Free The Beast in the Red Forest by Sam Eastland Page B

programme, which waited for him by the railway tracks. The rails, destroyed by the retreating German army, twisted into the air like giant snakes charmed from a basket.
    The only thing that Kirov carried with him was a canvas bag with a wooden toggle closure, intended for an army-issue gasmask. Its original contents had been disposed of, in favour of Pekkala’s Webley, the box of bullets, a lump of half stale bread and a piece of dried fish wrapped up in a handkerchief.
    The driver of the Jeep was a thick-necked man with a wide forehead and narrow eyes, his upper body cocooned in a telogreika jacket. The telogreika ’s tan cotton exterior was faded by washing in gasoline, which soldiers at the front often used instead of soap and water. The white fluff of raw cotton used to pad the jacket peeked from numerous tears in the cloth.
    ‘Welcome, Comrade Major!’ said the driver. ‘I am your driver, Sergeant Zolkin.’
    Kirov climbed into the Jeep, dumping the bag on the floor at his feet. The seats smelled of sweat and old smoke. ‘Do you know where I can find Colonel Andrich?’
    ‘Yes, Comrade Major!’ exclaimed the driver, a broad smile sweeping across his face. ‘He is expecting you.’
    Soon, the Jeep was racing along the muddy roads, its wipers twitching jerkily back and forth, like the antennae of an insect, smearing the raindrops from the windscreen.
    ‘So you have come from Moscow?’ asked Zolkin.
    ‘That’s right.’
    ‘It has been a dream of mine to visit that great city.’
    ‘Well,’ said Kirov, ‘perhaps you will get there some day.’
    ‘I do not have long to wait, Comrade Major! You see, I have been loaned to you by Commander Yakushkin, who is in charge of the Red Army garrison here in Rovno. This Jeep belongs to him and so do I. Commander Yakushkin will soon be transferred to Moscow, and I will be travelling with him. Once I am there, I intend to fulfil my life’s ambition, which is to shake the hand of the great Comrade Stalin.’
    Although Kirov knew that the odds against that were slim indeed, he said nothing to dampen the sergeant’s enthusiasm.
    By now, they had entered the outskirts of Rovno.
    As two white chickens scattered from beneath the heavy-lugged tyres of the Jeep, Kirov glanced at the abandoned houses, their thatched roofs slumped like the backs of broken horses. He wondered how long it would take to rebuild a village like this. Perhaps, he thought to himself, they won’t even try. That was what had happened to his family’s tavern after the opening of the railway between Leningrad and Moscow. Within a year or two, traffic on the old road almost disappeared. There weren’t enough customers to keep the tavern open and they had to close. The building was left to rot. He had only seen it once since his family moved out, one winter’s day as he rode past in a train bound for Leningrad. By then, the roof had collapsed. The chimneys, one at either end of the tavern, leaned as if swooning into the ruins of what had once been the dining room. Snow had swept up against one side of the building and the jagged teeth of broken window panes glittered with frost. He had found it strangely beautiful to see how the structure, once the centre of his universe, had surrendered to the gravity of seasons.
    The meandering of his thoughts was interrupted as the Jeep came to a sudden halt, slewing almost sideways in the mud.
    ‘What happened?’ asked Kirov, who had barely saved himself from being thrown out of the vehicle.
    Zolkin didn’t reply. He left the engine running and launched himself from behind the wheel, drawing the pistol from his belt.
    Seeing the gun, Kirov hauled out his Tokarev, jumped from the car and dived into the wide ditch, which was chest deep in water. The crack of the sergeant’s gun was the last thing Kirov heard before he went under. A moment later, he popped to the surface, spluttering out a mouthful of the oil-tinted ooze. The gunfire continued, but Kirov couldn’t