Sam Eastland - Red Moth

The soldiers in the ditch returned fire, but their aiming was wide and erratic. They seemed to have no idea where their enemies were concealed.

The same was true of Engel, who now steered his truck off the road. Tilting precariously, it crossed over the ditch and started out across the field, directly towards the place where Pekkala and Stefanov were hiding.

Stefanov fitted a new magazine into the sub-machine gun.

‘Don’t aim for the driver!’ shouted Pekkala, but Stefanov had already pulled the trigger, and his voice was drowned out by the hammer of the gun.

The truck’s front tyres blew out. Dull clunks sounded as bullets impacted against the tyre rims. Chips of paint flew off its bumper and then the windscreen exploded like a spray of water. The truck rolled to a stop, its punctured radiator sighing as one last wisp of steam escaped.

The door of the truck swung open and Engel jumped out. He ran back to the ditch, leaped in amongst the soldiers and, a moment later, the flinty snap of a pistol joined the barking of the German guns.

Stefanov’s gun fell silent as the magazine emptied. Smoke wafted from its barrel. A smell of raw gasoline filled the air from the Hanomeg’s ruptured fuel tank.

Now another figure climbed down from the back of the truck. Even though she was wearing a heavy German greatcoat several sizes too big, Pekkala could see at once that it was Lieutenant Churikova.

Stefanov raised his gun, ready to shoot her down.

Pekkala shoved the barrel aside, feeling the heel of his palm sizzle against the super-heated metal.

‘You want to let her live?’ Stefanov called out in disbelief. ‘After what she did to us?’

‘I want to know why,’ replied Pekkala.

Churikova reached the safety of the ditch, but no sooner had she taken cover than the soldiers made a run for it, sprinting down the road in the direction from which they had come. They hunched over as they moved, rifles gripped in one hand, leather slings trailing beneath.

Engel called to them, ordering the soldiers to return.

One of the soldiers turned and beckoned to Engel, urging him to join in their retreat.

Once more, Engel ordered them back.

The soldier turned and ran after the others, leaving Engel and Churikova alone in the ditch.

Unable to get a clear shot from where he crouched, Stefanov stood and fired at the soldiers. The burst caught the lead man, suturing his chest with bullets. The other two tumbled into the line of fire and vanished as if the ground had swallowed them up.

Stefanov’s fire ceased sharply as a spent cartridge jammed in the receiver. He ducked back into the cover of the grass and immediately set to work clearing the crumpled stub of brass.

Pekkala loaded his last remaining bullets into the Mauser as a shot from the ditch passed close over his head and he felt the paralysing stun of the near miss. He raised his rifle, ready to fire, when suddenly he heard Churikova’s voice.

‘Pekkala!’ she called.

All firing had ceased and now the silence was overwhelming.

‘Inspector, is that you?’ she called again.

Pekkala did not reply, but only watched and waited, refusing to give away his position.

Stefanov was still struggling to prise loose the jammed cartridge. Sweat and dust burned in his eyes and blood from his torn fingernails seeped across his fingers, banding them like rings of red glass. ‘It’s no use,’ he whispered as he set aside the gun.

‘Pekkala!’ shouted the lieutenant. ‘I know you’re out there. Let me talk to you. Let me explain.’

‘I could try to work my way around them,’ whispered Stefanov, ‘but for that I’ll need your rifle.’

Pekkala handed Stefanov the Mauser, then drew his revolver from its holster, feeling the brass handle smooth and cool against his palm.

After a nod from Pekkala, Stefanov vanished like a snake into the tall grass.

At the same moment‚ Churikova clambered from the ditch and stood in the road, staring out across the grass. ‘Where are you? Talk to me!’

Slowly, Pekkala climbed to his feet, the Webley clenched in his fist. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked, his voice gravelly with the dust that lined his throat.

‘For the sake of the amber.’ As she spoke, she took a step towards him, then another. ‘This war left me with no choice.’

Pekkala watched her and said nothing, his face unreadable.

‘Russia is about to fall,’ she continued. ‘The Catherine Palace and everything left inside it will soon be nothing more than a heap of rubble. The Germans have made up their minds. Its fate has already been sealed. Nothing you or I can do will change that. But we can save the Amber Room.’ With an exasperated sigh, the lieutenant held out her hands, palm up, begging him to understand. ‘For now, we have no alternative but to allow our enemies to be the guardians of what we have left. You understand, don’t you, Pekkala?’

Whether it was fear or hope that creased her wind-burned face, Pekkala could not tell.

In that instant, a shot rang out. Churikova stumbled. For a moment, she righted herself, but then another bullet struck her and she fell hard to the ground.

Behind her, on the edge of the ditch, stood Gustav Engel, still holding the Luger which had brought down the lieutenant.

Pekkala raised his revolver. ‘Why did you do that?’ he asked.

‘Because she never understood,’ replied Engel. ‘Polina thought that she was saving Russian history, but what she failed to grasp was that, by the time we have finished with this country, it will have no history, because Russia will cease to exist. Fond as I was of her, I have only done what Hitler would have done eventually. You see, his love of Russian treasure does not extend to the Russian people themselves, no matter how helpful they have been. And Stalin would have done the same. But that’s not what he has in mind for me, is it, Inspector Pekkala? He wants me alive. He needs to know what I know. That’s why, now that you finally have me in your gunsight, you are forbidden to pull the trigger. Polina told me all about your plan to bring me to back to Moscow. And she explained how Stalin has ordered you to obliterate the Amber Room, but you and I both know that Stalin doesn’t really care about the room. What he cares about is that I have taken it from him. What he wants, even more than having it, is for Hitler not to have it. Polina told me what Stalin said that day you brought her to the Kremlin — that the only way Russia can survive is if you are prepared to sacrifice everything. But there is one thing Stalin will not sacrifice, and that is his vanity. To protect it, he would have you set fire to what he has called an irreplaceable treasure of the State. But who will get the blame for that, Pekkala? It won’t be me. It won’t be the Einsatzstab Reichsleiter Rosenberg. It would be you‚ because Stalin will deny that he ever gave you such an order. So where does that leave us, Pekkala? You can deliver me to Stalin and face a firing squad because you ruined the Eighth Wonder of the World, or you can do nothing and be shot for that, instead.’ Confidently, Engel put the Luger back in its holster. ‘Fortunately, I have a solution. Once you’ve heard it, you will see it is the only one that makes sense.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Pekkala.

‘Come with me. Let me protect you.’

‘Like you protected Churikova?’

‘What the lieutenant had to offer, she had already bartered away. But you are different, Pekkala. You are famous, far beyond the borders of the country you have called your home, and your skills are valuable, no matter where you go. Besides, you’re not a Russian. You are a Finn, and the Finns are now allies of ours. What I am offering you is a chance to start again.’