The Turkish Gambit

by Boris Akunin

Ill-fated friend! To those new generations

  A tedious guest, unwelcome and despised,

  Calling to mind our former congregations,

  One trembling hand shading his rheumy eyes . . .

  The chancellor’s hand really was trembling. He took a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose, which not did hinder him from surveying first Varya and then Erast Petrovich in the most censorious manner—and, moreover, the legendary’s person’s gaze lingered for a long moment on Fandorin.

  Spellbound by the sight of the alumnus of the Lycée at Tsarskoe Selo, Varya had entirely forgotten the most important individual present. Embarrassed, she turned toward the window, thought for a moment, and then curtseyed—as they used to do in grammar school when the headmistress entered the classroom.

  Unlike Korchakov, His Majesty demonstrated distinctly more interest in her person than in Fandorin’s. The famous Romanov eyes—piercing, mesmerizing, and distinctly slanted—gazed at her with fastidious severity. They see into your very soul, she thought, that’s the expression, and then she immediately felt quite angry with herself for slipping into the slave mentality of ignorant prejudice. He was simply imitating the “basilisk stare” that his father—may he lie uneasy in his grave—had been so proud of. And she began demonstratively inspecting the man whose will governed the lives of eighty million subjects.

  The first observation: Why, he was really old! Puffy eyelids, sideburns, a mustache with curly ends and a pronounced sprinkling of gray, knotty, gouty fingers. But then, of course, next year he would be sixty—almost as old as her grandmother.

  The second observation: He didn’t look as kind as the newspapers said he was. He seemed indifferent and weary. He’d seen everything in the world there was to see; nothing could surprise him, nothing could make him feel particularly happy.

  The third observation, and the most interesting: Despite his age and his imperial lineage, he was not indifferent to the female sex. Otherwise, why, Your Majesty, would you be running your eyes over my breasts and my waist like that? It was obviously true what they said about him and Princess Dolgorukova, who was only half his age. Varya stopped being even slightly afraid of the tsar-liberator.

  Their chief introduced them.

  “Your Majesty, this is Titular Counselor Fandorin, the one you have heard about. With him is his assistant, Miss Suvorova.”

  The tsar did not say hello or even nod. He concluded his inspection of Varya’s figure without hurrying, then turned his head toward Erast Petrovich and said in a low voice modulated like an actor’s: “I remember—Azazel. And Sobolev was just telling me.”

  He sat down at the desk and nodded to Mizinov.

  “You begin. Mikhail Alexandrovich and I will listen.”

  He might offer a lady a chair, even if he is an emperor, Varya thought disapprovingly, abandoning her final shred of belief in the monarchic principle.

  “How much time do I have?” the general asked respectfully. “I am aware, Your Majesty, just how busy you are today. And the heroes of Plevna are waiting.”

  “As much time as is needed. This is not merely a strategic matter, but a diplomatic one, too,” the emperor rumbled, then glanced at Korchakov with an affectionate smile. “Mikhail Alexandrovich here has come from Bucharest specially. Rattling his old bones in a carriage.”

  The prince stretched his mouth in a clearly habitual manner to form a smile devoid of the slightest sign of merriment, and Varya remembered that the previous year the chancellor had suffered some kind of personal tragedy. Someone close to him had died—either his son or his grandson.

  “Pray do not take this amiss, Lavrenty Arkadievich,” the chancellor said in a doleful voice, “but I am having doubts. It all sounds rather too shady, even for Mr. Disraeli. And the heroes can wait. Waiting for a deco-ration is quite the most pleasant of pastimes. So please let us hear what you have to say.”

  Mizinov straightened up his shoulders smartly and turned, not to Fandorin, but to Varya: “Miss Suvorova, please tell us in detail about both of your meetings with the correspondent of the Daily Post, Seamus McLaughlin—during the third assault on Plevna and on the eve of Osman Pasha’s breakout.”

  And so Varya told them.

  It turned out that the tsar and the chancellor were both good listeners. Korchakov only interrupted her twice. The first time he asked: “Which Count Zurov is that? Not Alexander Platonovich’s son?”

