The Death of Achilles

ELEVEN

He managed to sneak into Wanda’s suite without being noticed. As he had anticipated, the songstress hadn’t yet returned from the Alpine Rose. Between the boudoir and the hallway there was a cloakroom, crammed with dresses on hangers and stacks of shoeboxes and hatboxes. The room was ideally positioned, with one door leading into the boudoir and another into the hallway.

If Wanda came back alone, it would all be over quickly, without any complications. She would open the door in order to get a change of clothes and die that very second, before she had any time to feel afraid.

Achimas very much didn’t want her to suffer any fear or pain before she died.

He pondered the question of what would be more appropriate — an accident or suicide — and settled on suicide. There were surely many reasons why a woman of the demimonde might decide to take her own life.

The task was simplified by the fact that Wanda didn’t employ a maid. If you had been used to looking after yourself all your life, then it was more convenient to manage without servants — he knew that from his own experience. On the island of Santa Croce the servants would live apart; he would build a house for them at a good distance from the count’s residence. They could always be summoned if they were needed.

But what if Wanda didn’t come back alone?

Well, in that case it would be a double suicide. That was quite fashionable nowadays.

He heard the sound of a door opening and light footsteps.

She was alone.

Achimas grimaced as he recalled her voice asking him: “You won’t deceive me, will you, Kolya?” At that very instant the door from the boudoir into the dressing room half-opened and a slim, naked arm reached in and pulled a Chinese dressing gown decorated with dragons off its hanger.

The moment had been missed. Achimas looked through the chink of the door. Wanda was standing in front of the mirror, still in her dress, holding the dressing gown in her hand.

Three quick, silent steps and the job would be done. She would hardly even have time to catch a glimpse of the figure behind her in the mirror.

Achimas opened the door slightly and then pulled back at the sound of a brief trill from the electric doorbell.

Wanda went out into the hallway, exchanged a few brief words with someone, and came back into the drawing room, examining a small piece of cardboard. A calling card?

She was standing with her profile toward Achimas now and he saw her face quiver.

Almost immediately there was another ring at the door.

Again he was unable to hear what was said in the hallway — the door on that side of the little room was firmly shut. But Wanda and her late-night visitor came straight through into the drawing room, and then he could hear and even see everything.

Fate had an unexpected surprise in store for him. When the visitor — a well- proportioned young man in a fashionable frock coat — entered the circle of light cast by the lamp shade, Achimas recognized his face immediately. In the years that had passed it had changed greatly, matured and shed the soft contours of youth, but it was definitely the same man. Achimas never forgot what his targets looked like; he remembered every last little detail of every one, and especially of this one.

It was an old story from a long time ago, from the interesting period when Achimas had been contracted to work for an organization that called itself ‘Azazel’. They were very serious people who paid the top rate, but they were romantics. That was clear enough from the absolute requirement to utter the word ‘Azazel’ before every strike. Sentimental nonsense. But Achimas had observed this ludicrous condition — a contract is a contract.

He found it disagreeable to look at the handsome young man with black hair. Above all because he was still walking about and breathing. In his entire professional career Achimas had only failed in his task three times, and now he saw before him the living proof of one of those occasions. He ought surely to have been content with such a low failure rate after twenty years of work, but his mood, which had been bad enough already, was now completely spoiled.

What was the name of this young neophyte? Something beginning with ‘F’.

“Mr. Fandorin, on your card it says ‘I know everything’. What is ‘everything’? And who are you, as a matter of fact?” Wanda asked in a hostile tone of voice.

Yes, yes, Fandorin. That was his name. Erast Petrovich Fandorin. So now he was the governor-general’s deputy for special assignments, was he?

Achimas listened carefully to the conversation taking place in the next room, trying to understand the significance of this unexpected encounter. He knew that extraordinary coincidences like this were never accidental; they represented some kind of sign from the fates. Was this a good sign or a bad one? The habit of tidiness prompted him to kill the black-haired young man, although the term of the contract had expired long ago, and the clients themselves had disappeared without a trace. It was sloppy to leave a job unfinished. But, on the other hand, it would be unprofessional to give way to his emotions. Mr. Fandorin could continue on his way. After all, even six years ago Achimas hadn’t had anything personal against him.

But when the young functionary brought up a highly dangerous subject — the Chateau d’Yquem — Achimas was ready to reverse his decision: Mr. Fandorin couldn’t be allowed to leave this place alive. And then Wanda surprised him by not saying a single word about the merchant from Ryazan and how incredibly well-informed he had been concerning the habits of the deceased hero. She led the conversation off in a completely different direction. What could that mean?

Shortly after that the young man took his leave.

Wanda sat at the table with her face in her hands. Nothing could be easier than to kill her now, but Achimas still hesitated.

Why kill her? She had withstood questioning without giving anything away. If the authorities had shown themselves perceptive enough to see through the officers’ primitive conspiracy and find Mademoiselle Wanda, it would be better not to touch her for the time being. The sudden suicide of a witness would appear suspicious.

Achimas shook his head angrily. He must not deceive himself; it was a violation of his code. These reasons were merely excuses for letting her live. At this precise moment the suicide of a chance witness to a national tragedy would seem perfectly understandable: remorse, a nervous breakdown, fear of possible consequences. He had wasted enough time. It was time to get the job done.

There was another ring at the door.

Wanda was in great demand this evening.

Once again the visitor proved to be a familiar face. Not an old acquaintance like Fandorin, but a recent one — the German agent Hans-Georg Knabe.

The spy’s very first words put Achimas on his guard.

“You serve me badly, Fraulein Tolle.”

A fine turn of events this was! Achimas could hardly believe his ears. What ‘substance’ was this? Wanda had been instructed to poison Sobolev? God preserved Germany? It was raving lunacy! Or perhaps some incredible series of coincidences that he could exploit to his own advantage?

