Erast Fandorin 04 - The Death of Achilles

by Boris Akunin

  “It doesn’t even bear thinking about,” snapped Frol. “And this underground railway is sheer stupidity. What’s the point of digging a hole in the ground and sending a steam engine down it? It’s just throwing the treasury’s money away. What an idiotic idea!”

  “Well, you’re wrong about that,” the prince objected. “The metro is a good thing. Just look what the traffic’s like — we’re barely crawling along.”

  It was true: The gubernatorial carriage was stuck at the turn onto Neglinnaya Street and, despite desperate efforts, the convoy of gendarmes was quite unable to clear the road, which, on a Saturday, was packed solid with the carts and wagons of traders from Okhotny Ryad.

  Vedishchev shook his head, as though the prince himself should realize that his stubbornness was wrongheaded.

  “But you know the councilors in the Municipal Duma will say old Dol-gorukoi’s finally lost his mind completely. And your enemies in St. Petersburg won’t miss dieir chance, either. Don’t sign it, Vladimir Andreevich.”

  The governor gave a mournful sigh and set the second paper aside.

  “And what about the gas?”

  Vedishchev took the memorandum, held it away from himself, and began moving his lips soundlessly.

  “That’s all right, you can sign it. It saves the city money and it eases the burden on the people of Moscow.”

  “That’s what I think, too,” said the prince, brightening up. He folded down the small desk with a writing set that was attached to the carriage door and affixed his sprawling signature to the document.

  Erast Petrovich was astounded by this incredible scene, but he made a great effort to act as if nothing out of the ordinary were taking place, gazing out the window with intense interest. At that very moment they arrived at the house of Princess Beloselskaya-Belozerskaya, where the Duke of Liechtenburg was staying with his wife, nee Zinaida Dmitrievna Soboleva, who had been granted the title of the Countess Mirabeau in morganatic marriage.

  Erast Petrovich knew that Evgeny of Liechtenburg, a major-general in the Russian Guards and commander of the Potsdam Life-Cuirassiers, was the grandson of the emperor Nikolai Pavlovich. He had not, however, inherited the famous basilisk stare of his fearsome grandfather — his highness’s own eyes were the color of blue Saxon porcelain and they peered out through his pince-nez with an expression of mild courtesy. The countess, on the other hand, proved to resemble her famous brother greatly. Although she lacked his physical stature and her bearing was far from martial, while the oval outline of her face was delicately defined, nonetheless, her blue eyes were precisely the same as his and she was the exact same breed — unmistakably a Sobolev. The audience went awry from the very beginning.

  “The countess and I came to Moscow on a quite diffewent matter, and then there was this tewwible calamity,” the duke began, rolling his r’s in a most engaging fashion and supporting his words by flapping his hand, the middle finger of which was adorned with an old sapphire.

  Zinaida Dmitrievna did not allow her husband to finish.

  “How, how could it have happened?” she exclaimed, and the large tears streamed down her face, which, even swollen as it was by her lamentations, remained delightful. “Prince, Vladimir Andreevich, the grief is unbearable!”

  The countess’s mouth twisted and froze into the double curve of a yoke and she was unable to carry on speaking.

  “Evewything is in God’s hands,” the bewildered duke muttered and glanced in panic at Dolgorukoi and Fandorin.

  “Evgeny Maximilianovich, Your Highness, I assure you that the circumstances of your relative’s untimely demise are being thoroughly investigated,” the governor declared in an agitated voice. “Mr. Fandorin here, my deputy for highly important assignments, is dealing with the case.”

  Erast Petrovich bowed and the duke’s gaze dwelt for a moment on the young functionary’s face, but the countess dissolved in even more bitter tears.

  “Zinaida Dmitrievna, my darling girl,” said the prince, sobbing himself now. “Erast Petrovich was your brother’s comrade in war. And as chance would have it, he put up at the same hotel, the Dusseaux. He is a very intelligent and experienced investigator; he will get to the bottom of everything and report back to me. But what’s the point of crying, it won’t bring him back…”

  Evgeny Maximilianovich’s pince-nez glinted coldly and imperiously.

