Red Icon (27 page)

‘What the hell is that?’ asked Pekkala.

Following the Inspector’s gaze, Kirov saw what appeared to be a line of smoky, black smudges on the pale blue horizon. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘It’s curious.’

Then they heard a sound; a deep, throaty roar, faint at first but rapidly growing in volume. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.

‘Well, that’s very curious indeed,’ remarked Kirov.

Pekkala was still watching the horizon. Suddenly, he turned to the major. ‘Run,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Run!’ shouted Pekkala.

Kirov let go of the map, which wafted away across the road.

As the two men sprinted for cover, Kirov still had no idea what he was running from.

By now the sound had become deafening.

Pekkala threw himself into a weed-choked ditch, landing in a dusty clump of black-eyed susans, just as the lead plane opened fire with its 30mm cannons on the GAZ-67.

The pilot had spotted the vehicle, parked out in the open and its outline clearly visible, only two seconds before. He was closing so quickly on his target that he barely had time to aim as he pressed the red fire button on his control stick. The plane shuddered as the four cannons opened up and he saw tall puffs of dirt converging upon the Soviet Army vehicle. And then he was past it, with no idea if he had done any damage at all. He made a mental note to check if the vehicle was still there when they returned from their sortie.

Back in the ditch, Pekkala flinched at the drumming of the cannon fire accompanied by the clank-clank-clank of rounds striking the GAZ. At the same moment, he glimpsed the flickering shadows of the planes passing overhead.

It was several seconds more before he dared to raise his head.

The first thing Pekkala saw was fluid pouring from beneath the engine of their car. One of the tyres had burst and the bonnet of the vehicle was filled with so many jagged holes that it reminded him of a cheese grater.

On the other side of the road, Kirov crawled out of the ditch. ‘What kind of planes were those?’ he asked, as he disentangled himself from a garland of purple-flowered vetch. ‘I’ve never seen anything move so quickly in my life!’

‘Or do so much damage in so short a space of time,’ added Pekkala, as he joined Kirov up on the road.

The two men stood before the car, wearing identical frowns.

The air filled with the sweet smell of radiator fluid which had soaked into the dirt.

Kirov unfastened the bonnet latch and lifted the perforated sheet of metal to inspect the engine. When he saw what had been done, he groaned.

One of the cannon rounds, each one of which was as big as a man’s thumb, had gone through the side of the radiator, torn a gash across its entire length and then exited through the other side. Another round had punctured the manifold, leaving a hole the size of a man’s fist, through which both men could see the pistons, still glistening with oil, and now as gnarled and crooked as the fingers of a witch. Even those bullets which had not struck vital parts of the engine had shredded the body of the vehicle, ricocheting from one panel through another so that it appeared to Kirov as if the car had been assaulted by some axe-wielding psychopath. ‘It’s hopeless,’ he muttered.

‘We’ll have a hell of a long walk back to Moscow,’ agreed Pekkala.

‘The icon!’ said Kirov.

Pekkala breathed in sharply.

In all the chaos, they had forgotten about it.

Pekkala went around to the metal storage bin behind the back seat. A round had passed clean through the steel, but there was no telling what damage it had done to the contents. Holding his breath, Pekkala undid the two clasps which held the lid in place. Slowly, he lifted it up. The oilcloth bundle, although it had been showered with tiny fragments of paint and metal, was undamaged. He lifted out the package and tucked it under his arm. ‘How far did you say it was to the village?’

‘It should be just beyond those trees,’ replied Kirov.

‘Well,’ said Pekkala, ‘it’s time we stretched our legs.’

As they set off towards Ahlborn, Kirov glanced back at the car. The GAZ had been a considerable improvement over the contemptible old Emka and he had grown fond of it over the past few days. Now, with its front tyres blown, the once rugged-looking machine slumped awkwardly forward in a way that reminded Kirov of an elephant named Maximus, which had been one of the star attractions at the Moscow zoo and was killed in an air raid on the city back in the winter of 1941.

Soon afterwards, they entered the village.

Here, Pekkala paused. Until this point, he had carried the icon hidden under his coat, but it was too dangerous to carry it with them any further. The icon would need to be hidden, although somewhere close enough that an exchange could be made if things went according to plan.

