Erast Fandorin 01 - The Winter Queen

by Boris Akunin

  His gaze fell on a small room with shelves covering the walls. In the middle of the room stood a desk on which a candle, burning in a bronze candlestick, illuminated the face of Lady Astair, tracing its lines in shadows.

  “Come in, my boy,” she said calmly. “I have been expecting you.”

  Erast Fandorin stepped inside and the door suddenly slammed shut behind him. With a shudder he turned around and saw that the door had no hinge and no handle.

  “Come a little closer,” her ladyship said in a quiet voice. “I wish to take a closer look at your face, because it is the face of fate. You are a pebble that was lying on my road, the pebble over which I was fated to stumble.”

  Stung by this comparison, Fandorin moved closer to the desk and noticed a smooth metal casket lying in front of the baroness.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “We ‘ll come to that shortly. What have you done with Gebhardt?”

  “He’s dead. It’s his own fault—he shouldn’t have argued with a bullet,” Fandorin replied rather coarsely, trying not to think about the fact that he had killed two people in a matter of minutes.

  “That is a great loss for mankind. He was a strange man, obsessive, but a truly great scientist. So now there is one Azazel less.”

  “What is Azazel?” Fandorin blurted out. “And what has that demon got to do with your orphans?”

  “Azazel is no demon, my boy. He is a great symbol of the savior and enlightener of mankind. The Lord God created this world, created men and left them to their own devices. But men are so weak and so blind, they transformed God’s world into hell. Mankind would have perished long ago if it were not for those outstanding individuals who have appeared among them from time to time. They are not demons and not gods. I call them hero civilisateur. Thanks to each of them, mankind has taken a leap forward. Prometheus gave us fire. Moses gave us the concept of the law. Christ gave us a moral core. But the most precious of these heroes was the Judaic Azazel, who taught man a sense of his own dignity. It is said in the Book of Enoch: “He was moved by love for man and revealed unto him secrets learned in the heavens.” He gave man a mirror, so that man could see behind himself—that is, so that he had a memory and could remember his past. Thanks to Azazel a man is able to practice arts and crafts and defend his home. Thanks to Azazel woman was transformed from a submissive bearer of children into an equal human being possessing the freedom to choose—whether to be ugly or beautiful, whether to be a mother or an Amazon, to live for the sake of her family or the whole of mankind. God merely dealt man his cards, but Azazel teaches him how to play to win. Every one of my charges is an Azazel, although not all of them know it.”

  “How do you mean ‘not all of them’?” Fandorin interrupted.

  “Only a few are initiated into the secret goal, only the most faithful and incorruptible,” her ladyship explained. “It is they who undertake all the dirty work, so that the rest of my children might remain unsullied. Azazel is my advance guard, destined gradually, little by little, to lay hold of the wheel that steers the rudder of the world. Oh, how our planet will blossom when it is led by my Azazels! And it could have happened so soon—in a mere twenty years…The other alumni of the Astair Houses, uninitiated into the secret of Azazel, simply make their own way through life, bringing inestimable benefit to mankind. I merely follow their successes, rejoicing in their achievements, and I know that if the need should arise, not one of them will refuse to help their mother. Ah, what will become of them without me? What will become of the world? But no matter, Azazel lives on. He will carry my work to its conclusion.”

  Erast Fandorin interjected indignantly, “I’ve seen your Azazels, your ‘faithful and incorruptible’ devotees! Morbid and Franz, Andrew and that other one with the eyes of a fish, who killed Akhtyrtsev! Are these your vanguard, my lady? Are these the most worthy?”

  “Not these alone. But these also. Do you not remember, my friend, I told you that not every one of my children is able to find his way in the modern world, because his gift has remained stranded in the distant past or will be required only in the distant future? Well then, it is pupils such as these who make the most faithful and devoted executors. Some of my children are the brain, others are the hands. But the man who eliminated Akhtyrtsev is not one of my children. He is a temporary ally of ours.”

