by Boris Akunin
“But an enemy spy would not have killed himself. He would have tried to hide,” the major objected timidly.
“Where, by your leave? He could not get across the front line, and in our rear lines as of today he would have been a wanted man. He could not hide with the Bulgarians and he could not reach the Turks. Better a bullet than the gallows—he was certainly right about that. Apart from which, Kazanzaki was not a spy, but a traitor. Novgorodtsev,” said the general, turning to his adjutant, “where’s the letter?”
Novgorodtsev extracted a snow-white sheet of paper folded in quarters from his file.
“Discovered in the pocket of the suicide,” explained Mizinov. “Read it out, Novgorodtsev.”
The adjutant peered dubiously at Varya.
“Read it, read it,” the general urged him. “This isn’t a college for daughters of the nobility, and Miss Suvorova is a member of the investigative group.”
Novgorodtsev cleared his throat and blushed bright red as he began to read: ” ‘My deer hart Vanchik-Kharitonchik—’ Gentlemen,” the adjutant commented, “the spelling is quite appalling, but I shall do my best to read it as it is written. Such terrible scrawl. Hmm . . . ‘My deer hart. Life withowt yoo will be enuff to mayk me lay hands on miself, rather than carrie on living like this. You kissed me and keressed me and I did you, but that scowndrel fayt was watching us envyously and hideing his nife behind his back. Withowt you I am meer dust, the dirt on the grownd. I beg yoo come back soon. But if yoo fynd sumone else in that lowsy Kishinev, I will come and I sware on my muther I will rip your guts out. Yors for a thowsand yeers, Shalunishka.’ ”
“A strange letter from a mistress,” commented the major.
“It’s not from a woman, it’s from a man,” said Mizinov with a crooked smile. “That’s the whole point. Before he went to the Kishinev office of gendarmes, Kazanzaki served in Tiflis. We sent an inquiry immediately and already have a reply. Read out the telegram, Novgorodtsev.”
Novgorodtsev clearly read the new document with greater pleasure than the love letter.
“ ‘To His Excellency Adjutant General L. A. Mizinov in reply to an enquiry of the 31st of August, received at 52 minutes past one o’clock in the afternoon. Extremely urgent. Top secret.
“ ‘I beg to report that during his term of duty in the Tiflis office of the gendarmes from January 1872 to September 1876, inclusive, Ivan Kazanzaki proved himself to be a capable and energetic worker and no sanctions or penalties were ever applied to him. On the contrary, for his services he was awarded the Order of St. Stanislav, third class, and received two official expressions of thanks from His Imperial Highness the vice-regent of the Caucasus. However, according to information provided in summer 1876 by agents in the field, he had perverted leanings and was supposedly even involved in an unnatural relationship with the well-known Tiflis pederast Prince Vissarion Shalikov, alias Shalun Beso. I would not normally have given any credence to such rumors, unsupported as they were by any proof; however, bearing in mind that despite his mature age Lieutenant Colonel Kazanzaki was unmarried and had never been observed to be involved with women, I decided to conduct a secret internal investigation. It was established that Lieutenant Colonel Kazanzaki was indeed acquainted with Shalun, although the existence of an intimate relationship was not confirmed. Nonetheless, I decided the best thing would be to request Lieutenant Colonel Kazanzaki’s transfer to another office without any adverse consequences for his service record.
“ ‘Commander of the Tiflis Office of Gendarmes Colonel Panchulidzev.’ ”
“SO THERE YOU HAVE IT,” Mizinov summed up bitterly. “He fobbed off a dubious member of his department on someone else and concealed the reason from his superiors. And now the entire army is suffering the consequences. Because of Kazanzaki’s treason, we’ve been stuck at blasted Plevna for two months now and there’s no telling how much more time we’ll have to waste here. The emperor’s name-day celebrations have been ruined. Today His Majesty was even speaking of retreat—can you imagine that?” He swallowed convulsively. “Three failed assaults, gentlemen! Three! Do you recall, Erast Petrovich, that it was Kazanzaki who delivered the first order to take Plevna to the coding room? I don’t know how he managed to substitute ‘Nikopol’ for ‘Plevna,’ but that Judas clearly had a hand in it somehow!”
