The Death of Achilles

THREE

The meeting with the client took place in St. Petersburg, on a quiet little street to which Achimas was delivered in a closed phaeton. The carriage wound through the streets this way and that for a long time, with its blinds completely obscuring the windows. This precaution made Achimas smile.

He made no attempt to remember the route, although he knew the geography of Russia’s capital intimately — in times past he had fulfilled several serious contracts here. In any case, Achimas had no need to peep stealthily through the crack beside the blind and count the turns in the road. He had taken steps to ensure his own safety: first by arming himself in an appropriate fashion, and second by bringing four assistants with him.

They had traveled to Russia in the next carriage of his train and now they were following the phaeton in two droshkys. His assistants were professionals, and Achimas knew that they would not fall behind or give themselves away.

The phaeton halted. The taciturn driver, who had met Achimas at the station and — to judge from his military bearing — was no driver at all, opened the door and gestured for Achimas to follow him.

Not a soul on the street. A single-story detached mansion. Modest, but neat and tidy. Only one unusual feature: Although it was summer, all the windows were closed and curtained. One of the curtains quivered slightly and once again Achimas’s thin lips extended in a momentary smile. He was beginning to find these dilettante attempts at cunning amusing. It was all quite clear: aristocrats playing at conspiracy.

His guide led him toward their destination through a series of dark connecting rooms. When they reached the last one, he stopped to let Achimas go on ahead. Once Achimas stepped inside, the double door closed behind his back and he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock.

Achimas glanced around curiously. An intriguing room — not a single window. The only furniture was a small round table with two high-backed armchairs beside it. It was hard, however, to get a clear impression of the interior, since it was only lit by a single candle that did not cast its feeble light as far as the gloom in the corners.

Achimas waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness before he examined the walls with a practiced glance. He failed to discern anything suspicious — no secret spy-holes from which a gun could be trained on him, no additional doors. But there proved to be another chair standing in the far corner.

Achimas sat down in an armchair. Five minutes later the doors swung open and a tall man entered. He did not take the second armchair, but walked across the room and sat on the chair in the corner without greeting Achimas in any way.

So the client was not so stupid after all. An excellent arrangement: Achimas sitting in full view, illuminated by the candle, and his partner in conversation enveloped in dense shadow. And his full face was not visible — only the silhouette.

Unlike ‘Baron von Steinitz,’ this individual wasted no time in getting straight to the point.

“You wished to meet the principal party in this matter,” the man in the corner said in Russian. “I have consented. Be certain not to disappoint me, Mr. Welde. I shall not introduce myself; to you I am Monsieur NN.”

To judge from his pronunciation, he was a man from the very highest levels of society. He sounded about forty years old, but might be younger — his was a voice accustomed to command, and they always sounded older. His grand manner suggested that he was a man to be taken seriously.

The conclusion? If this was a high-society conspiracy, it was certainly no laughing matter.

“Please explain the gist of the proposal,” said Achimas.

“You speak Russian well,” said the shadow with a nod. “I was informed that at one time you were a Russian subject. That is most convenient. There will be no need for superfluous explanations. And it will certainly not be necessary to impress upon you the importance of the individual who has to be killed.”

Achimas noted the remarkable directness of expression — no equivocations, nothing about ‘eliminating’, ‘removing’ or ‘neutralizing’.

Meanwhile Monsieur NN continued in the same even tone, without the slightest pause: “It is Mikhail Sobolev.”

“The one they call the White General?” Achimas inquired. “The hero of recent wars and the most popular general in the Russian army?”

“Yes, Adjutant General Sobolev, commander of the Fourth Army Corps,” the silhouette confirmed dispassionately.

“I beg your pardon, but I must refuse your request,” Achimas declared politely and crossed his arms on his chest.

The science of gestures defined the meaning of this pose as calm composure and adamant determination. In addition, it happened to set the fingers of his right hand against the handle of the little revolver lying in a special pocket in his waistcoat. The revolver was called a ‘velodog,’ and it had been invented for cyclists who were pestered by stray canines. Four little round-headed twenty-two-caliber bullets. A mere trinket, of course, but in situations like today’s it could prove very useful.

A refusal to accept a commission after the target had already been named was an extremely dangerous move. If complications arose, Achimas intended to act as follows: put a bullet in the client’s brain and jump back into the darkest corner. It would be no easy job to subdue Achimas there.

There had been no search at the entrance, so his entire arsenal was still intact: the Colt manufactured to his personal order, the throwing knife, and the Spanish knife with the sprung blade. And therefore Achimas was tense but calm.

“Surely you are not also one of Sobolev’s devotees?” the client inquired with irritation.

“I have no interest in Sobolev; I am a devotee of common sense. And common sense requires me not to involve myself in matters that entail the subsequent elimination of the agent employed, that is, in the present case, myself. No witnesses are ever left alive after an act of such immense importance. My advice is to find yourself another agent, some novice. An ordinary political assassination is not such a very tricky job.”

Achimas stood up and began backing cautiously toward the door, ready to fire at any second.

“Sit down.” The man in the corner pointed imperiously to the armchair. “What I need is not some beginner, but the very finest master of your trade, because this is a very tricky job indeed. As you will see for yourself. But first allow me to apprise you of certain circumstances that will allay your suspicions.”

Achimas could tell that Monsieur NN was not used to providing explanations and was restraining the urge to fly into a fury.

“This is neither a political assassination nor a conspiracy. On the contrary, the conspirator and offender against the state is Sobolev, who dreams of rivaling the glory of Napoleon. Our hero is planning a military coup, no more and no less. The conspiracy includes officers from his army corps and also the general’s former comrades in arms, many of whom serve in the Guards. But the most dangerous thing of all is that Sobolev’s popularity extends beyond the army to every class of society, while we at court and in the government are regarded by some with resentment and by others with open hatred. The prestige of the ruling house has fallen very low following the shameful hounding and murder of the previous emperor. They ran down the Lord’s anointed as if they were running down a hare with dogs.”