  The second time he asked: “McLaughlin knew Ganetsky well, then, if he referred to him by his first name and patronymic?”

  But His Majesty slapped his palm on the table in irritation when Varya explained that many of the journalists had acquired their own informants in Plevna.

  “You still haven’t explained to me, Mizinov, how Osman managed to organize his entire army for a breakout and your scouts failed to inform you in time!”

  The chief of gendarmes started and prepared to make his excuses, but Alexander gestured to stop him.

  “Later. Continue, Suvorova.”

  “Continue”—how do you like that! Even in the first class at school they had been more polite to her. Varya paused demonstratively to make the point, then went on to finish her story nonetheless.

  “I think the picture is clear,” said the tsar, glancing at Korchakov. “Let Shuvalov draw up a note.”

  “But I am not convinced,” the chancellor replied. “Let us hear what arguments our inestimable Lavrenty Arkadievich has to offer.”

  Varya struggled in vain to understand where exactly the point of disagreement between the emperor and his senior diplomatic adviser lay. Mizinov cleared up the matter for her.

  He took several sheets of paper out of his cuff, cleared his throat, and began speaking in the manner of a student who is top of the class: “With your permission, I will move from the specific to the general. Very well. First of all, I must confess my own failings. All the time our army was besieging Plevna, a cunning and merciless enemy was operating against us and my department failed to expose him in time. It was the intriguing of this cunning and clandestine enemy that resulted in our losing so much time and so many men and almost letting the fruits of many months of effort slip through our fingers on the thirtieth of November.”

  At these words the emperor crossed himself.

  “God has preserved Russia.”

  “After the third assault, we—or rather, I, for the conclusions drawn were mine—made a serious mistake in concluding that the main Turkish agent was Lieutenant Colonel of Gendarmes Kazanzaki, thereby granting the genuine culprit full freedom of action. It is now not open to doubt that from the very beginning we have been sabotaged by the British subject McLaughlin, who is quite certainly an absolutely top-class agent, and an exceptional actor who spent a long time training thoroughly for his mission.”

  “How did this person ever come to be with our army in the field?” His Majesty asked, displeased. “Were correspondents given visas entirely without verification?”

  “Naturally, a check was carried out, and an extremely thorough one,” the chief of gendarmes said with a shrug. “A list of publications was requested from the editorial offices of all the foreign journalists and cross-checked with our embassies. Every one of the journalists is a well-known professional of good repute who has no history of hostility to Russia. McLaughlin in particular. As I said, a most thorough gentleman. He was able to establish friendly relations with many Russian generals and officers during the Central Asian campaign. And his article last year about Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria earned McLaughlin the reputation of a friend of the Slavs and a genuine supporter of Russia. Whereas in fact all this time he must have been acting on secret instructions from his government, which is well known for its undisguised hostility to our Eastern policy.

  “Initially, McLaughlin restricted his activities purely to spying. Of course, he was passing information about our army to Plevna, for which purpose he made full use of the freedom that was so precipitately afforded to foreign journ
alists. Yes, many of them did have contacts with the besieged town that were not controlled by us, and this did not arouse the suspicions of our counterintelligence agents. We shall draw the appropriate conclusions for the future. Again I must accept the blame.

  “For as long as he could, McLaughlin used others to do his dirty work. Your Majesty will of course recall the incident involving the Romanian Colonel Lukan, whose notebook included references to a certain mysterious ‘J.’ I precipitately decided that the person concerned was the gendarme Kazanzaki. Unfortunately I was mistaken. J stood for ‘journalist’—in other words, our British friend.

  “However, during the third assault the fate of Plevna and the entire war hung by a thread, and McLaughlin changed his tactics to outright sabotage. I am sure he did not simply act on his own discretion, but had instructions on what to do from his superiors. I regret that I did not put the British diplomatic agent Colonel Wellesley under secret observation from the very beginning. I have previously reported this gentlemen’s anti-Russian maneuverings to Your Majesty. It is quite clear that Turkish interests are closer to his heart than are ours.

