Special Assignments

by Boris Akunin

  'Eh? What monastery?' He asked the ground fearfully. He looked around and even stuck his nose into a hollow in the oak.

  Now what was Momos supposed to do? The Supreme Power wouldn't repeat everything ten times for the deaf dolt! That would turn the whole thing into a cheap comedy. This was a predicament.

  Mimi solved his difficulty. She sat up and babbled in a quiet voice: 'The Varsonofiev Chapel, near the Novopimenovsky Monastery. The holy hermit is there. Take the sack to him. At midnight tonight.'

  People in Moscow said bad things about the Varsonofiev Chapel. Seven years earlier the small gate church near the entrance to the Novopimenovsky Monastery had been struck by a bolt of lightning that had knocked down its holy cross and cracked its bell. What kind of house of God was it, if it could be struck by lightning?

  The chapel had been boarded up and the clergy and the pilgrims and the simple public had started to avoid it. At night shrieks and terrible, inhuman groans were heard from inside the thick walls. It was either cats fornicating, with the echo under the stone vaults amplifying their howls, or there was something far worse than that taking place in the chapel. The father superior had held a prayer service and sprinkled the place with holy water, but it hadn't helped; people only became even more afraid.

  Momos had spotted this wonderful place before Christmas and been thinking it might come in useful ever since. And now it had; it was just the thing.

  He had considered the setting carefully and prepared the stage effects carefully. 'La Grande Operation' was approaching its finale, and it promised to be absolutely stunning.

  'The Jack of Spades has outdone himself!' - that was what the newspapers would have written the following day, if only there had been genuine openness and freedom of speech in Russia.

  When the small bell in the monastery gave a dull clang and began chiming midnight, there was the sound of cautious footfalls outside the double doors of the chapel. Momos imagined Eropkin crossing himself and reaching out a hesitant hand towards the gilded panel. The nails had been pulled out of the boards - one gentle tug and the door would open with a heart-stopping creak.

  And now it had opened, but it was not Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin who glanced in; it was the mute Kuzma. The cowardly bloodsucker had sent his devoted slave on ahead.

  The jaw under the black beard dropped open and the coiled whip slid off Kuzma's shoulder like a dead snake.

  And indeed, eschewing all false modesty, there was something here worth gaping at.

  Standing at the centre of the square space was a table of rough boards, with four candles flickering on it, one at each corner. There was also an old man in a white surplice, with a long grey beard and long, silky hair tied round on his forehead with string. He was sitting on a chair, hunched over an old book in a thick leather binding (Travels Into Several Remote Parts Of The World. In Four Parts. By Lemuel Gulliver, First a Surgeon, And Then A Captain Of Several Ships, published in Bristol in 1726 - bought at a book stall for its thickness and impressive appearance). One of the hermit's eyes was covered by a black patch and his left arm was in a sling. The sage did not appear to have noticed the man who had come in.

  Kuzma gave a low grunt, turning away, and Eropkin's pale features appeared from behind his broad, massive shoulder.

  Then, without looking up, the holy hermit spoke in a clear, resonant voice: 'Come here, Samson. I have been expecting you. You are mentioned in the secret book.' And he jabbed his finger at an engraving showing Gulliver surrounded by Houyhnhnms.

  Stepping carefully, the entire honourable company entered the chapel: the most venerable Samson Kharitonovich, clutching the boy Paisii tightly by the hand, Kuzma and the same two men as before, who lugged in a plump bast sack.

  The sage pierced Eropkin with a menacing glance from his single eye under its matted eyebrow and held up a finger in admonition. In response to this gesture, one of the candles suddenly hissed and went out. The bloodsucker gasped and let go of the boy's hand - which was the required effect.

  The trick with the candle was a simple one, but impressive. Momos himself had invented it for use when he ran into difficulties at cards: the candles looked like ordinary ones, but the wick slid freely inside the wax. It was an unusually long wick, threaded though a crack in the table underneath the candle. Jerk your left hand under the table, and the candle went out (of course, Momos had the dolly to control the wicks hanging on his sling).

