The Beast in the Red Forest (26 page)

‘My father would never have allowed himself to be recruited as a Russian agent.’

‘He wasn’t recruited,’ said Pekkala. ‘It was your father who approached them, offering to deliver information, for a price.’

‘That is all lies!’ screamed Vasko.

‘What reason would I have for lying to you now?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Look who is holding the gun.’

‘If he was their informant, why would they have arrested him?’

‘The Americans at the plant realised that someone among them was spying for the Russians. When your father guessed that they suspected him, he panicked. He went to the local office of Internal Security and requested that they transfer him to another factory in a different part of Russia. But by then he had become a valuable asset to Russian Intelligence, and his request for transfer was denied. Your father was trapped. He couldn’t stay, but neither was he allowed to leave. Believing that his life was in danger, he tried the only thing that he could think of, which was to get back to the United States with his family. Unfortunately for your father, his letters to friends in America, in which he described his plan, were intercepted. That’s why he was arrested and detained. And because he was acting as a paid informant, and possessed intelligence which Internal Security considered sensitive, his whereabouts were kept secret. Since your father was no longer employed at the factory, you, your mother and your sister were evicted from housing supplied to the workers. Your mother brought you to Moscow and contacted the American Embassy. Following a request from Ambassador Davies to locate your father, Stalin assigned me to the case.’

‘And you condemned us all to death.’

‘The truth is quite the opposite,’ insisted Pekkala. ‘When I discovered that your father was being held at Lubyanka, I immediately had him transferred to a proper holding cell. There, I interviewed him personally in order to learn the details of the case. I also travelled to Novgorod and spoke to people who had known him at the plant. What they had to say confirmed his story. I wrote up a report, advising that he be repatriated to the United States, along with his entire family. If my instructions had been followed, you and your family would have been back in America long ago. I assumed that’s what had taken place, since my involvement with the case ended there.’

‘My father didn’t reach America,’ said Vasko. ‘He probably never made it out of the country. My mother, my sister and I were arrested outside the American Embassy on her way to apply for a passport to replace the ones which were taken from us when we first arrived in Russia. She was convicted of illegal currency possession and the three of us were exiled to the Gulag at Kolyma.’

‘Kolyma!’ exclaimed Pekkala. ‘And how is it that you survived?’

‘We never arrived,’ explained Vasko. ‘We were shipwrecked off the coast of Japan. I was one of only a few survivors. We were taken to a hospital in Japan, but I suspected that it was only a matter of time before we would be handed over to the Russians, so I escaped. I made my way to the German Embassy. When I explained who I was, they offered to smuggle me out of the country and to give me a new life in Germany.’

‘But why go to the German Embassy?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Why not go to the Americans?’

Vasko shook his head. ‘I didn’t trust them any more than I trusted the Soviets. When I reached Germany, it was admiral Canaris himself who took me in. He trained me. He gave purpose to my life, and I have no regrets for anything I’ve done in the service of the Abwehr.’

 ‘In spite of that, your mission has failed,’ Pekkala told him. ‘A ceasefire now exists between the men you hoped to turn against each other.’

Slowly Vasko shook his head. ‘It has not failed, Pekkala. All this was only a diversion. The real mission is still under way.’

Pekkala hesitated, wondering whether Vasko might be telling the truth, or if he was just bargaining with lies. ‘If you’re right about what you say, then tell me what you know and I’ll do what I can to protect you.’

‘All I know,’ said Vasko, ‘is that Stalin does not have long to live. Somewhere out there is another agent, and there is nothing you can do to stop him now.’

‘Tell me his name,’ said Pekkala. ‘This might be your only chance to save yourself.’

‘I couldn’t help you, Pekkala, even if I wanted to.’ Vasko spread his arms. ‘So why don’t you just go ahead and shoot?’

‘I have no intention of shooting you,’ Pekkala told him.

‘But you will be the one who hands me over to the men at Lubyanka and when, like my father, I am shot against the prison wall, will your guilt be any less than if you pulled the trigger yourself?’

Pekkala tightened his grip on the Webley. ‘It does not have to end this way,’ he said.

‘No,’ answered Vasko. ‘You could have me shipped me out to Kolyma, and I could end my days in the Sturmovoi goldmine. How long is the life expectancy there? One month? Or is it two? I would rather die here, now, than be led from this place like a lamb to the slaughtering pen.’

