Shadow Pass (24 page)

“Because the day I strapped on that contraption was exactly one month after a car lost control in the French Grand Prix, then skidded off the track and right into the side of me.”

“The 1914 Grand Prix,” said Pekkala. “Nagorski won that race.”

“Of course he did,” replied Zalka. “I was his chief mechanic. I was standing at our pit stop when the car slammed into me.”

Now Pekkala remembered that Nagorski had mentioned the accident in which his chief mechanic had been badly hurt.

“If you wouldn’t mind helping,” said Zalka, his arms still raised towards them.

While Pekkala and Kirov supported him, the nurse handed Zalka a towel, which the crippled man wrapped around his waist. Then, with Zalka’s arms around their shoulders, they walked him to a chair. Once he was seated, the nurse gave him the brace, and he went through the process of strapping it to his left leg. Where the leather straps crossed over, the hair on Zalka’s leg had been worn away, leaving pale stripes in the flesh. The muscles of his withered thigh and calf were barely half the size of those on his right leg.

Dobriakova stood back and watched, arms folded. Her face was set in a frown which seemed permanently carved into the corners of her mouth and eyes.

Where the leeches had been on Zalka’s arms and chest, his skin showed grape-sized bull’s-eye welts. In the center of each one was a tiny red dot, where the leech had been attached. All over his body, like freckles, were the marks where other leeches had dug into his skin.

“Are you ready for your meal now?” asked the nurse.

Zalka looked up at her and smiled. “Marry me,” he pleaded.

She gave him a swat on the head and went out through the blue doors.

“Inspectors,” said Dobriakova, scowling at Zalka, “I’ll leave you to question this criminal!”

When she had gone, Zalka sighed with relief. “Better you with your guns than that woman with her moods.”

“Zalka,” asked Kirov, his voice a mixture of awe and disgust, “how can you do this?”

“Do what, Inspector?” replied Zalka.

Kirov pointed at the dingy water. “There! That!”

“Healthy leeches require a living host,” explained Zalka, “although preferably one who’s not intoxicated. As I tend to be these days.”

“I’m not talking about them. I’m talking about you!”

“I don’t have many options for employment, Inspector, but for one hour a day in the pool I make as much as I would in a nine-hour shift at a factory. That is, if I could get work at a factory. What I make here gives me enough time to carry on with my own research, a line of work for which I am, at the moment, tragically undercompensated.”

“Aren’t you worried about catching some kind of disease?”

“Unlike humans,” said Zalka, “leeches don’t carry disease.” He reached around to the back of his head, where he discovered another leech buried in his hair. As he slid his thumbnail under the place where the leech had attached itself to his skin, the leech curled around his thumb. He held it up admiringly. “They are very deliberate creatures. They drink blood and they have sex. You have to admire their sense of purpose.” Now his face became suddenly tense. “But you did not come to talk about leeches. You came to talk about Nagorski.”

“That is correct,” said Pekkala, “and until two minutes ago, you were our prime suspect for his murder.”

“I heard about what happened. I’d be lying if I told you I was sad to hear he’s gone. After all, it’s because of Nagorski that I have to bleed for a living, instead of designing engines, which is what
I should be doing. But I’m better off now. The way Nagorski treated me was worse than anything those leeches ever did.”

“Why were you kicked off the Konstantin Project?” Pekkala asked. “What happened between you and Nagorski?”

“We used to be friends,” he began. “In our days of racing cars, we were together all the time. But then I was injured, and the war came along. After the armistice, Nagorski tracked me down in Paris. He told me about his idea, which eventually became the Konstantin Project. He said he needed help designing the engine. For a long time, we were a team. Designing the V2 engine was the best work I’ve ever done.”

“What went wrong?”

“What went wrong,” explained Zalka, “is that Nagorski’s facility had become like an island. There were bunkhouses for us to sleep in, a mess hall, a machine shop so well equipped that there were tools in there which none of us could even identify. The idea was that we would be able to get on with the project undisturbed by government inspections, meddling bureaucrats, or any of the daily concerns which might have eaten up our time. Nagorski dealt with the outside world, while we were left alone to work. What we didn’t realize was that out there in the world, Nagorski was taking credit not only for his work but for ours as well.”

“Was he always like that?” asked Pekkala.

