by Boris Akunin
'This unparalleled orgy of terror after so many years of relative calm places our professional reputations and our very careers in jeopardy; however, at the same time, the possibilities that it opens up to us are boundless. If we can get the best of these unprecedentedly audacious criminals, then, Erast Petrovich, we shall be assured of a place of honour in the history of Russian statehood and - what is even more important as far as I am concerned - an enviable position in the Russian state itself. I have no desire to present myself as an idealist, which I am not -not even to the slightest degree. Take a look at that impossibly stupid monument.'
Pozharsky casually swung his cane to indicate the bronze figures of the two heroes who saved the throne of Russia from the Polish invasion. State Counsellor Fandorin, hitherto totally absorbed in their conversation, suddenly noticed that they had already reached Red Square, the left side of which was thickly overgrown with builder's scaffolding - the construction of the Upper Trading Rows was in full swing. Half an hour earlier, when the leaders of the investigation had noticed that they were going over and over a theory that they had already considered (which was hardly surprising after two nights without sleep), Pozharsky had suggested they should continue their discussion as they walked, since the day had turned out quite superb -sunny, with no wind and just the right touch of frost, refreshing and cheerful. They had walked down carefree Tverskaya Street, speaking of vitally important matters and united in their common misfortune and acute peril, while the prince's guardian angels strolled along about ten paces behind, with their hands in their pockets.
'Feast your eyes on that blockhead, my renowned ancestor,' said Gleb Georgievich, jabbing his cane towards the seated statue, 'lolling there and listening, while the man of commerce waves his hands about and trills like a nightingale. Have you ever heard of any other of the princes Pozharsky, apart from my heroic namesake? No? Hardly surprising. They've been squatting on their backsides like that for almost three hundred years, until they've worn out their final pair of pants, and in the meantime Russia has fallen into the hands of the Minins. The name's not important - Morozovs, Khlyudovs, Lobastovs. My grandfather, a Riurikovich, had two serfs and ploughed the earth himself. My father died as a retired second lieutenant. And I, a down-and-out little count, was taken into the Guards, purely because of my euphonious family name. But what good is the Guards to someone with nothing in his pocket but a louse on a lead? Ah, Erast Petrovich, you have no idea what a furore it caused when I applied to be transferred from the Cavalry Guards to serve in the Police Department. My regimental comrades started turning their noses up, the senior officers wanted to disenroll me from the Guards altogether, but they were afraid of provoking the wrath of the Emperor. And what happened? Now my former comrades-in-arms are captains and only one who moved to the army is a lieutenant colonel; but I am already a colonel - and not simply a colonel, but an aide-de-camp. And that, Erast Petrovich, is not just a matter of a monogram and fine appearances -I don't attach much importance to such things. The important thing is breakfast tete-a-tete with His Majesty during my monthly period of duty at the palace. That is something of real value. And another important point is my uniqueness. Never before has an officer serving in the Police Department, while registered with the Guards, been accorded such an honour. The sovereign has almost a hundred aides-de-camp, but I am the only one from the Ministry of the Interior, and that's what I value.'
