Fandorin in English 1-10

They were sewn for me ten years ago by an old Jew in Sophia. As he fleeced me of ten lire, he said: 'Monsieur, long after the burdock is growing thick over my grave, you will still be wearing these boots and remembering old Isaac with a kindly word.'

Less than a year passed before the heel of the left boot fell off in the excavation site of an Assyrian city in Mesopotamia. I was obliged to return to camp alone. As I hobbled across the burning sand, I cursed that old swindler from Sophia in the vilest possible terms and swore that I would burn those boots on the campfire.

The British archaeologists I was working with at the site never did get back to the camp. They were attacked by the horsemen of Rifat-bek, who regard all infidels as children of Satan, and every last one of them was butchered. I did not burn the boots,- instead I replaced the heel and ordered silver heel-plates.

In 1873, in the month of May, while I was on my way to Khiva, my guide Asaf decided to appropriate my watch, my rifle and my black Akhaltekin stallion Yataghan. At night, while I lay sleeping in my tent, Asaf dropped a carpet viper, whose bite is deadly, into my left boot. But the toe of the boot was gaping wide open, and the viper crawled away into the desert. In the morning Asaf himself told me what had happened, because he saw the hand of Allah in it.

Six months later the steamship Adrianople ran on to rocks in the Gulf of Therma. I drifted along the shoreline for two and a half leagues. The boots were pulling me down to the bottom, but I did not take them off, for I knew that act would be tantamount to capitulation, and then I would never reach land. Those boots gave me the strength not to give in. And I was the only one who made it ashore; everyone else was drowned.

Now I find myself in a place where men are being killed. The shadow of death hangs over us every day. But I am calm. I put on my boots, which in ten years have changed their colour from black to red, and even under fire I feel as though I am gliding across gleaming parquet in my dancing shoes.

And I never allow my horse to trample burdock - just in case it might be growing over old Isaac's grave.

Varya had been working with Fandorin for two days now. She had to try to get Petya released and, according to Erast Petrovich, there was only one way to do that: find the true culprit in the case. So Varya herself had implored the titular counsellor to take her as his assistant.

Things looked bad for Petya. They would not allow Varya to see him, but she knew from Fandorin that all the evidence was against the cryptographer. After receiving the commander-in-chief's order from Kazanzaki, Yablokov had set about encoding it immediately and then, following standing orders, he had personally delivered the message to the telegraph office. Varya suspected that the absent-minded Petya could very well have confused the two towns, especially as everyone knew about the Nikopol fortress, but hardly anyone had ever heard of the little town of Plevna before. Kazanzaki, however, did not believe in absent-mindedness, and Petya himself stubbornly insisted that he clearly remembered encoding the name Plevna, because it sounded so funny. The worst thing of all was that, according to Erast Petrovich, who had attended one of the interrogation sessions, Yablokov was quite clearly hiding something, and doing it very clumsily indeed. Varya was well aware that Petya simply did not know how to lie. As things stood a court martial seemed inevitable.

Fandorin's way of seeking out the true culprit was rather strange. In the morning he arrayed himself in idiotic striped tights and performed a long sequence of English gymnastics. He lay for days at a time on his camp bed, occasionally visiting the headquarters operations section, and in the evenings he could always be found sitting in the journalists' club. He smoked cigars, read his book, drank wine without getting drunk and only entered into conversation reluctantly . . . He didn't give her any instructions at all. Before he wished her goodnight, all he said was: 'I'll see you in the club tomorrow evening.'

Varya was driven frantic by the realisation of her own helplessness. During the afternoon she walked round the camp, keeping her eyes peeled for anything suspicious that might turn up. But nothing suspicious did turn up, and so, worn out, Varya would go to Erast Petrovich's tent to shake him up and spur him into action. The titular counsellor's den was a truly appalling mess, a scattered confusion of books, three-vyerst maps, wickerwork-covered Bulgarian wine bottles, clothes and cannonballs, which obviously served him as exercise weights. On one occasion Varya sat on a plate of cold pilaff, which for some reason was lying on a chair where she had failed to notice it. She flew into a terrible rage and afterwards, no matter how she tried, she simply could not wash the greasy stain off her one and only decent dress.

On the evening of the 7th of July Colonel Lukan organised a party in the press club (as the journalists' marquee had come to be known, in the English fashion) in order to celebrate his birthday. To mark the occasion three crates of champagne were delivered from Bucharest, for which the hero of the festivities claimed to have paid thirty francs a bottle. The money, however, was wasted, for the birthday boy was very soon forgotten -the true hero of the day was Paladin.

In the morning, having armed himself with the Zeiss binoculars he had won from the humbled McLaughlin (note, by the way, that for his miserable hundred roubles Fandorin had won an entire thousand, and all thanks to Varya), the Frenchman had carried out an expedition of great daring: he had ridden unaccompanied to Plevna and under the protection of his correspondent's armband, had penetrated to the enemy's forward lines, even managing to interview the Turkish colonel.

'Monsieur Perepyolkin was kind enough to explain to me the best way of approaching the town without attracting a bullet,' Paladin explained to the adoring listeners surrounding him. 'And it was really not difficult at all - the Turks had not even bothered to arrange proper patrols and I only met my first asker on the outskirts of the town. "What are you gawping at?" I yelled at him. "Take me to your senior commander immediately." In the East, gentlemen, the most important thing is to act like a padishah. If you shout and swear, then perhaps you may actually have a right to do it. They brought me to the colonel. His name is Ali-bei - a red fez, a big black beard and a St Cyr badge on his chest. Excellent, I thought, la belle France will come to my rescue. I put my situation to him. From the Parisian press. Abandoned by the malevolent fates in the Russian camp, where the boredom is absolutely intolerable and there are no exotic distractions at all, nothing but drunkenness. Would the honourable Ali-bei not agree to give an interview for the public of Paris? He would. So we sit there, drinking cold sherbet. My friend Ali-bei asks me: "Is that wonderful cafe on the corner of the Boulevard Raspaille and the Rue de Sevres still there?" To be quite honest, I don't have a clue whether it is or it isn't, it is such a long time since I was last in Paris, but I say: "Why of course, and more prosperous than ever." We speak about the boulevards, the can-can, the cocottes. The colonel becomes quite sentimental, his beard even becomes quite straggly - and it is a most distinguished beard, quite the Marechal de Rey - and he sighs: "Yes, the moment this cursed war is over, I shall go to Paris, to Paris." "Will it be over soon then, effendi?" "Soon," says Ali-bei. "Very soon. Once the Russians dislodge me and my wretched three tabors from Plevna, you can write your conclusion. The road will be left open all the way to Sophia." "Aye-aye-aye," I lament. "You are a very brave man, Ali-bei, to face the entire Russian army with only three battalions! I shall certainly write to my newspaper about this. But where is the glorious Osman Nuri-pasha and his army corps?" The colonel took off his fez and waved one hand in the air: "He promised to be here tomorrow, but he will not be in time - the roads are too bad. The evening of the next day, no sooner." All in all, we had a splendid little chat. We talked about Constantinople and Alexandria. It cost me quite a struggle to get away - the colonel had already ordered a ram to be slaughtered. On Monsieur Perepyolkin's advice I have acquainted the grand duke's staff with the contents of my interview. They found my conversation with Ali-bei quite interesting,' the correspondent concluded modestly. 'I believe that tomorrow the Turkish colonel is due for a little surprise.'

'Oh, Paladin, you old hot-head you!' cried Sobolev, advancing on the Frenchman to clutch him in a general's embrace. 'A genuine Gaul! Let me kiss you!'

Paladin's face disappeared behind the general's immense beard and McLaughlin, who was playing chess with Perepyolkin (the captain had already removed his black bandage and was contemplating the board with both eyes screwed up in concentration), remarked dryly: 'The captain ought not to have used you as a scout. I am not really certain, my dear Charles, that your escapade is entirely beyond reproach from the viewpoint of journalistic ethics. A correspondent from a neutral country has no right to take either side in a conflict, and especially to take on the role of a spy, insofar—'

But at this everyone, including Varya, fell upon the tiresome Celt in such a concerted attack that he was forced into silence.

'Oho, here's real revelry!' a confident, ringing voice declared.

Varya swung round to see a handsome officer of the hussars with black hair, a jaunty moustache, slightly slanting eyes with a devil-may-care glint and a shiny new Order of St George on his pelisse. This new arrival was not in the least embarrassed by the universal attention that he had attracted - on the contrary, he seemed to accept it as something entirely natural and undeserving of comment.

'Captain of the Grodno Hussars Regiment, Count Zurov,' the officer announced with a salute to Sobolev. 'Do you not remember me, Your Excellency? We marched on Kokand together and I served on Konstantin Petrovich's staff.'

'Of course I remember you,' said the general with a nod. 'As I recall, you were tried for gambling while on the march and fighting a duel with some quartermaster or other.'

'By God's mercy nothing came of it,' the hussar replied flippantly. 'They told me my old friend Erasmus Fandorin is sometimes to be found in here. I trust they were not lying?'

Varya glanced quickly at Erast Petrovich, seated in the far corner. He stood up, gave an agonised sigh and said in a faint voice: 'Hippolyte? How do you c-come to be here?'

'There he is, damn me if he isn't!' The hussar dashed at Fandorin and began shaking him by the shoulders so enthusiastically that he set Erast Petrovich's head wobbling backwards and forwards.

'And they told me the Turks had set you on a stake in Serbia! Ah, but you've lost your looks, brother,-I hardly knew you. Touch up the temples to make yourself a bit more impressive - is that it?'

My, but this titular counsellor certainly did have a curious circle of acquaintances: the Vidin pasha, the chief of gendarmes, and now this picture-postcard dandy with the swashbuckling manners. Varya crept a little closer, as if by chance, in order not to miss a single word.

'Life has certainly put us through the mill a bit, that it has.' Zurov stopped shaking his old friend and began slapping him on the back instead. 'But I'll tell you about my adventures some other time, tete-a-tete -they're not for a lady's ears.' He gave Varya a mischievous sideways glance. 'But anyway, they had the usual ending: I was left without a kopeck to my name, all on my lonely ownsome with my heart shattered to tiny little pieces' (another glance in Varya's direction).

'Who c-could ever have imagined it?' commented Fandorin.

'Are you stammering? Concussion? Don't worry about it, it'll pass. Near Kokand a blast wave flung me against the corner of a mosque so hard my teeth were chattering for an entire month, would you believe - I couldn't even get a glass anywhere near my mouth. But after that it was all right, it eased off.'

'And where did you c-come from before here?'

'That, brother Erasmus, is a long story.'

The hussar ran an eye over the club's habitues, who were observing him with undisguised curiosity, and said: 'Don't be shy, gentlemen; come closer. I'm relating my Scheherazade to my friend Erasmus here.'

'Odyssey,' Erast Petrovich corrected him in a low voice, retreating behind the back of Colonel Lukan.

'An Odyssey is what happens in Greece, but what happened to me was a genuine Scheherazade.' Zurov paused to whet his listeners' appetites and then launched into his narrative. 'And so, gentlemen, as a result of certain circumstances known only to myself and Fandorin here, I found myself in Naples, totally washed up, high and dry. I borrowed five hundred roubles from the Russian consul - the old skinflint wouldn't give me any more - and set out for Odessa by sea. But along the way the devil prompted me to set up a little game with the captain and the navigator. The scoundrels cleaned me out completely, right down to the very last kopeck. Naturally I protested vigorously and, having caused some minor damage to ship's property in the process, at Constantinople I was thrown off the ship, I mean to say I was put ashore - without any money or any possessions, not even a hat. And it was winter then, gentlemen. A Turkish winter, but even so it was cold. There was nothing else to be done, so I set out for our embassy. Broke through all the barriers, went all the way up to the ambassador himself, Nikolai Pavlovich Gnatiev. A most understanding kind of fellow. "I can't lend you any money," he says, "on account of my being opposed in principle to lending of any kind; but if you like, Count, I can take you on as my adjutant - I'm in need of a few valiant officers. In that case you will receive the usual start-up expenses and so on and so forth." And so I became an adjutant.'

'To Gnatiev himself?' said Sobolev with a shake of his head. 'The cunning old fox must clearly have seen something special in you.'

Zurov shrugged modestly and continued: 'On my very first day in my new post I provoked an international conflict and an exchange of diplomatic notes. Nikolai Pavlovich sent me with a request to the well-known Russophobe and religious hypocrite Hassan Hairulla - he's the top Turkish priest, a bit like the pope of Rome.'

'Sheikh-ul-Islam,' interjected McLaughlin, scribbling in his notebook. 'He's more like the chief procurator of your Synod.'

'That's it,' Zurov agreed with a nod. 'That's what I meant. This Hairulla and I took an immediate dislike to each other. I addressed him with appropriate respect, through the interpreter: "Your Grace, an urgent letter from Adjutant-General Gnatiev." But the rotten dog blinks his eyes and answers me back in French - deliberately, so the dragoman can't moderate what he says: "Now is the hour of prayer. Wait." He squatted down with his face towards Mecca and started repeating over and over: "Oh great and all-powerful Allah, extend Thy favour to Thy faithful servant and let him live to see the vile infidels who are unfit to trample Thy holy earth burning in hell." Very nice indeed. Since when did they start praying to Allah in French? Very well, I think, in that case I can introduce something new into the Orthodox canon. Hairulla turns towards me, feeling very pleased with himself now that he's set the infidel in his place. "Give me the letter from your general’' he says. "Pardonnez-moi, eminence," I reply, "this is the very time set for us Russians to say mass. Won't you pardon me for just a moment." Down I go, bang, on to my knees and start praying in the language of Corneille and Rocambole: "Lord of all blessings, delight thy sinful servant the boyar - that is, the chevalier - Hippolyte, and let him take joy in the sight of the Moslem dogs roasting in the frying pan." In short, I caused complications in Russo-Turkish relations, which were already very far from straightforward. Hairulla refused to take the letter, began swearing loudly in his own language and threw the dragoman and myself out. Well, Nikolai Pavlovich gave me a dressing-down for the sake of appearances, but I thought he seemed quite pleased. He obviously knew who to send to whom on what errand.'

'Smartly done, Turkestan fashion,' said Sobolev approvingly.

'But not very diplomatic,' put in Captain Perepyolkin, gazing at the unduly familiar hussar in disapproval.

'I didn't last too long as a diplomat,' Zurov sighed, adding thoughtfully, 'obviously that's not the way my path lies.'

Erast Petrovich snorted rather loudly.

'There I am walking across the Galat Bridge one day, displaying the Russian uniform and taking a look at the pretty girls. They might wear veils, but the she-devils choose the most transparent fabric they can find, and that just makes the temptation even greater. Suddenly I see this divine creature riding towards me in a carriage, with huge velvet eyes sparkling over the top of her veil.

And sitting beside her is this Abyssinian eunuch, a huge great brute, and behind them another carriage with the servant women. I stopped and bowed - in a dignified manner befitting a diplomat - and then she removed her glove and blew me a kiss' - Zurov pursed up his lips - 'with her little white hand.'

'She removed her glove?' Paladin inquired in his French accent with the air of an expert. 'That is no jest, gentlemen. The Prophet regarded fine, delicate hands as the most seductive part of the female body and categorically forbade noble Moslem women to go without gloves, in order not to subject men's hearts to temptation. And so removing a glove - c'est une grande signe, like a European woman removing . . . But then, I had better refrain from drawing parallels.' He stopped short, with a sideways glance at Varya.

'There now, you see,' put in the hussar. 'After that, how could I possibly offend the lady by ignoring her? I take the shaft horse by the bridle and stop it, because I want to introduce myself. Then that eunuch, the boot-blacked oaf, lashes me smartly across the cheek with his whip. What would you have me do? I pulled out my sword, ran the lout through, wiped my blade on his silk caftan and went home feeling sad at heart. No time for the pretty lady now. I had a feeling things would end badly. And it was prophetic: they turned out very nasty indeed.'

'But why was that?' Lukan asked curiously. 'Was she a pasha's wife?'

'Worse,' sighed Zurov. 'The wife of His Infidel Highness Abdul-Hamid II himself. And of course the eunuch was the sultan's too. Nikolai Pavlovich did the best he could for me. He told the padishah in person: "If my adjutant had accepted a blow with a whip from a slave, I myself would have torn off his shoulder straps for disgracing the name of a Russian officer." But what do they know about the meaning of an officer's uniform? They threw me out, within twenty-four hours. Off to Odessa on a packet boat. It was a good thing the war started soon anyway. When he said goodbye to me, Nikolai Pavlovich told me: "You should thank God, Zurov, that it wasn't the senior wife, but only a 'little lady' - kuchum kadineh."'

'Not k-kuchum, but kuchuk,' Fandorin corrected him, and suddenly blushed, which Varya thought strange.

Zurov whistled: 'Oho! And how do you happen to know?'

Erast Petrovich did not answer, but he looked highly disgruntled.

'Mister Fandorin spent some time as a guest of a Turkish pasha,' Varya declared provocatively.

'And the entire harem took care of you?' the count asked with keen interest. 'Well, tell us about it; don't be such a swine.'

'Not the entire harem, only a kuchuk-hanum’ the titular counsellor mumbled, clearly reluctant to go into the details. 'A really splendid, good-hearted g-girl. And entirely modern. She knows French and English and is fond of Byron. She is interested in medicine.'

This was a new and unexpected side to the secret agent, and one which for some reason was not at all to Varya's liking.

'A modern woman would never agree to live as the fifteenth wife in a harem,' she snapped. 'It is humiliating and altogether barbaric'

'I beg your pardon, mademoiselle, but that remark is not entirely fair,' said Paladin, continuing to roll his Russian r's in the French manner. 'You see, during my years of travelling in the East, I have made quite a serious study of the Moslem way of life.'

'Yes, Charles, yes, do tell us about it,' said McLaughlin. 'I recall your series of essays on the life of the harem. It was quite excellent' - and the Irishman positively beamed at his own magnanimity.

'Any social institution, including polygamy, has to be viewed in its historical context,' Paladin began in a professorial tone, but Zurov pulled such a long face that the Frenchman thought better of it and began speaking like a normal human being. 'Actually, in the conditions of the Orient, the harem is the only means capable of offering a woman a chance of survival. Judge for yourself: from the very beginning Moslems have been a nation of warriors and prophets. Since the men spent their lives waging war, they died and a huge number of women were widowed or were unable to find themselves a husband in the first place. Who was going to feed them and their children? Mohamed had fifteen wives, but not at all because of his excessively voluptuous inclinations. He accepted the responsibility of caring for the widows of his fallen comrades-in-arms, and these women could not even be called his wives in the Western sense. What, after all, is a harem, gentlemen? You imagine the soft murmuring of a fountain, semi-naked odalisques indolently consuming Turkish delight, the tinkling of coin necklaces, the heady aroma of perfume, and the whole scene veiled in a dense haze of debauchery.'

'And in the middle of it all the lord and master of this henhouse, wrapped in his robe, with a hookah and a blissful smile on his bright red lips’ Zurov mused dreamily.

