Sam Eastland - Archive 17

“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.”

Kirov stared at the Tsar’s handwriting, precise and ornate. The faded blue pencil resembled the veins in an old person’s hand. “May I borrow this, professor?”

“For Inspector Pekkala-of course.” Braninko handed him the time-brittled paper.

The two men walked out into the sculpture studio.

Once more Kirov breathed in the smell of that long-extinguished fire which had consumed Okhrana headquarters.

Braninko sat down on the huge severed hand, looking like some tiny helpless creature resting in the palm of a capricious god as he waited for his fate to be decided.

“There is something I don’t understand,” Kirov told him. “Why does our government choose to keep the Blue File secret? The Okhrana is gone forever. The men whose names are in that file are either dead or in exile. The information it contains should no longer be considered classified.”

Braninko smiled, raising his hands and resting them upon the fingertips of the great bronze hand. “My dear Comrade Major,” he said, “the reason for keeping the Blue File secret has nothing to do with what it contains. The very fact that there was once a group of men who spied upon those whose job it was to spy on others is, in itself, a dangerous thing. It might lead people to wonder if there is another such file kept, perhaps, by our own government and hidden away in the desk of some untouchable man. The best secret, Comrade Major, is not one whose answer is hidden from us by the strongest lock and key. The best secret is one which nobody even knows exists.”

As soon as he was outside the archive, Kirov ducked into one of the abandoned warehouse buildings. With his back against a cold brick wall, he opened the Kolchak Expedition file. It contained three sheets of paper. Each was embossed with the double-headed eagle of the Romanovs.

From the Tsar’s handwritten notes, Kirov learned that an Okhrana agent had been wounded in an attack on a house in St. Petersburg where a convicted murderer had been hiding. The murderer, whose name was Grodek, had been a notorious terrorist before the Revolution.

Kirov had learned about this mission from Pekkala, who had been a part of it. But what Kirov read next, even Pekkala didn’t know.

Rather than return the wounded agent to active duty, the Tsar had secretly ordered the man’s name to be placed on the list of those who had died in the attack. In the meantime, the agent was brought to a clinic on the grounds of the Ekaterinburg estate. There he was tended to by the Tsar’s own doctor until he had recovered.

The Tsar then summoned the agent and gave him a choice. Either he could return to the ranks of the Okhrana and the report of his death would be attributed to a bureaucratic mix-up, or he could agree to work as an agent for the Tsar, and only for the Tsar, taking part in missions so secret that not even his own intelligence service would be informed.

The agent had required no persuasion. He readily agreed and, soon after, was given a new identity as a cavalry officer with the cover name of Isaac Ryabov.

There followed a list of several missions undertaken by Ryabov, ranging from payoffs made to women made pregnant by Rasputin to the assassination of a Turkish diplomat suspected of involvement in smuggling stolen Russian steam turbine technology out of the country.

The last entry in the file detailed how the Tsar had appointed Ryabov to the cavalry brigade of Colonel Kolchak, only days before the expedition departed for Siberia. Ryabov’s orders were to report back not only on the whereabouts of the brigade but also on the location of where the Romanov gold was hidden.

Ryabov had been the Tsar’s insurance policy against Kolchak running off with the treasure.

Kirov had no idea whether this file would provide Pekkala with the information he was looking for, but Braninko had been right when he said that if anybody could make sense of the contents, it would be Pekkala.

Stashing the pages in the pocket of his tunic, Kirov ran back towards his office. Within the hour, he had telegraphed his findings to the camp commander at Borodok.

While Pekkala was away delivering soup to the miners, Melekov sat alone in the kitchen, on a rickety wooden chair, reading a scrap of newspaper that he had peeled off the carcass of a frozen pig which had arrived that morning on the train.

Gramotin walked in from the compound. Instead of ignoring Melekov, as he usually did, he sauntered over to the cook and slapped him on the back.

“What do you want?” asked Melekov, without looking up from his paper.

“Nothing,” replied Gramotin. “Nothing at all.”

Which was, of course, a lie.

Ever since Gramotin’s last meeting with the camp commandant, dark thoughts had entered the guard’s mind. Klenovkin was usually upset about something or other-Dalstroy was continually demanding higher quotas, providing him with fewer guards and cutting salaries at random-but this was the first time Gramotin had seen the commandant so unhinged by a single prisoner. And to learn that this convict Pekkala was the source of Klenovkin’s distress had fixed in Gramotin’s mind only one possible course of action.