by Boris Akunin
This time, however, the repugnant Perepyolkin was absolutely right. Varya thought Charles's 'excellent idea' was absolute lunacy. But the carousing officers were all fully in favour of the project: one Cossack colonel even slapped the Frenchman on the back and called him a 'crazy fool'. Sobolev smiled, but he didn't say anything.
'Let me go, Mikhail Dmitrievich,' a dashing cavalry general suggested (Varya seemed to remember that his name was Strukov). 'I'll fill up the carriages with my Cossack lads and we'll ride down the line like the wind. Who knows, we might even capture ourselves another pasha or two. We still have the right, don't we? We haven't received any orders to cease military operations yet.'
Sobolev glanced at Varya and she noticed an unusual glint in his eyes.
'Oh no, Strukov. Adrianople was enough for you.' Achilles smiled rapaciously and raised his voice. 'Gentlemen, listen to my orders!' The room fell silent immediately. 'I am transferring my field headquarters to San Stefano. The third battalion of chasseurs is to board the train. I want every last one of them in those carriages, even if they have to squeeze in like sardines. I will travel in the staff carriage. The train will then immediately return to Adrianople for reinforcements and go backwards and forwards continuously. By midday tomorrow I shall have an entire regiment. You, Strukov, are to arrive with your cavalry no later than tomorrow evening. In the meantime one battalion will be all I need. According to reconnaissance reports, there are no battleworthy Turkish forces ahead of us - only the sultan's guards in Constantinople itself, and they are busy guarding Abdul-Hamid.'
'It is not the Turks that we need to be afraid of. Your Excellency,' Perepyolkin said in his squeaky voice. 'We may assume that the Turks will not touch you, they've run out of steam. But the commander-in-chief will not be pleased at all.'
'Ah, but that's not quite true, Eremci Ionovich,' said Sobolev, squinting cunningly. 'Everybody knows what a madcap yours truly Ali-pasha is, and we can use that as an excuse for all sorts of things. You know, it might prove very handy indeed for His Imperial Highness if news that one of the suburbs of Constantinople has been captured were to arrive just as the negotiations are in full swing. They might rebuke me in public, but they'll thank me in private. It wouldn't be the first time by any means. And kindly be so good as not to discuss matters when an order has already been issued.'
'Absolument!' declared Paladin, shaking his head in admiration. 'Un tour de genie, Michel! My idea wasn't the best after all. This article is going to be even better than I thought.'
Sobolev got to his feet and offered Varya his arm with a grand gesture. 'What would you say to a glimpse of the lights of Constantinople, Varvara Andreevna?'
The train hurtled on through the darkness so fast that Varya could scarcely manage to read the names of the stations: Babaeski, Luleburgaz, Chorlu. They were ordinary railway stations, just like stations somewhere in Tambov province, only they were white instead of yellow. Flickering lights, the elegant silhouettes of cypress trees and once, through the iron lacework of a bridge, a glimpse of a moonlit swathe of river water. The carriage was comfortable, with plush-covered divans and a large mahogany table. The escort and Sobolev's white mare Gulnora were riding in the accompanying retinue's compartment. Every now and again Varya heard the sound of neighing from Gulnora, who still hadn't settled down after the anxious process of boarding. The company riding in the main compartment consisted of the general, Varya, Paladin and several others, including Mitya Gridnev, who was sleeping peacefully in the corner. A group of officers were smoking and crowding round Percpyolkin as he marked off the train's progress on a map, the correspondent was writing something in his notepad, and Varya and Sobolev were standing apart from everyone else by the window, making awkward conversation.
'. . . I thought it was love,' Michel confessed in a soft voice, seeming to stare out into the darkness through the window; but Varya knew that he was looking at her reflection in the glass. 'But I won't try to lie to you. I never actually thought about love. My true passion is my ambition, and everything else comes second. That's just the way I am. But ambition is no sin if it is directed to an exalted goal. I believe in my star and my fate, Varvara Andreevna. My star shines brightly, and my fate is special. I feel it in my heart. When I was still a young cadet . . .'
'You were telling me about your wife,' said Varya, gently guiding him back to the more interesting subject.
