by Sam Eastland
Flames snapped, flicking sparks into the blue-black sky.
The two men huddled together, like swimmers in a shark-infested sea.
AS KIROV DROVE THE EMKA THROUGH THE KREMLIN’S SPASSKY GATE, with its ornamental battlements and gold and black clock tower above, Pekkala began to do up the buttons on his coat in preparation for the meeting with Stalin. The Emka’s tires popped over the cobblestones of Ivanovsky Square until they reached a dead end on the far side.
“I’ll walk home,” he told Kirov. “This might take a while.”
At a plain, unmarked door, a soldier stood at attention. As Pekkala approached, the soldier slammed his heels together with a sound that echoed around the high brick walls and gave the traditional greeting of “Good health to you, Comrade Pekkala.” This was not only a greeting but also a sign that Pekkala had been recognized by the soldier and did not need to present his pass book.
Pekkala made his way up to the second floor of the building. Here, he walked down a long, wide corridor with tall ceilings. The floors were covered with a red carpeting. It was, Pekkala could not help noticing, the exact same color as clotted arterial blood. His footsteps made no sound except when the floorboards creaked beneath the carpet. Tall doors lined the walls of this corridor. Sometimes these doors were open and he could see people at work inside large offices. Today all the doors were closed.
At the end of the corridor, another soldier greeted him and opened the double doors to Stalin’s reception room. It was a huge space, with eggshell-white walls and wooden floors. In the center of the room, like life rafts in the middle of a flat, calm sea, stood three desks. At each desk sat one man, wearing a collarless olive-green tunic in the same style as that worn by Stalin himself. Only one man rose to greet Pekkala. It was Poskrebyshev, Stalin’s chief secretary, a short, flabby man with round glasses almost flush against his eyeballs. Poskrebyshev appeared to be the exact opposite of the stripped-to-the-waist, muscle-armored workers whose statues could be found in almost every square in Moscow. The only thing exceptional about him was his complete lack of emotion as he escorted Pekkala across the room to Stalin’s study.
Poskrebyshev knocked once and did not wait for a reply. He swung the door open, nodded for Pekkala to enter. As soon as Pekkala walked into the room, the secretary shut the door behind him.
Pekkala found himself alone in a large room with red velvet curtains and a red carpet which lined only the outer third of the floor. The center was the same mosaic of wood as in the waiting room. The walls had been papered dark red, with caramel-colored wooden dividers separating the panels. Hanging on these walls were portraits of Marx, Engels, and Lenin, each one the same size and apparently painted by the same artist.
Close to one wall stood Stalin’s desk, which had eight legs, two at each corner. On the desk lay several files, each one aligned perfectly beside the others. Stalin’s chair had a wide back, padded with burgundy-colored leather brass-tacked against the frame.
Except for Stalin’s desk, and a table covered with a green cloth, the space was spartan. In the corner stood a large and very old grandfather clock which had been allowed to wind down and was silent now, the full yellow moon of its pendulum at rest behind the rippled glass window of its case.
Comrade Stalin often kept him waiting, and today was no exception.
Pekkala had not slept, having arrived back in the city only an hour before. He had reached that point of fatigue where sounds reached him as if down the length of a long cardboard tube. His only nourishment in the past fifteen hours had been a mug of kvass, a drink made from fermented rye bread, which he’d bought from a street vendor on his way to the meeting.
The vendor had handed Pekkala a battered metal cup filled with the sudsy brown drink, scooped from a cauldron kept warm by coals glowing in a grate beneath. As Pekkala raised the drink to his lips, he breathed in its smell, like burnt toast. When he had finished it, he turned the mug upside down, as was customary, emptying out the last drops, and handed it back. Just as he was doing so, he noticed a small stamp on the bottom of the cup. Looking closer, he saw it was the double-headed eagle of the Romanovs, a sign that it had once been in the inventory of the royal family. The Tsar himself used to drink from a cup like this, and Pekkala thought how strange it was to see this fragment of the old empire washed up outside the Kremlin like the flotsam of a shipwreck.
