Erast Fandorin 01 - The Winter Queen

by Boris Akunin

  “Nothing of the kind, sir. They don’t put favorite sons in number one—they’re very strict about that. Except perhaps for one of the grand dukes. But I felt a bit curious about this one, so I took a quick glance at the train manager’s passenger list.” The attendant lowered his voice still further.

  “Well then?” the intrigued gentleman urged him impatiently.

  Anticipating a generous tip, the conductor put his finger to his lips. “From the Third Section. Specially important cases investigator.”

  “I can understand the ‘specially.’ They wouldn’t put anyone who was merely ‘important’ in the first compartment.” The gentleman paused significantly. “And what is he up to?”

  “He locked himself in the compartment and hasn’t been out since, sir. Twice I offered him tea, but he wasn’t interested. Just sits there with his nose stuck in his papers, without even lifting his head. We were detained for twenty-five minutes leaving Petersburg, remember? Due to him, that was, sir. We were waiting for him to arrive.”

  “Oho!” gasped the passenger. “But that’s quite unheard-of!”

  “It does happen, but only very rarely, sir.”

  “And does the passenger list give his name?”

  “Indeed no, sir. No name and no rank.”

  THE LONGER ERAST FANDORIN CONTINUED his study of the niggardly lines of the dispatches, tousling his hair as he did so, the higher he felt the mystical terror mounting toward his throat.

  Just as he was about to set out for the station, Mizinov’s adjutant had turned up at the state apartment where Fandorin had slept like a log for almost twenty-four hours and told him to wait. The first three telegrams had arrived from the embassies; they would be deciphered immediately and brought to him. The wait had lasted for almost an hour, and Erast Fandorin had been afraid he would miss the train, but the adjutant had reassured him on that score.

  Fandorin was no sooner inside the immense compartment upholstered in green velvet, with a writing desk, a soft divan, and two walnut chairs with their legs bolted to the floor, than he opened the package and immersed himself in reading.

  Three telegrams had arrived: from Washington, Paris, and Constantinople. The heading on all of them was identical:

  URGENT. TO HIS EXCELLENCY LAVRENTII ARKADIEVICH MIZINOV IN REPLY TO YOUR REF. NO. 13476-8ZH OF 26 JUNE 1876.

  The reports were signed by the ambassadors themselves, but that was as far as the similarity went. The texts were as follows.

  9 July (27 June) 1876. 12:15 Washington.

  The person in whom you are interested is John Pratt Dodds, who on 9 June this year was elected vice chairman of the Senate Budget Committee. A man very well known in America, a millionaire of the sort who are known here as self-made men. Age 44. His early life, place of birth, and background are unknown. He is assumed to have become rich during the California gold rush. He is regarded as an entrepreneur of genius. During the war between the North and the South he was President Lincoln’s adviser on financial matters. It is believed by some that it was Dodds’s diligence and not the valor of the federal generals that was responsible for the capitalist North’s victory over the conservative South. In 1872 he was elected Senator for the state of Pennsylvania. Well-informed sources tell us that Dodds is tipped to become Secretary of the Treasury.

  9 July (27 June) 1876. 16:45. Paris.

  Thanks to the agent Coco, who is known to you, it has been possible to ascertain via the Ministry of War that on the 15 of June Rear Admiral Jean Intrepide, who had recently been appointed to command the Siamese Squadron, was promoted to the rank of Vice Admiral. He is one of the French fleet’s most legendary personalities. Twenty years ago a French frigate off the coast of Tortuga came across a boat adrift in the open sea, carrying a boy who had obviously survived a shipwreck. As a result of the shock the boy had completely lost his memory and could not give his own name or even his nationality. Taken on as a cabin boy and named after the frigate that found him, he has made a brilliant career. He has taken part in numerous expeditions and colonial wars. He especially distinguished himself in the Mexican War. Last year Jean Intrepide caused a genuine sensation in Paris when he married the eldest daughter of the due de Rohan. I will forward details of the service record of the individual in whom you are interested in the next report.

