Fandorin in English 1-10

“That Japanese of yours?” asked Khurtinsky, surprising Fandorin with how well- informed he was. But then, what was there to be surprised at? That was the man’s job, to know everything about everybody.

“Yes. He will be quite sufficient help for me. There is only one other thing I need from you: Tell me where to look for Little Misha.”

The court counselor crossed himself piously in response to the tolling of a bell high above them.

“There is a certain terrible place in Khitrovka. An inn by the name of Hard Labor. During the day it is merely a revolting drinking parlor, but as night approaches the ‘businessmen’ — that is what bandits are called in Moscow — gather there. Little Misha often drops in, too. If he is not there, one of his cutthroats is certain to turn up. And also watch out for the landlord, a truly desperate rogue.”

Khurtinsky shook his head disapprovingly.

“It is a mistake not to take my agents. That place is dangerous. This isn’t the Mysteries of Paris; it’s the Khitrovka slums. One slash of a knife and a man is never heard of again. At least let one of my men take you to the Hard Labor and stand guard outside. Honestly, don’t be stubborn.”

“Thank you kindly, but I’ll manage somehow myself,” Fandorin replied confidently.

EIGHT

In which disaster strikes

“Nastasya, will you stop squealing like a stuck pig?” Xavier Feofilaktovich said angrily, glancing out into the entrance hall, where the shouting was coming from.

His cook was an empty-headed woman with an intemperate tongue, who treated her master irreverently. Grushin only kept her on out of habit, and also because the old fool baked quite magnificent pies with rhubarb or liver. But her strident foghorn of a voice, which Nastasya employed unsparingly in her constant squabbles with the neighbor Glashka, the local constable Silich, and beggars of every description, had often distracted Xavier Feofilaktovich from his reading of the Moscow Police Gazette or his philosophical ruminations and even his sweet early-evening sleep.

Today once again the accursed woman had started kicking up such a racket that Grushin had been obliged to abandon his pleasant doze. It was a pity — he had been dreaming that he wasn’t a retired police inspector at all, but a head of cabbage growing in a kitchen garden. His head was sticking straight up out of the soil of the vegetable patch and there was a raven sitting beside it, pecking at his left temple, but it was not at all painful; on the contrary, it was all very pleasant and restful. He didn’t need to go anywhere, he was in no hurry, and he had nothing to worry about. Sheer bliss. But the raven had started getting carried away, gouging his head cruelly with a loud crunch, and then the villain had begun cawing deafeningly in his ear and Grushin had woken up with his head throbbing to the sound of Nastasya’s screeching.

“I hope you gets all cramped up even worse,” the cook was howling on the other side of the wall. “And you, you heathen brute, what are you squinting at? I’ll give you such a whack with my duster across your greasy chops!”

Listening to this tirade, Xavier Feofilaktovich began wondering who it was out there that was all cramped up. And who could this heathen brute be? He got to his feet with a grunt and set out to restore order.

The meaning of Nastasya’s mysterious words became clear when Grushin stuck his head out on the porch.

So that was it — more beggars, the kind that roamed the pitiful, narrow streets of Zamoskvorechie all day long from dawn till dusk. One of them was an old hunchback, bent over double and supporting himself on two short crutches. The other was a grubby Kirghiz wearing a greasy robe and tattered fur cap. Good Lord, you certainly saw all kinds in old Mother Moscow!

“That will do, Nastasya, you’re enough to deafen a man!” Grushin yelled at the rowdy woman. “Give them a kopeck each and let them go on their way.”

“But they’re asking for you!” said the enraged cook, swinging around to face him. “This one here” — she jabbed her finger at the hunchback — “says wake ‘im up, like, we ‘ve got business with yer master. I’ll give you ‘wake ‘im up. Right, off I goes at the double! Robbing a man of his chance for a sleep!”

Xavier Feofilaktovich took a closer look at the wandering beggars. Wait! That Kirghiz looked familiar, didn’t he? Yes, he wasn’t a Kirghiz at all. The inspector clutched at his heart: “What’s happened to Erast Petrovich? Where is he?”

Ah, yes, he didn’t understand Russian.

“You, old man, are you from Fandorin?” asked Grushin, leaning down toward the hunchback. “Has anything happened?”

The invalid straightened up until he stood half a head taller than the retired detective.

“Well, Xavier Feofilaktovich, if you didn’t recognize me, it means the disguise is a success,” he said in the voice of Erast Petrovich Fandorin.

Grushin was absolutely delighted.

“How could anyone recognize you? Clever, very clever. If it wasn’t for your servant, I would never have suspected a thing. But isn’t it tiring to walk around bent over like that?”

“That’s all right,” said Fandorin, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Overcoming difficulties is one of life’s great pleasures.”

“I’d be prepared to argue that point with you,” said Grushin, letting his guests through into the house. “Not just at his moment, of course, but sometime later, sitting by the samovar. But today, I gather, you’re setting out on an expedition of some kind?”

“Yes. I want to pay a call to a certain inn in the Khitrovka district. With the romantic name of Hard Labor. They s-say that it’s something like Little Misha’s headquarters.”

“Who says?”

“Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky, the head of the governor-general’s chancelry.”

Xavier Feofilaktovich merely spread his arms in a shrug.

“Well, that certainly means something. He has eyes and ears everywhere. So you’re off to the Labor?”

“Yes. Tell me, what kind of inn is it, how do people behave there, and, most important of all, how do we get there?” Fandorin asked.

“Sit down, my dear fellow. Best not in the armchair; over there on the bench. Your getup is a bit…” Xavier Feofilaktovich also took a seat and lit his pipe. “From the beginning. Your first question: What kind of inn is it? My answer: It is owned by Full State Counselor Eropkin.”

“How can that be?” asked Erast Petrovich, amazed. “I had assumed that it was a d-den of thieves, a stinking sewer.”

“And you assumed correctly. But the building belongs to a general and it earns His Excellency a handsome income. Eropkin himself is never there, of course; he rents the building out, and he has plenty of similar premises across Moscow. As you know yourself, money has no smell. In the upstairs rooms there are cheap girls for fifty kopecks, and in the basement there’s an inn. But that’s not the most valuable thing about the general’s house. During the reign of Ivan the Terrible the site was occupied by an underground prison, complete with a torture chamber. The prison was demolished long ago, but the underground labyrinth is still there. And during the last three hundred years they’ve dug plenty of new tunnels — it’s a genuine maze, so it’ll be no easy job trying to find Little Misha in that place. Now for your second question: How do people behave there?” Xavier Feofilaktovich smacked his lips in a cozy, reassuring manner. It had been a long time since he had felt so exhilarated. And his head wasn’t aching anymore. “People behave terribly there. Like real bandits. The police and the law have no authority there. Only two species survive in Khitrovka: those who fawn on someone strong, and those who oppress the weak. There is no middle way. And the Labor is where their high society gathers. It’s the place where stolen goods circulate, and there’s plenty of money, and all the big bandit bosses come calling. Khurtinsky’s right — you can find Little Misha through the Labor. But how, that’s the question. You can’t just go barging in.”

“My third question was n-not about that,” Fandorin reminded him politely but firmly. “It was about the location of the Labor.”

“Ah, well, that I won’t tell you,” said Xavier Feofilaktovich with a smile, leaning against the back of his armchair.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll take you there myself. And don’t argue. I don’t want to hear a word.” Noticing Erast Petrovich’s gesture of protest, the inspector pretended to stick his fingers in his ears. “In the first place, without me you won’t find it anyway. And in the second place, when you do find it you won’t get in. And if you do get in, you won’t get out alive again.”

Seeing that his arguments had produced no effect on Erast Petrovich, Grushin implored him: “Show some mercy, my dear fellow! For old times’ sake, eh? Take pity on an old man who’s all shriveled up from doing nothing, humor him. We could have such a marvelous adventure!”

“My dear Xavier Feofilaktovich,” Fandorin said patiently, as if he were addressing a small child. “For goodness’ sake, in Khitrovka every dog in the street can recognize you!”

Grushin smiled cunningly.

“There’s no need for you to fret over that. Do you think you’re the only one who knows how to dress himself up?”

And that was the beginning of a long, exhausting argument.

It was already dark as they approached Eropkin’s establishment. Fandorin had never before had occasion to visit the infamous Khitrovka district after twilight had fallen. It proved to be an eerie, frightening place, like some underground kingdom inhabited not by living people, but by phantoms. On the crooked streets not a single lamp was lit; the plain little houses twisted either to the right or the left, and the garbage heaps filled the air with a fetid stench. Nobody walked here, they slithered or scurried or hobbled along beside the wall: A gray shadow would dart out of an entryway or an invisible door, flash a quick glance this way and that, scurry across the street, and melt away again into some little hole. A land of rats, thought Erast Petrovich, hobbling along on his little crutches. Except that rats do not sing in voices hoarse from drink, or shout obscenities and weep at the top of their voices, or mutter inarticulate threats to passersby.

“There it is, the Hard Labor,” said Grushin, crossing himself as he pointed to a dismal two-story building with a malevolent glow in its half-blind windows. “God grant we can do the job and get away in one piece.”

They entered as they had agreed: Xavier Feofilaktovich and Masa went in first and Fandorin followed a little later. Such was the condition imposed by the collegiate assessor. “Don’t you worry that my Japanese doesn’t speak Russian,” Erast Petrovich had explained. “He has been in all sorts of predicaments and he senses danger instinctively. He used to be one of the yakuia — the Japanese bandits. His reactions are lightning-fast, and he is as skillful with his knife as the surgeon Pirogov is with his scalpel. When you are with Masa, you have no need to worry about your back. But if all three of us burst in together it will look suspicious — we ‘d look like a police detail come to arrest someone.”

He had managed to convince the inspector.

It was pretty dark in the Labor — the local folk weren’t overly fond of bright light. There was only a paraffin lamp on the bar — for counting the money — and a single thick tallow candle on each rough-board table. As the flames flickered, they sent crooked shadows scurrying across the low-vaulted stone ceiling. But semidarkness is no obstacle to the accustomed eye. Sit there and take your time, then take a look around, and you can see everything you need to see. Over in the corner a tight-lipped group of ‘businessmen’ was sitting at a richly spread table that actually had a cloth on it. They were drinking in moderation and eating even less, exchanging terse phrases incomprehensible to the outsider. These jaunty fellows definitely seemed to be waiting for something to happen: Either they were going out on a job or there was some serious discussion in the offing. The other characters there were an uninteresting bunch: a few girls, ragamuffins totally ruined by alcohol, and, of course, the regular clients — pickpockets and thieves who were doing what they are supposed to do, divvying up swag, that is, sharing out the day’s booty, grabbing at one another’s chests, and arguing in precise detail over who stole how much and what everything was worth. They had already thrown one of their number under the table and started kicking him furiously. He was howling and struggling to get out, but they drove him back under, repeating over and over: “Don’t steal from your own!”

An old hunchback came in. He stood in the doorway for a moment, rotated his hump to the left, then to the right, getting his bearings, and then hobbled across into the corner, maneuvering skillfully on his crutches. Hanging around the cripple’s neck was a heavy cross on a green-tarnished chain and some bizarre religious instruments of self-torment in the form of metal stars. The hunchback grunted as he sat down at a table. In a good spot, with the wall at his back and quiet neighbors: on the right a blind beggar with blank, staring walleyes, steadily chomping away at his supper, and on the left a girl sleeping the sleep of the dead with her black-haired head resting on the table and her hand clutching a large, half-empty square bottle — obviously one of the ‘businessmen’s’ molls. Her clothes were a little cleaner than those of the other trollops and she had turquoise earrings, and — most significant of all — no one was molesting her. Which meant they weren’t supposed to. Let the girl sleep if she was tired. When she woke up, she could have another drink.

The waiter came across and asked suspiciously, “Where would you be from, grandpa? I don’t reckon I’ve seen you in here before.”

The hunchback grinned, exposing his rotten teeth, and broke into a rapid patter.

“Where from? From hereabouts and thereabouts, up hill creeping and crawling, down hill tumbling and falling. Bring me some vodka, will you, my friend. Been out and about all day long. Fair worn out I am, all hunched up like this. And don’t you worry; I’m not short of money.” He jangled some copper coins. “The Orthodox folks take pity on a poor wretched cripple.”

The lively old man winked, pulled a long roll of cotton padding out from behind his shoulders, straightened up, and stretched. The hump had completely vanished.

“Oh, my bones are sore and aching from that sweaty moneymaking. What I need is a crust of white bread and a woman in the bed.”

Bending over to his left, the jester nudged the sleeping girl: “Hey, little darling, ya sweet plump starling! Whose might you be? Would you fancy pleasuring an old man?”

And then he did something that made the waiter gasp: What a gay old granddad this was! The waiter advised him, “Don’t you go pestering Fiska; she’s not for the likes of you. If you want a bit of cuddling and coddling, get yourself up those stairs over there. And take fifty kopecks and half a bottle with you.”

The old man got his bottle, but he was in no hurry to go upstairs — he seemed to feel quite comfortable where he was. He knocked his glass over, then started humming a song in a thin little voice and darting glances in all directions out of those sharp eyes with their youthful gleam. In an instant he had examined everybody there, taken a good look at the ‘businessmen,’ and turned toward the bar, where the innkeeper, Abdul, a placid, powerfully built Tartar who was known and feared by the whole of Khitrovka, was chatting about something in a low voice with an itinerant junk dealer. The junk man was doing most of the talking, and the innkeeper was answering reluctantly, in monosyllables, as he slowly wiped a glass tumbler with a dirty rag. But the gray-bearded junk dealer, who was wearing a good-quality nankeen coat and galoshes over his boots, would not give up — he kept on whispering something, leaning in over the counter and every now and then prodding a box that hung over the shoulder of his companion, a young Kirghiz who was glancing around cautiously with his sharp, narrow eyes.

So far everything was going according to plan. Erast Petrovich knew that Grushin was playing the part of a dealer in stolen goods who had come across a full set of fine housebreaking tools and was looking for a buyer who knew the value of the goods. The idea was sensible enough, but Fandorin was terribly alarmed by the keen attention that the ‘businessmen’ were paying to the junk merchant and his assistant. Could they really have seen through them? But how? Why? Xavier Feofilaktovich’s disguise was magnificent — there was no way anyone could have recognized him.

Now he saw that Masa had also sensed the danger — he stood up, thrust his hands into his sleeves, and half-closed his thick eyelids. He had a dagger in his sleeve, and his pose indicated readiness to repel a blow from whichever side it might be struck.

“Hey, slanty-eyes!” one of the ‘businessmen’ shouted, “which tribe would you be from, then?”

The junk dealer swung around abruptly.

“He’s a Kirghiz, my dear man,” he said politely but without a trace of timidity. “A wretched orphan; the infidels cut his tongue out. But he suits me very well.” Xavier Feofilaktovich made some cunning sign with his fingers. “I deal in gold, and peddle dope, so I can do without talkative partners.”

Masa also turned his back to the counter, realizing where the real danger lay. He closed his eyes almost completely, leaving just a small spark barely gleaming between his eyelids.

The ‘businessmen’ glanced at one another. The junk dealer’s words seemed to have had a reassuring effect on them. Erast Petrovich was greatly relieved — Grushin was nobody’s fool, and he could look after himself. Fandorin sighed in relief and took the hand that had been about to grasp the butt of his Herstal back out from under the table.

He ought not to have done that.

Taking advantage of the fact that both of them had turned their backs to him, the innkeeper suddenly grabbed a two-pound weight on a string off the counter and, with a movement that looked easy and yet was appallingly powerful, swung it against the round back of the Kirghiz’s head. There was a sickening crunch and Masa slumped to the floor in a sitting position. Then the treacherous Tartar, who had clearly had plenty of practice, struck Grushin’s left temple just as he began to turn around.

Absolutely astounded, Erast Petrovich threw his chair back and pulled out his revolver.

“Nobody move!” he shouted in a wild voice. “Police!”

One of the ‘businessmen’ dropped his hand under the table and Fan-dorin immediately fired. The young man screamed, clutched at his chest with both hands, collapsed on the floor, and began thrashing about in convulsions. The others froze.

“Anybody move and I’ll fire!”

Erast Petrovich waved his gun about rapidly, shifting his aim from the ‘businessmen’ to the innkeeper as he tried feverishly to work out whether there would be enough bullets for all of them and what to do next. A doctor, they needed a doctor! Although the blows with the weight had been so shattering that a doctor was unlikely to be required… He glanced rapidly around the room. He had the wall at his back, and his flanks also appeared to be covered. The blind man was still sitting in the same place, merely turning his head this way and that and blinking his terrible white walleyes; the girl had been woken by the shot and she raised a pretty face made haggard by drink. She had gleaming black eyes — evidently a gypsy.

“The first bullet’s for you, you bastard!” Fandorin shouted at the Tartar. “I won’t wait for your trial, I’ll—”

He didn’t finish what he was saying, because the gypsy girl raised herself up as stealthily as a cat and hit him over the back of the head with a bottle. Erast Petrovich never saw it coming. As far as he was concerned, everything suddenly just went black — for no reason at all.

NINE

In which further shocks are in store for Fandorin

Erast Fandorin came around gradually, his senses reviving one by one. The first to recover was his sense of smell, which caught the odor of something sour, mingled with dust and gunpowder. Then his sense of touch revived and he felt a rough wooden surface and a painful aching in his wrists. There was a salty taste in his mouth, which could only be from blood. Hearing and vision were the final senses to recover, and with their return his reason finally began to function.

Fandorin realized that he was lying facedown on the floor with his hands twisted behind his back. Half-opening one eye, the collegiate assessor saw a revoltingly filthy floor, a ginger cockroach scuttling away from him, and several pairs of boots. One pair was foppishly elegant, made of box-calf leather with little silver caps on their toes, and they were very small, as if they ought to belong to a boy. A little farther away, beyond the boots, Erast Petrovich saw something that instantly brought back everything that had happened: the dead eye of Xavier Feofilaktovich staring straight at him. The inspector was also lying on the floor and the expression on his face was disgruntled, even angry, as if to say: “Well, we made a real mess of that!” Beside him Fandorin could see the black hair on the back of Masa’s head, matted with blood. Erast Petrovich squeezed his eyes tightly shut. He wanted to sink back into the blackness, where he would not see anything, he never wanted to see or hear anything again, but the harsh voices reverberating painfully in his brain would not allow it.

“… Well, ain’t Abdul the smart one,” said an excited voice with a syphilitic nasal twang. “The way that ‘un started talking the talk, I thought he was the wrong ‘un, but Abdul whacked ‘im with that weight!”

A low, lazy voice swallowing the endings of its words in the Tartar fashion boomed: “What d’you mean the wrong ‘un, you numskull? We was told — the one with the slanty-eyed Chinee, that’s the one to get.”

“But that ain’t no Chinee, he’s a Kirghiz.”

“He’s no more a Kirghiz than you are! How many slanty-eyes do we ‘ave wandering around Khitrovka? An’ if I’d got it wrong — it wouldn’t ‘ave mattered. We ‘d ‘ave thrown ‘im in the river, and there’s an end o’ the matter.”

“But how about Fiska, then?” put in a third voice that sounded ingratiating, but with a hysterical note. “If it weren’t for ‘er, this grandpa here would have finished us all off. But Misha, you said there ‘d be two of ‘em, an’, see, Mish, there’s three of’em. An’ they put a hole in Lomot over there. Lomot’s dying, Mish. That bullet burned right through ‘is in-sides.”

Catching the name ‘Misha,’ Fandorin finally decided not to sink back into the darkness. The back of his head was bruised and painful, but Erast Petrovich drove the pain away, drove it into the void, into the same darkness from which he himself had only recently emerged. This was no time for pain.

“I ought to lash my whip across your face for drinking,” declared a leisurely, languid falsetto. “But seeing the way things happened, I forgive you. You caught that cop a good belt.”

