The Coronation

15 May

‘. . . and also the assistant pantry man broke the dish for game from the Sèvres service. I have already ordered him to be fined half a month’s pay; anything further is at your discretion. And then there is Her Highness’s maid Petrishcheva. The footman Kriuchkov reported that she had been seen in the bushes with Mr Fandorin’s valet in a quite unambiguous position. I did not take any measures, since I do not know how you usually deal with behaviour of that sort . . .’

‘The first time, a reprimand,’ I said, looking up from the plate to explain to Somov. ‘The second time, out on her ear. If she has served the time, severance pay. We’re very strict with that sort of thing.’

It was just getting light outside, and the lamp was lit in the kitchen. I ate some reheated soup with great gusto and then applied myself to some cutlets. More than twenty-four hours without a single bite to eat is certainly no joke.

After Foma Anikeevich released Endlung and me from our incarceration, the lieutenant’s path and mine had parted. He went to the Variety Theatre to change his clothes. He had invited me too, saying that the girls slept in rooms at the theatre. They would give us food and drink, and show us a bit of affection.

But I had more important business to deal with.

And, moreover, this business did not include household concerns, so I listened to my assistant rather inattentively.

‘How did the coronation go?’ I asked, trying to work out if Somov might know something about the previous day’s operation. He ought not to, but he was far from stupid; in fact he seemed quite shrewd to me. But in any case he did not ask a single question about the reasons for my absence. Perhaps I could simply ask casuallywhether Mikhail Georgievich had been brought back from Ilyinsk?

‘Absolutely magnificent. But –’ Somov lowered his voice ‘– some of our people are saying there were bad omens . . .’

That put me on my guard. Bad omens on such a day, that is no trivial matter. A coronation is an exceptional event, every minor detail is significant. Among the court servants there are fortune-tellers who will lay out cards for the entire course of the ceremonies, hour by hour, in order to determine how the reign will proceed and when during its course convulsions can be expected. This we can call superstition, but there are other signs that cannot simply be dismissed. For instance, during the coronation of Alexander the Liberator a bottle of champagne suddenly burst for no reason at all on a table at the evening reception – it was like a bomb exploding. At that time, 1856, bombers had still not been heard of, and so no one knew how to interpret the incident. Its significance only became clear much later, after a quarter of a century. And at the last coronation the sovereign placed the crown on his head before he was supposed to, and our people whispered that his reign would not be a long one. And it was not.

‘First of all,’ Somov began, with a glance at the door, ‘when the hairdresser was arranging Her Majesty’s crown on her coiffure, he was so excited that he pushed too hard on one hairpin, and the empress cried out. He pricked her so badly that there was blood. And then, when the procession had already begun, the chain of His Majesty’s Order of St Andrew broke, and it fell on the ground! Only our people know about the hairpin, but many people noticed the incident with the order.’

Yes, that is not good, I thought. However, it could have been worse. The main thing was that the crowning of the tsar had taken place, and Doctor Lind had not disrupted this supremely solemn festivity after all.

‘What about the Englishmen?’ I enquired vaguely, unsure whether anyone at the Hermitage knewanything about the duel.

‘Lord Banville has left. Yesterday at noon. He did not even attend the coronation. He simply left a note for His Highness and moved out. He looked very pale and angry, as if he was offended about something or unwell. But he left extremely generous gratuities for all the senior personnel. For you, Afanasii Stepanovich, a gold guinea.’

‘Change it into roubles and share it equally between Lipps and the two coachmen, from me. They have all worked very well,’ I said, deciding that I did not want any gratuity from that murderer. ‘And what of Mr Carr?’

‘He is still here. His Lordship even left his butler with Mr Carr – he left alone.’

‘And is Mademoiselle Declique missing her pupil very badly?’ I asked with feigned nonchalance, finally broaching the most important subject.

Therewere quiet footsteps in the corridor. I looked round and saw Fandorin. He was wearing a Hungarian housecoat with decorative cording; he had a net on his hair and felt slippers on his feet. A smooth creature, stepping gently through the half-light with a glitter in his eyes – a real tomcat.

‘The night d-doorman informed me that you had returned. But where is Endlung?’ he asked, without a greeting of any kind.

From the question about Endlung I assumed that Pavel Georgievich had told Fandorin about our expedition. Despite the intense dislike that this man provoked in me, I was impatient to talk to him.

