The State Counsellor

CHAPTER 11 in which Fandorin learns how to fly

'This unparalleled orgy of terror after so many years of relative calm places our professional reputations and our very careers in jeopardy; however, at the same time, the possibilities that it opens up to us are boundless. If we can get the best of these unprecedentedly audacious criminals, then, Erast Petrovich, we shall be assured of a place of honour in the history of Russian statehood and - what is even more important as far as I am concerned - an enviable position in the Russian state itself. I have no desire to present myself as an idealist, which I am not -not even to the slightest degree. Take a look at that impossibly stupid monument.'

Pozharsky casually swung his cane to indicate the bronze figures of the two heroes who saved the throne of Russia from the Polish invasion. State Counsellor Fandorin, hitherto totally absorbed in their conversation, suddenly noticed that they had already reached Red Square, the left side of which was thickly overgrown with builder's scaffolding - the construction of the Upper Trading Rows was in full swing. Half an hour earlier, when the leaders of the investigation had noticed that they were going over and over a theory that they had already considered (which was hardly surprising after two nights without sleep), Pozharsky had suggested they should continue their discussion as they walked, since the day had turned out quite superb -sunny, with no wind and just the right touch of frost, refreshing and cheerful. They had walked down carefree Tverskaya Street, speaking of vitally important matters and united in their common misfortune and acute peril, while the prince's guardian angels strolled along about ten paces behind, with their hands in their pockets.

'Feast your eyes on that blockhead, my renowned ancestor,' said Gleb Georgievich, jabbing his cane towards the seated statue, 'lolling there and listening, while the man of commerce waves his hands about and trills like a nightingale. Have you ever heard of any other of the princes Pozharsky, apart from my heroic namesake? No? Hardly surprising. They've been squatting on their backsides like that for almost three hundred years, until they've worn out their final pair of pants, and in the meantime Russia has fallen into the hands of the Minins. The name's not important - Morozovs, Khlyudovs, Lobastovs. My grandfather, a Riurikovich, had two serfs and ploughed the earth himself. My father died as a retired second lieutenant. And I, a down-and-out little count, was taken into the Guards, purely because of my euphonious family name. But what good is the Guards to someone with nothing in his pocket but a louse on a lead? Ah, Erast Petrovich, you have no idea what a furore it caused when I applied to be transferred from the Cavalry Guards to serve in the Police Department. My regimental comrades started turning their noses up, the senior officers wanted to disenroll me from the Guards altogether, but they were afraid of provoking the wrath of the Emperor. And what happened? Now my former comrades-in-arms are captains and only one who moved to the army is a lieutenant colonel; but I am already a colonel - and not simply a colonel, but an aide-de-camp. And that, Erast Petrovich, is not just a matter of a monogram and fine appearances -I don't attach much importance to such things. The important thing is breakfast tete-a-tete with His Majesty during my monthly period of duty at the palace. That is something of real value. And another important point is my uniqueness. Never before has an officer serving in the Police Department, while registered with the Guards, been accorded such an honour. The sovereign has almost a hundred aides-de-camp, but I am the only one from the Ministry of the Interior, and that's what I value.'

The prince took Fandorin by the elbow and continued in a confidential tone: 'I'm not telling you all this out of an innocent desire to boast. You probably realised some time ago that I don't have much innocence about me. No, I want to jolt you into action, so that you won't become like that seated idol. You and I, Erast Petrovich, are pillars of the nobility, the very pillars on which the entire Russian Empire rests. I can trace my descent from the Varangians; you are a descendant of the Crusaders. We have ancient bandit blood flowing in our veins, the centuries have made it as rich as old wine. It is thicker than the thin red water of the merchants and the shopkeepers. Our teeth, fists and claws must be stronger than those of the Minins, otherwise the Empire will slip through our fingers, such is the time now approaching. You are intelligent, keen-witted, brave, but you have a certain fastidious, aristocratic torpor about you. If you are walking along and you come across - pardon the expression -a pile of shit, you will glance at it through your lorgnette and walk round it. Other people may step in it, but you will not sully your delicate feelings and white gloves. Forgive me, I am deliberately expressing my thoughts in a crude and offensive manner, because this is a sore point with me, an old idee fixe of mine. Just look at the unique position in which you and I find ourselves owing to the whim of fate and the conjunction of circumstances. The head of the Office of Gendarmes has been killed, the head of the Department of Security has been killed. You and I are the only ones left. They could have sent a new top man from the capital to head up the investigation - the director of the Police Department, or even the Minister himself, but those gentlemen are old stagers. They're concerned about their careers, so they preferred to hand over complete authority to me and you. And that's excellent!' Pozharsky gestured energetically. 'You and I no longer have anything to fear or anything to lose, but we could gain a very great deal. The telegram addressed to us from His Imperial Majesty said "unlimited authority". Do you understand what "unlimited" means? It means that for the immediate future, you and I effectively control Moscow and the entire political investigative apparatus of the Empire. So let's not josde each other's elbows and get in each other's way, as Burlyaev and Sverchinsky used to do. Good Lord, there will be laurels enough for both of us. Let's join forces and combine our efforts.'

Erast Petrovich's response to this prolix and impassioned diatribe was just two words: 'Very well.'

Gleb Georgievich waited to see if anything else would be said and nodded in satisfaction.

