The Coronation: The Further Adventures Of Erast Fandorin (Erast Fandorin 7)

by Boris Akunin

Mademoiselle squeezed my hand.

  ‘Thank you, Athanas. You have restored my faith in human dignity. No. No, I shall go with you. I feel ashamed that I could have suspected Erast of being disloyal. For him, no precious stone, not even such a special one, could possibly be more important than the life of a child. And our lives too,’ she concluded in a quiet voice.

  The second half of her brief emotional declaration somewhat spoiled the pleasant impression of the first, but nonetheless Iwas touched. I wanted to respond to her grip on my fingers, but that would probably have been too great a liberty. And so we rode on, with her hand still touching mine.

  Unlike Mademoiselle, I was not entirely convinced of Mr Fandorin’s nobility. I thought it quite probable that the earthly existence of Afanasii Ziukin would come to an end in the very near future, and not in a quiet, humdrum fashion, as the entire logic of my lifewould have dictated, but amidst unseemly uproar and clamour. Emilie’s company rendered this thought less repulsive, which was undoubtedly an expression of a quality that I cannot stand in other people and have always tried to suppress in myself – cowardly selfishness.

  Meanwhile, it was becoming harder and harder to breathe in the sealed carriage. There were drops of sweat running down my face and inside my collar. This was unpleasantly ticklish, but I could not wipe them away with my handkerchief – to do that, I would have had to take my hand away. Mademoiselle was also breathing rapidly.

  Suddenly a thought occurred to me, so simple and terrible that the sweat started flowing even more abundantly. I tried to insert my hand into the bundle and open the lid of the sphere quietly without frightening Mademoiselle, but even so therewas an audible click.

  ‘What was that?’ Mademoiselle asked with a start. ‘What was that sound?’

  ‘Lind’s plan is simpler and more cunning than Fandorin imagines,’ I said, gasping for air. ‘I suspect that the doctor has ordered us to be driven in this closed coffin until we suffocate, so that he can take the Orlov without any trouble. But it won’t work – I am activating the detonator. As long as I remain conscious, I shall hold the bomb steady with both hands. But when I am exhausted, the sphere will fall . . .’

  ‘Vous êtes fou!’ Mademoiselle exclaimed, pulling her hand away and seizing hold of my elbow. ‘Vous êtes fou! N’y pensez pas. Je compte les détours, nous sommes presque là.’3

  ‘Too late, I have already pressed the button,’ I said, and took a firm grip of the sphere with both hands.

  And then a minute later the carriage really did stop.

  ‘Well then, may God help us,’ Emilie whispered and crossed herself, only not in the Orthodox manner, but in the Catholic way, from left to right.

  The door opened, and I screwed my eyes up against the bright light. Nobody blindfolded me, and I saw the peeling walls of a small chapel and also, a little distance away, perhaps a hundred paces, the towers of an old convent. As I stepped onto the foot-plate, I stole a glance around me. There were fishermen sitting by the pond and on the edge of the nearby square a knotty old oak stood, covered in fresh greenery, presumably with senior police agent Kuzyakin concealed somewhere amongst it. I felt a little bit calmer, although the failure to blindfold us probably signified that Lind did not intend to let us go alive. Mademoiselle looked over my shoulder and also started gazing around – ah, yes, this was the first time she had been here without a blindfold. All right, Doctor, I thought. If we are to die, we’ll take you with us, and I pressed the bundle tight against my chest.

  The driver, standing to one side of the open door of the carriage, seized me by the elbow and pulled as if to say: Get out. I grimaced at the strength of those steely fingers.

  The rusty door with the heavy padlock barely even creaked as it swung open to admit us. I walked into the gloomy interior, which was more spacious than it appeared from the outside, and saw several male figures. Before I could get a clear look at them, the door closed behind us, but the light did not disappear; it merely changed from grey to yellow because there were several oil lamps hanging on the walls.

  There were four men. The one who caught my attention was a lean grey-haired gentleman with a toothless non-Russian face and steel-rimmed spectacles. Could this be Doctor Lind himself? Standing one on each side of himwere two tall broad-shouldered men whose faces were drowned in the shadows – bodyguards, I presumed. The fourth manwas the coachman, who had followed us in and leaned back against the closed door as if to cut off our retreat.

