The State Counsellor - Fandorin 06

by Boris Akunin

  Apart from Fandorin himself and the terrorists, Briusov Square seemed to be completely empty. Pozharsky had chosen an excellent spot for the operation. There was a policeman, undoubtedly someone in disguise, strolling along on the other side of the railings. Two young yard-keepers with unnaturally long beards and remarkably cultured expressions on their faces were clumsily scraping away snow with plywood spades. A little further away another two young lads were playing stick-knife, but they didn't really seem very interested in the game - they kept looking round far too often.

  It was after nine already, but Pozharsky was taking his time. He was obviously waiting for the youngest of the terrorists, the one playing the part of a grammar-school boy, to come back.

  And there he was now. He whistled as he walked across the avenue, sat down only an arm's length away from Erast Petrovich, right beside the snowdrift with the pit, and greedily thrust a handful of snow into his mouth. Would you believe it, the State Counsellor thought, no more than a child, and already a seasoned killer! Unlike the fake general, the 'schoolboy' looked perfectly convincing. He must be Bullfinch.

  Pozharsky appeared, and the stick-knife players began drifting towards the centre of the park. Erast Petrovich focused his inner energies for action.

  The prince shouted his offer for the nihilists to surrender and Fandorin sprang nimbly to his feet, effortlessly grabbed the 'schoolboy' by the collar of his coat and dragged him down into the refuge of the snowdrift. It was too soon for the boy to die.

  The snow received the State Counsellor softly, but did not admit him very far - barely much more than an arshin, in fact. Bullfinch fell on top of him and began floundering about, but it was not easy to break free of Erast Petrovich's strong hands.

  Shots thundered out from every side. Fandorin knew that the marksmen of the Flying Squad, reinforced by Mylnikov's agents, were firing from the monastery walls and the surrounding roofs, and they would not cease firing as long as there was anything left alive and moving in the square.

  Where was the pit that had been promised?

  Erast Petrovich applied gentle pressure to one of the young terrorist's nerve points to stop him kicking and struggling, then struck the ground with his fist - once, twice, three times. If it had been plywood there, under the snow, it would have yielded and sprung back, but no, the solid ground remained solid.

  The 'schoolboy* no longer attempted to break free, but from time to time he jerked, as if stung by an electric shock, although there was no real reason why he should - Fandorin had not pressed the nerve point hard, only just enough for ten minutes of total calm.

  Several times bullets slammed into the snow, too close for comfort, with a furious hissing sound. Erast Petrovich hammered ever more furiously on the unyielding plywood and even tried to bounce up and down on it, as far as that was possible in a lying position, with a load to support. The pit stubbornly refused to open up. Either the plywood had hardened to oak overnight, or something else had gone wrong.

  Meanwhile the shooting had started to thin out and soon it died away completely.

  He heard voices in the avenue: 'This one's a goner. A regular tea-strainer.'

  'This one too. Just look at the way his face is all twisted and torn, unidentifiable.'

  To climb out of the snowdrift would have been imprudent -they would have put a dozen bullets in him instantly - and so Erast Petrovich called out without getting up: 'Gentlemen, I am Fandorin, do not shoot!'

  And only then, having set aside the peacefully sleeping Bullfinch, did he stand up, thinking that he probably looked like a snowman.

  The park was full of men in civilian clothes. There must have been fifty of them at least, and he could see more outside the railings.

  'Wiped out the lot, Your Honour,' said one of the 'flyers', who had a youthful air despite his grey moustache. 'No one left to arrest.'

  'There is one still alive,' Erast Petrovich replied, dusting himself off. 'T-Take him and lay him out on a bench.'

  The agents took hold of the 'schoolboy', but dropped him again immediately. The snow on his coat was stained red with blood in several places, and there was a black hole in his forehead, just below the hair line. It was clear now what had made the poor boy twitch so violently.

  Erast Petrovich gazed in bewilderment at the lifeless body that had shielded him from the bullets, and failed to notice Pozharsky swooping down on him from behind.

