Red Moth Read Online Free PDF Page B

it is. Now take us back to the Kremlin.’
    ‘Yes, Inspector,’ sighed Kirov. Then he jammed on the brakes and performed a sharp U-turn, tyres squealing as he cornered.

Although the Museum of the Kremlin
     
     
    Although the Museum of the Kremlin was indeed closed at that hour, Fabian Golyakovsky himself came to see who was pounding on the doors.
    Golyakovsky was a tall, stooped man with an unkempt mop of curly reddish hair. He wore a dark blue suit and a cream-coloured shirt with a rumpled collar and no tie.
    ‘Who on earth are you?’ demanded Golyakovsky. ‘Do you have any idea what time it is?’
    Pekkala held up his Shadow Pass. ‘We need a few minutes of your time.’
    Golyakovsky glanced at the text‚ his lips moving as he silently pronounced the words. ‘Very well‚’ he replied suspiciously. ‘Anything to oblige the Bureau of Special Operations‚ whom I had not realised until this moment were lovers of great art.’
    ‘Why are you here so early?’ asked Kirov.
    ‘I’ve been here all night,’ explained Golyakovsky as he stood back to let them enter, ‘cataloguing items which may soon have to be evacuated from the museum and transported to safety further east.’
    Followed by a nervous Golyakovsky‚ Pekkala and Kirov strolled through the cold and musty-smelling halls and soon found themselves in a room whose walls were festooned with Russian icons.
    With his hands clasped behind his back, Pekkala walked past the icons, studying each one intently.
    ‘Inspector, what does this moth painting have to do with ancient icons?’ Kirov asked in a low voice.
    ‘Nothing, as far as I know,’ replied Pekkala.
    ‘Then what are you looking for, Inspector?’
    ‘I will know it when I see it. Ah!’ Pekkala halted sharply in front of a small wooden panel on which had been painted the head and shoulders of a bearded, long-haired and angry-looking man. His skin was a greenish-yellow, as if illuminated by the light of a candle. The white background had been chipped in many places. ‘This one!’ he whispered, and proceeded to remove the icon from its hanging place.
    ‘Inspector!’ hissed Kirov. ‘You’re not supposed to touch them!’
    ‘Stop!’ shouted Golyakovsky, his voice echoing through the museum. ‘Are you out of your mind?’ He advanced upon Pekkala, waving his arms. ‘Have you no respect for the treasures of this country?’
    It was Kirov who answered the question. ‘Believe me, Comrade Golyakovsky, he does not.’
    By now, Golyakovsky had reached the place where the two men were standing. ‘Please.’ Golyakovsky reached out towards Pekkala, using a tone of voice reserved normally for people about to leap to their deaths from the tops of tall buildings or bridges. Gently, he removed the icon from Pekkala’s grasp. Golyakovsky cradled the panel in his arms, as if Pekkala had somehow awoken the man in the painting and now he meant to lull the angry Saviour back into his sleep of centuries. ‘Do you have any idea what this is?’
    ‘No,’ admitted Pekkala.
    ‘It is a priceless fourteenth-century icon from the Balkans, originally located in the Cathedral of the Assumption. It is known as The Saviour of the Fiery Eye . What could you possibly want with this?’
    ‘Major Kirov may be right about my regard for the treasures of Russia,’ replied Pekkala, ‘but I have seen what he has not, namely what becomes of those who covet them. I will soon require the help of someone whose knowledge of these works of art is matched only by his hatred of this country. I must persuade this man that there is still something sacred left in the world –’ Pekkala pointed at the icon – ‘and the face of that man may convince him.’
    ‘Couldn’t you just bring him here to see the icon?’ pleaded Golyakovsky. ‘I will give him a personal tour!’
    ‘I’m certain that he would like nothing more,’ replied Pekkala, ‘but the laws of Lubyanka don’t allow it.’
    ‘Lubyanka?’ whispered