The prince took Fandorin by the elbow and continued in a confidential tone: 'I'm not telling you all this out of an innocent desire to boast. You probably realised some time ago that I don't have much innocence about me. No, I want to jolt you into action, so that you won't become like that seated idol. You and I, Erast Petrovich, are pillars of the nobility, the very pillars on which the entire Russian Empire rests. I can trace my descent from the Varangians; you are a descendant of the Crusaders. We have ancient bandit blood flowing in our veins, the centuries have made it as rich as old wine. It is thicker than the thin red water of the merchants and the shopkeepers. Our teeth, fists and claws must be stronger than those of the Minins, otherwise the Empire will slip through our fingers, such is the time now approaching. You are intelligent, keen-witted, brave, but you have a certain fastidious, aristocratic torpor about you. If you are walking along and you come across - pardon the expression -a pile of shit, you will glance at it through your lorgnette and walk round it. Other people may step in it, but you will not sully your delicate feelings and white gloves. Forgive me, I am deliberately expressing my thoughts in a crude and offensive manner, because this is a sore point with me, an old idee fixe of mine. Just look at the unique position in which you and I find ourselves owing to the whim of fate and the conjunction of circumstances. The head of the Office of Gendarmes has been killed, the head of the Department of Security has been killed. You and I are the only ones left. They could have sent a new top man from the capital to head up the investigation - the director of the Police Department, or even the Minister himself, but those gentlemen are old stagers. They're concerned about their careers, so they preferred to hand over complete authority to me and you. And that's excellent!' Pozharsky gestured energetically. 'You and I no longer have anything to fear or anything to lose, but we could gain a very great deal. The telegram addressed to us from His Imperial Majesty said "unlimited authority". Do you understand what "unlimited" means? It means that for the immediate future, you and I effectively control Moscow and the entire political investigative apparatus of the Empire. So let's not josde each other's elbows and get in each other's way, as Burlyaev and Sverchinsky used to do. Good Lord, there will be laurels enough for both of us. Let's join forces and combine our efforts.'
Erast Petrovich's response to this prolix and impassioned diatribe was just two words: 'Very well.'
Gleb Georgievich waited to see if anything else would be said and nodded in satisfaction.
'Your opinion of Mylnikov?' he asked, reverting to a brisk, businesslike tone. 'In terms of seniority, he ought to be appointed acting head of the Department of Security, but I would prefer Zubtsov. We can't wait for a new man to get the feel of the job.'
'No, we can't have a new man. And Zubtsov is a competent worker. But what we need now from the Department of Security is not so much analysis as practical investigation, and that is Mylnikov's province. And I wouldn't choose to offend him unnecessarily'
'But Mylnikov was responsible for planning the failed operation. You know the result: Burlyaev and three agents killed, and another five wounded.'
'Mylnikov was not to blame,' the State Counsellor said with conviction.
Pozharsky gave him a keen look. 'No? Then what do you think was the reason for the failure?'
'Treason,' Fandorin replied briefly. Seeing the other man's eyebrows creep upwards in astonishment, he explained. 'The terrorists knew when the operation would start, and they were ready for it. Someone w-warned them - one of our people. Just as they did in the Khrapov case.'
'That's your theory, and you've kept quiet about it until now?' the prince asked incredulously. 'Well, you really are quite inimitable. I ought to have spoken openly with you sooner. However, this suggestion of yours is too serious altogether. Precisely whom do you suspect?'
'Only a small group of people were privy to the details of the night operation: myself, you, Burlyaev, Mylnikov, Zubtsov. And Lieutenant Smolyaninov could have heard something too.'
Gleb Georgievich snorted indignandy, apparently finding the State Counsellor's suggestion absurd; but nonetheless he started bending down his fingers as he counted.
'Very well, let's try it. With your permission, I'll start with myself. What possible motive is there? Did I sabotage the operation so that the glory for catching the CG would not go to Burlyaev? That seems rather excessive, somehow. Now Mylnikov. Did he want his boss's job? And to get it was he willing to sacrifice three of his best agents, the men he fusses over like old Uncle Chernomor? And it's still not clear if he will actually get the boss's job ... Zubtsov. A ra
ther complex individual, I grant you, and we know how deep still waters run. But why would he wish to destroy Burlyaev? To get rid of a man who fought revolution using the wrong methods? I think that kind of extravagance would be out of character for Sergei Vitalievich. Of course, he does have a revolutionary past. A double agent, like Kletochnikov in the Third Section? Hmm, we'll have to check that... Who else is there? Ah, the rubicund Smolyaninov. I pass on that; it's altogether too much for my imagination. You know him better. And by the way, how does a young man from a family like that come to be serving in the gendarmes? He doesn't seem to be an ambitious careerist like yours truly. Perhaps there's some reason behind it? Perhaps he is infected with the demonic bacillus of romantic subversion of authority? Or something simpler - a love affair with some nihilist female?'
