Siberian Red

member of the Kremlin cleaning crew had switched his pipe rack from one side of the desk to the other, Stalin had the woman dismissed.
    The brilliance of Poskrebyshev’s revenge consisted in shifting these objects only millimetres from their original position. No one looking at them would be consciously aware that anything was out of the ordinary. Subconsciously, however, the cumulative effect would be devastating.
    It would not be permanent, of course. When Stalin had gone for the day, Poskrebyshev would put everything back in its proper place. He would do this not to relieve Comrade Stalin of his suffering but to confound him even further as to the source of his anxiety.
    Now, as Poskrebyshev eavesdropped on Stalin’s conversation with Pekkala, he experienced a warmth of satisfaction he had never felt before and clenched his teeth to hide the sound of cackling which threatened to burst from his mouth.
    A few minutes later, when Pekkala emerged from Stalin’s office Poskrebyshev busied himself with paperwork. He expected Pekkala to walk straight past without acknowledging him, as most people did. Instead, the investigator paused. Reaching across Poskrebyshev’s desk, he repositioned the intercom a finger’s breadth to the right of where it had been before.
    ‘What are you doing?’ asked Poskrebyshev.
    ‘Comrade Stalin seems particularly agitated today.’
    Poskrebyshev looked at the ugly black box, as if by force of will he might return the object to its original position. Then, slowly, he raised his head until he was staring at Pekkala. Could he possibly have figured it out? wondered Poskrebyshev. What are you thinking? asked the voices in his head. It’s Pekkala. Of course he has figured it out! A sense of imminent doom surrounded Poskrebyshev, but only for a moment, because he noticed Pekkala was smiling.
    ‘And how is the weather in Archangel today?’ asked the Inspector.
    By the time Poskrebyshev remembered to breathe, Pekkala had already gone.
    *
     
    Melekov had just finished installing a new phone in the Commandant’s office. His hands were sticky from the electrical tape he had used to bind the wiring. As he wiped his fingertips on his shirt, Melekov looked around the room. Most of Klenovkin’s possessions had already been stolen by various guards who came to see the bullet hole, almost hidden by the peacock fan of blood which had sprayed across the wall.
    Now the bullet hole had been repaired and the blood had been painted over, although, Melekov noted, both were still visible if he stared at the place for a while.
    With a few minutes to spare before he had to be back at the kitchen, Melekov sat down in Klenovkin’s chair and put his feet up on the desk. Then, from his trouser pocket, he pulled out a cheese and cabbage sandwich.
    Halfway through his first mouthful, the telephone rang, shattering the quiet of the room.
    Caught by surprise, Melekov leaped out of his chair, which tipped over backwards and crashed to the floor.
    Immediately, the phone rang again, its deafening clatter filling the air.
    Melekov snatched the receiver out of its cradle and pressed it to his ear.
    ‘Hello!’ called a voice at the other end. ‘Hello? Is anyone there?’
    ‘Yes . . .’
    ‘Who are you?’ demanded the voice.
    ‘Who are you ?’ asked Melekov.
    ‘This is Vladimir Leonovich Poskrebyshev. I am calling from the Kremlin with a message for somebody named Melekov. Do you know him?’
    ‘I am him.’
    ‘Well, as of this moment, Comrade Melekov, you are the temporary Commandant of the Borodok Labour Camp.’
    Melekov felt his heart clench, like a little half-inflated balloon grasped in the hand of an angry child. ‘Commandant?’
    ‘Temporary Commandant,’ Poskrebyshev corrected him. ‘Although, the way things work, it might be years before Dalstroy finds a replacement.’
    ‘When do I begin?’
    ‘You have already begun! The appointment is effective immediately. Congratulations. Long live the Motherland.’
    ‘Long live . . .’ Melekov began.
    But Poskrebyshev had already hung up.
    Melekov replaced the phone receiver. Silence had fallen once more upon the room. He placed the chair upright and sat down again at the desk. His desk. Slowly, he laid his hands flat upon the surface. With fingers spread, Melekov stretched out his arms and slid his palms across the wood, as if to anchor himself to the world.
    There was a heavy knocking on the door.
    Melekov waited for someone to do something and