Sam Eastland - Berlin Red

The first picture was authentic, but the story it told had been a lie.

Pekkala’s mind reeled as he tried to grasp the magnitude of the deception.

‘I needed you here,’ explained Stalin, ‘and it would have done no good to force you to remain. The decision had to be yours. That picture came across my desk just as you were completing your first case for me. The subject of the photo, taken by one of our agents in Paris, was actually the man sitting next to your fiancee. His name was Kuznetsk and he was one of the founding members of the French anti-Bolshevik League known as the White Hand. The picture was taken to provide confirmation that the man was, in fact, Kuznetsk, prior to my issuing a liquidation order.’

Pekkala looked down again at the photo. He stared at the woman and the laughing child.

‘It was only when the picture was handed to me for approval that I noticed your fiancee, and I realised it could be useful in persuading you to stay and work for us.’

‘Why tell me this now?’ demanded Pekkala, as he struggled to contain his rage.

‘Because you would have learned the truth yourself within hours of reaching Berlin, and I would rather you heard it from me than from her.’

‘What difference would that make?’ asked Pekkala. ‘You’re the one who lied to me, not her.’

‘And the British are lying to both of us, which is something else we need to talk about if you can hold on to your temper long enough!’

Pekkala stood there in silence, waiting for Stalin to continue.

‘In case you haven’t realised this already,’ Stalin told him, ‘the British don’t care about Lilya Simonova, at least not enough to come to us and beg for help as they have done.’

‘They why would they do such a thing?’

‘Because she has something they want.’

Pekkala narrowed his eyes. ‘You think this is about the Diamond Stream?’

Stalin nodded.

‘But the officer in the prisoner-of-war camp, the one Kirov spoke to. He said they couldn’t make it work.’

‘And, at the time of his capture, that was probably the truth,’ agreed Stalin, ‘but much could have happened since then.’

‘Assuming you are correct,’ said Pekkala, ‘and that this device is now operational, that still does not explain why you are in such a hurry to rescue a British agent. Even if they are our allies, you can’t honestly believe that they will share the secrets of this weapon.’

‘They won’t,’ confirmed Stalin, ‘but Lilya Simonova might.’

Pekkala breathed out sharply through his nose. ‘And why would she do that?’

‘Because of what I am about to offer you,’ replied Stalin.

‘And what is that?’ asked Pekkala.

‘A future for the two of you in Moscow.’

‘Her home is in Paris, not here.’

‘No, Pekkala. That is where you are wrong. Paris was never her home. She did not go there by choice, the way you chose to come to Russia, all those years ago. Bring her back to the place where she is from and I give you my word you can both live out your days in peace, as you were always meant to do.’

‘For a price,’ muttered Pekkala.

Stalin shrugged and smiled. ‘Nothing is free, Inspector. Especially not diamonds.’

‘You will have my answer soon enough,’ Pekkala told him as he turned to leave.

‘That is all I ask,’ replied Stalin. ‘Now, if you could send in Major Kirov on your way out, I will explain to him what must be done.’

Kirov was waiting in the hallway, having chosen not to linger in the outer office, under the squinting stare of Stalin’s secretary Poskrebychev. It was cold in the marble-floored hallway and a pale afternoon light seeped in through the tall windows. The two guards who stood outside Stalin’s office had come prepared with winter greatcoats and dense ushanka hats which bristled with a brownish-grey synthetic pile known to the soldiers as ‘fish fur’. With hands balled into fists inside his pockets and shoulders hunched against the shivers that crabbed across his back, Kirov paced about, wondering what could be taking Pekkala so long.

When Pekkala finally emerged, Kirov sighed with relief. He was anxious to be gone from here, and not just because of the cold. Although he had visited the Kremlin many times, and had always been impressed with its architectural beauty, Kirov never felt comfortable there. Maybe it had to do with the hidden passageways he knew existed behind the wood-panelled walls, along which Stalin was known to tread at all hours of the day or night, carrying his shoes so as not to make a noise. Or perhaps it was the lack of voices. Everyone in this building seemed compelled to speak in hushed tones, as if they knew that whatever they said would be overheard by someone else, invisible and dangerous, judging their every word. Although he had no proof of it, Kirov did not doubt that this was true. And the last thing which made Kirov nervous whenever he stepped into this labyrinth was the fact that he knew he didn’t belong here. Although he had reached the rank of major and was, after all, frequently summoned to this building by none other than the Vozhd – the Boss – himself, Kirov had come to realise that he would never belong to Stalin’s inner circle. Neither would he ever achieve that indispensability that Pekkala had been given from the start. If it weren’t for the Inspector, thought Kirov, Stalin wouldn’t even know my name.

‘He wants to see you,’ said Pekkala.

‘What?’ asked Kirov. ‘Just me?’

‘That’s what he said.’

‘What about?’ Have I done something wrong, wondered Kirov.

‘He didn’t tell me anything,’ replied Pekkala.

Unable to hide his nervousness at this unexpected summons, Kirov made his way back through the lair of Poskrebychev and returned to Stalin’s study.

Out in the hallway, after only a few paces, Pekkala came to a halt, so overwhelmed by what he had just heard that he could no longer bring himself to place one foot in front of the other.

But it was not rage which sapped him of his strength.

In his years of working with the Kremlin, Pekkala had learned never to apply the rules of other men to Joseph Stalin. With him, different logic prevailed. Only a fool would believe what Stalin said, and most of them had long since paid with their lives for such naivety. With Stalin, what mattered were his actions, not his promises.

The Russians even had a word for this. They called it maskirovka . Translated, it meant ‘camouflage’, but in the minds of men like Stalin it transformed into the art of deception.

In order to survive among men like the leader of Russia, and those who carried out his will because they had been mesmerised by fear, Pekkala had taught himself to see beyond the outrage of dishonesty. Instead, the task became to answer one simple question – What does Stalin want? – knowing that no amount of blood, hypocrisy or lies would sway the Boss from his desires.

As long as Pekkala proved himself useful in fulfilling Stalin’s wishes, he was perfectly safe. The trick had become to carry out his master’s will, and not lose his soul in the process.

Terrible as it was to know that he’d been lied to all these years, Pekkala was not surprised to hear it. He even understood. Stalin had needed him, and so the Boss had done whatever was necessary to continue their fragile alliance.

It served no purpose to be angry with Stalin, now or ever. How could it, when all traces of guilt or remorse had been scalpeled from his character? There were times when Pekkala even pitied the man, existing in the spiritual wasteland of someone whose word counted for nothing.

For Pekkala, what mattered now was not how to grapple with the depth of Stalin’s betrayal, but to judge whether the offer he had made would ever be matched by his deeds.