Archive 17 (15 page)

“All right,” said Kirov, taking the envelope and haphazardly returning the salute.

“Have you taken over from Inspector Pekkala, Comrade Major?” asked the corporal.

“Of course not!” replied Kirov. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s just that you’re wearing his coat.”

Kirov glanced at his sleeve and then down at his chest, as if he could not figure out how he had come to be wearing Pekkala’s overcoat. He had only tried it on to see how it felt, just for a minute, to see if it was comfortable. Kirov had often made fun of this coat, along with every other piece of Pekkala’s clothing. None of it was remotely in style, not surprising since Pekkala bought his clothes from a place just down the road called Linsky’s. Its shop window boasted mannequins with mismatched limbs, lopsided, grassy wigs, and haughty stares which seemed to follow people in the street. Kirov had known people who not only wouldn’t shop there but crossed the road rather than catch the eye of one of Linsky’s mannequins.

Linsky’s prided itself on the durability of its clothing. The sign above the door read
THE LAST SUIT YOU’LL EVER NEED
. This was an unfortunate choice of words, since Linsky’s was best known for providing clothes for bodies at funeral viewings. “Linsky’s!” Kirov used to announce with mock solemnity, before adding the slogan, “Clothes for Dead People!”

But when he actually tried on the coat, Kirov could not help admiring its construction. The tightly woven wool was so thick it seemed almost bulletproof. The pockets had been lined with moleskin for warmth and there were 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?”

“There are some other documents.” The professor spoke quietly, as if afraid the statues might be listening.

“Well, what are we waiting for? May I see them?”

“No. That’s the problem. You may not.”

“But why not?”

“There exists a set of papers known as the Blue File.”

“I have never heard of it.”

“Few people have. The contents of the file are secret. Even the existence of the file is classified information.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“The Blue File contains the names of spies who operated within the Okhrana.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense,” protested Kirov. “Back then all Russian spies operated within the Okhrana. They were part of the Tsar’s Secret Service. They answered to the Okhrana.”

“You misunderstand me, Comrade Major. The Blue File does not contain the names of Russian agents who spied
for
the Okhrana. These were agents who spied
on
the Okhrana.”

Kirov blinked. “You mean to tell me there were agents who spied on our own Secret Service?”

Braninko nodded.

“But the Secret Service controlled all spying operations!” protested Kirov. “Who would these agents answer to?”

“To the Tsar,” replied Braninko. “And only to the Tsar.”

Kirov was stunned. “And the Okhrana did not know about this?”

“That is correct. Even the great Chief Inspector Vassileyev was unaware of it.”

“Then why was the file discovered at Okhrana headquarters?”

“It wasn’t,” Braninko explained. “This file was found in a locked desk in the Tsar’s study. In the chaos of the Revolution, he forgot to dispose of the documents. Either that, or he could not bring himself to destroy them.”

“Why is it called the Blue File?”

“The entries are written in blue pencil. It is the Tsar’s own writing.”

“And who else knows about this file?”

“Let me put it this way, Major—I have taken a great risk by even informing you of its existence.”

“But Ryabov might be in there!”

“Once again, Major, there is that possibility, but let me ask you something. What is it exactly that you need to know?”

“I’m not sure,” replied Kirov. “If Inspector Pekkala were here …”

Braninko breathed in sharply. “Pekkala?”

“Yes,” answered Kirov. “He and I work together.”

Braninko’s head tilted a little to the side, like that of a curious dog. “You work with the Inspector?”

“I am also an inspector, you know.”

“I didn’t say
an
inspector,” replied Braninko. “I said
the
Inspector.”

“All right, then,” muttered Kirov. “I work with
the
Inspector, and if he were here—”

“Why isn’t he here?” interrupted Braninko. “He would be allowed to see the Blue File.”

“Why would you let him see it and not me?”

Braninko paused before he answered. “Do you remember what I said about men who hide the truth?”

“You called them common criminals.”

“Correct, and the only defense against them is men like Inspector Pekkala. No matter what the regulations called for, I would never do anything to hinder one of his investigations.”

“Comrade Braninko, this
is
his investigation.” Kirov went on to explain Pekkala’s mission to Borodok. “Now can you help me or not?” he asked when he had finished.

“Follow me,” replied Braninko.

At the back of the old sculpture studio, a massive safe stood in the corner of an otherwise empty room. After opening the safe, Braninko removed a drawer which had been removed from a desk. The drawer was made from some exotic wood, inlaid with ornate flower patterns done in ebony and mother-of-pearl.

“As you see,” Braninko told Kirov, “they took it straight from the Tsar’s study. These documents have never been integrated with those of our own Intelligence Service.” Turning to the file, Braninko began sifting through the documents. “Here it is!” he exclaimed, hauling out an envelope. “Ryabov, Isaac; assigned to the Kolchak Expedition.”

The younger man felt his heart jolt. “Now we can find out what this man was doing before the Revolution.”

“It won’t be that easy, Major. There is a good reason NKVD has so little information on this man. Isaac Ryabov is a cover name. Unlike in Okhrana and NKVD archives, the real identities of agents working secretly for the Tsar were never written down. When Nicholas II died, the names of these men died with him. All we have left are the clues remaining in the Blue File, but if there is anyone on earth who could make sense of them, it would be Inspector Pekkala.”