The State Counsellor - Fandorin 06

by Boris Akunin

The man with the interesting face halted in the doorway, pausing to return the Muscovites' curious gaze, and then suddenly spoke in a loud, solemn voice: 'The official who has arrived from St Petersburg on special instructions himself requires your presence in his room immediately' Then he laughed at the reference to Gogol, and corrected himself. 'Or, rather, he is glad to see you and requires only one thing: a cup of strong coffee. You know, gentlemen, I am quite unable to sleep in a train. The shaking of the carriage sets my brain fidgeting inside my head and prevents the thought process from closing down. You, of course, are Mr Fandorin' - the visitor bowed lightly to the State Counsellor. 'I've heard a lot about you. Glad to be working together. You are Sverchinsky. You are Burlyaev. And you?' he asked, glancing inquiringly at Smolyaninov and Zubtsov.

  They introduced themselves, and the new arrival looked at Zubtsov with especial interest.

  'Yes, of course, Sergei Vitalievich, I know. I've read your reports. Competent.'

  Zubtsov turned pink.

  'Judging from the considerate attention that you have accorded my person, you have agents at the station and I was recognised. Nonetheless, I hope you will give a warm welcome to Prince Gleb Georgievich Pozharsky. For three hundred years the eldest sons of our clan have all been either Gleb or Georgii -in honour of our patron saints, Gleb of Murom and George the Victorious. A tradition hallowed by the centuries, so to speak. So, the minister has personally instructed me to head the investigation into the case of the murder of Adjutant General Khrapov. From us, gentlemen, rapid results are expected. Exceptional zeal will be required, and especially from you.' Pozharsky pronounced these final words with significant emphasis and paused for the Muscovites to take his meaning. 'Time, gen-tlemen - time is precious. Fortunately last night, when your telegram arrived, I was in my office. I packed this little briefcase here and grabbed my suitcase -I always keep one ready in case I need to leave at short notice - and caught the train. Now I'll take ten minutes to drink coffee and at the same time listen to your ideas. Then we'll have a talk with the prisoner.'

  Erast Petrovich had not seen an interrogation like this one before.

  'Why's he sitting there all trussed up, as if he was in the electric chair?' Prince Pozharsky exclaimed in surprise when they entered the interrogation room. 'Have you heard about the latest American invention? They connect electrodes here and here' -he jabbed a finger at the seated man's wrist and the back of his head - 'and switch on the current. Simple and effective.'

  'Would you be trying to frighten me?' the bound man asked with an insolent smile that exposed the gap in his teeth. 'Don't bother. I'm not afraid of torture.'

  'Oh, come now,' Pozharsky exclaimed in surprise. 'What torture? This is Russia, not China. Do tell them to untie him, Pyotr Ivanovich. This Asiatic barbarity really is too much.'

  'He's a violent individual,' Burlyaev warned him. 'He could attack you.'

  The prince shrugged: 'There are six of us, all exceptionally well built. Let him attack.'

  While the straps were being unfastened, the man from St Petersburg examined the captured terrorist with keen interest. Then suddenly he spoke with intense feeling: 'My God, Nikolai Iosifovich, you have no idea just how glad I am to see you. Let me introduce you, gentlemen. You see before you Nikolai Seleznyov, a fearless hero of the revolution. The very man who shot Colonel von Bock last summer, and then escaped from a prison carriage with guns blazing and bombs exploding all around. I recognised him immediately from your description. So I grabbed the file and set off. For such a dear friend six hundred versts is no distance.'

  It would be hard to say on whom this announcement produced the greatest effect - the dumbfounded Muscovites or the prisoner, who froze with an extremely stupid expression on his face: his lips extended in a smile, but his eyebrows already raised in surprise.

  'And I am Colonel Pozharsky, deputy director of the Police Department. You, Nikolai Iosifovich, are a member of the Combat Group these days, which means we have already met, on Aptekarsky Island. A quite unforgettable encounter.'

  Maintaining his energetic tempo, he continued: And you, my darling, have been sent to me by God himself. I was almost thinking of retiring, but now you've turned up. I could just kiss you.' He even made a move towards the prisoner as if he were about to embrace him, and the fearless terrorist involuntarily shrank back into his chair.

