The Red Coffin

by Sam Eastland

  ‘Do we have your permission to proceed?’ asked Pekkala.

  ‘Of course!’ The guard stood back and waved them forward with a sweep of his arm, like a man clearing breadcrumbs off a table.

  Kirov put the car in gear and drove on.

  For several minutes, the Emka travelled on the long, straight road with the facility nowhere in sight.

  ‘This place really is in the middle of nowhere,’ muttered Kirov.

  Pekkala grunted in agreement. He squinted up at the trees, which seemed to stoop over the car as if curious to see who was inside.

  Then, up ahead, they saw where the woods had been cut back around a group of hunched and flat-roofed brick buildings.

  As they pulled into a dirt courtyard, the door to one of the smaller buildings swung open and a man dashed out, making straight towards them. Like the guard, he wore a military uniform. By the time he reached the Emka, he was already out of breath.

  Pekkala and Kirov got out of the car.

  ‘I am Captain Samarin,’ wheezed the NKVD man. He had black, Asiatic-looking hair, thin lips and deep-set eyes. ‘It’s this way, Doctor,’ he panted. ‘You’ll need your medical bag.’

  ‘We are not doctors,’ explained Pekkala.

  Samarin was flustered. ‘I don’t understand,’ he said. ‘What is your business here?’

  ‘I am Inspector Pekkala, of the Bureau of Special Operations, and this is Major Kirov. Colonel Nagorski was kind enough to offer us a tour of the facility.’

  ‘I’m afraid that a tour is out of the question, Inspector,’ replied Samarin, ‘but I would be glad to show you why.’

  Samarin led them to the edge of what looked at first glance to be a huge half-drained lake filled with large puddles of dirty water. In the middle of it, sunk almost to the top of its tracks in the mud, lay one of Nagorski’s tanks, a large white number 3 painted on its side. Two men stood beside the tank, their shoulders hunched against the rain.

  ‘So that is the T-34,’ said Pekkala.

  ‘It is,’ confirmed Samarin, ‘and this place,’ he waved his hand across the sea of mud, ‘is what we call the proving ground. This is where the machines are tested.’

  The rain was falling harder now, pattering on the dead leaves in the nearby woods so that the air filled with a hissing sound. The smell of the damp earth hung heavy in the air and the solid mass of clouds, like a blind man’s eye rolled around to white, encased the dome of sky above them.

  ‘Where is Nagorski?’ asked Pekkala.

  Samarin pointed at the men beside the tank.

  The huddled figures were too far away for Pekkala to be able to see which one of them was the Colonel.

  Pekkala turned to Kirov. ‘Wait here,’ he said. Then, without another word, he stepped forward and slid down the steep embankment. He arrived at the end of the slope on his back, his clothes and hands plastered with slime. The brownish-yellow ooze stood out sharply against the black of his coat. As Pekkala rose to his feet, dirty water poured out of his sleeves. He took one step towards the tank before realising that one of his shoes had come off. Gouging it out of the clay, Pekkala perched on one leg like a heron and jammed his foot back into the shoe before continuing on his way.

  After several minutes of wading from one flooded crater to the next, Pekkala arrived at the tank. The closer he came, the larger the machine appeared, until at last he stood before the tank. Even though it was half buried in the mud, the T-34 still towered over him.

  Pekkala glanced at the two dishevelled men. Both were as plastered in filth as he was. One wore what had once been a white lab coat. The other had a brown wool coat with a fur collar which was also painted with mud. But neither of them was Nagorski.

  ‘Are you the doctor?’ asked the man in the filthy lab coat. He had a big, square face, with a thick crop of bristly grey hair.

  Pekkala explained who he was.

  ‘Well, Inspector Pekkala,’ said the grey-haired man, spreading his arms wide, ‘welcome to the mad house.’

  ‘An investigator already,’ quipped the other, a short, frail-looking man with a complexion so pale that his skin looked like mother-of-pearl. ‘You people don’t waste any time.’

  ‘Where is the Colonel?’ asked Pekkala. ‘Is he hurt?’

  ‘No, Inspector,’ the grey-haired man replied. ‘Colonel Nagorski is dead.’

  ‘Dead?’ shouted Pekkala. ‘How?’

