“A couple of hours, I expect. My car ran out of fuel back on the road. I have to get out there with some gasoline and then return to the facility. Then I will pick up Konstantin and we will travel back to Moscow. Until I tell you so myself, no one is to see him or to speak with him. Do you understand?”
Gorenko stared at Konstantin. “My dear boy,” he pleaded, “what have you gone and done?” The old professor seemed so confused that it looked as if Konstantin might have to lock the handcuffs on himself.
“Where do you store your fuel, Professor?” asked Pekkala.
“There are five-liter cans on a pallet on the other side of this building. Two of those would be more than enough to get you back to Moscow.”
Pekkala put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, as he turned to leave.
“Inspector,” Gorenko called after him, “I must speak with you. It is a matter of great importance.”
“We can talk about Ushinsky later,” said Pekkala.
“It’s not about him,” insisted Gorenko. “Something has happened. Something I don’t understand.”
Pekkala stared at him for a moment, then shook his head, walked into the building and handcuffed Konstantin to a table. Only then did he turn to Gorenko. “Follow me,” he said.
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?”