The Beast in the Red Forest (4 page)

Maybe it’s time I listened to Poskrebychev, thought Kirov, as he climbed out of his chair. After all, I can’t report to Comrade Stalin in clothes fit only for the battlefield. The thought occurred to him suddenly that it might have been Stalin himself who raised the objection, and Poskrebychev was just delivering the message. The idea made him queasy, as Stalin was not slow in punishing those who failed to heed his advice. Now there was no question in his mind. It was time for a new set of clothes. Kirov only hoped that, if by some miracle the Inspector was still alive, he never learned about this trip to Linsky.

Jangling the car keys in his hand, Kirov trampled down the stairs towards the street, bound on a mission to Linsky’s.

The tyres of Kirov’s battered Emka saloon popped rhythmically over the cobblestones.

Robotically, Kirov steered down one street and another as the chassis of the Emka swayed creaking on its worn-out springs. He wheeled past roadblocks fashioned out of torn-up railroad tracks which had been in place since the winter of 1941, when advance units of the German army Group Centre came within sight of Moscow and the seizure of the capital had seemed almost a foregone conclusion. Now those sections of rail, welded into bouquets of rusted iron, seemed to belong to a different universe from the one in which Russia existed today.

At last, Kirov pulled up to the kerb outside Linsky’s. It was on a dreary street, so choked with ice and snow by midwinter that few vehicles would risk the journey. Even in summer, the tall buildings cleaved away the light except when the sun stood directly overhead.

As Kirov climbed out of the car, he paused and looked around. Apart from a man sweeping slush from the sidewalk with a large twig broom on the other side of the street, there was nobody around. And yet he had the feeling that he was being watched. This same sensation had come to him so many times since Pekkala disappeared that Kirov had begun to worry he might be growing paranoid. With gritted teeth, he scanned the windows of the buildings across the way, whose empty reflections returned his nervous stare. He looked up and down the street, but there was only the sweeper, his back turned to Kirov, methodically brushing the sidewalk. Finally, with a growl of frustration at his own fragmenting sanity, Kirov returned to his errand.

Linsky’s window had not changed in all the years that Kirov had known about the existence of this eccentric little business. The intricate floral designs etched into the corners of the frosted-glass window belonged to a style more reminiscent of the nineteenth century than of the twentieth.

Inside, it was cramped and poorly lit, with scuffed wooden floors and a large mirror at one end. On the other side of the room was a platform on which clients stood when they were being measured for their clothes. The wall behind the platform was papered dark green and decorated with vertical pillars of ivy printed in gold and red. The effect was like that of a dense hedgerow, through which Kirov imagined he might push into a secret garden on the other side. Opposite the entrance was a large wooden counter, on which stood an ancient cash register with a brass plate identifying its maker as M. Righetti, Bologna. On either side of the register stood little trays of pins, loose buttons and a tattered yellow tape measure, coiled like a snake about to strike.

Behind this stood Linsky himself. He was a slight but well-proportioned man, with rosy cheeks, pale blue eyes and hair combed so flat that an ashtray could have balanced on top. He had thin, smirking lips, which gave him an expression of permanent disdain that Kirov could not help but take to heart.

‘Comrade Linsky,’ he said, as he removed his cap and tucked it smartly under his right arm.

‘Major Kirov.’ Linsky bowed his head in formal greeting. ‘Comrade Poskrebychev mentioned that you might be stopping by.’

Kirov felt the blood rush to his face as he imagined the laughs they must have had at his expense. ‘I had been meaning to stop by, anyway,’ he muttered.

Faint wrinkles of bemusement appeared in the corners of the old man’s eyes. ‘Judging from the state of your clothes, Major, you have arrived not a minute too soon.’

Kirov’s jaw muscles clenched. ‘If we could just get started,’ he said.

‘Certainly,’ replied Linsky. Opening a drawer in the counter, he pulled out a black box and rifled through the crumpled documents inside. A moment later, he withdrew a letter and handed it to Kirov.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘The real reason you are here,’ replied Linsky.

‘The real reason? I don’t understand.’

‘But you are about to, Major Kirov.’

Cautiously, Kirov took hold of the envelope, opened it and removed the piece of paper it contained. As he read, his head tilted to one side, like a man who has suddenly lost his balance.

The typed letter was an order for a new set of clothes, specifically two pairs of brown corduroy trousers made of 21-ounce cotton, three white collarless shirts made of linen with mother-of-pearl buttons, two waistcoats made of dark grey Bedford cord and one black double-breasted coat made of Crombie wool and lined with navy blue silk. At the bottom of the page was a date, specifying when the clothes should be ready.

