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Argamak stood by himself in the middle of the cemetery, surrounded by headstones in various states of disrepair. He was in the process of filling in a grave when Stefan approached him, cap in hand, and asked for a moment of his time.

‘What do you want?’ demanded Argamak, as Stefan stood before him in the rags of his worn-out clothes. ‘Only the dead are welcome in my cemetery.’

‘I am from the settlement at Markha,’

‘Never heard of it,’ snapped Argamak.

‘I am one of your brothers,’ said Stefan.

‘I have no brothers,’ replied Argamak, ‘only a sister and she is uglier even than you!’

Having come all this distance, only to be turned away by the very man he’d come to find, Stefan felt his last reserves of energy crumbling away. ‘Belyakina,’ he whispered, ‘what have you done to me?’ He turned to leave, but he had only gone a few paces before Argamak spoke to him again.

‘Did you say Belyakina?’

Stefan turned. ‘I did. Yuliya Belyakina sent me here.’

Argamak leaned on his shovel, its blade sinking into the freshly dug earth. ‘Why should I believe a word you say?’ he asked, but now his tone was more cautious than belligerent.

‘I will show you,’ replied Stefan.

He led Argamak to his cart, lifted the package out from under the seat and carefully unwrapped the picture.

Argamak gasped when
The Shepherd
slid into view. For a while, he only stared at the icon. Then he turned slowly to Stefan. ‘Come with me,’ he said quietly, as if afraid that even the graves might be listening.

He brought Stefan to a hut at the edge of the cemetery, where it bordered the Skotoprogonaya Road. Stefan tied up his horse behind the hut, against which pieces of old headstones, broken and indecipherable, leaned like huge extracted teeth.

Inside was a small, wood-burning stove, a few chairs and a table made from coffin planks.

Argamak put a fresh log in the stove, and gestured for Stefan to sit.

‘Will I be safe here?’ asked Stefan.

‘Yes, but not for long,’ replied Argamak. ‘Where are you headed from here?’

‘From here?’ replied Stefan. ‘But this was my destination!’

Argamak slowly shook his head. ‘I can shelter you for a day, two days maybe. But no more.’ He gestured around the cramped space of the hut. ‘This isn’t a hotel, as you can see.’

‘Then I am done for,’ Stefan muttered.

‘At times like this,’ said Argamak, ‘people should turn to their own flesh and blood.’

‘My father disowned me when I became a Skoptsy,’ Stefan remarked flatly. ‘As far as he’s concerned, I no longer exist.’

‘And you have heard from your family recently?’

‘Well, no . . .’ admitted Stefan.

‘Then how do you know they have not been regretting what happened between you ever since the day you left their house?’

‘I don’t know. Not exactly.’

‘Then you don’t know at all!’ growled Argamak. ‘Whatever happens in a family, no child is ever forgotten by the ones who gave them life.’

‘Are you saying I should throw myself on their mercy?’

‘I am asking if you think you have a choice.’

‘It is a long way to travel on nothing more than faith.’

‘Faith got you this far, didn’t it?’ asked Argamak. ‘And as for how you’ll get there, I think I can help you a little.’ He walked over to one of the bare wooden beams which formed the ceiling, reached up and fetched something down. It was a small leather bag, which he tossed into Stefan’s lap.

Stefan emptied out the bag into his hand, and a dozen rings tumbled into his palm. Most of them were gold. Some had diamonds fitted on them, others a mixture of rubies, emeralds and sapphires. ‘Where did these come from?’

‘From people who don’t need them any more,’ replied Argamak.

It took Stefan a moment to understand the meaning of his words. ‘You mean you stole these from the dead before you buried them?’

‘The dead do not care how they are dressed,’ said Argamak. ‘It is the sentimentality of the living that slid those rings on the  fingers of their loved ones. And once they said goodbye, that chapter of their life was closed. The rings had served their purpose. What use are they to anyone if they are buried in the ground? You may not like where I got them, but ask yourself if you can afford to turn your back on what you know you will need to survive.’

‘Very well,’ Stefan said quietly, as he poured the rings back into the bag. He spent that night lying on a horse blanket in front of the iron stove. He listened to the soft roar of the logs as they burned in the grate, and the wheezy breaths of Argamak, who slept in a camp bed nearby.

The next morning, when he woke, Argamak had already left for work. A slice of cheese, hardened and glassy at the corners, lay on a piece of black bread on the stove, along with a lukewarm cup of tea.

Stefan ate the food, put on his coat and went out to his wagon.

By the end of that day, he had crossed the Moskva River, passed through the Zamoskvorechye district south of the city and moved out into the countryside beyond. All through that autumn, Stefan travelled west. He never stayed long in one place but pushed on, as restless as the wind. He had no idea what to expect when he reached Ahlborn. He wasn’t even sure if his family still lived there and, even if they did, he had no way of knowing if they would welcome him or turn him away once again.