'Your opinion of Mylnikov?' he asked, reverting to a brisk, businesslike tone. 'In terms of seniority, he ought to be appointed acting head of the Department of Security, but I would prefer Zubtsov. We can't wait for a new man to get the feel of the job.'

'No, we can't have a new man. And Zubtsov is a competent worker. But what we need now from the Department of Security is not so much analysis as practical investigation, and that is Mylnikov's province. And I wouldn't choose to offend him unnecessarily'

'But Mylnikov was responsible for planning the failed operation. You know the result: Burlyaev and three agents killed, and another five wounded.'

'Mylnikov was not to blame,' the State Counsellor said with conviction.

Pozharsky gave him a keen look. 'No? Then what do you think was the reason for the failure?'

'Treason,' Fandorin replied briefly. Seeing the other man's eyebrows creep upwards in astonishment, he explained. 'The terrorists knew when the operation would start, and they were ready for it. Someone w-warned them - one of our people. Just as they did in the Khrapov case.'

'That's your theory, and you've kept quiet about it until now?' the prince asked incredulously. 'Well, you really are quite inimitable. I ought to have spoken openly with you sooner. However, this suggestion of yours is too serious altogether. Precisely whom do you suspect?'

'Only a small group of people were privy to the details of the night operation: myself, you, Burlyaev, Mylnikov, Zubtsov. And Lieutenant Smolyaninov could have heard something too.'

Gleb Georgievich snorted indignandy, apparently finding the State Counsellor's suggestion absurd; but nonetheless he started bending down his fingers as he counted.

'Very well, let's try it. With your permission, I'll start with myself. What possible motive is there? Did I sabotage the operation so that the glory for catching the CG would not go to Burlyaev? That seems rather excessive, somehow. Now Mylnikov. Did he want his boss's job? And to get it was he willing to sacrifice three of his best agents, the men he fusses over like old Uncle Chernomor? And it's still not clear if he will actually get the boss's job ... Zubtsov. A rather complex individual, I grant you, and we know how deep still waters run. But why would he wish to destroy Burlyaev? To get rid of a man who fought revolution using the wrong methods? I think that kind of extravagance would be out of character for Sergei Vitalievich. Of course, he does have a revolutionary past. A double agent, like Kletochnikov in the Third Section? Hmm, we'll have to check that... Who else is there? Ah, the rubicund Smolyaninov. I pass on that; it's altogether too much for my imagination. You know him better. And by the way, how does a young man from a family like that come to be serving in the gendarmes? He doesn't seem to be an ambitious careerist like yours truly. Perhaps there's some reason behind it? Perhaps he is infected with the demonic bacillus of romantic subversion of authority? Or something simpler - a love affair with some nihilist female?'

Having apparently started jokingly, Pozharsky now seemed to be seriously intrigued by Fandorin's hypothesis. He paused and looked at Erast Fandorin with an odd expression, then suddenly said: 'On the subject of love and nihilist femmes fatales ... Could a leak not perhaps occur via your own lovely Judith, who made such a great impression on the good society of Moscow? She has connections in suspicious quarters, does she not? I know only too well how skilful enchanting women are at sucking out your secrets. Could you not possibly have found yourself in the role of Holofernes? Only please answer to the point - no offended pride, no challenges to a duel'

Fandorin had indeed been about to reply to the prince's monstrous suspicion with sharp words, but the State Counsellor was suddenly struck by an idea that made him forget his affronted sensibilities.

'No, no,' he said quickly, 'that is absolutely impossible. But there is another distinct possibility: Burlyaev could have let something slip to Diana. She was probably involved somehow in the business with Sverchinsky too.'

Fandorin told the prince about the mysterious vamp who had turned the heads of both commanders of Moscow's political investigative agencies.

The theory proved to be remarkably coherent, at least in comparison with the others, but Pozharsky's reaction was sceptical. 'An intriguing speculation, certainly, but it seems to me, Erast Petrovich, that you are narrowing down the list of suspects too far. Undoubtedly, there is treachery here. We have to review the entire line of the investigation from that perspective. But the traitor could have been any pawn, any of the agents and police officers used in the cordon, and that is eighty men. Not to mention several dozen cabbies who were mobilised to transport Burlyaev's Grande Armee!

'No police agent, let alone a cabby, could have been privy to the details,' Fandorin objected. 'And it would have been difficult for any rank-and-file participant to get away from his post. No, Gleb Georgievich, this is no pawn. Especially if we recall the circumstances of General Khrapov's murder.'

'I agree; your theory is more elegant and literary,' the prince said with a smile, 'and even more probable. But we have agreed to work in harness together, so this time why don't you be the shaft horse, and I'll gallop on in the traces. Right, we have two lines to follow up: the double agent Diana or one of the small fry. We'll investigate both. Do you choose Diana?'

'Yes.'

'Excellent. And I'll deal with the minnows. Will today be enough time for you? Time is precious.' Erast Petrovich nodded confidently.

And for me, although I have a laborious task, probing and checking such a huge number of men. But never mind, I'll manage. Now let's agree on our rendezvous.' Pozharsky thought for a long time. 'Since we have no confidence in our own men, let's meet outside official premises, in a place where no one will be eavesdropping or peeping. And not a word about this meeting to anyone, all right? I tell you what - let's meet in the baths, in a private room. We shall conceal absolutely nothing from each other.' Gleb Georgievich laughed. 'Here in Moscow the Petrosov Bathhouse is very good, and it is conveniently located. I shall tell my bashi-bazouks to book, let's say, room number six.'

