Siberian Red

taken to wandering those tunnels at night, anything but stay holed up in that cave. That’s when I discovered Ryabov. I could tell he was surprised to see me. I tried again to reason with him, but he told me his mind was made up. He was putting a stop to the escape. I reminded him of how long he had struggled to ensure the survival of our men so that one day they might find their way out of this camp.’
    ‘And what was his reply?’
    ‘He said their freedom, and his own, would not be worth the countless thousands we’d leave butchered in our path.’
    At last, the mystery of Ryabov’s death became clear to Pekkala. He realised he had misjudged the murdered officer.
    ‘Pekkala‚ I did not want to kill him, but when he told me that Klenovkin would be there any minute, thinking perhaps that I would see the situation as hopeless and surrender, I knew I didn’t have any choice except to silence him for good.’
    Their conversation was interrupted by a shout from the men who were digging. An arm rose from the smoke, the fist clutching a bar of gold. Tarnowski staggered out, half blinded, and laid the ingot down at Kolchak’s feet. Then he turned and went back to his digging.
    Slowly, Kolchak bent down and picked up the bar, whose surface was hidden by a residue of dirt, which had leached through the wooden crate over time. Kolchak rubbed it away with his thumb, revealing the double-headed eagle of the Romanovs. Then he glanced at Pekkala and smiled.
    ‘Those men deserve to be told,’ said Pekkala, nodding towards Lavrenov and Tarnowski, ‘and told now.’
    ‘They will be, as soon as they have finished.’
    ‘Have you considered the possibility that they might not want to go through with it?’
    ‘Of course,’ replied Kolchak. ‘That’s why I am telling you first. These men know that you were trusted by the Tsar. If you are with me, they will be as well. Think of it, my friend. We won’t just be living like kings. Kings are what we will be !’
    But all Pekkala could think about was the lives which would be lost if he stood by and did nothing. He remembered the Tsar, driven to the brink of madness by the dead from the Khodynka Field; the men and women he believed he could have saved whirling in a ceaseless and macabre dance inside the white-walled palace of his skull.
    It took both men to raise the first crate from the ground. As they lifted it, the rotten wood gave way. With dull, metallic clanks, ingots tumbled out into the snow. Other crates followed quickly, wrenched from the dirt and dragged clear of the steaming ground.
    ‘Did it not occur to you’‚ asked Pekkala, ‘that I might agree with Ryabov?’
    Kolchak laughed, certain that Pekkala must be joking. ‘We are all of us entitled to vengeance, but none more than you, Pekkala.’
    ‘Vengeance has become the purpose of your life, Kolchak, but not of mine.’
    Kolchak’s smile faded, as he grasped that Pekkala was serious. ‘I trusted you! I broke you out of that prison. I gave you the coat off my back and this is how you repay me? The Tsar would be ashamed of you.’
    ‘The Tsar is dead, Kolchak, and so is the world in which he lived. You cannot bring it back by spilling blood. If you have your way, the rivers of Siberia will soon be choked with corpses. And if Germany invades in the west, millions more people will die. By the time your vengeance has been satisfied, Russia will cease to exist. Your uncle did not die for that.’
    Kolchak’s eyes glazed with rage. ‘But you will, Inspector Pekkala.’
    Almost too late, Pekkala saw the knife. He grabbed Kolchak’s wrist, as the weapon flickered past his face.
    With his other hand balled into a fist, Kolchak struck Pekkala in the throat, sending him down in a heap on to the trampled snow.
    While Pekkala fought for breath, Kolchak raised the blade above his head, ready to plunge it into the centre of Pekkala’s chest.
    *
     
    When the two men emerged on to the ice, Gramotin could scarcely believe his good luck. Shielding his eyes with one dirty hand, he strained to make out who they were. Even though their faces were unclear, he could still see the numbers painted in white on their faded black jackets. One of them was 4745. ‘Pekkala,’ he muttered to himself. The other, he decided, must be Lavrenov, since he was neither bald nor the size of Tarnowski.
    Lavrenov and Pekkala seemed to be involved in a heated conversation. Pekkala, who did most of the talking, even grabbed Lavrenov by the