Fandorin in English 1-10

Recalling the threats that Sverchinsky had made against their visitor from the capital only the day before, Erast Petrovich shook his head: it was quite possible that diligence had nothing at all to do with the matter and the artful gendarme officer had something quite different in mind.

'So there's nothing from Gvidon?'

'Nothing,' Zubtsov sighed. 'Ten minutes ago some man called, but unfortunately I happened to be in the office with the prince. I left the clerk by the telephone. Now I can't get that call out of my mind.'

'Well, send someone to the t-telephone exchange,' Erast Petrovich advised him. 'Get them to identify the number from which the call was made. It's perfectly feasible technically, I've checked. May I go in?' he asked, blushing slighdy as he indicated the door of the office.

'Why do you even need to ask?' Zubtsov exclaimed in surprise. 'Of course, go in. I think I really shall send someone to the telephone exchange. We'll find out the address from the number and make cautious enquiries about who the phone belongs to.'

Fandorin knocked and entered the office of the head of the Department of Security.

Pozharsky was sitting beside the lamp in an extremely snug-looking pose, with his feet pulled up on to his leather armchair. In his hand the deputy director of police, aide-de-camp and rising star was holding an open copy of the popular new magazine The Journal of Foreign Literature.

'Erast Petrovich!' Gleb Georgievich exclaimed enthusiastically. 'How delightful of you to call in. Please, have a seat.' He put the magazine down and smiled disarmingly.

'Are you angry with me for edging you out of the case? I understand; in your place I would be annoyed too. But it's the Emperor's own order; I am not at liberty to change anything. I only regret that I have been deprived of any access to your analytical talent, about which I have heard so much. I did not dare give you an assignment, since I am not your superior. I must admit, however, that I very much hope you will meet with success in your independent line of inquiry. Well then, do you have a result?'

'What result could I possibly have, when you hold absolutely all the threads in your hands?' Fandorin asked with a shrug of feigned indifference. 'But I believe you have nothing here either?'

The prince declared confidently: 'They're checking Gvidon. That's very good. He has already begun to hate his former comrades - because he has betrayed them. And now he will develop an absolutely passionate hatred for them. I know human nature. Especially the nature of betrayal -I am obliged to understand that by virtue of my profession.'

'Tell me then, is the psychology of betrayal always the same?' the State Counsellor asked, intrigued by the subject despite himself.

'By no means; it is infinitely varied. There is betrayal out of fear, betrayal out of resentment, out of love, out of ambition and a host of different causes, up to and including betrayal out of gratitude.'

'Out of g-gratitude?'

'Yes indeed. Permit me to relate to you a certain incident from my professional experience.' Pozharsky took a slim papyrosa out of his cigarette case, lit it and savoured the smoke as he drew it in. 'One of my finest agents was a sweet, pure, unselfish old woman - the very kindest of creatures. She doted on her only son, but in his youthful foolishness the boy got mixed up in a business that smacked of hard labour. She came to me, begging and weeping, told me the entire story of her life. I was younger myself then, and more soft-hearted than I am now - anyway, I took pity on her. Just between the two of us, I even went so far as to commit an official crime: I removed certain documents from the case file. To cut the story short, the boy was released; he got off with a fatherly caution, which, to be quite honest, made not the slightest impression on him. He became involved with revolutionaries again and plunged into a life of dissipation. But then what do you think happened? Inspired by her undying gratitude to me, his mother began diligently providing me with highly valuable information. Her son's comrades had known her for a long time as a hospitable hostess, they felt quite uninhibited by the innocuous old woman's presence and spoke quite openly in her company. She used to make notes of everything on scraps of paper and bring them to me. There was even one report that was written on the back of a recipe. Truly a case of, Do good and ye shall have your reward.'

Erast Petrovich listened to this edifying homily with mounting irritation and then could not help asking: 'Gleb Georgievich, isn't that repugnant? - encouraging a mother to inform on her own son?'

Pozharsky paused before he replied, and when he did, his tone had changed - it was no longer jocular, but serious and rather tired.

Mr Fandorin, you give the impression of being an intelligent, mature individual. Are you really like that pink-cheeked boy-officer who was here yesterday? Do you really not understand that we have no time now for goody-goody sentiment? Do you not see that there is a genuine war going on?'

'I do see. Of course I do,' the State Counsellor said passionately. 'But even in war there are rules. And in war people are usually hanged for employing traitors to spy for them.'

"This is not the kind of war in which any rules apply,' the prince countered with equal conviction. 'It is not two European powers who are fighting here. No, Erast Petrovich, this is the savage, primordial war of order with chaos, the West with the East, Christian chivalry with Mamai's horde. In this war no peace envoys are despatched, no conventions are signed, no one is released on his word of honour. This is a war fought with all the relentless cruelty of Asiatic science; molten lead is poured down men's throats and they are flayed alive, innocents are slaughtered. Did you hear about our agent Shverubovich getting sulphuric acid thrown in his face? Or the murder of General von Heinkel? They blew up the entire house, in which, apart from the General himself - who, as it happens, was a fine blackguard -there happened to be his wife, three children and servants. The only survivor was the youngest daughter; she was thrown from the balcony by the blast. Her back was broken and her leg was crushed, so that it had to be amputated. How do like that for a war?'

And you, the custodian of society, are prepared to wage war on those kind of term' - to reply with the same methods?' asked Fandorin, stunned.

'What would you have me do - capitulate? Let the frenzied mobs burn houses and toss the best people of Russia on their pitchforks? Let our home-grown Robespierres inundate our cities with blood? Let our Empire become a bogeyman for the rest of humanity and be thrown back three hundred years? Erast Petrovich, I am no lover of high-flown sentiment, but let me tell you that we are only a narrow cordon, holding back the mindless, malevolent elements. Once they break through the cordon, nothing will stop them. There is no one standing behind us. Only ladies in hats, old grannies in mob-caps, young Turgenevian ladies and children in sailor suits - the little, decent world that sprang up in the wild Scythian steppes less than a hundred years ago thanks to the idealism of Emperor Alexander the Blessed.'

The prince broke off his impassioned speech, clearly embarrassed by his own outburst, and suddenly changed the subject. 'And by the way, concerning methods... Tell me, my dear Erast Petrovich, why did you plant a hermaphrodite in my bed?'

Fandorin assumed he must have misheard.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Nothing really important, just a charming joke. Yesterday evening, after taking supper in the restaurant, I went back to my room. When I enter it - good Lord, what a surprise! Lying there in my bed is a lovely lady, entirely undressed; I can see her delightful breasts above the top of the blanket. I try to show her out - she does not wish to get up. And a moment later there is a mass invasion: a police officer, constables and the porter shouting in a phoney voice: "This is a respectable establishment!" I can even see a reporter trying to slip in from the corridor, with a photographer in tow. And then things get even more interesting. My visitor jumps up out of bed, and, my sainted fathers, I've never seen the like before in all my life! A complete double set of sexual characteristics. Apparently an individual well known around Moscow, a certain gentleman - or a certain lady - who goes by the name of Coco. Very popular among those gourmands who prefer exotic amusements. An excellent idea, Erast Petrovich, bravo. I never expected it of you. Showing me up in an absurd and indecent light is the best possible way to regain control over the investigation. The sovereign will not tolerate lascivious behaviour from the servants of the throne. Goodbye to my aide-de-camp's monogram and farewell to my career.' Gleb Georgievich assumed an expression of exaggerated admiration. A most excellent plan, but I wasn't born yesterday, after all. When necessary I am more than capable of employing tricks of that kind myself, as you have had occasion to see in the case of Rahmet-Gvidon. Life, my dearest Erast Petrovich, has taught me to be cautious. When I leave my room, I always place an invisible mark on the door, and the servants are strictly forbidden to enter in my absence. When I looked at the door, I saw that the hair I left had been broken! The rooms on each side were occupied by my men -I brought them from St Petersburg. So I called them, and I was not alone when I entered the room -they were with me. When your police inspector saw these serious people with revolvers at the ready, he was confused and embarrassed. He grabbed the outlandish creature by the hair and dragged it out of the room, taking the newspaper men away with him as well; but never mind, the porter, a certain Teplugov, was still there and he was absolutely frank with me. He explained who this Coco was, and he told me how the gentlemen from the police had told him to be ready. Just see what enterprising action you have proved capable of, and yet you condemn my methods.'

'I knew nothing about this!' Erast Petrovich exclaimed indig-nandy, and immediately blushed - he had remembered Sverchinsky muttering something about Coco the day before. So that was what Stanislav Filippovich had had in mind when he was planning to make the official from St Petersburg a general laughing stock.

'I can see you didn't know,' Pozharsky said, nodding. 'Naturally, it's not the way you behave. I just wanted to make sure. In actual fact the responsibility for this trick with Coco lies, of course, with the highly experienced Colonel Sverchinsky. I came to that conclusion this morning, when Sverchinsky started calling me every hour. He was checking to see if I had guessed. Of course it was him, it couldn't be anyone else. Burlyaev lacks the imagination for tricks like that.'

Just at that moment there was a tramping of numerous feet outside the door, and Burlyaev himself - speak of the devil! -came bursting in.

'Disaster, gentlemen,' he gasped. 'I've just been informed that there's been a hold-up - the carriage of the state financial instruments depository. There are dead and wounded. They stole six-hundred-thousand roubles! And they left their sign: CG.'

Dejected confusion - that was the predominant mood at the extraordinary meeting of the leaders of the Office of Gendarmes and the Department of Security that dragged on late into the evening.

Occupying the chair at this doleful council was the Deputy Director of the Police Department, Prince Pozharsky - tousle-haired, pale-faced and angry.

'How wonderfully well you do things here in Moscow,' the man from the capital repeated yet again. 'Every day you despatch state funds for transfer to the most remote regions of the Empire, but you don't even have even any official instructions for the transportation of such immense sums! Who has ever heard of security guards going dashing after some bomber and leaving the money almost completely unprotected? All right, gentlemen, there's no point in repeating myself,' said Pozharksy, gesturing despairingly. 'We have all visited the scene of the crime and seen everything. Let us draw the sad conclusions. Six hundred thousand roubles have migrated to the revolutionary treasury which, by dint of great effort, I had only just emptied. It is terrible to think of all the atrocities the nihilists will commit with that money... We have three men dead and two wounded, but during the shooting in Somovsky Cul-de-Sac only one man was wounded, and then only slightly. How was it possible not to guess that the shooting was started as a deliberate diversion, while the main action was taking place at the carriage?' the prince asked, growing furious now. 'And again that insolent challenge - the CG's calling card! What a blow to the prestige of the authorities! We underestimated the size of the Combat Group and its daring! There are not four men at all, but at least ten. I shall demand reinforcements from St Petersburg and special powers. And what wonderful execution! They had absolutely precise information about the route of the carriage and the guards! They struck quickly, confidently, mercilessly. They left no witnesses. Another example for our discussion of methods.' Gleb Georgievich glanced at Fandorin, who was sitting in the far corner of Burlyaev's office. 'True, one man -the driver Kulikov - did manage to get away alive. We know from him that the core group consisted of two men. Going by his description, one of them is our beloved Mr Green. The other was called Ace. Now, that seems like a clue! Ah, but no! The body of a man with a fractured skull was discovered at the India Inn. He was dressed exactly like Ace, and Kulikov identified him. Ace is a rather common alias in criminal circles; it signifies "a dare-devil, successful bandit". But most likely this was the legendary St Petersburg hold-up specialist Tikhon Bogoyavlensky. He is rumoured to have had connections with the nihilists. As you are aware, the body has been sent to the capital for identification. But what's the point! Mr Green has snapped that thread in any case. Most convenient, no need to share the money either ...' The prince hooked his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. 'But the robbery is by no means the worst of our troubles. There is an even more distressing development.'

The room was completely silent, for those present could not imagine any misfortune worse than the robbery.

'You know that Titular Counsellor Zubtsov found out who owns the telephone from which some man called shortly before the attack on the carriage. It is in an apartment belonging to the well-known barrister Zimin, on Myasnitskaya Street. Since Zimin is presently involved in a trial in Warsaw - all the newspapers are writing about it -I sent my agents to make discreet enquiries about the gentleman who was too shy to speak with Sergei Vitalievich. The agents saw that there was no light on in the apartment, they opened the door and inside they discovered a body ...'

The new silence that followed was broken by Erast Petrovich, who asked in a quiet voice: 'Could it have been Gvidon?'

'How did you know?' Pozharsky asked, swinging round towards him. 'You couldn't possibly know that!'

'It's very simple,' Fandorin said with a shrug. 'You said that something even more distressing than the theft of six hundred thousand roubles had happened. We all know that in this investigation you had staked your greatest hopes on the agent Gvidon. Nobody else's murder could possibly have upset you so badly'

The deputy director of police exclaimed irritably:

'Bravo, bravo, Mr State Counsellor. Where were you earlier with your famous deduction? Yes, it was Gvidon. There were clear indications of suicide; he was clutching a dagger bearing the letters CG in his hand, and the stab wound in his heart had been made by the same blade. Apparently I was mistaken in my assessment of this individual's psychological constitution.'

It was evident that Gleb Georgievich found self-castigation difficult, and Fandorin appreciated how much this gesture must have cost him.

'You were not so very mistaken,' he said. 'Obviously Gvidon was about to betray his comrades and he even phoned the Department, but at the last moment his conscience awoke. It happens sometimes, even with traitors.'

Pozharsky realised that Fandorin was referring him back to their recent conversation and he smiled briefly; but then his face immediately darkened and he turned in annoyance to Lieutenant Colonel Burlyaev.

'Where has that Mylnikov of yours got to? He's our last hope now. Ace is dead, Gvidon is dead. The unidentified man found behind the church wall in Somovsky Cul-de-Sac is dead too, but if we can establish his identity, it might be the start of a new trail.'

'Evstratii Pavlovich has set all the local constables on it,' Burlyaev boomed, 'and his agents are checking the dead man's photograph against all our card files. If he's from Moscow, we're sure to identify him.'

'Allow me to draw your attention to one more thing, Erast Petrovich - in continuation of our discussion,' Pozharsky said, glancing at the State Counsellor. 'The unidentified man had only been wounded in the neck, not fatally However, his accomplices didn't take him with them; they finished him off with a shot to the temple. That is the way they do things!'

'Or perhaps the wounded man shot himself in order not to be a burden to his comrades?' Fandorin responded.

Gleb Georgievich's only response to such misplaced idealism was to roll his eyes up and back, but Colonel Sverchinsky rose halfway out of his seat and asked: 'Mr Deputy Director, will you order me to head the effort to identify the man? I can line up all the yard-keepers in Moscow. We'll need more men than Mylnikov and his agents for this.'

Several times that evening when Stanislav Filippovich had tried to make useful suggestions, the prince had stubbornly refused to take any notice of him. But this time Pozharsky seemed to explode.

'Why don't you keep quiet!' he shouted. 'Your department is responsible for order in the city! Fine order! What was it you were planning to deal with today? The railway stations? Then go, and keep your eyes open! The bandits are bound to try to ship their loot out of the city, most likely to Petersburg, in order to replenish the party funds. Take care, Sverchinsky; if you bungle this too, I'll see that you pay for everything at once! Go!'

The Colonel, deadly pale, gave Pozharsky a long glance and walked towards the door in silence. His adjutant, Lieutenant Smolyaninov, dashed after him.

Mylnikov came dashing towards them from the reception, looking delighted. 'We've done it!' he shouted from the doorway. 'Identified him! He was on record from last year! He's in the card file. Arsenii Nikolaevich Zimin, the barrister's son! A private house on Myasnitskaya Street!'

In the sudden silence that followed, the puzzled Evstratii Pavlovich's fitful breathing was clearly audible.

Fandorin turned away from Pozharsky, afraid that the prince might read the gloating in his eyes. It was not exacdy gloating, but the State Counsellor did experience a certain involuntary sense of satisfaction, of which he immediately felt ashamed.

'Well now,' Pozharsky said in a flat, expressionless voice. 'So this move has led us into a dead end too. Let us congratulate each other, gentlemen. We are right back where we started.'

When he returned home, Erast Petrovich had barely changed his frock coat for a white tie and tails before it was time to go to collect Esfir from the banker Litvinov's house on Tryokhsvyatskaya Street, a building famous throughout Moscow.

This pompous marble palazzo, built only a few years earlier, seemed to have been transported to the quiet, sedate little street directly from Venice, instandy overshadowing the old nobles' mansions with their peeling columns and identical triangular roofs. Even now, in the hour before midnight, the buildings beside it were lost in darkness, but the handsome house was all aglow, glimmering like some fairy-tale palace of ice: the magnificent pediment in the very latest American fashion was illuminated by electric lights.

The State Counsellor had heard about the great wealth of the banker Litvinov, who was one of Russia's most generous benefactors of charity, a patron of Russian artists and zealous donor to the Church, a man whose recent conversion to Christianity had been more than compensated for by his fervent piety. But even so, in Moscow high society the millionaire was regarded with condescending irony. They told a joke about how when Litvinov was awarded a decoration for his assistance to orphans, a star that conferred the status of a noble of the fourth rank, he supposedly began saying to people: 'Please, why struggle to get your tongue round 'Avessalom Efraimovich". Just call me "Your Excellency".' Litvinov was accepted in all the best houses of Moscow, but at the same time it was sometimes whispered to the other guests, as if in justification, that 'a baptised Jew is a thief forgiven'.

However, on entering the spacious Carrara marble vestibule, decorated with crystal chandeliers, vast mirrors and monumental canvases showing scenes from Russian history, Erast Petrovich was struck by the thought that if Avessalom Efraimovich's financial affairs continued in the same successful vein, the tide of baron was a certainty, and then the ironic whispers would stop, because people who are not simply rich, but super-rich, and also tided, have no nationality.

Despite the late hour, the imperious manservant was dressed in a gold-embroidered camisole and was even wearing a powdered wig. Once Fandorin gave his name, there was no further need to explain the purpose of his visit.

'One moment, sir,' the valet said, bowing ceremoniously, with an air that suggested he had previously served in the palace of some grand prince, if not somewhere even grander. 'The young lady will be down straight away. Perhaps Your Honour would care to wait in the sitting room?'

Erast Petrovich did not care to do so, and the servant hurried up the gleaming, snow-white staircase, while somehow managing to maintain his majestic composure, to the first floor. A minute later a small, nimble gentleman with an extremely expressive face and a neat lick of hair across his balding head came tumbling down in the opposite direction like a rubber ball.

'My God, I'm so terribly, terribly pleased to meet you,' he began when he was only halfway down the stairs. 'I've heard a lot about you, and all of it most flattering. I am extremely glad that Firochka has such reputable acquaintances, you know, it was always those long-haired types in dirty boots with coarse voices ... That's because she was still young, of course. I knew it would pass. Well, actually, I am Litvinov, and you, Mr Fandorin, have no need to introduce yourself; you are a very well-known individual.'

Erast Petrovich was somewhat surprised to see the banker wearing a frock coat and his star in his own home - he was probably going out somewhere too. But certainly not to Dolgorukoi's for pancakes, for that Avessalom Efraimovich would have to wait until his baronial title arrived.

'Such an honour, such an honour for Firochka to be going to an intimate supper at His Excellency's home. I'm very, very glad.' The banker was now very close to his visitor and he extended a white, puffy hand. 'I am exceedingly glad to make your acquaintance. We are at home on Thursdays and would be truly delighted to see you. But never mind our at-homes, simply come at any time that is convenient. My wife and I are doing everything to encourage this acquaintance of our Firochka's.'

The ingenuousness of this final phrase left the State Counsellor feeling somewhat uneasy. He felt even more embarrassed on noticing that the door leading to the inner chambers on the ground floor was ajar and someone was studying him attentively from behind it.

But Esfir was already walking down the stairs, and the way she was dressed immediately made Fandorin forget both the ambiguity of his position and the mysterious spy.

