The Beast in the Red Forest (15 page)

The speed of Kirov’s draw left Malashenko wide-eyed with astonishment. ‘You see?’ spluttered the partisan, not taking his eyes off the weapon. ‘You see who these men really are?’

‘Major,’ said Pekkala, ‘you will put the gun away. And you!’ he turned to Malashenko. ‘Go now, before that mouth of yours gets you in more trouble than I can get you out of.’

Fascinated, the little girl had watched all this. Now she reached out her arms to be carried as Malashenko slung the sub-machine gun on his back, and he lifted her up and vanished down an alley just as a Red Army truck appeared around the corner, and began speeding towards the yellow house.

‘What was that just now?’ demanded Pekkala. ‘Have you completely lost your mind!’

‘No,’ Kirov said through clenched teeth, ‘but that’s what I’d like him to think.’

One hour later, Kirov and Pekkala were standing in the office of Captain Igor Chaplinksy, a slight man with thinning hair and a sharply angled face who had, until Yakushkin’s death, been second-in-command of the garrison.

Only days before, this building had been the central headquarters of the German Secret Field Police for the entire Western Ukraine. They had left in a hurry, abandoning most of their equipment – typewriters, radios and drawers full of documents, some of which had been burned in the courtyard below, while the rest had either been torn to shreds or else smashed into uselessness by the rifle butts of the departing soldiers.

Commander Yakushkin’s staff had moved into the building less than twenty-four hours after the previous tenants had taken to their heels. In their rush to establish a headquarters, there had been no time to remove the broken equipment and it remained as it had been left by its owners, in tangles of ripped-out wiring, broken glass tubes and a confetti of multicoloured requisition slips. There was even a large and mysterious splash of dried blood, fanned out like the feathers of a peacock on the wall behind Chaplinsky’s desk.

Chaplinsky’s first thought, after the Inspector and his assistant had identified themselves, was that he would somehow be held accountable for Yakushkin’s death, about which he had been notified even as Pekkala was climbing the stairs to his office. The fact that Pekkala had arrived in the company of a major of Special Operations convinced him that his fate was already decided.

‘I had no idea where the commander was last night,’ said Chaplinksy, clasping his hands together in front of his chest like a man wringing water from a rag. Although the gesture was intended to reinforce the sincerity of his defence, it gave instead the impression of a man begging for mercy which, as far as Chaplinsky was concerned, was not far from the truth. ‘He did not tell me where he was going. And I ask you, comrades, was it even my duty to ask? Commander Yakushkin was often absent, particularly at night. Am I responsible for his private life! No! I am a simple soldier in the service of his country. That is all. I serve the Soviet people. I . . .’

Pekkala leaned forward. ‘Captain Chaplinsky,’ he said softly.

Chaplinsky cut short his monologue. ‘Yes?’ he almost sobbed.

‘We are not here to charge you with his murder.’

‘You aren’t?’ Chaplinsky settled back in his chair as if he were deflating. ‘Then why are you here, gentlemen?’

‘We were investigating the murder of Colonel Andrich,’ explained Pekkala. ‘Now, unfortunately, that investigation has expanded to include Commander Yakushkin.’

‘And one more, as well, I’m afraid,’ said Chaplinsky, ‘although I’m not certain it is related to your case.’

‘Who else has been killed?’ asked Pekkala.

‘A hospital orderly by the name of Anatoli Tutko. He was knifed to death last night at about the same time as Commander Yakushkin was murdered. Tutko worked on the same floor as the nurse with whom Yakushkin was involved. As I say, it may not be related, but you can be certain of one thing, Inspector.’

‘And what is that?’ asked Pekkala.

‘That the partisans are behind all these killings.’

‘They seem equally convinced that you are to blame.’

‘Andrich was working for us!’ Chaplinsky said indignantly. ‘And no one in the Red Army would dare lift a hand against Commander Yakushkin. The partisans must have found out what was coming to them and decided to take vengeance before we had even begun.’

‘What is coming?’ asked Kirov. ‘What are you talking about?’

Chaplinsky snatched a piece of paper off his desk. ‘These are my orders to prepare for an all-out assault against the partisans. The message just came through from Moscow, and we are now on full alert until the command comes through to commence the attack.’

‘Comrade Chaplinsky,’ said Pekkala, ‘you must do everything you can to delay taking action, at least until I can find out who is really behind the murders of Colonel Andrich and Commander Yakushkin, or the result will be a needless slaughter.’

‘I am well aware of what the cost will be in blood, Inspector, but what would you have me do? An order is an order, especially one from the Kremlin.’

‘A commander in the field,’ said Kirov, ‘is always afforded some discretion.’

‘Commander?’ echoed Chaplinsky.

‘Of course,’ Kirov told him. ‘You are in charge now, after all.’

Everything had happened so suddenly that this fact had not yet dawned upon Chaplinsky. Yes, he thought to himself. I
am
the commander. And his face assumed a solemn gravity.

‘So you will do what you can?’

‘As commander,’ said Chaplinsky, ‘I assure you that I will.’

‘There is one other matter,’ said Kirov.

‘Anything to assist the men of Special Operations,’ Chaplinsky answered grandly.

‘We would be grateful for some kind of transport while we carry out our investigation.’

‘Of course. You may have Sergeant Zolkin for as long as you need him.’

‘Zolkin?’ asked Kirov, remembering the man who had met him at the airstrip upon his arrival in Rovno. ‘I thought he was killed in the air raid the other night.’

