by Sam Eastland
The two guards walked Pekkala to the kitchen.
Melekov met Pekkala in the doorway. With arms folded across his chest and a large wooden spoon clasped in each fist, he eyed Pekkala disapprovingly.
As soon as they were both inside the kitchen, Melekov launched into a scolding. “What did you think you were doing getting involved in a fight with the Comitati? If you want to get yourself killed, there are much simpler ways of going about it!” As if to emphasize his point, Melekov walked over to his cutting board. The huge slab of wood had been worn down smoothly in the middle, like a rock pool formed by centuries of dripping water. Melekov scrubbed it at the end of each shift and treated the wood twice a month with special almond oil which he kept just for that purpose.
Pekkala thought it was one of the most accidentally beautiful things he had ever seen.
Heaped on the board now was the skinned leg of a goat, pale and bloodless, filmed with a strange shimmer of colors that reminded Pekkala of opals. “Much easier ways to die!” Melekov shouted, cleaving through sinew and gristle with his monstrous carving knife. “Well, don’t just stand there, convict. You have to bring the commandant his breakfast.” He nodded towards a tray which had been covered by a dish towel.
Pekkala went over to pick it up.
“Wait!” Melekov shouted.
Pekkala froze in his tracks.
Melekov stabbed a piece of goat meat with his butcher knife and raised it to his lips. With cruel precision, his pasty white tongue slithered out. Goat blood trickled down his wrists.
Pekkala watched in pleading silence.
Just before the meat disappeared into Melekov’s mouth, he gave the blade a sudden flick, which sent the little cube flying across the room. It bounced off Pekkala’s forehead, falling to the dirty concrete floor. With a speed that surprised even himself, Pekkala dropped to his knees. Snatching up the meat, he swallowed it without chewing. By the time the gristly knot of flesh had made its way down his throat, his eyes were watering. “Thank you,” he managed to whisper.
Carrying the tray, Pekkala walked across the compound. Inside Klenovkin’s office, he laid the breakfast tray before the commandant.
“There is only so much I can do for you!” Klenovkin barked at him. “If you will insist on breaking the rules of this camp and getting yourself thrown into solitary—”
Pekkala didn’t let him finish. “I need to send a telegram to Moscow.”
Klenovkin snatched up a piece of paper and one of his needle-sharp pencils, then slid them both across the desk. “Get on with it,” he muttered.
Pekkala scribbled out a message——
FIND MISSING CONTENTS OF RYABOV FILE STOP SEARCH ARCHIVE 17 STOP PEKKALA
He handed the paper to Klenovkin. “This must go out straightaway.”
Klenovkin took the piece of paper and stared at it. “But why is this even necessary? I told you the Comitati were responsible. As far as I’m concerned, the only reason you’re here is to pick out which one of them did it. Now, what I suggest you do is arrest them all and be done with it. The only telegram you should be sending to Moscow is to announce that the case has been closed.”
“I do not share your certainty, Commandant.”
“But they are the only ones who stand to benefit from Ryabov’s death!”
“On the contrary. You have made no secret of your hatred for these men. What better way to be rid of them than to kill one man and blame the others for his murder? In a single act you could sweep all of them away.”
Klenovkin smashed his fist down on the table. “I will not stand to be accused!”
As if propelled by some invisible current of air, the pencil Pekkala had been using began to roll.
Both of them watched it gathering speed until it tipped off the end of the desk and fell with a rattle to the floor.
Deliberately, Pekkala bent down, picked up the pencil, and placed it back where it had been before. “I have not accused you of anything. I am merely showing you that the situation is more complicated than you imagine. I am beginning to think that the reason for his death might lie outside this camp.”
“And you hope to find the answer in this Archive 17?”
“With your permission, Camp Commandant.”
“Very well,” he replied gruffly. “I will allow it to go through.”
When Pekkala had gone, Klenovkin sank back into his chair. His heart was beating so quickly that he felt as if he were being rhythmically punched in the throat.
