by Boris Akunin
“I see you are p-perfectly enamored of this man,” Erast Petrovich said, interrupting the general.
“You mean Midhat? Absolutely,” said Mizinov with a shrug. “And I would be more than glad to see him at the head of the Russian government. But he’s not a Russian, he’s a Turk. And, moreover, a Turk who looks first to England. Our aspirations are directly opposed, which makes Midhat our enemy, and an extremely dangerous enemy he is. Europe dislikes and fears us, but it lauds Midhat to the heavens, especially since he gave Turkey a constitution. And now, Erast Petrovich, I must ask you to bear with me while I read you a long letter that Nikolai Pavlovich Gnatiev wrote to me last year. It will give you a clear picture of the enemy with whom we shall be dealing.”
The chief of gendarmes drew out of the folder several sheets of paper covered in the fine, regular handwriting of a clerk and began reading.
Dear Lavrenty,
Events here where Allah watches over us in Istanbul are unfolding so rapidly that even I am unable to keep up with them, although, setting aside all false modesty, your humble servant has had his finger on the pulse of the Sick Man of Europe for no small number of years. Due in some measure to my own zealous efforts, that pulse was gradually fading away and promised soon to come to a complete stop, but since the month of May . . .
“He is talking about May of last year, 1876,” Mizinov felt it necessary to explain.
. . . but since the month of May it has begun beating so frantically that any moment the Bosphorus could burst its banks and the walls of Constantinople could crumble, leaving you with nothing on which to hang your shield.
And all this due to the fact that in May Midhat Pasha made a triumphant return from exile to the capital of the mighty and incomparable Sultan Abdul-Aziz, Shadow of the Most High and Defender of the Faith, bringing with him his “éminence grise,” the wily Anwar-effendi.
On this occasion, Anwar was wiser and he took no risks, acting like both a European and an Oriental. He began in the European style: his agents started to frequent the dockyards, the arsenal, and the mint—and the workers, who had not been paid their wages for a very long time, poured out into the streets. That was followed by a purely Eastern ruse. On the 25th of May, Midhat Pasha announced that the Prophet had visited him in a dream (verify that if you can!) and instructed His servant to save Turkey from ruin.
Meanwhile, my dear friend Abdul-Aziz, as usual, was sitting in his harem, delighting in the company of his favorite wife, the charming Mihri-khanum, who was due to give birth soon and was therefore acting very capriciously, demanding that her lord and master be constantly at her side. In addition to her celestial beauty, this golden-haired, blue-eyed Circassian woman is also famed for having drained the sultan’s treasury absolutely dry. During the last year alone, she left more than ten million rubles in the French shops on Pera Avenue, and it is quite understandable that the people of Constantinople were, as the English would say, with their penchant for understatement, far from fond of her.
Believe me, Lavrenty, there was nothing I could do to alter matters. I entreated, I threatened, I intrigued like a eunuch in the harem, but Abdul-Aziz was deaf and dumb. On the 29th of May there was a crowd of many thousands buzzing round the Dolmabahçe Palace (an extremely ugly building in an eclectic European-Oriental style), but the padishah did not even attempt to reassure his subjects—he locked himself into the female quarters of his residence, access to which is barred to me, and listened to Mihri-khanum playing Viennese waltzes on the fortepiano.
Meanwhile, Anwar was ensconced in the offices of the Minister of War, where he was inclining that cautious and prudent gentleman to a change in political orientation. According to a report from one of my agents, who worked for the pasha as a cook (hence the specific tone of the report), the course of the epoch-making negotiations ran as follows. Anwar came to see the minister at precisely midday, and coffee and bread rolls were ordered. A quarter of an hour later, His Excellency the minister was heard bellowing in indignation and his adjutants led Anwar out of his office and away to the guardroom. Then the pasha strode about his office on his own for half an hour and ate two plates of halva, of which he was extremely fond. After that he decided to interrogate the traitor in person and set out for the guardroom himself. At half past two, the order was given to bring fruits and sweets. At a quarter to four, it was cognac and champagne. Some time between four and five, after taking coffee, the pasha and his guest left to see Midhat. According to the rumors, for his involvement in the conspiracy the minister was promised the position of Grand Vizier and a million pounds sterling from English patrons.
Before the end of the day, the two main conspirators had reached a close understanding and the coup d’état took place that very night. The fleet blockaded the palace from the seaward side, the commander of the metropolitan garrison replaced the guard with his own men, and the sultan, his mother, and the pregnant Mihri-khanum were transported to the Feriie Palace by boat.
Four days later, the sultan attempted to trim his beard with a pair of nail scissors, but he was so clumsy that he cut the veins on both of his wrists and expired forthwith. The doctors from the European embassies, who were summoned to examine the body, unanimously declared that it was a case of suicide, since absolutely no signs of a struggle had been discovered about the dead man. In short, it was all played out as simply and elegantly as a good game of chess. Such is the style of Anwar-effendi.
