The State Counsellor

CHAPTER 15 in which Fandorin learns to be flexible

Green was not as Erast Petrovich had imagined him to be. The State Counsellor could not see anything fiendish or especially bloodthirsty about the man sitting on the next bench. A severe face, its features stamped in metal, a face that was hard to imagine smiling. And quite young still, despite the clumsy masquerade with that grey moustache and those sideburns.

Apart from Fandorin himself and the terrorists, Briusov Square seemed to be completely empty. Pozharsky had chosen an excellent spot for the operation. There was a policeman, undoubtedly someone in disguise, strolling along on the other side of the railings. Two young yard-keepers with unnaturally long beards and remarkably cultured expressions on their faces were clumsily scraping away snow with plywood spades. A little further away another two young lads were playing stick-knife, but they didn't really seem very interested in the game - they kept looking round far too often.

It was after nine already, but Pozharsky was taking his time. He was obviously waiting for the youngest of the terrorists, the one playing the part of a grammar-school boy, to come back.

And there he was now. He whistled as he walked across the avenue, sat down only an arm's length away from Erast Petrovich, right beside the snowdrift with the pit, and greedily thrust a handful of snow into his mouth. Would you believe it, the State Counsellor thought, no more than a child, and already a seasoned killer! Unlike the fake general, the 'schoolboy' looked perfectly convincing. He must be Bullfinch.

Pozharsky appeared, and the stick-knife players began drifting towards the centre of the park. Erast Petrovich focused his inner energies for action.

The prince shouted his offer for the nihilists to surrender and Fandorin sprang nimbly to his feet, effortlessly grabbed the 'schoolboy' by the collar of his coat and dragged him down into the refuge of the snowdrift. It was too soon for the boy to die.

The snow received the State Counsellor softly, but did not admit him very far - barely much more than an arshin, in fact. Bullfinch fell on top of him and began floundering about, but it was not easy to break free of Erast Petrovich's strong hands.

Shots thundered out from every side. Fandorin knew that the marksmen of the Flying Squad, reinforced by Mylnikov's agents, were firing from the monastery walls and the surrounding roofs, and they would not cease firing as long as there was anything left alive and moving in the square.

Where was the pit that had been promised?

Erast Petrovich applied gentle pressure to one of the young terrorist's nerve points to stop him kicking and struggling, then struck the ground with his fist - once, twice, three times. If it had been plywood there, under the snow, it would have yielded and sprung back, but no, the solid ground remained solid.

The 'schoolboy* no longer attempted to break free, but from time to time he jerked, as if stung by an electric shock, although there was no real reason why he should - Fandorin had not pressed the nerve point hard, only just enough for ten minutes of total calm.

Several times bullets slammed into the snow, too close for comfort, with a furious hissing sound. Erast Petrovich hammered ever more furiously on the unyielding plywood and even tried to bounce up and down on it, as far as that was possible in a lying position, with a load to support. The pit stubbornly refused to open up. Either the plywood had hardened to oak overnight, or something else had gone wrong.

Meanwhile the shooting had started to thin out and soon it died away completely.

He heard voices in the avenue: 'This one's a goner. A regular tea-strainer.'

'This one too. Just look at the way his face is all twisted and torn, unidentifiable.'

To climb out of the snowdrift would have been imprudent -they would have put a dozen bullets in him instantly - and so Erast Petrovich called out without getting up: 'Gentlemen, I am Fandorin, do not shoot!'

And only then, having set aside the peacefully sleeping Bullfinch, did he stand up, thinking that he probably looked like a snowman.

The park was full of men in civilian clothes. There must have been fifty of them at least, and he could see more outside the railings.

'Wiped out the lot, Your Honour,' said one of the 'flyers', who had a youthful air despite his grey moustache. 'No one left to arrest.'

'There is one still alive,' Erast Petrovich replied, dusting himself off. 'T-Take him and lay him out on a bench.'

The agents took hold of the 'schoolboy', but dropped him again immediately. The snow on his coat was stained red with blood in several places, and there was a black hole in his forehead, just below the hair line. It was clear now what had made the poor boy twitch so violently.

Erast Petrovich gazed in bewilderment at the lifeless body that had shielded him from the bullets, and failed to notice Pozharsky swooping down on him from behind.

