Free The Beast in the Red Forest by Sam Eastland

anyway.’
    ‘And this is based on what?’
    Kirov paused. He knew he could not tell Stalin the truth. To do so would be to sign the death warrants of Linsky and Poskrebychev. ‘Unsubstantiated evidence,’ he stated categorically.
    At that moment, in the outer office, Poskrebychev muttered a silent prayer of thanks. As usual, he had been eavesdropping through the intercom system between his desk and that of Stalin. Relaying Linsky’s message to the major had been the greatest act of faith that he had ever undertaken, and the days since then had been filled with terror at each unfamiliar face he encountered in the hallway, every noise outside the door of his apartment. Even the casual glances of people he passed in the street caused sweat to gather like a scattering of pearls upon his face. When Kirov had passed by on his way into Stalin’s office, he had not said a word to Poskrebychev. Kirov didn’t even look in his direction, which had caused Poskrebychev’s heart to accelerate completely out of control, and to flutter about his chest like a bird trapped behind the flimsy caging of his ribs. As soon as Kirov entered Stalin’s room, Poskrebychev had leaned forward and, with trembling fingers, switched on the intercom so as to hear every word of what he felt sure was his impending doom.
    ‘In other words,’ said Stalin, ‘you have nothing to go on but more rumours.’
    ‘That is correct, Comrade Stalin. Rumours are all we have.’
    ‘How did you plan on getting to this place? Kodo . . .’
    ‘Kolodenka. I took a look at the map and the nearest airfield is just outside the town of Rovno, only a few kilometres from Kolodenka.’
    ‘Rovno.’ A flicker of recognition passed across Stalin’s face. ‘That’s partisan country.’
    ‘Yes, and I believe it’s possible that Pekkala has been living among them.’
    ‘I suppose this should come as no surprise, given how much trouble they have caused us in that region.’
    ‘Trouble?’ asked Kirov. ‘But the newspapers are filled with reports of their heroism in fighting behind the lines.’
    Stalin barked out one sarcastic laugh. ‘Of course we are calling them heroes! That sounds a lot better than the truth.’
    ‘And what is the truth, Comrade Stalin?’
    ‘The truth,’ boomed Stalin, ‘as always, is complicated. And people don’t want complications. They want a simple narrative. They want to know who’s good and who’s not. Some of them have been fighting bravely against the Fascists, but others fought alongside them when the tide of war was flowing the other way. There are heroes among them and there are traitors as well. Deciding which is which has become very difficult. There is even a danger that some of them might turn their guns upon us, now that we are recapturing that corner of the country. The situation has become so serious that, just last week, I dispatched Colonel Viktor Andrich to Rovno, with the job of sorting out this mess. If anyone knows where Pekkala might be hiding, it is Andrich. I will see to it that you have letters of introduction, which will guarantee his full cooperation in your search. In the meantime, you may requisition whatever means of transport you might need to get you there. But you had better leave now, Kirov. If Andrich fails in his mission, a war could break out any day now between the Red Army and the partisans.’
    Two minutes later, Kirov was striding down the hallway, bound for the nearest airfield and the first plane he could find which might be heading west. Then he heard someone calling his name. Kirov spun around and realised it was Poskrebychev, galloping unevenly towards him. Poskrebychev’s balance was offset by a bundle, wrapped in paper and tied with string, which he carried tucked under his arm.
    ‘Not again,’ Kirov muttered to himself. He had avoided even making eye contact with Poskrebychev on his way into Stalin’s office. Given the risks both of them had taken in keeping information from Stalin,