  “If Mr. Fandorin should discover anything important, please inform me personally about it immediately. Until Grand Duke Kiwill Alexandwovich awwives, I wepwesent the person of His Majesty the Empewor here.”

  Erast Petrovich bowed once again without speaking.

  “Yes, His Majesty…” Zinaida Dmitrievna took a crumpled telegram out of her small handbag with shaking hands. “A telegram has arrived from His Majesty.”

  Shocked and grieved by sudden death of Adjutant General Sobolev.

  She sobbed and blew her nose, then continued reading.

  He will be hard for the Russian army to replace and, of course, this loss is greatly lamented by all true soldiers. It is sad to lose such useful people who are so devoted to their work. Alexander.

  Fandorin raised his eyebrows slightly — the telegram had sounded rather cold to him. “Hard to replace?” Meaning that the general could be replaced after all? “Sad” — and nothing more?

  “The lying in state and funeral service are tomorrow,” said Dolgo-rukoi. “Muscovites wish to pay their final tribute to their hero. Then I presume the body will be sent by train to St. Petersburg? His Majesty will surely give instructions to arrange a state burial. There will be many people who wish to take their leave of Mikhail Sobolev.” He assumed a dignified air. “Measures have been taken, Your Highness. The body has been embalmed; so no problems will arise.”

  The duke glanced sideways at his wife, who was wiping away her inexhaustible flow of tears, and said in a low voice, “The thing is, Pwince, the empewor has acceded to the wishes of the family and gwanted them permission to buwy Michel en famille at their Wyazan estate.”

  Vladimir Andreevich responded with a haste that Fandorin thought slightly excessive.

  “Quite right, too; things are more human that way, without all the pomp. What a man he was, such a great heart.”

  He ought not to have said that. The countess, who had begun to calm down, started sobbing even more loudly than before. The governor began blinking rapidly, took out an immense handkerchief, and wiped Zinaida Dmitrievna’s face in a paternal manner, after which, overcome by emotion, he loudly blew his nose into it. Evgeny Maximilianovich observed this intemperate Slavic display of emotion with a certain degree of consternation.

  “How could it happen, Vladi… Vladimir Andre… evich?” the countess asked and fell against the prince’s chest, which was squeezed up and out by his corset. “He is only six years older than me. Ooh-ooh-ooh,” she wailed in a quite unaristocratic, entirely demotic manner, like a peasant woman, and Dolgorukoi’s composure dissolved completely.

  “My dear fellow,” he said to Fandorin over Zinaida Dmitrievna’s brown head of hair. “You… you know… You go on. I’ll stay here for a while. You go, take Frol and go. The carriage can come back for me afterward. And you have a word there with Evgeny Osipovich. Decide matters for yourselves. You can how see how things are.”

  All the way back, Frol Grigorievich complained about intriguers (whom he called ‘antreegars’) and embezzlers of public funds.

  “The things they get up to, those monsters! Every louse trying to grab a piece of everything for himself! Say a tradesman wants to open up a shop, for instance, and sell corduroy pants. You might think, what could be simpler? Pay the fifteen- ruble municipal tax and trade away. Ah, but no! Pay the local policeman, pay the excise man, pay the sanitation inspector! And all bypassing the treasury. And the top price for the pants should be a ruble and fifty kopecks — but they go for three. This isn’t Moscow, it’s an absolute jungle, that’s what it is.”

  “What?” asked Fandorin, who hadn’t und
erstood.

  “Jungle. Beast against beast. Or take vodka, for example. Oh, my, sir, vodka’s an entire tragedy in itself. Let me tell you…”

  And there followed the dramatic history of how the merchants, in contravention of all laws human and divine, bought duty stamps from the excise officials at one kopeck each and stuck them on bottles of home brew in order to pass it off as state produce. Erast Petrovich had absolutely no idea what to say, but fortunately his participation in the conversation did not seem to be required.

  When the carriage rumbled over the cobblestones up to the front entrance of the governor’s residence, Vedishchev cut short his bitter tirade in mid-phrase: “You go straight up to the study. The chief of police must be tired of waiting by now. I’ll get on about my business.” And with an alacrity surprising in one of such great age and with such impressive sideburns, he darted down one of the side corridors.