Zalka shook his head. “Nagorski was a good man before the Konstantin Project took over his life. He was generous. He loved his family. He didn’t wrap himself in secrets. But once the project had begun, he turned into something else. I barely recognized him anymore, and neither did his wife and son.”

“So what happened between you was an argument over the engine?” Pekkala was trying to understand.

“No,” replied Zalka. “What happened was that Nagorski’s design virtually guaranteed that the tank crew would be burnt
alive if any kind of fire broke out in the main compartment or the engine.”

“I heard,” said Pekkala.

“I wanted to change that, even if it did weaken the hull by a small margin. But Nagorski would not even discuss it.” In frustration, Zalka raised his hands, then let them fall again. “How perfectly Russian—that the machine we build to defend ourselves becomes as dangerous to us as it is for our enemies!”

“Is this why Nagorski fired you from the project?”

“I wasn’t fired. I quit. And there were other reasons, too.”

“Such as?”

“I discovered that Nagorski was intending to steal the plans for the T-34 suspension system.”

“Steal them?”

“Yes.” Zalka nodded. “From the Americans. The design for the suspension is known as a Christie mechanism. The wheels are fitted onto trailing suspension arms with concentric double coil springs for the leading bogies—”

Pekkala held up his hand. “I will take your word for it, Professor Zalka.”

“We had been working on a design of our own,” continued Zalka, “but Nagorski’s meddling had put us so far behind schedule that we weren’t going to meet our deadline for going into production. Nagorski panicked. He decided we would go with the Christie mechanism. He also decided we would say nothing about this to Stalin. He figured that by the time the design was approved, nobody would care, as long as it worked.”

“What did you do?” asked Pekkala.

“I confronted him. I said how dangerous it was to keep information from Stalin. He told me to keep my mouth shut. That was when I decided to quit, and in return he saw to it that I couldn’t find another place to do my work. No one would employ me. No
one would even come close! Except them.” He jerked his chin towards the leeches in the pool.

“But you said you still do research,” said Pekkala.

“That’s right.”

“And what happens to your work?”

“It piles up on my desk,” retorted Zalka bitterly. “Page after page, because there is nothing else I can do with it.”

“That reminds me.” Pekkala removed the equation from his coat pocket. “We were wondering if you could tell us what this is. It may have something to do with Nagorski’s death.”

Carefully, Zalka took the brittle paper from Pekkala’s hand. He stared at it intently as the meaning unraveled in his head. At one point he laughed sharply. “Nagorski,” he muttered and kept reading. A moment later, he raised his head. “It is a recipe,” he told them.

“A recipe for what?”

“Oil.”

“That’s it?” said Kirov. “Just oil?”

“Oh, no,” replied Zalka, “not just oil. Motor oil. And not just any motor oil, either. This is a special low-viscosity motor oil for use in the V2 engine.”

“And are you sure this is Nagorski’s writing?”

Zalka nodded. “Even if it wasn’t, I could still tell this belonged to Nagorski.”

“Why?”

“Because of what’s not there. See?” He pointed to a batch of figures. The numbers seemed to gather around his fingertip like iron filings around a magnet. “The polymer sequence is interrupted at this point. He left it out on purpose. If you tried to recreate this formula in a lab, all you’d get would be sludge.”

“Where is the rest of the formula?”

Zalka tapped a finger against his temple. “He kept it in his head. I told you he didn’t trust anyone.”

“Could you complete these equations?”

“Of course,” replied Zalka, “if you gave me a pencil and ten minutes to work out what’s missing.”

“What’s the point of low-viscosity motor oil?”

Zalka smiled. “At thirty degrees below zero, normal motor oil will begin to thicken. At fifty degrees below zero, it becomes useless. What that means, Inspectors, is that in the middle of a Russian winter, you can have an entire army of machines which suddenly come to a stop.” He held up the piece of paper. “But that wouldn’t happen with this oil. I’ll give Nagorski this much. He was certainly planning for the worst.”

“Is this formula valuable enough for someone to have killed him over it?” asked Pekkala.

Zalka narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think so,” he said. “This simply represents a design decision. The recipe itself is not unknown.”

“Then why keep it a secret?”

“It’s not the formula he was trying to keep secret. It’s the decision to put it to use. Look”—Zalka sighed again—“I don’t know why Nagorski was murdered, or who did it, but I can tell you that he must have known the person who killed him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he never went anywhere without a gun in his pocket and that means he didn’t just know the person who killed him. He must have trusted them to let the killer get that close.”

