by Sam Eastland
“Why is it called the Blue File?”
“The entries are written in blue pencil. It is the Tsar’s own writing.”
“And who else knows about this file?”
“Let me put it this way, Major-I have taken a great risk by even informing you of its existence.”
“But Ryabov might be in there!”
“Once again, Major, there is that possibility, but let me ask you something. What is it exactly that you need to know?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Kirov. “If Inspector Pekkala were here …”
Braninko breathed in sharply. “Pekkala?”
“Yes,” answered Kirov. “He and I work together.”
Braninko’s head tilted a little to the side, like that of a curious dog. “You work with the Inspector?”
“I am also an inspector, you know.”
“I didn’t say an inspector,” replied Braninko. “I said the Inspector.”
“All right, then,” muttered Kirov. “I work with the Inspector, and if he were here-”
“Why isn’t he here?” interrupted Braninko. “He would be allowed to see the Blue File.”
“Why would you let him see it and not me?”
Braninko paused before he answered. “Do you remember what I said about men who hide the truth?”
“You called them common criminals.”
“Correct, and the only defense against them is men like Inspector Pekkala. No matter what the regulations called for, I would never do anything to hinder one of his investigations.”
“Comrade Braninko, this is his investigation.” Kirov went on to explain Pekkala’s mission to Borodok. “Now can you help me or not?” he asked when he had finished.
“Follow me,” replied Braninko.
At the back of the old sculpture studio, a massive safe stood in the corner of an otherwise empty room. After opening the safe, Braninko removed a drawer which had been removed from a desk. The drawer was made from some exotic wood, inlaid with ornate flower patterns done in ebony and mother-of-pearl.
“As you see,” Braninko told Kirov, “they took it straight from the Tsar’s study. These documents have never been integrated with those of our own Intelligence Service.” Turning to the file, Braninko began sifting through the documents. “Here it is!” he exclaimed, hauling out an envelope. “Ryabov, Isaac; assigned to the Kolchak Expedition.”
The younger man felt his heart jolt. “Now we can find out what this man was doing before the Revolution.”
“It won’t be that easy, Major. There is a good reason NKVD has so little information on this man. Isaac Ryabov is a cover name. Unlike in Okhrana and NKVD archives, the real identities of agents working secretly for the Tsar were never written down. When Nicholas II died, the names of these men died with him. All we have left are the clues remaining in the Blue File, but if there is anyone on earth who could make sense of them, it would be Inspector Pekkala.”
Kirov stared at the Tsar’s handwriting, precise and ornate. The faded blue pencil resembled the veins in an old person’s hand. “May I borrow this, professor?”
“For Inspector Pekkala-of course.” Braninko handed him the time-brittled paper.
The two men walked out into the sculpture studio.
Once more Kirov breathed in the smell of that long-extinguished fire which had consumed Okhrana headquarters.
Braninko sat down on the huge severed hand, looking like some tiny helpless creature resting in the palm of a capricious god as he waited for his fate to be decided.
“There is something I don’t understand,” Kirov told him. “Why does our government choose to keep the Blue File secret? The Okhrana is gone forever. The men whose names are in that file are either dead or in exile. The information it contains should no longer be considered classified.”
Braninko smiled, raising his hands and resting them upon the fingertips of the great bronze hand. “My dear Comrade Major,” he said, “the reason for keeping the Blue File secret has nothing to do with what it contains. The very fact that there was once a group of men who spied upon those whose job it was to spy on others is, in itself, a dangerous thing. It might lead people to wonder if there is another such file kept, perhaps, by our own government and hidden away in the desk of some untouchable man. The best secret, Comrade Major, is not one whose answer is hidden from us by the strongest lock and key. The best secret is one which nobody even knows exists.”
As soon as he was outside the archive, Kirov ducked into one of the abandoned warehouse buildings. With his back against a cold brick wall, he opened the Kolchak Expedition file. It contained three sheets of paper. Each was embossed with the double-headed eagle of the Romanovs.
