by Boris Akunin
Fandorin pointed to the journalist. Everybody looked at Paladin, who bowed with exaggerated humility. “How is it possible to believe that this charming, witty, thoroughly European gentleman and the perfidious, cruel head of the Turkish secret service are one and the same person?”
“Never, not for the world!” declared Sobolev. “And even now I don’t believe it!”
Erast Petrovich nodded in satisfaction.
“And now for the business with McLaughlin and the failed breakout. In this case everything was very simple, with no risk. It was not difficult to interest the gullible Seamus in a piece of sensational news. No doubt the informer he concealed from us, and of whom he was so proud, was working for you, Effendi.”
Varya shuddered at hearing that form of address used to Charles. No, there must be something wrong here. What kind of “effendi” was he?
“The way you exploited McLaughlin’s trusting nature, as well as his vanity, was very clever. How envious he was of the brilliant Charles Paladin, how he dreamed of outshining him! So far he had only managed to beat him at chess, and then not every time, but now he had this fantastic stroke of luck! Exclusive information from most reliable sources! And what incredible information it was! Any reporter would sell his very soul to the devil for information like that. If McLaughlin had not happened to meet Varvara Andreevna on his way and blurted out his secret to her, Osman would have swept aside the corps of grenadiers, broken out of the blockade, and fallen back to Shipka. And then the situation on the front would have been a stalemate.”
“But if McLaughlin isn’t a spy, what has become of him?” asked Varya.
“Do you recall Ganetsky’s story of how the Bashi-Bazouks attacked his command headquarters and the aging general barely managed to escape with his life? I think it was not Ganetsky the saboteurs wanted, but McLaughlin. He had to be eliminated, and he disappeared. Without a trace. Very probably the deceived and much-maligned Irishman is lying somewhere at the bottom of the river Vid with a stone round his neck. Or possibly the Bashi-Bazouks, following their endearing custom, hacked him to pieces.”
Varya shuddered, recalling how the round-faced correspondent had wolfed down her jam pies during their final meeting. When he had only an hour or two left to live . . .
“Did you not feel sorry for poor McLaughlin?” Fandorin inquired, but Paladin (or was he really Anwar-effendi after all?) merely invited him to continue with an elegant gesture before concealing his hands behind his back again.
Varya remembered that, according to the science of psychology, hands concealed behind the back indicate secretiveness and a reluctance to speak the truth. Was it really possible? She moved closer to the journalist, gazing inquisitively into his face in an attempt to discover something alien and fearsome in those familiar features. The face was the same as ever, except perhaps a little paler. Paladin did not look at Varya.
“The attempted breakout failed, but you emerged unscathed yet again. I rushed back to the theater of military operations from Paris as fast as I could. I already knew for certain who you are, and I realized just how dangerous you are.”
“You could have sent a telegram,” Mizinov growled.
“Saying what, your excellency? ‘The journalist Paladin is Anwareffendi’? You would have thought that Fandorin had lost his mind. Remember how long it took me to present my proof to you—you flatly refused to abandon the idea of British machinations. And General Sobolev, as you can see, is still not convinced, even after my rather extensive explanation.”
Sobolev shook his head stubbornly.
“We’ll hear you out, Fandorin, and then we’ll give Charles his chance to speak. A court hearing cannot consist of nothing but the prosecutor’s address.”
“Merci, Michel,” said Paladin with a smile, and proceeded to speak in a mixture of French and Russian. “Comme dit l’autre, a friend in need is a friend indeed. One question for monsieur le procureur. When were your doubts finally laid to rest? Pray satisfy my curiosity.”