  “Now let us reconstruct the events of the thirtieth of August. General Sobolev, acting on his own initiative, broke through the Turkish defences and reached the southern outskirts of Plevna. This is understandable, since Osman had been warned by his agent of our general plan of attack and drawn all his forces into the center. Sobolev’s attack caught him by surprise. However, our command was not informed of this success in time, and Sobolev had insufficient strength to continue his advance. McLaughlin and the other journalists and foreign observers—who included, I note in passing, Colonel Wellesley—happened by chance to be at the crucial point on our front, between the center and the left flank. At six o’clock, Count Zurov, Sobolev’s adjutant, broke through the Turkish covering forces. As he rode past the journalists, whom he knew well, he shouted out the news of Sobolev’s success. What happened after that? All the correspondents dashed to the rear in order to telegraph home as soon as possible the news that the Russian army was winning. All of them—except for McLaughlin. Suvorova met him about half an hour later, alone, spattered with mud, and, strangely enough, riding out of the undergrowth. There is no doubt that the journalist had both the time and the opportunity to overtake the messenger and kill him, together with Lieutenant Colonel Kazanzaki, who to his own misfortune had set out in pursuit of Zurov. Both of them knew McLaughlin very well and could not possibly have anticipated any treachery from him. It was not difficult to stage the lieutenant colonel’s suicide—he dragged the body into the bushes, fired twice into the air with the gendarme’s revolver, and it was done. And that was the bait we swallowed.”

  Mizinov lowered his eyes contritely, but then continued without waiting for His Majesty to rebuke him: “As for the recent attempted breakout, in this case McLaughlin was acting by agreement with the Turkish command. He could well be described as Osman’s trump card. Their calculations were simple and accurate. Ganetsky is a distinguished general but—I beg your pardon for my bluntness—no towering intellect. As we know, he accepted the information conveyed to him by the journalist at face value without doubting it for a second. We have the resolve of Lieutenant General Sobolev to thank—”

  “It is Erast Petrovich whom you have to thank!” Varya exclaimed, unable to restrain the mortal outrage she felt for Fandorin’s treatment. He just stood there and said nothing, not even standing up for himself. Why had he been brought here—as a piece of furniture? “It was Fandorin who galloped to Sobolev and persuaded him to attack!”

  The emperor stared in amazement at her for this brazen violation of etiquette, and old Korchakov shook his head reproachfully. Even Fandorin looked embarrassed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It seemed that everyone was displeased with her.

  “Continue, Mizinov,” he emperor said with a nod.

  “By your leave, Your Majesty,” said the wrinkled chancellor, raising a finger. “If McLaughlin had undertaken such a substantial act of sabotage, why would he need to inform this young woman of his intentions?” The finger inclined in Varya’s direction.

  “Why, that’s obvious,” said Mizinov, wiping the sweat from his brow. “He calculated that Suvorova would spread this astounding news around the camp immediately and that it would quickly reach the headquarters staff. Wild jubilation and confusion. They would think the cannonade in the distance was a salute. Perhaps, even, in their joy they would not believe the first report of an attack from Ganetsky and would wait to confirm it. A small detail of improvisation by a cunning intriguer.”

  “Possibly,” the prince conceded.

  “But where has this McLaughlin got to?” asked the tsar. “That is who we need to interrogate. And arrange a face-to-face meeting with Wellesley. Oh, we wouldn’t want the colonel to slip away!”

  Korchakov sighed pensively: “Yes, a compromization like this, as they call it in the Zamoskvorechie district, would allow us to neutralize British diplomacy completely.”

  “Unfortunately McLaughlin has not been found, either among the prisoners or among the wounded,” said Mizinov, sighing in a different key. “He managed to get away, I have no idea how. He’s a cunning serpent. Nor is Osman Pasha’s infamous adviser, Ali-bei, among the prisoners—the bearded gentleman who ruined our first assault for us, and whom we assume to be the alter ego of Anwar-effendi. I have already presented Your Majesty with a report concerning the latter.”

  The emperor nodded.

  “What say you now, Mikhail Alexandrovich?”

  The chancellor half-closed his eyes.

