Erast Fandorin 04 - The Death of Achilles

by Boris Akunin

  “Why bring them here at all?” Achimas asked in surprise. “You can put them in the bank.” Medvedev stroked the thin wreath of curly hair surrounding his bald patch and smiled: “I don’t trust the banks, Afanasy Petrovich. I prefer to keep my money at home.”

  “But it is dangerous to keep it at home; you could be robbed,” said Achimas, shaking his head in disapproval. “They won’t rob me,” said Medvedev, with a cunning wink. “In the first place, I have retired soldiers, lifelong professionals, living here in the house; they guard the yard day and night in shifts. But I have even more confidence in my armor- plated room. No one except me can get into it.” Achimas was about to ask what this room was like, but before he had a chance his host himself made a suggestion: “Perhaps you would like to take a look?”

  While they were walking down into the basement (it had a separate entrance from the yard), Medvedev told the story of how an engineer from Stuttgart had built him a repository for his money with a steel door eight inches thick. The door had a numerical lock with an eight-digit combination that he changed every day.

  When they entered the underground premises, in which a kerosene lamp was burning, Achimas saw a steel wall and a forged metal door with round rivets. “A door like that can’t be forced or blown open,” his host boasted. “The governor of the town himself keeps his savings with me, and the chief of police, and the local merchants. I charge them well for the security, but it is still worth people’s while. This is safer than any bank.” Achimas nodded respectfully, interested to hear that it was not only Medvedev’s own money that was kept in the iron room.

  At this point, however, the baptized Jew said something unexpected: “So please tell your respected uncle, may God grant him health and prosperity in his business affairs, that he need not trouble himself anymore. I am a new man in the Caucasus, but I know about those people who I need to know about. Convey my humble greetings to Chasan Mu-radovich and my gratitude for his taking an interest in me. But that idea about the water is a good one. Was it yours?” He slapped the young man on the shoulder patronizingly and asked him to pay another visit — on Thursdays the cream of Semigorsk society gathered at the house.

  The fact that the baptized Jew had proved to be clever and well-informed was not in itself a difficulty. The difficulty arose on Thursday, when Achimas, having accepted the invitation, arrived at the house at the top of the cliff in order to study the disposition of the rooms.

  So far the plan had been conceived as follows: Overpower the guards at night, hold a knife to the householder’s throat, and see which he loved more — the iron room or his own life. It was a simple plan, but Achimas didn’t really like it. First, it could not be managed without additional helpers. And second, there were people who loved their money more than their lives, and the young man’s intuition told him that Lazar Medvedev was one of them.

  At that Thursday’s gathering there was a large number of guests, and Achimas was hoping that later, when they took their seats at table and drank their fill, he would be able to slip away unnoticed and look around the house. But matters never reached that point, because the aforementioned difficulty manifested itself at the very beginning of the evening.

  When the host introduced his guest to his wife, Achimas merely noted that old Abylgazi had not lied when he said she was young and attractive: ash-blond hair with a golden tinge and beautifully shaped eyes. She was called Evgenia Alexeevna. But Madame Medvedev’s charms had no connection with his business and therefore, having pressed his lips to the slim white hand, Achimas walked through into the drawing room and took up a position in the farthest corner, by the door curtain, from where he had a good view of the entire company and the door that led into the inner rooms.

  It was there that the hostess sought him out. She walked up to him and asked quietly: “Is that you, Lia?” Then she answered herself. “It is you. No one else has eyes like that.”

  Achimas said nothing, overcome by a strange stupefaction that he had never experienced before, and Evgenia Alexeevna continued in a rapid, fitful half whisper: “What are you doing here? My husband says you are a bandit and a murderer, that you wish to rob him. Is it true? Don’t answer, it is all the same to me. How I waited for you. And now, when I have stopped waiting and married, you suddenly turn up here. Will you take me away from here? You don’t mind that I didn’t wait until you came, do you, you’re not angry? You remember me, don’t you? I’m little Evgenia from the orphanage at Skyrovsk.”

