Shadow Pass ip-2

by Sam Eastland

  “But why?”

  “They were not fond of Rasputin. It was on that lunatic’s insistence that several British advisors were sent home in disgrace.”

  “Is that why the investigation has been halted?”

  “Halted?” Vassileyev laughed. “The investigation was never begun. What I’ve just told you will never be written in the history books. In the future, Inspector, they will not squabble over who killed Rasputin. Instead, they will be asking, ‘Who didn’t?’ ”

  Throughout the brief service, Pekkala stood by the half-open door of the church, looking out across the grounds of Tsarskoye Selo. The smell of sandalwood incense blew past him and out into the freezing air.

  It was cold in the chapel. No fires had been lit. The Romanovs stood in fur coats while the priest read the eulogy. Throughout this, the Tsarina wept, a lace handkerchief clenched in her fist and pressed against her mouth to hide her sobbing.

  Glancing back from the door, Pekkala watched the daughters lay a painted icon on Rasputin’s chest. The Tsar and Alexei stood off to one side, grim-faced but detached.

  “Where is the justice in this?” shrieked the Tsarina, as the lid of the coffin was closed.

  The priest stepped back in alarm.

  The Tsar took hold of his wife’s arm. “It’s over,” he told her. “There is nothing more we can do.”

  She collapsed into his arms and sobbed against his chest. She began her chant again. “God protect us. God protect us.”

  Pekkala wondered what that meant for the man in the box, whose brains had been blown through his skull.

  As the Romanovs left the church, Pekkala stood outside the door to let them pass.

  The Tsarina swept past him, then stopped and turned. “I’ve been meaning to thank you,” she whispered, “for keeping us safe here on earth. Now I have two guardians. One here and one who’s up above.”

  Looking into the Tsarina’s bloodshot eyes, Pekkala remembered what Rasputin had told him, that night he came in from the cold.

  “You see, Pekkala,” he had said, “the reason I am loved by the Tsarina is that I am exactly what she wants me to be. Just as she needs me now to be beside her, the time will come when she will need me to be gone.”

  Once more, the Tsar took hold of his wife’s arm. “Our friend is gone now,” he murmured in her ear. “We should be going too.”

  There was an expression on his face which Pekkala had never seen before—some blur of fear and resignation—as if the Tsar had glimpsed, through some tear in the fabric of time, the specter of his own fast-approaching doom.

  PEKKALA WATCHED AS KROPOTKIN CROSSED THE ROAD, DISAPPEARING in the misty veils of rain.

  Then he went back to his office.

  An hour later, when Kirov had still not returned, he began to grow nervous. There had been so many arrests this past year that no one could feel safe, no matter what rank they held or how innocent they were. The way Pekkala saw it, the same idealism that made Kirov a good upholder of the law also made the young man vulnerable to how randomly enforced that law could be. Pekkala had seen it before—the stronger the convictions, the greater the distance between the world as these people envisioned it and the world as it really was.

  At the same time, Pekkala knew that Kirov might take it as a lack of confidence if he went searching for him now.

  So Pekkala continued to wait in the office, as evening shadows crept about the room. Before long, he found himself in total darkness. By now, there was no point in heading home for the night, so he propped his feet up on the desk, folded his hands across his stomach, and tried to fall asleep.

  But he couldn’t.

  Instead, he paced around the room studying Kirov’s potted plants. Now and then, he paused to pick a cherry tomato or to chew on a basil leaf.

  Finally, with an hour still to go before the sun came up, he put on his coat and left the building.

  It was a long walk to Kirov’s apartment, almost an hour through the winding streets. He could have made the journey in ten minutes by taking the subway, but Pekkala preferred to remain aboveground in spite of the fact that there were no reliable maps of the city. The only charts available for Moscow showed either what the city had looked like before the Revolution or what the city was supposed to look like when all of the new construction projects had been finished. Most of these had not even begun, and there were whole blocks which, on these maps, bore no resemblance to what actually stood on the ground. Many streets had been renamed, as had entire cities around the country. Petrograd was Leningrad, Tsaritsyn was Stalingrad. As the locals said in Moscow, everything was different but nothing had really changed.