'I am afraid I must disappoint you, Mister Captain. In addition to the wives, a harem is also poor female relatives, a throng of children, including other people's, countless female servants, old female slaves living out their final days and God knows what else. And this entire horde has to be fed and supported by the breadwinner, the man. The richer and more powerful he is, the more dependants he has and the heavier the burden of responsibility that he bears. The system of the harem is not only humane, it is the only possible system in the conditions of the East - without it many women would quite simply have starved to death.'

'What you describe is some kind of phalanstery, and you make the Turkish husband sound like Charles Fourier’ Varya protested impatiently. 'Would it not be better to give women the chance to support themselves, rather than keeping them in the position of slaves?'

'The society of the East is sluggish and little disposed to change, Mademoiselle Barbara,' the Frenchman replied deferentially, pronouncing her name so sweetly in French that it was quite impossible to be angry with him. 'It has very few jobs, every one of which has to be fought for, and women would not survive in competition with the men. And in any case, a wife is by no means a slave. If a husband is not to her liking, she can always reclaim her freedom. All she need do is to make her husband's life so unbearable that he cries out angrily in the presence of witnesses: "You are no longer my wife!" You must agree that it is not very difficult to reduce a husband to such a state. After that, she can collect her things and go. Divorce in the East is not what it is in the West; it is simple. And at the same time, the man is solitary, while the women form a collective. Is it any wonder, therefore, that the real power lies with the harem and not with its master? The most important figures in the Ottoman Empire are not the sultan and the grand vizier, but the padishah's mother and his favourite wife. And also, of course, the kizlyar-agazi - the head eunuch of the harem.'

'And just how many wives is the sultan allowed to have?' Perepyolkin asked, with a guilty glance at Sobolev. 'I'm only asking as a matter of information, of course.'

'Four, like any true believer. But in addition to fully fledged wives, the padishah also has ikbal - something like his favourites - and very young gediklas - "maidens pleasing to the eye", who are aspirants to the role of the ikbal'

'Now that's a bit more like it,' said Lukan with a satisfied nod. Spotting Varya's scornful glance, he gave one side of his moustache a smart twirl.

Sobolev (another fine goose) asked in a voluptuous voice: 'But surely in addition to wives and concubines there are the slave girls?'

'All of the sultan's women are slaves, but only until a child is born. Then the mother immediately acquires the title of princess and all the privileges that go with it. For instance, the all-powerful Sultana Besma, mother of the late Abdul-Aziz, was once a simple bath-house attendant, but she lathered Mehmed II so successfully that first he took her as a concubine and then he made her his favourite wife. The career opportunities for women in Turkey are truly unlimited’

'But all the same, it must be devilishly tiring, having a crowd like that hanging round your neck,' one of the journalists mused. 'I'd say it's a bit too much.'

'Several sultans have also come to the same conclusion,' said Paladin with a smile. 'Ibrahim I, for instance, grew terribly weary of all his wives. It was easier for Ivan the Terrible or Henry VIII to deal with such a situation: send the old wife to the block or to a convent, and then you can take a new one. But what can you do if you have an entire harem?'

'Yes, what can you do?' inquired one of the listeners.

'The Turks, gentlemen, do not easily submit in the face of adversity. The padishah ordered all the women to be stuffed into sacks and drowned in the Bosporus. When morning came His Majesty was a bachelor again and he could acquire a new harem.'

The men chortled, but Varya exclaimed: 'You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, gentlemen. This is really quite appalling!'

'But almost a hundred years ago, Mademoiselle Varya, manners at the sultan's court were moderated substantially,' Paladin reassured her. 'And all thanks to one exceptional woman who just happens to be a compatriot of mine.'

'Then tell us about it,' said Varya.

'The story is as follows. One of the passengers on board a French ship sailing the Mediterranean was an exceptionally beautiful seventeen-year-old girl whose name was Aimee Dubucque de Riverie. She was born on the magical island of Martinique, which has given the world many legendary beauties, including Madame de Maintenon and Josephine Beauharnais. In fact our young Aimee knew the latter (at the time still plain Josephine de Taschery) very well; they were even friends. History has nothing to say on the subject of why this delightful Creole girl decided to set out on a voyage through seas teeming with pirates. All we do know is that off the coast of Sardinia the ship was seized by corsairs and Aimee found herself in the slave market of Algiers, where she was bought by the Dey of Algiers himself - the very one who, according to Monsieur Popritschine, had a lump under his nose. The dey was old and no longer susceptible to female beauty, but he was very interested in good relations with the Sublime Porte, so poor Aimee made the journey to Istanbul as a living gift to Sultan Abdul-Hamid I, the great-grandfather of the present-day Abdul-Hamid II. The padishah treated his captive gently, like a priceless treasure. He imposed no constraints on her and did not even oblige her to convert to Mohamedanism. And for the patience shown by the wise ruler, Aimee rewarded him with her love. In Turkey she is known by the name of Nashedil-sultan. She gave birth to Prince Mehmed, who later ascended the throne and is known to history as a great reformer. His mother taught him French and gave him a taste for French literature and French freethinking. Ever since then Turkey has looked towards the West.'

'You're a great spinner of tales, Paladin,' McLaughlin commented cantankerously. 'No doubt you stretched the truth and embroidered it a little as always.'

The Frenchman smiled mischievously without speaking and Zurov, who for some time had been showing clear signs of impatience, exclaimed in sudden inspiration: 'Yes indeed, gentlemen, why don't we lay out a little game? All this talk, talk, talk. Really and truly, it's just not natural somehow.'

Varya heard Fandorin give a dull groan.

'Erasmus, you're not invited,' the count added hastily. 'The devil himself deals your hands.'

'Your Excellency,' Perepyolkin protested, 'I hope you will not permit gambling in your presence?'

Sobolev brushed his objections aside like an annoying fly. 'Stop that, Captain. Don't be such a pain in the neck. It's all very well for you, in your operations section. You at least have some kind of work to do, but I'm rusting away from sheer idleness. I don't play myself, Count - I'm far too impetuous - but I will certainly watch.'

Varya saw Perepyolkin staring at the handsome general with the eyes of a beaten dog.

'Perhaps just for small stakes then?' Lukan drawled uncertainly. 'To reinforce the ties of soldierly comradeship.'

'To reinforce the ties, of course, and just for small stakes,' Zurov said with a nod, tipping several unopened decks of cards on to the table out of his sabretache. 'A hundred to be in. Who else, gentlemen?'

The bank was made up in a moment and soon the marquee rang to magical wordplay:

'There goes the old draggletail!'

'We'll beat her with our little sultan here, gentlemen!'

'L'as de carreau' - ace of diamonds. 'Ha-ha, that's beaten it!'

Varya moved closer to Erast Petrovich and asked: 'Why does he call you Erasmus?'

'It's just something that happened’ said the secretive Fandorin, avoiding the question.

'Hey-eh,' Sobolev sighed loudly. 'Kriedener's probably already advancing on Plevna, and I'm stuck in here like a low card in the discards.'

Perepyolkin stuck close to his idol, pretending that he was also interested in the game.

The angry McLaughlin, standing all alone with a chessboard under his arm, muttered something in English and then translated it into Russian himself: 'It used to be a press club, now it's a low gambling den.'

'Hey, my man, do you have any Shustov cognac? Bring it over!' cried the hussar, turning to the bartender. 'We might as well have some real fun while we're at it.'

The evening really was promising to turn out very cheerful.

The next day, however, the press club had changed beyond all recognition, with the Russians sitting there looking gloomy and depressed, while the correspondents were talking excitedly in low voices, and every now and then, when one of them learned some new details, he would go running to the telegraph office -what had happened was an absolutely huge sensation.

Already at lunchtime the dark rumours had begun to spread round the camp, and as Varya and Fandorin were walking back from the shooting range after five (the titular counsellor was teaching his assistant to use a Colt-system revolver), they had been met by a sullenly agitated Sobolev.

'A fine business,' he said, rubbing his hands together nervously. 'Have you heard?'

'Plevna?' Fandorin asked forlornly.

'A total rout. General Schilder-Schuldner went at it full pelt; he wanted to overtake Osman-pasha. We had seven thousand men, but the Turks had far more. Our columns attacked full on and were caught in a crossfire. Rosenbaum, the commander of the Arkhangelsk Regiment, was killed; Kleinhaus, the commander of the Kostroma Regiment, was fatally wounded and Major-General Knorring was brought back on a stretcher. A third of our men were killed. Absolute carnage. So much for three battalions. And the Turks were different too, not like before. They fought like devils.'

'What about Paladin?' Erast Petrovich asked rapidly.

'He's all right. He turned bright green and kept babbling excuses. Kazanzaki's taken him away for interrogation . . . Well, now the real thing will start. Perhaps now they'll give me an assignment. Pere-pyolkin hinted that there might be a chance' - and the general set off towards the staff building with a spring in his step.

Varya had spent the time until evening in the hospital, helping to sterilise surgical instruments. So many wounded had been brought in that they had been obliged to set up another two temporary tents. The nurses were run off their feet. The air was filled with the smell of blood and suffering, and the screams and prayers of the wounded.

It was almost night before she was able to escape to the correspondents' marquee where, as has already been mentioned, the atmosphere was strikingly different from the day before.

The only place where life continued in full swing was at the card table, where the game was now in its second uninterrupted day. Pale-faced Zurov puffed on a cigar as he rapidly dealt out the cards. He had not eaten a thing, but he had been drinking incessantly without getting even slightly drunk. A tall heap of banknotes, golden coins and promissory notes had sprung up beside his elbow. Sitting opposite him, tousling his hair in insane frenzy, was Colonel Lukan. Some officer or other was sleeping beside him with his light-brown head of hair slumped on to his folded arms. The bartender fluttered around them like a fat moth, plucking the lucky hussar's wishes out of the air on the wing.

Fandorin was not in the club, nor was Paladin. McLaughlin was playing chess, while Sobolev, surrounded by officers, was poring over a three-vyerst map and had not even glanced at Varya.

Already regretting that she had come, she said: 'Count, are you not ashamed? So many people have been killed.'

'But we are still alive, mademoiselle,' Zurov replied absent-mindedly, tapping on a deck of cards with his finger. 'What's the point in burying yourself before your time has come? Oh, you're bluffing, Luke. I raise you two.'

Lukan tugged the diamond ring off his finger: 'I'll see you.' He reached out a trembling hand towards Zurov's cards lying casually face down on the table.

At that instant Varya saw Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki glide soundlessly into the tent, looking hideously like a black raven that has caught the sweet smell of a putrid corpse. Remembering how the gendarme's previous appearance had ended, she shuddered.

'Mr Kazanzaki,' said McLaughlin, turning towards the new arrival, 'where is Paladin?'

The lieutenant-colonel paused portentously, waiting for the club to become quiet. He answered curtly: 'I have him. He is writing a statement.' He cleared his throat and added ominously. 'And then we'll make our minds up.'

The awkward silence that ensued was broken by Zurov's nonchalant light bass: 'So this is the famous gendarme Kozinikinaki? Greetings to you, Mister Split-Lip.' He waited, his eyes gleaming insolently as he stared expectantly at the lieutenant-colonel's flushed face.

'And I have heard about you, Mister Brawler,' Kazan-zaki replied unhurriedly, also staring hard at the hussar. 'A notorious character. Pray be so good as to hold your tongue, or I shall call the sentry and have you taken to the guardhouse for gambling in camp. And I shall arrest the bank.'

'There's no mistaking a serious man,' chuckled the count. 'Understood, I'll be as silent as the grave.'

Lukan finally turned over Zurov's cards, gave a protracted groan and clutched his head in his hands. The count inspected the ring he had won with a sceptical eye.

'No, Lieutenant-Colonel, no, there is no damned treason here!' Varya heard Sobolev say irritably. 'Perepyolkin's right. He's the brains on the staff. Osman simply covered the ground at a forced march, and our blustering sabre-rattlers weren't expecting that kind of vim from the Turks. We have a formidable enemy to fight now, and this war is going to be fought in earnest.'

Chapter Six

IN WHICH PLEVNA AND VARYA EACH WITHSTAND A SIEGE

Die Wiener Zeitung (Vienna) 30(18) July 1877

Our correspondent reports from Shumen, where the headquarters of the Turkish Army of the Balkans is located. The fiasco at Plevna has left the Russians in an extremely stupid position. Their columns extend for tens and even hundreds of kilometres from the south to the north, their lines of communication are defenceless, their rear lines exposed. Osman-pasha's brilliant flanking manoeuvre has won the Turks time to regroup, and a little Bulgarian town has become a serious thorn in the shaggy side of the Russian bear. The atmosphere in circles close to the court in Constantinople is one of cautious optimism.

On the one hand, things were going very badly; you might even say they could not possibly be any worse. Poor Petya was still languishing under lock and key -after the Plevna bloodbath the noxious Kazanzaki had lost interest in the cryptographer, but the threat of a court martial remained as real as ever. And the fortunes of war had proved fickle: the golden fish that granted wishes had turned into a prickly sea scorpion and disappeared into the abyss, leaving their hands scratched and bleeding.

But on the other hand (this was something that Varya was ashamed to admit even to herself), her life had never been so . . . interesting. That was the word: 'interesting'. That was it exactly.

And the reason, in all honesty, was obscenely simple: it was the first time in Varya's life that she had been courted at the same time by so many admirers - and such admirers too! Her recent travelling companions on the railway or the scrofulous students of St Petersburg could not possibly compare. No matter how hard she tried to suppress it, these banal, womanish feelings still sprang up like weeds in her vain, foolish heart. It was terrible.

For instance, on the morning of the 18th of June (a most important and memorable day, concerning which more below) Varya woke with a smile on her face. Before she was even awake and had barely even sensed the sunlight through her tightly shut eyelids, even as she was still stretching sweetly, she was already in a cheerful, happy, festive mood. It was only afterwards, when her mind had woken up as well as her body, that she remembered about Petya and the war. With an effort of will Varya forced herself to frown and think about sad realities, but something quite different kept creeping into her stubborn, drowsy head, in the manner of Agafya Tikhonovna: if she could supplement Petya's devotion with Sobolev's fame, and Zurov's daredevil panache, and Charles's talent, and Fandorin's piercing glance . . . But no - Erast Petrovich did not suit the case, for not by any stretch of the imagination could she number him among her admirers.

Nothing really seemed clear as far as the titular counsellor was concerned. Varya's position as his assistant remained, as ever, purely nominal. Fandorin did not initiate her into his secrets, although he was apparently dealing with real business of some kind, not just trivialities. He either disappeared for long periods or, on the contrary, simply sat in his tent receiving visits from Bulgarian peasants wearing smelly sheepskin hats. Varya guessed that they must be from Plevna, but her pride would not allow her to ask any questions. What was so remarkable about that anyway? It was not as if people from Plevna were rare visitors to the Russian camp. Even McLaughlin had his own informant, who provided him with exclusive intelligence on the life of the Turkish garrison. Of course, the Irishman did not share this knowledge with the Russian command, stubbornly citing his 'journalistic ethics', but the readers of the Daily News knew all about Osman-pasha's order of the day and the massive redoubts that were springing up around the besieged town, growing mightier by the hour.

This time, however, the Western Division of the Russian army was making thorough preparations for battle. The storming of Plevna was set for today, and everybody was saying that the 'misunderstanding over Plevna' would certainly be set to rights. Yesterday Erast Petrovich had traced out a diagram of all the Turkish fortifications for Varya on the ground with a stick and explained that, according to absolutely reliable information in his possession, Osman-pasha had 20,000 askers and 58 artillery pieces, while Lieutenant-General Kriedener had moved up 32,000 soldiers and 176 field-guns to the town, and the Roumanians were due to arrive at any time. A cunning and strictly secret disposition of forces had been devised, involving a concealed outflanking manoeuvre and a diversionary attack. Fandorin had explained it all so well that Varya had immediately believed in the imminent victory of Russian arms and stopped paying much attention - she was more interested in watching the titular counsellor and trying to guess how he was connected with the blonde girl in his locket. Kazanzaki had said something strange about a marriage. Could she really be his better half? But she was too young to be his wife - no more than a little girl!

Varya knew about her because three days earlier, when she looked into Erast Petrovich's tent after breakfast, she had seen him lying sound asleep on his bed fully dressed, even in his dirty boots. He had been missing for the whole of the previous day, which meant he had probably only returned shortly before dawn. Just as she was about to creep quietly away she had suddenly noticed the silver locket dangling out of the sleeping man's collar on to his chest. The temptation had been too great. Varya had tiptoed across to the bed, keeping her eyes fixed on Fandorin's face. Lying there breathing regularly with his mouth slightly open, the titular counsellor looked like a mischievous little boy who had smeared powder on his temples as a prank.

Varya had gingerly picked up the locket with her finger and thumb, clicked open the lid and seen the tiny portrait. A pretty little china doll, a real Madchen-Gretchen: golden curls, little eyes and little mouth, tiny cheeks. Really nothing special. Varya had cast a glance of disapproval at the sleeper and blushed bright red: the bright-blue eyes with the pitch-black pupils were peering gravely at her from under their long lashes.

Trying to explain would have been stupid. Varya had simply fled, which was not so very clever either, but at least an unpleasant scene had been avoided. Strangely enough, afterwards Fandorin had behaved as though the episode had never happened.

He was a cold, disagreeable man, he rarely joined in other people's conversations, and when he did he was bound to say something that made Varya's hackles rise. Take, for instance, that argument about parliament and the sovereignty of the people that had blown up during the picnic (a large party of them had gone off into the hills and dragged Fandorin along with them, although he had been dying to go back and skulk in his lair).

Paladin had started telling them about the constitution that had been introduced in Turkey the year before by the former grand vizier Midhat-pasha. It was very interesting. Would you believe it - an uncivilised Asiatic country like that, but it actually had a parliament, not like Russia.

Then they had started arguing about which parliamentary system was the best. McLaughlin was for the British system and Paladin, even though he was a Frenchman, was for the American, while Sobolev campaigned for some indigenous Russian system of the nobility and peasantry.

When Varya had demanded the franchise for women, they had all made fun of her and that crude soldier Sobolev had started scoffing: 'Oh, Varvara Andreevna, once you women are given the vote, you'll elect a parliament full of nothing but your own handsome little darlings and sweethearts. If you women had to choose between Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky and our Captain Zurov, who would you cast your vote for? You see?'

'Gentlemen, can people be elected to parliament compulsorily?' the hussar had asked in alarm, and the general mood had become even merrier.

Varya had struggled in vain to explain about equal rights, citing the American territory of Wyoming, where women had been allowed to vote and nothing terrible had happened to Wyoming as a result. No one had taken anything she said seriously.

'Why don't you say anything?' Varya had appealed to Fandorin, who had promptly distinguished himself by saying something that would have been better left unsaid altogether.

'Varvara Andreevna, I am opposed to democracy in general.' (He had blushed even as he said it.) 'One man is unequal to another from the very beginning, and there is nothing you can do about it. The democratic principle infringes the rights of those who are more intelligent, more talented and harder-working; it places them in a position of dependence on the foolish will of the stupid, talentless and lazy, because society always contains more of the latter. Let our compatriots first learn to rid themselves of their swinish ways and earn the right to bear the title of citizen, and then we can start thinking about a parliament.'

