by Sam Eastland
‘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’s 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 go in there alone,’ said Pekkala.
‘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 colour 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 realise 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 stabilising 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 any more,’ said Pekkala.
*
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 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 Armoured Division. They don’t have T-34s 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 breathing out. He imagined the grey haze of tobacco smoke around Stalin’s head.
‘There is a detachment specialising 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,’ he commanded. ‘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.’
‘You mean the one who helped Kropotkin steal the tank?’
‘Yes. He has agreed to cooperate.’
‘And you need this man?’
‘I believe he is our best chance of negotiating with Kropotkin.’
‘And what if Kropotkin won’t negotiate?’
‘Then there are other measures we can take.’
‘Other measures?’ asked Stalin. ‘What sorcery have you got planned, Pekkala?’
‘Not sorcery. Tungsten steel.’
‘A new weapon?’
‘Yes,’ replied Pekkala. ‘It is still in the experimental stage. We will be testing it out before we leave.’
‘Why haven’t I heard about this?’
‘As with most things, Comrade Stalin, Nagorski ordered it to be kept secret.’
‘But not from me!’ Stalin roared into the phone. ‘I am the keeper of secrets! There are no secrets kept from me! Do you remember what I told you about those rumours British Intelligence was spreading? That we are planning to attack Germany across the Polish border? The Germans believe those rumours, Pekkala, and that is exactly what they will think is happening if you don’t stop this tank! Our country is not ready for a war! So this had better work, Pekkala! You have forty-eight hours to stop the machine. After that, I am sending in the Army.’
‘I understand,’ said Pekkala.
‘Did you know,’ asked Stalin, ‘that I also have a son named Konstantin?’
‘Yes, Comrade Stalin.’
Stalin sighed into the receiver, the sound like rain in Pekkala’s ears. ‘Imagine,’ he whispered, ‘to be killed by your own flesh and blood.’
Before Pekkala could reply, he heard the click of Stalin hanging up the phone.
*
As the sun rose above the trees, Pekkala squinted through a pair of binoculars at the far end of the muddy proving ground. Trapped like a fly in the filaments of the binoculars’ ranging grid was the vast hulk of a T-34, a white number 5 painted on the side of its turret.
‘Ready?’ he asked.
‘Ready,’ replied Kirov. He lay on the ground, the stock of the PTRD tucked into his shoulder and the barrel balanced on its tripod. He had only just arrived from Moscow, having been summoned by Pekkala two hours before.
‘Fire,’ said Pekkala.
A stunning crash filled the air. Two bright red flashes spat from the side of the T-34’s turret, followed by a puff of smoke. When the smoke had cleared, Pekkala could see a patch of bare metal where the bullet had struck, obliterating half of the white number. He lowered the binoculars. ‘What happened?’ he asked.
It was Gorenko who replied. ‘The bullet struck at an angle and was deflected.’
Kirov still lay on the ground, his mouth open and eyes wide, stunned by the concussion of the gun. ‘I think I broke my jaw,’ he mumbled.
‘You hit it, anyway,’ replied Pekkala.
‘It doesn’t matter whether you hit it or not,’ said Gorenko. ‘The shot must be perfect in order to penetrate the hull. The armour at that point is seventy millimetres thick.’
‘Look, Professor,’ said Kirov, lifting another bullet from beside the gun. ‘What happens to one of those machines if it is fired on in battle?’
‘That depends,’ Gorenko replied matter-of-factly, ‘on what you’re shooting at it. Bullets just bounce off. They won’t leave any more of a dent than a fingerprint on a cold slab of butter. Even some artillery shells can’t get through. It makes a hell of a noise, but that’s better than what happens if a shell gets through the hull.’
‘And what does happen if a shell gets through?’
Gorenko took the bullet from Kirov’s hand and tapped the end of it with his finger. ‘When this round hits a vehicle,’ he explained, ‘it is travelling at 1012 metres per second. If it gets inside, the bullet begins to bounce around.’ He turned the bullet slowly, so that it seemed to cartwheel first one way and then another. ‘It strikes a dozen times, a hundred, a thousand. Everyone inside will be torn to pieces, as thoroughly as if they had been cut apart with butcher knives. Or it will strike one of the cannon shells and the tank will explode from the inside out. Trust me, Inspector Kirov, you do not want to be in a tank when one of these comes crashing through the side. It shreds the metal of a hull compartment into something that looks like a giant bird’s nest.’
‘Try it again,’ said Pekkala.
Once more, Kirov fitted the gun stock against his shoulder. He slid back the breech, ejected the empty cartridge and placed a new round into the chamber.
‘This time,’ said Gorenko, ‘aim for the place where the turret joins the chassis of the tank.’
