“Shouldn’t we get him out from under there?” Ushinsky was staring at the colonel’s hand, which seemed to tremble in the wind-stirred puddle at their feet.
“Not just yet,” replied Pekkala. “Until I have examined the area, no evidence can be disturbed.”
“It’s hard to think of him like that,” muttered Gorenko. “As evidence.”
The time would come, Pekkala knew, when Nagorski’s body would receive the respect it deserved. For now, the dead man was part of an equation, along with the mud in which he lay and the iron which had crushed out his life. “If Nagorski was here by himself,” Pekkala asked, “do you have any idea how he could have ended up beneath the machine?”
“We’ve been asking ourselves the same question,” said Ushinsky.
“It just doesn’t seem possible,” Gorenko chimed in.
“Have you been inside the tank since you got here?” asked Pekkala.
“Only to see that it was empty.”
“Can you show me the driver’s compartment?”
“Of course,” replied Gorenko.
At the opposite end of the tank from where Nagorski’s body had been pinned, Pekkala set his foot on one of the wheels and tried to lift himself up on the side of the tank. He lost his balance and with a groan of frustration fell back spread-eagled into the water. By the time he emerged, Gorenko had gone around to the front of the tank and put his foot up on the fender. “Always board from the front, Inspector. Like this!” He scrambled up onto the turret, opened the hatch, and dropped down inside.
Pekkala followed, his soaked coat weighing on his back and his ruined shoes slipping on the smooth metal surfaces. His fingers clawed for a grip as he moved from one handhold to another. When he finally reached the turret hatch, he peered down into the cramped space of the compartment.
“How many people fit in here?”
“Five,” replied Gorenko, looking up at him.
To Pekkala, it didn’t look as if there was even enough room for himself and Gorenko, let alone three other men.
“Are you all right, Inspector?”
“Yes. Why?”
“You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine,” Pekkala lied.
“Well, then,” said Gorenko. “Down you come, Inspector.”
Pekkala sighed heavily. Then he clambered down into the tank. The first thing he noticed, as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, was the smell of new paint mixing with the odor of diesel fuel. Cramped as it had appeared from above, the interior space seemed even smaller now that he was inside it. Pekkala felt as if he had entered a tomb. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He had struggled with claustrophobia ever since he was a child, when his brother, Anton, as a joke, had locked him in the 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 to you”—he raised his arms, as if to encompass the T-34, along with the vast and filthy basin of its proving ground—“is paradise to us.”
Pekkala breathed out. “How can men work inside those things? What happens if something goes wrong? How can they get out?”
Ushinsky’s lips twitched, as if it was a subject he did not feel safe discussing. “You are not the only one to have considered this, Inspector. Once inside, the tank crew are well protected, but if the hull is breached, say by an anti-tank round, it is extremely difficult to exit.”
“Can’t you change that? Can’t you make it easier for the tank crew to escape?”
“Oh, yes. It can be done, but Nagorski designed the T-34 with regard to the optimum performance of the machine. The equation is very simple, Inspector. When the T-34 is functioning, it is important to protect those who are inside. But if the machine is disabled in combat, its life, effectively, is over. And those who operate it are no longer considered necessary. The test drivers have already coined a name for it.”