“Yes,” said Ushinsky, “and I signed it right after they dislocated my arm.”
“Are you a member of the White Guild?” asked Pekkala.
“No! I’ve never even heard of them before. What’s going to happen to me now, Inspector? The major says I’m being sent out to a special location in Siberia, a camp called Mamlin-3.”
At the mention of that place Pekkala had to force himself to breathe. Suddenly he turned to Kirov. “Leave the room,” he said. “Go out to the car. Do not wait for me. I will join you at the office later.”
Kirov watched him in confusion. “Why?” he asked.
“Please,” Pekkala urged.
“You are going to try to get him out of here?” Slowly Kirov raised his hands, open palms towards Pekkala, as if to fend off what was coming. “Oh, no, Inspector. You can’t—”
“You have to go now, Kirov.”
“But you mustn’t!” sputtered Kirov. “This is completely irregular.”
Ushinsky no longer seemed aware of their presence. His one good hand wandered feebly over his body, as if by some miracle of touch he hoped to heal himself.
“This man is innocent,” Pekkala told his assistant. “You know that as well as I do.”
“But it’s too late,” protested Kirov, lifting the confession from the table. “He signed!”
“You’d have signed, too, if they’d done the same thing to you.”
“Inspector, please. This isn’t our problem anymore.”
“I know where they’re sending him,” replied Pekkala. “I know what happens there.”
“You can’t get him out of here,” Kirov pleaded. “Not even a Shadow Pass will allow you to do that.”
“Leave now,” said Pekkala. “Go back to the office. When you get there, put in a call to Major Lysenkova. Put it through the main switchboard.”
“Why would I want to speak to her?” asked Kirov.
“You wouldn’t,” replied Pekkala. “But you need that switchboard operator to log in the time that you called. That way, it will show that you were not at Lubyanka. Just find some excuse, talk to her for a minute, then hang up and wait for me to come back.”
“Do you really mean to go through with this?”
“I will not stand by and let an innocent man be sent to Mamlin-3. Now, Kirov, my friend, do as I tell you and go.”
Without another word, the young man turned towards the door.
“Thank you,” whispered Pekkala.
Then suddenly Kirov spun around, and this time he had a Tokarev aimed at Pekkala.
“What are you doing?” asked Pekkala.
“You will thank me later,” said Kirov, “when you have come to your senses.”
Calmly, Pekkala stared down the barrel of the gun. “I see you brought your weapon this time. At least I have taught you that much.”
“You also taught me that the law is the law,” said Kirov. “You cannot pick and choose what to obey. There was a time when it seemed to me you knew the difference between right and wrong.”
“The older I get, Kirov, the harder it becomes to tell one from the other.”
For a long time, the two men stood there.
The barrel of the gun began to tremble in Kirov’s hand. “You know I can’t shoot you,” he whispered.
“I know,” replied Pekkala in a kindly voice.
Kirov lowered the gun. Clumsily, he returned the pistol to its holster. Then he shook his head and left the room.
Pekkala and Ushinsky were alone now.
A hoarse rattling echoed from Ushinsky’s throat.
It took Pekkala a moment to realize that Ushinsky was laughing.
“Major Kirov is right, isn’t he? You can’t get me out of here.”
“No, Ushinsky, I can’t.”
“And the things that go on in this camp, are they as bad as you say?”
“Worse than anything you can imagine.”
A faint moan escaped his lips. “Please, Inspector. Please, don’t let them take me there.”
“You understand what we are talking about?” asked Pekkala.
“I do.” Ushinsky struggled to stand, but he could not manage on his own.
“Help me up,” he pleaded.
Pekkala hooked a hand under Ushinsky’s good arm and raised him to his feet.
The scientist sagged back against the wall, breathing heavily. “Gorenko thinks I hate him, but the truth is he’s the only friend I’ve got. Don’t tell him what happened to me.”
“I won’t.”
“Which tank did they take?” asked Ushinsky.
“I don’t know.”
“I always hoped it would be number 4.”
“Professor, we don’t have much time.”
Ushinsky nodded. “I understand. Good-bye, Inspector Pekkala.”
“Good-bye, Professor Ushinsky.” Pekkala reached into his coat and drew the Webley from its holster.
At the far end of the hallway, the guard on duty heard the shot. It sounded so muffled that at first he confused it with the clank of the vision slit plate moving back and forth as the guard in the next hallway inspected the other cells. But then, when the other guard stuck his head around the corner and asked, “What was that?” he realized what had happened.
The guard ran to Ushinsky’s cell, feet padding on the carpeted floor, threw back the locking bolt, and flung open the door. The first thing he saw was a halo of blood on the wall.
Ushinsky lay in the corner, one leg bent under him and the other stretched out across the floor.
Pekkala stood in the center of the room. The Webley was still in his hand. Gun smoke swirled around the lightbulb and the air smelled of burnt cordite.
“What the hell happened?” yelled the guard.
“Take me to the prison commandant,” Pekkala replied.
FIVE MINUTES LATER, PEKKALA STOOD IN THE OFFICE OF A BULL-NECKED man with a shaved head named Maltsev. He was in charge of the Kommendatura, a special branch within the Lubyanka prison system, responsible for carrying out executions. In the past three years, Maltsev himself had liquidated over a thousand people. Now Maltsev sat at his desk. He looked stunned, as if he couldn’t have stood up even if he’d wanted to.
Behind Pekkala stood two armed guards.
“Explain yourself.” Maltsev’s balled fists rested on the desktop like two fleshy hand grenades. “And you’d better make it good.”
Pekkala took out his NKVD ID book. He handed it to Maltsev. “Read this,” he said quietly.
Maltsev opened the red booklet. Immediately, his eyes fastened on the Classified Operations Permit. Maltsev looked up at the guards. “You two,” he said, “get out.”
Hurriedly, the guards abandoned the room.
Maltsev handed back the ID book. “I should have known you’d have a Shadow Pass,” he said. He looked even more annoyed than he had a minute before. “I can’t arrest you. I can’t even ask you why you did it, can I?”
“No,” replied Pekkala.
Maltsev sat back heavily in his chair and laced his fingers together. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. We have his confession. His transfer paper to Mamlin had already been made out. One way or another, he was not long for this world.”
Fifteen minutes later, as the gates of the Lubyanka closed behind him, Pekkala glanced up and down the street. The Emka was gone. Kirov had followed his orders. Now Pekkala set off on foot towards the office.
But that wasn’t where he ended up.
Frozen in his mind was the image of Kirov, staring at him down the barrel of a gun. Kirov had done the right
