Siberian Red

Klenovkin’s office in order to steal his own file. Having discovered this, Klenovkin must have realised that the blame would fall on him. In desperation, the man had taken his own life.
    Now Klenovkin would have to be replaced; the very thing Gramotin had been desperate to avoid.
    Melekov had botched his attempt to kill Pekkala.
    Klenovkin‚ too‚ had bungled.
    Even Stalin’s orders from Moscow had failed to end the bastard’s life.
    I will have to do the job myself, thought Gramotin. He turned to leave but then turned back. Bending down, he prised the pistol from Klenovkin’s hand, tucked it into his belt and strode out of the room.
    *
     
    Kirov arrived at the Kremlin.
    The message had said it was urgent.
    A guard escorted him to Stalin’s office.
    As the outer door opened, Poskrebyshev rose to his feet, with a particular casualness he reserved for men of lesser rank than the generals who usually paraded past his desk on their way to meet with Stalin. ‘He is expecting you, Major.’
    ‘Thank you,’ replied Kirov, handing Poskrebyshev his cap.
    ‘I will require your passbook as well, Major.’
    Kirov removed the booklet from the top left pocket of his tunic and placed it on the desk.
    Poskrebyshev nodded towards the double doors which led into Stalin’s office. ‘Now you can go in.’
    Stalin was sitting at a table to the side of the main window, eating a tin of sardines in tomato sauce. The smell of them filled the air, metallic and vinegary. The lid of the sardine tin had been peeled back. It looked like a clock spring, the little key still jutting from the centre of the coil. With blunt fingers, Stalin chased the slippery and headless fish out of the sauce and paked them into his mouth.
    Kirov waited in silence, his eyes fixed on Stalin’s jaw muscles, which flexed beneath the pockmarked skin.
    Stalin sucked the oily fish scales from his fingertips. Then he wiped his hands on a brightly patterned handkerchief which lay across his knee. ‘Do you know why I sent Pekkala to Siberia?’
    ‘To investigate the murder of Captain Ryabov.’
    Stalin picked a fishbone from between his teeth. ‘And do you know why I took such an interest in the death of this convict?’
    ‘He was a member of the Kolchak Expedition.’
    ‘Correct.’
    ‘I also know that you believed there might be a connection between this man’s death and the discovery that Colonel Kolchak could still be alive.’
    Stalin nodded approvingly. ‘That is all true, Major, but it is only a fraction of the whole picture.’
    A look of confusion drifted across Kirov’s face.
    ‘Major Kirov, what I am about to tell you is privileged information. It cannot be discussed outside this room. Do you understand?’
    ‘Of course, Comrade Stalin.’
    ‘The case is more important than you realise. Even Inspector Pekkala was not made aware of its full implications. This is not merely about solving a murder, or tracking down a man I believed I had personally disposed of many years ago.’
    ‘Then what is it about, Comrade Stalin?’
    ‘Gold,’ he replied. ‘Specifically the gold that Colonel Kolchak took with him when he departed from the city of Kazan.’
    ‘But he didn’t take it with him,’ protested Kirov. ‘He left it behind, and then it was picked up by the Czechs and they handed it over to us!’
    ‘The Czechs handed over thirty-seven crates at Irkutsk, but I happen to know that there were fifty cases in that convoy. Thirteen crates are still missing.’
    ‘And how do you know this, Comrade Stalin?’
    ‘We had an informant, one of the groundskeepers on the Imperial estate. He was the one who told us that Kolchak had departed from Tsarskoye Selo, and he even counted the number of boxes on those wagons as they rolled off the grounds of the estate.’
    ‘And you think Kolchak held on to those thirteen crates?’
    ‘I have always suspected it, but as of today I am virtually certain.’
    ‘Then why did the Red Cavalry not find it when they overran the Expedition?’
    ‘Kolchak must have hidden it somewhere along the way.’
    ‘Exactly how much gold are we talking about, Comrade Stalin?’
    ‘Each case contained twenty-four bars and each bar weighed one half pood in the old Imperial weight system.’
    ‘How much is that by today’s reckoning?’
    ‘One half pood is approximately 18 pounds. Twenty-four bars at 18 pounds each adds up to 432 pounds. Thirteen cases means over 5‚600 pounds. That’s two and a half tons of gold.’