Two scarlet morocco-leather boots moved closer and stood opposite the box-calf pair.

“Lash me across the face if you like, Mishenka,” a rather hoarse woman’s voice declared, singsong fashion. “Only don’t drive me away. I haven’t seen you for two whole days, my little falcon. I missed you so bad. Come around today and I’ll give you a treat.”

“We can have our treat later.” The dandified boots took a step toward Fandorin. “But meanwhile let’s take a gander at what kind of slimy creature has come calling. Right, roll him over, Shukha. Look at the way his eye’s glinting.”

They turned Erast Petrovich over on his back.

So this was Little Misha. Just a little taller than the gypsy girl’s shoulder, and compared with the ‘businessmen’ he was an absolute midget. A thin, nervous face, with a twitch at the corner of the mouth. Repulsive eyes, as if it were a fish looking at you, not a man. But generally speaking, a handsome little devil. Hair parted precisely into two halves, curling up at the ends. One unpleasant detail: The black mustache was exactly the same as Erast Petrovich’s own, and even curled in the same manner. Fandorin immediately took a solemn vow not to wax his mustache any longer, and was immediately struck by the thought that he would probably never get the chance.

In one hand the bandit king was holding the Herstal, in the other the stiletto that Fandorin wore above his ankle. So they had searched him.

“Well, now, and who might you be?” Little Misha growled through his teeth. Seen from below, he didn’t look little at all. Quite the opposite; he seemed like Gulliver. “Which station are you from? Myasnitskaya Street, is it? That’s right, that’s the one. That’s where all my persecutors have gathered, the bloodsucking vampires.”

After registering surprise at the words ‘persecutors’ and ‘vampires,’ Erast Petrovich made a mental note for the future that apparently they did not take bribes at the Myasnitskaya Street station. It was useful information. If, of course, he was ever able to make use of it.

“Why did three of you come?” The meaning of Misha’s question was not entirely clear. “Or are you on your own, and not with those two?”

It was tempting to nod, but Fandorin decided that the right thing was to say nothing. To wait and see what would happen next.

What happened was unpleasant. Misha swung his foot back briefly and kicked the prone man in the crotch. Erast Petrovich spotted the swing and was able to prepare himself. He imagined that he was jumping at a run into a hole in a frozen river. The icy water scorched him so fiercely that by comparison the blow with the silver-tipped boot seemed a mere trifle. Fandorin did not even gasp.

“A real tough old nut,” said Misha, astonished. “Seems like we’ll have to take a bit of trouble over him. But never mind, that just makes things more interesting, and we’ve got plenty of time. Toss him in the cellar for now, boys. We’ll fill our bellies with God’s bounty, and then we’ll have some fun and games. I’ll work up a fine sweat and afterward Fiska can cool me down.”

To the sound of the woman’s squealing laughter, Collegiate Assessor Fandorin was dragged by the legs across the floor and behind the counter, then along a dark corridor. The door to the cellar creaked, and the next moment Erast Petrovich went flying into pitch blackness. He braced himself as best as he could, but he still landed hard on his side and shoulder.

“And here’s your crutches, hunchback!” someone shouted with a laugh from the top of the stairs. “Take a stroll and try a bit of begging down there!”

Fandorin’s crutches fell on him one after the other. The dim square above his head disappeared with a crash, and Erast Petrovich closed his eyes, because he could not see anything anyway.

Flexing his hand, he fingered the bonds restraining his wrists. Nothing to it — ordinary cord. All he needed was a fairly hard, preferably rough surface and a certain amount of patience. What was that there? Ah, the staircase that he just landed on so hard. Fandorin turned so that his back was toward the steps and started rubbing the string against a wooden upright in a rapid rhythm. The job would probably keep him occupied for about thirty minutes.

Erast Petrovich began counting to one thousand eight hundred, not in order to make the time pass more quickly, but to avoid thinking about things that were too horrible. But the counting was powerless to prevent the black thoughts from piercing poor Fandorin’s heart like needles.

What have you done now, Mr. Fandorin? You can never be forgiven for this, never.

How could he have dragged his old teacher into this viper’s pit? Dear old Xavier Feofilaktovich had trusted his young friend, and been delighted that he could still serve the fatherland, and now look how things had turned out! And it wasn’t destiny that was to blame, or some malicious fate, but the indiscretion and incompetence of a person whom the inspector had trusted no less than he trusted himself. The jackals of Khitrovka had been waiting for Fandorin, waiting for him. Or rather, for the man who would come with a ‘Chinee’. The bungling detective Fandorin had led his close friends to certain execution. But hadn’t Grushin warned him that the entire police force was in Little Misha’s pay? The disagreeable Khurtinsky had let it slip to one of his men and he had sent word to Khitrovka. It was all very simple. Afterward, of course, it would become clear just who the Judas in the secret section was, but that wouldn’t bring back Masa and Grushin. It was an unforgivable blunder! No, not a blunder, a crime!

Groaning in unbearable mental anguish, Erast Petrovich began moving his hands even faster, and suddenly the cord parted and went slack before he had expected it. But the collegiate assessor was not gladdened by his success; he simply sank his face into his freed hands and burst into tears. Ah, Masa, Masa…

Four years earlier, in Yokohama, Fandorin, the second secretary at the Russian embassy, had saved the life of ayakuia boy. From that moment on, Masahiro had been his faithful — indeed, his only — friend and had several times saved the life of the diplomat with a weakness for adventures, and yet he continued as before to believe himself irredeemably in his debt. For what end, Mr. Fandorin, did you drag a good man from Japan all the way to the other end of the world, to this alien place? So that he could die a futile death at the hands of a vile murderer, and all because of you?

Erast Petrovich’s regret was bitter, inexpressibly bitter, and it was only the anticipation of vengeance that prevented him from beating his brains out against the slimy wall of the cellar. Oh, his vengeance on these murderers would be merciless! As a Christian, Xavier Feofilaktovich might not really care for revenge, but Masa’s Japanese soul would certainly rejoice in anticipation of its next birth.

Fandorin was no longer concerned for his own life. Little Misha had had a good chance to finish him off — upstairs, when he was lying stunned on the floor, bound and helpless. But things were different now, Your Bandit Majesty. As gamblers said: You’re holding a bad hand.

The copper cross on a chain and the bizarre star-shaped instruments of self- torment were still hanging around the ex-hunchback’s neck. And the numskulls had made him a present by throwing the short crutches into the cellar. Which meant that Erast Petrovich was in possession of an entire Japanese arsenal.

He took the strange stars off his neck and separated them out. He felt the edges — they were honed as sharp as razors. These stars were called sharinken, and the ability to throw them with deadly accuracy was learned during the very first stage of a ninja’s training. For serious business the tips were also daubed with poison, but Fandorin had decided that he could get by without that. Now all that was left was to assemble the nunchaka — a weapon more terrible than any sword.

Erast Petrovich took the cross off the chain. He set the cross to one side, then opened the chain and attached his little crutches to it at both ends. The pieces of wood actually had special hooks on them for this very purpose. Without rising from the ground, the young man whirled the nunchaka through a lightning-fast figure eight above his head and seemed entirely satisfied. The feast was ready and waiting; only the guests were missing.

He climbed up the stairs, feeling out the crosspieces in the darkness. His head bumped against a trapdoor, locked from the outside. All right then, we’ll wait. Mohammed will come to the mountain soon enough.

He jumped back down, dropped onto all fours, and began groping around on the floor with his hands. After a moment he came across some kind of rancid bundle of sackcloth, which gave off a suffocating smell of mold. Never mind, this was no time for delicate feelings.

Erast Petrovich settled back with his head on the makeshift pillow. It was very quiet; the only sound was of agile little animals scurrying about in the darkness — mice, no doubt, or perhaps rats. I hope they come soon, thought Fandorin, and then, before he knew it, he plummeted abruptly into sleep — he had not had any rest the night before.

He was woken by the creak of the trapdoor being opened and immediately remembered where he was and why. The only thing that was unclear was how much time had passed.

A man in a long-waisted coat and Russian leather boots walked down the steps, swaying as he came. He was holding a candle in his hand. Erast Petrovich recognized him as one of Misha’s ‘businessmen’. Behind him, Misha’s box-calf boots with the silver toes appeared through the trapdoor.

There were five visitors in all — Little Misha and the four others Erast Petrovich had seen recently. The only person missing to complete the party was Abdul, which upset Fandorin so much that he actually sighed.

“That’s right, my little police spy, have a nice little sigh,” said Misha, baring his brilliant teeth in a scowl. “I’ll soon have you yelling so loud the rats will go dashing for their holes. Cozying up to the carrion, are you? Well, that’s right, you’ll be the same yourself soon enough.”

Fandorin looked at the bundle that was serving him as a pillow and jerked upright in horror. Glaring up at him from the floor with its vacant eye sockets was an ancient, decayed corpse. The ‘businessmen’ burst into raucous laughter. Apart from Misha, each of them was holding a candle in his hand, and one was also carrying some kind of tongs or pincers.

“You don’t like the look of him, then?” the midget inquired mockingly. “Last autumn we caught ourselves a spy; he was from Myasnitskaya Street, too. Don’t you recognize him?” More laughter, and Misha’s voice turned sweet and syrupy. “He suffered that long, he did, the poor fellow. When we started pulling the guts out of his belly, he called out for his mummy and his daddy.”

Erast Petrovich could have killed him that very second — each of the hands he was holding behind his back was clutching a sharinken. But it is unworthy of the noble man to give way to irrational emotions. He needed to have a little talk with Misha. As Alexander Ivanovich Pelikan, the consul in Yokohama, used to say, he had a few little questions for him. Of course, he would neutralize the retinue of His Highness of Khitrovka first. The way they were standing was most convenient: two on the right, two on the left. He couldn’t see anyone with a firearm, except for Misha, who kept toying with the handy little Herstal. But that was nothing to worry about. He didn’t know about the little button, and the revolver would not fire if the safety catch was still on.

It seemed that the best thing to do was try to find out something while Little Misha felt that he was in control. There was no way of telling if he would feel like talking afterward. Everything about him suggested that he was the obstinate type. What if he simply clammed up?

“I’m looking for a little briefcase, Mishutka, my boy. With huge great money in it, thousands upon thousands,” Fandorin intoned in the voice of the luckless hunchbacked swindler. “Where’d you put it, eh?”

Misha’s expression changed, and one of his lieutenants asked with a nasal twang: “What’s he going on about, Mish? What thousands upon thousands?”

“He’s lying, the bastard nark!” barked the king. “Trying to set us against each other. I’ll have you coughing blood for that, you lousy rat.”

Misha pulled a long, narrow knife out of his boot and took a step forward. Erast Petrovich drew his own conclusions. Misha had taken the briefcase. That was one. No one else in the gang knew about it, so he was obviously not intending to share the loot. That was two. He was frightened by the prospect of exposure, and now he was going to shut his prisoner’s mouth. Forever. That was three. Fandorin had to change his tactics.

“What’s the rush to make me suffer; this grandpa’s not a total duffer,” Fandorin rattled off. “Slash and stab and I can’t blab. Treat me nice and gentle, do, and I’ll give you a little clue.”

“Don’t finish him off him just yet, Mish,” said the nasal-voiced one, grabbing his leader by the sleeve. “Let him sing a bit first.”

“Humble greetings from Mr. Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky,” said Erast Petrovich, winking at Misha and gazing into his face to see if his hypothesis was correct. But this time Misha didn’t even blink.

“The old man’s just pretending he’s not right in the head. Raving about some Parmyonich or other. Never mind, we’ll soon set his brains straight. Kur, you sit on his legs. And you, Pronya, hand me the pincers. I’ll soon have this lousy crow singing like a rooster.”

Erast Petrovich realized that the monarch of Khitrovka wasn’t going to tell him anything interesting — he was far too wary of his own men.

Fandorin gave a deep sigh and closed his eyes for an instant. Premature rejoicing is the most dangerous of feelings. It causes many important undertakings to miscarry.

Erast Petrovich opened his eyes, smiled at Misha, and suddenly pulled first his right hand and then his left from behind his back. Whoo-oosh, whoo-oosh; the two little spinning shadows went whistling through the air. The first bit into Kur’s throat, the second into Pronya’s. They were both still wheezing, gushing blood and swaying on their feet — they still hadn’t realized that they were dying — when the collegiate assessor snatched up his nunchaka and leapt to his feet. Misha had no time even to raise his hand, let alone press the safety catch, before the stick of wood struck him on the top of his head: not too hard, just enough to stun him. But the burly young lout whom he had called Shukha had barely even opened his mouth before he received a powerful blow to the head that felled him like a log, and he didn’t move again. The last of the ‘businessmen,’ whose name Fandorin had still not learned, proved more nimble than his comrades. He dodged away from the nunchaka, pulled a Finnish knife out of the top of his boot, and then swayed out of reach of a second blow as well, but the relentless figure eight broke the arm that was holding the knife, and then smashed the agile bandit’s skull. Erast Fandorin froze, carefully controlling his breathing. Two of the bandits were writhing on the ground, jerking their legs about and vainly trying to squeeze shut the gaping tears in their throats. Two were lying motionless. Little Misha was sitting on the ground, shaking his head stupidly. The burnished steel of the Herstal glinted off to one side.

I have just killed four men and I feel no regret at all, the collegiate assessor thought to himself. His heart had been hardened by that terrible night.

To begin with, Erast Petrovich took the stunned man by the collar, gave him a good shaking, and slapped him hard across both cheeks — not as revenge, but to bring him to his senses faster. However, the slaps produced a quite magical effect. Misha pulled his head down into his shoulders and began whining.

“Don’t hit me, grandpa! I’ll tell you everything! Don’t kill me! Spare my young life!”

Fandorin looked at the tearful, contorted, attractive little face in wonder and amazement. The unpredictability of human nature never ceased to astonish him. Who would have thought that the bandit autocrat, the bane of the Moscow constabulary, would fall apart like that after just a couple of slaps on the cheeks? Fandorin experimented by gently swinging the nunchaka, and Misha immediately stopped his whining, gazed spellbound at the regular swaying of the bloodied stick of wood, pulled his head back down into his shoulders, and started to shudder. Well, well, it worked. Extreme cruelty was the obverse side of cowardice, Erast Petrovich thought philosophically. But that was not really surprising, for these were the very worst pair of qualities that humanity possessed.

“If you want me to hand you over to the police and not kill you right here, answer my questions,” the collegiate assessor said in his own normal voice instead of the beggar’s whine.

“And if I answer, you won’t kill me?” Misha asked with a pathetic whimper. Fandorin frowned. Something was definitely not right here. A sniveler like this could not possibly have terrorized the entire criminal underworld of a big city. That required a will of iron and exceptional strength of character. Or at least something that could effectively take the place of those qualities. But what?

“Where are the million rubles?” Erast Petrovich asked darkly.

“In the same place they always were,” Misha replied quickly.

The nunchaka swayed menacingly again.

“Good-bye, then, Misha. I warned you. And I like it better this way; I can pay you back for my friends.”

“I swear, honest to God!” The runtish, terrified little man put his hands over his head, and Fandorin suddenly found the whole situation unbearably nauseating.

“It’s the honest truth, grandpa, I swear by Christ Almighty. The loot is still where it was, in the briefcase.”

“And where’s the briefcase?”

Misha swallowed and twitched his lips. His reply was barely audible.

“Here, in a secret room.”

Erast Petrovich threw his nunchaka aside — he wouldn’t need it anymore. He picked the Herstal up off the floor and set Misha on his feet.

“Come on, then, show me.”

While Little Misha was climbing the steps, Fandorin prodded him in the backside from below with the gun barrel and carried on asking questions.

“Who told you about the Chinee?”

“Khurtinsky.” Misha turned around and raised his little hands. “We do what he tells us to do. He’s our benefactor and protector. But he’s very strict, and he takes nigh on half.”

That’s wonderful, thought Erast Petrovich, gritting his teeth. As wonderful as it possibly could be. The head of the secret section, the governor-general’s own right hand, was a major criminal boss and patron of the Moscow underworld. Now he could see why they hadn’t been able to catch Misha no matter how hard they tried, and how he had become so powerful in Khitrovka. Fine work, Court Counselor Khurtinsky!

They clambered out into the dark corridor and set off through a labyrinth of narrow, musty passages. Twice they turned to the left, and once to the right. Misha stopped in front of a low, inconspicuous door and tapped out a complicated special knock. The girl Fiska opened up in nothing but her nightshirt, with her hair hanging loose and a sleepy, drunken expression on her face. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see her visitors and never even glanced at Fandorin. She shuffled back across the earthen floor to the bed, flopped down onto it, and immediately started snoring lightly. In one corner there was a stylish dressing table with a mirror, obviously taken from some lady’s boudoir, with a smoking oil lamp standing on it.

“I hide stuff with her,” said Misha. “She’s a fool, but she won’t give me away.”

Erast Petrovich took a firm grip on the little runt’s skinny neck, pulled him closer, stared straight into his round, fishy eyes, and asked, carefully emphasizing each word: “What did you do to General Sobolev?”

“Nothing.” Misha crossed himself rapidly three times. “May I croak on the gallows. I don’t know a thing about the general. Khurtinsky said I was to take the briefcase from the safe and make a neat job of it. He said there ‘d be no one there and no one would miss it. So I took it. Simple, a cakewalk. And he told me when things quieted down we’d split the money two ways and he ‘d send me out of Moscow with clean papers. But if I tried anything, he ‘d find me no matter where I went. And he would, too; that’s what he’s like.”

Misha took a hanging with a picture of Stenka Razin and his princess down off the wall, opened a little door, and began feeling about behind it with his hand. Fandorin broke out into a cold sweat as he stood there, trying to grasp the full hideous meaning of what he had just heard.

There ‘d be no one there and no one would miss it — Khurtinsky had said that to his accomplice? That meant that the court counselor knew Sobolev wouldn’t be coming back to the Dusseaux alive!

Erast Petrovich had underestimated the lord and master of Khitrovka. Misha was far from stupid and by no means the pitiful sniveler he had pretended to be. Glancing back over his shoulder, he could see that the detective had been shaken by his announcement and had even lowered the hand with which he was holding the revolver. The agile little man spun around sharply. Erast Petrovich glimpsed the barrel of a sawed-off shotgun pointing straight at him and only just managed to strike it from below in time. The barrel belched thunder and flame, a hot wind scorched his face, and debris rained down from the ceiling. The collegiate assessor’s finger spontaneously tightened on the trigger of his revolver and the Herstal, its safety catch off, obediently fired. Little Misha grabbed at his stomach and sat down on the floor with a high-pitched grunt. Remembering the bottle, Erast Petrovich glanced around at Fiska, but she didn’t even raise her head at the thunderous roar; she merely covered her ear with the pillow.

So now Misha’s surprising compliance was explained. He had played his part cleverly, getting Erast Petrovich to lower his guard and leading the detective to just where he wanted him. How could he possibly have known that the speed of Erast Fandorin’s reactions was famous even among the ‘stealthy ones’?

The important question now was whether the briefcase was there. Erast Petrovich pushed the twitching body aside with his foot and thrust his hand into the cubbyhole. His fingers encountered a dimpled leather surface. It was!

Fandorin leaned down over Misha, who was blinking rapidly and licking fitfully at his white lips. Beads of sweat were breaking out on his forehead.

“A doctor!” groaned the wounded man. “I’ll tell you everything; I won’t keep anything back!”

Erast Petrovich checked and saw that the wound was serious, but the Herstal was only a small-caliber weapon, and Misha might live if he was taken to a hospital quickly. And an important witness like that had to live.

“Sit still; don’t move a muscle,” Fandorin said aloud. “I’ll send for a cab. But if you try to crawl away, the life will just drain out of you.”

