Siberian Red

before he had the chance a new voice broke through on the line.
    ‘Put him through,’ Stalin ordered.
    Klenovkin felt as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs.
    Poskrebyshev pressed a button on his telephone, transferring the line to Stalin’s desk. But the secretary did not hang up as he should have done. Instead, he placed the receiver gently on his desk, then bent forward until his ear was almost pressed against it. His teeth gritted with concentration, Poskrebyshev strained to hear what was being said.
    ‘Has Pekkala been executed,’ demanded Stalin, ‘or hasn’t he?’
    Klenovkin knew that the next words out of his mouth would change his life forever. As he tried to compose himself before delivering the answer, he stared at the white cloud of a snow squall riding in over the valley in the distance. It occurred to him that, with a snowstorm coming in, all trace of the escape would be wiped clean and the prisoners would vanish forever in the taiga.
    ‘Klenovkin? Are you there?’
    ‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’
    ‘What has become of Pekkala?’
    ‘I beg to report that the inspector escaped before I had a chance to carry out your orders.’
    ‘Escaped? When?’
    ‘This morning.’
    ‘But you received my instructions last night ! He should have been shot within five minutes of your reading the message!’
    ‘I decided to wait until morning, Comrade Stalin.’
    ‘And what purpose could that possibly have served?’ spluttered Stalin.
    Ransacking his mind, Klenovkin could no longer reconstruct the train of thought in which postponing Pekkala’s execution had seemed such a good idea to him, only a few hours before. ‘There is more, Comrade Stalin.’
    ‘More?’ he bellowed. ‘What else have you bungled, Klenovkin?’
    ‘The men of the Kolchak Expedition have also managed to escape.’
    For the next few seconds, only a faint rustling could be heard, which neither Stalin nor Klenovkin realised was, in fact, the sound of Poskrebyshev’s breathing as he eavesdropped on the conversation.
    ‘It is all Pekkala’s fault,’ protested Klenovkin. ‘He made threats against you, Comrade Stalin!’
    ‘Threats.’ Stalin echoed the word. Until that moment, he’d seen no reason to doubt the Camp Commandant’s words, but now suspicions were gathering, like storm clouds in his mind. ‘What did he say exactly?’
    Klenovkin was not prepared for this. He had assumed that the mere mention of a threat against the leader of the country would be enough. ‘What exactly?’ he stammered. ‘Grave threats. Serious allegations, Comrade Stalin.’
    There was another long pause. ‘Pekkala never made any threats, did he?’
    ‘Why would you say such a thing?’ pleaded Klenovkin.
    ‘It occurs to me now, Klenovkin, that Pekkala has stood before me many times, wearing that English cannon he keeps strapped against his chest, and I have never had cause to fear him. If Pekkala wanted to kill me he would do it first and talk about it afterwards. It is not in his nature to make threats. In short, Commandant, I suspect you are lying to me.’
    Klenovkin’s whole body went numb. The thought of continuing this deception seemed beyond any willpower he possessed. It was as if Stalin were staring straight into his soul. ‘There were no threats,’ he confessed.
    ‘Listen to me carefully.’ Stalin sounded eerily calm. ‘I want you to take out the file of Inspector Pekkala.’
    Klenovkin had expected Stalin to rage at him, but the softness in his leader’s voice caught him by surprise. In his desperation, he took this as a sign that he might still come through unscathed. Sliding open his desk drawer, he removed Pekkala’s file. ‘I have it here – Prisoner 4745.’
    ‘Now I want you to take out his information sheet.’
    ‘I’ve got it. And what next, Comrade Stalin?’
    ‘I want you to destroy it.’
    ‘Destroy it?’ he croaked. ‘But why?’
    ‘Because as far as the rest of the world is concerned, Inspector Pekkala was never there,’ Stalin’s voice was rising now, ‘and I will not have the Kremlin embroiled in some Dalstroy inquiry into your failure to carry out your duties! Now burn the sheet, and this time there will be no delay.’
    Stunned, Klenovkin took out his cigarette lighter and set fire to the corner of the paper. The document burned quickly. Soon all that remained was a fragile curl of ash, which Klenovkin dropped into the green metal garbage can beside his desk. ‘It’s done,’ he