Erast Fandorin 04 - The Death of Achilles

by Boris Akunin

  Achimas noticed that Sobolev was carrying a large and apparently rather heavy calfskin briefcase. A comical touch: The mark had brought along the fee for his own elimination.

  The correspondents dashed into the lobby after the hero, hoping for at least some small pickings — the chance to ask a quick question or spot some telling detail. But Achimas behaved differently. He slowly approached the valet and cleared his throat respectfully to draw attention to his presence. Then he waited to be noticed before bothering the man with any questions.

  The valet, a bloated old man with bushy, cross-looking gray eyebrows (Achimas knew his entire life story, with all his habits and weaknesses, including a fatal predisposition for taking an early-morning hair of the dog for his hangover) squinted in annoyance at the fop in the straw hat, but, appreciating his tact, graciously condescended to turn halfway around toward him.

  “I’m a correspondent with the Moscow Gazette” Achimas said quickly, eager to exploit his opportunity. “I wouldn’t dare to bother His Excellency with tiresome questions, but on behalf of the people of Moscow I would like to inquire as to the White General’s intentions concerning his visit to the old capital. And who should know that if not yourself, Anton Lukich?”

  “We know right enough, only we don’t tell just anyone,” the valet replied pedantically, but it was clear that he felt flattered.

  Achimas opened his notebook and assumed the pose of someone ready to jot down every precious word. Lukich drew himself erect and began speaking pompously: “The schedule for today is relaxation. His Excellency is tired after the maneuvers and his railway journey. No visits, no formal banquets, and instructions are: God forbid that any of your colleagues should get anywhere near him. And no speeches or deputations, either, oh, no. Instructions are to book dinner in the hotel restaurant for half past eight. If you want to gawk at him, book a table before it’s too late. But you have to keep your distance and not bother him with any questions.”

  Achimas pressed his hand to his heart prayerfully and inquired in a sugary voice: “And what plans does His Excellency have for the evening? ”

  The valet frowned.

  “That’s none of my business and even less of yours.”

  Excellent, thought Achimas. The target’s business meetings start tomorrow, but it seems that this evening is indeed reserved for relaxation. On that point our interests coincide.

  Now he had to make sure that Wanda was ready.

  Just as she had promised, the young woman was waiting for him in her suite — and she was alone. She glanced at Achimas rather strangely, as if she were expecting something from him, but when her guest began talking about business, Wanda’s eyes glazed over with boredom.

  “We agreed on everything, didn’t we?” she remarked carelessly. “What’s the point in wading through all the details? I know my trade, Kolya.”

  Achimas glanced around the room that served simultaneously as salon and boudoir. Everything was just as it should be: flowers, candles, fruit. The songstress had laid in some champagne for herself, but she had not forgotten the bottle of Chateau d’Yquem that she been told to get the day before.

  In her claret-colored dress with its plunging neckline, tight-fitting waist, and provocative bustle, Wanda looked stunningly seductive. That was all very well, but would the fish bite?

  In Achimas’s estimation, he was bound to:

  No normal, healthy man could resist Wanda’s advances.

  If his information was correct — and Monsieur NN had not disappointed him so far — -Sobolev was not merely a normal man, but a man who had endured a forced fast for at least a month.

  Mademoiselle Wanda was precisely the same physical type as the general’s amour in Minsk, the old flame to whom he had proposed, only to be rejected and later abandoned.

  All said, the powder keg was ready and waiting. But to make detonation certain, a spark would be required.

  “Why are you wrinkling up your forehead like that, Kolya? Afraid your compatriot won’t like the look of me?” Wanda asked defiantly, but Achimas caught a hint of suppressed anxiety in her intonation. Every great beauty and incorrigible heartbreaker needed constant reassurance that she was absolutely irresistible. Nestled in the heart of every femme fatale was a little worm that whispered: “But what if the magic doesn’t work this time?”

