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.”
“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 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 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.
“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?”
