by Boris Akunin
“We are aware of the conspirators’ plans. At the present moment Sobolev is conducting maneuvers that are in actual fact a rehearsal for the coup. He will then set out for Moscow, accompanied by his retinue, in order to meet with certain Guards officers far away from St. Petersburg, assure himself of their support, and work out his final disposition of forces. The blow will be struck at the beginning of July, during a parade at Tsarskoe Selo. Sobolev intends to take the members of the royal family into ‘temporary custody’ — for their own good and in the name of the salvation of the fatherland.” His intonation became intensely sarcastic. “The fatherland itself will be declared in such grave danger that a military dictatorship will have to be established. There are serious grounds to suppose that this insane project will be supported by a significant portion of the army, the gentry, the merchantry, and even the peasantry. The White General is ideally suited to the role of savior of the fatherland!”
Monsieur NN got to his feet and strode angrily along the wall, cracking his knuckles. Nonetheless, he remained in the shadows as before and did not show his face. Achimas could only make out an aristocratic nose and lush sideburns.
“So you should be aware, Mr. Welde, that in this case you will not be committing any crime, because Sobolev has been condemned to death by a court that included the most senior dignitaries in the empire. Of the twenty judges appointed by His Imperial Majesty, seventeen voted for the death penalty. And the emperor has already confirmed the verdict. It was a secret court, but no less legitimate for that. The gentleman whom you took for an intermediary was one of the judges and was acting in the interests of security and peace in Europe. As you are probably aware, Sobolev is the leader of the militant Slavist party, and his accession to power would inevitably lead to war with Germany and Austria- Hungary.”
The man of state stopped speaking and looked at his imperturbable listener.
“Therefore you have no reason to fear for your life. You are not dealing with criminals, but with the supreme authority of a great empire. You are being asked to play the role of an executioner, not a murderer. Do you find my explanation satisfactory?”
“Let us assume so,” said Achimas, placing his hands on the table. There was apparently no prospect of any shooting. “But what exactly is it that makes the job so difficult? Why can the general not simply be poisoned, or even shot, if it comes to that?”
“Aha — you would appear to have accepted our proposal.” Monsieur NN nodded in satisfaction and lowered himself onto the chair. “Now I shall explain why we need such an authoritative specialist. Let us start with the fact that it is very difficult to get close to Sobolev. He is surrounded day and night by adjutants and orderlies who are fanatically devoted to him. And he cannot simply be killed — that would set the whole of Russia up in arms. He must die naturally, without any ambiguities or suspicions. But even that is not enough. We ourselves could eliminate the criminal by using poison, but the conspiracy has already gone too far. Even the death of their leader cannot stop the conspirators. They will carry their cause through to the end, believing that they are acting on Sobolev’s behest. It is most probable that without their leader they will achieve nothing, but Russia will be plunged into bloody chaos and the supreme authority will be utterly compromised. By comparison with Sobolev’s gentlemen, the Decembrists will come to seem like naughty children. And now allow me to lay the task before you in all its baffling complexity.”
He summed up briskly, slashing at the darkness with a white-gloved hand.
“Sobolev must be eliminated in such a way that his death will appear natural to the general public and not provoke its indignation. We shall organize a sumptuous funeral, set up a monument to him, and even name some ship or other in his honor. Russia cannot be deprived of her only national hero. At the same time, however, Sobolev must die in such a way that his coconspirators will be demoralized and unable to rally around his banner. While remaining a hero in the eyes of the common crowd, he must be stripped of his halo for the conspirators. And so you can see for yourself that such a task is far beyond any novice. Tell me, is it really possible at all?”
For the first time the speaker’s voice betrayed a note of something akin to uncertainty.
Achimas asked: “How and when shall I receive the remainder of the money?”
Monsieur NN sighed in relief.
“When Sobolev leaves for Moscow, he will be carrying all the funds for the conspiracy with him — about a million rubles. Preparations for a coup require substantial expenditures. After killing Sobolev, you will take the money for yourself. I trust that you can manage that task with no difficulty?”
“Today is the twenty-first of June by the Russian calendar. You say that the coup has been set for the beginning of July. When is Sobolev leaving for Moscow?”
“Tomorrow. Or the day after at the very latest. And he will be there until the twenty-seventh. Then he will pay a visit to his estate in Ryazan and go directly from there to St. Petersburg. We know that he has arranged meetings with his generals for the twenty-fifth, twenty-sixth, and twenty-seventh, for which they will make a special journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow. But I will not name any unnecessary names. Without Sobolev, these people are not dangerous. In time we shall retire them quietly, with no publicity. But it would be better if Sobolev had no chance to meet with them. We do not wish distinguished generals to besmirch their reputations with state treason.”
“In your circumstances, you cannot afford to be so considerate,” said Achimas with sudden abruptness. The task was difficult enough without the time allowed being shortened unnecessarily. “You wish me to complete the task before the twenty-fifth of June, that is, you are giving me only three days. It is rather short notice. I shall do my best, but I can promise nothing.”
That same day Achimas paid his assistants what was due to them and dismissed them — he had no more need of their services.