From the Tsar’s handwritten notes, Kirov learned that an Okhrana agent had been wounded in an attack on a house in St. Petersburg where a convicted murderer had been hiding. The murderer, whose name was Grodek, had been a notorious terrorist before the Revolution.
Kirov had learned about this mission from Pekkala, who had been a part of it. But what Kirov read next, even Pekkala didn’t know.
Rather than return the wounded agent to active duty, the Tsar had secretly ordered the man’s name to be placed on the list of those who had died in the attack. In the meantime, the agent was brought to a clinic on the grounds of the Ekaterinburg estate. There he was tended to by the Tsar’s own doctor until he had recovered.
The Tsar then summoned the agent and gave him a choice. Either he could return to the ranks of the Okhrana and the report of his death would be attributed to a bureaucratic mix-up, or he could agree to work as an agent for the Tsar, and only for the Tsar, taking part in missions so secret that not even his own intelligence service would be informed.
The agent had required no persuasion. He readily agreed and, soon after, was given a new identity as a cavalry officer with the cover name of Isaac Ryabov.
There followed a list of several missions undertaken by Ryabov, ranging from payoffs made to women made pregnant by Rasputin to the assassination of a Turkish diplomat suspected of involvement in smuggling stolen Russian steam turbine technology out of the country.
The last entry in the file detailed how the Tsar had appointed Ryabov to the cavalry brigade of Colonel Kolchak, only days before the expedition departed for Siberia. Ryabov’s orders were to report back not only on the whereabouts of the brigade but also on the location of where the Romanov gold was hidden.
Ryabov had been the Tsar’s insurance policy against Kolchak running off with the treasure.
Kirov had no idea whether this file would provide Pekkala with the information he was looking for, but Braninko had been right when he said that if anybody could make sense of the contents, it would be Pekkala.
Stashing the pages in the pocket of his tunic, Kirov ran back towards his office. Within the hour, he had telegraphed his findings to the camp commander at Borodok.
While Pekkala was away delivering soup to the miners, Melekov sat alone in the kitchen, on a rickety wooden chair, reading a scrap of newspaper that he had peeled off the carcass of a frozen pig which had arrived that morning on the train.
Gramotin walked in from the compound. Instead of ignoring Melekov, as he usually did, he sauntered over to the cook and slapped him on the back.
“What do you want?” asked Melekov, without looking up from his paper.
“Nothing,” replied Gramotin. “Nothing at all.”
Which was, of course, a lie.
Ever since Gramotin’s last meeting with the camp commandant, dark thoughts had entered the guard’s mind. Klenovkin was usually upset about something or other-Dalstroy was continually demanding higher quotas, providing him with fewer guards and cutting salaries at random-but this was the first time Gramotin had seen the commandant so unhinged by a single prisoner. And to learn that this convict Pekkala was the source of Klenovkin’s distress had fixed in Gramotin’s mind only one possible course of action.
He needed to get rid of Pekkala.
This decision was not made out of any particular love for Klenovkin, but rather because Gramotin had, over the years, created a fine-tuned balance between himself and the commandant.
At the heart of this arrangement was the fact that Klenovkin could not run this camp without Gramotin’s particular talent for hostility. No one could stay as permanently angry as Gramotin. It was a gift which amazed even Gramotin himself.
Klenovkin had learned to leave all matters of camp discipline entirely to Gramotin’s discretion, in return for which Gramotin could do whatever he wanted without fear of repercussions.
It was the kind of life Gramotin had always dreamed of living, and the only thing that had worried him until now was that someone might see through his mask of rage to the pride he took in his work and the contentment it afforded him each day.
But if Klenovkin really did fall apart, instead of merely threatening to as he did at least once every week, Dalstroy would replace him. If that happened, Gramotin knew he’d have to start from scratch grooming a new commandant. It was a task which might take years.