This absolutely outlandish declaration had left Varya completely flummoxed, but Paladin had come to the rescue.

'Nonetheless, if a country has already introduced voting rights,' he had said gently (the conversation, of course, was conducted in French), 'it is surely unjust to disenfranchise half of mankind, and the better half at that.'

Remembering those remarkable words, Varya smiled, turned on to her side and began thinking about Paladin. Thank God that Kazanzaki had finally left the man in peace. It had been General Kriedener's decision to base his strategy on the contents of some interview! Poor Paladin had been eating his heart out and pestering absolutely everyone he met with his explanations and excuses. Varya liked him even more when he was feeling guilty and miserable like that. Previously she had thought him just a little too conceited, too accustomed to general admiration, and she had deliberately kept her distance, but now the need for that had fallen away, and Varya had begun to behave quite naturally and affectionately with the Frenchman. He was cheerful and easy to be with, not like Erast Petrovich, and he knew such a terrible lot - about Turkey and the ancient history of the East, and French history. All those places he had seen, driven by his thirst for adventure! And how charmingly he narrated his little recits drolesl - so witty, so lively, without any false posturing at all. How Varya adored it when Paladin responded to one of her questions with a significant pause and an intriguing smile and then said: 'Oh, c'est toute une histoire, mademoiselle.' And then, unlike that tight-lipped Fandorin, he would immediately tell her the story.

Most of the time the stories were funny, but sometimes they were frightening. Varya remembered one of them particularly well.

'Mademoiselle Barbara, you berate Orientals for their lack of respect for human life, and you are quite right to do so.' (They had been discussing the atrocities committed by the Bashi-Bazouks.) 'But after all, these are savages, barbarians, who have not yet developed far beyond the level of tigers or crocodiles. Let me describe to you a scene that I observed in that most civilised of countries, England. Oh, c'est toute une histoire . . . The British place such a high value on human life that they regard suicide as the most heinous of sins - and the penalty they apply for an attempt to do away with oneself is capital punishment. They have not yet gone that far in the East. Several years ago, when I was in London, a prisoner in the jail was due to be hanged. He had committed a terrible crime - somehow he had obtained a razor and attempted to cut his own throat. He had even been partly successful, but he was saved by the timely intervention of the prison doctor. Since I found the judge's logic in this case quite astounding, I decided that I must watch the execution with my own eyes. And after using my connections to obtain a pass for the execution, I was not disappointed.

'The condemned man had damaged his vocal cords and could do no more than wheeze, so they dispensed with his final word. Quite a long time was spent on squabbling with the doctor, who claimed that the man could not be hanged - the cut would re-open and the hanged man would be able to breathe directly through his trachea. The prosecuting counsel and the governor of the prison consulted and ordered the executioner to proceed. But the doctor was proved right: the pressure of the noose immediately re-opened the wound and the man dangling at the end of the rope began sucking in air with an appalling whistling sound. He hung there for five, ten, fifteen minutes and still did not die, although his face turned blue.

'They decided to summon the judge who had passed sentence on him. But since the execution took place at dawn, a considerable time was required to wake the judge. He arrived an hour later and issued a verdict worthy of Solomon: take the condemned man down from the gallows and hang him again, but this time tie the noose below the cut, not above it. They did as he said and the second attempt was successful. There you have the fruits of civilisation.'

Afterwards Varya had dreamed in the night of a hanged man with a laughing throat. 'There is no death,' the throat said in Paladin's voice and began oozing blood. 'You can only go back to the starting line.'

But those words about going back to the starting line belonged to Sobolev. 'Ah, Varvara Andreevna, my entire life is an obstacle race,' the young general had complained to her, shaking his close-cropped head bitterly. 'But the umpire keeps disqualifying me and sending me back to the starting line. Why, judge for yourself: I began in the horse guards and served with distinction against the Poles, but got involved in a stupid affair with a Polish girl; so it was back to the starting line. I graduated from the General Headquarters Academy and was given a posting to Turkestan, and then there was a stupid duel with a fatal outcome; so it was back to the starting line again, if you please. I married a prince's daughter and thought I would be happy - I was anything but ... So there I was on my own again, right back where I started, with my dreams shattered. I managed to have myself sent off to the desert again and I was as hard on myself as I was on everyone else. I only survived by a miracle, but still

I'm left empty-handed yet again. Here I sit vegetating like some useless hanger-on and waiting for a new start. But will it ever come?'

Varya felt sorry for Paladin, but not for Sobolev. In the first place, Michel's complaints about being sent back to the starting line were overdone - at the age of thirty-two he was, after all, a general of the imperial retinue, with two Orders of St George and a gold sword; and in the second place, he was far too obviously bidding for sympathy. No doubt when he was still a cadet his senior comrades had explained to him that victory in love could be won in two ways: either by a cavalry charge or by painstaking excavation of the approaches to the over-compassionate female heart.

Sobolev excavated his approaches rather ineptly, but Varya was flattered by his attentions - after all, he was a genuine hero, even if he did carry that idiotic bush around on his face. When it was tactfully suggested that the form of his beard might be modified, the general had taken to haggling: he would be willing to make such a sacrifice, but only in exchange for certain guarantees. However, the offering of guarantees did not enter into Varya's plans.

Five days earlier Sobolev had come to her in a happy mood; at long last he had been given his own detachment - two Cossack regiments - and he was to take part in the storming of Plevna, covering the southern flank of the main corps. Varya had wished him a successful new start. Michel had told her he had taken Perepyolkin as his chief of staff, describing the tedious captain as follows: 'He followed me around, whingeing and gazing into my eyes, so I took him. And what do you think, Varvara Andreevna? Eremei Ionovich Perepyolkin may be tedious, but he certainly is sound -he's from the general staff, after all. They know him in the operations section and they provide him with useful information. And then I can see that he is personally devoted to me; he hasn't forgotten who saved him from the Bashi-Bazouks. And, sinner that I am, I prize devotion above all else in my subordinates.'

Sobolev had more than enough on his hands now, but only two days ago his orderly Seryozha Bereshchagin had delivered a sumptuous bouquet of scarlet roses from His Excellency. The roses were still standing as firm as the heroes of the Battle of Borodino, showing no signs of drooping, and the entire tent was permeated with their dense, sensual scent.

The breach created by the general's withdrawal had been promptly filled by Zurov, a firm believer in the cavalry charge. Varya burst out laughing as she recalled how jauntily the captain had carried out his initial reconnaissance . . .

'A veritable bellevue, mademoiselle. Nature!' was what he had said that time when he followed Varya as she went out of the press club to admire the sunset. Then without wasting any time, he had changed the subject. 'Erasmus is a wonderful chap, don't you think? A heart as pure and white as a bed sheet. And a splendid comrade, even if he is a bit sulky.'

Then the hussar had paused and glanced expectantly at Varya with those insolently handsome eyes. Varya had waited to see what would come next.

'A fine, good-looking brunet too. Put him in a hussar's uniform and he'd cut a fine figure altogether,' said Zurov, doggedly pursuing his theme. 'He may go around looking like a bedraggled chicken now, but you should have seen the old Erasmus! An Arabian tornado!'

Varya had gazed at the fibber mistrustfully: she found it absolutely impossible to imagine the titular counsellor in the role of an 'Arabian tornado'.

'What could possibly have brought about such a change?' she had asked, hoping to learn something about Erast Petrovich's mysterious past.

But Zurov had merely shrugged: 'The devil only knows. It's been a year since we last saw each other. It must be a fatal case of love. You think we men are all heartless, insensitive dummies, but in our souls we are ardent and easily wounded.' He lowered his eyes sorrowfully. 'A broken heart can make an old man of you even at twenty.'

Varya had snorted: 'At twenty, indeed! Trying to hide your age does not become you.'

'Why, not me, I meant Fandorin,' the hussar explained. 'He is only twenty-one.'

'Who, Erast Petrovich?' Varya had gasped. 'Oh, come now, even I am twenty-two.'

'That is exactly what I mean,' Zurov had said, brightening up. 'What you need is someone a bit more mature, closer to thirty.'

But she had stopped listening, astounded by what he had told her. Fandorin was only twenty-one? Twenty-one! Incredible! So that was why Kazanzaki had called him a 'wunderkind'. Of course, the titular counsellor had a boyish face, but the way he carried himself, that glance, those greying temples! What chill wind could have frosted your temples so early, Erast Petrovich?

Interpreting her bewilderment in his own way, the hussar had assumed a dignified air and declared: 'What I am leading up to is this: if that rascal Erasmus has beaten me to it, then I withdraw immediately. Whatever his detractors may claim, mademoiselle, Zurov is a man with principles. He will never try to poach anything that belongs to his friend.'

'Are you speaking of me?' Varya had asked in sudden realisation. 'If I am "something that belongs" to Fandorin, you will not try to poach me; but if I am not "something that belongs" to him, you will try. Have I understood you correctly?'

Zurov jiggled his eyebrows diplomatically, but without the slightest sign of embarrassment.

‘I belong and always will belong to nobody but myself, but I do have a fiance,' Varya had reprimanded the insolent lout.

'So I have heard. But I do not count monsieur the detainee among my friends,' the captain had replied in a more cheerful voice, and the reconnaissance was complete.

The full-frontal assault had followed immediately: 'Would you care to wager with me, mademoiselle? If I can guess who will be first to come out of the marquee, you will favour me with a kiss. If I guess wrong, then I shall shave my head, like a Bashi-Bazouk. Make up your mind! Of course, the risk you would be taking is perfectly minimal - there are at least twenty people in the marquee.'

Varya had felt her lips curl into a smile despite herself. 'So who will be first?'

Zurov had pretended to be thinking hard and shaken his head despairingly: 'Aagh, farewell to my curly locks . . . Colonel Sablin. No! McLaughlin. No . . . The bartender Semyon, that's who!'

He had cleared his throat loudly and a second later the bartender had come strolling out of the club, wiping his hands on the hem of his long-waisted silk coat. He had looked up briskly at the sky, muttered: 'Oh, I hope it's not going to rain,' and gone back inside, without even glancing at Zurov.

'It's a miracle, a sign from above!' the count had exclaimed, stroking his moustache as he leaned towards the giggling Varya.

She had expected him to kiss her on the cheek, the way that Petya always did, but Zurov had aimed for her lips and the kiss had proved to be long, quite extraordinary and positively vertiginous.

Eventually, when she felt that she was about to choke, Varya had pushed the impetuous cavalry officer away and clutched at her heart.

'Oh, I'll slap your face so hard,' she had threatened in a feeble voice. 'I was warned by decent people that you don't play fair.'

'For a slap to the face I shall challenge you to a duel. And naturally I shall be vanquished,' the count had purred, goggling at her.

It had been quite impossible to be angry with him . . .

A round face appeared in the door of the tent. It was Lushka, the excitable and muddle-headed girl who performed the duties of maid and cook for the nurses, as well as lending a hand in the hospital when there was a large influx of wounded.

'There's a soldier waiting for you, miss,' Lushka blurted out. 'Dark-haired he is, with a moustache and a bunch of flowers. What shall I tell him?'

Speak of the devil, thought Varya, and smiled to herself again. She found Zurov's siege technology highly amusing.

'Let him wait. I'll be out soon’ she said, throwing off her blanket.

But it was not the hussar strolling up and down beside the hospital tents, where all was in readiness to receive new wounded; it was the fragrantly scented Colonel Lukan, yet another ardent aspirant.

Varya heaved a heavy sigh, but it was too late to withdraw.

'Ravissante comme l'Aurore!' the colonel exclaimed, first dashing to take her hand, then recoiling as he recalled the manners of modern women.

Varya shook her head in rejection of the bouquet, glanced at the gleaming gold braid of the Roumanian ally's uniform and asked coolly: 'What are you doing all decked up in your finery first thing in the morning?'

'I am leaving for Bucharest, for a meeting of His Highness's military council,' the colonel announced grandly. 'I called round to say goodbye and at the same time invite you to breakfast.' He clapped his hands and a foppish barouche hove into view from around the corner. The orderly sitting on the coach box was dressed in a washed-out uniform, but he was wearing white gloves.

'After you,' Lukan said with a bow, and Varya, intrigued despite herself, sat down on the springy seat.

'Where are we going?' she asked. 'To the officers' canteen?'

The Roumanian merely smiled mysteriously in reply, as though he were planning to whisk his companion away to the other side of the world. The colonel had been behaving in a rather mysterious manner just recently. He was still spending night after night without a break at the card table, but whereas during the initial days of his ill-starred acquaintance with Zurov there had been a hounded and downcast air about him, he seemed entirely recovered now, and although he was still throwing away substantial sums of money, he did not seem dispirited in the least.

'How did yesterday's game go?' asked Varya, looking closely at the brown circles under Lukan's eyes.

'Fortune has finally smiled on me,' he replied with a beaming smile of his own. 'Your Zurov's luck has run out. Have you ever heard of the law of large numbers? If you carry on betting large sums day after day, then sooner or later you are bound to win everything back.'

As far as Varya could recall, Petya's exposition of this theory had been rather different, but it was hardly worth arguing about.

'The count has blind luck on his side, but I have mathematical reckoning and a huge fortune on mine. There, look' - he held up his little finger - 'I have won back my family ring. An Indian diamond, eleven carats. Brought back from the Crusades by one of my ancestors.'

'Why, did the Roumanians actually take part in the Crusades?' Varya exclaimed rather too hastily, and had to endure an entire lecture on the colonel's family tree, which proved to go all the way back to the Roman legate Lucian Mauritius Tulla.

Meanwhile the barouche had driven out of the camp and halted in a shady grove. Standing there under an old oak tree was a table covered with a starched white cloth on which such an abundance of tasty things was laid out that Varya immediately began to feel hungry. There were French cheeses, and various fruits, and smoked salmon and pink ham, and crimson crayfish, and reclining elegantly in a little silver bucket was a bottle of Lafite.

It had to be admitted that even Lukan possessed certain positive qualities.

Just as they had raised their first glass, there was a deep rumbling far away in the distance and Varya's heart skipped a beat. How could she have allowed herself to become so distracted? The storming of Plevna had begun! Over there the dead were falling, the wounded were groaning, while she . . .

Guiltily pushing away a bowl of emerald-green early grapes, Varya said: 'My God, for their sake I hope everything goes according to plan.'

The colonel drained his glass in a single swallow and immediately filled it again. Still chewing on something, he observed: 'The plan is, of course, a good one. As His Highness's personal representative I am acquainted with it and was even involved to some extent in drawing it up. The outflanking manoeuvre under cover of a range of hills is particularly original. Shakhovsky's and Veliaminov's columns advance on Plevna from the east. Sobolev's small detachment distracts Osman-pasha's attention in the south. On paper it all looks quite beautiful.' Lukan drained his glass. 'But war, Mademoiselle Varvara, is not fought on paper. And your compatriots will achieve absolutely nothing.'

'But why?' Varya gasped.

The colonel chuckled and tapped the side of his head with one finger. 'I am a strategist, mademoiselle, I see further ahead than your general staff officers.' He nodded towards his map case. 'Over there I have a copy of the report which I forwarded yesterday to Prince Karl. I predict a total fiasco for the Russians and I am certain that His Highness will be adequately appreciative of my perspicacity. Your commanders are too arrogant and self-assured; they overestimate their own soldiers and underestimate the Turks. And also their Roumanian allies. But never mind - after today's lesson the tsar himself will ask for our help, you shall see.'

The colonel broke off a handsome chunk of Roquefort and Varya's mood was finally ruined.

Lukan's gloomy predictions proved correct.

In the evening Varya and Fandorin stood at the edge of the Plevna road as the wagons bearing the wounded drove past them in a never-ending line. The tally of casualties was not yet complete, but at the hospital she had been told that the ranks had been reduced by at least seven thousand men. They had also told her that Sobolev had distinguished himself by drawing the thrust of the Turkish counter-attack - if not for his Cossacks, the rout would have been a hundred times more devastating. Amazement had also been expressed at the satanic precision demonstrated by the Turkish gunners, who had shelled columns while they were still making their approach, before the battalions had even been deployed for the attack.

Varya told all this to Erast Petrovich, but he didn't say a word. Either he knew it all already, or he was in a state of shock - she couldn't tell.

The column ground to a halt: one of the wagons had lost a wheel. Varya had been trying to look at the maimed and injured as little as possible, but now she glanced more closely at the lopsided wagon and gasped; she thought she recognised one wounded officer's face, a patch of dull white in the radiant dusk of summer. She went closer and discovered she was right: it was Colonel Sablin, one of the regular visitors to the club. He was lying there unconscious, covered with a blood-soaked greatcoat. His body seemed strangely short.

'Someone you know?' asked the medical assistant accompanying the colonel. 'A shell took both his legs off all the way up. Really bad luck.'

Varya staggered back towards Fandorin and began sobbing convulsively. She cried for a long time, until her tears had dried up and the air had turned cool, and still they kept on bringing back the wounded.

'In the club they take Lukan for a fool, but he turned out to be cleverer than Kriedener,' said Varya, because she simply had to say something.

Fandorin looked at her inquiringly and she explained: 'He told me this morning that the attack would be a failure. He said the dispositions were good, but the commanders were poor. And he said the soldiers weren't very . . .'

'He said that?' Erast Petrovich queried. 'Ah, so that's how things are. That changes . . .' He broke off and knitted his brows.

'Changes what?'

No reply.

'Changes what? Hey?' Varya was beginning to feel angry. 'That's a very stupid habit you have, saying "A" without going on to say "B"! Tell me what's going on, will you?' She really felt like grabbing the titular counsellor by the shoulders and giving him a good shaking. The pompous, ignorant little brat. Trying to act as if he were the Indian chief Chingachgook.

'It is treason, Varvara Andreevna,' Erast Petrovich declared, suddenly forthcoming.

'Treason? What kind of treason?'

'That is precisely what you and I are going to find out.' Fandorin rubbed his forehead. 'Colonel Lukan, by no means a towering intellect, is the only one to predict defeat for the Russian army. That is one. He was acquainted with the troop dispositions and as Prince Karl's representative he even received a copy. That is two. The success of the operation depended on a secret manoeuvre carried out under the cover of a range of hills. That is three. The Turkish artillery shelled our columns by map coordinates, square after square, when they were out of their direct line of sight. That is four. The conclusion?'

'The Turks knew beforehand where to aim and when to fire,' whispered Varya.

'And Lukan knew beforehand that the assault would be a failure. Oh, and by the way - five. In recent days this man has suddenly come into a lot of money.'

'He is rich. Some kind of family fortune, estates. He told me about them, but I wasn't really listening.'

'Varvara Andreevna, not very long ago the colonel tried to borrow three hundred roubles from me and then, in a matter of days, at least according to Zurov, he lost perhaps as much as fifteen thousand. Of course, Hippolyte could have been exaggerating . . .'