‘You may go, Kornei Selifanovich,’ I said to my assistant, and the intelligent man left immediately. ‘The gentleman of the bedchamber is all right,’ I replied curtly, and in order to prevent any further disagreeable questions, I added: ‘Unfortunately, it was simply a waste of our time.’

‘Things are not going sowell here either,’ said Fandorin, taking a seat. ‘You d-disappeared yesterday evening, before Emilie had come back. She managed her assignment perfectly andwe determined the precise location of Lind’s secret hideaway. It turned out that he is hiding the child in the tomb of the Princess Bakhmetova, which stands close to the wall of the Novodevichy Convent. The princess took her own life because of an unhappy love a hundred years ago and they would not allow her to be buried inside the convent, so her disconsolate parents built a sort of mausoleum for her. The Bakhmetov line has since become extinct, so the tomb is dilapidated and the lock on the door is rusty. However, that is merely a facade. Mademoiselle tells me that every time she was led into the cold interior with her eyes blindfolded, she heard the sound of well-oiled hinges. We have not been able to obtain an accurate architectural plan of the chapel; all we know is that the tomb itself is located underground in the v-vault.’

Erast Petrovich began drawing on the table with his finger.

‘We made ready yesterday at dawn. This (he put down the breadbin) is the monastery. Here (he positioned the salt cellar beside it) we have the tomb. There is wasteland all around, and there is a pond here. (He splashed a little tea onto the oilcloth.) In short, there is noway to approach unnoticed. We have positioned men in disguise around the spot at a considerable distance but not made any attempt to go inside.’

‘Why not?’ I asked.

‘The point is, Ziukin, that since the Time of Troubles all the ground around the Novodevichy Convent has been riddled with underground passages. It was besieged by the Poles and then the False Dmitry, and later the Streltsy dug under it to free theTsarina Sophia from captivity. I am sure that Lind, being the highly prudent and cautious individual that he is, chose this spot for a good reason. There must be a line of retreat – that is always his tactic. And so I decided to take a different approach.’

He knitted his brows and sighed.

‘The delivery of the stone was set for five o’clock yesterday, since the coronation was due to conclude at two. Immediately after the ceremony the Orlov was removed from the sceptre—’

‘Permission was given for the exchange?’ I exclaimed. ‘So she was wrong, and they decided to save Mikhail Georgievich after all!’

‘Who is she?’ Fandorin asked, but he could see from my face that therewould be no answer, and he continued: ‘Iwas entrusted with the Orlov on one condition. I gave a guarantee that Lind would not keep the stone under any circumstances. Not under any circumstances,’ he repeated significantly.

I nodded. ‘That is, if a choice has to be made between the life of His Highness and the diamond . . .’

‘Precisely so.’

‘But how can we be sure that the doctor will not manage to keep the Orlov? Howwill Mademoiselle Declique be able to stop him? And then, you said yourself that there are underground passages . . .’

‘I set one condition for Lind, which Emilie communicated to him the day before yesterday. Since we are not dealing with any ordinary jewel here but a holy relic, the d-diamond cannot be entrusted to a weak woman. The governess was to be accompanied by an escort. One man, unarmed, so that Lind need not fear an attack . . .’

‘And who was this escort?’

‘I was,’ Fandorin said ruefully. ‘It was good idea, don’t you think?’

‘And what happened?’

‘It didn’t work. I disguised myself as an old stooped footman but clearly not carefully enough. Emilie and I waited for more than an hour in the cathedral. No one approached us. And yet the day before yesterday, when she was alone, there were no difficulties: another note, a closed carriage in one of the side streets nearby and so on. Yesterday we waited until a quarter past six and came back with nothing for our pains.’

‘Surely Lind could not have abandoned the exchange?’ I asked in a dismal voice.

‘Indeed not. Therewas a letterwaiting for us at the Hermitage, delivered in the same manner as before, by the postman but without any stamp. Here, read it, especially since it concerns you directly.’

I cautiously took the sheet of paper, which gave off a faint aroma of scent.

‘The Earl of Essex?’ I asked.

‘In person. B-but read it, read it.’

‘I have decided to make the Romanov dynasty a generous gift on the occasion of the coronation . . .’ I read the first sentence in French and everything began swimming in front of my eyes. Could it really be?

But no, my joy was premature. I batted my eyelids to disperse the haze and read the note through to the end:

I have decided to make the Romanov dynasty a generous gift on the occasion of the coronation. A gift that is worth a million, for that is the sum agreed as one day’s payment for the Orlov, which I have kindly loaned to the Russian monarchy. And so you may keep the stone for one more day, entirely without charge. After all, it would be impolite of me, to say the least, to cast a shadow over your day of celebration.

