by Boris Akunin
When Pozharsky turned round, there was not a trace of anger in his face - only intense concentration and excitement. 'That's all, gentlemen; now to work,' he said, rubbing his hands. 'Let us assign roles. You, Pyotr Ivanovich, are responsible for intelligence work. Feel out all the revolutionary groups, all your contacts. If you can't find Green, then at least bring me Mademoiselle Needle. And one more job for your agents: sit on Seidlitz's tail, and his men's too. After the tongue-lashing I just gave him, that Ostsee blockhead will stop at nothing to save his own skin. He will demonstrate truly miraculous zeal. And he won't be any too particular about his methods either. Let him pull the chestnuts out of the fire, but we'll be the ones who eat them. Now for you, Stanislav Filippovich. Distribute the descriptions of the criminals to your men at the railway stations and turnpikes. You're responsible for making sure that Green doesn't leave the Moscow city limits. And I' -the prince smiled radiantly - 'will work with Gvidon. After all, that's only fair, since I recruited him. Now I'm going to the Loskutnaya Hotel, to take a good room and catch up on my sleep. Sergei Vitalievich, I ask you to stay by the telephone at all times in case a message comes in from Gvidon. Let me know immediately. Everything will be just fine, gentlemen, you'll see. As the Gallic gentlemen say, we shall not let our noses droop.'
They rode back in the sleigh in absolute silence. Smolyaninov looked as if he would have liked to express an opinion, but he didn't dare. Sverchinsky twirled the end of his pampered moustache. But Fandorin seemed unusually lethargic and subdued.
And in all honesty, he had good reason.
Set against the brilliant glow of the celebrity from the national capital, the flattering aura surrounding the State Counsellor had dimmed substantially. From being an individual of the first magnitude, whose every word, and even silence, commanded the respectful attention of those around him, Erast Petrovich had suddenly been transformed into a dispensable and even rather comical character. Who was he now? The investigation had been taken over by an experienced, brilliant specialist who would clearly manage the case better than the Moscow governor's Deputy for Special Assignments. The success of the search would also be facilitated by the fact that the aforementioned specialist was obviously not hampered by excessive scruples. However, Fandorin immediately relented of that thought as unworthy and prompted by his own wounded vanity.
The main cause of his discomfiture lay elsewhere - the State Counsellor honestly admitted that to himself. For the first time in his life, destiny had brought him face to face with a man who possessed greater talents as a detective. Well, perhaps not for the first time, but the second. A long, long time ago, at the very beginning of his career, Erast Petrovich had encountered another such talent, only he did not much like to recall that story from the dim and distant past.
But then, he couldn't withdraw from the investigation either, could he? That would be giving way to his pride and betraying his beneficent mentor Prince Dolgorukoi, who was relying on his deputy for support and even salvation.
When they reached the Office of Gendarmes they walked into Sverchinsky's office, still without speaking. Here it turned out that on the way the Colonel had also been thinking about the Governor General.
'Disaster, Erast Petrovich,' Stanislav Filippovich said, without any of his usual ambivalence,, after they had settled into the armchairs and lit their cigars. 'Did you notice that he didn't even bother to present himself to Vladimir Andreevich? That's it. The old man's finished. The question's already been decided up at the top. It's obvious.'
Smolyaninov sighed regretfully and Fandorin shook his head sadly. 'This will be a terrible blow for the prince. He may be advanced in years, but he is still p-perfectly sound in body and mind. And he was good for the city'
'To hell with your city,' the Colonel said sharply. 'The important thing is that working under Dolgorukoi was good for us. And things will go badly without him. Naturally, I shan't be confirmed as head of the Office. And it will be the end of your free and easy life, too. The new Governor General will have his own trusted associates.'
'No d-doubt. But what's to be done about it?'
The cautious Stanislav Filippovich was a completely changed man. 'What else? Make Pozharsky look stupid.'
'You're suggesting that we find the terrorist before C-Colonel Pozharsky does,' the State Counsellor stated rather than asked.
