Red Icon (13 page)

The previous People’s Commissar of the State Railways had been turned over to NKVD by his own wife for travelling in a railway carriage set aside for transportation of officials on government business in order to travel back and forth from Moscow to his holiday dacha on the Black Sea. Although the practice was widespread and usually ignored by NKVD, the fact that the commissar’s own wife had denounced him caused an embarrassment which could not be overlooked. The commissar received a twelve-year sentence in a Gulag on the border of Mongolia.

The reason the commissar’s wife had turned in her own husband was that she suspected him of having an affair. The source of this rumour, which turned out to be false, was believed to be Viktor Bakhturin. At the time, Bakhturin had been a junior commissar of State Railways, but he quickly rose to take the place of the man now in Siberia.

Semykin’s own troubles with Bakhturin began with a painting by the Polish artist Stanislaw Wyspianski, which the People’s Commissar had personally removed from the house of a railway official in Poland after the invasion of 1939.

After showing a photograph of the painting to Semykin, Bakhturin had asked if he would sell it for him. Initially, Semykin had agreed to broker the sale, but on receiving the actual painting, he realised that it was, in fact, a copy. When Semykin informed Bakhturin of this, the commissar ordered him to keep his mouth shut and to sell the painting as an original. Semykin refused, and Bakhturin had him arrested on the charge of attempting to sell forged works of art. Semykin’s explanation that he was, in fact, trying
not
to sell a fake was lost upon the court and he was sentenced to five years in prison.

For a man used to being surrounded by works of art, the bare walls of Semykin’s prison cell soon became an unrelenting torture. Unable to endure the terrible blankness any longer, Semykin had used blood from his own fingertips to reconstruct, from memory, Seurat’s pointillist masterpiece known as
Une Baignade
.

In exchange for Semykin’s help with deciphering a coded message in a painting found in the briefcase of an SS officer whose scout plane was forced down behind the Russian lines, Pekkala handed him the portrait he had just taken from the wall of the museum. Although it was in his possession for only a few minutes, the chance to reacquaint himself with the kind of beauty to which he had dedicated his life was enough to keep him sane until Pekkala could secure his release and, with some gentle persuasion, coax Stalin into granting Semykin a job on the permanent staff of the museum.

Semykin’s face was framed by dark eyebrows, fleshy lips and a studiously unkempt beard. During his time at Lubyanka, the sudden loss of weight had caused his skin to hang loosely on his frame and his face had the look of a bloodhound stripped of its fur. But now he had regained his former portliness, and the colour had returned to his cheeks. He wore a thick, hand-knitted sweater with wooden toggle buttons down the front which was almost old enough to be a part of the museum’s collection. Few civilians could afford new clothes these days. As the war dragged on, and clothing wore out, people reached deeper into their wardrobes for things to wear. The result was that the fashions in Moscow seemed to be travelling backwards in time.

‘The man who saved my life!’ announced Semykin, and as he spoke he wrapped his arms around Pekkala, who patiently endured the rough embrace.

Kirov could not help noticing the white scar tissue on Semykin’s fingertips, which had puckered the skin like that of someone who had lingered too long in a bath.

‘We have brought you a present,’ said Pekkala, handing the cloth-wrapped bundle to Semykin.

‘Let’s go to the glass room and see what we’ve got,’ replied Semykin.

‘The glass room?’ asked Kirov.

‘You will see,’ Semykin answered cryptically.

A few minutes later, the strange procession arrived at the centre of a gallery, and entered a room whose walls were made of glass. In the middle of this space stood an oval conference table and a dozen stiff-backed chairs.

‘I feel like a goldfish in a bowl,’ said Kirov, looking around him uncomfortably.

‘This is where we bring the visiting dignitaries,’ explained Golyakovsky. ‘The people who like to be seen.’

‘But not recently, I see,’ remarked Pekkala, as he drew his finger through the dust that had collected on the table.

Semykin sighed and nodded. ‘Only the art of war can draw a crowd these days.’ With that pronouncement, he unwrapped the parcel. As soon as his gaze fell upon
The Shepherd
, he placed the icon down at once upon the table, as if it had suddenly grown hot to the touch. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’ he spluttered.

