Shadow Pass (33 page)

“What could be gained …?” asked Maximov. Then suddenly he shuddered. “Let me see the letter again!”

Pekkala handed it to him.

Maximov stared at it. “Oh, no,” he whispered. Slowly, he raised his head. “This is Kropotkin’s writing.”

“What did you tell him about the Nagorskis?”

“Only that I didn’t want them involved. I knew that Nagorski and his wife were splitting up. They had been trying to keep it a secret. Konstantin was already on edge. I knew that once he realized what was going on between his parents, it would destroy his whole world.”

“Did Kropotkin know about the affair with Lev Zalka?”

“No,” replied Maximov. “Only that Nagorski was divorcing his wife.”

“After what you told him, Kropotkin must have guessed that the boy might try something like this. That way, he could not only steal the T-34 but also get rid of the man who invented it.”

“But how did Konstantin get hold of a gun?”

“Nagorski’s PPK was found in his possession. He fired it at me earlier this evening. The thing is, Maximov—the person he was trying to shoot was you.”

“Me? But why would he do that? He knows I would never do anything to harm him or his mother.”

“I believe that you care for them, Maximov, and if you hadn’t shown up drunk, you might have been a little more convincing. Instead, all you managed to do was terrify them.”

“What will they do to him now?” Maximov asked, dazed by what he had heard.

“Konstantin is guilty of murder. You know what they will do to him.”

“Kropotkin swore to me he’d keep them out of it …” whispered Maximov.

“Then help me stop him,” said Pekkala. “Kropotkin has betrayed you, and whatever you think of me, that’s not a thing I ever did.”

Maximov shuddered again. Then, finally, he spoke. “If I help you, you will see to it that Konstantin does not get sent to jail. Or worse.”

“I’ll do what I can for the boy, but you are guilty of murder and treason, not to mention trying to blow my head off—”

“I need no help from you, Pekkala. Just do what you can for Konstantin.”

“I promise,” said Pekkala.

Maximov seemed about to speak, but then he paused, as if he could not bring himself to give up Kropotkin, no matter what the man had done to him.

“Maximov,” Pekkala said gently. Hearing his name spoken seemed to snap him out of it.

“Kropotkin is heading for some place called Rusalka on the Polish border. It’s in the middle of a forest. I could show you on a map. How do you plan on stopping him?”

“One tank can be stopped by another,” said Pekkala. “Even if it is a T-34, we could send in a whole division to stop him.”

“That is exactly what Kropotkin would want you to do. The
sudden arrival of troops in a quiet sector on the border is bound to be misinterpreted by the Poles. And if fighting breaks out, even if it is on our side of the border, Germany will have no trouble seeing that as an act of aggression.”

“Then we will have to go in there alone,” Pekkala told him.

“What? The two of us?” Maximov laughed. “And supposing we do track him down? What then? Will you just knock on the side of the tank and order him to come out? Pekkala, I will help you, but I am not a miracle worker—”

“No,” interrupted Pekkala. “You are an assassin, and for now, I am glad of that fact.”

L
EAVING A GUARD IN CHARGE OF
M
AXIMOV
, P
EKKALA WENT TO FIND
Gorenko in the Iron House.

Gorenko and Konstantin sat side by side on a couple of ammunition crates, like two men waiting for a bus. The handcuffs hung so loosely on Konstantin’s wrists that Pekkala knew the boy could have let them slip off without any effort at all if he had chosen to.

“Is there anything that can destroy a T-34?” asked Pekkala.

“Well,” said Gorenko, “it all depends …”

“I need an answer now, Gorenko.”

“All right,” he replied reluctantly. “There is a weapon we have been working on.” He led Pekkala to a corner of the building and pointed to something which had been covered with a sheet of canvas. “Here it is.” Gorenko removed the canvas, revealing a long wooden crate with rope handles and a coat of fresh Russian army paint, the color of rotten apples. “No one is supposed to know about this.”

“Open it,” said Pekkala.

Down on one knee, Gorenko flipped the latches of the crate and lifted the lid. Inside was a narrow iron tube. It took Pekkala a
moment to realize that this was actually some kind of gun. A thick, curved pad at the end was designed to fit into the user’s shoulder, and another pad had been attached to the side, presumably to shield the user’s face when the gun was put to use. In front of these, he could see a large pistol grip, and a curved metal guard protecting the trigger. The weapon had a carrying handle about halfway up the tube and a set of bipod legs for stabilizing it. Attached to the end of the barrel was a squared-off piece of metal, which Pekkala assumed must be a muzzle-flash hider. The whole device looked crude and unreliable—a far cry from the neatly machined parts of his Webley revolver or the intricate assembly of Nagorski’s PPK.

