Sam Eastland - Red Icon

‘According to this,’ said Kirov, squinting at the map, ‘Ahlborn should be the next village we come to.’ Receiving no reply from Pekkala, he glanced towards the Inspector.

Pekkala’s attention was fixed upon the horizon.

‘Inspector?’ asked Kirov.

‘What the hell is that?’ asked Pekkala.

Following the Inspector’s gaze, Kirov saw what appeared to be a line of smoky, black smudges on the pale blue horizon. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘It’s curious.’

Then they heard a sound; a deep, throaty roar, faint at first but rapidly growing in volume. It seemed to come from everywhere at once.

‘Well, that’s very curious indeed,’ remarked Kirov.

Pekkala was still watching the horizon. Suddenly, he turned to the major. ‘Run,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Run!’ shouted Pekkala.

Kirov let go of the map, which wafted away across the road.

As the two men sprinted for cover, Kirov still had no idea what he was running from.

By now the sound had become deafening.

Pekkala threw himself into a weed-choked ditch, landing in a dusty clump of black-eyed susans, just as the lead plane opened fire with its 30mm cannons on the GAZ-67.

The pilot had spotted the vehicle, parked out in the open and its outline clearly visible, only two seconds before. He was closing so quickly on his target that he barely had time to aim as he pressed the red fire button on his control stick. The plane shuddered as the four cannons opened up and he saw tall puffs of dirt converging upon the Soviet Army vehicle. And then he was past it, with no idea if he had done any damage at all. He made a mental note to check if the vehicle was still there when they returned from their sortie.

Back in the ditch, Pekkala flinched at the drumming of the cannon fire accompanied by the clank-clank-clank of rounds striking the GAZ. At the same moment, he glimpsed the flickering shadows of the planes passing overhead.

It was several seconds more before he dared to raise his head.

The first thing Pekkala saw was fluid pouring from beneath the engine of their car. One of the tyres had burst and the bonnet of the vehicle was filled with so many jagged holes that it reminded him of a cheese grater.

On the other side of the road, Kirov crawled out of the ditch. ‘What kind of planes were those?’ he asked, as he disentangled himself from a garland of purple-flowered vetch. ‘I’ve never seen anything move so quickly in my life!’

‘Or do so much damage in so short a space of time,’ added Pekkala, as he joined Kirov up on the road.

The two men stood before the car, wearing identical frowns.

The air filled with the sweet smell of radiator fluid which had soaked into the dirt.

Kirov unfastened the bonnet latch and lifted the perforated sheet of metal to inspect the engine. When he saw what had been done, he groaned.

One of the cannon rounds, each one of which was as big as a man’s thumb, had gone through the side of the radiator, torn a gash across its entire length and then exited through the other side. Another round had punctured the manifold, leaving a hole the size of a man’s fist, through which both men could see the pistons, still glistening with oil, and now as gnarled and crooked as the fingers of a witch. Even those bullets which had not struck vital parts of the engine had shredded the body of the vehicle, ricocheting from one panel through another so that it appeared to Kirov as if the car had been assaulted by some axe-wielding psychopath. ‘It’s hopeless,’ he muttered.

‘We’ll have a hell of a long walk back to Moscow,’ agreed Pekkala.

‘The icon!’ said Kirov.

Pekkala breathed in sharply.

In all the chaos, they had forgotten about it.

Pekkala went around to the metal storage bin behind the back seat. A round had passed clean through the steel, but there was no telling what damage it had done to the contents. Holding his breath, Pekkala undid the two clasps which held the lid in place. Slowly, he lifted it up. The oilcloth bundle, although it had been showered with tiny fragments of paint and metal, was undamaged. He lifted out the package and tucked it under his arm. ‘How far did you say it was to the village?’

‘It should be just beyond those trees,’ replied Kirov.

‘Well,’ said Pekkala, ‘it’s time we stretched our legs.’

As they set off towards Ahlborn, Kirov glanced back at the car. The GAZ had been a considerable improvement over the contemptible old Emka and he had grown fond of it over the past few days. Now, with its front tyres blown, the once rugged-looking machine slumped awkwardly forward in a way that reminded Kirov of an elephant named Maximus, which had been one of the star attractions at the Moscow zoo and was killed in an air raid on the city back in the winter of 1941.

Soon afterwards, they entered the village.

Here, Pekkala paused. Until this point, he had carried the icon hidden under his coat, but it was too dangerous to carry it with them any further. The icon would need to be hidden, although somewhere close enough that an exchange could be made if things went according to plan.

‘What is it, Inspector?’ asked Kirov.

‘Walk on a hundred paces,’ he said, ‘and wait for me there, in the street.’ With those words, Pekkala dashed back among the houses, behind which he came across a narrow alley, bordered on either side by tall wooden fences. He moved along the alley, until he reached the church’s north transept. There, a side door hung lopsided on its broken hinges. After looking around to make sure he had not been seen, Pekkala entered the building.

The church had been damaged by a combination of fire, which had scorched the ante-chapel but had failed to spread into the nave, and blast from a mortar that had landed in the churchyard, leaving a chest-deep crater, now partially filled with rainwater. He heard the purring trill of pigeons in the shattered rafters and the mutter of wind through broken stained-glass windows which spilled their brightly coloured shades of blue, red and yellow on to the warped boards of the floor below.

He proceeded to the altar, now occupied only by a bare wooden table pushed against the far wall, the adornments having been hidden away before the town was evacuated. After placing the icon on the table, Pekkala ducked out through the same side door and emerged into the street, where Kirov was waiting for him.

The major’s gaze was fixed on something up the road.

Following Kirov’s line of sight, Pekkala noticed a solitary figure standing in the middle of the road.

‘Is that him?’ whispered Kirov.

‘I can’t tell,’ answered Pekkala. ‘He’s still too far away.’

As if by compelled by some unspoken command, they began to walk towards the stranger.

*

Emil watched the two men approaching from the east.

After leaving Stefan’s house, he was hurrying along the road through town when he heard the planes fly past. Glancing at his watch, he noted that they were right on time today. By now, he had grown used to the sound of those engines, but the sound of gunfire caused him to stop in his tracks.

The only people he had seen were the few civilians who had accompanied him on his cart ride into town, and they had all come from the west. But the planes had been shooting at something on the other side of town.

His first thought was to hurry on towards the railway station, but after a few steps he paused. It could be Stefan, he thought. Maybe he has come back after all. Cautiously, he turned around. I’ll wait, he told himself. Just for a few minutes. Just so that I can be sure.

Now he squinted at the approaching figures. One of them, wearing a short, double-breasted coat and corduroy trousers, was a civilian. But the other man’s silhouette was clearly military, and not German military, either. From the blousy rising breeches and the way he wore his tunic like an untucked shirt, Emil knew he was looking at a Russian.