  The professional tete-a-tete went well. Fandorin and Karachentsev caught each other’s meaning at once, which both of them found exceedingly pleasant.

  The general settled himself in the armchair by the window and Erast Petrovich sat facing him on a velvet-covered chair.

  “First, let me tell you about Herr Knabe,” Evgeny Osipovich began, holding his folder at the ready but not glancing into it for the time being. “An individual well known to me. I simply did not wish, in such a crowd…” He made a wry face, and Fandorin realized that he was referring to Khurtinsky. The general slapped his hand down on the folder. “I have here a secret circular from last year. From the department, from the Third Office, which, as you know, deals with all sorts of political matters, and they instruct me to keep an eye on Hans-Georg Knabe. To make sure he doesn’t overstep the mark.”

  Erast Petrovich inclined his head inquiringly to one side.

  “A spy,” the chief of police explained. “According to our information, a captain of the German General Staff. The head of the kaiser’s intelligence service in Moscow. Knowing that, I believed what you told us immediately and unconditionally.”

  “And you don’t pick him up because a secret agent you know is better than one you don’t,” the collegiate assessor stated rather than asked.

  “Precisely. And there are certain rules of diplomatic propriety. If I arrest him and expel him, then what? The Germans immediately expel one of our men. What good is that to anyone? It’s simply not done, touching foreign agents without specific instructions to do so. However, this particular incident goes far beyond the bounds of gentlemanly behavior.”

  Erast Petrovich could not help smiling at such an obvious understatement.

  “Yes, indeed, to put it mildly.”

  The general smiled, too.

  “And so we are going to pick up Herr Knabe. The question is, where and when?” Evgeny Osipovich’s smile broadened even further. “I think, this evening, at the Alpine Rose restaurant. You see, according to information in my possession” — he slapped his hand down on the closed folder once again — “Knabe often spends the evening there. He phoned them again today and booked a table for seven o’clock. For some reason under the name of Rosenberg, although, as you can imagine, he is very well known at the restaurant.”

  “Interesting,” remarked Fandorin. “And he really ought to be brought in.”

  The general nodded. “I have instructions from the governor-general for the arrest. I operate as a soldier: The superiors give the orders, I carry them out.”

  “How do we know that Knabe t-telephoned and booked a table under a false name?” Erast Petrovich asked after a moment’s thought.

  “Technical progress.” The police chief’s eyes glinted cunningly. “It is possible to listen to telephone conversations at the exchange. But that is strictly between you and me. If they ever find out, I shall lose half my sources of information. By the way, your friend Wanda will be performing at the Rose today as well. She told the porter to have a carriage at the door at six. This evening presents an interesting prospect. It would be good to pick up the pair of them together. The question is, how to proceed?”

  “Resolutely, but keeping everything neat and tidy.”

  Karachentsev sighed.

  “My dashing lads are fine when it’s a matter of being resolute. But they’re not so good when it comes to tidiness.”

  Erast Petrovich began speaking in half phrases.

  “What if I do it? As a private individual? If anything happens — no diplomatic incidents. Your men standing by, eh? Only, Your Excellency, no duplication, like yesterday in the Anglia.”

  Well, I’ll be damned if it isn’t a sheer pleasure working with you, the general thought. But out loud he said: “I apologize for yesterday. It won’t happen again. But about today… two outside, two inside, in the hall. What do you think?”

  “There should be none in the hall at all — a professional will always spot them,” the collegiate assessor declared confidently. “But outside — one in a carriage at the front door and one at the back door. Just in case. I think that will be enough. He’s an agent after all, not a terrorist.”

  “How are you thinking of proceeding?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I’ll see how it goes; take a close look, observe for a while. I don’t like trying to guess ahead.”

  “I understand,” said the general, nodding. “And I have full confidence in your judgment. Do you have a weapon? Our Mr. Knabe is in a desperate situation. In this case he won’t get off with simple deportation, and his superiors will disown him if anything happens. He may not be a terrorist, but he’ll probably be very nervous.”

  Erast Petrovich slipped his hand in under his frock coat, and a moment later there was a small, neat-looking revolver with a fluted handle, worn down by frequent use, lying on the palm of his hand.