The speaker’s voice was suddenly suffused with a menacing power, and the door behind Achimas immediately gave a creak. The individual for whom the court and the government were included in the concept of ‘we’ impatiently waved a white-gloved hand and the door closed again. The mysterious gentleman continued, speaking more calmly now, without anger.

“We are aware of the conspirators’ plans. At the present moment Sobolev is conducting maneuvers that are in actual fact a rehearsal for the coup. He will then set out for Moscow, accompanied by his retinue, in order to meet with certain Guards officers far away from St. Petersburg, assure himself of their support, and work out his final disposition of forces. The blow will be struck at the beginning of July, during a parade at Tsarskoe Selo. Sobolev intends to take the members of the royal family into ‘temporary custody’ — for their own good and in the name of the salvation of the fatherland.” His intonation became intensely sarcastic. “The fatherland itself will be declared in such grave danger that a military dictatorship will have to be established. There are serious grounds to suppose that this insane project will be supported by a significant portion of the army, the gentry, the merchantry, and even the peasantry. The White General is ideally suited to the role of savior of the fatherland!”

Monsieur NN got to his feet and strode angrily along the wall, cracking his knuckles. Nonetheless, he remained in the shadows as before and did not show his face. Achimas could only make out an aristocratic nose and lush sideburns.

“So you should be aware, Mr. Welde, that in this case you will not be committing any crime, because Sobolev has been condemned to death by a court that included the most senior dignitaries in the empire. Of the twenty judges appointed by His Imperial Majesty, seventeen voted for the death penalty. And the emperor has already confirmed the verdict. It was a secret court, but no less legitimate for that. The gentleman whom you took for an intermediary was one of the judges and was acting in the interests of security and peace in Europe. As you are probably aware, Sobolev is the leader of the militant Slavist party, and his accession to power would inevitably lead to war with Germany and Austria- Hungary.”

The man of state stopped speaking and looked at his imperturbable listener.

“Therefore you have no reason to fear for your life. You are not dealing with criminals, but with the supreme authority of a great empire. You are being asked to play the role of an executioner, not a murderer. Do you find my explanation satisfactory?”

“Let us assume so,” said Achimas, placing his hands on the table. There was apparently no prospect of any shooting. “But what exactly is it that makes the job so difficult? Why can the general not simply be poisoned, or even shot, if it comes to that?”

“Aha — you would appear to have accepted our proposal.” Monsieur NN nodded in satisfaction and lowered himself onto the chair. “Now I shall explain why we need such an authoritative specialist. Let us start with the fact that it is very difficult to get close to Sobolev. He is surrounded day and night by adjutants and orderlies who are fanatically devoted to him. And he cannot simply be killed — that would set the whole of Russia up in arms. He must die naturally, without any ambiguities or suspicions. But even that is not enough. We ourselves could eliminate the criminal by using poison, but the conspiracy has already gone too far. Even the death of their leader cannot stop the conspirators. They will carry their cause through to the end, believing that they are acting on Sobolev’s behest. It is most probable that without their leader they will achieve nothing, but Russia will be plunged into bloody chaos and the supreme authority will be utterly compromised. By comparison with Sobolev’s gentlemen, the Decembrists will come to seem like naughty children. And now allow me to lay the task before you in all its baffling complexity.”

He summed up briskly, slashing at the darkness with a white-gloved hand.

“Sobolev must be eliminated in such a way that his death will appear natural to the general public and not provoke its indignation. We shall organize a sumptuous funeral, set up a monument to him, and even name some ship or other in his honor. Russia cannot be deprived of her only national hero. At the same time, however, Sobolev must die in such a way that his coconspirators will be demoralized and unable to rally around his banner. While remaining a hero in the eyes of the common crowd, he must be stripped of his halo for the conspirators. And so you can see for yourself that such a task is far beyond any novice. Tell me, is it really possible at all?”

For the first time the speaker’s voice betrayed a note of something akin to uncertainty.

Achimas asked: “How and when shall I receive the remainder of the money?”

Monsieur NN sighed in relief.

“When Sobolev leaves for Moscow, he will be carrying all the funds for the conspiracy with him — about a million rubles. Preparations for a coup require substantial expenditures. After killing Sobolev, you will take the money for yourself. I trust that you can manage that task with no difficulty?”

“Today is the twenty-first of June by the Russian calendar. You say that the coup has been set for the beginning of July. When is Sobolev leaving for Moscow?”

“Tomorrow. Or the day after at the very latest. And he will be there until the twenty-seventh. Then he will pay a visit to his estate in Ryazan and go directly from there to St. Petersburg. We know that he has arranged meetings with his generals for the twenty-fifth, twenty-sixth, and twenty-seventh, for which they will make a special journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow. But I will not name any unnecessary names. Without Sobolev, these people are not dangerous. In time we shall retire them quietly, with no publicity. But it would be better if Sobolev had no chance to meet with them. We do not wish distinguished generals to besmirch their reputations with state treason.”

“In your circumstances, you cannot afford to be so considerate,” said Achimas with sudden abruptness. The task was difficult enough without the time allowed being shortened unnecessarily. “You wish me to complete the task before the twenty-fifth of June, that is, you are giving me only three days. It is rather short notice. I shall do my best, but I can promise nothing.”

That same day Achimas paid his assistants what was due to them and dismissed them — he had no more need of their services.

He himself boarded the night train to Moscow.