by Boris Akunin
It proved to be good. Achimas took two steps forward and was gratified to see the handsome fellow’s cheeks blossom into patches of scarlet and then suddenly turn pale.
Now, young man, see what a capricious lady Fate is.
This was no man, but some kind of devil. He had even recognized the sharinken as a weapon. Erast Petrovich was seething with anger at being entirely stripped of his arsenal.
Or almost entirely.
Out of all his numerous means of defense (and he thought his selection had been too generous!), the only one left was the arrow in the sleeve of his shirt. A slim arrow of steel attached to a powerful spring. He only had to flex his elbow sharply and the spring would be released. But it was hard to kill anyone with an arrow — unless, that is, you could hit them precisely in the eye. And how could you make any sudden movements when you were looking down the barrel of a Baillard six-shooter?
At this point the dark silhouette moved closer and Fandorin finally had a clear view of his opponent’s face.
Those eyes! Those white eyes! The same face that Erast Petrovich had seen in his dreams all these years. It was impossible! This was another nightmare. If only he could wake up.
He had to exploit his psychological advantage, before his opponent could gather his wits.
“Who told you the address, the time, and the right knock?”
The detective didn’t answer.
Achimas lowered the barrel of his gun, aiming at a kneecap, but Fan-dorin didn’t seem to be frightened. On the contrary, he even seemed to turn a bit less pale.
“Wanda?” asked Achimas, unable to restrain himself, and there was a telltale note of hoarseness in his voice.
No, this one won’t tell me, he thought. He’ll die before he says anything. That’s his type.
Then suddenly the detective opened his mouth and spoke.
“I’ll tell you. In exchange for a question from me. How was Sobolev killed?”
Achimas shook his head. The boundless extent of human eccentricity never ceased to amuse him. But professional curiosity from a man about to die deserved some respect.
“All right,” he said with a nod. “But the answer must be honest. Your word on it?”
“My word.”
“A substance extracted from an Amazonian fern. Paralysis of the heart muscle when the heartbeat accelerates. No traces. The Chateau d’Yquem.”
No further clarification was required.
“Ah, so that was it,” muttered Fandorin.
“It was Wanda, then?” Achimas asked through clenched teeth.
“No, she didn’t give you away.”
The immense relief almost took Achimas’s breath away — for an instant he even closed his eyes.
When he saw the features of this man from his past tense in anticipation of his answer, Fandorin realized why he was still alive.
But the answer to this question that was so important to the man with white eyes would be followed instantly by a bullet.
He mustn’t miss that brief instant when the finger shifted slightly on the trigger as it began to move. An armed man dealing with an unarmed one inevitably suppressed his instinctive responses because he felt secure, and placed too much reliance on soulless metal. The reactions of such a man were retarded — this was basic to the art of the ‘stealthy ones’.
The important thing was to divine the precise moment. First dart forward to the left, and the bullet would pass you on the right. Then throw yourself at his feet, and the second bullet would pass over your head. And then an uppercut.
It was risky. Eight paces was quite a distance. And if his opponent decided to step back a bit, he could write the idea off.
But there was no other option.
And then the white-eyed man committed his first blunder — he closed his eyes for a moment.
That was enough. Erast Petrovich didn’t waste any time diving under bullets; he launched himself upward like a spring and shot through the window.
He broke out the frame with his elbows, flew on in a swirl of broken glass, somersaulted in the air, and landed safely in a squatting position. He didn’t even cut himself.
His ears were ringing — the man with white eyes must have fired a shot after all. But he had missed, naturally.
Fandorin began running along beside the wall. He snatched a whistle out of his trouser pocket and sounded the signal for the operation to begin.
Achimas had never seen a man move with such speed. One moment he was standing still, and the next his boots and white gaiters had disappeared through the window. He fired, but just a split second too late.
Without pausing for thought, he leapt over the glass-strewn windowsill and landed outside on all fours.
