T

he polar night lay like an icy veil over Penal Colony IK-3 in the far north of Siberia. On the eve of Orthodox Christmas, a blizzard had swept across the tundra and buried the entire camp beneath a thick blanket of snow. Now an eerie stillness reigned – the kind they called, out here, the calm after the storm. The moon cast its pale light on bizarre sculptures that cold and frost had fashioned from the ever-present barbed wire. The storm clouds had moved on, and the starry sky above the endless expanse of the tundra threw a deceptive image of peace across the plain.

Deep in the Siberian wilderness, more than two thousand kilometres from Moscow, Penal Colony IK-3 was the end of the line for Russia's most dangerous criminals. A solitary railway line connected the camp to the small town of Obskoy, twenty-five kilometres away – a desolate outpost where the guards lived with their families. On the stillest nights, the howling of the wolves that had given the camp its name echoed through the darkness: Polyarny Volk – the Polar Wolf.

For the inmates – terrorists, murderers, hardened criminals – there was no escape. Barbed wire, armed guards and chained dogs turned any thought of flight into a fleeting fantasy. And anyone who had made it out would have been swallowed without mercy by the tundra. Within the walls, the brotherhood of the Thieves in Law held sway – an order founded in the gulags of the Soviet Union. Its rules were simple, clear and unambiguous: no cooperation with the state, no family, unconditional loyalty. Distinctive tattoos – daggers, stars, cathedrals – bore witness to crimes committed and defined the status of the man who wore them. Whoever adorned himself with symbols he had not earned committed a grave offence and was punished severely. Breaking the code meant torture or death. In this antechamber of hell, the guards were mere extras – not respected, merely tolerated.

—

Christmas Eve differed little from any other day. To conjure a touch of festive spirit, carols were played over the loudspeakers. Every prisoner received a few home-baked biscuits – a tradition kept alive year after year by the guards' wives. In the guardroom, a dreary space lit by flickering fluorescent tubes, three men were on night duty. Russian Christmas carols crackled from an old radio. A string of blinking fairy lights had been wound, makeshift, around a few spruce branches, lending the room a hint of Christmas cheer. An ancient oil stove gave off a little warmth and an acrid smell. The thermometer outside read minus forty-two degrees.

The duty officer, Captain Artyom Makarov, a bull of a man with a scarred face, sat bored at a rickety table. He took a sip of coffee from a dented tin mug and watched Lieutenant Sergey Kovalyov, who was whittling away at a piece of wood with a pocketknife.

'Sergey, what's that supposed to be? You've been at it for hours, and I still can't tell what it's meant to become.'

Sergey glanced up briefly and carried on whittling, unperturbed. 'It's going to be a matryoshka for my daughter Alina. Seven of them, all told. My wife will paint them afterwards. I'd meant to be finished a week ago, but as you can see, it's slow going.'

Pavel Vorobyov, a young guard who had taken up his post only a few days earlier, stood at the window, staring out into the night. He wasn't much of a talker and seemed to take no particular interest in his colleagues' conversation. He looked tense. Kovalyov noticed the young man's unease and glanced up from his piece of wood.

'What brought you out here, lad? Get yourself into trouble back home in Irkutsk?' He grinned and went on carving the wood, which was slowly taking on the contours of a little doll.

'I volunteered. With the allowances, I earn twice what I'd make at home. And so far the work's not bad at all.'

'That's because you haven't met any of our very special guests yet,' Makarov cut in mockingly.

'There are some rather remarkable specimens among them,' Kovalyov added.

Pavel knew about the brutality among the inmates, but on Christmas Eve of all nights he wanted to hear none of it, and tried to change the subject. 'My mother sent biscuits. Would you like some? I can fetch them from my locker.'

Kovalyov licked his lips. 'Good idea. Bring us Mother's biscuits!'

Pavel felt relieved – but the harsh reality of the camp returned in macabre fashion. A scream of pain from outside pierced the silence of the guardroom.

'What was that?' Pavel whispered, looking around anxiously.

Makarov grinned and took a sip of coffee. 'Don't you worry, my boy. Just some of our guests settling internal differences.'

'The wolves are howling,' Kovalyov murmured without looking up.

Another scream – more agonised than the first – made even Makarov pause. His face darkened.

'Now that does sound like trouble,' he said, an ominous note in his voice. 'Let's take a look.'

