The State Counsellor - Fandorin 06

by Boris Akunin

  It was not even clear where the bomb had been thrown from. Most probably from the corridor, because no one had heard the sound of breaking glass before the explosion. And yet a piece of paper with the letters 'CG' on it had been found under the window, on the platform side. Perhaps the device had been thrown in through the small upper window?

  Of the four people who were in the duty office at the time of the explosion, Lieutenant Smolyaninov was the only one who had survived, and only because just at that moment he happened to drop his glove on the floor and clamber under the table to get it. The sturdy oak had shielded the adjutant from most of the shrapnel and he had only caught one piece of metal in his arm, but he had proved to be a poor witness. He could not even remember if the small window had been open. Sverchinsky and an unidentified lady had been killed on the spot. A schoolboy had been taken away in an ambulance carriage, but he was unconscious and obviously not destined to live.

  At the station Pozharsky was in charge, havingbeen appointed to take over the dead man's position on a temporary basis in a telegram from the Minister. Erast Petrovich felt like an idle onlooker. Many people cast glances of disapproval at his formal tailcoat, so inappropriate for the circumstances.

  Shortly after seven in the morning, having realised that he could not clarify anything at the station, the State Counsellor agreed to meet Pozharsky later in the Office of Gendarmes and went home in a state of intense thoughtfulness. His intentions were as follows: to sleep for two hours, then do his gymnastic exercises and clear his head by meditating. Events were developing so rapidly that his rational mind could not keep up with them - the intervention of the soul's deeper powers was required. It has been said: Among those who run, halt; among those who shout, he silent.

  But his plan was not to be realised.

  Quietly opening the door with his key, Erast Petrovich saw Masa sleeping in the hallway, slumped against the wall with his legs folded up under him. That was already unusual in itself. He must have been waiting for his master, wanting to tell him something, but been overcome by fatigue.

  Fandorin did not wake his incorrigibly curious valet, in order to avoid unnecessary explanations. Stepping silently, he crept through into the bedroom, and there it became clear what Masa had wanted to warn him about.

  Esfir was stretched out across the bed, with her arms thrown up over her head, her little mouth slightly open and her scarlet dress hopelessly creased. She had obviously come straight there from the reception, after Erast Petrovich had excused himself and left for the scene of the tragic event.

  Fandorin backed away, intending to retreat into the study, where he could make himself very comfortable in a spacious armchair, but his shoulder brushed against the jamb of the door.

  Esfir immediately opened her eyes, sat up on the bed and exclaimed in a clear, ringing voice, as if she hadn't been sleeping at all: 'There you are at last! Well, have you said your tearful goodbye to your gendarme?'

  After his difficult and fruitless night, the State Counsellor's nerves were on edge, and his reply was untypically abrupt: 'In order to kill one lieutenant colonel of gendarmes, who will be replaced tomorrow by another, at the same time the revolutionary heroes shattered an entirely innocent woman's head and tore a young boy's legs off. A fiendish abomination - that's what your revolution is.'

  Ah, so the revolution's an abomination?' Esfir jumped to her feet and set her hands on her hips belligerently. And your empire - isn't that an abomination? The terrorists spill other people's blood, but they don't spare their own either. They sacrifice their own lives, and therefore they have the right to demand sacrifices from others. They kill a few for the well-being of millions! But the people you serve, those toads with cold, dead blood, smother and trample millions of people for the well-being of a tiny group of parasites!'

  ' "Smother and trample" - what sort of cheap rhetoric is that?' Fandorin rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily, already regretting his outburst.