We will complete our little transaction tomorrow. The governess must be in the cathedral at seven o’clock in the evening. I understand your reluctance to entrust such a valuable treasure to this woman, and I have no objections to a single escort. However, it must be someone I know, that is Monsieur Doggy Sideburns.

Yours sincerely,

Doctor Lind

My heart began beating faster and faster.

‘So this is why you are telling me all this?’

‘Yes,’ said Fandorin, looking into my eyes. ‘Afanasii Stepanovich, I need to ask you to take part in this dangerous business. You are not a police agent or a member of the armed services; you are not obliged to risk your life to p-protect the interests of the state, but circumstances have determined that without your help—’

‘I agree,’ I said, interrupting him.

At that moment I did not feel afraid at all. I was thinking of only one thing: Emilie and I would be together. I think it was the first time that I had thought of Mademoiselle by her first name.

There was a brief pause, and then Erast Petrovich got to his feet.

‘Then get some rest, you look tired. Be in the d-drawing room at ten o’clock. I’ll give you and Emilie a briefing.’

The late sun had warmed the velvet curtains, and there was a distinct smell of dust in the shaded drawing room. Velvet is always a problem – it is in the nature of the material: if it is left hanging for years without being washed regularly, as it had been here in the Hermitage, you simply cannot completely get rid of the dust that has eaten into it. I made a mental note to have the curtains changed that very day. Provided, of course, that I came back from the operation alive.

The success of the proposed undertaking appeared highly doubtful to me. At this last meeting – I had to assume that it was indeed the very last – only those directly involved in the operation were present: Mademoiselle and I, Mr Fandorin and the two colonels, Karnovich and Lasovsky, who were as meek as lambs and as quiet as mice, and listened to Erast Petrovich with emphatic respect, which may have been genuine or false, I do not know.

The plan of the area between the Novodevichy Convent and the Novodevichy Embankment that was laid out on the table had been carefully drawn, not like that morning’s demonstration on the oilcloth. Cross-hatched circles marked the positions of the secret sentries who surrounded the wasteland on all sides: the senior agent (Fandorin gave his name – Kuzyakin) in a hollow in an old oak tree on the corner of Vselensky Square; six ‘attendants’ in the dormitory of the children’s clinic that had windows overlooking the pond; eleven ‘monks’ on the wall of the convent; seven ‘boatmen’ and ‘buoy keepers’ on the river; one man disguised as a female street trader on the turn-off from Pogodinskaya Street; three ‘beggars’ at the gates of the convent; two ‘fishermen’ by the pond, the closest of all. The total number of agents in the first ring of the cordon was thirty-one.

‘The exchangemust take place as follows,’ Fandorin explained after he had indicated the positions of the sentry posts. ‘The two of you will be led to the chapel and taken inside. You will demand that your blindfolds be removed. The doctor’s own jeweller is bound to be there. You will give him the Orlov to examine and then take it back. Then Mademoiselle Declique will go down into the vault and collect the boy. When the boy is brought out to you, you hand over the stone. At that point, Ziukin, your mission is over.’

I could hardly believe my ears. I was already familiar with Mr Fandorin’s adventurous disposition, but I had not expected such irresponsibility, even from him. The most astounding thing was that the head of the court police and the high police master of Moscow had listened to this insane plan with a perfectly serious air and did not utter a single word of protest!

‘What nonsense!’ I declared with a trenchancy that was quite uncharacteristic of me (but entirely justified by the circumstances). ‘I shall be alone, unarmed, and Mademoiselle’s presence will not help me. They will simply take the diamond away from me once they are satisfied that it is genuine. And they will not even think of returning Mikhail Georgievich. They will simply escape through some underground passage and kill all three of us. A fine operation that will be! Wouldn’t it be better towait until Mademoiselle Declique and I have been taken inside, and then storm the tomb?’

‘No, it would not,’ Fandorin replied curtly.

And Karnovich explained: ‘If the place is stormed, His Highness will certainly be killed. And so will the two of you.’

I said nothing and glanced at Emilie. I must admit that she looked much calmer than I was and she was gazing at Fandorin as if she trusted him completely, which was particularly painful to see.

‘Erast Petrovich,’ she said quietly, ‘Doctor Lind is very cunning. What if Monsieur Ziukin and I are taken to a different place today, somewhere completely new? If that is the case, then your embuscade¹ will be in vain.’

