The three clerks, including Poskrebyshev, rose sharply from their chairs as Stalin entered. Poskrebyshev moved towards the study door, in an attempt to open it for Stalin.
“Get out of the way,” barked Stalin.
Without any change of expression, Poskrebyshev stopped in midstride, turned, and went back to his desk.
Inside the study, Stalin closed the door and broke into a smile. “I must say, Pekkala, I am taking some pleasure in the fact that this was one case you were unable to solve.”
“How did you catch this man?” asked Pekkala.
“That woman brought him in, that NKVD major you thought might prove useful.”
“Lysenkova?”
“That’s her. She got a call from someone at the Nagorski facility who was able to identify the killer.”
“I knew nothing about this,” said Pekkala. “We had agreed that Major Lysenkova would keep me informed.”
Stalin made a vague grumble of surprise. “None of that matters now, Pekkala. What matters is that we have the man who did it.”
“What about the White Guild and those agents who were killed?”
“It looks as if that might be a separate matter,” replied Stalin.
“May I speak to this man?” asked Pekkala.
Stalin shrugged. “Of course. I don’t know what kind of shape he is in, but I assume he can still talk.”
“Where is he being held?”
“At the Lubyanka, in one of the isolation cells. Come.” Stalin rested his hand on Pekkala’s shoulder and steered him towards the tall windows, which looked out over the empty parade ground below. Stalin stopped a few paces short of the window itself. He never took the risk of being seen by someone outside. “Within a matter of months,” he said, “you will see T-34 tanks parked end to end down there, and it won’t be a minute too soon. Germany is now openly preparing for war. I am doing everything I can to buy us time. Yesterday I halted all patrols along the Polish border, in case of accidental incursions into their territory. Any movement by us beyond our own national boundaries will be interpreted by Germany as an act of aggression, and Hitler is looking for any excuse to begin hostilities. These measures cannot prevent what is inevitable. They can only delay it, hopefully long enough that the T-34’s will be waiting when our enemies decide to attack.”
Pekkala left Stalin staring out the window at the imaginary procession of armor.
Down on the street, Kirov was pacing back and forth beside the Emka.
Pekkala came running out of the building. “Get us over to the Lubyanka as quickly as you can.”
MINUTES LATER, THE EMKA ROARED AROUND THE CORNER OF Dzerzhinsky Square and into the main courtyard of the Lubyanka prison. Even though it had not snowed in weeks, piles of filthy snow left over from the winter were still plowed up into the corners where the sunlight failed to reach. On three sides of the courtyard, walls rose several stories high. Windows stretched along the ground floor, but above that were rows of strange metal sheets, each one anchored with iron pins a hand’s width from the wall, hiding whatever lay behind them.
A guard escorted them inside the prison. He wore a bulky greatcoat made of poor-quality wool dyed an irregular shade of purplish brown and a bulky, fur-lined hat known as a
The man behind the desk picked up a phone. “Pekkala is here,” he said.
Now another guard took over from the first. He led them down a series of long, windowless, dimly illuminated corridors. Hundreds of gray metal doors lined the way. All were closed. The place stank of ammonia, sweat, and the dampness of old stone. The floors were covered with brown industrial carpeting. The guard even wore felt-soled boots, as if sound itself was a crime. Except for the padding of their feet upon the carpet, the place was absolutely silent. No matter how many times Pekkala came here, the silence always unnerved him.
The guard stopped at one of the cells, rapped his knuckles on the door and opened it without waiting for a reply. He jerked his head, indicating that they could go inside.
Pekkala and Kirov entered a room with a tall ceiling, roughly three paces long by four paces wide. The walls were painted brown up to chest height. Above that, everything was white. The light in the room came from a single bulb set back into the wall above the door and covered with a wire cage.
In the center of the room was a table, on which lay a heap of old rags.
Between Pekkala and this table, with her back to them, stood Major Lysenkova. She wore the NKVD dress uniform—an olive-colored tunic with polished brass buttons and dark blue trousers with a purplish-red stripe running down the side tucked into black knee-length boots.
“I told you I was not to be disturbed!” she shouted as she turned around. Only then did she realize who had entered the room. “Pekkala!” Her eyes widened with surprise. “I was not expecting you.”
“Evidently.” Pekkala glanced at a figure huddled in the corner of the cell. It was a man, wearing the thin beige cotton pajamas issued to all prisoners at Lubyanka. The man’s knees were drawn up to his chest and his head lay on his knees. One of his arms hung limply at his side. The shoulder had been dislocated. The other arm was wrapped around his shins, as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible. Now, at the sound of Pekkala’s voice, the man lifted his head.
The side of his face was so puffed with bruises that at first Pekkala could not identify him.
“Inspector,” croaked the man.
Now Pekkala recognized the voice. “Ushinsky!” He gaped at the wreckage of the scientist.
Major Lysenkova lifted a sheet of paper from the desk. “Here is his full confession, to the crime of murder and of intending to sell secrets to the enemy. He has signed it. The matter is closed.”
“Major,” said Pekkala, “we agreed that you would take no action without informing me first.”
“Don’t look so surprised, Inspector,” she replied. “I told you I had learned what it takes to survive. I saw a chance to get myself out of that mess and I took it. Whatever agreement you and I had has been canceled. Comrade Stalin does not care who solved this case, just that it has been solved. The only people who care are you”—she glanced at Kirov—“and your assistant.”
Kirov did not reply. He stood against the wall, staring in disbelief at Lysenkova.
“Since the case is officially closed,” Pekkala told Lysenkova, “you won’t mind if I have a few words with the prisoner.”
She glanced at the man in the corner. “I suppose not.”
Finally Kirov spoke. “I can’t believe you did this,” he said.
Lysenkova fixed him with a stare. “I know you can’t,” she said. Then she walked past him and stepped out into the hall. “Take all the time you need, Inspectors,” she told them, before closing the door behind her.
In the cell, nobody spoke or moved.
It was Ushinsky who at last broke the silence. “It was Gorenko,” he whispered hoarsely. “He called her. He said I was planning to give the T-34 plans to the Germans.”
Pekkala crouched down before the injured man. “And were you?”
“Of course not! When I showed up for work and found out that the prototype had been picked up, I exploded. I told Gorenko it wasn’t ready yet. Those tanks might look all right. They will run. The guns will fire. They will perform adequately under controlled conditions like the ones we have at the facility. But once you put those machines to work out in the real world, it won’t be long before you’ll be looking at major failures in the engine and suspension systems. You must get in touch with the factory, Inspector. Tell them they cannot begin production. Too many pieces of the puzzle are missing!”
“What did Gorenko say when you told him this?” asked Pekkala.
“He said it was good enough. That’s what he always says! Then I told him we might as well hand over the design to the damn Germans, since they wouldn’t stop until they got it right. The next thing I knew, I was arrested by the NKVD.”
“And what about Nagorski?” asked Kirov. “Did you have anything to do with his death?”
The prisoner shook his head. “I would never have done anything to hurt him.”
“That confession says you did,” Kirov reminded him.