On a freezing January morning in 1923, Stefan Kohl crossed into Germany.

One week later he had almost reached the village of Ahlborn when his cart broke down in a snowstorm.

A passing rider stopped to help. Beneath the man’s black winter coat, he wore the habit of a Lutheran pastor.

It was his father, Viktor Kohl, returning from a visit to a local parishioner who had been too sick to come to church.

For a moment, the two men just stood and faced each other, the snow falling thickly around them.

As the seconds passed, and the cold worked its way beneath the layers of his clothing, Stefan began to wonder what madness had driven him to travel so far when part of him had always known how little chance there was of finding refuge.

But then the father spread his arms and embraced his son, whom he had thought he’d never see again. The guilt of having driven out his youngest child had never left him. He had even made a pilgrimage to Lourdes, to beg the Virgin for the return of his son, returning with a single bottle of holy water, which he kept in anticipation that his prayers might one day be heard. Now, as his son stood before him, the father saw the workings of a miracle in giving him a chance to set things right.

There, in the middle of that storm, the two men made their peace. They agreed never to speak of the things that had driven them apart. From this moment onwards, Kohl knew that the harmony between them would be balanced on the lie of his silence.

He learned that his mother had died soon after their arrival in Ahlborn, never having recovered from the trauma of being evicted from her home and then transported like livestock to a country she had never known except in stories passed down over the generations.

Stefan also learned that there would be no mending of the rift between him and his brother. When Emil, now living far away in Leverkeusen and busy with his work at IG Farben, received word from his father that Stefan had returned he could scarcely believe that his brother had their father’s blessing to remain in Ahlborn. As far as Emil was concerned, it was Stefan’s departure, and not the shock of deportation, that had caused their mother’s untimely death.

In pleading letters, Viktor Kohl begged Emil to return and reconcile with his brother. Anxiously, he awaited a response from Tübingen, but no letters ever came. Viktor Kohl had traded one son for another and, in his own mind, he had no one to blame but himself.

Stefan found employment as a butcher. In addition, he dug graves, repaired the leaking roof and tended to his father’s ailing health. Both men worked hard to make up for the time they had lost.

Weeks became months, which carried over into years, and there were times when it seemed to Stefan Kohl as if he had always been there, in Ahlborn, and the life he’d lived before held no more substance than the gauzy fabric of a dream.

But the scars of Skoptsy ritual would always remind him of the truth.

From time to time, Kohl would check the icon’s hiding place, tucked away among the rafters of his house. He did not know where else to keep the painting and he worried constantly about its safety. Crouched in the attic, he would unwrap the oilcloth covering, stare by candlelight at the image of the Shepherd, and remember how it had felt to be standing in the ruins of Markha. Then the rage which never slept would fill his mind again. Belyakina had warned him to be patient. The time would come for vengeance.

Back in the office on Pitnikov Street, Kirov and Pekkala were planning their next move.

Having learned from Elizaveta that Stefan Kohl might still be alive, they now realised who they were up against. For the first time, they held the advantage, and they knew they would have to act quickly if they were to have any hope of keeping it.

‘Are you suggesting,’ asked Kirov, ‘that we travel all the way to Ahlborn, simply because that’s where the icon was located?’

‘I believe we’ll find Stefan Kohl there,’ replied Pekkala.

‘But why?’

‘Because that’s where he thinks we will go.’

‘You mean he
wants
us to find him?’

‘Yes,’ answered Pekkala, ‘because he knows that we still have the icon, and we know that he has come into possession of a chemical weapon which, at all costs, we must prevent him from using again.’

‘Even if it means giving up the icon?’

‘Yes,’ said Pekkala. ‘Sacred though it may be, it is not worth another human life, let alone the thousands it might cost if we hold on to it.’

‘And you think that Stefan Kohl will be prepared to make a trade?’

‘I think he would do anything to get the icon back.’

‘If that is true,’ said Elizaveta, ‘then why doesn’t he simply show up at our door?’

‘Because, having tried and failed to steal it, Kohl has lost the advantage of surprise. If Kohl shows his face again in Moscow, he will find himself surrounded and with no means of escape. He will never get out of Moscow alive. I think he has gone back to Ahlborn, because it is the only chance he has left to meet us on his own terms.’

‘You mean he can set a trap for us,’ said Kirov. ‘Surely you don’t expect us to walk right into it?’

‘As long as we still have
The Shepherd
, we are safe.’

‘You sound as if you believe in the mystical powers of that icon, after all,’ remarked Elizaveta.

‘There’s nothing mystical about it,’ answered Pekkala. ‘If he tries to harm us, he might destroy the icon in the process. That’s not a risk he’s going to take.’