I turned to the sagacious Fandorin, for the question had, as they say, hit the bullseye.

‘That is not out of the question,’ he admitted. ‘But I have taken certain m-measures to deal with it. And your concerns, Ziukin – that they will take the stone and not return the boy – are also perfectly reasonable. It will all depend entirely on you. And so now I come to the m-most important thing of all.’

And so saying, hewent across to a smallwooden chest standing on a table beside the window, opened it and, using both hands, lifted out a smooth, shiny golden sphere the size of a small Crimean melon.

‘Here is your guarantee,’ said Erast Petrovich, setting the sphere down in front of me.

‘What is it?’ I asked, leaning over it.

The mirror surface of the sphere showed me a comically extended reflection of my own face.

‘Abomb, Afanasii Stepanovich. Of appalling destructive power. There is a small button on the inside. Pressing it releases the detonator, and after that the slightest jolt – for instance dropping the sphere on a stone floor – is sufficient to cause an explosion that would completely obliterate you, Lind and his men, and the entire chapel. The Orlov, as it happens, would survive, because it is indestructible and afterwards we would c-certainly find it among the rubble . . . You will have to explain all this to the doctor. Tell him that at the slightest sign of foul play you will drop the sphere. This is the only argument that will have any effect on Lind. It is our little surprise, so to speak.’

‘But the bomb is not genuine?’

‘I assure you that it is entirely g-genuine. The charge consists of an explosive mixture invented by chemists at the Imperial Mining and Artillery Laboratory. The Commission of the Central Artillery Department has not approved the mixture for use because the risk of accidental explosion is too great. If they try to search you when you are getting into the carriage, you will say that the sphere is a case for the Orlov and you will not allow them to open it under any circumstances. Say that the journey is cancelled if they do not agree. But then, if it is the same mute coachman who comes for you, any discussion is unlikely.’

Erast Petrovich picked up the sphere and prised open a barely visible lid with his nail.

‘The Orlov really is inside, in the upper section of the sphere. When you take out the stone to hand it over for inspection, you press here and so activate the mechanism. Under no circumstances do this in the carriage, or else the jolting might produce an explosion. And after you have pressed the button you will tell Lind or his men what kind of toy this is.’

I glanced inside the sphere. The priceless relic of the House of Romanovwas lying in a rounded niche, glinting with a dull bluish light. At close quarters the miraculous stone seemed to me like a cut-crystal door handle, similar to those that adorned the chest of drawers in the grand duchess’s dressing room. To be quite honest, I was far more impressed by the red metal button that was almost invisible against the background of scarlet velvet.

I wiped the sweat off my forehead and looked at Emilie. If things went badly, or if I simply made a blunder, we would die together, and the fragments of our bodieswould be intermingled. She nodded to me calmly, as if to say: It is all right. I trust you and everything is certain to turn out well.

‘But then what?’ I asked. ‘Lind will not want to be blown up, that is clear enough, so he will not break the rules of the game. He will give us Mikhail Georgievich and then escape through some cunning secret passage. And the Orlov will be lost forever!’

‘That must not happen, no matter what!’ said Karnovich, joining in the conversation for the first time. ‘Remember, Mr Fandorin, you have guaranteed the stone’s safety with your own life.’

Fandorin smiled at me as if he had not heard the colonel.

‘In that eventuality, Ziukin, I have another surprise in store for the doctor.’

However the smile, which was really quite inappropriate in the situation, rapidly disappeared, to be replaced by an expression of uncertainty or perhaps even embarrassment.

‘Emilie, Afanasii Stepanovich . . . the risk to which you are exposing yourselves is undoubtedly v-very great. Lind is a man of paradoxical intelligence; his actions and reactions are frequently unpredictable. A plan is all very well, but anything at all could happen. And after all, Emilie, you are a lady and not even a Russian subject . . .’

‘Never mind the risk, that is all right,’ Mademoiselle said with sublime dignity. ‘But we – Mr Ziukin and I – will be easier in our minds if we know what other surprise you have in mind.’

Fandorin carefully closed the gold lid and the blue radiance glimmering above the table disappeared.

‘It is best if you do not know that. Itmust be a surprise for you two as well. Otherwise the plan may go awry.’

