The Death of Achilles

FIVE

In which Moscow is cast in the role of a jungle

“And my p-proposals come down to the following,” said Fandorin, summing up his report. “Immediately place the German citizen Hans-Georg Knabe under secret observation and determine his range of contacts.”

“Evgeny Osipovich, would it not be best to arrest the blackguard?” asked the governor-general, knitting his dyed eyebrows in an angry frown.

“It is not possible to arrest him without any evidence,” the chief of police replied. “And it’s pointless; he’s an old hand. I’d rather bring in this Wanda, Your Excellency, and put her under serious pressure. You never know, it might turn up a few leads.”

The fourth participant in the secret conference, Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky, remained silent.

They had been in conference for a long time already, since first thing that morning. Erast Petrovich had reported on the events of the previous evening and how he had followed the mysterious visitor, who had proved to be the German businessman Hans-Georg Knabe, the Moscow representative of the Berlin banking firm Kerbel und Schmidt, with a residence on Karyetny Ryad. When the collegiate assessor related the sinister conversation between Knabe and Wanda, his report had to be interrupted briefly, because Prince Dolgorukoi became extremely agitated and began shouting and waving his fists in the air.

“Ah, the villains, ah, the blackguards! Were they the ones who murdered the noble knight of the Russian land? What heinous treachery! An international scandal! Oh, the Germans will pay for this!”

“That will do, Your Excellency,” the head of the secret section, Khurtinsky, murmured reassuringly. “This is too dubious a hypothesis. Poison the White General! Nonsense! I can’t believe the Germans would take such a risk. They are a civilized nation, not treacherous Persian conspirators!”

“Civilized?” exclaimed General Karachentsev, baring his teeth in a snarl. “I have here the articles from today’s British and German newspapers, sent to me by the Russian Telegraph Agency. As we know, Mikhail Dmitrievich was no great lover of either of these two countries, and he made no secret of his views. But compare the tone! With your permission, Your Excellency?” The chief of police set his pince-nez on his nose and took a sheet of paper out of a file.

The English Standard writes:

Sobolev’s compatriots will find him hard to replace. His mere appearance on a white horse ahead of the firing line was enough to inspire in his soldiers an enthusiasm such as even the veterans of Napoleon hardly ever displayed. The death of such a man during the present critical period is an irreparable loss for Russia. He was an enemy of England, but in this country his exploits were followed with scarcely less interest than in his homeland.

“Indeed, frankly and nobly put,” said the prince approvingly.

“Precisely. And now I will read you an article from Saturday’s Bbrsen Kurier.” Karachentsev picked up another sheet of paper. “Mm… Well, this piece will do:”

The Russian bear is no longer dangerous. Let the pan-Slavists weep over the grave of Sobolev. But as for us Germans, we must honestly admit that we are glad of the death of a formidable enemy. We do not experience any feelings of regret. The only man in Russia who was genuinely able to act upon his word is dead.

“And so on in the same vein. How’s that for civilization, eh?”

The governor was outraged.

“Shameless impudence! Of course, the anti-German feelings of the deceased are well known. We can all remember the genuine furor caused by his speech in Paris on the Slav question — it almost caused a serious falling-out between the emperor and the kaiser. “The road to Constantinople lies through Berlin and Vienna!” Strongly put, with no diplomatic niceties. But to stoop to murder! Why, it’s quite unheard-of! I shall inform His Majesty immediately! Even without Sobolev we’ll give those sausage-eaters a dose of medicine that will—”

“Your Excellency,” said Evgeny Osipovich, gently interrupting the fuming governor. “Should we not first listen to the rest of what Mr. Fan-dorin has to say?”

After that they had heard Erast Petrovich out without interruption, although his culminating proposal to limit themselves to placing Knabe under observation was clearly a disappointment to his listeners, as the remarks adduced above testify. To the chief of police Fandorin said: “To arrest Wanda would cause a scandal. By doing that we would dishonor the m-memory of the deceased and would be unlikely to achieve anything. We would only frighten Herr Knabe off. And in any case, I got the distinct impression from their conversation that Mademoiselle Wanda did not kill Sobolev. After all, Professor Welling’s autopsy did not reveal any traces of poison.”

