Red Moth by Sam Eastland Page A

the arteries of rivers – the Volga, the Dnieper, the Yenisei – and at the dense muscularity of the Ural and Stanovoy mountains. ‘Somewhere,’ he muttered, ‘the lines on that wall overlap with the contours on this map.’
    ‘If what’s hidden is even in Russia. And even if it is‚ you’ll never find it, because the lines in that painting might represent a single street in a village so small it isn’t even listed.’ With that pronouncement, Kirov got up from his chair and headed over to the samovar, whose steady jet of steam had travelled to the window, painting it with beads of condensation. Then he set about preparing tea. From the window sill, between two kumquat trees whose orange fruit stood out against the blackness of the night beyond the windowpane like meteors hurtling to earth, Kirov fetched out an old tin, containing his precious supply of tea, from which he selected a pinch of black crumbs and sprinkled them into the samovar. ‘Not much left,’ he muttered, peering at the dwindled contents of the tin.
    The dealers in the market had taken to shrugging their shoulders when Kirov chanted out the names of teas – Mudan, Jin Zan, Karavan – whose abundance he’d once taken for granted.
    While the tea brewed, both men stood before the wall of sketches.
    ‘The Germans already have maps of our country,’ remarked Kirov. ‘Maybe, instead of trying to figure out where this map is supposed to be, we should be asking ourselves what they need a map of that they don’t already possess.’
    Kirov’s words snagged like a fish hook, trolling through Pekkala’s brain. ‘So what this is,’ he began, advancing to the wall and touching his fingertips first against one tracing and then another, ‘is of a place for which there was no map before.’
    ‘Or else a place that has been changed,’ suggested Kirov.
    ‘The layout of a fortress, perhaps, just like the one drawn by the British spy.’
    ‘Perhaps,’ agreed Kirov, ‘but what fortresses exist in the path of the German advance?’
    ‘None,’ admitted Pekkala.
    The two men sighed as their train of thought ground to a halt.
    The tea had brewed by now. From the drawer of his desk, Kirov brought out two tea glasses, each one nestled in a brass holder. He poured a small amount of tea into each one and added some boiling water to dilute the strong mixture, which would otherwise have been too bitter to drink.
    Reaching across the map, he handed one glass to Pekkala.
    ‘No sugar?’ asked Pekkala.
    ‘We have run out of that, as well,’ Kirov replied gloomily.
    As Pekkala breathed in the smell of the tea, its smoky odour reminded him of his cabin in Siberia, where, in the winter, he sometimes returned from hunting so frozen that he would curl up in his fireplace and warm himself by lying in the embers.
    When the sun came up three hours later, splashing like molten copper across the slate rooftops of Moscow, Kirov and Pekkala were still staring at the wall, as helpless as they’d been when they first set eyes upon the painting.
    ‘There must be some way of looking at them which we haven’t tried yet,’ said Pekkala.
    Kirov tilted his head to the side and blinked at the wall.
    ‘I doubt you have found the solution,’ said Pekkala.
    ‘I wasn’t looking for one,’ replied Kirov. ‘I am simply too tired to hold my head up straight.’
    Equally exhausted, Pekkala let his eyes droop shut for a moment. All the maps he’d ever seen crowded into view inside his skull. The lines of streets, the paths of rivers and the thumbprint contours of mountains flickered behind his eyes like a pack of shuffled playing cards. ‘Go home, Kirov,’ he said. ‘Get some sleep.’
    Kirov was too tired to argue. ‘Very well, Inspector. But what about you?’
    ‘I’m not tired,’ lied Pekkala.
    ‘I’ll be back in a few hours.’
    Pekkala listened to the heavy tread of Kirov’s boots as he made his way downstairs. Then came the bang of the heavy door at the front of