Shadow Pass (37 page)

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.

P
EKKALA STOOD IN
S
TALIN’S OFFICE AT THE
K
REMLIN, 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.

“I have given it some thought.” Stalin reached for his pipe. “It seems to me that can all be pushed to the edge—don’t you agree, Pekkala?”

“Yes, Comrade Stalin.”

“The killer lurks in every one of us,” Stalin continued. “If it didn’t, our whole species would long ago have ceased to walk this earth. And it would be a waste to throw away a young man who might one day follow in the footsteps of his father.”

“He has potential,” said Pekkala.

“I agree. And that is why I have appointed the boy to be Zalka’s apprentice until the Konstantin Project is completed. After that, he will be enrolled in the Moscow Technical Institute. But I am expecting results. I will be watching. And you, Pekkala, will keep your Emerald Eye on him.”

“I will indeed,” he said.

Stalin aimed the pipe at him. “I see you have a nice new jacket.”

“Ah,” said Pekkala. He looked down at the clothes Kirov had bought him. “This is just temporary. I’m having some made up at Linsky’s.”

“Linsky’s?” asked Stalin as he hunted in his desk drawer for a
match. “Over by the Bolshoi Theatre? You know what they say about the things he makes? Clothes for Dead Men! What do you think of that, Pekkala?”

“It gets more funny every time I hear it.”

“Anyway,” said Stalin, “you won’t be needing anything from Linsky.”

“I won’t?”

Stalin had found a match. He struck it, the tiny stick positioned between his thumb and first two fingers. For the next few seconds, the only sound was the dry rustle of his breathing as he coaxed the tobacco to burn. The soft, sweet smell drifted towards Pekkala. Finally he spoke. “I am sending you to Siberia.”

“What?” shouted Pekkala.

“You are going back to Borodok.”

The door opened. Poskrebyshev, Stalin’s secretary, poked his head into the room. “Is everything all right, Comrade Stalin?”

“Out!” snapped Stalin.

Poskrebyshev took a long and disapproving look at Pekkala. Then he closed the door behind him.

“You are sending me to prison?” Pekkala asked Stalin.

“Yes. Although not as a prisoner. Not officially, at any rate. There has been a murder in the Borodok camp.”

“With respect, Comrade Stalin, there are murders in that camp every day of the week.”

“This one has caught my attention.”

“When am I leaving?”

“In two days. Until then, you may consider yourself on vacation.”

“What about Major Kirov?”

“Oh, the major will be busy here in Moscow, handling his end of the investigation. I have already spoken to him, here in this office, earlier today. Which reminds me.” Stalin reached into his pocket and then, from his closed fist, dropped four kumquats
upon the desk. “He gave me these. What am I supposed to do with them?”

“Kirov didn’t tell you?”

“He just said they were a gift.”

“You eat them, Comrade Stalin.”

“What?” He picked one up and stared at it. “In little pieces?”

“No. All at once. All four of them. Just put them in your mouth and bite down. It’s a real treat.”

“Hmm.” Stalin gathered the fruit back into his hand. “Well, I suppose I could give it a try.”

“I should be going, Comrade Stalin, or my vacation will be over before I am out of the building.”

Stalin’s attention was focused on the kumquats. “Good,” he mumbled, staring at the tiny orange globes laid out on his palm. “Good-bye, Pekkala.”

“Good-bye, Comrade Stalin.”

As he walked out through the waiting room, Pekkala heard Stalin roar as he bit down on the kumquats and then spat them across the room. “Pekkala!”

Pekkala only smiled and kept on walking.

If you enjoyed Sam Eastland’s

S
HADOW
P
ASS

you won’t want to miss the third electrifying Pekkala novel.
Read on for an exciting early look at
Archive 17
.
Coming in hardcover from Bantam.

BORODOK LABOR CAMP

V
ALLEY OF
K
RASNAGOLYANA
S
IBERIA

In a cave, deep underground, lit by the greasy flame of a kerosene lamp, the man knelt in a puddle, his empty hands held out as if to catch drops of water which fell through the cracks in the ceiling. He was badly wounded, with deep cuts across his chest and arms. The homemade knife with which he had attempted to defend himself lay out of reach behind him. Head bowed, he stared with a look of confusion at his own reflection in the puddle, like a man who no longer recognized himself
.

Before him stretched the shadow of the killer who had brought him to this place. “I came here to offer you a reason to go on living,” the killer said, “and this is how you repay me?”

With fumbling, blood-smeared fingers, the man undid the button on his shirt pocket. He pulled out a crumpled photograph of a group of soldiers on horseback, dense forest in the background. The men leaned forward in their saddles, grinning at the camera. “They are my reason for living.”

“And now they will be your reason for dying.” Slowly, the way people sometimes move in dreams, the killer stepped behind the man. With movements almost gentle, he grasped the man by his short and filthy hair, pulling his head back so that the tendons stood out in his neck. Then he drew a knife from the folds of his clothing, cut the man’s throat, and held him like a lover while his heart bled dry
.

“P
OSKREBYSHEV
!” T
HE VOICE OF
J
OSEPH
S
TALIN EXPLODED THROUGH
the wall.

In the adjoining room, Stalin’s secretary sprang to his feet. Poskrebyshev was a short, round-faced man, bald except for a fringe of gray which arced around the back of his head and resembled the wreath of a Roman emperor. Like his master, he wore trousers tucked into black calfskin boots and a plain mandarin-collared tunic in precisely the same shade of brownish green as the rotten apples that two neighborhood bullies, Ermakov and Schwartz, used to hurl at him from their hiding places along the young Poskrebyshev’s route to school.

Since the war had broken out, one month before, there had been many such outbursts from the man Poskrebyshev referred to as Vozhd. The Boss.

On September 1, 1939, as part of a secret agreement between Germany and Russia, buried in a peace treaty signed between the two countries and known as the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact, Germany had invaded Poland.

Justification for the invasion had been provided by a staged attack on a German customshouse called Hochlinde and on the Gleiwitz radio substation. Thirteen inmates from Oranienburg Concentration Camp, believing that they had been chosen to take part in a propaganda film designed to improve relations between the Germans and the Poles, were trucked towards Hochlinde under cover of darkness. All were dressed in Polish army uniforms. The inmates had been convinced that they were to enact a meeting between German and Polish troops, somewhere in the forest on the border between the two countries.

The plot of the film would be simple. At first both sides, each mistrustful of the other, would draw their weapons. For an agonizing moment, it would seem as if a gunfight might actually break out. But then the men would recognize their common ground as human beings. The guns would be lowered. Cigarettes would be exchanged. The two patrols would part company and melt back into the forest. Upon completion of the film, the inmates had been promised, they would be sent home as free men.

As they neared Hochlinde, the trucks pulled over and the prisoners shared rations with a squad of SS guards accompanying them. Each prisoner was also given what he was told would be a tetanus shot, as a matter of standard procedure. The syringes were not filled with tetanus vaccine, however. Instead, the men were injected with prussic acid. Within minutes, all of them were dead.

Afterwards, the bodies were loaded back onto the trucks and the convoy continued to the vicinity of Hochlinde, where the corpses were dumped in the woods and shot with German weapons. The bodies would later be exhibited as proof that Polish soldiers had launched an attack on German soil.

Meanwhile, at the Gleiwitz radio station, an officer of the SS named Naujocks, with the help of a Polish-speaking German, interrupted regular radio transmission to announce that Gleiwitz was under attack by Polish troops.

Within hours, German planes were bombing Warsaw. On the following day, German panzers rolled across the Polish border.