The Tsar was sitting at his desk.
The dark velvet curtains of his study, drawn back to let in the light, gleamed softly around the edge, like the feathers on a starling’s back.
The Tsar lifted the heavy mug to his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing while he drank. Then he set the mug down with a satisfied grunt, picked up his blue pencil, and began to tap out a rhythm on a stack of unread documents.
It was the autumn of 1916. After taking over command of the military, the Tsar had been spending most of his time behind the stockade fence of army headquarters at Mogilev.
In spite of the Tsar’s having taken command, the Russian army continued to suffer more and more crushing defeats on the battlefield.
The blame for this had fallen as heavily on the Tsarina as it had on the Tsar. A rumor had even surfaced that the Tsarina, without consulting the Russian High Command, had begun secret peace negotiations with Germany, using one of her German relatives as an intermediary. The rumor spread, threatening the Tsar’s credibility as commander of the military.
On a rare visit to Petrograd, the Tsar had summoned Pekkala to the Palace and ordered him to conduct an investigation to determine whether the rumor was legitimate.
Pekkala had known from the start that something was not right. Although the details of the investigation itself were to be kept secret, the Tsar had widely publicized the fact that he had ordered the investigation. Information about Pekkala’s work even appeared in the newspapers, a thing the Tsar rarely allowed.
It did not take Pekkala long to discover that the rumor was, in fact, true. The Tsarina had, through an intermediary in Sweden, made contact with her brother, the Grand Duke of Hesse, who was serving as a high-ranking officer in the German army. A visit by the Grand Duke had taken place, as near as Pekkala could reckon, sometime in February of 1916.
Pekkala was not surprised to learn of the Tsarina’s meddling. Alexandra had kept up a constant barrage of letters to the Tsar while her husband was in Mogilev, insisting that Rasputin’s advice on military affairs should be followed and that anyone who disagreed with it should be sacked.
What did surprise Pekkala was to learn that the Tsar had known about the Grand Duke’s visit all along. Nicholas had even met with the Tsarina’s brother, probably in the very room where Pekkala and the Tsar were meeting now.
Once he had concluded the investigation, Pekkala made his report. He omitted nothing, not even those facts he’d uncovered which incriminated the Tsar himself. Once he’d finished, Pekkala unfastened the Emerald Eye from the underside of his lapel and laid it on the Tsar’s desk. Then he drew his Webley revolver and set it beside the badge.
“What’s this?” demanded the Tsar.
“I am offering my resignation.”
“Oh, come now, Pekkala!” the Tsar growled, flipping his pencil into the air and catching it. “Try to see this from my point of view. Yes, I admit we discussed the possibility of a truce. And yes, I admit this was done in secret, without the knowledge of our High Command. But damn it all, Pekkala, there is no truce! The negotiations fell apart. I knew the Russian people wanted answers about whether these rumors were true. That’s why I put you on the case—to put their minds at ease. The thing is, Pekkala, the answers they wanted were not the ones I knew you’d find.”
Sunlight illuminated the gilded titles of leather-bound volumes on the bookshelves. Pekkala studied them before speaking.
“And what would you have me do now, Majesty, with the information I have uncovered?”
“What I would have you do,” replied the Tsar, tapping the point of his pencil against Pekkala’
s revolver, “is get back to work. Forget about this whole investigation.”
“Majesty,” said Pekkala, struggling to remain calm, “you do not employ me to provide you with illusions.”
“Quite right, Pekkala. You provide me with the truth. And I decide how much of it the Russian people need to hear.”
PEKKALA WAS BEGINNING TO WONDER IF STALIN MIGHT KEEP HIM waiting there all day. To pass the time, he rocked gently back and forth on the balls of his feet, his eyes on the wall behind Stalin’s desk. From previous visits, Pekkala knew that hidden somewhere in those wooden panels was a secret door, impossible to see until it opened. Behind the opening stretched a low and narrow passageway, lit with tiny lightbulbs no bigger than a man’s thumb. The floor of this passageway was thickly carpeted, so that a person could move the length of it without making any sound. Where it led to, Pekkala had no idea, but he had been told that this whole building was honeycombed with secret passageways.
