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 that Pekkala 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 books contained only those two pages, but in Pekkala’s, a third page had been inserted. Printed on canary yellow paper with a red border around the edge, were the following words:
THE PERSON IDENTIFIED IN THIS DOCUMENT IS ACTING UNDER THE DIRECT ORDERS OF COMRADE STALIN.
DO NOT QUESTION OR DETAIN HIM.
HE IS AUTHORISED TO WEAR CIVILIAN CLOTHES, TO CARRY WEAPONS, TO TRANSPORT PROHIBITED ITEMS, INCLUDING POISON, EXPLOSIVES ANDFOREIGN CURRENCY. HE MAY PASS INTO RESTRICTED AREAS AND MAY REQUISI TION EQUIPMENT OF ALL TYPES, INCLUDING WEAPONS AND VEHICLES.
IF HE IS KILLED OR INJURED, NOTIFY THE BUREAU OF SPECIAL OPERATIONS IMMEDIATELY.
Although this special insert was known officially as a Classified Operations Permit, it was more commonly referred to as a Shadow Pass. With it, a man could appear and disappear at will within the wilderness of regulations that controlled the state. Fewer than a dozen of these Shadow Passes were known to exist. Even within the ranks of the NKVD, most people had never seen one.
Rain flicked at the pass book, darkening the paper.
The guard squinted to read the words. It took a moment for him to grasp what he was looking at. Then he looked at the gun in his hand as if he had no idea how he had come to be holding it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, hurriedly replacing the weapon in its holster.
‘Why would you think we were doctors?’ asked Pekkala.
‘There has been an accident,’ explained the guard.
‘What happened?’
The guard shrugged. ‘I couldn’t tell you. When the facility called me here at the guard house about half an hour ago, all they said was that a doctor would be arriving soon and to let him through without delay. Whatever it is, I’m sure Colonel Nagorski has the situation under control.’ The guard paused. ‘Listen, are you really Inspector Pekkala?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ asked Pekkala.
‘It’s just …’ The guard smiled awkwardly, scratching his forehead with his thumbnail, ‘I wasn’t sure you really existed.’
‘Do we have your permission to proceed?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Of course!’ The guard stood back and waved them forward with a sweep of his arm, like a man clearing breadcrumbs off a table.
Kirov put the car in gear and drove on.
For several minutes, the Emka travelled on the long, straight road with the facility nowhere in sight.
‘This place really is in the middle of nowhere,’ muttered Kirov.
Pekkala grunted in agreement. He squinted up at the trees, which seemed to stoop over the car as if curious to see who was inside.
Then, up ahead, they saw where the woods had been cut back around a group of hunched and flat-roofed brick buildings.
As they pulled into a dirt courtyard, the door to one of the smaller buildings swung open and a man dashed out, making straight towards them. Like the guard, he wore a military uniform. By the time he reached the Emka, he was already out of breath.
Pekkala and Kirov got out of the car.
‘I am Captain Samarin,’ wheezed the NKVD man. He had black, Asiatic-looking hair, thin lips and deep-set eyes. ‘It’s this way, Doctor,’ he panted. ‘You’ll need your medical bag.’
‘We are not doctors,’ explained Pekkala.
Samarin was flustered. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘What is your business here?’
‘I am Inspector Pekkala, of the Bureau of Special Operations, and this is Major Kirov. Colonel Nagorski was kind enough to offer us a tour of the facility.’
‘I’m afraid that a tour is out of the question, Inspector,’ replied Samarin, ‘but I would be glad
Most government pass books contained only those two pages, but in Pekkala’s, a third page had been inserted. Printed on canary yellow paper with a red border around the edge, were the following words:
THE PERSON IDENTIFIED IN THIS DOCUMENT IS ACTING UNDER THE DIRECT ORDERS OF COMRADE STALIN.
DO NOT QUESTION OR DETAIN HIM.
HE IS AUTHORISED TO WEAR CIVILIAN CLOTHES, TO CARRY WEAPONS, TO TRANSPORT PROHIBITED ITEMS, INCLUDING POISON, EXPLOSIVES ANDFOREIGN CURRENCY. HE MAY PASS INTO RESTRICTED AREAS AND MAY REQUISI TION EQUIPMENT OF ALL TYPES, INCLUDING WEAPONS AND VEHICLES.
IF HE IS KILLED OR INJURED, NOTIFY THE BUREAU OF SPECIAL OPERATIONS IMMEDIATELY.
Although this special insert was known officially as a Classified Operations Permit, it was more commonly referred to as a Shadow Pass. With it, a man could appear and disappear at will within the wilderness of regulations that controlled the state. Fewer than a dozen of these Shadow Passes were known to exist. Even within the ranks of the NKVD, most people had never seen one.
Rain flicked at the pass book, darkening the paper.
The guard squinted to read the words. It took a moment for him to grasp what he was looking at. Then he looked at the gun in his hand as if he had no idea how he had come to be holding it. ‘I’m sorry,’ he mumbled, hurriedly replacing the weapon in its holster.
‘Why would you think we were doctors?’ asked Pekkala.
‘There has been an accident,’ explained the guard.
‘What happened?’
The guard shrugged. ‘I couldn’t tell you. When the facility called me here at the guard house about half an hour ago, all they said was that a doctor would be arriving soon and to let him through without delay. Whatever it is, I’m sure Colonel Nagorski has the situation under control.’ The guard paused. ‘Listen, are you really Inspector Pekkala?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ asked Pekkala.
‘It’s just …’ The guard smiled awkwardly, scratching his forehead with his thumbnail, ‘I wasn’t sure you really existed.’
‘Do we have your permission to proceed?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Of course!’ The guard stood back and waved them forward with a sweep of his arm, like a man clearing breadcrumbs off a table.
Kirov put the car in gear and drove on.
For several minutes, the Emka travelled on the long, straight road with the facility nowhere in sight.
‘This place really is in the middle of nowhere,’ muttered Kirov.
Pekkala grunted in agreement. He squinted up at the trees, which seemed to stoop over the car as if curious to see who was inside.
Then, up ahead, they saw where the woods had been cut back around a group of hunched and flat-roofed brick buildings.
As they pulled into a dirt courtyard, the door to one of the smaller buildings swung open and a man dashed out, making straight towards them. Like the guard, he wore a military uniform. By the time he reached the Emka, he was already out of breath.
Pekkala and Kirov got out of the car.
‘I am Captain Samarin,’ wheezed the NKVD man. He had black, Asiatic-looking hair, thin lips and deep-set eyes. ‘It’s this way, Doctor,’ he panted. ‘You’ll need your medical bag.’
‘We are not doctors,’ explained Pekkala.
Samarin was flustered. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘What is your business here?’
‘I am Inspector Pekkala, of the Bureau of Special Operations, and this is Major Kirov. Colonel Nagorski was kind enough to offer us a tour of the facility.’
‘I’m afraid that a tour is out of the question, Inspector,’ replied Samarin, ‘but I would be glad
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