  One of the bodyguards gestured to the coachman, clearly indicating that he should leave.

  The coachman nodded, but he did not move.

  The bodyguard pointed angrily to the door.

  ‘Taubstummer Dickkopf!’4the great brute swore.

  So that was why the driver had behaved so strangely with us! And now it was clear why Lind had not been afraid that the bearded man might be taken by the police.

  The other bodyguard replied, also in German: ‘Ah, to hell with it. Let him stay there. He’s probably as curious as we are to see what happens.’

  Then the grey-haired gentleman stretched his hand out towards the bundle, and I realised that the truly important business had begun.

  ‘Did you bring it? Show me,’ he said in a dull voice, speaking French.

  I dropped the shawl in which the sphere was wrapped onto the floor and opened the lid. The stone glittered from its velvet niche with a gentle muted light.

  Enunciating every word slowly and clearly, I explained about the surprise and the conditions of exchange. Thank God, my voice did not tremble even once. The most important thing was for Lind to believe me. If it came to the crunch, I would not play the coward.

  He heard me out without interrupting and nodded as if Iwere talking about something that went without saying. He clicked his fingers impatiently. ‘All right, all right. Give it to me. I’ll check it.’

  And he took a small magnifying glass bound in copper out of his pocket.

  So he was not Lind but the jeweller, just as Fandorin had predicted. I prised the stone out with two fingers and it seemed to fit snugly into the palm of my hand, as if had been created to match its size. With my other hand I held the bomb carefully against my chest.

  The jeweller took the diamond and walked over to one of the lamps. The bodyguards, orwhoever they reallywere, surrounded him and drew in their breath loudly when the facets of the Orlov sparkled with unbearable brilliance.

  I glanced round at Mademoiselle. She was standing still but with her fingers locked together. Raising her eyebrows, she indicated the sphere with her glance, and I nodded reassuringly as if to say: Don’t worry, I won’t drop it.

  The light of the oil lamp was not enough for the jeweller. He took out a little electric torch too and pushed a switch. A thin, bright ray of light touched the diamond, and I screwed up my eyes. Sparks seemed to scatter from the surface of the stone.

  ‘Alles in Ordnung,’5 the jeweller said dispassionately in perfect German and put the magnifying glass in his pocket.

  ‘Give me back the stone,’ I demanded.

  When he did not do as I said, I held the open sphere out in front of me with both hands.

  The jeweller shrugged and put the diamond back in its niche.

  Heartened by this success, I raised my voice: ‘Where is His Highness? Under the terms of the agreement, you must now give him back immediately!’

  The lipless man pointed to the stone floor, and for the first time I noticed a square black trapdoor with a metal ring for a handle.

  ‘Who needs your boy? Take him before he croaks.’

  On the lips of this respectable-looking gentleman the crude word ‘croaks’, used about a little child, sounded so unexpected and terrible that I shuddered. My God, what kind of people were they!

  Mademoiselle drew in a noisy breath and dashed to the trapdoor, grabbed the ring and pulled with all her might. The door lifted a little, and then fell back into the gap with a resounding metallic clang. None of the thugs moved to help the lady. Emil
ie looked at me in despair, but I could not help her – to do that I would have had to put down the sphere.

  ‘Aufmachen!’6 I shouted menacingly, lifting the bomb higher.

  With clear reluctance, one of the banditsmoved Mademoiselle aside and easily lifted the cover up with one hand.

  The gap that was revealed was not black, as I had expected, but filled with a trembling light. Obviously there was an oil lamp in the vault too. Asmell of dampness and mould came up through the opening.

  Poor Mikhail Georgievich! How could they have kept him in that hole all these days!

  Gathering up the hem of her skirt, Mademoiselle started to go down. One of the thugs followed her. I could feel my pulse pounding rapidly in my temples.

  I heard the sound of voices coming from below and then a piercing shout from Emilie: ‘Mon bébé, mon pauvre petit. Tas de salauds!’7

  ‘Is His Highness dead?’ I roared, ready to throw the bomb on the floor and damn the consequences.

  ‘No, he’s alive!’ I heard. ‘But very poorly!’

