Sam Eastland - The Beast in the Red Forest

‘Comrade Chaplinsky,’ said Pekkala, ‘you must do everything you can to delay taking action, at least until I can find out who is really behind the murders of Colonel Andrich and Commander Yakushkin, or the result will be a needless slaughter.’

‘I am well aware of what the cost will be in blood, Inspector, but what would you have me do? An order is an order, especially one from the Kremlin.’

‘A commander in the field,’ said Kirov, ‘is always afforded some discretion.’

‘Commander?’ echoed Chaplinsky.

‘Of course,’ Kirov told him. ‘You are in charge now, after all.’

Everything had happened so suddenly that this fact had not yet dawned upon Chaplinsky. Yes, he thought to himself. I am the commander. And his face assumed a solemn gravity.

‘So you will do what you can?’

‘As commander,’ said Chaplinsky, ‘I assure you that I will.’

‘There is one other matter,’ said Kirov.

‘Anything to assist the men of Special Operations,’ Chaplinsky answered grandly.

‘We would be grateful for some kind of transport while we carry out our investigation.’

‘Of course. You may have Sergeant Zolkin for as long as you need him.’

‘Zolkin?’ asked Kirov, remembering the man who had met him at the airstrip upon his arrival in Rovno. ‘I thought he was killed in the air raid the other night.’

‘He is very much alive, I assure you,’ said Chaplinsky. ‘You can find him at the motor pool, down in the courtyard of this building. Sergeant Zolkin will drive you wherever you need to go. Just don’t go too far. I have just received word that the Germans might be mounting an attack to retake Rovno. There is heavy fighting west of here. Our troops are holding them for now, but there is a chance, a good chance, that the Fascists might break through as early as tomorrow. If that happens, we have been ordered to defend this town, no matter what the cost.’

*

‘The death of that orderly was no coincidence,’ remarked Pekkala, as they made their way downstairs.

‘I agree,’ replied Kirov. ‘The gunman went to find the nurse, hoping she could lead him to Yakushkin. It was the orderly who told him where to go.’

‘There is one other possibility,’ said Pekkala.

‘And what is that, Inspector?’

‘He might have been looking for you.’

Emerging into the courtyard, they found it crowded with vehicles in various states of disrepair. A heap of bullet-shredded tyres lay in one corner and mangled pieces of exhaust pipe clattered with a ring of metal on stone as they were tossed by grease-blackened mechanics on to the tiles of what had once been the summer dining area of the hotel.

In the centre of the courtyard, Pekkala and Kirov discovered Yakushkin’s jeep. Its olive-drab paint had been gashed down to the bare metal in places where shrapnel had torn through the bonnet and cowlings. Two men in blue overalls huddled over the engine.

‘Zolkin?’ asked Kirov, unsure which one he should be talking to.

Both men turned and squinted at the new arrivals. Neither was the Sergeant. One man aimed a greasy spanner at the other side of the courtyard to where Zolkin was sorting through a heap of punctured radiator hoses. His unbuttoned telogreika revealed a sweat-stained undershirt beneath. ‘I thought you were dead!’ he exclaimed, when he caught sight of Kirov.

‘I thought the same of you,’ replied the major. ‘What happened to you when the bombing started?’

‘I was on the other side of the street, buying a mug of tea from some old woman when the bombs started falling. She and I ended up down in her basement. A bomb fell so close by that the house collapsed on top of us. We weren’t hurt, but it took me several hours to dig our way through the rubble. By the time I got us out of there, the locals told me that a number of bodies had been removed from the bunker. They said everyone down there had been killed.’

‘I was only wounded,’ Kirov explained. ‘It seems that we have both been lucky.’

‘I thought so, too, until I heard about the death of Commander Yakushkin.’

‘That news has travelled fast.’

‘Everyone in the garrison knows about it,’ replied Zolkin.

‘You were supposed to go with him to Moscow, weren’t you?’

Zolkin sighed and nodded. ‘So much for the chance of a lifetime.’ But then he raised his head. ‘Unless. .’

‘Unless what?’ asked Kirov.

‘You could take me with you when you return,’ suggested Zolkin. ‘I would gladly serve as your driver in Moscow, if you don’t already have one.’

‘Sergeant,’ Kirov began, ‘I’m afraid. .’

