Siberian Red

‘Of course! I should have known.’
    ‘What is the Blue File, Comrade Stalin?’
    For the moment, Stalin ignored him. ‘How did Pekkala know to look in Archive 17?’ he wondered aloud. ‘How did he know that the Blue File had even survived?’
    Poskrebyshev did not reply, fearing another lecture on the word ‘rhetorical’.
    ‘This Captain Ryabov must have been a special agent of the Tsar. That proves he did not trust Kolchak. And he was right! In such a situation, no one can be trusted.’ Resting one elbow on the desk, Stalin placed his forehead against his palm. ‘I should never have sent Pekkala back to Borodok. He must have known all along what this was really about.’
    ‘Is Pekkala in danger, Comrade Stalin?’
    Stalin brushed away the words as if they were flies buzzing around his head.
    ‘What about Savushkin, the bodyguard you sent to protect him?’
    ‘Pekkala might have won him over,’ answered Stalin, still talking more to himself than to Poskrebyshev. ‘After all, Savushkin volunteered to work with Pekkala. I should have taken that into consideration.’
    ‘Won him over? But why, Comrade Stalin, and with what?’
    ‘Threats. Bribes. Some act of Finnish sorcery! And as for why, perhaps Pekkala’s loyalties to the past are stronger than I thought. I see now that Pekkala has been hiding. All this time, he has concealed himself in a disguise of incorruptibility. They were good at disguises, those agents of the Tsar. Vassileyev taught them well. But now I see Pekkala as he really is. He can no longer hide from me!’
    ‘Comrade Stalin,’ Poskrebyshev pleaded with him, ‘there is no evidence to suggest that what you are saying is true.’
    ‘Evidence!’ roared Stalin. ‘The evidence was right under our noses the whole time, hidden away in Archive 17. And that is where it should have stayed. Who is in charge there? Who is responsible for releasing the information?’
    ‘That would be Professor Braninko.’
    ‘Get me Kornfeld. Tell him he has work to do.’
    *
     
    Pekkala stood at the entrance to the mine, waiting to deliver the soup ration.
    At last, a man appeared, ghoulish in his coating of radium. When he caught sight of Pekkala, he raised his hand in greeting.
    ‘I brought you soup,’ said Pekkala.
    ‘Don’t you recognise me?’ asked the stranger.
    ‘I’m sorry, Zeka, I do not,’ replied Pekkala, using the common name by which prisoners addressed each other. The stranger’s face was so caked in yellowy powder that it reminded Pekkala of masks he once saw used by a troupe of Japanese kabuki actors at the Aksyonov Theatre in St Petersburg.
    ‘It’s me!’ The prisoner slapped his hands against his chest, sending puffs of yellow dust into the air. ‘Savushkin!’
    Pekkala leaned forward, squinting. ‘Savushkin?’ The man who stood before him now bore no resemblance to the friend he had made on the journey to Siberia. Savushkin’s shirt was open at the neck, revealing a collarbone stretched so tightly against the flesh it looked as if the slightest movement would cause his skin to tear like wet paper.
    The smile on Savushkin’s face faltered. He gathered up a bucket in each hand. The wire-bale handles dug into his raw, chapped skin. ‘I know my task is to protect you, Inspector, but they are making it very difficult. I’m trying. Believe me, I’m still trying.’
    Overcome, Pekkala reached out and set his hands on Savushkin’s shoulders. ‘Don’t worry about me. Look after yourself. I’ll do what I can to get you transferred from the mine.’
    ‘No.’ Savushkin shook his head. ‘People will only get suspicious. Solve the case, Inspector, as quickly as you can. Then we can both get out of here.’ Carrying the buckets, he disappeared into the tunnel, his shadow lumbering across the walls, giant and grotesque in the lamplight.
    Pekkala looked at his hands. His palms and fingertips were chalky white where they had touched Savushkin’s jacket. Shaken, he made his way back across the compound.
    Outside the kitchen, Gramotin was waiting for him. ‘The Commandant wants to see you.’
    Pekkala nodded.
    ‘I’m watching you, convict,’ said Gramotin.
    ‘I know,’ replied Pekkala.
    *
     
    ‘This just arrived for you,’ said Klenovkin, holding out a telegram.
    It was from Kirov.
    Pekkala studied the faint grey letters fanned out across the flimsy sheet of paper.
    RYABOV COVER NAME FOR AGENT LISTED IN BLUE FILE AS KILLED DURING ARREST OF GRODEK BUT SURVIVED