How do you know me?' asked Pekkala.
The man offered no words of explanation. Instead, he simply removed his cap, grasping it from behind and tilting it forward off his head in the manner of the old Tsarist soldiers, and it was in this movement that Pekkala finally recognised the man, whom he had last seen in a clearing on the Polish border, just weeks before the outbreak of the war. His name was Maximov. A cavalry officer before the Revolution, Maximov had become the driver and bodyguard of Colonel Nagorski, the secretive designer of the Red Army's T34 tank. Known to those who operated the 20-ton machine as the Red Coffin, this tank had been one of the few weapons in the Soviet arsenal which outgunned its German counterparts. While other Russian tanks proved to be no match for German armour, the T34 had held its own against all but the largest enemy weapons. In the winter of 1941, with the German army within sight of Moscow, the T34 had kept running when the temperature dipped below minus-60, thanks to the low-viscosity oil used in its engine, while the cold transformed the German panzers into useless hulks of iron.</ol>
Nagorski did not live long enough to see his great invention put to use. He was found shot to death in the muddy swamp which served as a testing ground for his machines.
It was during the investigation of Nagorski's murder that Pekkala first came in contact with Maximov. For a while, it had seemed as if Maximov himself might be the killer, but Pekkala's investigation eventually disclosed that Nagorski's own son had fired the shot that ended his father's life. Maximov had gone on to assist Pekkala and Kirov in tracking down a missing T34 prototype. Their search led them to the German-Polish border, where Alexander Kropotkin, an old acquaintance of Pekkala's and a bitter enemy of Stalin, was attempting to stage an attack on German troops stationed nearby. With this suicidal move, Kropotkin was less interested in killing the enemy than in providing Hitler with an excuse to invade the Soviet union . In those days, he was by no means alone in thinking that only with the destruction of the Red Army could Stalin be removed from power and that even Nazi occupation was better than continuing to live under the boot of the Communist Party.
Having located the missing tank, Kirov had disabled the machine using an anti-tank rifle equipped with experimental titanium bullets. The T34 was destroyed, and Kropotkin died in a blaze which engulfed the crew compartment. But when the fire had died down enough for Pekkala and Kirov to approach the wreck, they discovered that Maximov had disappeared. Upon their return to Moscow, Kirov wrote in his report that Maximov had been killed in the shoot-out and his body consumed in the inferno of the burning tank. Although Pekkala said nothing to contradict this, privately he had always suspected that Maximov might have survived after all.
The reason Pekkala kept these thoughts to himself was that, although Maximov had so far been able to conceal his former career as a Tsarist officer, the truth would undoubtedly have surfaced now that Maximov had been drawn into the spotlight of this investigation. Far from being the recipient of a medal for his heroism, it was more likely that Maximov would be arrested for his past deeds in the service of the Tsar. For Maximov, the future would have led only to the Gulag, which was why Pekkala turned a blind eye to a missing motorcycle that he had spotted near the tanks before the battle, and the faint but unmistakable impression of tyre tracks leading away through the forest.
Pekkala had never known where Maximov disappeared to that day, nor had he expected to set eyes on him again, since both men knew that to be seen back in Russia was a virtual guarantee of death.
And yet here he was: filthy, starving and alone.
You had better come with me,' said Pekkala.
Together, the two men set out across the ice towards the dark wall of the forest.
A short time later, they had entered the outskirts of the camp. Small fires burned outside the primitive shelters, known as zemlyankas, where the partisans lived. The cold air smelled of pinewood smoke and roasting meat.
Pekkala brought Maximov to the fire in the centre of the camp, where he knew Barabanschikov would be.
Where did you find him?' asked Barabanschikov.
Out on the ice,' replied Pekkala, and he went on to tell the story of his acquaintance with Maximov, from Nagorski's murder right up until the day he disappeared.
By the time Pekkala had finished, most of the camp had gathered by the fire to listen.
Barabanschikov listened intently, sitting on a tree stump, arms folded and leaning forward so as to catch every word. Well, Maximov,' he said when Pekkala had finished, I think it's time you told us where you've been since you and the Inspector parted company.'
Maximov explained how he had travelled all the way to the French coast before selling his motorcycle and using the proceeds to purchase a ticket to America. Three weeks later, he had arrived at Ellis Island and from there made his way to New York City.