'Papa, why have you pinned on that trinket of yours again!' she exclaimed menacingly. 'Take it off immediately, or he'll think you sleep with it on. I suppose you've already invited him to the at-homes? Don't even think of coming, Erast. That would be just like you. A-ha' - Esfir had noticed the half-open door -'Mama's peeping. Don't waste your time; I'm not going to marry him!'

It was instantly clear who ruled the roost in these marble halls. The door immediately closed, startled Papa instantly covered his star with his hand and, speaking in a timid voice, asked the question that was also occupying Erast Petrovich: 'Firochka are you sure you can go to His Excellency's gathering dressed like that?'

Mademoiselle Litvinova had covered her short black hair with a gold net, which made it look as if her head was encased in a gleaming helmet; her scarlet tunic, cut in the loose Greek style, narrowed at the waist, where it was belted with a broad brocade girdle, below which it expanded into spacious folds; but the most striking element was the gash that extended down almost as far as her waist - not so much because it was so deep, as because it clearly indicated the absence of any brassiere or corset.

'The invitation said: "Ladies are free to choose a dress at their own discretion,'" said Esfir, glancing at Fandorin in alarm. 'Why - doesn't it suit me, then?'

'It suits you very well,' he replied in the voice of a doomed man, pondering the effect it would produce.

The effect exceeded Erast Petrovich's very worst apprehensions.

The gentlemen came to the Governor General's house for pancakes without their official decorations, but nonetheless in white tie and tails; all the ladies came in dresses in the semi-official bluish-white range. Against this copperplate-engraving background Esfir's outfit blazed like a scarlet rose on the dirty March snow. Another comparison also occurred to Fandorin: a flamingo that had flown into a chicken hutch by mistake.

Since the supper was an informal one, His Excellency had not yet joined his guests, allowing them an opportunity to mingle freely; but the furore created by State Counsellor Fandorin's escort was so great that it was quite impossible to maintain the light conversation customary in such circumstances - there was a hint of scandal in the air, or at least of a savoury incident that would be the talk of Moscow the following day.

The women surveyed the crop-haired damsel's outfit, cut in the latest shameless style that still provoked outrage even in Paris, with their lips pursed fastidiously and a greedy gleam in their eyes. The men, however, as yet uninformed of the approaching revolution in the world of ladies' fashion, stared openly, mesmerised by the free swaying of those two hemispheres barely covered by the extremely fine material. This sight was far more impressive than the accustomed nakedness of ladies' shoulders and backs.

Esfir did not appear to be even slightly embarrassed by the general attention and she examined the people around her with even franker curiosity.

'Who's that?' she asked the State Counsellor in a loud whisper. 'And that buxom one over there - who's she?'

At one point she exclaimed in a loud, clear voice: 'Oh good Lord, what a freak show!'

At first Erast Petrovich bore it manfully. He exchanged polite bows with his acquaintances, pretending not to notice the aim of those numerous glances, some with the naked eye, some assisted by lorgnettes. However, when Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev approached the State Counsellor and whispered: 'He wants to see you,' Fandorin excused himself to Esfir on grounds of urgent business and went dashing off with shameful haste to the inner apartments of the gubernatorial residence, abandoning his companion to the whim of fate. Just as he reached the doors, a pang of conscience made him look back.

Esfir did not seem lost at all, and she was not gazing after the deserter. She was standing facing a bevy of ladies, examining them with calm interest, and the ladies were trying as hard as they could to pretend that they were absorbed in casual conversation. Apparently there was no need to feel concerned for Mademoiselle Litvinova.

Dolgorukoi listened to the report from his Deputy for Special Assignments with undisguised satisfaction, although for the sake of appearances he gasped at the theft of state funds, even though they had, in fact, been destined for despatch to Turkestan.

'They're not having it all their own way,' said Vladimir Andreevich. 'Oh, fine smart fellows they found to put the blame on Dolgorukoi. Now, they can sort it out. So, the smug gentleman from the capital has run straight into a brick wall? Serves him right, serves him right.'

Vedishchev finished attaching the prince's stiff starched collar and cautiously sprinkled His Excellency's wrinkled neck with talc, so that it wouldn't get chafed.

'Frolushka, fix this bit.' The Governor General stood in front of the mirror, turned his head this way and that, and pointed to his crookedly poised chestnut wig. 'Of course, Erast Petrovich, they will never forgive me for Khrapov. I have received a very cold letter from His Majesty, so some day soon I'll be asked to vacate the premises. But I really would like to make that camarilla eat dirt before I go. Stick the solved case under their noses: There, eat that and remember Dolgorukoi. Eh, Erast Petrovich?'

The State Counsellor sighed. 'I can't promise, Vladimir Andreevich. My hands are tied. But I will t-try.'

'Yes, I understand

The prince started towards the doors leading into the hall. 'How are my guests? Are they all here?'

The doors opened as if of their own accord. Dolgorukoi halted on the threshold, to give the assembled public time to notice their host's entrance and prepare themselves accordingly.

The prince glanced round the hall and started in surprise: 'Who's that there in scarlet? The only one standing with her back to me?'

'That is my friend, Esfir Avessalomovna Litvinova,' the State Counsellor replied mournfully. 'You did ask..’

Dolgorukoi screwed up his long-sighted eyes and chewed on his lips.

'Frol, my old darling, dash to the banquet hall and change round the cards on the table. Seat the Governor and his wife further away and move Erast Petrovich and his lady friend so that they are on my right.'

'What's that you say - in the kisser?' the Governor General asked incredulously, and suddenly began blinking very fast - he had just noticed the edges of the gash in his neighbour's dress moving apart.

The upper end of the table, where the most eminent of the tided guests were sitting, suddenly went very quiet at the sound of that appalling word.

'Why yes, in the kisser,' Esfir repeated loudly for the deaf old man. 'The director of the school told me: "With that kind of behaviour, Litvinova, I wouldn't keep you here for a whole mountain of Yiddish pieces of silver." So I smacked him in the kisser. What would you have done in my place?'

'Well yes, there really was no other option,' Dolgorukoi admitted and asked curioiusly, 'And what did he do?'

'Nothing. He expelled me in disgrace, and I completed my studies at home.'

Esfir, who was seated between the prince and Erast Petrovich, was managing to do justice to the celebrated pancakes and conduct a lively conversation with the ruler of Moscow at the same time.

There were, in fact, only two people taking part in the conversation: His Excellency and his extravagant guest. No one else within hearing opened their mouth, and the unfortunate State Counsellor had completely turned to stone.

Female sensuality, the workers' question, the harmfulness of underwear, the pale of settlement - these were only some of the subjects that Mademoiselle Litvinova found time to touch on during the first three servings. When she left the table, making sure to inform everyone where she was going, Vladimir Andreevich whispered to Fandorin in absolute delight: 'Elle est ravissante, votre йlue.' And when Esfir came back, she turned to Erast Petrovich to express her approval of the prince: 'Such a nice old man. Why do our people talk so badly about him?'

During the sixth serving of pancakes, after the sturgeon, sterlet pate and caviar had been replaced by fruit and various types of honey and jam, the duty adjutant appeared at the far end of the banqueting hall. With his aiguillettes jingling, he ran the entire length of the chamber on tiptoe, and his sprint did not pass unnoticed. From the officer's despairing expression it was clear that something quite out of the ordinary had happened. The guests turned round to watch the messenger as he ran past, and only the Governor General, whispering something in Esfir Avessalomovna's ear, remained unaware.

'That tickles,' she said, pulling away from his flurry dyed moustache, and stared curiously at the adjutant.

'Your Excellency, an emergency,' the captain reported, breathing heavily.

He tried to speak quiedy, but in the silence that had descended his words carried a long way.

'Eh? What's that?' asked Dolgorukoi, with a smile still on his face. 'What sort of emergency?'

'We've only just heard. There was an attack on the acting head of the Provincial Office of Gendarmes, Sverchinsky, at the Nikolaevsky Station. The Colonel was killed. His adjutant has been wounded. The attackers escaped. All trains to St Petersburg have been halted.'

CHAPTER 8

.. get yourself a pig'

He only slept for two hours that night. It wasn't a matter of the bedbugs or the stuffy atmosphere, or even the throbbing pain -minor difficulties like that simply weren't worthy of his attention. The problem bothering him was something far more vital.

Green lay on his back with his hands under his head, thinking intensely. Emelya and Bullfinch were sleeping beside him on the floor of the cramped little room. The former was tossing and turning restlessly, obviously tormented by little bloodsuckers. The latter was crying out feebly in his sleep. It was amazing he'd managed to fall sleep at all after the events of the previous day.

The unexpected outcome of their collaboration with Ace had required rapid action. First of all Green had brought the hysterically sobbing Julie to her senses, for which he had had to slap her gendy across the cheeks. After that she had stopped shaking and done everything he told her to do, but avoided looking at the motionless body and the bright puddle of wine that was rapidly darkening as the blood mingled with it.

Then he had hastily bound up his own wounds. The hardest thing to deal with was his ear, so he simply covered it with a handkerchief and pulled his shop assistant's peaked cap down tight over the top. Julie brought him a jug of water to wash the blood off his face and hands.

Now they could leave.

Green left Julie on guard by the sleigh while he carried the sacks out of the room. This time he couldn't take two at a time -he had to avoid aggravating the wound on his wrist.

He only started wondering where to take the money after the India had been left safely behind.

To take it to their meet, the railway lineman's hut near the Vindava Station, would be dangerous. It was an open spot with no shelter; someone might see them carry in the sacks and suspect they were stolen goods from a freight train.

Go to another hotel? They wouldn't be allowed to take the sacks into a room, and leaving them with anybody for safe keeping would be too risky.

It was Julie who came up with the answer. She seemed to be just sitting there sulking in her ruffled chintzy dress, not asking any questions, not interfering with his thinking.

But then she suddenly said: 'What about the Nikolaevsky Station? My bags are in the left-luggage room. I'll take the suitcases and leave the sacks instead. They're very strict there; no one will go rummaging in them. And the police will never guess the money's right there under their noses.'

'I can't show my face there,' Green explained. 'They've got my description.'

'You don't have to. I'll say I'm a maid, come to collect my mistress's suitcases. I have the ticket. No one will take any notice. You're the driver: you can stay in the sleigh and not go into the station. I'll bring some porters.'

It felt awkward to hear her talking to him in such an intimate tone of voice. But the left-luggage room was a good idea.

From the station they went on to the Hotel Kitezh near Krasnye Vorota Square. It wasn't a first-class place, but it did have a telephone beside the counter, and that was particularly important now.

Green phoned the party courier and asked: 'How are they?'

Needle replied in a voice trembling with excitement: 'Is that you? Thank God! Are you all right? Do you have the goods?' 'Yes. What about the others?'

'They're all well. Arsenii's the only one who fell ill. He had to be left behind.'

'Is he getting treatment?' he asked, frowning.

'No, it was too late.' Needle's voice trembled again.

'Send for my men from Vindava Station. Tell them to come to the Kitezh Hotel. Bring some medical alcohol, a needle, coarse thread.'

Needle was quick to arrive. She nodded briefly to Julie, barely even giving her a glance, although it was the first time she had seen her. She looked at Green's bandaged head and blood-caked eyebrow and asked: 'Are you seriously wounded?'

'No. Did you bring the things?'

She put a small grip bag on the table. "This is the alcohol, needle and thread you asked for. And there's gauze, cotton wool, bandages and plaster. I studied to be a nurse. Show me and I'll do everything.'

'That's good. I can fix my side myself. The eyebrow, ear and hand are awkward. The plaster's good. I've got a broken rib; it needs to be held together.'

He stripped to the waist, and Julie gasped pitifully when she saw the bruises and the blood-soaked bandage.

A knife, not very deep,' Green commented on the wound in his side. 'Nothing crucial damaged. Just needs washing and sewing up.'

'Lie down on the divan,' Needle told him. 'I'll wash my hands.'

Julie sat down beside him. Her doll-like face was contorted in suffering. 'Greeny, my poor darling, does it really hurt a lot?'

'You shouldn't be here,' he said. 'You've done your bit. Let her get on with it. Go.'

Needle cleaned "the wound with alcohol, working quickly and deftly. She soaked the coarse thread in alcohol too, and heated the needle in the candle flame. So that she wouldn't tense up, Green tried to make a joke: 'Needle with a needle.'

Obviously it wasn't funny enough - she didn't smile.

She warned him: 'This will hurt. Grit your teeth.'

But Green scarcely even felt the pain - he was well trained, and Needle knew what she was doing.

Green watched closely as she made the rows of fine, neat stitches, first on his side and then on his wrist. He asked: ' "Needle" - is this the reason?'

The question came out awkwardly - he felt that himself; but Needle understood.

'No. This is the reason.' She raised her hand rapidly to the tight knot of hair at the back of her head and pulled out a long, sharp hairpin.

'What for?' he asked in surprise. 'To defend yourself?'

She washed his split eyebrow with alcohol and put in two stitches before she answered. 'No, to stab myself if they arrest me. I know the spot - right here.' She pointed to her neck. 'I have claustrophobia. I can't tolerate narrow spaces. I might not be able to stand it in prison; I could break down.' Needle's face flushed red - the confession had obviously not been easy for her to make.

Soon Emelya and Bullfinch arrived.

'Are you wounded?' Bullfinch asked, alarmed.

Emelya looked around, screwing up his eyes, and asked: 'Where's Rahmet?'

Green didn't answer the first question because there was no point. He answered the second one briefly: 'There are three of us now. Tell me everything.'

Bullfinch told the story, with Emelya putting in occasional comments, but Green was hardly even listening. He knew the boy had to get it all out - it was the first time he'd been on a genuine operation. But the details of the gunfight were of no importance; he had something else to think about now.

'... He ran off a bit and then fell. He was hit here.' Bullfinch pointed to a spot just above his collarbone. 'Me and Nail tried to pick him up, but he put the revolver to his temple so quick ... His head jerked to the side, and he fell again. And we all ran for it...'

All right,' Green interrupted, deciding that was enough. 'Back to business. The sacks of money are at the station. We took them all right, now we have to get them to Peter. It's hard: police, gendarmes, plain-clothes men. They were only looking for us before; now there's the money too. And it's urgent.'

'I've been thinking,' Needle said rapidly. 'We could send six people, give them a sack each. All six of them couldn't get caught, someone would be bound to get through. I'll arrange it tomorrow. I have five people, I'll be the sixth. It will be easier for me as a woman.'

'Tomorrow it is then,' Emelya drawled. 'So we can sleep on it...'

'I can take one too,' Julie piped up. 'Only a sack would look strange with my luggage. I'll put the bundles of money in a suitcase, all right?'

Green took out his watch. Half past eleven. 'No. Tomorrow they'll have everything bottled up so tight, you'll never get through. They'll be searching people's things. Today'

'Today?' Needle asked incredulously. 'You mean get the money through today?'

'Yes. The night train. At two.'

'But that's absolutely impossible! The police are everywhere already. On my way here I saw them stop several carts. And just imagine what's going on at the station

Then Green outlined his plan.

The one thing they'd failed to foresee was the station master being so badly shaken by the explosion that he would delay the departure of the St Petersburg train and halt all the traffic on the line. Apart from that, everything had gone absolutely according to plan.

At twenty minutes to two, Green drove Needle and Julie, dressed like a lady and her maid, up to the left-luggage room and waited with the sleigh because there was no way he could show his face in the station.

A porter loaded the sacks on to a trolley and was all set to trundle them off to the train when suddenly the severe, skinny lady started giving her pretty maid a roasting over some hatbox that had been left at home and got so carried away that she completely forgot where she was until the second bell, and then she turned on the porter - why was he dawdling like that and not taking the sacks to the luggage van? Against all Green's expectations, Needle managed the role magnificently.

Emelya and Bullfinch were supposed to make their move exactly when the second bell rang. There had been plenty of time for them to go to Nobel's place and collect a fully primed bomb.

They did it - just as the trolley with the sacks approached the exit to the platform and four men in civilian dress started towards the porter, whom the cantankerous little lady was prodding in the back with her handbag, there was the dull rumble of an explosion from the direction of the platforms, followed by screams and the tinkling of broken glass.

The police agents immediately forgot about the trolley and went rushing towards the thunderous roar, but the lady nudged the dawdling porter to make him turn back immediately. Never mind what's happened at the station - the train won't wait!

Green didn't see what happened after that, although he had no reason to doubt that Needle and Julie would reach the carriage safely and the sacks would be deposited in the luggage section. The gendarmes and police agents wouldn't be interested in checking luggage now.

But the minutes passed, and there was still no final bell. At twenty past two Green decided to go and reconnoitre.

Judging from the chaotic flurry of blue greatcoats he could see through the windows of the station, there was no need to worry about being recognised. He had a word with a bewildered attendant and discovered that some officer had blown up a senior police official and fled. That was good. But he also discovered that the line would be closed for the rest of the night. And that meant the most important part of the operation had failed.

He had to wait for almost an hour before Needle and Julie came back with the sacks. Then he left the women and took the money to the secret meet at the Vindava goods sheds.

Emelya told him all the details.

'Before they let me out of the station to the trains, they gave me a thorough frisking. But I was clean, no luggage and a third-class ticket to Peter. They couldn't touch me. I went through to the platform and stood on one side, waiting. Then I saw Bullfinch strolling up. Clutching a huge bunch of flowers, with his fizzog bright red. They didn't even give him a glance. Who'd ever think a cherub like that had a bomb in his bouquet? We went into a huddle in a dark corner. I took the bomb out gently and slipped it in my pocket. The place was crowded, even though it was night. The passenger train from Peter was late and there were people waiting to meet it. And passengers arriving for our two o'clock train. Just right, I think. No one's going to be staring at me. I keep sneaking a look at the duty office. It has a window overlooking the platform, Greenich. The curtains are wide open, and I can see everything inside. Our guest of honour was sitting at the table, and there was a young officer by the door, yawning. Every now and then someone went in and came out. They weren't sleeping in there, they were working. I stroll past for a closer look and, Holy Mother - I spot the small window at the top is wide open. It must have been really hot in there. And that gave me a real warm feeling too. Eh, Emelya, I think to myself, it's not your turn to die yet. With a stroke of luck like that, you might get away in one piece after all. Bullfinch is standing facing the window like we agreed - about twenty paces away I'm huddled down on one side in the shadow. The bell sounds once. Ten minutes left before the train goes, nine, eight. I'm standing there praying to good Saint Nikolai and sinful Old Nick himself that they won't close that window. Jingle-jangle - that's the second bell. It's time. I walk past the window, taking it slow, and just flick the bomb in through the top, like a cat with its paw. It went in real neat, didn't even catch on the frame. After I took another five steps there was an almighty boom! And then all hell broke loose. Men running about blowing whistles and yelling. I heard Bullfinch shout out: "He went that way, towards the tracks! In an officer's coat!" The whole crowd went tramping off in that direction, and we just slipped out quietly through the side door on to the square. Then made a run for it.'

Green listened to what Emelya said, but he was watching Bullfinch. The boy was unusually quiet and downcast. He was sitting on a sack of money with his head propped in his hands, a miserable expression on his face and tears in his eyes.

'Never mind,' Green said to him. 'You did everything right.

It's not your fault it didn't work out. Tomorrow we'll think of something else.'

'I wanted to shout, but I was too late,' Bullfinch sobbed, still looking down at the ground. 'No, that's a lie. I lost my head. I was afraid if I shouted I'd give Emelya away. And the second bell had already rung. But Emelya couldn't see from the side

'What couldn't I see?' Emelya asked, surprised. 'He couldn't have gone out. When I walked past the window, I squinted sideways - his blue coat was still there.'

'He was there all right, but when you moved on, some people went into the office. A lady - she had a boy with her, a schoolboy. He looked about fifth class.'

'So that's it,' Emelya said with a frown. 'I'm sorry for the boy. But you did right not to shout. I'd have thrown the bomb all the same; it would just have been harder to get away.'

