Shadow Pass ip-2

by Sam Eastland

  When he saw Pekkala, Gorenko looked up and smiled. “Hello, Inspector!”

  “No work today?” asked Pekkala.

  “Work is done!” replied Gorenko. “Only two hours ago, a man arrived to transport our prototype T-34 to the factory at Stalingrad.”

  “I didn’t realize that the prototype was ready.”

  “It’s close enough. It’s like I said, Inspector. There’s a difference between excellence and perfection. There will always be more things to do, but Moscow obviously felt it was time to begin mass production.”

  “How did Ushinsky take it?”

  “He hasn’t come in yet. Being the perfectionist that he is, I doubt he will be very pleased. If he starts talking crazy again, I’ll send him straight to you, Inspector, and you can sort him out.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said Pekkala. “In the meantime, Professor, the reason I’m here is that I’m trying to find out about a gun belonging to Colonel Nagorski. It was a small pistol of German manufacture. Apparently he carried it with him all the time.”

  “I know it,” said Gorenko. “He didn’t have a holster for the thing, so he used to keep the gun in the pocket of his tunic, rattling around with his spare change.”

  “Do you know where it came from? Where he got it?”

  “Yes,” replied Gorenko. “It was a gift from a German general named Guderian. Guderian was a tank officer during the war. He wrote a book about tank warfare. Nagorski used to keep it by his bedside. The two of them met when the German army put on a display of armor in ’36. Dignitaries from all over the world were invited to watch. Nagorski was very impressed. He met Guderian when he was there. Obviously, the two of them had plenty in common. Before Nagorski returned home, Guderian gave him that pistol as a gift. Nagorski always said he hoped we’d never have to fight them.”

  “Thank you, Professor.” Pekkala walked to the door. Then he turned back to Gorenko. “What will you do now?” he asked.

  Gorenko gave him a sad smile. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose this is what it is like when you have children and they grow up and leave the house. You just have to get used to the quiet.”

  A few minutes later, Pekkala pulled up to the Nagorski house.

  Mrs. Nagorski was sitting on the porch. She wore a short brown corduroy jacket with the same mandarin collar as a Russian soldier’s tunic and a faded pair of blue canvas trousers of the type worn by factory workers. Her hair was covered by a white headscarf, decorated along the edges with red and blue flowers.

  She looked as if she’d been expecting someone else.

  Pekkala got out of the car and nodded hello. “I am sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Nagorski.”

  “I thought you were the guards, come to throw me out of my house.”

  “Why would they do that?”

  “The question, Inspector, is why wouldn’t they, now that my husband is gone?”

  “Well, I have not come to throw you out,” he said, trying to reassure her.

  “Then what brings you here?” she asked. “Have you brought me some answers?”

  “No,” replied Pekkala, “I have only brought questions for now.”

  “Well,” she said, rising to her feet, “you had better come inside and ask them, hadn’t you?”

  Once they were inside the dacha, she offered him a place in one of two chairs which faced the fireplace. Wedged under the iron grating was a bundle of twigs wrapped in newspaper, and balanced on the blackened iron bars of the grate stood a tidy pyramid of logs.

  “You can light that,” she said, and handed him a box of matches. “I’ll get us something to eat.”

  As he struck a match and held it to the edges of the newspaper, Pekkala watched the blue glow spread and the printed words crumble into darkness.

  On the hearth she laid a plate with slices of bread fanned out like a deck of cards. Beside it, she placed a small bowl made of tin which was heaped with flakes of sea salt, like the scales of tiny fish. Then she sat down in the chair beside him.

  “Well, Inspector,” she said, “have you learned anything at all since we last spoke?”

  Her bluntness did not surprise him, and at this moment Pekkala was grateful for it. He reached down and picked up a piece of bread. He dipped a corner of it in the flakes of salt and took a bite. “I believe that your husband was killed with his own gun.”

  “That thing he carried in his pocket?”

  “Yes,” he replied with his mouth full, “and I am wondering if you know where it is.”

  She shook her head. “He used to put it on the bedside table at night. It was his most prized possession. It’s not there now. He must have had it with him when he died.”

  “There’s nowhere else it could be?”

  “My husband was precise in his habits, Inspector. The gun was either in his pocket or on that table. He didn’t like not knowing where things were.”

  “Did your husband have any meetings scheduled on the day he was killed?”

  “I don’t know. He wouldn’t have told me if he did, unless it meant that he would be coming home late, and he didn’t say anything about that.”

  “So he did not talk about his work with you.”

  She waved her hand towards the T-34 blueprints plastered across the walls. “It was a combination of him not wanting to talk and me not wanting to listen.”

  “When he left here on that day, was he alone?” asked Pekkala.

  “Yes.”

  “Maximov did not drive him?”

  “My husband usually walked to the facility. It had started out sunny, so he set off on foot. It’s only about a twenty-minute walk and the only exercise he ever took.”

  “Was there anything unusual about the day?”

  “No. We had an argument, but there’s nothing unusual about that.”

  “What was it about, this argument?”