'Alive? Thank God!' Pozharsky shouted, putting his arms round Fandorin's shoulders. 'I'd given up hope! Now for God's sake tell me what on earth made you jump into the snowdrift on the left? I told you a hundred times: jump into the one on the right, on the right! It's an absolute miracle you weren't hit!'

'That is the snowdrift on the right, there!' the State Counsellor exclaimed indignandy, recalling his vain attempts to jump up and down in a lying position. And that's the one I j-jumped into!'

The prince began batting his eyelids, his gaze shifted from Fandorin to the bench, to the snowdrift, then back to Fandorin, and he started chuckling uncertainly.

'Why yes, of course. I never sat on the bench, I only looked at it from here. Here I am, and there's the snowdrift, on the right of the bench. But if you sit down, then of course it's on your left ... Oh, it's too much! Two wise men ... two great strategists

And the deputy director of police folded over in a paroxysm of irresistible, choking laughter - no doubt the result, in part at least, of nervous strain.

Erast Petrovich smiled, because Gleb Georgievich's laughter was infectious, but his gaze was caught once again by the slim figure in the school coat and he suddenly became serious.

'Where's G-Green?' he asked. 'He was sitting right there, dressed up as a retired general.'

'There isn't one like that, Your Honour,' the man with the grey moustache said with a frown, turning towards the bodies laid out along the avenue. 'One, two, three, four, five, and the schoolboy makes six. No more. Ah, damnation, where's number seven? There were seven of them!'

The prince was no longer laughing. He looked around despairingly, gritted his teeth and groaned. 'He got away! Got away through the trench. So much for our victory. And in my mind I'd already composed the report: "No losses. Combat Group completely annihilated".'

He grabbed hold of Fandorin's arm and squeezed it tight. 'Disaster, Erast Petrovich, disaster. We're left holding the lizard's tail, but the lizard has fled. And it will grow a new tail - it wouldn't be the first time.'

'What are we g-going to do?' asked the State Counsellor, his anxious blue eyes gazing into the prince's equally anxious black ones.

'You are not going to do anything,' Gleb Georgievich replied listlessly. His triumphant air was gone; he seemed somehow faded and very tired now. 'You go and light a candle in a church, because today the Lord has granted you a miracle, and then rest. I'm no good for anything much at the moment, and you're even worse. The only hope is that our agents will pick him up somewhere. He won't go back to the apartment, of course -he's no fool. We'll have everyone who's red, pink, or even light magenta under secret surveillance. All the hotels too. But I'm going back to mine, to sleep. If anything comes up, they'll wake me, and I'll let you know. Only it's not very likely...' He gestured hopelessly. "We'll start scheming again tomorrow morning. But for today, that's it: je passe.'

Erast Petrovich did not go to light a candle in a church, because that was superstition, nor did he feel that he had any right to rest. Duty required that he take himself off to the Governor General's residence: for various reasons beyond his control, it was four days since he had last shown his face there, and he needed to present a detailed report on progress made in the search and the investigation.

However, it was unthinkable to appear in His Excellency's residence smothered in snow, with a torn collar and a crumpled top hat, so first he had to go back home, but only for half an hour at the most. At a quarter past eleven Fandorin entered His Excellency's reception room, wearing a fresh frock coat and an immaculate shirt with a white tie.

There was no one in the spacious room apart from the prince's secretary, and the State Counsellor was on the point of following his usual habit and entering unannounced when Innokentii Andreevich cleared his throat in an emphatically discreet manner and warned him: 'Erast Petrovich, His Excellency has a lady visitor.'

Fandorin leaned down over the table and wrote a note on a piece of paper:

Vladimir Andreevitch, I am ready to report on today’s operation and all the events that preceded it.

E.F.

'Please g-give him this immediately,' he said to the bespectacled pen-pusher, who bowed as he took the note and slipped in through the door of the study.

Fandorin took up a position right in front of the door, certain that he would be admitted immediately, but the secretary slipped back out and returned to his seat without saying a word to him.

'Did Vladimir Andreevich read it?' the State Counsellor enquired in annoyance.

"That I don't know, although I did whisper to His Excellency that the note was from you.'

Erast Petrovich nodded and began striding impatiently across the carpet - once, twice. The door remained closed.

'Who is it in there with him?' Fandorin asked, unable to contain himself.

'A lady. Young and very beautiful,' said Innokentii Andreevich, gladly setting aside his pen and seeming quite intrigued himself. 'I don't know her name, she went through without being announced; Frol Grigorievich showed her in.'