  Suddenly Achimas had a vivid recollection of a scene that he had not remembered even once in all those years: Chasan carrying him away from the orphanage, and a thin little girl running silently after the horse. He thought that at the end he had heard her shout: “Lia, I’ll wait for you!”

  This difficulty could not be resolved by the usual means. Achimas did not know how to explain the strange behavior of Medvedev’s wife. Perhaps this really was the love that they wrote about in novels? But he did not believe in novels and had not touched a single one since grammar school. This was alarming and uncomfortable.

  Achimas left the soiree without giving Evgenia Alexeevna any answer. He mounted his horse and rode back to Solenovodsk. He told his uncle about the iron room and the difficulty that had arisen. Chasan thought for a moment and said: “For a wife to betray her husband is a bad thing. But it is not for us to untangle the artful designs of fate, we should simply follow its wishes. And it is fate’s wish for us to enter the iron room with the help of Medvedev’s wife — this much is clear.”

  * * *

  FOUR

  Chasan and Achimas walked up the hill to Medvedev’s house in order to avoid alerting the sentries with the clattering of hooves. They left their horses in a copse at the bottom of the cliff. Down below in the valley, there were only scattered points of light — Semigorsk was already sleeping. Transparent clouds skidded across the greenish black sky, and the night constantly changed from bright to dark and back again.

  The plan had been drawn up by Achimas. Evgenia would open the small garden gate at the special knock they had agreed on. They would creep through the garden into the yard, stun both sentries, and go down into the basement. Evgenia would open the armored door, because her husband had shown her how to do it, and he wrote down the number of the combination on a piece of paper that he hid behind the icon in the bedroom. He was afraid of forgetting the combination, which would mean that he would have to take up the stonework of the floor — there would be no other way of getting into the iron room. They would not take everything — only as much as they could carry away. Achimas would take Evgenia with him.

  While they were making their arrangements, she had suddenly looked into his eyes and asked: “Lia, you won’t deceive me, will you?”

  He didn’t know what to do with her. His uncle gave him no advice. “When the moment comes to decide, your heart will tell you what to do,” said Chasan. But they took only three horses. One for Chasan, one for Achimas, and one for the spoils. The nephew watched silently as his uncle led the chestnut, the black, and the bay out of the stable, but he said nothing.

  As he walked along the white wall without making a sound, Achimas wondered what those words meant: “your heart will tell you.” As yet his heart was silent.

  The garden gate opened immediately on oiled hinges that did not squeak. Evgenia was standing in the opening, wearing a tall fur hat and a felt cloak. She had prepared for a journey.

  “Walk behind us, woman,” Chasan whispered, and she moved aside to let them through.

  Medvedev had six retired soldiers. They stood guard in pairs, changing every four hours.

  Achimas pressed himself up against an apple tree and watched what was happening in the yard. One sentry was sitting on a bollard beside the gates, dozing with his arms around his rifle. The other was striding at an even pace from the gates to the house and back: thirty steps to the house, thirty steps back.

  Of course, the sentries would have to be killed — when Achimas had ag
reed in his conversation with Evgenia that he would only stun them and tie them up, he had known that the promise could not be kept.

  Achimas waited until the wakeful sentry halted to light his pipe, then silently ran up behind him in his soft leather shoes and struck him just above the ear with his brass knuckles. Brass knuckles were a quite invaluable item when someone had to be killed very quickly. Better than a knife, because a knife had to be withdrawn from the wound, and that cost an extra second.

  The soldier did not cry out, and Achimas caught the limp body in his arms, but the second sentry was sleeping lightly and he stirred and turned his head at the sound of crunching bone.

  Achimas pushed the dead body away and in three massive bounds he was already at the gates. The soldier opened his dark mouth, but he had no time to cry out. The blow to his temple flung his head backward and it smashed against the oak boards with a dull thud.

  Achimas dragged one dead man into the shadows and positioned the other one as he had been sitting before.

  He waved his hand, and Chasan and Evgenia came out into the moonlit yard. The woman glanced at the seated corpse without speaking and wrapped her arms around her shoulders. Her teeth were chattering rapidly. Now, by the light of the moon, Achimas could see that under her cloak she was wearing a Circassian coat with cartridge belts and she had a dagger at her waist.

