Siberian Red

just for that purpose.
    Pekkala thought it was one of the most accidentally beautiful things he had ever seen.
    Heaped on the board now was the skinned leg of a goat, pale and bloodless, filmed with a strange shimmer of colours that reminded Pekkala of opals. ‘Much easier ways to die!’ Melekov shouted, cleaving through sinew and gristle with his monstrous carving knife. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, convict. You have to bring the Commandant his breakfast.’ He nodded towards a tray which had been covered by a dish towel.
    Pekkala went over to pick it up.
    ‘Wait!’ Melekov shouted.
    Pekkala froze in his tracks.
    Melekov stabbed a piece of goat meat with his butcher knife and raised it to his lips. With cruel precision, his pasty white tongue slithered out. Goat blood trickled down his wrists.
    Pekkala watched in pleading silence.
    Just before the meat disappeared into Melekov’s mouth, he gave the blade a sudden flick, which sent the little cube flying across the room. It bounced off Pekkala’s forehead, falling to the dirty, concrete floor. With a speed that surprised even himself, Pekkala dropped to his knees. Snatching up the meat‚ he swallowed it without chewing. By the time the gristly knot of flesh had made its way down his throat, his eyes were watering. ‘Thank you,’ he managed to whisper.
    *
     
    Carrying the tray, Pekkala walked across the compound. Inside Klenovkin’s office, he laid the breakfast tray before the Commandant.
    ‘There is only so much I can do for you,’ Klenovkin barked at him. ‘If you will insist on breaking the rules of this camp and getting yourself thrown into solitary . . .’
    Pekkala didn’t let him finish. ‘I need to send a telegram to Moscow.’
    Klenovkin snatched up a piece of paper and one of his needle-sharp pencils, then slid them both across the desk. ‘Get on with it,’ he muttered.
    Pekkala scribbled out a message –
    FIND MISSING CONTENTS OF RYABOV FILE STOP SEARCH ARCHIVE 17 STOP PEKKALA
    He handed the paper to Klenovkin. ‘This should go out straight away.’
    Klenovkin took the piece of paper and stared at it. ‘But why is this even necessary? I told you the Comitati were responsible. As far as I’m concerned, the only reason you’re here is to pick out which one of them did it. Now what I suggest you do is arrest them all and be done with it. The only telegram you should be sending to Moscow is to announce that the case has been closed.’
    ‘I do not share your certainty, Commandant.’
    ‘But they are the only ones who stand to benefit from Ryabov’s death!’
    ‘On the contrary. You have made no secret of your hatred for these men. What better way to be rid of them than to kill one man and blame the others for his murder? In a single act, you could sweep all of them away.’
    Klenovkin smashed his fist down on the table. ‘I will not stand to be accused!’
    As if propelled by some invisible current of air, the pencil Pekkala had been using began to roll.
    Both of them watched it gathering speed until it tipped off the end of the desk and fell with a rattle to the floor.
    Deliberately, Pekkala bent down, picked up the pencil and placed it back where it had been before. ‘I have not accused you of anything. I am merely showing you that the situation is more complicated than you imagine. I am beginning to think that the reason for his death might lie outside this camp.’
    ‘And you hope to find the answer in this Archive 17?’
    ‘With your permission, Commandant.’
    ‘Very well,’ he replied gruffly. ‘I will allow it to go through.’
    When Pekkala had gone, Klenovkin sank back into his chair. His heart was beating so quickly that he felt as if he were being rhythmically punched in the throat.
    Sergeant Gramotin poked his head around the door. ‘I heard shouting. Is everything all right? Has that prisoner been causing any trouble?’
    Klenovkin grunted. ‘ Any trouble? At the moment, he is causing all the trouble.’
    ‘I can take care of that, Commandant.’
    Klenovkin sighed and shook his head. ‘Patience, Gramotin. The bastard is protected. At least, he is for now.’
    *
     
    Returning to the kitchen, Pekkala set to work delivering the thin vegetable broth known as balanda , which was served to the miners for their midday break.
    The soup was carried in buckets which fastened with a wooden lid and a toggle on a piece of string; Pekkala hauled the buckets on a cart that was made out of rough planks, its wheels