  I cannot express the relief that I felt at those words. Of course His Highness was chilled to the bone, wounded and drugged with opium, but the important thing was that he was alive.

  The jeweller held out his hand. ‘Give me the stone. Your companion will bring the boy out now.’

  ‘Let her bring him out first,’ I muttered, suddenly realising that I had no idea of what to do next. There had been nothing about that in Fandorin’s instructions. Should I give him the stone or not?

  Suddenly the bodyguard who was still in the room leapt towards me with astounding agility and pressed his palms tight over my hands, which were holding the bomb. The jolt was only very slight and the detonating mechanism was not set off, but the diamond tumbled out of its niche and clattered across the floor. The jeweller grabbed it and put it in his pocket.

  It was pointless trying to struggle with the great brute, and the coachman with the black beard also came up from behind – I had already had occasion to know of his great strength. Oh Lord, now I had ruined everything.

  ‘Now this is surprise number two,’ the deaf mute whispered in my ear, and in the same second he punched the thug on the forehead. The blow did not seem very strong to me, but the German’s eyes rolled up, he opened his hands and sank down on to the floor.

  ‘Hold it tight,’ the coachman said in Fandorin’s voice.

  In a single bound he reached the jeweller and put one hand over his mouth, at the same time holding a stiletto to his chin from below.

  ‘Taisez-vous! Un mot, et vous êtes mort!8 Ziukin, switch off the bomb, we won’t be needing it any more.’

  The speed at which events were moving had left me numb, so I was not at all surprised by the coachman’s transformation into Fandorin; in fact, I was more impressed by the fact that Erast Petrovich had completely stopped stammering.

  I obediently gripped the depressed button with my fingernails and pulled. It popped out with a gentle click.

  ‘Shout to say that you have the stone and the child can be released,’ Fandorin said quietly in French.

  The jeweller batted his eyelids with unnatural speed. He could not nod because the gesture would have impaled his head on the blade of the stiletto.

  Fandorin removed his hand from the jeweller’s mouth but kept the dagger in its vertical position.

  His prisoner worked his sunken mouth and licked his lips, then threw his head back as if he wanted to look at something on the ceiling and suddenly shouted loudly: ‘Alarme! Fuiez-vous!’9

  He was about to shout something else, but the narrow strip of steel slid in between his throat and his chin right up to the hilt and he wheezed. I gasped out loud.

  Before the dead man had even collapsed to the floor, a head appeared out of the hatch – I think it belonged to the bandit who had gone down with Mademoiselle.

  Fandorin leapt to the opening and kicked him hard in the face. There was the dull sound of a body collapsing heavily and Erast Petrovich jumped down without waiting even for a second.

  ‘Oh, Lord!’ I blurted out. ‘Oh, my Lord God.’

  I heard a loud crash from below and voices shouting in German and French.

  Crossing myself with the golden sphere, I ran to the opening and looked down.

  It was a genuine roughhouse: a huge brute clutching a knife in one raised hand had pinned Fandorin to the floor, and another bodyguard was lying motionless further away. Erast Petrovich was clutching his opponent’s wrist with one hand to hold back the knife, and trying to reach his throat with the other. But he simply could not reach it. It seemed that the former state counsellor needed to be rescued.

  I flung the sphere, aiming at the back of the giant’s head, and I was right on target. There was a squelching sound as it hit home. The blowwould undoubtedly have smashed any ordinary man’s skull, but this one merely swayed forward. That, however, was enough for Fandorin to reach his throat. I did not see exactly what Erast Petrovich’s fingers did, but I heard a sickening crunch, and the huge brute slumped over sideways.

  I quickly went down into the vault. Fandorin had already jumped to his feet and was gazing around.

  We were in a square room with corners drowned in dark shadow. At the centre of the vault there was a moss-covered gravestone, on which an oil lamp was burning.

  ‘Where is she?’ I asked, flustered. ‘Where is His Highness? Where is Lind?’

  There was a trunk standing by one wall with a heap of rags on it, and I realised that must be where Mikhail Georgievich had been kept. However, Fandorin dashed in the opposite direction.

  I heard the clatter of rapidly receding footsteps – it sounded as if there were three or four people running.

