Siberian Red

with the moustache.
    ‘That is Maxim Alexeyevich Radom,’ answered Polivanov. ‘It is he who has brought the challenge against Colonel Kolchak.’
    ‘But why?’
    ‘It is a point of honour,’ Polivanov replied. ‘I am acting as second on behalf of Maxim Radom. Am I to understand that you are the second for Colonel Kolchak?’
    ‘I . . .’ began Pekkala. ‘Yes, I am but . . .’
    From the pockets of his coat, Polivanov removed two revolvers. Holding them by the barrels, he held the weapons out towards Pekkala. ‘Choose, please.’
    ‘What?’
    Polivanov leaned towards Pekkala and lowered his voice. ‘You must select a gun, sir.’
    ‘Are you sure this can’t be stopped?’ pleaded Pekkala.
    ‘I am quite sure,’ replied Polivanov.
    Hesitantly, Pekkala reached out and took one of the pistols. He could tell from the weight that it was fully loaded.
    Polivanov measured out twelve paces. At each end he drew a line with his heel in the wet snow.
    Maxim Radom walked forward to the line which had been drawn for him. Clasped in one hand was a crumpled piece of paper. Wearing only a shirt above his waist, Radom shuddered with the cold.
    Now Kolchak advanced to his line. He held out his hand to Pekkala. ‘Give me the gun,’ he ordered.
    Reluctantly, Pekkala handed him the weapon. ‘Colonel, I beg you to reconsider. What honour can there be in gunning down another man?’
    Kolchak did not reply. Instead he opened the cylinder, cocked the revolver and peered down the barrel at his opponent. Then he spun the cylinder, holding it up to his ear, like a burglar listening to the tumblers of a safe. With a jerk of his wrist, Kolchak closed the cylinder: ‘Stand aside,’ he told Pekkala, and suddenly he did not sound drunk any more.
    Once more Pekkala turned to face the two strangers, still convinced that there might be a way to end this without bloodshed. But there was something about the way they stood, and the grim formality of their expressions, which made Pekkala realise that he was part of something he could not prevent.
    Radom unfolded the piece of paper in his hand. ‘Colonel Kolchak,’ he announced in a loud but shaking voice, ‘I will read the charge against you.’
    ‘Go to hell!’ snarled Kolchak. ‘Do you want to kill me or don’t you?’
    Radom flinched, as if the Colonel had just spat in his face. With trembling fingers, he attempted to fold up the paper again, but instead, he dropped it in the snow. For a moment, he stared at it, seemingly contemplating whether there was more dignity in bending down to retrieve the note, or in leaving the paper where it lay.
    Before he could make up his mind, Kolchak’s voice thundered once more through the darkness. ‘Who’s first?’
    ‘The choice is yours,’ answered Radom.
    In that moment, Pekkala no longer felt the freezing air blowing in off the Neva River. Nor could he hear the sound of laughter and music from inside the Metropole. Even the drifting snowflakes seemed to pause in their descent.
    Kolchak examined the revolver in his hand. He turned it one way and then another and the glimmer of the street lamps winked off its blued steel barrel. Then, casually, he raised the gun and pulled the trigger.
    The sound was flat and brittle, like that of someone breaking a dry stick across their knee.
    Maxim Alexeyevich Radom stood perfectly still.
    Kolchak missed, thought Pekkala. Thank God, the man is too drunk to shoot straight. Now surely they will call the whole thing off.
    Another moment passed before Pekkala realised that he was mistaken.
    Radom’s neat, dark hair stuck up on one side, like a shard of black glass. Slowly, the man raised his arms out to the side, like someone about to set out across a tightrope. He took one careful step backwards, then fell into the slush, the gun tumbling out of his hand.
    Pekkala and Polivanov both ran to help the injured man, but there was nothing they could do.
    Radom had been shot just above the left eye. His skull had been cracked open, and the scalp folded back upon itself. Steam drifted from the hole in his head.
    Radom was still alive but his breathing had become a deep, guttural snore.
    It was a sound Pekkala had heard before, and he knew that the man had only minutes left to live.
    At that moment, the double doors of the Metropole flew open and a woman ran out into the street. Her hair was a dark, tangled mass. She was wearing only a silk negligee, and as she passed through the lamplight, the gossamer