Finally, he heard the familiar click of the panel’s lock releasing. The wooden slab swung outward and Stalin emerged from the wall. At first he did not speak to Pekkala, or even look at him. His habit was to stare into every corner of the room, searching for anything that might be out of place. Finally, his gaze turned to Pekkala. “Nagorski died in an accident?” he snapped. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“No, Comrade Stalin,” replied Pekkala.
This seemed to catch the dictator by surprise. “You don’t? But that’s what I read in the report!”
“Not my report, Comrade Stalin.”
Muttering curses under his breath, Stalin sat down at his desk and immediately fished his pipe out of the pocket of his tunic.
Pekkala had noticed that Stalin smoked cigarettes when not in his office, but normally stuck to smoking a pipe when he was in the Kremlin. The pipe was shaped like a check mark, with the bowl at the bottom of the check and curved over at the top. The pipe had already been stuffed with honey-colored shreds of tobacco. Each time Pekkala saw Stalin smoking his pipe, the pipe itself looked new, and Pekkala suspected that he did not keep them long before replacing them.
From a small cardboard box, Stalin fished out a wooden match. He had a way of lighting these matches which Pekkala had never seen before. Grasping the match between his thumb and first two fingers, he would flick the match with his ring finger across the sandpaper strip. This never failed to light the match. It was such an unusual method that Pekkala, who did not smoke, had once bought a box of matches and spent an hour over his kitchen sink trying to master the technique, but succeeding only in burning his fingers.
In the stillness of the room, Pekkala heard the hiss of the match, the tiny crackle of the tobacco catching fire, and the soft popping sound as Stalin puffed on the end of the pipe. Stalin shook out the match, dropped it in a small brass ashtray, then sat back in his chair. “No accident, you say?”
Pekkala shook his head. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he stepped forward to the desk, laid the cloth in front of Stalin, and carefully unfolded it.
There, in the center of the black handkerchief, lay the tiny sliver of lead which Pekkala had removed from Nagorski’s skull.
Stalin bent forward until his nose was almost touching the desktop and peered intently at the fragment. “What am I looking at, Pekkala?”
“Part of a bullet.”
“Ah!” Stalin gave a satisfied growl and sat back in his chair. “Where did you find it?”
“In Colonel Nagorski’s brain.”
Stalin nudged at the fragment with the stem of his pipe. “In his brain,” he repeated.
From his pocket, Pekkala removed the empty gun cartridge that he and Kirov had found in the pit the night before. He placed it before Stalin as if he were moving a pawn in a chess game. “We also recovered this from the scene. It is from the same gun, I am almost certain.”
Stalin nodded with approval. “This is why I need you, Pekkala!” He opened the gray file and plucked out the single sheet of paper it contained. “The NKVD investigator who filed this report said that the body had been thoroughly examined. It says so right here.” He held the paper out at arm’s length so he could read it. “No sign of injury prior to being crushed by the tank. How could they have missed a bullet in his head?”
“The damage to the body was considerable,” offered Pekkala.
“That’s a reason, not an excuse.”
“You should also know, Comrade Stalin, that the bullet did not come from a Russian-made gun.”
Almost before the words had left Pekkala’s mouth, Stalin smashed his fist down on the desk. The little cartridge jumped, then rolled in a circle. “I was right!” he shouted.
“Right about what, Comrade Stalin?”
“Foreigners carried out this murder.”
“That may be so,” replied Pekkala, “but I doubt they could have done so without help from inside the country.”
“They did have help,” replied Stalin, “and I believe the White Guild is responsible.”
Pekkala’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Comrade Stalin, we have spoken about this before. The White Guild is a sham. It is controlled by your own Bureau of Special Operations. How could the White Guild be responsible when you are the one who created it, unless you are the one who ordered Nagorski’s death?”
“I know perfectly well,” replied Stalin coldly, “who summoned the White Guild into being, and no, I gave no command for Nagorski to be liquidated.”