Bullfinch looked up with confusion in his tearful eyes. All the same? They had nothing to do with anything.'

'But our two ladies did,' Emelya replied harshly. 'If you and me had dallied, the bloodhounds would have picked them up with the money, and that would have been everything down the drain. And then Arsenii would have died for nothing, and we'd have lost Julie and Needle too, and no one would bother to save our lads in Odessa from the hangman's rope.'

Green walked up to the boy, put one hand on his shoulder awkwardly and tried to explain as clearly as possible something that he had thought about many times.

'You have to understand. We're soldiers. We're at war. There are all sorts of people on the other side. Some of them are kind and good and honest. But they wear a different uniform and that makes them our enemies. It's just like the battle of Borodino -Tell me, uncle... You remember that bit? When they were shooting at somebody, they didn't think about whether he was good or bad. If he's French, then blaze away. Moscow's right behind us, isn't it? But these enemies are worse than the French. We can't pity them. That is, we can and we must, but not now. Later. First we defeat them, then we pity them.' In his mind the words sounded very convincing, but out loud they weren't so persuasive.

Bullfinch flared up. 'I understand about the war. And about our enemies. They hanged my father, they killed my mother. But what have that schoolboy and that lady got to do with it? When soldiers fight, they don't kill civilians, do they?'

'Not deliberately. But once a cannon's fired, who knows where the shell will land? It could be in someone's house. It's bad, it's a shame, but it's war.' Green clenched his ringers into a fist so that his phrases wouldn't come out tight and lumpy - Bullfinch wouldn't understand if they did. 'They don't have pity on our civilians, do they? At least we do it by mistake, not deliberately. You talk about your mother. Why did they lock her up to die in a punishment cell? Because she loved your father. And what do they do to the people every day, year after year, century after century? Rob them, starve them, humiliate them, make them live in filth, like pigs.'

Bullfinch didn't say anything to that, but Green could see the conversation wasn't over. Never mind, there'd be more time for that.

'Sleep,' he said. 'It's been a hard day. And we have to send the money off tomorrow. Otherwise it all really was for nothing.'

'Oho-ho,' Emelya sighed, arranging a sack with a hundred thousand roubles in it under his head. 'The effort we went to getting these damned bits of paper, and now we don't know how to get shut of them. It's just like they say: if you haven't got a care, get yourself a pig.'

He thought for most of the night. He thought in the morning. He just couldn't make it work.

Six sacks was a pretty large load. You couldn't take it out without being noticed, especially after yesterday's events.

What was it Needle had suggested - dividing up the sacks between six couriers? They could do that. But most likely Julie and Needle would slip through all right, and the other four wouldn't. The police agents were most suspicious of young men. They'd lose two-thirds of the money and hand over four comrades as well - that was too high a price to pay for two hundred thousand.

Perhaps they could just send the women with a hundred thousand each, and hold on to the rest of the money for the time being They could, but that was risky too. There had been too many slip-ups in the last few days. Rahmet had been the worst. He was certain to have given the Okhranka a full description of all the members of the group, and of Needle as well.

Rahmet hadn't known how to find Needle, but he must surely have betrayed the private lecturer with the apartment on Ostozhenka Street. Aronson was another untidy loose end. The Okhranka could find Needle through him.

And then there was Arsenii Zimin. The body in Somovsky Cul-de-Sac would have been identified by now, of course. They were tracing the dead man's contacts and acquaintances, sooner or later they would pick up something.

No, the group had to travel light, with no excess baggage. They had to get rid of the money as soon as possible.

This difficult task was complicated even further by his need to lie down and rest to restore his strength. Green listened closely to his body and concluded that he wasn't fit for full-scale action today. After the brawl with Ace, his body was telling him it needed time to recover, and Green was used to trusting what his body said. He knew it wouldn't make excessive demands, and if it wanted to take a breather, it meant it really needed one. If he took no notice, things would only get worse. But if he accepted his body's demands, it would restore itself quickly. There wouldn't be any need for medicines, just complete rest and self-discipline. Lie without moving a day, or two would be better, and his broken rib would start to knit, the stitched wounds would heal over, the battered muscles would recover their resilience.

Six years earlier, in Vladimir, Green had escaped from a prison convoy by breaking out the bars of the railway-carriage window. Unfortunately, when he jumped down on to the rails, he landed right in front of a sentry and took a lunge from a bayonet under his shoulder blade. As he fled from his pursuers, dodging and swerving across the rails and between the trains, his back was soaked in blood. Eventually he hid in a warehouse, among massive bundles of sheepskins. He couldn't go out - they were searching everywhere for the escaped prisoner. But he couldn't stay there either - they'd started loading the bundles into a train, and there were fewer and fewer of them. He slit one open and clambered inside, in between the smelly, damp skins - they'd obviously been soaked to make them weigh more. So the extra weight of his body wasn't noticed. The loaders grabbed the massive bundle with hooks and dragged it over the boards. The wagon was sealed from the outside and the train set off gently westwards, past the cordon, past the patrols. Why would anyone think of checking a sealed wagon? The train took a long time to reach Moscow: six days. Green assuaged his thirst by sucking on the damp wool, which only dried out very slowly, and he didn't eat at all, because there was nothing to eat. But he didn't grow weak - on the contrary, he grew stronger, since he directed his willpower to patching up his body for twenty-four hours of the day. It turned out that he didn't need food for that. When they unsealed the wagon at the shunting yard in Moscow, Green jumped down on to the ground and walked calmly past the hung-over, indifferent loaders to the exit. No one tried to stop him. When he managed to reach the party's doctor and showed him the wound on his back, the doctor was astonished: the hole had already sealed itself with scar tissue.

This old memory gave him the answer to his problem. Everything would turn out very simple, if only Lobastov agreed.

He had to agree. He already knew that the CG had managed things without his help. He knew about Sverchinsky too. He'd be too wary of the consequences to refuse.

There was another possible consideration, still unverified. Could Timofei Grigorievich Lobastov perhaps be the mysterious letter writer TG? It seemed very probable. He was cunning, cautious and insatiably curious about other people's secrets. He was a far from straightforward man, he was playing his own game, and only he knew what it was.

But if he was TG, he'd be all the more willing to help.

Green woke Emelya quietly, so as not to disturb Bullfinch. Speaking quietly, he explained the assignment to him - briefly, because although Emelya looked like a dumb oaf, he was quick on the uptake.

Emelya got dressed without saying anything, ran his massive fingers through his hair to straighten it and pulled on his peaked cap. No one would give him a second look. An ordinary factory hand - Lobastov had thousands like that at his plant.

He led the horse out of the shed and threw the sacks into the sleigh, casually tossing a piece of sackcloth over them, and set off across the fresh snow of the vacant lot, towards the dark goods sheds.

Now Green had to wait.

He sat motionless by the window, counting the beats of his heart and feeling the needle-pricks as his torn flesh mended, the broken bone knitted and the cells of new skin drew together.

At half past seven the lineman Matvei, the little hut's usual inhabitant, came out into the yard. He had given his only room to his guests and gone to sleep in the hayloft. He was a morose, taciturn man, the kind that Green liked. He hadn't asked a single question. If people had been sent by the party, then they ought to be here. If they didn't explain why, then they weren't supposed to. Matvei scooped up some snow, rubbed his face with it and set off with a waddling stride towards the depot, swinging his knapsack of tools.

Bullfinch woke up shortly after ten.

He didn't leap up, blithe and cheerful, as he usually did, he got up slowly and glanced at Green, but didn't say a single word. He went to get washed.

There was nothing to be done. The boy was gone now, but the Combat Group had a new member. Bullfinch's colour had changed subtly since the previous day: it was no longer a tender peach tone, it was denser and sterner.

By midday the problem had been solved.

Emelya himself had watched as the money was loaded into a wagon full of sacks of dye for Lobastov's factory in St Petersburg and the door was sealed. A small shunting locomotive had tugged the wagon off to Sortirovochnaya Station, where it would be coupled on to a goods train, and at three o'clock that afternoon the train would leave Moscow, moving slowly. Julie would take care of all the rest.

His heart was pumping regularly, one beat a second. His body was restoring its strength. Everything was all right.

CHAPTER 9

in which a lot is said about the destiny of Russia

Erast Petrovich spent the rest of that sleepless, agitated and confused night at Nikolaevsky Station, trying to piece together a picture of what had happened and pick up the perpetrators' trail. Although there were numerous witnesses, both blue-coated gendarmes and private individuals, they failed to make things any clearer. They all talked about some officer who had supposedly thrown the bomb, but it turned out that no one had actually seen him. The attention of the uniformed and plainclothes police had naturally been focused on departing passengers, and no one had been watching the windows of the station building. In the presence of dozens of men professionally trained to be observant, someone had blown up their senior commander, and no one had a clue about how it had happened. The sheer ineptitude of the police could only be explained by the incredible daring of the attack.

It was not even clear where the bomb had been thrown from. Most probably from the corridor, because no one had heard the sound of breaking glass before the explosion. And yet a piece of paper with the letters 'CG' on it had been found under the window, on the platform side. Perhaps the device had been thrown in through the small upper window?

Of the four people who were in the duty office at the time of the explosion, Lieutenant Smolyaninov was the only one who had survived, and only because just at that moment he happened to drop his glove on the floor and clamber under the table to get it. The sturdy oak had shielded the adjutant from most of the shrapnel and he had only caught one piece of metal in his arm, but he had proved to be a poor witness. He could not even remember if the small window had been open. Sverchinsky and an unidentified lady had been killed on the spot. A schoolboy had been taken away in an ambulance carriage, but he was unconscious and obviously not destined to live.

At the station Pozharsky was in charge, havingbeen appointed to take over the dead man's position on a temporary basis in a telegram from the Minister. Erast Petrovich felt like an idle onlooker. Many people cast glances of disapproval at his formal tailcoat, so inappropriate for the circumstances.

Shortly after seven in the morning, having realised that he could not clarify anything at the station, the State Counsellor agreed to meet Pozharsky later in the Office of Gendarmes and went home in a state of intense thoughtfulness. His intentions were as follows: to sleep for two hours, then do his gymnastic exercises and clear his head by meditating. Events were developing so rapidly that his rational mind could not keep up with them - the intervention of the soul's deeper powers was required. It has been said: Among those who run, halt; among those who shout, he silent.

But his plan was not to be realised.

Quietly opening the door with his key, Erast Petrovich saw Masa sleeping in the hallway, slumped against the wall with his legs folded up under him. That was already unusual in itself. He must have been waiting for his master, wanting to tell him something, but been overcome by fatigue.

Fandorin did not wake his incorrigibly curious valet, in order to avoid unnecessary explanations. Stepping silently, he crept through into the bedroom, and there it became clear what Masa had wanted to warn him about.

Esfir was stretched out across the bed, with her arms thrown up over her head, her little mouth slightly open and her scarlet dress hopelessly creased. She had obviously come straight there from the reception, after Erast Petrovich had excused himself and left for the scene of the tragic event.

Fandorin backed away, intending to retreat into the study, where he could make himself very comfortable in a spacious armchair, but his shoulder brushed against the jamb of the door.

Esfir immediately opened her eyes, sat up on the bed and exclaimed in a clear, ringing voice, as if she hadn't been sleeping at all: 'There you are at last! Well, have you said your tearful goodbye to your gendarme?'

After his difficult and fruitless night, the State Counsellor's nerves were on edge, and his reply was untypically abrupt: 'In order to kill one lieutenant colonel of gendarmes, who will be replaced tomorrow by another, at the same time the revolutionary heroes shattered an entirely innocent woman's head and tore a young boy's legs off. A fiendish abomination - that's what your revolution is.'

Ah, so the revolution's an abomination?' Esfir jumped to her feet and set her hands on her hips belligerently. And your empire - isn't that an abomination? The terrorists spill other people's blood, but they don't spare their own either. They sacrifice their own lives, and therefore they have the right to demand sacrifices from others. They kill a few for the well-being of millions! But the people you serve, those toads with cold, dead blood, smother and trample millions of people for the well-being of a tiny group of parasites!'

' "Smother and trample" - what sort of cheap rhetoric is that?' Fandorin rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily, already regretting his outburst.

'Rhetoric? Rhetoric?' Esfir cried, choking on her indignation. 'Just... Just you listen to this.' She picked up a newspaper that was lying on the bed. 'Look, it's the Moscow Gazette. I was reading it while I waited for you. In the same edition, on facing pages. First the servile, sickening, pap: "The Moscow Municipal Duma has voted to present a memorial cup from the happy citizens to the aide-de-camp Prince Beloselsky-Belozersky for procuring the Most-Merciful missive from God's Anointed to Muscovites on the occasion of the most devoted address that was presented to His Imperial Majesty in commemoration of the forthcoming tenth anniversary of the present blessed reign ..." Phoo, it turns your stomach. And here, right beside it, how do you like this: "At long last the Ministry of Education has called for the rigorous observance of the rule forbidding the admission to university of individuals of the Jewish faith who do not possess a permit to reside outside the pale, and in any event for no exceptions to the established percentage norm. The Jews in Russia are the most oppressive heritage left to us by the now defunct Kingdom of Poland. There are four million Jews in the Empire, only four per cent of the population, but the poisonous stench of the vile vapours emanating from this weeping ulcer is choking us ..." Shall I go on? Are you enjoying it? Or how about this? "The measures taken to counter famine in the four districts of the Province of Saratov are not yet producing the desired effect. It is anticipated that during the spring months the affliction will spread to the adjacent provinces. The Most Reverend Aloizii, Archbishop of Saratov and Samara, has given instructions for special services of prayer for the defeat of the scourge to be held in the churches." Services of prayer! And our pancakes don't stick in our throats!'

Erast Petrovich listened with a pained grimace, and was on the point of reminding the denouncer of iniquity that only yesterday she herself had not disdained Dolgorukoi's pancakes, but he didn't, because it was petty, and also because, on the whole, she was right.

But Esfir still didn't calm down, she carried on reading: Just you listen, listen: "The patriots of Russia are absolutely outraged by the Latvianisation of the public schools in the Province of Liefland. The children there are now obliged to learn the native dialect, for which purpose the number of classes devoted to Scriptural Studies has been reduced, as these are supposedly not necessary for the non-Orthodox." Or this from Warsaw, from the trial of the cornet Bartashov: "The court declined to hear Psemyslska's testimony, since she would not agree to speak in Russian, claiming that she did not know it well enough." And that's in a Polish court!'

This final extract reminded Fandorin of one of the investigation's snapped threads - the dead terrorist Arsenii Zimin, whose father was defending the unfortunate cornet in Warsaw. The vexatious memory reduced Erast Petrovich to a state of total wretchedness.

'Yes, there are many scoundrels and fools in the state apparatus,' he said reluctantly.

'All of them, or almost all. And all, or almost all, of the revolutionaries are noble and heroic,' Esfir snapped and asked sarcastically, 'Doesn't that circumstance suggest any idea to you?'

The State Counsellor replied sadly: 'Russia's eternal misfortune. Everything in it is topsy-turvy. Good is defended by fools and scoundrels, evil is served by martyrs and heroes.'

It was evidently just that kind of day - they were talking about Russia in the Office of Gendarmes too.

Pozharsky had occupied the newly vacant office of the deceased Stanislav Filippovich, which had thus naturally become the headquarters of the investigation. Lieutenant Smolyaninov, paler than usual and with one arm in an impressive black sling, was standing in the reception room beside the telephone that never stopped ringing. He smiled at Fandorin over the receiver and pointed to the boss's door as if to say: Please go through.

The prince had a visitor sitting in his office - Sergei Vitalievich Zubtsov, who looked very agitated and red in the face.

'A-ha, Erast Petrovich,' said Pozharsky, getting to his feet. 'I can see from the blue circles under your eyes that you didn't get to bed. And here I am, sitting around doing nothing. The police and the gendarmes are prowling the streets, the police agents are snooping around the alleyways and rubbish tips, and I've just settled in here, like some huge spider, to wait until my net twitches. Why don't we wait together? Sergei Vitalievich here has just dropped in and he's propounding some remarkably interesting views on the workers' movement. Carry on, dear fellow. Mr Fandorin will find it interesting too.'

The thin, handsome face of Titular Counsellor Zubtsov blossomed into pink spots, either from pleasure or some other feeling.

'I was saying, Erast Petrovich, that it would be much easier to defeat the revolutionary movement in Russia with reforms, rather than with police methods. In fact, it's probably quite impossible to defeat it with police methods, because violence engenders a violent and even more intransigent response, and it just keeps on building up and up until society explodes. We need to pay some attention to the estate of artisans. Without the support of the workers, the revolutionaries can never achieve anything: our peasant class is too passive and disunited.'

Smolyaninov came in quietly. He sat down at the secretary's table, held down a sheet of paper awkwardly with his bandaged arm and started making a note of something, holding his head on one side, like a schoolboy.

'How can the revolutionaries be deprived of the support of the workers?' the State Counsellor asked, trying to understand the significance of those pink spots.

'Very simply' Zubtsov was evidently talking about something he had thought through a long time ago, something that had been on his mind, and he was apparently hoping to interest the important visitor from St Petersburg in his ideas. 'If a man has a tolerable life, he won't go to the barricades. If all the artisans lived as they do at Timofei Grigorievich Lobastov's factories -with a nine-hour working day, decent pay, a free hospital and holidays - the Greens of Russia would be left with nothing to do.'

'But how well the workers live depends on the factory owners,' Pozharsky observed, gazing at the young man in amusement. 'You can't just order them to pay a certain amount and set up free hospitals.'

That is exactly what we, the state, are here for,' said Zubtsov, tossing his head of light-brown hair,'- to give orders. This is an autocratic monarchy, thank God. We need to explain to the richest and most intelligent where their own best interest lies and then act from above: pass a law establishing firm terms for the employment of workers. If you can't observe the law - close down your factory. I assure you that if matters went that way, the Tsar would have no more devoted servants than the workers. It would reinvigorate the entire monarchy!'

Pozharsky screwed up his black eyes. 'Rational. But hard to achieve. His Majesty has firm ideas concerning the good of the Empire and the social order. The sovereign believes that a tsar is a father to his subjects, a general is a father to his soldiers and an employer is a father to his workers. It is not permissible to interfere in the relationship between a father and his sons.'

Zubtsov's voice became soft and cautious - he was evidently approaching the most important point.

'Then, Your Excellency, we ought to demonstrate to the supreme power that the workers are no sons of their employer, but all of them, the factory owners and the factory hands, are equally His Majesty's children. It would be good to seize the initiative without waiting for the revolutionaries finally to organise the artisans into a herd that we cannot control. To intercede for the workers with their masters and occasionally put pressure on the factory owners. Let simple people start getting used to the idea that the state machine protects the workers, not the money bags. We could even help promote the establishment of trade unions, only direct their activities into law-abiding economic channels instead of subversion. And this is the time to do it, Your Excellency, or it will too late.'

'Don't call me "Your Excellency",' Pozharsky said with a smile. 'To my competent subordinates I am Gleb Georgievich, and if we become close, simply Gleb will do. You'll go a long way, Zubtsov. In this country people who can think like true statesmen are worth their weight in gold.'

Sergei Vitalievich flushed, and his pink spots were drowned in a flood of pink.

Looking at him closely, Fandorin asked: 'Did you really come here, to the Office of Gendarmes, in order to share your views on the workers' movement with Gleb Georgievich? - today of all days, with everything that's going on?'

Zubtsov became embarrassed, evidently taken aback by this question.

'Naturally Sergei Vitalievich did not come here to theorise,' said Pozharsky, looking calmly at the young idealist. 'Or at least, not only to theorise. As I understand it, Mr Zubtsov, you have some important information for me, but first you decided to sound out whether I share your general political idea. I do -wholly and completely. I shall be unstinting in offering you every possible support. As I said, in our administration intelligent people are worth their weight in gold. And now let me hear what you have for me.'

