“I have given it some thought.” Stalin reached for his pipe. “It seems to me that can all be pushed to the edge—don’t you agree, Pekkala?”
“Yes, Comrade Stalin.”
“The killer lurks in every one of us,” Stalin continued. “If it didn’t, our whole species would long ago have ceased to walk this earth. And it would be a waste to throw away a young man who might one day follow in the footsteps of his father.”
“He has potential,” said Pekkala.
“I agree. And that is why I have appointed the boy to be Zalka’s apprentice until the Konstantin Project is completed. After that, he will be enrolled in the Moscow Technical Institute. But I am expecting results. I will be watching. And you, Pekkala, will keep your Emerald Eye on him.”
“I will indeed,” he said.
Stalin aimed the pipe at him. “I see you have a nice new jacket.”
“Ah,” said Pekkala. He looked down at the clothes Kirov had bought him. “This is just temporary. I’m having some made up at Linsky’s.”
“Linsky’s?” asked Stalin as he hunted in his desk drawer for a match. “Over by the Bolshoi Theatre? You know what they say about the things he makes? Clothes for Dead Men! What do you think of that, Pekkala?”
“It gets more funny every time I hear it.”
“Anyway,” said Stalin, “you won’t be needing anything from Linsky.”
“I won’t?”
Stalin had found a match. He struck it, the tiny stick positioned between his thumb and first two fingers. For the next few seconds, the only sound was the dry rustle of his breathing as he coaxed the tobacco to burn. The soft, sweet smell drifted towards Pekkala. Finally he spoke. “I am sending you to Siberia.”
“What?” shouted Pekkala.
“You are going back to Borodok.”
The door opened. Poskrebyshev, Stalin’s secretary, poked his head into the room. “Is everything all right, Comrade Stalin?”
“Out!” snapped Stalin.
Poskrebyshev took a long and disapproving look at Pekkala. Then he closed the door behind him.
“You are sending me to prison?” Pekkala asked Stalin.
“Yes. Although not as a prisoner. Not officially, at any rate. There has been a murder in the Borodok camp.”
“With respect, Comrade Stalin, there are murders in that camp every day of the week.”
“This one has caught my attention.”
“When am I leaving?”
“In two days. Until then, you may consider yourself on vacation.”
“What about Major Kirov?”
“Oh, the major will be busy here in Moscow, handling his end of the investigation. I have already spoken to him, here in this office, earlier today. Which reminds me.” Stalin reached into his pocket and then, from his closed fist, dropped four kumquats upon the desk. “He gave me these. What am I supposed to do with them?”
“Kirov didn’t tell you?”
“He just said they were a gift.”
“You eat them, Comrade Stalin.”
“What?” He picked one up and stared at it. “In little pieces?”
“No. All at once. All four of them. Just put them in your mouth and bite down. It’s a real treat.”
“Hmm.” Stalin gathered the fruit back into his hand. “Well, I suppose I could give it a try.”
“I should be going, Comrade Stalin, or my vacation will be over before I am out of the building.”
Stalin’s attention was focused on the kumquats. “Good,” he mumbled, staring at the tiny orange globes laid out on his palm. “Good-bye, Pekkala.”
“Good-bye, Comrade Stalin.”
As he walked out through the waiting room, Pekkala heard Stalin roar as he bit down on the kumquats and then spat them across the room. “Pekkala!”
Pekkala only smiled and kept on walking.
ALSO BY SAM EASTLAND
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
SAM EASTLAND is the author of
www.inspectorpekkala.com
If you enjoyed Sam Eastland’s
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