'Ah, yes. I married out of ambition, I admit it. I made a mistake. Ambition may be a good reason to face a hail of bullets, but not to get married - not under any circumstances. How did it all happen? I came back from Turkestan to the first glimmerings of fame and glory, but I was still a parvenu, an upstart, a jumped-up peasant. My grandfather served his way up all the way from the lower ranks. And suddenly, there was Princess Titova, with a line going all the way back to Rurik. I could move straight from the garrison into high society. How could I not be tempted?'
Sobolev spoke jerkily, in a bitter voice, and he seemed sincere. Varya valued sincerity; and, of course, she had guessed where all this was leading. She could have put a stop to it in good time, turned the conversation in another direction, but she wasn't strong enough. Who would have been?
'But very soon I realised that high society was no place for the likes of me. The climate there doesn't suit my complexion. I was away on campaigns and she was back in St Petersburg. And that was our life. When the war's over, I'll demand a divorce. I can afford to, I've earned it. And no one will rebuke me - after all, I am a hero.' Sobolev grinned cunningly. 'So what do you say, Varya?'
'About what?' she asked with an innocent expression. It was her abominably flirtatious character leading her on again. She knew this declaration was not what she really wanted - it could only cause complications; but it still felt wonderful.
'Should I get divorced or not?'
'That's for you to decide.' This was the moment: now he would say those words.
Sobolev sighed heavily and plunged head first into the whirlpool.
‘I have been keeping an eye on you for a long time. You are intelligent, sincere, bold, strong-willed. Just the kind of companion I need. With you I would be even stronger. And you would never regret it, I swear . . . And so, Varvara Andreevna, you may consider this an official . . .'
'Your Excellency!' shouted Perepyolkin (Damn him, why can't he just disappear!). 'San Stefano! Shall we disembark?'
The operation went off without a single hitch. They disarmed the dumbfounded guards at the station (no more than a joke - six sleepy soldiers) and spread out through the little town in platoons.
Sobolev waited at the station while the sparse shooting continued in the streets. It was all over in half an hour. Their only casualty was one soldier wounded, and he had apparently been winged by mistake by their own men.
The general made a cursory inspection of the centre of the town with its gas street lamps. Further on there was a dark labyrinth of crooked little alleys - it made no sense to go poking his nose in there. For his residence and defensive stronghold (in the case of any unpleasantness) Sobolev chose the local branch of the Osman-Osman Bank. One company of men was stationed in the bank and immediately outside it, another was left at the station and a third was divided into teams to patrol the surrounding streets. The train immediately set off again to bring reinforcements.
They were unable to inform the commander-in-chief's headquarters by telegram that San Stefano had been taken, because the line was dead. Obviously the Turks' doing.
'The second battalion will be here by midday at the latest,' said Sobolev. 'Nothing very interesting is likely to happen in the meantime. We can admire the lights of Constantinople and pass the time in pleasant conversation.'
The temporary staff office was established on the second floor, in the director's office - firstly, because from the windows you really could see the lights of the Turkish capital twinkling in the distance,- and secondly, because there was a steel door in the office that led directly into the bank's strongr
oom. There were little sacks with wax seals lying in neat rows on the strongroom's cast-iron shelves. Paladin read the Arabic script and said that each bag contained a hundred thousand lire.
'And they say Turkey's bankrupt,' said Mitya in amazement. 'There are millions here!'
'That's why we're going to be based in this office,' Sobolev said firmly. 'To keep it all safe. I've been accused once of making off with the khan's treasury. Never again.'
The door to the strongroom was left half-open, and everyone forgot about the millions of lire. They brought a telegraph apparatus from the station to the waiting room and ran a wire straight out across the square. Every fifteen minutes Varya tried to contact at least Adrianople, but the apparatus gave no signs of life.
A deputation arrived from the local merchants and clergy to ask them not to loot homes or destroy mosques but specify the sum of a contribution instead, perhaps fifty thousand - the poor citizens of San Stefano would not be able to raise any more than that. However, when the head of the delegation, a fat, hooknosed Turk in a tail coat and fez, realised that he was facing the legendary Ak-pasha himself, the sum of the proposed contribution immediately doubled.
