Siberian Red

documents you cannot see upon request. There is no door you cannot walk through unannounced. You may requisition any mode of transport on the spot if you deem it necessary. You are free to come and go where you please and when you please. You may arrest anyone whom you suspect is guilty of a crime. Even me.’
    ‘Excellency . . .’
    The Tsar held up a hand to silence him. ‘There can be no exceptions, Pekkala. Otherwise it is all meaningless. I entrust you with the safety of this country and also with my life and the lives of my family.’ The Tsar paused. ‘This brings us to the second box.’
    From a large, mahogany box beside his chair, the Tsar removed a brass-handled Webley revolver.
    ‘It was given to me by my cousin, George V. ’
    Pekkala had seen a picture of them together hanging on the wall of the Tsar’s study – the King of England and the Tsar of Russia, two of the most powerful men in the world. The two men looked almost identical. Their expressions were the same, the shapes of their heads, their beards, their mouths, noses and ears alike. Only their eyes showed any difference, because the King’s looked rounder than those of the Tsar.
    ‘Go on.’ The Tsar held out the gun. ‘Take it.’
    The weapon was heavy, but well-balanced. Its brass grips felt cold against Pekkala’s palm. ‘It is very fine, Excellency, but you know how I feel about gifts.’
    ‘Who said anything about a gift? That and the badge are the tools of your trade, Pekkala. I am issuing them to you the same as any soldier in the army is issued what he needs for his work.’

Now Kirov closed his fingers
     
     
    Now Kirov closed his fingers around the badge. ‘I will take good care of it until you return, Inspector.’
    ‘The Webley is in my desk drawer,’ added Pekkala, ‘although I know you are more partial to your Tokarev.’
    ‘Is there nothing more I can do, Inspector?’
    ‘There may well be,’ he replied, ‘but I won’t know until I get to Borodok.’
    ‘How will I stay in contact with you?’
    ‘By telegram through the Camp Commandant, Major Klenovkin. He will make sure I receive any messages.’
    The two men shook hands.
    ‘I will see you on the other side,’ said Kirov, giving the traditional farewell.
    ‘Indeed you will, Major Kirov.’
    As Pekkala made his way across the railyard, heading towards the group of convicts, he was spotted by the train’s chief engineer, a man named Filipp Demidov.
    Demidov was the brother of Anna Demidova, lady-in-waiting to the Tsarina Alexandra, who had been murdered in July of 1918 by agents of the Bolshevik Secret Service, the Cheka, in the same executions which claimed the lives of the Tsar, his wife and his children.
    Several years before her death, Anna Demidova had secured for her brother a post as the Tsar’s chauffeur, a job he held until the staff at Tsarskoye Selo was dismissed in March of 1917. Immediately afterwards, Demidov went to work for the State Railways and had been with them ever since.
    In his days as a chauffeur, Demidov had often seen Pekkala coming and going from meetings with the Tsar. He had, on occasion, driven Pekkala into the city of St Petersburg in the Tsar’s Hispano Suiza Alfonso XIII sedan. Once, by accident, he had even sat down next to Pekkala at the restaurant where the inspector used to take most of his meals; a rough and simple place called the Café Tilsit, where customers ate from earthenware bowls at long, bare wood tables.
    Demidov, who had a good memory for faces, had used the occasion to make a careful study of the inspector. Seeing the Emerald Eye among these common criminals overrode all instincts of self-preservation. He climbed down from the engine and strode quickly across to Pekkala.
    ‘Demidov!’ he gasped, instantly recognising the former chauffeur.
    ‘Inspector,’ replied the Chief Engineer, ‘you must come with me at once.’
    What Demidov hoped to accomplish with this meeting, Pekkala had no idea, but it was too late now, as the last of the convicts were already climbing on board. There was no way he could join them without drawing attention to himself, so rather than jeopardise his cover, Pekkala followed Demidov into the shadows.
    ‘The prisoners aboard this train are going to their deaths,’ Demidov’s hoarse whisper cut through the frosty air. ‘I can’t let that happen to you.’
    ‘I cannot explain to you why,’ replied Pekkala, ‘but one way or another, I must get aboard that