by God to be the ruler of this land, in which case the day
of my wedding is proof that we are living out the will of the
Almighty, or else …’ he paused … ‘or else that is not so. Do you
have any idea how much I would like to believe you are right –
that those people died simply because of an accident? They haunt
me. I cannot get away from their faces. But if I believe it was just
an accident, Pekkala, then what about everything else which hap
pened on that day? Either God has a hand in our affairs or he does
not. I cannot pick and choose according to what suits me best.’

Pekkala saw the torment in his face. ‘No more than the plum
can choose its taste, Majesty.’

Now the Tsar smiled. ‘I will remember that,’ he said, and he
tossed the flask down to Pekkala.

Pekkala had been carrying that flask five years later when
Bolshevik guards arrested him at the border, when he tried to flee
the country after the Revolution had begun. Although his badge
and gun were eventually returned to him, the flask disappeared
somewhere along the way.

Since that day out in the twilight in the Alexander Park, the
glassy green of slivovitz had taken on a meaning almost sacred
to Pekkala. In a world where a Shadow Pass allowed him to
do almost anything he chose, the taste of ripe plums served as a
reminder to Pekkala of how much he did not control.

Late that night, as Pekkala sat on the end of his bed, reading his copy of the
Kalevala
, the phone rang at the end of the hall. There was only one phone on each floor and the calls never came for him there, so he did not even look up from his book. He heard Babayaga’s apartment door open and the patter of Talia’s footsteps as she raced to grab the receiver.

Nobody liked to be the one who had to go out and answer the phone, especially when it was so late, so an unofficial arrangement had been made that Talia would pick up the call and notify whoever it was for. In exchange for this, the child would receive a small gift of some kind, preferably something made with sugar.

Then there was more pattering and Pekkala was surprised to hear Talia knocking on his door. ‘Inspector,’ she called. ‘It’s for you.’

The first thing Pekkala did when he heard this was to look around the room for something he could give Talia as a present. Spotting nothing, he stood up and rummaged in his pockets. He examined his handful of change.

‘Inspector?’ asked Talia. ‘Are you in there?’

‘Yes,’ he answered hurriedly. ‘I’ll be right out.’

‘Are you finding me a present?’ she asked.

‘That’s right.’

‘Then you can take your time.’

When he opened the door a moment later, she plucked the coin from his hand. ‘Come along, Inspector!’ she said.

It was only as Pekkala picked up the receiver that he had time to wonder who might be calling at this hour.

‘Inspector?’ said a woman’s voice. ‘Is that you?’

‘This is Pekkala. Who am I speaking to?’

‘It’s Yelena Nagorski.’

‘Oh!’ he said, surprised. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘Well, no, Inspector, I’m afraid it isn’t.’

‘What is it, Yelena?’

‘Konstantin has learned the reason why my husband and I were splitting up.’

‘But how?’

‘It was Maximov who told him.’

‘Why would he do a thing like that?’

‘I don’t know. He showed up here this evening. Maximov had gotten the idea in his head that he and I should get married.’

‘Married? Was he serious?’

‘I think he was completely serious,’ replied Yelena, ‘but I also think he was completely drunk. I wouldn’t let him in the house. I told him that if he did not go away I would report him to the guards at the facility.’

‘And did he go away?’

‘Not at first. Konstantin came out and ordered him to leave. That was when Maximov told him what had happened between me and Lev Zalka.’

‘But how did Maximov know?’

‘My husband might have told him, and even if he didn’t,
Maximov might have figured it out on his own. I always suspected that he knew.’

‘And where is Maximov now?’ asked Pekkala.

‘I don’t know,’ she replied. ‘I think he drove back to the facility, assuming he didn’t run off the road on his way there. Where he might have gone from there I have no idea. The reason I’m calling you, Inspector, is that I have no idea where my son is either. When I had finally persuaded Maximov to leave, I turned around and discovered that Konstantin was gone. He must be out there in the forest. There’s nowhere else for him to go. Konstantin knows his way around those woods in daylight, but it’s pitch black out there now. I’m worried that he’ll get lost and wander too close to the facility. And you know what is out there, Inspector.’

An image flashed into Pekkala’s mind of Captain Samarin, impaled upon that rusty metal pipe. ‘All right, Yelena,’ he said, ‘I’m on my way. In the meantime, try not to worry. Konstantin is a capable young man. I’m sure he knows how to take care of himself.’

One hour later, as the headlights of the Emka bulldozed back the darkness on the long road that bordered the testing facility, Pekkala felt a sudden loss of power from the engine. While he was trying to figure out what might have caused it, the engine stumbled again.