Varya thought with a start that now there seemed to be a new glimmer of hope for Petya. But the general chewed on his lips and continued: “I shall of course have Colonel Panchulidzev committed for trial as a lesson to anyone else who covers things up, and will insist on his being reduced to the ranks. But his telegram does, at least, allow us to reconstruct the chain of events. It is all quite simple. The Turkish agents who infest the Caucasus so thickly must have discovered Kazanzaki’s secret vice and recruited the lieutenant colonel by blackmailing him. It’s a story as old as the world. ‘Vanchik-Kharitonchik’! God, what disgusting filth! Better if it had been done for money!”
Varya was just about to open her mouth to intercede for the devotees of single-sex love, who were, after all, not to blame that nature had made them different from everyone else, when Fandorin rose to his feet.
“May I take a look at the letter?” he said, then took the sheet of paper, turned it over in his hands, ran a finger along the crease, and asked: “And where is the envelope?”
“Erast Petrovich, you amaze me,” the general said, flinging up his arms. “How could there be an envelope? Such missives are not sent by the post.”
“So it was simply lying in his inside pocket? Well, well.” And Fandorin sat back down.
Lavrenty Arkadievich shrugged.
“I’ll tell you what you had better do, Erast Petrovich. I think it possible that, apart from Colonel Lukan, the traitor may also have recruited someone else. Your job is to discover whether there are any more dragon’s teeth lying in or around headquarters. Major,” he said, addressing the senior officer present, who jumped to his feet and stood to attention, “I appoint you acting head of the special section. Your job is the same. Provide the titular counselor every possible assistance.”
“Yes, sir!”
There was a knock at the door.
“With your permission, your excellency?” The door opened a little and a face wearing blue spectacles appeared in the gap.
Varya knew he was Mizinov’s secretary—a quiet little functionary with a name that was hard to remember whom everybody disliked and feared.
“What is it?” the chief of gendarmes asked guardedly.
“An emergency at the guardhouse. The commandant has come to report it. He says one of his prisoners has hanged himself.”
“Are you out of your mind, Przebisevski? I have an important meeting and you interrupt me with drivel like this?”
Varya clutched at her heart in fright, and the secretary immediately spoke the very words she was afraid to hear: “But it is the cryptographer Yablokov who has hanged himself, the very same . . . He left a note which has a direct bearing . . . That was why I took it on myself . . . But if this is a bad moment, please forgive me, I will leave.” The functionary gave an offended sniff and made as if to retreat behind the door.
“Give me the letter!” the general roared. “And send the commandant in!”
Everything went hazy in front of Varya’s eyes. She struggled to get to her feet, but she could not; she was numbed by some bizarre paralysis. She saw Fandorin leaning over her and tried to say something to him, but she could only move her lips weakly without making a sound.
“Now it’s quite clear that Kazanzaki altered the order!” Mizinov exclaimed after he had run his eyes over the note. “Listen: ‘Again, thousands of dead killed and all because of my blunder. Yes, my guilt is appalling and I will no longer deny it. I committed a fatal error—I left the encoded order to take Plevna on my desk while I absented myself on personal business. While I was gone someone altered one word in the message and I delivered the message without even checking it! Ha-ha, I, Pyotr Yablokov, am th
e genuine savior of Turkey, not Osman Pasha. Do not bother to examine my case, judges, I have pronounced judgment on myself!’ Ah, how very elementary it all is. The boy went off on his own business and Kazanzaki promptly altered the message. It would only take a moment!”
The general crushed the note and tossed it on the floor at the feet of the commandant of the guardhouse, who was standing rigidly to attention.
“Er . . . Erast Pet . . . rovich, what has—happened?” Varya mumbled, scarcely able to force out the words. “Petya!”