'He certainly could,' Varya agreed. 'But Lukan really did lose an awful lot. He told me so himself today, just before he left for Bucharest.'

'He has gone away?'

Erast Petrovich turned away from her and began thinking, from time to time shaking his head. Varya tried approaching him from the side in order to see his face, but she didn't notice anything particularly remarkable. Fandorin was standing with his eyes half-closed, gazing up at the bright star of Mars.

'I tell you what, my d-dear Varvara Andreevna,' he said, speaking slowly, and Varya felt a warm glow in her heart - firstly because he had said 'my dear', and secondly because he had begun to stammer again. 'It appears I shall have to ask for your assistance after all, although I promised . . .'

'Why, I'll do anything at all!' she exclaimed rashly, then added quickly, 'in order to save Petya.'

'Well, that's splendid.' Fandorin looked into her eyes searchingly. 'But it is a very difficult task, and not a very pleasant one. I want you to go to Bucharest as well, to look for Lukan and try to investigate him. Shall we say, try to find out if he really is so rich. Exploit his vanity, boastfulness and foolishness. After all, he has told you more than he should once already. He is sure to spread his plumage for you to admire.' Erast Petrovich hesitated. 'You are, after all, a young and at-t-tractive individual . . .'

At this point he coughed and broke off, because Varya had whistled in amazement. She had finally won a compliment from the Commendatore's statue after all. Of course, it was a feeble sort of compliment - 'a young and attractive individual' - but even so, even so . . .

Then Fandorin immediately had to go and spoil everything. 'Naturally, you cannot travel on your own, and it would 1-look strange. I know that Paladin is planning to go to Bucharest. He will certainly not refuse to take you with him.'

No, he is definitely not a human being, he is a block of ice, thought Varvara. Imagine trying to thaw out someone like that! Could he really not see that the Frenchman was already circling round her} Of course he could - he saw everything; it was simply, as foolish Lusaka would put it, that he couldn't give a tinker's damn.

Erast Petrovich apparently interpreted her dissatisfied expression in his own way. 'Don't worry about money. There is a salary due to you, with travelling expenses and so forth. I shall issue it to you. You can buy something while you are there, amuse yourself a little.'

'Oh, I shall have no reason to be bored in Charles's company,' Varya said vengefully.

Chapter Seven

IN WHICH VARYA FORFEITS THE NAME OF A RESPECTABLE WOMAN

The Moscow Provincial Gazette

22 July (3 August) 1877

Sunday feuilleton

When your humble servant discovered that this city, which has become home-from-home to our rear-line community in recent months, was founded in times of old by Prince Vlad, dubbed 'The Impaler', and otherwise known by the name of Dracula, many things suddenly became clear. It is now clear to him, for instance, why in Bucharest you are fortunate if you can get three francs for your rouble, why an appalling lunch at an inn costs the same as a banquet at Moscow's Slavyansky Bazaar and why you pay as much for a hotel room as it would cost to rent the whole of Buckingham Palace. The accursed vampires lick their lips with great relish as they suck voraciously on the tasty Russian blood, only pausing every now and then to spit. And most unpleasant of all is the fact that since electing a tinpot German prince as its ruler, this Danubian province, which owes its autonomy entirely to Russia, has developed an odour of wurst and brawn. The gaze of the noble hospodars is fixed admiringly on Herr Bismarck, and for the good citizens of Bucharest a Russian is no better than a contemptible goat; they turn their noses up as they tug on its udder. As though sacred Russian blood were not even now being spilled on the fields of Plevna for the cause of Roumanian freedom . . .

Alas, Varya was mistaken, seriously mistaken. The journey to Bucharest proved to be boring in the extreme.

In addition to Paladin, several other correspondents had decided to seek diversion in the Roumanian capital. It was clear to everyone that during the days, and even weeks, that lay immediately ahead, nothing of any real interest would take place in the theatre of military operations, and once the journalistic fraternity realised that the Russians would need some time to recover from the bloodbath at Plevna, it made tracks for the fleshpots of the rear lines.

They had taken a long time over their preparations, only starting on their way two days later. As a lady, Varya was seated in the britzkabeside McLaughlin, while everyone else set off on horseback, and she could only gaze from a distance at the Frenchman on his noble mount Yataghan, who found the slow pace irksome, and make conversation with the Irishman. He discussed every possible aspect of the climatic conditions of the Balkans, London and Central Asia, told her all about the arrangement of the springs on his carriage and analysed several extremely complicated chess problems in close detail. All this put Varya in a very bad mood, and during their halts she regarded the boisterous travellers, including even Paladin with his cheeks flushed from the moderate exertion, with a misanthropic eye.

On the second day of the journey - they had already passed Alexandria - she began to feel a little better, because the cavalcade was overtaken by Zurov. He had distinguished himself in action and for his bravery been made Sobolev's adjutant. The general had apparently even wanted to recommend him for the Order of St Anne, but the hussar had managed to wangle himself a week's leave in lieu - a chance to stretch his legs properly, as he put it.

At first the captain amused Varya with his fancy trick riding - plucking bluebells at full gallop, juggling gold imperials and standing erect in the saddle. Then he made an attempt to swap places with McLaughlin, and when he was phlegmatically but unambiguously rebuffed, he moved the meek coachman on to his own chestnut mare, and seated himself on the coach box, twisting his head round all the time to regale Varya with amusing stories of his own heroism and the dark machinations of the jealous 'Jerome' Perepyolkin, with whom the newly appointed adjutant was at daggers drawn. And in this manner the journey was completed.

As Erast Petrovich had predicted, Lukan did not prove hard to find. Following her instructions, Varya took a room in the most expensive hotel, the Royale, where she inquired after the colonel at the reception desk, and it transpired that 'Son Excellence' was well known there - he had been junketing in the restaurant the previous day and the day before that, and he was certain to be there today as well.

Since there was still a long time left until the evening, Varya set out for a stroll along the fashionable Kalya-Mogoshoae Avenue, which seemed to her like Nevsky Prospect after life under canvas: smart carriages, striped awnings above the shop windows, dazzling southern beauties, decorative dark-haired men in light blue, white and even pink frock coats, and uniforms, uniforms, uniforms on every side. The sound of Roumanian speech was swamped by Russian and French. Varya drank two cups of chocolate in a genuine cafe, ate four little cakes and was on the point of dissolving in utterly blissful contentment when she happened to glance into a mirror on a pillar beside a hat shop and gasped in horror. No wonder all the men were looking straight through her as if she were not even there!

The bedraggled creature in the faded blue dress and wizened straw hat was an insult to the name of Russian womanhood. And the pavements were full of sultry Messalinas sauntering along in very latest Paris fashions!

Varya was terribly late arriving at the restaurant. She had agreed with McLaughlin to meet at seven, and it was already nine when she appeared. As a perfect gentleman, the correspondent of the Daily Post had agreed to the rendezvous without a murmur (she could hardly go to the restaurant alone - she would have been taken for a cocotte), nor did he utter a single word of reproach for her lateness, although he did look absolutely miserable. Never mind, after tormenting her all the way here with his meteorological expertise he owed her a favour; now he could make himself useful.

Lukan was not in the hall yet, and out of natural human consideration Varya asked McLaughlin to explain to her once again how the Old Persian Defence went. The Irishman, completely failing to notice Varya's dramatic transformation (on which she had spent six whole hours and almost all of her travelling allowance six hundred and eighty-five francs), coolly remarked that he was not aware of the existence of any such defence. She was therefore obliged to inquire as to whether it was always this hot in late July in this part of the world. It turned that it was, but it was absolutely nothing in comparison with the humid heat of Bangalore.

When the gilt-wood doors finally swung open at half past ten and the Roman legate's descendant entered the hall in a somewhat tipsy condition, Varya felt as delighted as if he were her closest friend. She leapt to her feet and waved to him with genuine warmth of feeling.

There was, however, an unforeseen complication in the form of a plump brown-haired woman hanging on the colonel's arm. The complication glanced at Varya with undisguised venom and Varya felt embarrassed -it had somehow never entered her head that Lukan might be married.

The colonel settled this minor difficulty with true martial resolve: he gave his companion a gentle slap just below her generous bustle and, after hissing something vitriolic, the complication made an indignant exit. Apparently not his wife, thought Varya, feeling even more embarrassed.

'Our wild flower has unfurled its petals to become a delightful rose!' Lukan wailed as he dashed towards Varya across the entire width of the hall. 'What a dress! And that hat! My God, can I really be on the Champs Elysees?'

He was a coarse, vulgar show-off, of course, but it was nice to hear nonetheless. For the good of the cause Varya even compromised her principles and allowed him to press his lips to her hand. The colonel nodded to the Irishman with casual benevolence (he was not a rival) and sat down at the table without waiting to be invited. Varya thought that McLaughlin also seemed glad to see the Roumanian. Could he really be weary of discussing meteorological matters? No, surely not.

The waiters were already bearing away the coffee and cake ordered by the thrifty correspondent and bringing wines, sweets, fruit, cheeses.

'You will not forget Bucharest!' Lukan promised. 'In this town everything belongs to me!'

'In what sense?' the Irishman asked. 'Do you happen to own extensive property in the city?'

The Roumanian did not even dignify the question with an answer. 'Congratulate me, mademoiselle! My report has been appreciated at its true worth, and in the very near future I may expect an advancement.'

'What report is that?' McLaughlin inquired again. 'What kind of advancement?'

'The whole of Roumania is expecting an advancement,' the colonel declared with a solemn expression. 'It is now absolutely clear that the emperor of Russia has overestimated the strength of his army. I have learned from absolutely reliable sources,' he said, dropping his voice dramatically and leaning over so that the curl of his moustache tickled Varya's cheek, 'that General Kriedener will be relieved of the command of the Western Division, and the forces besieging Plevna will be placed under the leadership of our own Prince Karl.'

McLaughlin took a notepad out of his pocket and began taking notes.

'Mademoiselle Varvara, can I perhaps interest you in a nocturnal excursion through the streets of Bucharest?' Lukan whispered in her ear, taking astute advantage of the opportune pause. 'I can show you things you have never seen in that boring northern capital of yours. I swear it will be a night to remember.'

Ts that the decision of the Russian emperor or simply the wish of Prince Karl?' the inquisitive journalist asked.

'The wish of His Highness is more than enough,' snapped the colonel. 'Without Roumania and her army of fifty thousand valiant warriors the Russians are helpless. Let me tell you, Mister Correspondent, that my country has a great future ahead of it. Soon, very soon, Prince Karl will become king. And your humble servant,' he added, turning towards Varya, 'will become an extremely important person. Possibly even a senator. The perspicacity I have demonstrated has been adequately appreciated. Now what do you say to that romantic drive? I positively insist.'

‘I will think about it,' she promised evasively, desperately trying to think of a way to channel the conversation in the required direction.

At that moment Zurov and Paladin entered the restaurant - most inopportunely, from the point of view of the cause, but Varya was glad to see them anyway: in their company Lukan would be a bit less brazen.

Following the direction of her glance, the colonel muttered gloomily. 'They're letting absolutely anyone into the Royale nowadays. We should have gone into a separate room.'

'Good evening, gentlemen,' Varya greeted her acquaintances cheerfully. 'What a small town Bucharest is, to be sure! The colonel was just boasting to me of his perspicacity. He forecast in advance that the storming of Plevna would end in defeat.'

'Did he, indeed?' asked Paladin, looking closely at Lukan.

'You look absolutely magnificent, Varvara Andreevna,' said Zurov. 'What's that you have there, Martell? Waiter, some glasses over here!' The Roumanian took a drink of cognac and contemplated the two other men glumly.

'When did you make this prediction? Who did you tell?' asked McLaughlin, peering through half-closed eyes.

'It was in a report addressed to his sovereign,' Varya explained. 'And now the colonel's perspicacity has been adequately appreciated.'

'Eat and drink to your hearts' content, gentlemen,' said Lukan, inviting them with a broad sweep of his arm as he rose abruptly to his feet. 'It will all go on my bill. Miss Suvorova and I are going for a drive. She has promised me.'

Paladin raised his eyebrows in astonishment and Zurov exclaimed suspiciously: 'What is this I hear, Varvara Andreevna? You, going for a drive with Luke?'

Varya was close to panic. If she left with Lukan, her reputation would be ruined for ever, and there was no telling where it might lead; but if she refused, her mission would end in failure.

'I shall be straight back, gentlemen,' she said dejectedly and walked across to the exit as quickly as she could. She needed to gather her thoughts.

In the foyer she halted beside the tall mirror with the bronze scrolls and flourishes and pressed a hand to her blazing brow. How should she proceed? Go up to her room, lock herself in and refuse to answer the door. I'm sorry, Petya; please don't be angry with me,

Mister Titular Counsellor - Varya Suvorova is simply not cut out to be a spy.

The door creaked ominously and the colonel's red, angry face appeared in the mirror right behind her.

'I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but nobody treats Mikhai Lukan like that. First you make advances to me after your own fashion, and then you take it into your head to disgrace me in public? You've picked the wrong man this time! You're not in your scurvy press club now, this is my home ground!'

Not a trace was left of the future senator's former gallantry. His yellowish-brown eyes rained bolts of lightning down on her. 'Let's go, mademoiselle, the carriage is waiting.' A swarthy, hirsute hand descended on to Varya's shoulder, clutching it with surprisingly powerful fingers that seemed to be forged of iron.

'You have lost your mind, Colonel! I am no courtesan!' Varya shrieked, glancing around.

There were quite a lot of people in the foyer, mostly gentlemen in light summer jackets and Roumanian officers. They were observing the titillating scene with interest, but apparently had no intention of intervening on behalf of the lady (if, indeed, she was a lady).

Lukan said something in Roumanian and the onlookers laughed knowingly.

'Had a bit too much to drink, Marusya?' one of them asked in Russian, and they all laughed even louder.

The colonel grabbed Varya masterfully round the waist and led her off towards the exit, performing the manoeuvre so adroitly that it was quite impossible to resist.

'You insolent lout!' Varya exclaimed and tried to hit Lukan on the cheek, but he grabbed hold of her wrist.

His face was close now, smelling of a mixture of stale alcohol and eau de cologne. I'm going to be sick, Varya thought in fright.

But a moment later the colonel's hands released their grip of their own accord. First there was a loud slap, then a resounding crunch, and Varya's assailant went flying back against the wall. One of his cheeks was bright red from a slap and the other was stark white from a heavy punch. She saw Paladin and Zurov standing shoulder to shoulder two paces away. The correspondent was shaking the fingers of his right hand; the hussar was massaging his right fist.

'The allies have just had a falling out,' Hippolyte declared. 'And that is only the beginning. You won't get away with just a broken face, Luke. People who treat ladies like that end up with holes in their hide.'

Paladin did not say a word. He simply pulled off one white glove and threw it in the colonel's face.

Lukan shook his head, straightened up and rubbed his temple. He looked from one of them to the other. What astounded Varya most of all was that all three of them seemed to have completely forgotten that she even existed.

'Am I being challenged to a duel?' the Roumanian forced the French words out hoarsely, as though with a great effort. 'Both of you at once? Or one at a time?'

'Choose whichever you like the look of,' Paladin replied coolly. 'And if you're lucky with the first, you'll have the second to deal with.'

'O-oh no,' the count objected. 'That won't do. I was the first to bring up the subject of his hide, and I'm the one he'll go shooting with.'

'Shooting?' Lukan exclaimed with an unpleasant laugh. 'Oh no, Mister Cardsharp, the choice of weapons is mine. I know perfectly well that you and Monsieur Scribbler here are crack shots. But this is Roumania, and we'll fight our way - the Wallachian way.'

He turned towards the watching crowd and shouted something, and several Roumanian officers promptly drew their sabres from their scabbards and held them out with the hilts forward.

'I choose Monsieur Journalist,' said the colonel, cracking his knuckles and laying a hand on the handle of his sabre. He was growing more sober and more elated even as they watched. 'Choose any of these swords you like and be so kind as to follow me out into the yard. First I'll skewer you, and then I'll slice off this brawler's ears.'

There was a murmur of approval in the crowd and someone even shouted, 'Bravo!'

Paladin shrugged and took hold of the sabre that was nearest.

McLaughlin pushed his way through the idle onlookers: 'Stop this! Charles, you must be insane! This is barbarous! He'll kill you! Fighting with sabres is the Balkan national sport; you don't have the skill.'

'I was taught to fence with a spadroon, and that's almost the same thing,' the Frenchman replied imperturbably, weighing the blade in his hand.

'Gentlemen, don't!' said Varya, at last recovering her voice. 'This is all because of me. The colonel had taken a little drink, but he did not mean to offend me, I am sure. Stop this immediately; it's absolutely absurd! Think of the position you are putting me in!' Her voice trembled piteously, but her entreaty fell on deaf ears.

Without even glancing at the lady whose honour was the reason for all the commotion, the knot of men trooped off down the corridor, talking excitedly, in the direction of the small internal courtyard. Varya was left alone with McLaughlin.

'This is stupid,' he said angrily. 'Spadroons, he says! I've seen the way the Roumanians handle a sabre. They don't assume the third position and say "en garde". They slice you up like blood pudding. Oh, what a writer will be lost, and all because of that idiotic French conceit. And it won't do that turkey-cock Lukan's prospects any good either. They'll stick him in jail and there he'll stay until the victory's won and an amnesty's signed. Back in Britain . . .'

'My God, my God, what can I do?' Varya muttered in dismay, not listening to him. 'I'm the one to blame for everything.'

'Flirting, madam, is certainly a great sin,' the Irishman unexpectedly agreed. 'Ever since the Trojan war . . .'

She heard a throng of male voices howl in the courtyard. 'What's happening? Surely it can't be over already?' Varya cried, clutching at her heart. 'So quickly! Go and take a look, Seamus. I beg you!'

The correspondent said nothing. He was listening, his genial features set in a mask of alarm. McLaughlin clearly did not wish to go out into the yard.

'Why are you wasting time?' said Varya, trying to stir him into action. 'Perhaps he needs medical assistance. Oh, you're useless!' She darted into the corridor and saw Zurov coming towards her with his spurs jangling.

'Oh, what a terrible shame, Varvara Andreevna,' he shouted out to her from a distance. 'What an irreparable loss!'

She slumped against the wall in black despair and her chin began to tremble.

'How on earth could we Russians have allowed ourselves to abandon the tradition of duelling with sabres,' Hippolyte continued with his lament. 'Such brilliance and pageantry, such elegance! Not just a bang and a puff of smoke and that's the end of it. Why it's a ballet, a poem, the Fountain of Bakhchisarai!'

'Stop babbling, Zurov!' Varya sobbed. 'Tell us what's going on!'