A strange business. When we found ourselves alone together, sealed off from the world in the dark carriage, neither of us said a word for a long time. I listened to Mademoiselle’s regular breathing, and as time passed and my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I could make out her vague silhouette. I wanted to hear her voice, to say something encouraging to her but, as usual, I simply could not find the right words. The metal sphere was lying on my knees, and although the detonator was not yet activated, I gripped the infernal device firmly with both hands.

My fears that I would have problems with Doctor Lind’s intermediary concerning the strangely rounded bulky bundle had proved unfounded. The first stage of the operation had gone smoothly – as the common folk say, without a hitch.

Mademoiselle and I had been standing in the cathedral for less than five minuteswhen a boywho looked like one of the ordinary little beggars who are always jostling on the porch there handed me a note – I even had to give the little villain five kopecks of my own money. Our shoulders pressed together as we unfolded the sheet of paper (once again I caught a whiff of the scent The Earl of Essex) and read the single short line: ‘L’église d’Ilya Prorok’.² I did not know where that was, but Mademoiselle, who had had an opportunity to study all the surrounding streets and side streets in close detail, confidently showed me the way.

A few minutes later we were outside a small church, and there was a black carriage with curtained windows waiting in front of the next building. It looked very much like the one that I had seen a week earlier, although I could not vouch for it being the same one. A tall man with a hat pulled down very low jumped down off the coach box. All I could see of his face was a thick black beard. Without saying a word, he opened the door and pushed Mademoiselle inside.

I showed him my bundle and pronounced the phrase that I had prepared in a severe tone of voice: ‘This is the object of the exchange. It must not be touched.’

I do not know if he understood me, but he did not touch the bundle. He squatted down and very rapidly ran his hands over my entire body, touching even the most intimate places without the slightest sign of embarrassment.

‘If you do not mind, sir . . .’ I protested, but the search was already over.

Without speaking, the bearded man pushed me in the back, I got into the carriage and the door slammed. I heard the squeak of a bolt. The carriage swayed, and we set off.

I expect that at least half an hour must have passed before we struck up a conversation. It was Mademoiselle who began it, because I had still not thought of a way to start.

‘Strange,’ she said when the carriage swayed on a corner and our shoulders touched. ‘It is strange that he did not caress me today.’

‘What?’ I asked, amazed.

‘How do you say – perquisitionner?’

‘Ah, to frisk, to search.’

‘Yes, thank you. Strange that he did not search me. He usually does, to see if it is possible to hide a little pistol in the pantaloons.’

I took the liberty of leaning down to her ear and whispering: ‘We have a better weapon than that.’

‘Careful!’ Mademoiselle gasped. ‘I’m afraid!’

A woman is always a woman, even the very bravest!

‘It’s all right,’ I reassured her. ‘The detonator has not been activated yet; there is nothing to be afraid of.’

‘I keep thinking about Monsieur Fandorin’s second surprise,’ Mademoiselle suddenly said in French. ‘Could it possibly be that the bomb will go off in any case, blowing us and Doctor Lind and His Highness to pieces, and then afterwards, as Monsieur Fandorin said, they will find the stone among the rubble? The most important thing for the tsar is to keep the Orlov and avoid any publicity. And for Monsieur Fandorin, the main thing is to take his revenge on Doctor Lind. What do you think, Athanas?’

To be quite honest, her suspicions seemed quite plausible to me, but after a moment’s thought I found an appropriate objection.

‘In that case they would have given us a fake instead of the genuine stone. Then they would not have to search for anything in the rubble.’

‘And what makes you sure that it is the genuine Orlov in the sphere?’ she asked nervously. ‘We are not jewellers, after all. When you press the button, there will be an explosion, and that will be the promised surprise that you and I were not supposed to know about under any circumstances.’

I turned cold inside. This conjecture seemed only too logical.

‘Then that is our destiny,’ I said, crossing myself. ‘If you have guessed right, then the decision was taken by a higher power, and I shall carry it out to the letter. But you do not have to go into the chapel. When we get there, I shall tell the driver that there is no need for you to be present; I shall collect Mikhail Georgievich myself.’

Mademoiselle squeezed my hand.

‘Thank you, Athanas. You have restored my faith in human dignity. No. No, I shall go with you. I feel ashamed that I could have suspected Erast of being disloyal. For him, no precious stone, not even such a special one, could possibly be more important than the life of a child. And our lives too,’ she concluded in a quiet voice.

The second half of her brief emotional declaration somewhat spoiled the pleasant impression of the first, but nonetheless Iwas touched. I wanted to respond to her grip on my fingers, but that would probably have been too great a liberty. And so we rode on, with her hand still touching mine.