The inn was empty. The dim light of early morning was filtering in through the murky half windows. A man and a woman were lying in each other’s arms right in the middle of the filthy floor. The hem of the woman’s skirt was pulled up — Erast Petrovich turned his eyes away. There didn’t seem to be anybody else. But no, there was yesterday’s blind man sleeping on a bench with his knapsack under his head and his staff on the ground. There was no sign of the landlord, Abdul — the one person Fandorin badly wanted to see. But what was that? He thought he could hear someone snoring in the storeroom.

Erast Petrovich cautiously pulled aside the chintz curtain and breathed an inward sigh of relief — there he was, the scum. Stretched out on a large chest, his beard jutting up in the air, his thick-lipped mouth half-open.

The collegiate assessor thrust the barrel of his revolver in his teeth and said in a low, gentle voice: “Time to get up, Abdul. It’s a bright new day.”

The Tartar opened his eyes. They were matte black, devoid of even the slightest expression.

“You just try to make a run for it,” Fandorin invited him. “And I’ll shoot you like a dog.”

“No point in running,” the killer replied coolly, with a wide yawn. “I’m no runner.”

“You’ll go to the gallows,” said Erast Petrovich, staring with hatred into those expressionless little eyes.

“Yes, if that’s what’s set down for me,” the landlord agreed. “All things are ruled by the will of Allah.”

It took all the collegiate assessor’s strength to fight back the compulsive itch in his index finger.

“You dare to mention Allah, you miserable low scum! Where are the men you killed?”

“I put them away in the closet for now,” the monster replied readily. “Reckoned I’d throw them in the river later. That’s the closet there.”

He pointed to a rough wooden door.

The door was bolted shut. Erast Petrovich tied Abdul’s hands with his own leather belt and drew the bolt back with a wearily aching heart. It was dark inside.

After hesitating for a moment, the collegiate assessor took one step, then another, and received a powerful blow from the side of someone’s hand to the back of his neck. Taken totally by surprise, half-stunned, he collapsed face- forward onto the floor. Someone jumped on top of him and breathed hotly into his ear:

“Where master? Murder dog!”

Hesitantly, with a great effort — the blow had been heavy one, and it had landed on the bump from the day before — Fandorin stammered in Japanese: “So you have b-been learning words, after all, you idle loafer?”

And he burst into sobs, unable to restrain himself.

But that wasn’t the last shock in store for him. When Fandorin had bandaged up Masa’s broken head and found a cab, he went back to Fiska’s underground chamber for Little Misha, but the gypsy girl wasn’t there and Misha himself was no longer sitting slumped against the wall, but lying on the floor. He was dead, and he had not died from the wound in his stomach — someone had very precisely slit the bandit king’s throat.

Holding his revolver at the ready, Erast Petrovich dashed off down the dark corridor, but it branched into several paths that led away into the damp darkness, where he would be more likely to get lost himself than to find anybody else.

Outside the door of the Hard Labor, Fandorin screwed up his eyes against the sun as it peeped over the rooftops. Masa was sitting in the cab, clutching the briefcase that had been entrusted to him against his chest with one hand and maintaining a firm hold on the collar of the bound Abdul with the other. Jutting up beside him was a formless bundle — the body of Xavier Feofilaktovich wrapped in a blanket.

“Let’s go!” shouted Erast Petrovich, leaping up onto the box beside the cabbie. He wanted to get out of this cursed place as soon as possible. “Drive hard to Malaya Nikitskaya Street, to the Department of Gendarmes!”

TEN

In which the governor-general takes coffee with a roll

The sergeant major on duty at the door of the Moscow Province Department of TEN Gendarmes (20 Malaya Nikitskaya Street) cast a curious glance, but without any particular surprise in it, at the strange threesome clambering out of the cab — serving duty at a post like that, you saw all sorts of things. The first to climb down, stumbling on the footboard, was a black-bearded Tartar with his hands tied behind his back. Behind him, pushing the prisoner in the back, came some slanty-eyed devil in a tattered beshmet and a white turban, holding a very expensive-looking leather briefcase. And finally a ragged old man leapt down from the coachbox far too easily for someone of his age. On taking a closer look, the sergeant major saw that the old man had a revolver in his hand, and it wasn’t a turban on the slanty-eyed devil’s head after all, but a towel that was stained in places with blood. That was clear enough, then — they were undercover agents back from an operation.

“Is Evgeny Osipovich in?” the old man asked in a young gentleman’s voice, and the gendarme, a seasoned campaigner, asked no questions but simply saluted.

“Yes, sir, he arrived half an hour ago.”

“C-call the duty officer, will you, b-brother,” said the man in disguise, stammering slightly. “Let him book our prisoner. And over there,” he said gloomily, pointing to the carriage, in which they had left a very large bundle, “over there we have a dead man. They can take him to the ice room for the time being. It is Grushin, the retired detective-inspector.”

“Why, Your Honor, I remember Xavier Feofilaktovich very well, we even served together for a few years.” The sergeant major removed his cap and crossed himself.

Erast Petrovich walked quickly through the wide vestibule. Masa could hardly keep up with him, swinging the bulging briefcase with its leather belly packed so tightly with banknotes that it was almost bursting. At such an early hour, the department was rather empty — it was not, in any case, the kind of place that was ever crowded with visitors. From the far end of the corridor, where the plaque on the door read officers’ gymnastics hall, came the sound of shouting and the clash of metal on metal. Fandorin shook his head skeptically: Of course, knowing how to fence was essential for an officer of the gendarmes. But with whom, he wondered. With the bomb-throwers? It was an obsolete skill. They would do better to study jujitsu or even, in a pinch, English boxing. Outside the entrance to the reception room of the chief of police, he said to Masa: “Sit here until you’re called. Guard the briefcase. Does your head hurt?”

“I have a strong head,” the Japanese replied proudly.

“And thank God for that. Remember now, don’t move from this spot.”

Masa puffed out his cheeks in offense, evidently regarding this last instruction as superfluous. Behind the tall double door Fandorin found the reception room, from where, according to the posted signs, one could either go straight on, into the office of the chief of police, or to the right, into the secret section. In fact Evgeny Osipovich Karachentsev had his own chancelry, on Tverskoi Boulevard, but His Excellency preferred the office on Malaya Nikitskaya Street — it was closer to the secret springs of the machinery of state.

“Where are you going?” asked the duty adjutant, rising to meet the ragged tramp.

“Collegiate Assessor Fandorin, deputy for special assignments to the governor- general. On urgent business.”

The adjutant nodded and dashed off to announce him. Thirty seconds later, Karachentsev himself came out into the reception room. At the sight of the poor tramp he froze on the spot.

“Erast Petrovich, is that you? What an incredible transformation! What has happened?”

“A great deal.”

Fandorin went into the office and closed the door behind him. The adjutant glanced curiously after the unusual visitor as he went in. He stood up and looked out into the corridor. There was nobody there, except for some Kirghiz sitting opposite the door. Then the officer tiptoed up to his superior’s door and put his ear against it. He could hear the even intonation of the collegiate assessor’s voice, interrupted every now and then by the general’s deep-voiced exclamations. Unfortunately, those were the only words that he was able to make out.

The exchange sounded like this:

“What briefcase?”

“…”

“But how could you do that?”

“…”

“And what did he say?”

“…”

“To Khitrovka?”

At this point, the door from the corridor opened and the adjutant barely had time to recoil, pretending that he had just been about to knock at the general’s door, and turn around in annoyance at the intrusion. An unfamiliar officer with a briefcase under his arm threw up his open hand reassuringly and pointed to the side door, which led into the secret section, as much as to say, Don’t trouble yourself, I’m going that way. He strode quickly across the spacious room and vanished. The adjutant placed his ear back against the door.

“Appalling!” Karachentsev exclaimed excitedly. Then a moment later he gasped: “Khurtinsky! That’s incredible!”

The adjutant flattened himself out across the door, hoping to make out at least something of the collegiate assessor’s story, but then, as ill luck would have it, a courier came in with an urgent letter that he had to accept and sign for.

Two minutes later the general emerged from his office, flushed and excited. However, to judge from the gleam in the general’s eyes, the news did not appear to be all bad. Karachentsev was followed out by the mysterious functionary.

“First we need to deal with the briefcase, and then we can deal with the treacherous court counselor,” said the chief of police, rubbing his hands together. “Where is this Japanese of yours?”

“Waiting in the corridor.”

The adjutant glanced out from behind the door and saw the general and the functionary stop in front of the ragged Kirghiz, who stood up and bowed ceremonially, with his arms at his sides.

The collegiate assessor asked him anxiously about something in an incomprehensible language.

The oriental bowed again and gave a reassuring answer. The functionary raised his voice, clearly indignant about something.

The narrow-eyed face expressed confusion. The oriental seemed to be trying to justify his actions.

The general turned his head from one of them to the other. He puckered his ginger eyebrows in concern.

Clasping his hands to his forehead, the collegiate assessor turned toward the adjutant.

“Did an officer with a briefcase enter the reception?”

“Yes, sir. He went through into the secret section.”

Acting with extreme rudeness, the functionary pushed aside first the chief of police and then the adjutant, and dashed out the side door of the reception room. The others followed him. Behind the door with the plaque was a narrow corridor with windows looking out onto the yard. One of the windows was slightly open. The collegiate assessor leaned out over the windowsill.

“Boot prints in the ground! He jumped down!” The emotional functionary groaned and smashed his fist against the frame in rage. The blow was so strong that all the glass showered out into the yard with a mournful jangle.

“Erast Petrovich, what has happened?” the general asked in alarm.

“I don’t understand it at all,” said Fandorin, raising his arms in dismay. “Masa says that an officer came up to him in the corridor, gave him my name, handed him an envelope with a seal, took the briefcase, and supposedly brought it to me. And there really was an officer, only he jumped out of this very window with the briefcase. It’s like some terrible nightmare!”

“The envelope — where’s the envelope?” asked Karachentsev.

The functionary roused himself and started jabbering away in some oriental tongue again. The negligent oriental, now betraying signs of exceptional concern, took an official envelope out of his beshmet and handed it to the general. Karachentsev glanced at the seal and the address.

“Hmm.”

To the Moscow Province Department of Gendarmes. From the Department for the Maintenance of Order and Public Security of the Office of the Governor-General of St. Petersburg.

He opened the envelope and began reading:

Secret. To the chief of police of Moscow. On the basis of article 16 of the decree approved by the emperor concerning measures for the maintenance of state security and public order, and by agreement with the governor-general of St. Petersburg, the midwife Maria Ivanovna Ivanova is forbidden to reside in St. Petersburg or Moscow, due to her political unreliability, concerning which matter I have the honor of informing Your Excellency. Captain Shipov, for the Head of Section.

“What nonsense was this?”

The general turned the piece of paper this way and that.

“An ordinary circular letter! What has this to do with the briefcase?”

“Surely it’s s-simple enough,” the collegiate assessor in tramp’s clothes said wearily, so upset that he had even begun to stammer. “Someone cunningly exploited the fact that Masa does not understand Russian and has infinite respect for military uniforms, especially if they include a sword.”

“Ask him what the officer looked like,” the general instructed.

After listening to a few words of the oriental’s incoherent speech, the young functionary merely waved his hand despairingly.

“He says, yellow hair, watery eyes… We all l-look alike to him.”

He turned to the adjutant: “Did you get a good look at this m-man?”

“Afraid not,” the adjutant replied, spreading his hands in apology and coloring slightly. “I didn’t pay close attention. Blond. Above-average height. Standard gendarme uniform. Captain’s shoulder straps.”

“Are you telling me you weren’t taught observation and description?” the functionary inquired angrily. “From this desk to that door is no more than ten paces!”

The adjutant said nothing and blushed an even deeper red.

“A catastrophe, Your Excellency,” the man in disguise stated. “The million rubles have disappeared! But how did it happen? It’s like some kind of black magic. What are we to do now?”

“Nonsense,” said Karachentsev dismissively. “The million rubles is not the point, is it? They’ll find it; it won’t all disappear. There are more important things to be dealt with. We need to pay our dear friend Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky a little visit. Oh, what a character!” said Karachentsev with a grim smile. “He’ll soon clear up all our questions. Well, well, how interestingly everything has turned out. Yes, indeed, this will mean the end of our old beau Dolgorukoi as well. He warmed the viper at his breast, and very lovingly, too!”

Collegiate Assessor Fandorin started.

“Yes, yes, let’s go to see Khurtinsky. And let’s hope that we’re not too late.”

“We’ll have to go to the prince first,” sighed the chief of police. “We can do nothing without his sanction. Never mind; I shall enjoy watching the old fox squirm. Curtains, Your Excellency, you can’t wriggle out of it this time. Sverchinsky!” The general glanced at the adjutant. “My carriage, and look lively about it. And a droshky with an arrest detail to follow me to the governor- general’s house. In plainclothes. Three will do, I think. We should manage without any gunplay in this instance.” And he gave another carnivorous smile.

The adjutant ran off quickly to carry out the order, and five minutes later a carriage harnessed to a foursome went dashing off at full speed along the cobblestoned road, followed by a droshky swaying gently on its springs, carrying three agents in civilian clothes.

Having watched the brief procession depart from the window, the adjutant picked up the earpiece of the telephone and wound the handle. He gave a number. Glancing at the door, he asked in a low voice: “Mr. Vedishchev, is that you? This is Sverchinsky.”

They had to wait in the reception room for an audience. The governor’s secretary, after apologizing extremely politely to the chief of police, nonetheless declared firmly that His Excellency was very busy, had said that no one was to be admitted, and even ordered that no one was to be announced. Karachentsev glanced at Erast Petrovich with an ironical grin, as if to say, “Let the old man put up one last show of strength.” At last — at least a quarter of an hour must have gone by — there was the sound of a bell ringing behind the monumental gilded door.

“Now, Your Excellency, I shall announce you,” said the secretary, getting up from behind his desk.

When they entered the study, it became clear what significant matters had been occupying Prince Dolgorukoi’s attention — he had been eating breakfast. Breakfast as such was already over, and the impatient visitors were admitted in time for the very last stage of the meal: Vladimir An-dreevich had started on his coffee, sitting there neatly bibbed with a soft linen napkin, and dunking a bun from Filippov’s bakery in his cup. He appeared complacent in the extreme.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the prince said with a warm smile and swallowed a piece of bun. “Please don’t think badly of me for keeping you waiting. My Frol is so strict, and he says I must not be distracted when I am eating. Can I offer you some coffee? The buns are quite excellent; they simply melt in your mouth.”

At this point the governor looked a little more closely at the general’s companion and began blinking in surprise. On the way to Tverskaya Street, Erast Petrovich had pulled off his gray beard and wig, but there had been no chance to change out of his rags, so his appearance really was quite unusual.

Vladimir Andreevich shook his head disapprovingly and coughed.

“Erast Petrovich, of course I did tell you that you needn’t wear your uniform to visit me, but, my dear fellow, this is really going too far. Have you lost all your money at cards, is that it?” There was an unaccustomed severity in the prince’s voice. “Certainly, I am a man without prejudices, but even so, I would ask you in future not to come here in such a state. It simply won’t do.”

He shook his head reproachfully and began munching on his bun again, but the chief of police and the collegiate assessor had such strange expressions on their faces that Dolgorukoi stopped chewing and asked in bewilderment, “What on earth has happened, gentlemen? Is there a fire somewhere?”

“Worse, Your Excellency. Much worse,” Karachentsev said with voluptuous emphasis and sat down in an armchair without waiting to be invited. Fandorin remained standing. “Your head of the secret chancelry is a thief, a criminal, and the protector of all the criminals in Moscow’s underworld. Collegiate Assessor Fandorin has proof of it. Most embarrassing, Your Excellency, most embarrassing. I really have no idea how we are going to deal with this.” He paused briefly to let the old man grasp what he had said and continued ingratiatingly. “I have had the honor on numerous occasions of reporting to Your Excellency concerning the unseemly behavior of Mr. Khurtinsky, but you paid no attention to me. However, it naturally never even occurred to me that his activities might be criminal to such an appalling degree.”

The governor-general listened to this short but impressive speech with his mouth half-open. Erast Petrovich expected an exclamation, a cry of indignation, questions concerning the proofs, but the prince’s composure was not shaken in the least. While the chief of police maintained an expectant silence, the prince thoughtfully finished chewing his piece of bun and took a sip of coffee. Then he sighed reproachfully.

“It is really most unfortunate, Evgeny Osipovich, that it never occurred to you. You are, after all, the head of the Moscow police, our pillar of law and order. I am no gendarme, and I am encumbered with rather more important matters than you are; I have to bear the entire arduous business of municipal government on my shoulders. And I have long had my suspicions concerning Petrusha Khurtinsky.”

“Indeed?” the chief of police asked sarcastically. “Since when would that be?”

“Oh, for quite a long time,” the prince drawled. “Yes, I lost my liking for Petrusha a long time ago. Just three months ago I wrote to inform your minister, Count Tolstov, that according to information in my possession, Court Counselor Khurtinsky was not merely a bribe-taker, but also a thief and general miscreant.” The prince rustled the papers on his desk. “There was a copy here somewhere, of my letter, that is… ah, there it is.” He picked up a sheet of paper and waved it in the air. “And there was a reply from the count. Where could it be? Aha.” He picked up another sheet, a monogrammed one. “Shall I read it to you? The minister reassured me absolutely that I had no need to feel concerned about Khurtinsky.”

The governor put on his pince-nez.

“Listen to this.”

As to any doubts that Your Excellency may happen to entertain concerning the activities of Court Counselor Khurtinsky, I hasten to assure you that while this functionary may on occasion behave in a way that is hard to explain, this is by no means out of any criminal intent, but only in the execution of a secret state mission of immense importance, which is known both to me and to His Imperial Majesty. Allow me, therefore, to reassure you, my dearest Vladimir Andreevich, and in particular to mention that the mission that Khurtinsky is carrying out is in no wise directed against…

“M-m, well, that has nothing to do with the matter. All in all, gentlemen, as you can see for yourselves — if anyone is at fault here, then it is certainly not Dolgorukoi, but rather your department, Evgeny Osipovich. What grounds could I possibly have for not trusting the Ministry of Internal Affairs?”

The shock was too much for the police chief’s self-control and he stood up abruptly and reached out for the letter, which was rather stupid, since in such a serious matter any subterfuge on the prince’s part was entirely out of the question — it was too easy to verify. Dolgorukoi complacently handed the sheet of paper to the ginger-haired general.

“Yes,” muttered Karachentsev. “That is Dmitry Andreevich’s signature. Not the slightest doubt about it.”

The prince inquired solicitously: “Did your superiors really not consider it necessary to inform you? Tut-tut, that was very bad of them. So it would appear that you do not know what kind of secret mission Khurtinsky was carrying out?”

Karachentsev said nothing, absolutely stunned.

Meanwhile, Fandorin was pondering an intriguing circumstance — — how had it come about that the prince had three-month-old correspondence to hand among his current paperwork? However, what the collegiate assessor said out loud was: “I am also not aware of the nature of Mr. Khurtinsky’s secret activity; however, on this occasion he has clearly overstepped its limits. His connection with bandits in Khitrovka is indubitable and cannot be justified by any interests of state. And most important of all: Khurtinsky is clearly implicated in the death of General Sobolev.”

Then Fandorin summarized, point by point, the story of the stolen million rubles. The governor listened very attentively. At the end he said decisively: “A scoundrel, a palpable scoundrel. He must be arrested and questioned.”

“That is why we c-came to you, Vladimir Andreevich.”

Speaking in a completely different tone now — bright and respectful — the chief of police inquired: “Will you permit me to do that, Your Excellency?”

“Of course, my dear fellow,” said Dolgorukoi with a nod. “Let that villain answer for everything.”