The detective was blowing frantically on a whistle as he ran. Achimas even felt slightly sorry for him — the poor fellow had been counting on support from the police.
Moving as lightly as a boy, Fandorin was already turning the corner. Achimas fired from the hip and chips of plaster sprayed off the wall. Not good enough.
But the outer courtyard was bigger than the inner one. His opponent would never reach the gates.
There they were, the gates — with their wooden canopy and carved pillars. A primordially Russian structure from the days before Peter the Great, but for some reason they were called ‘Swedish’ gates. Evidently in ancient times the Muscovites must have been taught this marvel of carpentry by some Swedish merchant.
The yardkeeper holding the broom froze in the middle of the courtyard with his gap-toothed mouth hanging open. The man who had been pretending to be a drunk was still sitting there on his bench, gawking at the collegiate assessor as he ran. The strange woman in the patterned shawl and shapeless coat had pressed herself fearfully against the wall. Erast Petrovich suddenly realized that they weren’t police agents! They were simply a yardkeeper, a lousy drunk, and a street beggar.
He heard running steps behind him.
Fandorin began zigzagging, and just in time. Something hot seared his shoulder. Nothing serious, just a graze.
Outside the gates the street was drenched in golden sunshine. It looked so close, but he would never make it.
Erast Petrovich stopped and turned around. What was the point of taking a bullet in the back?
The man with white eyes stopped, too. There had been three shots, so there were three bullets left in the Baillard. More than enough to put an end to the earthly journey of Mr. Erast Fandorin, twenty-six years of age, with no living relatives.
The distance was twenty-five paces. Too far for him to try to do anything. Where was Karachentsev? Where were his men? But he had no time to think about that now.
The arrow under the cuff of his shirt would hardly be effective at that kind of range. Nonetheless, Erast Petrovich raised his arm and prepared to flex his elbow.
The man with white eyes also took aim unhurriedly at his chest.
The collegiate assessor suddenly had a fleeting vision: the duel scene from Eugene Onegin. The man with white eyes was about to burst into song: “If I should fall, pierced by an arrow…”
Two bullets in the chest. Then walk up and put the third in his head.
Nobody would come running at the sound of shooting. In these parts you couldn’t find a constable for love or money. There was no need to hurry.
Then Achimas caught some rapid movement out of the corner of his eye. A low, squat shadow darting away from the wall.
Swinging around sharply, he saw a face with narrow slits for eyes contorted into a mask of fury beneath an absurd patterned shawl, he saw a mouth opened in a piercing shriek. The Japanese!
His finger squeezed the trigger.
The pitiful woman who had been huddling timidly against the wall suddenly uttered the war cry of the Yokohamayakuia and launched herself at the man with white eyes in exemplary jujitsu fashion.
The man turned adroitly and fired, but the woman ducked under the bullet and with a perfectly executed mawasagiri from the fourth position she
knocked the gunman off his feet. The absurd patterned shawl slid down to her shoulders, exposing a head of black hair bandaged with a white towel.
Masa! How could he be here? He’d followed him, the rogue! Fan-dorin had thought he was much too willing to let his master go alone!
And that wasn’t a shawl at all, it was a doormat from the Dusseaux! And the shapeless coat was the cover of an armchair!
But this was no moment for exercising his powers of retrospective observation. Erast Petrovich dashed forward, holding out the arm with the arrow, but he hesitated to shoot in case he might hit Masa.
The Japanese struck the man with white eyes across the wrist with the edge of his hand — the Baillard went flying into the air, landed on stone, and fired straight up into the bright blue sky.
The next moment a fist of iron struck the Japanese on the temple with all its power and Masa went limp and fell to the ground nose down.
The man with white eyes glanced rapidly at Fandorin’s advancing figure and the revolver lying out of reach. With a single agile bound he was on his feet and dashing back toward the inner courtyard.