“What is it?” asked Pekkala.

“This,” replied Gorenko, unable to conceal his pride in the invention, “is the PTRD, which stands for ‘Protivo Tankovoye Ruzhyo Degtyaryova.’ ”

“You have no imagination when it comes to names,” said Pekkala.

“I know,” replied Gorenko. “I even have a cat named Cat.”

Pekkala pointed at the gun. “That will stop a tank?”

Gorenko reached for a green metal box which had been fitted into the wooden case. “To be precise, Inspector,” he replied, lifting the lid of the box and taking out one of the largest bullets Pekkala had ever seen, “this is what will stop a tank.” Then he hesitated. “Or it should. But it’s not ready yet. The final product could be years away. And in the meantime, the whole thing is top secret!”

“Not anymore,” Pekkala told him.

F
ROM THE TELEPHONE IN
C
APTAIN
S
AMARIN’S OFFICE
, P
EKKALA PUT
in a call to Stalin’s office at the Kremlin.

Poskrebyshev answered. He was always the one who answered the phone, even at night.

When he heard the man’s voice, Pekkala found himself wondering if Poskrebyshev ever left the building.

“Put me through to Comrade Stalin,” Pekkala told the secretary.

“It is late,” replied Poskrebyshev.

“No,” said Pekkala, “it is early.”

Poskrebyshev’s voice disappeared with a click as he rerouted the call to Stalin’s residence.

A moment later, a gruff voice came on the line. “What is it, Pekkala?”

Pekkala explained what had happened.

“Konstantin Nagorski has confessed to killing his father?” asked Stalin, as if he could not understand what he’d been told.

“That is correct,” replied Pekkala. “He will be transferred to Lubyanka first thing in the morning.”

“This confession—was it obtained in the same manner as the other?”

“No,” said Pekkala. “It did not require force.” He looked at the mess of papers on Samarin’s desk. It seemed as if no one had touched them since the captain had died. In one corner stood a small framed picture of Samarin with a woman who must have been his wife.

“Do you believe,” asked Stalin, “that this man Ushinsky really intended to hand over the T-34 to the Germans?”

“No, Comrade Stalin. I do not.”

“And yet you are telling me that one of the tanks has gone missing?”

“That is also correct, but Ushinsky had nothing to do with it.” Pekkala heard the rustle of a match as Stalin lit himself a cigarette.

“This is the second time,” growled Stalin, “that Major Lysenkova has provided me with faulty information.”

“Comrade Stalin, I believe I can locate the missing T-34. I
have narrowed the search to an area of dense woodland on the Polish border. It is a place called the forest of Rusalka.”

“The tank is armed?”

“Fully armed, Comrade Stalin.”

“But there’s only one man! Is that what you are telling me? Can he operate it by himself?”

“The process of driving, loading, aiming, and firing can be accomplished by a single person. The procedures take considerably more time, but—”

“But the tank is just as dangerous in the hands of one person as it is with an entire crew of—how many is it?”

“Four men, Comrade Stalin. And the answer is yes. One person who knows what he is doing can turn the T-34 into an extremely dangerous machine.”

There was a silence. Then Stalin exploded. “I will send an entire infantry division to the area! The Fifth Rifles will do. I will also send the Third Armored Division. They don’t have T-34’s, but they can get in his way until he’s run out of ammunition. I don’t care how many men it takes to stop it. I don’t care how many machines. I’ll send the entire Soviet army after the bastard if I need to!”

“Then you will give the Germans just the excuse they have been looking for.”

There was another pause.

“You may be right about that,” admitted Stalin, “but, whatever it costs, I will not allow that traitor to go free.”

Pekkala heard the sound of Stalin exhaling. He imagined the gray haze of tobacco smoke around Stalin’s head.

“There is a special detachment specializing in irregular warfare. It’s run by a Major Derevenko. They are a small group. We could send them instead.”

“I am glad to hear it, Comrade Stalin.”

