by Boris Akunin
“I don’t believe it!” Varya squealed.
“Quiet! At precisely ten o’clock this evening, the commander of the corps of grenadiers, Lieutenant General Ganetsky, whose forces occupy a position on the left bank of the Vid, will be approached by the truce envoys. I shall be the only journalist to witness this great event. And I shall also forewarn the general—at half-past nine and no sooner—so that the patrols don’t open fire on the envoys by mistake. Can you imagine what an article it will make?”
“Yes, I can,” said Varya with a nod of delight. “And I can’t tell absolutely anyone at all?”
“It would be the end of me!” McLaughlin exclaimed in panic. “You gave me your word!”
“Very well, very well,” she reassured him. “Until ten o’clock my lips are sealed.”
“Ah, here’s the fork. Stop here!” said the correspondent, prodding the coachman in the back. “You’re going to the right, Mademoiselle Varya, and I’m going to the left. I can just imagine the scene. There I am, sitting with the general, drinking tea and making idle conversation about this and that, and at half-past nine I take out my watch and casually remark: ‘By the way, Ivan Stepanovich, in half an hour or so you will have visitors from Osman Pasha.’ Not bad, eh?”
McLaughlin began laughing excitedly as he stuck his foot in the stirrup.
A few moments later, he was lost to view behind the gray curtain of the intensifying downpour.
IN THREE MONTHS the camp had changed beyond recognition. The tents were all gone and in their place stood neat files of wooden huts. Everywhere there were paved roads, telegraph poles, and neat signposts. It was a good thing for an army to be commanded by an engineer, thought Varya.
In the special section, which now occupied three whole buildings, she was told that Mr. Fandorin had been allocated a separate cottage (the duty officer pronounced this new foreign word with obvious relish) and shown how to get there.
Cottage Number 158 proved to be a one-room prefabricated hut on the very edge of the headquarters staff village. The master of the house was at home; he opened the door himself and looked at Varya in a way that gave her a warm feeling inside.
“Hello, Erast Petrovich, here I am, back again,” she said, for some reason feeling terribly anxious.
“Glad to see you,” Fandorin said briefly and moved aside to let her in. It was a very simple room, but it had a set of wall bars and an entire arsenal of gymnastic apparatus. There was a three-verst map on the wall.
Varya explained: “I left my things with the nurses. Petya is on duty, so I came straight to you.”
“I can see you are well.” Erast Petrovich looked her over from head to toe and nodded. “A new hairstyle. Is that the fashion now?”
“Yes. It’s very practical. And what’s been happening here?”
“Nothing much. We’re still besieging the Turk.” Varya thought the titular counselor’s voice sounded bitter. “One month, t-two months, three months now. The officers are taking to drink out of boredom, the quartermasters are p-plundering the supplies, the public coffers are empty. In short, everything is perfectly normal. War the Russian way. Europe has already heaved a sigh of relief and is happily watching as Russia’s l-lifeblood drains away. If Osman Pasha holds out for another t-two weeks, the war will be l-lost.”
Erast Petrovich sounded so peevish that Varya took pity on him and whispered: “He won’t hold out.”
Fandorin started and looked into her eyes inquisitively.
“Do you know something? What? Where from?”
And so she told him. She could tell Erast Petrovich, surely—he wouldn’t run off to tell everybody about it.
“To Ganetsky? Why to G-Ganetsky?” the titular counselor said with a frown when he had heard her out.
He walked across to the map and muttered under his breath: “It’s a long way to G-Ganetsky. Right out on the flank. Why not go to command headquarters? Wait! Wait!”
A resolute expression appeared on the titular counselor’s face; he tore his greatcoat down from its hook and dashed toward the door.
“What? What is it?” Varya cried, running after him.
“A trap,” Fandorin muttered curtly, without stopping. “Ganetsky’s defences are thinner. And beyond them lies the Sofia highway. They are not surrendering—they are trying to break out. They have to dupe Ganetsky so that he won’t fire.”