The titular counsellor swallowed and started speaking, but not in the same smooth, easy manner as before. He was very nervous now, and he gestured with his hand to support his points.

'I ... I, gentlemen, I would not like you to consider me a double-dealer and... an informer. But this isn't really informing at all ... Very well, then, an unprincipled careerist... It's only out of concern for the good of the cause

'Erast Petrovich and I have no doubt at all about that,' the prince interrupted impatiently. 'That's enough of the preamble, Zubtsov; get to the point. Is it some intrigue by Burlyaev or Mylnikov?'

'Burlyaev. And not an intrigue. He has planned an operation

'What operation?' Pozharsky exclaimed loudly, and Fandorin frowned in concern.

'To capture the Combat Group. Wait, I'll start at the beginning. You know that all of Mylnikov's agents were thrown into trailing the revolutionary groups that might provide leads to the CG. My recent reference to the factory owner Lobastov was no accident. According to information received from agents, Timofei Grigorievich flirts with the revolutionaries and sometimes gives them money. A prudent man, backing both sides just in case. Well then. Mylnikov placed him under surveillance along with all the others. This morning the agent Sapryko saw a certain artisan go to Lobastov's office, and for some reason he was shown straight in to see the boss. Timofei Griogorievich treated his visitor with great consideration. He spoke with him about something for a long time, then they both went away somewhere for an entire hour. The mysterious worker bore a very strong resemblance to the terrorist who goes by the alias of Emelya, as described by the agent Gvidon, but Sapryko is an experienced sleuth and he didn't go off half-cocked, he waited for the man at the control post and followed him cautiously. The target checked several times to see if he was being followed, but he didn't spot his tail. He took a cab to the Vindava Station, dodged about between the railway lines there for a little while and eventually disappeared into a lineman's hut. Sapryko remained under cover, summoned the nearest police constable with his whistle, and sent a note to the Department of Security. An hour later our men had the little house completely surrounded. It has been ascertained that the lineman is called Matvei Zhukov and he lives alone, with no family. Emelya did not come out of the hut again, but before reinforcements arrived, Sapryko saw a young man emerge whose appearance matched the description of the terrorist Bullfinch.'

'What about Green?' Pozharsky asked avidly.

'That's the problem: there's no sign of Green. It looks as though he isn't in the hut. That's precisely why Pyotr Ivanovich gave the order to wait. But if Green doesn't show up the operation will start at midnight. The Lieutenant Colonel wanted it to be earlier but Evstratii Pavlovich persuaded him to wait a while, in case some big fish swam in.'

'This is abominable!' the prince exclaimed. 'Stupid! Agent Sapryko is to be congratulated, but your Burlyaev is an idiot! We need to keep them under observation, shadow them! What if they're keeping the money somewhere else? What if Green doesn't show up there at all? The operation can't go ahead -under no circumstances!'

Zubtsov picked up his theme, speaking rapidly: 'Your Excellency, Gleb Georgievich, that's exactly what I told him! That's why I overcame my natural scruples and came here! Pyotr Ivanovich is a man of great determination, but he's too bull-headed, he likes to flail at things with an axe. But this isn't something you can just take a wild swing at, this has to be handled with kid gloves. He's afraid that you'll take all the credit, he wants to distinguish himself in the eyes of St Petersburg, and that's understandable, but he can't be allowed to put everything in jeopardy for the sake of his own ambition! You are my only hope.'

'Smolyaninov, get Gnezdikovsky Lane on the telephone!'

Pozharsky ordered, getting to his feet. 'No, don't. The telephone's no good for this. Erast Petrovich, Sergei Vitalievich. Let's go!'

The official sleigh tore away from the entrance in a shower of powdered snow. Glancing back, Fandorin noticed another, simpler sleigh pull away from the opposite pavement to follow them. There were two men in identical fur caps sitting in it.

'Don't worry, Erast Petrovich.' The prince laughed. 'They're not terrorists - quite the contrary. They're my guardian angels. Take no notice of them, I'm well used to their company. My chief attached them to me after the gentlemen of the Combat Group almost filled me full of holes on Aptekarsky Island.'

Pushing open the door of Burlyaev's office, the deputy director of police declared from the threshold: 'Lieutenant Colonel, I am removing you from command of the Department of Security pending special instructions from the Minister and temporarily placing Titular Counsellor Zubtsov in charge.'

The sudden intrusion caught Burlyaev and Mylnikov sitting at the desk, studying some kind of plan that was laid out on it.

They reacted differently to Pozharsky's forceful declaration: Evstratii Pavlovich took a few soft, cat-like steps backwards and retreated to the wall, but Pyotr Ivanovich simply stood his ground and lowered his head like a bull.

‘I’m afraid you can't do that, Mr Colonel,' he growled. 'I believe you have been appointed acting head of the Office of Gendarmes? Well then, act in that capacity, but I am not subordinated to the Office of Gendarmes.'

'You are subordinate to me as deputy director of the Police Department,' the prince reminded him in an ominously low voice.

The Lieutenant Colonel's glaring eyes glinted. 'I see my department has bred a traitor.' He jabbed a finger at Zubtsov, who was standing in the doorway, pale-faced. 'But you won't build a career on my bones, my dear friend Sergei Vitalievich. You've backed the wrong horse this time. Look!' He took a piece of paper out of his pocket and waved it triumphantly through the air. 'It came forty minutes ago. A telegram from the Minister himself. I outlined the situation and requested permission to carry out the operation I had planned to detain the Combat Group. Read what His Excellency writes: "To Lieutenant Colonel Burlyaev of the Special Corps of Gendarmes. Act at your own discretion. Take the blackguards dead or alive. God speed. Khitrovo." So I'm sorry, Your Excellency, this time we shall get by without you. You have already covered yourself in glory for throwing Rahmet away with such outstanding psychological acuity'

'Pyotr Ivanovich, if we do go head-on, then we will take them dead, not alive,' said Mylnikov, suddenly breaking his silence for the first time. 'These are desperate folk, they'll keep shooting to the last man. But it would be good to take them alive. And I feel sorry for our lads, we'll lose more than one of them too. It's open space all around the hut, wasteland. You can't approach under cover. Perhaps we ought to wait until they come out by themselves?'

Rattled by this blow from the rear, Burlyaev swung round sharply towards his deputy.

'Evstratii Pavlovich, I am not going to change my decision. We'll take everyone who's there. And you don't need to explain to me about the open space, I've been making arrests for years. That's why we're waiting until midnight. Here, on Mariinsky Passage, they put the street lights out at eleven; it will be completely dark then. We'll file out of the goods sheds and approach the house from all sides. I'll go first myself. I'll take Filippov, Guskov and Shiryaev with me, and that - what's his name? - the great beefy fellow, with the sideburns ... Sonkin. They'll break down the door straight away and go in, and I'll follow them, then another four that you'll choose, only with strong nerves, so they won't get the wind up and shoot us in the back. The others will stay here, around the edge of the yard. And those little darlings won't stand a chance. I'll have them before they know what's hit them.'

Pozharsky maintained a bewildered silence, obviously still stunned by the Minister's treachery, and so it was Erast Petrovich who made the final attempt to get the high-handed lieutenant colonel to see sense.

'You are making a mistake, Pyotr Ivanovich. Listen to Mr Mylnikov. Arrest them when they come out.'

'There are already thirty agents sitting in the warehouses around that piece of waste ground,' said Burlyaev. 'If they try to leave while it's still light, so much the better - they'll fall straight into my hands. But if they stay the night there, I'll come for them myself on the stroke of midnight. And that's my final word.

CHAPTER 10

A letter for Green

The sun crept slowly across the sky, never rising far above the flat roofs, even at its highest point. Green sat at the window, perfectly still, watching as the lamp of heaven followed its foreshortened winter route. The punctilious disc of light had only a very short distance left to travel to the final point - the dark, monolithic mass of a grain elevator - when a squat figure appeared on the deserted path that led from the railway lines to Mariinsky Passage.

It wasn't such a bad place, even if it was cramped and there were bedbugs, thought Green. This was the first passer-by since midday, he hadn't seen another soul - just the small shunting locomotive darting backwards and forwards, shuffling the wagons about.

The sun was shining from behind the walker, and Green could only see who it was when the man turned towards the hut. Matvei, his host.

What was he doing here? He'd said he had a shift until eight, but it was only five.

Matvei came in and nodded to Green instead of saying hello. His expression was sullen and preoccupied.

'Here, looks like this is for you

Green took the crumpled envelope from him. He read the name written on it in block capitals, with purple ink: 'MR GREEN. URGENT'.

He glanced briefly at Matvei. 'Where from?'

'Devil only knows,' said the other man, turning even more gloomy. 'I don't understand it. It turned up in the pocket of my coat. I was at the depot, and they called me into the office. There were lots of folk hanging about; anyone could have stuck it in. What I think is, you need to leave. Where's your third one - the young lad?'

Green tore open the envelope, already knowing what he would see: lines of typewritten words. There they were:

The house is besieged on all sides. The police are not sure that you are inside, and so they are waiting. At exactly midnight the house will be stormed. If you manage to break out, there is a convenient apartment No. 4, Vorontsovo Place.

TG

First he struck a match and set fire to the note and the envelope. As he watched the flame, he counted his pulse.

When his circulation had recovered its normal rhythm, he said: 'Walk slowly, as if you're going back to the depot. Don't look back. The police are all around. If they try to arrest you, let them. Tell them I'm not here, I'll be back before nightfall. They're not likely to arrest you. More likely they'll let you through and put a tail on you. We have to disengage and move out. Tell the comrades I said to move you to illegal work'

His host really was strong. He stood there for a moment, without asking any questions. Then he opened a trunk and took out a small bundle, thrust it under his sheepskin coat and set off at a stroll back along the path towards Mariinsky Passage.

That was why there weren't any passers-by, Green realised. And the police had plenty of places to deploy their men - all those warehouses on every side. It was a good thing he'd been sitting to one side of the window and the curtain; they were sure to be watching through several pairs of binoculars.

As if to confirm his guess, a bright spark of light glinted in the attic window of the repair workshops. Green had seen other sparks like that earlier, but he hadn't attached any importance to them. A lesson for the future.

It was after five. The goods train with the wagon carrying Lobastov's dyes had already left for Peter. In five minutes Julie would leave on the passenger express. Bullfinch would check to make sure she got away and then come back here. Of course she'd get away - why shouldn't she? She'd overtake the goods train and meet it in Peter tomorrow and collect the sacks. The party would have money. Even if the CG was wiped out tonight, it would have been worth it.

But perhaps it wouldn't be wiped out. That remained to be seen. Forewarned was forearmed.

By the way, how well armed was he?

Green knitted his brows as he recalled that his stock of bombs had been left in the barrister's apartment, and you couldn't fight much of a war with just revolvers. He still had a little of the explosive jelly and some detonators left, but no casings and no filling.

'Emelya!' he called. 'Get your coat on, there's work.'

Emelya raised his small eyes from The Count of Monte Cristo, the only book they had found in the house.

'Hang on, eh, Greenich? This is really exciting! I'll just finish the chapter.'

'Later. There'll be time.'

Green explained the situation. 'Go to the shop and buy ten tins of stewed pork, ten tins of tomato paste and three pounds of two-inch screws. Walk calmly; don't look back. They won't touch you. If I'm wrong and they do decide to take you, fire at least one shot so I can prepare.'

He wasn't wrong. Emelya went away and came back with his purchases, and soon Bullfinch arrived too. He said Julie had got away. Good.

Midnight was still a long way off; they'd have time to get everything ready. Green let Emelya read about his count - the great hulk's fingers were too coarse for fine work - and got Bullfinch to help.

The first thing they did was open all twenty tins with a knife and dump the contents in the slop bucket. The meat tins each held a pound; the tomato tins were smaller, only half as wide. Green began with the narrow ones. He filled them halfway up with the explosive mixture - there wasn't enough for more than that, but never mind, even that would be more than adequate. Very carefully he pushed in the little glass tubes of the detonators. The principle was very simple: when the detonator compound and the explosive mixture came together, they produced an explosion of tremendous destructive force. Great care was required. Plenty of comrades had been blown to pieces when they scraped the fragile glass against the metal of the casing.

Bullfinch watched with bated breath.

After he had cautiously pressed the small tube into the jellified mass, Green bent the jutting lid back down and stood the tomato tin in an empty pork tin. The result was almost ideal. He tipped as many screws as would fit into the space between the walls of the two tins. Now all that remained to be done was close the outside lid and the bomb was ready. Any sudden blow would shatter the little tube, the explosion would tear the thin walls of the casing apart, and the screws would be transformed into deadly shrapnel. It had been tested more than once and the results were excellent. There was only one drawback: the range of the shrapnel was up to thirty paces, so you could easily be hurt yourself. But Green had his own ideas about that.

At midnight - that was excellent.

If only they didn't change their minds and start earlier.

'That Villefort's a real louse!' Emelya muttered as he turned a page. 'Just like our court officials.'

They turned out the light at eleven. Let the police think they'd gone to bed.

One by one, opening the door only a narrow crack, they slipped out into the yard and lay down by the low fence.

Their eyes soon adapted to the darkness, and at a quarter to twelve they saw the silent, agile shadows start moving towards the little house across the white wasteland.

The shadows halted in a compact circle, still about ten paces away from the fence. There were so many! But that was no bad thing. The tumult would be all the greater.

The shadows straight ahead, on the path, gathered together into a large cluster. There was a sound of voices whispering and something jangling.

When the cluster began moving towards the gate in the fence, Green gave the order: 'Now.' He threw one tin at the advancing cluster, then another straight away, and dropped face down into the snow, covering his ears.

The double boom still rattled his eardrums anyway. And there were more booms off to the right and the left: one, two, three, four. Emelya and Bullfinch had thrown their bombs.

Immediately they jumped to their feet and ran straight ahead, while the police were still blinded by the flashes and deafened by the explosions.

As he jumped over the bodies stretched out on the track, Green was surprised to realise that his stitched side and broken rib didn't hurt at all. That was what the body's inner strength could do if you trusted it.

Emelya tramped along heavily beside him. Bullfinch went dashing ahead like a frisky young foal.

By the time shots were fired after them, they had almost reached the sanctuary of the goods sheds.

No point in the police shooting now. It was too late.

The apartment at Vorontsovo Polye turned out to be very comfortable: three rooms, a back entrance, a telephone and even a bathroom with heated water.

Emelya immediately settled down with his book - as if he hadn't heard any explosions, or run across the snowy waste lot with bullets whistling after him, and then dodged for ages through all those dark side streets.

Bullfinch, exhausted, collapsed on the divan and fell asleep.

Green examined the apartment carefully, hoping to discover some thread that might lead him to TG.

He didn't find anything.

The apartment was fully furnished, but there were no signs at all of real life. No portraits or photographs, no knick-knacks, no books.

Obviously, no one lived here.

Then what was the apartment for? Business meetings? Just in case?

But only a very wealthy man could have maintained an apartment like this for business meetings or just in case'.

Again everything pointed to Lobastov.

Green found the mystery alarming. Not that he suspected any immediate danger - if this was a trap, why bother to help the group escape from the Okhranka raid? It had been the right thing to disengage in any case.

He telephoned Needle. He didn't explain anything; all he said was that tomorrow he would need a new apartment, and he gave her their address. Needle said she would come in the morning. Her voice sounded troubled, but the clever woman didn't ask any questions.

Now sleep, Green told himself. He settled down in an armchair without getting undressed. He set out his Colt and four remaining bombs on the low table in front of him.

He was tired after all. And his rib wasn't doing as well as he'd thought. That was from running so fast. Surprising the jolting hadn't broken the detonators in the bombs. That would have been stupid.

He closed his eyes and it seemed like only a moment later that he opened them again, but outside the window the sun was shining and the door bell was trilling.

'Who's there?' Emelya's gruff bass asked in the hallway. Green couldn't hear the reply, but the door was opened.

Morning, and not early either, Green realised.

His body had taken what it needed after all - at least ten hours of total rest.

'How are your wounds? What about the money?' Needle asked as she came into the room. Without waiting for an answer, she said: 'I know what happened last night. We have Matvei. All Moscow is buzzing with rumours about the battle of the railway lines. Burlyaev himself was killed, that's absolutely certain. And they say huge numbers of police were killed too. But why I am telling you? - you were there

Her eyes looked different now, lively and full of light, and it was suddenly clear to him that Needle was no old maid. She was simply a stern, strong-willed woman whose life had been full of trials.

'You're a genuine hero,' she said in a serious, calm voice, as if she were affirming a scientifically proven fact. 'You're all heroes. As good as the People's Will.'

The look she gave him made him feel uncomfortable.

'The wounds don't bother me any more. The money's been sent. It'll be in Peter today,' he said, answering her questions in order. 'I didn't know about Burlyaev, but it's good news. "Huge numbers" is an exaggeration, but we did get a few.'

Now he could get down to business: 'First - another apartment. Second - the explosive has run out. We need to get more. And detonators. Chemical, impact type.'

'They're looking for an apartment. We'll have one by evening. We have detonators, as many as you like. Last month they delivered a whole suitcase of them from St Petersburg. The explosive's not so simple.' She thought for a moment, pursing up her thin, pale lips. 'Unless I go to Aronson ... I keep a watch on his windows; there's no alarm signal. I think I could take the risk. He's a chemist, he must be able to make it. The question is, will he want to? I told you, he's opposed to terror.'

'No need,' said Green, kneading his rib. It didn't hurt any more. 'I'll do it. He can just get us the ingredients. I'll write them down.'

While he was writing, he could feel her steady gaze on him.

'I've only just realised how like him you are

Green broke off in the middle of the long word 'nitroglycerine' and looked up.

No, she wasn't looking at him, but over his head.

'You're dark and he was light. And the face is quite different. But the expression is the same, and that turn of the head ... I used to call him Tyoma, but his party alias was "Conjuror". He used to do wonderful card tricks ... We grew up together. His father was the manager on our Kharkov estate

Green had heard of Conjuror. He had been hanged in Kharkov three years earlier. They said Conjuror had had a fiancee, a count's daughter. Like Sofia Perovskaya. So that was the way of it. There was no point in saying anything, and Needle didn't seem to expect words in any case. She gave a dry little cough to clear her throat and didn't go on. Green easily pieced the rest of the picture together for himself.

'We won't go anywhere,' he said briskly, to help her overcome her moment of weakness. 'We'll wait for you. So, first - an apartment. Second - the chemicals.'

When it was almost evening the door bell rang again. Green sent Emelya and Bullfinch to the back entrance while he went to open the door, holding a bomb in his hand just in case.

There was a white rectangle lying beside the door on the floor of the hallway.

An envelope. Someone had dropped it through the slit in the door.

Green opened the door. Nobody.

Typed words on the envelope: 'Mr Green. Urgent.'

A rare opportunity. Today at 10 o'clock the leaders of the investigation, Prince Pozharsky and State Counsellor Fandorin, will be alone, without any guards, in the Petrosov Baths, private room No. 6. Strike while the iron is hot.

TG

CHAPTER 11

in which Fandorin learns how to fly

'This unparalleled orgy of terror after so many years of relative calm places our professional reputations and our very careers in jeopardy; however, at the same time, the possibilities that it opens up to us are boundless. If we can get the best of these unprecedentedly audacious criminals, then, Erast Petrovich, we shall be assured of a place of honour in the history of Russian statehood and - what is even more important as far as I am concerned - an enviable position in the Russian state itself. I have no desire to present myself as an idealist, which I am not -not even to the slightest degree. Take a look at that impossibly stupid monument.'