‘It is no joke,’ answered Kirov.

Semykin raised his head and stared at them in disbelief. ‘But I thought . . .’

‘So did I,’ said Pekkala, and he went on to explain the circumstances under which the icon had been found.

As he listened, Golyakovsky removed a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed it against his forehead. ‘Impossible,’ he whispered. ‘It must be some kind of illusion.’

‘An illusion or a copy,’ remarked Pekkala. ‘That’s why I have brought it here, for Semykin to decide if it’s one or the other.’

For a long time, Semykin studied the image, lost in thought. Then suddenly he picked up the icon, turned it over and began to examine the back.

‘Why are you doing that?’ asked Kirov.

‘If a forger has been at work here,’ answered Semykin, ‘he is likely to have confined his efforts to the painting itself. It is here, amongst the scaffolding of art, that we can usually tell if we are dealing with a fake. Occasionally, a forger will get hold of an old canvas or wooden panel and simply paint over it. That way, the actual structure on which the image is created adds to the illusion of antiquity. But in this case,’ he raised himself upright and breathed in deeply, ‘I see no sign of foul play.’ Turning the painting right side up again, Semykin bent down and studied the surface, his nose almost touching the image. For a long time, he gazed at the panel on which
The Shepherd
had been painted.

Kirov peered over his shoulder. ‘What exactly are you looking for?’

‘Traces of titanium oxide. Forgers sometimes use it, although this compound would not have been available at the time the original was painted. Occasionally, the canvas has been artificially aged, by rubbing it with stale bread.’

‘Stale bread?’ echoed Kirov.

Semykin nodded. ‘It gives the canvas the appearance of having been handled many times, without actually damaging the paint. Forgers can be extremely inventive. I once knew a forger who used ground-up tobacco to simulate moisture damage on the backs of canvases.’

‘So is it real?’ asked Pekkala.

‘Oh, it is real enough,’ Semykin assured him. ‘The question is whether it’s the true
Shepherd
.’

‘Does it really matter?’ asked Kirov. ‘Isn’t one picture of the Shepherd as sacred as another?’

Semykin smiled gently. ‘Not at all, Major. You see, this icon is not merely a representation of the divine. The icon
itself
is divine. For those who believe in it, this painting is a doorway to a spiritual realm. Copy the image, and all you’d have is a picture of that door. Only the real portal will grant you access to that other world and the power it commands.’

‘Then which is it?’ demanded Pekkala.

For a moment, Semykin did not reply. Keeping his focus on the back of the picture, he tilted it back and forth, squinting as he hunted for a clue. Then he brought it over to the edge of the room, where the light was marginally brighter. ‘Here!’ he said at last. ‘Yes!’ He turned to face the other men, who watched him expectantly. ‘I don’t know how or why it has survived,’ he told them, ‘but I am convinced that this icon is the true
Shepherd
.’

‘What makes you so certain?’ asked Kirov.

Slowly, Semykin traced one finger along a faint black mark at the very edge of the panel. ‘Here is your proof.’

‘That little smudge?’ asked Golyakovsky.

Kirov bent closer to see. ‘What is it?’

‘This is where the icon really was burned,’ replied Semykin, ‘although only slightly, when the private chapel of the Romanovs was damaged by fire back in the winter of 1908.’

‘I remember that!’ exclaimed Pekkala. ‘A votive candle was left burning after a service. It fell from its pedestal and the curtain behind the altar caught fire. But I heard nothing about this icon being damaged.’

‘That’s because it was kept secret.’

‘Then how do you know about it?’ asked Kirov.

‘I was summoned by the Tsar to examine
The Shepherd
, which had been rescued from the blaze, but not without suffering some damage to the outer frame.’

‘But why did he call upon you?’ This time it was Golyakovsky who asked the question. ‘Why not consult with one of the experts at the Hermitage?’