'Oh, you should have seen it!' said the captain, gazing excitedly at Varya and McLaughlin. 'It was all over in ten seconds. Just imagine the scene: a dark, shady courtyard. The broad flagstones lit by lanterns. We spectators are up on the gallery with only Paladin and Luke down below. The Roumanian vaults to and fro, brandishing his sabre and tracing out a figure eight in the air, tosses up an oak leaf and slices it in half. The audience applauds in delight. The Frenchman simply stands there, waiting for our peacock to stop his strutting. And then Luke bounded forward, embellishing the atmosphere with a treble clef, but without even moving from the spot Paladin leaned his trunk backwards to dodge the blow and then, with such lightning speed that I couldn't even see how he did it, he flicked the cutting edge of his sword right across the Roumanian's throat. Luke gurgled a little, fell flat on his face, jerked his legs a couple of times and that was it, retired without a pension. End of the duel.'

'Did they check? Is he dead?' the Irishman asked quickly.

'Dead as dead can be’ the hussar assured him. 'The blood would have filled Lake Ladoga. Why, Varvara Andreevna, you're upset! You look as pale as a ghost! Here, come lean against me' - and he promptly slipped his arm round Varya's waist, which in the circumstances was entirely appropriate.

'What about Paladin?' she murmured.

Zurov edged his hand a little higher as though inadvertently and said casually: 'What about him? He's gone to the commandant's office to hand himself in. That's the way it goes, you know; nobody's going to give him a pat on the back for this. That was no junior cadet he killed: he was a colonel. They'll pack him off back to France at the very least. Why don't I unfasten one of your buttons so that you can breathe more easily?'

Varya couldn't see or hear a thing. I'm disgraced, she thought. She had forfeited the name of a respectable woman for ever. She had bungled her spying, played with fire, and now look where it had got her. She was far too frivolous - and men were all beasts. Someone had been killed because of her. And she would never see Paladin again. But the worst thing of all was that the thread leading into the enemy's web had been snapped.

What would Erast Petrovich say?

Chapter Eight

IN WHICH VARYA SEES THE ANGEL OF DEATH

The Government Herald (St Petersburg) 30 July (11 August) 1877

Defying excruciating bouts of epidemic gastritis and bloody diarrhoea, our Sovereign has spent the last few days visiting hospitals that are filled to overflowing with typhus victims and wounded. His Imperial Majesty's heartfelt sympathy for their suffering is so sincere that these scenes bring an involuntary glow to the heart. The soldiers throw themselves on their gifts with all the naive joy of little children, and the author of these lines has on several occasions witnessed the Emperor's wonderful blue eyes moistened with a tear. It is impossible to observe such occasions without experiencing a peculiarly tender reverence.

What Erast Petrovich said was this: 'You took rather a long time getting back, Varvara Andreevna, and you have missed some very interesting developments. The moment I received your telegram I gave orders for a thorough search to be made of the dead man's tent and personal belongings, but nothing of any particular interest was found. The day before yesterday, however, the papers found on Lukan were delivered from Bucharest. And what d-do you think?'

Varya apprehensively raised her eyes to look the titular counsellor in the face for the first time, but she detected no pity or - which would have been even worse - scorn in Fandorin's expression, only concentration and something very like excitement. Her initial relief was immediately succeeded by a sense of shame: she had drawn things out because she dreaded coming back to the camp, snivelled and moped about her precious reputation and not given a single thought to the cause. What an appalling egotist!

'Tell me, then!' she urged Fandorin, who was observing with interest the tear slowly sliding down Varya's cheek.

'I beg your gracious forgiveness for involving you in such an unpleasant business,' Erast Petrovich said contritely. 'I expected almost anything, b-but not—'

'What have you discovered in Lukan's papers?' Varya interrupted him angrily, feeling that if the conversation did not change direction immediately she was certain to start blubbing.

Fandorin either guessed what might happen or simply decided that the subject was closed, but in any case he made no attempt to delve any further into the Bucharest episode. 'Some extremely interesting entries in his notebook. Here, take a look.'

He took a fancy little book bound in brocade out of his pocket and opened it at a page with a bookmark. Varya ran her eyes down the column of numbers and

letters:

19 — Z - 1500

20 — Z - 3400 - i

21 — J + 5000 Z - 800

22 — Z - 2900

23 — J + 5000 Z - 700

24 —Z - 1100

25 —J+ 5000 Z - 1000

26 — Z - 300

27 — J + 5000 Z - 2200

28 — Z - 1900

29 —J + 15000 Z + i

She read it through again more slowly, and then again. She wanted desperately to demonstrate her keen acumen.

'Is it a cipher? No, the numbers run consecutively ... A list? The numbers of regiments? Numbers of troops? Perhaps casualties and reinforcements?' Varya chattered, wrinkling up her forehead. 'So Lukan was a spy after all? But what do the letters mean -"Z", "J", "i"? Or perhaps they are formulas or equations?'

'You flatter the deceased, Varvara Andreevna. It is all much simpler than that. If these are equations, then they are extremely simple. But with one unknown.'

'Only one?' Varya asked, astonished.

'Take a closer look. The first c-column, of course, consists of dates. Lukan follows them with a long dash. From the nineteenth to the twenty-ninth of July in the Western style. How was the colonel occupied on those days?'

'How should I know? I didn't follow him around.' Varya thought for a moment. 'Well, he was probably in the staff building, and perhaps he visited the forward positions.'

'I never once saw Lukan visit the forward positions. In fact, I really only ever came across him in one place.'

'In the club?'

'Precisely. And what did he do there?'

'Nothing, he played cards.'

'B-Bravo, Varvara Andreevna.'

She glanced at the page again. 'So he kept notes of his gambling accounts! "Z" is always followed by a minus sign, and "J" always by a plus sign. So he marked his losses with the letter "Z" and his winnings with the letter "J"? Is that all?' Varya shrugged in disillusionment. 'What has that got to do with espionage?'

'There was no espionage. Espionage is a high art, but here we are dealing with elementary bribery and treason. The swashbuckling Zurov appeared in the club on the nineteenth of July, the day before the first assault on Plevna, and Lukan was drawn into the game.'

'That means "Z" is Zurov!' Varya exclaimed. 'Wait a moment . . .' She began whispering to herself, gazing at the figures. 'Forty-nine . . . carry seven ... A hundred and four . . .' She summed up: 'In all, he lost 15,800 roubles to Zurov. That seems about right: Hippolyte also said something about fifteen thousand. But then what is the "i"?'

'I p-presume that is the infamous diamond ring - inel in Roumanian. Lukan lost it on the twentieth of July and on the twenty-ninth he won it back again.'

'But then who is "J"?' Varya asked, rubbing her forehead. 'I don't think there was any "J" among the card-players. And Lukan won . . . mmm . . . oho! thirty-five thousand roubles from this man. I don't recall the colonel ever having such large winnings. He would have been certain to brag about it.'

'This was nothing to brag about. Those are not his winnings; they are his fee for treason. The first time the m-mysterious "J" paid the colonel was on the twenty-first of July, when Zurov completely cleaned Lukan out. After that the deceased received sums of f-five thousand from his unknown patron on the twenty-third, twenty-fifth and twenty-seventh - that is, every second day. That was how he was able to carry on playing with Hippolyte. On the twenty-ninth of July Lukan received fifteen thousand all at once. The question is, why so much, and why precisely on the twenty-ninth?'

'He sold the plan of battle for the second assault on Plevna!' Varya gasped. 'The disastrous attack took place the next day, on the thirtieth of July.'

'Bravo yet again. And there you have the secret of Lukan's much-vaunted perspicacity, and the incredible accuracy of the Turkish gunners, who shelled the coordinates of our columns while they were still making their approach.'

'But who is "J"? You must have some suspect in mind, surely?'

'Well, of course,' Fandorin muttered indistinctly. 'I, er . . . have my suspicions . . . but not all the pieces fit together as yet.'

'But doesn't it mean that all we have to do is find this "J" and then they'll let Petya go, take Plevna and the war will be over?'

Erast Petrovich thought for a moment, wrinkling up his smooth forehead, and said quite seriously: 'The sequence of your logic is not entirely beyond reproach, but in principle it is quite correct.'

Varya did not dare show up at the press club that evening. She was sure everyone there must blame her for Lukan's death (after all, they didn't know about his treason) and the banishment of the universal favourite, Paladin, who had not returned to the camp from Bucharest. According to Erast Petrovich, the duellist had been arrested and ordered to leave the territory of the principality of Roumania within twenty-four hours.

Hoping to run into Zurov, or at least McLaughlin, and find out from them just how censoriously public opinion was inclined to regard her criminal self, poor Varya strolled in circles around the marquee with its brightly coloured pennants, maintaining a distance of a hundred paces. She had absolutely nowhere else to go, and she certainly did not want to go back to her own tent. Those wonderful but limited creatures, the Sisters of Mercy, would start up their interminable discussions about which of the doctors was a sweetheart and which was a crosspatch, and whether the one-armed Lieutenant Strumpf from ward sixteen was being serious when he proposed to Nastya Pryanishnikova.

The flap of the marquee fluttered and Varya glimpsed a stocky figure in a blue gendarme's uniform. She hastily turned away, pretending to be admiring the quite horrid view of the village of Bogot, home to the commander-in-chief's headquarters. Where, she wondered was the justice in it all? That base schemer and oprichnik Kazanzaki could visit the club without the slightest fuss, while she - essentially an innocent victim of circumstances - was left loitering outside in the dust like some kind of homeless mongrel! Varya shook her head in violent indignation and had just made her mind up to drop the whole business and go home when she heard the odious Greek's unctuous voice call out behind her: 'Miss Suvorova! What a pleasant surprise.'

Varya swung round and put on a sour face, certain that the lieutenant-colonel's unusual politeness was merely the prelude to the venomous strike of the serpent.

Kazanzaki looked at her, stretching his thick lips into a smiling expression that was almost ingratiating. 'All the talk in the club is of nothing but you. Everyone is impatient to see you. After all, it's not every day that swords are crossed over a beautiful lady, and with fatal consequences too.'

Varya frowned suspiciously, anticipating some trick, but the gendarme only smiled all the more sweetly. 'Only yesterday Count Zurov gave us a quite brilliantly vivid account of the entire escapade and now this article today . . .'

'What article?' Varya asked, seriously alarmed.

'Have you not heard? Our disgraced Paladin has excelled himself - filled an entire page in the Revue Parisienne with a description of the duel. Very romantic it is too. You are referred to exclusively as "la belle Mademoiselle S".'

'Do you mean to say,' Varya asked in a voice that trembled slightly, 'that no one blames me?'

Kazanzaki raised his immensely thick eyebrows. 'Apart perhaps from McLaughlin and Eremei Perepyolkin. But everybody knows McLaughlin is an old grouch, and Perepyolkin is a rare visitor - he only comes with Sobolev. By the way, Perepyolkin was given a George Medal for the last battle. Now, what on earth did he do to deserve that? It just goes to show how important it is to be in the right place at the right time.'

The lieutenant-colonel smacked his lips enviously and cautiously broached the subject that interested him most: 'Everybody is wondering where the main heroine of the episode could have disappeared to, but it appears that our heroine is occupied with important state business. Well now, what does the subtle Mister Fandorin have in mind? What hypotheses does he have concerning Lukan's mysterious notes? Don't be surprised, Varvara Andreevna; after all, I am the head of the special section.'

So that's it, Varya thought to herself, looking at the lieutenant-colonel sullenly. J told you so. He likes to have his work done for him.

'Erast Petrovich tried to explain something to me, but I didn't really understand it,' she told him with a naive flutter of her eyelashes. 'Something to do with a "Z" and a "J". You really ought to ask the titular counsellor yourself. In any case, Pyotr Afanasievich is not guilty of anything; at least now that much is clear.'

'He may not be guilty of treason, but he is most certainly guilty of criminal negligence.' The gendarme's voice had assumed its familiar steely tone. 'It's best if your fiance stays in jail for the time being; no harm will come to him there.' But then Kazanzaki immediately changed his tone, evidently recalling that today he was playing a very different part. 'Everything will be all right, Varvara Andreevna. I am not proud and I am always willing to admit my mistakes. Take, for instance, the peerless Monsieur Paladin: I admit I interrogated him and I suspected him - there were good grounds for it. Because of his famous interview with the Turkish colonel our command made a mistake and people died. My hypothesis was that Colonel Ali-bei was a mythical character invented by the Frenchman, out of either journalistic vanity or other less innocent considerations. Now I see that I was unfair to him.' He lowered his voice confidentially. 'We have received information from agents in Plevna. Osman-pasha really does have a certain Ali-bei as either his deputy or his adviser. He almost never appears in public. Our man only saw him from a distance,- all he could make out was a bushy black beard and dark glasses. Paladin mentioned the beard too, by the way.'

'A beard and dark glasses?' Varya echoed, also lowering her voice. 'Could it possibly be that - what is his name now? - Anwar-effendi?'

'Shsh-sh,' said Kazanzaki, glancing around nervously and lowering his voice even further. 'I am certain that it is him. A very shrewd gentleman. Pulled the wool over our correspondent's eyes very smartly indeed. Only three tabors, he says, and the main forces will not get here soon. A simple enough ploy, but very elegant. And like dummies, we swallowed the bait.'

'But then if Paladin is not to blame for the failure of the first assault and Lukan is the traitor, surely it means they were wrong to banish Paladin for killing him?' Varya asked.

'Yes, it does. It's very tough luck on the poor fellow,' the lieutenant-colonel said casually, edging a bit closer. 'See how frank I am with you, Varvara Andreevna. And note that I've even shared some secret information. Perhaps you might be willing to let me have just a little tit-bit? I copied out that page from the notebook and I've been struggling with it for two days now, and all to no avail. First I thought it was a cipher, but it doesn't look like one. A list of army units or their movements? Casualties and reinforcements? Tell me now, what ideas has Fandorin come up with?'

'I will tell you only one thing: it is all much simpler than that,' Varya quipped condescendingly; then she adjusted her hat and set off with a sprightly stride towards the press club.

The preparations for the third and final assault on the fortress of Plevna continued throughout a sultry August. Although these preparations were shrouded in the strictest secrecy, everybody in the camp was saying that the battle would definitely take place on the thirtieth day of the month, the date of His Majesty the Emperor's name-day. From dawn until dusk the infantry and cavalry practised joint manoeuvres in the surrounding valleys and hills, by day and by night field-guns and siege-guns were moved up. The exhausted soldiers were a pitiful sight in their sweaty tunics and kepis grey with dust, but the general mood was one of vengeful glee: we've put up with enough of this, we Russians may be slow off the mark, but once we get moving we'll squash that pesky fly of Plevna with a single tap of our mighty bear's paw.

In the club and the officers' canteen, where Varya took her meals, everyone was suddenly transformed into military strategists - they drew diagrams, dropped the names of Turkish pashas in every sentence and tried to guess from which side the main blow would be struck. Sobolev visited the camp several times, but he maintained an enigmatic distance. He didn't play chess any more - only glanced occasionally at Varya in a dignified manner and no longer complained about his malicious fate. A staff officer whom Varya knew whispered to her that the major-general would be assigned, if not the key role in the forthcoming assault, then at least a highly important one, and he was now in command of two whole brigades and a regiment. Sobolev had at last earned the recognition that he deserved.

The entire camp was in a state of high animation, and Varya tried her very best to feel inspired by the universally optimistic mood, but somehow she couldn't. If the truth were told, she was bored to death by all this talk of reserves, troop positions and lines of communication. She was still not allowed to see Petya, Fandorin was walking around with a face as dark as thunder and answering questions in an incomprehensible mumble and Zurov only appeared in the company of his patron Sobolev. He cast sideways glances at Varya like a caged wolf and made pitiful faces at the bartender Semyon, but he didn't play cards or order any wine - Sobolev's detachment ran on iron discipline. The hussar complained in a whisper that 'Jerome' Perepyolkin had taken over 'the entire works' and wouldn't allow anyone space to draw breath; and his protector Sobolev wouldn't allow anyone to thrash some sense into him. The sooner the assault came, the better.

The only uplifting event of recent days had been the return of Paladin, who had apparently sat out the storm in Kishinev and then hurried back to the theatre of military operations as soon as he heard that he had been totally rehabilitated. Varya had been genuinely delighted to see the Frenchman, but even he seemed changed. He no longer entertained her with amusing little stories, avoided talking about the incident in Bucharest and spent all his time dashing about the camp, catching up on what he had missed during his month's absence and dashing off articles for his Revue. All in all, Varya felt much the same as she had in the restaurant of the Hotel Royale when the men had caught the scent of blood and run wild, entirely forgetting that she even existed - yet another proof that by his very nature man was closer to the animal world than woman, that the feral principle was more pronounced in man, and therefore the true variety of Homo sapiens was indeed woman, the more advanced, subtle and complex being. It was such a shame that she had no one with whom she could share her thoughts. Words like that only made the nurses giggle into their hands, and Fandorin merely nodded absent-mindedly, with his mind on something else.

In short, nothing was happening and she was absolutely bored stiff.

At dawn on the 30th of August Varya was woken by an appalling rumbling. The first cannonade had begun. The previous evening Erast Petrovich had explained to her that, in addition to the usual artillery preparation, the Turks would be subjected to psychological pressure - that was the very latest word in the art of war. At the first ray of sunlight, when Moslem true believers were supposed to perform their nimaz, three hundred Russian and Roumanian guns would start raining a hail of fire on the Turkish fortifications and then at precisely nine hundred hours the cannonade would cease. In anticipation of an attack, Osman-pasha would despatch fresh troops to his forward positions, but nothing would happen. The allies would stay put and silence would reign over the open expanses of Plevna. At precisely eleven hundred hours the bewildered Turks would be deluged by a second hail of fire that would continue until one in the afternoon. That would be followed by another lull. The enemy would be carrying away his wounded and dead, hastily patching up the damage, bringing up new guns to replace those that had been destroyed, but still the assault would not come. The Turks, who were not noted for their strong nerves and, as everybody knew, were capable of a brief impulsive effort but baulked at the prospect of any prolonged exertion, would naturally be thrown into confusion, and perhaps even panic. The entire Mohamedan command would probably ride down to the front line and gaze through their binoculars, wondering what was happening; and then, at fourteen hundred and thirty hours, the enemy would be hit with a third hail of fire, and half an hour later the assault columns would rush at the Turks, whose nerves by this time would be frayed to tatters from waiting.

Varya had squirmed, imagining herself in the place of the poor defenders of Plevna. It would be really terrible, waiting for the decisive events for an hour, two hours, three hours, and all in vain. She certainly wouldn't have been able to stand it. It was a cunningly conceived plan,- you had to give the geniuses at HQ their due.

'Ba-boom! Ba-boom!' rumbled the heavy siege-guns. 'Boom! Boom!' the field-guns echoed in thinner voices. This will go on for a long time, Varya thought; ‘ ought to have some breakfast.

Not having been informed beforehand of the artful plan of artillery preparation, the journalists had left to take up their position before it was light. The location of the correspondents' observation point had to be agreed in advance with the command and, following long discussions, it had been decided by a majority of votes to request a small hill located between Grivitsa, which was at the centre of the forward positions, and the Lovcha highway, beyond which lay the left flank. At first most of the journalists had wished to be sited closer to the right flank, since the main blow was obviously going to be struck from that side, but McLaughlin and Paladin had succeeded in changing their colleagues' minds, their main argument being that the left flank might well be of secondary importance, but Sobolev was there, which meant that there was bound to be a sensation of some kind.

