Archive 17

shut when you’re around the head cook,” added Klenovkin. “His name is Melekov and he is the worst gossip at Borodok. Whatever you say to him will find its way into the ears of every convict in this camp.”

By now, the first eel-green glimmer of dawn showed in the sky.

“Good luck, Inspector,” said Klenovkin, as he turned to leave. “Good luck, for both our sakes.”

Back in Moscow, Kirov woke with a start.

He had fallen asleep at his desk. Blearily, he stared at the earthenware pots arranged upon the windowsills. His plants-herbs and cherry tomatoes and a beloved kumquat tree-dappled the darkness with their leaves.

Groaning as he rose to his feet, Kirov stepped over to the wall and flipped on the lights. Then he strolled around the room, hands in pockets, while the last veils of sleep were lifted from his mind. He paused to admire Pekkala’s desk, on which the file belonging to the dead captain Ryabov was neatly flanked by pens, a ruler, and a pencil sharpener. It did not usually look so tidy. Normally, the arrangement of Pekkala’s possessions seemed to follow some path of logic known only to himself. And yet somehow, in defiance of reason, Pekkala always seemed to know where everything was. Unlike Kirov, Pekkala never had to hunt about for his keys, or his wallet or his gun.

The day before, in a moment of fastidiousness, Kirov had tidied Pekkala’s desk. Now it looked smart. Efficient. And completely wrong. Kirov wished he hadn’t touched anything, and he looked forward to the day when Pekkala would return and rearrange everything to its naturally shambolic state.

Kirov wondered how long it would be before Pekkala sent a telegram, asking for assistance. He hoped it would be soon. Ever since the inspector had gone away, Kirov’s life had become a dreary procession of paperwork, solitary meals, and doubts about his own abilities to function in the absence of Pekkala.

Kirov sat down in Pekkala’s chair. Like a mischievous schoolboy sitting at the teacher’s place, he knew he was trespassing but, also like a mischievous schoolboy, he did it anyway. Then he stared at the phone on Pekkala’s desk. “Ring, damn you,” he said.

The intercom clicked on.

“Poskrebyshev!”

“Yes, Comrade Stalin.”

“Any word from Pekkala?”

“Nothing yet, Comrade Stalin.”

“Are you certain that all transmissions have been intercepted?”

“Comrade Stalin, there have been no transmissions between Kirov and Major Pekkala.”

“Doesn’t that seem strange to you, Poskrebyshev?”

“I am sure he will communicate with Major Kirov when he has something to report. He only just arrived at the camp.”

“I may have been wrong to put my faith in him.”

“In Pekkala? Surely not …”

Without another word, the intercom clicked off.

There is that tone again, thought Poskrebyshev. What can be worrying him? A sense of foreboding clouded Poskrebyshev’s mind. This was not the first time he had witnessed Stalin’s moods as they began to swing erratically. In the past, bouts of good humor would be suddenly and inexplicably replaced by fury, frustration, and paranoia. And the results had always been deadly. In 1936, when Stalin had become convinced that officers in the Soviet army were about to overthrow him, he had initiated a policy of arrests and executions which wiped out most of the officer corps, leaving the Red Army virtually stripped of its High Command. These purges, which had begun before and continued long after Stalin’s attack on the army, caused a death toll that ran into the hundreds of thousands.

Nervously, he glanced towards Stalin’s office. A storm is brewing, Poskrebyshev decided, and when it hits, it’s going to come right through those doors.

The sun had just risen above the tree line as the new prisoners of Borodok assembled in the compound to receive their work assignments.

Some convicts were assigned to logging operations, but most, including Savushkin, went directly to work in the mines which harvested crystals of Siberian Red, as well as the radium used to illuminate the hands of military watches, compasses, and aircraft dials.

As Klenovkin had promised, Pekkala found himself detailed to the camp kitchen, which had, until that moment, been run entirely by one man. His name was Melekov. He had short gray hair and skin as pale as a plucked chicken.

There was no time for introductions. Pekkala went immediately to work handing out breakfast rations to men who had lined up outside the kitchen window. Each received one fist-sized loaf of bread known as a paika and a cup of black tea, served from one of three huge metal tubs. The cups were chained to these tubs, so the men had to drink the tea quickly before handing the mug to the next in line.

In spite of the cold outside, the kitchen grew so hot from the bread oven that Melekov stripped down to his shorts and a filthy undershirt. In this unofficial uniform, together with a pair of army boots which were missing their laces, he stamped about the kitchen barking orders.

“Rejoice!” commanded Melekov. “Rejoice that you are working here with me. I control the food, and food is the currency of Borodok. The value of everything which can be bought or sold is measured in those rations of bread you are handing out. And the source of all rations”-he jabbed a thumb against his chest-“is me!”

As these words filtered into his brain, Pekkala stood in the kitchen doorway, reaching mechanically into burlap sacks containing paika rations and pressing the loaves into the workers’ outstretched hands. He had to look carefully at those hands, because Melekov had instructed him to give two rations of paika to the three remaining Comitati, all of whom were identifiable by the pine trees tattooed on their hands.

“Those men are dangerous,” Melekov explained, leaning over Pekkala’s shoulder. “Do not speak to them. Do not even look at them.”

“But there are only three of these men in the whole camp. Why is everyone so afraid of them?”

“Let me explain it this way,” replied Melekov. “If you beat a man to the ground in order to teach him a lesson and all he does is get back on his feet and keep on fighting, what does that tell you about this man?”

“That you have not taught him anything.”

“Exactly!”

“But what lesson would you be trying to teach with such a beating?”

“That the only way to survive in this camp is to live by its rules. There are the rules of the Dalstroy Company, the rules of the commandant, the rules of the guards, and the rules of the prisoners. All of them must be obeyed if you want to go on breathing in Borodok, but the Comitati have never learned to obey. That is why, out of the dozens who were sent to this camp, so few of them are left. But those few are not ordinary men.”

“What do you mean?”

“No one can find a way to kill them! That is why the Comitati always get an extra bread ration, and if there’s anything else they want, just give it to them and keep your mouth shut. And stay out of the freezer!” Melekov added as an afterthought. “If I catch you in there, stealing food meant for Klenovkin or the guards, I’ll hand you over to them. Then you’ll learn what pain is all about.”

As Pekkala handed out bread to the shadows of men filing past, he failed to notice the pine tree tattoo of a huge bald man, whom he immediately recognized as the driver of the cart loaded with bodies which had passed them on their way into the camp. The bald man grabbed Pekkala by the wrist, almost crushing the bones in his grip, until Pekkala handed over an extra ration.

The man let go, grunted angrily, and stepped away.

“Didn’t you listen to a word I said?” asked Melekov, who had been watching. “That is Tarnowski, the worst of all the Comitati and the last man you want to upset, especially on your first day in the camp!”

Next in line was Savushkin. “How are they treating you?” he whispered.

“Well enough so far,” replied Pekkala, quickly pressing an extra paika ration into Savushkin’s outstretched hands.