‘The Tsar was well aware to what extent the art world thrives on gossip. I had brokered the sale of several paintings for the Romanovs, for which absolute discretion was required. In short, Comrade Golyakovsky, he called on me because he knew I could keep my mouth shut. Otherwise, the Tsar knew, rumours might begin to spread that he was not taking proper care of the icon. Or worse, that God has also come to that conclusion.’

‘What did you find when you examined
The Shepherd
?’ asked Kirov.

‘Although there were no visible burn marks on the painting itself, the Tsar was concerned that the icon might have been damaged in more subtle ways, such as the paint becoming brittle in the heat, in which case it would rapidly begin to flake off. In a matter of years, the entire image could have been obliterated.’

‘What did you tell him?’

‘That the frame was ruined and that it should be replaced as soon as possible, but that the icon itself had not been compromised. The only trace that it had been touched by fire was this mark, right at the edge. They were lucky not to lose the whole thing. The paints used to create this icon are highly volatile. One spark could have reduced it to a pile of ashes. In due course a new frame was constructed using jewels from the original and the burn mark was cleverly hidden beneath the new frame.’

‘And no one else knew about this?’

‘No one,’ confirmed Semykin, ‘aside from the Tsar and his immediate family.’

‘Which means you are the only one left alive who could identify that burn mark,’ said Kirov.

Semykin nodded. ‘That’s why I am so certain.’

‘Even if it is real,’ said Kirov, ‘I don’t see what makes this icon any more important than the thousands of others in this country.’

‘Even from an artistic standpoint, and leaving aside its historical significance,’ explained Semykin, ‘
The Shepherd
is a most unusual painting. It is what we refer to as a renegade icon. Its subject matter violates the edicts of the 82nd Canon, which dates back to
AD
692, when the Quinisext Council in Constantinople forbade any representation of the Lamb of God.’

‘And does that law still stand?’ asked Kirov.

‘Indeed it does,’ answered Semykin, ‘and, as you can see, whoever created this icon did not merely disobey the law, but flaunted it. This is an icon of rebellion. Who worshipped this was bound upon a different journey from those who stayed within the confines of the Orthodox Church.’

The next question came from Pekkala. ‘Then why did the Tsars value it so greatly?’ he asked.

‘Because whether or not it conformed to the edicts of the Church, the Tsars still believed in its power,’ said Semykin, ‘and to the rulers of this country, then and now, power is the most sacred thing of all.’

Back at the office, Kirov and Pekkala slumped down into a pair of haggard-looking chairs which had once graced the lounge of the old Hotel Metropol. Driving through town one winter’s day, Pekkala had spotted the chairs dumped on the pavement, ready to be collected by the municipal garbage collectors. He had immediately ordered Kirov, who used to double as chauffeur before the arrival of Sergeant Zolkin, to stop the car. In spite of Kirov’s objections, Pekkala had loaded the chairs into the boot of the Emka, brought them back and, with Kirov’s grudging assistance, carried them up the five flights of stairs to the office.

Kirov, who had been carrying the icon all this time, placed it on the floor in the narrow space between the wall and the stove.

‘Don’t leave it there!’ warned Pekkala. ‘You heard what Semykin said about the icon being flammable. One spark from the stove and the whole thing could catch fire.’

With a grunt, Kirov reached down, unwilling to leave the comfort of his chair. Twisting around, he slid the icon up on to the windowsill. ‘Will that do?’ he asked.

‘For now,’ answered Pekkala.

‘If Semykin is right,’ said Kirov, ‘there is only one possibility.’

Pekkala had been thinking the same thing. ‘That priest did not destroy the icon, after all.’

‘But why would he confess to having done such a thing,’ asked Kirov, ‘when it got him thrown in prison, probably for the rest of his life?’

‘Perhaps he will tell us himself,’ said Pekkala. ‘Tomorrow, get in touch with the authorities at Karaganda Prison and find out if he’s still alive.’

Prison Warder Feodor Turkov was asleep with his feet up on his desk. His hands, which rested on his lap, clutched an alarm clock with two large bells like mouse ears perched above its face. He wore a heavy grey coat lined with goat fur which smelled rancid when it was wet. In spite of this, Turkov almost never took it off, except in the middle of the summer. It always seemed cold in his dark, little office, as if the ghost of winter lingered in the shadows.