'No one must mean no one,' said Erast Petrovich, shaking his head. 'Give your bodyguards the day off, to maintain the integrity of the search. And don't say a word to them about our meeting. I'll go to Petrosov's and book room number six myself. We'll meet alone, discuss our conclusions and draw up a plan of further action.'

At ten?'

At t-ten.'

'Well then,' Gleb Georgievich said jocularly, 'the place of the assignation is set. And so is the time. Forward, the aristocrats! Time to roll our sleeves up.'

Opened only recently close to Rozhdestvenka Street, the Petrosov Bathhouse had already become one of the showplaces of Moscow. Only a few years earlier, this site had been occupied by a single-storey log building where you could be washed for fifteen kopecks, have blood let, cupping glasses applied and calluses removed. Respectable society never called into this filthy, odorous barn, preferring to wash itself in Khludov's establishment at the Central Baths. However, when a new owner, a man of business acumen on a truly European scale, acquired the bathhouse, he totally transformed Petrosov's in line with the very latest word in international technology. He erected a veritable stone palace with caryatids and telamons, set a fountain burbling in the small inner courtyard, faced the walls with marble and hung mirrors all over them, set out soft divans, and the former fifteen-kopeck establishment was transformed into a shrine to luxury that even the pampered Roman Emperor Heliogabal would not have scorned. No trace was left of the 'commoners' section'; there were only 'merchants' sections' and 'nobles' sections' for both sexes.

After he and Pozharsky parted to go about their separate business, Fandorin made his way to the 'nobles' section'.

At that time in the morning there were no customers in the baths yet, and the obliging supervisor took his promising client on a tour of the private rooms.

The nobles' section was arranged as follows: at the centre, a common hall with an immense marble pool, surrounded by Doric columns; around the pool, a gallery on to which the doors of the six private rooms opened. However, the main entrances to the rooms were not from the common hall; they lay on the other side, from the broad corridor that ran round the building. The exacting civil servant inspected the rooms. He didn't look too closely at the silver washtubs and the gilded taps, but he tugged insistently at the bolts on the doors leading to the pool hall and strolled right round the external corridor. To the right it could be followed to the women's half of the baths; to the left it led to the service stairs. From that side there was no way out to the street, which for some reason seemed to please Fandorin particularly.

The State Counsellor did not act entirely as he and Gleb Georgievich had agreed. Or rather, he did more than they had agreed: not only did he book room number six for that evening, he booked all the other five rooms as well, leaving only the common hall for any other customers.

But that was only the first strange thing that Fandorin did.

The second was that the State Counsellor did not really take a very thorough approach to his main task for the day - the meeting with Diana; one might even say that he rolled his sleeves back down. After telephoning the collaborator from the vestibule of the bathhouse and arranging to meet her straightaway, Erast Petrovich immediately set off for the inconspicuous town-house on Arbat Street.

In the familiar twilit room, with its scent of musk and dust from the permanently closed curtains, the visitor was greeted rather differently from the previous occasion and the occasion before that. No sooner did Fandorin step across the threshold of the quiet study than a slim shadow darted impetuously across the room towards him in a rustle of silk, pliable arms embraced him round the shoulders and a face concealed by a veil was pressed against his chest.

'My God, my God, how happy I am to see you,' a faltering voice murmured. 'I'm so afraid! I behaved so stupidly the last time - forgive me, in the name of all that's holy. You must pardon the self-assurance of a woman who had become too enamoured of the role of a breaker of hearts. The signs of attention with which Stanislav Filippovich and Pyotr Ivanovich showered me completely turned my head ... Poor, poor Pierre and Stanislas! How could I ever imagine ...' The whisper became a sob, and a perfectly genuine tear fell on the State Counsellor's shirt, then a second, and then more.

However, Erast Petrovich had no thought of exploiting this psychologically advantageous moment in the interests of the investigation. Gently moving aside the weeping collaborator, he walked into the room and sat down, not on the divan, as he had on the previous occasion, but in an armchair beside the writing desk, on which he could make out the dull gleam of the nickel-plated keys of a typewriter.

Diana was not at all disconcerted by her visitor's restraint. The slim, shapely figure followed Fandorin, halted for a moment in front of the armchair, then suddenly folded in half - and the eccentric lady plumped down on to her knees, raising her clasped hands in supplication.

'Oh, do not be so cold and cruel!' It was astonishing that the whisper in no way restricted the dramatic modulation of her voice - she had obviously been very well trained. 'You cannot imagine how much I have suffered. I have been left completely alone, with no protector, no patron. Believe me, I can be useful and... grateful. Do not go. Stay here with me for a little longer! Console me, dry my tears. I can sense a calm, confident strength in you. Only you can restore me to life. With Burlyaev and Sverchinsky I was the mistress, but with you I can be the slave! I will fulfil your every desire!'

'R-really?' Fandorin asked, looking down on the dark figure. 'Then first of all remove your veil and turn on the light.'

'No, anything but that!' Diana cried, leaping to her feet and shrinking away. 'Any other desire, anything at all, but not that.'

The State Counsellor sat there without speaking, even looking off to one side, which was not very considerate.