  Pekkala was walking along the edge of Gorky Park when a car pulled up alongside him. Before the car, a black GAZ-M1 saloon, had even stopped, the passenger-side door flew open and a man jumped out.

  Without thinking about it, Pekkala moved.

  By the time the man’s feet were on the pavement, he was already looking down the blue-eyed barrel of Pekkala’s revolver.

  The man wore round glasses, balanced on a long, thin nose. Beard stubble made a blue haze on his pasty skin.

  To Pekkala, he looked like a big pink rat.

  The expression of angry determination on the man’s face gave way to stunned disbelief. Slowly, he raised his hands. “You are going to wish you hadn’t done that, Comrade,” he said quietly.

  It was only now that Pekkala got a good look at him. Even though he wore plain clothes, Pekkala knew immediately—the man was NKVD. It was the way he carried himself, his look of perpetual disdain. Pekkala had been so worried about Kirov being hauled in on some random charge that he had not stopped to consider the same thing might happen to him. “What do you want?” he asked.

  “Put that down!” snapped the man.

  “Give me an answer,” replied Pekkala calmly, “if you want to keep your brains in your head.”

  “Are you licensed to carry that antique?”

  Pekkala set his thumb on the hammer and pulled it back until it cocked. “I’m licensed to use it too.”

  Now the man shrugged his right shoulder, revealing a gun in a holster tucked under his armpit. “You’re not the only person with a gun.”

  “Go ahead,” replied Pekkala, “and let’s see what happens next.”

  “Why don’t you just show me your papers!”

  Without lowering the Webley, Pekkala reached inside his coat, removed his pass book and held it out.

  “You’re NKVD?” asked the man.

  “See for yourself.”

  Slowly, the rat man took it from his hand and opened it.

  “What’s taking so long?” said a voice. Then the driver of the car climbed out. “Svoloch!” he shouted when he saw Pekkala’s revolver, and struggled to draw his own gun.

  “Don’t,” said Pekkala.

  But it was too late. The man’s Tokarev was now aimed squarely at Pekkala.

  Pekkala kept his own weapon pointed at the rat man.

  For a moment, the three men just stood there.

  “Let’s just all of us calm down and see what we’ve got here,” said the rat man, as he opened Pekkala’s identification book.

  A long period of silence followed.

  “What’s the matter?” demanded the driver, his gun still aimed at Pekkala. “What the hell is going on?”

  The rat-faced man cleared his throat. “He’s got a Shadow Pass.”

  The driver looked suddenly lost, like a sleepwalker who had awakened in a different part of town.

  “It’s Pekkala,” said the rat-faced man.

  “What?”

  “Inspector Pekkala, you idiot! From Special Operations.”

  “It was your idea to stop!” complained the driver. Uttering another curse, he stuffed his gun back into its holster as if the weapon had drawn itself against his wishes.

  The rat-faced man closed Pekkala’s ID book. “Our apologies, Inspector,” he said as he handed it back.

  Only now did Pekka
la lower his gun. “I’m taking this car,” he told them.

  The driver’s face turned pale. “Our car?”

  “Yes,” replied Pekkala. “I am requisitioning your vehicle.” He walked around to the driver’s side.

  “You can’t do that!” said the driver. “This car belongs to us!”

  “Be quiet, you idiot!” shouted the rat man. “Didn’t you hear me? I said he had a Shadow Pass. We can’t detain him. We can’t question him. We can’t even ask him the bloody time of day! He is licensed to shoot you and no one’s even allowed to ask him why he did it. He’s also permitted to requisition anything he chooses—our weapons, our car. He can leave you standing naked in the street if he wants to.”

  “It pulls a little to the left,” said the driver. “The carburetor needs adjusting.”

  “Shut up and get out of his way!” the rat-faced man yelled again.

  As if jolted by an electric shock, the driver tossed Pekkala the keys.

  Pekkala got behind the wheel. The last he saw of the two men, they were standing on the sidewalk, arguing. He drove the rest of the way to Kirov’s apartment on Prechistenka Street. Then he just sat in the car for a while, hands still on the wheel, trying to stop breathing so hard.

