Shadow Pass

on than we realize. For now, let’s just see where she leads us.” He turned to Maximov. “Can you take me to Nagorski’s wife?”

Maximov nodded. “First we’ll bury Samarin, and then I’ll take you there.”

The three men carried the body a short distance into the woods. Lacking a shovel, they used their hands to claw a grave out of the soft, dark earth. Half an arm’s length from the surface, the hole filled with black liquid seeping from the peaty ground. They had no choice but to lay Samarin in it, arms folded across his chest, as if to hide the tunnel through his heart. The black water swallowed him up. Then they packed the spongy earth on top of his body. When it was done and they climbed to their feet, picking the dirt from under their fingernails, there was barely a trace to indicate that a man had just been buried there.

When Maximov went off to fetch his car, Kirov turned to Pekkala. “Why don’t we start by arresting that bastard?”

“Arrest him?” asked Pekkala. “On what charges?”

“I don’t know!” spluttered Kirov. “What about cowardice?”

“You seem to have made up your mind about him very quickly.”

“Sometimes a moment is all it takes,” insisted Kirov. “I’ve seen him before, you know. He was sitting at the table that day I went into Chicherin’s restaurant to find Nagorski. I didn’t like the look of him then and I like him even less now.”

“Did you stop to think that maybe he was right?”

“Right about what?”

“About not running into those woods. After all, why did you run?”

Kirov frowned, confused. “I ran because you ran, Inspector.”

“And do you know why I ran,” asked Pekkala, “in spite of the warning Samarin had given us?”

“No,” shrugged Kirov, “I suppose I don’t.”

“Neither do I,” replied Pekkala. “So it is only luck that we are standing here instead of lying in the ground.”

Maximov’s car appeared from behind one of the buildings and made its way towards them.

“I need you to keep an eye on Lysenkova,” Pekkala told Kirov. “Whatever you learn, keep it to yourself for now. And keep your temper, too.”

“That,” muttered the young major, “I cannot promise you.”

WITH PEKKALA IN THE FRONT PASSENGER SEAT, MAXIMOV DROVE along a narrow road leading away from the dreary facility.

“I am sorry about my assistant,” said Pekkala. “Sometimes he does things without thinking.”

“Seems to me,” replied Maximov, “that he is not the only one. But if you are worried about my feelings, Comrade Inspector, you can save yourself the trouble.”

“Where are you from, Maximov?”

“I have lived in many places. I am not from anywhere.”

“And what did you do before the Revolution?”

“The same as you, Inspector. I made a living for myself. I managed to survive.”

Pekkala studied the blur of trees flickering past. “That’s two questions you have avoided.”

Maximov hit the brakes. The tires locked and skidded. For a moment, it looked as if they were going to end up in the ditch, but they came to a stop just before the car left the road. Maximov cut the engine. “If you don’t like me avoiding your questions, maybe you should stop asking them.”

“It’s my job to ask questions,” said Pekkala, “and, sooner or later, you will need to answer them.”

Maximov glared at Pekkala, but as the seconds passed, the anger went out of his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “The only reason I’ve survived as long as I have is by keeping my mouth shut. Old habits die hard, Inspector.”

“Survival has been difficult for all of us,” said Pekkala.

“That’s not what I hear about you. People say you’ve lived a charmed life.”

“Those are merely stories, Maximov.”

“Are they? I just saw you walk out of those woods without so much as a scratch.”

“I was not the only one.”

“I’m sure Captain Samarin would take comfort in that, if he was still alive. You know, when I was a child, I heard that if a Russian goes into the woods, he becomes lost. But when a Finn steps into the forest”—he touched his fingertips together and then let them drift apart, like someone releasing a dove—“he simply disappears.”

“Like I told you. Just stories.”

“No, Inspector,” he replied. “There’s more to it than that. I have seen it for myself.”

“What have you seen?” asked Pekkala.

“I was there, that day on the Nevski Prospekt, where I know for a fact you should have died.”

It was a summer evening. Pekkala had spent the day trying to find a birthday present for Ilya, wandering up and down the arcade of shops in the Passazh—a glass-roofed corridor lined with expensive jewelers, tailors, and vendors of antiques.

For hours, he had paced back and forth in front of the Passazh windows, steeling himself to enter the cramped shops where he knew he would immediately be set upon by salesclerks.

Three times, he had abandoned the arcade and fled across the Nevski Prospekt to the huge produce market known as the Gostiny Dvor. The floors were strewn with sawdust, wilted cabbage leaves, and discarded sales receipts scribbled on cheap gray paper. Trucks pulled up onto the wide cobblestoned delivery area and porters in blue tunics with silver buttons, their hands bound with scraps of cloth as protection against the splintery wooden crates, unloaded vegetables and fruit.

Inside the vast, cold, echoing hall of the Gostiny Dvor, surrounded by vendors chanting out their lists of goods and the soft murmur of footsteps shuffling through the sawdust, Pekkala sat on a barrel in a cafe frequented by the porters, sipping a glass of tea and feeling his heart unclench after the stuffiness of the Passazh.

The last train to Tsarskoye Selo would be leaving in half an hour. Knowing that he could not go home empty-handed, he steeled himself for another trip to the Passazh. It’s now or never, Pekkala thought.

A minute later, on his way out of the hall, he noticed a man standing by one of the pillars at the exit. The man was watching him and trying not to make it obvious. But Pekkala could always tell when he was being watched, even if he could not see who was doing the watching. He felt it like static in the air.

Pekkala glanced at the man as he walked past, noting the stranger’s clothing—the knee-length coat made of wool and gray like the feathers of a dove, the out-of-fashion Homburg hat, rounded at the top and with an oval brim that sheltered his eyes so that Pekkala could not see them. He had an impressive mustache, which grew down to the line of his jaw, and a small, nervous-looking mouth.

But Pekkala was too preoccupied with Ilya’s birthday present to think much more about it.

Outside, the evening sky, which would not darken until midnight at this time of year, shimmered like an abalone shell.

He had almost reached the exit when he felt something nudge him in the back.

Pekkala spun around.

The man in the Homburg hat was standing there. He was holding a gun in his right hand. It was a poorly made automatic pistol, of a type manufactured in Bulgaria, which often showed up at crime scenes, since it was cheap and easy to purchase on the black market.

“Are you who I think you are?” asked the man.

Before Pekkala could come up with a reply, he heard a loud clapping sound.

Sparks erupted from the barrel of the gun. The air became hazy with smoke.

Pekkala realized he must have been shot, but he felt neither the impact of the bullet nor the burning, stinging pain which, he knew, would quickly change to a numbness radiating through his whole body.