“This was the only thing you argued about?”
“The only thing in front of Konstantin.”
“You mean there was more?”
“The truth is,” she said with a sigh, “my husband and I were splitting up.” She looked at him, then looked away again. “I was having an affair, you see.”
“Ah,” he said softly. “And your husband found out about it.”
She nodded.
“How long had the affair been going on?”
“For some time,” she replied. “More than a year.”
“And how did your husband find out?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He refused to tell me. By then, it really didn’t matter.”
“With whom did you have the affair?” asked Pekkala.
“Is this absolutely necessary, Inspector?”
“Yes, Mrs. Nagorski, I’m afraid it is.”
“With a man named Lev Zalka.”
“Zalka!”
“That sounds as if you know him.”
“I spoke to him this morning,” replied Pekkala, “and he didn’t tell me anything about an affair.”
“Would you have mentioned it, Inspector, if you could have avoided the subject?”
“Is that why he stopped working on the project?”
“Yes. There were other reasons, small things which could have been put right, but this was the end of everything between them. Afterwards, my husband wouldn’t even allow Zalka’s name to be mentioned at the facility. The other technicians never knew what had happened. They just thought it was a difference of opinion about something to do with the project.”
“And what about Konstantin? Did he know about this?”
“No,” she replied. “I begged my husband not to mention it until the project was completed. Then we would move back to the city and find different places to live. Konstantin would be going off to the Moscow Technical Institute to study engineering. He would live in the dormitory there, and he could come and see me or his father whenever he wanted.”
“And your husband agreed?”
“He did not tell me that he disagreed,” she replied, “and that was as much as I had hoped for, under the circumstances.”
“This morning,” said Pekkala, “my assistant and I ruled out Zalka as a suspect, but after what you’ve told me, I’m no longer sure what to think.”
“Are you asking me if I think Lev killed my husband?”
“Or that he ordered it, perhaps?”
“If you knew Lev Zalka, you would never think that.”
“Why not?”
“Because Lev never hated my husband. The person Lev hates is himself. From the first day we began seeing each other, I knew it was destroying him inside.”
“And yet you say this lasted for over a year.”
“Because he loved me, Inspector Pekkala. And, for what it’s worth, I loved him, too. A part of me still does. I was never strong enough to finish things with Lev. It was my great weakness and it was Lev’s as well. I was almost relieved when my husband found out. And what Lev does to himself now, those medical experiments he endures, he does out of guilt. He will tell you that it is so he can carry on his research, but the man is just bleeding to death.”
“Are you still in contact with him?”
“No,” she said. “We could never go back to just being acquaintances.”
There was the sound of a door opening at the back of the dacha. A moment later it closed again.
Pekkala turned.
Konstantin stood in the kitchen. In his hand, he carried an iron ring on which three trout had been skewered through the gills.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Nagorski, “Inspector Pekkala is here.”
“I wish you would leave us alone, Inspector,” replied Konstantin as he laid the fish on the kitchen counter.
“I was just about to,” said Pekkala, rising to his feet.
“The inspector is looking for your father’s gun,” said Mrs. Nagorski.
“Your mother says he kept it on his bedside table,” added Pekkala, “or in the pocket of his coat. Did you ever see the gun anywhere else?”
“I hardly ever saw that gun,” the boy replied, “because I hardly ever saw my father.”
Pekkala turned to Mrs. Nagorski. “I’ll rely on you to search the house. If the gun turns up, please let me know immediately.”
Outside the house, she shook his hand. “I’m sorry for the way Konstantin spoke to you,” she told Pekkala. “I’m the one he’s angry with. He just hasn’t gotten around to admitting it yet.”
IT WAS LATE IN THE DAY BY THE TIME PEKKALA RETURNED TO THE OFFICE. He had stopped to refuel the Emka, which took him out of his way, and the mechanic at the garage had persuaded him to change the oil and radiator fluid. He then discovered that the radiator needed replacing, by which time most of the day had gone.
“We should probably change the fuel gauge as well,” said the mechanic. “It appears to be sticking.”
“How long will that take?” asked Pekkala, already at the end of his patience.
“We’d have to order the part,” explained the mechanic. “You’d need to leave it here overnight, but there’s a cot we keep in the back …”
“No!” shouted Pekkala. “Just get me back on the road!”
When the repairs had finally been completed, Pekkala returned to the office. He was halfway up the stairs when he met Kirov coming down.
“There you are!” said Kirov.
“What’s the matter?”
“You just had a call from the Kremlin.”
Pekkala felt his heart clench. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“They didn’t tell me. All they said was to get you over there as soon as possible. Comrade Stalin is waiting.”
“He is waiting for me?” muttered Pekkala. “Well, there’s a change.”
Together, the two men returned to the street, where the Emka’s engine was still warm.
“IT’S OVER!” SHOUTED STALIN.
They were walking down a corridor towards Stalin’s private study. Staff officers and clerks in military uniform stood to the side, backs against the wall and staring straight ahead, like people disguised as statues. As if taking part in this elaborate game, Stalin ignored their existence.
“What is over?” asked Pekkala.
“The case!” Stalin replied. “We have the man who killed Nagorski.”
From offices on either side came the sounds of typewriters, the rustle of metal file cabinets opening and closing, and the murmur of indistinct voices.
“You do?” Pekkala was unable to hide his surprise. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know yet. I haven’t received the final report. All I can tell you is that we have a man in custody and that he has confessed to killing Nagorski, as well as trying to sell information on the Konstantin Project to the Germans.”
As they reached the door to the waiting room, two guards, each armed with a submachine gun, clicked their heels together. One guard opened the door with a flick of his hand so that Stalin passed through into his study without even breaking his stride.