Having apparently started jokingly, Pozharsky now seemed to be seriously intrigued by Fandorin's hypothesis. He paused and looked at Erast Fandorin with an odd expression, then suddenly said: 'On the subject of love and nihilist femmes fatales ... Could a leak not perhaps occur via your own lovely Judith, who made such a great impression on the good society of Moscow? She has connections in suspicious quarters, does she not? I know only too well how skilful enchanting women are at sucking out your secrets. Could you not possibly have found yourself in the role of Holofernes? Only please answer to the point - no offended pride, no challenges to a duel'
Fandorin had indeed been about to reply to the prince's monstrous suspicion with sharp words, but the State Counsellor was suddenly struck by an idea that made him forget his affronted sensibilities.
'No, no,' he said quickly, 'that is absolutely impossible. But there is another distinct possibility: Burlyaev could have let something slip to Diana. She was probably involved somehow in the business with Sverchinsky too.'
Fandorin told the prince about the mysterious vamp who had turned the heads of both commanders of Moscow's political investigative agencies.
The theory proved to be remarkably coherent, at least in comparison with the others, but Pozharsky's reaction was sceptical. 'An intriguing speculation, certainly, but it seems to me, Erast Petrovich, that you are narrowing down the list of suspects too far. Undoubtedly, there is treachery here. We have to review the entire line of the investigation from that perspective. But the traitor could have been any pawn, any of the agents and police officers used in the cordon, and that is eighty men. Not to mention several dozen cabbies who were mobilised to transport Burlyaev's Grande Armee!
'No police agent, let alone a cabby, could have been privy to the details,' Fandorin objected. 'And it would have been difficult for any rank-and-file participant to get away from his post. No, Gleb Georgievich, this is no pawn. Especially if we recall the circumstances of General Khrapov's murder.'
'I agree; your theory is more elegant and literary,' the prince said with a smile, 'and even more probable. But we have agreed to work in harness together, so this time why don't you be the shaft horse, and I'll gallop on in the traces. Right, we have two lines to follow up: the double agent Diana or one of the small fry. We'll investigate both. Do you choose Diana?'
'Yes.'
'Excellent. And I'll deal with the minnows. Will today be enough time for you? Time is precious.' Erast Petrovich nodded confidently.
And for me, although I have a laborious task, probing and checking such a huge number of men. But never mind, I'll manage. Now let's agree on our rendezvous.' Pozharsky thought for a long time. 'Since we have no confidence in our own men, let's meet outside official premises, in a place where no one will be eavesdropping or peeping. And not a word about this meeting to anyone, all right? I tell you what - let's meet in the baths, in a private room. We shall conceal absolutely nothing from each other.' Gleb Georgievich laughed. 'Here in Moscow the Petrosov Bathhouse is very good, and it is conveniently located. I shall tell my bashi-bazouks to book, let's say, room number six.'
'No one must mean no one,' said Erast Petrovich, shaking his head. 'Give your bodyguards the day off, to maintain the integrity of the search. And don't say a word to them about our meeting. I'll go to Petrosov's and book room number six myself. We'll meet alone, discuss our conclusions and draw up a plan of further action.'
At ten?'
At t-ten.'
'Well then,' Gleb Georgievich said jocularly, 'the place of the assignation is set. And so is the time. Forward, the aristocrats! Time to roll our sleeves up.'
Opened only recently close to Rozhdestvenka Street, the Petrosov Bathhouse had already become one of the showplaces of Moscow. Only a few years earlier, this site had been occupied by a single-storey log building where you could be washed for fifteen kopecks, have blood let, cupping glasses applied and calluses removed. Respectable society never called into this filthy, odorous barn, preferring to wash itself in Khludov's establishment at the Central Baths. However, when a new owner, a man of business acumen on a truly European scale, acquired the bathhouse, he totally transformed Petrosov's in line with the very latest word in international technology. He erected a veritable stone palace with caryatids and telamons, set a fountain burbling in the small inner courtyard, faced the walls with marble and hung mirrors all over them, set out soft divans, and the former fifteen-kopeck establishment was transformed into a shrine to luxury that even the pampered Roman Emperor Heliogabal would not have scorned. No trace was left of the 'commoners' section'; there were only 'merchants' sections' and 'nobles' sections' for both sexes.