  Depending on her particular character, a woman needed either to be given assurances that she was the fairest in the land, more radiantly lovely than all the rest, or, on the contrary, to have her competitive spirit aroused. Achimas was certain that Wanda belonged to the second type.

  “I saw him today,” he said with a sigh and a doubtful glance at the songstress. “I am afraid I might have chosen the wrong present. In Ryazan Mikhail Dmitrievich has the reputation of a great breaker of hearts, but he looks so very serious. What if it doesn’t work? What if the general isn’t interested in our little gift?”

  “Well, that’s for me to worry about, not you,” said Wanda, flashing her eyes at him. “All you have to do is pay the money. Did you bring it?”

  He put the wad of notes on the table without a word.

  Wanda took the money and made great play of pretending to count it.

  “All ten thousand? All right, then.” She tapped Achimas lightly on the nose with her finger. “Don’t you be concerned, Kolya. You men are a simpleminded bunch. Your great hero won’t escape my clutches. Tell me, does he like songs? As I recall, there’s a baby grand in the Dusseaux.”

  That’s it, thought Achimas. The spark to detonate the powder keg.

  “Yes, he does. His favorite romantic ballad is ‘The Rowan Tree’. Do you know it?”

  Wanda thought for a moment and shook her head.

  “No, I don’t sing many Russian songs, mostly European ones. But that’s not a problem; I can find it in a moment.”

  She picked up a songbook off the piano and leafed through it until she found the song.

  “This one, you mean?”

  She ran her fingers over the keys, hummed the tune without any words, then began singing in a low voice:

  In vain the rustling rowan Reaches to the oak tree. Forever a poor orphan, I tremble, sad and lonely.

  “What pathetic nonsense! Heroes are such sentimental souls.” She glanced rapidly at Achimas. “You go now. Your Ryazan general will snatch at his present; he’ll grab it with both hands.”

  Achimas didn’t go.

  “A lady is not supposed to arrive at a restaurant unaccompanied. What can we do about that?”

  Wanda rolled her eyes up in mock mortification.

  “Kolya, I don’t interfere in your dealings in calico, so don’t you meddle in my professional arrangements.”

  He stood there for a moment, listening to that low, passionate voice pouring out the torment of its longing to throw itself into the embrace of the oak tree. Then he quietly turned and walked to the door.

  The melody broke off. Behind his back Wanda asked: “Don’t you regret it, Kolya? Giving me away to someone else?”

  Achimas turned around.

  “All right, go,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Business is business.”

  * * *

  EIGHT

  In the restaurant at the hotel Dusseaux all the tables were taken, but Achimas’s domesticated porter had kept his word and saved the most convenient one for his newspaperman — in the corner, with a view of the entire hall. At twenty minutes to nine, three officers entered with a jangling of spurs, followed by the general himself and then another four officers. The other diners, who had been strictly cautioned by the maitre d’hotel not to pester the general with any unwanted expressions of esteem, behaved with appropriate tact and pretended they had simply come to the restaurant for dinner, not to gawk at the great man.

  Sobolev took the wine list, failed to discover Chateau d’Yquem on it, and ordered some to be brought from Levet’s shop. His retinue elected to drink champagne and cognac.

  The military gentlemen talked amon
g themselves in low voices, with several outbursts of general merriment, in which the general’s lilting baritone could be clearly distinguished. The overall impression was that the conspirators were in excellent spirits, which suited Achimas very well.

  At five minutes past nine, when the Chateau d’Yquem had been delivered and duly uncorked, the doors of the restaurant swung inward as though wafted open by some gust of magical wind and Wanda appeared on the threshold, poised picturesquely, her entire lithe figure leaning forward. Her face was flushed and her huge eyes glowed like midnight stars. The entire hall turned around at the sound and froze, entranced by the miraculous spectacle. The glorious general seemed to have turned to stone, the pickled mushroom on his fork suspended halfway to his mouth.

  Wanda paused for just a moment — long enough for her audience to admire the effect, but too brief for them to stick their faces back in their plates.

  “There he is, our hero!” the miraculous vision declared resoundingly.