“Precisely,” Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky said emphatically, addressing himself exclusively to Prince Dolgorukoi. “An entirely ordinary paralysis of the heart, Your Excellency. Most regrettable, but these things happen. Even in the very prime of life, as in the deceased’s case. I wonder whether the collegiate assessor might not have misheard. Or even — who knows — fantasized a little? After all, he himself admitted that German is not exactly his forte.”

Erast Petrovich gave the speaker a particularly keen look, but said nothing in reply. However, the redheaded gendarme jumped in.

“What do you mean, fantasized! Sobolev was in the very best of health! He hunted bears with a forked pole and bathed in a hole in the ice on the river! Are you trying to say that he lived through a hail of fire at Plevna and in the desert of Turkestan, but he couldn’t survive a bit of lovemaking? Rubbish! You should stick to gathering the city’s gossip, Mr. Khurtinsky, and not meddle in matters of espionage.”

Fandorin was surprised by this open confrontation, but the governor was apparently well used to such scenes. He raised a conciliatory hand.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, do not argue. My head is spinning already. So many things to do after this death. Telegrams, condolences, deputations, they’ve covered the whole of Theater Lane with wreaths — you can’t get through on foot or by carriage. There are important individuals coming to the funeral; they have to be met and accommodated. This evening the war minister and the head of the General Staff will arrive. Tomorrow Grand Duke Kirill Alexandrovich will arrive and go directly to the funeral. And today I have to call on the Duke of Liecht-enburg. He and his wife happened by chance to be in Moscow. His wife, the Countess Mirabeau, is the sister of the deceased, and I must go and offer them my condolences. I have already sent notice to them. You come with me, Erast Petrovich, my dear fellow; you can go over everything with me once again in the carriage. We’ll consider together what best to do. And you, Evgeny Osipovich, please arrange to have both of them followed for the time being: this German and the girl. It would be good to intercept that little report that Knabe mentioned. I’ll tell you what. Let him write the report for his spymasters and then catch him red-handed with the evidence. And as soon as you have issued instructions for the surveillance, come straight back here to me, if you please. When Erast Petrovich and I get back, we’ll make a final decision. We can’t afford to make a mess of things. This business has the whiff of war about it.”

The general clicked his heels and went out, and Khurtinsky immediately darted across to the governor’s desk.

“Urgent papers, Your Excellency,” he said, bending right down to the prince’s ear.

“Are they so very urgent?” the governor growled. “You heard me, Petrusha, I’m in a hurry; the duke’s waiting.”

The court counselor set his open hand against the decoration on his starched breast.

“They must be dealt with immediately, Vladimir Andreevich. Look here — this is an estimate for completing the painting of the cathedral. I suggest awarding the commission to Mr. Gegechkori, a most excellent painter and a man with a very sound way of thinking. The amount he is asking is certainly not small, but then he will do the work on time — he is a man of his word. All that’s required is your signature here, and you can consider the matter completed.”

Pyotr Parmyonovich deftly set a sheet of paper in front of the governor and drew a second one out of his folder.

“And this, Vladimir Andreevich, is a plan for the excavation of an underground metropolitan railway, following the example of London. The contractor is Commercial Counselor Zykov. A great undertaking. I had the honor of reporting to you about it.”

“I remember,” Dolgorukoi growled. “So now they’ve dreamed up some city railway or other. How much money does it require?”

“A mere pittance. Zykov is asking only half a million for the surveying work. I’ve looked at the estimate and it’s perfectly sound.”

“ Only,” sighed the prince. “When did you get so rich, Petka, that half a million became a mere pittance?” Then, noticing Fandorin’s amazement at observing him dealing in such a familiar fashion with the head of his secret section, he explained. “Pyotr Parmyonovich and I talk like close relatives. But, you know, he was raised in my house. My deceased cook’s little son. If only Parmyon, God rest his soul, could hear how casually you dispose of millions, Petrusha!”