  27 June 1876. Two o’clock in the afternoon. Constantinople.

  Dear Lavrentii,

  Your request quite flabbergasted me, the point being that this Anwar Effendi, in whom you have expressed such pressing interest, has for some time now been the object of my own close scrutiny. According to information in my possession this individual, who is an intimate of Midhat Pasha and Abdülhamid, is one of the central figures in a conspiracy that is coming to a head in the palace. We must soon expect the overthrow of the present sultan and the reign ofAbdülhamid. Then Anwar Effendi will most certainly become a figure of quite exceptional influence. He is highly intelligent, with a European education, and knows a countless number of Oriental and Western languages. Unfortunately, we do not possess any detailed biographical information on this interesting gentleman. We do know that he is no more than twenty-five years old and was born in either Serbia or Bosnia. His origins are obscure and he has no relatives, which promises to be a great boon for Turkey if Anwar ever should become vizier. Just imagine it—a vizier without a horde of avaricious relatives! Such things simply never happen here. Anwar is by way of being Midhat Pasha’s eminence grise, an active member of the New Osman party. Have I satisfied your curiosity? Now please satisjy mine. What do you want with my Anwar Effendi? What do you know about him? Let me know immediately. It might prove to be important.

  Erast Fandorin read the telegrams through once again, and in the first one he underlined the words ‘His early life, place of birth, and background are unknown’; in the second one the words ‘could not give his own name or even his nationality’; and in the third the words ‘His origins are obscure and he has no relatives.’ He was beginning to feel frightened. All three of them seemed to have appeared out of nowhere! At some moment they had simply emerged from the void and immediately set about clambering upward with genuinely superhuman persistence. What were they—members of some secret sect? And what if they were not people at all but aliens from another world, emissaries, say, from the planet Mars? Or worse than that, some kind of infernal demons? Fandorin squirmed as he recalled his nocturnal encounter with ‘Amalia’s ghost.’ Bezhetskaya herself was yet another creature of unknown origin. And then there was that satanic invocation—Azazel. Oh, there was definitely a sulfurous smell about this business…

  There was a furtive knock at the door. Erast Fandorin shuddered, reached rapidly behind his back for the secret holster, and fingered the grooved handle of his Herstal.

  The conductor’s obsequious face appeared in the crack of the door.

  “Your Excellency, we’re coming into a station. Perhaps you’d like to stretch your legs? There’s a buffet there, too.”

  At the word ‘Excellency’ Erast Fandorin assumed a dignified air and cast a stealthy sidelong glance at himself in the mirror. Could he really be taken for a general? Well anyway, ‘stretching his legs’ sounded like a good idea, and it was easier to think as he walked. There was some vague idea swirling around in his head, but it kept eluding him. So far he couldn’t quite get a grip on it, but it seemed to be encouraging him: keep digging, keep digging!

  “I think I will. How long is our stop?”

  “Twenty minutes. But you’ve no need to concern yourself about that. Just take your time.” The conductor tittered. “They won’t leave without you.”

  Erast Fandorin leapt down from the step onto a platform flooded with light by the lamps of the station. Here and there the lights were no longer burning in the windows of some compartments—evidently some of the passengers had already retired for the night. Fandorin stretched sweetly, folded his hands behind his back, and prepared himself for a stroll that would stimulate his mental faculties
to more effective activity. However, at that very moment there emerged from the same carriage a portly, mustached gentleman wearing a top hat, who cast a glance of intense curiosity in the young man’s direction and proffered an arm to his youthful female companion. At the sight of her charming, fresh face Erast Fandorin froze on the spot, while the young lady beamed and exclaimed in a clear, ringing voice, “Papa, it’s him, that gentleman from the police! I told you about him, remember? You know, the one who interrogated Frälein Pfühl and me!”

  The word ‘interrogated’ was pronounced with quite evident pleasure, and the clear gray eyes gazed at Fandorin with unconcealed interest. It must be admitted that the dizzying pace of events during the preceding weeks had somewhat dulled Erast Fandorin’s memories of her whom in his own mind he thought of exclusively as ‘Lizanka’ and sometimes, in moments of particularly fanciful reverie, even as his ‘tender angel.’ However, at the sight of this lovely creature the flame that had singed his heart instantly flared up with renewed heat, scorching his lungs with sparks of fire.

