“Impossible! As an Imperial Russian military officer, I will not stand idly by while our Tsarevich is in danger—”
Before he could finish, however, a flash like lightning lit up the surrounding sky. A concussive tremor shook the ground. A low roar echoed overhead, followed by a sharp blast of wind.
Sherlock peered into the wind, straining to see. What he beheld took his breath away. Of the three ships moored alongside the pier, the rearmost had sprouted flames. A moment later, a great column of water shot into the air. The ship tilted dangerously to the side before listing toward the pier. The men onboard were thrown overboard like ants. Unable to resist its own weight, the ship began to slither beneath the water’s surface.
Kanevsky clutched his head. “No! The Zaur!”
The Zaur ? Sherlock had been almost sure it was the Arsen moored in that position. He hardly had time to think that before the aft end of the ship behind the Zaur suddenly lurched into the air like a toy. It was the Yakov. Soon the ship was enveloped in black smoke, and the bow tipped precariously up. The back of the ship was sinking. The mast broke off and collapsed into the sea. The water’s surface churned with frothy waves.
Ito’s eyes widened. “What is happening?”
Sherlock watched the disaster unfold with bated breath. He had a bad feeling. He’d discovered that a suction plate had been smuggled in through the hollowed-out book, but there was no guarantee that had been the only one. “It did seem like too much of a coincidence that he had changed the waterproof casing today, when it only needs to be every two to three days,” he muttered. “It might be a daily task…because explosives have been placed on eight ships—all of the ships except the Laskar.”
“Eight?” shouted Kanevsky. “But why—”
Another roar, like thunder, swept the hill. Then a column of water shot up next to the Kondrat, also moored at the pier. The ship split in two down its middle, and the halves began sinking separately. Sailors could be seen bobbing on the surface, their heads barely above water, waving their arms desperately in the air.
Sonoda leaned over the balustrade and began shouting in Japanese toward the shore. He was telling them to launch a rescue.
The policemen on the beach leapt into action, joined by the fishermen. One by one small ships began pushing off from the shore, headed for the island pier.
“Police Chief Sonoda, keep your men away from the ships that are still whole,” Sherlock cried. “There could be more explosions.”
Sonoda nodded. He turned back toward the shore and shouted frantically in Japanese.
Ito glanced at him. “You think the explosives are only on eight ships? Won’t they target the Laskar, if that is the ship Tsarevich Nicholas is on?”
“Chekhov and Denikin must also be aboard one of the ships, and that is the one that will not sink. It is the Laskar.”
“But then Tsarevich Nicholas will be safe.”
“Once the other eight ships sink, the last ship will also appear to be in danger. Naturally they will evacuate. The Tsarevich will board a lifeboat. That is when the attempt will be made on his life.”
“Ridiculous,” Kanevsky objected. “Someone would notice at once if anything so large as an explosive were attached to the bottom of a lifeboat. Besides, how would they know which boat His Highness would board?”
“Try to be a little more imaginative, Lieutenant Colonel!” Sherlock chided. “Why would they need to use explosives once they were aboard a lifeboat? They will be alone and isolated upon the water, with few men to contend with. There would be nothing to stop an assassin from taking Nicholas’ life.”
Ito squinted. “An assassin on the boat? It would have to be someone very close to the Tsarevich. Surely not Chekhov and some unknown young man.”
Sherlock was growing impatient at having to explain himself. “Ito,” he said, speaking very quickly, “perhaps you have forgotten. Chekhov and Anna Luzhkova were the ones who told us that Chekhov was Grand Duke George’s attendant, and not close to Nicholas. Don’t you see? That was all a lie. The members of the Russian legation are no more aware of the true arrangements aboard the warships than we are. We must assume that Chekhov is Nicholas’ aide.”
A look of shock crossed Kanevsky’s face. “You think that red-headed hog has earned the Tsarevich’s trust?”
