Siberian Red

says are still missing from the Tsar’s Imperial Reserves.’
    ‘Thirteen?’
    Kirov nodded. ‘That’s what he said. Five thousand pounds of it in all.’
    Stalin has somehow miscalculated the amount, thought Pekkala. ‘How did he come up with that number?’
    ‘They had an informant,’ explained Kirov. ‘A groundskeeper at Tsarskoye Selo. He saw Colonel Kolchak departing from the estate and even managed to count the number of crates on the wagons Kolchak brought with him.’
    As Pekkala thought back to that night, he suddenly grasped what must have happened. The groundskeeper had not realised that the third cart had broken down. He had only watched the first two carts departing. By the time the third had been repaired, the groundskeeper was already on his way to report what he had seen. Stalin must be under the impression that there were fifty cases in all, when in fact there were seventy-five. There were not thirteen cases missing. There were thirty-eight. Subtracting the three cases that Kolchak used for bribes along his route, that still left thirty-five cases of gold, and not 5,000 pounds but more than 13,000.
    ‘Those cases are down there in the woods,’ said Pekkala. ‘I will go and fetch them now.’
    ‘Let me help you, Inspector.’
    ‘No.’ Pekkala held up one grubby hand. ‘As the Tsar once said to me, this is a task I trust to no one else.’
    The poor man has been driven insane, Kirov thought to himself, but he smiled gently and rested a hand upon the shoulder of Pekkala’s dirty coat. ‘Very well, Inspector,’ he said comfortingly. ‘If you insist.’
    It took Pekkala two hours to carry the ingots from the forest. In that time, he barely spoke, methodically shuffling back and forth between the train tracks and the clearing.
    Kirov and Deryabin watched Pekkala struggling under the weight of the ingots, which he carried three at a time. The only assistance Pekkala accepted was for the two men to take the gold from his hands and stack it inside the train compartment.
    ‘Why won’t he let us help him?’ asked Deryabin, when Pekkala had once more disappeared through the reeds and into the clearing on the other side.
    ‘Don’t ask me why he does what he does,’ replied Kirov, ‘because believe me I don’t know. Most of the time only Pekkala knows what he is doing, but that was enough for the Tsar, and it is enough for Stalin, as well, so it will have to be enough for you and me, Comrade Deryabin.’
    When the thirteen cases of gold, 312 bars in all, had been delivered to the train, Pekkala returned one last time to the frozen pond and dragged the body of Colonel Kolchak to the tracks, leaving a bloody trail through the snow. With Kirov’s help, the two men laid Kolchak inside the tender where the reserves of coal were kept.
    The rest of the gold, more than 500 bars, Pekkala left behind in the forest. In time, the Ostyaks would find it – a gift from the man with bloody hands.
    ‘Inspector,’ said Kirov, ‘we have a long journey ahead of us, but before we go, I have a little gift for you.’ From the pocket of his tunic, Kirov removed the Emerald Eye and placed it in Pekkala’s hand.
    For a moment, Pekkala stared at the badge, which unblinkingly returned his gaze from the safety of his grubby palm. Then, very carefully, Pekkala pinned it to the lapel of his coat.
    In the engineer’s compartment, Kirov sat down on the bars, which formed a low bench against the rear wall. He leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Deryabin!’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘It is time to go.’
    ‘But where?’
    ‘Still think you could teach those Muscovites a thing or two?’
    ‘Damned right I could!’
    Seated on his makeshift throne of gold, Kirov gestured casually towards the west. ‘Then roll on, Engine Master. We are bound for Moscow. Show us what the Orlik can do.’
    *
     
    Too exhausted to go on, Gramotin stood beside the tracks, crying out in terror and confusion.
    The Orlik had caught up with him at last.
    Looking down from the engineer’s compartment, Pekkala noticed what appeared to be a person in military uniform, although he could not be quite sure. This wretch’s clothing appeared to be both singed and frozen at the same time. The helpless creature stood with its mouth open, caught up in a cyclone of whirling snow which vortexed around him as if it were a living thing. Whoever it was, Pekkala pitied him for having gone astray in such a wilderness.
    As the train passed by, the two men locked