Unlike Mademoiselle, I was not entirely convinced of Mr Fandorin’s nobility. I thought it quite probable that the earthly existence of Afanasii Ziukin would come to an end in the very near future, and not in a quiet, humdrum fashion, as the entire logic of my lifewould have dictated, but amidst unseemly uproar and clamour. Emilie’s company rendered this thought less repulsive, which was undoubtedly an expression of a quality that I cannot stand in other people and have always tried to suppress in myself – cowardly selfishness.

Meanwhile, it was becoming harder and harder to breathe in the sealed carriage. There were drops of sweat running down my face and inside my collar. This was unpleasantly ticklish, but I could not wipe them away with my handkerchief – to do that, I would have had to take my hand away. Mademoiselle was also breathing rapidly.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me, so simple and terrible that the sweat started flowing even more abundantly. I tried to insert my hand into the bundle and open the lid of the sphere quietly without frightening Mademoiselle, but even so therewas an audible click.

‘What was that?’ Mademoiselle asked with a start. ‘What was that sound?’

‘Lind’s plan is simpler and more cunning than Fandorin imagines,’ I said, gasping for air. ‘I suspect that the doctor has ordered us to be driven in this closed coffin until we suffocate, so that he can take the Orlov without any trouble. But it won’t work – I am activating the detonator. As long as I remain conscious, I shall hold the bomb steady with both hands. But when I am exhausted, the sphere will fall . . .’

‘Vous êtes fou!’ Mademoiselle exclaimed, pulling her hand away and seizing hold of my elbow. ‘Vous êtes fou! N’y pensez pas. Je compte les détours, nous sommes presque là.’³

‘Too late, I have already pressed the button,’ I said, and took a firm grip of the sphere with both hands.

And then a minute later the carriage really did stop.

‘Well then, may God help us,’ Emilie whispered and crossed herself, only not in the Orthodox manner, but in the Catholic way, from left to right.

The door opened, and I screwed my eyes up against the bright light. Nobody blindfolded me, and I saw the peeling walls of a small chapel and also, a little distance away, perhaps a hundred paces, the towers of an old convent. As I stepped onto the foot-plate, I stole a glance around me. There were fishermen sitting by the pond and on the edge of the nearby square a knotty old oak stood, covered in fresh greenery, presumably with senior police agent Kuzyakin concealed somewhere amongst it. I felt a little bit calmer, although the failure to blindfold us probably signified that Lind did not intend to let us go alive. Mademoiselle looked over my shoulder and also started gazing around – ah, yes, this was the first time she had been here without a blindfold. All right, Doctor, I thought. If we are to die, we’ll take you with us, and I pressed the bundle tight against my chest.

The driver, standing to one side of the open door of the carriage, seized me by the elbow and pulled as if to say: Get out. I grimaced at the strength of those steely fingers.

The rusty door with the heavy padlock barely even creaked as it swung open to admit us. I walked into the gloomy interior, which was more spacious than it appeared from the outside, and saw several male figures. Before I could get a clear look at them, the door closed behind us, but the light did not disappear; it merely changed from grey to yellow because there were several oil lamps hanging on the walls.

There were four men. The one who caught my attention was a lean grey-haired gentleman with a toothless non-Russian face and steel-rimmed spectacles. Could this be Doctor Lind himself? Standing one on each side of himwere two tall broad-shouldered men whose faces were drowned in the shadows – bodyguards, I presumed. The fourth manwas the coachman, who had followed us in and leaned back against the closed door as if to cut off our retreat.

One of the bodyguards gestured to the coachman, clearly indicating that he should leave.

The coachman nodded, but he did not move.

The bodyguard pointed angrily to the door.

‘Taubstummer Dickkopf!’⁴the great brute swore.

So that was why the driver had behaved so strangely with us! And now it was clear why Lind had not been afraid that the bearded man might be taken by the police.

The other bodyguard replied, also in German: ‘Ah, to hell with it. Let him stay there. He’s probably as curious as we are to see what happens.’

Then the grey-haired gentleman stretched his hand out towards the bundle, and I realised that the truly important business had begun.

‘Did you bring it? Show me,’ he said in a dull voice, speaking French.

I dropped the shawl in which the sphere was wrapped onto the floor and opened the lid. The stone glittered from its velvet niche with a gentle muted light.