Pozharsky casually swung his cane to indicate the bronze figures of the two heroes who saved the throne of Russia from the Polish invasion. State Counsellor Fandorin, hitherto totally absorbed in their conversation, suddenly noticed that they had already reached Red Square, the left side of which was thickly overgrown with builder's scaffolding - the construction of the Upper Trading Rows was in full swing. Half an hour earlier, when the leaders of the investigation had noticed that they were going over and over a theory that they had already considered (which was hardly surprising after two nights without sleep), Pozharsky had suggested they should continue their discussion as they walked, since the day had turned out quite superb -sunny, with no wind and just the right touch of frost, refreshing and cheerful. They had walked down carefree Tverskaya Street, speaking of vitally important matters and united in their common misfortune and acute peril, while the prince's guardian angels strolled along about ten paces behind, with their hands in their pockets.

'Feast your eyes on that blockhead, my renowned ancestor,' said Gleb Georgievich, jabbing his cane towards the seated statue, 'lolling there and listening, while the man of commerce waves his hands about and trills like a nightingale. Have you ever heard of any other of the princes Pozharsky, apart from my heroic namesake? No? Hardly surprising. They've been squatting on their backsides like that for almost three hundred years, until they've worn out their final pair of pants, and in the meantime Russia has fallen into the hands of the Minins. The name's not important - Morozovs, Khlyudovs, Lobastovs. My grandfather, a Riurikovich, had two serfs and ploughed the earth himself. My father died as a retired second lieutenant. And I, a down-and-out little count, was taken into the Guards, purely because of my euphonious family name. But what good is the Guards to someone with nothing in his pocket but a louse on a lead? Ah, Erast Petrovich, you have no idea what a furore it caused when I applied to be transferred from the Cavalry Guards to serve in the Police Department. My regimental comrades started turning their noses up, the senior officers wanted to disenroll me from the Guards altogether, but they were afraid of provoking the wrath of the Emperor. And what happened? Now my former comrades-in-arms are captains and only one who moved to the army is a lieutenant colonel; but I am already a colonel - and not simply a colonel, but an aide-de-camp. And that, Erast Petrovich, is not just a matter of a monogram and fine appearances -I don't attach much importance to such things. The important thing is breakfast tete-a-tete with His Majesty during my monthly period of duty at the palace. That is something of real value. And another important point is my uniqueness. Never before has an officer serving in the Police Department, while registered with the Guards, been accorded such an honour. The sovereign has almost a hundred aides-de-camp, but I am the only one from the Ministry of the Interior, and that's what I value.'

The prince took Fandorin by the elbow and continued in a confidential tone: 'I'm not telling you all this out of an innocent desire to boast. You probably realised some time ago that I don't have much innocence about me. No, I want to jolt you into action, so that you won't become like that seated idol. You and I, Erast Petrovich, are pillars of the nobility, the very pillars on which the entire Russian Empire rests. I can trace my descent from the Varangians; you are a descendant of the Crusaders. We have ancient bandit blood flowing in our veins, the centuries have made it as rich as old wine. It is thicker than the thin red water of the merchants and the shopkeepers. Our teeth, fists and claws must be stronger than those of the Minins, otherwise the Empire will slip through our fingers, such is the time now approaching. You are intelligent, keen-witted, brave, but you have a certain fastidious, aristocratic torpor about you. If you are walking along and you come across - pardon the expression -a pile of shit, you will glance at it through your lorgnette and walk round it. Other people may step in it, but you will not sully your delicate feelings and white gloves. Forgive me, I am deliberately expressing my thoughts in a crude and offensive manner, because this is a sore point with me, an old idee fixe of mine. Just look at the unique position in which you and I find ourselves owing to the whim of fate and the conjunction of circumstances. The head of the Office of Gendarmes has been killed, the head of the Department of Security has been killed. You and I are the only ones left. They could have sent a new top man from the capital to head up the investigation - the director of the Police Department, or even the Minister himself, but those gentlemen are old stagers. They're concerned about their careers, so they preferred to hand over complete authority to me and you. And that's excellent!' Pozharsky gestured energetically. 'You and I no longer have anything to fear or anything to lose, but we could gain a very great deal. The telegram addressed to us from His Imperial Majesty said "unlimited authority". Do you understand what "unlimited" means? It means that for the immediate future, you and I effectively control Moscow and the entire political investigative apparatus of the Empire. So let's not josde each other's elbows and get in each other's way, as Burlyaev and Sverchinsky used to do. Good Lord, there will be laurels enough for both of us. Let's join forces and combine our efforts.'

Erast Petrovich's response to this prolix and impassioned diatribe was just two words: 'Very well.'

Gleb Georgievich waited to see if anything else would be said and nodded in satisfaction.

'Your opinion of Mylnikov?' he asked, reverting to a brisk, businesslike tone. 'In terms of seniority, he ought to be appointed acting head of the Department of Security, but I would prefer Zubtsov. We can't wait for a new man to get the feel of the job.'

'No, we can't have a new man. And Zubtsov is a competent worker. But what we need now from the Department of Security is not so much analysis as practical investigation, and that is Mylnikov's province. And I wouldn't choose to offend him unnecessarily'

'But Mylnikov was responsible for planning the failed operation. You know the result: Burlyaev and three agents killed, and another five wounded.'

'Mylnikov was not to blame,' the State Counsellor said with conviction.

Pozharsky gave him a keen look. 'No? Then what do you think was the reason for the failure?'

'Treason,' Fandorin replied briefly. Seeing the other man's eyebrows creep upwards in astonishment, he explained. 'The terrorists knew when the operation would start, and they were ready for it. Someone w-warned them - one of our people. Just as they did in the Khrapov case.'

'That's your theory, and you've kept quiet about it until now?' the prince asked incredulously. 'Well, you really are quite inimitable. I ought to have spoken openly with you sooner. However, this suggestion of yours is too serious altogether. Precisely whom do you suspect?'

'Only a small group of people were privy to the details of the night operation: myself, you, Burlyaev, Mylnikov, Zubtsov. And Lieutenant Smolyaninov could have heard something too.'

Gleb Georgievich snorted indignandy, apparently finding the State Counsellor's suggestion absurd; but nonetheless he started bending down his fingers as he counted.

'Very well, let's try it. With your permission, I'll start with myself. What possible motive is there? Did I sabotage the operation so that the glory for catching the CG would not go to Burlyaev? That seems rather excessive, somehow. Now Mylnikov. Did he want his boss's job? And to get it was he willing to sacrifice three of his best agents, the men he fusses over like old Uncle Chernomor? And it's still not clear if he will actually get the boss's job ... Zubtsov. A rather complex individual, I grant you, and we know how deep still waters run. But why would he wish to destroy Burlyaev? To get rid of a man who fought revolution using the wrong methods? I think that kind of extravagance would be out of character for Sergei Vitalievich. Of course, he does have a revolutionary past. A double agent, like Kletochnikov in the Third Section? Hmm, we'll have to check that... Who else is there? Ah, the rubicund Smolyaninov. I pass on that; it's altogether too much for my imagination. You know him better. And by the way, how does a young man from a family like that come to be serving in the gendarmes? He doesn't seem to be an ambitious careerist like yours truly. Perhaps there's some reason behind it? Perhaps he is infected with the demonic bacillus of romantic subversion of authority? Or something simpler - a love affair with some nihilist female?'

Having apparently started jokingly, Pozharsky now seemed to be seriously intrigued by Fandorin's hypothesis. He paused and looked at Erast Fandorin with an odd expression, then suddenly said: 'On the subject of love and nihilist femmes fatales ... Could a leak not perhaps occur via your own lovely Judith, who made such a great impression on the good society of Moscow? She has connections in suspicious quarters, does she not? I know only too well how skilful enchanting women are at sucking out your secrets. Could you not possibly have found yourself in the role of Holofernes? Only please answer to the point - no offended pride, no challenges to a duel'

Fandorin had indeed been about to reply to the prince's monstrous suspicion with sharp words, but the State Counsellor was suddenly struck by an idea that made him forget his affronted sensibilities.

'No, no,' he said quickly, 'that is absolutely impossible. But there is another distinct possibility: Burlyaev could have let something slip to Diana. She was probably involved somehow in the business with Sverchinsky too.'

Fandorin told the prince about the mysterious vamp who had turned the heads of both commanders of Moscow's political investigative agencies.

The theory proved to be remarkably coherent, at least in comparison with the others, but Pozharsky's reaction was sceptical. 'An intriguing speculation, certainly, but it seems to me, Erast Petrovich, that you are narrowing down the list of suspects too far. Undoubtedly, there is treachery here. We have to review the entire line of the investigation from that perspective. But the traitor could have been any pawn, any of the agents and police officers used in the cordon, and that is eighty men. Not to mention several dozen cabbies who were mobilised to transport Burlyaev's Grande Armee!

'No police agent, let alone a cabby, could have been privy to the details,' Fandorin objected. 'And it would have been difficult for any rank-and-file participant to get away from his post. No, Gleb Georgievich, this is no pawn. Especially if we recall the circumstances of General Khrapov's murder.'

'I agree; your theory is more elegant and literary,' the prince said with a smile, 'and even more probable. But we have agreed to work in harness together, so this time why don't you be the shaft horse, and I'll gallop on in the traces. Right, we have two lines to follow up: the double agent Diana or one of the small fry. We'll investigate both. Do you choose Diana?'

'Yes.'

'Excellent. And I'll deal with the minnows. Will today be enough time for you? Time is precious.' Erast Petrovich nodded confidently.

And for me, although I have a laborious task, probing and checking such a huge number of men. But never mind, I'll manage. Now let's agree on our rendezvous.' Pozharsky thought for a long time. 'Since we have no confidence in our own men, let's meet outside official premises, in a place where no one will be eavesdropping or peeping. And not a word about this meeting to anyone, all right? I tell you what - let's meet in the baths, in a private room. We shall conceal absolutely nothing from each other.' Gleb Georgievich laughed. 'Here in Moscow the Petrosov Bathhouse is very good, and it is conveniently located. I shall tell my bashi-bazouks to book, let's say, room number six.'

'No one must mean no one,' said Erast Petrovich, shaking his head. 'Give your bodyguards the day off, to maintain the integrity of the search. And don't say a word to them about our meeting. I'll go to Petrosov's and book room number six myself. We'll meet alone, discuss our conclusions and draw up a plan of further action.'

At ten?'

At t-ten.'

'Well then,' Gleb Georgievich said jocularly, 'the place of the assignation is set. And so is the time. Forward, the aristocrats! Time to roll our sleeves up.'

Opened only recently close to Rozhdestvenka Street, the Petrosov Bathhouse had already become one of the showplaces of Moscow. Only a few years earlier, this site had been occupied by a single-storey log building where you could be washed for fifteen kopecks, have blood let, cupping glasses applied and calluses removed. Respectable society never called into this filthy, odorous barn, preferring to wash itself in Khludov's establishment at the Central Baths. However, when a new owner, a man of business acumen on a truly European scale, acquired the bathhouse, he totally transformed Petrosov's in line with the very latest word in international technology. He erected a veritable stone palace with caryatids and telamons, set a fountain burbling in the small inner courtyard, faced the walls with marble and hung mirrors all over them, set out soft divans, and the former fifteen-kopeck establishment was transformed into a shrine to luxury that even the pampered Roman Emperor Heliogabal would not have scorned. No trace was left of the 'commoners' section'; there were only 'merchants' sections' and 'nobles' sections' for both sexes.

After he and Pozharsky parted to go about their separate business, Fandorin made his way to the 'nobles' section'.

At that time in the morning there were no customers in the baths yet, and the obliging supervisor took his promising client on a tour of the private rooms.

The nobles' section was arranged as follows: at the centre, a common hall with an immense marble pool, surrounded by Doric columns; around the pool, a gallery on to which the doors of the six private rooms opened. However, the main entrances to the rooms were not from the common hall; they lay on the other side, from the broad corridor that ran round the building. The exacting civil servant inspected the rooms. He didn't look too closely at the silver washtubs and the gilded taps, but he tugged insistently at the bolts on the doors leading to the pool hall and strolled right round the external corridor. To the right it could be followed to the women's half of the baths; to the left it led to the service stairs. From that side there was no way out to the street, which for some reason seemed to please Fandorin particularly.

The State Counsellor did not act entirely as he and Gleb Georgievich had agreed. Or rather, he did more than they had agreed: not only did he book room number six for that evening, he booked all the other five rooms as well, leaving only the common hall for any other customers.

But that was only the first strange thing that Fandorin did.

The second was that the State Counsellor did not really take a very thorough approach to his main task for the day - the meeting with Diana; one might even say that he rolled his sleeves back down. After telephoning the collaborator from the vestibule of the bathhouse and arranging to meet her straightaway, Erast Petrovich immediately set off for the inconspicuous town-house on Arbat Street.

In the familiar twilit room, with its scent of musk and dust from the permanently closed curtains, the visitor was greeted rather differently from the previous occasion and the occasion before that. No sooner did Fandorin step across the threshold of the quiet study than a slim shadow darted impetuously across the room towards him in a rustle of silk, pliable arms embraced him round the shoulders and a face concealed by a veil was pressed against his chest.

'My God, my God, how happy I am to see you,' a faltering voice murmured. 'I'm so afraid! I behaved so stupidly the last time - forgive me, in the name of all that's holy. You must pardon the self-assurance of a woman who had become too enamoured of the role of a breaker of hearts. The signs of attention with which Stanislav Filippovich and Pyotr Ivanovich showered me completely turned my head ... Poor, poor Pierre and Stanislas! How could I ever imagine ...' The whisper became a sob, and a perfectly genuine tear fell on the State Counsellor's shirt, then a second, and then more.

However, Erast Petrovich had no thought of exploiting this psychologically advantageous moment in the interests of the investigation. Gently moving aside the weeping collaborator, he walked into the room and sat down, not on the divan, as he had on the previous occasion, but in an armchair beside the writing desk, on which he could make out the dull gleam of the nickel-plated keys of a typewriter.

Diana was not at all disconcerted by her visitor's restraint. The slim, shapely figure followed Fandorin, halted for a moment in front of the armchair, then suddenly folded in half - and the eccentric lady plumped down on to her knees, raising her clasped hands in supplication.

'Oh, do not be so cold and cruel!' It was astonishing that the whisper in no way restricted the dramatic modulation of her voice - she had obviously been very well trained. 'You cannot imagine how much I have suffered. I have been left completely alone, with no protector, no patron. Believe me, I can be useful and... grateful. Do not go. Stay here with me for a little longer! Console me, dry my tears. I can sense a calm, confident strength in you. Only you can restore me to life. With Burlyaev and Sverchinsky I was the mistress, but with you I can be the slave! I will fulfil your every desire!'

'R-really?' Fandorin asked, looking down on the dark figure. 'Then first of all remove your veil and turn on the light.'

'No, anything but that!' Diana cried, leaping to her feet and shrinking away. 'Any other desire, anything at all, but not that.'

The State Counsellor sat there without speaking, even looking off to one side, which was not very considerate.

'Will you stay?' the femme fatale gasped pitifully, pressing her hands to her breast.

'Unfortunately I cannot. A matter of official duty. I can see that you are in an emotional state, and I do not have the time for a long conversation.'

'Then come this evening,' the voice rustled alluringly. 'I shall be waiting for you.'

'I cannot come this evening either,' Fandorin replied and explained in a confidential tone. 'So that you will not take my refusal as an affront, let me explain what I shall be doing. I have an appointment of a quite different kind, far less romantic. At ten o'clock I am meeting Prince Pozharsky, the Deputy Director of the Police Department. And, just imagine, at the Petrosov Bathhouse. Amusing, isn't it? The price of secrecy. But it does guarantee the absolute confidentiality of our tкte-a-tкte. Room number one, the very best in the whole nobles' section. There, my lady, see in what exotic circumstances the leaders of the investigation are obliged to meet.'

'Then for the time being, just this...' She took one quick step forward, raised her veil slightly and pressed her moist lips against his cheek.

Erast Petrovich shuddered at this touch, gave the collaborator a look of consternation that was almost fright, bowed and walked out.

After that the State Counsellor's behaviour became queerer still.

From Arbat Street he called into the Office of Gendarmes, without any apparent purpose in mind. He drank a cup of coffee with Smolyaninov, who had finally been reduced to the role of telephone operator, for the current state of affairs in the large building on Nikitskaya Street was extremely strange: all the various subsections and services were operating in emergency mode, although in effect there was no one actually in charge.

The temporary boss, Prince Pozharsky, was not sitting at his desk, and if he did drop in, it was only briefly - to listen to a report from the adjutant, to leave some instructions - and then he set out once more for parts unknown.

They remembered the deceased Stanislav Filippovich, spoke about the Lieutenant's wounded arm and the audacity of the terrorists. The Lieutenant was of the opinion that a demonstration of chivalry was called for.

'If I were in Mr Pozharsky's place,' he said fervently, 'I wouldn't send spies and provocateurs to this Green, I would print an appeal in the newspapers: "Stop hunting down us servants of the throne. Stop shooting at us from round corners and throwing bombs that kill innocent people. I am not hiding from you. If you, my dear sir, truly believe that you are right and wish to sacrifice yourself for the good of humankind, then let us meet in an honest duel, for it is also my sacred belief that I am right and I will gladly give my life for Russia. So let us stop spilling Russian blood. Let God or-if you are an atheist-Fate or Destiny decide which of us is right." I'm certain that Green would agree to such terms.'

The State Counsellor listened to the young man's reasoning and asked with a serious expression: 'And what if Green k-kills the prince? Then what?'

'What do you mean?' Smolyaninov exclaimed, wincing in pain as he attempted to wave his wounded arm through the air. Are there more terrorists or defenders of order in Russia? If Pozharsky were to be killed in the duel, then of course Green would have to be allowed to go free - that's a simple matter of honour. But the next day you would challenge him. And if your luck failed, then others would be found.' The young officer blushed. And the revolutionaries would be left with no way out. It would be impossible for them to refuse the challenge, because they would lose their reputation as bold, self-sacrificing heroes in the eyes of society. And soon there would be no terrorists left: all the fanatics would have died in duels, and the others would have been forced to abandon violence.'

'This is the second time just recently that I have had occasion to hear an original idea for the elimination of terrorism. And I'm not sure which of them I prefer,' Fandorin said as he stood up. 'I have enjoyed talking with you, but I must go now. I shall relay your idea to Gleb Georgievich this evening.' He glanced at the empty reception room and lowered his voice. 'For your ears only, in the strictest secrecy: at ten o'clock this evening the prince and I are having a tкte-a-tкte at which our entire plan of future action will be determined - at the Petrosov Bathhouse, in the nobles' section.'

'Why the bathhouse?' the Lieutenant asked, fluttering his silky eyelashes in astonishment.

'For the sake of secrecy. There are private rooms there, no uninvited guests. We have booked the finest room specially -number two. I shall definitely suggest that Pozharsky try the challenge via the newspapers. But, I repeat again, not a word to anyone about our meeting.'

From the Office, Fandorin went to the Department on Gnezdikovsky Lane, where the role of the connecting link between all the various groups of agents was being played by Titular Counsellor Zubtsov, with whom Erast Petrovich drank not coffee but tea. They spoke of the deceased Pyotr Ivanovich, a hot-tempered individual of coarse sensibilities, but honest and sincerely devoted to the cause. They complained about the irreparable damage done to the old capital city's reputation in the eyes of the sovereign by the recent sad events.

'I'll tell you what I can't understand,' Sergei Vitalievich said cautiously. 'The entire investigative machine is working at full capacity, the men get no sleep at night, they're dead on their feet. We're trailing Lobastov, everyone who's unreliable, suspicious or even slightly dubious, reading their post, eavesdropping, peeping and prying. This is all essential routine activity, of course, but somehow we're not following a single line of inquiry. Naturally, my rank doesn't permit me to intrude into the area of higher tactics - that's your area of competence and Gleb Georgievich's, but even so, if I had some idea at least of the main direction of inquiry, then for my part, within the limits of the abilities I have been granted, I could perhaps also be of some use

'Yes, yes,' said Fandorin, nodding. 'Please don't think that the prince and I are concealing anything from you. We both sincerely hold you in the highest regard, and we will immediately involve you in the analytical work, as soon as certain circumstances have been clarified. As a token of my t-trust, I can tell you, in the very strictest confidence, that at ten o'clock this evening Gleb Georgievich and I are having a private meeting at an agreed rendezvous, where we shall determine the very line of which you spoke. The meeting will be confidential, but you will be informed immediately of the outcome. The reason for the secrecy is that' - the State Counsellor leaned forwards slightly -'there is a traitor among our men and we do not yet know who exacdy it is. Today, though, that might well become clear.'