“Then surely the Guild poses no threat to us.”
“There have been some new developments,” muttered Stalin.
“And what are they?” asked Pekkala.
“All you need to know, Pekkala, is that our enemies are attempting to destroy the Konstantin Project. They know that the T-34 is our only chance of surviving the time that is coming.”
“I don’t understand, Comrade Stalin. What do you mean by ‘the time that is coming’?”
“War, Pekkala. War with Germany. Hitler has retaken the Rhineland. He has forged a pact with Japan and Italy. My sources tell me he is planning to occupy parts of Czechoslovakia and Austria. And he won’t stop there, no matter what he tells the rest of the world. I have received reports from Soviet agents in England that the British are aware of German plans to invade their country. They know that their only chance of preventing invasion is if the Germans become involved in a war against us. Germany would be bogged down in a war to the east as well as to the west, in which case it might not have the resources to invade Britain at all. British intelligence has been spreading rumors that we are planning to launch a preemptive strike against Germany through southern Poland.”
“And are we?”
Stalin got up from his desk and began to pace around the room, the report still clutched in his fist. The soft soles of his calfskin leather boots swished across the wooden floor. “We have no such plan, but the Germans are taking these British rumors seriously. This means they are watching us for any signs of provocation. The slightest hostile gesture by us could bring about a full-scale war, and Hitler has made no secret of what he would like to do with the Soviet Union. If he has his way, our culture will be annihilated, our people enslaved. This entire country would become a living space for German colonists. The T-34 is not merely a machine. It is our only hope for survival. If we lose the advantage this tank can give us, we will lose everything. As of this moment, Pekkala, you are in charge of the investigation. You will replace this”—he squinted at the name on the report—“Major Lysenkova.”
“If I could ask, Comrade Stalin—”
“What?”
“Why did you assign her to the case at all?”
“I didn’t,” replied Stalin. “The guard in charge of security at Nagorski’s facility put in a call to her directly.”
“That would be Captain Samarin,” said Pekkala.
“Samarin had to call NKVD,” continued Stalin. “He couldn’t have called the regular police, because secret facilities are out of their j
urisdiction. It had to be handled by Internal Security.”
“I realize that,” persisted Pekkala, “but my understanding is that Captain Samarin specifically requested Major Lysenkova.”
“Maybe he did,” replied Stalin impatiently. “Just ask him yourself.”
“Captain Samarin is dead, Comrade Stalin.”
“What? How?”
Pekkala explained what had happened in the woods.
Stalin returned to his seat. Resting in the chair, his back seemed unnaturally straight, as if he wore a metal brace beneath his clothing. “And this fugitive, the one you chased through the woods, has still not been located?”
“Since the death has been declared an accident, Comrade Stalin, I assume they have called off the search.”
“Called it off,” muttered Stalin. He picked up Lysenkova’s report. “Then it may already be too late. For this major’s sake, I hope not.” He let the paper fall onto the desk.
“I will speak to the major,” said Pekkala. “Perhaps she can help us with some answers.”
“Suit yourself, Pekkala. I don’t care how you do it, but I want the man who shot Nagorski before he goes and kills somebody else I cannot do without. In the meantime, no one must know about this. I do not want our enemies to think that we have faltered. They are waiting for us to make mistakes, Pekkala. They are looking out for any sign of weakness.”
PEKKALA SAT ON THE END OF HIS BED.
In front of him, on a small collapsible table, lay his dinner—three slices of black rye bread, a small bowl of Tvorok cheese, and a mug of carbonated water.
Pekkala’s coat and shoulder holster lay draped over his bed rail. He wore a pair of heavy corduroy trousers, their color the same deep brown as a horse chestnut, and a sweater of undyed wool, the color of oatmeal.
His residence was a boardinghouse on Tverskaia Street—not a particularly safe or beautiful part of town. In spite of this, over the past few years the building had become overcrowded. Workers had flooded out of the countryside, looking for jobs in the city. These days, it was not unusual to find a dozen people crammed into a space which, under normal circumstances, would barely have suited half that number.