Siberian Red

Stalin spouted these numbers as if he had memorised them long ago. ‘Not an insignificant amount, you will agree.’
    ‘It is more than a man like me can even dream about,’ agreed Kirov, ‘but why didn’t you tell Pekkala any of this, Comrade Stalin?’
    ‘Because I knew that if I sent him to investigate a murder, he would do anything to solve it. But if I sent him in search of treasure, however valuable, he would tell me to find someone else.’
    ‘Then why didn’t you find someone else, Comrade Stalin?’
    ‘I had a hunch that solving the crime would lead Pekkala straight to Kolchak‚ who could then be placed under arrest. With the Colonel in custody‚ we would soon learn the location of the missing Imperial Reserves.’
    Kirov imagined one of the Butyrka interrogation cells, its floor and walls splashed with Kolchak’s blood.
    ‘Unfortunately,’ continued Stalin, ‘I suspect that Pekkala has managed to find the gold on his own.’
    ‘Then surely that is good news! You can bring him home now.’
    With his thumb, Stalin pushed away the tin of sardines. ‘Let me ask you, Major: if Pekkala has indeed located the gold, do you think it is possible that he might have decided to keep it for himself?’
    Kirov laughed at the suggestion.
    Stalin’s eyes turned glassy. ‘Comrade Major, do you find this a source of amusement?’
    Kirov’s smile vanished like the flame blown off a match. ‘What I mean, Comrade Stalin, is have you seen the way Pekkala lives? That tiny apartment. The food he eats? The coat he wears? He gets his things from Linsky’s! You could hand Pekkala a whole bar of gold and he’d probably just use it as a paperweight.’
    Stalin studied the young major with a mixture of bemusement and respect. ‘We are talking about more than a single bar of gold, Major Kirov.’
    ‘But we are also talking about Pekkala!’
    Stalin made a noise in the back of his throat. ‘I see your point. Nevertheless, Major, I’ve just received word that Pekkala has escaped from Borodok.’
    ‘Escaped? How can that be? He is not even a prisoner!’
    ‘Prisoner or not, he has disappeared, along with several men who were once part of the Kolchak Expedition. I am concerned that returning to Borodok has had a greater effect on Pekkala than I anticipated. His allegiances, the old and the new, have been brought into conflict. He may not want the gold for himself but he has fallen in with people who do‚ one of whom‚ I fear‚ may be the Colonel himself. Pekkala’s wish to deny me what is mine may be as strong as their desire to possess it.’
    ‘You speak as if he has already betrayed you, which I refuse to believe he has done. The answer is simple, Comrade Stalin. Inspector Pekkala has been kidnapped.’
    ‘Kidnapped?’ Now it was Stalin’s turn to look surprised.
    ‘Yes, undoubtedly. And who is in charge of rescuing him?’
    ‘Assuming you are correct, as of this moment, you are.’
    ‘Me?’ spluttered Kirov. ‘But how on earth am I supposed to track him down?’
    Stalin smashed his fist on the desk. ‘I don’t care! I want to know what happened to my gold! And when you find that Finnish sorcerer, kidnapped or otherwise, you will remind him that his duty is to the future, not the past.’
    ‘If you truly want him found, why not send a company of soldiers? Why not a whole army? What good can I possibly do?’
    ‘Precision is required here, Major Kirov. Sending an army after half a dozen men is like trying to remove a splinter from your eye with a pitchfork.’
    ‘But Comrade Stalin, surely there must be people closer to the scene . . .’
    ‘The reason I am sending you,’ interrupted Stalin, ‘is the same reason I sent Pekkala after Kolchak. He knows you. He trusts you. He will think twice before he tears your head off. And if I am right that Inspector Pekkala has chosen to forget his duties, you may be the only person on this earth who can remind him what they are. And as for an army, you may have one if you want. By the time you walk out of this room, you will be able to have anything you desire.’ Stalin breathed in sharply and unleashed a deafening shout. ‘Poskrebyshev!’
    A moment later, the double doors opened. The bald man appeared and clicked his heels.
    ‘Do you have Major Kirov’s papers?’
    Poskrebyshev held up the red identification booklet.
    ‘Bring it to me.’
    In a few strides, Poskrebyshev had crossed the room. He laid the passbook down on Stalin’s