“Yes, Comrade Stalin.”
“All messages between Pekkala and Major Kirov are to be intercepted.”
“Of course.”
“Whatever Pekkala has to say, I want to read it before Kirov does. I want no secrets kept from me.”
“No, Comrade Stalin,” said Poskrebyshev, and a fresh coat of sweat slicked his palms.
The intercom button stayed on, whispering static into Stalin’s ears. “Is there anything else, Poskrebyshev?”
“Why do you let Pekkala speak to you that way? So disrespectfully?” Over the years, Poskrebyshev had advanced to the stage where he could occasionally express an unsolicited opinion to the Boss, although only in the most reverent of tones. But the way Pekkala talked to Stalin caused Poskrebyshev’s bowels to cramp. Even more amazing to him was the fact that Stalin let Pekkala get away with it. In asking such a question, Poskrebyshev was well aware that he had overstepped his bounds. If the answer to his question was a flood of obscenities from the next room, he knew he would have only himself to blame. Nevertheless, he simply had to know.
“The reason I endure his insolence-unlike, for example, yours, Poskrebyshev-is that Pekkala is the only person I know of who would not kill me for the chance to rule this country.”
“Surely that is not true, Comrade Stalin!” protested Poskrebyshev, knowing perfectly well that whether it was true or not, what mattered was that Stalin believed it.
“Ask yourself, Poskrebyshev-what would you do to sit where I am sitting now?”
An image flashed through Poskrebyshev’s mind, of himself at Stalin’s desk, smoking Stalin’s cigarettes and bullying his very own secretary. In that moment, Poskrebyshev knew that, in spite of all his claims of loyalty, he would have gutted Stalin like a fish for the chance to take the leader’s place.
One hour later, as the last rays of sunset glistened on the ice-sheathed telegraph wires, Pekkala’s battered Emka staff car, driven by his assistant, Major Kirov, pulled into a rail yard at mile marker 17 on the Moscow Highway. The rail yard had no name. It was known simply as V-4, and the only trains departing from this place were convict transports headed for the Gulags.
However miserable the journey promised to be, Pekkala knew it was necessary to travel as a convict in order to protect the cover story that he had fallen out of favor with Stalin and received a twenty-year sentence for unspecified crimes against the State.
Major Kirov pulled up behind some empty freight cars, cut the engine, and looked out across the rail yard, where prisoners huddled by the wagons which would soon be taking them away.
“You can still call this off, Inspector.”
“You know that is impossible.”
“They have no right to send you back to that place, even if it is to carry out an investigation.”
“There is no ‘they,’ Kirov. The order came directly from Stalin.”
“Then he should at least have given you time to study the relevant files.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Pekkala answered. “The victim’s dossier is incomplete. There was only one page. The rest of it must be lost somewhere in NKVD archives. As a result, I know almost nothing about the man whose death I am being sent to investigate.”
The train whistle blew, and the prisoners began to climb aboard.
“It is time,” said Pekkala. “But first, there is something I need you to look after while I’m gone.” Into Kirov’s hand Pekkala dropped a heavy gold disk, as wide across as the length of his little finger. Along the center was a stripe of white enamel inlay, which began at a point, widened until it took up half the disk and narrowed again to a point on the other side. Embedded in the middle of the white enamel was a large round emerald. Together, the elements formed the unmistakable shape of an eye.
Now Kirov closed his fingers around the badge. “I will take good care of it until you return, Inspector.”
“The Webley is in my desk drawer,” added Pekkala, “although I know you are more partial to your Tokarev.”
“Is there nothing more I can do, Inspector?”
“There may well be,” he replied, “but I won’t know until I get to Borodok.”
“How will I stay in contact with you?”
“By telegram through the camp commandant, Major Klenovkin. He will make sure I receive any messages.”
The two men shook hands.
“I will see you on the other side,” said Kirov, giving the traditional farewell.
“Indeed you will, Major Kirov.”
As Pekkala made his way across the rail yard, heading towards the group of convicts, he was spotted by the train’s chief engineer, a man named Filipp Demidov.
Demidov was the brother of Anna Demidova, lady-in-waiting to the Tsarina Alexandra, who had been murdered in July of 1918 by agents of the Bolshevik Secret Service, the Cheka, in the same executions which