said Kirov, ‘we will be right back where we started.’
‘There is someone else you could take this to,’ suggested Semykin.
‘And who is that?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Her name is Churikova. Polina Churikova. Until the war broke out, she was a student at the Moscow State Institute of Art. She spent the summer of 1940 as my assistant. Her speciality was forensics.’
‘But specialising in forensics makes her a student of crime, not of art,’ said Pekkala.
‘Actually,’ Semykin told him, ‘it made her a student of both. The business of art forgery is extremely lucrative. It is also more widespread than most people can imagine. It’s possible, for example, that up to a third of the paintings in the world’s great art museums could be fakes. By making a chemical analysis of a painting, using microscopic portions of the paint, the wood, the canvas and so on, those trained in forensics can determine whether an art work is authentic. But Polina Churikova was not only my student. She was also my friend. She was the only person who came to visit me before I began serving my sentence here at Lubyanka.’
‘When was that?’
‘Only a few weeks ago.’
‘And do you know where we can find her now?’
Semykin shrugged. ‘Ask the Red Army. When Churikova came to see me, she was in uniform, like everybody else. At the time, she said she was stationed in Moscow, but where she might be now is anybody’s guess. She told me she had joined the Army Signals Branch in late June, right after the Germans attacked, and subsequently became a cryptographer. Apparently, she has already made a name for herself by breaking something called the Ferdinand Cipher, which the Fascists were using to communicate between Berlin and their front-line headquarters.’
‘How does someone who studies forensics end up as a cryptographer?’ asked Kirov.
‘The two fields are quite similar,’ explained Semykin. ‘Forensics taught her to uncover things that lay hidden in works of art in order to determine whether they were originals or fakes. The forger will always leave traces, sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose. Now, instead of paintings or sculptures, she finds what has been hidden in the labyrinth of words and numbers.’
‘What makes you think she can help us?’ asked Kirov.
‘I make no guarantee that she can, only that when two people look at a work of art, they rarely see the same thing. That is what makes it art.’
‘This is all very well,’ grumbled Kirov, ‘except her location is as much of a mystery as this painting!’
‘Solve one,’ Semykin told him, ‘and you may solve the other. For that, you must rely on your own art, Comrade Commissar.’
‘Thank you‚ Semykin‚’ said Pekkala‚ as he handed over the first paper-wrapped package. ‘We appreciate your assistance.’
Then he and Kirov waited while Semykin carefully untied the string. After folding back the layers of archival tissue, he gasped, as the face of the fiery-eyed saviour came into view. ‘Now this . . .’ murmured Semykin, ‘ this is authentic.’ As carefully as if it was a newborn infant, Semykin lifted the icon from its cradle of brown paper. Touching only the outermost edges of the frame, he held it up and sighed with admiration. ‘Is it Balkan?’
‘So I’m told,’ said Pekkala.
‘Late thirteenth century? Early fourteenth?’
‘Somewhere around there.’
‘Tempera on wood. Notice the asymmetrical nose and mouth, the deep furrows on his brow and the way this white lead backing brings to life the greenish ochre of his skin. The tension! The expressivity!’ Suddenly a look of consternation swept across Semykin’s face. ‘Wait,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve seen this before somewhere.’ Sharply, he raised his head and stared questioningly at Pekkala. ‘Haven’t I?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Pekkala. ‘You have seen it hanging on the wall of the Museum of the Kremlin, and you will find it there again when you get out of
‘There is someone else you could take this to,’ suggested Semykin.
‘And who is that?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Her name is Churikova. Polina Churikova. Until the war broke out, she was a student at the Moscow State Institute of Art. She spent the summer of 1940 as my assistant. Her speciality was forensics.’
‘But specialising in forensics makes her a student of crime, not of art,’ said Pekkala.
‘Actually,’ Semykin told him, ‘it made her a student of both. The business of art forgery is extremely lucrative. It is also more widespread than most people can imagine. It’s possible, for example, that up to a third of the paintings in the world’s great art museums could be fakes. By making a chemical analysis of a painting, using microscopic portions of the paint, the wood, the canvas and so on, those trained in forensics can determine whether an art work is authentic. But Polina Churikova was not only my student. She was also my friend. She was the only person who came to visit me before I began serving my sentence here at Lubyanka.’
‘When was that?’
‘Only a few weeks ago.’
‘And do you know where we can find her now?’
Semykin shrugged. ‘Ask the Red Army. When Churikova came to see me, she was in uniform, like everybody else. At the time, she said she was stationed in Moscow, but where she might be now is anybody’s guess. She told me she had joined the Army Signals Branch in late June, right after the Germans attacked, and subsequently became a cryptographer. Apparently, she has already made a name for herself by breaking something called the Ferdinand Cipher, which the Fascists were using to communicate between Berlin and their front-line headquarters.’
‘How does someone who studies forensics end up as a cryptographer?’ asked Kirov.
‘The two fields are quite similar,’ explained Semykin. ‘Forensics taught her to uncover things that lay hidden in works of art in order to determine whether they were originals or fakes. The forger will always leave traces, sometimes by accident, sometimes on purpose. Now, instead of paintings or sculptures, she finds what has been hidden in the labyrinth of words and numbers.’
‘What makes you think she can help us?’ asked Kirov.
‘I make no guarantee that she can, only that when two people look at a work of art, they rarely see the same thing. That is what makes it art.’
‘This is all very well,’ grumbled Kirov, ‘except her location is as much of a mystery as this painting!’
‘Solve one,’ Semykin told him, ‘and you may solve the other. For that, you must rely on your own art, Comrade Commissar.’
‘Thank you‚ Semykin‚’ said Pekkala‚ as he handed over the first paper-wrapped package. ‘We appreciate your assistance.’
Then he and Kirov waited while Semykin carefully untied the string. After folding back the layers of archival tissue, he gasped, as the face of the fiery-eyed saviour came into view. ‘Now this . . .’ murmured Semykin, ‘ this is authentic.’ As carefully as if it was a newborn infant, Semykin lifted the icon from its cradle of brown paper. Touching only the outermost edges of the frame, he held it up and sighed with admiration. ‘Is it Balkan?’
‘So I’m told,’ said Pekkala.
‘Late thirteenth century? Early fourteenth?’
‘Somewhere around there.’
‘Tempera on wood. Notice the asymmetrical nose and mouth, the deep furrows on his brow and the way this white lead backing brings to life the greenish ochre of his skin. The tension! The expressivity!’ Suddenly a look of consternation swept across Semykin’s face. ‘Wait,’ he said slowly. ‘I’ve seen this before somewhere.’ Sharply, he raised his head and stared questioningly at Pekkala. ‘Haven’t I?’
‘Yes,’ admitted Pekkala. ‘You have seen it hanging on the wall of the Museum of the Kremlin, and you will find it there again when you get out of
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