Pavel looked anxiously at his colleagues. Since his arrival he had had hardly any contact with the prisoners. His duties so far had been confined to the guardroom and had passed without incident. Over the intercom, Makarov ordered six more guards to the guardroom. With practised routine they checked weapons and batons, tested their tasers – and more than one crossed himself.

The snow crunched beneath their boots as the men made their way towards the block from which the screams had come. Café Pushkin, as the prisoners called Cell Block C, was a run-down building some thirty metres from the guardroom. A faint glimmer of light seeped through the small, grimy windows. Groans of pain and jeering laughter grew more distinct with every step the guards took towards the block. Pavel was trembling – not from the cold, but from dread of what awaited him and the men behind those walls.

Makarov unbolted the heavy steel door. Beyond the airlock lay a corridor lined with cells on either side. A stench of excrement, urine and sweat hit them, so acrid that Pavel nearly retched. Torch beams flashed in the half-darkness. Kovalyov switched on the overhead lights. Fluorescent light flickered to life in the empty corridor. Apart from a faint groaning from Cell 11, nothing more could be heard. The prisoners had noticed the guards' arrival.

Makarov opened the hatch in the cell door and peered into the gloom. He shone his torch through the slot and counted the men. Seven shadowy figures stood around a man crouched on the floor. Makarov struck the cell door with his baton.

'Everyone to your positions!'

Kovalyov unbolted the lock and opened the cell door. The others drew their batons and formed a semicircle behind him.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure with a shaved head and bare torso stepped out of the half-light of the dimly lit cell: Krysha – the undisputed ruler of the camp and leader of the Thieves in Law, feared like no other inmate. Even the guards respected this man, who was serving a fifteen-year sentence in IK-3. Krysha was the embodiment of his brotherhood – a beast with a razor-sharp mind. Eight-pointed stars adorned his shoulders; a cathedral with three domes spread across his chest – silent witnesses to his crimes and a mockery of the power of the state. A cigarette glowed in the corner of his mouth, its smoke curling around his face. Beside him knelt Pyotr, naked and bound to a bed frame. Bloody shreds of skin hung from his shoulders. He had adorned himself with tattoos he had no right to wear. As punishment, his skin had been worked over with sandpaper. The boastful stars were barely recognisable on his ravaged body. Pavel's hands were shaking. He had heard of such rituals, but witnessing this brutal torture was beyond anything his mind could grasp. His gaze clung to Pyotr, whose eyes stared rigidly at the floor. Blood dripped onto the cell floor. Even the hard-bitten Makarov was disgusted by this demonstration of power and violence.

'Krysha, you're out in a week. Don't risk it for a piece of filth like him.'

Krysha's lips curled into a cynical grin, and he turned to the man holding the sandpaper. 'That will do. Untie him.' Krysha took a step forward and squared up to Makarov. 'He's yours now. Take this piece of shit away. I don't want to see him here again.'

Pyotr's bonds were loosened. He toppled forward unconscious, his face striking the cold concrete floor. Krysha and Makarov still stood facing one another. Makarov's eyes betrayed that he, too, feared this man, whose power did not end at the camp walls. Unable to hold Krysha's demonic gaze any longer, Makarov turned to his guards. 'Take him to the infirmary.'

Two guards lifted the naked, tormented body and dragged it out of the cell. His whimpering had ceased, and his blood left a trail along the corridor floor. Makarov shook his head and turned away from Krysha.

'Back to the guardroom,' he said to Pavel, who stood frozen behind him. 'Nothing more to see here. It would surprise me if Pyotr lasted the night.'

Back in the guardroom, the men gathered around the oil stove and warmed their stiff fingers.

'You'll get used to it, lad,' Makarov said to Pavel, his voice almost fatherly. He knew full well what effect the cruel ritual in Café Pushkin had on a newcomer.

'You were going to bring us biscuits!' Kovalyov reminded him.

Pavel, still in shock, saluted mechanically and went to his locker. As he took out the box of biscuits his mother had baked for him, a tear ran down his cheek. He longed to be home with his family.

—

Makarov was to be proved right. The next morning, Pyotr was found dead in his bed in the infirmary. A spoon, ground to a blade, was lodged in his throat – an unmistakable message as to who held power over life and death in the camp. The official report said suicide, but everyone in the camp knew that Krysha had made an example of his power. No one spoke of it – not the prisoners, not the guards.

In a week, Krysha would leave the tundra behind – and the terrible secrets of IK-3 would remain buried beneath the snow for ever.