A traitor?' Zubtsov exclaimed. 'Here in the Okhranka?'

'Sh-sh,' said the State Counsellor, putting one ringer to his lips. 'Who he is and where exactly he works is what the prince . and I shall determine today, after we exchange the information we shall have collected. That is why we have arranged to meet so mysteriously in room number three of the nobles' section in the Petrosov Baths, believe it or not.' Erast Petrovich smiled cheerfully and took a sip of cold tea. 'By the way, where is Evstratii Pavlovich?'

The conversation that Fandorin held with Evstratii Pavlovich Mylnikov, whom the State Counsellor tracked down at the temporary observation post he had set up in a dusty attic close to the Lobastov plant, was in part similar to those that had preceded it, and in part different from them, for in addition to the deceased Pyotr Ivanovich, they also discussed the unsuccessful nocturnal operation, the perfidious millionaire and the question of a gratuity for the families of the agents who had been killed. However, the conversation concluded in exactly the same manner: the State Counsellor told the other man the precise time and place of his meeting with the Deputy Director of Police. Only this time he gave a different room number: number four.

And after his visit to the observation post Fandorin did not go on to do anything else at all. He took a cab home, and on the way he whistled an aria from Geisha, a very rare event for Erast Petrovich and a sign of quite uncommon optimism.

In the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, Fandorin and his servant held a long, circumstantial conversation in Japanese. In fact Erast Petrovich did most of the talking and Masa listened, constantly repeating: 'Hai, hai.'

Then he replied to a few questions and went off, serenely calm, to sleep, although it was only shortly after two in the afternoon, and nothing of importance had been achieved.

He slept for a long time, until six o'clock. When he arose, he dined with a good appetite, did a little gymnastics and dressed in a light English sports outfit that did not restrict his movements: a short checked jacket, a close-fitting silk waistcoat, narrow trousers with foot straps.

But that was not the end of Erast Petrovich's toilette: he thrust a small stiletto in a light sheath of oiled paper under the elastic suspender of his right sock; he thrust a Velodog -a miniature pistol invented for bicyclists who are pestered by stray dogs - into a holster on his back, and put his main weapon - a seven-round Herstahl-Baillard, the latest invention from the master-gunsmiths of Liege - into another holster, designed for wearing under the arm.

Fandorin's servant tried to attach to his belt a most sinister-looking steel chain with two heavy spheres attached to it, but the State Counsellor resolutely rejected this unconventional weapon, since the spheres clanged against each other as he walked, and that attracted attention.

'Don't try to do anything yourself,' Erast Petrovich told his faithful helper, not for the first time, as he put on his cloth-covered fur coat in the hallway. 'Just remember which room they go into. Then give the knock we agreed on the door of room six, and I'll let you in. Vakatta’*

'Vakattemas,' Masa replied stoutly. 'De mo—'**

* 'You understand?'

**'I understand ... But—'

He didn't finish what he was saying, because someone rang the doorbell repeatedly and insistently: once, twice, three times.

'That's your new concubine,' the valet sighed. 'No one else rings so impatiently'

'Have you just arrived, or are you going out?' Esfir asked on seeing Erast Petrovich in his coat, with his top hat in his hands. She hugged him and pressed her cheek against his lips. 'You're going out. Your nose is warm. If you had just come in, your nose would be cold. And for some reason you smell of musk. When will you be back? I'll wait; I've missed you terribly'

'Esfir, I asked you to telephone,' Fandorin said, disconcerted. 'I really am going out; I don't know yet when I'll be back. And Masa will be going out soon.'

'I can't stand the telephone,' the black-eyed beauty snapped. 'It's so dead, somehow. And where are you off to?'

'It's a piece of important b-business,' Erast Petrovich replied evasively; then, yielding to a sudden, unaccountable impulse, he added quickly, 'I'm meeting Prince Pozharsky at the Petrosov Baths. In the nobles' section ... room five.'

The State Counsellor's face instantly flushed a deep red and his long eyelashes fluttered guiltily.

'That is, not number f-five, but number six. A slip of the tongue

'My God, what do I care which room you're meeting that villain in? Fine company you've chosen for yourself! In the bathhouse - that's simply charming!' Esfir exclaimed with an angry laugh. 'Male entertainment - I've heard a great deal about that. I expect you'll call in a few girls too. Goodbye, Your Honour; you'll never see me again!' And before Fandorin even had time to open his mouth, the door slammed shut with a deafening thud. There was the sound of heels stamping across the porch, and then snow crunching under running feet.

'Not a woman, but the eruption of Mount Fuji in the fifth year of the age of the Eternal Treasure,' Masa exclaimed admiringly 'So, master, you say I should not take any weapons? Not even my very smallest knife, that can be hidden so conveniently in my loincloth?'

There would have been nowhere to hide the knife in any case, because no one wore a loincloth in the common hall with the pool. The men were completely naked and, to Masa's taste, extremely ugly - as hairy as monkeys and with excessively long arms and legs. One of them was particularly unpleasant to look at, with thick red fur on his stomach and chest. Several times Masa surveyed his own smooth body, so beautifully rounded at the sides. If the learned English sage Tiaruridszu Daruin was right, and man really was descended from a monkey, then the Japanese had progressed much further along that path than the red-hairs.

Masa did not like it in the bathhouse at all. The water was not hot enough, the awkward stone steps gleamed too brighdy, and the wait was dragging on for too long altogether.

In addition to the valet, there were nine other men splashing in the pool. It was hard to say how many of them were bandits. There was one he had no doubt about - sullen, with black hair, a big nose like a Japanese water sprite's and a lean, muscular torso - he had fresh red scars on his side and his chest, and the top of his left ear had been sliced off. Masa's experienced eye had immediately spotted the traces left by glancing blows from a sharp blade. Obviously a yakuza, except that he had no beautiful coloured tattoos. Masa tried to stay as close as possible to this suspicious character. But there were several other bathers who looked entirely peaceable. For instance, the thin, white-skinned youth sitting on the edge not far away. He was toying distractedly with a chain attached to the bronze railing that ran all the way round the pool. The railing was there for people to hold on to, and Masa couldn't understand why they had hooked an iron chain on to it with that ring. But he didn't rack his brains over it, because he had more important business.

There were six doors leading out on to the gallery located behind the columns, just as the diagram had indicated. His master should be behind the last door on the right. The bandits wouldn't try to get in there. They would break down one of the first four doors. He just had to remember which one it was and then run to his master. Nothing could be simpler.

But how would the bandits manage without weapons? Red-hairs didn't know how to kill people with their bare hands; they had to have steel. Where would they get a pistol or a knife in a bathhouse?

'Now,' the man with the scars said unexpectedly.

The shouting and splashing instantly stopped. Four hands grabbed Masa's wonderful sides tightly from behind and pushed him towards the edge, and before the valet could gather his wits, the nice-looking youth had pulled the chain out of the water. At the other end of the chain, there was another iron ring, which was instantly clicked shut around Masa's wrist.

'Gently now, sir,' the youth said. 'Stay here quietly and nothing bad will happen to you.'

'I say, come now, gentlemen; what kind of trick is this?' a voice shouted in outrage. Masa turned round and saw three other men, obviously chance visitors, who had also been chained to the railing in the same way as himself. All the other bathers -six young men, including their leader with the big nose - quickly clambered out of the pool.

That very moment, another two came running in through the doors leading to the changing rooms. They were fully dressed, and both of them were carrying tall heaps of clothes in their hands.

The naked bandits quickly dressed, paying no attention to the outraged shouts of the chained men.

Masa tugged on his chain, but it held firm. It was a pair of genuine handcuffs, the kind used for restraining arrested criminals - why hadn't he guessed sooner? The bandits had come earlier, attached one end of the handcuffs to the rail, dropped the other into the water and then waited for the appointed hour. Their crafty, dishonest trick had deprived Masa of the chance to fulfil his duty. Now the bandits would break into one of the doors, see there was no one there, and start checking all the others, and there was no way he could warn his master.

It was pointless to shout. Firstly, in the gleaming marble hall any howl would shatter into a myriad worthless echoes, mingling with the splashing of the water and the rumbling voices of the bathers. Of course, Masa could shout very, very loud, and perhaps his master would hear his voice through the closed door; but his master would not flee to save himself, he would come hurrying to his aid. And he must not allow that to happen, no matter what!

The conclusion?

Wait until the bandits broke into one of the doors, and then yell with all the power his lungs could muster.

Meanwhile the bandits had put their clothes on, and out of nowhere revolvers had appeared in their hands. Eight men with revolvers - that is too many, thought Masa. If only they had no revolvers, just knives, that would be all right. The two of them could have managed. But this was really bad: the master was alone, there were eight of them, and with guns.

The yakuza chief cocked his revolver and said: 'Pozharsky's tricky. No dawdling, fire immediately. Emelya, Nail, you get the door.'

The two largest bandits went dashing up the marble steps with the others hanging back a little behind them.

They're giving the first two space to run at the door and break it down, Masa guessed, wondering which way they would turn -to the left, towards the first three rooms, or to the right?

They turned to the right. So they had to be going to room number four.

But the bandits who had been allocated the role of battering ram went straight past door number four without giving it a glance. They didn't stop at door number five either.

Even though Masa was standing up to his chest in hot water, he felt a sudden chill of horror.

'Dann-a-a-al Kio tsuke-e-e!'*

* 'Master! Beware!'

Erast Petrovich reached the main entrance of the Petrosov Baths at precisely ten.

'The gentleman's waiting for you in room six,' the attendant announced with a bow. 'No one has arrived in the other five rooms yet.'

'They will,' the State Counsellor replied. 'L-Later on.'

He walked along the wide corridor, up to the piano nobile, along another corridor, round a corner. On his right was the entrance to the ladies' section, on the left the private rooms began, with the service staircase beyond them. Before he entered the room, Fandorin surveyed the location once again and was satisfied. If they needed to withdraw in haste, it was very convenient: one provided covering fire while the other ran to the corner. Then the roles were reversed. Short sprints: the risk of taking a bullet was minimal. And things would probably not get as far as shooting.

'Are there many visitors in the l-ladies' section at about this time?' he asked his guide, just in case.

The man smiled in a most polite manner, with just the slightest hint of playfulness.

'Plenty as yet, but there won't be any more coming in. It's a bit late already for the fair sex.'

'Is this their way in and their way out?' Fandorin asked in alarm.

'Certainly not, sir. The way out's on the other side. Specially arranged. A woman, Your Worship, doesn't take kindly to being observed after the bathhouse, with a towel over her hair. Instead of going out through the main door, they prefer to duck into the sleigh, and adieu!'

Erast Petrovich gave the man a coin and went into his room.

As a young rake awaits his ardent tryst, so have I waited all the day for when ... something or other... in my secret basement!' Pozharsky greeted him boisterously. The naked prince was sitting in an armchair with a cigar clenched in his teeth.

Standing on the table in front of him were a bottle of Cachet Blanc, two glasses and a bowl of fruit, with a newspaper lying open beside them.

'Champagne?' Fandorin asked, raising one eyebrow slightly. 'Do we have some cause for celebration?'

'I do,' Gleb Georgievich replied mysteriously. 'But let's start at the beginning and not get ahead of ourselves. Get your clothes off and take a dip' - he pointed to the small pool in the floor -'and afterwards we'll have a talk. How about you - have you brought any booty?'

Erast Petrovich glanced at the locked door that led into the common hall and replied evasively: 'I shall have some s-soon.'

Pozharsky gave him a curious glance and wound a napkin round the bottle. 'Well, why are you standing there like a buyer at a slave market? Get undressed.'

It had not been Erast Petrovich's intention to get undressed, since his plan envisaged the likelihood of a hasty retreat, but to parade fully clothed in front of a completely naked man seemed stupid and improper. What if the trick completely failed to work? Should he just carry on standing there in his jacket? Fortunately, his comfortable and simple sports costume could be donned in mere seconds - after all he could ignore the leotard, the waistcoat, the cuffs and the collar.

'What's this - are you shy?' The prince laughed. 'That's not at all like you.'

The State Counsellor pulled off his clothes and put them on the divan, placing both revolvers and the stiletto on top of them as if it were an afterthought.

Pozharsky whisded: 'A serious arsenal. I'm a great respecter of prudence. I'm exactly the same. Will you show me your toys later? And I'll show you mine. But business first. Jump in, jump in. One thing is no obstacle to the other.'

Erast Petrovich glanced round at the door again and jumped into the pool, but he didn't splash around in the water for long; instead, he climbed out straight away.

'You're a genuine Antinous,' said the prince, surveying Fan-dorin's physique appreciatively. 'This is a fine outlandish setting we have for an operational conference. To work?'

'To work.'

The State Counsellor sat down in an armchair and lit up a cigar himself, but he kept his leg muscles tensed, ready to leap up just as soon as Masa knocked on the door.

'How was Diana?' Pozharsky asked with a strangely jovial smile. 'Did she confess her sins?'

Fandorin thought the intonation of the question sounded strange, and he paused before replying.

Allow me t-to inform you of my conclusions a little later. I have serious grounds to hope that the m-main culprit will be exposed today'

However, these words failed to produce the anticipated effect on the other man.

'But I know how to find our elusive CG,' the prince parried, 'and very soon now I shall snap it up.'

Erast Petrovich felt himself turning pale. If Pozharsky was telling the truth, it meant that he had found a shorter and more effective way to solve this complex puzzle.

Suppressing his wounded amour propre, Fandorin said: 'C-Congratulations, that is a great success. But how—'

He didn't finish, because at that moment there was a loud shout outside the door. He couldn't make out the words, but there could be no doubt that it was Masa shouting. And that could only mean one thing: the plan had failed, and failed in some extremely unpleasant way.

Erast Petrovich leapt to his feet, about to make a dash for his clothes, but suddenly there was a deafening crash as the door leading to the pool was torn off its hinges by a powerful blow.

Two men came hurtling through into the room, with an entire mob pressing in behind them. Fandorin didn't need a time-and-motion study to realise he would never reach his clothes or his weapons. He could only hope there would be enough time to leap out into the corridor.

Pozharsky pulled a small double-barrelled pistol out from under the newspaper and fired twice. The leading attacker threw his arms up and ran on for a few more steps from sheer inertia, collapsing face down in the pool, and the prince flung away his discharged weapon and dashed after Fandorin with astounding agility.

They flew through the doorway simultaneously, bumping their naked shoulders together. Wood dust showered down on to Erast Petrovich's head as a bullet slammed into the lintel of the door, and the next moment the two leaders of the investigation tumbled out into the corridor. Without even looking round, Pozharsky set off to the right. There was no point in running in the same direction: the initial battle plan with alternating short sprints under covering fire had been rendered meaningless by the lack of any weapons.

The State Counsellor dashed to the left, towards the service stairway, although he had no idea where it led to.

As he grabbed hold of the banister with one hand, crumbs of stone spurted from the wall. Fandorin glanced back briefly, saw three men running after him and sprinted upwards - he had spotted a grille across the steps leading down.

He covered one flight in huge bounds, three steps at a time -a padlocked door. Another two flights - another lock.

He could hear the clatter of hasty footsteps below him.

There was only one more flight now - and there was the dark form of a door on the upper landing.

It was locked! A curved rod of iron, a padlock.

Erast Petrovich grabbed hold of the metal rod and, following the precepts of the teaching of spiritual power, imagined that it was paper. He jerked the feeble rod towards himself, and the lock suddenly flew off to one side, clanging down the stone steps.

There was no rime to celebrate. Fandorin ran into a dark room with a low, slanting ceiling. Through the little windows he could see sloping roof tiles glinting dully in the moonlight.

Another door, but with no lock, and flimsy. One kick was enough.

The Deputy for Special Assignments ran out on to the roof, and for a moment the icy wind took his breath away. But the cold was not the worst thing. A rapid glance around was enough for him to realise that he had absolutely nowhere left to go.

Fandorin dashed to one edge of the roof and saw a brighdy lit street with people and carriages far below.

He rushed to the opposite side. Down below he saw a snow-covered yard.

There was no time left for further exploration. Three shadows detached themselves from the attic superstructure and slowly moved towards the doomed man standing frozen on the edge of the precipice.

'You're a fast runner, Mr State Counsellor,' one of them said when they were still some distance away. Fandorin could not make out his face. 'Let's see if you can fly too.'

Erast Petrovich turned his back to the shadows, because it was painful and senseless to look at them. He glanced down.

Fly?

The highest level of mastery in the clan of the Stealthy Ones, who had taught Fandorin the art of controlling his spirit and his body, was the trick known as 'The Flight of the Hawk'. Erast Petrovich had often perused drawings in old manuscripts, which depicted the technique of this incredible trick in great detail. When the kingdoms of the land of the Root of the Sun fought an internecine war lasting many centuries, the Stealthy Ones were regarded as spies nonpareil. It was nothing to them to scramble up sheer walls, infiltrate a besieged fortress and discover all the secrets of the defence. It was far more difficult, however, to get away with the information gathered. The spies did not always have time to lower a rope ladder, or even a silken cord. It was for this that the Flight of the Hawk had been invented.

The instruction of the teaching was: 'Jump without pushing off, smoothly, so that the gap between you and the wall is two foot lengths, no more and no less. Hold your body perfectly straight. Count to five, then kick your heels hard against the wall, turn over in the air and land, not forgetting to offer a prayer to the Buddha Amida.'

It was said that the masters of olden times could perform the Flight of the Hawk from a wall as high as a hundred siaku, that is fifteen sazhens, but Erast Petrovich did not believe that. With a count of only five, the body would drop no more than five or six sazhens. The somersault that followed would, of course, soften the impact, but even so it could hardly be possible to survive if you jumped from a height of more than seven or eight sazhens, and to survive at all you would have to be blessed with incredible agility and the special favour of the Buddha Amida.

However, this was not an appropriate moment for scepticism. The leisurely footfalls behind him were drawing closer - the nihilist gentlemen had no more reason to hurry now.

How many siakus was this? The State Counsellor tried to work it out. No more than fifty Absolute child's play for a medieval Japanese spy.

Fixing firmly in his mind that he had to jump without pushing off, he drew himself erect and took a step into empty space.

Erast Fandorin found the sensation of flight repugnant. His stomach attempted to leap out through his throat, and his lungs froze, unable to breathe either in or out; but all that was of no consequence. The important thing was to count.

At 'five' Fandorin kicked back as hard as he could with both feet, felt the scorching contact with a hard surface and performed the relatively simple manoeuvre of 'The Attacking Snake', known in the European circus as a double somersault.

In his mind Fandorin had just enough time to recite 'Namu Amida Butsu* before he stopped seeing or hearing anything.

* 'I praise the Buddha Amida'

Later his senses reawoke, but not all of them. It was very cold, there was nothing to breathe and he still couldn't see anything. For a moment Erast Petrovich was afraid that because of his prayer he had been consigned to the Buddhist Hell of Ice, where it is always cold and dark. But it was hardly likely that anyone in the Hell of Ice would know Russian, and that was definitely the language he could hear being spoken by those voices somewhere up in the heavens.

'Schwartz, where is he? He disappeared into thin air.'

"There he is!' cried another voice, very young and clear. 'Lying in a snowdrift! He just flew a long way out.'

It was only then that Fandorin, stunned by his fall, realised that he had not died and not gone blind, but was lying face down in a deep snowdrift. His eyes, his mouth and even his nose were packed with snow, and that was why it was dark and he couldn't breathe.