And suppose, Gramotin asked himself, this new man does not appreciate my particular talents? He might change things around, or even transfer me to another camp. The idea left Gramotin nauseous with anxiety.
He could not allow it to happen. The sooner Pekkala was dead, the quicker things could go back to the way they’d been before. Besides, this prisoner made him uneasy in a way no other convict had. Looking Pekkala in the eye felt like staring down the barrel of a gun.
Killing a prisoner was easy, but disposing of Pekkala had to be done without implicating the commandant. The safest way to accomplish that was to make sure Klenovkin knew nothing about it. At the same time, Gramotin would have to avoid bringing down a Dalstroy board of inquiry upon himself. Someone else would need to be the instrument of Pekkala’s doom. After many hours of plotting, Gramotin believed he’d at last found a perfect candidate.
“You don’t want anything?” Melekov narrowed his eyes with suspicion. “Then what are you doing here?”
“I just wanted to see how you are enjoying your last few days in the kitchen.”
“Last days?” Melekov laughed. “What are you talking about?”
Gramotin shrugged. “I hear you are going to be replaced.”
The blood drained out of Melekov’s face. “By whom?”
“That prisoner Klenovkin sent to work in here, 4745, the one who delivers his breakfast.”
“But that’s ridiculous!” spat Melekov.
“Is it? Why do you think Klenovkin sent someone to work with you in the kitchen? Has he ever done that before?”
“Well, no, but …”
“And why do you think he has that convict delivering his breakfast instead of you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, think about it! That convict goes into his office. Every day. Did you ever go into his office?”
“No,” admitted Melekov.
“And they talk. I’ve heard them. Did you ever talk to Klenovkin?”
“Of course!”
“In an actual conversation?”
“Well, no, I wouldn’t say that exactly.”
“Pekkala is going to replace you. And do you know why?”
Melekov shook his head. He looked miserable.
“So Klenovkin doesn’t have to pay you!” announced Gramotin. “And, of course, he doesn’t have to pay the convict either. Think of how much money he will save Dalstroy. He’s been after a promotion for years and this time he might just get it!”
“That bastard!” The scrap of newspaper fell from Melekov’s hands. “But what am I supposed to do?”
“That’s your problem,” spat Gramotin. “At least, it will be if that prisoner isn’t stopped.”
“Stopped? What do you mean?”
Gramotin slapped him on the back of the head. “I mean prevented from taking your job! And what could possibly prevent him?” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “Perhaps an accident. So many accidents can happen in a kitchen.”
“Yes,” agreed Melekov. “Many things can go wrong.…”
“And the sooner the better, my friend, before things start going wrong for you.”
Poskrebyshev knocked once and, without waiting for a reply, walked into Stalin’s office. He held up a sheet of yellow telegraph paper. “Major Kirov has sent a reply to Borodok.”
Stalin looked up blearily from the file he had been reading. “When was it intercepted?”
“Less than an hour ago, by NKVD signals headquarters in Omsk.”
Stalin held out his arm and snapped his fingers. “Give it to me.”
Poskrebyshev handed over the transcript, then stood back while Stalin squinted at the tiny print.
“The Blue File!” he bellowed. “Of course! I should have known.”
“What is the Blue File, Comrade Stalin?”
Stalin ignored him. “How did Pekkala know to look in Archive 17?” he wondered aloud. “How did he know that the Blue File had even survived?”
Poskrebyshev did not reply, fearing another lecture on the word rhetorical.
“This Captain Ryabov must have been a special agent of the Tsar. That proves he did not trust Kolchak. And he was right! In such a situation, no one can be trusted.” Resting one elbow on the desk, Stalin placed his forehead against his palm. “I should never have sent Pekkala back to Borodok. He must have known all along what this was really about.”
“Is Pekkala in danger, Comrade Stalin?”
Stalin brushed away the words as if they were flies buzzing around his head.
“What about Savushkin, the bodyguard you sent to protect him?”