Sobolev assured the natives that he was not empowered to levy any contribution. The hook-nosed gentleman shot a sideways glance at the half-open door of the strongroom and rolled his eyes respectfully.
'I understand, effendi. For such a great man a hundred thousand is a mere trifle.'
News travelled quickly in these parts. No more than two hours after San Stefano's petitioners had left, a deputation of Greek traders arrived to see Ak-pasha from Constantinople itself. They did not offer any contributions, but they had brought sweets and wine 'for the brave Christian warriors'. They said that there were many Orthodox Christians in the city, asked the Russians not to fire their cannons, and if they really had to fire, then not at the Pera quarter, where there were shops and warehouses full of goods, but at the Galata quarter, or - even better - the Armenian and European quarters. When they tried to present Sobolev with a golden sword set with precious stones, they were shown out and apparently left feeling reassured.
'Constantinople!' said Sobolev, his voice trembling with feeling as he gazed out through the window at the glittering lights of the great city. 'The eternal, unattainable dream of the Russian tsars. The very roots of our faith and civilisation are here. This is the key to the whole of the Mediterranean. So close! Just reach out and grasp it. Are we really going to go away empty-handed again?'
'Impossible, Your Excellency!' Gridnev exclaimed. 'His Majesty will never allow it!'
'Ah, Mitya. You can be sure that the big brains in the rear, the Korchakovs and the Gnatievs, are already horse-trading and fawning to the English. They won't have the courage to take what belongs to Russia by ancient right. In 'twenty-nine Dibich stopped at Adrianople, and now we've got as far as San Stefano. So near and yet so far. I see a great and powerful Russia uniting the Slavs from Arkhangelsk to Constantinople and from Trieste to Vladivostok! Only then will the Romanovs fulfil their historical destiny and finally be able to leave these eternal wars behind them and devote themselves to the improvement of their own long-suffering dominion. But if we pull back, then our sons and grandsons will once again spill their own blood and the blood of others along the road to the walls of Constantinople. Such is the cross the Russian people must bear!'
‘I can just picture what is going on in Constantinople now,' Paladin said absent-mindedly, also gazing out of the window. 'Ak-pasha in San Stefano! There is panic in the palace, the harem is being evacuated, the eunuchs are running around with their fat backsides wobbling. I wonder if Abdul-Hamid has already crossed to the Asiatic side yet? And it will not even occur to anyone, Michel, that you have come here with only a single battalion. If this were a game of poker, it would make a fine bluff, with the opponent absolutely guaranteed to throw in his hand and pass.'
'This is getting worse and worse,' Perepyolkin cried in alarm. 'Mikhail Dmitrievich, Your Excellency, don't listen to him! It would be the end of you! You've already put your head in the wolf's mouth! Forget about Abdul-Hamid!'
Sobolev and the correspondent looked each other in the eye.
'What have I got to lose?' said the general, crunching the knuckles of his fist. 'If the sultan's guard doesn't panic and opens fire, I'll just pull back, that's all. Tell me, Charles, is the sultan's guard very strong?'
'The guard is a fine force, but Abdul-Hamid will never let it leave his side.'
'That means they won't pursue us. We could enter the city in a column, flags flying and drums beating; I'd be riding at the front on Gulnora,' said Sobolev, warming to his theme as he strode round the room. 'Before it gets light, so they can't see how few of us there are. And then to the palace. Without a single shot being fired! Would they bring me out the keys of Constantinople?'
'Of course they would!' Paladin exclaimed passionately. 'And that would be total capitulation!'
'Face the English with a fait accompli!' said the general, sawing the air with his hand; 'Before they know what's happening, the city is already in Russian hands and the Turks have surrendered. And if anything goes wrong, I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. No one authorised me to take San Stefano either!'
'It would be an absolutely glorious finale! And to think that I would be an eyewitness to it!' the journalist said excitedly.
'Not a witness - one of the actors,' said Sobolev, slapping him on the shoulder.
'I won't let you out!' said Perepyolkin, blocking the doorway. He looked absolutely desperate, with his brown eyes goggling insanely and his forehead covered in beads of sweat. 'As the chief of staff I protest! Think, Your Excellency! You are a general of His Imperial Highness's retinue, not some wild Bashi-Bashouk! I implore you!'