“In Paris, at the Revue offices,” said Fandorin. “You committed one act of serious carelessness. It is not good to be so ostentatious and underestimate one’s opponent so badly! All I had to do was look through your early articles, when you signed yourself ‘Paladin d’Hevrais.’ I immediately remembered that, according to some sources, our primary foe, Anwar-effendi, was born in the small Bosnian town of Hef-Rais. Paladin d’Hevrais: the ‘Champion of Hef-Rais.’ You must agree that as a pseudonym it is far too transparent. Of course, it could have been a coincidence, but in any event it looked suspicious. No doubt when you began your journalistic career you still had no idea that your mask as a journalist would be required for activities of a rather different nature. I am sure that you began writing for a Parisian newspaper out of entirely innocent considerations: in order find an outlet for your exceptional literary talent while at the same time stimulating European interest in the problems of the Turkish empire and especially in the figure of the great reformer Midhat Pasha. In fact you were rather successful in those aims. The name of the wise Midhat appears at least fifty times in your published articles. You were effectively responsible for making the pasha a popular and respected personality throughout Europe, and especially in France, where he happens to be at the present moment.”
Varya started, recalling how Paladin had spoken of the father he loved so dearly, who lived in France. Could it really all be true, then? She glanced at the journalist in horror. He was still as calm as ever, but Varya thought his smile seemed forced.
“And, by the way,” the titular counselor continued, “I do not believe you betrayed Midhat Pasha. That was some kind of subtle ploy. Now that Turkey has been defeated, he will return, crowned with the laurels of a martyr, and take up the reins of government once again. From Europe’s point of view, he is an absolutely ideal figure. In Paris they positively idolize him.” Fandorin touched a hand to his temple, and Varya suddenly noticed how pale and tired he looked. “I was in a great hurry to get back, but the three hundred versts from Sofia to Germanly took me longer to cover than the fifteen hundred versts from Paris to Sofia. The roads in the rear defy all description. Thank God Lavrenty Arkadievich and I arrived in time. As soon as General Strukov informed me that his excellency had set out for San Stefano accompanied by the journalist Paladin, I realized that this was Anwar-effendi’s final, deadly move. It was no accident that the telegraph wires were cut. I was very much afraid, Mikhail Dmitrievich, that this man would exploit your valiant spirit and ambition to persuade you to enter Constantinople.”
“And what exactly was it that made you so afraid, Mister Prosecutor?” Sobolev inquired ironically. “What matter if Russian soldiers had entered the Turkish capital?”
“What matter?” Mizinov exclaimed apoplectically. “Are you out of your mind? It would have been the end of everything!”
“What ‘everything’?” the bold Achilles asked with a shrug, but Varya spotted a glint of alarm in his eyes.
“Our army, our conquests, Russia!” the chief of gendarmes thundered. “Our ambassador in England, Count Shuvalov, has forwarded a coded message. He has seen a secret memorandum of the British Cabinet with his own eyes. Under the terms of a secret agreement between the British and Austro-Hungarian empires, if even a single Russian soldier should appear in Constantinople, Admiral Hornby’s squadron of ironclads will immediately open fire and the Austro-Hungarian army will cross the Serbian and Russian borders. You see the difficulty, Mikhail Dmitrievich? In that case we would have suffered a rout far more terrible than the Crimea. The country is exhausted by the epic struggle at Plevna, we have no fleet in the Black Sea, the treasury is empty. It would have been a total and utter disaster.”
Sobolev could think of nothing to say.
“But your excellency had the wisdom and forbearance not to proceed beyond San Stefano,” Fandorin said deferentially. “Lavrenty Arkadievich and I need not have been in quite such a great hurry.”
Varya saw the White General’s
face turn red. Sobolev cleared his throat and nodded with a serious air as he surveyed the marble floor.
And then who should squeeze in through the door at that very moment but the cornet Gukmasov. He peered hostilely at the blue uniforms and barked, “By your leave I beg to report, your excellency!”
Varya suddenly felt sorry for poor Achilles and she looked away, but that oaf carried on and reported stentoriously: “Six o’clock precisely! According to orders, the battalion is drawn up and Gulnora is saddled and ready! We are only waiting for your excellency in order to advance on the gates of Constantinople!”
“Stop there, you blockhead!” mumbled the crimson-face hero. “To hell with the damned gates!”