'Exactly. But that's not enough. This little prince is too smart by half; he has to be neutralised.'
Erast Petrovich almost choked on his cigar smoke. 'Good Lord, Stanislav F-Filippovich!'
'Not killed, of course. That's the last thing we need. But there are better ways.' Sverchinsky's voice became pensive. 'For instance, make this jumping jack look ridiculous. Turn him into a figure of fun. Erast Petrovich, my dear fellow, we have to show that we, Dolgorukoi's men, are worth more than this popinjay from the capital.'
'I have not actually withdrawn from the investigation,' the State Counsellor remarked. 'In his distribution of "roles", Pozharsky left me with nothing to do. But I am not accustomed to sitting around doing nothing.'
'Well, that's excellent.' The Colonel jumped to his feet and began striding energetically round the room, turning something over in his mind. 'Well then, you will apply the analytical talent that has saved us all more than once. And I shall take steps to make the little prince a general laughing stock.' Then Stanislav Filippovich went on to mutter something incomprehensible under his breath. 'The Loskutnaya, Loskutnaya... I've got that, what's his name?... the one in charge of the corridor attendants ... Terpugov? Sychugov? Damn it, it doesn't matter ... And Coco, yes, definitely Coco .. .Just the job ...'
'Erast Petrovich, can I come with you?' Lieutenant Smolyaninov asked in a whisper.
'I'm afraid that I have now been reduced to the status of a private individual,' Fandorin replied in an equally low voice and then, seeing the Lieutenant's fresh features stretch into a long face of disappointment, he tried to console him. 'It's a great pity. You would have b-been very useful to me. But never mind, we are still both working on the same job.’
From the Office of Gendarmes to the State Counsellor's home was no more than five minutes' walk at a leisurely pace, but that was quite long enough for him to identify his niche in the investigation - a narrow one, alas, and not very promising. Fandorin reasoned as follows.
Pozharsky had chosen the shortest route to the Combat Group - through Rahmet-Gvidon.
The Okhranka would creep up on the militants via roundabout paths, working its way along the chains of revolutionaries.
The gendarmes were ready to snap up the terrorists if they attempted to leave Moscow.
There was also Seidlitz, who would go at things like a bull in a china shop and employ methods that the State Counsellor didn't even want to think about. And he would have Mylnikov's agents on his tail.
So the Combat Group and its leader, Mr Green, were besieged from all sides. There was nowhere for them to go ... and there didn't seem to be any space left for a private investigator with a rather vague mandate to become involved in the case either.
There were already so many investigators around, he could easily be trampled underfoot.
But there were three motives insistendy prompting Erast Petrovich to take urgent and decisive action.
He felt sorry for the old Prince Dolgorukoi. That was one.
He could not swallow the insult he had suffered at the hands of Green, who had dared to mask himself as State Counsellor Fandorin for his audacious crime. That was two.
And three. Yes, yes, three: his wounded vanity. We shall see, Your St Petersburg Excellency, who is worth what and what they are capable of.
After this concise formulation of his motivation, Fandorin's brain began functioning more clearly and precisely.
Let all his colleagues search for the infamous Combat Group. He would see how soon they managed to find it. But he was going to search for the traitor in the ranks of the upholders of law and order. That was probably more important
than catching terrorists, even the very dangerous ones. And who could tell if this path might not actually prove to be the shortest to the Combat Group?
This final thought, however, smacked only too distinctly of self-deception.
CHAPTER 6
The expropriation
Of course, Green didn't go out on to the platform to the trains. He took a seat in the cafe in the waiting room for those expecting new arrivals, ordered tea with lemon and began observing the platform through the window.
It was interesting. He had never seen so many police spies in a single spot, even during the Emperor's outings. Almost a third of the people seeing passengers on their way consisted of inquisitive gentlemen with roving eyes and rubber necks. It was clear that the police agents were especially interested in men of a slim build with black hair. Not one of these managed to reach his train unchecked - all dark-haired male individuals were taken politely by the elbows and led away to one side, towards the door with the sign that said 'Duty Stationmaster'. Evidently there must be someone behind the door who had seen Green in Klin.
