Kirov stood at attention, his eyes fixed on the wall.
Stalin sat in his red leather chair. On the desk in front of him lay a stack of police photographs which had been taken at the brothel after the shooting. One was of Serge Bakhturin’s corpse, lying beside the unmade bed. The man’s face, crumpled by the bullet which had killed him, resembled an old mask made of papier mâché. Another picture showed Bakhturin’s leg, pale and welded to the floor with blood, the limb cut nearly in half by the bullet that had shattered his knee.
There were shots of the room, in which shadows seemed to hover about the camera lens as if the air was filled with ghosts. One photo showed the view from the window, looking out across a crooked sea of rooftops. There was even a picture of the girl, still in her blood-spattered night dress. She stared directly into the camera, hypnotised by the cyclops eye of the lens.
Stalin set aside all the pictures except the ones of Bakhturin’s body. These he studied closely, with a look of intense concentration on his face. Finally, Stalin sat back in his chair and pushed the photograph away, turning his gaze at last to Major Kirov. ‘This is the first time you have killed a man, isn’t it?’
Kirov did not reply, but remained at attention, staring at the wall behind Stalin’s desk.
‘I know what must be going on inside your head, but you must let your conscience rest. This man,’ Stalin jabbed the photograph of Serge Bakhturin’s face, as if to stir his finger in the wound, ‘was a traitor! He admitted it to you. It is over. It is done. Go home. Get drunk if you need to. Get some sleep.’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin. Has there been any word from Pekkala?’
‘Army Intelligence reported that he and Lieutenant Churikova crossed the lines last night, accompanied by a soldier who is acting as their guide. They’re on their own now, Kirov. There is nothing for us to do now except trust in the magic of that Finnish sorcerer you call a friend.’