They walked quickly down the long corridors, the officers in plainclothes clattering along in step behind them. Erast Petrovich did not utter a word and tried not to look at Karachentsev — he understood how excruciatingly he was suffering after this debacle. And it was even more unpleasant and alarming that apparently there were certain secret matters that the top brass preferred not to entrust to Moscow’s chief of police, but to his eternal rival, the head of the secret section of the governor’s chancelry.

They went up to the second floor, where the offices were located. Erast Petrovich asked the attendant on duty at the door if Mr. Khurtinsky was in. It turned out that he had been in his office since early that morning.

Karachentsev took heart and doubled his pace, hurtling along the corridor like a cannonball, spurs jingling and aiguillettes clattering.

The reception room of the head of the secret section was overflowing with visitors.

“Is he in?” the general asked the secretary abruptly.

“Yes, he is, Your Excellency, but he asked not to be disturbed. Shall I announce you?”

The chief of police brushed him aside. He glanced at Fandorin, smiled into his thick mustache, and opened the door.

At first sight, Erast Petrovich thought that Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky was standing on the windowsill and looking out the window. But a moment later he saw quite clearly that he was not standing, but hanging.

ELEVEN

In which the case takes an unexpected turn

Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi knitted his brows as he read the lines written in that familiar hasty scrawl for the third time:

I, Pyotr Khurtinsky, am guilty of having committed a crime against my duty out of avarice and of having betrayed him whom I should have served faithfully and assisted in every way possible in his onerous obligations. God is my judge.

The lines were written crookedly, overlapping one another, and the last line even ended with a blot, as if the writer’s strength had been totally drained by his excess of repentance.

“What was the secretary’s account of events again?” the governor asked slowly. “Tell it to me once more, please, Evgeny Osipovich, my dear fellow, in greater detail.”

Karachentsev related their latest discoveries for the second time, more coherently and calmly than at the first attempt.

“Khurtinsky came to work, as usual, at nine o’clock. He appeared normal; the secretary noticed no signs of anxiety or agitation. After perusing the correspondence, Khurtinsky began receiving visitors. At about five to eleven the secretary was approached by a gendarme officer who introduced himself as Captain Pevtsov, a courier from St. Petersburg who had come to see the court counselor on urgent business. The captain was holding a brown briefcase described as precisely matching the stolen one. Pevtsov was immediately shown into the study and the reception of visitors was halted. Shortly after that, Khurtinsky stuck his head out and ordered that no one else was to be allowed in until he gave specific instructions and that in general he was not to be disturbed for any reason whatsoever. According to the secretary, he appeared extremely anxious. About ten minutes later, the captain left and confirmed that the counselor of state was busy and had given instructions that he was not to be disturbed, since he was studying secret documents. And a quarter of an hour after that, at twenty minutes past eleven, Erast Petrovich and I arrived.”

“What did the doctor say? Could it be murder?”

“He says it is a typical case of suicide by hanging. Khurtinsky tied the cord from the transom window around his neck and jumped. A standard fracture of the cervical vertebrae. And then, as you can see for yourself, there is no reason to doubt the note. Forgery is out of the question.”

The governor-general crossed himself and, borrowing a phrase from the Bible, remarked: “ “And abandoning the pieces of silver in the temple, he went out and hanged himself.” Well, now the criminal’s fate is in the hands of a judge more righteous than you or I, gentlemen.”

Erast Petrovich had the feeling that such an outcome suited Prince Dolgorukoi better than any other. In contrast, the chief of police was quite clearly downcast: Just when he thought that he had taken hold of the precious thread that would lead him to the pot of gold, the thread had simply snapped in his fingers.

Erast Petrovich’s thoughts were concerned, not with state secrets and interdepartmental intrigues, but with the mysterious Captain Pevtsov. It was perfectly obvious that he was the same man who, forty minutes before appearing in Khurtinsky’s reception room, had tricked poor Masa into giving him Sobolev’s million rubles. From Malaya Nikitskaya Street the captain of gendarmes (or, as Fandorin was inclined to presume, some individual dressed in a blue uniform) had set out directly for Tverskaya Street. The secretary had got a clearer look at this individual than the police chief’s adjutant and described him as follows: height approximately two arshins and seven vershoks, broad shoulders, straw- blond hair. One distinctive feature was that he had very light, almost transparent eyes. This detail made Fandorin shiver. In his youth he had had an encounter with a man who had eyes exactly like that, and he preferred not to recall that story from long ago, which had cost him too dear. However, the painful memory had nothing to do with this case, and he banished the gloomy shadow from his mind.

His questions arranged themselves in the following sequence. Was this man really a gendarme? If he was (and, more interestingly, even if he was not), then what was his role in the Sobolev case? But most important, how could he possibly be so fiendishly well-informed and so incredibly ubiquitous?

Just at that moment the governor-general began stating the questions that interested him, which naturally sounded somewhat different: “Now what are we going to do, my esteemed detectives? What would you have me report to my superiors? Was Sobolev murdered, or did he die a natural death? What was Khurtinsky doing right under my… or rather, your nose, Evgeny Osipovich? Where has the million rubles got to? Who is this fellow Pevtsov?” There was a note of menace underlying the feigned benevolence of the prince’s voice. “What do you say, Your Excellency, our dear defender and protector?”

The agitated chief of police wiped his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.

“I have no Pevtsov in my department. Perhaps he really did come from St. Petersburg and was dealing directly with Khurtinsky, bypassing the provincial administration. I surmise the following.” Karachentsev tugged nervously on one ginger sideburn. “Acting in secret from you and from me” — the chief of police swallowed — “Khurtinsky was carrying out certain confidential assignments from high up. These assignments evidently included provisions for Sobolev’s visit. To what end this was necessary, I do not know. Obviously Khurtinsky found out from somewhere that Sobolev had a very large sum of money with him and that his retinue knew nothing about it. On Thursday night Khurtinsky was informed of Sobolev’s sudden death in one of the suites at the hotel Anglia — probably by agents who were secretly observing the general, well, and… As we already know, the court counselor was greedy and not particularly choosy about his methods. He succumbed to the temptation to pocket this incredible haul and sent his minion, the housebreaker Little Misha, to extract the briefcase from the safe. However, Khurtinsky’s dubious enterprise was discovered by Captain Pevtsov, who, in all probability, had been assigned to observe the observer — that happens quite often in our department. Pevtsov confiscated the briefcase, came to Khurtinsky, and accused him of double-dealing and theft. Immediately after the captain left, the state counselor realized that his goose was cooked, so he wrote a repentant note and hanged himself. That is the only explanation that occurs to me.”

“Well, it is certainly plausible,” allowed Dolgorukoi. “What action do you propose?”

“Immediately forward a query to St. Petersburg concerning the identity of Captain Pevtsov and what authority he has been granted. Meanwhile, Erast Petrovich and I will examine the suicide’s papers. I shall take the contents of his safe, and Mr. Fandorin will study Khurtinsky’s notebook.”

The collegiate assessor could not suppress a wry smile at the deft way in which the general had divided up the booty: In one half the contents of the safe, and in the other an ordinary notebook for business appointments, lying openly on the desk of the deceased.

Dolgorukoi drummed his fingers on the table and adjusted his wig, which had slipped slightly to one side, with a habitual gesture.

“It would seem, Evgeny Osipovich, that your conclusions amount to the following. Sobolev was not murdered, but died a natural death. Khurtinsky was a victim of inordinate avarice. Pevtsov is a man from St. Petersburg. Are you in agreement with these conclusions, Erast Petrovich?”

Fandorin’s reply was terse: “No.”

“Interesting,” said the governor, brightening. “Well, then, speak your piece. What conclusions have your calculations produced — ‘that is one,’ ‘that is two,’ ‘that is three’?”

“By all means, Your Excellency…” The young man paused — evidently for greater effect — and began resolutely.

“General Sobolev was involved in some secret business, the essence of which is not yet clear. P-proofs? Concealing his actions from everybody, he gathered together an immense sum of money. That is one. The hotel safe contained secret papers, which were concealed from the authorities by the general’s retinue. That is two. There is the very fact that Sobolev was under secret observation — I think Evgeny Osipovich is right when he says he was being observed — that is three.” At this point, Erast Petrovich mentally added: The testimony of the young woman Golovina — that is four. However, he chose not to involve the teacher from Minsk in the investigation. “I am not yet ready to draw any conclusions, but I am prepared to venture a few surmises. Sobolev was murdered. By some cunning means that imitates a natural death. Khurtinsky fell victim to his own greed; the illusion of his own impunity went to his head. Here I am once again in agreement with Evgeny Osipovich. But the true criminal, the man pulling the strings behind the scenes, is the person whom we know as ‘Captain Pevtsov’. Khurtinsky, a sly, cunning villain whose like would be hard to find anywhere, was mortally afraid of this man. This man has the briefcase. Pevtsov knows everything and appears everywhere. I very much dislike such supernatural agility. A blond man with pale eyes who has twice appeared in a gendarme uniform — that is the person we must find at any cost.”

The chief of police rubbed his temples wearily.

“It could well be that Erast Petrovich is right and I am mistaken. When it comes to deduction, the collegiate assessor can easily give me a hundred points’ start.”

Prince Dolgorukoi got up from his desk with a grunt, walked across to the window, and gazed out for about five minutes at the incessant stream of carriages flowing along Tverskaya Street. Then he turned around and spoke in an unusually brisk and businesslike manner.

“I shall report to the top. Immediately, by coded telegram. As soon as they reply, I shall summon you. Remain at your posts and do not leave them. Evgeny Osipovich, you will be where?”

“In my office on Tverskoi Boulevard. I shall go through Khurtinsky’s papers.”

“I shall be at the Dusseaux,” Fandorin announced. “To be quite honest, I can hardly stay on my feet. I have hardly slept at all for two days now.”

“Go on, then, my dear fellow, get an hour or two of sleep, and make yourself look respectable while you’re at it. I shall send for you.”

Erast Petrovich didn’t actually intend to sleep, as such, but he did intend to refresh himself — by taking an ice bath, and a massage afterward would be good. Sleep — how could he indulge in any sleep when there was business like this afoot? Who could possibly fall asleep?

Fandorin opened the door of his suite and started back sharply as Masa threw himself at his feet, pressed his cocooned head to the floor, and began jabbering.

“Master it is unforgivable, unforgivable. I failed to protect your onshi or to guard your leather briefcase. But that was not the end of my offenses. Unable to bear such shame, I wished to lay hands on myself and dared to make use of your sword for that purpose, but the sword broke, and so I have committed yet another terrible crime.”

The small ceremonial sword was lying on the table, broken in two.

Erast Petrovich sat down on the floor beside his miserable servant. He stroked his head cautiously — he could feel the immense bump even through the towel.

“Masa, you are not to blame for anything. I am responsible for Grushin-sensei’s death, and I shall never forgive myself for it. Your courage did not fail you; you showed no weakness. It is just that life here is different and there are different rules, to which you are not accustomed. And the sword is worthless trash, a knitting needle. It is quite impossible to cut yourself open with it. We shall buy another; they cost fifty rubles. It is not my family sword.”

Masa straightened up with tears running down his contorted face.

“But I still insist, master. It is not possible for me of live after I have failed you so terribly. I deserve to be punished.”

“All right,” sighed Fandorin. “You will learn off by heart the next ten pages of the dictionary.”

“No, twenty!”

“All right. But not now, later, when your head has healed. Meanwhile, prepare an ice bath.”

Masa dashed downstairs with an empty bucket and Erast Petrovich sat down at the table and opened Khurtinsky’s notebook. It was not actually an ordinary notebook, but an English schedule book, a diary in which every day of the year is allotted its own page. A convenient item — Fandorin had seen others like it before. He began leafing through it without really hoping to find anything significant. Of course, the state counselor had kept everything that was in the least degree secret or important in the safe, and only various minor items that he needed to remember, such as the times of business meetings, audiences, and reports, were written in the book. Many names were indicated by only one or two letters. Fandorin would have to make sense of all of it. The collegiate assessor’s glance halted on Tuesday 4 July (that is, Tuesday 22 June in our Russian style), attracted by a strangely elongated blot. So far there had not been a single blot or even correction in the book — Khurtinsky was obviously an extremely neat individual. And the form of the blot was very odd — as if the ink had not fallen from a pen, but been deliberately smeared. Fandorin held the page up against the light. No, he could not make it out. He carefully ran the tip of his finger over the paper. There seemed to be something written there. The dead man had used a steel nib and pressed hard with it. But there was no way to read it.

Masa brought a bucket of ice and flung it into the bath with a crash and a clatter. There was the sound of running water. Erast Petrovich picked up the travel bag that held his tools and took out the device he required. He turned over the page with the blot, applied an extremely thin sheet of rice paper to its reverse side, and ran a rubber roller over it several times. This was not ordinary paper; it had been impregnated with a special solution that reacted sensitively to the slightest irregularity in the surface on which it lay. The collegiate assessor’s fingers were trembling with impatience as he lifted the sheet of paper away. Against the matte background he could make out several pale but distinct words: “Metro-pole No. ISIKlonov.” It had been written on 22 June. What had happened on that day? The commander of the Fourth Army Corps, General of Infantry Sobolev, had concluded his maneuvers and submitted his application for leave. Well, and a certain Mr. Klonov had been in suite 19 at the hotel Metro-pole. What connection was there between these two facts? Most likely, none. But why would Khurtinsky have wanted to obscure the name and address? Very interesting.

Erast Petrovich undressed and climbed into the bath of ice, which obliged him to abandon extraneous thoughts for a moment, as usual straining his mental and physical powers to the utmost. Fandorin ducked his head under the water and counted to a hundred and twenty, and when he surfaced and opened his eyes, he gasped and blushed bright red: Standing in the doorway of the bathroom, rooted to the spot in amazement, was the Countess Mirabeau, the morganatic wife of His Highness Evgeny Maximilianovich, Duke of Liechtenburg. Her face was also crimson.

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Fandorin,” the countess babbled in French. “Your servant admitted me to the suite and pointed to this door. I assumed that it was your study.”

Good breeding would not allow the panic-stricken Erast Petrovich to remain seated in the presence of a lady and he instinctively leapt to his feet, but a second later he plunged back down into the water in even greater panic. Blushing even more deeply, the countess backed out of the doorway.

“Masa!” Fandorin roared in a wild voice. “Masa!”

The villainous rogue appeared, holding a dressing gown in his hands, and bowed.

“What can I do for you, master?”

“I’ll give you ‘what can I do for you’!” screeched Erast Petrovich, his dignity totally undermined by his embarrassment. “For this I will make you disembowel yourself, and not with a knitting needle, but with a chopstick! I already explained to you, you brainless lout, that in Europe the bathroom is a private place! You have put me in an impossible position and made a lady burn with shame!” Switching into Russian, the collegiate assessor shouted: “I do beg your pardon! Make yourself comfortable, Countess, I’ll just be a moment!” And then again in Japanese: “Bring me my trousers, frock coat, and shirt, you repulsive bandylegged insect!”

Fandorin emerged into the room fully dressed, with an impeccable part in his hair, but still red-cheeked and unable to imagine how he could possibly look the countess in the eye after the scandalous incident that had just taken place. Contrary to his expectations, however, the countess had completely recovered her composure and was scrutinizing the Japanese prints hanging on the walls with avid curiosity. She glanced at the functionary’s disconcerted face and the ghost of a smile even glimmered in her blue Sobolev eyes, but it was immediately replaced by an extremely serious expression.

“Mr. Fandorin, I have taken the liberty of calling on you because you are an old comrade of Michel’s and are investigating the circumstances of his demise. My husband left Moscow yesterday with the Grand Duke. Some urgent business or other. I shall take my brother’s body to the estate for burial.” Zinaida Dmitrievna hesitated, as though uncertain whether to continue, but she plunged on resolutely.

“My husband left with only light luggage and a servant found this in one of his frock coats that remained here.”

The countess handed him a folded sheet of paper, and as he took it Fandorin noticed that she had kept hold of another sheet. The message in French below the letterhead of the Fourth Army Corps was written in Sobolev’s sprawling hand.

Eugene, be in Moscow on the morning of the 25th for the final explanation of the matter already known to you. The hour draws near. I shall stay at the Dusseaux. I embrace you. Your Michel.

Erast Petrovich glanced inquiringly at his visitor, anticipating clarification.

“This is very strange,” she said, whispering for some reason. “My husband didn’t tell me that he was due to meet Michel in Moscow. Eugene said only that we had to make a few visits, and then we would go back to St. Petersburg.”

“That really is strange,” Fandorin agreed, noting from the cancellation stamp that the message had been sent from Minsk by courier on the sixteenth of the month. “But why did you not ask His Highness about this?”

Biting her lip, the countess held out the second sheet of paper.

“Because Eugene also concealed this from me.”

“What is it?”

“A note from Michel, addressed to me. Evidently it must have been attached to the other message. For some reason Eugene did not pass it on to me.”

Erast Petrovich took the sheet of paper. It had clearly been written in haste, at the very last moment:

Dear Zt, you must come to Moscow together with Eugene. It is very important. I do not want to explain anything to you now, but it could he that [then half a line had been crossed out] we shall not see each other again for a long time.

Fandorin went over to the window and pressed the note against the glass in order to read what had been crossed out.

“Don’t waste your time; I’ve already made it out,” Zinaida Dmitrievna’s trembling voice said behind him. “It says: ‘that this meeting will he our last’.” The collegiate assessor ruffled up his wet, freshly combed hair. So, it seemed that Sobolev had known that his life was in danger. And the duke also knew this? That was very interesting.

He turned toward the countess. “There is nothing that I can say to you now, madam, but I promise I shall investigate all the circumstances as thoroughly as possible.” Glancing into Zinaida Dmitrievna’s perplexed eyes, he added: “And, naturally, as t-tactfully as possible.”

The moment the countess left, Fandorin sat down at the table and, as usual when he wanted to concentrate, turned to a calligraphic exercise — he began drawing the hieroglyph for ‘serenity’. However, at only the third sheet of paper, when perfection was still very far off, there was another knock at the door — sharp and peremptory.

With a fearful backward glance at his master’s solemn ritual, Masa tiptoed across to the door and opened it.

There stood Ekaterina Alexandrovna Golovina, the golden-haired lover of the deceased Achilles. She was fuming with rage, which only made her seem even more beautiful.

“You disappeared!” the young lady exclaimed instead of greeting him. “I have been waiting, going out of my mind with all the uncertainty. What have you discovered, Fandorin? I gave you such important information, and you are sitting here, drawing. I demand an explanation!”

“Madam,” the collegiate assessor interrupted her sharply, “it is I who demand an explanation from you. Please be seated.”

He took his unexpected visitor by the hand, led her to an armchair, and sat her down. He moved up a chair for himself.

“You told me less than you knew. What was Sobolev planning? Why was he in fear of his life? What was so d-dangerous about his journey? What did he need so much money for? Why all this mystery? And, finally, what did you quarrel about? Because of your omissions, Ekaterina Alexandrovna, I assessed the situation incorrectly and a very good man was killed as a result. As well as several bad ones, who nonetheless still had immortal souls.”

Golovina hung her head. Her delicate face reflected an entire gamut of powerful feelings that clearly sat together rather uncomfortably. She began with a confession.

“Yes, I lied when I said that I didn’t know what Michel’s passion was. He thought that Russia was dying and he wanted to save her. All he ever spoke about recently was Constantinople, the German menace, the greatness of Russia… And a month ago, during our final meeting, he suddenly began talking about Bonaparte and asked me to be his Josephine. I was horrified. Our views had always differed. He believed in the historic mission of Slavdom and some special Russian destiny, but I believed and still believe that what Russia needs is not the Dardanelles, but enlightenment and a constitution.” Unable to control her voice any longer, Ekaterina Alexandrovna shook her fist in annoyance, as if that would help her over some difficult spot on the road. “When he mentioned Josephine, I was frightened, frightened that Michel would be consumed like some intrepid moth in the bright, alluring flame of his own ambition… And even more afraid that he might be successful. He could have been. He is so single-minded, so strong, so fortunate in everything. He was, that is. What would he have become, given the chance to control the fates of millions? It is terrible even to think of it. He would no longer have been Michel, but an entirely different person.”