The dark-haired gentlemen were released again almost immediately, and hurried back on to the platform, glancing round indignantly. But blonds and even redheads were not immune -they were also taken for checking. So the police had at least enough imagination to suspect that their wanted man might have dyed his hair.
However, they had lacked the imagination to picture Khrapov's killer turning up among the people who were meeting new arrivals, not seeing off departing passengers. The hall in which Green had taken up his post was peaceful and deserted. No police spies, and not a single blue uniform.
This was precisely what Green had been counting on when he set out to meet the nine o'clock express on which Ace was due to arrive. It was a risk, of course, but he preferred to handle all business contacts with the specialist himself.
The train arrived precisely on schedule, presenting Green with a surprise. Even before he saw Ace, Green spotted Julie in the stream of newcomers. It would have been hard not to notice those purple ostrich feathers swaying above the wide-brimmed fur hat. Julie stood out from the crowd like a bird of paradise in a flock of black-and-grey crows. She was followed by porters lugging along suitcases and hatboxes, and walking beside her with a light, dancing step was a handsome young man with his hands stuck in his pockets: a close-fitting coat with a beaver collar, an American hat, a black strip of neatly shaved moustache. Mr Ace, the expropriation specialist, in person.
Green waited for the glamorous couple to walk out on to the square and approach the cab stop, then followed them at a leisurely pace.
Walking up from behind, he asked: 'Julie, what are you doing here?'
Ace swung round sharply without taking his hands out of his pockets. Recognising Green, he nodded briefly.
But Julie had never been notable for her reserve. Her fresh, pretty face lit up in a happy smile. 'Greeny, darling, hello!' she exclaimed, throwing herself on Green's neck and planting a resounding kiss on his cheek. 'I'm so glad to see you!' And she added in a whisper: 'I'm so proud of you, and I was so worried about you. You know you're our greatest hero now, don't you?'
Ace twisted up his lips scornfully and said: 'Didn't want to bring her. Told her it was a business trip, not a pleasure party. But there's no talking sense to her.'
It was true. Julie was hard to argue with. When she really wanted something, she swooped like some exotic whirlwind, smothering you with her perfume, overwhelming you with a torrent of words, demanding, laughing, imploring and threatening all at the same time, and her mischievous dark-blue eyes glittered and sparkled with devilment. At an exhibition in Paris Green had seen a portrait of an actress by the fashionable artist Renoir. It could have been a picture of Julie - it looked exactly like her.
It would have been better for the job, kept matters simpler, if Ace had come alone. Nonetheless, Green was glad to see her. But this feeling was not right, so he knitted his brows and said, more sternly than necessary: 'You shouldn't have. At least don't get in the way.'
'When have I ever got in the way?' she asked, pouting prettily. 'I'll be as quiet as a teeny-weeny little mouse. You won't see me or hear me. Where are we going now? To an apartment or a hotel? I need to take a bath and tidy myself up. I'm sure I look a real fright.'
A fright was the last thing she looked like, as she knew perfectly well, so Green turned away and beckoned to a cabby. 'The Hotel Bristol.'
'Why not? - of course we can. Today if you like. If you can find me ten likely young blades,' Ace drawled lazily as he polished a manicured nail.
This affected air of laziness was evidently the apotheosis of bandit chic.
'Today?' Green asked suspiciously. Are you sure?' The specialist shrugged impassively: Ace never makes idle promises. We'll net half a million, at least.' 'Where? How?'
The bandit smiled and Green suddenly understood what Julie had seen in this flashy young buck: the broad smile revealed Ace's white teeth and lent his features an expression of boyish, harum-scarum devilment.