'Will you stay?' the femme fatale gasped pitifully, pressing her hands to her breast.

'Unfortunately I cannot. A matter of official duty. I can see that you are in an emotional state, and I do not have the time for a long conversation.'

'Then come this evening,' the voice rustled alluringly. 'I shall be waiting for you.'

'I cannot come this evening either,' Fandorin replied and explained in a confidential tone. 'So that you will not take my refusal as an affront, let me explain what I shall be doing. I have an appointment of a quite different kind, far less romantic. At ten o'clock I am meeting Prince Pozharsky, the Deputy Director of the Police Department. And, just imagine, at the Petrosov Bathhouse. Amusing, isn't it? The price of secrecy. But it does guarantee the absolute confidentiality of our tête-a-tête. Room number one, the very best in the whole nobles' section. There, my lady, see in what exotic circumstances the leaders of the investigation are obliged to meet.'

'Then for the time being, just this...' She took one quick step forward, raised her veil slightly and pressed her moist lips against his cheek.

Erast Petrovich shuddered at this touch, gave the collaborator a look of consternation that was almost fright, bowed and walked out.

After that the State Counsellor's behaviour became queerer still.

From Arbat Street he called into the Office of Gendarmes, without any apparent purpose in mind. He drank a cup of coffee with Smolyaninov, who had finally been reduced to the role of telephone operator, for the current state of affairs in the large building on Nikitskaya Street was extremely strange: all the various subsections and services were operating in emergency mode, although in effect there was no one actually in charge.

The temporary boss, Prince Pozharsky, was not sitting at his desk, and if he did drop in, it was only briefly - to listen to a report from the adjutant, to leave some instructions - and then he set out once more for parts unknown.

They remembered the deceased Stanislav Filippovich, spoke about the Lieutenant's wounded arm and the audacity of the terrorists. The Lieutenant was of the opinion that a demonstration of chivalry was called for.

'If I were in Mr Pozharsky's place,' he said fervently, 'I wouldn't send spies and provocateurs to this Green, I would print an appeal in the newspapers: "Stop hunting down us servants of the throne. Stop shooting at us from round corners and throwing bombs that kill innocent people. I am not hiding from you. If you, my dear sir, truly believe that you are right and wish to sacrifice yourself for the good of humankind, then let us meet in an honest duel, for it is also my sacred belief that I am right and I will gladly give my life for Russia. So let us stop spilling Russian blood. Let God or-if you are an atheist-Fate or Destiny decide which of us is right." I'm certain that Green would agree to such terms.'

The State Counsellor listened to the young man's reasoning and asked with a serious expression: 'And what if Green k-kills the prince? Then what?'

'What do you mean?' Smolyaninov exclaimed, wincing in pain as he attempted to wave his wounded arm through the air. Are there more terrorists or defenders of order in Russia? If Pozharsky were to be killed in the duel, then of course Green would have to be allowed to go free - that's a simple matter of honour. But the next day you would challenge him. And if your luck failed, then others would be found.' The young officer blushed. And the revolutionaries would be left with no way out. It would be impossible for them to refuse the challenge, because they would lose their reputation as bold, self-sacrificing heroes in the eyes of society. And soon there would be no terrorists left: all the fanatics would have died in duels, and the others would have been forced to abandon violence.'

'This is the second time just recently that I have had occasion to hear an original idea for the elimination of terrorism. And I'm not sure which of them I prefer,' Fandorin said as he stood up. 'I have enjoyed talking with you, but I must go now. I shall relay your idea to Gleb Georgievich this evening.' He glanced at the empty reception room and lowered his voice. 'For your ears only, in the strictest secrecy: at ten o'clock this evening the prince and I are having a tête-a-tête at which our entire plan of future action will be determined - at the Petrosov Bathhouse, in the nobles' section.'

'Why the bathhouse?' the Lieutenant asked, fluttering his silky eyelashes in astonishment.

'For the sake of secrecy. There are private rooms there, no uninvited guests. We have booked the finest room specially -number two. I shall definitely suggest that Pozharsky try the challenge via the newspapers. But, I repeat again, not a word to anyone about our meeting.'

From the Office, Fandorin went to the Department on Gnezdikovsky Lane, where the role of the connecting link between all the various groups of agents was being played by Titular Counsellor Zubtsov, with whom Erast Petrovich drank not coffee but tea. They spoke of the deceased Pyotr Ivanovich, a hot-tempered individual of coarse sensibilities, but honest and sincerely devoted to the cause. They complained about the irreparable damage done to the old capital city's reputation in the eyes of the sovereign by the recent sad events.

'I'll tell you what I can't understand,' Sergei Vitalievich said cautiously. 'The entire investigative machine is working at full capacity, the men get no sleep at night, they're dead on their feet. We're trailing Lobastov, everyone who's unreliable, suspicious or even slightly dubious, reading their post, eavesdropping, peeping and prying. This is all essential routine activity, of course, but somehow we're not following a single line of inquiry. Naturally, my rank doesn't permit me to intrude into the area of higher tactics - that's your area of competence and Gleb Georgievich's, but even so, if I had some idea at least of the main direction of inquiry, then for my part, within the limits of the abilities I have been granted, I could perhaps also be of some use

'Yes, yes,' said Fandorin, nodding. 'Please don't think that the prince and I are concealing anything from you. We both sincerely hold you in the highest regard, and we will immediately involve you in the analytical work, as soon as certain circumstances have been clarified. As a token of my t-trust, I can tell you, in the very strictest confidence, that at ten o'clock this evening Gleb Georgievich and I are having a private meeting at an agreed rendezvous, where we shall determine the very line of which you spoke. The meeting will be confidential, but you will be informed immediately of the outcome. The reason for the secrecy is that' - the State Counsellor leaned forwards slightly -'there is a traitor among our men and we do not yet know who exacdy it is. Today, though, that might well become clear.'

