The Death of Achilles

NINE

The operation went so smoothly that it was almost boring. All that was required of him was a little patience.

At a quarter past twelve three droshkys pulled up outside the Anglia: Wanda and the mark were in the first and all seven officers were in the other two.

Achimas (wearing a false beard and spectacles, quite unmistakably a university lecturer) had earlier taken a two-room suite at the hotel with windows facing in both directions — onto the street and into the courtyard with the annex. He turned the light off so that his silhouette wouldn’t give him away.

The general was well guarded. When Sobolev and his female companion disappeared behind the door of Wanda’s suite, the officers prepared to stand watch over their leader’s recreation: One remained in the street, at the entrance to the hotel, another began patrolling the inner courtyard, while a third quietly slipped inside the annex and evidently took up a position in the hallway. The other four set off to the buffet. They were evidently going to keep watch by turns.

At twenty-three minutes to one the electric light in the windows of the suite was extinguished and the curtains were illuminated with a dull red glow from within. Achimas nodded approvingly — the chanteuse was playing her part with true Parisian virtuosity.

The officer strolling about in the courtyard glanced around stealthily, walked over to a red window, and stood on tiptoe, but then recoiled as if he were ashamed and resumed his striding back and forth again, whistling with emphatic cheerfulness.

Achimas gazed intently at the minute hand of his watch. What if the White General, so famous for his coolness in battle, never lost his head and his pulse never raced, not even from passion? That was unlikely, for it contradicted the laws of physiology. In the restaurant he had blushed violently at Wanda’s kisses and more than mere kisses would be involved now.

A more likely possibility was that he would not touch the Chateau d’Yquem. But the laws of psychology said that he should. If lovers don’t throw themselves into each other’s arms in the first instant — and a good twenty minutes had passed before the lamp in the boudoir was extinguished — they had to amuse themselves with something. The best thing of all would be for him to drink a glass of his favorite wine, which happened quite fortuitously to be close at hand. And if he didn’t drink it today, then he would drink it tomorrow. Or the next day. Sobolev would be in Moscow until the twenty-seventh and there could be little doubt that from now on he would prefer to spend the night here instead of in suite 47 at the Dusseaux. The Ryazan Commercial Association would be only too glad to pay the cost of a season ticket for their compatriot — Monsieur NN had provided more than enough money for expenses.

At five minutes past one Achimas heard a muffled woman’s scream, then another, louder and more prolonged, but he couldn’t make out any words. The officer in the courtyard started and set off toward the annex at a run. A moment later bright light flooded the windows and shadows began flitting about on the curtains.

That was all.

Achimas walked unhurriedly in the direction of Theater Lane, swinging his cane as he went. There was plenty of time. It took seven minutes to reach the Dusseaux at a leisurely pace — that afternoon he had walked the shortest route twice, timing himself with his watch. The fuss and panic, the attempts to bring the general around, the arguments about whether or not to call a doctor to the hotel or first take Sobolev to the Dusseaux for the sake of appearances — these would take at least an hour.

His problem lay elsewhere: What was he to do with Wanda now? The elementary rules of hygiene required him to clean up after the job was done, to leave no loose ends behind. Of course, there wouldn’t be any inquiry — the officers and gentlemen would make certain of that — and Monsieur NN wouldn’t allow it in any case. And Wanda was extremely unlikely to have noticed that the bottle had been switched. However, if the subject of the bearer of gifts from Ryazan should come up, if it should be discovered that the real Nikolai Nikolaevich Klonov had never set foot outside his own fabric warehouse, there would be unnecessary complications. And in the words of the old saying: God helps those who help themselves.

Achimas frowned. Unfortunately, his line of work did have its unpleasant moments.

It was with these gloomy but unavoidable thoughts in mind that he turned off Sofiiskaya Street into the opening of an entryway that led most conveniently to the rear courtyard of the Dusseaux, directly beneath the windows of Sobolev’s suite.

With a quick glance at the dark windows (all the hotel’s guests had been asleep for a long time already), Achimas set a crate that he had spotted earlier against the wall. The bedroom window opened at his gentle push with only a quiet jingling of its latch. Five seconds later Achimas was inside.

He clicked the spring of his pocket flashlight and it sprang to life, slicing through the darkness with a narrow, faint beam that was still quite strong enough for him to make out the safe.

Achimas pushed a pick into the keyhole and began methodically twisting it to the left and the right in a regular rhythm. He regarded himself as an amateur in the art of safecracking, but in the course of a long career you learn many different things. After three minutes there was a click as the first of the lock’s three tumblers yielded. The remaining two required less time — only about two minutes.

The iron door squeaked open. Achimas put his hand inside and felt some papers or other. He shone the light in: lists of names and diagrams. Monsieur NN would probably have been very glad to get his hands on these papers, but the terms of Achimas’s contract didn’t specify the theft of any documents.

In any case, just at that moment Achimas wasn’t interested in documents.

He was pondering a surprise: The briefcase was not in the safe.