'Out of the way, Perepyolkin, I'm sick of you!' the fearsome Olympian shouted at the rationalist pygmy. 'When Osman-pasha tried to break out of Plevna, you implored me then not to act without orders too. You went down on your knees! But who was right that time! You'll see: I shall have the keys to Constantinople!'
'How marvellous!' exclaimed Mitya. 'Isn't it wonderful, Varvara Andreevna?'
Varya said nothing, because she was not sure whether it was wonderful or not. Sobolev's impetuous derring-do had set her head spinning; and there was the little question of what she was supposed to do. Was she to march to the sound of drums with the chasseurs, holding Gulnora's reins?
'Gridnev, I'm leaving you my escort; you'll guard the bank, or the locals will loot it and then blame Sobolev,' said the general.
'But Your Excellency! Mikhail Dmitrievich!' the ensign howled. 'I want to go to Constantinople too!'
'And then who would protect Varvara Andreevna?' Paladin asked reproachfully, burring his r's.
Sobolev took a gold watch out of his pocket and the lid rang as he flicked it open.
'Half past five. In two hours or two and a half it will start to get light. Hey there, Gukmasov!'
'Yes, Your Excellency,' said the handsome cornet as he dashed into the office.
'Assemble the companies! Fall in the battalion in marching order! Banners and drums to the fore! Let's march in style! Saddle up Gulnora! Look lively! We depart at six hundred hours!' The orderly dashed out.
Sobolev stretched sweetly and said: 'Well now, Varvara Andreevna, I shall either be a greater hero than Bonaparte, or finally lose my foolish head at last.'
'You won't lose it,' she replied, gazing at the general in sincere admiration - he looked so wonderfully fine just at the moment: the Russian Achilles.
'Touch wood,' said Sobolev superstitiously, reaching for the table.
'It's not too late to change your mind!' Perepyolkin piped up. 'With your permission, Mikhail Dmitrievich, I can call Gukmasov back!'
He took a step towards the door, but just at that very moment . . .
At that moment there was a loud clattering of numerous pairs of boots on the staircase, the door swung open and two men entered the roo
m: Lavrenty Arkadievich Mizinov and Fandorin.
'Erast Petrovich!' Varya squealed and almost flung herself on his neck, but she stopped herself just in time.
Mizinov rumbled: 'Aha, here he is! Excellent!'
'Your Excellency!' Sobelev said with a frown, spotting the gendarmes in blue uniforms behind the first two men. 'Why are you here? Of course, I am guilty of acting on my own initiative, but arresting me is really going rather too far.'
'Arrest you?' Mizinov was amazed. 'What on earth for? We barely managed to get through to you on handcars with half a company of gendarmes. The telegraph isn't working and the railway line has been cut.
We came under fire three times and lost seven men. I've got a bullet hole here in my greatcoat.' He showed Sobolev his sleeve.
Erast Petrovich stepped forward. He hadn't changed at all while he had been away, but he looked a real dandy in his civilian clothes: a top hat, a cloak with a pelerine, a starched collar.
'Hello, Varvara Andreevna,' the titular counsellor said cordially. 'How well your hair has grown. I think perhaps it is better like that.'
He bowed briefly to Sobolev.
'My congratulations on the diamond-studded sword, Your Excellency. That is a great honour.'
He nodded quickly to Perepyolkin and finally turned towards the French correspondent.
'Salaam aleichem, Anwar-effendi.'
Chapter Thirteen
IN WHICH FANDORIN MAKES A LONG SPEECH
Die Wiener Zeitung (Vienna) 21 (9) January 1878
. . . the balance of power between the combatants in the final stage of the war is such that we can no longer disregard the danger of pan-Slavic expansion, which threatens the southern borders of the dual monarchy. Tsar Alexander and his satellites of Roumania, Serbia and Montenegro have amassed a concentrated force of 700 thousand men, equipped with one and a half thousand cannon. Against whom is it directed? One might well ask. Against a demoralised Turkish army, which even according to the most optimistic estimates can at present number no more than 120 thousand hungry, frightened soldiers?