'Let's go,' someone up above him decided. 'If he's not dead, he must have broken every bone in his body' And the heavens fell silent.

He certainly hadn't broken all his bones - the State Counsellor realised that when he managed to get up on all fours, and then stand erect. Perhaps the art of the Stealthy Ones had saved him, or perhaps the Buddha Amida, but most likely it had been the opportunely located snowdrift.

He staggered across the yard, through the passage, and out into Zvonarny Lane - straight into the arms of a police constable.

'Oh Lordy Lord, people have completely taken leave of their senses,' the constable gasped at the sight of a naked man caked in snow. 'Shooting off guns with no rhyme or reason and bathing in the buff in snowdrifts! Right then, my good sir, it's a night in the station for you.'

Erast Petrovich staggered on a little further, clutching at the lapels of the coarse greatcoat rimed with frost, and began slowly sinking to the ground.

CHAPTER 12

Giraffes

There were problems with the move to a new apartment - the police spies were running such a fine-toothed comb through the whole of Moscow that it was too dangerous to turn to sympathisers for help. There was no way of telling which of them was under surveillance,

They decided to stay at Vorontsovo Polye, especially in view of one consideration: If TG was so well informed about the gendarmes' plans, why make his relationship with the group any more complicated than it was? Whoever the mysterious correspondent might be, and whatever goals he was pursuing, he was clearly an ally, and a truly invaluable one.

The previous day's operation at the Petrosov Baths could hardly have gone worse. First, they had lost Nail, killed outright by a bullet from the deputy director of police. That preternaturally evasive gentleman had got away again, even though Green himself had led the pursuit; and the job with State Counsellor Fandorin had been botched too. Emelya, Schwartz and Nobel should have gone down into the yard and finished him off. The deep snow could have cushioned his fall. It was quite possible that the Governor General's deputy had got away with minor injuries like broken legs and ruptured kidneys.

The evening before, when the Combat Group, its numbers enlarged by the Muscovites who had passed the test of the expropriation, was preparing for the operation at the Petrosov Baths, Needle had brought the chemicals and the detonators from Aronson. So today Green had set up a laboratory in the study and started work on augmenting his arsenal. He made a burner for heating the paraffin out of a kerosene lamp and adapted a coffee-grinder for grinding up the picronitric acid, while the place of a retort was taken by an olive-oil jar, and a samovar made a tolerable stall. Bullfinch made the casings and filled them with screws.

The others took it easy. Emelya was still reading his Count of Monte Cristo and only looked into the study occasionally to share his feelings about what he had read. The novices - Marat, Beaver, Schwartz and Nobel - had nothing to offer in any case. They settled down to a game of cards in the kitchen. Although they were only playing for finger-flicks to the forehead, the game was heated and noisy, with plenty of laughter and shouting. That was all right. They were only young lads, high-spirited - let them have a bit of fun.

Putting together the explosive mixture was painstaking work; it took many hours and required total concentration. One slip of the hand and the entire apartment would be blown sky-high, taking the attic and the roof with it.

Some time after two in the morning, when the process was only half-completed, the telephone rang.

Green picked up the earpiece and waited to see who would speak.

Needle.

'The private lecturer has fallen ill,' she said in a worried voice. 'It's very strange. When I got back from your apartment I took a look at his windows through my binoculars, just to check - in case his generosity with the chemicals might not have gone unnoticed. I saw the curtains were closed.' She suddenly broke off, perturbed by his silence. 'Hello, is that you, Mr Sievers?'

'Yes,' he replied calmly, remembering that closed curtains meant 'disaster'. 'This morning? Why didn't you let me know?'

'What for? If he's been taken, there's nothing we can do to help. We'd only make things worse.'

'Then why now?'

'Five minutes ago one of the curtains was opened!' Needle exclaimed. 'I immediately phoned the Ostozhenka Street apartment and asked for Professor Brandt, as agreed. Aronson said: "I'm afraid you have the wrong number." Then he said it again, as if he was asking me to hurry. His voice sounded pitiful, it was trembling.'

The code phrase meant that Needle should come to the apartment alone - Green remembered that. What could have happened to Aronson?

‘I’ll go,' he said, 'and check.'

'No, you mustn't. It's too risky. And why should you? He can't be in serious danger, and we have to take care of you. I'm going to Ostozhenka Street, and then I'll come to your apartment.'

'All right.'

He went back to his improvised laboratory, but a mounting sense of alarm prevented him from concentrating on the job at hand.

A strange business: first the signal for disaster, and then suddenly an urgent summons. He shouldn't have sent Needle. It was a mistake.

'I'm going out,' he told Bullfinch, and stood up. 'Something I have to do. Emelya's in charge. Don't touch the mixture.'

'Can I go with you?' Bullfinch asked eagerly. 'Emelya's reading, the others are playing cards, what am I going to do? I've done all the tins. I'm bored.'

Green thought for a moment and decided: Why not? If anything went wrong, at least he could warn their comrades.

'If you like. Let's go.'

From the street everything looked clear.

First they drove past in a cab and examined the windows. Nothing suspicious. One curtain closed.

Then they separated and walked along Ostozhenka Street. No idly loitering yard-keepers, no sharp-eyed vendors of spiced honey punch, no one casually strolling by.

The building was definitely not under surveillance.

Somewhat reassured, Green sent Bullfinch to the barber's directly opposite Aronson's entrance - to have the fluff on his cheeks shaved. He told him to sit by the window there and keep an eye on the alarm signal. If the second curtain was opened, he should go up. If nothing happened to the curtains for more than ten minutes, it meant there was an ambush in the apartment and he should leave immediately. There was a brass plate on the door:

PRIVATE LECTURER

SEMYON LVOVICH ARONSON

He stopped beside it and listened for a long time, because there were very strange sounds coming from the apartment: long low howls, as if someone had locked a dog inside. Once there was a very brief, piercing shriek - hard to interpret: it was as if someone had tried to yell at the top of his voice but choked.

People didn't choke on screams for no reason, and Aronson didn't have a dog, so Green took out his revolver and rang the bell. He looked around, weighing up his position: thick walls, solidly built. A shot there on the stairs would be heard, of course, but a shot inside probably wouldn't.

Rapid footsteps in the corridor. Two men.

The chain jangled, the door opened slighdy, and Green struck out with his gun butt, straight between a pair of moist, gleaming eyes.

He shoved the door as hard as he could, jumped over the fallen man (all he noticed was a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up) and saw another man who had staggered back in surprise. He grabbed this man by the throat to stop him shouting and slammed his head against the wall. Then he supported the limp body and let it slide slowly to the floor.

A familiar face: he'd seen that curled moustache and that camlet jacket before somewhere.

'What's happening?' a voice asked from somewhere further inside the apartment. 'Have you got him? Bring him here!'

'Yes, sir!' Green bellowed and ran along the corridor towards the voice - straight ahead and to the right, into the drawing room.

He recognised the third man's pink face and white hair immediately, and at the same time recalled the first two: Staff Captain Seidlitz, the head of General Khrapov's guard, and two of his men. He'd seen them in the carriage at Klin.

The room was full of things that required examination, but there was no time for that now, because when he saw the stranger with a revolver in his hand, the gendarme (not in uniform this time - he was wearing a sandy-coloured three-piece suit) bared his teeth in a scowl and reached under his jacket. Green fired one shot, aiming at the head to finish the job, but his aim was poor. Seidlitz clutched at his throat where the bullet had torn it open, made a gurgling sound and sat down on the floor. His whitish eyes glared balefully at Green. He had recognised him.

Green didn't want to fire again. Why take the risk? He stepped towards the wounded man and smashed in his temple with the butt of his revolver.

Only then did Green allow himself to glance at Aronson and Needle. She was tied to a chair. Her dress was torn across her chest, and he could see the white skin and the shadowy cleavage. There was a gag in her mouth, her lips were split and she had a bruise that was turning blue under her eye. The private lecturer seemed to be in a very bad way. He was sitting at the table with his head lowered on to his arms, swaying rhythmically, howling quietly and insistently.

'One moment,' said Green, and ran back into the corridor. The stunned agents might come round at any moment.

First he finished off the one who was lying motionless on his back. Then he turned to the other, who was slumped against the wall, batting his eyelids senselessly. A swing of the arm, a crunch of bone. It was done.

He ran back to the room and pulled back the curtain to signal to Bullfinch and let in more light.

He didn't touch Aronson - it was obvious he wouldn't get any sense out of him.

He untied Needle and took the gag out of her mouth; carefully dabbed her bleeding lips with his handkerchief.

'Forgive me.' That was the first thing she said. 'Forgive me. I almost got you killed. I always thought I'd never let myself be taken alive, but when they grabbed my elbows and dragged me in here, I simply froze. And I could have done it, when they put me in the chair. I could have pulled out the needle and stuck it in my throat. I've imagined how it would be a thousand times. But I didn't...' She suddenly started sobbing and a tear rolled down across her bruised cheekbone.

'It doesn't matter,' Green reassured her. 'Even if you had done it, I'd still have come anyway. So it's all right.'

His explanation failed to console Needle; on the contrary, it only upset her more. Tears started streaming from both her eyes.

'Would you really have come?' she said, asking a question that made no sense.

Green didn't even bother to answer it. 'What is all this?' he asked. 'What's wrong with Aronson?'

Needle tried to pull herself together. 'That's the head of Khrapov's guard. I didn't realise at first; I thought he was from the Okhranka. But they don't act like this. He's some kind of madman. They've been here since yesterday evening. They were talking; I heard them. The white-haired one wanted to find you. He's scoured the whole of Moscow.' Her voice was firmer now; her eyes were still wet, but the tears had stopped flowing. Aronson's apartment was under secret surveillance by the Okhranka for days. Obviously since the business with Rahmet. And he' - she nodded again towards the dead staff captain -'bribed the police agent who was in charge of the observation.'

'Seidlitz,' Green explained. 'His name's Seidlitz.'

'The police agent?' Needle asked, astonished. 'How do you know?'

'No, that one,' he said with a sharp nod, annoyed with himself at having wasted time on an irrelevant detail. 'Go on.'

'Yesterday the agent told Seidlitz that I'd been here to see Aronson and left with some kind of bundle. An agent tried to follow me, but he failed. I didn't see the tail, but just in case I turned into a tricky little passage on Prechistenka Street. A habit.'

Green nodded, because he had the same kind of habits himself.

'When the agent told Seidlitz, he suddenly turned up here with two of his men and they tortured Aronson all night long.

He held out until the morning, and then broke down. I don't know what they did to him, but you can see for yourself... He just sits there like that. Rocking to and fro, howling

Bullfinch came running in from the corridor. White-faced and wide-eyed. 'The door's open!' he shouted. 'There are bodies!' Then he saw what was in the drawing room, and fell silent.

'Close the door,' said Green. 'Drag those two in here.'

He turned back to Needle. 'What did they want?'

'From me? They wanted me to say where you were. Seidlitz only asked questions and swore; it was that one, with his sleeves rolled up, who beat me.' (Bullfinch, deadly pale, was just dragging the agent in the white shirt across the parquet floor.) 'Seidlitz asked and I didn't answer; then that one beat me and held my mouth shut, so that I couldn't scream.' She put her hand to her cheekbone and frowned.

'Don't touch,' said Green. 'I'll do it. But him first.'

He went across to the deranged private lecturer and touched him on the shoulder.

Aronson straightened up with a sickening howl and shrank back against the armrest of his chair. The swollen, unrecognisable face gazed at Green with a single, wildly goggling eye. There was a gaping crimson hole where the other eye should have been.

'A-a-a,' Aronson sobbed. 'It's you. Then you have to kill me. Because I'm a traitor. And because I can't go on living any more anyway.' The private lecturer's words were hard to understand, because his mouth was full of short, pointed stumps instead of teeth.

'At first they just beat me. Then they hung me upside down. Then they drowned me. It all happened in the bathroom, there ...' He pointed towards the corridor with a trembling finger.

Green saw that Aronson's shirt was streaked with dried blood. There were spots on his fingers too, even on his trousers.

'They're totally insane. They don't understand what they're doing. I could have stood anything - prison and hard labour, honestly.' The private lecturer grabbed hold of Green's hand.

'But I can't go on without my eyes! I've always been afraid of going blind, ever since I was a child! You can't even imagine ...' He started shaking all over, swaying and whimpering again. Green had to shake him by the shoulders.

The private lecturer came to his senses and started lisping again: 'The albino said - it was morning, and I'd thought the night would never end - he said: "Where's Needle? I'm only going to ask you again twice. After the first time, I'll burn out your left eye with acid, and after the second time, I'll burn out your right eye. The same as your people did to Shverubovich." I didn't say anything. Then ...' A dull sob erupted from deep in Aronson's chest. 'And then he asked the second time and I told him everything. I couldn't stand any more! When she telephoned, I could have warned her, but I didn't care any longer

He grabbed hold of Green with his other hand as well and implored him in a frantic whisper: 'What you have to do is shoot me. I know that's nothing for you. I'm finished now in any case. A broken man, with only one eye, and after this' - he jerked his chin towards the dead bodies - 'I'm a dead man. They'll never forgive, and your people won't either.'

Green freed his hands and said severely: 'If you want to shoot yourself, go ahead. Take Seidlitz's revolver over there. But it's stupid. And there's nothing to forgive. Everyone has his limits. And you can be useful to the cause even with one eye. Even with no eyes at all.'

'I probably wouldn't have held out either,' said Needle. 'It's just that they hadn't really tortured me yet.'

'You'd have held out.' Green turned away from both of them to give Bullfinch his instructions. 'Take him to the hospital. He's a chemist. An explosion in his private laboratory. Then leave immediately.'

'What about this?' Bullfinch pointed to the bodies.

'I'll handle it.'

When the two of them were left on their own, he started tending her face.

He brought a bottle of alcohol and some cotton wool from the bathroom (it was bad in there - blood everywhere and pools of vomit). He washed the grazes and gently brushed ointment on the bruise.

Needle sat there with her head thrown back and her eyes closed. When Green gently parted her lips with his fingers, she submissively opened her mouth. He carefully touched her teeth, so white and even. One right incisor wobbled, but not much. It would set back in.

Green had to unfasten her torn dress even further. He saw a blue spot below her collarbone and pressed gently on the fine, tender skin over the bone. Not broken.

Needle suddenly opened her eyes. As she looked up at him her gaze was confused, even frightened. Green felt his throat tighten, and he forgot to remove his hand from her exposed breast.

'You're scratched,' Needle said in a quiet voice.

He involuntarily put his hand over his scratched cheek, a reminder of the stupid failure at the baths.

And I'm all battered and beaten. I look horrible, don't I?' I'm plain enough anyway. Why are you looking at me like that?'

Green blinked guiltily, but he didn't look away. She didn't look plain to him at all now, although the blue patch on her cheekbone was growing more distinct by the moment. He couldn't believe he had thought this face was lifeless and withered. It was full of life and feeling, and he had been wrong about Needle's colour: it wasn't a cold grey; it was warm, with a hint of turquoise. Her eyes turned out to be turquoise too, and they had the frightening ability to look deep into Green's soul and draw the long-forgotten, irrevocably faded azure back up to the surface.

The fingers that were still pressed against her skin suddenly felt hot. Green tried to pull them away, but he couldn't. And then Needle put her hand over his. The contact made both of them tremble.

'It's impossible ... I swore to myself... It's absolutely pointless ... It will pass in a moment, just a moment ...' she murmured incoherently.

'Yes, it's pointless. Absolutely,’ he agreed fervently.

He leaned down impulsively, pressed his lips against her swollen ones, and felt the taste of blood on his tongue ...

Before they left, Green paused in the doorway so that he would never forget the strange place where this thing he was afraid to name had happened.

An overturned armchair. The rolled-up edge of a carpet. Three bloody bodies. A harsh smell of kerosene and a very faint odour of gunpowder.

Needle said something unexpected. Something that made Green shudder.

'If there's a child ... what will it be like after this?'

Green lit the match and threw it on the floor. The dancing flame traced a bright blue trail across the drawing room.

Night. Quiet.

Apart from Emelya, rustling the pages of his book in the study, everyone was sleeping.

In the bedroom Green sat beside the bed, looking at Needle. She was breathing regularly, occasionally smiling at something in her sleep. He couldn't leave her - she was holding on tight to his hand.

He sat there like that for an hour and ten minutes. Four thousand, two hundred and seventeen beats of his heart.

After what had happened, Needle couldn't be allowed to go home, and so Green had brought her to the secret apartment. She hadn't said a word all evening, hadn't joined in the conversations, just smiled a gentle smile he had never seen before. Before that day he had never seen her smile at all.

Then they had started getting ready for bed. The lads had settled down on the floor in the drawing room, giving up the bedroom to the woman. Green had said he was going to finish preparing the explosive mixture.

He went in to see Needle. She took hold of his hand and lay there, looking at him, for a long time. They didn't say anything.

When she did speak it was brief, something unexpected again: 'We're like a pair of giraffes.' And she laughed quietly.

'Why giraffes?' he asked, frowning because he didn't understand.

'When I was little I saw a picture in a book: two giraffes; gangling and clumsy; standing there with their necks twined together, the ungainly creatures, looking as if they didn't know what to do next.'

Needle closed her eyes and fell asleep, and Green thought about what she had said. When her fingers finally trembled and released their grip, he cautiously got to his feet and walked out of the bedroom. He really did have to finish making the explosive jelly.

As he stepped out into the corridor, he happened to glance in the direction of the hallway and froze on the spot.

Another white rectangle. Lying below the slit in the door. A letter:

You botched it. You let them both get away. But you have a chance to redeem your error. Pozharsky and Fandorin are having another secret meeting tomorrow. In Briusov Square, at nine in the morning.

TG

Green caught himself smiling. Even more astonishing was the thought that had just come to him.

God did exist after all. His name was TG, he was an ally of the revolution and he had a Remington No. 5 typewriter.

Wasn't that what they called a 'joke'?

Something was changing, in him and in the world around him. For the better or for the worse - he couldn't tell.

CHAPTER 13

in which something appropriately unlucky happens

When he came round and saw a white open space with a bright yellow sphere at its centre, Erast Petrovich did not immediately realise that he was looking at a ceiling and the globe of an electric light. He turned his head a little (it transpired that his head was lying on a pillow, and he himself was lying in a bed) and his gaze encountered a gentleman who was sitting beside him and observing him very keenly. The man seemed vaguely familiar, but the State Counsellor could not immediately recall where he had seen him, especially since the man's appearance was entirely uninteresting: small facial features, a neat parting, an unpretentious grey jacket.

I ought to ask where I am, why I'm lying down and what the time is, Erast Petrovich thought; but before he could say anything the man in the grey jacket got up and walked out quickly through the door.

He would have to try to find the answers himself. He started with the most important question: why was he in bed?

Was he wounded? Ill?

Erast Petrovich moved his arms and legs, paying close attention to his body's reaction, but failed to discover anything alarming, except for a certain reluctance in his joints, such as there might be after heavy physical work or a concussion.

Immediately he remembered: the baths, the jump from the roof, the police constable.

Obviously, his conscious mind had spontaneously switched off and he had been plunged into the deep sleep that his spirit and its corporeal shell required in order to recover from the shock.

The swoon could hardly have lasted more than a few hours. The electric light and the drawn curtains indicated that the night was not yet over. But he still had to determine precisely where they had brought the naked man who had fainted in that chilly side street.

To all appearances, this was a bedroom, only not in a private home but in an expensive hotel. Fandorin was led to this conclusion by the monogram adorning the carafe, glass and ashtray standing on the elegant bedside table.

Erast Petrovich picked up the glass to take a closer look at the monogram: the letter 'L' under a crown. The symbol of the Loskutnaya Hotel.

That finally made everything clear: this was Pozharsky's room.

It also revealed the identity of the unremarkable gentleman: he was one of the 'guardian angels' who had been striding along behind Gleb Georgievich during their recent conversation.