  “I’m not actually from the police,” Fandorin mumbled, blushing. “Fandorin, special assignments officer at the—”

  “I know all about that ‘je vous le dis tout era’” the mustached gentleman said with a mysterious expression, and the diamond in his necktie glinted. “Affairs of state—no need to go into details. Entre nous sois dit,; I’ve had some involvement with that kind of business myself on more than one occasion, so I understand everything perfectly.” He raised his top hat. “However, allow me to introduce myself. Full Privy Counselor Alexander Apollodorovich Evert-Kolokoltsev, chairman of the Moscow Province Appellate Court. My daughter, Liza.”

  “But do call me Lizzie. I don’t like ‘Liza’—it sounds like ‘geezer,’ ” the young lady requested, and then confessed naively, “I’ve often thought about you. Emma liked you. And I remember that you are called Erast Petrovich. Erast is a lovely name.”

  Fandorin felt as if he had fallen asleep and was having a wonderful dream. The most important thing was not to move a muscle, in case—God forbid!—he might wake up.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  in which the importance of correct breathing is demonstrated in a highly convincing fashion

  ERAST FANDORIN FOUND THAT IN LIZANKA’S company—somehow he could not really take to ‘Lizzie’—he felt equally content to speak or to remain silent.

  The railway carriage swayed rhythmically across the switches as the train, with an occasional low snarl of its whistle, hurtled at breakneck speed through the drowsy forests of the low Valdai Hills, wreathed in predawn mist, and Lizanka and Erast Fandorin sat on the soft chairs in the first compartment and said nothing. For the most part they gazed out the window, but they also glanced at each other from time to time. If their glances happened by chance to cross they did not feel in the least bit shamefaced but quite the opposite—it gave them a pleasant and happy feeling. Fandorin had begun deliberately trying to turn away from the window as smartly as possible, and every time that he succeeded in catching her glancing back at him, Lizanka would burst into quiet laughter.

  There was also good reason for not speaking because they might wake the baron, who was dozing peacefully on the divan. Not so very long before, Alexander Apollodorovich had been engaged in an animated discussion of the situation in the Balkans with Fandorin and then suddenly, almost in midword, he had given a sudden snore and his head had slumped forward onto his chest, where it was now swaying comfortably in time to the rattling rhythm of the wheels of the carriage: da-dam, da-dam (this way and that, this way and that); da-dam, da-dam (this way and that, this way and that).

  Lizanka laughed softly at some thoughts of her own, and when Fandorin cast an inquiring glance at her, she explained, “You know, you’re so very clever. You explained to Papa all about Midhat Pasha and Abdülhamid. And I’m so stupid, you can’t even imagine.”

  “You can’t possibly be stupid,” Fandorin whispered with profound conviction.

  “There’s something I’d like to tell you, only I’m ashamed…but I’ll tell you anyway. Somehow I have the feeling that you won’t laugh at me. That is, you will laugh when you’re here with me, but not without me, will you? Am I right?”

  “Of course you are!” Erast Fandorin exclaimed loudly, but the baron twitched his eyebrows in his sleep, and the young man slipped back into a whisper. “I shall never laugh at you.”

  “Don’t forget then, you promised. After that time you came to our house I imagined all sorts of things…and it was all so beautiful. Only very, very sad and always with a tragic ending. It’s all because of Karamzin’s Poor Liza. You remember, don’t you, Liza and Erast? I imagined myself lying there in my coffin, all pale and beautiful, with white roses all around me. Perhaps I drowned, or perhaps I died of consumption, and you are there sobbing and Papa and Mama are sobbing and Emma is there, blowing her nose. It’s funny, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is,” Fandorin agreed.

  “It’s really such a miracle that we met like that at the station. We’d been staying with ma tante* and we were supposed to have gone home yesterday, but Papa was detained on business in the ministry and we changed the tickets. That really is a miracle, isn’t it?”

  “There’s nothing miraculous about it!” said Erast Fandorin in astonishment. “It is the finger of fate.”

