The State Counsellor

CHAPTER 10 A letter for Green

The sun crept slowly across the sky, never rising far above the flat roofs, even at its highest point. Green sat at the window, perfectly still, watching as the lamp of heaven followed its foreshortened winter route. The punctilious disc of light had only a very short distance left to travel to the final point - the dark, monolithic mass of a grain elevator - when a squat figure appeared on the deserted path that led from the railway lines to Mariinsky Passage.

It wasn't such a bad place, even if it was cramped and there were bedbugs, thought Green. This was the first passer-by since midday, he hadn't seen another soul - just the small shunting locomotive darting backwards and forwards, shuffling the wagons about.

The sun was shining from behind the walker, and Green could only see who it was when the man turned towards the hut. Matvei, his host.

What was he doing here? He'd said he had a shift until eight, but it was only five.

Matvei came in and nodded to Green instead of saying hello. His expression was sullen and preoccupied.

'Here, looks like this is for you

Green took the crumpled envelope from him. He read the name written on it in block capitals, with purple ink: 'MR GREEN. URGENT'.

He glanced briefly at Matvei. 'Where from?'

'Devil only knows,' said the other man, turning even more gloomy. 'I don't understand it. It turned up in the pocket of my coat. I was at the depot, and they called me into the office. There were lots of folk hanging about; anyone could have stuck it in. What I think is, you need to leave. Where's your third one - the young lad?'

Green tore open the envelope, already knowing what he would see: lines of typewritten words. There they were:

The house is besieged on all sides. The police are not sure that you are inside, and so they are waiting. At exactly midnight the house will be stormed. If you manage to break out, there is a convenient apartment No. 4, Vorontsovo Place.

TG

First he struck a match and set fire to the note and the envelope. As he watched the flame, he counted his pulse.

When his circulation had recovered its normal rhythm, he said: 'Walk slowly, as if you're going back to the depot. Don't look back. The police are all around. If they try to arrest you, let them. Tell them I'm not here, I'll be back before nightfall. They're not likely to arrest you. More likely they'll let you through and put a tail on you. We have to disengage and move out. Tell the comrades I said to move you to illegal work'

His host really was strong. He stood there for a moment, without asking any questions. Then he opened a trunk and took out a small bundle, thrust it under his sheepskin coat and set off at a stroll back along the path towards Mariinsky Passage.

That was why there weren't any passers-by, Green realised. And the police had plenty of places to deploy their men - all those warehouses on every side. It was a good thing he'd been sitting to one side of the window and the curtain; they were sure to be watching through several pairs of binoculars.

As if to confirm his guess, a bright spark of light glinted in the attic window of the repair workshops. Green had seen other sparks like that earlier, but he hadn't attached any importance to them. A lesson for the future.

It was after five. The goods train with the wagon carrying Lobastov's dyes had already left for Peter. In five minutes Julie would leave on the passenger express. Bullfinch would check to make sure she got away and then come back here. Of course she'd get away - why shouldn't she? She'd overtake the goods train and meet it in Peter tomorrow and collect the sacks. The party would have money. Even if the CG was wiped out tonight, it would have been worth it.

But perhaps it wouldn't be wiped out. That remained to be seen. Forewarned was forearmed.

By the way, how well armed was he?

Green knitted his brows as he recalled that his stock of bombs had been left in the barrister's apartment, and you couldn't fight much of a war with just revolvers. He still had a little of the explosive jelly and some detonators left, but no casings and no filling.

'Emelya!' he called. 'Get your coat on, there's work.'

Emelya raised his small eyes from The Count of Monte Cristo, the only book they had found in the house.

'Hang on, eh, Greenich? This is really exciting! I'll just finish the chapter.'

'Later. There'll be time.'

Green explained the situation. 'Go to the shop and buy ten tins of stewed pork, ten tins of tomato paste and three pounds of two-inch screws. Walk calmly; don't look back. They won't touch you. If I'm wrong and they do decide to take you, fire at least one shot so I can prepare.'