Khurtinsky gave Erast Petrovich an angry sideways glance, evidently displeased at this reminder of his plebeian origins.

“And this concerns the prices for gas. I’ve drawn up a memorandum, Vladimir Andreevich. It would be good to reduce the tariff in order to make street lighting cheaper. To three rubles per thousand cubic feet. They’re taking too much as things are now.”

“All right, give me your papers; I’ll read them in the carriage and sign them,” said Dolgorukoi, getting to his feet. “It’s time to get going. It’s bad form to keep important people waiting. Let’s go, Erast Petrovich; we can discuss things along the way.”

In the corridor, Fandorin inquired with great politeness: “But tell me, Your Excellency, will the emperor himself not be coming? After all, it is Sobolev who has died, not just anybody.”

Dolgorukoi squinted at the collegiate assessor and declared emphatically: “He did not consider it possible. He has sent his brother, Kirill Alexandrovich. But why is not for us to know.”

Fandorin merely bowed without speaking.

They were not able to discuss things along the way. When they were already seated in the carriage — the governor on soft cushions and Erast Petrovich facing him on a leather-upholstered bench — the door suddenly swung open and the prince’s valet, Frol Vedishchev, clambered in, panting and gasping. He seated himself unceremoniously beside the prince and shouted to the driver: “Let’s go, Misha, let’s go!”

Then, without paying the slightest attention to Erast Petrovich, he swung around to face Dolgorukoi.

“Vladimir Andreevich, I’m going with you,” he declared in a tone that brooked no objections.

“Frolushka,” the prince said meekly. “I’ve taken my medicine, and now please don’t interfere; I have important things to talk over with Mr. Fandorin.”

“Never mind, your talk can wait,” the tyrant declared with an angry wave of his hand. “What were those papers that Petka slipped you?”

“Here they are, Frol,” said Vladimir Andreevich, opening his folder. “A commission for the artist Gegechkori to complete the murals in the cathedral. The estimate has been drawn up, see? And this is a contract for the merchant Zykov. We ‘re going to dig a railway underneath Moscow, so that people can get around more quickly. And there’s this — about reducing the prices for gas.”

Vedishchev glanced into the papers and announced determinedly: “You mustn’t give the cathedral to this Gegechkori; he’s a well-known swindler. Better give it to one of our own artists, from Moscow. They have to make a living, too. It will be cheaper and every bit as beautiful. Where are we going to get the money from? There isn’t any money. Gegechkori promised your Petka that he would decorate his dacha in Al-abino, that’s why Petka’s taking so much trouble on his behalf.”

“So you think we shouldn’t give the commission to Gegechkori,” Dolgorukoi asked pensively, and put the paper on the bottom of the pile.

“It doesn’t even bear thinking about,” snapped Frol. “And this underground railway is sheer stupidity. What’s the point of digging a hole in the ground and sending a steam engine down it? It’s just throwing the treasury’s money away. What an idiotic idea!”

“Well, you’re wrong about that,” the prince objected. “The metro is a good thing. Just look what the traffic’s like — we’re barely crawling along.”

It was true: The gubernatorial carriage was stuck at the turn onto Neglinnaya Street and, despite desperate efforts, the convoy of gendarmes was quite unable to clear the road, which, on a Saturday, was packed solid with the carts and wagons of traders from Okhotny Ryad.

Vedishchev shook his head, as though the prince himself should realize that his stubbornness was wrongheaded.

“But you know the councilors in the Municipal Duma will say old Dol-gorukoi’s finally lost his mind completely. And your enemies in St. Petersburg won’t miss dieir chance, either. Don’t sign it, Vladimir Andreevich.”

The governor gave a mournful sigh and set the second paper aside.

“And what about the gas?”

Vedishchev took the memorandum, held it away from himself, and began moving his lips soundlessly.

“That’s all right, you can sign it. It saves the city money and it eases the burden on the people of Moscow.”

