been here many years longer than the facility itself.
Perched at the edge of a small lake, the dacha was the only building in sight. Except for a clearing around the cottage itself, dense forest crowded down to the water’s edge.
It was still and peaceful here. Now that the clouds had cleared away, the surface of the lake glowed softly in the fading sunlight. Out on the water, a man sat in a rowboat. In his right hand, he held a fishing rod. His arm waved gently back and forth. The long fly line, burning silver as it caught the rays of sunset, stretched out from the tip of the rod, curving back upon itself and stretching out again until the speck of the fly touched down upon the surface of the lake. Around the man, tiny insects swirled like bubbles in champagne.
Pekkala was so focused on this image that he did not see a woman come around from the back of the house until she stood in front of him.
The woman looked beautiful but tired. An air of quiet desperation hung about her. Tight curls waved across her short, dark hair. Her chin was small and her eyes so dark that the blackness of her irises seemed to have flooded out into her pupils.
Ignoring Pekkala, the woman turned to Maximov, who was getting out of the car. ‘Who is this man,’ she asked, ‘and why is he so filthy dirty, as well as being dressed like an undertaker?’
‘This is Inspector Pekkala,’ Maximov answered, ‘from the Bureau of Special Operations.
‘Pekkala,’ she echoed. The dark eyes raked his face. ‘Oh, yes. You arrested my husband in the middle of his lunch.’
‘Detained,’ replied Pekkala, ‘not arrested.’
‘I thought that was all cleared up.’
‘It was, Mrs Nagorski.’
‘So why are you here?’ she asked. She spat out the words as if her mouth was filled with shards of glass.
Pekkala could tell that a part of her already knew. It was as if she had been expecting this news, not just today but for a very long time.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she asked.
Pekkala nodded.
Maximov reached out to lay his hand upon her shoulder.
Angrily she brushed his touch away. Then her hand flew back, catching Maximov across the face. ‘You were supposed to take care of him!’ she shrieked, raising her fists and bringingthem down hard against his chest with a sound like muffled drumbeats.
Maximov staggered back, too stunned by her fury to resist.
‘That was your job!’ she shouted. ‘He took you in. He gave you a chance when no one else would. And now this! This is how you repay him?’
‘Mrs Nagorski,’ whispered Maximov. ‘I did everything I could for him.’
Mrs Nagorski stared at the man as if she did not even know who he was. ‘If you had done everything,’ she sneered, ‘my husband would still be alive.’
The figure in the boat turned his head to see where the shouting had come from.
Pekkala could see now that it was a young man, and he knew it must be the Nagorskis’ son, Konstantin.
The young man reeled in his line, set the fishing rod aside and took up the oars. Slowly, he made his way towards the shore, oars creaking in the brass wishbones of the oarlocks, water dripping from the blades like a stream of mercury.
Mrs Nagorski turned and walked back towards the dacha. As she climbed the first step to the porch, she stumbled. One arm reached out to brace herself against the planks. Her hands were shaking. She sank down on the steps.
By then, Pekkala had caught up with her.
She glanced at him, then looked away again. ‘I always said this project would destroy him, one way or another. I must see my husband,’ she said.
‘I would not advise that,’ replied Pekkala.
‘I will see him, Inspector. Immediately.’
Hearing the finality in the widow’s voice, Pekkala realised there was no point trying to dissuade her.
The rowing boat ground up against the shore. The boy hauled in his oars with the unconscious precision of a bird folding its wings, then stepped out of the tippy boat. Konstantin was head
Perched at the edge of a small lake, the dacha was the only building in sight. Except for a clearing around the cottage itself, dense forest crowded down to the water’s edge.
It was still and peaceful here. Now that the clouds had cleared away, the surface of the lake glowed softly in the fading sunlight. Out on the water, a man sat in a rowboat. In his right hand, he held a fishing rod. His arm waved gently back and forth. The long fly line, burning silver as it caught the rays of sunset, stretched out from the tip of the rod, curving back upon itself and stretching out again until the speck of the fly touched down upon the surface of the lake. Around the man, tiny insects swirled like bubbles in champagne.
Pekkala was so focused on this image that he did not see a woman come around from the back of the house until she stood in front of him.
The woman looked beautiful but tired. An air of quiet desperation hung about her. Tight curls waved across her short, dark hair. Her chin was small and her eyes so dark that the blackness of her irises seemed to have flooded out into her pupils.
Ignoring Pekkala, the woman turned to Maximov, who was getting out of the car. ‘Who is this man,’ she asked, ‘and why is he so filthy dirty, as well as being dressed like an undertaker?’
‘This is Inspector Pekkala,’ Maximov answered, ‘from the Bureau of Special Operations.
‘Pekkala,’ she echoed. The dark eyes raked his face. ‘Oh, yes. You arrested my husband in the middle of his lunch.’
‘Detained,’ replied Pekkala, ‘not arrested.’
‘I thought that was all cleared up.’
‘It was, Mrs Nagorski.’
‘So why are you here?’ she asked. She spat out the words as if her mouth was filled with shards of glass.
Pekkala could tell that a part of her already knew. It was as if she had been expecting this news, not just today but for a very long time.
‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’ she asked.
Pekkala nodded.
Maximov reached out to lay his hand upon her shoulder.
Angrily she brushed his touch away. Then her hand flew back, catching Maximov across the face. ‘You were supposed to take care of him!’ she shrieked, raising her fists and bringingthem down hard against his chest with a sound like muffled drumbeats.
Maximov staggered back, too stunned by her fury to resist.
‘That was your job!’ she shouted. ‘He took you in. He gave you a chance when no one else would. And now this! This is how you repay him?’
‘Mrs Nagorski,’ whispered Maximov. ‘I did everything I could for him.’
Mrs Nagorski stared at the man as if she did not even know who he was. ‘If you had done everything,’ she sneered, ‘my husband would still be alive.’
The figure in the boat turned his head to see where the shouting had come from.
Pekkala could see now that it was a young man, and he knew it must be the Nagorskis’ son, Konstantin.
The young man reeled in his line, set the fishing rod aside and took up the oars. Slowly, he made his way towards the shore, oars creaking in the brass wishbones of the oarlocks, water dripping from the blades like a stream of mercury.
Mrs Nagorski turned and walked back towards the dacha. As she climbed the first step to the porch, she stumbled. One arm reached out to brace herself against the planks. Her hands were shaking. She sank down on the steps.
By then, Pekkala had caught up with her.
She glanced at him, then looked away again. ‘I always said this project would destroy him, one way or another. I must see my husband,’ she said.
‘I would not advise that,’ replied Pekkala.
‘I will see him, Inspector. Immediately.’
Hearing the finality in the widow’s voice, Pekkala realised there was no point trying to dissuade her.
The rowing boat ground up against the shore. The boy hauled in his oars with the unconscious precision of a bird folding its wings, then stepped out of the tippy boat. Konstantin was head
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