  “Go, woman, open the iron room,” Chasan prompted her.

  They walked down the steps into the basement — Evgenia opened the door with a key. Down below, one wall of the square chamber was made of steel. Evgenia lit a lamp. She took hold of the wheel on the armored door and began turning it to the right and the left, glancing at a piece of paper. Chasan looked on curiously, shaking his head. Something clicked in the door and Evgenia tried to pull the massive slab outward, but the steel was too heavy for her.

  Chasan moved the woman aside, grunted with effort, and the door began swinging out, reluctantly at first, but then more and more freely.

  Achimas took the lamp and went inside. The room was smaller than he had imagined: about six paces wide and fifteen paces long. It contained trunks, bags, and files of papers.

  Chasan opened one trunk and immediately slammed it shut again — it was full of silver ingots. You couldn’t take many of those; they were too heavy. But the bags were filled with jangling gold coins, and the uncle smacked his lips in approval. He began stuffing bags inside his coat and then heaping them up on his cloak.

  Achimas was more interested in the files, which turned out to contain share certificates and bonds. He began selecting the ones that came from mass issues and had the highest face value. Shares in Rothschild, Krupp, and the Khludov factories were worth more than gold, but Chasan was a man of the old breed and he would never have believed that.

  Grunting again, he loaded his heavy bundle onto his back and glanced around regretfully — there were still so many bags left — then sighed and started toward the door. Achimas had a thick wad of securities inside his coat. Evgenia had not taken anything.

  When Chasan began climbing up the shallow steps to the yard, there was a sudden volley of shots. Chasan tumbled backward and slid down the steps headfirst. His face was the face of a man overtaken by sudden death. His cloak came untied and the gold scattered downward, glittering and jingling.

  Achimas went down on all fours, scrambled up the steps, and peered out cautiously. He was holding a long-barrel American Colt revolver, loaded with six bullets.

  The yard was empty. His enemies had taken up a position on the veranda of the house and could not be seen from below. But it was also unlikely that they could see Achimas, because the steps of the staircase were shrouded in intense darkness.

  “One of you is dead!” Lazar Medvedev’s voice called out. “Who is it, Chasan or Achimas?”

  Achimas took aim at the voice, but did not fire — he did not like to miss.

  “Chasan, it was Chasan,” the baptized Jew shouted triumphantly. “Your figure, Mr. Welde, is slimmer. Come out, young man. You have nowhere to go. Do you know what electricity is? When the door of the repository opens, an alarm bell sounds in my bedroom. There are four of us here — me and three of my soldiers; I’ve sent the fourth one for the superintendent. Come out, let’s stop wasting time! The hour is getting late!”

  They fired another volley — evidently trying to frighten him. The hail of bullets rattled against the stone walls.

  Evgenia whispered from behind him: “I’ll go out. It’s dark, I’m wearing a cloak, they won’t understand. They’ll think it’s you. They’ll break cover and you can shoot them all.”

  Achimas pondered her suggestion. He could take Evgenia with him, now that there was a free horse. It was just a pity that they would never reach the copse. “No,” he said, “they are too afraid of me, they will start shooting immediately.”

  “They won’t,” Evgenia replied. “I’ll raise my hands high in the air.” She stepped lightly over Achimas’s recumbent form and walked out into the yard, her hands thrown out to the sides, as if she were afraid of losing her balance. When she had taken five steps a ragged volley of shots rang out.

  Evgenia was thrown backward. Four shadows cautiously climbed down from the dark veranda and approached the motionless body. I was right, thought Achimas, they did fire. And he killed all four of them.

  In the years that followed he rarely remembered Evgenia. Only if some chance occurrence happened to remind him of her. Or in his dreams.