“That’s what I think, too,” said the prince, brightening up. He folded down the small desk with a writing set that was attached to the carriage door and affixed his sprawling signature to the document.

Erast Petrovich was astounded by this incredible scene, but he made a great effort to act as if nothing out of the ordinary were taking place, gazing out the window with intense interest. At that very moment they arrived at the house of Princess Beloselskaya-Belozerskaya, where the Duke of Liechtenburg was staying with his wife, nee Zinaida Dmitrievna Soboleva, who had been granted the title of the Countess Mirabeau in morganatic marriage.

Erast Petrovich knew that Evgeny of Liechtenburg, a major-general in the Russian Guards and commander of the Potsdam Life-Cuirassiers, was the grandson of the emperor Nikolai Pavlovich. He had not, however, inherited the famous basilisk stare of his fearsome grandfather — his highness’s own eyes were the color of blue Saxon porcelain and they peered out through his pince-nez with an expression of mild courtesy. The countess, on the other hand, proved to resemble her famous brother greatly. Although she lacked his physical stature and her bearing was far from martial, while the oval outline of her face was delicately defined, nonetheless, her blue eyes were precisely the same as his and she was the exact same breed — unmistakably a Sobolev. The audience went awry from the very beginning.

“The countess and I came to Moscow on a quite diffewent matter, and then there was this tewwible calamity,” the duke began, rolling his r’s in a most engaging fashion and supporting his words by flapping his hand, the middle finger of which was adorned with an old sapphire.

Zinaida Dmitrievna did not allow her husband to finish.

“How, how could it have happened?” she exclaimed, and the large tears streamed down her face, which, even swollen as it was by her lamentations, remained delightful. “Prince, Vladimir Andreevich, the grief is unbearable!”

The countess’s mouth twisted and froze into the double curve of a yoke and she was unable to carry on speaking.

“Evewything is in God’s hands,” the bewildered duke muttered and glanced in panic at Dolgorukoi and Fandorin.

“Evgeny Maximilianovich, Your Highness, I assure you that the circumstances of your relative’s untimely demise are being thoroughly investigated,” the governor declared in an agitated voice. “Mr. Fandorin here, my deputy for highly important assignments, is dealing with the case.”

Erast Petrovich bowed and the duke’s gaze dwelt for a moment on the young functionary’s face, but the countess dissolved in even more bitter tears.

“Zinaida Dmitrievna, my darling girl,” said the prince, sobbing himself now. “Erast Petrovich was your brother’s comrade in war. And as chance would have it, he put up at the same hotel, the Dusseaux. He is a very intelligent and experienced investigator; he will get to the bottom of everything and report back to me. But what’s the point of crying, it won’t bring him back…”

Evgeny Maximilianovich’s pince-nez glinted coldly and imperiously.

“If Mr. Fandorin should discover anything important, please inform me personally about it immediately. Until Grand Duke Kiwill Alexandwovich awwives, I wepwesent the person of His Majesty the Empewor here.”

Erast Petrovich bowed once again without speaking.

“Yes, His Majesty…” Zinaida Dmitrievna took a crumpled telegram out of her small handbag with shaking hands. “A telegram has arrived from His Majesty.”

Shocked and grieved by sudden death of Adjutant General Sobolev.

She sobbed and blew her nose, then continued reading.

He will be hard for the Russian army to replace and, of course, this loss is greatly lamented by all true soldiers. It is sad to lose such useful people who are so devoted to their work. Alexander.

Fandorin raised his eyebrows slightly — the telegram had sounded rather cold to him. “Hard to replace?” Meaning that the general could be replaced after all? “Sad” — and nothing more?

“The lying in state and funeral service are tomorrow,” said Dolgo-rukoi. “Muscovites wish to pay their final tribute to their hero. Then I presume the body will be sent by train to St. Petersburg? His Majesty will surely give instructions to arrange a state burial. There will be many people who wish to take their leave of Mikhail Sobolev.” He assumed a dignified air. “Measures have been taken, Your Highness. The body has been embalmed; so no problems will arise.”