“And Denikin as well,” Sherlock said. “I never suggested that the Laskar would be sunk. Sinking the Laskar would offer no guarantee of Nicholas’ death. In addition to the destruction of the fleet, he will be assassinated while trying to escape. That will necessitate an invasion on Russia’s part.”
Another thunderous roar, and another column of water shot into the air. It was the Kesar, which had anchored in front of the Laskar. She, too, began to sink. The desperate screams of the sailors reached the outlook.
Kanevsky’s face flushed red. “Those Okhrana traitors will pay for this.”
A sailor rushed toward them. He reported something to Kanevsky, in Russian. Kanevsky nodded and turned toward the detective. “A small steamboat is almost ready. We will be close if the Laskar lets down a lifeboat.”
“I will go with you,” Sherlock said.
“I will tell the guards at the gate. Be at wharf two in ten minutes.” Kanevsky turned away and hurried down the narrow path with a group of sailors.
“Mr. Holmes,” Ito said. “I will go as well.”
That was unthinkable. Sherlock stared. “You can’t. Japan cannot afford to lose you.”
“But we have come this far together.”
“Your courage, enterprise, and authority are not required at this juncture. We are only going to trade a few measly blows with an assassin upon a boat.”
“Precisely what I was hoping for. I am a former Choshu retainer. When someone makes an attempt on my life, I must repay them in kind.”
“An unbecoming statement from a former prime minister. Mr. Ito, I realized something as I rode that train to Aomori. It is you who is to thank for changing Japan. Its future, likewise, relies on you.”
“That is why I wish to settle this in person.”
“Please. I understand your sentiments but I do not wish to fight with you again. Our first round was at Baker Street when I was 29, our second was our tussle in the garden at your home. I have already learned my lesson. I hope to never see round three of Sherlock Holmes versus Hirobumi Ito.”
“Then give in,” Ito urged. “You were only ten when I returned to Choshu. I would have stood in front of the gun barrel myself if it would have stopped those first shots of war. But I was too late. I failed. But if I can prevent war with Russia now, I do not care what should happen thereafter. I will stake my life on this!”
What could Sherlock say? Speechless, he stared at Ito. The chairman returned his gaze, equally silent.
Sherlock recalled what he had told his dearest friend by the banks of Lake Daubensee. I think that I may go so far as to say, Watson, that I have not lived wholly in vain. If my record were closed tonight I could still survey it with equanimity. The air of London is the sweeter for my presence. In over a thousand cases I am not aware that I have ever used my powers upon the wrong side. Of late I have been tempted to look into the problems furnished by nature rather than those more superficial ones for which our artificial state of society is responsible. Your memoirs will draw to an end, Watson, upon the day that I crown my career by the capture or extinction of the most dangerous and capable criminal in Europe.
From the moment Sherlock had discovered the existence of that foul villain Moriarty, he knew life was meaningless unless he defeated the man. The achievement of his entire career lay in accomplishing that single feat, or so he had believed. The evil that had beset London must be scourged from the roots. And so Sherlock had found a clear purpose in life.
Undoubtedly, Ito now felt the same. It was a seductive emotion. What use was there in living only at the whims of fate?
And yet…
Sherlock sighed. “Ito,” he said quietly. “Promise me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“You will return home when this is through. Do you swear?”
“Return…home?”
“Japan finds itself in the gravest of dangers. You may believe that to surmount this current predicament is all that matters. So long as there are countries, however, there shall be crises. Who will avert the next, if you are lost? You must return home when this is through, and you must return alive.”
He could see the streets of London in his mind: the soft light of the gas lamps in the mist, their reflections in the wet cobblestones. Moriarty might be gone, but even now his brother worked to restore his name. His remaining men still prepared to act. London would never see a day when crime was no more. Perhaps even now, lost souls continued to visit Baker Street, unaware of Sherlock’s death. What cases weighed upon their shoulders? What anxieties troubled them?
Sherlock shrugged himself free of his reverie to find Ito looking at him oddly. With a faint smile, the detective said, “Now is not the time for reminiscing.”
