“I happened to be passing through the marketplace,” Maximov replied. “I saw the whole thing. I’ve always wondered how you managed to survive.”
“Later on,” replied Pekkala, “when you have answered some of my questions, perhaps I can answer some of yours.”
The cottage belonging to Nagorski was of the type known as a dacha. Built in the traditional style, with a thatched roof and shuttered windows, it had clearly been here many years longer than the facility itself. Perched at the edge of a small lake, the dacha was the only building in sight. Except for a clearing around the cottage itself, dense forest crowded down to the water’s edge.
It was still and peaceful here. Now that the clouds had cleared away, the surface of the lake glowed softly in the fading sunlight. Out on the water, a man sat in a rowboat. In his right hand he held a fishing rod. His arm waved gently back and forth. The long fly line, burning silver as it caught the rays of the sunset, stretched out from the tip of the rod, curving back upon itself and stretching out again until the speck of the fly touched down upon the surface of the lake. Around the man, tiny insects swirled like bubbles in champagne.
Pekkala was so focused on this image that he did not see a woman come around from the back of the house until she stood in front of him.
The woman looked very beautiful but tired. An air of quiet desperation hung about her. Tight curls waved across her short, dark hair. Her chin was small and her eyes so dark that the blackness of her irises seemed to have flooded out into her pupils.
Ignoring Pekkala, the woman turned to Maximov, who was getting out of the car. “Who is this man,” she asked, “and why is he so filthy dirty, as well as being dressed like an undertaker?”
“This is Inspector Pekkala,” Maximov answered, “from the Bureau of Special Operations.”
“Pekkala,” she echoed. “Oh, yes.” The dark eyes raked his face. “You arrested my husband in the middle of his lunch.”
“Detained,” replied Pekkala. “Not arrested.”
“I thought that was all cleared up.”
“It was, Mrs. Nagorski.”
“So why are you here?” She spat out the words as if her mouth was filled with shards of glass.
Pekkala could tell that a part of her already knew. It was as if she had been expecting this news, not just today but for a very long time.
“He’s dead, isn’t he?” she asked hoarsely.
Pekkala nodded.
Maximov reached out to lay his hand upon her shoulder.
Angrily, she brushed his touch away. Then her hand flew back, catching Maximov across the face. “You were supposed to take care of him!” she shrieked, raising her fists and bringing them down hard against his chest with a sound like muffled drumbeats.
Maximov staggered back, too stunned by her fury to resist.
“That was your job!” she shouted. “He took you in. He gave you a chance when no one else would. And now this! This is how you repay him?”
“Mrs. Nagorski,” whispered Maximov, “I did everything I could for him.”
Mrs. Nagorski stared at the big man as if she did not even know who he was. “If you had done everything,” she sneered, “my husband would still be alive.”
The figure in the boat turned his head to see where the shouting had come from.
Pekkala could see now that it was a young man, and he knew it must be the Nagorskis’ son, Konstantin.
The young man reeled in his line, set the fishing rod aside and took up the oars. Slowly, he made his way towards the shore, oars creaking in the brass wishbones of the oarlocks, water dripping from the oar blades like a stream of mercury.
Mrs. Nagorski turned and walked back towards the dacha. As she climbed the first step to the porch, she stumbled. One arm reached out to brace herself against the planks. Her hands were shaking. She sank down on the steps.
By then Pekkala had caught up with her.
She glanced at him, then looked away again. “I always said this project would destroy him, one way or another. I must see my husband.”
“I would not advise that,” replied Pekkala.
“I will see him, Inspector. Immediately.”
Hearing the determination in the widow’s voice, Pekkala realized there was no point in trying to dissuade her.
The rowboat ground up against the shore. The boy hauled in his oars with the unconscious precision of a bird folding its wings, then stepped out of the tippy boat. Konstantin was head and shoulders taller than his mother, with her dark eyes and unkempt hair that needed washing. His heavy canvas trousers were patched at the knees and looked as if they had belonged to someone else before they came to him. He wore a sweater with holes in the elbows and his bare feet were speckled with bug bites, although he did not seem to notice them.
Konstantin looked from face to face, waiting for someone to explain.
It was Maximov who went to him. He put his arm around the boy, speaking in a voice too low for anyone else to hear.
Konstantin’s face turned pale. He seemed to be staring at something no one else could see, as if the ghost of his father were standing right in front of him.
Pekkala watched this, feeling a weight settle in his heart, like a man whose blood had turned to sand.
WHILE MAXIMOV DROVE MRS. NAGORSKI TO THE FACILITY, PEKKALA sat with her son at the dining table in the dacha.
The walls were covered with dozens of blueprints. Some were exploded engine diagrams. Others showed the inner workings of guns or traced the crooked path of exhaust systems. On shelves around the room lay pieces of metal, twisted fan blades, a slab of wood into which different-sized screws had been drilled. A single link of tank track lay upon the stone mantelpiece. The room did not smell like a home—of fires and cooking and soap. Instead, it reeked of machine oil and the sharply pungent ink used to make the blueprints.
The furniture was of the highest quality—walnut cabinets with diamond-paned glass fronts, leather chairs with brass nails running like machine gun belts along the seams. The table at which they sat was far too big for the cramped space of the dacha.
Pekkala knew that the Nagorski family had probably belonged to the old aristocracy. Most of these families had either fled the country during the Revolution or been swallowed up in labor camps. Only a few remained, and fewer still had held on to the relics of their former status in society. Only those who had proved themselves valuable to the government were permitted such luxuries.
Nagorski may have earned that right, but Pekkala wondered what would become of the rest of his family, now that he was gone.
Pekkala knew that there was nothing he could say. Sometimes, the best that could be done was just to keep a person company.
Konstantin stared fiercely out the window as the last purpling twilight bled into the solid black of night.
Seeing the young man so locked away inside his head, Pekkala remembered the last time he had seen his own father, that freezing January morning when he left home to enlist in the Tsar’s Finnish Regiment.
He was leaning out the window of a train as it pulled out of the station. On the platform stood his father, in a long black coat and wide-brimmed hat set squarely on his head. His mother had been too upset to accompany them to the station. His father held up one hand in a gesture of farewell. Above him, bent back like the teeth of eels, icicles hung from the station house roof.
Two years later, left to run the funeral parlor alone, the old man suffered a heart attack while dragging a body on a sled to the crematorium that he maintained some distance into the woods behind their house. The horse that usually hauled the sled had slipped on the ice that winter and was lame, so Pekkala’s father had tried to do the work himself.
The old man was found on his knees in front of the sled, hands gripping his thighs, chin sunk onto his chest. Slung across his shoulders were the leather traces normally worn by the horse for inching the sled along the narrow