“And did you report him to the authorities?” Erast Petrovich demanded sharply.

Golovina shrank away in horror.

“How could you think such a thing? No, I simply told him: choose — either me, or this undertaking of yours. I knew what the answer would be.” She wiped away an angry tear. “But it never even occurred to me that everything would end in such a vile and vulgar farce — the future Bonaparte killed for a bundle of banknotes. As it says in the Bible, “The proud shall be brought low.””

She fluttered her hands as if to say: No more, I cannot say any more, and burst into bitter tears, no longer even attempting to restrain herself.

Fandorin waited for the sobbing to pass and said in a low voice, “It would appear that what happened had n-nothing to do with the banknotes.”

“With what, then?” wailed Ekaterina Alexandrovna. “He was killed, after all, wasn’t he? Somehow I believe that you will uncover the truth. Swear that you will tell me the whole truth about his death.”

Erast Petrovich turned away in embarrassment, thinking that women were incomparably better than men — more loyal, more sincere, with greater integrity. Naturally, that is, if they truly loved.

“Yes, yes, definitely,” he mumbled, knowing perfectly well that never, no matter what, would he ever tell Ekaterina Alexandrovna the whole truth about the way the man she loved had died.

At this point the conversation had to be broken off, because a messenger from the governor-general had arrived for Fandorin.

“how did the contents of the safe look, Your Excellency?” Erast Petrovich asked Karachentsev. “Did you discover anything of interest?”

“Plenty,” replied the chief of police with an air of satisfaction. “A great deal of new light has been cast on the shady dealings of the deceased. It will take a bit more fiddling about to decode his financial records, though. Our bee was busy collecting nectar from many flowers, not just from Little Misha. And what have you got?”

“I do have something,” Fandorin replied modestly.

The conversation was taking place in the governor-general’s study.

Dolgorukoi himself, however, was not there yet — according to his secretary, His Excellency was finishing his lunch.

Eventually Dolgorukoi appeared, entering the room with an air of mysterious importance. He sat down and cleared his throat in a formal manner.

“Gentlemen, I have received a telegram from St. Petersburg in reply to my detailed report. As you can see, the matter was considered so important that there was no procrastination at all. In this case I am merely conveying a message from one party to another. This is what Count Tolstov writes:”

Highly esteemed Vladimir Andreevich, in reply to your message, I beg to inform you that Captain Pevtsov is indeed attached to the chief of the Corps of Gendarmes and is at present in Moscow on a special assignment. To be specific, the captain was instructed to confiscate a briefcase that might contain documents of state importance. His Imperial Majesty has instructed that the case of the death of Adjutant General Sobolev should be considered closed, concerning which appropriate formal notification will be forwarded to Evgeny Osipovich. His Majesty has further instructed that for exceeding his authority and involving a private individual in a secret investigation, which resulted in the death of the aforesaid individual, your deputy for special assignments Fandorin is to be removed from his post and placed under house arrest until further instructions.

Minister of Internal Affairs D. A. Tolstov.

The prince spread his hands regretfully and addressed the astounded Fandorin.

“There, my dear fellow, see how things have turned out. Well, the people at the top know best.”

Erast Petrovich rose slowly to his feet, pale and feeling desperately upset, not because his sovereign’s punishment was harsh, but because it was essentially just. The worst thing of all was that the account of the case that he had proposed with such cool self-assurance had collapsed ignominiously. He had taken a secret government agent for the main villain of the piece! What a shameful error!

“Please don’t be offended if Evgeny Osipovich and I have a little talk now. Go on back to your hotel and get some rest,” Dolgorukoi said sympathetically. “And chin up! I have taken quite a liking to you, and I shall put in a word for you with Petersburg.”

The collegiate assessor set off dejectedly toward the door. Just as he reached it, Karachenstsev called to him.

“What was it that you discovered in the notebook?” asked the chief of police with a discreet wink, as if to say: Never mind, it will all blow over soon.

Erast Petrovich paused for a moment and replied: “Nothing of any real interest, Your Excellency.”

Back at the hotel, Fandorin declared from the threshold of his suite: “Masa, I am disgraced and have been placed under arrest. It is my fault that Grushin died. That is one. I have no more ideas. That is two. My life is over. That is three.”

Erast Petrovich walked to the bed and, without bothering to undress, collapsed on the pillow and instantly fell asleep.

TWELVE

In which a trap is sprung

The first thing that Fandorin saw on opening his eyes was the rectangle of the window, filled with the pink glow of sunset.

Masa was sitting on the floor by the bed, wearing his black formal kimono, with his hands resting ceremonially on his knees and a fresh bandage on his head. His face was set in an austere expression.

“Why are you all dressed up like that?” Erast Petrovich asked curiously.

“You said, master, that you are disgraced and that you have no more ideas.”

“Well, what of it?”

“I have a good idea. I have thought everything over and can propose a worthy way out of the distressing situation in which we both find ourselves. To my numerous misdeeds I have added yet another — I have broken the European rule of etiquette that forbids allowing a woman into the bathroom. That I do not understand this strange custom is no justification. I have memorized twenty-six whole pages from the dictionary — from the short word ab-ster-use, which means ‘difficult to conceive of or apprehend’ to the long word aff-fran-chis-e- ment, which means ‘release from servitude or an obligation,’ but even this severe trial has not lifted the weight from my heart. And as for you, master, you yourself told me that your life was over. Then let us leave this life together, master. I have prepared everything — even the brush and the ink for the death poem.”

Fandorin stretched, savoring the languorous aching in his joints.

“Forget that, Masa,” he said. “I have a better idea. What is it that smells so delicious?”

“I bought fresh bagels, the finest thing there is in Russia after a woman,” his servant replied sadly. “The sour cabbage soup that everyone here eats is absolutely terrible, but bagels are an excellent invention. I wish to offer my hara solace one last time, before I slice it in half with my dagger.”

“I’ll slice you in half,” the collegiate assessor threatened him. “Give me one of those bagels; I’m dying of hunger. Let’s have a bite and get down to work.”

“Mr. Klonov from number nineteen?” echoed the koelner (that was what the senior floor staff in the Metropole were called, after the German fashion). “Why, of course, we remember him very well. Such a gentleman, a merchant he was. Would you happen to be a friend of his then, sir?”

That evening’s idyllic sunset had beaten a rapid retreat, ousted by a cold wind and rapidly gathering gloom. The sky had turned bleak and loosed a fine scattering of raindrops that threatened to develop into a serious downpour by nighttime. In view of the weather, Fandorin had dressed to withstand the elements: a cap with an oilcloth peak, a waterproof Swedish jacket of fine kidskin, rubber galoshes. His appearance was extravagantly foreign, which obviously must have been the reason for the koelner’s unexpected comment. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, the collegiate assessor decided — after all, he was a fugitive arrestee. He leaned across the counter and whispered: “I don’t know him at all, dear fellow. I am C-Captain Pevtsov of the Gendarmes Corps, and this is an extremely important matter, top secret.”

“I understand,” the koelner replied, also in a whisper. “One moment and I’ll find everything for you.”

He began rustling through the register.

“Here it is, sir. Merchant of the first guild Nikolai Nikolaevich Klonov. Checked in on the morning of the twenty-second, arrived from Ryazan. The gentleman checked out on Thursday night.”

“What!” cried Fandorin. “Actually during the night of the twenty-fourth to the twenty-fifth?”

“Yes, sir. I was not present myself, but here is the entry — please look for yourself. The account was settled in full at half past four in the morning, during the night shift, sir.”

Erast Petrovich’s heart thrilled to that overwhelming passion known only to the inveterate hunter. He inquired with feigned casualness: “And what does he look like, this Klonov?”

“A well set-up sort of gentleman, respectable. In a word — a merchant of the first guild.”

“You mean a long beard, a big belly? Describe his appearance. Does he have any distinctive features?”

“No, no beard sir, and he’s not a fat man. Not your average old-style merchant, more one of your modern businessmen. Dresses European-style. And his appearance…” The koelner pondered for a moment. “An ordinary appearance. Blond hair. No distinctive features… Except for his eyes. They were very pale, the kind that Finns sometimes have.”

Fandorin slapped his hand down on the counter like a predator pouncing. Bull’s- eye! Here was the central character of the plot. Checked in on Tuesday, two days before Sobolev’s arrival, and checked out at the very hour when the officers were carrying the dead general into the plundered suite 47. He was getting warm now, very warm!

“You say he was a respectable-looking man? I suppose people came to see him, business partners?”

“Not a one, sir. Only messengers with telegrams a couple of times. It was plain to see the man didn’t come to Moscow on business, more likely to enjoy himself.”

“What made it so plain?”

The koelner smiled conspiratorially and spoke into Fandorin’s ear.

“The moment the gentleman arrived, he started inquiring about the ladies. Wanted to know what little lovelies Moscow had with a bit of extra style. She had to be blond and slim, with a narrow waist. He was a gentleman of great refinement.”

Erast Petrovich frowned. This was a strange turn of events. ‘Captain Pevtsov’ ought not to be interested in blondes.

“Did he speak about this with you?”

“Not at all, sir. Timofei Spiridonovich told me about it. He used to work as koelner in this very spot.” He sighed with affected sorrow. “Timofei Spiridonovich passed on last Saturday, Lord bless his soul. The mass is tomorrow.”

“And how did he pass on?” asked Fandorin, leaning forward. “In what way?”

“In a very ordinary way. He was on his way home in the evening and he slipped and banged the back of his head against a stone. Not far from here, walking through one of the courtyards. Gone, just like that. But we’re all of us in God’s hands.” The koelner crossed himself. “I used to be his assistant. But now I’ve been promoted. Eh, poor old Timofei Spiridonovich.”

“So Klonov spoke with him about the ladies?” asked the collegiate assessor, with the acute intuition that the veil was about to fall away from his eyes at any moment, revealing the full picture of what had happened in its clear and logical completeness. “And did Timofei Spiridonovich not tell you any more details?”

“Why, of course; the deceased was a great man for talking. He said he’d described all the high-class blondes in Moscow for number nineteen — that’s the way we refer to the guests between ourselves, sir, by their numbers — and number nineteen was interested most of all in Mam’selle Wanda from the Alpine Rose.”

Erast Petrovich closed his eyes for an instant. The thread had led him along a tangled path, but now its end was in sight.

“YOU?”

Wanda stood in her doorway, wrapping herself in a lace shawl and gazing in fright at the collegiate assessor, whose wet kidskin jacket reflected the light of the lamp and seemed to be enveloped in a glowing halo. Behind the late-night caller’s back the rain hissed down in a shifting wall of glass, and beyond that the darkness was impenetrable. Rivulets of water ran off the jacket onto the floor.

“Come in, Mr. Fandorin, you’re soaked through.”

“It is most amazing,” said Erast Petrovich, “that you, mademoiselle, are still alive.”

“Thanks to you,” said the songstress, with a shrug of her slim shoulders. “I can still see that knife creeping closer and closer to my throat… I can’t sleep at night. And I can’t sing.”

“I wasn’t thinking of Herr Knabe at all, but of Klonov,” said Fandorin, staring keenly into those huge green eyes. “Tell me about this interesting gentleman.”

Wanda was either genuinely surprised or playacting.

“Klonov? Nikolai Klonov? What has he got to do with this?”

“That is what we are going to try to discover.”

They went into the drawing room and sat down. The only light came from a table lamp covered with a green shawl, which gave the whole room the appearance of some mysterious underwater world. The kingdom of the enchantress of the sea, thought Erast Petrovich, and then immediately banished all inappropriate thoughts from his mind.

“Tell me about Merchant of the First Guild Klonov.”

Wanda took his wet jacket and put it on the floor, without appearing at all concerned about damaging the deep Persian carpet.

“He is very attractive,” she said in a dreamy tone of voice, and Erast Petrovich felt something akin to a prick of envy, to which, of course, he had no right whatsoever. “Calm, confident. A good man, one of the best kind of men, the kind that you rarely meet. At least I almost never come across them. Like you, in some ways.” She smiled gently and Fandorin felt strangely perturbed — she was bewitching. “But I don’t understand why you are so interested in him.”

“This man is not who he says he is. He is not a merchant at all.”

Wanda half-turned away and her gaze went blank.

“That doesn’t surprise me. But I have grown used to the fact that everyone has his own secrets. I try not to interfere in other people’s business.”

“You are a very perceptive woman, mademoiselle, otherwise you would hardly be so successful in your… profession,” Erast Petrovich was embarrassed, realizing he hadn’t chosen the happiest way to express himself. “Are you quite sure that you never sensed any danger emanating from this m-man?”

The songstress swung around to face him.

“Yes, yes, I did. Sometimes. But how do you know?”

“I have substantial grounds for believing that Klonov is an extremely dangerous man,” said Fandorin, and then continued without the slightest transition. “Tell me, was it he who brought you and Sobolev together?”

“No, not at all,” Wanda replied just as quickly. Perhaps a little too quickly.

She also seemed to sense this and felt it necessary to elaborate on her answer.

“At least, he is in no way involved in the general’s death, I swear to you! Everything happened just as I told you.”

Now she was telling the truth — or believed that she was telling the truth. All the signs — the modulation of the voice, the gestures, the movements of the facial muscles — were precisely as they should be. But then, perhaps the world had lost an exceptional actress in Miss Tolle?

Erast Petrovich changed tactics. The masters of detective psychology teach us that if one suspects a person under interrogation of not being entirely frank, but merely pretending to be so, he or she should be peppered with a hail of rapid, unexpected questions that require an unambiguous answer.

“Did Klonov know about Knabe?”

“Yes, but what—”

“Did he mention the briefcase?”

“What briefcase?”

“Did he mention Khurtinsky?”

“Who’s that?”

“Does he carry a weapon?”

“I think so. But surely that is not illeg—”

“Are you going to meet him again?”

“Yes. That is…”

Wanda turned pale and bit her lip. Erast Petrovich realized that from now on she would lie to him, and before she could start he began speaking quite differently, in an extremely serious voice, sincerely and from the heart.

“You have to tell me where he is. If I am mistaken and he is not the man I take him for, it is best for him to clear himself of suspicion now. If I am not mistaken, he is a terrible man, not at all what you imagine him to be. And as far as I can follow his logic, he will not leave you alive; it would be against his rules. I am astounded you are not lying on a slab in the mortuary at Tverskaya Street police station by now. Well, then, how can I find him, your Mr. Klonov?”

She didn’t answer.

“Tell me,” said Fandorin, taking her by the hand. The hand was cold, but the pulse was pattering rapidly. “I have saved you once already and I intend to do so again. I swear to you, if he is not a murderer, I shall not touch him.”

Wanda gazed at the young man through dilated pupils. There was a struggle taking place inside the young woman, and Fandorin didn’t know how to tilt the scales in his favor. While he was feverishly trying to think of something, Wanda’s gaze hardened — the scales had been tipped by some thought that remained unknown to Erast Petrovich.

“I don’t know where he is,” the songstress stated definitively.

Fandorin slowly stood up and left without saying another word. What was the point?

The important thing was that she was going to see Klonov-Pevtsov again. In order to locate his target, all that was needed was to arrange for her to be shadowed competently. The collegiate assessor stopped dead in the middle of Petrovka Street, paying no attention to the rain — in any case, the downpour was no longer as torrential as before.

How could he arrange any damned thing at all? He was under arrest and supposed to be sitting quietly in his hotel. He would have no assistants, and on his own it was impossible to carry out proper surveillance — that would require at least five or six experienced agents.

To force his thoughts out of their well-worn rut, Fandorin clapped his hands rapidly and loudly eight times. Passersby hidden under their umbrellas shied away from this madman, but a smile of satisfaction appeared on the collegiate assessor’s lips. An original idea had occurred to him.

On entering the spacious lobby of the Dusseaux, Erast Petrovich immediately turned to the desk.

“My dear man,” he addressed the porter in a haughty voice, “connect me to the suites in the Anglia on Petrovka Street, and step aside, will you — this is a confidential conversation.”

The porter, who was by now well used to the mysterious behavior of the important functionary from number 20, bowed, ran his finger down the list of telephone subscribers hanging on the wall, found the one required, and lifted the earpiece of the telephone.

“The Anglia, Mr. Fandorin,” he said, handing the earpiece to the collegiate assessor.

Someone hissed: “Who is calling?”

Erast Petrovich looked expectantly at the porter, and he tactfully moved away into the farthest corner of the vestibule.

Only then did Fandorin set his lips close to the mouthpiece and say: “Be so good as to ask Miss Wanda to come to the telephone. Tell her Mr. Klonov wishes to speak with her urgently. Yes, yes, Klonov!”

The young man’s heart was pounding rapidly. The idea that had occurred to him was new and daringly simple. For all its convenience, communication by telephone, which was rapidly gaining in popularity among the inhabitants of Moscow, was technically far from perfect. It was almost always possible to make out the sense of what was said, but the membrane did not convey the timber and nuances of the voice. In the best case — which was not every time — one could hear if it was a man’s voice or a woman’s, but no more than that. The newspapers wrote that the great inventor Mr. Bell was developing a new model that would transmit sound much more precisely. However, as the wise Chinese saying has it, even imperfections have their charm. Erast Petrovich had not actually heard of anyone pretending to be someone else in a telephone conversation. But why should he not try it?

The voice in the earpiece was squeaky, interrupted by crackling, not at all like Wanda’s contralto.

“Kolya, is that you? How delighted I am that you decided to telephone me!”

Kolya? Delighted? Hmm!

Wanda shouted through the telephone, running the syllables together.

“Kolya, you’re in some kind of danger. A man has just been here looking for you.”

“Who?” asked Fandorin and froze in expectation — now she would give him away.

But Wanda answered as if it were not that important.

“Some detective. He is very shrewd and clever. Kolya, he says terrible things about you!”

“Rubbish,” Erast Petrovich responded curtly, thinking that this femme fatale seemed to be head over heels in love with her gendarme captain of the first guild.

“Really? Oh, I just knew it! But even so I was terribly upset! Kolya, why are you telephoning? Has something changed?”

He said nothing, feverishly trying to think of what to say.

“Are we not going to meet tomorrow-morrow?” An echo had appeared on the line, and Fandorin plugged his other ear with his finger, because it had become difficult to follow Wanda’s rapid speech. “But you promised you wouldn’t go away without saying good-bye-ood-bye! Kolya, why don’t you say something? Is the meeting canceled?”

“No.” Taking his courage in his hands, he chanced a rather longer phrase. “I only wanted to check that you remembered everything correctly.”

“What? Check what?”

Evidently Wanda couldn’t hear very well, either, but that was actually rather helpful.

“Whether you remember everything!” Fandorin shouted.

“Yes, yes, of course! The Trinity Inn at six, number seven, from the yard, knock twice, then three times, then twice again. Maybe instead of six we could make it a bit later? I haven’t got up that early in a hundred years.”

“All right,” said the emboldened collegiate assessor, mentally repeating: six, number seven, from the yard, two-three-two. “At seven. But no later. I’ve got business to deal with.”

“All right, at seven,” shouted Wanda. The echo and the crackling had suddenly disappeared and her voice came through so clearly that it was almost recognizable. It sounded so happy that Fandorin suddenly felt ashamed.

“I’m hanging up,” he said.

“Where are you telephoning from? Where are you?”

Erast Petrovich thrust the earpiece into its cradle and twirled the handle. Deception by telephone was quite exceptionally simple. He must remember that in the future, in order not to be caught out himself. Perhaps he ought to invent a separate password for every person he spoke to? Well, not for everyone, of course, but for police agents, say, or simply for confidential occasions.