A traitor?' Zubtsov exclaimed. 'Here in the Okhranka?'

'Sh-sh,' said the State Counsellor, putting one ringer to his lips. 'Who he is and where exactly he works is what the prince . and I shall determine today, after we exchange the information we shall have collected. That is why we have arranged to meet so mysteriously in room number three of the nobles' section in the Petrosov Baths, believe it or not.' Erast Petrovich smiled cheerfully and took a sip of cold tea. 'By the way, where is Evstratii Pavlovich?'

The conversation that Fandorin held with Evstratii Pavlovich Mylnikov, whom the State Counsellor tracked down at the temporary observation post he had set up in a dusty attic close to the Lobastov plant, was in part similar to those that had preceded it, and in part different from them, for in addition to the deceased Pyotr Ivanovich, they also discussed the unsuccessful nocturnal operation, the perfidious millionaire and the question of a gratuity for the families of the agents who had been killed. However, the conversation concluded in exactly the same manner: the State Counsellor told the other man the precise time and place of his meeting with the Deputy Director of Police. Only this time he gave a different room number: number four.

And after his visit to the observation post Fandorin did not go on to do anything else at all. He took a cab home, and on the way he whistled an aria from Geisha, a very rare event for Erast Petrovich and a sign of quite uncommon optimism.

In the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, Fandorin and his servant held a long, circumstantial conversation in Japanese. In fact Erast Petrovich did most of the talking and Masa listened, constantly repeating: 'Hai, hai.'

Then he replied to a few questions and went off, serenely calm, to sleep, although it was only shortly after two in the afternoon, and nothing of importance had been achieved.

He slept for a long time, until six o'clock. When he arose, he dined with a good appetite, did a little gymnastics and dressed in a light English sports outfit that did not restrict his movements: a short checked jacket, a close-fitting silk waistcoat, narrow trousers with foot straps.

But that was not the end of Erast Petrovich's toilette: he thrust a small stiletto in a light sheath of oiled paper under the elastic suspender of his right sock; he thrust a Velodog -a miniature pistol invented for bicyclists who are pestered by stray dogs - into a holster on his back, and put his main weapon - a seven-round Herstahl-Baillard, the latest invention from the master-gunsmiths of Liege - into another holster, designed for wearing under the arm.

Fandorin's servant tried to attach to his belt a most sinister-looking steel chain with two heavy spheres attached to it, but the State Counsellor resolutely rejected this unconventional weapon, since the spheres clanged against each other as he walked, and that attracted attention.

'Don't try to do anything yourself,' Erast Petrovich told his faithful helper, not for the first time, as he put on his cloth-covered fur coat in the hallway. 'Just remember which room they go into. Then give the knock we agreed on the door of room six, and I'll let you in. Vakatta’*

'Vakattemas,' Masa replied stoutly. 'De mo—'**

* 'You understand?'

**'I understand ... But—'

He didn't finish what he was saying, because someone rang the doorbell repeatedly and insistently: once, twice, three times.

'That's your new concubine,' the valet sighed. 'No one else rings so impatiently'

'Have you just arrived, or are you going out?' Esfir asked on seeing Erast Petrovich in his coat, with his top hat in his hands. She hugged him and pressed her cheek against his lips. 'You're going out. Your nose is warm. If you had just come in, your nose would be cold. And for some reason you smell of musk. When will you be back? I'll wait; I've missed you terribly'

'Esfir, I asked you to telephone,' Fandorin said, disconcerted. 'I really am going out; I don't know yet when I'll be back. And Masa will be going out soon.'

'I can't stand the telephone,' the black-eyed beauty snapped. 'It's so dead, somehow. And where are you off to?'

'It's a piece of important b-business,' Erast Petrovich replied evasively; then, yielding to a sudden, unaccountable impulse, he added quickly, 'I'm meeting Prince Pozharsky at the Petrosov Baths. In the nobles' section ... room five.'

The State Counsellor's face instantly flushed a deep red and his long eyelashes fluttered guiltily.

'That is, not number f-five, but number six. A slip of the tongue

'My God, what do I care which room you're meeting that villain in? Fine company you've chosen for yourself! In the bathhouse - that's simply charming!' Esfir exclaimed with an angry laugh. 'Male entertainment - I've heard a great deal about that. I expect you'll call in a few girls too. Goodbye, Your Honour; you'll never see me again!' And before Fandorin even had time to open his mouth, the door slammed shut with a deafening thud. There was the sound of heels stamping across the porch, and then snow crunching under running feet.

'Not a woman, but the eruption of Mount Fuji in the fifth year of the age of the Eternal Treasure,' Masa exclaimed admiringly 'So, master, you say I should not take any weapons? Not even my very smallest knife, that can be hidden so conveniently in my loincloth?'