  The men exchanged glances. They seemed reluctant to speak.

  ‘Where is he?’ demanded Pekkala. ‘In the tank?’

  It was the grey-haired man who finally explained. ‘Colonel Nagorski is not in the tank. Colonel Nagorski is under the tank.’

  His companion pointed at the ground. ‘See for yourself.’

  Now, just beside the T-34’s track, Pekkala noticed a cluster of fingertips; pale dimples rising just above the surface of the water. As his eyes struggled to see into the murky water, he spotted a leg, visible only from the knee down. At the end of this limb, which seemed to have been partially torn from the body, Pekkala could make out a distorted black shoe. It appeared to have split at all its seams, as if forced on someone with a foot much too large for the shoe. ‘That is Nagorski?’ he asked.

  ‘What’s left of him,’ replied the grey-haired man.

  No matter how many times Pekkala looked down upon the dead, the first sight of a corpse always stunned him. It was as if his mind could not bear to carry the burden of this moment and so, time after time, erased it from his brain. As a result, the initial shock never lessened in intensity.

  What struck Pekkala was not how different the dead appeared but how much alike bodies became, no matter if they were man or woman, old or young, when the life had left their bodies. The same terrible stillness surrounded them, the same dull eyes and, eventually, the same piercing sweet smell. Some nights, he would wake with the stench of the dead flooding his nostrils. Staggering to the sink, he would wash his face and scrub his hands until the knuckles bled but still the smell remained, as if those corpses lay about the floor beside his bed.

  Pekkala crouched down. Reaching out, he touched Nagorski’s fingertips, his own hand forming a reflection of the one which lay submerged beneath the muddy water. The image of Nagorski returned to him, blustery and sweating in the interrogation room of the Lubyanka jail. There had seemed to be something indestructible about him. Now Pekkala felt the cold skin of the dead man radiating up through his arm, as if his own life were being drained out through his pores. He pulled his hand away and rose to his feet, thoughts already turning to the work that lay ahead. ‘Who are you two?’ he asked the men.

  ‘I am Professor Ushinsky,’ explained the one with the grey hair, ‘responsible for developing armaments here at the facility. And this,’ he gestured to the man in the brown coat, ‘is Professor Gorenko.’

  ‘I am the drive train specialist,’ explained Gorenko. He kept his hands inside his pockets. His shoulders were trembling with the cold.

  ‘How did this happen?’ asked Pekkala.

  ‘We aren’t sure.’ Gorenko tried to wipe some of the mud from his coat but succeeded only in smearing it into the wool. ‘This morning, when we reported for work, Nagorski said he would be working on Number 3.’ With knuckles blue from cold, he rapped on the side of the tank. ‘This is Number 3,’ he said.

  ‘The Colonel said he would be working by himself,’ added Ushinsky.

  ‘Was that unusual?’

  ‘No,’ replied Ushinsky. ‘The Colonel often carried out tests on his own.’

  ‘Tests? You mean the tank is not finished yet?’

  Both men shook their heads.

  ‘There are seven complete machines at the facility. Each one has been equipped with slightly different mechanisms, engine configurations and so on. They are constantly being tested and compared to each other. Eventually, we will standardise the pattern. Then the T-34 will go into mass production. Until then, the Colonel wanted to keep everything as secret as possible.’

  ‘E
ven from you?’

  ‘From everyone, Inspector,’ replied Gorenko. ‘Without exception.’

  ‘At what point did you realise that something had gone wrong?’

  ‘When I stepped outside the main assembly plant.’ Ushinsky nodded towards the largest of the facility buildings. ‘We call it the Iron House. It’s where all the parts for the tanks are stored. There’s so much metal in there, I’m surprised the whole structure hasn’t sunk beneath the ground. Before I went outside, I’d been working on the final drive mechanism. The single straight reduction gears have armoured mountings at each side of the tail …’

  As if he could not help himself, Gorenko’s hands drifted up to the chest of his coat and began scraping once more at the mud embedded in the cloth.

  ‘Will you stop that!’ shouted Ushinsky.

  ‘It’s a brand-new coat,’ muttered Gorenko. ‘I only bought it yesterday.’

