Siberian Red

without arousing the suspicion of the inmates.’
    ‘What job is that?’
    ‘You will be working in the kitchen. From now on, you will bring me my breakfast each morning. At that time, we can discuss any developments in your investigation.’
    ‘I am to be your servant?’
    ‘Try to set aside your dignity, Pekkala, at least if you want to stay alive. And remember to keep your mouth shut when you’re around the head cook,’ added Klenovkin. ‘His name is Melekov and he’s the worst gossip at Borodok. Whatever you say to him will find its way into the ears of every convict in this camp.’
    By now, the first eel-green glimmer of dawn showed in the sky.
    ‘Good luck, Inspector,’ said Klenovkin, as he turned to leave. ‘Good luck, for both our sakes.’
    *
     
    Back in Moscow, Kirov woke with a start.
    He had fallen asleep at his desk. Blearily, he stared at the earthenware pots arranged upon the windowsills. His plants – herbs and cherry tomatoes and a beloved kumquat tree – dappled the darkness with their leaves.
    Groaning as he rose to his feet, Kirov stepped over to the wall and flipped on the lights. Then he strolled around the room, hands in pockets, while the last veils of sleep were lifted from his mind. He paused to admire Pekkala’s desk, on which the file belonging to the dead captain Ryabov was neatly flanked by pens, a ruler and a pencil sharpener. It did not usually look so tidy. Normally, the arrangement of Pekkala’s possessions seemed to follow some path of logic known only to himself. And yet somehow, in defiance of reason, Pekkala always seemed to know where everything was. Unlike Kirov, Pekkala never had to hunt about for his keys, or his wallet or his gun.
    The day before, in a moment of fastidiousness, Kirov had tidied Pekkala’s desk. Now it looked smart. Efficient. And completely wrong. Kirov wished he hadn’t touched anything, and he looked forward to the day when Pekkala would return and rearrange everything to its naturally shambolic state.
    Kirov wondered how long it would be before Pekkala sent a telegram, asking for assistance. He hoped it would be soon. Ever since the Inspector had gone away, Kirov’s life had become a dreary procession of paperwork, solitary meals and doubts about his own abilities to function in the absence of Pekkala.
    Kirov sat down in Pekkala’s chair. Like a mischievous schoolboy sitting at the teacher’s place, he knew he was trespassing but, also like a mischievous schoolboy, he did it anyway. Then he stared at the phone on Pekkala’s desk. ‘Ring, damn you,’ he said.
    *
     
     
    The intercom clicked on.
    ‘Poskrebyshev!’
    ‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’
    ‘Any word from Pekkala?’
    ‘Nothing yet, Comrade Stalin.’
    ‘Are you certain that all transmissions have been intercepted?’
    ‘Comrade Stalin, there have been no transmissions between Kirov and Major Pekkala.’
    ‘Doesn’t that seem strange to you, Poskrebyshev?’
    ‘I am sure he will communicate with Major Kirov when he has something to report. He only just arrived at the camp.’
    ‘I may have been wrong to put my faith in him.’
    ‘In Pekkala? Surely not . . .’
    Without another word, the intercom clicked off.
    There is that tone again, thought Poskrebyshev. What can be worrying him? A sense of foreboding clouded Poskrebyshev’s mind. This was not the first time he had witnessed Stalin’s moods as they began to swing erratically. In the past, bouts of good humour would be suddenly and inexplicably replaced by fury, frustration and paranoia. And the results had always been deadly. In 1936, when Stalin had become convinced that officers in the Soviet army were about to overthrow him, and he had initiated a policy of arrests and executions which wiped out most of the officer corps, leaving the Red Army virtually stripped of its High Command. These purges, which had begun before and continued long after Stalin’s attack on the army, caused a death toll that ran into the hundreds of thousands.
    Nervously, he glanced towards Stalin’s office. A storm is brewing, Poskrebyshev decided, and when it hits, it’s going to come right through those doors.
    *
     
    The sun had just risen above the tree line as the new prisoners of Borodok assembled in the compound to receive their work assignments.
    Some convicts were assigned to logging operations, but most, including Savushkin, went directly to work in the mines which harvested crystals of Siberian Red‚ as well as the radium