There was a clatter as Stalin put down the receiver and then picked up a second telephone. “Get me Major Derevenko of the irregular warfare detachment in Kiev,” Pekkala heard him command. “Why not? When was that? Are you sure? I did?” Stalin slammed the phone down. A second later he was back on the line with Pekkala.

“Derevenko has been liquidated. The irregular warfare detachment was disbanded. I can’t send in the army.”

“No, Comrade Stalin.”

“Then you are suggesting I simply allow the attack to go ahead?”

“My suggestion is that you allow me to go out there and stop him.”

“You, Pekkala?”

“I will not be completely alone,” he explained. “My assistant will accompany me, and there is one other man. His name is Maximov.”

“You mean the one who helped Kropotkin steal the tank?”

“Yes. He has agreed to cooperate.”

“And you need this man?”

“I believe he is our best chance of negotiating with Kropotkin.”

“And what if Kropotkin won’t negotiate?”

“Then there are other measures we can take.”

“Other measures?” asked Stalin. “What sorcery have you got planned, Pekkala?”

“Not sorcery. Tungsten steel.”

“A new weapon?”

“Yes,” replied Pekkala. “It is still in the experimental stage. We will be testing it before we leave.”

“Why haven’t I heard about this?”

“As with most things, Comrade Stalin, Nagorski ordered it to be kept secret.”

“But not from me!” Stalin roared into the phone. “
I
am the keeper of secrets! There are no secrets kept from
me
! Do you remember what I told you about those rumors British intelligence was spreading? That we are planning to attack Germany across the Polish border? The Germans believe those rumors, Pekkala, and that is exactly what they will think is happening if you don’t stop this tank! Our country is not ready for a war! So this had better work, Pekkala! You have forty-eight hours to stop the machine. After that, I am sending in the army.”

“I understand,” said Pekkala.

“Did you know,” asked Stalin, “that I also have a son named Konstantin?”

“Yes, Comrade Stalin.”

Stalin sighed into the receiver, the sound like rain in Pekkala’s ears. “Imagine,” he whispered, “to be killed by your own flesh and blood.”

Before Pekkala could reply, he heard the click of Stalin hanging up the phone.

A
S THE SUN ROSE ABOVE THE TREES
, P
EKKALA SQUINTED THROUGH A
pair of binoculars at the far end of the muddy proving ground. Trapped like a fly in the filaments of the binoculars’ ranging grid was the vast hulk of a T-34, a white number 5 painted on the side of its turret.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” replied Kirov. He lay on the ground, the stock of the PTRD tucked into his shoulder and the barrel balanced on its tripod.

“Fire,” said Pekkala.

A stunning crash filled the air. Two bright red flashes spat from the side of the T-34’s turret, followed by a puff of smoke. When the smoke had cleared, Pekkala could see a patch of bare metal
where the bullet had struck, obliterating half of the white number. He lowered the binoculars. “What happened?”

It was Gorenko who replied. “The bullet struck at an angle. It was deflected.”

Kirov still lay on the ground, his mouth open and eyes wide, stunned by the concussion of the gun. “I think I broke my jaw,” he mumbled.

“You hit it, anyway,” replied Pekkala.

“It doesn’t matter whether you hit it or not,” said Gorenko. “The shot must be perfect in order to penetrate the hull. The armor at that point is seventy millimeters thick.”

“Look, Professor,” said Kirov, lifting another bullet from beside the gun. “What happens to one of those machines if it is fired on in battle?”

“That depends,” Gorenko replied matter-of-factly, “on what you’re shooting at it. Bullets just bounce off. They won’t leave any more of a dent than a fingerprint on a cold slab of butter. Even some artillery shells can’t get through. It makes a hell of a noise, but that’s better than what happens if a shell gets through the hull.”

“And what does happen if a shell gets through?”

Gorenko took the bullet from Kirov’s hand and tapped the end of it with his finger. “When this round hits a vehicle,” he explained, “it is traveling at 1,012 meters per second. If it gets inside, the bullet begins to bounce around.” He turned the bullet slowly, so that it seemed to cartwheel first one way and then another. “It strikes a dozen times, a hundred, a thousand. Everyone inside will be torn to pieces, as thoroughly as if they had been cut apart with butcher knives. Or it will strike one of the cannon shells and the tank will explode from the inside out. Trust me, Inspector Kirov, you do not want to be in a tank when one of these comes crashing through the side. It shreds the metal of a hull compartment into something that looks like a giant bird’s nest.”