by Boris Akunin
“But that ain’t no Chinee, he’s a Kirghiz.”
“He’s no more a Kirghiz than you are! How many slanty-eyes do we ‘ave wandering around Khitrovka? An’ if I’d got it wrong — it wouldn’t ‘ave mattered. We ‘d ‘ave thrown ‘im in the river, and there’s an end o’ the matter.”
“But how about Fiska, then?” put in a third voice that sounded ingratiating, but with a hysterical note. “If it weren’t for ‘er, this grandpa here would have finished us all off. But Misha, you said there ‘d be two of ‘em, an’, see, Mish, there’s three of’em. An’ they put a hole in Lomot over there. Lomot’s dying, Mish. That bullet burned right through ‘is in-sides.”
Catching the name ‘Misha,’ Fandorin finally decided not to sink back into the darkness. The back of his head was bruised and painful, but Erast Petrovich drove the pain away, drove it into the void, into the same darkness from which he himself had only recently emerged. This was no time for pain.
“I ought to lash my whip across your face for drinking,” declared a leisurely, languid falsetto. “But seeing the way things happened, I forgive you. You caught that cop a good belt.”
Two scarlet morocco-leather boots moved closer and stood opposite the box-calf pair.
“Lash me across the face if you like, Mishenka,” a rather hoarse woman’s voice declared, singsong fashion. “Only don’t drive me away. I haven’t seen you for two whole days, my little falcon. I missed you so bad. Come around today and I’ll give you a treat.”
“We can have our treat later.” The dandified boots took a step toward Fandorin. “But meanwhile let’s take a gander at what kind of slimy creature has come calling. Right, roll him over, Shukha. Look at the way his eye’s glinting.”
They turned Erast Petrovich over on his back.
So this was Little Misha. Just a little taller than the gypsy girl’s shoulder, and compared with the ‘businessmen’ he was an absolute midget. A thin, nervous face, with a twitch at the corner of the mouth. Repulsive eyes, as if it were a fish looking at you, not a man. But generally speaking, a handsome little devil. Hair parted precisely into two halves, curling up at the ends. One unpleasant detail: The black mustache was exactly the same as Erast Petrovich’s own, and even curled in the same manner. Fandorin immediately took a solemn vow not to wax his mustache any longer, and was immediately struck by the thought that he would probably never get the chance.
In one hand the bandit king was holding the Herstal, in the other the stiletto that Fandorin wore above his ankle. So they had searched him.
“Well, now, and who might you be?” Little Misha growled through his teeth. Seen from below, he didn’t look little at all. Quite the opposite; he seemed like Gulliver. “Which station are you from? Myasnitskaya Street, is it? That’s right, that’s the one. That’s where all my persecutors have gathered, the bloodsucking vampires.”
After registering surprise at the words ‘persecutors’ and ‘vampires,’ Erast Petrovich made a mental note for the future that apparently they did not take bribes at the Myasnitskaya Street station. It was useful information. If, of course, he was ever able to make use of it.
“Why did three of you come?” The meaning of Misha’s question was not entirely clear. “Or are you on your own, and not with those two?”
It was tempting to nod, but Fandorin decided that the right thing was to say nothing. To wait and see what would happen next.
What happened was unpleasant. Misha swung his foot back briefly and kicked the prone man in the crotch. Erast Petrovich spotted the swing and was able to prepare himself. He imagined that he was jumping at a run into a hole in a frozen river. The icy water scorched him so fiercely that by comparison the blow with the silver-tipped boot seemed a mere trifle. Fandorin did not even gasp.
“A real tough old nut,” said Misha, astonished. “Seems like we’ll have to take a bit of trouble over him. But never mind, that just makes things more interesting, and we’ve got plenty of time. Toss him in the cellar for now, boys. We’ll fill our bellies with God’s bounty, and then we’ll have some fun and games. I’ll work up a fine sweat and afterward Fiska can cool me down.”
To the sound of the woman’s squealing laughter, Collegiate Assessor Fandorin was dragged by the legs across the floor and behind the counter, then along a dark corridor. The door to the cellar creaked, and the next moment Erast Petrovich went flying into pitch blackness. He braced himself as best as he could, but he still landed hard on his side and shoulder.
