Siberian Red

bayonet,’ began Pekkala.
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘To be specific, it was the cruciform bayonet of a Mosin-Nagant rifle, the standard issue for a Russian soldier.’
    ‘Who told you?’ demanded Melekov.
    ‘Nobody.’
    The two men stared at each other for a moment, waiting for the other to flinch.
    Slowly, Melekov folded his arms across his chest. ‘All right, convict, but where was I when I received the wound?’
    ‘The branches of the X are longer at the lower edges of the scar,’ Pekkala went on, ‘which means that the bayonet thrust was made from below you, not above or at the same level, which would be more usual. This means you were either standing on a staircase when it happened . . .’
    Melekov smiled.
    ‘Or on the top of a trench.’
    The smile broadened, baring Melekov’s teeth.
    ‘Or,’ said Pekkala, ‘you were riding a horse at the time.’
    The smile dissolved. ‘Bastard,’ whispered Melekov.
    ‘I haven’t finished yet,’ said Pekkala. ‘You are a Siberian.’
    ‘Born and bred here‚’ Melekov interrupted. ‘I’ve never been anywhere else.’
    ‘Your accent puts you east of the Urals, probably in the vicinity of Perm. You are old enough to have fought in the war and from the cut of your hair,’ he nodded towards Melekov’s flat-topped stand of grey bristles, in the style known as en brosse , ‘I am guessing that you did.’
    ‘Yes, that’s all true, but . . .’
    ‘So you were a Russian soldier and yet you have been wounded by a Russian bayonet. Therefore, you were wounded by one of your own countrymen.’ Pekkala paused, studying the emotions on Melekov’s face, which passed like the shadows of clouds over a field as the cook relived his past. ‘You did not receive your wound during the war, but rather in the Revolution which followed it.’
    ‘Very good, convict, but which side was I fighting for?’
    ‘You were not with the Whites, Melekov.’
    Melekov turned his head and spat on the floor. ‘You’ve got that right.’
    ‘If you were,’ said Pekkala, ‘you would more likely be a prisoner here than someone who is on the payroll. And I have not seen you speaking to the Comitati, which you would do if you were one of them.’
    Melekov held out his fists, knuckles pointing upwards. ‘No pine-tree tattoos.’
    ‘Exactly, which means you fought for the Bolsheviks, and because you were a horseman, I believe you were in the Red Cavalry.’
    ‘The 10th Brigade . . .’
    ‘You were injured in an attack against infantry, during which one of the enemy was able to stab you with a bayonet as you rode past. A wound like that is very serious.’
    ‘I almost died,’ muttered Melekov. ‘It was a year before I could even walk again. I could not even leave the hospital because the leg kept getting infected.’
    ‘And since you’ve already told me that you’ve never left Siberia that must be where you were injured. I believe you must have been fighting against the forces of Generals Semenov or Rozanov, the White Cossacks, who waged their campaigns in this part of the world.’ When Pekkala had finished, he slumped in his chair, feeling the tingle of sweat against his back. If even one detail was wrong, the minutes he had spent unravelling the mystery of Melekov’s crucifix scar would do more harm than good.
    For a long time, Melekov was silent, his face inscrutable. Then suddenly he stood. His chair fell over backwards and landed with a clatter on the floor. ‘Every last word of what you’ve said is true!’ he shouted. ‘But there is one more thing I’d like to know.’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘I would like to know who the hell you really are, convict.’
    This was the moment Pekkala had been waiting for. If Klenovkin had been right that Melekov was the worst gossip in the camp, all Pekkala had to do was speak his name, and it would not be long before the Comitati knew that he was here.
    ‘I was known as the Emerald Eye.’
    Melekov’s eyes opened wide. ‘Do you mean to tell me you are the tree marker who lasted all those years and then suddenly disappeared? But I thought you were dead!’
    ‘Many people do.’ Pekkala’s fingers inched forward, reaching like the tentacles of an octopus until they closed around the egg.
    This time, Melekov did nothing to prevent him.
    The cracked shell seemed to sigh in Pekkala’s grip. Hunched over the table, he plucked away the tiny fragments, which fell to the table like confetti. He sank his teeth through the slick rubbery white and bit