He couldn’t reach the Baillard. His opponent was agile and skilled in unarmed combat. While he was busy with Fandorin, the Japanese would come around, and he could never deal with two skillful fighters like that alone.
Back to the room. The loaded Colt was lying up there, beside the bed.
Fandorin reduced his speed slightly and snatched up the revolver from the ground. It took less than half a second, but the man with white eyes had already disappeared around the corner. Another inappropriate thought flashed through his mind: They were just like children playing games — all running in one direction, then all turning around and running back again.
There had been five shots, so there was only one round left in the cylinder. He couldn’t afford to miss.
When he turned the corner, Erast Petrovich saw the man with white eyes with his hand already on the handle of the door to room number 7. The collegiate assessor loosed his arrow without taking aim.
Pointless — his opponent disappeared through the doorway.
Inside the door, Achimas suddenly stumbled as his leg folded under his weight and refused to obey him.
He glanced down, baffled — there was a metal shaft protruding from the side of his calf. What kind of witchcraft was this?
Defying the acute pain, he managed somehow to get up the steps and crawl across the floor on all fours to where the black Colt was lying. Just as his fingers closed on the grooved handle, there was a clap of thunder behind him.
Got him!
The dark figure was stretched out at full length. The black revolver had slipped out of the nerveless fingers.
Erast Petrovich bounded across the room and snapped up the weapon. He cocked the hammer and stepped back, just to be on the safe side.
The man with white eyes was lying facedown. There was a damp stain spreading across the middle of his back.
The collegiate assessor did not turn around at the pattering sound behind him — he recognized Masa’s short, rapid steps.
He said in Japanese: “Turn him over. But be careful, he’s very dangerous.”
In all his forty years, Achimas had never once been wounded. He was very proud of this, but secretly afraid that sooner or later his good luck would run out. He was not afraid of death, but being wounded — the pain and the helplessness — yes, he was afraid of that. What if the torment should prove unbearable? What if he were to lose control over his body and his spirit as he had so often seen others do?
It wasn’t painful. Not at all. But his body wouldn’t obey him anymore.
My spine’s broken, he thought. The Count of Santa Croce will never reach his island. It was an ordinary thought, without any regret.
Then something happened. His eyes had been looking at the dusty floorboards. Now suddenly they saw the gray ceiling, festooned with cobwebs in the corners.
Achimas moved his eyes. Fandorin was standing over him with a revolver in his hand.
How absurd a man appeared when you looked up at him from below. That was the way dogs and worms and insects saw us.
“Can you hear me?” the detective asked.
“Yes,” Achimas replied, and was surprised to hear how steady and strong his voice was.
The blood was flowing out of him incessantly — he could feel it. If it wasn’t stopped, everything would be all over soon. That was good. He had to make sure that the blood wasn’t stopped. To do that he had to talk.
The man on the floor looked up intently, as if he were trying to discern something very important in Erast Petrovich’s face. Then he started talking. In sparse, clear sentences.
“I propose a deal. I save your life. You carry out my request.”
“What request?” Fandorin asked in surprise, certain that the man with white eyes was raving. “And how can you save my life?”
“The request later. You are doomed. Only I can save you. You will be killed by your superiors. They have crossed out your name. From the list of the living. I failed to kill you. Others will not fail.”
“Nonsense!” exclaimed Erast Petrovich, but he had a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Where had the police got to? Where was Karachentsev?
“Let’s agree,” said the wounded man, licking his gray lips. “I tell you what to do. If you believe me, you carry out my request. If not, you don’t. Your word?”
Fandorin nodded, gazing spellbound at this man who had appeared out of his past.
“My request. There’s a briefcase under the bed. You know the one. No one will look for it. It’s a problem for everyone. The briefcase is yours. There’s also an envelope. It contains fifty thousand rubles. Send the envelope to Wanda. Will you do it?”
