Finally, he heard the familiar click of the panel’s lock releasing. The wooden slab swung outward and Stalin emerged from the wall. At first he did not speak to Pekkala, or even look at him. His habit was to stare into every corner of the room, searching for anything that might be out of place. Finally, his gaze turned to Pekkala. “Nagorski died in an accident?” he snapped. “Do you expect me to believe that?”
“No, Comrade Stalin,” replied Pekkala.
This seemed to catch the dictator by surprise. “You don’t? But that’s what I read in the report!”
“Not my report, Comrade Stalin.”
Muttering curses under his breath, Stalin sat down at his desk and immediately fished his pipe out of the pocket of his tunic.
Pekkala had noticed that Stalin smoked cigarettes when not in his office, but normally stuck to smoking a pipe when he was in the Kremlin. The pipe was shaped like a check mark, with the bowl at the bottom of the check and curved over at the top. The pipe had already been stuffed with honey-colored shreds of tobacco. Each time Pekkala saw Stalin smoking his pipe, the pipe itself looked new, and Pekkala suspected that he did not keep them long before replacing them.
From a small cardboard box, Stalin fished out a wooden match. He had a way of lighting these matches which Pekkala had never seen before. Grasping the match between his thumb and first two fingers, he would flick the match with his ring finger across the sandpaper strip. This never failed to light the match. It was such an unusual method that Pekkala, who did not smoke, had once bought a box of matches and spent an hour over his kitchen sink trying to master the technique, but succeeding only in burning his fingers.
In the stillness of the room, Pekkala heard the hiss of the match, the tiny crackle of the tobacco catching fire, and the soft popping sound as Stalin puffed on the end of the pipe. Stalin shook out the match, dropped it in a small brass ashtray, then sat back in his chair. “No accident, you say?”
Pekkala shook his head. Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, he stepped forward to the desk, laid the cloth in front of Stalin, and carefully unfolded it.
There, in the center of the black handkerchief, lay the tiny sliver of lead which Pekkala had removed from Nagorski’s skull.
Stalin bent forward until his nose was almost touching the desktop and peered intently at the fragment. “What am I looking at, Pekkala?”
“Part of a bullet.”
“Ah!” Stalin gave a satisfied growl and sat back in his chair. “Where did you find it?”
“In Colonel Nagorski’s brain.”
Stalin nudged at the fragment with the stem of his pipe. “In his brain,” he repeated.
From his pocket, Pekkala removed the empty gun cartridge that he and Kirov had found in the pit the night before. He placed it before Stalin as if he were moving a pawn in a chess game. “We also recovered this from the scene. It is from the same gun, I am almost certain.”
Stalin nodded with approval. “This is why I need you, Pekkala!” He opened the gray file and plucked out the single sheet of paper it contained. “The NKVD investigator who filed this report said that the body had been thoroughly examined. It says so right here.” He held the paper out at arm’s length so he could read it. “No sign of injury prior to being crushed by the tank. How could they have missed a bullet in his head?”
“The damage to the body was considerable,” offered Pekkala.
“That’s a reason, not an excuse.”
“You should also know, Comrade Stalin, that the bullet did not come from a Russian-made gun.”
Almost before the words had left Pekkala’s mouth, Stalin smashed his fist down on the desk. The little cartridge jumped, then rolled in a circle. “I was right!” he shouted.
“Right about what, Comrade Stalin?”
“Foreigners carried out this murder.”
“That may be so,” replied Pekkala, “but I doubt they could have done so without help from inside the country.”
“They did have help,” replied Stalin, “and I believe the White Guild is responsible.”
Pekkala’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Comrade Stalin, we have spoken about this before. The White Guild is a sham. It is controlled by your own Bureau of Special Operations. How could the White Guild be responsible when you are the one who created it, unless you are the one who ordered Nagorski’s death?”
“I know perfectly well,” replied Stalin coldly, “who summoned the White Guild into being, and no, I gave no command for Nagorski to be liquidated.”
“Then surely the Guild poses no threat to us.”
“There have been some new developments,” muttered Stalin.
“And what are they?” asked Pekkala.
“All you need to know, Pekkala, is that our enemies are attempting to destroy the Konstantin Project. They know that the T-34 is our only chance of surviving the time that is coming.”
“I don’t understand, Comrade Stalin. What do you mean by ‘the time that is coming’?”
“War, Pekkala. War with Germany. Hitler has retaken the Rhineland. He has forged a pact with Japan and Italy. My sources tell me he is planning to occupy parts of Czechoslovakia and Austria. And he won’t stop there, no matter what he tells the rest of the world. I have received reports from Soviet agents in England that the British are aware of German plans to invade their country. They know that their only chance of preventing invasion is if the Germans become involved in a war against us. Germany would be bogged down in a war to the east as well as to the west, in which case it might not have the resources to invade Britain at all. British intelligence has been spreading rumors that we are planning to launch a preemptive strike against Germany through southern Poland.”
“And are we?”
Stalin got up from his desk and began to pace around the room, the report still clutched in his fist. The soft soles of his calfskin leather boots swished across the wooden floor. “We have no such plan, but the Germans are taking these British rumors seriously. This means they are watching us for any signs of provocation. The slightest hostile gesture by us could bring about a full-scale war, and Hitler has made no secret of what he would like to do with the Soviet Union. If he has his way, our culture will be annihilated, our people enslaved. This entire country would become a living space for German colonists. The T-34 is not merely a machine. It is our only hope for survival. If we lose the advantage this tank can give us, we will lose everything. As of this moment, Pekkala, you are in charge of the investigation. You will replace this”—he squinted at the name on the report—“Major Lysenkova.”
“If I could ask, Comrade Stalin—”
“What?”
“Why did you assign her to the case at all?”
“I didn’t,” replied Stalin. “The guard in charge of security at Nagorski’s facility put in a call to her directly.”
“That would be Captain Samarin,” said Pekkala.
“Samarin had to call NKVD,” continued Stalin. “He couldn’t have called the regular police, because secret facilities are out of their jurisdiction. It had to be handled by Internal Security.”
“I realize that,” persisted Pekkala, “but my understanding is that Captain Samarin specifically requested Major Lysenkova.”
“Maybe he did,” replied Stalin impatiently. “Just ask him yourself.”