  'I know, I know who you are and what kind of man you are,' the hermit said with an ominous laugh. 'Give me that sack of yours, stuffed full of blood and tears; put it there ... Not on the table, not on the magic book!" he shouted at the two men. 'Toss it under the table, so I can set my lame leg on it.'

  He nudged the sack gently with one foot - it was damned weighty. Must be all one-rouble and three-rouble notes. At least three stones. But never mind - what's your own isn't heavy.

  Eropkin was superstitious and none too sharp-witted, but he wasn't going to give away his sack that simply. Miracles alone weren't enough. Psychology was required: sudden pressure, rapid surprises. He mustn't be allowed to gather his wits, and think, to take a close look. So giddy up, now!

  The old sage wagged his finger at Eropkin in warning, and immediately a second candle went out.

  Samson Kharitonovich crossed himself

  'Don't you go crossing yourself here!' Momos barked at him in a terrifying voice. 'Your hands will wither and fall off! Or don't you know who you've come to see, you fool?'

  'I kn— I know, father,' Eropkin hissed: 'a holy hermit.'

  Momos threw back his head and laughed malevolently - just like Mephistopheles played by Giuseppe Bardini.

  'You are a stupid man, Samson Eropkin. Did you not count the coins in the treasure?'

  'I did ...'

  And how many were there?'

  'Six hundred and sixty-six.'

  And where did you hear the voice from?'

  'From under the ground

  'Who speaks from under the ground, eh? Don't you know that?'

  Eropkin sat down, horrified - his legs had clearly given way under him. He was about to cross himself, but suddenly felt afraid and hastily hid his hands behind his back - then looked round at his men to make sure they weren't crossing themselves either. They weren't, but they were trembling.

  'I need you, Samson,' said Momos, switching into a more cordial tone and shifting the sack ever so slightly towards himself with his foot. 'You are going to be mine. You are going to serve me.'

  He snapped his fingers with a loud crunch; a third candle went out, and the darkness under the gloomy vaults immediately grew thicker.

  Eropkin backed away.

  'Where are you going? I'll turn you to stone!' Momos growled, and then he played on contrast once again, speaking ingratiatingly. 'Don't be afraid of me, Samson. I need men like you. Do you want a mountain of money that would make your lousy sack look like a heap of dust?' He gave the sack a derisive kick. 'You'll keep your sack; stop trembling over it. But how would you like me to give you a hundred like it? Or is that not enough for you? Do you want more? Do you want power over humankind?'

  Eropkin gulped, but he didn't say anything.

  'Pronounce the words of the Great Oath, and you will be mine for ever! Agreed?' Momos roared out the last word so that it echoed back and forth between the old walls.

  Eropkin pulled his head down into his shoulders and nodded.

  'You, Azael, stand here at my left hand,' the old man ordered the boy who ran behind the table and stood beside him.

  'When the fourth candle goes out, repeat what I say, word for word,' the mysterious old man instructed Eropkin. And don't gawp at me - look up.'

  Once he was sure that all four future servants of the Evil One had obediently thrown back their heads, Momos extinguished the final candle, squeezed his eyes shut and nudged Mimi in the ribs: Don't look!

  The voice rang out again in the darkness: 'Look up! Look up!'

  He pulled the sack towards
himself with one hand and prepared to press the button with the other.

  Up above, where the light of the candles had not reached, even when they were still burning, Momos had installed a magnesium Blitzlicht, the very latest German invention for photography. When its unendurable white flash blazed out in the pitch darkness, Eropkin and his cut-throats would be left totally blind for about five minutes. And in the meantime, the jolly trio - Momos, Mimi and the Money - would slip out through the back door, which had been oiled in readiness.

  Outside the door there were a light American sleigh and a fleet little horse who was probably already weary of waiting. Once that sleigh darted away, then you, Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin, might as well try to catch the wind. This was no operation, it was a work of art.

  It was time!

  Momos pressed the button. Something fizzed, but he didn't see any bright flash from behind his closed eyelids.

  Of all things, a misfire, just at that very moment! So much for the vaunted achievements of technical progress! At the rehearsal everything had been just perfect, but now the premiere had been turned into a fiasco!