“No!” the collegiate assessor exclaimed indignantly. “All the money will be handed over to the authorities. I am no thief! I am a state official and a member of the nobility.”
Achimas turned his attention inward, to what was happening to his body. It seemed there was less time left than he had thought. It was getting harder to talk. He had to finish this.
“You are nobody and nothing. You are a dead man.” The outline of the detective’s face began to blur and Achimas started speaking more quickly. “Sobolev was condemned to death by a secret court. An imperial court. Now you know the whole truth. They will kill you for that. Raison d’etat. There are several passports in the briefcase. And a ticket for the Paris train. It leaves at eight. You have time. Otherwise you die.”
It was getting dark. Achimas made an effort and forced the shroud of darkness back.
Think quickly, he thought, urging Fandorin on. You’re a clever man and I have no time left.
The man with white eyes was speaking the truth.
When the full realization hit Erast Petrovich, he swayed on his feet.
In that case, he was done for. He had lost everything — his career, his honor, the very meaning of his life. That scoundrel Karachentsev had betrayed him and sent him to a certain death. No, it wasn’t Karachentsev — it was the state, his country, his fatherland.
He was only alive now thanks to a miracle. Or rather, thanks to Masa.
Fandorin glanced around at his servant, who stared back, goggle-eyed, pressing his hand to his bruised temple.
The poor fellow. No head, not even the very thickest, could put up with that kind of treatment. Ah, Masa, Masa, what are we going to do with you? You have bound your life to the wrong man.
“The request. Promise,” the dying man whispered faintly.
“I’ll carry it out,” Erast Petrovich muttered reluctantly.
The man with white eyes smiled and closed his eyes.
Achimas smiled and closed his eyes. Everything was all right. A good life, a good ending. Die, he told himself. He died.
* * *
THE FINAL CHAPTER
In which everything could not possibly work out better
The station bell rang for
the second time and the Ericsson locomotive began panting out smoke impatiently, eager to dart off and away along the gleaming rails in pursuit of the sun. The Moscow-Warsaw-Berlin-Paris transcontinental express was preparing to depart.
The sullen young man sitting in one of the first-class sleeping compartments (bronze, velvet, mahogany) was wearing a badly stained cream-colored jacket torn at the elbows. He gazed blankly out the window, chewing on a cigar and occasionally puffing out smoke, but without any trace of the enthusiasm displayed by the locomotive.
Twenty-six years old, and my life is over, the departing passenger thought. When I returned to Moscow only four days ago, I was so full of hope and energy. And now I’m obliged to forsake my native city, never to return. Dishonored, victimized, forced to abandon my career, to betray my duty and my fatherland. But no, no, I have betrayed nothing, it is my fatherland that has betrayed its faithful servant! These wonderful reasons of state that first transform an honest worker into an inconsequential cog in the wheel and then decide to eliminate him altogether! You should read Confucius, you fine gentlemen who watch over the throne. Where it says that the noble man can never be anyone else’s tool.
What now? They will slander me, declare me a thief, a wanted man throughout the whole of Europe.
But no, of course, they won’t declare me a thief — they will prefer to keep silent about the briefcase.
And they won’t pursue me openly — publicity is not in their interest.
But they will hunt for me, and sooner or later they will find me and kill me. It will not be too difficult to find a traveler accompanied by a Japanese servant. But what can I do with Masa? He won’t survive in Europe alone.
And where is he, by the way?
Erast Fandorin took out his Breguet watch. There were two minutes left until the train was due to leave.
They had arrived at the station in good time and the collegiate assessor (or, rather, former collegiate assessor) had been able to dispatch a package of some kind to the Anglia, addressed to a Miss Tolle, but at a quarter to eight, when they were already sitting in the compartment, Masa had rebelled, declaring that he was hungry and had absolutely no intention of eating the chicken eggs, loathsome cow’s butter, and raw pig meat smelling of smoke that they served in the restaurant car, and he had set out in search of hot bagels.