“Oh!” she gasped. “And they won’t really be envoys at all. Where are you going? To the headquarters building?”
Erast Petrovich halted.
“It’s twenty to nine. At headquarters, things take a long time. From one chief to another. It would take too long. We can’t reach Ganetsky in time. We’ll go to Sobolev! Half an hour at a gallop. Sobolev won’t waste time asking permission from headquarters. He’ll take the risk. Strike the first blow. Engage the enemy. If he can’t help Ganetsky, at least he’ll be able to strike at the flank. Trifon, my horse!”
My goodness, he has an orderly now, thought Varya, bewildered.
THE RUMBLING IN the distance went on all night long, and at dawn news came that Osman had been wounded in the battle and surrendered with his entire army: Ten pashas and forty-two thousand fighting men had laid down their arms.
It was the end; the siege of Plevna was over.
There were many killed: Ganetsky’s corps, caught off guard by the unexpected attack, had been almost completely wiped out. But the name on everyone’s lips was the White General, the invulnerable Russian Achilles, Sobolev the Second, who at the decisive moment had taken the risk of striking through Plevna, already deserted by the Turks, straight into Osman’s unprotected flank.
FIVE DAYS LATER, on the third of December, the emperor, who was leaving for the theater of military action, held a farewell parade for the guards in Paradim. Individuals close to the throne and heroes who had distinguished themselves in the final battle were invited. Lieutenant General Sobolev himself sent his carriage for Varya. His star may have soared directly to its zenith, but the resplendent Achilles had apparently not forgotten his old friend.
Never before had Varya found herself in such distinguished society. She was positively blinded by the glitter of all the epaulettes and medals. To be quite honest, she had never suspected there were so many generals in the Russian army. The senior military commanders stood in the front row, waiting for the members of the imperial family to appear, among them Michel, who looked quite offensively young standing there in his customary white uniform with no greatcoat, even though the day had turned out bright but frosty. All eyes were fixed on the savior of the Fatherland, who seemed to Varya to have become much taller and broader across the shoulders, with a much graver expression than he had before. The French were obviously right when they said that the finest yeast was fame.
Close by, two ruddy-cheeked aides-de-camp were conversing in low voices. Varya found it pleasant that one of them kept glancing across at her with his rakish black eyes.
“. . . and the emperor said to him: ‘As a mark of respect for your valor, mushir, I return to you your saber, which you may wear here in Russia, where I trust you will have no cause for any dissatisfaction.’ Such a fine scene—what a pity you weren’t there.”
“Ah, but then I was on duty in the council on the twenty-ninth,” his companion replied jealously. “And with my own ears I heard the emperor say to Miliutin: ‘Dmitry Alexandrovich, I request your permission, as the senior cavalier of St. George here present, to adorn my saber with the sword-knot of St. George. I believe I have earned it.’ ‘I request your permission’! How do you like that?”
“Yes, that’s bad, all right,” the black-eyed one agreed. “They really ought to have thought of it themselves. He’s more like some sergeant major than a minister. His Majesty has shown such great generosity! Totleben and Nepokoinitsky—Orders of St. George, second class. Ganetsky—St. George, third class. And this is a mere sword-knot.”
“And what will Sobolev receive?” Varya asked keenly, although she was
not acquainted with these gentlemen. Never mind, this was the army, and it was a special occasion.
“Our Ak Pasha is quite sure to receive something special,” the black-eyed man readily replied, “if his chief of staff, Perepyolkin, has skipped a rank. That’s quite understandable, of course—a mere captain can’t hold an appointment like that. But the prospects opening up for Sobolev are positively breathtaking. He has luck on his side, there’s no denying it. If only he weren’t spoiled by a passion for such vulgar ostentation . . .”
“Hush!” his companion hissed. “They’re coming!”
Four soldiers emerged onto the porch of the unprepossessing house that was grandly titled “the field palace”: the emperor, the commander in chief, the tsarevich, and the prince of Romania. Tsar Alexander Nikolaevich was in his winter uniform coat and Varya caught a glimpse of a bright-orange patch on the hilt of his saber—the sword-knot.