  ‘The boss is dead!’ Ushinsky grabbed Gorenko by the wrists and pulled his hands away. ‘Can’t you get that into your thick skull?’

  Both men appeared to be in shock. Pekkala had seen behaviour like this many times before. ‘When did you realise that something had gone wrong?’ he asked patiently, trying to steer them back on track.

  ‘I was out smoking my cigarette …’ said Ushinsky.

  ‘No smoking in the factory,’ interrupted Gorenko.

  ‘I can do this by myself!’ shouted Ushinsky, jabbing a finger against Gorenko’s chest.

  Gorenko staggered backwards, and almost lost his footing. ‘You don’t have to be like that!’ he snapped.

  ‘And I noticed that Number 3 was half sunk in the mud,’ continued Ushinsky. ‘I thought – look what the Colonel’s gone and done. He’s buried the machine. I assumed he had got it stuck on purpose, just to see what would happen. That’s exactly the kind of thing he would do. I waited to see if he could get it out of there, but then I began to think that something might have gone wrong.’

  ‘What gave you that idea?’ asked Pekkala.

  ‘To begin with, the engine wasn’t running. Nagorski wouldn’t have cut power to the motor under those circumstances, not even for an experiment. The whole tank could sink into this mud. If water flooded the engine compartment, the entire drive train could be ruined. Even Nagorski wouldn’t take a chance like that.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. The turret hatch was open, and it was pouring with rain. He would have closed the hatch. And, finally, there was no sign of Colonel Nagorski.’

  ‘What did you do then?

  ‘I went in and fetched Gorenko,’ said Ushinsky.

  Gorenko took this as a sign that he could speak at last. ‘We both went out to take a look,’ he explained.

  ‘First we checked inside the tank,’ said Ushinsky. ‘It was empty.’

  ‘Then I spotted the body lying under the tracks,’ added Gorenko. ‘We ran and found Captain Samarin, the head of security. We all came back to the tank and Samarin told us to stay here.’

  ‘Not to touch anything.’

  ‘Then he ran to call the ambulance.’

  ‘And we’ve been here ever since,’ said Gorenko, hugging his arms against his chest.

  ‘Shouldn’t we get him out from under there?’ Ushinsky was staring at the Colonel’s hand, which seemed to tremble in the wind-stirred puddle at their feet.

  ‘Not just yet,’ replied Pekkala. ‘Until I have examined the area, no evidence can be disturbed.’

  ‘It’s hard to think of him like that,’ muttered Gorenko. ‘As evidence.’

  The time would come, Pekkala knew, when Nagorski’s body would receive the respect it deserved. For now, the dead man was part of an equation, along with the mud in which he lay and the iron which had crushed out his life. ‘If Nagorski was out here by himself,’ asked Pekkala, ‘do you have any idea how he could have ended up beneath the machine?’

  ‘We’ve been asking ourselves the same question,’ said Ushinsky.

  ‘It just doesn’t seem possible,’ Gorenko chimed in.

  ‘Have you been inside the tank since you got here?’ asked Pekkala.

  ‘Only to see that it was empty.’

  ‘Can you show me the driver’s compartment?’

  ‘Of course,’ replied Gorenko.

  At the opposite end of the tank from where Nagorski’s body had been pinned, Pekkala set his foot on one of the wheels and tried to lift himself up on the side of the tank. He lost his balance and with a groan of frustration fell back spread-eagled into the water. By the time he emerged, Gorenko had gone around to the front of the tank and put his foot up on the fender. ‘Always board from the front, Inspector. Like this!’ He scrambled up on to the turret, opened the hatch and dropped down inside.

  Pekkala followed, his soaked coat weighing on his back and ruined shoes slipping on the smooth metal surfaces. His fingers clawed for a grip as he moved from one hand hold to another. When he finally reached the turret hatch, he peered down into the cramped space of the compartment.

  ‘How many people fit in here?’ he asked.

  ‘Five,’ replied Gorenko, looking up at him.

  To Pekkala, it didn’t look as if there was even enough room for himself and Gorenko, let alone three other men.

  ‘Are you all right, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You look a little pale.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Pekkala lied.

  ‘Well, then,’ said Gorenko. ‘Down you come, Inspector.’

