by Boris Akunin
The State Counsellor - Fandorin 06
Book Jacket
Series: Fandorin [6]
Tags: Adventure, Historical Novel
SUMMARY:
General Khrapov, newly appointed Governor-General of Siberia and soon-to-be Minister of the Interior, is murdered in his official saloon carriage on his way from St Petersburg to Moscow.The killer, disguised as Fandorin, leaves a knife thrust up to the hilt in his victim's chest and escapes through the window of the carriage. Can Fandorin escape suspicion?A battle of wills and ideals, revolutionaries and traditionalists and good versus evil.
Praise for Boris Akunin's Erast Fandorin series
'What Akunin's books have in common is charm, elegant writing, abundant wit - and Erast Fandorin ... He is a delightful character like no other in crime fiction'
The Times
'All in all, a delicious confection' Evening Standard
'Fandorin [is] a debonair combo of Sherlock Holmes, D'Artagnan and most of the soulful heroes of Russian literature ... Andrew Bromfield's translation is key to maintaining the entertaining period pastiche'
Sunday Telegraph
'A barnstorming success' Time Out
'Akunin is a hugely entertaining writer' Spectator
'This ... demonstrates Akunin's underlying seriousness of purpose in writing the Fandorin novels, whose clever devices and mischievous tricks disguise a determination to strip bare the extremes of human behaviour'
Sunday Times
'Very elegant and assured. The period detail - both comic and dashing - glitters impeccably. Akunin has designed his own diorama of a world at war, but it's unlikely that history was quite as entertaining as this' Literary Review
'An excellent read' Guardian
'The perfect Sunday afternoon read' Scotland on Sunday
Boris Akunin is the pseudonym of Grigory Chkhartishvili. He has been compared to Gogol, Tolstoy and Arthur Conan Doyle, and his Erast Fandorin books have sold over eighteen million copies in Russia alone. He lives in Moscow.
By Boris Akunin
FEATURING ERAST FANDORIN
The State Counsellor
Special Assignments
The Death of Achilles
Turkish Gambit
Murder on the Leviathan
The Winter Queen
FEATURING SISTER PELAGIA
Pelagia and the Black Monk
Pelagia and the White Bulldog
The State Counsellor
The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin
BORIS AKUNIN
Translated by Andrew Bromfield
A PHOENIX PAPERBACK
First published in Great Britain in 2008
by Weidenfeld & Nicolson This paperback edition published in 2008 by Phoenix, an imprint of Orion Books Ltd, Orion House, 5 Upper St Martin's Lane, London wc2H 9EA
An Hachette UK company
First published in Russian as Statskiisovietnikby Zakharov Publishers, Moscow, Russia and Edizioni Frassinelli, Milan, Italy. All rights reserved.
Published by arrangement with Linda Michaels Limited, International Literary Agents.
3579 10 8642
Copyright © Boris Akunin 1999 Translation © Andrew Bromfield 2008
The right of Boris Akunin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The right of Andrew Bromfield to be identified as the translator of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978-0-7538-2642-3
Typeset by Input Data Services Ltd, Bridgwater, Somerset
Printed and bound in Great Britain by Clays Ltd, St Ives plc
The Orion Publishing Group's policy is to use papers that are natural, renewable and recyclable products and made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The logging and manufacturing processes are expected to conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.
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Prologue
The windows on the left were blank, sightless wall eyes, crusted with ice and wet snow. The panes of glass jangled dolefully as the wind hurled the soft, sticky flakes against them and swayed the heavy carcass of the carriage to and fro in an obstinate effort to shove the train off the slippery rails and send it tumbling over and over, like a long black sausage, across the broad white plain -over the frozen river, over the dead fields, and on towards the blurred streak of dark forest at the distant junction of earth and sky.
A wide expanse of this mournful landscape could be examined through the remarkably clear-sighted windows on the right, but what point was there in looking out at it? Nothing but snow, nothing but the wild whistling of the wind, the low, murky sky -darkness, cold and death.
On the inside, however, the ministerial saloon carriage was warm and welcoming: a cosy gloom, tinged with blue from the silk lampshade, logs crackling behind the bronze door of the stove, a teaspoon tinkling rhythmically in a glass. The small but excellently equipped study - with a conference table, leather armchairs and a map of the Empire on the wall - was hurtling along at a speed of fifty versts an hour through the raging blizzard and the dead light of the inclement winter dawn.
An old man with a virile and imperious face was dozing in one of the armchairs, with a warm Scottish rug pulled right up to his chin. Even in sleep the grey brows were knitted sternly, the corners of the mouth were set in world-weary folds, and from time to time the wrinkled eyelids fluttered nervously. The circle of light cast by the lamp swayed this way and that, repeatedly plucking out of the darkness a sturdy hand set on the mahogany armrest and glinting brightly in the diamond ring set on one finger.