  “When guns are drawn,” said Chief Inspector Vassileyev, “you must never show fear. A man with a gun aimed at you is more likely to pull the trigger if he sees you are afraid.”

  At the end of every day of his training with the Tsar’s Secret Police, the Okhrana, Pekkala would report to Vassileyev. The procedures Pekkala learned from other agents transformed him into an investigator, but what he learned from Vassileyev saved his life.

  “Surely,” argued Pekkala, “if I show I am afraid, I would be less of a threat to someone with a gun.”

  “I am not talking about what should happen,” replied Vassileyev. “I am talking about what will happen.”

  Even though the chief inspector always seemed to talk in riddles, Pekkala looked forward to the time he spent with Vassileyev. His office was small and comfortable, with lithographs of hunting scenes and antique weaponry hung on the walls. Vassileyev spent most of his time here, poring over reports and receiving visitors. As a younger man, he had gained a reputation for going about the city on foot, often in disguise. It was said that no one could hide from Vassileyev in Petrograd, because he knew every corner of the city. Those days came to an end one day as he was walking down the steps of the police building in order to meet the head of the Moscow Okhrana, who had just arrived by car. Vassileyev had almost reached the vehicle when a bomb, thrown through the window on the other side, exploded. The Moscow chief was killed instantly and Vassileyev sustained injuries that put him behind a desk for the rest of his career.

  “The person who lives without fear,” continued Vassileyev, “does not have long to live. Fear sharpens the senses. Fear can keep you alive. But learn to hide it, Pekkala. Bury fear deep someplace inside you, so your enemies can’t see it in your eyes.”

  WHEN, AT LAST, HIS BREATHING HAD RETURNED TO NORMAL, PEKKALA left the keys in the glove compartment, got out of the car, and walked across the street to Kirov’s building.

  It had been freshly painted a cheerful shade of orange. Large windows, trimmed in white, looked down on the tree-lined avenue.

  Pekkala knocked on the door to Kirov’s apartment, then took two steps back and waited.

  After a minute, the door opened a crack and Kirov peered from inside. His eyes were squinty and his hair stuck up in tufts. Behind him, on the walls, were dozens of awards and certificates from various Communist youth organizations. Kirov had been collecting these certificates of merit since he was five years old, when he had won a prize for a week of community service in the Young Pioneers. After this, he had gone on to win awards for best orienteering, best science experiment, best tent-pitching. Each certificate bore a hammer and sickle nestled between two sheaves of wheat. Some of the certificates had been ornately hand-lettered. Others were no more than scrawls. But all of them had been framed, and they hung from every vertical surface in his apartment. “What are you doing here?” asked Kirov.

  “Good morning to you too,” replied Pekkala. “Get dressed. We have to go.”

  “Where?”

  Pekkala held up the piece of paper Lysenkova had given him. “To talk to the scientists at the facility. Maybe they can decipher this. There may be a link between the equation and the man who escaped, but we won’t know until we understand what’s written here.”

  “Who is that?” asked a woman’s voice from inside the apartment. “Is that Inspector Pekkala?”

  Kirov sighed heavily. “Yes.”

  “So that’s why you didn’t come back!” spluttered Pekkala. “Damn it, Kirov, I thought you’d been arrested!”

  “Arrested for what?” asked Kirov.

  “Never mind that now!”

  “Aren’t you going to let him in?” asked the woman.

  Pekkala peered into the room. “Major Lysenkova?”

  “Good morning, Inspector.” She was sitting at the kitchen table, wrapped in a blanket.

  Pekkala gave Kirov a withering stare.

  Lysenkova got up from the table and walked toward them, bare feet padding on the floor. As she approached, Pekkala realized she wasn’t wearing anything beneath the blanket. “Major Kirov told me the good news,” she said.

  “Good news?” asked Pekkala.

  “That you’ve allowed me to keep working on the case,” she explained. “I’ve already gotten down to work.”

  Pekkala mumbled something unintelligible.