  Pekkala sighed heavily. Then he clambered down into the tank.

  The first thing he noticed, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, was the smell of new paint mixing with the odour of diesel fuel. Cramped as it had appeared from above, the interior space seemed even smaller now that he was inside it. Pekkala felt as if he had entered a tomb. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He had struggled with claustrophobia ever since he was a child, when his brother Anton, for a joke, had locked him in the crematorium oven belonging to their father’s undertaking business.

  ‘This is the fighting compartment,’ said Gorenko, perched on a seat in the far right corner. The seat was fixed into the metal wall and had a separate back support which wrapped around in a semicircle, following the contours of the walls. Gorenko gestured to an identical seat on the left of the compartment. ‘Please,’ he said, with the cordiality of a man inviting someone into his living room.

  Hunched almost double, Pekkala took his place in the seat.

  ‘You are now in the loader’s position,’ explained Gorenko. ‘I am where the commander sits.’ He stretched out one leg and rested his heel on a rack of huge cannon shells which stretched along the side of the compartment. Each shell was fastened with a quick-release clasp.

  ‘You say the engine wasn’t running when you found it.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Does that mean someone had switched it off?’

  ‘I would assume so.’

  ‘Is there any way to check?’

  Gorenko peered into the driver’s area, an even smaller space located just ahead of the main fighting compartment. His eyes narrowed as he deciphered the confusion of steering levers, gear sticks and pedals. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I was wrong. It’s still in forward. First gear. The engine must have stalled out.’

  ‘So someone else was driving it?’

  ‘Probably,’ replied Gorenko, ‘but I couldn’t guarantee it. The clutch may have slipped while he was outside the machine.’

  ‘I’ve heard of clutches popping out of gear,’ said Pekkala, ‘but never popping in.’

  ‘These machines have not yet been perfected, Inspector. Sometimes they do things they aren’t supposed to do.’

  Pekkala’s instincts begged him to get out. He forced himself to remain calm. ‘Do you see anything else in here which looks out of place?’

  Gorenko glanced around. ‘Everything is as it should be.’

  Pekkala had seen what he needed to see. Now it was time to retrieve Nagor
ski’s body. ‘Can you drive this machine?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ replied Gorenko, ‘but whether it can get out of this crater without being towed is another question. That’s probably what Nagorski was trying to discover.’

  Pekkala nodded. ‘Will you try?’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector. You had better wait outside. It’s hard to tell what will happen once I move the tracks. It could sink even deeper and if that happens, this compartment is going to flood. Give me a minute to check the controls, and make sure you are standing well clear when I start the engine.’

  While Gorenko squeezed into the tiny driver’s compartment, Pekkala clambered out of the tank. His broad shoulders caught painfully on the rim of the turret hatch. As his hands gripped the metal holding bar on the outside of the hatch, the cold solidity of the machine seemed to radiate through his skin. Pekkala was glad to get out into the open air, even if it was only to stand in the rain once again.

  Outside the tank, Ushinsky was puffing on a cigarette, his hand cupped over the burning tip to shield it from the wind and rain.

  ‘Gorenko says the engine was in gear,’ said Pekkala, as he splashed down into the mud beside Ushinsky.

  ‘So it wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘Possibly not,’ replied Pekkala. ‘Did Nagorski have enemies here?’

  ‘Let me put it this way, Inspector,’ he replied. ‘The hard part would be finding someone around here who didn’t have a grudge against him. The bastard worked us like slaves. Our names were never even mentioned on the design reports. He took all the credit for himself. Comrade Stalin probably thinks Nagorski built this entire machine by himself.’

  ‘Is there anyone who felt strongly enough to want him dead?’

  Ushinsky brushed aside the words, like a man swatting cobwebs from his face. ‘None of us would ever think of hurting him.’

  ‘And why is that?’ asked Pekkala.

  ‘Because even if we did not like the way Nagorski treated us, the Konstantin Project has become the purpose of our lives. Without Nagorski, the project would never have been possible. I know it might be hard to understand, but what might look like hell to you,’ he raised his arms, as if to encompass the T-34, along with the vast and filthy basin of its proving ground, ‘is paradise to us.’