“And here’s your crutches, hunchback!” someone shouted with a laugh from the top of the stairs. “Take a stroll and try a bit of begging down there!”
Fandorin’s crutches fell on him one after the other. The dim square above his head disappeared with a crash, and Erast Petrovich closed his eyes, because he could not see anything anyway.
Flexing his hand, he fingered the bonds restraining his wrists. Nothing to it — ordinary cord. All he needed was a fairly hard, preferably rough surface and a certain amount of patience. What was that there? Ah, the staircase that he just landed on so hard. Fandorin turned so that his back was toward the steps and started rubbing the string against a wooden upright in a rapid rhythm. The job would probably keep him occupied for about thirty minutes.
Erast Petrovich began counting to one thousand eight hundred, not in order to make the time pass more quickly, but to avoid thinking about things that were too horrible. But the counting was powerless to prevent the black thoughts from piercing poor Fandorin’s heart like needles.
What have you done now, Mr. Fandorin? You can never be forgiven for this, never.
How could he have dragged his old teacher into this viper’s pit? Dear old Xavier Feofilaktovich had trusted his young friend, and been delighted that he could still serve the fatherland, and now look how things had turned out! And it wasn’t destiny that was to blame, or some malicious fate, but the indiscretion and incompetence of a person whom the inspector had trusted no less than he trusted himself. The jackals of Khitrovka had been waiting for Fandorin, waiting for him. Or rather, for the man who would come with a ‘Chinee’. The bungling detective Fandorin had led his close friends to certain execution. But hadn’t Grushin warned him that the entire police force was in Little Misha’s pay? The disagreeable Khurtinsky had let it slip to one of his men and he had sent word to Khitrovka. It was all very simple. Afterward, of course, it would become clear just who the Judas in the secret section was, but that wouldn’t bring back Masa and Grushin. It was an unforgivable blunder! No, not a blunder, a crime!
Groaning in unbearable mental anguish, Erast Petrovich began moving his hands even faster, and suddenly the cord parted and went slack before he had expected it. But the collegiate assessor was not gladdened by his success; he simply sank his face into his freed hands and burst into tears. Ah, Masa, Masa…
Four years earlier, in Yokohama, Fandorin, the second secretary at the Russian embassy, had saved the life of ayakuia boy. From that moment on, Masahiro had been his faithful — indeed, his only — friend and had several times saved the life of the diplomat with a weakness for adventures, and yet he continued as before to believe himself irredeemably in his debt. For what end, Mr. Fandorin, did you drag a good man from Japan all the way to the other end of the world, to this alien place? So that he could die a futile death at the hands of a vile murderer, and all because of you?
Erast Petrovich’s regret was bitter, inexpressibly bitter, and it was only the anticipation of vengeance that prevented him from beating his brains out against the slimy wall of the cellar. Oh, his vengeance on these murderers would be merciless! As a Christian, Xavier Feofilaktovich might not really care for revenge, but Masa’s Japanese soul would certainly rejoice in anticipation of its next birth.
Fandorin was no longer concerned for his own life. Little Misha had had a good chance to finish him off — upstairs, when he was lying stunned on the floor, bound and helpless. But things were different now, Your Bandit Majesty. As gamblers said: You�
�re holding a bad hand.
The copper cross on a chain and the bizarre star-shaped instruments of self- torment were still hanging around the ex-hunchback’s neck. And the numskulls had made him a present by throwing the short crutches into the cellar. Which meant that Erast Petrovich was in possession of an entire Japanese arsenal.
He took the strange stars off his neck and separated them out. He felt the edges — they were honed as sharp as razors. These stars were called sharinken, and the ability to throw them with deadly accuracy was learned during the very first stage of a ninja’s training. For serious business the tips were also daubed with poison, but Fandorin had decided that he could get by without that. Now all that was left was to assemble the nunchaka — a weapon more terrible than any sword.
