Sam Eastland - Red Icon

Vosnovsky’s eyes grew rounder and rounder as Pekkala told him the story.

Afterwards, Pekkala wrote down the list of paintings in his notebook and Vosnovsky returned Detlev’s record to the Tsar’s secret file before placing it back inside the drawer.

Then the two men left the room, locking the door shut behind them.

They were walking back towards the entrance when suddenly Vosnovsky stopped and turned. ‘But the original,’ he asked, taking hold of Pekkala’s arm. ‘Who has the original now?’

*

‘Ha!’ Stalin boomed exultantly, grasping the icon with both hands and raising it above his head. ‘I knew it!’

Kirov and Pekkala stood before him, wincing as Stalin brandished the work of art.

‘I knew that first one you brought in here was a fake,’ Stalin told them. ‘I’ve got the knack, you see. The instinct !’ He put the icon on his desk and wagged his finger at the shepherd in the painting, as if to scold the white-robed man for hiding all these years. ‘That’s why I said I didn’t like the other one. It was a forgery. I told you so.’

Pekkala raised his eyebrows.

This did not go unnoticed by Stalin. ‘Not in so many words, perhaps,’ he explained. ‘I implied it. I insinuated. In matters of art, you cannot be so literal, Pekkala! The major was here. He knows what I’m talking about.’ Stalin cast a threatening glance at Kirov. ‘Don’t you, Major?’ he asked.

‘Indeed, Comrade Stalin!’ exclaimed Kirov, coming to attention.

Stalin turned back to Pekkala. ‘There you are, you see. But there’s no reason to feel ashamed, Inspector. The gifts of the gods are not handed out equally. It’s just something I have and you don’t.’

‘Yet another miracle,’ whispered Pekkala.

‘Miracles!’ Stalin grumbled. ‘There’s no such thing.’

‘And what of the soman?’ asked Kirov, anxious to change the subject.

‘Chemical weapons specialists were sent to Ahlborn,’ replied Stalin, ‘where they collected samples from the broken vials which had belonged to Professor Kohl. These have now been safely stored away at our laboratory in Sosnogorsk, which is where they are likely to remain. Even our enemies seem to have grasped the madness of unleashing such a weapon on the battlefield.’ As Stalin talked, his voice trailed off and his gaze returned to the icon. ‘I think I might keep this for a while,’ he said. ‘I might even put it up on the wall next to my Repin.’ He gestured towards the painting of the young lovers standing at the edge of the Neva River on a stormy winter’s day. An expression of longing passed across his face as he stared at the couple, frozen in perpetual exhilaration.

Pekkala and Kirov stood there in silence for a while.

Finally, Pekkala spoke. ‘Will there be anything else, Comrade Stalin?’

Stalin breathed in sharply, as if woken from a trance. He seemed surprised to find the two men standing there. ‘Go now,’ he told them gruffly. ‘You’ll be needed again soon enough.’

Kirov and Pekkala made their way out of the office, passing by a flustered-looking Poskrebychev, who had not heard them coming and was now pretending to fiddle with the dials on his intercom.

As they strode along the marble-floored hallway, Pekkala glanced across at Kirov. ‘Indeed, Comrade Stalin!’ he muttered, mimicking the shrill obedience of Kirov’s voice back at him.

‘What else was I supposed to say?’ replied Kirov.

Pekkala did not reply. He reached into a pocket for his notebook, then tore out a page and handed it to Kirov.

‘What’s this?’ asked the major.

‘A list of Detlev’s forgeries,’ replied Pekkala. ‘Do any of them look familiar?’

Kirov searched the list. He was not expert in matters of art and most of the titles were just mysteries to him. But one of them he did recognise. ‘ What Freedom! ’ he said, and then he glanced at the Inspector. ‘Isn’t that the one by Repin?’

‘Yes,’ replied Pekkala. ‘And it is hanging on the wall of Stalin’s office.’

Seelow Heights, Germany, 50 kilometres from Berlin

Pulled over at the side of the main east-west highway, known as Reichsstrasse Number 1, blue-grey diesel smoke coughed from the exhaust pipes of Captain Proskuryakov’s new tank. It was a Model 76F, the latest in a long line of T34s that had rolled off the assembly line of the Uralmash factory in Sverdlovsk only two weeks before. Now the steel turret hatch clanked open and Captain Proskuryakov, resplendent in his new leather jacket, climbed up from the commander’s seat below. ‘Will you get a move on!’ he bellowed at his driver, Sergeant Ovchinikov, struggling to make himself heard over the constant roar of machinery which passed them on the road. There were tanks and trucks and armoured cars, all of them loaded with men and supplies.

‘Almost done!’ replied Ovchinikov, who was crouched beside the turret, hobnailed boots balanced upon the engine grille.

‘I swear to you, if this war ends before we reach Berlin . . .’ Proskuryakov did not finish his sentence, but only shook one black-gloved fist at the sergeant. ‘You can always tell when a man’s luck has run out,’ he added with a growl. ‘You can see it in their eyes, and I’m starting to see it in yours!’

‘There!’ said Ovchinikov. ‘Finished!’ He scrambled over to the driver’s hatch and lowered himself inside.

A moment later, the engine slammed into gear and two fresh geysers of exhaust smoke belched into the sky. The wide, segmented tracks churned against the earth and Proskuryakov’s tank turned out on to the road, joining the mass of vehicles streaming relentlessly towards the west.

As the T34 gathered speed, wet paint from letters daubed by Ovchinikov upon the turret began to merge, trickling into each other and forming a strangely beautiful pattern in which, before long, the word Pastukh - ‘The Shepherd’ – had merged into invisibility.