Sergeant Gramotin poked his head around the door. “I heard shouting. Is everything all right, Commandant? Has that prisoner been causing any trouble?”
Klenovkin grunted. “Any trouble? At the moment, he is causing all the trouble.”
“I can take care of that, Commandant.”
Klenovkin sighed and shook his head. “Patience, Gramotin. The bastard is protected. At least, he is for now.”
RETURNING TO THE KITCHEN, Pekkala set to work delivering the thin vegetable broth known as balanda, which was served to the miners for their midday break.
The soup was carried in buckets which fastened with a wooden lid and a toggle on a piece of string; Pekkala hauled the buckets on a cart made out of rough planks. Its wheels yawed on gap-toothed hubs. A horse that used to pull the kitchen cart had died of exhaustion one week before Pekkala arrived at the camp. Without another animal to take its place, Pekkala strapped himself into the leather harness and struggled across the compound, his sweat mixing with the sweat of the horse whose bones had long since been sucked hollow by the camp inmates.
Arriving at the entrance to the mine, Pekkala called into the darkness and listened to his voice shout back to him. Then he waited, hypnotized by the tiny swaying flames of lanterns along the tunnel wall.
“A MESSAGE!” Poskrebyshev burst into Stalin’s office, brandishing a telegram. “A message from Borodok!”
Stalin held out his hand. “Give it to me.” He snatched the telegram from Poskrebyshev, placed it carefully on the desk in front of him, and stared at the piece of paper. “Archive 17,” he muttered.
“What exactly is in Archive 17, Comrade Stalin?”
“Old files, misplaced files, files out of order, files incomplete. Archive 17 is the graveyard of Soviet bureaucracy. The question is what does Pekkala hope to find there?”
“He is looking for the file on a man named Ryabov,” said Poskrebyshev, trying to be helpful.
“I know what he is looking for!” Stalin shouted. “I mean what does he hope to find on Ryabov, assuming anything can be located. The question was rhetorical. Do you know what ‘rhetorical’ means, Poskrebyshev?”
Poskrebyshev did not answer directly, in case that question might also have been rhetorical. He continued to puzzle over Stalin’s fixation with this dead prisoner. The discovery that Kolchak might still be alive seemed to have disrupted the order of Stalin’s universe in ways that even the outbreak of war had not achieved. It was as if Stalin had remained locked in a private war with the Tsar, even though Nicholas II had been dead for years. He would not rest until every last vestige of that defunct civilization had been trampled into dust. Of the old guard, only Pekkala had escaped Stalin’s wrath, but for how much longer, Poskrebyshev did not dare to guess, as long as this case remained unsolved.
THERE WAS A THUNDEROUS KNOCKING on the door of Kirov’s office.
Kirov stood up from his desk and strode across the room. Opening the door, he found himself looking at a corporal of the NKVD, smartly dressed in an olive tunic, deep blue trousers, and black boots. The man’s cap was tucked under his left arm. He saluted and held out a brown envelope. “Telegram for you, Major.”
“All right,” said Kirov, taking the envelope and haphazardly returning the salute.
“Have you taken over from Inspector Pekkala, Comrade Major?” asked the corporal.
“Of course not!” replied Kirov. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s just that you’re wearing his coat.”
Linsky’s prided itself on the durability of its clothing. The sign above the door read THE LAST SUIT YOU’LL EVER NEED. This was an unfortunate choice of words, since Linsky’s was best known for providing clothes for bodies at funeral viewings. “Linsky’s!” Kirov used to announce with mock solemnity, before adding the slogan, “Clothes for Dead People!”
But when he actually tried on the coat, Kirov could not help admiring its construction. The tightly woven wool was so thick it seemed almost bulletproof. The pockets had been lined with moleskin for warmth and there were other, strangely shaped pockets on the inside, whose existence Kirov had not known about and whose purpose remained a mystery to him.
