way.’
‘Well, I don’t know if this will help you or not, Major, but I know exactly what those straps were made for.’
‘You do?’
‘A shotgun.’
Kirov shook his head. ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. You couldn’t hide a whole shotgun under that coat. It’s too short.’
‘You could,’ insisted Lazarev, ‘if the gun had also been modified.’
‘But how?’
‘It’s an old poacher’s trick. Cut down the stock, saw off the end of the barrel. Rework the hinge so that barrel and stock can be quickly pulled apart and fitted back together. Hang the separate pieces in your jacket, gun on one side, ammunition on the other.’
‘Shotgun shells,’ exclaimed Kirov. ‘Of course! That’s what those loops would hold, but I doubt that Pekkala would have turned his talents to poaching ducks.’
‘Not ducks, Major. My guess is that he’s after bigger prey. Few weapons can do more damage at close range than a shotgun. It is hardly a weapon of precision, but as a blunt and lethal instrument, you’d be hard pressed to find something better.’
‘That still doesn’t explain what he’d be doing with it. We’re in the middle of a war of rifles and machine guns and cannons and tanks. Who would choose a shotgun to fight against weapons like those?’
Lazarev did not hesitate. ‘The answer is partisans. Think about it, Major. The coat you have described to me is not a piece of military uniform.’
Kirov agreed. ‘Except for those modifications, it’s the same kind of coat he always wore.’
‘Now who wears civilian clothes and still carries weapons?’
‘Some members of Special Operations. Pekkala for one.’
‘And except for him, they all carry Tokarev automatics. But the only people out of uniform who are involved in the kind of close-quarter fighting where shotguns are turned into an anti-personnel weapon are partisans. Shotgun ammunition isn’t regulated the way military ammunition is, because people still use it for hunting and the more they can hunt, the less they have to rely on the authorities to feed them. If you’re looking for him, Major, you should begin your search among the partisans.’
‘But there must be hundreds of groups scattered behind the German lines.’
‘Thousands, more likely, and most of them in western Ukraine. Some groups have only a few dozen members. Others are almost as large as divisions in the army. There are bands of Ukrainian Nationalists, Poles, Jews, Communists, and escaped POW’s. And they aren’t all fighting the Germans. Some of these people are so busy fighting each other that they barely have time for the Fascists. And as far as the Germans are concerned, the whole lot of them should be finished off. They give out awards to their soldiers who fight against the partisans. The medal shows a skull with snakes coiled around it. That’s how they think of the partisans; as nothing more than reptiles to be wiped off the face of the earth.’
‘Stalin has ordered me to track down Pekkala, no matter where the journey takes me, but if you’re right, Lazarev, then how on earth do I even begin searching for him?’
‘For that, you’ll need more clues than the one you have found in this coat, but if you do locate the Inspector, you may as well give this to him.’ As Lazarev spoke, he opened a battered metal cabinet, removed an object wrapped in a dirty, oily rag and handed the bundle to Kirov.
Inside, Kirov was astonished to find Pekkala’s Webley. The last time Kirov had seen this gun, it was little more than a charred relic. Now, with its fresh coat of bluing, the Webley appeared almost new. While Lazarev folded his arms and gazed on with satisfaction at his work, Kirov squinted down the barrel, then opened the gun, which folded forward on a hinge. He spun the well-oiled cylinder, and examined with approval the almost gilded finish of the solid brass handles.
‘How did you do it, Lazarev?’ gasped Kirov.
‘For many months now, it has been my
‘Well, I don’t know if this will help you or not, Major, but I know exactly what those straps were made for.’
‘You do?’
‘A shotgun.’
Kirov shook his head. ‘Perhaps I didn’t make myself clear. You couldn’t hide a whole shotgun under that coat. It’s too short.’
‘You could,’ insisted Lazarev, ‘if the gun had also been modified.’
‘But how?’
‘It’s an old poacher’s trick. Cut down the stock, saw off the end of the barrel. Rework the hinge so that barrel and stock can be quickly pulled apart and fitted back together. Hang the separate pieces in your jacket, gun on one side, ammunition on the other.’
‘Shotgun shells,’ exclaimed Kirov. ‘Of course! That’s what those loops would hold, but I doubt that Pekkala would have turned his talents to poaching ducks.’
‘Not ducks, Major. My guess is that he’s after bigger prey. Few weapons can do more damage at close range than a shotgun. It is hardly a weapon of precision, but as a blunt and lethal instrument, you’d be hard pressed to find something better.’
‘That still doesn’t explain what he’d be doing with it. We’re in the middle of a war of rifles and machine guns and cannons and tanks. Who would choose a shotgun to fight against weapons like those?’
Lazarev did not hesitate. ‘The answer is partisans. Think about it, Major. The coat you have described to me is not a piece of military uniform.’
Kirov agreed. ‘Except for those modifications, it’s the same kind of coat he always wore.’
‘Now who wears civilian clothes and still carries weapons?’
‘Some members of Special Operations. Pekkala for one.’
‘And except for him, they all carry Tokarev automatics. But the only people out of uniform who are involved in the kind of close-quarter fighting where shotguns are turned into an anti-personnel weapon are partisans. Shotgun ammunition isn’t regulated the way military ammunition is, because people still use it for hunting and the more they can hunt, the less they have to rely on the authorities to feed them. If you’re looking for him, Major, you should begin your search among the partisans.’
‘But there must be hundreds of groups scattered behind the German lines.’
‘Thousands, more likely, and most of them in western Ukraine. Some groups have only a few dozen members. Others are almost as large as divisions in the army. There are bands of Ukrainian Nationalists, Poles, Jews, Communists, and escaped POW’s. And they aren’t all fighting the Germans. Some of these people are so busy fighting each other that they barely have time for the Fascists. And as far as the Germans are concerned, the whole lot of them should be finished off. They give out awards to their soldiers who fight against the partisans. The medal shows a skull with snakes coiled around it. That’s how they think of the partisans; as nothing more than reptiles to be wiped off the face of the earth.’
‘Stalin has ordered me to track down Pekkala, no matter where the journey takes me, but if you’re right, Lazarev, then how on earth do I even begin searching for him?’
‘For that, you’ll need more clues than the one you have found in this coat, but if you do locate the Inspector, you may as well give this to him.’ As Lazarev spoke, he opened a battered metal cabinet, removed an object wrapped in a dirty, oily rag and handed the bundle to Kirov.
Inside, Kirov was astonished to find Pekkala’s Webley. The last time Kirov had seen this gun, it was little more than a charred relic. Now, with its fresh coat of bluing, the Webley appeared almost new. While Lazarev folded his arms and gazed on with satisfaction at his work, Kirov squinted down the barrel, then opened the gun, which folded forward on a hinge. He spun the well-oiled cylinder, and examined with approval the almost gilded finish of the solid brass handles.
‘How did you do it, Lazarev?’ gasped Kirov.
‘For many months now, it has been my
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