The monotony of this structure was broken only by occasional black metal signs which had been bolted to the fence. Stenciled on each sign, in dull yellow paint, was a jawless skull and crossbones.
“Seems pretty secure so far,” remarked Kirov.
But Pekkala wasn’t so certain. A layer of wire which could have been cut through with a set of household pliers did not fill him with confidence.
Finally, they came to a gate. A wooden guard shack, barely big enough for one person, stood on the other side of the wire. It was raining now, and droplets lay like silver coins upon the shack’s tar-paper roof.
Kirov brought the car to a stop. He sounded the horn.
Immediately, a man came tumbling out of the shack. He wore a rough-cut army tunic and was strapping on a plain leather belt, weighed down by a heavy leather holster. Hurriedly, he unlocked the gate, sliding back a metal bolt as thick as his wrist, and swung it open.
Kirov rolled the car forward until it was adjacent to the guard shack.
Pekkala rolled down his window.
“Are you the doctors?” asked the man in a breathless voice. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”
“Doctors?” asked Pekkala.
The man’s dull eyes grew suddenly sharp. “If you aren’t doctors, then what do you want here?”
Pekkala reached inside his pocket for his ID.
The guard drew his revolver and aimed it at Pekkala’s face.
Pekkala froze.
“Slowly,” said the guard.
Pekkala withdrew his pass book.
“Hold it up so I can see it,” said the guard.
Pekkala did as he was told.
The pass book was the size of the man’s outstretched hand, dull red in color, with an outer cover made from fabric-covered cardboard in the manner of an old school textbook. The Soviet state seal, cradled in its two bound sheaves of wheat, had been emblazoned on the front. Inside, in the top left-hand corner, a photograph of Pekkala had been attached with a heat seal, cracking the emulsion of the photograph. Beneath that, in pale bluish-green letters, were the letters NKVD and a second stamp indicating that Pekkala was on Special Assignment for the government. The particulars of his birth, his blood group, and his state identification number filled up the right-hand page.
Most government pass books contained only those two pages, but in Pekkala’s, a third page had been inserted. Printed on canary-yellow paper with a red border around the edge were the following words:
THE PERSON IDENTIFIED IN THIS DOCUMENT IS ACTING UNDER THE DIRECT ORDERS OF COMRADE STALIN.
DO NOT QUESTION OR DETAIN HIM.
HE IS AUTHORIZED TO WEAR CIVILIAN CLOTHES, TO CARRY WEAPONS, TO TRANSPORT PROHIBITED ITEMS, INCLUDING POISON, EXPLOSIVES, AND FOREIGN CURRENCY. HE MAY PASS INTO RESTRICTED AREAS AND MAY REQUISITION EQUIPMENT OF ALL TYPES, INCLUDING WEAPONS AND VEHICLES.
IF HE IS KILLED OR INJURED, NOTIFY THE BUREAU OF SPECIAL OPERATIONS IMMEDIATELY.
Although this special insert was known officially as a Classified Operations Permit, it was more commonly referred to as a Shadow Pass. With it, a man could appear and disappear at will within the wilderness of regulations that controlled the Stalinist state. Fewer than a dozen of these Shadow Passes were known to exist. Even within the ranks of the NKVD, most people had never seen one.
Rain flicked at the pass book, darkening the paper.
The guard squinted to read the words. It took a moment for him to grasp what he was looking at. Then he looked at the gun in his hand as if he had no idea how he had come to be holding it. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, hurriedly returning the weapon to its holster.
“Why would you think we were doctors?” asked Pekkala.
“There has been an accident,” explained the guard.
“What happened?”
The guard shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. When the facility called me here at the guardhouse about half an hour ago, all they said was that a doctor would be arriving soon and to let him through without delay. Whatever it is, I’m sure Colonel Nagorski has the situation under control.” The guard paused. “Listen, are you really Inspector Pekkala?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” asked Pekkala.
“It’s just …” The guard smiled awkwardly, scratching his forehead with his thumbnail. “I wasn’t sure you really existed.”
“Do we have your permission to proceed?” Pekkala asked.
“Of course!” The guard stood back and waved them forward with a sweep of his arm, like a man clearing bread crumbs off a table.
Kirov put the car in gear and drove on.
For several minutes, the Emka traveled on the long, straight road. The facility was nowhere in sight.
“This place really is in the middle of nowhere,” muttered Kirov.
Pekkala grunted in agreement. He squinted up at the trees, which seemed to stoop over the car as if curious to see who was inside.
Then, up ahead, they saw where the woods had been hacked back from a cluster of hunched and flat-roofed brick buildings.
As they pulled into a dirt courtyard, the door to one of the smaller buildings swung open and a man dashed out, making straight towards them. Like the guard, he wore a military uniform. By the time he reached the Emka, he was already out of breath.
Pekkala and Kirov got out of the car.
“I am Captain Samarin,” wheezed the NKVD man. He had black, Asiatic-looking hair, thin lips, and deep-set eyes. “It’s this way, Doctor,” he panted. “You’ll need your medical bag.”
“We are not doctors,” corrected Pekkala.
Samarin was flustered. “I don’t understand,” he told them. “Then what is your business here?”
“I am Inspector Pekkala, of the Bureau of Special Operations, and this is Major Kirov. Colonel Nagorski was kind enough to offer us a tour of the facility.”
“I’m afraid that a tour is out of the question, Inspector,” replied Samarin, “but I would be glad to show you why.”
Samarin led them to the edge of what looked at first glance to be a huge half-drained lake filled with large puddles of dirty water. In the middle of it, sunk almost to the top of its tracks in the mud, lay one of Nagorski’s tanks, a large white number 3 painted on its side. Two men stood beside the tank, their shoulders hunched against the rain.
“So that is the T-34,” said Pekkala.
“It is,” confirmed Samarin. “And this place”—he waved his hand across the sea of mud—“is what we call the proving ground. This is where the machines are tested.”
The rain was falling harder now, pattering on the dead leaves in the nearby woods so that the air filled with a hissing sound. The smell of the damp earth hung heavy, and the solid mass of clouds, like a blind man’s eye rolled around to white, encased the dome of sky above them.
“Where is Nagorski?” asked Pekkala.
Samarin pointed at the men beside the tank.
The huddled figures were too far away for Pekkala to be able to recognize which one of them was the colonel.
Pekkala turned to Kirov. “Wait here,” he said. Then, without another word, he stepped forward and slid down the steep embankment. He arrived at the end of the slope on his back, his clothes and hands plastered with slime. The brownish-yellow ooze stood out sharply against the black of Pekkala’s coat. As he rose to his feet, dirty water poured out of his sleeves. He took one step towards the tank before realizing that one of his shoes had come off. Gouging it out of the clay, he perched on one leg like a heron and jammed his foot back into the shoe before continuing on his way.
After several minutes of wading from one flooded crater to the next, Pekkala arrived at the tank. The closer he came, the larger the machine appeared, until at last he stood before it. Even though it was half buried in the mud, the T-34 still towered over him.