  “It was Konstantin’s birthday. The argument started when I told my husband that he shouldn’t be spending the whole day at work when he should have stayed home with his son on his birthday. Once we started shouting at each other, Konstantin got up and left the house.”

  “And where did your son go?”

  “Fishing. That’s where he usually goes to get away from us. He is old enough now that he does not have to tell us where he’s going. I wasn’t worried, and later I saw him out in his boat. That’s where he was when you arrived with Maximov.”

  “I assume he can’t go into the forest because of the traps.”

  “There are no traps here, only in the woods surrounding the facility. He’s perfectly safe around the house.”

  “Did Konstantin ever accompany his father to the facility?”

  “No,” she replied. “That was one of the few things my husband and I agreed upon. We did not want him playing around where there were weapons being built, guns being fired and so on.”

  “This argument you had about the birthday. How did it resolve itself?”

  “Resolve?” She laughed. “Inspector, you are being far too optimistic. Our arguments were never resolved. They simply ended when one of us couldn’t take it anymore and got up to leave the room. In this case, it was my husband, after I had accused him of forgetting Konstantin’s birthday altogether.”

  “Did he deny it?”

  “No. How could he? Even Maximov sent Konstantin a birthday card. What does that tell you, Inspector, when a bodyguard takes better care of a young man than his own father does?”

  “This was the only thing you argued about?”

  “The only thing in front of Konstantin.”

  “You mean there was more?”

  “The truth is,” she said with a sigh, “my husband and I were splitting up.” She looked at him, then looked away again. “I was having an affair, you see.”

  “Ah,” he said softly. “And your husband found out about it.”

  She nodded.

  “How long had the affair been going on?”

  “For some time,” she replied.
“More than a year.”

  “And how did your husband find out?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. He refused to tell me. By then, it really didn’t matter.”

  “With whom did you have the affair?” asked Pekkala.

  “Is this absolutely necessary, Inspector?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Nagorski, I’m afraid it is.”

  “With a man named Lev Zalka.”

  “Zalka!”

  “That sounds as if you know him.”

  “I spoke to him this morning,” replied Pekkala, “and he didn’t tell me anything about an affair.”

  “Would you have mentioned it, Inspector, if you could have avoided the subject?”

  “Is that why he stopped working on the project?”

  “Yes. There were other reasons, small things which could have been put right, but this was the end of everything between them. Afterwards, my husband wouldn’t even allow Zalka’s name to be mentioned at the facility. The other technicians never knew what had happened. They just thought it was a difference of opinion about something to do with the project.”

  “And what about Konstantin? Did he know about this?”

  “No,” she replied. “I begged my husband not to mention it until the project was completed. Then we would move back to the city and find different places to live. Konstantin would be going off to the Moscow Technical Institute to study engineering. He would live in the dormitory there, and he could come and see me or his father whenever he wanted.”

  “And your husband agreed?”

  “He did not tell me that he disagreed,” she replied, “and that was as much as I had hoped for, under the circumstances.”

  “This morning,” said Pekkala, “my assistant and I ruled out Zalka as a suspect, but after what you’ve told me, I’m no longer sure what to think.”

  “Are you asking me if I think Lev killed my husband?”

  “Or that he ordered it, perhaps?”

  “If you knew Lev Zalka, you would never think that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Lev never hated my husband. The person Lev hates is himself. From the first day we began seeing each other, I knew it was destroying him inside.”

  “And yet you say this lasted for over a year.”

  “Because he loved me, Inspector Pekkala. And, for what it’s worth, I loved him, too. A part of me still does. I was never strong enough to finish things with Lev. It was my great weakness and it was Lev’s as well. I was almost relieved when my husband found out. And what Lev does to himself now, those medical experiments he endures, he does out of guilt. He will tell you that it is so he can carry on his research, but the man is just bleeding to death.”

  “Are you still in contact with him?”

  “No,” she said. “We could never go back to just being acquaintances.”

  There was the sound of a door opening at the back of the dacha. A moment later it closed again.

  Pekkala turned.

  Konstantin stood in the kitchen. In his hand, he carried an iron ring on which three trout had been skewered through the gills.

  “My dear,” said Mrs. Nagorski, “Inspector Pekkala is here.”

  “I wish you would leave us alone, Inspector,” replied Konstantin as he laid the fish on the kitchen counter.

  “I was just about to,” said Pekkala, rising to his feet.

  “The inspector is looking for your father’s gun,” said Mrs. Nagorski.

  “Your mother says he kept it on his bedside table,” added Pekkala, “or in the pocket of his coat. Did you ever see the gun anywhere else?”

  “I hardly ever saw that gun,” the boy replied, “because I hardly ever saw my father.”

  Pekkala turned to Mrs. Nagorski. “I’ll rely on you to search the house. If the gun turns up, please let me know immediately.”

  Outside the house, she shook his hand. “I’m sorry for the way Konstantin spoke to you,” she told Pekkala. “I’m the one he’s angry with. He just hasn’t gotten around to admitting it yet.”

