Siberian Red

replied Sedov. Without another word, he turned and left.
    Pekkala listened to the wooden bolt sliding into place, and after that the old man’s footsteps in the snow as he made his way back to the camp.
    Worry twisted in Pekkala’s gut. Whether he lived or died depended entirely on whether the Comitati believed his cover story. Alone in this cell, weak from lack of food and sleep, he would be no match for Tarnowski if the man decided to kill him.
    He had no way of knowing how his fate would be decided. All he could do was to try and stay alive until they had made up their minds.
    Gathering the matches that the Old Believer had thrown before him, Pekkala undid the bundle of firewood and arranged the twigs in a pyramid. Beneath them, he laid out shreds of papery white birch bark, peeled from the branches with his fingernails.
    Of the four matches, one had already lost its head and was nothing more than a splintery toothpick. The next two, Pekkala tried to strike against the stone slab of the floor. One flared but died before he had a chance to touch it to the bark. The second refused to light at all.
    As Pekkala knelt over the wood with the last match in his hand, a feeling of panic rose up inside him, knowing that the threadbare blanket would not be enough to get him through this night.
    When the match flared, he crouched down and gently blew on the embers. The birch bark smouldered. Then a tiny flame blossomed through the smoke. He cupped his hands around it, feeding the fire with broken sticks until it had grown big enough to burn on its own. Sitting cross-legged, as close to the heat as he could, Pekkala slowly began to feel warmth spreading through his body.
    By the following evening, he had used up the last carefully rationed splinters of his fuel supply.
    As he huddled by the glimmering embers of his fire, he heard piano music down in the guard house. Although it was poorly played and the piano was badly out of tune, he could still make out the haunting tune of Sorokin’s ‘Fires on the Distant Plain’.
    The door rattled suddenly, startling Pekkala. He had not heard anyone approach. Then the wooden bolt slid back, and Tarnowski entered the cell.
    The air seemed to crackle with menace. Pekkala felt it all around him, as if an electric current were passing through his body. If the Comitati had got wind of his true purpose here at Borodok, the odds of surviving this meeting would be zero.
    Tarnowski reached into his jacket.
    Pekkala thought he might be going for a knife, but when the Lieutenant removed his hand, he was not holding a weapon. Instead, it was another small bundle of twigs, which he dumped beside the dwindling sparks of Pekkala’s fire.
    At the sight of that kindling, the knot of fear in Pekkala’s stomach began to subside. Pekkala knew he wasn’t in the clear yet, but at least he wasn’t fighting for his life.
    ‘I apologise for the unusual way in which I brought you here,’ said Tarnowski.
    ‘Brought me here? I am in this place because I tried to break up your fight with Sedov.’
    ‘That is what you and the guards were supposed to think.’
    ‘You mean it was staged?’
    ‘After Melekov informed me of your identity, he mentioned that you didn’t like the way Sergeant Gramotin was treating our Old Believer. I guessed you wouldn’t stand to see him beaten right before your eyes, especially by the likes of me.’
    ‘You have a crude way of getting things done,’ said Pekkala.
    ‘Crude, perhaps, but efficient. This is the only place where we could talk without being observed by the authorities. We used to hold meetings in the mine after dark, but after what happened to Captain Ryabov, the guards have been watching the entrance at night.’
    ‘You damn near broke my jaw,’ said Pekkala.
    ‘That is something we might have avoided if you’d identified yourself to us when you arrived at the camp.’
    ‘I didn’t know who I could trust.’
    ‘We felt the same way about you, Inspector, when we first learned you were here.’
    ‘And what do you think now?’ Pekkala settled a few of the twigs on the fire.
    ‘The fact that you are still alive should tell you all you need to know,’ Tarnowski replied.
    Soon the wood began to burn. Flames cast their flickering light across the bare stone walls.
    ‘We were surprised to see you back at Borodok.’
    ‘Not as surprised as I was,’ answered Pekkala.
    ‘We almost crossed paths here, you know,’ Tarnowski continued. ‘The last