Free Shadow Pass by Sam Eastland Page A

crematory oven belonging to their father’s undertaking business.
    “This is the fighting compartment,” said Gorenko, perched on a seat in the far right corner. The seat was fixed into the metal wall and had a separate back support which wrapped around in a semicircle, following the contours of the wall. Gorenko gestured to an identical seat on the left of the compartment. “Please,” he said, with the cordiality of a man inviting someone into his living room.
    Hunched almost double, Pekkala took his place in the seat.
    “You are now in the loader’s position,” explained Gorenko. “I am where the commander sits.” He extended one leg and rested his heel on a rack of huge cannon shells which stretched along the side of the compartment. Each shell was fastened with a quick-release clasp.
    “You say the engine wasn’t running when you found it.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Does that mean someone had switched it off?”
    “I would assume so.”
    “Is there any way to check?”
    Gorenko peered into the driver’s area, an even smaller space located just ahead of the main fighting compartment. His eyes narrowed as he deciphered the confusion of steering levers, gear sticks, and pedals. “Ah,” he said. “I was wrong. It’s still in forward. First gear. The engine must have stalled out.”
    “So someone else was driving it?”
    “Probably. But I couldn’t guarantee it. The clutch may have slipped while he was outside the machine.”
    “I’ve heard of clutches popping out of gear,” said Pekkala, “but never popping in.”
    “These machines have not yet been perfected, Inspector. Sometimes they do things they aren’t supposed to do.”
    Pekkala’s instincts begged him to get out. He forced himself to remain calm. “Do you see anything else in here which looks out of place?”
    Gorenko glanced around. “Everything is as it should be.”
    Pekkala nodded. He had seen what he needed to see. Now it was time to retrieve Nagorski’s body. “Can you drive this machine?” he asked.
    “Of course,” replied Gorenko, “but whether it can get out of this crater without being towed is another question. That’s probably what Nagorski was trying to discover.”
    “Will you try?”
    “Certainly, Inspector. You had better wait outside. It’s hard to tell what will happen once I move the tracks. It could sink even deeper and if that happens, this compartment is going to flood. Give me a minute to check the controls, and make sure you are standing well clear when I start the engine.”
    While Gorenko squeezed into the tiny driver’s compartment, Pekkala clambered out of the tank. His broad shoulders caught painfully on the rim of the turret hatch. Pekkala was glad to get out into the open air, even if it was only to stand in the rain once again.
    Outside the tank, Ushinsky was puffing on a cigarette, his hand cupped over the burning tip to shield it from the wind and rain.
    “Gorenko says the engine was in gear,” said Pekkala, as he splashed down into the mud beside Ushinsky.
    “So it wasn’t an accident.”
    “Possibly not,” replied Pekkala. “Did Nagorski have enemies here?”
    “Let me put it this way, Inspector,” he replied. “The hard part would be finding someone around here who didn’t have a grudge against him. The bastard worked us like slaves. Our names were never even mentioned on the design reports. He grabbed all the credit. Comrade Stalin probably thinks Nagorski built this entire machine by himself.”
    “Is there anyone who felt strongly enough to want him dead?”
    Ushinsky brushed aside the words, like a man swatting cobwebs from his face. “None of us would ever think of hurting him.”
    “And why is that?” asked Pekkala.
    “Because even if we did not like the way Nagorski treated us, the Konstantin Project has become the purpose of our lives. Without Nagorski, the project would never have been possible. I know it might be hard to understand, but what might look like hell