'So Vedishchev is in there too?'

The secretary did not have to answer, because the tall white doors opened with a quiet creak and Vedishschev himself came out into the reception room.

'Frol Vedishchev, I have urgent business for His Excellency, business of extreme importance!' Fandorin declared irritably. Prince Dogorukoi's valet responded in mysterious fashion: first he put one finger to his lips and then, using the same finger, he beckoned to Erast Petrovich to follow him, and hobbled off nimbly along the corridor in his low felt boots.

The State Counsellor shrugged and followed the old man, thinking to himself: Perhaps they are right in St Petersburg when they complain that the Moscow administration is turning senile in its old age.

Vedishchev opened five doors one after another and made several turns to the right and the left, until he finally emerged into a narrow little corridor, which Fandorin knew connected the Governor General's study with the inner apartments.

Here Frol Grigorievich stopped, put his finger to his lips once again and gave a low door a gentle push. It opened slightly without making a sound, and Fandorin discovered that the narrow crack allowed him an excellent view of everything that was happening in the room.

Dolgorukoi was seated with his back towards Erast Petrovich, and sitting in front of him, quite remarkably close, was a lady. Strictly speaking, there was no distance between them at all -the female visitor had her face buried in His Excellency's chest, and from behind the shoulder, with its gold epaulette, all that could be seen was the top of her head. The only sound breaking the silence was a miserable sobbing, mingled with equally pitiful sniffing.

Fandorin glanced round at Vedishchev in puzzlement, and the valet suddenly did something very odd: he winked at the State Counsellor with his wrinkled eye. Totally bewildered now, Erast Petrovich took another look through the narrow crack of the door. He saw the prince raise his hand and gingerly stroke the crying woman's black hair.

'Come now, my darling, that's enough,' His Excellency said affectionately. 'You were right to come to this old man and unburden your soul. And right to have a little cry too. I'll tell you what to do about him. Put him out of your heart completely. He's no match for you. Or anyone else, for that matter. You're a forthright girl, passionate - you don't know how to live by halves. But he - although I truly am very fond of him - he is not really alive somehow, as if he had been touched by hoar frost. Or sprinkled with ashes. You'll never thaw him out or bring him to life. Many have tried already. Take my advice, don't throw your heart away on him. Find yourself someone young and uncomplicated, straightforward. There's more happiness with someone like that. Believe what an old man tells you.'

Erast Petrovich listened to what the prince was saying, and his finely formed eyebrows shifted uncertainly towards the bridge of his nose.

'I don't want anyone straightforward,' the dark-haired visitor said in a tearful voice that was perfectly recognisable despite its distinct nasal twang. 'You don't understand anything; he's more alive than anyone I know. Only I'm afraid he doesn't know how to love. And I'm afraid all the time that he'll be killed ...'

Fandorin listened to no more after that.

'Why did you bring me here?' he whispered furiously to Frol Grigorievich and walked rapidly out of the corridor.

Back in the reception room, the State Counsellor leaned so hard on his pen that the ink spattered across the paper as he wrote the Governor General a new note, substantially different from the previous one in both tone and content.

But before he could hand it to the secretary, the white door swung open and he heard Dolgorukoi's voice: 'Go, and God be with you. And remember my advice.'

'Good morning, Esfir Avessalomovna,' the State Counsellor said, bowing to the young beauty who had emerged from the study.

She measured him with a scornful glance. It was impossible even to imagine that this haughty creature had just been sobbing and sniffing like a primary-school girl cheated of her ice cream. Except perhaps for the fact that her eyes, still moist with tears, were gleaming more brightly than usual. The Queen of Sheba swept on and away without favouring Erast Petrovich with a reply.

Ah,' Vladimir Andreevich sighed. 'If only I were sixty again ... Come in, come in, my dear fellow. I'm sorry for making you wait.'

By tacit agreement, they did not mention the recent female visitor, but moved straight on to business.

'Circumstances have developed in such a way as to prevent me from coming to report to Your Excellency any sooner,' Fandorin began in an official tone of voice, but the Governor General took him by the elbow, sat him down in the armchair facing his own and said good-naturedly: 'I know everything. Frol has his well-wishers in the Department of Security and other places. I have received regular reports on your adventures. And I am also fully informed about today's battle. I received a communique from Collegiate Assessor Mylnikov, with all the details. A fine fellow, Evstratii Pavlovich - very keen to fill the vacancy left by Burlyaev. And why not? - I could have a little word with the Minister. I have already sent His Majesty an urgent despatch about today's heroic feats - a little sooner than that prince of yours. The most important thing in these cases is who submits his report first. I painted your valorous deed in the most glowing colours.'

