Siberian Red

desk.
    ‘Pen,’ said Stalin.
    Poskrebyshev lifted one from the top pocket of his tunic and handed it over.
    Stalin opened the booklet, scribbled his signature inside, then held it out to Kirov.
    Kirov saw that a page had been added to his identification book. His heart stumbled in his chest as he read what was written inside.
     
    THE PERSON IDENTIFIED IN THIS DOCUMENT IS ACTING UNDER THE DIRECT ORDERS OF COMRADE STALIN.
    DO NOT QUESTION OR DETAIN HIM.
    HE IS AUTHORISED TO WEAR CIVILIAN CLOTHES, TO CARRY WEAPONS, TO TRANSPORT PROHIBITED ITEMS, INCLUDING POISON, EXPLOSIVES AND FOREIGN CURRENCY.
    HE MAY PASS INTO RESTRICTED AREAS AND MAY REQUISITION EQUIPMENT OF ALL TYPES, INCLUDING WEAPONS AND VEHICLES.
    IF HE IS KILLED OR INJURED, IMMEDIATELY NOTIFY THE BUREAU OF SPECIAL OPERATIONS.
     
    ‘Congratulations,’ said Stalin. ‘You are now the holder of a Shadow Pass.’
    Finding himself suddenly too nervous to speak, Kirov made do with a salute and turned to leave.
    ‘Before you go . . .’
    Stalin’s voice stopped Kirov in his tracks.
    ‘Let me make one thing very clear, Major. If you fail to bring Pekkala back alive, I will not hesitate to call in others who will certainly bring him back dead. Now go‚ and find him quickly‚ any way you can.’
    *
     
    While they waited for the others to return, the two remaining Ostyaks drove their sledges back into the forest, out of sight of the tracks.
    There, the caribou gathered beside a rocky outcrop and began to gnaw upon the brittle moss which grew in black scabs on the stone.
    As Pekkala watched them eat, he remembered the taste of that moss. Only in winter, when he had completely exhausted his food supplies did he resort to eating it. Mixing the brittle flakes with snow, he boiled them down until the moss disintegrated into a gelatinous black mass. Its taste was bitter, and the consistency so slimy that he often could not keep it down. He hoped it would not be their meal tonight.
    It was getting dark now and Pekkala set about gathering wood for a fire, prising dead branches from the frozen ground. The flames would act as a beacon to ensure that the returning sledges did not overshoot them in the dark. Any smoke from the fire would be hidden in the snow clouds, so they would not be spotted from the camp.
    The Ostyaks, meanwhile, took up their antique flintlock rifles. Moving on large round snowshoes made from bent willow and laced with honey-coloured bands of animal gut, they vanished into the forest in search of food.
    Only minutes had gone by when Pekkala heard the muffled crack of gunfire. When the Ostyaks reappeared, one of them was carrying two dead rabbits, their long ears clutched in his fist.
    With the help of some gunpowder emptied from a bullet cartridge, Pekkala soon had a fire going. Pine branches crackled and white smoke bloomed from the skeletal branches of white birch.
    *
     
    As soon as he departed from the Kremlin, Kirov drove straight to his office, gathered up a few things for the journey, then travelled to the railway junction where he had last seen Pekkala.
    His hastily conceived plan was to climb aboard the first train headed east and not to stop until he reached the camp at Borodok. Once there, he would commandeer whatever men and supplies were available and set out in search of the men who had kidnapped Pekkala.
    Arriving at the station, Kirov was dismayed to find no trains at the platform. At first, the whole place appeared deserted, but then the door to the guard shack opened and a man in dark blue overalls stepped out to meet him.
    It was Edvard Kasinec, master of the V-4 junction.
    ‘When is the next train leaving?’ asked Kirov.
    ‘Not for another three days,’ Kasinec replied, ‘but you must understand, Comrade Major; the only passengers which go through here are convicts bound for Siberia.’
    ‘I realise that. Siberia is where I need to go.’
    ‘Major, I assure you there are more comfortable ways to get there than in the wagons of a prison transport.’
    ‘My destination is a prison‚ Borodok, to be precise.’
    Kasinec’s eyebrows arched with surprise. ‘What could possess a man to go there of his own free will?’
    Kirov was only halfway through his explanation when Kasinec, hearing Pekkala’s name, ushered him into the station house.
    The place was crowded with radio equipment, well-thumbed books of timetables and requisition slips impaled on long metal spikes. Kasinec went over to the far wall, where a large map