Kirov saw there was no arguing with Pekkala’s logic. ‘I’ll call the Kremlin and let Stalin know about Kohl,’ he said as he picked up the telephone. ‘I’ll also see if Poskrebychev can arrange for transport to Ahlborn. That place must be pretty close to the front line by now. I assume you’ll want to leave right away, Inspector.’

‘We should have left hours ago,’ replied Pekkala.  

A few minutes later, Kirov hung up the phone. ‘Poskrebychev says that the Fascists have established a defensive line twenty kilometres to the west of Ahlborn. As of now, there are no reports of enemy troops in the vicinity, but the area is still patrolled by German fighter planes, which have shot down several Russian aircraft. This means that we will have to go by road. Poskrebychev has arranged for military transport to take us there, so Zolkin will have to sit this one out.’

‘And the agents Stalin posted outside our building?’ asked Pekkala.

‘They are being withdrawn as we speak,’ replied Kirov. ‘Comrade Stalin wants to see us before we leave,’ he added. ‘The Boss has some news and, according to Poskrebychev, we are not going to like it.’

Down at Zolkin’s garage, Kirov told their driver that he would be staying home.

In spite of his earlier complaints about the condition of the Emka, Zolkin took the news hard. ‘But what am I to do while you are gone?’

‘Look after Elizaveta,’ answered Kirov. ‘You’ll do that, won’t you, Zolkin?’

At first, Zolkin seemed too surprised to speak, but he quickly returned to his senses. ‘Why, of course!’ stammered the driver. ‘I’ll guard her with my life, Comrade Major.’

Kirov slapped him gently on the shoulder. ‘I expected nothing less.’

While they waited for the transport to arrive, Pekkala remembered that he had left something behind. Excusing himself, he made his way up the five flights of stairs. Back in the office, he walked over to the mantelpiece, where he had placed the atropine given to him by Dr Tuxen at the Karaganda morgue. Carefully, he tucked the bulky syringes into his pocket. Although Pekkala hoped they’d never have to use the antidote he knew that sooner or later, for radicals like Stefan Kohl, dying made more sense than living. If the Skoptsy chose to make a martyr of himself, he and Kirov might well be the ones he chose to take with him to oblivion.

Shortly afterwards, a Russian Army GAZ-67 staff car arrived to pick up Kirov and Pekkala, and the two men were driven to the Kremlin for their meeting with Stalin.

‘The results are back from the laboratory at Sosnogorsk,’ he told them. ‘I’m afraid the news is worse than we thought. What killed the prisoner Detlev is a substance they have never seen before. They’re calling it,’ Stalin snatched up the report and read from it directly, ‘ “an organophosphate compound of profound toxicity”. According to them, this stuff is many times more lethal than any of the poison gases used during the last war.’

‘Do they have any idea where it might have come from?’

Stalin shook his head. ‘To our knowledge, the only company engaged in work on organophosphates was IG Farben, in Germany. Fortunately, we have an informant at the laboratory; a man named Otto Meinhardt, who has been keeping us informed of their work. Thanks to Meinhardt, in spite of IG Farben’s attempts to conceal their true intentions behind a bogus programme for developing coal solvents, we learned that they were, in fact, engaged in the production of chemical weapons. At least they were until Hitler gave the order to cancel the project, which was code-named Sartaman. It was shut down last year and Meinhardt saw to it personally that the Sartaman laboratory was dismantled, the samples destroyed or quarantined and all development terminated. According to Meinhardt, the weapon which killed Detlev should not exist. It was known as soman, but it was never put into production because IG Farben was never able to stabilise it.’

‘So what we must conclude,’ continued Pekkala, ‘is that somebody managed to stabilise the compound after all.’ Stalin slumped back in his chair. ‘That appears to be the case.’

‘But if not by IG Farben then by whom?’ asked Kirov.

‘According to Meinhardt, the only person who might have been able to stabilise the compound is the scientist who created it.’

‘And who is that?’ asked Pekkala.

‘Professor Emil Kohl.’

‘Kohl?’ repeated Kirov.

‘I thought that might sound familiar to you,’ remarked Stalin. ‘It did not become significant until we learned from you today that the man you might be looking for in connection with the icon has the same last name. We immediately contacted Meinhardt to find out if there was any connection. He confirmed that the two men are, in fact, brothers although Meinhardt says they have been bitter enemies ever since Stefan joined the Skoptsy.’

‘And where is Professor Kohl now?’ asked Pekkala.

‘We don’t know,’ Stalin confessed. ‘Emil Kohl has disappeared, and we must assume that he is in possession of the weapon he invented. That’s how his brother got hold of it.’

‘The two of them must be working together,’ said Pekkala. ‘The question is why, since, by all accounts, they hate each other.’

‘War forges strange alliances,’ said Stalin, ‘and whatever the reason for this one, you must find a way to stop the Kohl brothers. Together, they have formed a lethal alliance. One of those men has a Doomsday prophecy and the other has a weapon that could make it a reality.’