'For which I am m-most humbly grateful,' Erast Petrovich replied, somewhat confused. 'However, I really have nothing very much to boast of. The most important c-criminal escaped.'

'He escaped, but six were neutralised. That's a great achievement, my dear fellow. It's a long time now since the police have had such a great success. And the victory was won here in Moscow, even if help was brought in from the capital. The sovereign will understand from my despatch that six terrorists were killed owing to your efforts, and the escape of the seventh was Pozharsky's blunder. I know how to compose despatches. I've been sailing the inky oceans for nigh on half a century now. Worry not, God is good. Perhaps they will realise up there' - the prince's wrinkled finger was jabbed upwards towards the ceiling in appeal to either the sovereign or the Lord - 'that it is too soon to throw Dolgorukoi out on the rubbish heap. Just let them try. And I also mentioned your long-delayed appointment as head police-master in my despatch. We'll see who comes out of this best...'

Erast Petrovich emerged from the Governor General's palace in a pensive state of mind. As he pulled on his gloves, he halted beside an advertising column and for no particular reason read an announcement set in huge type:

A Miracle of American Technology!

Edison's latest phonograph is to be demonstrated at the

Polytechnical Museum. Mr Repman, head of the department of applied physics, will personally conduct an experiment in the recording of sound, for which he will perform an aria from 'A Life for the Tsar’, Entrance fee 15 kopecks. The number of tickets is limited.

A snowball struck Erast Petrovich in the back. The State Counsellor swung round in amazement and saw a light two-seater sleigh standing beside the pavement. There was a black-eyed young lady in a sable coat sitting on the velvet seat, leaning against its curved back.

'Get in,' said the young lady. 'Let's go.'

'Been to tell tales to the boss, have we, Mademoiselle Litvinova?' Fandorin enquired with all the venom that he could muster.

'Erast, you're a fool,' she declared peremptorily. 'Shut up, or we'll quarrel again.'

'But what about His Excellency's advice?'

Esfir sighed. 'It's good advice. I'll definitely act on it. But not now. Later.'

Before he entered the large house on Tverskoi Boulevard that was known to everyone in Moscow, Fandorin halted, overwhelmed by his conflicting feelings. So now here it was, the appointment that had been spoken about for so long, in which Erast Petrovich had already ceased to believe. It had finally come to pass.

Half an hour earlier a courier had arrived at the outhouse on Malaya Nikitskaya Street, bowed to the State Counsellor, who had come to the door in his dressing gown, and informed him that he was expected immediately at the head police-master's residence. The invitation could mean only one thing: the Governor General's despatch of the previous day to the supreme ruler had produced an effect, and more quickly than anticipated.

Fandorin had tried to make as little noise as possible as he performed his morning ablutions, put on his uniform, complete with medals, and buckled on his sword - the occasion called for formality - and then, with a glance at the closed door of the bedroom, he had tiptoed out into the hallway.

In career terms, promotion to the position of the second most important individual in the old capital meant elevation to almost empyrean heights: quite certainly a general's rank, immense power, an enviable salary and - most important of all - a certain path to even more vertiginous heights in the future. However, this path was strewn with briars as well as roses, and in Fandorin's eyes the prickliest briar of all was the total loss of privacy. The head police-master was required to live in his official residence, which was grand, showy and uncomfortable - and also directly connected to the secretariat building; to participate as one of the central figures in numerous mandatory official functions (for instance, the gala opening of the Society for the Sponsorship of Public Sobriety was planned for the Week of the Adoration of the Cross, under the patronage of the city's foremost custodian of the law); and finally, to set the citizens of Moscow an example of moral living which, in view of his present personal circumstances, Erast Petrovich felt was a goal that would be hard to achieve.

All this meant that Erast Petrovich was obliged to summon up his courage before stepping across the threshold of his new residence and his new life. As usual, there was consolation to be found in a saying of the Wisest of All Sages: 'The superior man knows where his duty lies and does not attempt to shirk it.'