  Swearing silently to himself, Momos picked up the sack and tugged on Mimi's sleeve. They backed away towards the exit, trying not to make any noise.

  But just then the accursed Blitzlicht came to life: it hissed, gave a dull flash, belched out a cloud of white smoke, and the chapel was illuminated with a feeble, flickering light. Four figures could clearly be made out, frozen motionless on one side of the table, and two others creeping away on the other.

  'Stop! Where are you going?' Eropkin squealed. 'Give me my sack! Hold them, lads; they're Freemasons! Ah, the stinking rats!'

  Momos made a dash for the door, since the light had faded, but then something whistled through the air and a noose tightened round his throat. That damned Kuzma and his cursed whip! Momos dropped the sack and clutched at his throat with a croak.

  'Momchik, what's wrong?' Mimi asked, puzzled. She grabbed hold of him: 'Let's run!'

  But it was too late. Rough hands emerged from the darkness, grabbed Momos's collar and threw him to the floor. Terrified and choking without air, he lost consciousness.

  When consciousness returned, the first thing he saw was crimson shadows swaying across the black ceiling and the smoke-blackened frescoes. There was a lighted lantern flickering on the floor; it must have been brought from the sleigh.

  Momos realised that he was lying on the floor with his hands tied behind his back. He turned his head this way and that, trying to assess the situation. The situation was awful; it couldn't possibly have been worse.

  Mimi was squatting on her haunches, huddled up into a tight ball, with the mute monster Kuzma towering up over her, lovingly caressing his whip, the very sight of which made Momos twitch. The raw skin on his throat still stung.

  Eropkin himself was sitting on a chair, bright crimson and sweaty. His Excellency had evidently been making a great deal of noise while Momos was in a state of blissful oblivion. The two minions were standing on tiptoe on the table, arranging something there. When Momos looked more closely, he saw two dangling ropes, and he didn't like the look of the arrangement at all.

  'Well, my darlings,' Samson Eropkin said in an amiable voice when he saw that Momos had come round, 'wanted to clean out Eropkin himself, did we? You're cunning, you devils, cunning. Only Eropkin's smarter. Wanted to make me the laughing-stock of all Moscow, did we? But never mind,' he drawled with relish. 'Now I'll give you something to laugh about. There's a vicious fate in store for anyone who tries to take a bite at Eropkin, a terrible fate - to teach the others a good lesson.'

  'Why this melodrama, Your Excellency' Momos said with a grin, putting on a brave front. 'It really doesn't become you. A full state counsellor, a bulwark of piety. After all, there is the court, the police. Let them punish us; why should you get your hands dirty? And then, after all, my dear fellow, you have lost nothing. Haven't you acquired an old gold ring? You have. And the treasure too. Keep them, as compensation, so to speak, for the injury.'

  'I'll give you compensation,' said Samson Kharitonovich, smiling with just the corners of his mouth. There was a soft, frightening glow in his eyes. "Well, is it ready?' he shouted to his men.

  They jumped down on to the floor. 'It's ready, Samson Kharitonovich.'

  'Go on then, string him up.'

  'I beg your pardon, how do you mean - "string him up"?' Momos asked indignantly when he was lifted off the floor with his feet upwards. 'This is beyond all - Help! Help! Police!'

  'Shout away, shout away' Eropkin told him. 'If there's anyone walking by in the middle of the night, he'll just cross himself and take to his heels as fast as he can.'

  Then Mimi suddenly started wailing piercingly: 'Fire! We're burning! Good people, we're burning.'

  She'd come up with the right idea: a passer-by wouldn't be frightened by a shout like that; he'd come running to help or dash to the monastery to sound the alarm bell.

  Momos joined in with her. 'Fire! We're burning! Fire!'

  But they weren't allowed to carry on shouting for long. The black-bearded mute tapped Mimi gently on her head with his fist and the delicate little swallow simply slumped over, landing face-down on the floor. The stinging serpent of the whip wound itself round Momos's throat once again and his howl was reduced to a croak.