But he had no time to think about that now.

He could forget about his house arrest. Now he had something to offer his superiors. At six o’clock the next morning the elusive, almost incorporeal Klonov-Pevtsov would be at a place called the Trinity Inn. God only knew where it was, but in any case Fandorin wouldn’t be able to manage without Karachentsev. This was an arrest that required thorough planning, everything done by the book. Their cunning opponent must not be allowed to get away.

The house of the chief of police on Tverskoi Boulevard was one of the most elegant sights of Russia’s ancient capital. With a facade overlooking the respectable boulevard where in fine weather the very finest of Moscow society performed its elegant perambulations, the two-story house painted municipal yellow seemed to be watching over and, in a certain sense, blessing the decent, honest folk in their refined and tranquil recreation. Stroll on, my cultured ladies and gentlemen, along this narrow European promenade, breathe in the aroma of lime-tree blossoms, and do not concern yourselves with the snuffling and snorting of this immense semi-Asiatic city, populated for the most part by people who possess neither education nor culture — authority is close at hand, here it stands, on guard over civilization and order; authority never sleeps.

Erast Petrovich was granted an opportunity to ascertain the veracity of this claim when he rang at the door of the famous mansion shortly before midnight. The door was opened not by a footman but by a gendarme with a sword and a revolver, who listened austerely to what the nocturnal visitor had to say, but uttered not a single word in reply and left him standing there on the doorstep — after summoning the duty adjutant with an electric bell. Fortunately, the adjutant proved to be a familiar face — Captain Sverchinsky. He had no difficulty in recognizing the foreign-looking gentleman as the ragged beggar who had caused such a commotion in the department that morning, and was instantly politeness itself. It emerged that Karachentsev was taking his usual stroll along the boulevard before retiring for the night; he was fond of his bedtime walk and never missed it in any weather, not even if it was raining.

Erast Petrovich went out onto the boulevard and walked in the direction of the bronze statue of Pushkin, and there, strolling toward him at a leisurely pace, he did indeed see a familiar figure in a long cavalry greatcoat with the hood pulled forward over his forehead. The instant the collegiate assessor began to dash toward the general, two silent shadows appeared out of nowhere at his sides, as if they had sprung up out of the ground, and two equally determined silhouettes appeared behind the police chief’s back. Erast Petrovich shook his head: So much for the illusory solitude of a high state official in the age of political terrorism. Not a single step without guards. Good God, what was Russia coming to?

The shadows had already taken Collegiate Assessor Fandorin by the arms — gently but firmly.

“Erast Petrovich, I was just thinking about you!” Karachentsev declared happily and then shouted at the agents: “Shoo, shoo! Would you believe it, out stretching my legs and thinking about you. Couldn’t sit still under house arrest, eh?”

“I’m afraid n-not, Your Excellency. Let us go inside, Evgeny Osipovich, there is no time to waste.”

Asking no questions, the chief of police immediately turned toward the house. He walked with broad strides, every now and then glancing sideways at his companion.

They went through into a spacious oval office, and sat down facing each other at a long table covered with green baize. Karachentsev shouted: “Sverchinsky, stand outside the door! I might be needing you!”

When the leather-bound door silently closed, Karachentsev asked impatiently: “Well, what is it? Have you picked up the trail?”

“Better,” Fandorin informed him. “I have found the criminal. In person. M-may I smoke?”

The collegiate assessor puffed on a cigar as he related the results of his investigations.

Karachentsev’s frown grew deeper and deeper. Having heard the story out, he scratched his high forehead anxiously and tossed back a stray lock of ginger hair.

“And what do you make of this enigma?”

Erast Petrovich shook a long tip of ash off his cigar.

“Sobolev was planning some bold political initiative. Possibly an eighteenth- century-style coup. What the Germans call a putsch. You know yourself how popular Mikhail Dmitrievich was with the army and the people. Respect for our supreme authority has never been so low… But I don’t need to tell you that; you have the entire Department of Gendarmes working for you, gathering rumors.”

The chief of police nodded.

“I know nothing of any conspiracy as such,” said Fandorin. “Either Sobolev saw himself in the role of Napoleon or — which is more likely — he intended to place one of the emperor’s relatives on the throne. I do not know, and I do not wish to guess. In any case, for our purposes, it is not important.”

At that Karachentsev merely jerked his head and unbuttoned his gold- embroidered collar. Beads of sweat stood out above the bridge of the police chief’s nose.

“In any case, our Achilles was planning something really serious,” the collegiate assessor continued, as if he had noticed nothing, and blew an elegant stream of smoke, a sheer delight to behold, up toward the ceiling. “However, Sobolev had certain secret, powerful opponents who were informed about his plans. Klonov, alias Pevtsov, is their man. The anti-Sobolev party decided to use him to get rid of the self-appointed Bonaparte, but quietly, with no fuss, imitating a natural death. And it was done. The executioner was assisted by our f-friend Khurtinsky, who had links with the anti-Sobolev party; indeed all the signs indicate that he represented their interests in Moscow.”

“Not so fast, Erast Petrovich,” the chief of police implored him. “My head is spinning. What party? Where? Right here, in the Ministry of Internal Affairs?”

Fandorin shrugged.

“Very possibly. In any case, your boss Count Tolstov has to be involved. Remember the letter in justification of Khurtinsky, and the telegram shielding Pevtsov. Khurtinsky made a real mess of the job. The court counselor was too greedy — he was tempted by Sobolev’s million rubles and decided that he could combine business with pleasure. But the central figure in this entire story is undoubtedly the blond man with the pale eyes.”

At this point Erast Petrovich started, struck by a new idea.

“Wait now… Perhaps everything is even more complicated than that! Why, of course!”

Fandorin leapt to his feet and began walking rapidly from one corner of the study to the other — Karachentsev merely watched him striding to and fro, afraid to interrupt the flow of the sagacious functionary’s thoughts.

“The minister of the interior couldn’t have organized the murder of Adjutant General Sobolev, no matter what he was planning. That’s sheer nonsense!” Erast Petrovich was so excited that he had even stopped stammering. “Our Klonov is very probably not the Captain Pevtsov about whom Count Tolstov writes. Probably there is no genuine Pevtsov. This business smacks of a cunning intrigue, planned in such a way that if things were to go wrong, all the blame could be shifted onto your department!” the collegiate assessor fantasized wildly. “Yes, that’s it, that’s it.”

He clapped his hands rapidly several times and the general, who was listening intently, almost leapt into the air.

“Let us assume that the minister knows about Sobolev’s conspiracy and arranges to have the general followed in secret. That is one. Someone else also knows about the conspiracy and wants Sobolev killed. That is two. Unlike the minister, this other person, or more probably, these other people, whom we shall call the counterconspirators, are not bound by the law and are pursuing their own goals.”

“What goals?” the chief of police asked in a weak voice, totally confused.

“Probably power,” Fandorin replied casually. “What other goals can there be when intrigue unfolds at such a high level? The counter-conspirators had at their disposal an exceptionally inventive and enterprising agent, who is known to us as Klonov. There is no doubt that he is certainly no merchant. He is an exceptional man with quite incredible abilities. Invisible, elusive, invulnerable. Omnipresent — he has always appeared everywhere ahead of the two of us and struck the first blow. Even though we ourselves acted rapidly, he has always left us looking like fools.”

“But what if he really is an officer of the gendarmes acting with the sanction of the minister?” asked Karachentsev. “What if the elimination of Sobolev was sanctioned from the very top? I beg your pardon, Erast Petrovich, but you and I are professionals, and we know perfectly well that the protection of state secrets sometimes involves resorting to unorthodox methods.”

“But then why was it necessary to steal the briefcase, especially from the Department of Gendarmes?” Fandorin asked with a shrug. “The briefcase was already in the Department of Gendarmes, and you would have forwarded it to St. Petersburg by the appropriate channels, to Count Tolstov himself. No, the ministry has nothing to do with this business. And then killing a national hero — that’s not quite as simple as strangling some General Pichegru in his prison cell. How could they raise their hand against Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev? Without benefit of trial and due process? No, Evgeny Osipovich, even with all the imperfections of our state authorities, that would be going too far. I can’t believe it.”

“Yes, you’re right,” Karachentsev admitted.

“And then the facility with which Klonov commits his murders does not look much like state service.”

The chief of police raised his hand.

“Hang on now, don’t get carried away. What murders exactly? We still don’t know whether Sobolev was killed or died of natural causes. The conclusion of the autopsy was that he died.”

“No, he was killed,” retorted Erast Petrovich. “Although it is not clear how the traces of the crime were concealed. If we had known at the time what we know now, we might possibly have instructed Professor Welling to conduct a more exhaustive investigation. He was, after all, convinced beforehand that death had occurred due to natural causes, and initial assumptions always determine a great deal. And then…” The collegiate assessor halted, facing the general. “It didn’t stop with Sobolev’s death. Klonov has blocked off every possible trail. I’m sure that Knabe’s mysterious death is his work. Judge for yourself — why would the Germans kill an officer of their own general staff, even if they were seriously alarmed? That’s not the way things are done in civilized countries. If worst came to worst, they would have forced him to shoot himself. But stab him in the side with a butcher’s knife? Incredible! For Klonov, however, the death would have been most timely — you and I were quite convinced that the case had been solved. If the briefcase with the million rubles had not turned up, we should have closed the investigation. The sudden death of the koelner from the hotel Metropole is also extremely suspicious. Clearly, the only mistake that the unfortunate Timofei Spiridonovich made was to help Klonov locate the agent he needed, Wanda. Ah, Evgeny Osipovich, everything looks suspicious to me now!” exclaimed Fandorin. “Even the way Little Misha died. Even Khurtinsky’s suicide!”

“That’s taking things too far,” said the police chief, pulling a wry face. “What about the suicide note?”

“Can you put your hand on your heart and tell me that Pyotr Par-tnyonovich would have laid hands on himself if he were threatened with exposure? Was he such a great man of honor then?”

“Yes indeed, it is hardly likely.” Now it was Karachentsev who leapt to his feet and began striding along the wall. “He would be more likely to try to escape. Judging from the documents that we discovered in his safe, the dead man had an account in a bank in Zurich. And if he didn’t manage to escape, he would have begged for mercy and tried to bribe the judges. I know his kind — very concerned for their own skin. And Khurtinsky would most likely have got hard labor rather than the gallows. But even so, the note is written in his hand, there is no doubt about that.”

“What frightens me most of all is that in every case either no suspicion of murder arises at all or, as in the case of Knabe or Little Misha, it is laid very firmly at someone else’s door — in the first case, German agents, and in the second, Fiska. That is a sign of supreme professionalism,” said Erast Petrovich, hooding his eyes. “There is just one thing I can’t make any sense of — why he would have left Wanda alive… By the way, Evgeny Osipovich, we need to send a detail for her immediately and get her out of the Anglia. What if the real Klonov should telephone her? Or even worse, decide to correct his incomprehensible oversight?”

“Sverchinsky!” the general shouted and left the reception room to issue instructions.

When he returned, the collegiate assessor was standing in front of a map of the city that was hanging on the wall and running his finger across it.

“This Trinity Inn — where is it?” he asked.

“The Trinity Inn is a block of apartments on Pokrovka Street, not far from Holy Trinity Church. Here it is,” said the general, pointing. “Khokhlovsky Lane. At one time there actually was a monastery inn there, but now it’s a labyrinth of annexes and extensions, semi-slums. The apartments are usually just called the Trinity. Not a salubrious area, only a stone’s throw from the Khitrovka slums. But the people who live in the Trinity are not entirely lost souls — actresses, milliners, ruined businessmen. Tenants don’t stay there for long: They either scramble their way back up into society or fall even lower, into the Khitrovka abyss.”

As he gave this lengthy answer to a simple question, Karachentsev was thinking about something else, and it was clear that he was having difficulty reaching a decision. When the chief of police finished speaking, there was a pause. Erast Petrovich realized that the conversation was entering its most crucial phase.

“Naturally, this is an extremely risky step to take, Evgeny Osipovich,” the collegiate assessor said quietly. “If my suppositions are mistaken, you could ruin your career, and you are an ambitious man. But I have come to you, and not to Prince Dolgorukoi, because he would definitely not wish to take the risk. He is too cautious — that is the effect of his age. On the other hand, his position is also less delicate than yours. In any case, the ministry has plotted and intrigued behind your back and — pardon my bluntness — assigned you the role of a dummy hand in the game. Count Tolstov did not think it possible to initiate you, the head of the Moscow police, into the details of the Sobolev case, and yet he trusted Khurtinsky, a dishonorable individual and a criminal to boot. Someone more cunning than the minister has conducted a successful operation of his own here. You were not involved in all these events, but in the final analysis responsibility will be laid at your door. I am afraid that it will be you who foots the bill for damaged goods. And the most annoying thing of all is that you will still not find out who it was that damaged them and why. In order to understand the true meaning of this intrigue, you have to catch Klonov. Then you will be holding an ace.”

“And if he is a state agent, after all, then I shall find myself rapidly shunted into retirement. In the best case, that is,” Karachentsev objected gloomily.

“Evgeny Osipovich, it is hardly likely in any case that you will be able to hush the matter up, and it would be a sin — not even so much because of Sobolev as because of one terrible question: What mysterious p-power is toying with the fate of Russia? By what right? And what ideas will this power come up with tomorrow?”

“Are you hinting at the Masons?” the general asked in amazement. “Count Tolstov is a member of a lodge, certainly, and so is Vyacheslav Konstantinovich Plevako, the director of the Department of Police. Half the movers and shakers in St. Petersburg are Masons. But they have no use for political murder; they can twist anyone they like into a ram’s horn by using the law.”

“I don’t mean the Masons,” said Fandorin, wrinkling his smooth forehead in annoyance. “Everybody knows about them. What we have here is an absolutely genuine conspiracy, not the operetta kind. And if we are successful, Your Excellency, you could discover the key to an Aladdin’s cave that would take your breath away.”

Evgeny Osipovich shuffled his ginger eyebrows in agitation. It was an enticing prospect, very enticing. And he could show that Judas, Vyacheslav Konstantinovich (his so-called comrade), and even Count Tolstov a thing or two. Don’t trifle with Karachentsev; don’t go trying to make a fool out of him. You’ve overplayed your hand, gentlemen, now look what a mess you’re in! Secret surveillance of a conspirator is all well and good — in a case like this, discretion was required. But to allow a national hero to be killed under the very noses of your agents — that is scandalous. You St. Petersburg know-it-alls have botched the job! And now you’re probably quaking in your armchairs, tearing your hair out. And here comes Evgeny Osipovich offering you the cunning rogue on a plate: Here’s your villain, take him! Hmm, or perhaps he should be offered up on a plate to someone a little higher? Oh, this was truly momentous business!

In his mind’s eye, the chief of police pictured prospects of such transcendental glory that they took his breath away. But at the same time he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was afraid.

“Very well,” Karachentsev said tentatively. “Let us say we have arrested Klonov. But he just clams up and won’t say a word. Belying on his patrons to protect him. Then what are we going to do?”

“A perfectly reasonable way to state the matter,” said the collegiate assessor with a nod, betraying no sign of his delight that the conversation had moved on from the theoretical stage to the practical. “I have been thinking about that, too. To take Klonov will be very difficult, and to make him talk will be a hundred times harder. Therefore I have a proposal.”

Evgeny Osipovich pricked up his ears at that, knowing from experience that this bright young man would not propose anything stupid and would take on the most difficult tasks himself.

“Your people will blockade the Trinity from all sides so that the cockroach cannot slip out,” said Fandorin, prodding passionately at the map.

“A cordon here, and one here, and here. Close off all the open courtyards throughout the entire district — fortunately it will be early in the morning and most people will still be asleep. Around the Trinity itself just a few of your best agents, three or four men, no more. They must act with extreme caution, and be well disguised in order not to frighten him off, God forbid. Their job is to wait for my signal. I shall go into Klonov’s room alone and play a game of confessions with him. He will not kill me straight away, because he will want to discover how much I know, where I came from, and what my interest is in all this. He and I will perform an elegant pas de deux: I shall part the curtain slightly for him, he will tell me a few frank truths; then I shall have another turn, and then so will he, quite certain that he can eliminate me at any moment. This way Klonov will be more talkative than if we arrest him. And I do not see any other way.”

“But think of the risk,” said Karachentsev. “If you’re right and he is such a virtuoso in the art of murder, then, God forbid…”

Erast Petrovich shrugged his shoulders flippantly.

“As Confucius said, the noble man must bear responsibility for his own errors.”

“Well, then, God be with you. This is serious business. They’ll either give you a medal or take your head off.” The police chief’s voice trembled with feeling. He shook Fandorin’s hand firmly. “Go to your hotel, Erast Petrovich, and catch up on your sleep as well as you can. Don’t be concerned about anything, I shall organize the operation in person and make sure everything is done absolutely right. When you go to the Trinity in the morning, you will see for yourself how good my lads’ disguises are.”

“You are just like Vasilisa the Wise in the fairy tale, Your Excellency,” the collegiate assessor laughed, displaying his white teeth: “ “Sleep, Ivanushka, morning is wiser than evening.” Well, I really am a little tired, and tomorrow is an important day. I shall be at the Trinity at precisely six o’clock. The signal at which your men should come to my assistance is a whistle. Until there is a whistle they must not interfere, no matter what. And if something happens — do not let him get away. That is a p-personal request, Evgeny Osipovich.”

“Don’t worry,” the general said seriously, still holding the young man by the hand. “The whole thing will come off like clockwork. I’ll detail my most valued agents, and more than enough of them. But take care and don’t go doing anything rash, you daredevil.”

Erast Petrovich had long ago trained himself to wake at the time that he had determined the day before. At precisely five o’clock he opened his eyes and smiled, because the very edge of the sun was just appearing over the windowsill and it looked as if someone bald and round-headed were peeping in at the window.

As he shaved, Fandorin whistled an aria from The Love Potion and even took a certain pleasure in admiring his own remarkably handsome face in the mirror. A samurai is not supposed to take breakfast before battle, and so instead of his morning coffee the collegiate assessor worked with his weights for a while and prepared his equipment thoroughly and unhurriedly. He armed himself to the very fullest extent of his arsenal, for he was facing a serious opponent.

Masa helped his master equip himself, demonstrating an increasingly obvious concern. Eventually he could hold back no longer.

“Master, your face is the one you have when death is very near.”

“But you know that a genuine samurai must wake every day fully prepared to die,” Erast Petrovich joked as he put on his jacket of light-colored wild silk.

“In Japan you always took me with you,” his servant complained. “I know that I have already failed you twice, but it will not happen again. I swear — if it does may I be born a jellyfish in the next life! Take me with you, master. I beg you.”

Fandorin gave him an affectionate flick on his little nose.

“This time there will be nothing you can do to help me. I must be alone. But in any case, I am not really alone; I have an entire army of policemen with me. It is my enemy who is all alone.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Very. The same one who tricked you into giving him the briefcase.”

Masa snorted, knitted his sparse eyebrows, and said no more.

Erast Petrovich decided to make his way on foot. Ah, how lovely Moscow was after the rain! The freshness of the air, the pink haze of daybreak, the quietness. If he had to die, then let it be on just such a heavenly morning, the collegiate assessor thought, and immediately rebuked himself for his predisposition to melodrama. Walking at a comfortable stroll and whistling as he went, he came out onto Lubyanskaya Square, where the cabbies were watering their horses at the fountain. He turned onto Solyanka Street and blissfully inhaled the aroma of fresh bread wafting from the open windows of a bakery in a semi-basement.

And now here was his corner. The houses here were a bit poorer, the pavement a bit narrower, and on the final approach to the Trinity, the landscape shed its final remaining elements of picturesqueness: There were puddles in the roadway, rickety, lopsided fences, flaking painted walls. Erast Petrovich was very pleased that for all his keen powers of observation, he had been unable to spot the police cordon.