After he and Pozharsky parted to go about their separate business, Fandorin made his way to the 'nobles' section'.
At that time in the morning there were no customers in the baths yet, and the obliging supervisor took his promising client on a tour of the private rooms.
The nobles' section was arranged as follows: at the centre, a common hall with an immense marble pool, surrounded by Doric columns; around the pool, a gallery on to which the doors of the six private rooms opened. However, the main entrances to the rooms were not from the common hall; they lay on the other side, from the broad corridor that ran round the building. The exacting civil servant inspected the rooms. He didn't look too closely at the silver washtubs and the gilded taps, but he tugged insistently at the bolts on the doors leading to the pool hall and strolled right round the external corridor. To the right it could be followed to the women's half of the baths; to the left it led to the service stairs. From that side there was no way out to the street, which for some reason seemed to please Fandorin particularly.
The State Counsellor did not act entirely as he and Gleb Georgievich had agreed. Or rather, he did more than they had agreed: not only did he book room number six for that evening, he booked all the other five rooms as well, leaving only the common hall for any other customers.
But that was only the first strange thing that Fandorin did.
The second was that the State Counsellor did not really take a very thorough approach to his main task for the day - the meeting with Diana; one might even say that he rolled his sleeves back down. After telephoning the collaborator from the vestibule of the bathhouse and arranging to meet her straightaway, Erast Petrovich immediately set off for the inconspicuous town-house on Arbat Street.
In the familiar twilit room, with its scent of musk and dust from the permanently closed curtains, the visitor was greeted rather differently from the previous occasion and the occasion before that. No sooner did Fandorin step across the threshold of the quiet study than a slim shadow darted impetuously across the room towards him in a rustle of silk, pliable arms embraced him round the shoulders and a face concealed by a veil was pressed against his chest.
'My God, my God, how happy I am to see you,' a faltering voice murmured. 'I'm so afraid! I behaved so stupidly the last time - forgive me, in the name of all that's holy. You must pardon the self-assurance of a woman who had become too enamoured of the role of a breaker of hearts. The signs of attention with which Stanislav Filippovich and Pyotr Ivanovich showered me completely turned my head ... Poor, po
or Pierre and Stanislas! How could I ever imagine ...' The whisper became a sob, and a perfectly genuine tear fell on the State Counsellor's shirt, then a second, and then more.
However, Erast Petrovich had no thought of exploiting this psychologically advantageous moment in the interests of the investigation. Gently moving aside the weeping collaborator, he walked into the room and sat down, not on the divan, as he had on the previous occasion, but in an armchair beside the writing desk, on which he could make out the dull gleam of the nickel-plated keys of a typewriter.
Diana was not at all disconcerted by her visitor's restraint. The slim, shapely figure followed Fandorin, halted for a moment in front of the armchair, then suddenly folded in half - and the eccentric lady plumped down on to her knees, raising her clasped hands in supplication.
'Oh, do not be so cold and cruel!' It was astonishing that the whisper in no way restricted the dramatic modulation of her voice - she had obviously been very well trained. 'You cannot imagine how much I have suffered. I have been left completely alone, with no protector, no patron. Believe me, I can be useful and... grateful. Do not go. Stay here with me for a little longer! Console me, dry my tears. I can sense a calm, confident strength in you. Only you can restore me to life. With Burlyaev and Sverchinsky I was the mistress, but with you I can be the slave! I will fulfil your every desire!'
'R-really?' Fandorin asked, looking down on the dark figure. 'Then first of all remove your veil and turn on the light.'
'No, anything but that!' Diana cried, leaping to her feet and shrinking away. 'Any other desire, anything at all, but not that.'