  'Rhetoric? Rhetoric?' Esfir cried, choking on her indignation. 'Just... Just you listen to this.' She picked up a newspaper that was lying on the bed. 'Look, it's the Moscow Gazette. I was reading it while I waited for you. In the same edition, on facing pages. First the servile, sickening, pap: "The Moscow Municipal Duma has voted to present a memorial cup from the happy citizens to the aide-de-camp Prince Beloselsky-Belozersky for procuring the Most-Merciful missive from God's Anointed to Muscovites on the occasion of the most devoted address that was presented to His Imperial Majesty in commemoration of the forthcoming tenth anniversary of the present blessed reign ..." Phoo, it turns your stomach. And here, right beside it, how do you like this: "At long last the Ministry of Education has called for the rigorous observance of the rule forbidding the admission to university of individuals of the Jewish faith who do not possess a permit to reside outside the pale, and in any event for no exceptions to the established percentage norm. The Jews in Russia are the most oppressive heritage left to us by the now defunct Kingdom of Poland. There are four million Jews in the Empire, only four per cent of the population, but the poisonous stench of the vile vapours emanating from this weeping ulcer is choking us ..." Shall I go on? Are you enjoying it? Or how about this? "The measures taken to counter famine in the four districts of the Province of Saratov are not yet producing the desired effect. It is anticipated that during the spring months the affliction will spread to the adjacent provinces. The Most Reverend Aloizii, Archbishop of Saratov and Samara, has given instructions for special services of prayer for the defeat of the scourge to be held in the churches." Services of prayer! And our pancakes don't stick in our throats!'

  Erast Petrovich listened with a pained grimace, and was on the point of reminding the denouncer of iniquity that only yesterday she herself had not disdained Dolgorukoi's pancakes, but he didn't, because it was petty, and also because, on the whole, she was right.

  But Esfir still didn't calm down, she carried on reading: Just you listen, listen: "The patriots of Russia are absolutely outraged by the Latvianisation of the public schools in the Province of Liefland. The children there are now obliged to learn the native dialect, for which purpose the number of classes devoted to Scriptural Studies has been reduced, as these are supposedly not necessary for the non-Orthodox." Or this from Warsaw, from the trial of the cornet Bartashov: "The court declined to hear Psemyslska's testimony, since she would not agree to speak in Russian, claiming that she did not know it well enough." And that's in a Polish court!'

  This final extract reminded Fandorin of one of the investigation's snapped threads - the dead terrorist Arsenii Zimin, whose father was defending the unfortunate cornet in Warsaw. The vexatious memory reduced Erast Petrovich to a state of total wretchedness.

  'Yes, there are many scoundrels and fools in the state apparatus,' he said reluctantly.

  'All of them, or almost all. And all, or almost all, of the revolutionaries are noble and heroic,' Esfir snapped and asked sarcastically, 'Doesn't that circumstance suggest any idea to you?'

  The State Counsellor replied sadly: 'Russia's eternal misfortune. Everything in it is topsy-turvy. Good is defended by fools and scoundrels, evil is served by martyrs and heroes.'

  It was evidently just that kind of day - they were talking about Russia in the Office of Gendarmes too.

  Pozharsky had occupied the newly vacant office of the deceased Stanislav Filippovich, which had thus naturally become the headquarters of the investigation. Lieutenant Smolyaninov, paler than usual and with one arm in an impressive black sling, was standing in the reception room beside the telephone that never stopped ringing. He smiled at Fandorin over the receiver and pointed to the boss's door as if to say: Please go through.

  The prince had a visitor sitting in his office - Sergei Vitalievich Zubtsov, who looked very agitated and red in the face.

  'A-ha, Erast Petrovich,' said Pozharsky, getting to his feet. 'I can see from the blue circles under your eyes that you didn't get to bed. And here I am, sitting around doing nothing.
The police and the gendarmes are prowling the streets, the police agents are snooping around the alleyways and rubbish tips, and I've just settled in here, like some huge spider, to wait until my net twitches. Why don't we wait together? Sergei Vitalievich here has just dropped in and he's propounding some remarkably interesting views on the workers' movement. Carry on, dear fellow. Mr Fandorin will find it interesting too.'

  The thin, handsome face of Titular Counsellor Zubtsov blossomed into pink spots, either from pleasure or some other feeling.

  'I was saying, Erast Petrovich, that it would be much easier to defeat the revolutionary movement in Russia with reforms, rather than with police methods. In fact, it's probably quite impossible to defeat it with police methods, because violence engenders a violent and even more intransigent response, and it just keeps on building up and up until society explodes. We need to pay some attention to the estate of artisans. Without the support of the workers, the revolutionaries can never achieve anything: our peasant class is too passive and disunited.'