The breath snagged in Kirov’s throat as he recognised the familiar patterns and materials. ‘Are these clothes for Pekkala?’

‘It would appear so,’ answered Linsky.

‘And this is from two weeks ago!’

‘Yes.’

‘So you have seen him!’

Linsky shook his head.

Kirov held up the piece of paper. ‘Then where did this come from? Was it mailed to you?

‘Somebody slid it under the door.’

‘So how can you be certain that these are for the Inspector? I admit I don’t know anyone else who dresses like this, but . . .’

‘It’s not just the clothing,’ explained Linsky. ‘It’s the cloth. No one but Pekkala would have requested Crombie wool or Bedford cord. Those are English fabrics, of which I just happen to have a small quantity. And the only person who knows that I have them is the person who brought them to me before the Revolution, when I ran my business out of the Gosciny Dvor in Petrograd! He left the cloth with me so that I could use it to make the clothes he wanted. And that is what I have done for many years, for Pekkala and for no one else. The measurements are his, Major. There can be no doubt about who placed the order. They are exactly the same as he has always ordered from me. Well, almost exactly.’

‘What do you mean by ‘almost’?’ asked Kirov.

‘The coat had some modifications.’

‘What kind of modifications?’

‘Little pockets, two dozen of them, built into the left inside flap.’

‘What was the exact size of these pockets?’

‘Four centimetres long and two centimetres wide.’

Too wide for a bullet, thought Kirov.

‘And there was more,’ continued Linsky. ‘He also ordered several straps to be fitted into the right inside flap.’

‘For what purpose? Was it clear?’

Linsky shrugged. ‘The specifications were for double-thick canvas straps so whatever things he intended to carry with them must have been quite heavy. It required reinforcement of the coat’s entire right flap.’

‘More than one strap, you say?’

‘Yes. Three of them.’

‘Did they correspond to any particular shape?’

‘Not that I could tell. I puzzled over them for quite some time.’

‘And did you make the clothes?’

‘Of course, exactly as instructed.’

Kirov turned his attention back to the piece of paper in his hand. ‘According to this, everything should have been picked up by now.’

‘Yes, Major.’

‘But you say you haven’t seen Pekkala.’

‘No.’

‘Then where is the clothing? May I see it?’

‘No, Major. It’s all gone.’

‘Gone?’ Kirov’s forehead creased. ‘You mean somebody
stole
the clothes?’

‘Not exactly, Major.’ Linsky pulled back a dark blue curtain directly behind him, revealing a grey metal bar, on which hung several sets of newly finished clothes, waiting to be picked up by their owners. ‘On the day before everything was due to be picked up I placed the garments here, as I always do with outgoing orders. But when I arrived here for work on the following day, the clothes were missing. The lock had been picked.’

‘Did you report the break-in?’

‘No. Nothing was stolen.’

‘But you just told me you were robbed!’

‘The clothing was gone, but payment for the order was left in a small leather bag, hanging from the bar where the clothes had been hanging.’

‘And there were no messages inside?’

‘Just the money.’

‘Do you still have that leather bag?’

‘Yes, somewhere here.’ He rummaged in the drawer and pulled out a bag of the type normally used by Russian soldiers to carry their rations of
machorka
tobacco. The bags were made from circles of leather, which then had holes punched around the edges. A leather cord was threaded through the holes and drawn tight, forming the shape of the bag. The bag Linsky held out to Kirov was, like most bags of this type, made from soft, suede leather, since it was intended to be worn around the neck of the soldier, where the tobacco stood the best chance of staying dry.

‘What type of payment was used?’ asked Kirov. ‘Gold? Silver?’

‘Nothing so exotic, I’m afraid. Just paper notes. That’s all.’

‘Was anything written on them? There might have been a message.’

‘I thought of that,’ Linsky replied, ‘but it was just a fistful of money, the likes of which you’d find inside the pocket of every person walking past this shop.’

‘And all of this happened almost a week ago.’

‘Five days, to be precise.’

‘And why didn’t you tell anyone until now?’

‘I did,’ answered Linsky. ‘I told Comrade Poskrebychev the day after the clothes disappeared, when he came in to pick up a new tunic for himself.’

