by Sam Eastland
Now Klenovkin would have to be replaced-the very thing Gramotin had been desperate to avoid.
Melekov had botched his attempt to kill Pekkala.
Klenovkin, too, had bungled.
Even Stalin’s orders from Moscow had failed to end the bastard’s life.
I will have to do the job myself, thought Gramotin. He turned to leave, but then turned back. Bending down, he prised the pistol from Klenovkin’s hand, tucked it into his belt, and strode out of the room.
Kirov arrived at the Kremlin.
The message had said it was urgent.
A guard escorted him to Stalin’s office.
As the outer door opened, Poskrebyshev rose to his feet, with a particular casualness he reserved for men of lesser rank than the generals who usually paraded past his desk on their way to meet with Stalin. “He is expecting you, Major.”
“Thank you,” replied Kirov, handing Poskrebyshev his cap.
“I will require your passbook as well, Major.”
Kirov removed the booklet from the top left pocket of his tunic and placed it on the desk.
Poskrebyshev nodded towards the double doors which led into Stalin’s office. “Now you can go in.”
Stalin was sitting at a table just to the side of the main window, eating a tin of sardines in tomato sauce. The smell of them filled the air, metallic and vinegary. The lid of the sardine tin had been peeled back. It looked like a clock spring, the little key still jutting from the center of the coil. With blunt fingers, Stalin chased the slippery and headless fish out of the sauce and packed them into his mouth.
Kirov waited in silence, his eyes fixed on Stalin’s jaw muscles, which flexed beneath the pockmarked skin.
Stalin sucked the oily fish scales from his fingertips. Then he wiped his hands on a brightly patterned handkerchief which lay across his knee. “Do you know why I sent Pekkala to Siberia?”
“To investigate the murder of Captain Ryabov.”
Stalin picked a fishbone from between his teeth. “And do you know why I took such an interest in the death of this convict?”
“He was a member of the Kolchak Expedition.”
“Correct.”
“I also know that you believed there might be a connection between this man’s death and the discovery that Colonel Kolchak could still be alive.”
Stalin nodded approvingly. “That is all true, Major, but it is only a fraction of the whole picture.”
A look of confusion drifted across Kirov’s face.
“Major Kirov, what I am about to tell you is privileged information. It cannot be discussed outside this room. Do you understand?”
“Of course, Comrade Stalin.”
“The case is more important than you realize. Even Inspector Pekkala was not made aware of its full implications. This is not merely about solving a murder, or tracking down a man I believed I had personally disposed of many years ago.”
“Then what is it about, Comrade Stalin?”
“Gold,” he replied. “Specifically the gold that Colonel Kolchak took with him when he departed from the city of Kazan.”
“But he didn’t take it with him,” protested Kirov. “He left it behind, and then it was picked up by the Czechs and they handed it over to us!”
“The Czechs handed over thirty-seven crates at Irkutsk, but I happen to know that there were fifty crates in that convoy. Thirteen crates are still missing.”
“And how do you know this, Comrade Stalin?”
“We had an informant, one of the groundskeepers on the Imperial estate. He was the one who told us that Kolchak had departed from Tsarskoye Selo, and he even counted the number of boxes on those wagons as they rolled off the grounds of the estate.”
“And you think Kolchak held on to those thirteen crates?”
“I have always suspected it, but as of today I am virtually certain.”
“Then why did the Red Cavalry not find it when they overran the expedition?”
“Kolchak must have hidden it somewhere along the way.”
“Exactly how much gold are we talking about, Comrade Stalin?”
“Each case contained twenty-four bars and each bar weighed half a pood in the old Imperial weight system.”
“How much is that by today’s reckoning?”
“One-half pood is approximately eight kilograms, or eighteen pounds. Twenty-four bars at eighteen pounds each adds up to four hundred thirty-two pounds. Thirteen cases means almost six thousand pounds. That’s two and a half tons of gold.” Stalin spouted these numbers as if he had memorized them long ago. “Not an insignificant amount, you will agree.”