  'Alive? Thank God!' Pozharsky shouted, putting his arms round Fandorin's shoulders. 'I'd given up hope! Now for God's sake tell me what on earth made you jump into the snowdrift on the left? I told you a hundred times: jump into the one on the right, on the right! It's an absolute miracle you weren't hit!'

  'That is the snowdrift on the right, there!' the State Counsellor exclaimed indignandy, recalling his vain attempts to jump up and down in a lying position. And that's the one I j-jumped into!'

  The prince began batting his eyelids, his gaze shifted from Fandorin to the bench, to the snowdrift, then back to Fandorin, and he started chuckling uncertainly.

  'Why yes, of course. I never sat on the bench, I only looked at it from here. Here I am, and there's the snowdrift, on the right of the bench. But if you sit down, then of course it's on your left ... Oh, it's too much! Two wise men ... two great strategists

  And the deputy director of police folded over in a paroxysm of irresistible, choking laughter - no doubt the result, in part at least, of nervous strain.

  Erast Petrovich smiled, because Gleb Georgievich's laughter was infectious, but his gaze was caught once again by the slim figure in the school coat and he suddenly became serious.

  'Where's G-Green?' he asked. 'He was sitting right there, dressed up as a retired general.'

  'There isn't one like that, Your Honour,' the man with the grey moustache said with a frown, turning towards the bodies laid out along the avenue. 'One, two, three, four, five, and the schoolboy makes six. No more. Ah, damnation, where's number seven? There were seven of them!'

  The prince was no longer laughing. He looked around despairingly, gritted his teeth and groaned. 'He got away! Got away through the trench. So much for our victory. And in my mind I'd already composed the report: "No losses. Combat Group completely annihilated".'

  He grabbed hold of Fandorin's arm and squeezed it tight. 'Disaster, Erast Petrovich, disaster. We're left holding the lizard's tail, but the lizard has fled. And it will grow a new tail - it wouldn't be the first time.'

  'What are we g-going to do?' asked the State Counsellor, his anxious blue eyes gazing into the prince's equally anxious black ones.

  'You are not going to do anything,' Gleb Georgievich replied listlessly. His triumphant air was gone; he seemed somehow faded and very tired now. 'You go and light a candle in a church, because today the Lord has granted you a miracle, and then rest. I'm no good for anything much at the moment, and you're even worse. The only hope is that our agents will pick him up somewhere. He won't go back to the apartment, of course -he's no fool. We'll have everyone who's red, pink, or even light magenta under secret surveillance. All the hotels too. But I'm going back to mine, to sleep. If anything comes up, they'll wake me, and I'll let you know. Only it's not very likely...' He gestured hopelessly. "We'll start scheming again tomorrow morning. But for today, that's it: je passe.'

  Erast Petrovich did not go to light a candle in a church, because that was superstition, nor did he feel that he had any right to rest. Duty required that he take himself off to the Governor General's residence: for various reasons beyond his control, it was four days since he had last shown his face there, and he needed to present a detailed report on progress made in the search and the investigation.

  However, it was unthinkable to appear in His Excellency's residence smothered in snow, with a torn collar and a crumpled top hat, so first he had to go back home, but only for half an hour at the most. At a quarter past eleven Fandorin entered His Excellency's reception room, wearing a fresh frock coat and an immaculate shirt with a
white tie.

  There was no one in the spacious room apart from the prince's secretary, and the State Counsellor was on the point of following his usual habit and entering unannounced when Innokentii Andreevich cleared his throat in an emphatically discreet manner and warned him: 'Erast Petrovich, His Excellency has a lady visitor.'

  Fandorin leaned down over the table and wrote a note on a piece of paper:

  Vladimir Andreevitch, I am ready to report on today’s operation and all the events that preceded it.

  E.F.

  'Please g-give him this immediately,' he said to the bespectacled pen-pusher, who bowed as he took the note and slipped in through the door of the study.

  Fandorin took up a position right in front of the door, certain that he would be admitted immediately, but the secretary slipped back out and returned to his seat without saying a word to him.