Erast Petrovich took the cross off the chain. He set the cross to one side, then opened the chain and attached his little crutches to it at both ends. The pieces of wood actually had special hooks on them for this very purpose. Without rising from the ground, the young man whirled the nunchaka through a lightning-fast figure eight above his head and seemed entirely satisfied. The feast was ready and waiting; only the guests were missing.
He climbed up the stairs, feeling out the crosspieces in the darkness. His head bumped against a trapdoor, locked from the outside. All right then, we’ll wait. Mohammed will come to the mountain soon enough.
He jumped back down, dropped onto all fours, and began groping around on the floor with his hands. After a moment he came across some kind of rancid bundle of sackcloth, which gave off a suffocating smell of mold. Never mind, this was no time for delicate feelings.
Erast Petrovich settled back with his head on the makeshift pillow. It was very quiet; the only sound was of agile little animals scurrying about in the darkness — mice, no doubt, or perhaps rats. I hope they come soon, thought Fandorin, and then, before he knew it, he plummeted abruptly into sleep — he had not had any rest the night before.
He was woken by the creak of the trapdoor being opened and immediately remembered where he was and why. The only thing that was unclear was how much time had passed.
A man in a long-waisted coat and Russian leather boots walked down the steps, swaying as he came. He was holding a candle in his hand. Erast Petrovich recognized him as one of Misha’s ‘businessmen’. Behind him, Misha’s box-calf boots with the silver toes appeared through the trapdoor.
There were five visitors in all — Little Misha and the four others Erast Petrovich had seen recently. The only person missing to complete the party was Abdul, which upset Fandorin so much that he actually sighed.
“That’s right, my little police spy, have a nice little sigh,” said Misha, baring his brilliant teeth in a scowl. “I’ll soon have you yelling so loud the rats will go dashing for their holes. Cozying up to the carrion, are you? Well, that’s right, you’ll be the same yourself soon enough.”
Fandorin looked at the bundle that was serving him as a pillow and jerked upright in horror. Glaring up at him from the floor with its vacant eye sockets was an ancient, decayed corpse. The ‘businessmen’ burst into raucous laughter. Apart from Misha, each of them was holding a candle in his hand, and one was also carrying some kind of tongs or pincers.
“You don’t like the look of him, then?” the midget inquired mockingly. “Last autumn we caught ourselves a spy; he was from Myasnitskaya Street, too. Don’t you recognize him?” More laughter, and Misha’s voice turned sweet and syrupy. “He suffered that long, he did, the poor fellow. When we started pulling the guts out of his belly, he called out for his mummy and his daddy.”
Erast Petrovich could have killed him that very second — each of the hands he was holding behind his back was clutching a sharinken. But it is unworthy of the noble man to give way to irrational emotions. He needed to have a little talk with Misha. As Alexander Ivanovich Pelikan, the consul in Yokohama, used to say, he had a few little questions for him. Of course, he would neutralize the retinue of His Highness of Khitrovka first. The way they were standing was most convenient: two on the right, two on the left. He couldn’t see anyone with a firearm, except for Misha, who kept toying with the handy little Herstal. But that was nothing to worry about. He didn’t know about the little button, and the revolver would not fire if the safety catch was still on.
It seemed that the best thing to do was try to find out something while Little Misha felt that he was in control. There was no way of telling if he would feel like talking afterward. Everything about him suggested that he was the obstinate type. What if he simply clammed up?
“I’m looking for a little briefcase, Mishutka, my boy. With huge great money in it, thousands upon thousands,” Fandorin intoned in the voice of the luckless hunchbacked swindler. “Where’d you put it, eh?”
Misha’s expression changed, and one of his lieutenants asked with a nasal twang: “What’s he going on about, Mish? What thousands upon thousands?”
“He’s lying, the bastard nark!” barked the king. “Trying to set us against each other. I’ll have you coughing blood for that, you lousy rat.”
Misha pulled a long, narrow knife out of his boot and took a step forward. Erast Petrovich drew his own conclusions. Misha had taken the briefcase. That was one. No one else in the gang knew about it, so he was obviously not intending to share the loot. That was two. He was frightened by the prospect of exposure, and now he was going to shut his prisoner’s mouth. Forever. That was three. Fandorin had to change his tactics.