  “I found some more information on the White Guild,” said Lysenkova.

  “You did? What did you find out?”

  “That they’re gone.”

  “Gone?” asked Pekkala.

  “Finished. They were closed down a few weeks ago. All their agents got reassigned.”

  “Do you think you might be able to find out where they are now?”

  “I can try,” she said. “I’ll start on it as soon as I get back to NKVD headquarters.”

  Ten minutes later, the Emka pulled up to the curb. Kirov sat behind the wheel. His hair was wet and neatly combed.

  Pekkala climbed in and slammed the door. “Kremlin,” he said.

  “But I thought we were going to talk to those scientists out at the facility—”

  “There’s something I need to do first,” replied Pekkala.

  Kirov pulled out into the road. “I made us some lunch,” he said, “in case we’re gone all day.”

  Pekkala stared out the window. Sunlight flickered on his face.

  “I take it you disapprove, Inspector,” said Kirov.

  “Of what?”

  “Of me. And Major Lysenkova.”

  “As long as our investigation is not obstructed, Kirov, it’s not for me to say one thing or another. After all, my own adventures in that field would not stand up to any test of sanity.”

  “But you do disapprove. I can tell.”

  “The only advice I have for you is to do what you can live with. The further you go beyond that point, the harder it is to return.”

  “And how far have you gone, Inspector?”

  “If I ever get back,” Pekkala answered, “I will be sure to let you know.”

  “I CAN’T TALK NOW, PEKKALA,” GROWLED STALIN, AS HE STOOD up from his desk. “I’m on my way to the daily briefing. The Germans have moved into Czechoslovakia, just as I told you they would. It has begun, and we still don’t have the T-34.”

  “Comrade Stalin, what I need to ask you is also important.”

  Stalin pressed his hand against a panel in the wall and the trapdoor clicked open. “Well, come on, then!”

  “In there?” asked Pekkala.

  “Yes! In here. Hurry up!”

  He followed Stalin into the secret passageway, his stomach knotting as he ducked into the shadows.

  Once they were both inside, Stalin pulled a metal lever in the wall and the door swu
ng silently shut.

  A line of weak electric bulbs lit the way, trailing into the darkness.

  As soon as the trapdoor shut, Stalin set off through the tunnel.

  Pekkala had to struggle to keep up, painfully stooped so as not to bang his head on the wooden beams which crossed the ceiling.

  Doors appeared out of the gloom, each with its own opening-and-closing lever. The rooms to which they led were marked in yellow paint. It smelled dusty in the passageway. Now and then, he heard the murmur of voices on the other side of the wall.

  By now, he was fighting against panic. The low ceiling seemed to be collapsing in on him. He had to remind himself to breathe. Each time they came to a door, he had to struggle against the urge to open it and escape from this rat tunnel.

  They came to an intersection.

  Pekkala looked down the other passageways, the pearl necklace of bulbs illuminating dingy tunnels leading deep into the heart of the Kremlin.

  Stalin swung to his right and immediately began to climb a flight of stairs. He paused halfway up to catch his breath.

  Pekkala almost ran into him.

  “Well, Pekkala,” Stalin wheezed, “are you going to ask me this question of yours or are you just keeping me company?”

  “The White Guild is finished,” said Pekkala.

  “That does not sound like a question.”

  “Is it true? Has the White Guild been shut down?”

  Standing above him on the stairs, Stalin loomed over Pekkala. “The operation has been terminated.”

  “And its agents have been reassigned?”

  “Officially, yes.”

  “Officially? What do you mean?”

  This time Stalin did not reply. He turned and continued up the stairs. Reaching the top, he set out along another passageway. The floor was lined with dark green carpet, the center of which had been worn down to the ridging underneath.

  “Where are those agents?” asked Pekkala.

  “Dead,” replied Stalin.

  “What? All of them?” The sound of water gurgling in pipes rushed past Pekkala’s ears.

  “Last month, over the course of a single night, the six agents were tracked down to their lodgings in various parts of the city. It was a professional job. Each one was executed with a shot to the back of the head.”