To shirk it was impossible, to draw things out was stupid, and so Erast Petrovich heaved a sigh and crossed that fatal boundary line marking the final countdown to his new career. He nodded to the saluting gendarme, cast a lingering glance around the familiar, elegant vestibule and shrugged off his fur coat into the arms of the doorman. The Governor General's sleigh should arrive any moment now. Vladimir Andreevich would show his protege into the office and ceremonially present him with a seal, a medal on a chain and a symbolic key to the city - the formal attributes of the head police-master's authority.

'How touching of you to come in full uniform, and with all your medals,' a cheerful voice declared behind him. 'So you know already? And I wanted to surprise you.'

Pozharsky was standing on a short flight of four marble steps, dressed in a style that was far from formal - a morning coat and checked trousers - but with his lips set in a very broad smile.

'I accept your congratulations with gratitude,' he said with a humorous bow, 'although such solemnity is really rather excessive. Come into the office. I have something to show you.'

Erast Petrovich did not give himself away by so much as a single gesture, but when he happened to catch a glimpse in the mirror of the brilliant gleam of his medals and the gold embroidery on his uniform, he blushed painfully at his ignominious error. The Wisest of the Wise came to his assistance: 'When the world appears completely black, the superior man seeks for a small white speck in it.' The State Counsellor made an effort and the white speck was immediately found: at least now he would not be required to preside over public sobriety.

Without saying a word, Erast Petrovich followed Pozharsky into the head police-master's office and halted in the doorway, wondering where to sit - the divan and the armchairs were covered with dust sheets.

'I haven't had a chance to settle in yet. Here, let's use this,' said Pozharsky, pulling the white sheet off the divan. 'I received the telegram informing me of my appointment at dawn. But for you that's not the most important thing. This is ... a text for the newspapers, forwarded from St Petersburg. Intended for publication on the twenty-seventh. Dolgorukoi has already been sent the imperial edict. Read it.'

Erast Petrovich picked up the telegraph form with the official stamp 'Top Secret' and ran his eyes down the long column of paper ribbons glued closely together.

Today, on the supremely festive occasion of His Majesty the Sovereign Emperor’s birthday, Moscow has been blessed as never before by the Tsar's beneficent favour: the Autocratic Ruler of Russia has placed the first capital city of His Empire in the direct charge of His Most August Brother, the Grand Duke Simeon Alexandrovich, by appointing His Highness as Governor General of Moscow.

There is profound historical significance in this appointment. Moscow enters once again into direct communion with the Most August House of the Russian Tsars. The Centuries-old spiritual link between the leader of the Russian people and the ancient capital of Russia today assumes that external, palpable form which is of such profound importance for the clear national awareness of all the people.

Today the Sovereign Emperor has deemed it a boon to exalt even further Moscow's significance as a national palladium by appointing as His representative there none other than His Own Most August Brother.

Muscovites will never forget the easy accessibility for which Prince Vladimir Andreevich was so noted, the cordial consideration that he extended to all those who turned for him to help, the energy with which ...

'Have you read the bit about easy accessibility?' asked Pozharsky, evidendy impatient to proceed with the conversation. 'You don't need to read any more; there's a lot, but it's all froth. So there you are, Erast Petrovich: your patron's finished. And now the time has come for the two of us finally to clarify our relationship. From now on Moscow changes, and it will never again be the same as it was under your amiable Dolgorukoi. Genuine authority is being established in the city, firm power, without any of that "easy accessibility". Your boss failed to understand the true nature of power, he failed to distinguish between its sacred and practical functions, with the result that your city became bogged down in its old patriarchal habits and was making no progress at all towards the new century approaching.'

The prince spoke seriously, with energy and conviction. This was probably what he was really like, when he wasn't playing the hypocrite or being cunning.

'Sacred authority will be represented in Moscow by His Highness, my patron, whose interests I have actually represented here from the very beginning. I can now speak about that openly, without dissimulation. The Grand Duke is a man of a somewhat dreamy cast of mind, with rather distinctive tastes, about which you have no doubt already heard.'

Erast Petrovich recalled what people used to say about Simeon Alexandrovich: that he liked to surround himself with handsome young adjutants; but it was not clear if that was what Pozharsky had in mind.

'But then, that's not so very important. The fundamental point is that His Highness is not going to interfere in any business apart from the public gala parade variety - that is, he will not bedim the mystical halo of authority with "easy accessibility" and "cordial consideration". The practical power, the real power over this city of a million people, will go to Moscow's head police-master, and from today onwards, that happens to be me. I know that you will never stoop to writing underhand denunciations and whispering in ears, and therefore I think it possible to be absolute frank with you.' Gleb Georgievich glanced at Fandorins medals and gave a little frown.