  * * *

  MAITRE LICOLLE

  * * *

  ONE

  At the age of thirty Achimas Welde was fond of playing roulette. It was not a matter of money. He earned money, plenty of it — far more than he was able to spend — by other means. He enjoyed defeating blind chance and exercising control over the elemental force of numbers. It seemed to him that the spinning roulette wheel, with its pleasant clicking sound and bright gleam of metal and polished mahogany, followed laws of its own that no one else knew, and yet precise calculation, restraint, and control of the emotions were just as effective here as they were in every other situation with which Achimas was familiar, and therefore the basic law must be the same one that he had known since his childhood. The underlying unity of life through its infinite variety of forms — this was what interested Achimas above all else. Each new confirmation of this basic truth made the regular rhythm of his heart beat just a little faster.

  His life included occasional prolonged periods of idleness, when he had to find something to occupy his time. The English had come up with an excellent invention when they devised the so-called ‘hobby,’ and Achimas had two of them: roulette and women. He preferred the very finest of women, the most genuine kind — professional women. They were undemanding and predictable; they understood that there were rules that had to be observed. Women were also infinitely varied, while still remaining the one, eternally unchanging Woman. Achimas ordered the most expensive from an agency in Paris — usually for a month at a time. If he happened to find a very good one, he would extend the contract for a second term, but never for longer than that — that was his rule.

  For the last two years he had been living in the German resort of Ruletenburg, because here, in the liveliest town in Europe, both his hobbies could be pursued without any difficulty. Ruletenburg was like Solen-ovodsk — it also had mineral springs, and a leisured, idle throng of people. No one knew anyone or took any interest in anyone else. All that was missing were the mountains, but the overall impression of imperma-nence, of artificiality, was precisely the same. Achimas thought of the resort as a neat and accurate model of life made to a scale of 1:500 or 1:1000. A man lived five hundred months on this earth, or, if he were lucky, a thousand, but people came to Ruletenburg for one month. That is, the average lifetime of a resort resident had a length of thirty days and that was the precise rate at which the generations succeeded each other here. Everything was accommodated within this period — the joy of arrival, the process of habituation, the f
irst signs of boredom, the sadness at the thought of returning to that other, bigger world. At the resort there were brief romances and tempestuous but short- lived passions, ephemeral local celebrities, and transient sensations. But Achimas was a constant spectator at this puppet theater, for unlike all the other residents he himself had determined the length of his own lifetime here.

  He lived in one of the finest suites in the hotel Kaiser, the preferred accommodation of Indian nabobs, Americans who owned gold mines, and Russian grand dukes traveling incognito. His intermediaries knew where to find him. When Achimas accepted a commission, his suite was kept for him and sometimes it would stand empty for weeks, or even months, depending on the complexity of the matter he had to deal with.

  Life was pleasant. Periods of exertion alternated with periods of recreation, when his eyes were gladdened by the dense green of baize and his ears by the regular clicking of the roulette wheel. All around him passions raged, heightened and intensified by their condensed timescale: respectable gentlemen blanching and blushing by turns, ladies swooning, someone shaking the final gold coin out of his wallet with trembling hands. Achimas never wearied of observing this fascinating spectacle. He himself never lost, because he had a System.

  The System was so simple and obvious that it was amazing that no one else used it. They quite simply lacked patience, restraint, and the ability to control their emotions — all the things that Achimas possessed in abundance. All that was needed was to bet on one and the same sector, constantly doubling up the stake. If you had a lot of money, sooner or later you would get back all that you had lost and win something into the bargain. That was the entire secret. But you had to place your bet on a large sector, not a single number. Achimas usually preferred a third of the wheel.

  He walked over to the table where they played without any limits on stakes, waited until the ball had failed to land in one or another of the thirds six times in a row, and then began to play. For his first bet he staked a single gold coin. If his third did not come up, he staked two gold coins on it the next time, then four, and then eight, and so on until the ball eventually landed where it should. Achimas could raise his stake to absolutely any level — he had more than enough money. On one occasion, shortly before the previous Christmas, the third on which he was staking his money had failed to come up for twenty-two spins in a row — the six preliminary spins and sixteen on which he had placed bets. But Achimas had never doubted his eventual success, for each failure improved his chances.