“It is more than a man like me can even dream about,” agreed Kirov, “but why didn’t you tell Pekkala any of this, Comrade Stalin?”
“Because I knew that if I sent him to investigate a murder, he would do anything to solve it. But if I sent him in search of treasure, however valuable, he would tell me to find someone else.”
“Then why didn’t you find someone else, Comrade Stalin?”
“I had a hunch that solving this crime would lead Pekkala straight to Kolchak, who could then be placed under arrest. With the colonel in custody, we would soon learn the location of the missing Imperial Reserves.”
Kirov imagined one of the Butyrka interrogation cells, its floor and walls splashed with Kolchak’s blood.
“Unfortunately,” continued Stalin, “I suspect that Pekkala has managed to find the gold on his own.”
“Then surely that is good news! You can bring him home now.”
With his thumb, Stalin pushed away the half-eaten tin of sardines. “Let me ask you, Major: If Pekkala has indeed located the gold, do you think it is possible that he might have decided to keep it for himself?”
Kirov laughed at the suggestion.
Stalin’s eyes turned glassy. “Comrade Major, do you find this a source of amusement?”
Kirov’s smile vanished like the flame blown off a match. “What I mean, Comrade Stalin, is have you seen the way Pekkala lives? That tiny apartment. The food he eats? The coat he wears? He gets his things from Linsky’s! You could hand Pekkala a whole bar of gold and he’d probably just use it as a paperweight.”
Stalin studied the young major with a mixture of bemusement and respect. “We are talking about more than a single bar of gold, Major Kirov.”
“But we are also talking about Pekkala!”
Stalin made a noise in the back of his throat. “I see your point. Nevertheless, Major, I’ve just received word that Pekkala has escaped from Borodok.”
“Escaped? How can that be? He is not even a prisoner!”
“Prisoner or not, he has disappeared, along with several men who were once part of the Kolchak Expedition. I am concerned that returning to Borodok has had a greater effect on Pekkala than I anticipated. His allegiances, the old and the new, have been brought into conflict. He may not want the gold for himself, but he has fallen in with people who do, one of whom, I fear, may be the colonel himself. Pekkala’s wish to deny me what is mine may be as strong as their desire to possess it.”
“You speak as if he has already betrayed you, which I refuse to believe he has done. The answer is simple, Comrade Stalin. Inspector Pekkala has been kidnapped.”
“Kidnapped?” Now it was Stalin’s turn to look surprised.
“Yes, undoubtedly. And who is in charge of rescuing him?”
“Assuming you are correct, as of this moment, you are.”
“Me?” spluttered Kirov. “But how on earth am I supposed to track him down?”
Stalin smashed his fist on the desk. “I don’t care! I want to know what happened to my gold! And when you find that Finnish sorcerer, kidnapped or otherwise, you will remind him that his duty is to the future, not the past.”
“If you truly want him found, why not send a company of soldiers? Why not a whole army? What good can I possibly do?”
“Precision is required here, Major Kirov. Sending an army after half a dozen men i
s like trying to remove a splinter from your eye with a pitchfork.”
“But Comrade Stalin, surely there must be people closer to the scene-”
“The reason I am sending you,” interrupted Stalin, “is the same reason I sent Pekkala after Kolchak. He knows you. He trusts you. He will think twice before he tears your head off. And if I am right that Inspector Pekkala has chosen to forget his duties, you may be the only person on this earth who can remind him what they are. And as for an army, you may have one if you want. By the time you walk out of this room, you will be able to have anything you desire.” Stalin breathed in sharply and unleashed a deafening shout. “Poskrebyshev!”
A moment later the double doors opened. The bald man appeared and clicked his heels.
“Do you have Major Kirov’s papers?”
Poskrebyshev held up the red identification booklet.
“Bring it to me.”
In a few strides, Poskrebyshev had crossed the room. He laid the passbook down on Stalin’s desk.
“Pen,” said Stalin.