  The sky outside the window looked strange—entirely black with a thin border of scarlet along the horizon. The official messages lying forgotten on the table were a dismal white.

  THE COACHMAN DROVE Fandorin right across early-morning Moscow from the Nikolaevsky Station to Khamovniki. It was a bright and joyful day, and Lizanka’s parting words were still ringing in Erast Fandorin’s ears: “You absolutely must come today! Do you promise?”

  The timing fitted perfectly. Now he would go to the Astair House, to see her ladyship. It would be best to go to the gendarmerie department later to have a word with the commanding officer, and—if he had managed to elicit anything important from Lady Astair—to send a telegram to General Mizinov. On the other hand, the remaining dispatches might have arrived from the embassies…Fandorin took apapyrosa out of his new silver cigarette case and lit it rather clumsily. Should he not perhaps go to the gendarmerie first? But his horse was already trotting down Ostozhenka Street, and it would be stupid to turn back. So, first to her ladyship, then to the department, then home to collect his things and move into a decent hotel; then change his clothes, buy some flowers, and be at the Evert-Kolokoltsevs’ house on Malaya Nikitskaya Street by six o’clock. Erast Fandorin smiled blissfully and broke into song:

  From the exultant crowd of idle boasters,

  Who stain their hands with others’ crimson blood,

  Lead me into the camp of love’s promoters,

  Who perish for the greater cause of good.

  And now there was the familiar building with the wrought-iron gates and the manservant in the blue uniform beside the striped sentry box.

  “Where can I find Lady Astair?” Fandorin cried, leaning down from his seat. “In the Astair House or in her rooms?”

  “About this time her ladyship’s usually in her rooms,” the gatekeeper replied with a jaunty salute, and the carriage rumbled on into the quiet side street.

  At the two-story administration wing Fandorin ordered the coachman to wait, and warned him that he might be waiting for some time.

  The same self-important doorman whom her ladyship called Timofei was idling about beside the door. However, unlike on the previous occasion he was not warming himself in the sunshine but had moved into the shade, for the June sun beat down with a heat considerably greater than in May.

  On this occasion Timofei also behaved quite differently, demonstrating a remarkable psychological talent. He doffed his peaked cap, bowed, and asked in an obsequious voice how he should announce the visitor. Evidently something had changed in Erast Fandorin’s appearance in the course of the previous month, and he no longer aroused in the doork
eeping tribe an instinctive urge to seize hold of him and deny him admittance.

  “No need to announce me. I’ll go straight through.”

  Timofei bent himself double and flung open the doors without a murmur, admitting the visitor into the damask-upholstered entrance hall, from where Erast Fandorin followed the bright sunlit corridor to the familiar white-and-gold door. It opened to greet him, and a lanky individual wearing the same light blue livery and white stockings as Timofei fixed the new arrival with an inquisitive eye.

  “Fandorin, officer of the Third Section, on urgent business,” Erast Fandorin announced austerely. However, the lackey’s equine features remained impassive, and Fandorin was obliged to explain in English. “State police, Inspector Fandorin, on urgent official business.”

  Again not a single muscle trembled in the stony face, although the meaning of what was said had been understood. The footman inclined his head primly and disappeared behind the door, closing the two leaves tightly behind him.

  Half a minute later they opened again. Standing in the doorway was Lady Astair herself. On seeing her old acquaintance she gave a happy smile.

  “Oh, it’s you, my dear boy. Andrew said it was some important gentleman from the secret police. Come in, come in. How are you? Why do you look so tired?”

  “I’ve come straight from the Petersburg train, my lady,” Fandorin began to explain as he walked through into the study. “Straight from the station to see you. The matter is very urgent indeed.”

  “Oh, yes,” the baroness said, nodding sadly, as she seated herself in an armchair and gestured for her guest to take a seat facing her. “Of course, you wish to talk to me about dear Gerald Cunningham. It’s all like some terrible dream. I can’t understand it at all…Andrew, take the gentleman’s hat…This is an old and trusted servant of mine, who has just arrived from England. My splendid Andrew—I missed him very badly. Leave us, Andrew. Go, my friend—you are not needed for the moment.”