‘Let me get this straight, Linsky. You don’t trust me enough to let me know that Pekkala himself, with whom I have worked for over a decade, was, in all probability, standing right here in this shop when the whole world thinks he is dead and yet the only person in whom you choose to confide is Poskrebychev?’

Now Linsky leaned across the counter. For a moment, he did not speak, but only stared at Kirov, his pupils the colour of old glacier ice. ‘Would you mind if I spoke plainly, Major?’

‘I imagine that you’re going to, whether I mind it or not.’

‘There have only ever been a handful of people I trusted in this world,’ said Linsky, ‘and you and your Internal Security thugs killed most of them a long time ago. I do not question your loyalty, Major, only I find myself wondering with whom that loyalty ultimately rests. As for Poskrebychev, he and I have spoken about Pekkala many times before and I know he would do anything, just as I would, to help the Emerald Eye. I can only hope his instincts are correct and that you will use whatever help we can offer to guarantee Pekkala’s safe return.’

‘That much, at least, we can agree upon,’ said Kirov, as he handed Linsky the leather tobacco bag.

Linsky held up his hands in refusal. ‘Hold on to that, Major. Perhaps, one day soon, you can return it to our mutual friend. Now,’ he gestured towards the platform on the other side of the room, ‘if you would not mind standing over there, we can get you fitted for your new uniform.’

‘Is that really necessary now?’ asked Kirov.

Linsky glanced at him knowingly. ‘Why else would you be here, Comrade Major?

After his brief conversation with Major Kirov in the hallway outside Stalin’s office, Poskrebychev had returned to his desk and immediately resumed his rubber-stamping of official documents. But his hands were trembling so much that he kept smudging the facsimile of Stalin’s signature. Eventually, he was forced to set it aside. He folded his hands in his lap and breathed deeply, trying to slow the tripping rhythm of his heart.

Ever since Linsky had confided in him, Poskrebychev had known that he could not go to Stalin with the news. As far as the Boss was concerned, Pekkala was either dead or soon would be if he ever reappeared. In spite of what Stalin had said to Major Kirov, Poskrebychev knew from experience that death warrants, such as had been issued for Pekkala, were rarely, if ever, rescinded. Only Kirov could help Pekkala now, and Poskrebychev’s loyalty to the Inspector demanded that he pass along to the major what he had learned in Linsky’s shop. But how? He couldn’t place a call to Kirov. All of the Kremlin lines were monitored, even those originating from Stalin’s own office. The same was true for telegrams and letters. Poskrebychev didn’t dare go in person to the Major, in case he was observed along the way. If that happened, questions would be asked and those questions would end with his brains splashed on the wall of Lubyanka prison. Days passed as Poskrebychev struggled to find a solution. Valuable time was being wasted. Just when Poskrebychev was on the verge of despairing, Stalin had summoned Kirov to a briefing. Poskrebychev knew that this would be his only chance, but he couldn’t just blurt it out there in the halls of the Kremlin, where ears were pressed to every door and unblinking eyes peered from each polished brass key hole. All he could do was to point the Kirov in the right direction and hope that the major did as he was told.

But now his mind was filled with doubts. He won’t go, thought Poskrebychev. It would never occur to Kirov that I might know anything of value except those scraps of information which Stalin permits me to overhear from his office, like breadcrumbs swept from a table for a dog to lick up after a meal.

But this time it was different.

In spite of the risk, Poskrebychev did not regret what he had done, nor would he have taken such a risk for anyone except the Emerald Eye.

The reason for this was that he and the great Inspector shared a secret of their own which, if Pekkala had ever divulged it, would undoubtedly have cost Poskrebychev his life. But Poskrebychev knew without a shadow of doubt that his secret would be safe with Pekkala. The very fact that Pekkala had never used this knowledge as leverage against him, nor even mentioned it in passing, was what now compelled Poskrebychev to do whatever he could on behalf of the Emerald Eye.

It all had to do with a joke. Several jokes, in fact, all of them conjured by Stalin and unleashed upon his secretary. They amounted to three or four each year, and ranged from sawing the legs off Poskrebychev’s desk to dismantling it entirely so that it collapsed on top of him when he opened the main drawer. There had been others, less inspired, such as the day Stalin’s bodyguard, Pauker, threw him in a duck pond on Stalin’s orders, after Poskrebychev had admitted that he could not swim.

When Poskrebychev described these events to the few friends he possessed, he was astonished and frustrated to discover that none of them actually believed him. Comrade Stalin would not engage in such behaviour, they told him. The Boss is too serious a man to be amused by acts of mere frivolity.