There was a scuffling in the tunnel outside, followed by a shout and a strange crunching sound, like someone biting into an apple.
Kolchak moved over to the entrance, the knife still in his hand. “Lavrenov, what’s happening?”
“I found someone prowling around.”
Kolchak and Pekkala stepped into the tunnel.
In the middle of the narrow passageway, a man lay on his back, nailed to the earth by Lavrenov’s pickax. The man was still alive, spluttering as he struggled for breath.
“He must have followed us,” Lavrenov said.
Kolchak fetched the lantern from the cave.
Pekkala stifled a gasp as the light touched the dying man’s face.
It was Savushkin, his bodyguard. Helplessly, the man stared at Pekkala.
Knowing there was nothing he could do, Pekkala struggled to contain his emotions as he watched Savushkin’s last breath trail out.
“Bury him,” ordered Kolchak.
“Yes, Colonel.” Lavrenov set his foot against Savushkin’s chest, and wrenched out the pickax blade.
Kolchak turned to Pekkala. “Go now,” he said gently, “before anyone notices you’ve been gone. And do not worry, my friend. It is all in motion now.”
“Kornfeld says the target has been liquidated.”
Without looking up from his paperwork, Stalin grunted in acknowledgment.
“There is something else, Comrade Stalin-a new development at Borodok.”
The paper shuffling came to an abrupt halt.
“Another telegram has arrived,” continued Poskrebyshev.
“From Kirov or Pekkala?”
“Neither. It’s from Camp Commandant Klenovkin, and addressed to you, Comrade Stalin.” Poskrebyshev handed over the message.
BEG TO REPORT INSPECTOR PEKKALA OVERHEARD DENOUNCING COMMUNIST PARTY AND MAKING THREATS AGAINST COMRADE STALIN STOP BELIEVE PEKKALA PLANNING UPRISING IN CAMP STOP HAS FALSELY ACCUSED ME OF INVOLVEMENT IN CRIME STOP LONG LIVE THE PARTY STOP LONG LIVE COMRADE STALIN STOP KLENOVKIN COMMANDANT BORODOK
Stalin sat back heavily in his chair. “Denouncing me? An uprising?”
“Has this been confirmed?” asked Poskrebyshev.
“There is no time to waste on confirmations,” Stalin snapped. “The prisoners will flock to him. The uprising could spread to other camps. If Pekkala isn’t stopped, this could turn into a national emergency.” He sat forward, wrote something on a pad of yellow note paper, and handed the note to Poskrebyshev. “Send this to Klenovkin. Tell him to carry out the order and to report back to me immediately afterwards.”
Poskrebyshev blinked in surprise when he saw what Stalin had written. “Do you not wish to verify the camp commandant’s message before such drastic action is taken?”
“What reason could this man Klenovkin have for sending me a pack of lies?”
“And what could Pekkala possibly have to gain by turning on you now?”
“More than you know! More than you could possibly realize!” With wild eyes, Stalin glared at Poskrebyshev. “Now send the message, and when I want your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”
Poskrebyshev lowered his head in surrender, as if it was his own doom and not Pekkala’s which had just been sealed. “Yes, Comrade Stalin,” he whispered.
When Poskrebyshev had gone, Stalin walked to the window. He lit himself a cigarette and looked out over the city. As smoke flooded into his lungs, smoothing out the ragged edges of his mind, the memory of Pekkala was already fading from his thoughts.
Eversince sending the telegram detailing Pekkala’s nonexistent threats against Stalin, Klenovkin had been poised over the telegraph, waiting for a reply. He waited for so long that he had dozed off. When the device finally sprang to life, the commandant was so startled that he backed away from it as if a growling dog had crept into the room.
As soon as Klenovkin read the telegram, he sent for Gramotin.
While he waited, Klenovkin paced around his study, rubbing his hands together in satisfaction. For the first time in as long as he could remember, something was going his way. This would, he knew, be the springboard to greater things. The meteoric rise he had always imagined he would make through the ranks of the Dalstroy Company had finally begun.
At last Gramotin appeared.
“Read this.”
“Liq …” The telegram trembled between Gramotin’s fingers as he struggled to pronounce the words. “Liquiday. Liquidate.”
“Idiot!” Klenovkin snatched the message back and read it out himself. “Now,” he said when he had finished, “do you understand what must be done?”
“Yes, Comrade Klenovkin. First thing in the morning?”
Klenovkin paused. “On second thought, wait until he has finished his breakfast duties.”
“So we can keep him working to the very end.”
“My thoughts, exactly, Sergeant.”
Gramotin nodded, impressed. “Dalstroy will be proud of you.”
“Indeed they will,” agreed Klenovkin, “and it’s about time, too.”
The Old Guard, Larchenko, sat in his chair by the door, chin on his chest, snoring. His rifle stood propped against the wall.
Nearby, Pekkala lay in his bunk, haunted by the death of Savushkin. He inhaled the musty, used-up air of dreaming men and listened to the patient rhythm of their breathing.
Unable to sleep, Pekkala climbed out of his bunk and walked over to the window. His felt boots made no sound as they glided across the worn floorboards. With the heel of his palm, he rubbed away the frost that had gathered on the inside of the glass.
Soon it would be dawn.
Pekkala had made up his mind to lie low when the breakout began. As Kolchak had said, they would not wait for him if he was delayed in the confusion.
There had been no time to reflect upon his brief meeting with the colonel. He continued to be baffled by the colonel’s choice to return, in spite of the overwhelming risks involved. At the same time, Pekkala felt a surge of guilt that his own faith in this man had not matched that of the soldiers he had left behind in Siberia. Pekkala was glad that the magnitude of the Comitati’s endurance would at last be repaid with their freedom.
And as for Stalin, he decided, the payment for his treachery would be the knowledge that Kolchak had slipped from his grasp yet again, along with the last of the Imperial gold reserves. When the time came, Pekkala decided, he would simply deny that he had known anything about Kolchak’s plans.