But that was merely the opening: next came the midgame.
Once he had played his part, the Minister of War became a serious hindrance, for he had not the slightest inclination to introduce reforms and a constitution, and the only question that really interested him was when he would receive the million pounds he had been promised by Anwar. In fact, the Minister of War began behaving as if he were the most important member of the government and never wearied of reminding people that it was he, and not Midhat, who had overthrown Abdul-Aziz.
Anwar endeavored to convince a certain gallant officer, who had served as the deceased sultan’s adjutant, that the minister’s claim was true. The officer in question was called Hasan-bei; he was the brother of the beautiful Mihri-khanum. He enjoyed quite remarkable popularity among the sultry temptresses at court, since he was very handsome and dashing and he performed Italian arias with superlative flair. Everybody referred to Hasan-bei simply as “the Circassian.”
Several days after Abdul-Aziz trimmed his beard in such a clumsy fashion, the inconsolable Mihri-khanum delivered a stillborn child and herself died in great torment. And that was the precise moment at which Anwar and the Circassian became bosom friends. On one occasion when Hasan-bei entered Anwar’s residence to pay him a visit, his friend was not at home, but the ministers had gathered at the pasha’s house for a meeting. The Circassian was a familiar face in the house and nobody questioned his presence. He drank coffee with the adjutants, had a smoke, and chatted about this and that. Then he strolled slowly down the corridor and suddenly burst into the hall where the meeting was taking place. Hasan-bei did not touch Midhat and the other dignitaries, but he fired two bullets from his revolver into the chest of the Minister of War, and then finished the old man off with his yataghan. The more judicious ministers took to their heels, and only two decided to be heroic. Their attempt was ill-advised, for the raging Hasan-bei killed one of them on the spot and seriously wounded the other. At this point, the bold Midhat Pasha returned with two of his adjutants. Hasan-bei shot them both dead, but once again he left Midhat Pasha himself untouched. The killer was eventually captured and bound, but only after he had killed one police officer and wounded seven soldiers. And all this time our friend Anwar was praying devoutly in the mosque, a fact confirmed by numerous witnesses.
Hasan-bei spent the night under lock and key in the guardroom, singing loud arias from Lucia di Lammermoor, by which they say Anwar-effendi was absolutely entranced. Anwar even tried to obtain a pardon for the valiant criminal, but the enraged ministers were adamant and in the
morning the killer was hanged from a tree. The ladies of the harem, who loved their Circassian so passionately, came to watch his execution, weeping bitter tears and blowing him kisses from afar.
Henceforth there was no one to hinder Midhat’s plans, apart from fate, which dealt him a blow from an entirely unexpected quarter. The great politician was let down by his own puppet, the new sultan Murad.
As early as the morning of the 31st of May, immediately following the coup, Midhat Pasha had paid a visit to Prince Murad, the nephew of the deposed sultan, and thereby frightened Murad quite indescribably. Permit me at this point to digress somewhat, in order to explain the pitiful plight of the heir to the throne of the Ottoman Empire.
The problem is that although the prophet Mohammed had fifteen wives, he did not have a single son, and he left no instructions concerning the succession to the throne. Therefore, down through the centuries, every one of the multitudinous sultanas has dreamed of placing her own son on the throne and attempted to eliminate the sons of her rivals by every possible means. There is even a special cemetery at the palace for innocent princes who have been murdered, so we Russians, with our Boris and Gleb and Tsarevich Dmitry, appear quite laughable by Turkish standards.
In the Ottoman Empire the throne is not transmitted from father to son, but from older brother to younger. When one line of brothers is exhausted, the next generation inherits, and again the throne passes from older brother to younger. Every sultan is mortally afraid of his younger brother or oldest nephew, and the chances of an heir actually living to reign are extremely slight. The crown prince is kept in total isolation and nobody is allowed to visit him; the scoundrels even try to ensure that his concubines are not capable of bearing children. According to an ancient tradition, the future padishah is attended by servants whose tongues have been cut out and whose eardrums have been punctured. You can imagine what effect this kind of upbringing has on their highnesses’ state of mind. For instance, Suleiman II spent thirty-nine years in confinement, writing out and coloring in copies of the Koran. And when he finally did become sultan, it was not long before he began asking to go back and abdicated the throne. How well I understand him. Coloring in pictures is so much more pleasant.
However, let us return to Murad. He was a handsome youth, by no means stupid, and actually extremely well-read, although he had a tendency to drink to excess and suffered from an entirely justified persecution mania. He was delighted to entrust the reins of government to the wise Midhat, and so everything seemed to be continuing according to plan for our crafty conspirators. But the sudden elevation and remarkable death of his uncle had such a powerful effect on poor Murad that he began raving and lapsing into violent fits. The European alienists who visited the padishah in secret came to the conclusion that he was incurable and his condition could only deteriorate as time went on.