Enunciating every word slowly and clearly, I explained about the surprise and the conditions of exchange. Thank God, my voice did not tremble even once. The most important thing was for Lind to believe me. If it came to the crunch, I would not play the coward.

He heard me out without interrupting and nodded as if Iwere talking about something that went without saying. He clicked his fingers impatiently. ‘All right, all right. Give it to me. I’ll check it.’

And he took a small magnifying glass bound in copper out of his pocket.

So he was not Lind but the jeweller, just as Fandorin had predicted. I prised the stone out with two fingers and it seemed to fit snugly into the palm of my hand, as if had been created to match its size. With my other hand I held the bomb carefully against my chest.

The jeweller took the diamond and walked over to one of the lamps. The bodyguards, orwhoever they reallywere, surrounded him and drew in their breath loudly when the facets of the Orlov sparkled with unbearable brilliance.

I glanced round at Mademoiselle. She was standing still but with her fingers locked together. Raising her eyebrows, she indicated the sphere with her glance, and I nodded reassuringly as if to say: Don’t worry, I won’t drop it.

The light of the oil lamp was not enough for the jeweller. He took out a little electric torch too and pushed a switch. A thin, bright ray of light touched the diamond, and I screwed up my eyes. Sparks seemed to scatter from the surface of the stone.

‘Alles in Ordnung,’⁵ the jeweller said dispassionately in perfect German and put the magnifying glass in his pocket.

‘Give me back the stone,’ I demanded.

When he did not do as I said, I held the open sphere out in front of me with both hands.

The jeweller shrugged and put the diamond back in its niche.

Heartened by this success, I raised my voice: ‘Where is His Highness? Under the terms of the agreement, you must now give him back immediately!’

The lipless man pointed to the stone floor, and for the first time I noticed a square black trapdoor with a metal ring for a handle.

‘Who needs your boy? Take him before he croaks.’

On the lips of this respectable-looking gentleman the crude word ‘croaks’, used about a little child, sounded so unexpected and terrible that I shuddered. My God, what kind of people were they!

Mademoiselle drew in a noisy breath and dashed to the trapdoor, grabbed the ring and pulled with all her might. The door lifted a little, and then fell back into the gap with a resounding metallic clang. None of the thugs moved to help the lady. Emilie looked at me in despair, but I could not help her – to do that I would have had to put down the sphere.

‘Aufmachen!’⁶ I shouted menacingly, lifting the bomb higher.

With clear reluctance, one of the banditsmoved Mademoiselle aside and easily lifted the cover up with one hand.

The gap that was revealed was not black, as I had expected, but filled with a trembling light. Obviously there was an oil lamp in the vault too. Asmell of dampness and mould came up through the opening.

Poor Mikhail Georgievich! How could they have kept him in that hole all these days!

Gathering up the hem of her skirt, Mademoiselle started to go down. One of the thugs followed her. I could feel my pulse pounding rapidly in my temples.

I heard the sound of voices coming from below and then a piercing shout from Emilie: ‘Mon bébé, mon pauvre petit. Tas de salauds!’⁷

‘Is His Highness dead?’ I roared, ready to throw the bomb on the floor and damn the consequences.

‘No, he’s alive!’ I heard. ‘But very poorly!’

I cannot express the relief that I felt at those words. Of course His Highness was chilled to the bone, wounded and drugged with opium, but the important thing was that he was alive.

The jeweller held out his hand. ‘Give me the stone. Your companion will bring the boy out now.’

‘Let her bring him out first,’ I muttered, suddenly realising that I had no idea of what to do next. There had been nothing about that in Fandorin’s instructions. Should I give him the stone or not?

Suddenly the bodyguard who was still in the room leapt towards me with astounding agility and pressed his palms tight over my hands, which were holding the bomb. The jolt was only very slight and the detonating mechanism was not set off, but the diamond tumbled out of its niche and clattered across the floor. The jeweller grabbed it and put it in his pocket.

It was pointless trying to struggle with the great brute, and the coachman with the black beard also came up from behind – I had already had occasion to know of his great strength. Oh Lord, now I had ruined everything.

‘Now this is surprise number two,’ the deaf mute whispered in my ear, and in the same second he punched the thug on the forehead. The blow did not seem very strong to me, but the German’s eyes rolled up, he opened his hands and sank down on to the floor.

‘Hold it tight,’ the coachman said in Fandorin’s voice.

In a single bound he reached the jeweller and put one hand over his mouth, at the same time holding a stiletto to his chin from below.