  'On my way here in the train, I composed a little article,' the dashing aide-de-camp told Rahmet in a confidential tone, extracting a piece of paper covered in writing from his briefcase. 'It is entitled "The End of the Combat Group is Nigh". With a subheading: 'A triumph for the Police Department". Listen to this: "The fiendish murder of the fondly remembered Ivan Fyodorovich Khrapov has not gone unavenged for long. The martyr's body has not yet been committed to the ground, but the investigative agencies of Moscow have already arrested the extremely dangerous terrorist N.S., who has provided detailed testimony concerning the activities of the Combat Group of which he is a member." The style's a little bit untidy, but never mind, the editor will fix that. I won't read any more - you get the gist.'

  The prisoner, whose name was apparently Nikolai Iosifovich Seleznyov, chuckled: 'It's clear enough. So you're threatening to compromise me in the eyes of my comrades?'

  'And for you that will be more terrible than the gallows,' the prince assured him. 'In the jails and labour camps, not a single political prisoner will offer you his hand. Why should the state take an unnecessary sin on its soul by executing you? You'll put the noose round your own neck.'

  'Oh no I won't. They'll believe me before you. My comrades know all about the Okhranka's little tricks.'

  Pozharsky did not try to deny that. 'Of course, who's going to believe that the immaculate hero of terror broke down and told all? It's psychologically unconvincing, I realise that. Only is he ... Oh, Lord, where are they ...?' He rummaged in his tan briefcase and drew out a pile of small rectangular cards. 'There now. I gave myself a fright - thought I must have left them behind on my desk. Only, as I was saying, is he really so immaculate? I know you have very strict morals in your party. You'd do better to join the anarchists, Nikolai Iosifovich; their morals are a bit more - you know, lively. Especially with your curious nature. Just take a look at these photographs, gentlemen. Taken through a secret aperture in one of the most depraved establishments on the Ligovka. It's our Nikolai Iosifovich here - there he is at the back. And he's with Lubochka, an eleven-year-old child. That is, of course, a child in terms of her age and physique, but in terms of experience and habit, very far indeed from a child. But if you don't know her personal history, it looks quite iniquitous. Here, Pyotr Ivanovich, take a look at this one. You can see Nikolai Iosifovich quite clearly here.'

  The policemen crowded round Pozharsky, examining the photographs with keen interest.

  'Look, Erast Petrovich, it's disgusting!' Smolyaninov exclaimed indignantly, holding out one of the photographs to Fandorin.

  Fandorin glanced at it briefly and said nothing.

  The prisoner sat there pale-faced, biting his lips.

  'You take a good look too,' said the prince, beckoning him with his finger. 'You'll find it interesting as well. Sergei Vitalievich, my dear fellow, give them to him. It doesn't matter if he tears them up, we'll print more. When these photos are taken into account, Mr Seleznyov's psychological profile acquires a quite different emphasis. I understand, you know, Nikolai Iosifovich,' he said, turning back to the terrorist, who was gaping in stupefaction at one of the photographs; 'it's not that you're an out-and-out pervert, you simply felt curious. A dangerous quality, excessive curiosity'

  Pozharsky suddenly walked up to the terrorist, grasped his shoulders firmly in both hands and started speaking in a slow, regular rhythm, as if he were hammering in nails: 'You, Seleznyov, will not get a heroic trial with all the pretty ladies in the courtroom swooning over you. Your own comrades will spit at you as treacherous scum who has besmirched the bright countenance of the revolution.'

  The
prisoner gazed up, spellbound, as Pozharsky went on.

  And now let me outline another possibility to you.' The prince removed his hands from Seleznyov's shoulders, pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing one leg elegantly over the other. 'You are a brave man, vivacious and high-spirited. What do you find so interesting in hobnobbing with these miserable would-be martyrs, your tedious comrades in the revolutionary struggle? They're like bees who need to bunch together in a swarm and live according to the rules; but you're a loner, you do things your own way, you have your own laws. Admit it, in the depths of your heart you really despise them. They're alien to you. You enjoy playing cops and robbers, risking your life, leading the police a merry dance. Well, I'll give you a chance to play a game far more amusing and much riskier than revolution. Right now you're just a puppet in the hands of the party theoreticians, who drink their coffee with cream in Geneva and Zurich and other such places, while fools like you water the pavements of Russia with your blood. But I'm offering you the opportunity to become the puppet-master and pull the strings of the entire pack of them. And I assure you, you would find it delightful.'