He himself boarded the night train to Moscow.
* * *
FOUR
According to a system of classification that Achimas had developed earlier in his life, the current task belonged to the fourth and highest category of difficulty: the disguised murder of a celebrity with an extremely tight deadline and the complication of additional conditions.
There were three difficulties.
First, the target’s strong and devoted bodyguard.
Second, the need to imitate a natural death.
Third, the fact that in the eyes of the general public the death had to appear respectable, but a narrow circle of initiates must regard it as shameful.
Interesting.
In anticipation of fruitful mental endeavor, Achimas settled himself comfortably on the small velvet divan in the first-class carriage. Ten hours of traveling ought to suffice. He didn’t need to sleep — when necessary, he could go without sleep for three or even four days. He had his training with Uncle Chasan to thank for that.
Also, der Reihe nach.* He took out the information that the client had provided at his request. This was a complete dossier on Sobolev that had clearly taken several years to compile; a detailed biography including his service record, interests, and connections. Achimas failed to discover in it a single useful eccentricity that might offer some leverage — Sobolev was not a gambler, or an opium addict, or a dipsomaniac. His character reference was dominated by the word ‘excellent’: an excellent horseman, excellent marksman, excellent billiards player. Very well.
Achimas moved on to the ‘interests’ section. Drinks in moderation, prefers Chateau d’Yquem, smokes Brazilian cigars, likes romantic Russian ballads, especially ‘The Rowan Tree’ (composer Mr. I. Surikov). Yes, yes.
“Intimate habits.” Alas, disappointment awaited Achimas here as well. Not a homosexual, not a disciple of the Marquis de Sade, not a pedophile. Formerly, it seemed, he was a well-known womanizer, but for the last two years he had remained faithful to his mistress, Ekaterina Golovina, a teacher at the Minsk girls’ grammar sc
hool. There was information to the effect that a month ago he had offered to legitimize their relationship, but for some unknown reason Golovina had refused him, and the relationship was broken off. Right, there was something in this.
* And so, everything in order. (German) Achimas looked pensively out of the window. He picked up the next document, which detailed the names and character references of officers in Sobolev’s retinue. For the most part they were men of the world who had seen military action. When he traveled, the general was always accompanied by at least seven or eight men. Sobolev never went anywhere alone. That was bad. Even worse was the fact that the food the general ate was checked, not just by one taster, but by two: his senior orderly, the Cossack captain Gukmasov, and his personal valet.
However, the only possible way to imitate a natural death without arousing suspicion was to use poison. An accident would not suit — they always left a lingering odor of suspicion.
How could he bypass the tasters and give his mark the poison? Who was closer to Sobolev than his orderly and valet?
Apparently no one was. There was his old flame in Minsk; no doubt he had eaten from her hands without having the food checked. But the relationship had been broken off.
Stop! That thought clearly pointed in the right direction. A woman could get closer to a man than anyone else, even if he had only made her acquaintance recently. Always assuming, naturally, that they entered into intimate relations. In that case the adjutants and the valets would have to wait outside the door.
So, when had Sobolev broken things off with his mistress? A month ago. He must be famished by now — he would have had no time for love affairs on maneuvers, and they would have been reported in the file. He was a hot-blooded man, in the very prime of life. And in addition he was plotting an enterprise so risky that he could not possibly know how it would turn out for him.
Achimas half-closed his eyes.
Sitting opposite him were a lady and her son, a junior cadet. She was talking to him in a low voice, trying to persuade him to behave himself and stop wriggling.
“You see, Sergei, that gentleman is trying to work and you’re being naughty,” the lady said in French.
The boy looked at the neat, blond-haired man in the fine-quality gray jacket. The German had spread out some boring papers on his knees and was moving his lips without speaking.
The German glanced at the cadet from under his eyebrows and suddenly winked with a pale eye.
Sergei scowled.
The renowned Achilles did have a vulnerable heel, and one that was not particularly original, Achimas concluded. There was no point in trying to be too clever and reinvent the bicycle. The simpler the method, the surer.
The logic of the operation defined itself:
A woman was the most appropriate bait for a strong, healthy male of Sobolev’s character who was weary of abstinence.
The easiest way of all to give the mark poison was by using a woman.
In Russia debauchery was regarded as shameful and certainly unworthy of a national hero. If a hero gave up the ghost, not on the field of battle, or even in a hospital bed, but in a bed of vice with his mistress, or even better, with some slut, according to the Russian way of thinking, that would be (a) indecent, (b) comical, (c) simply stupid. Heroes were not forgiven for such behavior.
The retinue would take care of everything else. The adjutants would go to any lengths to conceal the unseemly circumstances of the White General’s death from the public. However, word would spread in a flash among those close to him, among the conspirators. It is hard to oppose an emperor without a leader, especially if the place of the knightly banner fluttering above one’s head has been taken by a stained bedsheet. The White General would no longer appear so very white to his own devotees.
Well, then, the general method had been determined. Now for the specifics.
