An Evil Eye

21

Prince Alexander Petrovich Galytsin was called Alexander, after the tsar; Petrovich, after his father; and Galytsin, after the family estate outside Moscow. In Istanbul, where he served as military attache to the Russian embassy, he was better known as the Fox.

He sat at his desk with his collar unbuttoned and stared unblinking at the two men who stood before him.

“You lost him,” he said quietly.

The man who had hummed hung his head and mumbled something into his beard.

“Speak up, Shishkin.”

“We-we didn’t give ourselves away, your highness.”

“Oh, wonderful.” Galytsin picked up a stiletto letter opener and balanced it between his fingers. “Now you take me for an idiot, too. Stand up.” Akunin had buckled at the knees. “I told you to take him by surprise, discreetly. You delivered the note. Three hundred yards on a dead-end street, and you lost him. And somehow you didn’t give yourselves away? Which of you took the decision to abort the mission?”

The two men stared at their feet. At last Akunin said miserably: “It was me, your highness. It’s-it’s how we were trained.”

Galytsin stared at the man. “At least you did that part right,” he said. In affairs of this kind, the crucial thing was not to disclose yourself.

“He didn’t see us, your highness. He couldn’t know who we are.”

Galytsin placed the point of the knife on his blotter and twisted it slowly. “You are dismissed, for now.”

The men bowed, touching their forelocks, and backed out of the room. Prince Galytsin’s eyes were fixed on the little hole he had bored in his blotter with the paper knife.

His secretary entered. “A Turkish gentleman, your highness. He says he is from the Porte, and wishes to speak to you.”

“What’s his name?”

“Yashim, your highness. He has no appointment.”

An expression appeared on the prince’s face that the secretary could not interpret. “Send him in.”

“With no appointment?”

Galytsin raised his eyes. The secretary disappeared.

He laid the letter opener on its leather rack and took a fresh sheet of paper from the holder.

He wrote a few words across the top of the page, and laid down his pen.

“Yashim, your highness.”

Yashim paused in the doorway. Galytsin was known to him by name, but they had never met.

“You expected me earlier, I believe.”

Galytsin looked at him curiously. “The invitation was a little clumsy. My apologies. Please, do sit down.”

Yashim settled on the hard chair.

Galytsin hesitated. “I am at your disposal, monsieur.”

Yashim inclined his head. “I come from the grand vizier, your highness. Two days ago, at the monastery of Hristos on the island of Chalki, the monks discovered the body of a man. It is possible that he was a Russian. Fair-haired, big, early middle age, with a long scar on his face between the mouth and the ear. Someone disposed of him in the monastery well, where he was found. He may have been in the well for some weeks. His neck was broken, although the condition of the body makes it impossible to tell if he was dead before he was thrown into the well.”

The prince’s expression was impassive. “What makes you believe he was a Russian?”

“There were other signs, your highness.”

“I should hope so.” Galytsin waved a hand. “What you have told me is hardly conclusive. Fair hair? A scar? Why, it covers half the world.”

Yashim reached into his waistcoat and brought out a silk handkerchief.

“This is perhaps more specific,” he said. He dangled the handkerchief over the desk, and something dropped onto the prince’s blotter.

Only Galytsin’s eyes moved. “What is this?”

“The man had a brand, on his inner arm,” Yashim explained. “Something you might recognize.”

Galytsin touched the withered skin with the tip of his letter knife, and glanced up at Yashim.

“Well?”

“A… Totenkopf. ” Yashim frowned with the effort of remembering the unfamiliar word. He spoke many languages, but German was not among them. “A death’s-head.”

Galytsin skewered the flap of skin with his knife. “If, as you say, the man was a Russian,” he began, lifting the blade, “the circumstances are peculiar.”

The flap of skin trembled on the tip of the knife.

“I do not think that Greek monks make a habit of murdering Russians.”

“That was my impression,” Yashim agreed. “But you are in contact with the monastery?”

Galytsin smiled. “The tsar naturally feels sympathy for our coreligionists, the orthodox faithful, wherever they may be,” he said drily.

He leaned aside and dropped the flap of skin into the wastepaper basket.

“Thank the grand vizier for advising me of the unfortunate occurrence. Perhaps you will do me the favor of keeping me informed?”

Yashim got to his feet, and bowed. “I am sure the grand vizier would wish it.”

Galytsin flipped a hand carelessly. When Yashim had gone, he summoned his secretary.

“I want Yashim watched. If Akunin and Shishkin fail me again, I will have them cashiered and sent to Siberia. Make quite sure they understand.”

He sat for a few moments longer, his pale hands folded neatly on the desk.

Galytsin was not a man given to endure disappointment for long. Smaller minds could be frustrated by little setbacks like these; but Galytsin took the longer view.

When you were playing for empires, even a setback could be an opportunity.