After taking breakfast with the pale-faced nurses, who shuddered at every explosion, Varya set out to look for Erast Petrovich. She did not find the titular counsellor in the staff building, or in the special section. On the chance that he might be at home, Varya glanced into Fandorin's tent and saw him calmly seated in a folding chair, holding a book in his hand and dangling a Moroccan-leather slipper with a curled-up toe from his foot as he drank his coffee.

'When are you going to the observation point?' Varya asked, seating herself on the camp bed because there was nowhere else to sit.

Erast Petrovich shrugged. His fresh, rosy cheeks were positively glowing. The former volunteer was obviously thriving on camp life.

'Surely you are not going to sit here all day? Paladin told me that today's battle will be the largest assault on a fortified position in the whole of history - even more stupendous than the capture of Malakhov.'

'Your Paladin likes to exaggerate,' replied the titular counsellor. 'Waterloo and Borodino were on a larger scale, not to mention the Leipzig Battle of the Nations.'

'You are an absolute monster! The fate of Russia hangs in the balance, thousands of people are dying, and he just sits there reading his book! It's simply immoral!'

'And is it moral to sit and watch from a safe distance while people k-kill each other?' It was a miracle; there was actually a trace of human feeling - irritation - in Erast Petrovich's voice. 'Thank you very k-kindly, I have already observed this spectacle and even p-participated in it. I did not like it. I prefer the company of ‘T-Tacitus' - and he demonstratively stuck his nose back in his book.

Varya leapt up, stamped her foot and strode towards the door, but just as she was on the point of leaving Fandorin said: 'Take care out there, will you? Don't wander from the correspondents' viewing point. You never know.'

She halted and glanced back at Erast Petrovich in amazement. 'Are you showing concern?'

'B-But honestly, Varvara Andreevna, what business do you have up there? First they'll shoot their cannon for a long time, then they'll run forward and there'll be clouds of smoke so that you won't be able to see anything; you'll just hear some of them shouting "Hurrah!" and others screaming in agony. Very interesting, I'm sure. Our work is not up there, but here, in the rear.'

'A rear-line rat.' Varya uttered the phrase that suited the occasion and left the miserable misanthrope alone with his Tacitus.

The small hill occupied by the correspondents and military observers from neutral countries proved easy to find - Varya spotted the large white flag in the distance while she was still on the road that was choked solid with ammunition wagons. It was flapping feebly in the wind, and below it she could make out the dark mass of a fair-sized crowd, perhaps a hundred people, if not even more.

The controller of traffic, a captain wearing a red armband on his sleeve who was hoarse from shouting as he directed the shells to their initial destinations, smiled briefly at the pretty young lady in the lace hat and waved his hand: 'That way, that way, mademoiselle. But be sure not to turn off the track. The enemy artillery won't fire at a white flag, but a shell or two could land anywhere else once in a while. Just where do you think you're going, you stupid oaf? I told you, six-pound shells go to the sixth battery.'

Varya shook the reins of the meek little light-chestnut horse borrowed from the infirmary stables and set off towards the flag, gazing around her curiously.

The entire valley on this side of the range of low hills, beyond which lay the approaches to Plevna, was dotted with strange-looking islets. It was the infantry lying on the grass by companies, waiting for the order to attack. The soldiers were talking among themselves in low voices and every now and then she heard unnaturally loud laughter from one side or another. The officers were gathered together in small groups of several men, smoking papyrosas. They looked at Varya, riding past side-saddle, with surprise and mistrust, as if she were a creature from some other, unreal world. The sight of this stirring, droning valley made Varya feel a bit sick and she clearly glimpsed the Angel of Death circling above the dusty grass, gazing into the men's faces and marking them with his invisible sign. She struck the little horse with her heel in order to get through this ghastly waiting room as quickly as possible.

But then, at the observation point everybody was excited and full of gleeful anticipation. There was a picnic atmosphere, and some people had even made themselves comfortable beside white tablecloths spread out on the ground and were already tucking in.

'I didn't think you were coming,' said Paladin, greeting the new arrival. He was as agitated as all the others and Varya noted that he was wearing his famous old rust-coloured boots.

'We have been loitering here like idiots since the crack of dawn, and the Russian officers only began moving up at midday. Mr Kazanzaki paid us a visit a quarter of an hour ago and we learned from him that the assault will only begin at three o'clock,' the journalist prattled cheerfully. 'I see that you were also aware in advance of the plan of battle. It's too bad of you, Mademoiselle Barbara; you could have given us a friendly warning. I rose at four o'clock, and for me that is worse than death.'

The Frenchman helped the young lady to dismount, seated her on a folding chair and began to explain: 'Over there, on the hills opposite us, are the Turkish fortified positions. You see, where the shell-bursts fly up in the air like fountains? That is the very centre of their position. The Russo-Roumanian army extends in a parallel line about fifteen kilometres long, but from here we can only survey a part of that immense space.

Note that round hill. No, not that one, the other one, with the white tent. This is the command point, the temporary headquarters. The commander of the Western Division, Prince Karl of Roumania, is there, and so are the commander-in-chief Grand Duke Nicholas and the Emperor Alexander himself. Oh, the rockets, there go the rockets! A most picturesque spectacle, is it not?'

Lines of smoke were traced out in the air above the empty stretch of land that separated the opposing sides, as if someone had cut the realm of heaven into slices like a watermelon or a round loaf of bread. Lifting her head, Varya saw three coloured balls high above her -one close, the next a little further away, above the imperial headquarters, and the third right on the very horizon.

'Those, Varvara Andreevna, are balloons,' said Kazanzaki, who had appeared beside her. 'They correct the artillery fire from them using signalling flags.'

The gendarme looked even more repulsive than ever, cracking his knuckles in his excitement and flaring his nostrils nervously. He had caught the scent of human blood, the vampire. Varya demonstratively moved her chair further away, but he appeared not to notice the manoeuvre. He came up to her again and pointed off to one side beyond the low hills, where the rumbling sounded particularly loud.

'As always, our mutual friend Sobolev has sprung a surprise of his own. According to the plan of action, his role is to appear to threaten the Krishin redoubt, while the main forces strike their blow in the centre; but our ambitious little general couldn't wait, and this morning he launched a frontal attack. Not only has he broken away from the main forces and got himself cut off by the Turkish cavalry, he has put the entire operation in jeopardy! Well now, he'll catch it for that all right!'

Kazanzaki took a gold watch out of his pocket, tugged agitatedly on the peak of his kepi and crossed himself. 'Three o'clock! They'll go in now!'

Varya looked round and saw that the entire valley had begun to move: the islets of white tunics began heaving and fluttering, moving up quickly to the front line. There were pale-faced men running past the low hill, following an elderly officer with a long drooping moustache who was limping along nimbly at the front.

'Keep up, get those bayonets higher!' he shouted in a shrill, piercing voice, glancing round behind him. 'Sementsov, watch out! I'll rip your head off!'

Now there were other company columns running past, but Varya carried on gazing after that first one, with the elderly officer and the unknown Scmentsov.

The company spread out into a line and set off at a slow run towards the distant redoubt, where the fountains of earth began spurting up even more furiously.

'Right, now he'll give it to them,' someone said beside her.

In the distance the shells were already bursting fast and furiously and Varya could not see much under the smoke spreading across the ground, but her company was still running in neat formation and nobody seemed to be shelling it.

'Come on, Sementsov, come on,' Varya whispered, clenching her fist tight.

Soon 'her' men were completely hidden from sight by the backs of other columns that had spread out into lines to advance. When the open space in front of the redoubt was full to the halfway mark with white tunics, shell-bursts began springing up like neatly trimmed bushes in among the mass of men: a first, a second, a third, a fourth; and then again, a little bit closer: a first, a second, a third, a fourth. And again. And again.

'He's sweeping them fine, all right,' Varya heard someone say. 'So much for the artillery preparation. They shouldn't have wasted time showing off with their damned idiotic psychology. They should have just kept pounding them.'

'They've run! They're running!' Kazanzaki grabbed Varya's shoulder and squeezed it tightly.

She glanced up at him indignantly, but realised that the man was completely carried away. Somehow she managed to free herself and looked in the direction of the field.

It was hidden under a veil of smoke through which she caught brief glimpses of something white and black lumps of earth flying through the air.

All talk on the hill stopped. A crowd of silent men came running out of the blue-grey mist, skirting the observation point on both sides. Varya saw red blotches on the white tunics and cringed.

The smoke thinned a little and the valley was exposed, covered with the black rings of shell craters and white dots of soldiers' tunics. Varya noticed that the white dots were moving and she heard a dull howling sound that seemed to come from out of the earth itself - the cannon had just that moment stopped firing.

'The first trial of strength is over,' said a major she knew who had been attached to the journalists from central headquarters staff. 'Osman is well dug in; he'll take some shifting. First more artillery preparation then "hurrah-hurrah" again.' Varya felt sick.

Chapter Nine

IN WHICH FANDORIN RECEIVES A REPRIMAND FROM HIS CHIEF

The Russian Gazette (St Petersburg) 31 August (12 September) 1877

. . . Recalling the paternal parting words of his ardently adored commander, the intrepid youth exclaimed: 'I will get the message through, Mikhal Dmitrich, if it costs me my life!' The nineteen-year-old hero leapt up on to his Cossack steed and galloped off across the valley, swept by winds of lead, to where the main forces of the army lay beyond the Bashi-Bazouks lurking in ambush. Bullets whistled over the rider's head, but he only spurred on his fiery steed, whispering: 'Faster! Faster! The outcome of the battle depends on me!'

But alas, malign fate is more powerful than courage. Shots rang out from the ambush, sending the valiant orderly crashing to the ground. Drenched in blood, he leapt to his feet and dashed at the Mohamedan infidels, sword in hand, but like black kites the cruel enemy flung themselves on him and slew him, then hacked at his lifeless body with their swords.

Such was the death of Sergei Bereshchagin, the brother of the illustrious artist.

Thus there perished in the bud a most promising talent, fated never to blossom.

So fell the third of the riders despatched by Sobolev to the Emperor . . .

Some time after seven in the evening Varya found herself back at the familiar fork in the road, but instead of the hoarse-voiced captain she found an equally hoarse lieutenant giving instructions. He was having even greater difficulty than his predecessor, because now he had to direct two opposed streams of traffic: the line of ammunition wagons still moving up to the front line and the wounded being evacuated from the battlefield.

After the first attack Varya had lost her nerve and she realised that another terrible spectacle like that would be too much for her. She had set out for the rear, even crying a little along the way - fortunately there was nobody she knew anywhere nearby; but she had not gone all the way back to the camp, because she felt ashamed.

Shrinking violet, prim young lady, weaker sex, she rebuked herself. You knew you were going to a war, not a garden party at Pavlovsk Park; and on top of everything she desperately did not want to give the titular counsellor the satisfaction of knowing that he had been proved right yet again.

So she turned back.

She rode her horse at a walk, her heart sinking lower and lower as the sounds of battle drew nearer. At the centre the rifle fire had almost died away and there was only the rumbling of cannon,- but from the Lovcha highway, where Sobolev's isolated detachment was fighting, there came constant volleys of shots and the incessant roar of a multitude of voices, only faintly audible at such a distance. General Michel was apparently not having an easy time of it.

Suddenly Varya was startled by the sight of McLaughlin emerging from the bushes on his horse, spattered with mud. His hat had slipped over to one side of his head, his face was red and the sweat was streaming down his forehead.

'What's happening? How's the battle going?' Varya asked, catching the Irishman's horse by the bridle.

'Well, I think,' he replied, wiping his cheeks with a handkerchief. 'Oof, I got stuck in some kind of undergrowth and just barely managed to get out again.'

'Well, you say? Have the redoubts been taken?'

'No, the Turks stood firm in the centre, but twenty minutes ago Count Zurov galloped past our observation point in a great hurry to get to headquarters. All he shouted was: "Victory! We are in Plevna! No time now gentlemen, an urgent dispatch!" Monsieur Kazanzaki set off after him. No doubt that highly ambitious gentleman wishes to be there beside the bearer of good news in case some of the glory rubs off on him.' McLaughlin shook his head disapprovingly. 'And then the gentlemen of the press went dashing off helter-skelter - every one of them has his own man among the telegraphers. Take my word for it, telegrams reporting the capture of Plevna are winging their way to their newspapers at this very moment.'

'Then what are you doing here?'

The correspondent replied with dignity: 'I never rush things, Mademoiselle Suvorova. You have to check all the details thoroughly first. Instead of a bald statement of fact I shall send an entire article, and it will be in time for the same morning edition as their skimpy telegrams.'

'So we can go back to the camp?' Varya asked in relief.

'Yes, I believe so. We'll find out more at the staff building than out here in this savannah. And it will be dark soon too.'

However, at the staff building they didn't really know anything, because no despatches about the capture of Plevna had been received from field headquarters - quite the contrary, in fact: all the major thrusts of the offensive had apparently been repulsed and the losses were absolutely astronomical, at least twenty thousand men. They said that the emperor had completely lost heart and responded to questions about Sobolev's success with a shrug: how could Sobolev take Plevna with his two brigades if sixty battalions in the centre and on the right flank had not even been able to take the first line of redoubts?

It didn't make any sense at all. McLaughlin was triumphant, delighted at his own circumspection, but Varya was furious with Zurov: that braggart and liar had only confused everybody with his arrant nonsense.

Night fell and the dispirited generals returned to staff headquarters. Varya saw Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich enter the little operations section building, surrounded by his adjutants. His equine face was twitching spasmodically between the thick sideburns.

Everyone was talking in whispers about the huge losses - the news was that a quarter of the army had been killed; but out loud they spoke about the heroism displayed by the officers and men. A great deal of heroism had been displayed, especially by the officers.

Shortly after twelve Varya was sought out by Fandorin. He looked dejected.

'Come with me, Varvara Andreevna. The chief wants to see us.'

'Us?' she asked, surprised.

'Yes, the entire staff of the special section; and that includes both of us.'

They walked quickly to the mud-walled hut where Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki's department was located.

The officers and staff of the Special Section of the Western Division were all gathered in the familiar room, but their commanding officer was not among them. However, Lavrenty Arkadievich Mizinov was there, scowling menacingly behind the desk.

'Ah-ah, the titular counsellor and his lady secretary have decided to join us,' he said acidly. 'Wonderful - now we only have to wait for His Worship the lieutenant-colonel to arrive and we can begin. Where's Kazanzaki?' barked the general.

'Nobody has seen Ivan Kharitonovich this evening,' the most senior officer present replied timidly.

'Magnificent. Fine protectors of secrets you all are.' Mizinov jumped up and began walking round the room, stamping his feet loudly. 'This isn't an army, it's a circus, a cabaret show with escape artists! Whenever you want to see someone, they tell you he isn't here. He's disappeared! Without trace!'

'Your Excellency, you are sp-speaking in riddles. What is the m-matter?' Fandorin asked in a low voice.

‘I don't know, Erast Petrovich, I don't know!' exclaimed Mizinov. ‘I was hoping that you and Mister Kazanzaki would tell me that.' He stopped for a moment to get a grip on himself and then continued more calmly: 'Very well. We are not waiting for anyone else. I have just come from the emperor, where I witnessed a most interesting scene: Major-General of His Imperial Majesty's retinue Sobolev the Second shouting at His Imperial Majesty and His Imperial Highness, and the tsar and the commander-in-chief apologising to him.'

'Impossible!' one of the gendarmes gasped.

'Silence!' squealed the general. 'Be quiet and listen! Apparently, some time after three o'clock this afternoon Sobolev's detachment, having taken the Krishin redoubt by a frontal attack, broke through into the southern outskirts of Plevna at the rear of the main force of the Turkish army, but was forced to a halt by a lack of bayonets and artillery. Sobolev despatched several riders with a request to send reinforcements immediately, but they were intercepted by the Bashi-Bazouks. Finally, at six o'clock Adjutant Zurov, accompanied by fifty Cossacks, managed to break through to the central army group positions. The Cossacks went back to Sobolev because he needed every man he could get, and Zurov galloped on to headquarters alone. In Plevna they were expecting reinforcements to arrive at any minute, but they never came; and that is not surprising, because Zurov never reached headquarters and we never learned about the breakthrough on the left flank. That evening the Turks redeployed their forces to bring their full might to bear on Sobolev and shortly before midnight, having lost most of his men, he withdrew to his initial position. But we had Plevna in the bag! A question for all of you here: What could have happened to adjutant Zurov, in broad daylight, in the very centre of our positions? Who can answer me that?'

'Evidently Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki can’ said Varya, and everyone turned to look at her. She related excitedly what she had heard from McLaughlin.

After a prolonged pause the Chief of Gendarmes turned to Fandorin: 'Your conclusions, Erast Petrovich?'

'The battle has been lost; there is no p-point in wailing and beating our chests - emotions merely hinder the effort of investigation,' the titular counsellor replied coolly. 'What we need to do is this: divide up the t-territory between the correspondents' observation point and the field headquarters into squares. That's the first thing. At the first light of d-dawn search every last centimetre of each square. That's the second thing. If the b-bodies of Zurov or Kazanzaki are found, nothing must be touched and the ground around them must not be trampled - that's the third thing. And just to be certain, search for both of them among the seriously wounded in the infirmaries - that's the fourth thing. For the moment, Lavrenty Arkadievich, there is n-nothing more to be done.'

'What do you suggest I should report to His Majesty? Treason?'

Erast Petrovich sighed. 'More likely s-sabotage. But in any case we shall find out in the morning.'

They did not sleep that night. There was a lot of work to be done,- the members of the special section divided the area up into hatf-vyerstsquares on a map and allocated people to the search teams, while Varya rode round all six hospitals and infirmaries and checked the officers who had been brought back unconscious. The sights she saw were so horrible that by dawn she had slipped into a peculiar, numb stupor; but she had not found either Zurov or Kazanzaki, although she had seen quite a number of her acquaintances among the wounded, including Perepyolkin. The captain had also attempted to break out and bring help, but for his pains he had received a blow from a crooked sabre across the collarbone - he had no luck where the Bashi-Bazouks were concerned. The poor man was lying on his bed pale-faced and miserable, and the expression in his sunken brown eyes was almost as mournful as on that unforgettable day when they had first met. Varya dashed across to him, but he turned away and said nothing. What had she done to make him dislike her?

The first rays of the sun found Varya on a bench beside the special section building. Fandorin had virtually forced her down on to it and ordered her to rest, and Varya had slumped, weary and numb, against the wall and sunk into a restless half-sleep. Her entire body ached and she felt a little sick - after all the nervous strain and a sleepless night it was hardly surprising.

The search teams had set out for their squares before first light. At a quarter past seven a messenger from section 14 arrived at a gallop and ran into the hut and Fandorin came dashing out, buttoning up his tunic on the run.

'Let's go, Varvara Andreevna; they've found Zurov,' he said tersely.

'Is he dead?' she sobbed.

Erast Petrovich did not answer.