Gukmasov backed disconcertedly out of the door. It had barely closed behind him when something unexpected happened.
“Et maintenant, mesdames et messieurs, la parole est à la défence,” Paladin declared in a loud voice.
He pulled his right hand out from behind his back. It was holding a pistol. Twice the pistol belched thunder and lightning.
Varya saw the uniform jackets of both gendarmes torn open on the left side of the chest, as though by some mutual agreement. Their carbines clattered to the floor, and the gendarmes collapsed with hardly a sound.
Varya’s ears were ringing from the shots. She had no time to cry out or feel frightened before Paladin had reached out his left hand, grasped her tightly by the elbow, and pulled her toward him, protecting himself with her like a shield.
Gogol’s play The Government Inspector, the tableau without words, Varya thought stupidly as she saw a strapping gendarme appear in the doorway and freeze motionless. Erast Petrovich and Mizinov were holding their revolvers out in front of them. The general’s expression was angry, the titular counselor’s sad. Sobolev was frozen, his arms spread wide in astonishment. Mitya Gridnev’s jaw dropped and his wonderful eyelashes fluttered. Perepyolkin forgot to lower the hand he had raised to rebutton his collar.
“Charles, you must be insane!” shouted Sobolev, taking a step forward. “Hiding behind a lady!”
“But Monsieur Fandorine has proved that I am a Turk,” Paladin replied sarcastically; Varya could feel his hot breath on the back of her head. “And in Turkey no one stands on ceremony with ladies.”
“Ooh-ooh-ooh!” Mitya howled, then he lowered his head like a calf and rushed forward.
Paladin’s pistol thundered once again and the young lieutenant fell facedown with a grunt.
Everyone froze again.
Paladin was pulling Varya now—backward and off to one side.
“If anyone moves, I’ll kill them,” he warned them all in a soft voice.
The wall behind Varya seemed to part, and suddenly she and Paladin were in a different room.
Oh, yes, the strong room!
Paladin slammed the steel door shut and slid the bolt home.
The two of them were alone.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
In which Russia is decried
and the language of
Dante is heard
THE GOVERNMENT HERALD (St. Petersburg)
9 (21) January 1878
...Provokes gloomy reflections. Here are the essential points from a speech given by the minister of finance, State Secretary M. H. Reitern, last Thursday at a conference of the All-Russian Banking Union. In 1874, for the first time in many years, we achieved a positive balance of payments, with revenue exceeding expenditure, said the minister. The balance of the budget for 1876 had been calculated by the State Treasury at a net surplus of 40 million rubles. However, the cost to the treasury of somewhat less than a year of military action had been one billion, twenty million rubles, and there were no resources left to fund continued hostilities. Due to the cutback of expenditures on civil construction projects in 1877, not a single verst of railway line had been laid anywhere in the territory of the Empire. The sum total of the state’s domestic and foreign debts had risen to an unprecedented level, amounting to . . .
PALADIN RELEASED HIS GRIP on Varvara, and she darted away from him in horror.
She heard the muted sound of voices behind the massive door.
“Name your terms, Anwar!” It was Erast Petrovich.
“No terms!” (That was Mizinov.) “Open the door immediately or I’ll have it blown open with dynamite!”
“Save your orders for the gendarme corps!” (That was Sobolev.) “Use dynamite and she’ll be killed!”
“Gentlemen,” shouted Paladin, who was not really Paladin at all, in French. “This is hardly polite! You are preventing me from discussing the situation with the lady!”
“Charles! Or whatever your name is!” Sobolev roared in a booming general’s bass. “If a single hair of Varvara Andreevna’s head is harmed, I’ll have you strung up without benefit of trial!”
“One more word and I’ll shoot her first, then myself!” Paladin declared, raising his voice dramatically, then suddenly winked at Varya, as though he had cracked a slightly improper but terribly funny joke.
There was silence behind the door.