‘We don’t have a driver,’ said Pekkala.

Kirov glanced at him in confusion. ‘I drive us everywhere!’

‘If you want to call it driving.’

‘Are you going to compare my driving with yours? Because if you are. .’

Zolkin had been watching this exchange like a spectator at a tennis match, but now he raised his voice. ‘Comrades!’

The two men turned to look at him.

‘I will be the best driver you have ever had,’ Zolkin assured them.

‘You would be the only driver we have ever had,’ said Pekkala, ‘and I see no reason why you should not come with us to Moscow.’

‘Do you have the authority to get me transferred?’ Zolkin asked.

Pekkala smiled and handed Zolkin his pass book.

Zolkin opened it and read the text inside. ‘You are Inspector Pekkala?’ He raised his head and stared.

‘Yes, he is,’ Kirov answered with another sigh of annoyance, ‘and, unfortunately, you will find, if you read that little yellow piece of paper in his pass book, that he most definitely has the authority required to transfer you to Moscow.’

Zolkin squinted at the Classified Operations Permit. Slowly, he read out part of what it said. ‘May pass into restricted areas and may requisition equipment of all types, including weapons and vehicles. .’

‘And drivers, too,’ Pekkala added cheerfully.

‘Congratulations,’ Kirov growled at the sergeant. ‘It seems that you will soon be on your way to Moscow.’

The sergeant’s mouth hung open for a moment. Then he reached out and clasped Kirov’s hand in both of his. After nearly dislocating the major’s wrist, Zolkin turned his attention to Pekkala and, grasping the Inspector’s hand, gave him the same bone-jarring treatment. ‘When do we leave?’ he asked.

‘As soon as we have solved these murders,’ answered Pekkala.

‘In the meantime,’ added Kirov, ‘Commander Chaplinsky has appointed you to be our driver. That is, if you have still have a vehicle which runs.’

‘We are working on that now,’ said Zolkin. ‘The Jeep should be fixed by tomorrow, as long as you don’t mind a few chips to the paint.’

‘We are staying at a house not far from here,’ said Pekkala. He gave Zolkin the directions. ‘As soon as you are ready, come and find us.’

‘Very good, Comrade Major.’ Zolkin clicked his heels and set off towards the mechanics, buttoning up his jacket as he went.

Now that they were alone, Kirov turned to Pekkala. ‘A chauffeur?’ he asked.

‘I’ve always wanted one,’ Pekkala replied smugly.

‘But you don’t even sleep in a bed!’ shouted Kirov.

Their conversation was interrupted by a long, low rumble in the distance.

‘It’s early in the year for thunder,’ remarked Kirov, glancing up at the sky.

‘That is not thunder,’ said Pekkala. ‘That’s artillery.’

(Postmark: Vladivostock. May 10th, 1938)

To:

Mrs Frances Harper

Hague Rd,

Monkton, Indiana, USA

Dear Sister,

I must be brief. Last year, Bill got arrested by the Russian police. I don’t know why. They just took him away and I haven’t seen or heard from him since. Then, last month, I was also arrested. The Russian authorities charged me with carrying 6 American Dollars, which I did have but I needed them in order to pay for replacement passports for Peter, Rachel and me. We needed those passports because all of our papers were taken from us when we first arrived in Russia. They promised to give everything back but never did. The American Embassy would only take dollars, not Soviet money, but the Russians consider it a crime to own dollars, so they sentenced me to 10 years of hard labour. They also handed out sentences for the kids. Even little Rachel! But at least we are all together and, God willing, we will stay that way. There are hundreds of us here at this holding camp in Vladivostok on the Pacific coast. We have crossed almost half the length of Russia to get here and conditions are very bad. It is very cold and we have not had a proper meal in weeks. We are waiting to board a cargo ship, which will take us on a six-day journey across the Sea of Okhotsk to the Kolyma Peninsula, where we will begin our years of penal servitude in the city of Magadan. The stories they tell about Kolyma make me wonder how long the children and I can possibly last. One of the other prisoners told me that, at the Sturmovoi gold mine, where many of us will be put to work, the life expectancy is less than one month. Frances, I beg of you, do what you can for us. Write to the State Department in Washington. Go there yourself if you have to. But you must act quickly. We are leaving now. I have paid one of the guards to mail this letter and I pray that it will reach you soon.