  The baroness’s fingers absentmindedly caressed the polished surface of the casket, and as if by accident pressed a small round button.

  “That is all, my dear young man. You and I have two minutes left. We shall depart this life together. Unfortunately, I cannot let you live. You would cause harm to my children.”

  “What is that thing?” cried Erast Fandorin, seizing hold of the casket, which proved to be quite heavy. “A bomb?”

  “Yes,” said Lady Astair with a smile of commiseration. “A clockwork mechanism. The invention of one of my talented boys. There are thirty-second boxes, two-hour boxes, even twelve-hour boxes. It is impossible to open the box and stop the mechanism. This bomb is set for one hundred and twenty seconds. I shall perish together with my archive. My life is over now, but what I have achieved is not so very little. My cause will be continued and people will yet remember me with a kind word.”

  Erast Fandorin attempted to pick the button out with his nails, but it was useless. Then he rushed to the door and began feeling all over it and hammering on it with his fists. The blood throbbed in his ears, counting out the pulse of time.

  “Lizanka!” the doomed Fandorin groaned in his despair. “My lady! I do not wish to die! I am young! I am in love!”

  Lady Astair gazed at him compassionately. Some kind of struggle was obviously taking place within her. “Promise me that you will not make hunting down my children the goal of your life,” she said in a quiet voice, looking into Fandorin’s eyes.

  “I swear it!” he exclaimed, willing at that moment to promise anything.

  After an agonizing pause that lasted an eternity, her ladyship gave a gentle, motherly smile.

  “Very well, my boy. Have your life. But hurry, you have forty seconds.”

  She reached under the desk and the copper door squeaked as it swung open into the room.

  Casting a final glance at the figure of the gray-haired woman sitting motionless in the flickering candlelight, Fandorin launched himself along the dark corridor in immense bounds. His momentum flung him hard against the wall, then he scrambled up the stairs on all fours, straightened up, and crossed the study in two great leaps.

  TEN SECONDS LATER the oak doors of the wing of the Astair House were almost knocked off their hinges by a powerful impact and a young man with a face contorted by fear fell out and tumbled head over heels across the porch. He dashed along the quiet, shady street as far as the corner, where he stopped, panting heavily. He looked around and stood there motionless.

  Seconds passed and nothing happened. The sun complacently gilded the crowns of the poplars, a ginger cat dozed on a bench, and chickens clucked somewhere in a yard nearby.

  Erast Fandorin clutched at his wildly pounding heart. She had deceived him! Tricked him like some little boy! And escaped through some rear entrance!

  He broke into sobs of impotent rage, and as if in reply, the wing of the building responded with an identical sobbing. Its walls trembled, its roof swayed almost imperceptibly, and from somewhere under the ground he heard the hollow boom of the detonation.

  THE FINAL CHAPTER

  in which our hero bids farewell to his youth

  INQUIRE OF ANY INHABITANT OF RUSSIA’S first capital concerning the best time to enter into lawful wedlock, and naturally the reply one will receive is that a man who is thoroughly serious in his intentions and wishes to set his family life on a firm foundation from the very outset must certainly not marry at any other time than late September, for that is the month most ideally suited to embarking on a long and tranquil voyage across the waves of life’s wide ocean. September in Moscow is sated and indolent, trimmed with g
old brocade and ruddy cheeked with the maple’s crimson blush, like a merchant’s wife from the Zamoskvorechie district decked out in her finest. If one marries on the final Sunday of the month the sky is certain to be a translucent azure and the sun will shine with a sedate delicacy, so that the groom will not perspire in his tight starched collar and close-fitting black tailcoat, nor will the bride freeze in that gauzy, ethereal, enchanting concoction for which no appropriate name even exists.