When the alarm clock sounded, as it would in a matter of minutes, Turkov would be forced to leave the relative luxury of his office and walk around his sector of the prison, a journey he was obliged to make three times a day, no matter what the weather.

He had worked at Karaganda for more than twenty-five years. In his early days, he had earned a reputation as one of the strictest, most short-tempered and feared warders at the prison. He despised all the inmates on principle, even when it was clear to him, from looking at their files, that they had been unjustly convicted. He did not care what had brought them to Karaganda, only that they were there now and would remain, in most cases, for a very long time. It was not their pasts that Turkov loathed, but the people they became while in captivity.

In recent years, however, the fierceness of his youth had mellowed greatly. He no longer had the stamina to maintain such a fortress of hate. It simply became too exhausting to be so angry all the time.

It was not long before Turkov’s superiors noticed his flagging sense of rage. Had he been a younger man, the authorities at Karaganda might have dismissed him on the spot, but they took into account his decades of service and, instead, made him warder of the geriatric wing, where prisoners lucky enough to have survived into old age were left in peace to grow their own food, to raise their own chickens and pigs, and to be left alone except for the brief, daily visits of Warder Turkov.

The younger Turkov would have seen this as an insult even worse than dismissal, and many of his colleagues offered consolation at such an undignified posting, but Turkov was secretly relieved.

Since taking up the post, Turkov had discovered a peace of mind he’d never known before, nor ever thought was possible. He worked hard to reinvent himself and if the ancient prisoners of the geriatric wing still remembered bitterly the man he used to be, still they could not deny that he was better than before.

Turkov’s duties were not strenuous, leaving him plenty of time to rest in his office, or to read or to play cards in the warders’ canteen. Most days, he did not mind his strolls across the prison grounds, but the season of mud, known as the
rasputitsa
, had come early this year, making every footstep through the gluey mess a time-consuming and unpleasant task.

A metallic clatter startled Turkov awake. He sat up sharply, placed the alarm clock on his desk and tapped his fingers on the button which silenced the bell.

But the bell did not stop ringing and, still half asleep, Turkov stared in confusion at the clock. It was only after several seconds that he realised the sound was not coming from the clock but from the phone on the wall.

No one had rung that number in months. He had almost forgotten that the phone was there at all.

Turkov launched himself out of his chair and snatched up the receiver. ‘Hello?’ he shouted. ‘Hello?’

A voice, calling faintly through the breaking waves of static, replied, ‘This is Major Kirov of Special Operations in Moscow.’

Turkov let out a snort. ‘Well, you must have the wrong number, Major Kirov! You’ve called the geriatric compound of the Karaganda Prison.’

‘That is correct, Comrade Turkov.’

‘Oh,’ said Turkov, his voice filled with foreboding. What does Special Operations want with me, he wondered. ‘And what is it you want, Comrade Major?’ He listened while Kirov explained. ‘Detlev? Father Detlev? He’s the one you want?’ Turkov heaved a sigh of relief. ‘Yes, he’s very much alive. In fact, I am looking at him now.’ Through the dirty window, Turkov could see the small, crooked-backed figure of a man, his head wrapped in a piece of rabbit fur, fetching in a piece of wood for his fire. ‘Well, of course, Comrade Major. We would welcome a visit from the great Inspector Pekkala. And you, too, of course. Goodbye. Yes. Goodbye.’ Turkov hung up the phone, walked over to the window and looked out at Father Detlev who, by now, had retreated inside his one-room shack, pushing out the small pot-bellied pig who was his only real companion and who had taken advantage of the open door to make its way inside. Then Father Detlev shut the door behind him.

Turkov felt a moment of pity for the old priest. Visits from the outside world, even those that were well-intentioned, seldom did the inmates any good. In a world where a man’s sanity was held together only by the rhythm of his daily routine, good news could do as much harm as bad.

