Read Online The Beast in the Red Forest by Sam Eastland - Free Book Online
Authors: Sam Eastland
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Lost in his own mind, Kirov reached instinctively for his pipe and the dwindling supply of good tobacco which he kept in the drawer of his desk. The tobacco was stored in an old leather pouch, so old and frayed that blond crumbs sifted through its broken seams every time he picked it up. Remembering the new pouch given to him by Linsky, Kirov fished it out of his pocket. For a moment, he studied the leather, turning it over in his hand as if the wrinkles of its grain, which curved and wandered like the roads upon the map which lay beneath it, might offer him some clue as to its original owner. Finding nothing, he untied the cord which held the pouch together and turned it inside out, to make sure it was free of dust and grit before loading the pouch with tobacco.
That was when he noticed a small black symbol burned into the hide. It showed what looked like two commas, facing each other. Beneath the commas was a triangle, the tip of which nudged up between the brackets. Under the triangle were the numbers 243.
It was just a tanner’s mark, the likes of which he had seen branded on leather saddles when his parents had run a tavern in a village called Torjuk on the road between Moscow and Petrograd.
Travellers arrived at all times of day or night, and it had been Kirov’s duty to see to their horses, removing the saddles, brushing them down and feeding them before the travellers departed. Almost every saddle had some kind of stamp in the leather, and sometimes several, placed there not only by the craftsmen who had manufactured the saddle but also by their owners. It had always seemed to Kirov that there were as many different stamps as there were saddles which he lifted from the backs of tired horses.
There was only one person he knew of who might have any idea how to trace such a symbol – a cobbler named Podolski. After the disappointment of his meeting with Lazarev, Kirov held out little hope that this tiny symbol might bring him any closer to Pekkala. But he knew he had to try, if only for the sake of thoroughness. With a groan, he rose to his feet and made his way back downstairs.
This time, Kirov did not take the car, but walked instead, striding across the city with his particular loping gait, the heel irons of his boots sparking off the cobblestones.
Podolski ran a shoe-repair business in a side street across from Lubyanka Square. His proximity to NKVD headquarters, and the fact that he specialised in military boots, meant that the personnel of Internal Security comprised almost all of his customers.
Unlike Linsky’s front window, which at least contained the products of his trade, festooned though they were upon some of the ugliest mannequins Kirov had ever seen, Podolski’s window display had nothing to do with shoes. The dusty space was strewn with old books, hats and odd gloves which Podolski had picked up off the street. This collection of orphaned relics was presided over by an old Manx cat who never seemed to move from its fur-matted cushion.
Just before he stepped inside the shop, Kirov paused and looked around. Once again, he had the feeling that he was being watched. But the side street was empty, and so was Lubyanka Square. No faces loomed from the doorway of NKVD Headquarters, or from the shuttered windows up above. And yet he experienced the unmistakable sensation of a stare burning into him, like a pinpoint of sun concentrated through a magnifying glass. I really am losing my mind, he told himself. If Stalin knew what was going on in my head, he’d tear up my Special Operations pass and have me thrown out into the street. If I could just talk to someone about it, he thought, but the only one who’d understand is Pekkala. I can’t breathe a word of this to Elizaveta. She already thinks I’m mad for not giving up on this search. I love her, he thought. I just don’t know if I can trust her. Not with something like this. Can you love someone and still not
Lost in his own mind, Kirov reached instinctively for his pipe and the dwindling supply of good tobacco which he kept in the drawer of his desk. The tobacco was stored in an old leather pouch, so old and frayed that blond crumbs sifted through its broken seams every time he picked it up. Remembering the new pouch given to him by Linsky, Kirov fished it out of his pocket. For a moment, he studied the leather, turning it over in his hand as if the wrinkles of its grain, which curved and wandered like the roads upon the map which lay beneath it, might offer him some clue as to its original owner. Finding nothing, he untied the cord which held the pouch together and turned it inside out, to make sure it was free of dust and grit before loading the pouch with tobacco.
That was when he noticed a small black symbol burned into the hide. It showed what looked like two commas, facing each other. Beneath the commas was a triangle, the tip of which nudged up between the brackets. Under the triangle were the numbers 243.
It was just a tanner’s mark, the likes of which he had seen branded on leather saddles when his parents had run a tavern in a village called Torjuk on the road between Moscow and Petrograd.
Travellers arrived at all times of day or night, and it had been Kirov’s duty to see to their horses, removing the saddles, brushing them down and feeding them before the travellers departed. Almost every saddle had some kind of stamp in the leather, and sometimes several, placed there not only by the craftsmen who had manufactured the saddle but also by their owners. It had always seemed to Kirov that there were as many different stamps as there were saddles which he lifted from the backs of tired horses.
There was only one person he knew of who might have any idea how to trace such a symbol – a cobbler named Podolski. After the disappointment of his meeting with Lazarev, Kirov held out little hope that this tiny symbol might bring him any closer to Pekkala. But he knew he had to try, if only for the sake of thoroughness. With a groan, he rose to his feet and made his way back downstairs.
This time, Kirov did not take the car, but walked instead, striding across the city with his particular loping gait, the heel irons of his boots sparking off the cobblestones.
Podolski ran a shoe-repair business in a side street across from Lubyanka Square. His proximity to NKVD headquarters, and the fact that he specialised in military boots, meant that the personnel of Internal Security comprised almost all of his customers.
Unlike Linsky’s front window, which at least contained the products of his trade, festooned though they were upon some of the ugliest mannequins Kirov had ever seen, Podolski’s window display had nothing to do with shoes. The dusty space was strewn with old books, hats and odd gloves which Podolski had picked up off the street. This collection of orphaned relics was presided over by an old Manx cat who never seemed to move from its fur-matted cushion.
Just before he stepped inside the shop, Kirov paused and looked around. Once again, he had the feeling that he was being watched. But the side street was empty, and so was Lubyanka Square. No faces loomed from the doorway of NKVD Headquarters, or from the shuttered windows up above. And yet he experienced the unmistakable sensation of a stare burning into him, like a pinpoint of sun concentrated through a magnifying glass. I really am losing my mind, he told himself. If Stalin knew what was going on in my head, he’d tear up my Special Operations pass and have me thrown out into the street. If I could just talk to someone about it, he thought, but the only one who’d understand is Pekkala. I can’t breathe a word of this to Elizaveta. She already thinks I’m mad for not giving up on this search. I love her, he thought. I just don’t know if I can trust her. Not with something like this. Can you love someone and still not
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