'I'll tell you where later. And how after that. First I have to take a sniff around. I've got two rich targets in Moscow covered: the treasury of the military district and the forwarding office of the state financial instruments depository. I have to choose. We can" take either of them, if we're not afraid of spilling a bit of blood. There are plenty of guards, but that's no real problem.'
'But can't you do it without bloodshed?' Julie asked.
She had already changed into a scarlet silk robe and let her hair down, but had not yet reached the bathroom. She had spurned the room booked for Ace by Green and the suitcases had been carried from the sleigh to a de luxe apartment on the piano nobile. That was her business. It was beyond Green's understanding what people found so enjoyable about luxury, but he felt no moral condemnation for this weakness.
'Better steal apples if you don't like blood,' Ace said dismissively getting to his feet. 'My share's one third. We'll go this evening. If the job's at the treasury - at half past five. If there's a delivery from the depository today, at five. Tell your men to gather at the meeting place. They'll need revolvers and bombs. And a sleigh - a light one, American-style. Smear the runners with pork fat. And a horse, of course - one that flies like a swallow. You be here. I'll be back in about three hours.'
When Ace left and Julie went to take her bath, Green twirled the handle of the Erickson telephone on the wall and asked the hotel telephonist to give him subscriber number 38-34. After the untidy evacuation from Ostozhenka Street he had made Needle tell him her number - contact via the post box was too slow for the present circumstances.
When he heard a woman's voice in the earpiece he said: 'It's me.'
'Hello, Mr Sievers,' Needle replied, using the agreed code name.
'The goods will be despatched today. It's a large delivery; all your employees will be required. They should go to the shop immediately and wait there. And they should bring their tools, the full set. We'll be needing a sleigh too. Fast and light.'
'That's all clear. I'll give instructions straight away' Needle's voice trembled with excitement. 'Mr Sievers, please, I'd like to ask you ... Can I not be involved? I would be a great help to you.'
Green said, nothing and looked out of the window, feeling annoyed. He had to refuse in a way that would not offend her.
'I don't think that's necessary,' he said at last. 'We have plenty of men, and you will be more useful if—'
He didn't finish, because at that moment two hot, naked arms gently wound themselves round his neck from behind. One unfastened a button and slid in under his shirt, the other stroked his cheek. He felt a warm breath tickling the back of his neck, then it was scorched by the touch of tender lips.
'I can't hear you,' the shrill voice squeaked in his ear. 'Mr Sievers, I can't hear you any more!'
The hand that had crept under the shirt began playing tricks that made Green catch his breath.
'... If you stay by the telephone
...' he said, forcing the words out with an effort.
'But I asked you specially! I told you that I possess all the requisite skills!' the earpiece persisted.
But in his other ear a low, chesty voice crooned: 'Greeny, darling. Come on ...'
'You ... Carry out your instructions,' Green mumbled into the mouthpiece and hung up.
Turning round, he saw a hot pink glow, and suddenly there was a fine crack in his secure steel shell. The crack spread rapidly, widening to release a torrent of something long ago locked away deep inside and forgotten, something that paralysed his mind and will.
The briefing began at half past two.
The barrister who owned the apartment where they gathered was presently in Warsaw, conducting the defence of a hussar who had shot an empty-headed actress out of scorned love. They were a large group - eleven men and one woman. One man spoke and the others listened - so attentively that the famous professor of history, Klyuchevsky himself, would have envied the orator.
The listeners were seated around him on chairs arranged along three walls of the barrister's study. Pinned to the fourth wall was a sheet of heavy paper, on which the instructor was drawing squares, circles and arrows in charcoal.
Green was already aware of the plan of action - Ace had told him about it on the way from the hotel - and so he was watching the listeners rather than the diagram. The arrangements were sensible and simple, but whether they would work depended entirely on those carrying them into effect, most of whom had never taken part in an ex and never even heard the whistle of bullets.
He could rely on Emelya, Rahmet and Ace himself. Bullfinch would do his best, but he was a greenhorn who had never smelled gunpowder. Green had no idea at all what sort of stuff the six lads from the Moscow combat squad were made of.