Poskrebyshev lifted one from the top pocket of his tunic and handed it over.
Stalin opened the booklet, scribbled his signature inside, then held it out to Kirov.
Kirov saw that a page had been added to his identification book. His heart stumbled in his chest as he read what was written inside.
THE PERSON IDENTIFIED IN THIS DOCUMENT IS ACTING UNDER THE DIRECT ORDERS OF COMRADE STALIN.
DO NOT QUESTION OR DETAIN HIM.
HE IS AUTHORIZED TO WEAR CIVILIAN CLOTHES, TO CARRY WEAPONS, TO TRANSPORT PROHIBITED ITEMS, INCLUDING POISON, EXPLOSIVES, AND FOREIGN CURRENCY. HE MAY PASS INTO RESTRICTED AREAS AND MAY REQUISITION EQUIPMENT OF ALL TYPES, INCLUDING WEAPONS AND VEHICLES.
IF HE IS KILLED OR INJURED, IMMEDIATELY NOTIFY THE BUREAU OF SPECIAL OPERATIONS.
“Congratulations,” said Stalin. “You are now the holder of a Shadow Pass.”
Finding himself suddenly too nervous to speak, Kirov made do with a salute and turned to leave.
“Before you go …”
Stalin’s voice stopped Kirov in his tracks.
“Let me make one thing very clear, Major. If you fail to bring Pekkala back alive, I will not hesitate to call in others who will certainly bring him back dead. Now go, and find him quickly, any way you can.”
While they waited for the others to return, the two remaining Ostyaks drove their sleds back into the forest, out of sight of the tracks.
There, the caribou gathered beside a rocky outcrop and began to gnaw upon the brittle moss which grew in black scabs on the stone.
As Pekkala watched them eat, he remembered the taste of that moss. Only in winter, when he had completely exhausted his food supplies, did he resort to eating it. Mixing the brittle flakes with snow, he boiled them down until they disintegrated into a gelatinous black mass. Its taste was bitter, and the consistency so slimy that he often could not keep it down. He hoped it would not be their meal tonight.
It was getting dark now and Pekkala set about gathering wood for a fire, prising dead branches from the frozen ground. The flames would act as a beacon to ensure that the returning sleds did not overshoot them in the dark. Any smoke from the fire would be hidden in the snow clouds, so they would not be spotted from the camp.
The Ostyaks, meanwhile, took up their antique flintlock rifles. Moving on large round snowshoes made from bent willow and laced with honey-colored bands of animal gut, they vanished into the forest in search of food.
Only minutes had gone by when Pekkala heard the muffled crack of gunfire. When the Ostyaks reappeared, one of them was carrying two dead rabbits, their long ears clutched in his fist.
With the help of some gunpowder emptied from a bullet cartridge, Pekkala soon had a fire going. Pine branches crackled and white smoke bloomed from the skeletal branches of white birch.
As soon as he departed from the Kremlin, Kirov drove straight to his office, gathered up a few things for the journey, then traveled to the railway junction where he had last seen Pekkala.
His hastily conceived plan was to climb aboard the first train headed east and not to stop until he reached the camp at Borodok. Once there, he would commandeer whatever men and supplies were available and set out in search of the men who had kidnapped Pekkala.
Arriving at the station, Kirov was dismayed to find no trains at the platform. At first, the whole place appeared deserted, but then the door to the guard shack opened and a man in dark blue overalls stepped out to meet him.
It was Edvard Kasinec, master of the V-4 junction.
“When is the next train leaving?” asked Kirov.
“Not for another three days,” Kasinec replied, “but you must understand, Comrade Major-the only passengers who go through here are convicts bound for Siberia.”
“I realize that. Siberia is where I need to go.”
“Major, I assure you there are more comfortable ways to get there than in the wagons of a prison transport.”
“My destination is a prison. Borodok, to be precise.”
Kasinec’s eyebrows arched with surprise. “What could possess a man to go there of his own free will?”