  IT WAS LATE IN THE DAY BY THE TIME PEKKALA RETURNED TO THE OFFICE. He had stopped to refuel the Emka, which took him out of his way, and the mechanic at the garage had persuaded him to change the oil and radiator fluid. He then discovered that the radiator needed replacing, by which time most of the day had gone.

  “We should probably change the fuel gauge as well,” said the mechanic. “It appears to be sticking.”

  “How long will that take?” asked Pekkala, already at the end of his patience.

  “We’d have to order the part,” explained the mechanic. “You’d need to leave it here overnight, but there’s a cot we keep in the back …”

  “No!” shouted Pekkala. “Just get me back on the road!”

  When the repairs had finally been completed, Pekkala returned to the office. He was halfway up the stairs when he met Kirov coming down.

  “There you are!” said Kirov.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You just had a call from the Kremlin.”

  Pekkala felt his heart clench. “Do you know what it’s about?”

  “They didn’t tell me. All they said was to get you over there as soon as possible. Comrade Stalin is waiting.”

  “He is waiting for me?” muttered Pekkala. “Well, there’s a change.”

  Together, the two men returned to the street, where the Emka’s engine was still warm.

  “IT’S OVER!” SHOUTED STALIN.

  They were walking down a corridor towards Stalin’s private study. Staff officers and clerks in military uniform stood to the side, backs against the wall and staring straight ahead, like people disguised as statues. As if taking part in this elaborate game, Stalin ignored their existence.

  “What is over?” asked Pekkala.

  “The case!” Stalin replied. “We have the man who killed Nagorski.”

  From offices on either side came the sounds of typewriters, the rustle of metal file cabinets opening and closing, and the murmur of indistinct voices.

  “You do?” Pekkala was unable to hide his surprise. “Who is he?”

  “I don’t know yet. I haven’t received the final report. All I can tell you is that we have a man in custody and that he has confessed to killing Nagorski, as well as trying to sell information on the Konstantin Project to the Germans.”

  As they reached the door to the waiting room, two guards, each armed with a submachine gun, clicked their heels together. One guard opened the door with a flick of his hand so that Stalin passed through into his study without even breaking his stride.

  The three clerks, including Poskrebyshev, rose sharply from their chairs as Stalin entered. Poskrebyshev moved towards the study door, in an attempt to open it for Stalin.

  “Get out of the way,” barked Stalin.

  Without any change of expression, Poskrebyshev stopped in midstride, turned, and went back to his desk.

  Inside the study, Stalin closed the door and broke into a smile. “I must say, Pekkala, I am taking some pleasure in the fact that this was one case you were unable to solve.”

  “How did you catch this man?” asked Pekkala.

  “That woman brought him in, that NKVD major you thought might prove useful.”

  “Lysenkova?”

  “That’s her. She got a call from someone at the Nagorski facility who was able to identify the killer.”

  “I knew nothing about this,” said Pekkala. “We had agreed that Major Lysenkova would keep me informed.”

  Stalin made a vague grumble of surprise. “None of that matters now, Pekkala. What matters is that we have the man who did it.”

  “What about the White Guild and those agents who were killed?”

  “It looks as if that might be a separate matter,” replied Stalin.

  “May I speak to this man?” asked Pekkala.

  Stalin shrugged. “Of course. I don’t know what kind of shape he is in, but I assume he can still talk.”

  “Where is he bein
g held?”

  “At the Lubyanka, in one of the isolation cells. Come.” Stalin rested his hand on Pekkala’s shoulder and steered him towards the tall windows, which looked out over the empty parade ground below. Stalin stopped a few paces short of the window itself. He never took the risk of being seen by someone outside. “Within a matter of months,” he said, “you will see T-34 tanks parked end to end down there, and it won’t be a minute too soon. Germany is now openly preparing for war. I am doing everything I can to buy us time. Yesterday I halted all patrols along the Polish border, in case of accidental incursions into their territory. Any movement by us beyond our own national boundaries will be interpreted by Germany as an act of aggression, and Hitler is looking for any excuse to begin hostilities. These measures cannot prevent what is inevitable. They can only delay it, hopefully long enough that the T-34’s will be waiting when our enemies decide to attack.”

  Pekkala left Stalin staring out the window at the imaginary procession of armor.

  Down on the street, Kirov was pacing back and forth beside the Emka.

  Pekkala came running out of the building. “Get us over to the Lubyanka as quickly as you can.”

  MINUTES LATER, THE EMKA ROARED AROUND THE CORNER OF Dzerzhinsky Square and into the main courtyard of the Lubyanka prison. Even though it had not snowed in weeks, piles of filthy snow left over from the winter were still plowed up into the corners where the sunlight failed to reach. On three sides of the courtyard, walls rose several stories high. Windows stretched along the ground floor, but above that were rows of strange metal sheets, each one anchored with iron pins a hand’s width from the wall, hiding whatever lay behind them.

  A guard escorted them inside the prison. He wore a bulky greatcoat made of poor-quality wool dyed an irregular shade of purplish brown and a bulky, fur-lined hat known as a ushanka. Pekkala and Kirov signed in at the front desk. They scrawled their names in a huge book containing thousands of pages. The book had a steel plate covering everything except the space for them to write their names.