“Who did Nagorski trust?”

“As far as I know, there is only one person who fits that description, and that’s his driver, Maximov. Nobody got to Nagorski without getting past Maximov, and believe me, nobody got past Maximov.”

“We have spoken with Maximov,” said Pekkala.

“Then you’ll know Nagorski didn’t hire him for his witty conversation. He hired Maximov because the man used to be an assassin.”

“A what?”

“He was an agent for the Tsar,” explained Zalka. “Nagorski told me so himself.”

“That would explain why he didn’t answer any of my questions,” said Pekkala, and suddenly he remembered something Rasputin had once told him, on that winter’s night when he came knocking on the door.

“There are many others like us,”
Rasputin had said,
“each one entrusted to a different task—investigators, lovers, assassins, each one a stranger to the other. Only the Tsar knows us all.”
At the time, Pekkala had thought it was just the ramblings of a drunk, but now he realized that Rasputin had been telling the truth.

“It also explains why there was nothing on him in the old police records,” mused Kirov.

The door opened. The nurse came in with a tray, on which sat a plate covered by a metal dome.

“Ah, good!” Zalka held out his arms.

The nurse handed him the tray. “Just the way you like it,” she said.

Zalka set the tray carefully on his lap and removed the metal dome. A puff of steam wafted up into his face and he breathed it in as if it were perfume. On the plate was a slab of roasted meat, around which a few slices of boiled potato and carrot had been strewn like an afterthought. Zalka picked up a knife and fork from the tray and sawed off a slice of the meat. Beneath the surface, it was almost raw. “They feed me here,” he told them. “Red meat every day. I have to get the blood back in me somehow.”

The investigators turned to leave.

“The T-34 will not save us, you know,” said Zalka.

Both men turned around.

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?” asked Zalka, talking as he chewed. “Nagorski has you all convinced that the T-34 is a miracle weapon. That it will practically win a war on its own. But it
won’t, gentlemen. The T-34 will kill hundreds. Thousands. Tens of thousands. What Nagorski or any of those insane scientists he’s got working for him won’t admit is that it’s just a machine. Its vulnerabilities will be found out. Better machines will be built. And the men who used it to kill will themselves, eventually, be killed. But you mustn’t worry, detectives.” He busied himself sawing off another piece of meat.

“With a forecast like that,” muttered Kirov, “why wouldn’t we be worried?”

“Because the only people who can destroy the Russian people”—Zalka paused to pack another slab of meat into his mouth—“are the Russian people.”

“You may be right,” said Pekkala. “Unfortunately, we are experts at that.”

P
EKKALA BREATHED IN DEEPLY AS THEY STEPPED OUTSIDE THE BUILDING
, trying to clear the sour reek of the bathhouse from his lungs.

“I thought we had him,” remarked Kirov.

Pekkala nodded. “So did I, until I saw that leg brace.”

“Trailing suspension arms,” groused Kirov. “Concentric double coil springs. Leading bogies. It all sounds like nonsense to me.”

“It’s poetry to Zalka,” replied Pekkala, “just as caviar blinis are poetry to you.”

Kirov stopped abruptly. “You just reminded me of something.”

“Food?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. The day I went into that restaurant to fetch Nagorski for questioning, he was eating caviar blinis.”

“Well, that’s very helpful, Kirov. Perhaps he was shot by a blini.”

“What I remembered,” persisted Kirov, “was a gun.”

Now Pekkala stopped. “A gun?”

“Nagorski was carrying a pistol. He gave it to Maximov for safekeeping before he left the restaurant.” Kirov shrugged. “It might mean nothing.”

“Unless Nagorski was shot with his own weapon. In which case it could mean everything.” He slapped Kirov on the arm. “Time we paid Maximov a visit.”

M
AXIMOV’S HOME WAS IN THE VILLAGE OF
M
YTISHCHI, NORTHEAST
of the city. They found him at a garage across the street from the boardinghouse where he lived by himself in a room on the top floor. The caretaker at the building, a skeletally thin, angry-looking man in a blue boiler suit, aimed one stiletto finger at the garage. Then he held out his hand and said,
“Na tchay.”
For tea.