“What makes you think this is Pekkala’s?” demanded Kirov.
The corporal pointed hesitantly at the collar of the coat.
Kirov’s hand drifted up to the place. Unsure where to keep Pekkala’s badge of office, he had simply returned the Emerald Eye to its original place beneath the lapel. “You can go now,” muttered Kirov.
Hurriedly, the man saluted and left, steel-shod boots clattering away down the stairs.
Back in the office, Kirov opened the telegram. “Archive 17? What the hell is that?” Immediately, he sat down at his desk, picked up the phone, and dialed a number. “Hello? Yes. Hello. This is Major Kirov from Inspector Pekkala’s office. Yes, I am looking for the file of a man named Ryabov. Captain Isaac Ryabov. File number is 4995-R-G. Good. Yes. I’ll stay on the line.” Kirov breathed out slowly while he waited, allowing the black receiver’s mouthpiece to slide under his chin. He tilted back in the chair and put his heels up on Pekkala’s desk.
A moment later, a voice came back on the line.
“I know, I have the file,” said Kirov. “I’m looking at it now, but it contains only one page!” He picked up the sheet and wagged it in the air. “There must be something missing. According to this file, there is no record of a Captain Ryabov before March of 1917. In other words, as far as we know, he did not exist before the Tsar stepped down from power. Well, I know that can’t be right. I’ve been told it might be in Archive 17, so if you could just connect me with them … What? Are you serious? There isn’t even a telephone? Yes, I could fill out a written request, but how long would it take to process? I don’t think you understand. I don’t have a month to get this done. I could see to it myself? Today? Very well. Where is it located? I didn’t know there was a government building on Zelionka Street. I thought those were all abandoned warehouses. Yes, I’ll be there when it opens.” With a dry click, the line disconnected.
A few minutes later, wearing his uniform, complete with polished boots, dress cap, and Tokarev automatic in a holster at his belt, Major Kirov set off to find Archive 17. Tucked under his arm was the file of Captain Ryabov.
In order to save time, he took a shortcut across the sprawling Bolotnia Market, where old women in muddy-hemmed dresses hawked jars of gooseberry jam and gap-toothed men with bloodhound eyes chanted the price of potatoes.
He stopped to ask directions from a young boy in a floppy, short-brimmed cap, who sat behind a table on which a pile of dead rabbits lay stretched as if stolen from their lives in the moment of leaping to freedom.
“Zelionka Street? There’s nothing but ghosts in those old buildings.”
“Nevertheless,” replied Kirov, “it is where I need to be.”
The boy pointed in the direction Kirov was headed.
Kirov nodded thanks, took one step, then stopped and turned to face the boy again. “Why aren’t you in school?” he asked.
The boy laughed. “And why are you looking for ghosts, Comrade Major of the NKVD?” With that, the boy picked up one of the dead rabbits and, taking hold of one paw, flapped it up and down to say good-bye.
Still clutching the file, Kirov arrived at Archive 17 of Internal Security just as the clerk was unlocking the door to a dingy, windowless, and flat-roofed building which stood between two empty warehouses.
The clerk was a small, aggressive-looking man with a thin mustache and narrow shoulders. He wore an overcoat with a scarf neatly tied around his neck and an old-fashioned round-topped hat, the likes of which Kirov had not seen since before the Revolution. Although the man was obviously aware of Kirov’s presence, he ignored the major while he unlocked the door. Finally, just before he disappeared inside, he turned and spoke to the major. “Wherever you think you are, I can assure you this is the wrong place.”
“Archive 17,” Kirov said quickly to avoid having the door shut in his face. The clerk seemed ready to barricade himself inside the building.
“You have come to the right place,” the man replied abruptly, “but these archives are reserved for Internal Security. A person like you can’t come in here.”
“I am Major Kirov, with Special Operations.”