  Choosing the church in which to celebrate the wedding is an entire science in itself. Thanks be to God, in golden-domed Moscow the choice is extensive, but that merely increases the responsibility of the decision. The genuine old-time Muscovite knows it is good to get married on Sretenka Street, in the Church of the Assumption in Pechatniki, for then husband and wife will share a long life together and die on the same day. The church most auspicious for the generation of numerous offspring is St. Nicholas of the Great Cross, which has extended across an entire city block in the Kitai-Gorod district. Those who prize quiet comfort and domesticity above all else should choose St. Pimen the Great in Starye Vorotniki. If the groom is a military gentleman, who nonetheless does not wish to end his days on the battlefield but close to the home hearth in the bosom of his family, then the wisest thing to do would be to take the marriage vows in the Church of St. George on Vspolie Street. And, of course, no loving mother would ever allow her daughter to marry on Varvarka Street, in the church of the holy martyr Varvara, which would doom the poor soul to a lifetime of torment and suffering.

  However, individuals of high birth or rank do not really enjoy much freedom of choice, for their church must be both stately and spacious in order to accommodate a guest list that represents the cream of Moscow society. And ‘all of Moscow’ had indeed gathered at the wedding ceremony that was drawing to its conclusion in the decorous and grandiose Zlatoustinskaya Church. The idle onlookers crowding around the entrance, where the long line of carriages was drawn up, kept pointing out the carriage of the governor-general, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgoruky himself, a sure sign that the wedding celebration was definitely from the very top flight.

  Admission to the church had been strictly by personal invitation, but even so the assembled guests numbered as many as two hundred. There were numerous glittering uniforms from the military and the state service; numerous ladies with naked shoulders; numerous tall coiffures, ribbons, decorations, and diamonds. All the chandeliers and candles were lit; the ceremony had been going on for a long time and the guests were tired. All the women, regardless of their age and marital status, were excited and emotional, but the men were clearly languishing as they exchanged remarks about other business in low voices—they had finished discussing the young couple ages ago. The whole of Moscow society knew the father of the bride, Full Privy Counselor Alexander Apollodorovich von Evert-Kolokoltsev, and they had already seen the pretty Elizaveta von Evert-Kolokoltseva at numerous balls, since she had come out the previous season. So curiosity was focused for the main part on the groom, Erast Petrovich Fandorin. Not very much was known about him: a St. Petersburg sort who made flying visits to Moscow on important business; a careerist with close connections to the inner sanctum of state power; not, as yet, of very high rank but still young and climbing the ladder very fast. There were not many people his age sporting the order of St. Vladimir in their buttonholes. Privy Counselor von Evert-Kolokoltsev was clearly a prudent man with an eye to the future.

  The women were more taken by the young couple’s youth and beauty. The groom was very touchingly agitated, blushing and blanching by turns and stumbling over the words of his vow—in short, he was quite wonderful. And as for the bride, Lizanka Evert-Kolokoltseva, she seemed such a heavenly creature that it quite made one’s heart flutter just to look at her. That frothy white dress, that weightless, floating veil, and that wreath of Saxony roses—it was all absolutely perfect. When the bride and groom took a sip of red wine from the chalice and kissed each other, the bride was not overcome by embarrassment. On the contrary, she smiled happily and whispered something to her groom that made him smile, too.

  This is what Lizanka whispered to Erast Fandorin. “Poor Liza has decided not to drown herself and to get married instead.”

  Fandorin had been suffering terribly all day long from the incessant attention and his state of total dependence on the people around him. A great number of old fellow pupils from the gymnasium had turned up, as well as ‘old friends’ of his father (all of whom had vanished without trace during the final year of his life, only to resurface now). First Fandorin had been taken to a bachelor’s breakfast at the Prague tavern on Arbat Street, where he had endured being nudged in the side, winked at, and offered condolences on some mysterious misfortune. Then he had been taken back to the hotel, where the barber Pierre had arrived and tugged painfully on his hair as he curled it into a voluptuous pompadour. He was not supposed to see Lizanka until the ceremony, and that was also a torment to him. In the three days since the groom had arrived from St. Petersburg, where he was now employed, he had hardly seen his bride at all. Liza had been busy all the time with important preparations for the wedding.