The hussar was lying on his front with his head twisted to one side. Even from a distance Varya spotted the silver handle of the Caucasian dagger thrust deep into his left shoulder. When she dismounted, she saw his face in profile: the beautiful glint of the glassy eye staring in surprise, the dark powder burn ringing the gaping bullet wound in the temple.

Varya sobbed again without crying and turned away from the terrible sight.

'We haven't touched anything, Mister Fandorin, just as you ordered,' the gendarme in charge of the team reported. 'He had only one vyerst left to ride to the command post. This area's in a hollow - that's why no one saw anything; and as for the shot, there was so much shooting going on . . . The picture's quite clear: he was stabbed in the back with the dagger unexpectedly - taken by surprise. Then they finished him off with a bullet in the left temple - at point-blank range.'

'Mm-mm,' Erast Petrovich replied vaguely, leaning down over the body.

The officer lowered his voice: 'It's Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki's dagger. I recognised it immediately. He showed it to us, said it was a present from a Georgian prince . . .'

To that Erast Petrovich replied: 'Splendid.'

Varya felt sicker than ever now, and she squeezed her eyes shut to fight off the nausea.

'Are there any hoofprints?' asked Fandorin, squatting down on his haunches.

'Unfortunately not. As you can see, the bank of the stream here is nothing but gravel, and further up the whole area is trampled - the cavalry squadrons must have come this way yesterday.'

The titular counsellor straightened up and stood by the sprawling corpse for about a minute. His face was fixed and expressionless, the same grey colour as his temples. And he's hardly more than twenty, thought Varya with a shudder.

'Very well, Lieutenant. Transfer the body to the camp. Let's go, Varvara Andreevna.'

On the way she asked him: 'Surely Kazanzaki is not a Turkish agent? It's unbelievable! He is repulsive, of course, but even so . . .'

'Not to that extent?' asked Fandorin with a humourless chuckle.

Just before noon the lieutenant-colonel was also found - after Erast Petrovich had given orders for the small grove of trees and the bushes near the spot where poor Hippolyte had died to be searched again, this time more thoroughly.

From what Varya was told (she did not go herself), Kazanzaki was half-sitting, half-lying with his back slumped against a boulder. He had a revolver in his right hand and a hole in his forehead.

The meeting to discuss the results of the search was led by Mizinov himself.

'First of all I must say that I am extremely dissatisfied with the results of Titular Counsellor Fandorin's work,' the general began in a voice that boded no good. 'Erast Petrovich, a dangerous and sophisticated enemy has been operating right under your very nose, inflicting severe damage on our cause and putting the success of the entire campaign in jeopardy, and you have still not identified him. Certainly, this was no easy task, but then you are by no means what I would call a beginner. I can't expect any more from the rank-and-file members of the special section. They were recruited from various provincial offices, where for the most part they were previously involved in standard investigations; but for you, with your exceptional abilities, this is quite inexcusable.'

Varya pressed a hand to her throbbing temple and cast a sideways glance at Fandorin. He appeared entirely unperturbed, but his cheekbones had turned ever so slightly pink (probably nobody but Varya would have noticed that); his chief's words had obviously cut him to the quick.

'And so, gentlemen, what do we have? We have a fiasco entirely without precedent in world history. The head of the secret Special Section of the Western Division, the most important formation in the entire Army of the Danube, was a traitor.'

'Can we regard that as established fact, Your Excellency?' the most senior gendarme officer present asked timidly.

'Judge for yourself, Major. Of course, the fact that Kazanzaki was Greek by origin and there are many Turkish agents among the Greeks is not in itself proof; but remember the mysterious letter "J" that figured in Lukan's notes. Now we can see what that "J" meant -"gendarme".'

'But the word "gendarme" is written with a "G"‘ the major with the grey moustache persisted.

'It is written that way in French, but in Roumanian it is written with a "J" - "jandarm",' his chief explained condescendingly. 'Kazanzaki was the puppet-master who pulled the Roumanian colonel's strings. And in addition: Who was it that went dashing after Zurov when he was on his way to deliver the message on which the outcome of the battle, perhaps even the whole war, depended? Kazanzaki. And in addition: Whose dagger was used to kill Zurov? Your superior's. And in addition . . . What else in addition? When he was unable to extract the knife from his victim's shoulder blade, the killer realised that there was no way he could avoid suspicion and he shot himself. By the way, there are two bullets missing from the chamber of his revolver.'

'But an enemy spy would not have killed himself; he would have tried to hide,' the major objected timidly.

'Where, by your leave? He could not get across the firing line, and in our rear lines as of today he would have been a wanted man. He could not hide with the Bulgarians and he could not reach the Turks. Better a bullet than the gallows - he was certainly right about that. Apart from which, Kazanzaki was not a spy, but a traitor. Novgorodtsev,' said the general, turning to his adjutant, 'where's the letter?'

Novgorodtsev extracted a snow-white sheet of paper folded in four from his file.

'Discovered in the pocket of the suicide,' explained Mizinov. 'Read it out, Novgorodtsev.'

The adjutant peered dubiously at Varya.

'Read it, read it,' the general urged him. 'This is not a college for daughters of the nobility, and Miss Suvorova is a member of the investigative group.'

Novgorodtsev cleared his throat and blushed bright red as he began to read:

'"My deer hart Vanchik-Kharitonchik ..." Gentleman,' the adjutant commented, 'the spelling is quite appalling, but I shall do my best to read it as it is written. Such terrible scrawl. Hm . . . "My deer hart. Life withowt yoo will be enuff to mayk me lay hands on miself, rather than carrie on living like this. You kissed me and keressed me and I did you, but that scowndrel fayt was watching us enviously and hideing his nife behind his back. Withowt you I am meer dust, the dirt on the grownd. I beg yoo come back soon. But if yoo fynd sumone else in that lowsy Kishinev, I will come and I sware on my muther I will rip your guts out. Yors for a thowsand years. Shalunishka."'

'A strange letter from a mistress,' commented the major.

'It's not from a woman; it's from a man,' said Mizinov with a crooked smile. 'That's the whole point. Before he went to the Kishinev office of gendarmes, Kazanzaki served in Tiflis. We sent an inquiry immediately and already have a reply. Read out the telegram, Novgorodtsev.'

Novgorodtsev clearly read the new document with greater pleasure than the love letter:

To His Excellency Adjutant-General L. A. Mizinov in reply to an inquiry of the 3rst of August, received at 52 minutes past one o'clock in the afternoon. Extremely urgent. Top secret.

'I beg to report that during his term of duty in the Tiflis Office of the Gendarmes from January r872 to September 1876 inclusive, Ivan Kazanzaki proved himself to be a capable and energetic worker and no sanctions or penalties were ever applied to him. On the contrary, for his services he was awarded the Order of St Stanislav, third class, and received two official expressions of thanks from His Imperial Highness the Viceregent of the Caucasus. However, according to information provided in summer r876 by agents in the field, he had perverted leanings and was supposedly even involved in an unnatural relationship with the well-known Tiflis pederast Prince Vissarion Shalikov, alias Shalun Beso. I would not normally have given any credence to such rumours, unsupported as they were by any proof; however, bearing in mind that despite his mature age Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki was unmarried and had never been observed to be involved with women, I decided to conduct a secret internal investigation. It was established that Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki was indeed acquainted with Shalun, although the existence of an intimate relationship was not confirmed. Nonetheless, I decided the best thing would be to request Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki's transfer to another office without any adverse consequences for his service record.

'Commander of the Tiflis Office of Gendarmes, Colonel Panchulidzev.'

'So there you have it’ Mizinov summed up bitterly. 'He fobbed off a dubious member of his department on someone else and concealed the reason from his superiors. And now the entire army is suffering the consequences. Because of Kazanzaki's treason we have been stuck at blasted Plevna for two months now and there's no telling how much more time we'll have to waste on it! The emperor's name-day celebrations have been ruined. Today His Majesty was even speaking of retreat - can you imagine that?' He swallowed convulsively. 'Three failed assaults, gentlemen! Three! Do you recall, Erast Petrovich, that it was Kazanzaki who delivered the first order to take Plevna to the coding room? I don't know how he managed to substitute

"Nikopol" for "Plevna", but that Judas clearly had a hand in it somehow!'

Varya thought with a start that now there seemed to be a new glimmer of hope for Petya; but the general chewed on his lips and continued: 'I shall of course have Colonel Panchulidzev committed for trial as a lesson to anyone else who covers things up and will insist on his being reduced to the ranks, but his telegram does at least allow us to reconstruct the chain of events. It is all quite simple. The Turkish agents who infest the Caucasus so thickly must have discovered Kazanzaki's secret vice and recruited the lieutenant-colonel by blackmailing him. It's a story as old as the world. "Vanchik-Kharitonchik"! Phoo, disgusting filth! Better if it had been done for money!'

Varya was just about to open her mouth to intercede for the devotees of single-sex love, who were, after all, not to blame that nature had made them different from everyone else, when Fandorin rose to his feet.

'May I take a look at the letter?' he said, then took the sheet of paper, turned it over in his hands, ran a finger along the crease and asked: 'And where is the envelope?'

'Erast Petrovich, you amaze me,' the general said, flinging up his arms. 'How could there be an envelope? Such missives are not sent by the post.'

'So it was simply lying in his inside pocket? Well, well' - and Fandorin sat back down.

Lavrenty Arkadievich shrugged. 'I'll tell you what you had better do, Erast Petrovich. I think it possible that apart from Colonel Lukan the traitor may also have recruited someone else. Your job is to discover whether there are any more dragon's teeth lying in or around headquarters. Major,' he said, addressing the senior officer present, who jumped to his feet and stood to attention, 'I appoint you acting head of the special section. Your job is the same. Provide the titular counsellor every possible assistance.' 'Yes sir!'

There was a knock at the door.

'With your permission, Your Excellency?' The door opened a little and a face wearing blue spectacles appeared in the gap.

Varya knew that he was Mizinov's secretary, a quiet little functionary with a name that was hard to remember, whom everybody disliked and was afraid of.

'What is it?' the chief of gendarmes asked guardedly.

'An emergency at the guardhouse. The commandant has come to report it. He says one of his prisoners has hanged himself.'

'Are you out of your mind, Przebisevski? I have an important meeting, and you interrupt me with drivel like this!'

Varya clutched at her heart in fright, and the secretary immediately spoke the very words she was afraid to hear: 'But it is the cryptographer Yablokov who has hanged himself, the very same ... He left a note which has a direct bearing . . . That was why I took it on myself . . . But if this is a bad moment, please forgive me, I will leave.' The functionary gave an offended sniff and made as if to retreat behind the door.

'Give me the letter!' the general roared. 'And send the commandant in!'

Everything went hazy in front of Varya's eyes. She struggled to get to her feet, but she could not: she was numbed by some bizarre paralysis. She saw Fandorin leaning over her and tried to say something to him, but she could only move her lips feebly without making a sound.

'Now it is quite clear that Kazanzaki altered the order!' Mizinov exclaimed after he had run his eyes over the note. 'Listen. "Again thousands of dead killed and all because of my blunder. Yes, my guilt is appalling and I will no longer deny it. I committed a fatal error - I left the encoded order to take Plevna on my desk while I absented myself on personal business. In my absence someone altered one word in the message and I delivered the message without even checking it! Ha-ha, I, Pyotr Yablokov, am the genuine saviour of Turkey, not Osman-pasha. Do not bother to examine my case, judges. I have pronounced judgement on myself!" Ah, how very elementary it all is. The boy went about his own business and Kazanzaki promptly altered the message. It would only take a moment!'

The general screwed up the note and tossed it on the floor at the feet of the commandant of the guardhouse, who was standing rigidly to attention.

'Er . . . Erast Pet . . . rovich, what has . . . happened?' Varya mumbled, scarcely able to force out the words. 'Petya!'

'Captain, how is Yablokov? Is he dead?' Fandorin asked, addressing the commandant.

'How could he be dead when he can't even tie a noose properly!' the commandant barked. 'They've taken Yablokov down and they're reviving him now!'

Varya pushed Fandorin away and dashed to the door. She collided with the doorpost, ran out on to the porch and was blinded by the bright sunlight. She had to stop. Fandorin appeared beside her again.

'Varvara Andreevna, calm down; everything is all right. We will go there together straight away, but first you must catch your breath, you look terrible.'

He took her gently by the elbow, but for some reason the entirely gentlemanlike touch of his hand provoked an overwhelming attack of nausea. She doubled over and vomited copiously all over Erast Petrovich's boots. Then she sat on the step, trying to understand why nobody was sliding down off the ground when it was sloping at such an angle.

Varya felt something pleasant and ice-cold touch her forehead and gave a low moan of pleasure.

'A fine business,' she heard Fandorin's hollow voice say. 'This is typhus.'

Chapter Ten

IN WHICH THE EMPEROR IS PRESENTED WITH A GOLDEN SWORD

The Daily Post (London) 9 December (27 November) 1877

For the last two months the siege of Plevna has effectively been commanded by the old, experienced General Totleben, well remembered by the British from the Sebastopol campaign. Being rather more of an engineer than a military leader, Totleben has abandoned the tactic of frontal attacks and imposed a strict blockade on the army of Osman-pasha. The Russians have lost a great deal of precious time, for which Totleben has been subjected to severe criticism, but now it must be acknowledged that the cautious engineer is right. Since the Turks were finally cut off from Sophia one month ago, Plevna has begun to suffer from hunger and a shortage of ammunition. Totleben is referred to ever more often as the second Kutuzov (the Russian field-marshal who exhausted Napoleon's forces by retreating incessantly in 1812 - Editor's note). Osman and his army of fifty thousand are expected to surrender any day now.

It was an abominably cold and unpleasant day (grey sky, icy sleet and squelching mud) when Varya made her way back to the army positions in a specially hired cab. She had spent an entire month on a hospital bed in the Trnovo Epidemiological Hospital, where she could quite easily have died, because many people did die of typhus, but she had been lucky. Then she had spent another two months dying of boredom while she waited for her hair to grow, because she certainly couldn't go back with her head shaved like a Tatar. Her accursed hair had grown back far too slowly and even now it stood up on her head like a crew-cut or the bristles on a brush. In fact, she looked perfectly absurd, but her patience had run out - one more week of idleness and Varya would have been driven totally insane by the sight of the crooked little streets of that horrid little town.

Petya had managed to get away to visit her once. He was still officially under investigation, but he had been let out of the guardhouse now and gone back to work -the army had grown a lot and there was a shortage of cryptographers. Petya was greatly changed: he had let his beard grow, but it was sparse and straggly and really didn't suit him at all, and he had wasted half away, and he mentioned either God or service to the people with every second breath. What had shocked Varya most of all was that when they met her fiance had kissed her on the forehead. Why did he have to treat her like a corpse in a coffin? Had her looks really suffered that much?

The Trnovo highway was choked with strings of army wagons and her carriage was barely crawling along, so since she was familiar with the area, Varya ordered the coachman to turn off on to a track that led south, around the camp. It was longer that way, but they would get there sooner.

On the empty road the horse broke into a lively jog and the rain almost stopped. In another hour or two she would be home. Varya snorted. A fine 'home'! A damp tent open to all the winds under heaven!

After they passed Lovcha they began meeting individual riders, for the most part foragers and brisk, bustling orderlies, and soon Varya saw the first person she knew. There was no mistaking that lanky figure in the bowler hat and the redingote, perched awkwardly on the dejected chestnut mare. McLaughlin! Varya had a sudden sense of deja vu: during the third siege of Plevna, when she was returning to the army positions just as she was today, she had encountered the Irishman in precisely the same way. Only then it had been hot, and now it was cold, and she had probably looked better then.

But it really was very fortunate that McLaughlin would be the first to see her. He was unaffected and forthright; his reaction would tell her straight away whether she could show herself in society with her hair like this, or whether she ought to turn back. And she could find out all about the latest news . . .

Varya courageously grabbed the cap off her head, exposing her shameful brush. She might as well do things properly! 'Mr McLaughlin!' she shouted out, half-rising from her seat, as her carriage overtook the correspondent. 'It's me! Which way are you headed?'

The Irishman looked round and raised his bowler hat. 'Oh, Mademoiselle Varya, I'm very glad to see you in good health. Did they crop your hair like that for reasons of hygiene? I can hardly recognise you.'

Varya felt a cold shiver inside. 'Why - is it so terrible?' she asked dejectedly.

'Not at all,' McLaughlin hastened to reassure her.

'But you look much more like a boy now than you did when we first met.'

'Are we going the same way?' she asked. 'Get in with me and we can talk. Your horse doesn't look too good.'

'A terrible old nag. My Bessie managed to get herself in the family way by a dragoon's stallion and she blew up like a barrel. And the headquarters groom Frolka doesn't like me because I never give him bribes - what you might call tips - as a matter of principle, so he palms me off with these dreadful jades! I don't know where he gets them from! And right now I'm in a great hurry on extremely important, secret business.'

McLaughlin paused provocatively, and it was clear that he was positively bursting to tell her just how important and secret his business was. The contrast with the son of Albion's habitual stolid reserve was striking - the journalist really must have discovered something quite extraordinary.

'Sit in for just a minute,' Varya wheedled. 'Let the poor animal have a rest. I have some jam pies here, and a thermostatic flask full of coffee with rum . . .'

McLaughlin took a watch on a silver chain out of his pocket. 'Haf pust seven . . . Anatha foty minits to get thea . . . Oil rait, then haf an aua. Etl be haf pust eit . . .' he muttered to himself in that incomprehensible foreign tongue of his and sighed. 'Oh, all right, but just for a minute. I'll ride with you as far as the fork in the road and then turn off for Petyrnitsy.'

He hitched his reins to the carriage and took a seat beside Varya, swallowed one pie whole, bit off half of a second and gulped down a mouthful of hot coffee from the lid of the flask with great relish.

'Why are you going to Petyrnitsy?' Varya asked casually. 'Are you meeting your informant from Plevna again?'

McLaughlin gave her a searching glance and adjusted his steamed-up glasses. 'Give me your word that you won't tell anyone - at least not until ten o'clock,' he demanded.

'My word of honour,' Varya said immediately. 'But what is the great mystery?'

McLaughlin began huffing and puffing, taken aback by the casual way in which the promise had been given, but it was too late for him to recant now, and he was obviously longing to confide in someone.

'Today, the tenth of December, or in your style the twenty-eighth of November 1877, is a historic day’ he began and then dropped his voice to a whisper. 'But as yet there is only one man in the entire Russian camp who knows it: your humble servant. Oh, McLaughlin doesn't give people tips just for performing their duty, but for good work McLaughlin pays very well, mark my words. No more, no more, not another single word about that!' He held up his hand to forestall the question that Varya was about to blurt out. 'I won't tell you the name of my source. I will only say that he has been tested many times and has never once let me down.'

Varya recalled one of the journalists saying enviously that the source of the Daily Post correspondent's information on life in Plevna was not some Bulgarian, but a Turkish officer or something of the kind. Not many people had really believed it, though. But what if it were true?

