Sam Eastland - The Beast in the Red Forest

‘Look at me,’ said Pekkala.

As if lost in a trance, Shura continued to stare at the hulk of the dead general, his stiffened body like an island on the blood-daubed floor, and the granite pallor of her mother’s legs protruding from her skirt.

‘Look at me, Shura,’ he repeated.

This time, the girl obeyed.

‘I want you to do something for me,’ Pekkala told her. ‘I want you to close your eyes and let me carry you downstairs. It is better not to see what’s here. Do you understand?’

The girl’s eyes slid shut like those of a doll tilted on to its back.

Pekkala carried her down, stepping over the body of the guard, and out into the street.

‘My God,’ said Malashenko, his gaze fastening upon the little girl. ‘What is she doing here?’

Hearing a familiar voice, Shura opened her eyes and looked around, squinting in the harsh daylight.

‘You know this girl?’ Pekkala asked Malashenko.

‘I do,’ he replied.

Pekkala set her down and she walked over to Malashenko, who crouched down and placed her on his knee.

‘Shura,’ said the partisan, ‘do you recognise me? I was a friend of your mother’s.’

‘I know who you are,’ replied Shura.

‘Do you know where her grandmother lives?’ Pekkala asked Malashenko. ‘Can you take her there?’

‘Yes,’ he replied, ‘but I am supposed to be guarding you.’

‘Meet us at the safe house when you’re done. We’ll manage until you get back.’

‘Yes, Inspector. I promise to return right away.’

‘Move fast, Malashenko,’ said Kirov. ‘Here come Yakushkin’s men.’

They all heard it now, the sound of a vehicle fast approaching from the direction of the hospital.

‘You had better leave with me, Inspector,’ said Malashenko. He shifted the little girl off his knee and rose to his feet. ‘Your friend might be safe in that uniform of his, but you won’t be safe among the soldiers.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Kirov assured him. ‘I guarantee Pekkala’s safety.’

‘Your guarantee?’ asked Malashenko. ‘What use is that? The promise of a commissar is no better than the oath of a whore.’

The words were not even out of Malashenko’s mouth, before Kirov’s gun was levelled at his face.

The speed of Kirov’s draw left Malashenko wide-eyed with astonishment. ‘You see?’ spluttered the partisan, not taking his eyes off the weapon. ‘You see who these men really are?’

‘Major,’ said Pekkala, ‘you will put the gun away. And you!’ he turned to Malashenko. ‘Go now, before that mouth of yours gets you in more trouble than I can get you out of.’

Fascinated, the little girl had watched all this. Now she reached out her arms to be carried as Malashenko slung the sub-machine gun on his back, and he lifted her up and vanished down an alley just as a Red Army truck appeared around the corner, and began speeding towards the yellow house.

‘What was that just now?’ demanded Pekkala. ‘Have you completely lost your mind!’

‘No,’ Kirov said through clenched teeth, ‘but that’s what I’d like him to think.’

Internal Memo, Office of Immigration and Naturalisation, US Embassy, Moscow. December 28th, 1937

Application for replacement of US passports for Mrs William H. Vasko, aged 42, her son Peter Vasko aged 16 and daughter Rachel Vasko, aged 9.

Filing of application delayed pending payment of $2 US Dollars per passport. Applicant did not have required US Dollars and will return shortly.

*

Police Report, Kremlin District, December 29th, 1937

Arrest of Betty Jean Vasko and two children, charged with illegal possession of foreign currency pursuant to NKVD directive 3/A 1933.

*

Minutes of Central Court, Moscow, March 4th, 1938

Prisoners G-29-K Betty Jean Vasko, G-30-K Peter Vasko, and G-31-K, Rachel Vasko convicted of currency manipulation and illegal possession of foreign currency. Sentenced to 10, 5 and 2 years respectively. Transport to Kolyma.

One hour later, Kirov and Pekkala were standing in the office of Captain Igor Chaplinksy, a slight man with thinning hair and a sharply angled face who had, until Yakushkin’s death, been second-in-command of the garrison.

Only days before, this building had been the central headquarters of the German Secret Field Police for the entire Western Ukraine. They had left in a hurry, abandoning most of their equipment — typewriters, radios and drawers full of documents, some of which had been burned in the courtyard below, while the rest had either been torn to shreds or else smashed into uselessness by the rifle butts of the departing soldiers.

Commander Yakushkin’s staff had moved into the building less than twenty-four hours after the previous tenants had taken to their heels. In their rush to establish a headquarters, there had been no time to remove the broken equipment and it remained as it had been left by its owners, in tangles of ripped-out wiring, broken glass tubes and a confetti of multicoloured requisition slips. There was even a large and mysterious splash of dried blood, fanned out like the feathers of a peacock on the wall behind Chaplinsky’s desk.

Chaplinsky’s first thought, after the Inspector and his assistant had identified themselves, was that he would somehow be held accountable for Yakushkin’s death, about which he had been notified even as Pekkala was climbing the stairs to his office. The fact that Pekkala had arrived in the company of a major of Special Operations convinced him that his fate was already decided.

‘I had no idea where the commander was last night,’ said Chaplinksy, clasping his hands together in front of his chest like a man wringing water from a rag. Although the gesture was intended to reinforce the sincerity of his defence, it gave instead the impression of a man begging for mercy which, as far as Chaplinsky was concerned, was not far from the truth. ‘He did not tell me where he was going. And I ask you, comrades, was it even my duty to ask? Commander Yakushkin was often absent, particularly at night. Am I responsible for his private life! No! I am a simple soldier in the service of his country. That is all. I serve the Soviet people. I. .’

Pekkala leaned forward. ‘Captain Chaplinsky,’ he said softly.

Chaplinsky cut short his monologue. ‘Yes?’ he almost sobbed.

‘We are not here to charge you with his murder.’

‘You aren’t?’ Chaplinsky settled back in his chair as if he were deflating. ‘Then why are you here, gentlemen?’

‘We were investigating the murder of Colonel Andrich,’ explained Pekkala. ‘Now, unfortunately, that investigation has expanded to include Commander Yakushkin.’

‘And one more, as well, I’m afraid,’ said Chaplinsky, ‘although I’m not certain it is related to your case.’

‘Who else has been killed?’ asked Pekkala.

‘A hospital orderly by the name of Anatoli Tutko. He was knifed to death last night at about the same time as Commander Yakushkin was murdered. Tutko worked on the same floor as the nurse with whom Yakushkin was involved. As I say, it may not be related, but you can be certain of one thing, Inspector.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Pekkala.

‘That the partisans are behind all these killings.’

‘They seem equally convinced that you are to blame.’

‘Andrich was working for us!’ Chaplinsky said indignantly. ‘And no one in the Red Army would dare lift a hand against Commander Yakushkin. The partisans must have found out what was coming to them and decided to take vengeance before we had even begun.’

‘What is coming?’ asked Kirov. ‘What are you talking about?’

Chaplinsky snatched a piece of paper off his desk. ‘These are my orders to prepare for an all-out assault against the partisans. The message just came through from Moscow, and we are now on full alert until the command comes through to commence the attack.’