On the table, directly below the lamp, there was a pile of newspapers. Lying on top was the illegal Zurich publication The People's Will, the very latest issue from only two days before. On the open page an article had been circled in angry red pencil:
Hiding the Butcher from Vengeance
Our editors have been informed by a highly reliable source that Adjutant General Khrapov, who last Thursday was removed from the positions of Deputy Minister of the Interior and commander of the Special Corps of Gendarmes, will shortly be appointed Governor General of Siberia and will depart to take up his new post immediately.
The motives underlying this move are only too clear. The Tsar wishes to save Khrapov from the people's revenge by hiding his vicious guard dog away for a while in a place as far removed as possible from the two capitals. But the sentence that our party has pronounced on this bloody satrap remains in force. By issuing the monstrous command to subject the political prisoner Polina Ivantsova to a savage flogging, Khrapov has set himself outside the laws of humanity. He cannot be allowed to live. The butcher has twice succeeded in evading his avengers, but nonetheless he is doomed.
From the same source we have learned that Khrapov has already been promised the portfolio of Minister of the Interior. The appointment to Siberia is a temporary measure intended to place Khrapov beyond the reach of the chastening sword of the people's wrath. The tsar's oprichniks anticipate being able to loca
te and eliminate our Combat Group, which has been instructed to carry the butcher's sentence into effect. And then, when the danger has passed, the minion Khrapov will make a triumphant return to St Petersburg and assume unlimited powers.
This shall not be! The wasted lives of our comrades cry out for retribution.
Unable to bear her shame, Ivantsova hanged herself in her cell. She was only seventeen years old.
The twenty-three-year-old student Skokova fired at the satrap, missed and was hanged.
One of our comrades from the Combat Group, whose name must remain secret, was killed by a splinter from his own bomb, and Khrapov survived yet again.
But never you mind, Your Excellency, no matter how much a string might twist and turn, it cannot go on for ever. Our Combat Group will seek you out even in Siberia.
A pleasant journey to you!
The locomotive gave a long, quavering howl, followed by several short blasts on its whisde: Whoo-ooo-ooo-ooo! Whoo! Whoo! Whoo!
The sleeper's lips trembled restlessly and a low, dull moan escaped from between them. The eyes opened, darting in bewilderment to the left - towards the white windows - and then to the right - towards the black ones; gradually their gaze cleared, acquiring intelligence and focus. The stern old man threw off the rug to reveal a velvet jacket, a white shirt and a black tie. Working his dry lips, he reached out and rang a small hand bell.
A moment later the door leading from the study into the reception room opened. A smart young lieutenant colonel in a blue gendarme uniform with white aiguillettes came dashing in, adjusting his sword belt.
'Good morning, Your Excellency!'
'Have we passed Tver?' the General asked in a thick voice, ignoring the greeting.
'Yes indeed, Ivan Fyodorovich. We're approaching Klin.'
'What do you mean, Klin?' the seated man asked, growing angry. Already? Why didn't you wake me earlier? Did you oversleep?'
The officer rubbed his creased cheek. 'Certainly not, sir. I saw you had fallen asleep. And I thought, Let Ivan Fyodorovich get a bit of a rest. It's all right, you'll have enough time to get washed and dressed and drink tea. There's a whole hour to go to Moscow'
The train slowed down, preparing to brake. Occasional lights began flitting past outside the windows and then widely spaced lamp posts and snow-covered roofs came into view.
The General yawned. All right, have them put the samovar on. I just can't seem to wake up somehow'
The gendarme saluted and went out, closing the door soundlessly behind him.
In the reception room there was a bright light burning and the air smelled of liqueur and cigar smoke. Sitting at the writing desk with his head propped in his hands was another officer -bright blond hair, light eyebrows and long eyelashes that made his pink face resemble a piglet's. He stretched, cracking his joints, and asked the Lieutenant Colonel: 'Well, how are things in there?'
'He wants tea. I'll see to it.'
A-ha,' the albino drawled and glanced out of the window. 'What's this - Klin? Sit down, Michel, I'll tell them about the samovar. I'll get out for a moment and stretch my legs. And at the same time I'll check to make sure those devils aren't dozing.'
He stood up, pulled down his uniform jacket and walked out, spurs jangling, into the third room of this remarkable carriage. The conditions here were basic: chairs along the walls, pegs for hanging outer clothing, a little table in the corner with tea things and a samovar. Two sturdy men wearing identical three-piece camlet suits and sporting identically curled moustaches (one of which was sandy-coloured and the other ginger), sitting motionless facing each other; another two men sleeping on chairs set together.
When the white-haired officer appeared, the two men who were sitting jumped to their feet, but he put one finger to his lips, as if to say: Let the others sleep, then pointed to the samovar and whispered: 'Tea for His Excellency. Phew, it's stuffy in here. I'm going out for a breath of air.'