The duke glanced sideways at his wife, who was wiping away her inexhaustible flow of tears, and said in a low voice, “The thing is, Pwince, the empewor has acceded to the wishes of the family and gwanted them permission to buwy Michel en famille at their Wyazan estate.”

Vladimir Andreevich responded with a haste that Fandorin thought slightly excessive.

“Quite right, too; things are more human that way, without all the pomp. What a man he was, such a great heart.”

He ought not to have said that. The countess, who had begun to calm down, started sobbing even more loudly than before. The governor began blinking rapidly, took out an immense handkerchief, and wiped Zinaida Dmitrievna’s face in a paternal manner, after which, overcome by emotion, he loudly blew his nose into it. Evgeny Maximilianovich observed this intemperate Slavic display of emotion with a certain degree of consternation.

“How could it happen, Vladi… Vladimir Andre… evich?” the countess asked and fell against the prince’s chest, which was squeezed up and out by his corset. “He is only six years older than me. Ooh-ooh-ooh,” she wailed in a quite unaristocratic, entirely demotic manner, like a peasant woman, and Dolgorukoi’s composure dissolved completely.

“My dear fellow,” he said to Fandorin over Zinaida Dmitrievna’s brown head of hair. “You… you know… You go on. I’ll stay here for a while. You go, take Frol and go. The carriage can come back for me afterward. And you have a word there with Evgeny Osipovich. Decide matters for yourselves. You can how see how things are.”

All the way back, Frol Grigorievich complained about intriguers (whom he called ‘antreegars’) and embezzlers of public funds.

“The things they get up to, those monsters! Every louse trying to grab a piece of everything for himself! Say a tradesman wants to open up a shop, for instance, and sell corduroy pants. You might think, what could be simpler? Pay the fifteen- ruble municipal tax and trade away. Ah, but no! Pay the local policeman, pay the excise man, pay the sanitation inspector! And all bypassing the treasury. And the top price for the pants should be a ruble and fifty kopecks — but they go for three. This isn’t Moscow, it’s an absolute jungle, that’s what it is.”

“What?” asked Fandorin, who hadn’t understood.

“Jungle. Beast against beast. Or take vodka, for example. Oh, my, sir, vodka’s an entire tragedy in itself. Let me tell you…”

And there followed the dramatic history of how the merchants, in contravention of all laws human and divine, bought duty stamps from the excise officials at one kopeck each and stuck them on bottles of home brew in order to pass it off as state produce. Erast Petrovich had absolutely no idea what to say, but fortunately his participation in the conversation did not seem to be required.

When the carriage rumbled over the cobblestones up to the front entrance of the governor’s residence, Vedishchev cut short his bitter tirade in mid-phrase: “You go straight up to the study. The chief of police must be tired of waiting by now. I’ll get on about my business.” And with an alacrity surprising in one of such great age and with such impressive sideburns, he darted down one of the side corridors.

The professional tete-a-tete went well. Fandorin and Karachentsev caught each other’s meaning at once, which both of them found exceedingly pleasant.

The general settled himself in the armchair by the window and Erast Petrovich sat facing him on a velvet-covered chair.

“First, let me tell you about Herr Knabe,” Evgeny Osipovich began, holding his folder at the ready but not glancing into it for the time being. “An individual well known to me. I simply did not wish, in such a crowd…” He made a wry face, and Fandorin realized that he was referring to Khurtinsky. The general slapped his hand down on the folder. “I have here a secret circular from last year. From the department, from the Third Office, which, as you know, deals with all sorts of political matters, and they instruct me to keep an eye on Hans-Georg Knabe. To make sure he doesn’t overstep the mark.”

Erast Petrovich inclined his head inquiringly to one side.

“A spy,” the chief of police explained. “According to our information, a captain of the German General Staff. The head of the kaiser’s intelligence service in Moscow. Knowing that, I believed what you told us immediately and unconditionally.”

“And you don’t pick him up because a secret agent you know is better than one you don’t,” the collegiate assessor stated rather than asked.