  “That an interesting scheme could be made of this, Your Majesty. If it is all true, then this time the English have allowed themselves to get carried away and overstepped the line. With a bit of careful planning, we could still benefit from all this.”

  “Well then, well then, what exactly are you scheming?” Alexander asked curiously.

  “Sire, with the capture of Plevna the war has entered its concluding phase. The final victory over the Turks is only a matter of weeks away. I emphasize: over the Turks. But we must avoid the same thing happening as in fifty-three, when we began with a war against the Turks and ended up fighting the whole of Europe. Our finances could not bear the strain of such a conflict. You are already aware of how much this campaign has cost us.”

  The tsar frowned as if he had a toothache and Mizinov shook his head sadly.

  “I am greatly alarmed by the resoluteness and callousness with which this McLaughlin acts,” Korchakov continued. “It indicates that in her desire to prevent us from reaching the straits, Britain is prepared to resort to any measures, even the most extreme. Let us not forget that the English have a naval squadron in the Bosphorus. And, at the same time, our dear friend Austria has its guns trained on our rear, having stabbed your father in the back once already. To be quite honest, while you have been fighting Osman Pasha, I have been thinking more and more about a different war, a diplomatic one. After all, we are spilling blood, expending enormous funds and resources, and we may well end up with nothing even so. That accursed Plevna has devoured precious time and besmirched the reputation of our army. Please forgive an old man, Your Majesty, for being such a prophet of doom on a day like today.”

  “Enough of that, Mikhail Alexandrovich,” sighed the emperor, “we are not on parade. Do you think I don’t see?”

  “Until I heard the explanations offered by Lavrenty Arkadievich, I was inclined to be very skeptical. If someone had said to me an hour ago: ‘Tell me, old fox, what can we count on after the victory?’—I would have replied honestly: ‘Bulgarian autonomy and a little piece of the Caucasus, that is the maximum possible, a paltry return for tens of thousands killed and millions wasted.’ ”

  “And now?” asked Alexander, leaning forward slightly.

  The chancellor looked quizzically at Varya and Fandorin.

  Mizinov caught the meaning of his glance and said: “Your Majesty, I understand
what Mikhail Alexandrovich has in mind. I had come to the same conclusion, and I did not bring Titular Counselor Fandorin with me by chance. But I think we could perhaps allow Miss Suvorova to leave now.”

  Varya snorted indignantly. Apparently, she wasn’t trusted here. How humiliating to be thrown out of the room—and just at the most interesting point!

  “Please p-pardon my impertinence,” said Fandorin, opening his mouth for the first time in the entire audience, “but that is not reasonable.”

  “What precisely is not?” asked the emperor, knitting his gingerish brows.

  “One should not trust an employee halfway, Your M-Majesty. It creates unnecessary resentment and is harmful to the cause. Varvara Andreevna knows so much already that she will q-quite easily guess the rest.”

  “You are right,” the tsar conceded. “Go on, Prince.”

  “We must exploit this business to shame Britain in front of the entire world. Sabotage, murder, a conspiracy with one of the combatants in contravention of declared neutrality—it is quite unprecedented. To be honest, I am astounded at Lord Beaconsfield’s rashness. What if we had captured McLaughlin and he had testified? What a scandal! What a nightmare! I mean, for England, of course. She would have had to withdraw her navy squadron and justify her actions to the whole of Europe, and she would still have been licking her wounds for a long time after that. In any case, the British Cabinet would have been obliged to give up interfering in the Eastern conflict. And without London, the ardor of our Austro-Hungarian friends would have cooled immediately. Then we would have been able to exploit the fruits of victory to the full and—”

  “Dreams,” said Alexander, interrupting the old man rather sharply. “We do not have McLaughlin. The question is, what are we to do now?”

  “Get him,” Korchakov replied imperturbably.

  “But how?”

  “I don’t know, Your Majesty, I am not the head of the Third Section.” The chancellor fell silent, folding his hands complacently across his skinny stomach.

  “We are certain of the Englishman’s guilt and we have circumstantial evidence of it, but no solid proof,” said Mizinov, picking up where the chancellor had left off. “That means we shall have to obtain it—or create it. Hmm . . .”