Now, note Anwar-effendi’s incredible farsightedness. On the first day of Murad’s reign, when the sky ahead was still bright and cloudless, our mutual friend had suddenly asked to be made secretary to Prince Abdul-Hamid, the sultan’s brother and now heir to the throne. When I learned this, it became clear to me that Midhat Pasha was not certain of Murad V. After making a thorough assessment of the crown prince, Anwar evidently considered him acceptable, and Midhat set Abdul-Hamid a single condition: Promise that you will introduce a constitution, and you will be padishah. The prince naturally agreed.
What came after that you already know. On 31 August Abdul-Hamid II ascended the throne, replacing the insane Murad V; Midhat became grand vizier, and Anwar remained as the new sultan’s puppet-master behind the scenes and undeclared chief of the secret police—in other words, Lavrenty (ha-ha!), your colleague.
It is indicative that in Turkey hardly anybody at all has even heard of Anwar-effendi. He does not call attention to himself or appear in public. I, for instance, have only seen him once, when I was presented to the new padishah. Anwar was sitting off to one side of the throne, wearing an immense black beard (I believe it was false) and dark glasses, which in general is a quite unprecedented breach of court etiquette. During the audience Abdul-Hamid glanced at him several times, as if he were seeking support or advice.
This is the man with whom you will be dealing from now on. If my intuition does not mislead me, Midhat and Anwar will continue to manipulate the sultan as they see fit, and in another year or two . . .
“Well, the rest is of no great interest,” said Mizinov, breaking off his long recitation and wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. “Especially since the brilliant Nikolai Pavlovich was indeed misled by his intuition after all. Midhat Pasha failed to retain his grip on power and was exiled.”
Erast Petrovich, who had listened very attentively and not moved even once the whole time (unlike Varya, who had fidgeted herself half to death on her hard chair), asked tersely: “The opening is clear, and so is the midgame. But what about the endgame?”
The general nodded approvingly.
“That is the whole point. The endgame proved to be so intricate that even Gnatiev, with all his experience, was taken by surprise. On the seventh of February this year, Midhat Pasha was summoned to the sultan, placed under armed guard, and put on board a ship, which carried off the disgraced head of government on a tour around Europe. And our Anwar, having betrayed his benefactor, from being the prime minister’s éminence grise began playing the same role for the sultan. He did everything possible to provoke a rupture in relations between the Sublime Porte and Russia. And not long ago, when Turkey’s fate was already hanging by a hair, according to information received from our agents, Anwar set out for the theater of military operations in order to intervene in the course of events by means of certain secret operations, the nature of which we can only guess.”
At this point Fandorin began speaking rather strangely.
“No formal d-duties. That is one. Complete freedom of action. That is t-two. Reporting only to you. That is three.”
Varya did not understand what these words meant, but the chief of gendarmes was delighted and promptly replied: “Well, that’s just splendid! Now I recognize the old Fandorin. Why, my dear fellow, you’d become quite chilly and indifferent. Now don’t hold this against me, I’m not talking as your superior, just as someone who is older, like a father. . . . You mustn’t go burying yourself alive. Leave the graveyard for the dead. At your age, why, it doesn’t bear thinking about! As the aria puts it, you have toute la vie devant soi.”
“Lavrenty Arkadievich!” In an instant the volunteer’s pale cheeks flushed deep crimson and his voice grated like iron. “I do not b-believe that I invited any effusion of p-personal sentiment.”
Varya thought his remark quite unforgivably rude and shrank down on her chair: Mizinov would be mortally offended by such an insult to his finer feelings. How he would roar!
But the satrap merely sighed and said dryly: “Your terms are accepted. You can have your freedom of action. That was actually what I had in mind. Just keep your eyes and ears open and if you notice anything unusual—well, you don’t need me to tell you what to do.”
“Aa-choo!” Varya sneezed and then shrank back down into her chair again in fright.
The general was even more frightened than she was. He started, swung round, and stared dumbfounded at the involuntary witness of his confidential conversation.
“Madam, what are you doing here? Why did you not leave the room with the lieutenant colonel? How dare you?”
“You ought to have looked,” Varya replied with dignity. “I’m not some mosquito or fly that you can just choose to ignore. I happen to be under arrest, and no one has given me leave to go yet.”
She thought she saw Fandorin’s lips twitch ever so slightly. But no, she had imagined it—this specimen didn’t even know how to smile.
“Very well then, all right.” Mizinov’s tone of voice held a quiet threat. “You, my dear nonrelative, have learned things you absolutely ought not to know. In the interests of state security, I
am placing you under temporary administrative arrest. You will be taken under escort to the Kishinev garrison quarantine station and detained there under guard until the end of the campaign. And you have only yourself to blame.”