He wasn't wrong. Emelya went away and came back with his purchases, and soon Bullfinch arrived too. He said Julie had got away. Good.

Midnight was still a long way off; they'd have time to get everything ready. Green let Emelya read about his count - the great hulk's fingers were too coarse for fine work - and got Bullfinch to help.

The first thing they did was open all twenty tins with a knife and dump the contents in the slop bucket. The meat tins each held a pound; the tomato tins were smaller, only half as wide. Green began with the narrow ones. He filled them halfway up with the explosive mixture - there wasn't enough for more than that, but never mind, even that would be more than adequate. Very carefully he pushed in the little glass tubes of the detonators. The principle was very simple: when the detonator compound and the explosive mixture came together, they produced an explosion of tremendous destructive force. Great care was required. Plenty of comrades had been blown to pieces when they scraped the fragile glass against the metal of the casing.

Bullfinch watched with bated breath.

After he had cautiously pressed the small tube into the jellified mass, Green bent the jutting lid back down and stood the tomato tin in an empty pork tin. The result was almost ideal. He tipped as many screws as would fit into the space between the walls of the two tins. Now all that remained to be done was close the outside lid and the bomb was ready. Any sudden blow would shatter the little tube, the explosion would tear the thin walls of the casing apart, and the screws would be transformed into deadly shrapnel. It had been tested more than once and the results were excellent. There was only one drawback: the range of the shrapnel was up to thirty paces, so you could easily be hurt yourself. But Green had his own ideas about that.

At midnight - that was excellent.

If only they didn't change their minds and start earlier.

'That Villefort's a real louse!' Emelya muttered as he turned a page. 'Just like our court officials.'

They turned out the light at eleven. Let the police think they'd gone to bed.

One by one, opening the door only a narrow crack, they slipped out into the yard and lay down by the low fence.

Their eyes soon adapted to the darkness, and at a quarter to twelve they saw the silent, agile shadows start moving towards the little house across the white wasteland.

The shadows halted in a compact circle, still about ten paces away from the fence. There were so many! But that was no bad thing. The tumult would be all the greater.

The shadows straight ahead, on the path, gathered together into a large cluster. There was a sound of voices whispering and something jangling.

When the cluster began moving towards the gate in the fence, Green gave the order: 'Now.' He threw one tin at the advancing cluster, then another straight away, and dropped face down into the snow, covering his ears.

The double boom still rattled his eardrums anyway. And there were more booms off to the right and the left: one, two, three, four. Emelya and Bullfinch had thrown their bombs.

Immediately they jumped to their feet and ran straight ahead, while the police were still blinded by the flashes and deafened by the explosions.

As he jumped over the bodies stretched out on the track, Green was surprised to realise that his stitched side and broken rib didn't hurt at all. That was what the body's inner strength could do if you trusted it.

Emelya tramped along heavily beside him. Bullfinch went dashing ahead like a frisky young foal.

By the time shots were fired after them, they had almost reached the sanctuary of the goods sheds.

No point in the police shooting now. It was too late.

The apartment at Vorontsovo Polye turned out to be very comfortable: three rooms, a back entrance, a telephone and even a bathroom with heated water.

Emelya immediately settled down with his book - as if he hadn't heard any explosions, or run across the snowy waste lot with bullets whistling after him, and then dodged for ages through all those dark side streets.

Bullfinch, exhausted, collapsed on the divan and fell asleep.

Green examined the apartment carefully, hoping to discover some thread that might lead him to TG.

He didn't find anything.

The apartment was fully furnished, but there were no signs at all of real life. No portraits or photographs, no knick-knacks, no books.

Obviously, no one lived here.

Then what was the apartment for? Business meetings? Just in case?

But only a very wealthy man could have maintained an apartment like this for business meetings or just in case'.

Again everything pointed to Lobastov.

Green found the mystery alarming. Not that he suspected any immediate danger - if this was a trap, why bother to help the group escape from the Okhranka raid? It had been the right thing to disengage in any case.

