Shadow Pass ip-2

by Sam Eastland

  Around the side of the building, Pekkala picked up two fuel cans from the pallet. “What is it, Professor?” The cans were heavy and the liquid sloshed about in them. He hoped he would have the strength to carry them all the way back to the Emka.

  “It’s about the tank.” Gorenko lowered his voice. “The one they sent to the factory in Stalingrad.”

  “The prototype? What about it?”

  “The tank has not arrived. I called to check. You know, in case there were questions.”

  “It’s a long way to Stalingrad from here. Perhaps the truck broke down.”

  “No, Inspector. I’m afraid that’s not it. You see, when I called them, they told me they had never put in a request for the tank.”

  Slowly, Pekkala lowered the fuel cans to the ground. “But they must have. You saw the requisition form, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. I have it here.” Gorenko rummaged in the pocket of his lab coat and produced a crumpled yellow paper. “This is my copy. I was going to frame it.”

  Holding up the page so that he could read it in the lights which illuminated the compound, Pekkala searched the form for anything out of the ordinary. It was a standard government requisition form, correctly filled out by someone at the Stalingrad Tractor Factory, which he knew had been converted to tank production. The factory designation code looked right—KhPZ 183/STZ. The signature was so hastily scrawled as to be illegible, as most of them were on these forms. There was nothing unusual at all.

  “I received a call the day before the truck arrived,” continued Gorenko, “from someone at the Stalingrad works, informing me about the requisition and telling me to prepare the tank for transport.”

  “Did you mention that to the people in Stalingrad?”

  “Yes.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “That they never telephoned me, Inspector.”

  “This is probably just a miscommunication. Mistakes like this happen all the time. Was there anything suspicious about the truck or its driver?”

  “No. It was just a big truck, like you see on the Moscow Highway every day. The driver even knew Maximov.”

  “Knew him?”

  Gorenko nodded. “I saw the two of them talking together after the tank had been loaded on board. It didn’t seem unusual to me. They are both drivers of one sort or another. I assumed they must have gotten to know each other the same way that professors become acquainted through their work, even if they live at opposite ends of the country.”

  “This truck,” said Pekkala, “was it a flatbed or a container?”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Inspector.”

  “Did the tank sit on a platform at the back or was it inside a cargo area?”

  “Oh, I see. Yes. It was a container. A large metal container big enough to hold the tank.”

  “How did the driver get the tank into the container?”

  “He drove it in himself. I showed the man how to operate the T-34’s gears and pedals. It only took him a minute to get the hang of it. Anyone who knows how to operate a tractor or a bulldozer is already familiar with the principles. Then he rolled the tank up a ramp and into the container.”

  “And the container was sealed?”

  “Yes, with two large metal doors.”

  “What did this container look like?”

  “It was painted red, with the State Transport Commission letters painted in green on the side.”

  Like almost every other container on the highway, thought Pekkala. “And the driver? What did he look like?”

  “Short, heavyset. Mustache.” Gorenko shrugged. “He seemed friendly enough.”

  “Have you spoken to Maximov about this? Perhaps he knows how to reach the man.”

  “I tried to, but he was too drunk to make any sense.”

  “Fetch me a bucket of water,” said Pekkala.

  FOR A MOMENT, THE RAGGED SILVER ARC SEEMED TO HANG SUSPENDED over the sleeping Maximov. Then the water shattered on his face, as if it were a pane of glass. Maximov sat bolt upright, spewing a mouthful of water from between his puckered lips.

  Pekkala tossed the bucket to the other side of the room, where it rolled, clattering loudly into the corner.

  “Mudak!” shouted Maximov. He doubled over, coughing, then swiped the water from his eyes and glared at Pekkala. “I thought you were going to let me sleep!”

  “I was,” replied Pekkala, “but now I need you to tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “What is the name of the driver who picked up the tank from this facility?”

  “How should I know?” groaned Maximov, smoothing the hair back on his head.

  “You knew the driver. Gorenko saw you talking.”

  “He was asking me directions. That’s all. Why?”

  “The tank has not arrived in Stalingrad.”

  “Then perhaps he is a very slow driver.” Maximov ran his hand over his mouth. “What’s the matter, Pekkala? Has your sorcery failed you at last?”

  “Sorcery?” Pekkala crouched down in front of the big man. “There never was any sorcery, Maximov, but I’ve been in this job long enough to know when I’m being lied to. I see the way your back straightened when I mentioned that the tank had disappeared. I see your eyes drifting up and to the right when you are talking to me now. I see you covering your mouth, and I can read those signs like you can tell when it will rain by looking at the clouds. So tell me: Who has that machine and where have they taken it? You don’t want this on your conscience.”

  “Conscience!” spat Maximov. “You’re the one who needs to search his conscience! You took an oath to serve the Tsar. Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean that oath no longer applies.”

  “You’re right,” agreed Pekkala. “I did take an oath, and what I swore to do I’m doing now.”

  “Then I pity you, Pekkala, because while you’re wasting your time talking to me, an old friend of yours is deciding the fate of this country.”

  “You must be mistaken,” said Pekkala. “All of my old friends are dead.”