During his time as minder of these ancient convicts, Turkov had become protective of their privacy. He had come to admire the dignity of their silence, since few of them ever spoke, at least to him. And when they died, it was Turkov who laid them out on their lumpy, pine-cone-stuffed mattresses, straightened their clothes and folded their hands on their chests before calling for the bodies to be taken away to an unmarked grave in the Karaganda bone pits.

Having set out at dawn on 11 February, Pekkala, Kirov and Zolkin drove until dark before stopping at an inn just outside the town of Krasnoye Baki. There was only one room available, with two small beds taking up much of the space. They had not been in residence long before discovering that the place was infested with fleas.

Pekkala, who had chosen to sleep on the floor, with no sheets or pillow except his coat rolled up under his head, remained untouched by the blood-sucking insects.

Zolkin, too, was also left alone, thanks to a strange ritual he performed just before turning in for the night.

He had removed a handful of stewed tea leaves from the samovar laid out for them after their meal. Then, to the surprise of his travelling companions, he had packed the tea leaves in his mouth and chewed them to a pulp. After this, he took the Emka’s repair kit from the boot of the car and removed the thermometer used for gauging radiator fluid temperature. He broke the end off the thermometer, spilling the teaspoon of mercury it contained into an old tin cup. As Kirov and Pekkala looked on in suspicion and amazement, he stirred the mercury into the tea leaves until the silver liquid had broken up into hundreds of tiny spheres, each one not much bigger than a grain of sand. In the last step of this strange procedure, Zolkin rolled the mixture into a large handkerchief, which he then tied around his neck. Turning to his companions, he smiled and held open his hands, like a man who had just performed a successful magic trick.

‘And this will accomplish what exactly?’ Kirov demanded scornfully.

‘It wards off the fleas,’ explained Zolkin. ‘I could easily make one for you. Just find me another drop of mercury . . .’

‘No, thank you,’ Kirov answered flatly. ‘There is enough bizarre behaviour around here with Pekkala sleeping on the floor. I’ve no intention of encouraging any more.’

‘And you, Inspector?’ asked Zolkin.

But Pekkala, lying stretched out on the floorboards, his boots still on and his hands folded serenely across his stomach, had already fallen asleep.

The next morning, Kirov was covered with red welts.

Zolkin, on the other hand, had none. Instead, lying all around him on the bed were dead fleas which, drawn by the smell of the tea, had bitten into the handkerchief, ingested the mercury, and perished.

Pekkala, having chosen the floor, was similarly left alone, either because of having chosen to sleep on the floor or, as Kirov suggested, because of some Finnish spell he had cast upon the Russian fleas.

‘Next time, perhaps, Major,’ said Zolkin cheerfully, as he untied the handkerchief from his neck and tucked it away in his pocket.

‘Stay away from me, you hobgoblin!’ growled Kirov, scratching at the bites, which dotted his chest and arms like the constellations of an unmapped universe.

From then on, even though the temperature dropped well below freezing at night, they slept in open country, avoiding the taverns altogether.

By sunset, they had reached the outskirts of Nagorskoye. With Kirov still itching from his flea bites, they pulled off the road and made camp not far from the Kobra River. They built a fire out of driftwood salvaged from the river bank and, after a meal of black bread, sausage and pickles, washed down with a bottle of kvass, they spread their blankets on the ground and were soon asleep.

Four days after leaving Moscow, the mud-splashed Emka pulled up outside the main gates of Karaganda Prison. The front grille, which had once been silver, now wore a pale shellac of Moscow highway mud, made up of thousands of spatters, fused and overlapping until they had formed into a virtual coral reef of grime. The lights had been similarly plastered. Several times a day, Zolkin was forced to scrape the glass lenses clean with a knife.

From a guard shack whose entrance was curtained with a piece of burlap sacking, a guard strolled out to meet them. He wore the dark blue uniform of a prison guard, with a white patent leather belt and silver buttons. His face, deeply marked by old acne scars, made him look as if he had been hewn out of pumice stone.

Kirov rolled down his dirt-splashed window and explained the reason for their visit.

‘If you’re looking for Father Detlev,’ said the guard, ‘you’ll need to go around the back. That’s where we keep the fossils.’