“Captain, how is Yablokov? Is he dead?” Fandorin asked, addressing the commandant.
“How could he be dead when he can’t even tie a noose properly?” the commandant barked. “They’ve taken Yablokov down and they’re reviving him now!”
Varya pushed Fandorin away and dashed to the door. She collided with the doorpost, ran out onto the porch, and was blinded by the bright sunlight. She had to stop. Fandorin appeared beside her again.
“Varvara Andreevna, calm down; everything is all right. We will go there together now, but first you must catch your breath. You look terrible.”
He took her gently by the elbow, but for some reason the entirely gentlemanlike touch of his hand provoked an overwhelming attack of nausea. She doubled over and vomited copiously all over Erast Petrovich’s boots. Then she sat on the step, trying to understand why nobody was sliding down off the ground when it was sloping at such an angle.
Varya felt something pleasant and ice-cold touch her forehead, and gave a low moan of pleasure.
“A fine business,” she heard Fandorin’s hollow voice say. “This is typhus.”
CHAPTER TEN
In which the emperor
is presented with a golden sword
THE DAILY POST (London)
9 December (27 November) 1877
For the last two months the siege of Plevna has effectively been commanded by the old, experienced General Totleben, well-remembered by the British from the Sebastopol campaign. Being rather more of an engineer than a military leader, Totleben has abandoned the tactic of frontal attacks and subjected the army of Osman Pasha to a strict blockade. The Russians have lost a great deal of precious time, for which Totleben has been subjected to severe criticism, but now it must be acknowledged that the cautious engineer is right. Since the Turks were finally cut off from Sofia one month ago, Plevna has begun to suffer from hunger and a shortage of ammunition. Totleben is referred to ever more often as the second Kutuzov (the Russian field marshal who exhausted Napoleon’s forces by retreating incessantly in 1812—Editor’s note). Osman and his army of fifty thousand are expected to surrender any day now.
IT WAS AN ABOMINABLY COLD and unpleasant day (gray sky, icy sleet, and squelching mud) when Varya made her way back to the army positions in a specially hired cab. She had spent an entire month on a hospital bed in the Trnovo Epidemiological Hospital, where she could quite easily have died, because many people did die of typhus, but she had been lucky. Then she had spent another two months dying of boredom while she waited for her hair to grow, because she certainly couldn’t go back with her head shaved like a Tatar’s. Her accursed hair had grown back far too slowly, and even now it stood up on her head like a crew cut or the bristles of a brush. In fact, she looked perfectly absurd, but her patience had run out—one more week of idleness and Varya would have been driven absolutely insane by the sight of the crooked little streets of that horrid little town.
Petya had managed to get away to visit her once. He was still officially under investigation, but he had been let out of the guardhouse now and gone back to work—the army had expanded rapidly and there was a shortage of cryptographers. Petya was greatly changed: He had let his beard grow, but it was sparse and straggly and really didn’t suit him at all, and he had wasted half away, and he mentioned either God or service to the people with every second breath. What had shocked Varya most of all was that when they met her fiancé had kissed her on the forehead. Did he really have to treat her like a corpse in a coffin? Had her looks really suffered that much?
The Trnovo highway was choked with strings of army wagons and her carriage was barely crawling along, so, since she was familiar with the area, Varya ordered the coachman to turn off on to a track that led south around the camp. It was longer that way, but they would get there sooner.
On the empty road the horse broke into a lively jog and the rain almost stopped. In another hour or two she would be home. Varya snorted. A fine home—a damp tent open to all the winds under heaven!
After they passed Lovcha they began meeting individual riders, for the most part foragers and brisk, bustling orderlies, and soon Varya saw the first person she knew.
There was no mistaking that lanky figure in the bowler hat and the redingote, perched awkwardly on the dejected chestnut mare—McLaughlin! Varya had a sudden sense of déjà vu. During the third assault on Plevna, when she was returning to the army positions just as she was today, she had encountered the Irishman in precisely the same way. Only then it had been hot, and now it was cold, and she had probably looked better then.