“Pekkala might have won him over,” answered Stalin, still talking more to himself than to Poskrebyshev. “After all, Savushkin volunteered to work with Pekkala. I should have taken that into consideration.”
“Won him over? But why, Comrade Stalin, and with what?”
“Threats. Bribes. Some act of Finnish sorcery! And as for why, perhaps Pekkala’s loyalties to the past are stronger than I thought. I see now that Pekkala has been hiding. All this time, he has concealed himself in a disguise of incorruptibility. They were good at disguises, those agents of the Tsar. Vassileyev taught them well. But now I see Pekkala as he really is. He can no longer hide from me!”
“Comrade Stalin,” Poskrebyshev pleaded with him, “there is no evidence to suggest that what you are saying is true.”
“Evidence!” Stalin roared. “The evidence was right under our noses the whole time, hidden away in Archive 17. And that is where it should have stayed. Who is in charge there? Who is responsible for releasing the information?”
“That would be Professor Braninko.”
“Get me Kornfeld. Tell him he has work to do.”
Pekkala stood at the entrance to the mine, waiting to deliver the soup ration.
At last a man appeared, ghoulish in his coating of radium. When he caught sight of Pekkala, he raised his hand in greeting.
“I brought your soup,” said Pekkala.
“Don’t you recognize me?” asked the stranger.
“I’m sorry, Zeka, I do not,” replied Pekkala, using the common name by which prisoners addressed each other. The stranger’s face was so caked in yellowy powder that it reminded Pekkala of masks he once saw used by a troupe of Japanese Kabuki actors at the Aksyonov Theatre in St. Petersburg.
“It’s me!” The prisoner slapped his hands against his chest, sending puffs of yellow dust into the air. “Savushkin!”
Pekkala leaned forward, squinting. “Savushkin?” The man who stood before him now bore no resemblance to the friend he had made on the journey to Siberia. Savushkin’s shirt was open at the neck, revealing flesh stretched so tightly against the collarbone it looked as if the slightest movement would cause his skin to tear like wet paper.
The smile on Savushkin’s face faltered. He gathered up a bucket in each hand. The wire-bale handles dug into his raw, chapped
skin. “I know my task is to protect you, Inspector, but they are making it very difficult. I’m trying. Believe me, I’m still trying.”
Overcome, Pekkala reached out and set his hands on Savushkin’s shoulders. “Don’t worry about me. Look after yourself. I’ll do what I can to get you transferred from the mine.”
“No.” Savushkin shook his head. “People will only get suspicious. Solve the case, Inspector, as quickly as you can. Then we can both get out of here.” Carrying the buckets, he disappeared into the tunnel, his shadow lumbering across the walls, giant and grotesque in the lamplight.
Pekkala looked at his hands. His palms and fingertips were chalky white where they had touched Savushkin’s jacket. Shaken, he made his way back across the compound.
Outside the kitchen, Gramotin was waiting for him. “The commandant wants to see you.”
Pekkala nodded.
“I’m watching you, convict,” said Gramotin.
“I know,” replied Pekkala.
“This just arrived for you,” said Klenovkin, holding out a telegram.
It was from Kirov.
Pekkala studied the faint gray letters fanned out across the flimsy sheet of paper.
RYABOV IS COVER NAME FOR AGENT LISTED IN BLUE FILE AS KILLED DURING ARREST OF GRODEK BUT SURVIVED STOP
Pekkala stopped reading. The Blue File. This was the first time he had heard a mention of it since before the Revolution. He hadn’t even known the Blue File was still in existence, although it didn’t surprise him to learn that the Tsar had failed to destroy it, as he should have done, in those final days of his captivity at Tsarskoye Selo. The Tsar had been such a meticulous keeper of records that getting rid of anything he’d written down would have gone against every instinct he possessed.
Pekkala gave a quiet grunt of admiration that Kirov had managed to track down this information in the labyrinth of Archive 17, especially since that meant dealing with Professor Braninko, its notoriously uncooperative curator.