In the small vestibule two gendarmes stood smartly to attention. The vestibule was not heated, and the sentries were wearing their greatcoats, caps and hoods.
'Are you off duty soon?' the officer asked, pulling on a pair of white gloves and peering out at the station platform as it slowly drifted closer.
'Only just come on, Your Honour!' the watch leader barked. 'Now it's all the way to Moscow for us.' 'All right, all right.'
The albino pushed the heavy door and a breath of fresh wind, damp snow and fuel oil blew into the carriage.
'Eight o'clock, and the sky's only just turning grey,' the officer sighed, speaking to no one in particular, and lowered one foot on to the top step.
The train had not yet stopped, its brakes were still screeching and grinding, but already there were two figures hurrying along the platform towards the saloon carriage: a short man carrying a lantern and a tall, slim man in a top hat and a loose, sporty mackintosh with a cape.
'There, that's the special!' cried the first man (the stationmaster, to judge from his peaked cap), turning to his companion.
The other man stopped in front of the open door, holding his top hat down on his head, and asked the officer: 'Are you M-Modzalevsky? - His Excellency's adjutant?'
Unlike the railway official, the man with the stammer did not shout, and yet his calm, clear voice was distinctly audible above the howling of the blizzard.
'No, I'm the head of his guard,' the white-haired man replied, trying to make out the fop's face.
It was a remarkable face: the features were subtle but severe, the moustache was neatly trimmed, the forehead dissected by a resolute vertical crease,
Aha, Staff Captain v-von Seidlitz - excellent,' the stranger said with a nod of satisfaction, and immediately introduced himself. 'Fandorin, Deputy for Special Assignments to His Excellency the Governor General of M-Moscow. I expect you have heard of me.'
'Yes, Mr State Counsellor, we were informed by encrypted message that you would be responsible for Ivan Fyodorovich's safety in Moscow. But I had assumed you would meet us at the station there. Come up, come up, the snow's blowing in.'
The State Counsellor nodded farewell to the stationmaster and tripped lightly up the steep steps into the carriage, slamming the door shut behind him and reducing the sounds from outside to a hollow, rumbling echo.
'You have already entered the p-province of Moscow,' he explained, removing his top hat and shaking the snow off its crown. This revealed that his hair was black, but his temples, despite his young years, were completely grey. 'My jurisdiction, s-so to speak, starts here. We shall be stuck here at Klin for at least t-two hours - they're clearing snow off the line up ahead. We shall have time enough to agree everything and allocate responsibilities. But f-first I need to see His Excellency, introduce myself and c-convey an urgent message. Where can I leave my coat?'
'This way, please, into the guardroom. There's a coat rack in there/
Von Seidlitz showed the State Counsellor through into the first room, where the security guards in civilian dress were on duty. Then, after Fandorin had removed his mackintosh and put his soaking-wet top hat down on a chair, he showed him into the second room.
'Michel, this is State Counsellor Fandorin,' the head of the guard explained to the Lieutenant Colonel. 'We were told about him. He has an urgent communication for Ivan Fyodorovich.'
Michel stood up. 'His Excellency's adjutant, Modzalevsky. May I see your documents, please?'
'N-Naturally.' The official took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and handed it to the adjutant.
'He is Fandorin,' the head of the guard affirmed. 'His verbal portrait was given in the message, I remember it very clearly'
Modzalevsky carefully examined the seal and the photograph and returned the paper to its owner. 'Very good, Mr State Counsellor. I'll announce you.'
A minute later the State Counsellor was admitted into the kingdom of soft carpets, blue light and mahogany furnishings.
'Hello, Mr Fandorin,' the General growled amiably. He had already change
d his velvet jacket for a military frock coat. 'Erast Petrovich, isn't it?'
'Yes ind-deed, Your Excellency'
'So you decided to engage your charge out on the route of approach? I commend your diligence, although I consider all this fuss entirely unnecessary. Firstly, I left St Petersburg in secret; secondly, I am not even slightly afraid of our revolutionary gentlemen; and thirdly, we are all of us in God's hands. If the Lord has spared Khrapov thus far, he must need the old war dog for something.' The General, evidently this self-same Khrapov, crossed himself devoutly.
'I have an extremely urgent and absolutely c-confidential message for Your Excellency,' the State Counsellor said impassively, with a glance at the adjutant. 'I beg your pardon, L-Lieutenant Colonel, but those are the instructions I was g-given.'
'Off you go, Misha,' said the new Governor General of Siberia, the man whom the newspaper from abroad had called a butcher and a satrap. 'Is the samovar ready? As soon as we finish talking business, I'll call you and we'll have some tea.' When the door closed behind his adjutant, he asked: 'Well, what have you got for me that's so mysterious? A telegram from the sovereign? Let's have it.'