  'Did Vladimir Andreevich read it?' the State Counsellor enquired in annoyance.

  "That I don't know, although I did whisper to His Excellency that the note was from you.'

  Erast Petrovich nodded and began striding impatiently across the carpet - once, twice. The door remained closed.

  'Who is it in there with him?' Fandorin asked, unable to contain himself.

  'A lady. Young and very beautiful,' said Innokentii Andreevich, gladly setting aside his pen and seeming quite intrigued himself. 'I don't know her name, she went through without being announced; Frol Grigorievich showed her in.'

  'So Vedishchev is in there too?'

  The secretary did not have to answer, because the tall white doors opened with a quiet creak and Vedishschev himself came out into the reception room.

  'Frol Vedishchev, I have urgent business for His Excellency, business of extreme importance!' Fandorin declared irritably. Prince Dogorukoi's valet responded in mysterious fashion: first he put one finger to his lips and then, using the same finger, he beckoned to Erast Petrovich to follow him, and hobbled off nimbly along the corridor in his low felt boots.

  The State Counsellor shrugged and followed the old man, thinking to himself: Perhaps they are right in St Petersburg when they complain that the Moscow administration is turning senile in its old age.

  Vedishchev opened five doors one after another and made several turns to the right and the left, until he finally emerged into a narrow little corridor, which Fandorin knew connected the Governor General's study with the inner apartments.

  Here Frol Grigorievich stopped, put his finger to his lips once again and gave a low door a gentle push. It opened slightly without making a sound, and Fandorin discovered that the narrow crack allowed him an excellent view of everything that was happening in the room.

  Dolgorukoi was seated with his back towards Erast Petrovich, and sitting in front of him, quite remarkably close, was a lady. Strictly speaking, there was no distance between them at all -the female visitor had her face buried in His Excellency's chest, and from behind the shoulder, with its gold epaulette, all that could be seen was the top of her head. The only sound breaking the silence was a miserable sobbing, mingled with equally pitiful sniffing.

  Fandorin glanced round at Vedishchev in puzzlement, and the valet suddenly did something very odd: he winked at the State Counsellor with his wrinkled eye. Totally bewildered now, Erast Petrovich took another look through the narrow crack of the door. He saw the prince raise his hand and gingerly stroke the crying woman's black hair.

  'Come now, my darling, that's enough,' His Excellency said affectionately. 'You were right to come to this old man and unburden your soul. And right to have a little cry too. I'll tell you what to do about him. Put him out of your heart completely. He's no match for you. Or anyone else, for that matter. You're a forthright girl, passionate - you don't know how to live by halves. But he - although I truly am very fond of him - he is not really alive somehow, as if he had been touched by hoar frost. Or sprinkled with ashes. You'll never thaw him out or bring him to life. Many have tried already. Take my advice, don't throw your heart away on him. Find yourself someone young and uncomplicated, straightforward. There's more happiness with someone like that. Believe what an old man tells you.'

  Erast Petrovich listened to what the prince was saying, and his finely formed eyebrows shifted uncertainly towards the bridge of his nose.

  'I don't want anyone straightforward,' the dark-haired visitor said in a tearful voice that was perfectly recognisable despite its distinct nasal twang. 'You don't understand anything; he's more alive than anyone I know. Only I'm afraid he doesn't know how to love. And I'm afraid all the time that he'll be killed ...'

  Fandorin listened to no more after that.

  'Why did you bring me here?' he whispered furiously to Frol Grigorievich and walked rapidly out of the corridor.

  Back in the reception room, the State Counsellor leaned so hard on his pen that the ink spattered across the paper as he wrote the Governor General a new note, substantially different from the previous one in both tone and content.

  But before he could hand it to the secretary, the white door swung open and he heard Dolgorukoi's voice: 'Go, and God be with you. And remember my advice.'

  'Good morning, Esfir Avessalomovna,' the State Counsellor said, bowing to the young beauty who had emerged from the study.

