Siberian Red

container, immediately plunging his hand into the snow to stop the skin from burning. In a couple of minutes, the snow in the container had melted. By shifting the stones back and forth from the fire to the snow, Pekkala was able to boil the water in less than half an hour. When the meat was cooked, Pekkala divided it among the four men. They sat by the fire, puffing clouds of steam as they devoured the scalding shreds of flesh.
    From the other side of the fire, the Ostyaks watched and whispered to each other.
    After the meal, Kolchak leaned over to Pekkala.
    ‘You are shivering,’ he said.
    Pekkala nodded. Even this close to the fire, he had to clench his teeth to stop them from chattering. The quilted telogreika jacket he had been issued was already several generations old when he arrived at Borodok. It had been repaired so many times that there were more patches showing than the original cloth. These telogreikas were efficient only until they got wet. After that the only hope was to dry them over a fire or to wait for a layer of ice to form over the outer surface of the cloth, which would then act as a wind break. Pekkala’s jacket was so old that neither option worked. The cotton padding had been soaked and dried so many times that it no longer retained the heat of his body. In his daily life at the camp, Pekkala had always been able to retreat to the kitchen and warm up next to the stove, but this journey had chilled him to the bone.
    ‘Here,’ said Kolchak, unbuttoning his own jacket and handing it to Pekkala. ‘Take it, Inspector. It’s the least I can do in exchange for a cooked meal in this wilderness.’
    ‘That is very kind of you, but I cannot accept it.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘You’ll just end up freezing instead.’
    ‘Look!’ Kolchak opened the flap of his jacket, revealing a fur vest he was wearing underneath. ‘I will be fine, and I need you alive, Pekkala. There are too few of us left, as it is.’
    Gratefully, Pekkala traded garments. He had not even done up the buttons before he felt the warmth trickling through his veins.
    ‘Don’t worry, Pekkala,’ said Kolchak, slapping him on the shoulder, ‘it won’t be long before you’re wearing decent clothes again, sleeping in a bed instead of on the ground, and eating with a knife and fork, all in the company of friends.’
    Pekkala nodded and smiled, but the mention of friends sent a wave of sadness through his mind as he thought of Kirov and the potted-plant jungle he had made of their office, the meals he had prepared each Friday afternoon, the pleas for Pekkala to buy his coats from any other place but Linsky’s. It twisted in him like a knife that he had never been able to thank Kirov for the time they’d spent working together.
    Pekkala was jolted from these thoughts by one of the Ostyaks, who approached him wearing the blood-smeared pelts of the rabbits tucked into his belt. The man squatted down beside Pekkala and picked up the container he had used for boiling the meat. ‘You made this?’ he asked, carefully shaping the unfamiliar words with his thin and sunburned lips.
    Pekkala nodded.
    ‘Where did you learn how?’ asked the man.
    ‘I taught myself. I had to. I used to live here.’
    ‘Lived? In the camp?’
    ‘No,’ explained Pekkala, taking in the forest with a sweep of his arm. ‘Here.’
    The Ostyak smiled and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No man lives here.’
    Pekkala pressed the flat of his hand upon the pelt he had cut from the rabbit. The he raised his arm‚ like a man about to take an oath‚ showing his palm and fingers red with the gore of the dead animal. ‘Do you remember me now?’ he asked. ‘I used to be the man with the bloody hands.’
    For a moment, the Ostyak only stared at him. Then he made a noise in his throat, got up and walked away. The Ostyak sat down amongst his friends and they began another whispered conversation, glancing now and then towards Pekkala.
    He wished he could explain to them that the one man they really had to fear was nowhere near this forest.
    How distant Stalin must seem to them, thought Pekkala. How safe they must feel in their hideaways out on the tundra, with only wolves and each other for company. But Stalin would learn of their betrayal, and he would bring his vengeance down upon them. Perhaps not for a year, or several years, but he would never forget. And what the Ostyaks could not fathom, even in their nightmares, was that Stalin would hunt them to