Red Moth by Sam Eastland Page B

be here?’
    ‘My sentence is five years. In my business, you must often ask yourself – what is the price of integrity? And now I know. Five years in solitary confinement. Which brings me back to my original question. What are you doing here and what do you want with me?’
    This time, it was Pekkala who answered. ‘I need you to look at something and tell me what you think.’
    ‘And why should I help you –’ he flipped his hand with irritation, spattering Kirov’s tunic with blood – ‘or anyone else out there?’
    ‘I had anticipated that your country’s gratitude might not be enough to win you over.’
    ‘Which I accept as proof of your own sanity!’ blustered Semykin.
    Pekkala held up the paper-wrapped parcel, which he had removed from the briefcase before entering the cell. ‘In recompense for your help‚ I have brought you this. To examine. For two minutes.’
    Semykin eyed the package suspiciously. ‘Well, what is it?’
    ‘First, you will help, then I’ll show you what is underneath this paper.’
    ‘For a Finn, you bargain a lot like a Russian.’
    ‘Your people have taught me a few things.’
    It became very still in the room.
    Semykin gave a low growl. ‘Very well,’ he whispered. ‘What do you need me to do?’
    Kirov handed him the leather briefcase.
    Semykin sat down on the bench and carefully wiped his bloody fingers on the knees of his prison pyjamas. After opening the brass latch, he slid out the painting of the moth. The first thing he did was to study the back of the canvas. ‘Ostubafengel,’ he said, reading out the word which had been written on the reverse. He began to work his thumbs along the wooden stretcher as if searching for some hidden defect in the wood. Afterwards, with equal care, Semykin slowly raked his nails across the canvas, eyes closed with concentration while he listened to the sound they made. Only then did he turn the painting over and examine the picture itself. ‘It is curious,’ he said. ‘The canvas was made in haste, but the painting itself shows considerable precision. The pattern on the wings was made with a brush containing only a few strands of hair. The painter would have had to use a large magnifying glass, like the kind employed by those who tie flies for trout fishing. It is not a forgery, if that is what you’ve come to ask me, or if it is, then I have never seen or heard of the original, but if you’re here to ask me what it’s worth, I’m afraid this briefcase is more valuable than its contents.’
    ‘What about the artist?’ asked Kirov. ‘Have you ever heard of anyone named Ostubafengel?’
    Semykin shook his head. ‘But that doesn’t mean he or she isn’t out there somewhere. Sounds like one of those complicated Habsburg names to me. Hungarian perhaps. Where did it come from?’
    Pekkala told him the story.
    ‘Then it is obviously worth something,’ said Semykin, ‘but its value does not lie in the painting itself. That much I can tell you for certain.’
    ‘Do you think there may be a message hidden inside the frame?’ asked Kirov.
    Semykin shrugged. ‘Possibly. Or else there might be something underneath the paint. An X-ray might reveal it, or ultraviolet light perhaps.’ He tilted the painting on its side and squinted along the flat surface of the canvas, like a man taking aim down a gunsight. ‘But I doubt you will find anything. The paint is very thin, and I don’t believe there is anything beneath it. The trouble is, once you start ripping it apart, the painting itself will be destroyed. Is that a risk you are prepared to take?’
    ‘Not yet,’ replied Pekkala.
    ‘Two men died to protect this painting,’ protested Kirov. ‘They obviously thought it was valuable.’
    ‘They did not die protecting the painting,’ countered Semykin. ‘The reason they died was to protect its secret. Whatever that secret is lies beyond my expertise. I’ve told you everything I can.’
    ‘And if an X-ray turns up nothing,’