‘He works at the Institute of Religion and Atheism in Leningrad. At least, he used to. I haven’t seen or heard from him since the city was besieged back in 1941.’‘Then how do you know if he is even still alive?’ asked Kirov.‘I don’t,’ answered Pekkala.While Kirov returned home to his wife with the unwelcome news that they would now be guarded around the clock, Pekkala climbed aboard a cargo plane loaded with medical supplies bound for Leningrad.Arriving at an airfield constructed by the German army during their encirclement of the city, which had lasted more than two years and cost the lives of over two million Russian civilians, Pekkala hopped a ride into town. The truck dropped him off on the Nevsky Prospekt. From there, it was only a short walk to the Institute, located in the former Cathedral of Kazan.He walked across what had once been a green expanse of lawn and was now only a cratered sea of mud. Two long colonnades that extended from the building seemed to Pekkala like the arms of a giant, slowly enveloping him as he approached.The original blue dome of the cathedral had been painted grey so as not to attract the attention of bombers raiding the city during the siege, and tents of hessian netting, interwoven with scraps of cloth, still obscured the building’s profile from above.At the Institute, Pekkala soon found the man he was looking for.Anton Antokolvsky, Director of the Museum, was a frail-looking man with sloping shoulders, a little round chin and eyes so startlingly blue that they seemed like the eyes of a doll.
