In her private quarters, Nazarbayeva sat with a glass of water and completed the now ritual examination of her breast wound.
Satisfied with the healing process, she settled into the leather chair and again commenced the mental exercise that tried to make sense of the past week. Part of that process was to attempt to solve the puzzle box that Pekunin had wanted her to have but, for now, its secrets remained hidden.
She recalled his words.
‘It is my personal gift to you. Use it how you wish. Believe it and believe nothing else.’
Thus far, it had denied her entry, its inner workings conceived by the most cunning of minds.
She had felt almost taunted by its presence; so close but yet the contents were so far from her reach.
At times, her mind had strayed to other options. She had contemplated using her boot as a hammer and once had even picked up the grenade she had found by the river bank that summer’s day, thinking to use its metal case to break the box open.
She always resisted the temptation of force, although the defiance of the twelve centimetre square box pushed her to the limit.
‘Who knows what old Pekunin put inside that could be broken?’
But tonight, as she relaxed in her chair, a visual memory stirred, one that had remained hidden or forgotten, perhaps obscured by the gravity of the conversation that took place at the time.
‘Mudaks! You old devil!’
Clear as day, the image came. As he talke, Pekunin had shown her the first stages; very deliberately.
The simple box had few markings and, in any case, each side was the mirror of the others.
Her mind’s eye recalled the moment, seeing the two thumbs on the leading edge, easing one of the sides across a few millimetres.
Taking up the box, Nazarbayeva pressed and found nothing but resistance. She tried each facet in turn, the seventh attempt yielding some movement.
Her memory was hazy and the image now indistinct, so she worked the box, pressing in all directions without reward.
‘Think, woman, think!’
The slightest scuff on the wood shouted at her, its presence almost imperceptible but, in itself, a pointer to stage two.
Pressing down and right, the next section moved to one side with ease.
The two stages together brought the third part of the unlocking process to mind and she found the correct panel first time.
Now she was on her own, without Pekunin’s hand to guide her, but her mind was equal to the logic of the box and the fourth stage fell quickly to her assault.
Within ten minutes, the box had yielded a small piece of paper.
The words written on it were simple.
‘My loyal Tatiana, I am sorry to burden you. Do what is right for the Rodina and remember that your duty lies to her above all other things, come what may. Please accept my copy of ‘The State and the Revolution’ as a memento. With affection, Roman.’
Written at a different angle, in a different pen and in a seemingly different hand, almost as if the shred had been ripped from another larger piece, were apparently unconnected words.
‘Ref C5-C dated 130644 ref Theft of utensils from 22nd Army Stores’
The note was directing her towards an old GRU file.
Ten minutes later, Poboshkin was surprised to see his boss back in the headquarters.
“Relax, Comrade Poboshkin.”
“May I assist you, Comrade General?”
“Not necessary, Comrade. I just want to pick up an old file that I need to remind myself of. I’m still capable of opening a filing cabinet by myself.”
Her smile disarmed him but he still rallied.
“Perhaps I can get a clerk to fetch it for you, Comrade General?”
“No, leave them to their rest. It’s no problem.”
To mark the end of the exchange, Nazarbayeva moved off quickly towards the archives.
Given the age of the file, she surprised herself by finding it quickly, strolling past Poboshkin no more than four minutes after she had walked away.
“Tea, Comrade General?”
“Excellent idea. I shall be in my office, Comrade.”
The file was face down on the desk when the orderly brought Tatiana her drink, his presence barely acknowledged by Nazarbayeva, who was sat holding a first edition of ‘The State and the Revolution’, one of Lenin’s most influential works, in one hand, and the photograph it had relinquished in the other.
The family pictured in it needed no introduction as she had seen a similar larger print on Pekunin’s desk day in, day out; it was the old General’s son and his family.
Finally alone, she explored the folder and found efficient reporting of a GRU investigation into the thefts from 22nd Army Central Stores. The culprits were probably long dead, transferred to penal mine clearing units.
Contained within the official paperwork were a few sheets of paper with meaningless sequences of letters and numbers, all in the same hand, a hand she didn’t recognise but instinctively knew to be Pekunin’s disguised.
Taking a pencil and a fresh sheet of paper, Nazarbayeva selected the first document, arranged Pekunin’s literary bequest in front of her and, with a deep breath to calm her growing worries, opened the book on the page where she had found the photograph and commenced decoding.
One hour and forty-seven minutes later, Nazarbayeva’s tears slid gently down her face as she finished the last sequence
She was now in possession of six decoded documents.
Her first effort had outlined the execution of Pekunin’s family, on Beria’s orders.
‘Poor Pekunin.’
The second had pointed at possible evidence of the betrayal of the Spanish mission that resulted in the death of her son, on Beria and Stalin’s orders.
‘If this is true, there will be a reckoning.’
Sheet three revealed that the premises for going to war with the Allies were either exaggerated or contrived, again on the specific direction of Stalin and Beria.
‘So they brought all of this on the Rodina for what?’
The very thought had left Nazarbayeva cold.
The fourth revealed Beria for what he was; rapist and sexual predator, listing a few times, dates, places, and names.
‘Some people are truly evil.’
Number five was a personal record of a conversation to which Pekunin had been privy, when Stalin and Beria had agreed the sacrifice of the airborne troopers in the four attempts on the Allied symposiums. Both had apparently acknowledged the lack of real significance but insisted that the missions went ahead regardless of cost, despite the GRU General’s pleas. Beria had apparently produced an informer’s report on a less than complimentary exchange between Makarenko and Erasov, during which their belief in the shortcomings of the political leadership was top of the agenda. In Pekunin’s considered, yet unbelievable estimation, whilst possibly justifiable militarily and psychologically, personal revenge also played a part in the fool’s errands that were the Zilant missions. It also spoke of the exchange in Beria’s office and the GRU General’s belief that Beria found pleasure in Nazarbayeva’s loss.
‘Not even the Chekist swine would do that! The Rodina is all-important!’
Another part of her brain contributed to the silent debate.
‘This is Beria, Tatiana. He has no soul, no honour, no decency.’