when his brother, Anton, as a joke, had locked him in the crematory 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 wall. 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 extended 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. 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 nodded. He had seen what he needed to see. Now it was time to retrieve Nagorski’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.”
“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. 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 grabbed all the credit. 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.”
Pekkala breathed out. “How can men work inside those things? What happens if something goes wrong? How can they get out?”
Ushinsky’s lips twitched, as if it was a subject he did not feel safe discussing. “You are not the only one to have considered this, Inspector. Once inside, the tank crew are well protected, but if the hull is breached, say by an anti-tank round, it is extremely difficult to exit.”
“Can’t you change that? Can’t you make it easier for the tank crew to escape?”
“Oh, yes. It can be done, but Nagorski designed the T-34 with regard to the optimum performance of the machine. The equation is very simple, Inspector. When the T-34 is functioning, it is important to protect those who are inside. But if the machine is disabled in combat, its life, effectively, is over. And those who operate it are no longer considered necessary. The test drivers have already coined a name for it.”
“And what is that?”
“They call it the Red Coffin, Inspector.” Ushinsky’s voice was drowned out by the tank, as Gorenko fired up the engine.
Pekkala and Ushinsky stood back. The tracks spun, spraying a sheet of muddy water. Then the treads found their grip, and the T-34 began to crawl up the sides of the crater. For a moment, it seemed as if the whole machine might slide backwards, but then there was a crash of gears and the tank lurched out of the hole. When it reached level ground, Gorenko set the motor in neutral, then switched off the engine again.
The cloud of exhaust smoke unraveled into the sky, and the silence which followed was almost as deafening as the sound of the engine itself.
Gorenko climbed out and jumped down to the ground, his mud-smeared lab coat flapping behind him like a pair of broken wings. He joined Pekkala and Ushinsky at the edge of the pit. In silence, the three men stared down into the trough’s churned-up water.
The crater’s surface was goose-fleshed with raindrops, obscuring the surface of the water. At first, they could not see the body. Then, like a ghost appearing through the mist, the corpse of Colonel Nagorski floated slowly into view. Rain pattered on his heavy canvas coat, which appeared to be the only thing holding his body together. The broken legs trailed like snakes from his misshapen torso. With the bones snapped in so many places, the limbs seemed to ripple, as if they were reflections of his body instead of the actual flesh. His hands had swollen obscenely, the weight of the tracks having forced the fluids of his body into its extremities. The pressure had split his fingertips wide open, like a pair of worn-out gloves. Some curvature of the soft ground had preserved half of Nagorski’s face, but the rest had been crushed by the tracks.
Ushinsky stared at the corpse, paralyzed by what he saw. “It’s all ruined,” he said. “Everything we worked for.”
It was Gorenko who moved first, sliding down into the crater to retrieve the body. The water came up to his chest. He lifted Nagorski in his arms. Staggering under the weight, he returned to the edge of the pit.
Pekkala grabbed Gorenko by the shoulders and helped him out.
Gently, Gorenko laid the colonel’s body on the ground.
With the body stretched out before him, Ushinsky seemed to wake from his trance. In spite of the cold, he took off his lab coat and laid it over Nagorski. The drenched cloth molded to the dead man’s face.
Now Pekkala caught sight of a tall man standing at the edge of the proving ground, half obscured by veils of rain which swept across the space between them. At first, he thought it might be Kirov, but on second glance he realized the man was much taller than his assistant.
“That’s Maximov,” said Ushinsky. “Nagorski’s chauffeur and bodyguard.”
“We call him the T-33,” said Gorenko.
“Why is that?” asked Pekkala.