He stared at the dials on the dashboard. Battery. Clock. Speedometer. Fuel. Pekkala muttered a curse. The fuel gauge, which had registered three-quarters full when he left the city, now slumped against empty. He remembered the mechanic
who had told him the fuel gauge appeared to be sticking and should be changed. Pekkala wished now that he’d taken the man’s advice. The engine seemed to groan. The headlights flickered. It was as if the car had swooned.

‘Oh, no you don’t,’ snapped Pekkala.

As if to spite him, the engine chose that moment to die completely. Then there was only the sound of the tyres rolling to a standstill as Pekkala steered the car to the side of the road.

Pekkala got out and looked around. Then he cursed in Finnish, which was a language well-equipped for swearing. ‘
Jumalauta
!’ he roared into the darkness.

The road stretched out ahead, shining dimly in the night mist. On either side, the forest rose black and impenetrable. Stars crowded down to the horizon, hanging like ornaments from the saw blade tips of the pine trees.

Pekkala buttoned up his coat and started walking.

Fifteen minutes later, he reached the main gate.

Outside the guard shack, the night watchman sat on a little wooden stool, stirring a stick in a fire. The orange light made his skin glow, as if he had been sculpted out of amber.

‘Good evening,’ said Pekkala.

The guard leaped to his feet. The stool tipped over backwards. ‘Holy Mother of God!’ he shouted.

‘No,’ said Pekkala quietly. ‘It’s me.’

Clumsily, the man regained his balance and immediately rushed into his shack. He reappeared a moment later, carrying a rifle. ‘Who the hell is out there?’ he shouted at the dark.

‘Inspector Pekkala.’

The guard lowered his rifle and peered at Pekkala through the wire mesh. ‘You scared me half to death!’

‘My car broke down.’

This brought the guard to his senses. He set the rifle aside and opened the gate. The metal creaked as it opened.

‘Is Maximov here?’ asked Pekkala.

‘He drove in just before sunset. He hasn’t come out since and I’ve been on duty the whole time.’

‘Thank you,’ said Pekkala and he headed off down the road towards the facility. A moment later, when he looked back, Pekkala could see the guard back on his stool, sitting by the fire, poking the flames with a stick.

With only a couple of hours before sunrise, Pekkala arrived at the muddy central yard of the facility. He found Maximov’s car parked outside the mess hut, where workers at the facility took their meals. The door was open. Inside, Pekkala discovered Maximov passed out on the floor, mouth open, breathing heavily. He nudged Maximov’s foot with the toe of his boot.

‘Stop it,’ muttered Maximov. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘Wake up,’ said Pekkala.

‘I told you …’ Maximov sat up. His head swung in a wobbly arc until he caught sight of Pekkala. ‘You!’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

‘Yelena Nagorski sent for me. She said you had been causing trouble.’

‘I wasn’t causing trouble,’ protested Maximov. ‘I love her. And I care for her son!’

‘You have a strange way of showing it, Maximov.’

Maximov looked blearily around the room. ‘I might have said some things I shouldn’t have.’

Pekkala set his boot against Maximov’s chest. Gently, he pushed the man over. ‘Leave Mrs Nagorski alone.’

Maximov settled back with a soft thump on to the floor. ‘I love her,’ he muttered again.

‘Go back to your dreams,’ said Pekkala, ‘while I borrow your car for a while.’

But Maximov had already fallen asleep.

Pekkala removed the keys from Maximov’s pocket and had just settled himself in the driver’s seat of Maximov’s car, when a door opened in the Iron House and a man ran out towards him.

It was Gorenko. ‘Inspector? Is that you? I must speak with you, Inspector! I’ve done a terrible thing! Ushinsky showed up for work just after you and I spoke the other day. When he found out that one of our T-34s had been sent to the factory for production, he practically went insane. It’s just as I told you he would. He said the prototype wasn’t ready, and that we might as well deliver it to the Germans! I tried calling you, Inspector. I wanted you to speak to him, just like we had discussed, but there was no answer at your office so I called Major Lysenkova instead. I told her what was happening. I said I just needed someone to talk some sense into him. Now I hear he’s been arrested. They’re holding him at the Lubyanka! Inspector. You’ve got to help him.’

Pekkala had been listening in teeth-clenched silence, but now he finally exploded. ‘What did you think was going to happen when you called Major Lysenkova?’ he shouted. ‘Nagorski sheltered you from these people when he was alive, because he knew what they were capable of. You’ve been
living in a bubble, Professor, out here at this facility. You don’t understand. These people are dangerous, even more dangerous than the weapons you’ve been building for them!’

‘I was at my wit’s end with Ushinsky,’ protested Gorenko, wringing his hands. ‘I just wanted someone to talk to him.’