But it really was very fortunate that McLaughlin would be the first to see her. He was unaffected and forthright; his reaction would tell her straightaway whether she could show herself in society with her hair like this, or whether she ought to turn back. And she could find out all about the latest news . . .
Varya courageously grabbed the cap off her head, exposing her shameful brush—she might as well do things properly.
“Mr. McLaughlin!” she shouted out, half-rising from her seat as her carriage overtook the correspondent. “It’s me! Which way are you headed?”
The Irishman looked around and raised his bowler hat.
“Oh, Mademoiselle Varya, I’m very glad to see you in good health. Did they crop your hair like that for reasons of hygiene? I can hardly recognize you.”
Varya felt a cold shiver inside.
“Why, is it so terrible?” she asked dejectedly.
“Not at all,” McLaughlin hastened to reassure her. “But you look much more like a boy now than you did when we first met.”
“Are we going the same way?” she asked. “Get in with me and we can talk. Your horse doesn’t look too good.”
“A sad old nag. My Bessie managed to get herself in the family way by a dragoon’s stallion and she blew up like a barrel. And the headquarters groom, Frolka, doesn’t like me because I never give him bribes—what you might call tips—as a matter of principle, so he palms me off with these dreadful jades! I don’t know where he gets them from! And right now I’m in a great hurry on extremely important secret business.”
McLaughlin paused provocatively, and it was clear he was positively bursting to tell her just how important and secret his business was.
The contrast with the son of Albion’s habitual stolid reserve was striking—the journalist really must have discovered something quite extraordinary.
“Get in for just a minute,” Varya wheedled. “Let the poor animal have a rest. I have some jam pies here, and a thermostatic flask full of coffee with rum.”
McLaughlin took a watch on a silver chain out of his pocket.
“Haf pust seven—Anatha foty minits to get thea. Oll rait, then, haf an aua. Etl be haf pust eit . . .” he muttered to himself in that incomprehensible foreign tongue of his and sighed. “Oh, all right, but just for a minute. I’ll ride with you as far as the fork in the road and then turn off for Petyrnitsy.”
He hitched his reins to the carriage and took a seat beside Varya, swallowed one pie whole, bit off half of a second, and gulped down a mouthful of hot coffee from the lid of the flask with great relish.
“Why are you going to Petyrnitsy?” Varya asked casually. “Are you meeting your informant from Plevna again?”
McLaughlin gave her a searching glance and adjusted his steamed-up glasses.
“Give me your word you won’t tell anyone—at least not until ten o’clock,” he demanded.
&n
bsp; “My word of honor,” Varya said immediately. “But what’s the big mystery?”
McLaughlin began huffing and puffing, taken aback by the casual way in which the promise had been given, but it was too late for him to back out now, and he was obviously longing to confide in someone.
“Today, the tenth of December, or in your style the twenty-eighth of November 1877, is a historic day,” he began, and then lowered his voice to a whisper. “But as yet there’s only one man in the entire Russian camp who knows it—your humble servant. Oh, McLaughlin doesn’t give people tips just for performing their duty, but for good work McLaughlin pays very well, mark my words. No more, no more, not another single word about that!” He held up his hand to forestall the question that Varya was about to blurt out. “I won’t tell you the name of my source. I will only say that he has been tested many times and has never once let me down.”
Varya recalled one of the journalists saying enviously that the source of the Daily Post correspondent’s information on life in Plevna was not some Bulgarian, but a Turkish officer or something of the kind. Not many people had really believed it, though. But what if it were true?
“Well, tell me then. Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Remember, not a word to anyone until ten o’clock this evening. You gave me your word of honor.”
Varya nodded impatiently—oh, these men and their stupid rituals. Of course she wouldn’t tell anyone.
McLaughlin leaned right down to her ear.
“This evening, Osman Pasha will surrender.”
