Sam Eastland - Berlin Red

‘Do you know the identity of prisoner 4745?’ asked Stalin.

Kirov shook his head.

‘It was Pekkala.’

‘But I don’t understand,’ said Kirov. ‘This says he died seventeen years ago!’

‘That document was prepared as part of my agreement with the Inspector, back when he first agreed to work with me. The deal I made was not simply to release him, once he had solved his first case, but to wipe him from the memory of this country, as if he had never been here. So you see, Major Kirov, I can hardly punish you for failing to return to Moscow with a man you never met.’

Kirov opened his mouth but no sound came out.

‘Consider yourself lucky,’ said Stalin, ‘and I suggest that, first thing in the morning, you return to work before this streak of good fortune runs out.’

Dazed, Kirov turned to go.

But Stalin wasn’t finished yet. ‘Will you ever forgive him for leaving?’ he asked.

‘There is nothing to forgive,’ replied Kirov.

When Stalin was alone again, he got up from his desk and walked over to the window. Standing to one side, so that he could not be seen by anyone looking from below, he gazed out over the rooftops of the city. The sun had set, and dusty purple twilight fanned across the sky. For a long time, he stood there, as if waiting for something to appear. Then he reached out with both arms and drew the blood-red curtains shut.

Emerging from the Kremlin, Kirov set out through the darkening streets, bound for the tiny flat where he knew his wife would be waiting. As Kirov strode along, he reached into his pocket and closed his hand around the oval disc of gold, feeling the emerald press against the centre of his palm. Kirov did not know how long he’d have to wait before its true owner returned, but he swore a quiet oath to keep it safe, until that day finally came.

At that same moment, far to the north in the wilderness of Finland, the Walker in the Woods lay down to sleep. Beside him lay his wife, her hair glowing softly in the moonlight.