  'I'll be pulling their strings, and you'll be pulling mine?' Seleznyov asked in a hoarse voice.

  'I can't see anyone ever pulling your strings.' Pozharsky laughed. 'On the contrary, I shall be totally and completely dependent on you. I'm staking a lot on you - going for broke, in fact. If you make a mess of things, my career's over. You see, Seleznyov, I'm being absolutely frank with you. By the way, what's your revolutionary alias?'

  'Rahmet.'

  'Well, for me you will be ... let's say, Gvidon.'

  'Why Gvidon?' Seleznyov asked with a puzzled frown, as if he were totally confused by the pace of events.

  'Because you will come flying to me in the realm of the glorious Tsar Saltan from your island of Buyan, sometimes as a mosquito, sometimes as a fly, sometimes as a bumblebee.'

  Erast Petrovich suddenly realised that the process of recruitment was already complete. The word 'yes' had not yet been spoken, but some invisible boundary line had been crossed. And after that everything happened very quickly, in the space of just a few minutes.

  At first Rahmet answered his virtuoso interrogator's questions absent-mindedly, as if they concerned insignificant matters and not the membership of the Combat Group (it turned out that there were only four of them: the leader with the alias Green, Emelya, Bullfinch and Rahmet himself). Then he provided a clear and vivid psychological portrait of each of them. What he said about the leader, for instance, was: 'He's like Frankenstein's monster in the English novel, half man, half machine. Every time he speaks or moves, you can literally hear the gearwheels creaking. Green sees everything in black and white, nothing puts him off.'

  Rahmet gave the address of the clandestine apartment just as willingly, offering no resistance at all, and he dashed off his agreement to cooperate on a voluntary basis as blithely as if it were a billet-doux. His expression as he did so was anything but frightened or even ashamed; it seemed more thoughtful, the expression of a man who has unexpectedly discovered wide new horizons and not yet had time to take in the stunning view now extending before his eyes.

  'Off you go, Gvidon,' said Pozharsky, shaking him firmly by the hand. 'Your job is to find Green and hand him over to us. A difficult task, but you're up to it. And don't be afraid that we'll let you down. You're our most important man now; we're putting all our trust in you. Contacts as we agreed. Go with God. And if you don't believe in God, a fair wind to your sails."

  The moment the door closed behind the former terrorist Rahmet and the new collaborator Gvidon, Burlyaev said confidently: 'He'll make a run for it. Why don't you have us put a couple of good agents on his tail?'

  'Under no circumstances,' said the prince, shaking his head and yawning. 'In the first place, the tails might be noticed, and we'll get him killed. And in the second place, let us not insult our little mosquito by not trusting him. I know his kind. Fear won't make him collaborate, but he'll put his heart into it, all his inspiration and imagination - until the keen edge of new sensations is blunted. The important thing here, gentlemen, is not to miss the moment that is bound to come, when our Gvidon realises it would be a greater thrill to commit double treason, that is, to pull the strings of both dolls, police and revolution, to make himself the head puppet-master. That's when our waltz with Nikolai Iosifovich will come to an end. We just have to hear that moment when the music stops playing.'

  'How true that is!' Zubtsov exclaimed passionately, gazing at the psychologist from the capital with unfeigned admiration. 'I've thought about that a great deal myself, only I used a different name for it. Managing a collaborator, gentlemen, is like entering into a secret liaison with a married lady. You have to cherish her, love her sincerely and take constant care not to compromise her, not to destroy her family happiness. And when the feeling is exhausted, you have to part as friends and give her a nice present in farewell. There should be no bitterness, no mutual resentment.'

  Pozharsky listened attentively to the young man's excited exclamations and commented: 'Romantically put, but essentially correct.'