Ito returned the expression. “I promise we will return. You and I, both.”
An ear-splitting explosion filled the air. Water rained down on them, even though they stood as far as the hill. The sky was lit a crimson red. The Timur, in the northeastern corner, was now engulfed in flames. Balls of fire rolled across the deck before erupting into columns of flame. Their light was reflected in the sea below, where sailors treaded water, shouting for help. The rescue boats of the police and the fishermen drew closer to them.
“Let us go, Mr. Ito. The hour is afoot.”
“Indeed it is.”
Inoue called out, “Take this with you, Ito!”
It was his cane, the one with the hidden blade inside. The two Japanese men looked into each other’s eyes. Ito gripped it solidly, as if he were receiving a samurai’s sword.
Now the ocean wind that blew from the sea carried the heat of the flames. Sherlock and Ito began running. As they descended the hill, a flurry of emotions swept through the detective’s mind. In the past he had disparaged Watson’s writing. Now, he swore he would write his own memoirs someday. But before one could write his life, one must live it. Life was in the living, not its results.
35
The small Russian steamboat was aerodynamic, shaped like an oversized canoe. Lt. Colonel Kanevsky and four other sailors were aboard. Sherlock and Ito huddled into the back. The boat was larger than the Aurora, the steam launch Sherlock had once chased down the Thames, but it was also much faster. They dashed over the black waters as if gliding over pools of ink. The boat’s incandescent bulbs illuminated their immediate vicinity, but did not penetrate far beyond that, with the mist and smoke from the multiple explosions. The boat pitched and lurched each time they struck a piece of floating debris.
Another column of water shot into the sky. Flames erupted from the ship to the Laskar‘s starboard side. The mast tipped over and began to burn.
Kanevsky shouted over his shoulder. “They have got the Kliment!”
“Now we finally know where all the ships were located,” Ito whispered in Sherlock’s ear.
“Indeed. There are only two left now. The Arsen, which is behind the Laskar, and the Walery, to its starboard.” Sherlock leaned forward and shouted. “Lt. Colonel Kanevsky, are you sure the explosives are being detonated by pulling wires?”
“Absolutely certain. I spotted a wire stretched beneath the water.”
“They must be very long.”
Kanevsky nodded. “They are being pulled from the deck of the Laskar.”
“The crew wouldn’t notice if they pulled the wires from the deck?”
“No. If the wires are wound around the balustrades, Chekhov or Denikin could loiter on the deck, and would only need to slightly lean over the edge to give the wires a tug. After the first explosion there would be chaos, and no one would be paying them very much attention. Besides, with it so dark, how would anyone see the wires in the first place?”
“The Arsen and the Walery haven’t sunk yet. The wires must be stretched between them and the Laskar. You should warn all the boats not to travel between th—”
Another flash lit up the sky. An explosion rang out, and then a huge wave rolled their way. The steamboat tilted hard. Sherlock grabbed the mast. The steamboat nearly capsized before suddenly and violently righting itself. The shaking almost tossed all of them into the water.
Kanevsky peered through his binoculars. “That was the Arsen. Only the Walery left.”
“And the Laskar. So long as any other ships are still there Tsarevich Nicholas will remain aboard. It must seem more dangerous to disembark than to stay. The captain of the Laskar is likely waiting to see whether or not the Walery, too, will fall.”
“So their evacuations will begin as soon as the Walery sinks.”
“Yes. We must close the distance to the Laskar before then.”
“The crane to lower the lifeboats is on the starboard side.”
“Then we should get there posthaste.”
Kanevsky shouted at the sailors in Russian. The sailors grew more frantic. They scooped shovelfuls of coal into the stokehold, over and over again. The headwind grew stronger as their steamboat accelerated. Laskar’s forward port grew steadily near.
But while the Laskar’s silhouette loomed larger and larger amid the darkness, they were still too far away.