  Smolyaninov came in quietly. He sat down at the secretary's table, held down a sheet of paper awkwardly with his bandaged arm and started making a note of something, holding his head on one side, like a schoolboy.

  'How can the revolutionaries be deprived of the support of the workers?' the State Counsellor asked, trying to understand the significance of those pink spots.

  'Very simply' Zubtsov was evidently talking about something he had thought through a long time ago, something that had been on his mind, and he was apparently hoping to interest the important visitor from St Petersburg in his ideas. 'If a man has a tolerable life, he won't go to the barricades. If all the artisans lived as they do at Timofei Grigorievich Lobastov's factories -with a nine-hour working day, decent pay, a free hospital and holidays - the Greens of Russia would be left with nothing to do.'

  'But how well the workers live depends on the factory owners,' Pozharsky observed, gazing at the young man in amusement. 'You can't just order them to pay a certain amount and set up free hospitals.'

  That is exactly what we, the state, are here for,' said Zubtsov, tossing his head of light-brown hair,'- to give orders. This is an autocratic monarchy, thank God. We need to explain to the richest and most intelligent where their own best interest lies and then act from above: pass a law establishing firm terms for the employment of workers. If you can't observe the law - close down your factory. I assure you that if matters went that way, the Tsar would have no more devoted servants than the workers. It would reinvigorate the entire monarchy!'

  Pozharsky screwed up his black eyes. 'Rational. But hard to achieve. His Majesty has firm ideas concerning the good of the Empire and the social order. The sovereign believes that a tsar is a father to his subjects, a general is a father to his soldiers and an employer is a father to his workers. It is not permissible to interfere in the relationship between a father and his sons.'

  Zubtsov's voice became soft and cautious - he was evidently approaching the most important point.

  'Then, Your Excellency, we ought to demonstrate to the supreme power that the workers are no sons of their employer, but all of them, the factory owners and the factory hands, are equally His Majesty's children. It would be good to seize the initiative without waiting for the revolutionaries finally to organise the artisans into a herd that we cannot control. To intercede for the workers with their masters and occasionally put pressure on the factory owners. Let simple people start getting used to the idea that the state machine protects the workers, not the money bags. We could even help promote the establishment of trade unions, only direct their activities into law-abiding economic channels instead of subversion. And this is the time to do it, Your Excellency, or it will too late.'

  'Don't call me "Your Excellency",' Pozharsky said with a smile. 'To my competent subordinates I am Gleb Georgievich, and if we become close, simply Gleb will do. You'll go a long way, Zubtsov. In this country people who can think like true statesmen are worth their weight in gold.'

  Sergei Vitalievich flushed, and his pink spots were drowned in a flood of pink.

  Looking at him closely, Fandorin asked: 'Did you really come here, to the Office of Gendarmes, in order to share your views on the workers' movement with Gleb Georgievich? - today of all days, with everything that's going on?'

  Zubtsov became embarrassed, evidently taken aback by this question.

  'Naturally Sergei Vitalievich did not come here to theorise,' said Pozharsky, looking calmly at the young idealist. 'Or at least, not only to theorise. As I understand it, Mr Zubtsov, you have some important information for me, but first you decided to sound out whether I share your general political idea. I do -wholly and completely. I shall be unstinting in offering you every possible support. As I said, in our administration intelligent people are worth their weight in gold. And now let me hear what you have for me.'

  The titular counsellor swallowed and started speaking, but not in the same smooth, easy manner as before. He was very nervous now, and he gestured with his hand to support his points.

  'I ... I, gentlemen, I would not like you to consider me a double-dealer and... an informer. But this isn't really informing at all ... Very well, then, an unprincipled careerist... It's only out of concern for the good of the cause

  'Erast Petrovich and I have no doubt at all about that,' the prince interrupted impatiently. 'That's enough of the preamble, Zubtsov; get to the point. Is it some intrigue by Burlyaev or Mylnikov?'