‘What is it, Inspector?’ asked Kirov.

‘Walk on a hundred paces,’ he said, ‘and wait for me there, in the street.’ With those words, Pekkala dashed back among the houses, behind which he came across a narrow alley, bordered on either side by tall wooden fences. He moved along the alley, until he reached the church’s north transept. There, a side door hung lopsided on its broken hinges. After looking around to make sure he had not been seen, Pekkala entered the building.

The church had been damaged by a combination of fire, which had scorched the ante-chapel but had failed to spread into the nave, and blast from a mortar that had landed in the churchyard, leaving a chest-deep crater, now partially filled with rainwater. He heard the purring trill of pigeons in the shattered rafters and the mutter of wind through broken stained-glass windows which spilled their brightly coloured shades of blue, red and yellow on to the warped boards of the floor below.

He proceeded to the altar, now occupied only by a bare wooden table pushed against the far wall, the adornments having been hidden away before the town was evacuated. After placing the icon on the table, Pekkala ducked out through the same side door and emerged into the street, where Kirov was waiting for him.

The major’s gaze was fixed on something up the road.

Following Kirov’s line of sight, Pekkala noticed a solitary figure standing in the middle of the road.

‘Is that him?’ whispered Kirov.

‘I can’t tell,’ answered Pekkala. ‘He’s still too far away.’

As if by compelled by some unspoken command, they began to walk towards the stranger.

Emil watched the two men approaching from the east.

After leaving Stefan’s house, he was hurrying along the road through town when he heard the planes fly past. Glancing at his watch, he noted that they were right on time today. By now, he had grown used to the sound of those engines, but the sound of gunfire caused him to stop in his tracks.

The only people he had seen were the few civilians who had accompanied him on his cart ride into town, and they had all come from the west. But the planes had been shooting at something on the other side of town.

His first thought was to hurry on towards the railway station, but after a few steps he paused. It could be Stefan, he thought. Maybe he has come back after all. Cautiously, he turned around. I’ll wait, he told himself. Just for a few minutes. Just so that I can be sure.

Now he squinted at the approaching figures. One of them, wearing a short, double-breasted coat and corduroy trousers, was a civilian. But the other man’s silhouette was clearly military, and not German military, either. From the blousy rising breeches and the way he wore his tunic like an untucked shirt, Emil knew he was looking at a Russian.

Neither of them was his brother.

His mind had turned into a hornet’s nest of calculations as he tried to gauge the situation. Are they looking for me? he wondered. Did Stefan get a message through to the scientists at Sosnogorsk? Maybe that civilian is one of them. Have they come to bring me back with them?

Whatever the answer, it was too late now to run.

They were close enough now that Emil could see their faces.

He set down his briefcase and slowly raised one hand in greeting. ‘By any chance,’ he called to them, ‘are you looking for Professor Emil Kohl?’

‘Indeed we are,’ answered the civilian, ‘and also his brother, Stefan.’

‘Did he send you here to find me?’ Emil asked.

‘In a manner of speaking,’ answered Pekkala.

Kohl lifted the briefcase. ‘It’s all here, as promised.’ Fumbling with the brass catches, he lifted the lid and removed one of the two remaining spring-loaded metal canisters. He held it up for them to see, his hands trembling. ‘The crown jewel of Sartaman Project, along with its creator!’ Then he hurriedly returned the vial to its blue velvet nest inside the briefcase.

‘What about your brother?’ asked the civilian.

‘I don’t know,’ Emil admitted. ‘He left here weeks ago and I haven’t seen him since. I thought you . . .’

His voice was silenced by a gunshot.

Emil’s legs collapsed beneath him. A jet of blood as long as a man’s arm sprayed from his shattered skull. The briefcase fell from his hands.

As Pekkala and Kirov drew their weapons, they searched the houses for any sign of movement, but all they could see were their own blurred reflections in those windows not blinkered by the wooden shutters.

At that moment, a stranger appeared from a gap between two houses, smoke still leaking from the barrel of the old Nagant revolver in his grasp. He stood at the very edge of the narrow alleyway, but still in full view of the men. It was Stefan Kohl.

Even after all these years, Pekkala remembered that face. He lined Stefan up in his gunsight.

