Free Siberian Red by Sam Eastland Page A

could make out the streaks of a cleaning rag on the glass panes, like mare’s-tail clouds in a windy sky.
    Klenovkin was sitting at his desk, sharpening pencils.
    ‘Camp Commandant,’ said Pekkala, as he quietly closed the door.
    ‘I am busy!’ Klenovkin turned the pencils in the tiny metal sharpener, letting the papery curls fall into his ashtray. When, at last, he had finished this task, he brushed the shavings into his hand with a precision that reminded Pekkala of a croupier at a roulette wheel, hoeing in chips across the green felt table. Not until Klenovkin was satisfied that every fleck of dirt had been removed did he finally raise his head and look Pekkala in the eye.
    Even though Pekkala had not seen Klenovkin in many years, the Commandant’s features had been etched into Pekkala’s brain. Time had rounded the edges of Klenovkin’s once-gaunt face. The dark hair Pekkala remembered had turned a greyish-white. Only the man’s gaze, menacing and squinty, had not changed. ‘Prisoners must remove their caps when they are in my presence.’
    ‘I am no longer your prisoner.’
    Klenovkin smiled humourlessly. ‘That is only partly true, Inspector. You may be running this investigation, but I am running this camp. As long as you are wearing the clothes of an inmate, that is how you will be treated. We wouldn’t want that guard out in the waiting room to become suspicious, would we?’
    Slowly, Pekkala reached up to his cap and slid it off his head.
    ‘Good.’ Klenovkin nodded, satisfied. ‘I must admit, Pekkala, I do find this meeting somewhat ironic. After all‚ following our last meeting, I did my best to kill you.’
    ‘And failed.’
    ‘Indeed, and thus the irony that I am now expected to assist you in whatever way I can. Bear in mind, however, that I may be the only help you get. As for that gang of White Russians, of which Captain Ryabov was a member, I wouldn’t expect much from them.’
    ‘And why is that?’
    ‘Because they have gone mad. The years at Borodok have worn away their minds as well as their bodies. Now they speak of a day when they will be rescued from this place and sent to live like kings in some faraway land.’ Klenovkin rolled his eyes in mocking pity. ‘They really believe this! They are fanatics, tattooing their bodies with the symbols of their loyalty to a cause that no longer exists. These men have nothing left but hope, for which they no longer require proof or logic or even reason to support their beliefs. They even have a name for the dwindling ranks of their disciples. They call themselves Comitati – whatever that means.’ Then he laughed. ‘It is a word that has no meaning for men who serve no purpose.’
    But that word did have a meaning, and the mention of it made Pekkala’s blood run cold. The Comitatus was an ancient pact between warriors and their leader, in which men swore never to leave the battlefield before their leader, and the leader swore in return, never to abandon those who followed him. As each swore allegiance, the man and the oath became one and the same. Together, those who had made the pact formed a band known as the Comitati. Now Pekkala knew why these men had never given up the fight. They were waiting for Kolchak to return and fulfil the oath he had taken.
    ‘In a way,’ continued Klenovkin, ‘they have already been rescued. Their minds escaped from this camp long ago. The only sane thing left for them is to surrender to their madness. The one man among them who had any grip on reality was Ryabov, and that, I think you will find, is the reason he is dead.’
    ‘How many of these Comitati were originally sent to Borodok?’
    ‘There were about seventy of them in the beginning.’
    ‘And how many remain?’
    ‘Three,’ replied Klenovkin. ‘There is a former lieutenant named Tarnowski, and two others, Sedov and Lavrenov. In spite of how many have died over the years, Ryabov was the first to be murdered.’
    ‘Has his body been