The orchestra struck up the solemn “Preobrazhensky March.”
A colonel of the guards strode out to the front, saluted, and rapped out in a ringing voice trembling with excitement:
“Your Im-perial Majesty! Permit the officers of your personal escort to present you with a gold sword with the inscription ‘For bravery’! In commemoration of our service together! Purchased with the officers’ own personal funds!”
One of the aides-de-camp whispered to Varya: “Now that’s neatly done. Good for the escort!”
The emperor accepted the gift and wiped away a tear with his glove.
“Thank you, gentlemen, thank you. I am touched. I shall send you all a saber from myself. For six months, so to speak, through thick and—”
He broke off and gestured with his hand.
People around her began sniffing with emotion, someone even sobbed, and Varya suddenly spotted Fandorin, standing in the crowd of officials, right beside the porch. What was he doing here? A titular counselor was hardly a figure of any great significance. Then she suddenly noticed the chief of gendarmes beside Fandorin, and everything became clear. After all, the true hero of the capture of the Turkish army was Fandorin. If not for him, there wouldn’t have been any parades here today. He would probably receive an award, too.
Erast Petrovich caught Varya’s eye and pulled a long-suffering face. He clearly did not share the general jubilation.
After the parade, when she was cheerfully beating off the advances of the black-eyed aide-de-camp, who insisted on trying to identify their mutual acquaintances in St. Petersburg, Fandorin came up to her, bowed rapidly, and said: “I beg your pardon, Colonel. Varvara Andreevna, the emperor wishes to see both of us.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
In which Varya
infiltrates the supreme
sphere of politics
THE TIMES (London)
16 (4) December 1877
DERBY AND CAERNARVON
THREATEN TO RESIGN
* * *
At yesterday’s meeting of the cabinet, Lord Beaconsfield proposed a demand for six million pounds of emergency credits from parliament in order to equip an expeditionary force which could be sent to the Balkans in the near future in order to protect the interests of the empire against the inordinate pretensions of Tsar Alexander. The decision was taken despite the opposition of the foreign secretary, Lord Derby, and the colonial secretary, Lord Caernarvon, who opposed any direct confrontation with Russia. Upon finding themselves in the minority, both ministers tendered their resignations to Her Majesty. The queen’s response is as yet unknown.
VARYA HAD PUT ON all her best finery for the parade in the presence of His Imperial Majesty, and so she would have no cause to blush for her costume in front of her sovereign—that was the first thought that came into her head. The pale lilac hat with the watered silk ribbon and veil, the violet dress with the embroidery on the bodice and the moderate train, the black boots with the mother-of-pearl buttons. Modest and unaffected, but decent enough—thanks to the shops of Bucharest.
“Are we going to be decorated?” she asked Erast Petrovich on the way.
He was also decked out in his finest: creased trousers, boots polished like mirrors, an order of some kind in the buttonhole of his neatly ironed frock coat. There was no denying that the titular counselor looked every inch the part, except that he was so extremely young.
“Hardly.”
“Why not?” asked Varya in astonishment.
“We’re not important enough,” Fandorin replied thoughtfully. “They still haven’t decorated all the generals, and we come low down on the list.”
“But after all, if it weren’t for us . . . I mean, if it weren’t for you, Osman Pasha would have been bound to break out. Just think what would have happened then!”
“I realize that. But after a victory people don’t usually think of such things. No, trust me, my experience tells me that this smacks of politics.”
There were only six rooms in the “field palace,” and therefore the function of the waiting room was assumed by the porch, where a dozen or so generals and senior officers were already shuffling their feet as they waited for their invitation to present themselves to the royal gaze. They were all wearing rather silly, delighted expressions—there was a whiff of decorations and promotions in the air. The waiting men stared at Varya with understandable curiosity. She glanced haughtily over their heads at the low winter sun: Let them rack their brains trying to guess who this young woman in the veil was and why she had presented herself for an audience.
