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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 train.’
    Demidov’s back straightened as he realised his mistake. ‘My God, what have I done?’
    ‘Nothing that cannot be fixed.’
    ‘Whatever it takes,’ said Demidov, ‘consider it done, Inspector.’
    By the time ETAP-1889 finally departed, the sun had already set. Pekkala stood with Demidov at the engine controls as the great cyclopic eye of the locomotive’s headlight carved out a path through the darkness.
    The convoy was more than fifty wagons long. Each had been designed to hold either forty men or eight horses, after the pattern used by the French army during the Great War. The French wagons had occasionally held as many as sixty men, but the wagons of ETAP-1889 now contained eighty men each, which meant that, for the entire ten-day journey to Siberia, everyone would be forced to stand.
    ‘Where is the next station?’ Pekkala had to shout to make himself heard above the rumble of the locomotive.
    ‘There’s a switching junction called Shatura, about ten kilometres down the line, but we aren’t due to stop there.’
    ‘Is there any way you can halt the train at that junction?’
    Demidov thought for a moment. ‘I could tell them our brakes are overheating. That would require a visual inspection of the wheels. The process would take about twenty minutes.’
    ‘Good,’ said Pekkala. ‘That is all the time I need.’
    *
     
    The master of the V-4 station, Edvard Kasinec, had been informed earlier that day to expect the arrival of a special prisoner for convoy ETAP-1889. The convoy would be passing through Sverdlovsk, Petropavlovsk and Omsk, destined for the Valley of Krasnagolyana, in the furthest reaches of Siberia.
    Sometimes, through the frosted windows of his office, Kasinec would study the procession of convicts as they were herded at bayonet point into the wagons, wearing nothing but the flimsy cotton pyjamas issued to them in the prisons of Butyrka and Lubyanka. Kasinec would try to pick out those he imagined might survive the ordeal that lay ahead. A few might even be lucky enough to return home one day. It was a little game he played to pass the time, but he never played it with convoys travelling as far as the Valley of Krasnagolyana. Those men were bound for camps whose names were spoken only in whispers. They were never coming back.
    It had saddened him to learn that this special prisoner was none other than Inspector Pekkala of the Bureau of Special Operations. Kasinec was old enough to remember the days when Pekkala had served as personal investigator to the Tsar. To think of that famous detective, packed inside a freezing cattle wagon like a common criminal, was almost more than Kasinec could bear.
    There had been so many thousands, tens of thousands, who had passed through here on their way east, and Kasinec had been grateful for the fact that they would only ever be numbers to him. If there had been names, he would have remembered them, and if he had remembered them, the space they would have occupied inside his head might have driven him out of his mind. But he would never forget the name of Pekkala, whose Emerald Eye had snagged like a fishing lure trolling through his brain.
    Kasinec’s orders were to wait until Pekkala had boarded the train, and then to communicate by telegram with some man at the Kremlin named Poskrebyshev to confirm that the prisoner had been delivered.
    On receiving the instructions from Poskrebyshev, Kasinec protested that he had never actually seen the Emerald Eye before.