  “A Herstal-Agent?” Evgeny Osipovich asked respectfully. “An elegant little piece. Do you mind if I take a look?”

  The general took hold of the revolver, opened the cylinder deftly, and clicked his tongue in admiration: “Gas-operated? That’s splendid! Fire off all six bullets one after another if you like. But isn’t the trigger a bit too sensitive?”

  “This button here is the safety catch,” said Fandorin, pointing. “So it won’t go off in your pocket. It’s not all that accurate, of course, but then in our business the main thing is a rapid rate of fire. We don’t need to hit a mink in the eye.”

  “Perfectly true,” agreed Evgeny Osipovich, handing back the gun. “So, will she recognize you? Wanda, I mean.”

  “Please do not b-be concerned, Your Excellency. I have an entire chest full of makeup. She won’t recognize me.”

  Entirely satisfied, Karachentsev leaned back in his chair, and, although the discussion of business had apparently been concluded, he seemed in no hurry to say good-bye. The general offered Fandorin a cigar, but the collegiate assessor took out his own, from an elegant suede case.

  “Genuine Batavia, Evgeny Osipovich. Would you like to try one?”

  The chief of police took a slim, chocolate-colored wand, lit it, and released a thin stream of smoke, savoring the flavor. The general very definitely liked Mr. Fandorin, and that was why the final decision was taken to steer the conversation in a delicate direction.

  “You are new to our Moscow jungle…,” he began cautiously.

  He talks about the jungle, too, Erast thought in surprise, but gave no sign of it. He only said: “And to the Russian jungle, too.”

  “Yes, indeed. While you’ve been on your travels things have changed a great deal.”

  Fandorin waited with an attentive smile for what would follow — all the signs suggested that the conversation to follow would not be a trivial one.

  “What do you make of our old beau?” the chief of police suddenly asked.

  Erast Petrovich hesitated before replying: “I think that His Excellency is by no means as simple as he seems.”

  “Alas.” The general forcibly blew a thick stream of smoke up into the air. “In his time the prince was far
from simple, very far indeed. It’s no easy thing, maintaining a grip of iron on the old capital for sixteen years. But the old wolf’s teeth have come loose. It’s hardly surprising — he’s over seventy now. He’s gotten old and lost his grip.” Evgeny Osipovich leaned forward and lowered his voice confidentially. “He hasn’t got much time left. You can see for yourself, those lackeys of his, Khurtinsky and Vedishchev, can twist him around their little fingers. And that famous cathedral of his. It’s sucked the city completely dry. And for what? Think of all the orphanages and hospitals you could build with money like that! No, our latter-day pharaoh is determined to leave his own pyramid after him when he’s gone.”

  Erast Petrovich listened attentively without opening his mouth.

  “I understand that it’s awkward for you to discuss this,” said Karachentsev, leaning back in his armchair again. “But just listen to someone who is genuinely well-disposed toward you. I can tell you that there is dissatisfaction with Dolgorukoi at court. The slightest blunder from his side and it will be the end. Off into retirement, to Nice. And then, Erast Petrovich, his entire Moscow junta will fall apart. A new man will come, someone quite different. He will bring his own people. In fact, they’re already here, his people. Making ready.”

  “You, for instance?”

  “You take my meaning at once. And that means I do not need to continue. The essence of the proposal is clear to you.”

  This really is more like a jungle than the old capital city, thought Erast Petrovich, looking into the redheaded police chief’s eyes, positively aglow with goodwill — to all appearances the eyes of an honest and intelligent man. The collegiate assessor smiled in a most agreeable manner and shrugged.

  “I appreciate your confidence; indeed I am flattered by it. Perhaps Moscow would indeed be better off with a new governor. But I cannot undertake to judge, since I still understand nothing about Moscow affairs. I have, however, lived in Japan for four years, Your Excellency, and, would you believe, I have become completely Japanese — sometimes I even surprise myself. In Japan a samurai — and in their terms you and I are both samurai — must keep faith with his overlord, no matter how bad he might be. Otherwise nothing would work; the whole system would collapse. Vladimir Andreevich is not exactly my sovereign lord, and yet I cannot feel entirely free of all obligations to him. Please do not take this amiss.”