‘But that gap can’t be more than a couple of centimetres wide!’ said Pekkala.
‘We did not design this machine,’ said Gorenko, ‘so that what you are trying to do would be easy.’
Kirov nestled the side of his face against the cheek pad. He closed one eye, baring his teeth. His toes dug into the ground.
‘Whenever you’re ready,’ said Pekkala.
The words were not even out of his mouth when a bolt of flame shot out of the end of the gun. The air around them seemed to shudder.
When the smoke cleared from around the tank, another stripe of silver showed at the base of the turret.
Gorenko shook his head.
In the distance, the squat shape of the T-34 seemed to mock them.
‘It’s useless,’ muttered Pekkala. ‘We will have to think of something else.’
Kirov climbed to his feet and slapped the dirt off his chest. ‘Maybe it’s time we called in the Army. We’ve done everything we can do.’
‘Not everything,’ said Gorenko.
Both men turned to look at him.
‘Even Achilles had his heel,’ said the Professor, reaching into his pocket and pulling out another cartridge for the PTRD. But this one was not like the others. Instead of the dull metal of tungsten steel, the bullet gleamed like mercury. ‘This is a mixture of titanium tetrachloride and calcium,’ explained Gorenko. ‘It was invented by a man named William Kroll, only a few years ago, in Luxembourg. There is less than a kilo of the stuff in existence. Ushinsky and I obtained some for our experiments.’ He tossed the bullet to Kirov. ‘I have no idea what will happen. It has never been tested before.’
‘Load the gun,’ said Pekkala.
At the next shot, there was no red flash. Instead, a small, black spot appeared in the side of the turret. They heard a faint crackling sound, but that was all.
‘Nothing,’ muttered Kirov.
‘Wait,’ replied Gorenko.
A moment later, a strange bluish glow outlined the T-34. Then the turret of the tank rose into the air, hoisted on a pillar of flame. A wave of concussion spread out from the machine, flattening the grass. When the wall struck Pekkala, he felt as if he had been kicked in the chest.
The turret spun slowly in the air, as if it weighed nothing at all, then fell to earth with a crash that shook the ground beneath their feet. Thick black smoke billowed from the guts of the machine. Now more explosions sounded, some deep like thunder and others thin and snapping as the ammunition detonated in the blazing machine.
Kirov stood up and slapped Pekkala on the back. ‘Now you’ve got to admit it!’
‘Admit what?’ Pekkala asked suspiciously.
‘That I’m a good shot! A great shot!’
Pekkala made a quiet, grumbling noise.
Kirov turned to Gorenko, ready to congratulate him on the success of the titanium bullet.
But Gorenko’s face was grim. He stared at the wreckage of the T-34. ‘All this work bringing them to life,’ he murmur
ed. ‘It’s hard to see them killed that way.’
The smiles faded from their faces, as they heard the sadness in the old professor’s voice.
‘How many more of those titanium bullets have you got?’ asked Pekkala.
‘One.’ Gorenko pulled the other bullet from his pocket and placed it in Pekkala’s open hand.
‘Can you make others?’ said Pekkala.
‘Impossible.’ Gorenko shook his head. ‘What you hold in your hand is all the titanium left in the country. If you miss with that, you will have to resort to something altogether more crude.’
‘You mean you have something else?’ asked Kirov.
‘It is a last resort,’ sighed Gorenko. ‘Nothing more.’ He disappeared back into the assembly building. A moment later, he reappeared carrying what looked like a wicker picnic basket. He set it down in front of the investigators and lifted the lid. Inside, separated by two wooden slats, were three wine bottles. The bottles had been sealed with pieces of cloth instead of corks. These hung down over the lip of each bottle and were held in place by black plumber’s tape wound several times around the glass.
Gorenko removed one of the bottles and held it up. ‘This is a mixture of paraffin, petrol, sugar, and tar. The cloth stopper on each bottle has been soaked in acetone and allowed to dry. To use this, you light the cloth, then throw the bottle at the tank. But your throw must be very precise. The bottle must land on the top of the engine grille compartment. There are vents on the grille, and the burning liquid will pour down on to the engine. It should set the engine on fire, but even if it doesn’t it will melt the rubber hoses connected to the radiator, the fuel injection, and the air intake. It will stop the tank …’
‘But only if I can get close enough to throw that bottle on to the engine,’ said Kirov.
‘Exactly,’ replied Gorenko.
‘For that, I practically have to be on top of the machine.’
‘I told you it was a last resort,’ said Gorenko, as he replaced the bottle in the wicker container.
Before they parted company, Gorenko pulled Pekkala aside.
‘Can you get a message to Ushinsky?’
‘Depending on how this mission goes,’ replied Pekkala, ‘that is a possibility.’