The air was filled with the smell of burning diesel fuel and pine sap from branches cut down by the T-34’s machine gun.
As smoke boiled from the wreckage, the T-34 no longer seemed like a machine to Pekkala. Instead, it looked more like a living thing writhing in agony.
When the explosions had finally died away, Pekkala and Kirov climbed cautiously out of the ditch, so mesmerized by the death throes of the T-34 that at first they did not see the line of men on horseback appearing from around a bend in the road.
The horses were moving at a canter, and the men had drawn rifles from the scabbards mounted on their saddles.
“Poles,” whispered Pekkala.
The squad of Polish cavalry rode up to them. The men carried their guns with barrels pointed upwards and the butt plates resting on their thighs. The officer of the troop, wearing a double-breasted black leather jacket and with a pistol on his belt, sat his horse and stared at the tank, which resembled the carapace of some huge and predatory insect, menacing even when the soul had been burned out of it. The officer looked at his men, all of whom were watching him for a sign of what to do next.
Pekkala and Kirov were completely surrounded by the horses. Not knowing what else to do, they raised their hands.
This drew the attention of the officer. He flapped his hand and grunted, to show that their gesture of surrender was not necessary.
Bewildered, Kirov and Pekkala lowered their hands.
Then one of the men, hidden somewhere in the ranks, began to laugh.
The officer’s head snapped up. At first he looked angry, but then a smile crept across his face. “Machine bust!” he said.
The others started laughing now. “Machine bust!” they all began to shout.
Bewildered, Kirov looked at Pekkala.
Pekkala shrugged.
Only when the laughter had died down did the cavalrymen replace their rifles in the scabbards.
The officer nodded at Pekkala. He said something in Polish, which Pekkala could not understand. Then he shouted an order and spurred his horse. The troop of cavalry began to move. The men were talking in the ranks, joking loudly and glancing back at the two men, but at a sharp command from their officer they immediately fell silent. Then there was only the clap of horses’ hooves as they passed on down the road.
The two men were alone again.
“What was that?” asked Kirov.
“I have no idea,” replied Pekkala.
They walked back to the tank. Scorched metal showed where fire had peeled away the paint. The engine grille sagged down onto the ruined motor parts, and the tires had melted into black puddles beside the tracks.
There was no sign of Maximov.
“I guess he didn’t make it,” Kirov said.
Pekkala prepared himself for the sight of Maximov’s shattered corpse. He wondered how much could be left of anyone caught in the path of such destruction. Bewildered, Pekkala glanced around the clearing, wondering if the fire had consumed the man completely.
In that moment, he realized that the Zundapp motorcycle was missing. He saw the line of motorcycle tracks, disappearing down one of the woodsmen’s trails. Then it dawned on Pekkala that Maximov was not dead at all. He had escaped, hidden by the wall of fire and the roar of exploding ammunition.
“I misjudged him,” said Kirov. “He died very bravely.”
Pekkala did not reply. He glanced at Kirov, then glanced away again.
They started walking back towards the Emka.
“How much time do we have?” asked Kirov.
“About an hour,” replied Pekkala. “I hope that radio works.” It was only now that he realized his coat was still smoldering. He swatted at his sleeves, smoke lifting like dust from the charred cloth.
“Good thing you have those new clothes I bought you.”
“Yes,” said Pekkala. “Lucky me.”
IF THERE WAS A BORDER CHECKPOINT AT THE EDGE OF THE RUSALKA forest, Maximov never saw it. The first indication he had that he was in a different country was when he rumbled through a village and saw a sign for a bakery written in Polish. Since then, he had not stopped. At fueling stations in the eastern part of the country, he had been able to pay for gasoline with the Russian money he was carrying in his wallet. But as he approached the border of Czechoslovakia, the locals stopped accepting Russian currency and he was forced to barter his watch, then a gold ring. Finally, he siphoned it out of other vehicles using a piece of rubber hose.
Now was the third day of Maximov’s journey. As the Zundapp crested the hill, sunrise winked off his goggles. He had been riding all night, coat buttoned up to his throat to fend off the chill as he raced across the Polish countryside. He pulled off the road and looked out over fields of newly sprouted barley, wheat, and rye. Feathers of smoke rose from the chimneys of solitary farmhouses.
Maximov could see the little checkpoint at the bottom of the hill and knew that all the land beyond was Czechoslovakia.
Seven minutes later, he arrived at the border. Like most of the crossings on these quiet secondary roads, the checkpoint consisted of a hut which had been divided into two, with a red-and-white-striped boom across the road which could be raised and lowered by the guards.
A bleary-eyed Czech border guard shuffled out to meet him. He held out his hand for Maximov’s papers.
Maximov reached into his coat and pulled out his pass book.
The Czech flipped through it, glancing up at Maximov to check his face against the picture.
“The Polack is asleep,” he said, nodding towards the other half of the building, where beige blinds had been pulled down over the windows. “Where are you going, Russian?”
“I am going to America,” he said.
The Czech raised his eyebrows. For a moment the guard just stood there, as if he could not comprehend the idea of traveling that far. Now his gaze turned towards the motorcycle. “Zundapp,” he said, pronouncing it “Soondop.” He grunted with approval, resting his knuckles on the chrome fuel tank as if it were a lucky talisman. At last he handed Maximov his pass book and raised the boom across the road. “Go on to America,” he said, “you and your beautiful Soondop!”
It took Maximov another week to reach Le Havre. There he sold the beautiful Zundapp and bought a ticket to New York. When the ship left port, he stood at the railing, watching the coast of France until it seemed to sink beneath the waves.
PEKKALA STOOD IN STALIN’S OFFICE AT THE KREMLIN, HANDS BEHIND his back, waiting for the man to appear.
Finally, after half an hour, the trapdoor clicked and Stalin ducked into the room. “Well, Pekkala,” he said as he settled himself into his red leather chair, “I have taken your advice and placed the engineer named Zalka in charge of completing the T-34. He assures me that the final adjustments to the prototype design will be ready in a matter of weeks. Zalka has told me that he will be adding several safety features to the original design. Apparently, the test drivers had already started calling it—”
“I know,” said Pekkala.
“I happen to agree with Nagorski,” continued Stalin, as if Pekkala had not interrupted. “The machine should come first, but we can’t have them calling the T-34 a coffin before it’s even started rolling off the production line, can we?”
“No, Comrade Stalin.”
“All mention of Colonel Nagorski in connection to the Konstantin Project has been erased. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, he had nothing to do with it. I have no wish for our enemies to gloat over the death of one of our most prominent inventors.”
“And what about the boy?” asked Pekkala.
