Siberian Red

not a single convict would have escaped and the Ostyaks would now be lying dead in a heap in the middle of the compound. Instead, his men had fled en masse to the guardhouse and barricaded themselves inside. He would have liked to execute the whole lot of them on the spot, and except for the fact that this would have required at least two of the guards to help him with the paperwork afterwards, since he could not read or write, Gramotin would have killed them all by now.
    For Gramotin the only bright spot in this otherwise shameful and disastrous day was that Klenovkin had shot himself. Dead men made excellent scapegoats, and now the blame for the escape could rest entirely with Klenovkin. Had he lived, the Commandant would have wasted no time blaming someone else for the catastrophe and Gramotin knew full well that it would have been him.
    Gramotin realised, however, that this did not let him off the hook entirely. As sergeant of the guard, he was obliged to account for his actions. In his mind Gramotin had already voyaged ahead to the hearing which would undoubtedly take place. The first question they would ask, those stone-faced functionaries of the Dalstroy inquiry board, would be if he had made any attempt to pursue the men who escaped. If his answer was no, the inquiry would convict him of negligence. That would be the end of his career and probably his life, as well.
    This was why Gramotin had decided to set out now, even though he had serious doubts as to whether he and his men were any match for the combined force of those sunburned, reindeer-herding primitives and the tattooed Comitati, whom he despised every bit as much as they loathed him.
    After an hour of marching, they came to the place where the Ostyak sledges had turned into the woods. The snow was deeper here and the going made harder for Gramotin by the two ammunition bandoliers he carried criss-crossed over his chest. By holding a candle lamp in front of him, he was able to see the sledge tracks, even though they were now almost covered by the falling snow.
    After a few dozen paces, Gramotin stopped to catch his breath. ‘All right,’ he wheezed, ‘two minutes’ rest, but no more.’ It was at this point that Gramotin realised he was alone.
    The other guards were still back on the road.
    Gramotin raised the lantern. Shadows see-sawed through the trees, obscuring his view of the soldiers. ‘What’s wrong?’ he shouted. ‘Why have you stopped?’
    ‘You can’t expect us to chase them into the forest,’ called one of the guards.
    ‘And in the middle of the night,’ another man chimed in.
    ‘That is exactly what I expect! If we wait until morning, they’ll be too far away to catch. Now then! Who is with me?’
    The only reply he received was the sound of wind through the tops of the trees, like static on a radio.
    Cursing wildly, Gramotin made his way back to the road and discovered, to his astonishment, that his men had disappeared. Their footsteps in the snow showed that they were already on their way back to camp. ‘Bastards!’ he howled into the dark.
    The darkness swallowed his words.
    In that moment, he realised how much he missed Platov. ‘Platov would have stayed with me,’ muttered Gramotin. When he thought of the dead man, kneeling in a pool of his own blood, tears flooded into Gramotin’s eyes. Angrily he wiped them away with the rough wool of his glove. I will kill them for this, he decided. I will kill them all, guards and prisoners alike, starting with Inspector Pekkala.
    Alone‚ he turned and trudged back along the trail, following the Ostyaks, the frail glow of his lamp growing fainter as the trees closed up around him.
    *
     
    Kirov’s Emka skidded to a halt outside the control room of Afanasiev airport, a small installation reserved for military flights.
    He had followed Stationmaster Kasinec’s instructions to the nearest airfield, only five minutes’ drive north of the V-4 railway station.
    ‘I will notify the airfield you are coming!’ Kasinec had shouted as Kirov got into his car. ‘I’ll tell them you are bound for Vladivostok!’
    Out on the runway, a plane had just taxied into position, ready for takeoff. The machine was painted green, with red stars on its wings and tail. It had a long cockpit canopy to accommodate both a pilot and a navigator/gunner.
    Kirov cut his engine, bolted from the car and ran inside.
    The traffic controller sat behind a radio, mouse-eared by a large set of headphones.