Sam Eastland - Berlin Red

Kirov, meanwhile, stood before the desk of Joseph Stalin.

‘Sit down!’ the Boss commanded, nodding towards the chair on the opposite side of his desk.

Kirov subsided into the chair like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

‘I am placing you in charge,’ Stalin announced.

‘In charge of what?’ Kirov asked breathlessly.

‘Of the journey you are taking to Berlin.’

These words so confused Kirov that, at first, he could not bring himself to comprehend their meaning. Blankly, he stared at his master.

‘Did you hear what I said?’ asked Stalin.

‘I heard you, Comrade Stalin,’ replied Kirov. ‘I just don’t understand why you are saying it. I work for the Inspector. It is he who gives the orders. That’s the way it’s always been.’

‘You work for me ,’ Stalin corrected him, ‘and it is I who give the orders.’

‘Of course, but . . .’ And suddenly he faltered.

Stalin raised his heavy eyebrows. ‘Yes?’

‘Very well, Comrade Stalin,’ answered Kirov, finally coming to his senses.

‘Good.’ Stalin pressed his palms together. ‘Then you may go.’

Kirov knew what he was supposed to do next. He should have risen to his feet, saluted and left. Instead, halfway out of the room, he all but skidded to a halt and wheeled about.

Stalin was staring at the Major, as if he had just placed a wager with himself on whether Kirov could make his exit smoothly. From the look on Stalin’s face, he had just won that little bet.

‘Why?’ gasped Kirov. ‘Why are you doing this to Pekkala?’

‘Because I don’t trust him,’ came the answer.

‘Forgive me for saying so, Comrade Stalin, but you have never trusted him.’

‘That is true,’ agreed Stalin, ‘at least with regard to his following my instructions, but he has always managed, one way or another, to carry out the task I set for him. I make no secret, to you or to anyone else, that I find Pekkala to be the most disobedient person I have ever allowed to keep on breathing. We have an unspoken truce, the Inspector and I. We may be very different, he and I, but we do have one important thing in common.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Kirov.

‘The survival of the country,’ answered Stalin. ‘This has been enough to secure our allegiance to each other. At least, it was until today.’

‘What has changed?’ asked Kirov.

‘This business with Lilya Simonova. For years, she has existed as a kind of dream for Pekkala – a beautiful image of the past, frozen in time since the Revolution began. But now that past has collided with the present, or soon will anyway, if you can get her out of Berlin in one piece.’

‘We will do everything we can . . .’

‘That is not what concerns me, Major Kirov. If she is there, Pekkala will find her. I have no doubt of that. It’s what happens after that which troubles me.’

Now Kirov had begun to understand. ‘And you are worried he will not return?’

‘What I’m worried about,’ answered Stalin, ‘is that he will not return with the information these Englishman are so desperate to obtain that they would come to us, cap in hand, to ask for help. I want that information here in front of me.’ He jabbed one thick, blunt finger on polished wood. ‘And only when I know exactly what it is, will I consider passing it along to those temporary gentlemen from London.’

‘I understand,’ said Kirov. ‘Would you like me to bring in the Inspector so that you can inform him about the change in command?’

‘You can take care of that yourself,’ muttered Stalin. ‘I have another meeting.’ And he began to fidget with the papers laid out in front of him.

Kirov didn’t tell Pekkala right away. He would rather not have told him at all.

The whole drive back to Pitnikov Street, the two men remained silent.

Pekkala did not press him for information, since it was clear from the look on Kirov’s face that a storm was brewing in his head.

The only sound was the soft voice of their driver, Zolkin, as he sang one of his favourite Ukrainian folksongs, called ‘The Duckling Swims’, about a young man going off to war. His low and mournful voice was interrupted from time to time by a grinding crash of the Emka’s mangled gears.

Finally, when they had tramped up to their office on the fifth floor of the building, Kirov revealed what Stalin had told him. As Kirov spoke, he could not bring himself even to look at Pekkala. Instead, he looked out of the window, past the luminous green leaves of basil, sage and rosemary which he grew in earthenware pots upon the windowsill, and rattled off Stalin’s instructions.

It seemed to take a long while to explain what was, in fact, a very simple order. By the time Kirov had finished, he felt completely out of breath. And now he waited, looking without really seeing through the dusty windowpanes, for the Inspector to make his pronouncement.

‘It’s a good idea,’ said Pekkala.

Astonished, Kirov whirled about. ‘Do you really think so?’ he gasped. It was the last thing he had expected to hear.

Pekkala had settled into his chair beside the wheezy iron stove. The stove was not lit and he had put his feet up on the circular cooking plates. From where Kirov stood, he could see the double thick soles of the Inspector’s heavy boots, and the iron heel plates, scuffed to a mercury shine. The Inspector seemed perfectly at ease, almost as if the idea had been his all along.

‘Congratulations on your first command,’ Pekkala added graciously.

‘Why, thank you,’ stammered Kirov.

‘Long overdue, if you ask me,’ continued Pekkala.

‘Well, now that you mention it,’ replied Kirov, his shattered confidence slowly reassembling, ‘I have been looking forward to the challenge for some time. I just never thought it would come.’

‘Stalin is no fool when it comes to recognising talent.’

Overwhelmed, Kirov strode across the room and shook Pekkala’s hand.

‘Be sure to tell your wife,’ said Pekkala. ‘I expect she will be pleased.’

‘I will!’ Kirov replied eagerly.

Elizaveta worked as a filing clerk in the records office on the fourth floor of the Lubyanka building which had, for many years, been the headquarters of Soviet Internal Security.

‘As soon as I have picked up our equipment for the journey,’ Kirov continued, ‘I’ll head upstairs and tell her the good news.’

‘If that suits you, of course, Comrade Major,’ Pekkala answered with a playful gravity.

‘I believe it does,’ said Kirov, lifting his chin dramatically. Then he set off to Lubyanka.

Arriving at the Lubyanka building, Kirov immediately made his way down to the basement, to consult with Lazarev, the armourer.

Lazarev was a legendary figure at Lubyanka. From his workshop in the basement, he managed the issue and repair of all weapons supplied to Moscow NKVD. He had been there from the beginning, personally appointed by Felix Dzerzhinsky, the first head of the Cheka, who commandeered what had once been the offices of the All-Russian Insurance Company and converted it into the All-Russia Extraordinary Commission to Combat Counter-revolution and Sabotage. From then on, the imposing yellow-stone building served as an administrative complex, prison and place of execution. The Cheka had changed its name several times since then, from OGPU to GPU to NKVD, transforming under various directors into its current incarnation. Throughout these gruelling and sometimes bloody metamorphoses, which emptied, reoccupied and emptied once again the desks of countless servants of the state, Lazarev had remained at his post, until only he remained of those who had set the great machine of Internal State Security in motion. This was not due to luck or skill in navigating the minefield of the purges, but rather to the fact that, no matter who did the killing and who did the dying above ground, a gunsmith was always needed to make sure the weapons kept working.