  Then Xavier Feofilaktovich Grushin, bright scarlet after the bachelor’s breakfast in his black tailcoat and white best-man’s ribbon, had seated the groom in an open carriage and driven him to the church. As Erast Fandorin stood on the steps and waited for the bride, someone had shouted something to him from out of the crowd and one young lady threw a rose at him and it scratched his cheek. Finally they brought Lizanka, who was almost completely invisible behind wave upon wave of transparent material. They stood side by side in front of the lectern, with the choir singing and the priest chanting ‘For great is God’s mercy and love toward man’ and then something else. They exchanged rings and stood on the carpet, and then Liza said that phrase about Poor Liza, and Erast Fandorin suddenly relaxed, glanced around, saw the faces and the tall dome of the church, and everything felt good.

  It had been good afterward, too, when everyone came up and congratulated them so warmly and sincerely. He had especially liked the governor-general, Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgoruky, plump and good-natured, with his round face and drooping mustache. He said he had heard many complimentary things about Fandorin and wished him a happy marriage with all his heart.

  Then they went out into the square and everyone there was shouting, but he could not see very much because the sun was shining so brightly.

  He and Lizanka got into an open carriage, and suddenly he could smell flowers.

  Lizanka removed her long white glove and squeezed Erast Fan-dorin’s hand tightly in her own. He stealthily moved his face close to her veil and took a quick breath of the aroma of her hair, her perfume, and her warm skin. At that very moment (they were driving past the Nikitskie Gates) Fandorin’s glance happened to fall on the porch of the Church of the Ascension, and it was as if his heart were suddenly clutched by an icy hand.

  Fandorin saw two boys about eight or nine years of age, wearing tattered blue uniforms. They were sitting there among the beggars, seeming lost and chanting plaintively in small, shrill voices. The little paupers twisted their necks in curiosity to watch as the glittering wedding procession drove by.

  “What’s wrong, my love?” Liza asked, frightened at the sudden pallor of her husband’s face.

  Fandorin did not answer.

  A SEARCH OF THE SECRET BASEMENT in the wing of the Astair House had failed to produce anything of interest. A bomb of unknown design had produced a powerful, compact explosion that caused hardly any damage to the building but entirely demolished the subterranean premises. Nothing remained of the archive, nor of Lady Astair herself—unless, that is, one counted a small scrap of silk from a dress.

  Deprived of its leader and source of finance, the international network of Astair Houses had collapsed. In some countries the orphanages had been taken over by the state or by charitable societies, but for the most part the institutions had simply closed. In
Russia at least, both Astair Houses had been closed on the orders of the Ministry of Public Education as hotbeds of godlessness and pernicious ideas. The teachers had all left and most of the children had simply wandered off.

  From the list seized from Cunningham it had been possible to identify eighteen former wards of Astair Houses, but that was of little use, since it was impossible to determine which of them were members of the organization Azazel and which were not. Nonetheless, five of them (including the Portuguese government minister) had retired, two had committed suicide, and one (the Brazilian life guardsman) had even been executed. An extensive intergovernmental investigation had identified numerous notable and highly respected individuals who were former pupils of Astair Houses. Many of them made no effort to conceal the fact, actually priding themselves on the education they had received. Certainly, some of Lady Astair’s children had preferred to go into hiding in order to avoid the troublesome attentions of the police and secret services, but the majority remained in their positions, since there was no crime of which they could be accused. Henceforth, however, the path to the highest level of state service was barred to them, and when appointments were made to high positions it became customary once again, as in feudal times, to pay particular attention to an individual’s origins and pedigree. God forbid that some ‘foundling’ (the style in which the competent circles referred to Lady Astair’s wards) should ever worm his way to the top! The general public, however, was not even aware that any purge had taken place, since a series of carefully coordinated precautions and safeguards was implemented by the governments concerned. For some time rumors circulated of a global conspiracy of either Masons or Jews, or else of both of them together, and Mr. Disraeli’s name was mentioned, but then it all seemed to die down, especially as the whole of Europe was agitated by the grave crisis that was brewing in the Balkans.