At the entrance to the yard he looked at his watch — five minutes to six. Exactly on time. Wooden gates with a crooked sign hanging on them: trinity inn. A jumble of single-story buildings, every room with a separate entrance. There was number one, number two, three, four, five, six. Number seven ought to be around the corner, on the left.

If only Klonov didn’t start shooting straight off, before he was drawn into conversation. He needed to prepare some phrase that would disconcert him. For instance: “Greetings from Mademoiselle Wanda.” Or something a bit more complicated than that: “Are you aware that Sobolev is actually still alive?” The essential thing was not to lose the initiative. And then to follow his intuition. He could feel his trusty Herstal weighing down his pocket.

Erast Petrovich turned in resolutely at the gates. A yardkeeper in a dirty apron was lazily dragging a broom through a puddle. He glanced at the elegant gentleman out of the corner of his eye and Erast Petrovich winked at him discreetly. A most convincing yardkeeper, no doubt about it. There was another agent sitting over by the gates, pretending to be drunk: snoring, with his cap tipped down over his face. That was pretty good, too. Fandorin glanced over his shoulder and saw a fat-bellied woman in a shapeless coat, trudging along the street with a brightly patterned shawl pulled right down over her eyes. That was going a bit too far, the collegiate assessor thought, with a shake of his head. It almost bordered on the farcical.

Apartment seven was indeed the first one around the corner, in the inner yard. Two steps leading up to a low porch and ‘No. 7’ written on the door in white oil paint.

Erast Petrovich halted and took a deep breath, filling his lungs completely with air, then breathed it out in short, even jerks.

He raised his hand and knocked gently.

Twice, three times, then twice again.

PART TWO

ACHIMAS

Skyrovsk

ONE

His father was called Pelef, which in ancient Hebrew means ‘flight’. In the year of his birth disaster befell the Brothers of Christ, who had lived in Moravia for two hundred years: The emperor revoked the dispensation under which the community was exempted from military service, because he had begun a great war with another emperor and he needed many soldiers.

The community picked up and left in a single night, abandoning their land and houses. They moved to Prussia. The Brothers of Christ did not care what differences the emperors might argue over — their strict faith forbade them to serve earthly masters, to swear an oath of loyalty to them, to take weapons in their hands, or to wear a uniform with buttons bearing coats of arms, which are impressions from the seal of Satan. This was why the Brothers’ long brown camisoles, the cut of which had scarcely changed in two and a half centuries, had no buttons; only cord fastenings were tolerated.

There were fellow believers living in Prussia. They had come there long, long before, also fleeing from the Antichrist. The king had granted hem the possession of land in perpetuity and exempted them from military service on condition that they would drain the boundless Prussian marshes. For two generations the Brothers had struggled with the impassable quagmire until finally the third generation conquered it and then they had lived a life free of care and hunger on fertile lands rich in loam. They greeted their fellow believers from Moravia warmly, shared with them everything that they had, and they all lived a fine, peaceful life together.

Having attained the age of twenty-one years, Pelef married. The Lord gave him a good wife, and at the appointed time she bore him a son. But then the Most High chose to subject His faithful servants to grievous trials. First there was a plague, and many people died, including Pelef’s wife and son. He did not complain, even though the color of life had changed from white to black. But the Most High wanted more than this, and He chose to reveal His love to His favored ones in the full measure of its rigor and intransigence. A new, enlightened king decreed that in his realm all were equal and annulled the law granted by that other king who had lived so long ago. Now even the Jews and the Mennonites and the Brothers of Christ were all obliged to serve in the army and defend their homeland with weapons in their hands. But the Brothers’ true homeland did not lie among the drained marshes of Prussia, but rather in the heavens above, and therefore the Convention of Spiritual Elders consulted and decided that they must travel to the east, to the lands of the Russian tsar. There was a community there also, and from that place there sometimes came letters, which traveled for a long time, with trustworthy people, because the state post service was the handiwork of the Evil One. In their letters the fellow believers wrote that the land in those parts was rich, while the authorities were tolerant and content with relatively small bribes.

They gathered together their goods and chattels, sold what they could, and abandoned the rest. Riding in carts for seven times seven days, they arrived in a country with the difficult name of Melitopolst-schina. The land there was indeed rich, but twelve young families and the widower Pelef decided that they wanted to travel farther, because they had never seen mountains, but only read about them in holy books. They could not even imagine how it was possible for the earth to rise up into the firmament of heaven for a distance of many thousand cubits, right up to God’s clouds. The young believers wished to see this, and Pelef did not care where he went. He liked to ride through forests and open fields on a cart harnessed to bulls, because this distracted him from thoughts of Rachel and little Ahav, who had remained behind forever in the damp Prussian soil.

The mountains proved to be exactly as they were described in the books. They were called the Caucasus, and they stretched out along the horizon in both directions as far as the eye could see. Pelef forgot about Rachel and Ahav, because here everything was different, and they even had to walk differently, not like before, but down from above or up from below. In the very first year he married.

This was how it came about: The Brothers of Christ were cutting timber on the only shallow slope, clearing a field for plow land. The local girls watched as the foreign men in the long, funny coats deftly chopped down the centuries-old pines and rooted out the stubborn stumps. The girls laughed and giggled and ate nuts. One of them, fifteen-year-old Fatima, was taken by the looks of the giant with white hair and a white beard. He was big and strong, but calm and kind, not like the men from her aul, who were quick-tempered and rapid in their movements.

Fatima had to be christened and wear different clothes — a black dress and white cap. She had to change her name — instead of Fatima she became Sarah. She had to work in the house and on the farm from dawn till dusk, learn a foreign language, and on Sunday she had to pray and sing all day long in the prayer house, which had been built before the dwelling houses. But Fatima was not dismayed by all this, because she was happy with white-haired Pelef and because Allah had not promised woman an easy life.

The following summer, as Sarah-Fatima lay in the torment of childbirth, wild Chechens came down from the mountains, burned the crop of wheat, and drove away the cattle. Pelef watched as they led away the horse, two bulls, and three cows and prayed that the Lord would not abandon him and allow his rage to erupt. And therefore the father gave his son, whose first cry rang out at the very moment when the greedy tongues of flame began licking at the smoothly planed walls of the prayer house, the name of Achimas, which means ‘brother of rage’.

The next year the Abreks came back for more booty, but they left with nothing, because a blockhouse now stood on the outskirts of the rebuilt village, and in it there lived a sergeant major and ten soldiers. For this the Brothers had paid the military commander five hundred rubles.

The boy was big when he was born. Sarah-Fatima almost died when he was coming out of her. She could not give birth again, but she did not wish to, because she could not forgive her husband for standing and watching as the brigands led away the horse, the bulls, and the cows.

In his childhood Achimas had two gods and three languages. His father’s God, strict and unforgiving, taught that if someone smote you on the right cheek, then you must offer them the left; that if a man rejoiced in this life, he would weep his fill in the next; that grief and suffering were not to be feared, for they were a boon and a blessing, a sign of the special love of the Most High. His mother’s God, whose name was not to be spoken out loud, was kind: He allowed you to feel happy and play games and did not demand that you forgive those who offended you. He could only speak of the kind God in a whisper, when no one but his mother was near, and this meant that his father’s God was more important. He spoke in a language that was called ‘die Sprdche,’ which was a mixture of Dutch and German. His mother’s God spoke Chechen. Achimas’s other language was Russian, which he was taught by the soldiers from the blockhouse. The boy was fascinated by their swords and rifles, but that was forbidden, absolutely forbidden, because the more important God forbade his people even to touch weapons. But his mother whispered: Never mind, you can if you want. She took her son into the forest to tell him stories about the bold warriors from his clan, taught him how to trip people up and punch them with his fist.

When Achimas was seven years old, nine-year-old Melhisedek, the blacksmith’s son, deliberately splashed ink on his schoolbook. Achimas tripped him up and punched him on the ear. Melhisedek ran off, crying, to complain.

The conversation with his father was long and painful. Pelef’s eyes, as pale and bright as his son’s, became angry and sad. Then Achimas had to spend the whole evening on his knees, reading psalms. But his thoughts were directed to his mother’s God, not his father’s. The boy prayed for his white eyes to be made black like his mother’s and her half brother Chasan’s. Achimas had never seen his uncle Chasan, but he knew that he was strong, brave, and lucky and he never forgave his enemies. His uncle traveled the secret mountain paths, bringing shaggy carpets from Persia and bales of tobacco from Turkey, and ferrying weapons in the opposite direction, out across the border. Achimas often thought about Chasan. He imagined him sitting in the saddle, surveying the slope of a ravine with his sharp eyes to see if border guards were waiting in hiding to ambush him. Chasan was wearing a tall shaggy fur hat and a felt cloak, and behind his shoulder he had a rifle with an ornamental stock.

TWO

Achimas spent the day when he reached the age of ten locked in the woodshed from early in the morning. It was his own fault — his mother had secretly given him a small but genuine dagger with a polished blade and a horn handle and told him to hide it, but Achimas had been too impatient; he had run into the yard to try the keenness of the blade and was discovered by his father. Pelef asked where the weapon had come from, and when he realized that there would be no answer, he decreed that his son must be punished.

Achimas spent half the day in the shed. He felt wretched because his dagger had been taken away and, on top of it all, he was bored. But after midday, when he had also begun to feel very hungry, he suddenly heard shooting and screaming.

The Abrek Magoma and four of his friends had attacked the soldiers, who were washing their shirts in the stream, because it was their day for washing. The bandits fired a volley from the bushes, killing two soldiers and wounding two more. The other soldiers tried to run to the blockhouse, but the Abreks mounted their steeds and cut them all down with their swords. The sergeant major, who had not gone to the stream, locked himself in the strong log house with the small, narrow windows and fired out with his rifle. Taking aim in advance, Magoma waited for the Russian to reload and show himself at the loophole again and shot a heavy, round bullet straight into the sergeant major’s forehead.

Achimas did not see any of this. But with his eyes pressed to a crack between the boards of the shed, he did see a man with a beard and one eye walk into the yard, wearing a shaggy white fur hat and carrying a long rifle in his hand (it was Magoma himself). The one-eyed man stopped in front of Achimas’s parents, who had come running out into the yard, and said something to them — Achimas could not make out what it was. Then the man put one hand on his mother’s shoulder and the other under her chin and lifted her face up. Pelef stood there with his lion’s head lowered, moving his lips. Achimas realized that he was praying. Sarah-Fatima did not pray, she bared her teeth and scratched the one- eyed man’s face.

A woman must not touch a man’s face, and therefore Magoma wiped the blood from his cheek and killed the infidel woman with a blow of his fist to her temple. Then he killed her husband, too, because after this he could not leave him alive. He had to kill all the other inhabitants of the village as well — evidently that was what fate had intended for this day.

The Abreks drove away the cattle, heaped all the useful and valuable items into two carts, set fire to the four corners of the village, and rode away.

While the Chechens were killing the villagers, Achimas sat quietly in the shed. He did not want them to kill him as well. But when the hammering of hooves and squeaking of wheels had disappeared in the direction of the Karamyk Pass, the boy broke out a board with his shoulder and climbed out into the yard. It was impossible to stay in the shed in any case — the back wall had begun to burn, and gray smoke was already creeping in through the cracks.

His mother was lying on her back. Achimas squatted down and touched the blue spot between her eye and her ear. His mother looked as if she were alive, but instead of looking at Achimas, she was looking at the sky — it had become more important for Sarah-Fatima than her son. But of course — that was where her God lived. Achimas leaned down over his father, but his father’s eyes were closed and his white beard had turned completely red. The boy ran his fingers over it, and they were stained red, too.

Achimas went into all the farmyards in the village. There were dead men, women, and children lying everywhere. Achimas knew them very well, but they no longer recognized him. The people he had known were not really there anymore. He was alone now. Achimas asked first one God and then the other what he should do. But although he waited, he heard no answer.

Everything was burning. The prayer house, which was also the school, gave a rumble and shot a cloud of smoke up into the air — the roof had collapsed.

Achimas looked around him. Mountains, sky, burning earth, and not a single living soul. And at that moment he realized that this was the way things would always be from now on. He was alone and he had to decide for himself whether to stay or to go, live or die.

He listened carefully to his heart, breathed in the smell of burning, and ran to the road that led first upward, into the mountain plateau, and then downward, into the large valley.

Achimas walked for the rest of the day and the whole night. At dawn he collapsed at the side of the road. He felt very hungry, but even more sleepy, and he fell asleep. He was awakened by hunger. The sun was hanging in the very center of the sky. He walked on and in the early evening came to a large Cossack village.

At the edge of the village there were long beds of cucumbers. Before this Achimas would never even have thought of taking someone else’s property, because his father’s God had said, “Thou shalt not steal,” but now he had no father and no God, either, and he sank down onto his hands and knees and began greedily devouring the plump, pimply green fruits. The earth crunched in his teeth and he did not hear the owner, a massive Cossack in soft boots, come stealing up behind him. He grabbed Achimas by the scruff of the neck and lashed him several times with his whip, repeating: “Don’t steal, don’t steal.” The boy did not cry and he did not beg for mercy; he just looked up with his white wolf’s eyes. This drove the owner into a fury and he set about thrashing the wolf cub as hard as he could — until the boy puked up a green mess of cucumbers. Then the Cossack took Achimas by the ear, dragged him out into the road, and gave him a kick to start him on his way.

As he walked along Achimas thought that although his father was dead, his God was still alive, and his God’s laws were still alive, too. His back and shoulders were on fire, but the fire consuming everything inside him was worse.

By a narrow, fast-running stream Achimas came across a big boy about fourteen years old. The young Cossack was carrying a loaf of brown bread and a crock of milk.

“Give me that,” said Achimas and grabbed the bread out of his hand.

The big boy put his crock down on the ground and punched him in the nose. Stars appeared in front of Achimas’s eyes and he fell down, then the big boy — he was stronger — sat on top of him and began punching him on the head. Achimas picked up a stone from the ground and hit the young Cossack above his eye. The older boy rolled away, covered his face with his hands, and began whimpering. Achimas lifted up the stone to hit him again, but then he remembered that God’s law said: “Thou shalt not kill” — and he stopped himself. The crock had been knocked over during the fight and the milk had been spilled, but Achimas was left with the bread, and that was enough. He walked on along the road and ate and ate and ate, until he had eaten it all to the very last crumb.

He ought not to have listened to God; he ought to have killed the boy. Achimas realized this later, when it was twilight, and he was overtaken by two riders on a horse. One was wearing a peaked cap with a blue band and the young Cossack was sitting behind him, with his face bruised and swollen.

“There he is, Uncle Kondrat!” the young Cossack shouted. “There he is, the murderer!”

That night Achimas sat in a cold cell and listened to the Cossack sergeant Kondrat and the police constable Kovalchuk deciding his fate. Achimas had not said a word to them, although they had tried to find out who he was and where he came from by twisting his ear and slapping his cheeks. Eventually they had decided the boy must be a deaf-mute and left him in peace.

“What can we do with him, Kondrat Panteleich?” asked the constable. He was sitting with his back to Achimas and eating something, washing it down with some liquid from a jug. “We can’t take him into town, surely? Perhaps we should just keep him here until morning and throw him out on his ear?”

“I’ll throw you out on your ear,” replied the sergeant, who was sitting facing him and writing in a book with a goose-quill pen. “He almost broke the ataman’s son’s head open. Kizlyar’s the place for him, the animal, in prison.”

“But it’s a shame to put him in prison, the way they treat little lads in there! You know yourself, Kondrat Panteleich.”

“There’s nowhere else to put him,” the sergeant replied sternly. “We don’t have any orphanages around here.”

“I heard that the nuns in Skyrovsk take in orphans.”

“Only girl orphans. Put him in prison, Kovalchuk, put him in prison. You can take him away first thing in the morning. I’ll just sort out the papers.”

But when morning came Achimas was already far away. After the sergeant left and the constable lay down to sleep and began snoring, Achimas pulled himself up to the window, squeezed between two thick bars, and jumped down onto the soft earth.

He had heard about Skyrovsk before — it was forty versts away in the direction of the sunset.

It turned out that God did not exist after all.

THREE

Achimas arrived at the Skyrovsk Convent Orphanage dressed as a little girl — he had stolen a cotton-print dress and a shawl from a washing line. He told the mother superior, who had to be addressed as ‘Mother Pelagia,’ that he was Lia Welde, a refugee from the village of Neueswelt, which had been devastated by mountain bandits. Welde was his real surname, and Lia was the name of his second cousin, another Welde, a horrid little girl with freckles and a squeaky voice. The last time Achimas has seen her she was lying flat on her back with her face split in two.

Mother Pelagia stroked the little German girl’s cropped white hair and asked: “Will you take the Orthodox faith?”

And so Achimas became Russian, because now he knew for certain that God did not exist and prayers were nonsense, which meant that the Russian faith was no worse than his father’s.

He liked it at the orphanage. They were fed twice a day and they slept in real beds. Only they prayed a lot and his feet kept getting tangled in the hem of his skirt.

On the second day a girl with a thin face and big green eyes came up to Achimas. Her name was Evgenia and her parents had also been killed by bandits, only a long time ago, last autumn. “What clear eyes you have, Lia. Like water,” she said. Achimas was surprised — people usually found his excessively pale eyes unpleasant. When the sergeant was beating him, he kept repeating over and over again, “White-eyed Finnish scum.”

The girl Evgenia followed Achimas everywhere. Wherever he went, she went. On the fourth day, she caught Achimas with the hem of his dress pulled up, urinating behind the shed.

So now he would have to run away again, only he didn’t know where to go. He decided to wait until they threw him out, but they didn’t throw him out. Evgenia had not told anyone.

On the sixth day, a Saturday, they had to go to the bathhouse. In the morning Evgenia came up to him and whispered: “Don’t go, say you’ve got your colors.” Achimas didn’t understand. “What colors?” he asked. “It’s when you can’t go to the bathhouse because you’re bleeding and it’s unclean. Some of our girls already have them. Katya and Sonya have,” she explained, naming the two oldest wards of the orphanage. “Mother Pelagia won’t check; she’s too prudish.” Achimas did as she said. The nuns were surprised that it had started so early, but they allowed him not to go to the bathhouse. That evening he told Evgenia: “Next Saturday I’ll go away.” Tears began running down her cheeks. She said: “You’ll need some bread for the road.”

But Achimas did not have to run way, because the following Friday evening, on the day before the next bath day, his uncle Chasan came to the orphanage. He went to Mother Pelagia and asked if there was a little girl here from the German village that had been burned down by the Abrek Magoma. Chasan said that he wanted to talk to the girl and find out how his sister and his nephew had died. Mother Pelagia summoned Lia Welde to her cell and left them there in order not to hear talk of evil.

Chasan was nothing at all like Achimas had imagined him. He was fat-cheeked and red-nosed, with a thick black beard and cunning little eyes. Achimas looked at him with hatred, because he looked exactly like the Chechens who had burned down the village of Neueswelt.

The conversation went badly. The orphan either would not answer questions or answered them in monosyllables and the look in the eyes under those white lashes was stubborn and hostile.

“They did not find my nephew Achimas,” Chasan said in Russian punctuated with a glottal stutter. “Perhaps Magoma took him away with him?” The little girl shrugged.

Then Chasan thought for a moment and took a silver coin necklace out of his bag. “A present for you,” he said, holding it up. “Beautiful, all the way from Shemakha. You play with it while I go and ask the mother superior for a night’s lodging. I’ve traveled a long way, I’m tired. I can’t sleep out in the open…”

He went out, leaving his weapon on the chair. The moment the door closed behind his uncle, Achimas threw the coin necklace aside and pounced on the heavy sword in the black scabbard with silver inlay work. He tugged on the hilt and out slid the bright strip of steel, glinting icily in the light of the lamp. A genuine Gurda sword, thought Achimas, running his finger along the Arabic script.