'Well, tell me then. Don't keep me in suspense.' 'Remember, not a word to anyone until ten o'clock this evening. You gave me your word of honour.'

Varya nodded impatiently. Oh, these men and their stupid rituals. Of course she wouldn't tell anyone.

McLaughlin leaned right down to her ear. 'This evening Osman-pasha will surrender.'

'I don't believe it!' Varya squealed.

'Quiet! At precisely ten o'clock this evening the commander of the corps of grenadiers, Lieutenant-General Ganetsky, whose forces occupy a position on the left bank of the Vid, will be approached by the truce envoys. I shall be the only journalist to witness this great event. And I shall also forewarn the general - at half past nine and no sooner - so that the patrols do not open fire on the envoys by mistake. Can you imagine what an article it will make?'

'Yes, I can,' said Varya with a nod of delight. 'And I can't tell absolutely anyone at all?'

'It would be the end of me!' McLaughlin exclaimed in panic. 'You gave me your word!'

'Very well, very well,' she reassured him. 'Until ten o'clock my lips are sealed.'

'Ah, here's the fork. Stop here!' said the correspondent, prodding the coachman in the back. 'You're going to the right, Mademoiselle Varya, and I'm going to the left. I can just imagine the scene. There I am, sitting with the general, drinking tea and making idle conversation about this and that, and at half past nine I take out my watch and casually remark: "By the way, Ivan Stepanovich, in half an hour or so you will have visitors from Osman-pasha". Not bad, eh?' McLaughlin began laughing excitedly as he stuck his foot in the stirrup.

A few moments later he was lost to view behind the grey curtain of the intensifying downpour.

In three months the camp had changed beyond recognition. The tents were all gone and in their place stood neat files of planking huts. Everywhere there were paved roads, telegraph poles and neat signposts. It was a good thing for an army to be commanded by an engineer, thought Varya.

In the special section, which now occupied three whole houses, she was told that Mr Fandorin had been allocated a separate cottage (the duty officer pronounced this new foreign word with obvious relish) and shown how to get there.

'Cottage' number 158 proved to be a one-room prefabricated hut on the very edge of the headquarters staff village. The master of the house was at home,- he opened the door himself and looked at Varya in a way that gave her a warm feeling inside.

'Hello, Erast Petrovich, here I am back again,' she said, for some reason feeling terribly anxious.

'Glad to see you,' Fandorin said briefly and moved aside to let her in. It was a very simple room, but it had a set of wall bars and an entire arsenal of gymnastic apparatus. There was a three-vyerst map on the wall.

Varya explained: 'I left my things with the nurses. Petya is on duty, so I came straight to you.'

'I can see you are well.' Erast Petrovich looked her over from head to toe and nodded. 'A new hairstyle. Is that the fashion now?'

'Yes. It's very practical. And what has been happening here?'

'Nothing much. We're still besieging the Turk.' Varya thought the titular counsellor's voice sounded bitter. 'One month, t-two months, three months now.

The officers are taking to drink out of boredom, the quartermasters are p-plundering the supplies, the public coffers are empty. In short, everything is perfectly normal. War the Russian way. Europe has already heaved a sigh of relief and is happily watching as Russia's 1-lifeblood drains away. If Osman-pasha holds out for another t-two weeks, the war will be l-lost.'

Erast Petrovich sounded so peevish that Varya took pity on him and whispered: 'He won't hold out.'

Fandorin started and looked into her eyes inquisitively. 'Do you know something? What? Where from?'

And so she told him. She could tell Erast Petrovich, surely - he wouldn't run off to tell every Tom, Dick and Harry.

'To Ganetsky? Why to G-Ganetsky?' the titular counsellor said with a frown when he had heard her out.

He walked across to the map and muttered under his breath: 'It's a long way to G-Ganetsky. Right out on the flank. Why not go to command headquarters? Wait! Wait!' A resolute expression appeared on the titular counsellor's face; he tore his greatcoat down from its hook and dashed towards the door.

'What? What is it?' Varya screeched, running after him.

'A trap,' Fandorin muttered curtly without stopping. 'Ganetsky's defences are thinner. And beyond them lies the Sophia highway. They are not surrendering; they are trying to break out. They have to dupe Ganetsky so that he won't fire.'

'Oh!' she gasped. 'And they won't really be envoys at all. Where are you going? To the headquarters building?'

Erast Petrovich halted. 'It is twenty to nine. At headquarters things take a long time. From one chief to another. It would take too long. We can't reach Ganetsky in time. We'll go to Sobolev! Half an hour at a gallop. Sobolev won't waste time asking permission from headquarters. He'll take the risk. Strike the first blow. Engage the enemy. If he can't help Ganetsky, at least he'll be able to strike at the flank. Trifon, my horse!'

My goodness, he has an orderly now, thought Varya, bewildered.

The rumbling in the distance went on all night long, and at dawn news came that Osman had been wounded in the battle and surrendered with his entire army: ten pashas and forty-two thousand fighting men had laid down their arms.

It was the end, the siege of Plevna was over.

There were many killed: Ganetsky's corps, caught off guard by the unexpected attack, had been almost completely wiped out. But the name on everyone's lips was that of the White General, the invulnerable Russian Achilles, Sobolev the Second, who at the decisive moment had taken the risk of striking through Plevna, already deserted by the Turks, straight into Osman's unprotected flank.

Five days later, on the 3rd of December, the emperor, who was leaving the theatre of military action, held a farewell parade for the guards in Paradim. Individuals close to the throne and heroes who had distinguished themselves in the final battle were invited. Lieutenant-General Sobolev himself sent his carriage for Varya. His star might have soared directly to its zenith, but the resplendent Achilles had apparently not forgotten his old friend.

Never before had Varya found herself in such distinguished society. She was positively blinded by the glitter of all the epaulettes and medals. To be quite honest, she had never suspected that there were so many generals in the Russian army. The senior military commanders stood in the front row, waiting for the members of the imperial family to appear, among them Michel, who looked quite offensively young standing there in his customary white uniform with no greatcoat even though the day had turned out bright but frosty. All eyes were fixed on the saviour of the Fatherland, who seemed to Varya to have become much taller and broader across the shoulders, with a much graver expression than he had before. The French were obviously right when they said the finest yeast of all was fame.

Close by, two ruddy-cheeked aides-de-camp were conversing in low voices. Varya found it pleasant that one of them kept glancing across at her with his rakish black eyes.

'. . . and the emperor said to him: "As a mark of respect for your valour, mushir, I return to you your sabre, which you may wear here in Russia, where I trust you will have no cause for any dissatisfaction." Such a fine scene - what a pity you were not there.'

'Ah, but then I was on duty in the council on the twenty-ninth,' his companion replied jealously. 'And with my own ears I heard the emperor say to the war minister: "Dmitry Alexandrovich, I request your permission, as the senior cavalier of St George here present to adorn my sabre with the sword-knot of

St George. I believe I have earned it . . ." "I request your permission"! How do you like that?'

'Yes, that's bad, all right,' the black-eyed one agreed. 'They really ought to have guessed for themselves. He's more like some sergeant-major than a minister. His Majesty has shown such great generosity! Totleben and Nepokoinitsky - orders of St George, second class; Ganetsky - St George, third class. And this is a mere sword-knot!'

'And what will Sobolev receive?' Varya asked keenly, although she was not acquainted with these gentlemen. Never mind, this was the army, and it was a special occasion.

'Our Ak-pasha is quite sure to receive something special,' the black-eyed man readily replied. 'If his chief of staff Perepyolkin has skipped a rank. That's quite understandable, of course - a mere captain can't hold an appointment like that. But the prospects opening up for Sobolev are positively breathtaking. He has luck on his side, there's no denying it. If only he weren't spoiled by a passion for such vulgar ostentation . . .'

'Shshsh!' his companion hissed. 'They're coming!'

Four soldiers emerged on to the porch of the unprepossessing house that was grandly titled 'the field palace': the emperor, the commander-in-chief, the tsar-evich and the Prince of Roumania. Tsar Alexander Nikolaevich was in his winter uniform coat and Varya caught a glimpse of a bright-orange patch on the hilt of his sabre - the sword-knot.

The orchestra struck up the solemn 'Preobrazhensky March'.

A colonel of the guards strode out to the front, saluted and rapped out in a ringing voice trembling with excitement: 'Your Imperial Majesty! Permit the officers of your personal escort to present you with a gold sword with the inscription "For bravery"! In commemoration of our service together! Purchased with the officers' own personal funds!'

One of the aides-de-camp whispered to Varya: 'Now that's neatly done. Good for the escort!'

The emperor accepted the gift and wiped away a tear with his glove.

'Thank you, gentlemen, thank you. I am touched. I shall send you all a sabre from myself. For six months, so to speak, through thick and . . .' He broke off and gestured with his hand.

People around her began sniffing with emotion, someone even sobbed, and Varya suddenly spotted Fandorin, standing in the crowd of officials, right beside the porch. What was he doing here? A titular counsellor was hardly a figure of any great significance. Then she suddenly noticed the chief of gendarmes beside Fandorin, and everything became clear. After all, the true hero of the capture of the Turkish army was Fandorin. If not for him, there would not have been any parades here today. He would probably receive an award too.

Erast Petrovich caught Varya's eye and pulled a long-suffering face. He clearly did not share the general jubilation.

After the parade, when she was cheerfully beating off the advances of the black-eyed aide-de-camp, who insisted on trying to identify their mutual acquaintances in St Petersburg, Fandorin came up to her, bowed rapidly and said: 'I beg your pardon, Colonel. Varvara Andreevna, the emperor wishes to see both of us.'

Chapter Eleven

IN WHICH VARYA INFILTRATES THE SUPREME SPHERE OF POLITICS

The Times (London) 16 (4) December 1877

Derby and Caernarvon Threaten to Resign

At yesterday's meeting of the cabinet, the Earl of Beaconsfield proposed a demand for six million pounds of emergency credits from parliament in order to equip an expeditionary force which could be sent to the Balkans in the near future in order to protect the interests of the empire against the inordinate pretensions of Tsar Alexander. The decision was taken despite the opposition of the foreign secretary, Lord Derby, and the colonial secretary, Lord Caernarvon, who opposed any direct confrontation with Russia. Upon finding themselves in the minority, both ministers submitted their resignations to Her Majesty. The queen's response is as yet unknown.

Varya had put on all her best finery for the parade in the presence of His Imperial Majesty, and so she would have no cause to blush for her costume in front of her sovereign - that was the first thought that came into her head. The pale-lilac hat with the watered-silk ribbon and veil, the violet dress with the embroidery on the bodice and the moderate train, the black boots with the mother-of-pearl buttons: modest and unaffected, but decent enough - thanks to the shops of Bucharest.

'Are we going to be decorated?' she asked Erast Petrovich on the way.

He was also decked out in his finest: creased trousers, boots polished up like mirrors, an order of some kind in the buttonhole of his neatly ironed frock coat. There was no denying that the titular counsellor looked every inch the part, except that he was so extremely young.

'Hardly.'

'Why not?' asked Varya in astonishment.

'We're not important enough,' Fandorin replied thoughtfully. 'They still haven't decorated all the generals, and we come low down on the list.'

'But after all, if it weren't for us ... I mean, if it weren't for you, Osman-pasha would have been bound to break out. Just think what would have happened then!'

'I realise that. But after a victory people don't usually think of such things. No, trust me, my experience tells me this smacks of politics.'

There were only six rooms in the 'field palace', and therefore the function of waiting room was assumed by the porch, where a dozen or so generals and senior officers were already shuffling their feet as they waited for their invitations to present themselves to the royal gaze. They were all wearing rather silly, delighted expressions - there was a whiff of decorations and promotions in the air. The waiting men stared at Varya with understandable curiosity. She glanced haughtily over their heads at the low winter sun: let them rack their brains trying to guess who this young woman in the veil was and why she had presented herself for an audience.

The wait stretched out, but it was not boring at all.

'Who has been in there for so long, General?' Varya asked grandly, addressing a tall old man with tangled masses of whiskers at the sides of his mouth.

'Sobolev,' said the general, putting on a significant expression. 'He went in half an hour ago.' He drew himself erect and touched a hand to the brand-new decoration with the black-and-orange bow on his chest. 'Pardon me, madam, I have not introduced myself. Ivan Stepanovich Ganetsky, commander of the grenadier corps.' He paused expectantly.

'Varvara Andreevna Suvorova,' said Varya with a nod. 'Pleased to meet you.'

At this point Fandorin demonstrated a brusqueness quite untypical of him in normal circumstances and pushed forward, preventing her from finishing what she was going to say.

'Tell me, General, just before the assault, was the Daily Post correspondent McLaughlin at your headquarters?'

Ganetsky glanced in annoyance at this civilian whippersnapper, but then clearly decided that not just anybody would be invited to see His Majesty and replied politely: 'Why yes, he was. He was the reason it all happened.'

'What exactly?' Erast Petrovich asked with a rather stupid expression.

'Why, surely you must have heard?' - this was evidently not the first time the general had explained. 'I know McLaughlin from St Petersburg. A serious man and a friend of Russia, even though he is a subject of

Queen Victoria. When he told me that Osman was going to surrender to me at any moment, I sent off runners to the forward edge of our lines, so that no one, God forbid, would open fire. And like an old fool, I went to put on my dress uniform.' The general gave an embarrassed smile, and Varya decided that he was terribly nice. 'So the Turks took the patrols without a single shot being fired. It was a good job my grenadiers didn't let me down - fine lads, they held out until Mikhail Dmitrievich attacked Osman from the rear.'

'What happened to McLaughlin?' the titular counsellor asked, staring fixedly at Ganetsky with his cold blue eyes.

'I didn't see,' said the general with a shrug. 'I was busy. My God, but it was a fine mess. The Bashi-Bazouks reached our actual headquarters; I was lucky to get away with my life in my dress tunic'

The door opened and Sobolcv emerged on to the porch, with a red face and a special, unusual gleam in his eyes.

'On what shall we congratulate you, Mikhail Dmitrievich?' asked a general of Caucasian appearance in a Circassian coat with a gilded cartridge belt.

Everybody held their breath, but Sobolev was in no hurry to answer. He paused for effect, glancing round at all of them and winking gaily at Varya.

But she did not discover exactly how the emperor had honoured the hero of Plevna, because the dull, workaday features of Lavrenty Arkadievich Mizinov appeared behind the Olympian's shoulder. The chief gendarme of the empire beckoned with one finger to Fandorin and Varya. Her heart began to race.

As they were walking past Sobolev, he whispered quietly: 'Varvara Andreevna, I will wait for you without fail’

From the entrance hall they stepped straight into the aide-de-camp's room, where the duty general and two officers were sitting at a table. The emperor's personal apartments were on the right, his study was on the left.

'Answer questions loudly, clearly and fully,' Mizinov instructed them as they walked along. 'In detail, but without deviating from the subject.'

There were two people in the simple study furnished with portable items of Karelian birch. One was sitting in an armchair, the other standing with his back to the window. Varya naturally glanced first at the seated individual, but he was not Alexander; he was a wizened old man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with an intelligent, thin-lipped face and eyes of ice that allowed nothing in: State Chancellor Prince Korchakov in person, exactly the way he looked in his portraits, except perhaps rather more delicate,- a legendary individual in his own way. Varya believed he had been minister of foreign affairs before she was even born. But most importantly of all, he had studied at the Lycee with the Poet. He was the one who was the 'Darling of fashion, friend of high society, observer of its dazzling ways' -though at the age of eighty the 'darling of fashion' put her more in mind of a different poem that was included in the grammar-school curriculum.

Which one of you, as feeble age advances,

Is doomed to meet our Lycee Day alone!

Ill-fated friend! To those new generations

A tedious guest, unwelcome and despised,

Calling to mind our former congregations,

With trembling hand shading his rheumy eyes . . .

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

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

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

The first observation: why, he was really old! Swollen eyelids, sideburns, a moustache with curly ends and a pronounced sprinkling of grey, knotty, gouty fingers. But then, of course - next year he would be sixty. Almost as old as her grandmother.

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

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

Their chief introduced them: 'Your Majesty, this is Titular Counsellor Fandorin, the one you have heard about. With him is his assistant, Miss Suvorova.'

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

He sat down at the desk and nodded to Mizinov. 'You begin. Mikhail Alexandrovich and I will listen.'

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

'How much time do I have?' the general asked respectfully. 'I know, Your Majesty, how busy you are today. And the heroes of Plevna are waiting.'

'As much time as is needed. This is not merely a strategic matter, but a diplomatic one too,' the emperor rumbled and glanced at Korchakov with an affectionate smile. 'Mikhail Alexandrovich here has come from

Bucharest specially. Rattling his old bones in a carriage’

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

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

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

And so Varya told them.

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

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

But His Majesty slapped his palm on the table in irritation when Varya explained that many of the journalists had acquired their own informants in Plevna: 'You still haven't explained to me, Mizinov, how Osman managed to bunch his entire army together for a breakout and your scouts failed to inform you in time!'

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

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

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

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

Varya struggled in vain to understand where exactly the point of disagreement between the emperor and his senior diplomatic adviser lay.

Mizinov cleared up the matter for her. He took several sheets of paper out of his cuff, cleared his throat and began speaking like a swot who is top of the class:

'With your permission, I shall move from the specific to the general. Very well. First of all I must confess my own failings. All the time that our army was besieging Plevna, a cunning and merciless enemy was operating against us and my department failed to expose him in time. It was the intriguing of this cunning and clandestine enemy that resulted in our losing so much time and so many men and almost letting the fruits of many months of effort slip through our fingers on the thirtieth of November.'

At these words the emperor crossed himself. 'God has preserved Russia.'

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

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

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

'Initially McLaughlin restricted his activities purely to spying. Of course, he was passing information about our army to Plevna, for which purpose he made full use of the freedom that was so precipitately afforded to foreign journalists. Yes, many of them did have contacts with the besieged town which were not controlled by us, and this did not arouse the suspicions of our counter-intelligence agents. We shall draw the appropriate conclusions for the future. Again I must accept the blame . . . For as long as he could, McLaughlin used others to do his dirty work. Your Majesty will of course recall the incident involving the Roumanian colonel Lukan, whose notebook included references to a certain mysterious "J". I precipitately decided that the person concerned was the gendarme Kazanzaki. Unfortunately I was mistaken. "J" stood for "journalist" - in other words, our British friend.

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

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

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

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

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

'Continue, Mizinov,' the emperor said with a nod.

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

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

'Possibly,' the prince conceded.

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

Korchakov sighed pensively: 'Yes, a compromisation like this, as they call it in the Zamoskvorechie district, would allow us to neutralise British diplomacy completely.'

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

The emperor nodded. 'What say you now, Mikhail Alexandrovich?'

The chancellor half-closed his eyes: 'That an interesting scheme could be made of this, Your Majesty. If it is all true, then this time the English have allowed themselves to get carried away and overstepped the mark. With a bit of careful planning we could still be the gainers from all this.'

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

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

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

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

'Enough of that, Mikhail Alexandrovich,' sighed the emperor; 'we are not on parade. Do you think I don't understand?'

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