Just then, another blast reverberated in the air, with a blinding flash of light. Jagged waves struck their boat, rocking them violently left to right.
Sherlock peered in the direction of the blast. A plume of smoke billowed from the side of the ship anchored to the Laskar’s rear starboard. The ship slowly began to tilt to the side.
“The Walery is sinking!” Ito shouted. “The Laskar’s evacuations have to begin!”
“How much longer?” Sherlock asked Kanevsky.
“Five minutes.”
“Hurry. If we are not on time, all our efforts will have been wasted.”
The captain would be last to evacuate. The Tsarevich, however, would likely demand he go first. His lifeboat may have even been prepared before the Walery was sunk. If so, the boat would be rapidly lowered into the water. But perhaps Nicholas would wait until the boats containing his guards had also been set on the water. No. It was obvious they had to make for land. Nicholas’ lifeboat would launch without waiting for the others. Unfortunately, his closest advisors were sure to be aboard as well.
Sherlock clenched his jaw. Watson had once written, of the hour and quarter they spent waiting in an underground bank vault to set an ambush, that it felt the night must have almost gone, and the dawn be breaking above us. Sherlock had called this mere exaggeration, but he felt he now understood the expression. Time passed quickly while he was active. Being forced to wait, however, constrained by the physical limitations of the boat’s speed, was infuriating. The steamboat represented the collective knowledge of all mankind—surely it could go faster! Even a marlin was faster than this!
The Laskar’s silhouette was now so large they had to crane their necks upward to see it. At last their steamboat passed the ship’s bow and they circled around to the starboard side. They slowed their speed. Their vicinity was lit up by the boat’s incandescent lights. Sherlock looked over the side, shocked.
The water was entirely blanketed with lifeboats. The vessels were manned with a disorderly mix of sailors and men in plain clothes. It was impossible to tell who was aboard which boat. The lifeboat crane, meanwhile, continued to lower yet more boats into the water.
Their steamboat pulled alongside one of the lifeboats. Kanevsky yelled out in Russian. The young sailor who answered them seemed bewildered. The sailors peered about and pointed in various directions. They called out in loud voices to the o
ther boats. The voices from those other boats, however, responded with equal confusion.
Kanevsky cursed. He turned back to Sherlock and explained, “The Laskar is only a cruiser, not a flagship. None of these sailors have any experience. Their ranks are totally broken.”
“The Tsarevich had run away from home. Likely they were the only men available.”
“Can no one tell us where Tsarevich Nicholas has gone?” Ito asked.
“He definitely boarded the first boat and set off immediately, but nobody can say in which direction.”
The lights of their steamboat swept over the water like a lighthouse beam, casting the assembled lifeboats into relief. The men aboard the ships worked their oars furiously, heading toward the shore. They seemed mostly terrified. There was no telling when the Laskar might also explode.
Sherlock thought carefully. Which direction would the villains have chosen, to best achieve their objectives?
Of course. “Lt. Colonel,” he told Kanevsky, “chart a course for ten o’clock. We must travel southeast at full speed.”
Kanevsky looked at him uncertainly. “That will take us away from shore. The Walery only just sank.”
“Hence why we must travel southeast. Chekhov and his men will take Nicholas in the direction in which they expect least interference. Enough time has passed since the ships in the other directions sank, and the Japanese police and fishermen will already have arrived to rescue who they can. The crew of the Walery, however, has barely even evacuated.”
“So be it.” Kanevsky turned toward the sailors and shouted in Russian.
The steamboat began to move once more, gaining speed. The smoke in the air grew denser. The way ahead was thickly shrouded. The light from their boat was meaninglessly diffused mid-air. They could see no more than a few yards ahead.
But there was something visible in the water. The steamboat altered direction slightly.
Sherlock looked at the object as they passed it. It was a sailor’s corpse. He was floating face down in the water, his body motionless and limp. Blood oozed from a gunshot wound in his back.
Sherlock Holmes Page 30