As soon as the door closed behind the German, Achimas emerged from his hiding place. When Wanda came back into the room, she didn’t notice at first that there was someone standing in the corner, and when she did she clutched at her heart and uttered a thin shriek.

“Are you a German agent?” Achimas asked curiously, ready to put his hand over her mouth if she tried to make any noise. “Have you been making a fool of me?”

“Kolya…,” she blurted out, raising her hand to her mouth. “Were you listening? Who are you? Who?”

He shook his head impatiently, as though shaking off a bothersome fly.

“Where is the substance?”

“How did you get in here? What for?” Wanda muttered, as if she hadn’t heard his questions.

Achimas took her by the shoulders and sat her down. She gazed at him through wide, black pupils. He could see two miniature reflections of the lamp shade in them.

“This is a strange conversation we are having, mademoiselle,” he said, sitting down facing her. “All questions and no answers. Someone has to begin and it might as well be me. You have asked me three questions: Who am I, how did I get in here, and what for. Here are my answers. I am Nikolai Nikolaevich Klonov. I got in here through the door. And as for why — I think you already know that. I engaged your services to provide a pleasurable surprise for our famous compatriot, Mikhail Dmitrievich Sobolev, and not only did he receive very little pleasure, he lost his life. Surely I am obliged to make inquiries? It would be irresponsible not to, a violation of the merchant’s code. What shall I report to the association? After all, money has been spent.”

“I’ll give you back your money,” said Wanda, ready to rush away and get it.

“It’s not a question of the money,” said Achimas, stopping her. “After standing in there for a while, listening to your conversations with your visitors, I realized I had no idea of what had been going on. Apparently you and Herr Knabe were playing your own little game. I should like to know, mademoiselle, what you did to our national hero.”

“Nothing! I swear!” She dashed across to a little cupboard and took something out of it. “Here is the bottle that Knabe gave me. See, it’s still full. I don’t play other people’s games.”

The tears were streaming down her face, but there was no entreaty in the gaze that she turned on him, and certainly no trace of hysteria. She hadn’t folded her cards, even though the situation she was in was truly desperate: caught between the Russian police, German intelligence, and Achimas Welde, who would be worse than any police force and intelligence service combined. But then, she knew nothing about that. He glanced at the tense expression on her face. Or did she?

Achimas shook the bottle, examined its color, sniffed the cork. Apparently crude cyanide.

“Mademoiselle, do not try to hide anything from me. How long have you been connected with German intelligence? What instructions did Knabe give you?”

A rather peculiar change came over Wanda. She stopped trembling, her tears dried up, and a strange expression appeared in her eyes, an expression that Achimas had seen once before — the previous evening, when she had asked him if he regretted giving her away to someone else.

She moved closer and sat on the arm of his chair, then put her hand on his shoulder. She spoke in a voice that was quiet and tired.

“Of course, Kolya. I’ll tell you everything. I won’t try to hide anything. Knabe is a German spy. He has been coming to me for three years now. I was a fool when it all started; I wanted to get my money as quickly as possible, and he paid very well. Not for love — for information. All sorts of men come to see me, most of them big shots of one kind or another. Some of them are from the very top. Like your Sobolev. And men like to let loose their tongues in bed.” She ran a finger across his cheek. “Someone like you probably wouldn’t. But there aren’t many like you. Do you really think I earned that fifty thousand in my bed? No, my dear, I’m too choosy. I have to like a man. Sometimes, of course, Knabe would deliberately offer me to someone. The way you did with Sobolev. I tried to resist, but I was locked far too tightly in his vice. At first he sang me a sweet song: What are you doing living here in Russia, fraulein, you’re German, you have a homeland of your own. Germany will not forget the services you have rendered; honor and safety await you there. Here you will always be a courtesan, but in Germany no one will ever find out about your past. The moment you wish it, we will help you to settle down comfortably, with honor. But later he changed his tune and kept telling me how long his reach was, that German citizenship had to be earned. I don’t want their damned citizenship, but there was nothing I could do. He tightened his noose around my throat. He could even kill me. Without the slightest problem. As an example to the others. He has plenty more like me.” Wanda shivered, but then she shook her luxuriant hair almost lightheartedly. “The day before yesterday, when Knabe heard about Sobolev — like a fool I told him myself, I wanted to get into his good books — he almost nagged me to death. He started saying that Sobolev was Germany’s sworn enemy and muttering about a conspiracy in the army. He said that if Sobolev were not eliminated, there would be a great war, and Germany was not yet ready. “I’ve been racking my brain,” he said, “wondering how to stop this Scythian, and now I have this stroke of luck! It’s providential!” He brought me the bottle of poison. He promised me mountains of gold, but I wasn’t interested. Then he started threatening me. He was like a madman. I decided not to argue with him and promised to do it. But I didn’t give Sobolev the poison, honestly. He just died; it was his heart. Believe me, Kolya. I may be a despicable, cynical fallen woman, but I’m not a murderer.”

There was a hint of entreaty in her green eyes now, but still not a trace of hysterics. A proud woman. But even so, she couldn’t be allowed to live. A pity.

Achimas sighed and placed his right hand on her exposed neck. His thumb was on her artery, his middle ringer on her fourth vertebra, just below the base of the skull. He only needed to squeeze, and the light in those eyes looking down at him so trustingly would fade and die.

And then something unexpected happened. Wanda put her arm around Achimas’s neck, pulled him closer, and pressed her hot cheek against his forehead.

“Is it you?” she whispered. “Is it you I’ve been waiting for all this time?”

Achimas looked at her white, delicate skin. Something strange was happening to him.