Berlin Red by Sam Eastland Page B

returning to his desk, he would invariably switch on the intercom and eavesdrop on the conversation. He was able to do this without arousing suspicion because, although a small red light switched to green whenever the intercom was in use, Poskrebychev, after hours of fiddling with the machine, had discovered that, if the intercom button was only half switched, the red light would stay on and he could still hear every word of what was said.
    This malfunction of technology was the true source of Poskrebychev’s power, although it did not come without a price. Often, lying in bed at night in the flat he shared with his mother, Poskrebychev would twitch and shudder as the vastness of the treacheries and horrors which Stalin had conjured into being echoed from the rafters of his skull.
    ‘He has another visitor,’ Poskrebychev whispered to Pekkala as they reached the door to Stalin’s office. ‘Some teacher or other. A strange bird if ever I saw one!’
    Pekkala nodded thanks.
    The doors were opened.
    The two men walked into the room and Poskrebychev, with his usual dramatic flourish, closed the door behind them.
    Stalin sat behind his desk. As usual, the heavy curtains were drawn. The room smelled of beeswax polish and of the fifty cigarettes that Stalin smoked each day.
    Standing at the far end of the room, where he had been admiring the portrait of Lenin on the wall, was a man in a tweed jacket and grey flannel trousers. He turned as Pekkala walked in and bowed his head sharply in greeting. The man had a thick crop of grey hair and a matching grey moustache. His eyes, a cold, cornflower blue, betrayed the falseness of his smile.
    He is no Russian, thought Pekkala.
    Confirming Pekkala’s suspicion, Stalin introduced him as Deacon Swift, a member of the British Trade Commission. ‘But of course,’ added Stalin, ‘we all know that is a lie.’
    The smile on Swift’s face quickly faded. ‘I wouldn’t call it that, exactly,’ he said.
    ‘Whatever your role with the Trade Commission,’ continued Stalin, ‘you are also a member of British Intelligence, a post you have held for many years, in Egypt, in Rome and now here, in Moscow.’ Stalin glanced across at the Englishman. ‘Am I leaving anything out?’
    ‘No,’ admitted Swift, ‘except perhaps the reason for my visit.’
    Stalin gestured towards Pekkala. ‘By all means attend to your business.’
    Swift drew in a deep breath. ‘Inspector Pekkala,’ he began, ‘I have been sent here by His Majesty’s Government on a matter of great importance. You see, we might soon need your help in retrieving one of our agents from Berlin.’
    ‘I imagine you have several agents in Berlin,’ said Pekkala.
    Swift nodded cautiously. ‘That is altogether likely, yes.’
    ‘Then what makes this one so special?’
    ‘This is someone we felt might be of particular significance to you,’ explained Swift.
    ‘And why is that?’
    ‘The agent, whose code name is Christophe, has been supplying us with snippets of propaganda.’
    ‘Snippets?’ asked Pekkala.
    ‘Oh,’ Swift let the word drag out, ‘nothing of great importance, really. Just the odd detail here and there about goings-on among the German High Command, which we then cycle back into our radio broadcasts throughout the liberated territories. Of course, the Germans listen to these broadcasts, too. It lets them know we have our eye on them.’
    ‘So far,’ remarked Pekkala, ‘I have not heard anything that might be of significance to me.’
    ‘The thing is,’ explained Swift, ‘this person is known to you.’
    Pekkala narrowed his eyes in confusion. ‘I don’t know any British agents, and no one at all named Christophe.’
    ‘Ah!’ Swift raised one finger in the air. ‘But you do, Inspector, whether you realise it or not. Christophe is the code name for a woman named Lilya Simonova.’
    Pekkala’s heart stumbled in his chest. Instinctively, he reached into his pocket, rough fingertips brushing across