The wait stretched out, but it wasn’t boring at all.
“Who has been in there for so long, General?” Varya asked grandly, addressing a tall old man with tangled masses of whiskers at the sides of his mouth.
“Sobolev,” said the general, putting on a significant expression. “He went in half an hour ago.” He drew himself erect and touched a hand to the brand-new decoration with the black-and-orange bow on his chest. “Pardon me, madam, I have not introduced myself. Ivan Stepanovich Ganetsky, commander of the grenadier corps.” He paused expectantly.
“Varvara Andreevna Suvorova,” said Varya with a nod. “Pleased to meet you.”
At this point Fandorin demonstrated a brusqueness quite untypical of him in normal circumstances and pushed forward, preventing her from finishing what she was going to say.
“Tell me, General, just before the assault, was the Daily Post correspondent, McLaughlin, at your headquarters?
Ganetsky glanced in annoyance at this civilian whippersnapper, but then clearly decided that not just anybody would be invited to see His Majesty and replied politely: “Why yes, he was. He was the reason it all happened.”
“What, exactly?” Erast Petrovich asked with a rather stupid expression.
“Why, surely you must have heard?” This was evidently not the first time the general had told the tale. “I know McLaughlin from St. Petersburg. A serious man and a friend of Russia, even though he is a subject of Queen Victoria. When he told me that Osman was going to surrender to me at any moment, I sent off runners to the forward edge of our lines, so that no one, God forbid, would open fire. And, like an old fool, I went to put on my dress uniform.” The general gave an embarrassed smile, and Varya decided that he was really terribly nice. “So the Turks took the patrols without a single shot being fired. It was a good job my grenadiers didn’t let me down; fine lads—they held out until Mikhail Dmitrievich attacked Osman from the rear.”
“What happened to McLaughlin?” the titular counselor asked, staring fixedly at Ganetsky with his cold blue eyes.
“I didn’t see,” said the general with a shrug. “I was busy. My God, but it was a fine mess. The Bashi-Bazouks reached our actual headquarters; I was lucky to get away with my life in my dress tunic.”
The door opened and Sobolev emerged onto the porch, with a red face and a special, unusual gleam in his eyes.
“On what shall we congratulate you, Mikhail Dmitrievich?” asked a general of Caucasian appearance in a Circassian coat with a gilded cartridg
e belt.
Everybody held their breath, but Sobolev was in no hurry to answer. He paused for effect, glancing round at all of them and winking gaily at Varya.
But she did not discover exactly how the emperor had honored the hero of Plevna, because the dull, workaday features of Lavrenty Arkadievich Mizinov appeared behind the Olympian’s shoulder. The chief gendarme of the empire beckoned with one finger to Fandorin and Varya. Her heart began to race.
As they were walking past Sobolev, he whispered quietly: “Varvara Andreevna, I will wait for you without fail.”
From the entrance hall they stepped straight into the aide-de-camp’s room, where the duty general and two officers were sitting at a table. The emperor’s personal apartments were on the right, his study was on the left.
“Answer questions loudly, clearly, and fully,” Mizinov instructed them as they walked along. “In detail, but without deviating from the subject.”
There were two people in the simple study furnished with portable items of Karelian birch. One was sitting in an armchair, the other was standing with his back to the window. Varya naturally glanced first at the seated individual, but he was not Alexander; he was a wizened old man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with an intelligent, thin-lipped face and eyes of impenetrable ice. State Chancellor Prince Korchakov in person, exactly the way he looked in his portraits, except perhaps rather more delicate—a legendary individual in his own way. Varya believed he had been minister of foreign affairs before she was even born. But most important of all, he had studied at the Lycée with the Poet. He was the one who was “the darling of fashion, friend of high society, observer of its dazzling ways.” Although at the age of eighty the “darling of fashion” put her more in mind of a different poem that was included in every grammar-school textbook:
Which one of you, as feeble age advances,
Is doomed to greet our Lycée Day alone?