“Oh,” muttered the clerk. “Then I suppose you can come in, after all. I am Professor Braninko, the guardian of Archive 17.” Reluctantly, he motioned for Kirov to enter.
Inside the archive, Kirov was startled to see, among the hundreds of wooden filing cabinets lining the walls, statues of soldiers in outdated military uniforms, as well as busts of men with gruff faces and wide, unseeing eyes. In the center of the room lay a huge severed hand, held out as if waiting for giant coins to be placed in its palm.
“This place used to be a sculpture studio,” Braninko explained. “Some of these have been here since the Revolution. When they moved me in here fifteen years ago, they couldn’t be bothered to clear out the statues.”
“Couldn’t you get rid of them yourself?”
Braninko laughed. “Young man, they are made of bronze! It would take a dozen men to lift any one of these statues. Besides, I have grown used to them.”
Kirov stopped before a larger-than-life statue of a man wearing the cocked hat of an admiral. “Do you know who they are?”
“No idea,” replied Braninko. “To me, these statues are like the bones of dinosaurs. They may once have ruled the earth, but all that remains of them now are harmless, empty shells.” He hung his overcoat upon the outstretched finger of the hand, exchanging it for a heavy gray shawl-collared sweater which fastened with wooden toggles up the front. “Of course, a day might come when the titans of our own generation are hidden from the light in dusty rooms. Until that time, these relics will be my companions.”
“It smells of smoke in here,” remarked Kirov.
“Yes. Those are the Okhrana files. During the Revolution, the headquarters of the Tsar’s Secret Police was burned by … by …” He seemed to have lost his train of thought.
“By Revolutionaries?” suggested Kirov, hoping to steer the man back on course.
“You can call them that if you want to!” blustered Braninko. “Vandals are what I call them! Hoodlums! Destroying a place of records is inexcusable. Information does not care whose side it’s on. Information is what helps us to make sense of the world. It points us to the truth. Without it, we are at the mercy of every self-serving liar who comes along. Believe me, Comrade Major, when you find yourself talking to a man who keeps the truth from you and tells you it’s for your own good, you are dealing with a common criminal! Fortunately, they destroyed only a portion of the files. Those that could be salvaged were brought here to Archive 17, still smelling of smoke, I’m afraid.”
“I am looking for the file on Captain Isaac Ryabov, of the Imperial Cavalry. Is it possible that his documents survived the fire?”
“I’m afraid not, Major. Everything from the letter K onwards in the Okhrana files was destroyed. But I see you already have a file on this man.”
Kirov handed it over.
“Only one page?” asked Braninko, when he had looked inside the folder.
“There’s no information on Captain Ryabov from before the Revolution. I thought it might simply be missing from the file, and I was informed that I might find the information here.”
“As I said, Major, everything beyond the letter K went up in smoke.” Braninko continued to study the contents of the folder. “I see here that Captain Ryabov was transferred to Borodok.”
“Yes, that is correct.”
Braninko cleared his throat. “Major, I don’t know how familiar you are with the Gulag system, but I can tell you that Ryabov won’t be coming back from there.”
“You are quite right, Professor. Captain Ryabov has been murdered.”
“Ah.” Braninko went back to studying the sheet.
“Is there nothing you can do to help?”
The professor shook his head. “I’m sorry, Major.”
Kirov sighed with disappointment.
“Unless …” said Braninko.
“Unless what?”
“There are some other documents.” The professor spoke quietly, as if afraid the statues might be listening.
“Well, what are we waiting for? May I see them?”
“No. That’s the problem. You may not.”
“But why not?”
“There exists a set of papers known as the Blue File.”
“I have never heard of it.”
“Few people have. The contents of the file are secret. Even the existence of the file is classified information.”
“What’s so special about it?”
“The Blue File contains the names of spies who operated within the Okhrana.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” protested Kirov. “Back then all Russian spies operated within the Okhrana. They were part of the Tsar’s Secret Service. They answered to the Okhrana.”