The section of the prison in which Father Detlev lived, along with several others of his vintage, was separated from the main compound by a narrow path that ran through a field where, in summer time, convicts grew beets and cabbages for the Karaganda kitchen. Barbed wire had been set up to keep the chickens and the pigs from rooting through the crops, but there was nothing to contain the prisoners.

Zolkin parked the Emka outside Warder Turkov’s hut.

The warder’s face appeared in the window and, a moment later, he emerged, huddled in his heavy coat. ‘You must be the Inspector,’ said Turkov.

Pekkala nodded in greeting.

On the other side, Kirov stumbled out, raised his hands above his head, stretched and groaned from the pain in his cramped legs.

‘I will bring you straight to Father Detlev.’ Turkov motioned for the two men to follow him. ‘Your driver can wait in my house. There’s fresh tea in the samovar.’

He led Pekkala and Kirov towards the jumble of huts, scattered among the leafless, crooked branches of the convicts’ apple trees. ‘Please forgive the lack of formality at this end of the compound,’ he added.

‘A prison without fences,’ remarked Kirov.

‘These men are not going to escape,’ explained Turkov. ‘There is nowhere for them to go. The world they left behind when they arrived at Karaganda no longer exists. We try to make life as easy as possible for them. I have brought Father Detlev seeds to make his garden, and watercolours for the paintings that he does from time to time.’

At that moment, Pekkala sensed he was being watched. A face, accordioned with wrinkles, peered from the doorway of a hut. As soon as the man realised that he’d been seen, he stepped back into the darkness and the door slid silently shut.

‘Why has Father Detlev been here so long?’ asked Kirov. ‘I thought he would have been released years ago, since it was on the Tsar’s orders that he came here in the first place. Back then, to be an enemy of the Romanovs was to be a friend of the Revolution.’

‘You are forgetting, perhaps, that Detlev is also a man of the Church, an organisation not favoured by the Communist Party.’

‘But the churches have been opened again, on the orders of Comrade Stalin!’

‘True,’ agreed Turkov, ‘and if his only crime had been to worship God, he might have been a free man by now. But he is not only a priest. He is also a man who destroyed one of the Church’s most sacred artefacts. So you see, Comrade Major, he made himself the enemy of both sides in this war of faith.’ Turkov came to a stop outside a hut, whose door was made from pieces of old packing crates which had once held tins of cooking oil. The collage of wording, stencilled on the splintery wood, resembled a large and partially finished crossword puzzle. He rapped on the door and stood back. ‘Father Detlev,’ he called. ‘Your visitor is here!’

There was a shuffling inside.

A moment later, the door swung open to reveal a small, bewildered-looking man, with weather-beaten cheeks and a haze of short grey hair protruding like splinters from his scalp. In spite of his age, he appeared strong and healthy. To greet the men, he raised one callused hand, its knuckles crooked with arthritis. In spite of the years since they had last seen each other, Detlev recognised Pekkala immediately. ‘Inspector,’ he said. ‘You said we’d meet again and here we are!’ Glancing at the bundle tucked under Pekkala’s arm, the old priest knew at once what it contained. ‘It seems I am to have more than one reunion today,’ he remarked. ‘Come inside, gentlemen. You’ve come a long way to hear my story, and I’ve waited a long time to tell it.’

While Turkov returned to his duties, Pekkala and Kirov entered the small hut, ducking as they passed through the doorway.

Inside the hut, it was dark and dry and warm. Dried herbs hung suspended from the rafters. As Kirov’s head brushed past a bundle of shrivelled leaves, some of them crumbled on to his shoulder. As he swept them away with his fingertips, he breathed in the scent of sage grass.

Pekkala studied the paintings Detlev had made, using sheets of paper mounted on to wood cut from the spindly sides of packing crates. In one, Pekkala recognised the altar at the Church of the Resurrection. Several of the other paintings were of swans floating on what Pekkala identified as the Great Pond, near the Catherine Palace.

He remembered those swans. They came each spring and lingered until late in the summer. He had always been struck by their dignity, and their solemn detachment from the affairs of men, who carried on their lives of self-obsession all around them.