Emerald Eye.’
‘I’m glad you are here, Savushkin.’
Savushkin grinned, but then his face became serious. ‘A word of advice, Inspector. In the days ahead do not place your faith in anyone. Anyone! Do you understand?’
‘I think I can trust you, Savushkin. You just saved my life, after all.’
Before Savushkin could reply, the urgent wail of the locomotive’s whistle summoned them back to the train.
The two men watched as the wagon doors were slid open and prisoners began to climb aboard.
‘Looks like we’re not spending the night here after all,’ remarked Savushkin, as he kicked a blanket of snow over the body which lay at their feet.
They raced across the field, waving and shouting.
‘Why’‚ asked Pekkala, fighting for breath as the cold air raked at his throat, ‘did you keep asking me who I was if you already knew?’
‘It gave me an excuse to stay close to you,’ gasped Savushkin. ‘Besides, I knew they were safe questions to ask.’
‘And how did you know that?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Because you’d never have told me, Inspector.’
They climbed aboard just as the train began to move.
The railroad siding slipped away into the grainy air. In the distance the grove of trees seemed to disintegrate, atom by atom, until it too was gone.
If anyone even noticed the absence of the knife-cut man, nobody mentioned it. With a shuffling of feet, the space he had once occupied was filled, as if he’d never been there at all.
As wagon number 6 swayed rhythmically from side to side, with the clatter of its wheels like a heartbeat echoing across the countryside, the atmosphere inside was almost peaceful.
*
‘Poskrebyshev!’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’
‘Have there been any messages from Pekkala?’
‘No, Comrade Stalin. He has not yet arrived at the camp.’
‘You must keep me informed, Poskrebyshev.’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’ Poskrebyshev stared at the grey mesh of the intercom speaker. Some of the tiny holes were clogged with dust. There had been a particular tone in Stalin’s voice just then; an anxiety almost bordering on fear. I must be mistaken, he thought.
*
Ten days after its departure from Moscow, ETAP-1889 passed through the town of Verkneudinsk.
This was the last civilian outpost before the train’s course diverted from the Trans-Siberian Railroad on to a separate track that would bring it to the Borodok railhead.
Peering through the opening, Pekkala spotted two men standing outside a tavern which adjoined the Verkneudinsk station. Faintly, he heard the men singing. Tiger stripes of lamplight gleamed through bolted window shutters, illuminating the snow which fell around them.
Afterwards, while the train pressed on into a darkness so complete it was as if they’d left the earth and were now hurtling through space, the singing of those two men haunted him.
The following morning, the train arrived at Borodok.
One final time, the prisoners climbed from their wagons, past shouting guards and dogs on choke-chain leashes, and were herded into a lumber yard where thousands of logs had been stacked as high as double-storey houses, waiting to be shipped to the west on the same train which had delivered the prisoners. The air smelled sour from the wood and piles of shredded bark steamed in the cold, melting the snow around them.
In one corner of the yard, behind a wire fence, stood a mountain of metal fuel drums, each one marked with the name ‘Dalstroy’.
Pekkala wondered if those drums were already full, with dead men tucked like foetuses inside, or if they had been set aside for the prisoners who stood around him now.
A guard climbed up on top of the log pile. ‘There are many rules at Borodok!’ he shouted, hands cupped around his mouth. ‘You will know what they are when you have broken them.’
The convicts stared at him in silence.
‘Now strip!’ commanded the guard.
Nobody moved. The convicts continued to stare at the guard, each one convinced that
‘I’m glad you are here, Savushkin.’
Savushkin grinned, but then his face became serious. ‘A word of advice, Inspector. In the days ahead do not place your faith in anyone. Anyone! Do you understand?’
‘I think I can trust you, Savushkin. You just saved my life, after all.’
Before Savushkin could reply, the urgent wail of the locomotive’s whistle summoned them back to the train.
The two men watched as the wagon doors were slid open and prisoners began to climb aboard.
‘Looks like we’re not spending the night here after all,’ remarked Savushkin, as he kicked a blanket of snow over the body which lay at their feet.
They raced across the field, waving and shouting.
‘Why’‚ asked Pekkala, fighting for breath as the cold air raked at his throat, ‘did you keep asking me who I was if you already knew?’
‘It gave me an excuse to stay close to you,’ gasped Savushkin. ‘Besides, I knew they were safe questions to ask.’
‘And how did you know that?’ asked Pekkala.
‘Because you’d never have told me, Inspector.’
They climbed aboard just as the train began to move.
The railroad siding slipped away into the grainy air. In the distance the grove of trees seemed to disintegrate, atom by atom, until it too was gone.
If anyone even noticed the absence of the knife-cut man, nobody mentioned it. With a shuffling of feet, the space he had once occupied was filled, as if he’d never been there at all.
As wagon number 6 swayed rhythmically from side to side, with the clatter of its wheels like a heartbeat echoing across the countryside, the atmosphere inside was almost peaceful.
*
‘Poskrebyshev!’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’
‘Have there been any messages from Pekkala?’
‘No, Comrade Stalin. He has not yet arrived at the camp.’
‘You must keep me informed, Poskrebyshev.’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’ Poskrebyshev stared at the grey mesh of the intercom speaker. Some of the tiny holes were clogged with dust. There had been a particular tone in Stalin’s voice just then; an anxiety almost bordering on fear. I must be mistaken, he thought.
*
Ten days after its departure from Moscow, ETAP-1889 passed through the town of Verkneudinsk.
This was the last civilian outpost before the train’s course diverted from the Trans-Siberian Railroad on to a separate track that would bring it to the Borodok railhead.
Peering through the opening, Pekkala spotted two men standing outside a tavern which adjoined the Verkneudinsk station. Faintly, he heard the men singing. Tiger stripes of lamplight gleamed through bolted window shutters, illuminating the snow which fell around them.
Afterwards, while the train pressed on into a darkness so complete it was as if they’d left the earth and were now hurtling through space, the singing of those two men haunted him.
The following morning, the train arrived at Borodok.
One final time, the prisoners climbed from their wagons, past shouting guards and dogs on choke-chain leashes, and were herded into a lumber yard where thousands of logs had been stacked as high as double-storey houses, waiting to be shipped to the west on the same train which had delivered the prisoners. The air smelled sour from the wood and piles of shredded bark steamed in the cold, melting the snow around them.
In one corner of the yard, behind a wire fence, stood a mountain of metal fuel drums, each one marked with the name ‘Dalstroy’.
Pekkala wondered if those drums were already full, with dead men tucked like foetuses inside, or if they had been set aside for the prisoners who stood around him now.
A guard climbed up on top of the log pile. ‘There are many rules at Borodok!’ he shouted, hands cupped around his mouth. ‘You will know what they are when you have broken them.’
The convicts stared at him in silence.
‘Now strip!’ commanded the guard.
Nobody moved. The convicts continued to stare at the guard, each one convinced that
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