“Precisely. And there are certain rules of diplomatic propriety. If I arrest him and expel him, then what? The Germans immediately expel one of our men. What good is that to anyone? It’s simply not done, touching foreign agents without specific instructions to do so. However, this particular incident goes far beyond the bounds of gentlemanly behavior.”

Erast Petrovich could not help smiling at such an obvious understatement.

“Yes, indeed, to put it mildly.”

The general smiled, too.

“And so we are going to pick up Herr Knabe. The question is, where and when?” Evgeny Osipovich’s smile broadened even further. “I think, this evening, at the Alpine Rose restaurant. You see, according to information in my possession” — he slapped his hand down on the closed folder once again — “Knabe often spends the evening there. He phoned them again today and booked a table for seven o’clock. For some reason under the name of Rosenberg, although, as you can imagine, he is very well known at the restaurant.”

“Interesting,” remarked Fandorin. “And he really ought to be brought in.”

The general nodded. “I have instructions from the governor-general for the arrest. I operate as a soldier: The superiors give the orders, I carry them out.”

“How do we know that Knabe t-telephoned and booked a table under a false name?” Erast Petrovich asked after a moment’s thought.

“Technical progress.” The police chief’s eyes glinted cunningly. “It is possible to listen to telephone conversations at the exchange. But that is strictly between you and me. If they ever find out, I shall lose half my sources of information. By the way, your friend Wanda will be performing at the Rose today as well. She told the porter to have a carriage at the door at six. This evening presents an interesting prospect. It would be good to pick up the pair of them together. The question is, how to proceed?”

“Resolutely, but keeping everything neat and tidy.”

Karachentsev sighed.

“My dashing lads are fine when it’s a matter of being resolute. But they’re not so good when it comes to tidiness.”

Erast Petrovich began speaking in half phrases.

“What if I do it? As a private individual? If anything happens — no diplomatic incidents. Your men standing by, eh? Only, Your Excellency, no duplication, like yesterday in the Anglia.”

Well, I’ll be damned if it isn’t a sheer pleasure working with you, the general thought. But out loud he said: “I apologize for yesterday. It won’t happen again. But about today… two outside, two inside, in the hall. What do you think?”

“There should be none in the hall at all — a professional will always spot them,” the collegiate assessor declared confidently. “But outside — one in a carriage at the front door and one at the back door. Just in case. I think that will be enough. He’s an agent after all, not a terrorist.”

“How are you thinking of proceeding?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’ll see how it goes; take a close look, observe for a while. I don’t like trying to guess ahead.”

“I understand,” said the general, nodding. “And I have full confidence in your judgment. Do you have a weapon? Our Mr. Knabe is in a desperate situation. In this case he won’t get off with simple deportation, and his superiors will disown him if anything happens. He may not be a terrorist, but he’ll probably be very nervous.”

Erast Petrovich slipped his hand in under his frock coat, and a moment later there was a small, neat-looking revolver with a fluted handle, worn down by frequent use, lying on the palm of his hand.

“A Herstal-Agent?” Evgeny Osipovich asked respectfully. “An elegant little piece. Do you mind if I take a look?”

The general took hold of the revolver, opened the cylinder deftly, and clicked his tongue in admiration: “Gas-operated? That’s splendid! Fire off all six bullets one after another if you like. But isn’t the trigger a bit too sensitive?”

“This button here is the safety catch,” said Fandorin, pointing. “So it won’t go off in your pocket. It’s not all that accurate, of course, but then in our business the main thing is a rapid rate of fire. We don’t need to hit a mink in the eye.”

“Perfectly true,” agreed Evgeny Osipovich, handing back the gun. “So, will she recognize you? Wanda, I mean.”

“Please do not b-be concerned, Your Excellency. I have an entire chest full of makeup. She won’t recognize me.”

Entirely satisfied, Karachentsev leaned back in his chair, and, although the discussion of business had apparently been concluded, he seemed in no hurry to say good-bye. The general offered Fandorin a cigar, but the collegiate assessor took out his own, from an elegant suede case.