  The torturers lifted up the bound man and dragged him on to the table. They tied one ankle to one rope and the other ankle to the other, pulled, and a moment later Momos was dangling above the rough-planed boards like a letter Y. His grey beard hung downwards, tickling his face; his surplice slid down, exposing legs in narrow breeches and boots with spurs. Once out in the street, Momos had been intending to tear off his grey hair, pull off his loose robe and transform himself into a dashing hussar - no one would ever have recognised him as the 'hermit'.

  He ought to have been sitting in the troika now, with Mimi on one side and the sack with all that money in it on the other, but instead of that he'd been ruined by that dastardly German invention, and here he was, dangling in the air with his face towards that near but unreachable door that led out into the snowy night, to the sleigh, salvation, good luck and life.

  He heard Eropkin's voice behind him: 'Tell me, Kuzya, how many blows would it take you to split him in half?'

  Momos began twisting round on the ropes, because he was interested in the answer to that question too. When he twisted right round, he saw the mute holding up four fingers. Then he thought for a moment and added a fifth.

  'Well, no need to do it in five,' Samson Kharitonovich said, to make his wishes quite clear. 'We're not in any hurry. Better do it gently, a little bit at a time.'

  'Honestly Your Excellency' Momos said hastily, 'I've already learned my lesson and I've been badly frightened - honestly I have. I have some savings. Twenty-nine thousand. I'd be glad to pay them as a fine. You're a man of business. What's the point of giving way to emotions?'

  'And I'll deal with the lad later,' Eropkin said thoughtfully, with obvious pleasure, as if he were talking to himself.

  Momos shuddered, realising that Mimi's fate would be more terrible than his own. 'Seventy-four thousand!' he shouted, for that was exactly how much he had left from his previous Moscow operations. 'But the boy's not to blame: he's feeble-minded.'

  'Go on, show him your skill,' ordered Eropkin.

  The whip gave a predatory whistle. Momos gave a sickening screech, because something cracked and crunched between his outstretched legs. But there was no pain.

  'You've unpicked his trousers very neatly there,' Eropkin said approvingly. 'Now go in little bit deeper. Just half a vershok. To make him howl. And then keep on going in by the same amount until we have two halves dangling on two ropes.'

  Momos felt a cold draught on the most vulnerable, most delicate part of his body and realised that with his first virtuoso stroke Kuzma had slit open his breeches along the seam without touching him.

  Oh Lord, if you exist, prayed
the man who had never prayed in his life, the man who had once been called Mitenka Sawin, send me an archangel, or even your shabbiest little angel. Save me, Lord. I swear that henceforth I'll only turn over low snakes like Eropkin and no one else. Honestly, on my word of honour, Lord.

  At that moment the back door opened. The first thing Momos saw in the opening was the night, with streaks of wet snow slanting down across it. Then the night retreated and became the background as its place was taken by the silhouette of a slim figure wearing a long, waisted coat and tall top hat, and carrying a walking cane.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Letter of the Law or the Spirit of Justice?

  Anisii had scoured his features with soap, and pumice and even sand - but still the swarthiness had not completely gone. Erast Petrovich still had it too, but it looked well on a handsome devil like him, rather like a dense tan. On Tulipov, however, the nut colouring had distributed itself across his face in little islets as it faded, and now, with his patchy skin and thin neck, he looked like an African giraffe - only not so tall. But every cloud has a silver lining: his pimples had disappeared completely ... absolutely, as if they had never even existed. In two or three weeks his skin would be clear - the Chief had promised. And the cropped hair would soon grow back - no two ways about that.

  The morning after they had caught the Jack red-handed with his female accomplice (whom Anisii could not recall without a languorous sigh and a sweet thrill in various parts of his soul and his body) and then let them go again, he and the Court Counsellor had had a brief but important conversation.

  'Well now,' Fandorin said with a sigh. 'You and I, Tulipov, have made fools of ourselves, but we may assume that the Jack of Spades' Moscow tour is now at an end. What are you thinking of doing now? Do you wish to return to the department?'

  Anisii gave no reply and merely blenched a deadly shade of white, although that could not be seen under his swarthy stain. The thought of returning to his miserable career as a courier after all the wonderful adventures of the last two weeks seemed absolutely unbearable.