  And with a loud clattering of heels, she rushed impetuously into the hall.

  The claret silk rustled and the ostrich feather on her wide-brimmed hat swayed. The maitre d’hotel fluttered his hands in horror, recalling the prohibition on any public displays of feeling, but he need not have been alarmed: Sobolev was not in the least bit indignant. He wiped his glistening lips with a napkin and rose gallantly to his feet.

  “Why do you remain seated, gentlemen, and not pay tribute to the glory of the Russian land?” the ecstatic patriot cried, appealing to the hall, determined not to allow the initiative to slip from her grasp even for a moment. “Hurrah for Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev!”

  It was as if this was what the diners had all been waiting for. They jumped up from their chairs and began applauding, and the thunderous enthusiasm of their ‘hurrah’ set the crystal chandelier swaying beneath the ceiling.

  Reddening most fetchingly, the general bowed to all sides. Despite being famous throughout the whole of Europe and loved throughout all Russia, he still seemed unaccustomed to public displays of enthusiastic admiration.

  The vision of beauty dashed up to the hero and flung her slim arms open wide.

  “Permit me to embrace you on behalf of all the women of Moscow!”

  She cried and, clasping him firmly around the neck, she kissed him three times in the old Moscow manner — full on the lips.

  Sobolev turned an even deeper shade of crimson.

  “Gukmasov, move over,” he said, tapping the Cossack captain on the shoulder and pointing to an empty chair. “Please do me the honor, madam.”

  “No, no, what are you saying?” the delightful blonde exclaimed in fright. “How could I possibly? But if you will permit me, I would be glad to sing my favorite song for you.”

  And with the same impetuous abandon, she launched herself toward the small grand piano standing in the middle of the hall.

  In Achimas’s view, Wanda’s approach was too direct, even a little coarse, but he could see that she was quite sure of herself and knew perfectly well what she was doing. It was a pleasure to work with a true professional. He was finally persuaded when the first notes of that deep, slightly hoarse voice set every heart in the hall quivering:

  Why do you stand so weary, My slender rowanberry, With murmurs sad and dreary Bowing down your head?

  Achimas stood up and walked out quietly. Nobody took any notice of him — they were all listening to the song.

  Now he could sneak into Wanda’s suite and switch the bottles of Chateau d’Yquem.

  * * *

  NINE

  The operation went so smoothly that it was almost boring. All that was required of him was a little patience.

  At a quarter past twelve three droshkys pulled up outside the Anglia: Wanda and the mark were in the first and all seven officers were in the other two.

  Achimas (wearing a false beard and spectacles, quite unmistakably a university lecturer) had earlier taken a two-room suite at the hotel with windows facing in both directions — onto the street and into the courtyard with the annex. He turned the light off so that his silhouette wouldn’t give him away.

  The general was well guarded. When Sobolev and his female companion disappeared behind the door of Wanda’s suite, the officers prepared to stand watch over their leader’s recreation: One remained in the street, at the entrance to the hotel, another began patrolling the inner courtyard, while a third quietly slipped inside the annex and evidently took up a position in the hallway. The other four set off to the buffet. They were evidently going to keep watch by turns.

  At twenty-three minutes to one the electric light in the windows of the suite was extinguished and the curtains were illuminated with a dull red glow from within. Achimas nodded approvingly — the chanteuse was playing her part with true Parisian virtuosity.

  The officer strolling about in the courtyard glanced around stealthily, walked over to a red window, and stood on tiptoe, but then recoiled as if he were ashamed and resumed his striding back and forth again, whistling with emphatic cheerfulness.

  Achimas gazed intently at the minute hand of his watch. What if the White General, so famous for his coolness in battle, never lost his head and his pulse never raced, not even from passion? That was unlikely, for it contradicted the laws of physiology. In the restaurant he had blushed violently at Wanda’s kisses and more than mere kisses would be involved now.

