Archive 17

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?”