“Don’t look at me like that, as though I have suddenly sprouted horns and grown fangs, Mademoiselle Barbara,” Paladin said in a low voice, speaking normally now. “Of course I’m not going to kill you; I would not wish to place your life in danger for the world.”
“Indeed?” she asked acidly. “Then what is the point of this farce? Why did you kill three entirely innocent people? What are you hoping to achieve?”
Anwar-effendi (it was time to forget Paladin) took out his watch.
“Five minutes past six. I needed this farce in order to gain time. And by the way, you needn’t be concerned about the junior lieutenant. Knowing your fondness for him, I merely put a hole in his thigh—nothing too serious. Afterward he will boast of his war wound. And as for the gendarmes, that is the nature of their job.”
Varya asked warily, “To gain time? What for?”
“Well, Mademoiselle Barbara, according to the plan, a regiment of Anatolian infantry is due to enter San Stefano in one hour and twenty-five minutes, that is, at half-past seven. They are one of the finest units in the entire Turkish guards. The assumption was that, by then, Sobolev’s detachment would already have reached the outskirts of Istanbul, come under fire from the English fleet, and pulled back. The riflemen would have struck the Russians from the rear as they withdrew in disorder. An elegant plan and everything was going without a hitch until the very last minute.”
“What plan do you mean?”
“As I said, it was an elegant one. First, gently prompt Michel to start thinking about that temptingly abandoned passenger train. You were very helpful to me in that, for which I thank you. ‘Open a book and drink some hot tea’—that was magnificent. After that it was simple—the vaulting ambition of our peerless Achilles, his indomitable mettle and belief in his star, would have carried things to their conclusion. Oh, Sobolev would not have been killed. I would not have allowed it. In the first place, I’m genuinely obligated to him; in the second, the capture of the great Ak Pasha would have made a spectacular start to the second stage of the Balkan war.” Anwar sighed. “It’s a shame the plan miscarried. Your youthful old man is to be congratulated. As the Eastern sages say, it is karma.”
“What is it they say?” Varya asked in astonishment.
“There now, you see, Mademoiselle Barbara, you are an educated, cultured young lady, but there are elementary things that you do not know,” her bizarre companion said reproachfully. “Karma is one of the fundamental concepts of Hindu and Buddhist philosophy. Something akin to the Christian Providence, but far more interesting. After all, the East is far more ancient, wise, and complex. My country, Turkey, happens to be situated precisely at the crossroads of the East and the West. It is a country that could have a great future.”
“No more lectures, if you please,” said Varya, cutting short his deliberations. “What do you intend to do?”
“Why, what can I do?” Anwar asked in ast
onishment. “Naturally, I shall wait until half-past seven. The original plan has failed, but the Anatolian infantry will arrive nonetheless. There will be a battle. If our guardsmen prevail—and they have the advantage of numbers, and the training, and the factor of surprise—then I am saved. However, if Sobolev’s men hold out . . . But let us not attempt to guess the future. By the way,” he said, looking Varya in the eye earnestly, “I know how determined you can be, but don’t imagine you can warn your friends about the attack. The moment you open your mouth to shout, I shall be obliged to stop it with a gag. And I will do it, despite the sincere respect and sympathy that I feel for you.”
So saying, he unfastened his necktie, rolled it into a tight ball, and put it in his pocket.
“A gag for a lady?” Varya laughed. “I liked you much better as a Frenchman.”
“I assure you that a French spy would behave in exactly the same way, if so much depended on his actions. I am used to taking no thought for my own life; I have gambled it many times for the sake of the cause. And that gives me the right to take no thought for the lives of others. In this game, Mademoiselle Barbara, the rules are the same for all. It is a cruel game, but then life is a cruel business. Do you imagine I felt no pity for the brave-hearted Zurov or the good-hearted McLaughlin? Why, of course I did, but there are higher values than personal sentiment.”
“And exactly what values might those be?” Varya exclaimed. “Pray explain to me, monsieur intriguant, what exalted ideas can justify killing a man who regards you as his friend?”
