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The more Emil thought about it, the better his chances seemed. There was bound to be some kind of disciplinary action, but nothing too serious, he now convinced himself.

Soon, Emil’s apprehensions had been swept aside. The way forward seemed clear. All he had to do was get back to Leverkeusen. It was now 18 March. He imagined he could be home again by the 20th, provided that he left immediately. The nearest station was about five kilometres to the west, in the town of Kottonforst. Travelling on foot, which appeared to be his only option, he knew he could be there in an hour or so. There was only one train a day at Kottonforst, which passed through the town at two o’clock each afternoon. It was only 9 a.m. now, which meant he had more than enough time.

Having dawdled away his time over the past few weeks, Emil now began to move at a feverish pace, packing his rucksack with clothes, wrapping some smoked meat in a handkerchief for a meal and filling a canteen with water from the pump in the garden. Once this was done, he still had four and a half hours before the train arrived.

Better, thought Emil, to arrive on time, rather than be seen hanging about the station for hours. That is bound to look suspicious. He decided to head out at eleven.

Satisfied with his plan, Emil found himself once more at a loose end. Shuddering with the cold that had permeated every corner of this unheated house, it occurred to him that he could light a fire now. By the time anybody thought to check on the smoke, he would be gone, and at least he would have spent his last couple of hours getting warm, in preparation for the long journey ahead.

He made a fire in the iron stove, laying out splinters of kindling and crumpled pieces of newspaper. When these were burning, he placed a log on top and sat back, the stove door open, holding his hands out towards the spitting yellow flames.

At last, when the warmth had finally returned to the marrow of his bones, Emil kicked the stove door shut, put his rucksack on his back, picked up his suitcase and headed out through the door.

The road was long and deserted, and Emil whistled to keep himself company. The tune he whistled was called the ‘Erikamarsch’. He couldn’t remember all the lyrics but they were something about a little flower growing on the heath among a hundred thousand other flowers. He had often heard the soldiers singing it as they marched along his street earlier in the war, and for a moment, he remembered how it had felt when the armies of his country seemed unstoppable, and victory, both in the east and the west, had seemed so obvious a conclusion that no one even thought to doubt it. Then a weight settled in Emil’s chest as his thoughts returned to the present and he remembered that the soldiers never sang any more when they went marching by his house.

Ahlborn

Six days after leaving Moscow, Stefan Kohl reached home.

He was completely exhausted. For this last stretch of the journey, he had driven more than twenty hours straight, stopping only for fuel and fresh water. He had made better time than expected, since many of the roads leading west, far from being the quagmires of mud he had anticipated, had recently been shored up by the Red Army’s Corps of Engineers. At fuel depots along the way, he had simply handed over the required number of fuel coupons and taken what he needed. Seeing his uniform and the Special Operations licence plate on the Emka, the depot operators had never given Zolkin’s identification book more than a passing glance, and sometimes didn’t ask for it at all.

At no point did he spot the GAZ-67 staff car which had driven Pekkala from Moscow. With its 54-horsepower engine, it was considerably more powerful than the tired old Emka, and Stefan assumed that they must be far ahead of him.

Elizaveta had soon regained consciousness, and Stefan was obliged to tie her hands and legs with rope, as well as put a gag in her mouth. He also covered her with a wool blanket, which he had found draped over the back seat of the car. The first time he tried to give her water, she screamed when he removed the gag, so he put the gag back in and didn’t give her anything. The next time he stopped, six hours later, she no longer screamed when he gave her something to drink, and he also gave her some of the tinned sardines he had been saving for himself.

From then on, they maintained an uneasy truce. Several times a day, on deserted stretches of road, he would stop the car and let her out for a few minutes at a time.

‘I know who you are,’ she told him. ‘I know what you are looking for and, even as we speak, my husband and Pekkala are on their way to give you what you want. If you hurt me, the deal will be off and, I assure you, that will be the least of your troubles.’

Kohl smiled faintly. ‘I have no intention of hurting you,’ he replied. ‘I need you very much alive.’

‘Why not just let me go?’ she demanded. ‘This has nothing to do with me!’

‘Think of yourself as insurance,’ he answered, then put the gag in place, closed the boot and got back on the road. Having reached Ahlborn at last, Stefan drove the dirt-crusted Emka through the tall grass around the back of his house, so that it could not be seen from the road. Cutting the engine, he let his head sink forward on to the steering wheel. He then pulled the Nagant revolver from his coat pocket, climbed out of the car and let himself into the house. ‘Emil!’ he called out, but even as he spoke, he could sense the place was empty. There was a hollow stillness in the air, like the emptiness which hovered around animals just after he had butchered them.

A quick inspection of the house confirmed that there was no sign of a struggle. He stepped out through the front door and walked a short distance down the road that led towards the centre of the village. Aside from his own, there were no recent tyre tracks, but he did catch sight of a single line of footsteps, leading away from the house. He knew they must belong to Emil, but why he had left was a mystery. At that moment, from the direction of Ahlborn, he heard the sound of a car engine.

I’m too late, thought Stefan. Pekkala has found my brother, and now they’re heading back across the border.

At that moment, a noise like distant thunder reached his ears. Stefan looked up into the cloudless sky. The ground began to shake beneath his feet and, a second later, he flinched as six planes flew past, flying so low that he felt the heat of their engines. Before he was even fully aware of what had happened, the aircraft were already gone. The power of those winged monsters seemed to him less like inventions of man and more like the riders of the Apocalypse, galloping past on their hollow-eyed horses.

Then, above the clamour of the planes, Stefan heard the hammering pulse of heavy-weapons fire. It took him a second to realise that one of the planes must have been firing at a target on the ground.

Stefan dashed back to the Emka, opened the boot and hauled out his prisoner. ‘You had better pray it’s not too late,’ he said through clenched teeth as he gripped Elizaveta’s arm. With the young woman stumbling along beside him, he set off at a run towards the centre of the town.

*

The sound Kohl had heard was not that of Pekkala leaving Ahlborn. In fact, he and Kirov had only just arrived. Their car had got stuck behind a column of supply vehicles just outside Bryansk and, later, outside Kalinkovichi, they had arrived at a fuel depot, only to discover that soldiers of Marshal Zhukov’s 1st Belorussian Front had requisitioned every drop of fuel. They were forced to detour to the north, following directions to another fuel depot, where they were able to fill their tank.

Their driver was a gaunt-faced Mongolian named Narmandak, who had been forcibly recruited into the Red Army after straying across the border in search of lost sheep from his herd. They had taught him to drive and then shipped him off to Moscow, where he had ended up at the army motor pool. When he received the call to collect Kirov and Pekkala from outside their office, there had been no explanation of how far they would be travelling. He was simply told to take the two men wherever they wanted to go. Such vague instructions were not uncommon, and usually involved driving generals around to various bars and brothels in the city. Narmandak had prepared himself for a long night of sitting in some polished lend-lease Buick from America outside whatever back-alley club these two men chose to visit. He was surprised, therefore, when his motor pool requisition orders specified a GAZ-67. This was a serious machine, with big, chunky tyres, and none of the well-sprung creature comforts to be found in the cars normally given to those who found themselves in Stalin’s favour.