He telephoned Needle. He didn't explain anything; all he said was that tomorrow he would need a new apartment, and he gave her their address. Needle said she would come in the morning. Her voice sounded troubled, but the clever woman didn't ask any questions.

Now sleep, Green told himself. He settled down in an armchair without getting undressed. He set out his Colt and four remaining bombs on the low table in front of him.

He was tired after all. And his rib wasn't doing as well as he'd thought. That was from running so fast. Surprising the jolting hadn't broken the detonators in the bombs. That would have been stupid.

He closed his eyes and it seemed like only a moment later that he opened them again, but outside the window the sun was shining and the door bell was trilling.

'Who's there?' Emelya's gruff bass asked in the hallway. Green couldn't hear the reply, but the door was opened.

Morning, and not early either, Green realised.

His body had taken what it needed after all - at least ten hours of total rest.

'How are your wounds? What about the money?' Needle asked as she came into the room. Without waiting for an answer, she said: 'I know what happened last night. We have Matvei. All Moscow is buzzing with rumours about the battle of the railway lines. Burlyaev himself was killed, that's absolutely certain. And they say huge numbers of police were killed too. But why I am telling you? - you were there

Her eyes looked different now, lively and full of light, and it was suddenly clear to him that Needle was no old maid. She was simply a stern, strong-willed woman whose life had been full of trials.

'You're a genuine hero,' she said in a serious, calm voice, as if she were affirming a scientifically proven fact. 'You're all heroes. As good as the People's Will.'

The look she gave him made him feel uncomfortable.

'The wounds don't bother me any more. The money's been sent. It'll be in Peter today,' he said, answering her questions in order. 'I didn't know about Burlyaev, but it's good news. "Huge numbers" is an exaggeration, but we did get a few.'

Now he could get down to business: 'First - another apartment. Second - the explosive has run out. We need to get more. And detonators. Chemical, impact type.'

'They're looking for an apartment. We'll have one by evening. We have detonators, as many as you like. Last month they delivered a whole suitcase of them from St Petersburg. The explosive's not so simple.' She thought for a moment, pursing up her thin, pale lips. 'Unless I go to Aronson ... I keep a watch on his windows; there's no alarm signal. I think I could take the risk. He's a chemist, he must be able to make it. The question is, will he want to? I told you, he's opposed to terror.'

'No need,' said Green, kneading his rib. It didn't hurt any more. 'I'll do it. He can just get us the ingredients. I'll write them down.'

While he was writing, he could feel her steady gaze on him.

'I've only just realised how like him you are

Green broke off in the middle of the long word 'nitroglycerine' and looked up.

No, she wasn't looking at him, but over his head.

'You're dark and he was light. And the face is quite different. But the expression is the same, and that turn of the head ... I used to call him Tyoma, but his party alias was "Conjuror". He used to do wonderful card tricks ... We grew up together. His father was the manager on our Kharkov estate

Green had heard of Conjuror. He had been hanged in Kharkov three years earlier. They said Conjuror had had a fiancee, a count's daughter. Like Sofia Perovskaya. So that was the way of it. There was no point in saying anything, and Needle didn't seem to expect words in any case. She gave a dry little cough to clear her throat and didn't go on. Green easily pieced the rest of the picture together for himself.

'We won't go anywhere,' he said briskly, to help her overcome her moment of weakness. 'We'll wait for you. So, first - an apartment. Second - the chemicals.'

When it was almost evening the door bell rang again. Green sent Emelya and Bullfinch to the back entrance while he went to open the door, holding a bomb in his hand just in case.

There was a white rectangle lying beside the door on the floor of the hallway.

An envelope. Someone had dropped it through the slit in the door.

Green opened the door. Nobody.

Typed words on the envelope: 'Mr Green. Urgent.'

A rare opportunity. Today at 10 o'clock the leaders of the investigation, Prince Pozharsky and State Counsellor Fandorin, will be alone, without any guards, in the Petrosov Baths, private room No. 6. Strike while the iron is hot.

TG