‘You know I cannot let you go.’ Sweat burned between Pekkala’s fingers, and his palm felt slick against the pistol grips.

‘Then at least have the courage to kill me yourself.’

‘You are giving me no choice,’ Pekkala answered quietly, as his finger curled around the trigger.

There was no fear in Vasko’s eyes. Instead, he stared Pekkala down, like a man who has foreseen his end a hundred times and for whom the emptiness of death could hold no fear.

Pekkala’s levelled the gun at the inverted V of Vasko’s solar plexus. His breathing grew steady and slow. The muscles in his shoulder tightened in anticipation of the Webley’s kick. Already Pekkala could feel the burden of Vasko’s death hanging like an anchor chain around his neck and he knew that it would never go away.

At that moment, an image flickered in his brain of the journey he had made to the labour camp at Borodok, in a cattle car so crowded that even the dead remained standing. Once more, Pekkala heard the moaning of the wind through barbed wire laced across the window opening and felt the heat of his body leach out through his flimsy prison clothes until his heart felt like a jagged piece of glass lodged in his throat. As that long, slow train clattered through the Ural mountains into Siberia, the knowledge had spread unspoken through those frost-encrusted wagons that even those who might return would never be the same. For the rest of their lives, the mark of the Gulag would be upon them; the unmistakable hollowness of their gaze, the pallor of their cheeks, the way they slept curled in upon themselves, hoarding their last spark of warmth.

While Vasko stood helpless before him, patiently awaiting his death, Pekkala saw the years fade from his face, like layers peeled from an onion, until he glimpsed a child, frightened and confused, and bound on that same journey through Siberia.

As if the weight of his revolver had suddenly become too much to bear, Pekkala lowered the gun. ‘Go,’ he whispered. ‘Find your own way to oblivion.’

Slowly, Vasko’s arms dropped to his side. ‘Is this some kind of trick?’ he asked.

‘Go!’ repeated Pekkala, his voice rising. ‘Before I change my mind!’

A cold wind shuffled through the treetops, sending wisps of fine snow cascading from the branches. Glittering flakes powdered the clothes of the two men, melting in tiny droplets on their skin.

Without another word, Vasko turned and ran.

Pekkala listened to his footsteps fading softly over the pine-needled earth. Then he sighed and put away his gun.

The sun had already set by the time Poskrebychev set out for the airfield in an American-made Packard, the personal vehicle of Stalin, which was garaged at the Kremlin Motor Pool. Its original weight of 6000 lb had been increased to 15,000 lb by the addition of armour plating, which included three-inch thick window glass, able to withstand a direct burst of machine gun fire.

Akhatov sat in the back. With a contented groan, he stretched out on to the padded leather seat. ‘Which airfield is it?’ he asked.

‘Krylova,’ replied Poskrebychev and as he spoke he removed an envelope from his chest pocket and tossed it over his shoulder into Akhatov’s lap.

Akhatov tore open the envelope and removed the banknotes it contained. There was a rapid fluttering sound as he let the bills play across his thumb. ‘One thing I’ll say about your boss,’ said Akhatov, tucking the money into his pocket. ‘He pays his debts on time.’       

Poskrebychev did not reply. He stared at the road as it unravelled from the darkness, his hands white-knuckled on the wheel.

Soon they had passed beyond the city limits. Stars clustered above the ruffled black line of the horizon.

The gates of the Krylova airfield were open. Tall metal fences, topped with coils of barbed wire, stretched away into the darkness.

‘Why are there no lights?’ said Akhatov.

‘There is a blackout,’ answered Poskrebychev. ‘Military regulations.’ The Packard rolled across the railyard until it arrived at an empty hangar. The brakes squeaked as Poskrebychev brought the car to a halt. ‘We’re a little early,’ he said, cutting the engine. ‘The plane has not yet arrived. You might want to stretch your legs, Comrade Akhatov. You will be on that plane for a while.’

‘Not a bad idea,’ said Akhatov.

The two men climbed out of the car.

 ‘It’s a pretty night,’ said Akhatov, staring up at the sky.

‘It is,’ agreed Poskrebychev and, as he spoke, he drew a Nagant revolver from his pocket and shot Akhatov through the back of the head.

