country if you want to. I’ll put you on the next train to Paris, if that’s really what you want. Or you can stay here, where you are truly needed and where you still have a place if you want it.”
Until that moment, the thought of staying on in Russia had not occurred to him. But now Pekkala realized that his last gesture of affection for the woman he’d once thought would be his wife must be to let her believe he was dead
.
T HEY WERE OUT IN OPEN COUNTRY NOW, THE E MKA’S ENGINE ROARING contentedly as Kirov raced along the dusty Moscow Highway.
“Do you think I have made a mistake?” asked Pekkala.
“A mistake with what, Inspector?” asked Kirov, glancing at Pekkala in the rearview mirror before turning his eyes back to the road.
“Staying here. In Russia. I had a chance to leave and turned it down.”
“Your work here is important,” said Kirov. “Why do you think I asked to work with you, Inspector?”
“I judged that to be your own business.”
“It’s because every night when I lie down to sleep, I know I have done something that really matters. How many people can honestly say that?”
Pekkala did not reply. He wondered if Kirov was right, or if, in agreeing to work for Stalin, he had compromised every ideal for which he’d ever stood.
Gray clouds hung just above the treetops.
As they neared the Nagorski facility, Pekkala looked out at a tall metal fence which stretched along one side of the road. The fence seemed to go on forever. It was twice the height of a man, topped by a second stage of fencing which jutted out at an angle towards the road, and was lined with four strands of barbed wire. Beyond the wire grew an unkempt tangle of forest, rising from the poor and marshy soil.
The monotony of this structure was broken only by occasional black metal signs which had been bolted to the fence. Stenciled on each sign, in dull yellow paint, was a jawless skull and crossbones.
“Seems pretty secure so far,” remarked Kirov.
But Pekkala wasn’t so certain. A layer of wire which could have been cut through with a set of household pliers did not fill him with confidence.
Finally, they came to a gate. A wooden guard shack, barely bigenough for one person, stood on the other side of the wire. It was raining now, and droplets lay like silver coins upon the shack’s tar-paper roof.
Kirov brought the car to a stop. He sounded the horn.
Immediately, a man came tumbling out of the shack. He wore a rough-cut army tunic and was strapping on a plain leather belt, weighed down by a heavy leather holster. Hurriedly, he unlocked the gate, sliding back a metal bolt as thick as his wrist, and swung it open.
Kirov rolled the car forward until it was adjacent to the guard shack.
Pekkala rolled down his window.
“Are you the doctors?” asked the man in a breathless voice. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“Doctors?” asked Pekkala.
The man’s dull eyes grew suddenly sharp. “If you aren’t doctors, then what do you want here?”
Pekkala reached inside his pocket for his ID.
The guard drew his revolver and aimed it at Pekkala’s face.
Pekkala froze.
“Slowly,” said the guard.
Pekkala withdrew his pass book.
“Hold it up so I can see it,” said the guard.
Pekkala did as he was told.
The pass book was the size of the man’s outstretched hand, dull red in color, with an outer cover made from fabric-covered cardboard in the manner of an old school textbook. The Soviet state seal, cradled in its two bound sheaves of wheat, had been emblazoned on the front. Inside, in the top left-hand corner, a photograph of Pekkala had been attached with a heat seal, cracking the emulsion of the photograph. Beneath that, in pale bluish-green letters, were the letters
NKVD
and a second stamp indicating thatPekkala was on Special Assignment for the government. The particulars of his birth, his blood group, and his state identification number filled up the right-hand page.
Most government pass
Until that moment, the thought of staying on in Russia had not occurred to him. But now Pekkala realized that his last gesture of affection for the woman he’d once thought would be his wife must be to let her believe he was dead
.
T HEY WERE OUT IN OPEN COUNTRY NOW, THE E MKA’S ENGINE ROARING contentedly as Kirov raced along the dusty Moscow Highway.
“Do you think I have made a mistake?” asked Pekkala.
“A mistake with what, Inspector?” asked Kirov, glancing at Pekkala in the rearview mirror before turning his eyes back to the road.
“Staying here. In Russia. I had a chance to leave and turned it down.”
“Your work here is important,” said Kirov. “Why do you think I asked to work with you, Inspector?”
“I judged that to be your own business.”
“It’s because every night when I lie down to sleep, I know I have done something that really matters. How many people can honestly say that?”
Pekkala did not reply. He wondered if Kirov was right, or if, in agreeing to work for Stalin, he had compromised every ideal for which he’d ever stood.
Gray clouds hung just above the treetops.
As they neared the Nagorski facility, Pekkala looked out at a tall metal fence which stretched along one side of the road. The fence seemed to go on forever. It was twice the height of a man, topped by a second stage of fencing which jutted out at an angle towards the road, and was lined with four strands of barbed wire. Beyond the wire grew an unkempt tangle of forest, rising from the poor and marshy soil.
The monotony of this structure was broken only by occasional black metal signs which had been bolted to the fence. Stenciled on each sign, in dull yellow paint, was a jawless skull and crossbones.
“Seems pretty secure so far,” remarked Kirov.
But Pekkala wasn’t so certain. A layer of wire which could have been cut through with a set of household pliers did not fill him with confidence.
Finally, they came to a gate. A wooden guard shack, barely bigenough for one person, stood on the other side of the wire. It was raining now, and droplets lay like silver coins upon the shack’s tar-paper roof.
Kirov brought the car to a stop. He sounded the horn.
Immediately, a man came tumbling out of the shack. He wore a rough-cut army tunic and was strapping on a plain leather belt, weighed down by a heavy leather holster. Hurriedly, he unlocked the gate, sliding back a metal bolt as thick as his wrist, and swung it open.
Kirov rolled the car forward until it was adjacent to the guard shack.
Pekkala rolled down his window.
“Are you the doctors?” asked the man in a breathless voice. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“Doctors?” asked Pekkala.
The man’s dull eyes grew suddenly sharp. “If you aren’t doctors, then what do you want here?”
Pekkala reached inside his pocket for his ID.
The guard drew his revolver and aimed it at Pekkala’s face.
Pekkala froze.
“Slowly,” said the guard.
Pekkala withdrew his pass book.
“Hold it up so I can see it,” said the guard.
Pekkala did as he was told.
The pass book was the size of the man’s outstretched hand, dull red in color, with an outer cover made from fabric-covered cardboard in the manner of an old school textbook. The Soviet state seal, cradled in its two bound sheaves of wheat, had been emblazoned on the front. Inside, in the top left-hand corner, a photograph of Pekkala had been attached with a heat seal, cracking the emulsion of the photograph. Beneath that, in pale bluish-green letters, were the letters
NKVD
and a second stamp indicating thatPekkala was on Special Assignment for the government. The particulars of his birth, his blood group, and his state identification number filled up the right-hand page.
Most government pass
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