  A more likely possibility was that he would not touch the Chateau d’Yquem. But the laws of psychology said that he should. If lovers don’t throw themselves into each other’s arms in the first instant — and a good twenty minutes had passed before the lamp in the boudoir was extinguished — they had to amuse themselves with something. The best thing of all would be for him to drink a glass of his favorite wine, which happened quite fortuitously to be close at hand. And if he didn’t drink it today, then he would drink it tomorrow. Or the next day. Sobolev would be in Moscow until the twenty-seventh and there could be little doubt that from now on he would prefer to spend the night here instead of in suite 47 at the Dusseaux. The Ryazan Commercial Association would be only too glad to pay the cost of a season ticket for their compatriot — Monsieur NN had provided more than enough money for expenses.

  At five minutes past one Achimas heard a muffled woman’s scream, then another, louder and more prolonged, but he couldn’t make out any words. The officer in the courtyard started and set off toward the annex at a run. A moment later bright light flooded the windows and shadows began flitting about on the curtains.

  That was all.

  Achimas walked unhurriedly in the direction of Theater Lane, swinging his cane as he went. There was plenty of time. It took seven minutes to reach the Dusseaux at a leisurely pace — that afternoon he had walked the shortest route twice, timing himself with his watch. The fuss and panic, the attempts to bring the general around, the arguments about whether or not to call a doctor to the hotel or first take Sobolev to the Dusseaux for the sake of appearances — these would take at least an hour.

  His problem lay elsewhere: What was he to do with Wanda now? The elementary rules of hygiene required him to clean up after the job was done, to leave no loose ends behind. Of course, there wouldn’t be any inquiry — the officers and gentlemen would make certain of that — and Monsieur NN wouldn’t allow it in any case. And Wanda was extremely unlikely to have noticed that the bottle had been switched. However, if the subject of the bearer of gifts from Ryazan should come up, if it should be discovered that the real Nikolai Nikolaevich Klonov had never set foot outside his own fabric warehouse, there would be unnecessary complications. And in the words of the old saying: God helps those who help themselves.

  Achimas frowned. Unfortunately, his line of work did have its unpleasant moments.

  It was with these gloomy but unavoidable thoughts in mind that he turned off Sofiiskaya Street into the opening of an entryway that led most conveniently to the rear courtyard of the Dusseaux, directly beneath the windows of Sobolev�
�s suite.

  With a quick glance at the dark windows (all the hotel’s guests had been asleep for a long time already), Achimas set a crate that he had spotted earlier against the wall. The bedroom window opened at his gentle push with only a quiet jingling of its latch. Five seconds later Achimas was inside.

  He clicked the spring of his pocket flashlight and it sprang to life, slicing through the darkness with a narrow, faint beam that was still quite strong enough for him to make out the safe.

  Achimas pushed a pick into the keyhole and began methodically twisting it to the left and the right in a regular rhythm. He regarded himself as an amateur in the art of safecracking, but in the course of a long career you learn many different things. After three minutes there was a click as the first of the lock’s three tumblers yielded. The remaining two required less time — only about two minutes.

  The iron door squeaked open. Achimas put his hand inside and felt some papers or other. He shone the light in: lists of names and diagrams. Monsieur NN would probably have been very glad to get his hands on these papers, but the terms of Achimas’s contract didn’t specify the theft of any documents.

  In any case, just at that moment Achimas wasn’t interested in documents.

  He was pondering a surprise: The briefcase was not in the safe.

  * * *

  TEN

  Achimas spent all Friday lying on his bed, thinking hard. He knew from experience that when you find yourself in a difficult spot, rather than giving way to your first impulse, it is best to stop moving, to freeze the way a cobra does just before its deadly, lightning-fast strike. Provided, of course, that circumstances permit a pause in the action. In this particular case they did, since the basic precautions had already been taken. Last night Achimas had checked out of the Metropole and moved to the Trinity, a collection of cheap apartments in the Trinity Inn. The crooked, dirty alleyways around Pokrovsky Boulevard were only a stone’s throw away from Khitrovka, and that was where he would have to search for the briefcase.