  Fandorin grabbed the lamp and lifted it up high, and we saw the entrance to a passage in the wall. It was blocked by a metal grille.

  The darkness was illuminated by a sudden flash; there was a spiteful whistling sound and a dull echo.

  ‘Get behind the projection!’ Fandorin shouted to me as he jumped to one side.

  ‘Emilie, are you alive?’ I called as loudly as I possibly could.

  The darkness replied in Mademoiselle’s muted voice: ‘There are three of them! And Lind’s here! He’s—’

  The voice broke off with a shriek. I dashed to the metal grille and began shaking it, but it was locked shut.

  Erast Petrovich pulled me back by my sleeve – and just in time. They started shooting again out of the passageway. One of the metal bars exploded into a shower of sparks and an invisible rod of iron struck the wall, scattering fragments of stone onto the floor.

  I heard men’s voices in the distance and someone – a woman or a child – groaned in a high-pitched voice.

  ‘Lind!’ Erast shouted loudly, speaking in French. ‘This is Fandorin! I have the stone! The exchange is still in force. I’ll give you the Orlov for the woman and the child!’

  We held our breath. It was quiet – no voices, no steps. Had Lind heard?

  Fandorin raised a hand in which a small black revolver had appeared out of nowhere and fired at the lock – once, twice, three times.

  Sparks showered into the air again, but the lock did not fly open.

  1 Ambush

  2 The Church of the Prophet Elijah.

  3 You’re insane! Do not even think of it! I am counting the turns of the wheels. We are almost there!

  4 Deaf-mute blockhead!

  5 All is in order.

  6 Open it!

  7 My baby, my poor little one. You scum!

  8 Quiet! One word and you’re dead!

  9 Alarm! Run!

  16 May

  I sat by the river gazing dully at the long rafts of rough brown logs floating past, trying to understand whether it was I who had gone insane or the world around me.

  Afanasii Ziukin declared an outlaw? Being hunted by the police and gendarmes?

  Then perhaps Afanasii Ziukin was not really me at all but someone else.

  But no, the e
ntire might of the of the empire’s forces of law and order had been mobilised precisely to find us – Mr Fandorin and myself. And the reason for that was not some monstrous misunderstanding but our own criminal behaviour. Yes indeed, our behaviour, because I had become Fandorin’s accomplice willingly.

  I needed to assess everything clearly from the very beginning, to recall every last detail of the events of the previous night.

  When we finally managed to break open the lock and enter the passage, any attempt to overtake Lind was already pointless. But in our extreme agitation we did not realise this immediately. Fandorin ran ahead, lighting the way with a lantern he had taken from a table, and I ran after him, hunching over in order not to bang my head against the low ceiling. The swaying beam of light picked tangles of cobwebs out of the darkness, exposed shards of some kind under our feet, lit up the clay walls with a damp gleam.

  After about twenty paces the passage divided in two. Erast Petrovich squatted on the ground for a moment, shone his lantern down and confidently turned to the right. Thirty seconds later the tunnel divided again. After studying the tracks clearly visible in the thick layer of dust, we went to the left. Another seven or eight forks were negotiated with the same ease, and then the oil in the lantern ran out, and we were left in total darkness.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Fandorin muttered angrily. ‘Absolutely wonderful. Now not only can’t we pursue Lind, we can’t even find the way back either. Who would ever have believed there was such a maze down here? They must have been digging it for three hundred years, if not longer: the monks during the Time of Troubles and the rebel Streltsy, and the Old Believers hiding their ancient books and church silver from the Patriarch Nikon; and since there are stone galleries, theremust have been quarries here at some time . . . All right, Ziukin. Let’s go wherever our path leads.’

  Making our way in total darkness was slow and difficult. I fell several times when I stumbled over obstacles on the floor. The first time I fell some live creature darted out from under me with a squeal and I grabbed at my heart. I have one shameful and unmanly weakness – I cannot stand rats and mice. I am instinctively repulsed by those creeping, darting, thieving vermin. On the next occasion I caught my foot on something shaped like a root, and when I felt it with my hand, it proved to be a human ribcage. When I stretched my length on the ground for the third time, I heard something jingle underneath me. I clutched at my pocket – and the Orlov was not there.