Siberian Red

be hauled around like this. With a feeble, barely conscious gesture, he reached up to adjust his tie, which suddenly felt too tight around his throat.
    The man who was dragging him wore a dark hat and a coat which came down below his knees. Both were civilian garments. It occurred to Braninko to inform him that only government personnel were allowed in Archive 17.
    What is wrong with me? Braninko wondered. His stomach felt strangely empty and he experienced a terrible thirst, as if he were lost in a desert.
    At last, the dragging stopped. The man let go of Braninko’s feet and the professor’s heels struck the floor hard.
    Braninko was relieved to be lying still. He felt dizzy and sick. He glanced at his palm and realised he was covered with blood. Only now did it dawn on him that he had been shot. Tugging at the buttons of his vest, he pulled the cloth away and saw the deep red marks of two bullet holes punched through the fabric of his shirt.
    The man turned around and looked at Braninko. He was narrow-faced, with a black moustache tinged grey along the edges. He wore thick corduroy trousers and a short double-breasted wool coat.
    Although such clothes were common in the streets of Moscow, Braninko had no difficulty identifying this man as a member of NKVD. It was not the clothes, but how the stranger wore them; with no regard for comfort, all the buttons fastened, and the lapels stitched into place, rather than being allowed to rest naturally against the collarbone.
    ‘Who are you?’ As the professor spoke, a thread of bloody saliva trickled from his mouth.
    ‘My name is Kornfeld,’ replied the man. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the perspiration from his cheeks. ‘You are heavier than you look, old man.’
    ‘Why have you done this to me?’
    ‘It is my job.’
    ‘But what have I done to deserve it?’ Braninko had trouble breathing, as if someone were kneeling on his chest.
    ‘The only thing I can tell you is that you have upset someone very important.’
    ‘The Blue File,’ whispered Braninko. ‘Is that what this is about?’
    ‘I told you, I don’t know.’
    ‘I was helping with an investigation.’
    ‘I have no interest in what you were doing.’
    ‘The man I was helping is Inspector Pekkala, and you will answer to him for what you’ve done to me; you and whoever sent you on this butcher’s errand.’
    From the pocket of his coat, Kornfeld removed a Browning automatic pistol. ‘You may be right, Professor, but he will have to find me first.’
    ‘Oh, he will find you,’ Braninko replied angrily, ‘and sooner than you think. By the time you leave this building, the Emerald Eye will be upon you.’
    Kornfeld did not appear to be listening. Instead, he busied himself with checking the number of rounds in the Browning’s magazine.
    Observing the casual efficiency of his executioner, Braninko abandoned all hope. The old man gazed around the room, his eyes flickering across the faces of the statues which had kept him company all these years. He thought about the papers on his desk, which still needed sorting, and of his cat, on the windowsill at home, watching for him to return, and of all the important and unfinished business of his life which swirled around him like a cloud of tiny insects, then suddenly scattered and lost all meaning. Reaching into the blood-drenched pocket of his vest, Braninko removed a spindly iron key and held it out towards the man who was about to kill him. ‘Please lock the door on your way out.’
    Kornfeld took the key from Braninko’s outstretched hand. ‘Of course,’ he said. Then he shot the old man twice in the head and left his body lying on the floor.
    On his way out, Kornfeld locked the door behind him. With unhurried steps, he crossed the street, pausing only to drop the key down a storm drain before he disappeared into the chaos of the Bolotnia market.
    *
     
    That morning before dawn, one of the camp’s generators had caught fire, sending a cloud of thick, oily smoke unravelling into the sky. The snow that fell from the clouds that morning was tinged with soot, adding to the sense of desolation hanging over the valley of Krasnagolyana.
    Arriving at the kitchen, Pekkala discovered that Melekov had left the freezer door open. Pekkala called Melekov’s name, but there was no reply.
    He must have gone to watch the generator burn, thought Pekkala.
    Knowing that Melekov would soon return, and unable to resist the temptation of