“What’s the rush to make me suffer; this grandpa’s not a total duffer,” Fandorin rattled off. “Slash and stab and I can’t blab. Treat me nice and gentle, do, and I’ll give you a little clue.”
“Don’t finish him off him just yet, Mish,” said the nasal-voiced one, grabbing his leader by the sleeve. “Let him sing a bit first.”
“Humble greetings from Mr. Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky,” said Erast Petrovich, winking at Misha and gazing into his face to see if his hypothesis was correct. But this time Misha didn’t even blink.
“The old man’s just pretending he’s not right in the head. Raving about some Parmyonich or other. Never mind, we’ll soon set his brains straight. Kur, you sit on his legs. And you, Pronya, hand me the pincers. I’ll soon have this lousy crow singing like a rooster.”
Erast Petrovich realized that the monarch of Khitrovka wasn’t going to tell him anything interesting — he was far too wary of his own men.
Fandorin gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes for an instant. Premature rejoicing is the most dangerous of feelings. It causes many important undertakings to miscarry.
Erast Petrovich opened his eyes, smiled at Misha, and suddenly pulled first his right hand and then his left from behind his back. Whoo-oosh, whoo-oosh; the two little spinning shadows went whistling through the air. The first bit into Kur’s throat, the second into Pronya’s. They were both still wheezing, gushing blood and swaying on their feet — they still hadn’t realized that they were dying — when the collegiate assessor snatched up his nunchaka and leapt to his feet. Misha had no time even to raise his hand, let alone press the safety catch, before the stick of wood struck him on the top of his head: not too hard, just enough to stun him. But the burly young lout whom he had called Shukha had barely even opened his mouth before he received a powerful blow to the head that felled him like a log, and he didn’t move again. The last of the ‘businessmen,’ whose name Fandorin had still not learned, proved more nimble than his comrades. He dodged away from the nunchaka, pulled a Finnish knife out of the top of his boot, and then swayed out of reach of a second blow as well, but the relentless figure eight broke the arm that was holding the knife, and then smashed the agile bandit’s skull. Erast Fandorin froze, carefully controlling his breathing. Two of the bandits were writhing on the ground, jerking their legs about and vainly trying to squeeze shut the gaping tears in their throats. Two were lying motionless. Little Misha was sitting on the ground, shaking his head stupidly. The burnished steel of the Herstal glin
ted off to one side.
I have just killed four men and I feel no regret at all, the collegiate assessor thought to himself. His heart had been hardened by that terrible night.
To begin with, Erast Petrovich took the stunned man by the collar, gave him a good shaking, and slapped him hard across both cheeks — not as revenge, but to bring him to his senses faster. However, the slaps produced a quite magical effect. Misha pulled his head down into his shoulders and began whining.
“Don’t hit me, grandpa! I’ll tell you everything! Don’t kill me! Spare my young life!”
Fandorin looked at the tearful, contorted, attractive little face in wonder and amazement. The unpredictability of human nature never ceased to astonish him. Who would have thought that the bandit autocrat, the bane of the Moscow constabulary, would fall apart like that after just a couple of slaps on the cheeks? Fandorin experimented by gently swinging the nunchaka, and Misha immediately stopped his whining, gazed spellbound at the regular swaying of the bloodied stick of wood, pulled his head back down into his shoulders, and started to shudder. Well, well, it worked. Extreme cruelty was the obverse side of cowardice, Erast Petrovich thought philosophically. But that was not really surprising, for these were the very worst pair of qualities that humanity possessed.
“If you want me to hand you over to the police and not kill you right here, answer my questions,” the collegiate assessor said in his own normal voice instead of the beggar’s whine.
“And if I answer, you won’t kill me?” Misha asked with a pathetic whimper. Fandorin frowned. Something was definitely not right here. A sniveler like this could not possibly have terrorized the entire criminal underworld of a big city. That required a will of iron and exceptional strength of character. Or at least something that could effectively take the place of those qualities. But what?
“Where are the million rubles?” Erast Petrovich asked darkly.
“In the same place they always were,” Misha replied quickly.