  'May I also say something?' Smolyaninov put in, blushing. 'Colonel, you were very cunning in the way you recruited this Rahmet, of course, but it seems to me unbecoming for the defenders of the state to employ dishonest methods.' At this point he started speaking quickly, obviously concerned that he might be interrupted. 'Actually, I've been wanting to speak out frankly for a long time ... The way we work isn't right, gentlemen. This Rahmet has shot the commander of a regiment, escaped from arrest, killed one of our people and committed God only knows how many other terrible crimes, but we let him go. He should be put in prison, but we wish to profit from his viciousness, and you even shake his hand. Of course, I understand that we shall solve the case more quickly that way, but do we want speed, if that is the price to be paid? We are supposed to maintain justice and morality, but we deprave society even more than the nihilists do. It is not good. Well, gentlemen?'

  The Lieutenant looked round at both of his superiors, but Sverchinsky merely shook his head reproachfully in reply and while Fandorin's expression was sympathetic, he said nothing.

  'Young man, where on earth did you get the idea that the state is justice arid morality?' Pozharsky asked, laughing good-naturedly. 'Fine justice indeed! My ancestors and yours, the bandits, stole all their wealth from their fellow countrymen and passed it on by inheritance to us, so that we could dress elegantly and listen to Schubert. In my own case, admittedly, there was no inheritance, but that's a specific instance. Have you read Proudhon? Property is theft. And you and I are guards set to protect the stolen booty. So don't go filling your head with foolish illusions. Better try to understand this, if you really must have a moral justification. Our state is unjust and immoral. But better a state like that than rebellion, bloodshed and chaos. Slowly and unwillingly, society becomes just a little bit more moral, a little bit more decent. It takes centuries. And revolution will throw it back to the times of Ivan the Terrible. There still won't be any justice, new bandits will simply appear, and again they'll have everything and the others will have nothing. And what I said about guards is actually too poetic. You and I, Lieutenant, are night-soil men. We clean out the backhouse privies, to prevent the shit sluicing out into the street. And if you don't wish to get dirty, then take off that smart blue uniform and look for another profession. I'm not threatening you, just giving you some well-meant advice.'

  The deputy director of police confirmed the sincerity of his final words with a gentle smile.

  Lieutenant Colonel Burlyaev waited for the end of this abstract discussion and asked briskly: 'Your Excellency, then shall I give instructions for private lecturer Aronson's apartment to be surrounded?'

  'No. Any tracks there are long since cold. Leave Aronson alone - or we risk giving Gvidon away. And what can the private lecturer give us? He's chicken feed, a "sympathiser". Will he tell us what the real fighters loo
k like? We already know that. I'm more interested in this Needle, the party courier. That's the one we need to find, and then—'

  Breaking off in mid-sentence, the prince suddenly leapt to his feet. In two rapid strides he was at the door and jerked it open. The gendarme officer caught in the doorway froze. He had very light hair and a face as pink as a piglet's, which turned even pinker as they watched. Erast Petrovich recognised the officer as Staff Captain Seidlitz, erstwhile protector of Khrapov, the general who was now lying in the autopsy room and had no more need of his guard.

  'I -I came to see Mr Burlyaev. To ask if he'd found any clues that would lead to the murderers... I heard a whisper that there was an arrest last night... You're Prince Pozharsky, aren't you? I'm—'

  'I know who you are,' the aide-de-camp interrupted sharply. 'You are a man who failed in an assignment of the utmost importance. You, Seidlitz, are a criminal, and you will be tried by a court of law. I forbid you to leave Moscow until specifically instructed to do so. What are you doing here anyway? Were you eavesdropping at the door?'

  For the third time in the short period since his arrival the visitor from St Petersburg underwent a total metamorphosis. Benign with his colleagues and assertive with Rahmet, now he was sharp to the point of rudeness with this offender.

  'I won't allow this!' Seidlitz burst out, almost crying. Tm a gendarme officer. Let them try me, but you have no right to talk to me like that! I know what I did was unforgivable. But I swear I will atone for it!'

  'You'll atone for it in a penal battalion,' the prince interrupted him, and slammed the door unceremoniously.