He had worked in several jobs – as doorman at the Algonquin Hotel, as a longshoreman in Hoboken and as a croupier in an Atlantic City casino before settling down as a chauffeur for the mayor of that town, a profession not unlike the one in which he had been working when circumstances forced him out of Russia.
What happened?' demanded Barabanschikov. Did you commit a crime and have to leave?'
Maximov shook his head. There was no crime.'
Problems with a woman, perhaps? A broken heart can send a man to the other end of the earth.'
Maximov smiled. No broken heart.'
Barabanschikov shook his head in confusion. Yet here you are. But why?'
I couldn't just stand by and watch this country get destroyed,' answered Maximov, staring at the faces which peered back at him from the shadows, their dark eyes wide with curiosity.
A murmur of approval rose from the gathered listeners.
Then, for as long as you wish, Maximov, you are welcome here with us,' announced the partisan leader. But first you must do what every stranger does when they come into my camp.'
And what is that?'
Empty your pockets!'
Maximov did as he was told, laying out his meagre possessions on the trampled ground.
Only one thing caught Barabanschikov's attention. It was a little clockwork mouse, with a dented metal shell, a key sticking out of its side and three tiny wheels underneath.
Barabanschikov snapped his fingers at the toy. Give me that.'
Maximov handed him the mouse.
You brought this from America?'
I did.'
Think of all the things you could have carried with you from America,' Barabanschikov remarked incredulously. A Colt revolver perhaps, or a Bowie knife, or a Hamilton pocket watch. But no. You have brought a clockwork mouse. What is it? A present for somebody?'
It is,' admitted Maximov.
With a grunt of curiosity, Barabanschikov tried to wind it up, listening to the click of the cogs as if he were a safe cracker gauging the tumblers of the lock. But, having done this, he found that the wheels wouldn't turn. It's broken! What kind of present is that?' With a growl of disgust, Barabanschikov tossed the mouse over his shoulder into the dark.
Will that be all?' asked Maximov.
Yes,' Barabanschikov replied gruffly. Now go and get some food and then we'll find you a place where you can sleep.'
You are a soft touch,' said Pekkala, after Maximov had been led away to eat.
In spite of Barabanschikov's bluster, Pekkala had never known him to turn anyone away.
Barabanschikov's reply to this was a long and wordless growl.
Perhaps this will cheer you up,' said Pekkala as he handed over the trout he had caught that afternoon.
Ah!' Barabanschikov took the fish in his outstretched hands. Is there anything finer in the world?'
On the way back to his hut, which was a circular lean-to fashioned out of branches interwoven with vines, which the partisans referred to as a tchoom, Pekkala retrieved the broken clockwork mouse and put it in his pocket. The next morning, he returned the toy to Maximov.
By then, Maximov had bathed. His face was clean and he wore a different set of clothes. He took the mouse in his hand as if it was a living thing and slipped it into his pocket.
For several weeks, Maximov remained at the camp and it was during this time that Pekkala explained how he had come to be living among the Barabanschikovs. He found it easy to speak with Maximov. Even though the two men did not know each other well, the experiences they had shared in their days of service to the Tsar gave them a common outlook on the world. This strange communion with the past brought to their conversations a familiarity which would otherwise have taken years to cultivate.</ol>
I am only passing through,' Pekkala explained to Maximov. There is someone I must search for.'
Who?' asked Maximov.
A woman to whom I was engaged,' replied Pekkala. She left for Paris, just before the Revolution. I was supposed to meet her there. It had all been arranged. But by the time the Tsar gave me permission to leave, the borders were already closing. I was arrested by Revolutionary Guards as I attempted to pass through into Finland. From there, they sent me to prison. And after that, the Gulag at Borodok.'
Does she even know you are alive?' asked Maximov.
That is only one of many questions I must answer,' replied Pekkala, which is why, as soon as the snow melts, I will turn my back on Russia once and for all.'
Then you and I are bound in opposite directions, Inspector.'
It seems that way,' agreed Pekkala.
Winter was ending. The snow began to melt. Often they were startled by the gunshot echo of ice cracking out on the lake. The time of the Rasputitsa was coming. Soon everything would turn to mud.