  “Not this one!” laughed Maximov. “Not Alexander Kropotkin.”

  Pekkala saw again the wide jaw, the strong teeth clenched in a smile and shoulders hunched like a bear. “No,” whispered Pekkala. “That’s impossible. He just asked me for a job in the police.”

  “Asking for a job? No, Pekkala—he was offering you a chance to work with us. The White Guild could have used a man like you.”

  It took a moment for Maximov’s words to sink in. “The Guild?”

  “That’s right. But he said the Communists had gotten to you. The incorruptible Emerald Eye had finally been corrupted!”

  Now, as Pekkala recalled the words of his last conversation with Kropotkin, it all began to turn around inside his brain. He had utterly misunderstood. “How did you find Kropotkin?”

  “I didn’t,” replied Maximov. “He found me. Kropotkin was the one who figured out that the White Guild was just a front for luring Stalin’s enemies to their deaths. He decided to turn the White Guild against the Communists.”

  “And it was you who killed those agents, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, and he ordered me to kill you as well. I would have, if Bruno hadn’t gotten in the way.”

  “That was you, outside the Cafe Tilsit. But why?”

  “Kropotkin had decided to give you one more chance to join us. Every day he waited at that cafe, knowing you’d show up eventually. When you turned him down, he made a call to me. I drove to the cafe on a motorcycle. When I saw you lying on the ground, I thought I’d killed you. It was only later that I found out you were still alive. From the apartments of the agents we killed, we managed to steal enough weapons and ammunition to keep us supplied for months. We even got our hands on a brand-new German motorcycle which one of the agents had parked in the middle of his living room! That’s the one I was riding when I took a shot at you. Then Kropotkin came up with the idea of stealing a T-34. By the time you people figured out w
hat happened, it would already be too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “To stop the war we are about to declare.”

  Pekkala was wondering whether Maximov had gone completely insane. “You might have been able to murder some government agents, but do you really think the White Guild can overthrow this country?”

  “No,” replied Maximov, “but Germany can. They are looking for any excuse to invade us. All we have to do is offer them a reason. And what better reason than an attack across the Polish border by the Soviet Union’s newest, most devastating weapon? If we strike Poland, the Germans will see it as an act of aggression against the West. That is all the reason they need.”

  “How much damage do you think could be done by a single tank?”

  “Kropotkin has chosen a place where the Poles have nothing but cavalry units on their border with us. One tank could wipe out an entire brigade.”

  “But don’t you realize what the Nazis will do to this country if they invade? We are not prepared to defend ourselves.”

  “Kropotkin says that the quicker we are defeated, the less bloodshed there will be.”

  “That’s a lie, Maximov! You may have taken an oath to the Tsar, but do you honestly think this is what he would have wanted? You will have unleashed a thing you can’t control. The Germans won’t just overthrow the Communists. They will turn this place into a wasteland.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “But Kropotkin does! You might think that you’re both fighting for the same cause, but I have known Kropotkin for a long time and I have seen his kind before. His only cause is vengeance for a world that no longer exists. All he wants to do is see this country burn.”

  “Then let it burn,” replied Maximov. “I am not afraid.”

  Hearing this, Pekkala was consumed by rage. He lunged at Maximov, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket and heaving him across the room.

  Maximov crashed against the far wall of the mess hut and slumped down with a groan.

  “Have you stopped to think that you are not the only one who will go down in flames?” Pekkala shouted. “Kropotkin doesn’t care who lives or dies! That’s the difference between you and him. There are people you care about who will suffer even more than you. Yelena, for example. And Konstantin. He is already under arrest.”

  “Listen, Pekkala,” growled Maximov, massaging the back of his head. “He had nothing to do with the Guild. You had no right to arrest him for a thing he did not even know about.”

  “I arrested him,” said Pekkala, “because he murdered his father.”

  Maximov froze. His face turned suddenly pale. “What?”

  “Who do you think killed Colonel Nagorski?”

  “I don’t know! It wasn’t us. That’s all I knew for sure. It might have been any number of people. Almost every one who met Nagorski ended up hating the bastard. But it couldn’t have been Konstantin!”

  “How did you expect him to react after you wrote him that letter?”

  “What letter? What the devil are you talking about?”

  “The one you sent him on his birthday, telling him his parents were about to split up.”

  “Have you lost your mind? I never wrote him any letter and even if I did, I wouldn’t have told him such a thing. That poor boy was already close to the breaking point. Why would I want to make things any worse for him, especially on his birthday?”

  “Then how do you explain this?” Pekkala walked across to where Maximov was still slumped against the wall and held up the page in front of him.

  Maximov squinted at the letter. “That’s not my writing.”

  “Then whose is it? And why would they sign your name to it?”

  “I—” Maximov’s face was a mask of confusion. “I don’t know.”

  “Who else knew about the breakup besides you and the Nagorskis?”

  “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.”

  LEAVING A GUARD IN CHARGE OF MAXIMOV, PEKKALA 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.

  FROM THE TELEPHONE IN CAPTAIN SAMARIN’S OFFICE, PEKKALA 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.