“Genuine Batavia, Evgeny Osipovich. Would you like to try one?”

The chief of police took a slim, chocolate-colored wand, lit it, and released a thin stream of smoke, savoring the flavor. The general very definitely liked Mr. Fandorin, and that was why the final decision was taken to steer the conversation in a delicate direction.

“You are new to our Moscow jungle…,” he began cautiously.

He talks about the jungle, too, Erast thought in surprise, but gave no sign of it. He only said: “And to the Russian jungle, too.”

“Yes, indeed. While you’ve been on your travels things have changed a great deal.”

Fandorin waited with an attentive smile for what would follow — all the signs suggested that the conversation to follow would not be a trivial one.

“What do you make of our old beau?” the chief of police suddenly asked.

Erast Petrovich hesitated before replying: “I think that His Excellency is by no means as simple as he seems.”

“Alas.” The general forcibly blew a thick stream of smoke up into the air. “In his time the prince was far from simple, very far indeed. It’s no easy thing, maintaining a grip of iron on the old capital for sixteen years. But the old wolf’s teeth have come loose. It’s hardly surprising — he’s over seventy now. He’s gotten old and lost his grip.” Evgeny Osipovich leaned forward and lowered his voice confidentially. “He hasn’t got much time left. You can see for yourself, those lackeys of his, Khurtinsky and Vedishchev, can twist him around their little fingers. And that famous cathedral of his. It’s sucked the city completely dry. And for what? Think of all the orphanages and hospitals you could build with money like that! No, our latter-day pharaoh is determined to leave his own pyramid after him when he’s gone.”

Erast Petrovich listened attentively without opening his mouth.

“I understand that it’s awkward for you to discuss this,” said Karachentsev, leaning back in his armchair again. “But just listen to someone who is genuinely well-disposed toward you. I can tell you that there is dissatisfaction with Dolgorukoi at court. The slightest blunder from his side and it will be the end. Off into retirement, to Nice. And then, Erast Petrovich, his entire Moscow junta will fall apart. A new man will come, someone quite different. He will bring his own people. In fact, they’re already here, his people. Making ready.”

“You, for instance?”

“You take my meaning at once. And that means I do not need to continue. The essence of the proposal is clear to you.”

This really is more like a jungle than the old capital city, thought Erast Petrovich, looking into the redheaded police chief’s eyes, positively aglow with goodwill — to all appearances the eyes of an honest and intelligent man. The collegiate assessor smiled in a most agreeable manner and shrugged.

“I appreciate your confidence; indeed I am flattered by it. Perhaps Moscow would indeed be better off with a new governor. But I cannot undertake to judge, since I still understand nothing about Moscow affairs. I have, however, lived in Japan for four years, Your Excellency, and, would you believe, I have become completely Japanese — sometimes I even surprise myself. In Japan a samurai — and in their terms you and I are both samurai — must keep faith with his overlord, no matter how bad he might be. Otherwise nothing would work; the whole system would collapse. Vladimir Andreevich is not exactly my sovereign lord, and yet I cannot feel entirely free of all obligations to him. Please do not take this amiss.”

“Well, that is a shame,” sighed the general, realizing that any attempt at persuasion would be futile. “You could have had a great future. But never mind. Perhaps you still will. You can always count on my support. May I hope that this little chat will remain between the two of us?”

“You may,” the collegiate assessor replied tersely, and Karachentsev immediately believed him.

“Time to get going,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll issue instructions concerning the Rose and select some of my brighter deputies for you, and you, in turn…”

They left the governor’s study, discussing the final details of the forthcoming operation as they went. A second later a small door in the corner of the room opened — it led to the private lounge where the old prince liked to doze after lunch. Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev emerged from behind the door, stepping silently in his thick felt slippers. His bushy gray eyebrows were knitted in a grim frown. The prince’s valet walked across to the chair on which the chief of police had been sitting a minute earlier and spat savagely, leaving a brown gob of tobacco spittle on the leather seat.