There was a quiet creak. Achimas started violently and saw Chasan’s laughing black eyes watching him through the crack of the door.

“Our blood,” his uncle said in Chechen, baring his white teeth in a smile, “it’s stronger than the German blood. Let us leave this place, Achimas. We’ll spend the night in the mountains. Sleep is sweeter under the open sky.”

Later, when Skyrovsk was left behind them, beyond the mountain pass, Chasan put his hand on Achimas’s shoulder. “I’ll put you in school to learn, but first I’ll make a man of you. You have to take vengeance on Magoma for your father and mother. This you must do, it is the law.”

Achimas realized that this was the true law.

FOUR

They spent the nights wherever they could: in abandoned houses, in roadside inns, with his uncle’s friends, and sometimes out in the forest, wrapped up in their felt cloaks. “A man must know how to find food and water and a path through the mountains,” said Chasan, teaching his nephew his own law. “And he must be able to defend himself and the honor of his family.”

Achimas did not know what the honor of his family was. But he wanted very much to be able to defend himself and was willing to study from morning till night.

“Hold your breath and imagine a fine ray of light stretching out of the barrel. Feel for your target with that ray,” Chasan taught him, breathing down the back of his neck and adjusting the position of the boy’s fingers where they clutched the gun stock. “You don’t need strength. A rifle is like a woman or a horse — give it affection and understanding.” Achimas tried to understand his rifle, he listened to its high-strung iron voice, and the metal began droning into his ear: A little more to the right, more, and now fire. “Vai!” said his uncle, clicking his tongue and rolling up his eyes. “You have the eye of an eagle! To hit a bottle at a hundred paces! And that is how Magoma’s head will be shattered!”

Achimas did not want to fire at the one-eyed man from a hundred paces. He wanted to kill him in the same way he had killed Fatima — with a blow to the temple — or, even better, slit his throat, as Magoma had slit Pelef’s.

Shooting with a pistol was even easier. “Never take aim,” his uncle told him. “The barrel of the pistol is a continuation of your hand. When you point at something with your finger, you don’t take aim, do you, you just point where you need to. Think of the pistol as your sixth finger.” Achimas pointed the long iron finger at a walnut lying on a tree stump, and the nut shattered in a spray of fine crumbs.

Chasan did not give his nephew a sword, telling him that his arm and shoulder had to grow more first, but he gave him a dagger on the very first day and told him never to part with it, saying: “When you swim naked in the stream, hang it around your neck.” As time went by, the dagger became a part of Achimas’s body, like a wasp’s sting. He could cut dry twigs for the campfire with it, bleed a deer that he had shot, whittle a fine sliver of wood to pick his teeth after eating the deer meat. When they halted for a rest and he had nothing to do, Achimas would throw his dagger at a tree from a standing, sitting, or prone position. He never wearied of this pastime. At first he could only stick the knife into a pine tree, then into a young beech, then into any branch on the beech.

“A weapon is good,” said Chasan, “but a man must be able to deal with his enemy even without a weapon: with his fists, feet, teeth, it doesn’t matter what. The important thing is that your heart must be blazing with holy fury; it will protect you against pain, strike terror into your enemy, and bring you victory. Let the blood rush to your head so that the world is shrouded in red mist, and then nothing will matter to you. If you are wounded or killed — you will not even notice. That is what holy fury is.” Achimas did not argue with his uncle, but he did not agree with him. He did not want to be wounded or killed. In order to stay alive, you had to see everything, and fury and red mist were no use for that. The boy knew that he could manage without them.

One day, when it was already winter, his uncle returned from the tavern in a cheerful mood. A reliable man had informed him that Magoma had arrived with his loot from Georgia and was feasting at Chanakh. That was close, only two days’ journey.

At Chanakh, a large bandit village, they stayed with a friend of his uncle. Chasan went to find out how things stood and came back late, looking dejected. He said things were difficult. Magoma was strong and cunning. Three of the four men who had been with him in the German village had also come and were feasting with him. The fourth, bandylegged Musa, had been killed by Svans. Now his place had been taken by Djafar from Nazran. That meant there were five of them.

That evening his uncle ate well, prayed, and lay down to sleep. Before he fell asleep he said: “At dawn, when Magoma and his men are tired and drunk, we shall go to take our revenge. You will see Magoma die and dip your fingers in the blood of the one who killed your mother.”

Chasan turned his face to the wall and fell asleep immediately, and the boy cautiously removed a small green silk bag from around his neck. It contained the ground root of the poisonous irganchai mushroom. His uncle had told him that if the border guards caught you and put you in a windowless stone box where you could not see the mountains and the sky, you should sprinkle the powder on your tongue, muster up as much spit as you could, and swallow it. Before you could repeat the name of Allah five times, there would be nothing left in the cell except your worthless body.

Achimas took the baggy trousers, dress, and shawl of their host’s daughter. He also took a jug of wine from the cellar and sprinkled the contents of the little bag into it.

In the tavern there were men sitting and talking, drinking wine and playing backgammon, but Magoma and his comrades were not there. Achimas waited. Soon he saw the son of the tavern-keeper take some cheese and flat bread cakes into the next room and he realized that Magoma was in there.

When the tavern-keeper’s son went away, Achimas went in and set his jug on the table without raising his eyes or saying a word.

“Is the wine good, girl?” asked the one-eyed man with the black beard whom he remembered so well.

Achimas nodded, walked away, and squatted down in the corner. He did not know what to do about Djafar from Nazran. Djafar was still very young, only seventeen years old. Should he tell him that his horse was agitated and chewing on its tethering post — so that he would go out and check? But Achimas remembered the young Cossack and realized that he should not do that. Djafar owed him nothing, but he would die anyway, because that was his fate.

Djafar was the first to die. He drank from the jug with all the rest and almost instantly slumped forward, banging his head down on the table. A second Abrek started laughing, but his laughter turned into a hoarse croak. A third said: “There’s no air in here,” clutched at his chest and fell. “What’s wrong with me, Magoma?” asked the fourth Abrek, stumbling over his words; then he slid off the bench, curled up into a ball, and stopped moving. Magoma himself sat there without speaking, and his face was as scarlet as the wine spilled across the table.

The one-eyed man looked at his dying comrades, then stared at the patiently waiting Achimas. “Whose daughter are you, girl?” Magoma asked, forcing out the words with an effort. “Why do you have such white eyes?”

“I am not a girl,” replied Achimas, “I am Achimas, son of Fatima. And you are a dead man.” Magoma bared his yellow teeth, as if he were greatly pleased by these words, and began slowly pulling his sword with the gilded handle out of its scabbard, but he could not pull it out, he began wheezing and tumbled over onto the earthen floor. Achimas stood up, took his dagger out from under the girl’s dress, and, gazing into Magoma’s single unblinking eye, he slit his throat — in a rapid, gliding movement, as his uncle had taught him. Then he dipped his fingers in the hot, pulsing blood.

EVGENIA

ONE

At the age of twenty Achimas Welde was a polite, taciturn young man who looked older than his years. For the visitors who came to the famous springs of Solenovodsk for the good of their health, and to local society in general, he was simply a well-brought-up young man from a rich merchant’s family, a student from Kharkov University on a long vacation to restore his health. But among people in the know, who shared their knowledge with very few others, Achimas Welde was regarded as a serious and reliable individual, who always finished what he began. Those in the know referred to him behind his back as Aksahir, which means the White Wizard. Achimas accepted the sobriquet as his due: He really was a wizard. Although his wizardry had nothing to do with magic, everything was determined by careful calculation, a cool head, and skillful psychology.

His uncle had bought him a student’s identity card for the Kharkov Imperial University for three hundred and fifty paper rubles — not a great price. The grammar school certificate, with the heraldic seal and genuine signatures, had been more expensive. After Chanakh, Chasan had sent his nephew to school in the quiet town of Solenovodsk, paid for a year in advance, and gone away into the mountains. Achimas had lived at the boarding school with the other boys, whose fathers were serving in distant garrisons or leading caravans west to east, from the Black Sea to the Caspian, or north to south, from Rostov to Erzerum. Achimas was not really close with any of his peers — he had nothing in common with them. He knew what they did not know and were unlikely ever to learn. This gave rise to a certain difficulty while Achimas was studying in the preparatory class at the grammar school. A stocky, broad-shouldered boy by the name of Kikin, who had subjugated the entire boarding school to his rule of fear, took a dislike to the pale-eyed ‘Finn’ and the other boys followed his lead and joined in the persecution. Achimas tried to put up with it, because he would not be able to deal with them all on his own, but it kept getting worse. One evening in his bedroom he discovered that his pillowcase had been smeared all over with cow dung and he realized that something had to be done.

Achimas considered all the possible solutions to his problem.

He could wait for his uncle to return and ask for his help. But he didn’t know when Chasan would be coming back. And it was extremely important to him that the spark of respectful interest that had appeared in his uncle’s eyes after Chanakh should not be extinguished.

He could try to give Kikin a beating, but he was unlikely to succeed — Kikin was older, stronger, and he would not fight one against one.

He could complain to his tutor. But Kikin’s father was a colonel, and Achimas was a nobody, the nephew of some wild mountain tribesman, who had paid for his board and lessons at the grammar school in Turkish gold coins out of a leather pouch.

The simplest and most correct solution would be for Kikin to die. Achimas racked his brain and thought up a neat and tidy way in which this could be done.

While Kikin delighted in kicking the ‘Finn,’ tipping thumbtacks down the back of his collar and blowing spitballs of chewed paper at him out of a little tube, Achimas was waiting for May to come. Summer began in May, and the pupils began running to the river Kumka to bathe. From the beginning of April, when the water was still scaldingly cold, Achimas began learning to dive. By the beginning of May he could already swim underwater with his eyes open, had studied the bottom of the river, and could hold his breath for an entire minute without any difficulty. Everything was ready.

It all turned out to be very simple, just as he had imagined it. Everybody went to the river. Achimas dived, tugged Kikin down by the leg, and dragged him underwater. Achimas was holding a piece of string, the other end of which was firmly attached to a sunken log. Chasan had once taught his nephew a Kabardinian knot — it is tied in a second, and there is no way that anyone who does not know the secret can possibly untie it.

In one swift movement Achimas tied the knot over his enemy’s calf, surfaced, and climbed out onto the bank. He counted to five hundred and then dived again. Kikin was lying on the bottom. His mouth was open, and so were his eyes. Achimas looked inside himself and discovered nothing apart from calm satisfaction with a job well done. He untied the knot and surfaced. The boys were shouting and splashing each other with water. It was some time before Kikin was missed.

After that particular difficulty was resolved, life in the boarding school improved greatly. Without Kikin as ringleader, there was no one left to persecute the pale- eyed ‘Finn’. Achimas moved on from one class to the next. He was neither a good pupil nor a poor one. He sensed that little of all this knowledge would be required in his life. Chasan came only rarely, but each time he took his nephew away into the mountains for a week or two — to hunt and spend the night under the starry sky.

When Achimas was about to finish sixth class, a new difficulty arose. Outside the town, three versts along the Stavropol highway, there was a bawdy house to which the men who had come to take the waters repaired in the evenings. And for some time Achimas, who at the age of sixteen had shot up and broadened in the shoulders so that he could quite easily be taken for a twenty-year-old, had also been making the three-verst journey. This was real life, not learning chunks of ancient Greek from the Iliad. One day Achimas was unlucky. In the public hall downstairs, where the painted girls drank lemonade while they waited to be taken upstairs, he ran into an inspector from the grammar school, Collegiate Counselor Tenetov — wearing a frock coat and a false beard. Tenetov realized from the boy’s glance that he had been recognized and although he said nothing to Achimas, from that day on he conceived a fierce hatred for the white-haired sixth-class pupil. It soon became clear what the inspector was aiming at — he was determined to fail Achimas in the summer examinations.

Staying back for a year would be shameful and boring. Achimas started pondering what he ought to do.

If it had been one of the other teachers instead of Tenetov, Chasan would have paid a bribe. But Tenetov did not take bribes and he was very proud of it. He had no need to take them — two years earlier, the collegiate counselor had married a merchant’s widow and taken as his dowry a hundred thousand rubles and the finest house in the entire town.

It was clearly not possible to improve relations with Tenetov: One glance at Achimas was enough to set the inspector trembling with fury.

Achimas ran through all the possible solutions and settled on the most certain.

That spring there were bandits operating in Solenovodsk; wicked men would approach a late stroller, stab him in the heart, and take his watch, his wallet, and — if he had any — his rings. Word was that it was the ‘Butchers,’ a famous gang from Rostov, working away from home.

One evening, when the inspector was walking back from Petrosov’s restaurant along the dark, deserted street, Achimas walked up to him and stabbed him in the heart with his dagger. He took a watch on a gold chain and a wallet from the fallen man, then threw the watch and the wallet in the river and kept the money — twenty-seven rubles — for himself.

He thought the difficulty had been resolved, but things turned out badly. The maidservant from the next house had seen Achimas walking quickly away from the scene of the murder and wiping a knife with a bunch of grass. The maidservant informed the police and Achimas was put in a cell.

It was fortunate for him that his uncle happened to be in town at the time.

His uncle threatened the maidservant that he would cut off her nose and ears, and she went to the superintendent of police and said that she had identified the wrong man by mistake. Then Chasan himself went to the superintendent and paid him five thousand rubles in silver — everything that he had amassed from his smuggling — and the prisoner was released.

Achimas felt ashamed. When Chasan sat Achimas down to face him, he could not look his uncle in the eye. Then he told him the whole truth — about Kikin and about the inspector.

After a long silence, Chasan sighed. He said: “Allah finds a purpose for every creature. No more studying, boy; we’re going to do real work.”

And a different life began.

TWO

Formerly Chasan had imported contraband goods from Turkey and Persia and sold them to middlemen. Now, instead, he began transporting them farther himself — to Ekaterinodar, Stavropol, Rostov, and the market at Nizhny Novgorod. His goods sold well, because Chasan did not ask a high price. He and his buyer would shake hands and drink to the deal. Then Achimas would catch up with the buyer, kill him, and bring the goods back again — until the next time they were sold.

Their most profitable trip of all was to Nizhny Novgorod in 1859, when they sold one and the same lot of lambskin — ten bales — three times over: the first time for one thousand three hundred rubles (Achimas overtook the merchant and his bailiff on the forest road and killed both of them with his dagger); the second time for one thousand one hundred rubles (the young gentleman barely had time to grunt in surprise when the polite student traveling with him thrust the double- edged blade into his liver); the third time for one thousand five hundred rubles (and by a stroke of good luck they found almost three thousand rubles more in the Armenian’s belt).

Achimas killed calmly and was only distressed if the death was not instantaneous. But that rarely happened — he had a sure hand.

Things continued in this way for three years. During this time Prince Baryatinsky captured the Imam Shamil and the great war in the Caucasus came to an end. Uncle Chasan married a girl from a good mountain-tribe family, then took a second wife from a poorer family — according to the official documents, she was his ward. He bought a house in Solen-ovodsk with a big garden, in which peacocks strutted and screamed. Chasan became fat and developed a taste for drinking champagne on his veranda and talking philosophy. He was too lazy now to travel into the mountains for contraband, so people in the know brought the goods to him themselves. They would sit drinking tea and arguing at length over prices. If the negotiations proved difficult, Chasan sent for Achimas, who entered with a polite touch of his hand to his forehead and gazed silently at the obstinate trader with his pale, still eyes. It was very effective.

One day in autumn, the day after the serfs were liberated in Russia, Chasan’s old friend Abylgazi came to tell him that a new man had appeared in Semigorsk, a baptized Jew whose name was now Lazar Medvedev. He had come the year before to take the cure for his stomach, and had taken a liking to the place and stayed. He married a beautiful girl without a dowry, built a house with columns up on a hill, and bought three springs. Now all the visitors drank only Medvedev’s water and bathed only in his baths, and it was said that every week he sent ten thousand bottles of mineral water to Moscow and St. Petersburg. This was interesting, but by far the most interesting thing was that Lazar Medvedev had an iron room. The baptized Jew did not trust banks — and he was wise not to do so, of course. He kept all his immense fortune in the basement under his house, where he had a chamber in which all the walls were made of iron, with a door so thick that not even a shot from a cannon could break it in. It was hard to get into such a room, said Abylgazi, and therefore he was not asking to be paid in advance for telling Chasan all this; he was prepared to wait as long as necessary, and the fee he was asking was modest — only ten kopecks from each ruble that Chasan managed to take.

“An iron room — that is very difficult,” said Chasan, nodding solemnly. He had never heard of such rooms before. “And therefore, if Allah assists me, you will receive five kopecks from each ruble, respected friend.”

Then he called his nephew, recounted old Abylgazi’s story to him, and told him: “Go to Semigorsk and see what this iron room is like.”

THREE

To see what the iron room looked like proved easier than Achimas had expected.

He went to Medvedev’s house, dressed in a gray morning coat and matching gray top hat. While still in his hotel he had sent on his card, which was printed with words in gold lettering:

Chasan Radaev’ Trading House.

AFANASY PETROVICH WELDE

Partner Medvedev had replied with a note saying that he had heard of the trading house of the respected Chasan Radaev and requested an immediate visit. And so Achimas had set out for the beautiful new house on the outskirts of the town, which stood at the top of a steep cliff and was surrounded on all sides by a high stone wall. It was a fortress, not a house. A place where you could sit out a siege.

When Achimas entered the oak gates, this impression became even stronger: There were two sentries with carbines strolling about in the yard, and the sentries were wearing military uniforms, only without shoulder straps.

His host was bald, with a bulging forehead, a firm potbelly, and shrewd black eyes. He sat the young man down at the table and offered him coffee and a cigar. After ten minutes of polite, leisurely conversation about politics and the price of wool, he asked how he could be of assistance to the estimable Mr. Radaev.

Achimas then expounded the business proposal that he had invented as an excuse for his visit. “An exchange of mineral waters between Solen-ovodsk and Semigorsk ought to be arranged,” he said. “Your springs heal the stomach and our springs heal the kidneys. Many visitors come here to take a cure for both. So that these people will not have to travel a hundred versts over bumpy mountain roads, why should the firm of Medvedev not set up a shop in Solenovodsk, and the firm of Radaev set up a shop in Semigorsk? It would be profitable for both of us.”

“A good idea,” the baptized Jew said approvingly. “Very good. Only there are many bandits on the road. How shall I transport my earnings here from Solenovodsk?”

“Why bring them here at all?” Achimas asked in surprise. “You can put them in the bank.” Medvedev stroked the thin wreath of curly hair surrounding his bald patch and smiled: “I don’t trust the banks, Afanasy Petrovich. I prefer to keep my money at home.”

“But it is dangerous to keep it at home; you could be robbed,” said Achimas, shaking his head in disapproval. “They won’t rob me,” said Medvedev, with a cunning wink. “In the first place, I have retired soldiers, lifelong professionals, living here in the house; they guard the yard day and night in shifts. But I have even more confidence in my armor- plated room. No one except me can get into it.” Achimas was about to ask what this room was like, but before he had a chance his host himself made a suggestion: “Perhaps you would like to take a look?”

While they were walking down into the basement (it had a separate entrance from the yard), Medvedev told the story of how an engineer from Stuttgart had built him a repository for his money with a steel door eight inches thick. The door had a numerical lock with an eight-digit combination that he changed every day.

When they entered the underground premises, in which a kerosene lamp was burning, Achimas saw a steel wall and a forged metal door with round rivets. “A door like that can’t be forced or blown open,” his host boasted. “The governor of the town himself keeps his savings with me, and the chief of police, and the local merchants. I charge them well for the security, but it is still worth people’s while. This is safer than any bank.” Achimas nodded respectfully, interested to hear that it was not only Medvedev’s own money that was kept in the iron room.