Pekkala’s mistake had been to raise his head and look one of the Guards in the eye as three of them made their way down the narrow corridor of the train. Snow was melting on the Guards’ shoulders and condensation beaded on their weapons.

The lead Guard had tripped on the carrying strap of a bag stuffed under a seat several rows ahead of where Pekkala sat. He stumbled and fell heavily to one knee, swearing coarsely. People in the carriage flinched at the torrent of obscenities. The Guard’s head snapped up. He was furious and embarrassed to have tripped. The first person he saw was Pekkala, who just happened, at that moment, to be looking back at him.

“Let’s go,” snarled the Guard, and hauled Pekkala to his feet.

Pekkala’s first breath of cold air as he left the train felt like pepper in his lungs.

A dozen people, most of them men but a few pretty women as well, had been taken off the train. They stood huddled on the platform. The name of the station was barely visible under its coral-like coating of frost.

The train stamped and snorted, impatient to push on into the night, bound for Helsinki.

Pekkala weighed the situation in his head. He knew these men were probably just former soldiers, not professionals who could spot well-forged papers or know what questions to ask to trip up a man who was not who he was supposed to be. One well-aimed question about obstetrics could have punched a hole through Pekkala’s disguise. There had been no time for him to research his new profession.

The Webley was strapped against Pekkala’s chest. He could easily have shot the one man guarding them and run away into the dark while the others continued their search of the train. But one glance into the thick, snow-filled forests which surrounded the station and Pekkala knew he wouldn’t get far. Even if they didn’t catch him, he would most likely freeze to death.

There was nothing to do but hope that the Guards had satisfied their curiosity and their need for feeling important. Then they could all just get back on the train.

His plan had been to visit his parents, then press on via Stockholm to Copenhagen and from there down to Paris. There he would begin his search for Ilya.

The rest of the Guards disembarked.

Passengers rubbed circles on the condensation-soaked windows to see what was happening outside.

The Guard who had tripped made his way down the line of those who had been detained, examining their papers. He was a little too large for his tunic, whose sleeves stopped well above his wrists. A lit cigarette hung from between his lips, and when he spoke he sounded like a man with nerve damage to his face.

“All right,” he told one of the passengers. “You can go.”

The man did not look back. He ran to get aboard the train.

Two women who had been ahead of Pekkala and who had not been told to get on board stood weeping in the glare of the station lights. It had begun to snow and the shadows of flakes passed huge as clouds over the frozen platform.

The Guard came to Pekkala. “A doctor,” he said.

“Yes, sir.” Pekkala kept his head lowered.

“What is this bone?” asked the man.

And then Pekkala knew he was trapped. Not because he could not name the bones of the human body. For years a chart of the human body had hung in his father’s mortuary room; there were few bones he could not name. The reason Pekkala knew he was trapped was that if he made eye contact with the Guard, there was no chance that he would be allowed to leave. It was no different than if he had been standing in front of a dog. To the Guard, it had become a game.

“This bone here,” said the man, and snapped his fingers to draw Pekkala’s attention.

Pekkala looked down at his feet. Snowflakes landed on his boots.

The train wheezed impatiently.

A breath of cigarette smoke brushed past his face.

“Answer me, damn you,” said the Guard.

At that, Pekkala had no choice but to raise his head.

The Guard grinned at him. His cigarette had burned so low that the ember almost touched his lips. He held his hand up beside his head, moving his fingers slowly in some mockery of a greeting.

Their eyes met.

When the train pulled out, only Pekkala and one of the women stayed behind. Pekkala was handcuffed to a bench. The Guards dragged the woman into the waiting room beside the station house.

Pekkala heard her screaming.

Half an hour later, the woman ran out naked onto the platform.

By then, the snow had stopped. A full moon shone through passing shreds of cloud. The snow which had fallen no longer melted on Pekkala’s coat. Instead, it collected upon him like a mantle of polar bear fur. He could not feel his hands. The bars of the handcuffs were so cold they seemed to burn his skin. His toes became as hard as bullets hammered into the soft flesh of his feet.

The naked woman reached the platform edge. Her feet skidded in the slush. For one second, she turned and looked at Pekkala.

Twisted into her face was the same expression of terror he had once seen in the eyes of an old horse which had collapsed by the side of the road. The owner had pulled out a long puukko knife and was preparing to cut the animal’s throat. He sat down beside the horse and sharpened the knife on a small whetstone he had set upon his knee. The horse watched him the whole time, its eyes gone hollow with fear.

The woman leaped off the platform and fell heavily onto the rails half a body’s length below. Then she picked herself up and began running away down the tracks in the direction of Helsinki.

The Guards shambled out onto the platform. One was dabbing his fingers against a bloody lip. They looked around, laughing and confused.

“Hey!” A Guard kicked Pekkala’s leg. “Where did she go?”

Before he could answer, the leader of the Guards had spotted her. She was still running. Her naked back shone white as alabaster in the moonlight. Silky puffs of breath rose from her head.

The Guard took out a revolver. It was a 9 mm broomhandle Mauser with a wooden holster which could be converted into a stock, so that the gun could be fired like a rifle. The Guard removed the holster and hooked it up to the butt of the gun. Then he nestled the stock into his shoulder and aimed down the tracks towards the running woman. The gun made a dry snap. A cartridge flipped into the air and skittered across the platform, spinning to a stop next to Pekkala’s boot. A wisp of gun smoke slithered from its mouth.

The other Guards clustered at the platform edge, peering into the dark.

“She’s still running,” one said.

The leader of the Guards aimed again and fired.

The smell of cordite drifted on the frigid air.

“Missed,” said a Guard.

The leader spun around. “Then give me some space!”

The other Guards were not within three paces of the leader, but they jostled back obediently.

Leaning forward, Pekkala could vaguely see the woman still on her feet and running, her body like a candle flame shimmering between the silver rails.

The leader of the Guards aimed again. He fired twice.

The flame which had been the woman seemed to flicker for a second and then it went out.

The leader set the gun stock in the crook of his elbow, the barrel aimed now at the sky.

“Should we go get her?” asked one of the Guards.

“Let her freeze,” replied the leader. “She won’t be there in the morning.”

“Why not?”

“There’s another train coming through before dawn. When that thing hits her, she’ll shatter like a piece of glass.”

The following morning, a Guard placed a black cloth over Pekkala’s head. When the train from Helsinki arrived, he was shoved across the platform, blind and choking for air. Rough hands hauled him on board. He lay in the unheated baggage compartment, handcuffed to a replacement tractor engine, until the train pulled into Petrograd.