There would have been nowhere to hide the knife in any case, because no one wore a loincloth in the common hall with the pool. The men were completely naked and, to Masa's taste, extremely ugly - as hairy as monkeys and with excessively long arms and legs. One of them was particularly unpleasant to look at, with thick red fur on his stomach and chest. Several times Masa surveyed his own smooth body, so beautifully rounded at the sides. If the learned English sage Tiaruridszu Daruin was right, and man really was descended from a monkey, then the Japanese had progressed much further along that path than the red-hairs.

Masa did not like it in the bathhouse at all. The water was not hot enough, the awkward stone steps gleamed too brighdy, and the wait was dragging on for too long altogether.

In addition to the valet, there were nine other men splashing in the pool. It was hard to say how many of them were bandits. There was one he had no doubt about - sullen, with black hair, a big nose like a Japanese water sprite's and a lean, muscular torso - he had fresh red scars on his side and his chest, and the top of his left ear had been sliced off. Masa's experienced eye had immediately spotted the traces left by glancing blows from a sharp blade. Obviously a yakuza, except that he had no beautiful coloured tattoos. Masa tried to stay as close as possible to this suspicious character. But there were several other bathers who looked entirely peaceable. For instance, the thin, white-skinned youth sitting on the edge not far away. He was toying distractedly with a chain attached to the bronze railing that ran all the way round the pool. The railing was there for people to hold on to, and Masa couldn't understand why they had hooked an iron chain on to it with that ring. But he didn't rack his brains over it, because he had more important business.

There were six doors leading out on to the gallery located behind the columns, just as the diagram had indicated. His master should be behind the last door on the right. The bandits wouldn't try to get in there. They would break down one of the first four doors. He just had to remember which one it was and then run to his master. Nothing could be simpler.

But how would the bandits manage without weapons? Red-hairs didn't know how to kill people with their bare hands; they had to have steel. Where would they get a pistol or a knife in a bathhouse?

'Now,' the man with the scars said unexpectedly.

The shouting and splashing instantly stopped. Four hands grabbed Masa's wonderful sides tightly from behind and pushed him towards the edge, and before the valet could gather his wits, the nice-looking youth had pulled the chain out of the water. At the other end of the chain, there was another iron ring, which was instantly clicked shut around Masa's wrist.

'Gently now, sir,' the youth said. 'Stay here quietly and nothing bad will happen to you.'

'I say, come now, gentlemen; what kind of trick is this?' a voice shouted in outrage. Masa turned round and saw three other men, obviously chance visitors, who had also been chained to the railing in the same way as himself. All the other bathers -six young men, including their leader with the big nose - quickly clambered out of the pool.

That very moment, another two came running in through the doors leading to the changing rooms. They were fully dressed, and both of them were carrying tall heaps of clothes in their hands.

The naked bandits quickly dressed, paying no attention to the outraged shouts of the chained men.

Masa tugged on his chain, but it held firm. It was a pair of genuine handcuffs, the kind used for restraining arrested criminals - why hadn't he guessed sooner? The bandits had come earlier, attached one end of the handcuffs to the rail, dropped the other into the water and then waited for the appointed hour. Their crafty, dishonest trick had deprived Masa of the chance to fulfil his duty. Now the bandits would break into one of the doors, see there was no one there, and start checking all the others, and there was no way he could warn his master.

It was pointless to shout. Firstly, in the gleaming marble hall any howl would shatter into a myriad worthless echoes, mingling with the splashing of the water and the rumbling voices of the bathers. Of course, Masa could shout very, very loud, and perhaps his master would hear his voice through the closed door; but his master would not flee to save himself, he would come hurrying to his aid. And he must not allow that to happen, no matter what!

The conclusion?

Wait until the bandits broke into one of the doors, and then yell with all the power his lungs could muster.

Meanwhile the bandits had put their clothes on, and out of nowhere revolvers had appeared in their hands. Eight men with revolvers - that is too many, thought Masa. If only they had no revolvers, just knives, that would be all right. The two of them could have managed. But this was really bad: the master was alone, there were eight of them, and with guns.

The yakuza chief cocked his revolver and said: 'Pozharsky's tricky. No dawdling, fire immediately. Emelya, Nail, you get the door.'

The two largest bandits went dashing up the marble steps with the others hanging back a little behind them.

They're giving the first two space to run at the door and break it down, Masa guessed, wondering which way they would turn -to the left, towards the first three rooms, or to the right?

They turned to the right. So they had to be going to room number four.

But the bandits who had been allocated the role of battering ram went straight past door number four without giving it a glance. They didn't stop at door number five either.

Even though Masa was standing up to his chest in hot water, he felt a sudden chill of horror.

'Dann-a-a-al Kio tsuke-e-e!'*

* 'Master! Beware!'

Erast Petrovich reached the main entrance of the Petrosov Baths at precisely ten.

'The gentleman's waiting for you in room six,' the attendant announced with a bow. 'No one has arrived in the other five rooms yet.'

'They will,' the State Counsellor replied. 'L-Later on.'

He walked along the wide corridor, up to the piano nobile, along another corridor, round a corner. On his right was the entrance to the ladies' section, on the left the private rooms began, with the service staircase beyond them. Before he entered the room, Fandorin surveyed the location once again and was satisfied. If they needed to withdraw in haste, it was very convenient: one provided covering fire while the other ran to the corner. Then the roles were reversed. Short sprints: the risk of taking a bullet was minimal. And things would probably not get as far as shooting.