‘Taisez-vous! Un mot, et vous êtes mort!⁸ Ziukin, switch off the bomb, we won’t be needing it any more.’

The speed at which events were moving had left me numb, so I was not at all surprised by the coachman’s transformation into Fandorin; in fact, I was more impressed by the fact that Erast Petrovich had completely stopped stammering.

I obediently gripped the depressed button with my fingernails and pulled. It popped out with a gentle click.

‘Shout to say that you have the stone and the child can be released,’ Fandorin said quietly in French.

The jeweller batted his eyelids with unnatural speed. He could not nod because the gesture would have impaled his head on the blade of the stiletto.

Fandorin removed his hand from the jeweller’s mouth but kept the dagger in its vertical position.

His prisoner worked his sunken mouth and licked his lips, then threw his head back as if he wanted to look at something on the ceiling and suddenly shouted loudly: ‘Alarme! Fuiez-vous!’⁹

He was about to shout something else, but the narrow strip of steel slid in between his throat and his chin right up to the hilt and he wheezed. I gasped out loud.

Before the dead man had even collapsed to the floor, a head appeared out of the hatch – I think it belonged to the bandit who had gone down with Mademoiselle.

Fandorin leapt to the opening and kicked him hard in the face. There was the dull sound of a body collapsing heavily and Erast Petrovich jumped down without waiting even for a second.

‘Oh, Lord!’ I blurted out. ‘Oh, my Lord God.’

I heard a loud crash from below and voices shouting in German and French.

Crossing myself with the golden sphere, I ran to the opening and looked down.

It was a genuine roughhouse: a huge brute clutching a knife in one raised hand had pinned Fandorin to the floor, and another bodyguard was lying motionless further away. Erast Petrovich was clutching his opponent’s wrist with one hand to hold back the knife, and trying to reach his throat with the other. But he simply could not reach it. It seemed that the former state counsellor needed to be rescued.

I flung the sphere, aiming at the back of the giant’s head, and I was right on target. There was a squelching sound as it hit home. The blowwould undoubtedly have smashed any ordinary man’s skull, but this one merely swayed forward. That, however, was enough for Fandorin to reach his throat. I did not see exactly what Erast Petrovich’s fingers did, but I heard a sickening crunch, and the huge brute slumped over sideways.

I quickly went down into the vault. Fandorin had already jumped to his feet and was gazing around.

We were in a square room with corners drowned in dark shadow. At the centre of the vault there was a moss-covered gravestone, on which an oil lamp was burning.

‘Where is she?’ I asked, flustered. ‘Where is His Highness? Where is Lind?’

There was a trunk standing by one wall with a heap of rags on it, and I realised that must be where Mikhail Georgievich had been kept. However, Fandorin dashed in the opposite direction.

I heard the clatter of rapidly receding footsteps – it sounded as if there were three or four people running.

Fandorin grabbed the lamp and lifted it up high, and we saw the entrance to a passage in the wall. It was blocked by a metal grille.

The darkness was illuminated by a sudden flash; there was a spiteful whistling sound and a dull echo.

‘Get behind the projection!’ Fandorin shouted to me as he jumped to one side.

‘Emilie, are you alive?’ I called as loudly as I possibly could.

The darkness replied in Mademoiselle’s muted voice: ‘There are three of them! And Lind’s here! He’s—’

The voice broke off with a shriek. I dashed to the metal grille and began shaking it, but it was locked shut.

Erast Petrovich pulled me back by my sleeve – and just in time. They started shooting again out of the passageway. One of the metal bars exploded into a shower of sparks and an invisible rod of iron struck the wall, scattering fragments of stone onto the floor.

I heard men’s voices in the distance and someone – a woman or a child – groaned in a high-pitched voice.

‘Lind!’ Erast shouted loudly, speaking in French. ‘This is Fandorin! I have the stone! The exchange is still in force. I’ll give you the Orlov for the woman and the child!’

We held our breath. It was quiet – no voices, no steps. Had Lind heard?

Fandorin raised a hand in which a small black revolver had appeared out of nowhere and fired at the lock – once, twice, three times.

Sparks showered into the air again, but the lock did not fly open.

¹Ambush

²The Church of the Prophet Elijah.

³You’re insane! Do not even think of it! I am counting the turns of the wheels. We are almost there!

⁴Deaf-mute blockhead!

⁵All is in order.

⁶Open it!

⁷ My baby, my poor little one. You scum!

⁸Quiet! One word and you’re dead!

⁹Alarm! Run!