“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.
“Put me through to Comrade Stalin,” Pekkala told the secretary.
“It is late,” replied Poskrebyshev.
“No,” said Pekkala, “it is early.”
Poskrebyshev’s voice disappeared with a click as he rerouted the call to Stalin’s residence.
A moment later, a gruff voice came on the line. “What is it, Pekkala?”
Pekkala explained what had happened.
“Konstantin Nagorski has confessed to killing his father?” asked Stalin, as if he could not understand what he’d been told.
“That is correct,” replied Pekkala. “He will be transferred to Lubyanka first thing in the morning.”
“This confession—was it obtained in the same manner as the other?”
“No,” said Pekkala. “It did not require force.” He looked at the mess of papers on Samarin’s desk. It seemed as if no one had touched them since the captain had died. In one corner stood a small framed picture of Samarin with a woman who must have been his wife.
“Do you believe,” asked Stalin, “that this man Ushinsky really intended to hand over the T-34 to the Germans?”
“No, Comrade Stalin. I do not.”
“And yet you are telling me that one of the tanks has gone missing?”
“That is also correct, but Ushinsky had nothing to do with it.” Pekkala heard the rustle of a match as Stalin lit himself a cigarette.
“This is the second time,” growled Stalin, “that Major Lysenkova has provided me with faulty information.”
“Comrade Stalin, I believe I can locate the missing T-34. I have narrowed the search to an area of dense woodland on the Polish border. It is a place called the forest of Rusalka.”
“The tank is armed?”
“Fully armed, Comrade Stalin.”
“But there’s only one man! Is that what you are telling me? Can he operate it by himself?”
“The process of driving, loading, aiming, and firing can be accomplished by a single person. The procedures take considerably more time, but—”
“But the tank is just as dangerous in the hands of one person as it is with an entire crew of—how many is it?”
“Four men, Comrade Stalin. And the answer is yes. One person who knows what he is doing can turn the T-34 into an extremely dangerous machine.”
There was a silence. Then Stalin exploded. “I will send an entire infantry division to the area! The Fifth Rifles will do. I will also send the Third Armored Division. They don’t have T-34’s, but they can get in his way until he’s run out of ammunition. I don’t care how many men it takes to stop it. I don’t care how many machines. I’ll send the entire Soviet army after the bastard if I need to!”
“Then you will give the Germans just the excuse they have been looking for.”
There was another pause.
“You may be right about that,” admitted Stalin, “but, whatever it costs, I will not allow that traitor to go free.”
Pekkala heard the sound of Stalin exhaling. He imagined the gray haze of tobacco smoke around Stalin’s head.
“There is a special detachment specializing in irregular warfare. It’s run by a Major Derevenko. They are a small group. We could send them instead.”
“I am glad to hear it, Comrade Stalin.”
There was a clatter as Stalin put down the receiver and then picked up a second telephone. “Get me Major Derevenko of the irregular warfare detachment in Kiev,” Pekkala heard him command. “Why not? When was that? Are you sure? I did?” Stalin slammed the phone down. A second later he was back on the line with Pekkala.
“Derevenko has been liquidated. The irregular warfare detachment was disbanded. I can’t send in the army.”
“No, Comrade Stalin.”
“Then you are suggesting I simply allow the attack to go ahead?”
“My suggestion is that you allow me to go out there and stop him.”
“You, Pekkala?”
“I will not be completely alone,” he explained. “My assistant will accompany me, and there is one other man. His name is Maximov.”