'Are there many visitors in the l-ladies' section at about this time?' he asked his guide, just in case.

The man smiled in a most polite manner, with just the slightest hint of playfulness.

'Plenty as yet, but there won't be any more coming in. It's a bit late already for the fair sex.'

'Is this their way in and their way out?' Fandorin asked in alarm.

'Certainly not, sir. The way out's on the other side. Specially arranged. A woman, Your Worship, doesn't take kindly to being observed after the bathhouse, with a towel over her hair. Instead of going out through the main door, they prefer to duck into the sleigh, and adieu!'

Erast Petrovich gave the man a coin and went into his room.

As a young rake awaits his ardent tryst, so have I waited all the day for when ... something or other... in my secret basement!' Pozharsky greeted him boisterously. The naked prince was sitting in an armchair with a cigar clenched in his teeth.

Standing on the table in front of him were a bottle of Cachet Blanc, two glasses and a bowl of fruit, with a newspaper lying open beside them.

'Champagne?' Fandorin asked, raising one eyebrow slightly. 'Do we have some cause for celebration?'

'I do,' Gleb Georgievich replied mysteriously. 'But let's start at the beginning and not get ahead of ourselves. Get your clothes off and take a dip' - he pointed to the small pool in the floor -'and afterwards we'll have a talk. How about you - have you brought any booty?'

Erast Petrovich glanced at the locked door that led into the common hall and replied evasively: 'I shall have some s-soon.'

Pozharsky gave him a curious glance and wound a napkin round the bottle. 'Well, why are you standing there like a buyer at a slave market? Get undressed.'

It had not been Erast Petrovich's intention to get undressed, since his plan envisaged the likelihood of a hasty retreat, but to parade fully clothed in front of a completely naked man seemed stupid and improper. What if the trick completely failed to work? Should he just carry on standing there in his jacket? Fortunately, his comfortable and simple sports costume could be donned in mere seconds - after all he could ignore the leotard, the waistcoat, the cuffs and the collar.

'What's this - are you shy?' The prince laughed. 'That's not at all like you.'

The State Counsellor pulled off his clothes and put them on the divan, placing both revolvers and the stiletto on top of them as if it were an afterthought.

Pozharsky whisded: 'A serious arsenal. I'm a great respecter of prudence. I'm exactly the same. Will you show me your toys later? And I'll show you mine. But business first. Jump in, jump in. One thing is no obstacle to the other.'

Erast Petrovich glanced round at the door again and jumped into the pool, but he didn't splash around in the water for long; instead, he climbed out straight away.

'You're a genuine Antinous,' said the prince, surveying Fan-dorin's physique appreciatively. 'This is a fine outlandish setting we have for an operational conference. To work?'

'To work.'

The State Counsellor sat down in an armchair and lit up a cigar himself, but he kept his leg muscles tensed, ready to leap up just as soon as Masa knocked on the door.

'How was Diana?' Pozharsky asked with a strangely jovial smile. 'Did she confess her sins?'

Fandorin thought the intonation of the question sounded strange, and he paused before replying.

Allow me t-to inform you of my conclusions a little later. I have serious grounds to hope that the m-main culprit will be exposed today'

However, these words failed to produce the anticipated effect on the other man.

'But I know how to find our elusive CG,' the prince parried, 'and very soon now I shall snap it up.'

Erast Petrovich felt himself turning pale. If Pozharsky was telling the truth, it meant that he had found a shorter and more effective way to solve this complex puzzle.

Suppressing his wounded amour propre, Fandorin said: 'C-Congratulations, that is a great success. But how—'

He didn't finish, because at that moment there was a loud shout outside the door. He couldn't make out the words, but there could be no doubt that it was Masa shouting. And that could only mean one thing: the plan had failed, and failed in some extremely unpleasant way.

Erast Petrovich leapt to his feet, about to make a dash for his clothes, but suddenly there was a deafening crash as the door leading to the pool was torn off its hinges by a powerful blow.

Two men came hurtling through into the room, with an entire mob pressing in behind them. Fandorin didn't need a time-and-motion study to realise he would never reach his clothes or his weapons. He could only hope there would be enough time to leap out into the corridor.

Pozharsky pulled a small double-barrelled pistol out from under the newspaper and fired twice. The leading attacker threw his arms up and ran on for a few more steps from sheer inertia, collapsing face down in the pool, and the prince flung away his discharged weapon and dashed after Fandorin with astounding agility.

They flew through the doorway simultaneously, bumping their naked shoulders together. Wood dust showered down on to Erast Petrovich's head as a bullet slammed into the lintel of the door, and the next moment the two leaders of the investigation tumbled out into the corridor. Without even looking round, Pozharsky set off to the right. There was no point in running in the same direction: the initial battle plan with alternating short sprints under covering fire had been rendered meaningless by the lack of any weapons.

The State Counsellor dashed to the left, towards the service stairway, although he had no idea where it led to.

As he grabbed hold of the banister with one hand, crumbs of stone spurted from the wall. Fandorin glanced back briefly, saw three men running after him and sprinted upwards - he had spotted a grille across the steps leading down.

He covered one flight in huge bounds, three steps at a time -a padlocked door. Another two flights - another lock.

He could hear the clatter of hasty footsteps below him.

