Siberian Red

the emerald eye to its original place beneath the lapel. ‘You can go now,’ muttered Kirov.
    Hurriedly, the man saluted and left, steel-shod boots clattering away down the stairs.
    Back in the office, Kirov opened the telegram. ‘Archive 17? What the hell is that?’ Immediately, he sat down at his desk, picked up the phone and dialled a number. ‘Hello? Yes. Hello. This is Major Kirov from Inspector Pekkala’s office. Yes, I am looking for the file of a man named Ryabov. Captain Isaac Ryabov. File number is 4995-R-G. Good. Yes. I’ll stay on the line.’ Kirov breathed out slowly while he waited, allowing the black receiver’s mouthpiece to slide under his chin. He tilted back in the chair and put his heels up on Pekkala’s desk.
    A moment later, a voice came back on the line.
    ‘I know, I have the file,’ said Kirov. ‘I’m looking at it now, but it contains only one page!’ He picked up the sheet and wagged it in the air. ‘There must be something missing. According to this file, there is no record of a Captain Ryabov before March of 1917. In other words, as far as we know, he did not exist before the Tsar stepped down from power. Well, I know that can’t be right. I’ve been told it might be in Archive 17, so if you could just connect me with them . . . What? Are you serious? There isn’t even a telephone? Yes, I could fill out a written request, but how long would it take to process? I don’t think you understand. I don’t have a month to get this done. I could see to it myself? Today? Very well. Where is it located? I didn’t know there was a government building on Zelionka Street. I thought those were all abandoned warehouses. Yes, I’ll be there when it opens.’ With a dry click, the line disconnected.
    A few minutes later, wearing his uniform, complete with polished boots, dress cap and Tokarev automatic in a holster at his belt, Major Kirov set off to find Archive 17. Tucked under his arm was the file of Captain Ryabov.
    In order to save time, he took a short cut across the sprawling Bolotnia Market, where old women in muddy-hemmed dresses hawked jars of gooseberry jam, and gap-toothed men with bloodhound eyes chanted the price of potatoes.
    He stopped to ask directions from a young boy in a floppy, short-brimmed cap, who sat behind a table on which a pile of dead rabbits lay stretched as if stolen from their lives in the moment of leaping to freedom.
    ‘Zelionka Street? There’s nothing but ghosts in those old buildings.’
    ‘Nevertheless,’ replied Kirov, ‘it is where I need to be.’
    The boy pointed in the direction Kirov was headed.
    Kirov nodded thanks, took one step, then stopped and turned to face the boy again. ‘Why aren’t you in school?’ he asked.
    The boy laughed. ‘And why are you looking for ghosts, Comrade Major of the NKVD?’ With that, the boy picked up one of the dead rabbits and, taking hold of one paw, flapped it up and down to say goodbye.
    Still clutching the file, Kirov arrived at Archive 17 of Internal Security just as the clerk was unlocking the door to a dingy, windowless and flat-roofed building which stood between two empty warehouses.
    The clerk was a small, aggressive-looking man with a thin moustache and narrow shoulders. He wore an overcoat with a scarf neatly tied around his neck and an old-fashioned round-topped hat, the likes of which Kirov had not seen since before the Revolution. Although the man was obviously aware of Kirov’s presence, he ignored the major while he unlocked the door. Finally, just before he disappeared inside, he turned and spoke to the Major. ‘Wherever you think you are, I can assure you this is the wrong place.’
    ‘Archive 17,’ Kirov said quickly, to avoid having the door shut in his face. The clerk seemed ready to barricade himself inside the building.
    ‘You have come to the right place,’ the man replied abruptly, ‘but these archives are reserved for Internal Security. A person like you can’t come in here.’
    ‘I am Major Kirov, with Special Operations.’
    ‘Oh,’ muttered the clerk. ‘Then I suppose you can come in, after all. I am Professor Braninko, the guardian of Archive 17.’ Reluctantly, he motioned for Kirov to enter.
    Inside the archive, Kirov was startled to see, among the hundreds of wooden filing cabinets lining the walls, statues of soldiers in outdated military uniforms, as well as busts of men with gruff faces and wide, unseeing eyes. In the centre of the room lay a huge