  'Burlyaev. And not an intrigue. He has planned an operation

  'What operation?' Pozharsky exclaimed loudly, and Fandorin frowned in concern.

  'To capture the Combat Group. Wait, I'll start at the beginning. You know that all of Mylnikov's agents were thrown into trailing the revolutionary groups that might provide leads to the CG. My recent reference to the factory owner Lobastov was no accident. According to information received from agents, Timofei Grigorievich flirts with the revolutionaries and sometimes gives them money. A prudent man, backing both sides just in case. Well then. Mylnikov placed him under surveillance along with all the others. This morning the agent Sapryko saw a certain artisan go to Lobastov's office, and for some reason he was shown straight in to see the boss. Timofei Griogorievich treated his visitor with great consideration. He spoke with him about something for a long time, then they both went away somewhere for an entire hour. The mysterious worker bore a very strong resemblance to the terrorist who goes by the alias of Emelya, as described by the agent Gvidon, but Sapryko is an experienced sleuth and he didn't go off half-cocked, he waited for the man at the control post and followed him cautiously. The target checked several times to see if he was being followed, but he didn't spot his tail. He took a cab to the Vindava Station, dodged about between the railway lines there for a little while and eventually disappeared into a lineman's hut. Sapryko remained under cover, summoned the nearest police constable with his whistle, and sent a note to the Department of Security. An hour later our men had the little house completely surrounded. It has been ascertained that the lineman is called Matvei Zhukov and he lives alone, with no family. Emelya did not come out of the hut again, but before reinforcements arrived, Sapryko saw a young man emerge whose appearance matched the description of the terrorist Bullfinch.'

  'What about Green?' Pozharsky asked avidly.

  'That's the problem: there's no sign of Green. It looks as though he isn't in the hut. That's precisely why Pyotr Ivanovich gave the order to wait. But if Green doesn't show up the operation will start at midnight. The Lieutenant Colonel wanted it to be earlier but Evstratii Pavlovich persuaded him to wait a while, in case some big fish swam in.'

  'This is abominable!' the prince exclaimed. 'Stupid! Agent Sapryko is to be congratulated, but your Burlyaev is an idiot! We need to keep them under observation, shadow them! What if they're keeping the money somewhere else? What if Green doesn't show up there at all? The operation can't go ahead -under no circumstances!'

  Zubtsov picke
d up his theme, speaking rapidly: 'Your Excellency, Gleb Georgievich, that's exactly what I told him! That's why I overcame my natural scruples and came here! Pyotr Ivanovich is a man of great determination, but he's too bull-headed, he likes to flail at things with an axe. But this isn't something you can just take a wild swing at, this has to be handled with kid gloves. He's afraid that you'll take all the credit, he wants to distinguish himself in the eyes of St Petersburg, and that's understandable, but he can't be allowed to put everything in jeopardy for the sake of his own ambition! You are my only hope.'

  'Smolyaninov, get Gnezdikovsky Lane on the telephone!'

  Pozharsky ordered, getting to his feet. 'No, don't. The telephone's no good for this. Erast Petrovich, Sergei Vitalievich. Let's go!'

  The official sleigh tore away from the entrance in a shower of powdered snow. Glancing back, Fandorin noticed another, simpler sleigh pull away from the opposite pavement to follow them. There were two men in identical fur caps sitting in it.

  'Don't worry, Erast Petrovich.' The prince laughed. 'They're not terrorists - quite the contrary. They're my guardian angels. Take no notice of them, I'm well used to their company. My chief attached them to me after the gentlemen of the Combat Group almost filled me full of holes on Aptekarsky Island.'

  Pushing open the door of Burlyaev's office, the deputy director of police declared from the threshold: 'Lieutenant Colonel, I am removing you from command of the Department of Security pending special instructions from the Minister and temporarily placing Titular Counsellor Zubtsov in charge.'

  The sudden intrusion caught Burlyaev and Mylnikov sitting at the desk, studying some kind of plan that was laid out on it.