Among the various useful things he carried in his trunk Achimas had a generous selection of chemical compounds. The one ideally suited to the present case was an extract of the juice of an Amazonian fern. Give two drops of this colorless and almost tasteless liquid to a healthy man and a slight increase in the rate of his heartbeat would induce respiratory paralysis and heart failure. The death, moreover, appeared perfectly natural and it would never enter anyone’s head to suspect poisoning. In any case, after two or three hours it was quite impossible to detect any trace of the poison.
It was a reliable method, proved repeatedly in practice. Achimas had used it most recently the year before last, in carrying out a commission for a certain idle parasite in London who wished to get rid of his millionaire uncle. The operation was completed simply and elegantly. The loving nephew arranged a dinner in honor of his dear uncle. Achimas was among the guests. First he had drunk poisoned champagne with the old man, and then whispered to the millionaire that his nephew wished to do away with him. The uncle had turned scarlet, clutched at his heart, and collapsed as if his legs had been scythed from beneath him. The death had occurred in the presence of a dozen witnesses. Achimas had walked back to his hotel at a slow, measured pace — in order to allow the poison to disperse and become ineffective.
The target had been an elderly man in poor health. Experience had shown that the substance took effect in a strong, young man when his pulse reached a rate of eighty to eighty-five beats a minute.
The question, therefore, was whether the general’s heart would accelerate to eighty-five beats a minute at the climax of his passion.
The answer was that it was certain to do so, for that was the very nature of passion. Especially if its object were sufficiently sultry.
Only one trifling matter remained — to locate a suitable demi-mondaine.
* * *
FIVE
In Moscow, following his instructions, Achimas put up at the fashionable new hotel Metropole under the name of Nikolai Nikolaevich Klonov, a merchant from Ryazan.
Using the number provided by Monsieur NN, he telephoned his client’s representative in Moscow, whom he had been told to address as ‘Mr. Nemo’. Achimas no longer found these absurd aliases laughable — it was clear that these people were deadly serious.
“Hello,” said a crackling voice in the earpiece.
“This is Klonov,” Achimas said into the mouthpiece. “I would like to speak to Mr. Nemo.”
“Speaking,” said the voice.
“Please tell them to send me a verbal portrait of Ekaterina Golovina urgently.”
Achimas repeated the name of Sobolev’s mistress one more time and disconnected the telephone.
The defenders of the throne were evidently not very good conspirators. Achimas took the telephone directory from the koelner and looked to see which subscriber was registered under the number 211. Court Counselor Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky, head of the governor-general’s secret chancelry. Not bad.
Two hours later a courier delivered a sealed envelope to the hotel. The telegram was brief: “Blond, blue-gray eyes, slightly aquiline nose, thin, well-proportioned, height two arshins and four vershoks, small bust, slim waist, mole on right cheek, scar on left knee from a fall from a horse. NN.”
The information concerning the left knee and the mole was superfluous. The important thing was that the type was clearly denned: a short, slim blonde.
“Tell me, my dear fellow, what’s your name?”
Number 19 was regarding the koelner uncertainly, as if he were embarrassed. The koelner, a man of some experience, was well acquainted with that tone of voice and that expression. He wiped the smile off his face, in order not to embarrass the guest with his excessive perspicacity, and replied: “Timofei, Your Honor. Can I be of any service to you?”
Number 19 (according to the register, a merchant of the first guild from Ryazan) led Timofei away from the counter to the window and handed him a ruble.
“I’m feeling bored, brother. Lonely. I could do with a bit of… entertaining company.”
The merchant fluttered his white eyelashes and blush
ed a pale pink. How pleasant it was to deal with such a sensitive individual.
The koelner shrugged and raised his hands.
“Why, nothing could be simpler, sir. We have plenty of friendly young ladies here in Moscow. Would you like me to give you an address?”
“No, no address. What I’d like is someone special, who can think a bit. I don’t like the cheap ones,” said the merchant from Ryazan, taking heart.
“We have some like that, too.” Timofei began bending down his fingers as he counted. “Varya Serebryanaya sings at the Yar — a very preventable girl; she won’t go with just anyone. Then there’s Mam’selle Carmencita, a very modern individual; she makes her arrangements on the telephone. Mam’selle Wanda sings at the Alpine Rose, a young lady of very discriminating taste. There are two dancers at the French Operetta, Lisette and Anisette, they’re very popular, sir. And as for the actresses…”
“That’s it, I’d like an actress,” said number 19, brightening even further. “Only to suit my taste. I have no time for over-fleshy women, Timofei. What I like is a slim woman with a thin waist, not too tall, and she has to be blond.”
The koelner thought for a moment and said: “Then that means Wanda from the Rose. Blond and skinny. But very popular. Most of the others are on the fleshy side. Can’t be helped, sir, it’s the fashion.”
“Tell me what this Wanda’s like.”
“She’s a German. With the manners of an aristocrat. Thinks very highly of herself. Lives in grand style in a suite at the Anglia, with a separate entrance. She can afford it, sir, she takes five hundred for her services. And she’s choosy; she’ll only go with someone she likes.”
“Five hundred rubles? My goodness!” The merchant seemed to be interested. “And where could I take a look at this Wanda, Timofei? What is this place the Alpine Rose like?”
The koelner pointed out of the window.