he would be shot against the wall of the Lubyanka prison, probably before the sun came up today. Suddenly he realized that he had resigned himself to this a long time ago.
Pekkala opened the door. He did not hesitate. They would only have kicked it down.
But there was no squad of NKVD men, waiting to take him away. Instead, there was only Kirov. “Good evening, Inspector,” the young man said cheerfully. “Or should I say good morning? I thought this time I’d come and visit you.”
Before the expression could change on Kirov’s face, Pekkala’s fist swung out and knocked him in the head.
As if executing part of a complicated dance, Kirov took one step sideways, then one step backward, and finally sprawled on the pavement.
A moment later, he sat up, rubbing his jaw. “What was that for?” A thin thread of blood unraveled from his nose.
Pekkala was just as surprised as Kirov by what had happened. “What are you doing here in the middle of the night?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper.
“Well, I’m sorry to have interrupted your sleep,” Kirov replied, climbing to his feet, “but you told me—”
“I don’t care about my sleep!” snarled Pekkala. “You know what it means, coming to my door in the middle of the night!”
“You mean you thought …”
“Of course that’s what I thought!”
“But, Inspector, nobody’s going to arrest you!”
“You don’t know that, Kirov,” snapped Pekkala. “I’ve tried to teach you how dangerous our job can be, and it’s time you learned that we have as much to fear from those we’re working for as from those we’re working against. Now don’t just stand there. Come in!”
Blotting his nose with a handkerchief, Kirov entered the building. “Do you know this is the first time I’ve seen your apartment? I never understood why you chose to live on this side of town.”
“Hush!” whispered Pekkala. “People are sleeping.”
When they finally reached the apartment, Pekkala put water on to boil for tea, cooking it on a small gas Primus stove which he lit with a cigarette lighter. The blue flame flickered beneath the battered aluminum pot. He sat down on the end of his bed and pointed to the only chair in the room, inviting Kirov to sit. “Well, what have you come to tell me?”
“What I came to tell you,” replied Kirov, as he looked around the room with undisguised curiosity, “is that I have found Zalka. At least I think I have.”
“Well, have you found him or haven’t you?”
“I went to the address you gave me,” explained Kirov, undeterred by Pekkala’s tone. “He wasn’t there. He moved out months ago. The caretaker said Zalka had gone to work at the swimming pool near Bolotnaya Square.”
“I didn’t know there was a swimming pool there.”
“That’s the thing, Inspector. There isn’t one. There used to be. The pool was part of a large bathhouse which got closed down years ago. Then the building was taken over by the Institute of Clinical and Experimental Science.”
“So the caretaker must have been wrong.”
“Well, I put in a call to the institute, just to be thorough. I asked if they had anyone named Zalka working there. The woman at the other end told me the names of all institute employees were classified and hung up on me. I tried calling them back, but no one would answer the phone. But what would he be doing at a medical institute? He’s an engineer, not a doctor.”
“We’ll find out first thing in the morning,” said Pekkala.
Kirov stood and began to pace around the room. “All right, Inspector, I give up. Why on earth are you living in this dump?”
“Have you considered that perhaps I choose to spend my money on other things?”
“Of course I’ve considered it, but I know you don’t spend it on clothes or food or anything else I can think of, so if it doesn’t go on rent, where does it go?”
It was a while before Pekkala answered.
In the silence, they could hear the rustle of water boiling in the pot.
“The money goes to Paris,” he said finally.
“Paris?” Kirov’s eyes narrowed. “You mean you’re sending your wages to Ilya?”
Pekkala got up to make the tea.
“How did you even find out where she lives?”
“That’s what I do,” replied Pekkala. “I find people.”
“But Ilya thinks you’re dead! As far as she knows, you’ve been dead for years.”
“I realize that,” muttered Pekkala.
“So who does she think the money is coming from?”
“The funds are channeled through a bank in Helsinki. She believes it is being provided through the will of the headmistress of the school where she taught.”
“And what does the headmistress have to say about this?”
“Nothing.” Pekkala sprinkled a pinch of black tea into the pot. “She was shot by Red Guards the day before I left Tsarskoye Selo.”
“But why, Inspector? Ilya is married! She even has a child!”
Pekkala crashed the pot down onto the stove. Hot tea splashed on his shirt. “Don’t you think I know that, Kirov? Don’t you realize I think about that all the time? But I do not love her out of hope. I do not love her out of possibility.”
“Then what is driving you to this madness?”
“I do not call it madness,” said Pekkala, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Well, I do!” Kirov told him. “You might as well be throwing your money into the fire.”
“It is mine to throw,” replied Pekkala, “and I don’t care what she does with it.” He set about brewing a fresh pot of tea.
THE TWO MEN STOOD OUTSIDE THE INSTITUTE OF CLINICAL AND Experimental Science. The windows of the old bathhouse had been bricked up and the bricks painted the same pale yellow color as the rest of the building.
“Did you bring your gun this time?” asked Pekkala.
Kirov held open one flap of his coat, showing a pistol tucked into a shoulder holster.
“Good,” said Pekkala, “because you might need to use it today.”
They had arrived at the institute just after eight in the morning, only to find that it did not open until nine. In spite of the fact that the building was closed, they could hear noises inside. Kirov banged on the heavy wooden door, but no one answered. Eventually, they gave up and decided to wait.
To pass the time, they ordered breakfast in a cafe across the road from the medical institute. The cafe had only just opened. Most of the chairs were still upside down on top of the tables.
The waitress brought them hard-boiled eggs, black rye bread, and slabs of ham, the edges still glistening with the salt used to cure the meat. They drank tea without milk from heavy white cups which had no handles.
“Waiting for the Monster Shop to open up?” asked the woman. She was tall and square-shouldered, with her hair pulled back in a knot and arching eyebrows that gave her a look of critical appraisal.
“The what?” asked Kirov.
The woman nodded towards the institute.
“Why do they call it that?” asked Pekkala.
“You’ll see for yourself if you go in there,” said the woman as she headed back into the kitchen.
“The Monster Shop,” muttered Kirov. “What kind of a place deserves a name like that?”
“I’d rather we didn’t find out on an empty stomach,” replied Pekkala as he gathered up his knife and fork. “Now eat.”
Minutes later, Kirov set down his knife and fork loudly on the edges of his plate. “There you go again,” he