The questions now answered were replaced by a new one: what had happened to the prince? Was he alive?

The answer came immediately - the door swung open and the deputy director of police himself rushed into the room, not only alive, but apparently quite unharmed.

'Well, at last!' he exclaimed in sincere delight. 'The doctor assured me that there was nothing broken and your faint was the result of nervous shock. He promised that you would soon recover consciousness, but you stubbornly refused to come round - it was quite impossible to rouse you. I'd begun to think you were going to turn into a genuine sleeping beauty and ruin my entire plan. You have been reclining at your leisure for a whole day and night! I never thought you had such delicate nerves.'

So this was the next night. Following the Flight of the Hawk Erast Petrovich's spirit and corporeal shell had required more than twenty-four hours of rest.

'I have some questions,' the State Counsellor hissed inaudibly.

He cleared his throat and said it again, in a voice that was hoarse but intelligible. 'I have some questions. Before we were interrupted, you said that you had picked up the Combat Group's trail. How did you manage that? That is one. What measures have you taken while I was sleeping? That is two. What is this plan of which you speak? That is three. How did you manage to escape? That is four.'

'I escaped in an original manner, which I omitted to describe in my report to our supreme ruler. By the way' - Pozharsky raised one finger significantly - 'there has been a fundamental change in our status. Following yesterday's attempt on our lives, we are now obliged to inform His Imperial Highness's chancellery directly of the progress of the investigation. Ah, look who I'm telling! A man like you, so far removed - as yet - from the exalted empyrean of St Petersburg, is quite incapable of appreciating the significance of this event.'

'I take your word for it. Then what was this manner? You were undressed and unarmed, as I was. You ran to the right, in the direction of the main entrance, but you wouldn't have had time to reach it; the terrorists would have filled your back full of holes.'

'Of course. And therefore I did not run towards the main entrance,' Gleb Georgievich said with a shrug. 'Naturally, I ducked into the ladies' section. I managed to skip through the changing room and the soaping room, although my indecent state provoked a great hullabaloo. But the fully clothed gentlemen who were chasing after me were less fortunate. The entire wrath of humanity's lovelier half was unleashed on their heads. I believe my pursuers were given a taste of boiling water, and sharp nails, and fierce jabs. In any case, there was no longer anyone pursuing me along the alley, although the promenading public did pay my modest person certain signs of attention. Fortunately, I did not have to run far to reach the police station, otherwise I should have been transformed into a snowman. The most difficult thing was persuading the officer in charge that I was the deputy director of police. But how did you manage to get out? - I've been racking my brains over that; I've combed every nook and cranny at Petrosov's, but I still can't understand it. The only place you can reach by the stairway that you ran up is the roof!'

'I was simply lucky,' Erast Petrovich replied evasively, and shuddered at the memory of that step into the empty void. He had to admit that the cunning Petersburgian had found a simpler and more ingenious way out of their difficulty.

Pozharsky opened the wardrobe and started throwing clothes on to the bed.

'Choose whatever fits you. And in the meantime, tell me this. Back there in room number six, you said that you were expecting the answer to the riddle very shortly. Does that mean you had anticipated the possibility of an attack? And was it supposed to tell you who the traitor is?'

Fandorin paused before he nodded.

And who exactly was it?'

The prince looked searchingly at the State Counsellor, who had suddenly gone very pale.

'You have still not answered all of my questions,' Fandorin said eventually.

'Very well, then.' Pozharsky sat down on a chair and crossed his legs. 'I'll start from the very beginning. Naturally, you were right about the double agent, I realised that immediately. And, like yourself, I had only one suspect: our mysterious Diana.'

'B-But then why—'

Pozharsky raised his hand to indicate that he had anticipated the question and was about to answer it.

'So that you would not be concerned about any rivalry from my side. I confess, Erast Petrovich, that I am something of a moral freethinker. But then, you've known that for a long time already. Did you really think that I would go chasing around like a little puppy-dog, asking all the police agents and cab drivers idiotic questions? No, I inconspicuously installed myself in your wake, and you led me to the modest little townhouse on Arbat Street where our Medusa has her lodging. And don't go raising your eyebrows so indignantly! Of course, what I did was improper, but you know, your behaviour was not exacdy comradely, was it? - telling me about Diana, but keeping the address secret? Is that what "working together" means?'

Fandorin decided it would be pointless to take offence. Firstly, this descendant of the Varangians had absolutely no concept of what conscience was. And secondly, it was his own fault - he ought to be more observant.

'I gave you the right of the first night,' the prince said with a mischievous smile. 'You, however, did not linger for long in the delightful rose's abode. But when you left the said abode you had such a satisfied look that I felt quite wickedly envious. Could Fandorin really have gutted her already, I wondered, as quickly as that? But no, from the way the enchantress behaved, I realised that you had come away with nothing.'

'You spoke with her?' asked the State Counsellor, astonished.

Pozharsky laughed, apparently deriving genuine pleasure from this conversation.

'Not only spoke - Good Lord, his eyebrows have shot up again! You have a reputation as Moscow's leading Don Juan, and yet you don't understand women at all. Our poor Diana had been orphaned; she suddenly felt abandoned and unwanted. She used to have such distinguished, influential suitors hovering around her, but now she was just an ordinary collaborator, except that she had taken her dangerous game too far. Did she not try to make you her new protector? There, I can see from your blush that she did. I am not so conceited as to imagine that she fell in love with me at first glance. But you spurned the poor woman, and I did not. For which I was rewarded in full measure. Ladies, Erast Petrovich, are at the same time far more complicated and far simpler than we think.'

'Then Diana was the traitor?' Fandorin gasped. 'It's not possible!'

'She was, she was, my dear chap. In psychological terms it is very easy to explain, especially now, when all the circumstances have become clear. She imagined that she was Circe, the sovereign mistress of all men. It was exceedingly flattering to her vanity that she could toy just as she chose with the fate of such dread organisations, and the very Empire itself. I believe that gave Diana quite as much erotic pleasure as her amorous adventures did. Or, rather, they complemented each other.'

'But how did you manage to make her c-confess?' asked Erast Petrovich, still stunned.

'I told you: women are constituted far more simply than Messrs Turgenev and Dostoevsky would have us believe. Forgive my vulgar boasting, but in the hierarchy of love, I am not a mere aide-de-camp, but a field marshal at least. I know how to drive a woman insane, especially if she is greedy for sensual pleasure. At first I employed all my talents to transform Mademoiselle Diana into a melting ice cream, then I was suddenly transformed from syrup into steel. I adduced the facts in my possession and frightened her a little, but most effective of all was the sunlight. I drew back the curtains and her strength was drained completely, like a vampire's.'

'B-But why? Did you see her face? And who was she?'

'Oho, you'll find that very interesting,' said the prince, laughing at something or other. 'You'll realise straightaway what all the mystery was about. But we'll come back to that later. Well then, it turned out that Diana was getting secret information from Burlyaev and Sverchinsky and transmitting it to the terrorists in the Combat Group by means of notes. She signed her notes "TG", which means Terpsichore the Goddess, who, as you no doubt remember, lived with the other Muses on Mount Helicon. Quite an original touch of humour, don't you think?' Pozharsky sighed. 'It was only afterwards that I realised why she launched into her confessions so readily. She knew about our meeting at the baths and was certain that neither you nor I would emerge from it alive. She calculated that I would want to use her to catch the terrorists. And she was right. An artful creature, I grant her that. No doubt she had a good laugh at my air of triumph as well.'

'So you told her that you and I would be in room number six?' Erast Petrovich asked, his face brightening.

But the bright little ray of hope was immediately extinguished.

'That's just the point: I didn't. I didn't tell Diana anything about that at all. But she did know about our meeting, there's no doubt at all about it. Later that night, when I went back to Diana's, ablaze with the thirst for vengeance, she gaped at me as if I had risen from hell. That was when I realised. She knew, the vile beast, she knew. But this time I acted more cleverly and left one of my men to watch her. While one was here, on guard duty with you, the other was watching Diana. But really, how did she find out about room number six?' Pozharsky asked, returning to the unpleasant subject. 'You didn't tell anyone in the Department or the Office, did you? She must have someone else, apart from Burlyaev and Sverchinsky.'

'No, I didn't t-tell anyone in the Department or the Office about room number six,' Fandorin replied, choosing his words carefully.

The prince inclined his head to one side: his straw-coloured hair and his coal-black eyes made him look like a performing poodle.

'Well, well. And now for my plan, in which you have been given absolutely the most pivotal part to play. Thanks to the insidious Diana, we know where the Combat Group is hiding. In fact the apartment belongs to Diana, but our collaborator has not lived there for a long time. She finds life more interesting beneath an official roof.'

'You know where the CG is hiding?' Erast Petrovich froze with his arm halfway into the sleeve of a blue frock coat that appeared to be cut to his size. 'And you haven't detained them yet?'

'Do I look to you like that idiot Burlyaev, God rest his soul?' the prince asked with a reproachful shake of his head. 'There are seven of them, all armed to the teeth. It would be another battle of Borodino; we'd have to rebuild Moscow again afterwards, like they did in the twelfth century. No, Erast Petrovich. We'll take them nice and neatly, and choose a time and place that suit us.'

Having finished dressing, Fandorin sat down on the bed, facing the enterprising deputy director of police, and prepared to listen.

'This evening, about three hours ago, another note was left at our partisans' apartment. What it said was: "You botched it. You let them both get away. But you have a chance to redeem your error. Pozharsky and Fandorin are having another secret meeting tomorrow. In Briusov Square, at nine in the morning." After the miraculous agility that you and I demonstrated at the baths, Mr Green will throw his entire army against us, we need have no doubt about that. Do you know Briusov Square, with the public park?'

'Yes. An excellent place f-for an ambush,' the State Counsellor admitted. 'In the morning it is empty; no innocent bystanders will be hurt. Blank walls on three sides. The marksmen can be positioned on the roofs.'

And on the battlements of the St Simeon Monastery - the archimandrite has already given his blessing for such a godly cause. As soon as they enter the square, we seal off the street too. We'll manage without any gendarmes. At dawn the Flying Squad arrives from St Petersburg, I've summoned them. They're genuine Mamelukes, the cream of the Police Department, the best of the best: Not a single terrorist will get away; we'll wipe them out to the last man.'

Erast Petrovich frowned: 'Without even t-trying to arrest them?'

Are you joking? We have to fire without warning, in salvoes. Shoot them all, like mad dogs. Otherwise we'll lose some of our men.'

'It's our men's job to risk their lives,' the State Counsellor declared obstinately. And it's illegal to carry through an operation like this without giving them a chance to lay down their arms.'

'Damn you, then we'll give them a chance. Only you must realise that the risk to you will be greater as a result.' Pozharsky smiled mischievously and explained: 'Under the plan of action you, my dearest Erast Petrovich, have been awarded the honourable role of the live bait. You will sit on a bench, supposedly waiting for me. Let the CG start to nibble and move in a bit closer to you. They won't kill you before I put in an appearance. After all - pardon my lack of modesty - for them the deputy director of police is a daintier morsel than a Moscow functionary, even if he does deal with special assignments. But I shall not present myself to their gaze until the trap has snapped shut. I shall observe all the requirements of the law. Of course, they won’t even think of surrendering, but my announcement will be the signal for you to jump up and take shelter’

T-Take shelter? Where?' asked Fandorin, screwing up his blue eyes. He had found Gleb Georgievich's plan excellent in absolutely every respect, except one: for a certain State Counsellor the road from the park in Briusov Square would lead directly to the cemetery.

'Did you think I'd decided to leave you there, facing a hail of bullets?' Pozharsky asked in an offended tone. 'All the preparations have already been made; they couldn't possibly be improved upon. You sit on the third bench from the entrance to the square. To the right of it is a snowdrift. And under the snow is a pit. In fact, it's the beginning of a trench that leads back all the way to the street. They're going to lay sewer pipes in it. I ordered the trench to be covered over with boards and then piled over with snow, it's invisible now. But there's only thin plywood under the snowdrift beside the bench. As soon as I appear in the square, you jump straight into the snow and astound the watching terrorists by disappearing through the ground. Then you make your way along the trench under the battlefield to the street and climb out, without a scratch. How's that for a plan?' the prince asked proudly, and then suddenly became concerned. 'Or perhaps you're not well after all? Or you don't wish to expose yourself to such a risk. If you are afraid, then speak out. No need to put on a brave face.'

'It's a good p-plan. And the risk is quite moderate.'

Fandorin was in the grip of a feeling stronger than fear. The imminent operation, the risk, the shooting - they were all trifles in comparison with the weight that had suddenly come crashing down on Erast Petrovich: the terrorists had burst into room number six, not any other, and there could be only one explanation ...

'I have a suggestion,' said the prince, pulling his watch out of his waistcoat pocket by the chain. The hour is already late, but I assume you have slept your fill, and I can never get to sleep before a serious operation. Nerves. Why don't we pay a visit to our lovely little recluse? I'll show her to you in the light. I can promise you will find the effect most impressive.'

The State Counsellor gritted his teeth. These final words, which seemed to him to be spoken in a deliberately casual manner, had finally torn the veil away from poor Erast Petrovich's eyes.

Oh God! How could You be so cruel"?

That was the reason for the darkness and the veil, the reason for the whispering!

And Pozharsky's behaviour finally made sense. Why would such an ambitious man have waited until his colleague finally came round? He could have invented a different plan of operations, without involving the Moscow functionary at all. Then he would not have had to share the glory. But apparendy he would not have to anyway. The last thing Fandorin would be interested in was glory.

Pozharsky was not merely a careerist. Success in his job was not enough for him: he needed the feeling of victory over everything and everyone. He always had to be the first. And now he had an excellent opportunity to trample down and destroy a man whom he was bound to see as a serious rival.

And there was nothing with which Fandorin could reproach the prince - except perhaps excessive cruelty; but that was an intrinsic feature of his character.

The doomed State Counsellor got to his feet, ready to drain the cup of humiliation to the dregs.

'Very well, let's go.'

The door of the Arbat Street townhouse opened as they approached. A quiet gentleman, who looked very much like the one who had been sitting by the bed, bowed briefly and announced: 'She's in the study. I locked the door. I took her to the water closet once. She asked for water twice. That's all.' 'I see, Korzhikov. You can go back to the hotel. Catch up on your sleep. His Excellency and I will manage on our own here.' And he winked conspiratorially at Erast Petrovich, provoking in him a fleeting but very powerful desire to take the scoffer's neck in both hands and snap the vertebrae that link together body and soul.

'Now, I shall introduce you anew to the celebrated breaker of men's hearts, actress of unsurpassed talent and mysterious beauty' Pozharsky laughed malevolently as he set off up the stairs first.

He unlocked the familiar door, stepped inside and turned the lever of the gas bracket. The room was flooded with gently flickering light.

'Well, mademoiselle, why don't you turn round?' Gleb Georgievich asked derisively, addressing an individual whom Fandorin, still in the corridor, could not see.

'What!' the prince suddenly roared. 'Korzhikov, you dolt, I'll see you in court for this!'

He darted into the room and from the doorway the State Counsellor saw a slim female figure standing motionless, facing the window. The woman's head was inclined melancholically to one side, and the figure only appeared motionless at first glance. A second glance revealed that it was swaying slightly from side to side, and the feet were not quite touching the floor.

'Esfir...' Erast Petrovich whispered, overcome. 'Oh God ...'

The prince took a knife out of his pocket, slashed the rope, and the body slumped to the floor, flapping its arms with the inanimate grace of a rag doll and banging its forehead against the parquet floor before becoming truly motionless.

Ah, damn.' Pozharsky squatted down and clicked his tongue in annoyance. 'She had outlived her usefulness, but even so it's a pity. She was a quite remarkable character. And I wanted to give you a little treat ... Well, now's there's nothing to be done, you'll see this beauty already withered and faded.'

He took the dead woman by the shoulders and turned her on to her back.

Erast Petrovich involuntarily squeezed his eyes shut, but then, ashamed of his own weakness, he forced himself to open them.

The sudden shock of what he saw made him squeeze them shut again. And then he began fluttering his eyelashes in consternation.

Fandorin had never seen the woman lying on the floor before -once seen, a face like that could never be forgotten. One half of it was perfectly normal and even rather pretty in a way, but the features of the other half were flattened and squashed, so that the slit of the eye was set almost vertically, and the cheek bone overlapped the ear.

Pozharsky laughed, very pleased with the effect produced.

'Lovely, isn't she, the she-devil? A birth trauma. The obstetrician grabbed her clumsily with the forceps. Now do you understand Mademoiselle Diana's reason for behaving the way she did? What else could she feel for the men who recoiled from her in horror in the light of day? What else but hate? That's why she liked to live in this enchanted castle, this realm of gloom and silence. Here she was not an unfortunate freak, but the most radiant beauty that any man's imagination could possibly conjure up. Brrrr!' Gleb Georgievich shuddered as he looked at that terrible mask and complained. 'It's all very well for you, but when I think that I spent half of yesterday gratifying a monster like that, it gives me the shivers.'

Erast Petrovich stood there in state of total emotional numbness, still stunned by the shock, but he already knew that the first emotion he would feel as soon as his heart recovered slightly would be acute shame.

'But then, it's quite possible that in hell, where the newly departed has undoubtedly gone, it is precisely her kind that are regarded as the foremost beauties,' the prince remarked philosophically. Anyway, our plan remains in force, Erast Petrovich. Don't forget: the snowdrift is on the right.'

CHAPTER 14

The pit

Pozharsky was late.

Six minutes past nine. Green put his watch back in the pocket of his greatcoat. His Colt was in there too, and his fingers folded firmly round the comfortably fluted butt.

The revolution wasn't in such a bad way after all, if the top brass of the criminal investigation authorities were obliged to meet like conspirators, in secret from their own subordinates. The enemy's camp had been plunged into alarm and uncertainty; everyone there was afraid of his own shadow; they didn't trust anyone. And they were right not to.

Or did they have their suspicions about TG?

It was all very simple. No cause could ever triumph if its supporters were more concerned for their own well-being than anything else. That was why the victory of the revolution was inevitable.

Only you won't live to see it, Green reminded himself, in order to drive that azure blue back deep inside, the azure that had been struggling so hard to rise to the surface after what had happened yesterday. You are a match, and. you've already been burning for longer than usual. And you yourself excluded the joys of life from your own existence.

State Counsellor Fandorin was sitting on the next bench, tapping one glove on his knee in his boredom, gazing at the jackdaws hopping about in the branches of an old oak tree.

This handsome, foppishly dressed man was about to die. And it would be impossible ever to find out what he had been thinking about during the final minutes of his life.

Green shuddered at this unexpected thought. When you're training your sights on the enemy, you mustn't think about his mother and his children, he thought, reminding himself of what he had told Bullfinch many times. Once a man had put on the enemy's uniform, he was no longer a civilian, but a soldier.

The greatcoat that Green was wearing was thick, made of good cloth. Nobel had brought it from home - his father was a retired general. Needle had glued on Green's grey moustache and sideburns - an excellent disguise.

There was Bullfinch walking along the path of the park, dressed as a grammar-school boy. He was supposed to have checked the street to make sure everything was clear. As he walked past, he nodded lightly and then sat down on the bench beside Fandorin. He scooped up some fresh snow and crammed it into his mouth. He was nervous.

Nobel and Schwartz were scraping down the avenue with spades. Emelya was standing on the other side of the railings, pretending to be a police constable. Marat and Beaver, dressed in artisans' kaftans and felt boots, were playing at stick-knife right beside the entrance to the park. Pozharsky and Fandorin had chosen an excellent time for their talk: no strollers, not even any chance passers-by.

'You can go whistle for your three kopecks! That for your money,' Marat shouted, cocking a snook and jumping to one side. And he set off along the avenue, whistling, casually sticking his hands in his pockets as he went.

That was the signal; it meant Pozharsky had shown up.