Sam Eastland - The Beast in the Red Forest

*

‘I’ve searched the whole place,’ said Kirov, as he trampled down the rickety stairs of the safe house. ‘There’s no sign of Malashenko anywhere.’

‘He should have been here by now,’ muttered Pekkala, as he walked over to a window and peered out through a crack in the shutters.

‘So much for our bodyguard,’ grunted Kirov as he sat down in one of several mismatched chairs, tilted back and set his heels up on the table. ‘I’d gladly trade him for a plate of blinis.’

‘Blinis,’ Pekkala echoed thoughtfully.

‘With sour cream and caviar,’ continued Kirov, locking his hands behind his head, ‘and chopped red onion and a glass of cold vodka.’

Pekkala stared at the ceiling with a distant look in his eyes. ‘I can’t even recall the last time I had a good meal.’

‘We’ll soon put that right,’ Kirov assured him. ‘Once we get back to Moscow, we can return to our ritual of Friday afternoon meals, at which, with your permission, Elizaveta will become a permanent guest.’ The major smiled happily, his thoughts returning to their cosy little office, with its temperamental stove and wheezy samovar and the comfortable chair which they had salvaged off the street. ‘What do you say to that, Inspector?’

But there was no reply. Pekkala remained by the window, staring out into the street. Snow had begun to fall again. Fat, wet flakes slid down the weathered old shutters.

There was something about the way he stood; sombre and alone, which made Kirov realise that the fears he had secretly been harbouring ever since he’d found Pekkala might come true after all. ‘You’re not coming back to Moscow, are you?’ he asked.

*

‘Skorzeny, you idiot!’ Seated at his desk, in a high-ceilinged office on Prinz Albrechtstrasse in Berlin, Heinrich Himmler, lord of the SS, roared out his disapproval. ‘Why didn’t you inform me about this mission?’

‘I received a direct order from the Admiral not to share details of the mission with anyone. Anyone at all.’ Skorzeny shifted uneasily, knowing that his excuse was unlikely to appease the Reichsführer.

‘I am not “anyone”!’ barked Himmler, fixing Skorzeny with his grey-blue eyes, which appeared strangely calm, in spite of his obvious rage. ‘I am commander of the SS of which, as of today, at least, you’re still a member!’

‘And Canaris is an admiral,’ replied Skorzeny, ‘and his orders were perfectly clear.’

‘If your orders were to tell no one,’ Himmler leaned forward, placing his hands flat upon the desk, the thumbs side by side, in a way that reminded Skorzeny of the Sphinx, ‘then why are you telling me now?’

‘I believe that something may have gone wrong. Vasko was parachuted over the abandoned village of Misovichi, not far from the rendezvous point. There he was due to meet with a partisan named Malashenko, who has been working with the Abwehr’s Secret Field Police. Vasko made a low-level jump over the target and his chute was seen to open properly. Twenty-four hours ago, a reconnaissance aircraft reported seeing smoke rising from the chimney of a cabin where the meeting was due to take place.’

‘So far,’ said Himmler, ‘it sounds as if everything has gone according to plan.’

‘Yes, Reichsführer,’ replied Skorzeny. ‘Up to that point, I had no reason for concern, but Vasko was supposed to have contacted us immediately upon completion of his mission, at which time we would dispatch another agent to guide him back through the lines.’

‘Perhaps the answer is simply that he has not yet carried out his task.’

‘That’s just it, Reichsführer. He has.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We received confirmation from one of our informants in Rovno. The target, Colonel Andrich, has been eliminated. Vasko should have contacted us by now. I am afraid that his radio might have been damaged, leaving him unable to communicate, or even that he might have been captured.’

‘And it has suddenly occurred to you,’ said Himmler, ‘that it might not reflect well upon on the SS if Canaris chose to blame us for Vasko’s disappearance.’

Skorzeny nodded grimly.

Himmler removed his pince-nez glasses, the silver frames glittering in the light of his desk lamp. ‘This agent who has been assigned to guide Vasko back to our lines? Is he one of theirs or one of ours?’

‘He’s ours,’ Skorzeny assured him. ‘It’s Luther Benjamin.’

‘A capable man.’ Himmler nodded with approval. ‘And where is Benjamin now?’

‘He is currently travelling with soldiers who are engaged in an attempt to recapture Rovno from the enemy. As soon as we receive word from Vasko that his mission has been completed, we will relay a message to Vasko and. .’

‘There is to be no more waiting!’ As Himmler spoke, he polished his glasses vigorously with a black silk handkerchief, even though they were already clean. ‘Inform Benjamin that he is to proceed immediately to the rendezvous point. If Vasko is there, Benjamin will proceed with the original evacuation plan.’

‘Yes, Reichsführer.’ Then Skorzeny paused. ‘And if Vasko isn’t there?’

‘Then Benjamin is to return immediately on his own, and Vasko will be abandoned to his fate, just like the pompous admiral who sent him on this suicidal errand.’

*

‘I knew it!’ shouted Kirov, swiping his heels off the table and jumping to his feet.

Pekkala turned away from the window and glanced at the major. ‘Knew what?’ he asked.

‘That you’re not coming back to Moscow! But why, Inspector? You have a life waiting for you there, as well as people who rely on you, not to mention friends, one of whom came all this way to find you!’

‘You don’t understand,’ began Pekkala.

But Kirov hadn’t finished yet. ‘Why would you choose to remain among the partisans? Where are they, now that we need them? Where is Malashenko? Where is Barabanschikov? I’ll tell you where they are! They’ve disappeared, because that’s what they do best. And who knows where they’ve gone? Search for them now and all you’ll find are their abandoned forest hideaways. Is that where you’re going? Is that where you plan to spend your life, in the company of ghosts?’

‘Kirov!’ shouted Pekkala.

Startled, the major fell silent.

‘Be still,’ Pekkala told him, ‘and I will explain everything.’

Bewildered, Kirov slumped back into his chair. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I owe you that much, I suppose.’

As Pekkala began to speak, he felt a part of himself pull free from the heavy shackling of his bones and vanish into the past, like smoke coiled by the wind into the sky.

*

Deep in the Red Forest, not far from the Barabanschikov camp, was a lake called the Wolf’s Crossing. At first, the name made no sense to Pekkala. Only with the arrival of winter did he finally grasp its meaning, as packs of yellow-eyed wolves would lope across its frozen surface, bound on journeys whose purpose seemed a mystery even to the beasts who had embarked upon it.

Sometimes, Pekkala went out there alone to fish. The water in the lake was brown like tea from all the tannins in the pines which grew down to its banks, and contained perch and trout and even some landlocked salmon. Using an axe, Pekkala chopped several holes into the ice, then fed a line into each one. Straddling the holes was a cross-shaped contraption made from twigs bound together with dried grass. When a fish pulled on the line, the cross would tilt upwards and Pekkala would know he had a bite.

But he had to be patient. Hour after hour, he would stand bent-backed like an old hag, wrapped in the shreds of an old army blanket, shuffling his feet to stay warm, his only company the whirlwinds of glittering snow dust, spiralling like dancers across this frozen desert.