forest path. The way he knelt gave the impression that his father had just stopped for a moment to rest and would, at any moment, rise to his feet and go back to hauling his burden.
Although it had been his father’s wish that Pekkala enlist in the Regiment, rather than remain at home to help with the family business, Pekkala had never forgiven himself for not having been there to pick the old man up when he stumbled and fell.
Pekkala saw that same emotion on the face of this young man.
Suddenly Konstantin spoke. “Are you going to find who murdered my father?”
“I am not certain he was murdered, but if he was, I will track down whoever is responsible.”
“Find them,” said Konstantin. “Find them and put them to death.”
At that moment, headlights swept through the room as Maximov’s car pulled up beside the house. A moment later the front door opened. “Why is it so dark in here?” Mrs. Nagorski asked, as she hurried to light a kerosene lamp.
Konstantin rose sharply to his feet. “Did you see him? Is it true? Is he really dead?”
“Yes,” she replied, tears coming at last to her eyes. “It is true.”
Pekkala left them alone to grieve. He stood on the porch with Maximov, who was smoking a cigarette.
“Today is his birthday,” said Maximov. “That boy deserves a better life than this.”
Pekkala did not reply.
The smell of burning tobacco lingered in the wet night air.
PEKKALA RETURNED TO THE ASSEMBLY BUILDING, THE FLAT-ROOFED brick structure which Ushinsky had christened the Iron House. Engines hung in wooden cradles against one wall. Against the other wall, the bare metal shells of tanks balanced on iron rails, rust already forming on the welding joints, as if the steel had been sprinkled with cinnamon powder. Elsewhere, like islands in this vast warehouse, machine guns had been laid out in a row. Arching high above the work floor, metal girders held the ceiling in place. To Pekkala, an air of lifelessness hung about this place. It was as if these tanks were not pieces of the future but fragments from the distant past, like the bones of once-formidable dinosaurs waiting to be reassembled by archaeologists.
A table had been cleared off. Engine parts were strewn across the floor where NKVD men had set them hurriedly aside. On the table lay the remains of Colonel Nagorski. The bled-out tissue seemed to glow under the ruthless work lights. Lysenkova was spreading an army rain cape over Nagorski’s head, having just examined the body.
Beside her stood Kirov, the muscles drawn tight in his face. He had seen bodies before, but nothing like this, Pekkala knew.
Even Lysenkova looked upset, although she was trying hard to conceal it. “It’s impossible to say for sure,” the commissar told Pekkala, “but everything points towards an engine malfunction. Nagorski was out testing the machine on his own. He put the engine in neutral, got out to check something, and the tank must have popped into gear. He lost his footing and the tank ran over him before the engine stalled. It was an accident. That much is obvious.”
Kirov, standing behind her, slowly shook his head.
“Have you spoken to the staff here at the facility?” Pekkala asked Lysenkova.
“Yes,” she replied. “All of them are accounted for and none of them were with Nagorski at the time of his death.”
“What about the man we chased through the woods?”
“Well, whoever he is, he doesn’t work here at the facility. Given the fact that Nagorski’s death is an accident, the man you chased was likely just some hunter who made his way onto the grounds.”
“Then why did he run when he was ordered to stop?”
“If men with guns were chasing you, Inspector Pekkala, wouldn’t you run away, too?”
Pekkala ignored her question. “Would you mind if I examine the body?”
“Fine,” she said irritably. “But be quick. I am heading back to Moscow to file my report. Nagorski’s body will remain here for now. Guards will be arriving soon to make sure the corpse is not disturbed. I expect you to be gone when they arrive.”
The two men waited until Major Lysenkova had left the building.
“What did you find out?” Pekkala asked Kirov.
“What she said about the scientists is correct. They have all been accounted for by the guards at the time Nagorski died. During work hours, guards are stationed inside each of the facility buildings, which means that the scientists were also able to account for the whereabouts of the security personnel. Samarin was on his usual rounds this morning. He was seen by all of the staff at one time or another.”
“Is anyone missing?”
“No, and no one seems to have been anywhere near Nagorski when he died.” Kirov turned his attention to the rain cape, whose dips and folds crudely matched the contours of a human body. “But she’s wrong about this being an accident.”
“I agree,” replied Pekkala, “but how have you reached that conclusion?”
“You had better see for yourself, Inspector,” replied Kirov.
Grasping the edge of the cape, Pekkala drew it back until Nagorski’s head and shoulders were revealed. What he saw made him draw in his breath through clenched teeth.
Only a leathery mask remained of Nagorski’s face, behind which the shattered skull looked more like broken crockery than bone. He had never encountered a body as traumatized as the one which lay before him now.
“There.” Kirov pointed to a place where the inside of Nagorski’s skull had been exposed.
Gently taking hold of the dead man’s jaw, Pekkala tilted the head to one side. In the glare of the work light, a tiny splash of silver winked at him.
Pekkala reached into his pocket and brought out a bone-handled switchblade. He sprung the blade and touched the tip of it against the silver object. Lifting it from the rippled plate of bone, he eased the fleck of metal onto his palm. Now that he could see it clearly, Pekkala realized that the metal wasn’t silver. It was lead.
“What is it?” asked Kirov.
“Bullet fragment.”
“That rules out an accident.”
Removing a handkerchief from his pocket, Pekkala placed the sliver of lead in the middle and then folded the handkerchief into a bundle before returning it to his pocket.
“Could it have been suicide?” asked Kirov.
“We’ll see.” Pekkala’s focus returned to the wreckage of Nagorski’s face. He searched for an entry wound. Reaching under the head, fingers sifting through the matted hair, his fingertip snagged on a jagged edge at the base of the skull where the bullet had impacted the bone. Pressing his finger into the wound, he followed its trajectory to an exit point on the right side of the dead man’s face, where the flesh had been torn away. “This was no suicide,” said Pekkala.
“How can you be sure?” asked Kirov.
“A man who commits suicide with a pistol will hold the gun against his right temple if he is right-handed or against his left temple if he is left-handed. Or, if he knows what he is doing, he will put the gun between his teeth and shoot himself through the roof of the mouth. That will take out the dura oblongata, killing him instantly.” He pulled the rain cape back over Nagorski’s body, then wiped the gore from his hands on a corner of the cape.
“How do you get used to it?” asked Kirov, as he watched Pekkala scrape the blood out from under his fingernails.
“You can get used to almost anything.”
They left the warehouse just as three NKVD guards arrived to take charge of Nagorski’s corpse. Standing in the dark, the two men turned up the collars of their coats against a spitting rain.
“Are you certain Major Lysenkova didn’t spot the bullet wound in Nagorski’s skull?” asked Pekkala.
“She barely glanced at the remains,” replied Kirov. “It seemed to me that she just wants this case to go away as fast as possible.”
Just then, a figure appeared from the darkness. It was Maximov. He had been waiting for them. “I need to know,” he said. “What happened to Colonel Nagorski?”
Kirov glanced at Pekkala.