There was only one more flight now - and there was the dark form of a door on the upper landing.

It was locked! A curved rod of iron, a padlock.

Erast Petrovich grabbed hold of the metal rod and, following the precepts of the teaching of spiritual power, imagined that it was paper. He jerked the feeble rod towards himself, and the lock suddenly flew off to one side, clanging down the stone steps.

There was no rime to celebrate. Fandorin ran into a dark room with a low, slanting ceiling. Through the little windows he could see sloping roof tiles glinting dully in the moonlight.

Another door, but with no lock, and flimsy. One kick was enough.

The Deputy for Special Assignments ran out on to the roof, and for a moment the icy wind took his breath away. But the cold was not the worst thing. A rapid glance around was enough for him to realise that he had absolutely nowhere left to go.

Fandorin dashed to one edge of the roof and saw a brighdy lit street with people and carriages far below.

He rushed to the opposite side. Down below he saw a snow-covered yard.

There was no time left for further exploration. Three shadows detached themselves from the attic superstructure and slowly moved towards the doomed man standing frozen on the edge of the precipice.

'You're a fast runner, Mr State Counsellor,' one of them said when they were still some distance away. Fandorin could not make out his face. 'Let's see if you can fly too.'

Erast Petrovich turned his back to the shadows, because it was painful and senseless to look at them. He glanced down.

Fly?

The highest level of mastery in the clan of the Stealthy Ones, who had taught Fandorin the art of controlling his spirit and his body, was the trick known as 'The Flight of the Hawk'. Erast Petrovich had often perused drawings in old manuscripts, which depicted the technique of this incredible trick in great detail. When the kingdoms of the land of the Root of the Sun fought an internecine war lasting many centuries, the Stealthy Ones were regarded as spies nonpareil. It was nothing to them to scramble up sheer walls, infiltrate a besieged fortress and discover all the secrets of the defence. It was far more difficult, however, to get away with the information gathered. The spies did not always have time to lower a rope ladder, or even a silken cord. It was for this that the Flight of the Hawk had been invented.

The instruction of the teaching was: 'Jump without pushing off, smoothly, so that the gap between you and the wall is two foot lengths, no more and no less. Hold your body perfectly straight. Count to five, then kick your heels hard against the wall, turn over in the air and land, not forgetting to offer a prayer to the Buddha Amida.'

It was said that the masters of olden times could perform the Flight of the Hawk from a wall as high as a hundred siaku, that is fifteen sazhens, but Erast Petrovich did not believe that. With a count of only five, the body would drop no more than five or six sazhens. The somersault that followed would, of course, soften the impact, but even so it could hardly be possible to survive if you jumped from a height of more than seven or eight sazhens, and to survive at all you would have to be blessed with incredible agility and the special favour of the Buddha Amida.

However, this was not an appropriate moment for scepticism. The leisurely footfalls behind him were drawing closer - the nihilist gentlemen had no more reason to hurry now.

How many siakus was this? The State Counsellor tried to work it out. No more than fifty Absolute child's play for a medieval Japanese spy.

Fixing firmly in his mind that he had to jump without pushing off, he drew himself erect and took a step into empty space.

Erast Fandorin found the sensation of flight repugnant. His stomach attempted to leap out through his throat, and his lungs froze, unable to breathe either in or out; but all that was of no consequence. The important thing was to count.

At 'five' Fandorin kicked back as hard as he could with both feet, felt the scorching contact with a hard surface and performed the relatively simple manoeuvre of 'The Attacking Snake', known in the European circus as a double somersault.

In his mind Fandorin had just enough time to recite 'Namu Amida Butsu* before he stopped seeing or hearing anything.

* 'I praise the Buddha Amida'

Later his senses reawoke, but not all of them. It was very cold, there was nothing to breathe and he still couldn't see anything. For a moment Erast Petrovich was afraid that because of his prayer he had been consigned to the Buddhist Hell of Ice, where it is always cold and dark. But it was hardly likely that anyone in the Hell of Ice would know Russian, and that was definitely the language he could hear being spoken by those voices somewhere up in the heavens.

'Schwartz, where is he? He disappeared into thin air.'

"There he is!' cried another voice, very young and clear. 'Lying in a snowdrift! He just flew a long way out.'

It was only then that Fandorin, stunned by his fall, realised that he had not died and not gone blind, but was lying face down in a deep snowdrift. His eyes, his mouth and even his nose were packed with snow, and that was why it was dark and he couldn't breathe.

'Let's go,' someone up above him decided. 'If he's not dead, he must have broken every bone in his body' And the heavens fell silent.

He certainly hadn't broken all his bones - the State Counsellor realised that when he managed to get up on all fours, and then stand erect. Perhaps the art of the Stealthy Ones had saved him, or perhaps the Buddha Amida, but most likely it had been the opportunely located snowdrift.

He staggered across the yard, through the passage, and out into Zvonarny Lane - straight into the arms of a police constable.

'Oh Lordy Lord, people have completely taken leave of their senses,' the constable gasped at the sight of a naked man caked in snow. 'Shooting off guns with no rhyme or reason and bathing in the buff in snowdrifts! Right then, my good sir, it's a night in the station for you.'

Erast Petrovich staggered on a little further, clutching at the lapels of the coarse greatcoat rimed with frost, and began slowly sinking to the ground.