  She measured him with a scornful glance. It was impossible even to imagine that this haughty creature had just been sobbing and sniffing like a primary-school girl cheated of her ice cream. Except perhaps for the fact that her eyes, still moist with tears, were gleaming more brightly than usual. The Queen of Sheba swept on and away without favouring Erast Petrovich with a reply.

  Ah,' Vladimir Andreevich sighed. 'If only I were sixty again ... Come in, come in, my dear fellow. I'm sorry for making you wait.'

  By tacit agreement, they did not mention the recent female visitor, but moved straight on to business.

  'Circumstances have developed in such a way as to prevent me from coming to report to Your Excellency any sooner,' Fandorin began in an official tone of voice, but the Governor General took him by the elbow, sat him down in the armchair facing his own and said good-naturedly: 'I know everything. Frol has his well-wishers in the Department of Security and other places. I have received regular reports on your adventures. And I am also fully informed about today's battle. I received a communique from Collegiate Assessor Mylnikov, with all the details. A fine fellow, Evstratii Pavlovich - very keen to fill the vacancy left by Burlyaev. And why not? - I could have a little word with the Minister. I have already sent His Majesty an urgent despatch about today's heroic feats - a little sooner than that prince of yours. The most important thing in these cases is who submits his report first. I painted your valorous deed in the most glowing colours.'

  'For which I am m-most humbly grateful,' Erast Petrovich replied, somewhat confused. 'However, I really have nothing very much to boast of. The most important c-criminal escaped.'

  'He escaped, but six were neutralised. That's a great achievement, my dear fellow. It's a long time now since the police have had such a great success. And the victory was won here in Moscow, even if help was brought in from the capital. The sovereign will understand from my despatch that six terrorists were killed owing to your efforts, and the escape of the seventh was Pozharsky's blunder. I know how to compose despatches. I've been sailing the inky oceans for nigh on half a century now. Worry not, God is good. Perhaps they will realise up there' - the prince's wrinkled finger was jabbed upwards towards the ceiling in appeal to either the sovereign or the Lord - 'that it is too soon to throw Dolgorukoi out on the rubbish heap. Just let them try. And I also mentioned your long-delayed appointment as head police-master in my despatch. We'll see who comes out of this best...'

  Erast Petrovich emerged from the Governor General's palace in a pensive state of mind. As he pulled on his gloves, he halted beside an advertising column and for no particular reason read an announcement set in huge type:

  A Miracle of American Technology!

  Ed
ison's latest phonograph is to be demonstrated at the

  Polytechnical Museum. Mr Repman, head of the department of applied physics, will personally conduct an experiment in the recording of sound, for which he will perform an aria from 'A Life for the Tsar’, Entrance fee 15 kopecks. The number of tickets is limited.

  A snowball struck Erast Petrovich in the back. The State Counsellor swung round in amazement and saw a light two-seater sleigh standing beside the pavement. There was a black-eyed young lady in a sable coat sitting on the velvet seat, leaning against its curved back.

  'Get in,' said the young lady. 'Let's go.'

  'Been to tell tales to the boss, have we, Mademoiselle Litvinova?' Fandorin enquired with all the venom that he could muster.

  'Erast, you're a fool,' she declared peremptorily. 'Shut up, or we'll quarrel again.'

  'But what about His Excellency's advice?'

  Esfir sighed. 'It's good advice. I'll definitely act on it. But not now. Later.'

  Before he entered the large house on Tverskoi Boulevard that was known to everyone in Moscow, Fandorin halted, overwhelmed by his conflicting feelings. So now here it was, the appointment that had been spoken about for so long, in which Erast Petrovich had already ceased to believe. It had finally come to pass.

  Half an hour earlier a courier had arrived at the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, bowed to the State Counsellor, who had come to the door in his dressing gown, and informed him that he was expected immediately at the head police-master's residence. The invitation could mean only one thing: the Governor General's despatch of the previous day to the supreme ruler had produced an effect, and more quickly than anticipated.