Akhatov dropped to his knees, and then tipped over on to his side.

The shot echoed across the deserted runway and through the empty buildings of Krylova. The station had been closed down six months before, after it was discovered that the main runway had been built over a spring and was prone to unexpected flooding. A new facility had just been completed at Perovichi, and it was here that the plane bound for Rovno waited, engines running, for a passenger who would never arrive.

Poskrebychev stared down at the body of Akhatov. The bullet had exited through the man’s forehead, just above the hairline, leaving a hole the size of a pocket watch in Akhatov’s skull.

Poskrebychev had never killed anyone before and now he nudged Akhatov with the toe of his boot, as if uncertain he had done the job correctly. Then he squatted down like a little boy, reached out slowly and touched his fingertip against Akhatov’s open right eye.

Satisfied, Poskrebychev set to work stripping off Akhatov’s coat, which he then wrapped around the dead man’s head. As soon as he had completed this task, he heaved Akhatov into the boot of the Packard and drove north towards the village of Stepanin, where his parents had once owned a summer cottage.

Before he reached the village, however, Poskrebychev pulled off on to a side road and drove into a wooded area where there had once been a slate quarry. The quarry had been abandoned long before, and the deep pit from which the slate had been extracted was now filled with water. As a boy, Poskrebychev had frequently come here with his parents, to swim in the luminous green water.

He backed up the Packard as far as he dared towards the lip of the quarry. Then he stopped the car, got out and walked to the edge. It was a long way down, enough to give him vertigo, and he quickly backed away.

Poskrebychev dragged Akhatov’s body from the car, letting it fall heavily to the ground. Then he got down on his knees and, using all his strength, rolled the corpse off the edge of the cliff. Akhatov fell, limbs trailing, until he splashed into the quarry lake, leaving a halo in the blackness of the water. For a while, the corpse floated on the surface, pale and shimmering. Then it sank away into the dark.

Before he got back into the car, Poskrebychev threw the murder weapon into the quarry. The Nagant had belonged to his uncle, who had carried it in the Great War and gave it to his nephew as a present on the day he first joined the Kremlin staff. But Poskrebychev never wore a gun. From that day until this, the Nagant had been hidden in a metal tub of rice in his kitchen.

Before returning to Moscow, Poskrebychev drove to the Perovichi airfield, where he found the Lavochkin still waiting.

‘Hurry up!’ called the pilot, when Poskrebychev stepped out of the Packard and approached the aircraft. ‘I’ve wasted enough fuel already.’

‘I am not your passenger!’ Poskrebychev shouted over the buzz-saw thrumming of the aircraft’s Shevtsov engine.

The pilot threw up his hands. ‘Then where the devil is he?’

‘He’s not coming.’

‘But I have orders to fly this plane to Rovno!’

‘Oh, you’re still going there,’ Poskrebychev told him.

‘Without a passenger?’ the pilot demanded in amazement. ‘But the amount of fuel this is going to take—’

‘Do you presume,’ hollered Poskrebychev, ‘to question the will of Comrade Stalin?’

‘No!’ the pilot replied hastily. ‘It’s not that . . .’

‘Then go!’ cried Poskrebychev, using the particularly shrill tone he employed on all who were beneath him. ‘Take to the sky and be gone and I’ll forget your suicidal proclamations!’

Within minutes, the plane had vanished into the night sky.

As he drove back to Moscow, Poskrebychev realised that he had given almost no thought to everything he had just done. There had been no time to consider his actions and to balance out the risks. Poskrebychev had simply made up his mind on the spot that Akhatov had to be stopped. Now he wondered if he would be caught, but these thoughts were vague and fleeting, as if the risk belonged to someone he had met in a dream. There was nothing to do now, Poskrebychev decided, but to carry on as if nothing unusual had happened. He wondered if this was what bravery felt like. He had never been brave before. He had been sly and cowardly and grovelling, but never actually brave. Until now, the opportunity had never presented itself. As he raced along the empty, frozen roads towards the lights of Moscow in the distance, the steady thrum of the V12 engine seemed to reach a perfect equilibrium, as engines sometimes do at night, and Poskrebychev was filled with a curious blur of energy and peace of mind, as if the gods were telling him that no harm would come his way.