Siberian Red

the shuttered windows.
    Relieved as Klenovkin was to have been left alone by the Ostyaks, he could not help a certain indignation that none of the guards had come to rescue him.
    He could not fathom why the Ostyaks had mounted an assault on the camp. Nothing like this had ever happened before. He wondered what offence, conjured from their primitive and superstitious minds, had sent them on the warpath. In spite of what had happened, Klenovkin was not overly concerned. The camp guards, with their superior firepower and Sergeant Gramotin to lead them, would certainly have fought off any Ostyaks who managed to enter the camp. Nor did he worry about any prisoners attempting to escape, especially when there were Ostyaks around.
    The sooner he made his way out to the compound, the fewer questions would be raised about his actions during the attack. Anxious to give the impression that he had been in the thick of the fighting, Klenovkin removed a bullet from his gun, detached the round from the brass cartridge and poured the grey sand of gunpowder into his palm. Then he spat on the powder, stirred it into a paste with his finger and daubed the mixture on his face.
    Still cautious, Klenovkin climbed to his feet and peered between the shutters. The damage was worse than he’d thought.
    Pale shreds of wood, all that remained of the gates, lay scattered across the compound. The two guard towers had burned and collapsed. One of the barracks was also on fire. Tar paper blazed on its roof, shingles curling like black fists in the heat. In an effort to stop the blaze from spreading, a couple of prisoners were shovelling snow up on to the roof, which seemed to have no effect at all.
    Other prisoners had gathered at the cookhouse where Melekov, refusing to alter his habits, was now handing out the breakfast rations.
    In the centre of the compound, a guard was kneeling on the ground, a rifle, with bayonet attached, propped against his shoulder.
    Klenovkin looked closer, and recognised Platov, that idiot lapdog of Gramotin. The first thing he would do when he embarked on his inspection tour was to tell that lazy fool to get up and go back to work. But then he noticed that the rifle wasn’t resting against Platov’s shoulder as he had first imagined. In fact, Platov had been stabbed through the throat with the bayonet which now protruded from the back of his neck. Platov was dead, propped up by the rifle, which had prevented him from falling.
    No one had touched the body.
    The spit dried up in Klenovkin’s mouth. Turning from the window, he picked up the phone and dialled the guardhouse. ‘This is Klenovkin. What is the situation?’ Hearing the reply‚ he suddenly appeared to lose his balance and grabbed hold of the corner of his desk. ‘They what? All of them? With the Ostyaks? And Pekkala, too? Are you certain of this? Who has gone after them? What do you mean nobody? You were waiting for my orders? Do you honestly think you need my permission to chase after escaped prisoners? I don’t care if the Ostyaks were with them! Get after them now! Now!’ Klenovkin slammed down the receiver.
    As the full measure of this disaster became clear to him, all the strength seemed to pour from his body.
    He would be held responsible. His career was finished. Dalstroy would have him replaced. And that was the least of his worries. These were not just any prisoners. These were the Comitati, and for their escape he would answer directly to Moscow. His only chance was to blame Pekkala, in the hopes of deflecting Stalin’s fury.
    Klenovkin slid the phone into the centre of his desk. After breathing in and out several times, like a runner preparing for a race, he dialled the Kremlin.
    Time slowed to a crawl as he listened to the click and crackle of the empty line. Vaguely, he recalled the night before, when his promotion through the ranks of Dalstroy had seemed a certainty. Last night felt like a dream, borrowed out of someone else’s life. Now a great, spiralling darkness appeared in front of him, and Klenovkin felt himself drawn helplessly into its vortex. Finally he heard the distant purr of the telephone ringing in Moscow.
    ‘Kremlin!’ barked Poskrebyshev.
    ‘This is Commandant Klenovkin.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘Klenovkin. Commandant of the camp at Borodok. You gave me this number.’
    ‘Ah. Borodok. Yes. You are calling to confirm that the liquidation has been carried out.’
    ‘Not exactly.’ Klenovkin breathed in, ready to explain, but