Kirov did the same.

Stefan made no attempt to raise his pistol, as if he knew that he had nothing to fear from the two men, in spite of the weapons they had aimed at him. ‘Why did you kill him?’ asked Pekkala, nodding at the crumpled body of Emil Kohl.

‘He betrayed me.’

‘He thought you were trying to save him,’ said Pekkala.

‘What I’m saving is far more important,’ answered Stefan. ‘I warned you long ago to stay away from me, Inspector. How much more blood must we shed before you will finally listen?’

‘None,’ replied Pekkala, ‘including yours if you walk away now.’

‘Not without
The Shepherd
.’

‘It is only a matter of time,’ said Pekkala, ‘before Russian scientists have reproduced the compound you used to murder Father Detlev. All you have is the contents of that briefcase, and I will shoot you dead before you lay a hand on them. You must face the fact that you have nothing left to bargain with.’

‘That is where you’re wrong, Inspector.’ Reaching back into the shadows of the alley, he hauled out his prisoner.

To the horror of Kirov and Pekkala, they saw it was Elizaveta.

With one hand knotted in her hair, Stefan dragged her out into the street. A shout went up from Kirov. Without thinking, he lunged towards his wife.

‘Stop if you want her to live!’ bellowed Stefan.

The words cut through the blindness of Kirov’s rage and he skittered to a halt, his face red, and breathing hard. ‘If you have harmed her . . .’ he growled.

‘I have no wish to hurt her, Major Kirov, but I will not leave this place without
The Shepherd
.’ He pressed the barrel of the Nagant against the back of Elizaveta’s skull and tightened his grip in her hair, causing the young woman to gasp with pain. ‘Now, what is it to be?’

Pekkala’s mind reeled as he attempted to calculate the situation, but he soon reached the inevitable conclusion. He would not see the value of that icon measured out in human blood, least of all hers. ‘Let her go,’ he told Stefan. ‘I placed
The Shepherd
on the altar table in the church. All you have to do is go and get it.’

‘Why should I trust you?’ demanded Stefan.

‘Because I have given you no reason to do otherwise,’ replied Pekkala.

Stefan paused as Pekkala’s words sank in. ‘Very well,’ he said at last, ‘but empty your guns before I leave.’ He jerked his chin at Kirov. ‘And him too.’

Pekkala unfastened the top break of the Webley, causing the barrel to tilt forward. He ejected the bullets, and they fell to the ground. Then Pekkala held up the gun, so that Kohl could see daylight through the empty cylinders.

But Kirov seemed frozen in place, his Tokarev still aimed at the Skoptsy.

‘Do as he says,’ ordered Pekkala.

A moment passed. Kirov’s arm trembled, as if his body was at war with itself. Then he pressed a button near the trigger guard, slid out the magazine and threw it away to the other side of the street. ‘Now let her go,’ he commanded.

Kohl released his grip on the woman and pushed her to the ground, but before he turned to run, he took aim at the briefcase which contained the vials of soman and fired. The case jumped as if it had suddenly come to life. A slab of its leather side flew off. He fired once more and the brass latch was ripped from its mounting more and the lid sprang open. Another round smashed through the blue velvet protecting the glass and silver vials. Again and again, Stefan pulled the trigger of the Nagant until all of its chambers were empty.

Elizaveta had been climbing to her feet in the moment that Kohl opened fire. Hearing the whip-crack of bullets, she threw herself back down, covering her head with her hands.

Kohl’s third shot had ploughed through the mangled briefcase, shattering the vials and spraying their contents into the air.

A single droplet landed on Elizaveta’s wrist, so tiny that she did not even feel it. She stood, but then immediately began to stagger. Her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell in a heap.

Pekkala knew immediately what must have happened and he reached for the two syringes of atropine in his coat pocket.

Kirov, standing right beside Pekkala, had also grasped the situation. To help Elizaveta meant the possibility of being exposed to the soman, and there was only enough antidote for two people. ‘What should I do?’ he gasped.

‘Kohl,’ was all Pekkala said.

Without another word, Kirov spun on his heel and sprinted towards the church and, as he ran, he removed the spare magazine from his Tokarev holster and fitted it into the pistol.