‘Well, someone has,’ said Pekkala, ‘and now I’ve done all I can for your colleague.’

‘There is something else, Inspector. Something I don’t understand.’

Pekkala turned the key in the ignition. ‘It will have to wait!’ he shouted over the roar of the engine.

Gorenko raised his arms in a gesture of exasperation. Then he turned and walked back into the Iron House.

Pekkala wheeled the car around and drove towards the Nagorski house. As he raced along the muddy road, Pekkala wondered again what would become of Yelena and Konstantin now that the T-34 project was completed. Neither of them seemed prepared for the world beyond the gates of this facility. It’s too bad Maximov made such a fool of himself this evening, thought Pekkala. From what he knew about the man, Maximov might have made a good companion for Yelena, and a decent father figure for the boy.

Pekkala was lost in these thoughts when suddenly he heard a loud snap and something struck the windshield. His first thought was that a bird had flown into it. This time of night, he told himself, it must have been an owl. Cool air whistled in through the cracked glass. Pekkala was just debating whether to drive on or to pull over when the entire windshield exploded. Glass blew all over the inside of the driving
compartment. He felt shards bouncing off his coat and a sharp pain in his cheek as a sliver embedded itself in his skin.

He did not realise he was losing control of the car until it was too late. The back wheels slewed, and the whole car spun in a roar of kicked-up grit and mud. There was a stunning slam, his head struck the side window and then suddenly everything became quiet.

Pekkala realised he was in the ditch. The car was facing the opposite direction from which he had been driving. Opening the door, he fell out into the wet grass. For a moment, he remained there on his hands and knees, not sure if he could stand, trying to get clear in his head what had happened. He was dizzy from the knock to his head, but he did not think he had been badly hurt. Slowly, he clambered to his feet. Upright, but on shaky legs, he slumped back against the side of the car.

Then Pekkala noticed someone standing in the road. All he could see was the silhouette of a man. ‘Who’s there?’ he asked.

‘You should have left when you could,’ said the silhouette.

The voice was familiar, but Pekkala could not place it.

Then, out of the black, came the flash of a gunshot.

In that same instant, Pekkala heard the clank of a bullet striking the car door beside him.

‘I warned you, Maximov!’

‘I’m not Maximov!’ shouted Pekkala.

The shadow walked towards him. It stood at the edge of the ditch, looking down at Pekkala. ‘Then who are you?’

Now Pekkala recognised the voice. ‘Konstantin,’ he said, ‘it’s me. Inspector Pekkala.’

The two were close enough now that Pekkala could make out the boy’s face and the pistol aimed at his chest.

From the short barrel with its slightly rounded end and the angled trigger guard joining the barrel at the front like the web of a man’s thumb, Pekkala recognised the weapon they’d been searching for. It was Nagorski’s PPK. In that moment, the truth came crashing down upon Pekkala. ‘What have you done, Konstantin?’ he stammered as he climbed up out of the ditch.

‘I thought you were Maximov. I saw his car …’

‘I am talking about your father!’ snarled Pekkala. He pointed at the PPK, still gripped in Konstantin’s fist. ‘We know that’s the weapon which was used to kill Colonel Nagorski. Why did you do it, Konstantin?’

For what seemed like a long time, the boy did not reply.

Their breathing fogged the air between them.

Slowly, Pekkala held out his hand. ‘My boy,’ he said, ‘there is nowhere you can go.’

Hearing these words, Konstantin’s eyes filled with tears. After a moment’s hesitation, he placed the PPK upon Pekkala’s open hand.

Pekkala’s fingers closed around the metal. ‘Why did you do it?’ he repeated.

‘Because it was his fault,’ said Konstantin. ‘At least, I thought it was.’

‘What happened on that day?’

‘It was my birthday. The week before, when my father asked me what I wanted, I told him I would like a ride in the tank. At first, he said it was impossible. My mother would
never allow it. But then he said that if I promised not to tell her, he would take me out in the machine, out into the proving ground. My mother thought he had forgotten about the birthday altogether. They started arguing. By then, I almost didn’t care.’

‘Why not?’ asked Pekkala.

‘Maximov sent me a letter. A letter in a birthday card.’

‘What did the letter say?’

‘He told me that my parents were splitting up. He said he thought I should know, because they weren’t going to tell me themselves.’

‘They were going to tell you,’ said Pekkala, ‘as soon as you moved back to Moscow. It was for the best, Konstantin. Besides, this was none of Maximov’s business. And why would he tell you on your birthday?’

‘I don’t know,’ replied Konstantin. ‘For news like that, one day is as bad as another.’