‘He is very much alive, I assure you,’ said Chaplinsky. ‘You can find him at the motor pool, down in the courtyard of this building. Sergeant Zolkin will drive you wherever you need to go. Just don’t go too far. I have just received word that the Germans might be mounting an attack to retake Rovno. There is heavy fighting west of here. Our troops are holding them for now, but there is a chance, a good chance, that the Fascists might break through as early as tomorrow. If that happens, we have been ordered to defend this town, no matter what the cost.’

‘The death of that orderly was no coincidence,’ remarked Pekkala, as they made their way downstairs.

‘I agree,’ replied Kirov. ‘The gunman went to find the nurse, hoping she could lead him to Yakushkin. It was the orderly who told him where to go.’

‘There is one other possibility,’ said Pekkala.

‘And what is that, Inspector?’

‘He might have been looking for you.’

Emerging into the courtyard, they found it crowded with vehicles in various states of disrepair. A heap of bullet-shredded tyres lay in one corner and mangled pieces of exhaust pipe clattered with a ring of metal on stone as they were tossed by grease-blackened mechanics on to the tiles of what had once been the summer dining area of the hotel.

In the centre of the courtyard, Pekkala and Kirov discovered Yakushkin’s jeep. Its olive-drab paint had been gashed down to the bare metal in places where shrapnel had torn through the bonnet and cowlings. Two men in blue overalls huddled over the engine.

‘Zolkin?’ asked Kirov, unsure which one he should be talking to.

Both men turned and squinted at the new arrivals. Neither was the Sergeant. One man aimed a greasy spanner at the other side of the courtyard to where Zolkin was sorting through a heap of punctured radiator hoses. His unbuttoned
telogreika
revealed a sweat-stained undershirt beneath. ‘I thought you were dead!’ he exclaimed, when he caught sight of Kirov.

‘I thought the same of you,’ replied the major. ‘What happened to you when the bombing started?’

‘I was on the other side of the street, buying a mug of tea from some old woman when the bombs started falling. She and I ended up down in her basement. A bomb fell so close by that the house collapsed on top of us. We weren’t hurt, but it took me several hours to dig our way through the rubble. By the time I got us out of there, the locals told me that a number of bodies had been removed from the bunker. They said everyone down there had been killed.’

‘I was only wounded,’ Kirov explained. ‘It seems that we have both been lucky.’

‘I thought so, too, until I heard about the death of Commander Yakushkin.’

‘That news has travelled fast.’

‘Everyone in the garrison knows about it,’ replied Zolkin.

‘You were supposed to go with him to Moscow, weren’t you?’

Zolkin sighed and nodded. ‘So much for the chance of a lifetime.’ But then he raised his head. ‘Unless . . .’

‘Unless what?’ asked Kirov.

‘You could take me with you when you return,’ suggested Zolkin. ‘I would gladly serve as your driver in Moscow, if you don’t already have one.’

‘Sergeant,’ Kirov began, ‘I’m afraid . . .’

‘We don’t have a driver,’ said Pekkala.

Kirov glanced at him in confusion. ‘I drive us everywhere!’

‘If you want to call it driving.’

‘Are you going to compare my driving with yours? Because if you are . . .’

Zolkin had been watching this exchange like a spectator at a tennis match, but now he raised his voice. ‘Comrades!’

The two men turned to look at him.

‘I will be the best driver you have ever had,’ Zolkin assured them.

‘You would be the
only
driver we have ever had,’ said Pekkala, ‘and I see no reason why you should not come with us to Moscow.’

‘Do you have the authority to get me transferred?’ Zolkin asked.

Pekkala smiled and handed Zolkin his pass book.

Zolkin opened it and read the text inside. ‘You are Inspector Pekkala?’ He raised his head and stared.

‘Yes, he is,’ Kirov answered with another sigh of annoyance, ‘and, unfortunately, you will find, if you read that little yellow piece of paper in his pass book, that he most definitely has the authority required to transfer you to Moscow.’

Zolkin squinted at the Classified Operations Permit. Slowly, he read out part of what it said. ‘May pass into restricted areas and may requisition equipment of all types, including weapons and vehicles . . .’

‘And drivers, too,’ Pekkala added cheerfully.

‘Congratulations,’ Kirov growled at the sergeant. ‘It seems that you will soon be on your way to Moscow.’

The sergeant’s mouth hung open for a moment. Then he reached out and clasped Kirov’s hand in both of his. After nearly dislocating the major’s wrist, Zolkin turned his attention to Pekkala and, grasping the Inspector’s hand, gave him the same bone-jarring treatment. ‘When do we leave?’ he asked.

‘As soon as we have solved these murders,’ answered Pekkala.

‘In the meantime,’ added Kirov, ‘Commander Chaplinsky has appointed you to be our driver. That is, if you have still have a vehicle which runs.’

‘We are working on that now,’ said Zolkin. ‘The Jeep should be fixed by tomorrow, as long as you don’t mind a few chips to the paint.’

‘We are staying at a house not far from here,’ said Pekkala. He gave Zolkin the directions. ‘As soon as you are ready, come and find us.’

‘Very good, Comrade Major.’ Zolkin clicked his heels and set off towards the mechanics, buttoning up his jacket as he went.

Now that they were alone, Kirov turned to Pekkala. ‘A chauffeur?’ he asked.

‘I’ve always wanted one,’ Pekkala replied smugly.

‘But you don’t even sleep in a bed!’ shouted Kirov.

Their conversation was interrupted by a long, low rumble in the distance.

‘It’s early in the year for thunder,’ remarked Kirov, glancing up at the sky.

‘That is not thunder,’ said Pekkala. ‘That’s artillery.’