Kirov was only halfway through his explanation when Kasinec, hearing Pekkala’s name, ushered him into the station house.
The place was crowded with radio equipment, well-thumbed books of timetables, and requisition slips impaled on long metal spikes. Kasinec went over to the far wall, where a large map showed the rail system for the entire country, the tracks laid out in red like the arteries of an animal stripped of its flesh.
Kasinec’s finger traced along the line of the Trans-Siberian Railroad, through towns whose names had been smudged into illegibility by the constant jab of fingerprints, until it branched off and dead-ended just north of the border with China. “Here,” he said, tapping his fingernail against a patch of green, surrounded by a chalky whiteness on the map. “This is the Valley of Krasnagolyana.”
For the first time, as Kirov stared at the map, he understood the enormity of the task he had been given. Stalin had demanded the impossible. “It can’t be done,” he muttered. “I might as well give up before I start. How can I possibly track down anyone in that wilderness?”
“On the contrary,” Kasinec told him, “these men should be easy to find. If they have escaped from Borodok, they’ll naturally head towards China. Once they have crossed the border, they will be out of reach of Soviet authorities. If they head in any other direction, they will remain in Russia and it would only be a matter of time before they were recaptured.”
“So they head east,” said Kirov. “That narrows it down, but you have not exactly pinpointed their route, stationmaster.”
“Indeed I have. These men will follow the railroad.”
“Even if they are traveling on foot? What about the other roads?”
“That’s the thing, Major. In that part of the country, there are no other roads, especially at this time of the year. But the tracks of the Trans-Siberian are always kept open, no matter what the season or the weather.” Now he pointed to a red dot, which marked the next station on the eastbound route, some distance from the place where the Krasnagolyana railhead joined with the main route of the Trans-Siberian. The name of this place was Nikolsk, and it stood just to the west of a town named Chita. Here, the Trans-Siberian Railroad split in two. The north fork, which remained within the boundaries of Russia, made a wide arc through the towns of Nerchinsk, Belogorsk, and Khabarovsk before dropping south again to reach the port of Vladivostok on the Pacific Ocean. The other rail line dipped into China, cutting through the town of Harbin before crossing into Russia once again and terminating, like the northern fork, at Vladivostok.
“This is not only the quickest way for them to reach China.” Kasinec traced his finger along the southern branch. “It is, for all practical purposes, the only way.”
Kirov realized that everything the stationmaster had said made sense. He was still by no means convinced tha
t intercepting Pekkala’s kidnappers could be accomplished, but the task no longer seemed to lie beyond the bounds of possibility.
“How long will it take them to reach Nikolsk?” asked Kirov.
“From Borodok? Five days, maybe, if they are traveling on foot. If they have sleds or skis, it could be only half that time.”
Kirov walked to the door and looked out over the empty rail yard. “And no train for three days.”
“That is correct, Comrade Major.”
“And three days from now, if I do climb aboard that train, how long will it take to reach Borodok?”
“A week at least, more likely two. And Borodok has its own rail line which branches off the Trans-Siberian. No trains are scheduled to arrive in Borodok for another month. The best they could do is drop you at the railhead and you could make your way on foot to the camp, although I expect you might freeze to death first.”
Kirov felt a weight settle on his heart, as if someone were kneeling on his chest. “So it cannot be done after all.”
“I did not say that, Comrade Major.”
Kirov spun around. “Then what are you saying?”
“I do have one idea. But what I have in mind requires knowing friends in high places.”
Kirov tapped the passbook in his chest pocket. “If my friends were any higher, Comrade Kasinec, they would die from lack of oxygen.”
It was after dark when Sergeant Gramotin and the six guards he had ordered to accompany him trudged out of the camp.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” asked one of the guards. “Going after those savages at night?”
Gramotin did not reply. He was so disgusted with the way his men had behaved when the attack broke out that he could not bring himself to answer their stupid questions. If they had performed as Gramotin had trained them, 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 Gramotin could not read or write, he would have killed them all by now.