'I get rather carried away sometimes, and I think I have offended you. You and I have become involved in a stupid kind of puerile rivalry, and I was simply unable to deny myself the pleasure of having a little joke with you. The joke turned sour. I beg your pardon yet again. I knew about the despatch that your patron sent yesterday, in which he requested the sovereign to confirm your appointment as head police-master. Dolgorukoi's secretary, the quiet and inoffensive Innokentii Andreevich, spotted which way the wind was blowing a long time ago, and he has been of quite invaluable assistance to our party. Did you really think that I went back to the hotel to sleep after Briusov Square?'

'I never even g-gave it a thought,' Erast Petrovich said coldly, breaking his silence for the first time.

'You are offended,' Pozharsky declared. 'Well, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Ah, forget about these foolish pranks. We're talking about your future here. I have had the opportunity to appreciate your exceptional qualities. You possess a keen intellect, firm resolve, courage, and also something that I value most of all in you: a talent for emerging from the flames without even singeing your wings. I'm a lucky man myself and I can recognise those who are favoured by fortune. Why don't we check to see whose luck is the stronger, yours or mine?'

He suddenly pulled a small pack of cards out of his pocket and held it out to the State Counsellor.

'Guess if the card on the top is red or black.'

'Very well, but put the p-pack on the table,' Erast Petrovich said with a shrug. 'Being too trusting in this game once nearly cost me my life.'

The prince was not offended in the least; in fact he laughed approvingly.

'Quite right. Luck is a lady; she should not be coralled into a corner. Well then?'

'Black,' Fandorin declared without even a moment's thought. Pozharsky pondered for a moment and said: 'I agree.' The top card proved to be the seven of spades. 'The next card is also black.' 'I agree.'

It was the three of clubs.

'Black again,' Erast Petrovich said patiently, as if he were playing a boring, infantile game with a little child.

'Unlikely that there would be three in a row ... No, I think red,' the prince declared - and turned over the queen of clubs.

'As I suspected,* Gleb Georgievich sighed. 'You are one of fortune's true darlings. I should have been sorry to lose such an ally. You know, from the very beginning I saw you as someone who was useful, but also dangerous. But now I no longer regard you as dangerous. For all your brilliant qualities, you have one immense shortcoming. You completely lack flexibility, you cannot alter your colour and shape to suit the circumstances. You are incapable of turning aside from the road already mapped out on to a roundabout side track. And so you won't be biding your time to stab me in the back - that is an art that you, of course, will never master, which suits me perfectly. And as for flexibility, there is a lot I could teach you about that. I propose an alliance. Together we could move mountains. It's not a matter of any specific position for you just yet - we can agree that later. What I need at present is your agreement in principle.'

The State Counsellor gave no reply, and Pozharsky continued, smiling disarmingly: 'Very well, let us take our time. For the time being let us simply get to know each better. I'll teach you how to be flexible, and you'll teach me to guess the colour of cards. Is it a deal?'

Fandorin thought for a moment and nodded.

'Excellent. Then I propose that from now on we should address each other informally and this evening we can seal the concordance by drinking to Bruderschaft,' the prince said, beaming. 'How about it? "Gleb and Erast"?'

'"Erast and Gleb",' Erast Petrovich agreed.

'My friends actually call me Glebchik,' the new head police-master said with a smile, holding out his hand. 'Well then, Erast, until this evening. I have to go out shortly on important business.'

Fandorin stood up and shook the outstretched hand, but seemed in no hurry to leave.

'But what about the search for Green? Are we not going to d-do anything about it? As I recall, Gleb,' said the State Counsellor, uttering the unaccustomed form of address with some effort, 'you said that we were going to "start scheming again".'

'Don't you worry about that,' Pozharsky replied, smiling like Vasilisa the Wise telling the young Tsarevich Ivan that tomorrow is a new day. 'The meeting for which I am departing in such haste will help me close the case of the Combat Group once and for all.'

Crushed by this final blow, Fandorin said no more, but merely nodded dejectedly in farewell and walked out of the office.

He walked down the stairs with the same crestfallen stride, crossed the vestibule slowly, threw his fur coat across his shoulders and went out on to the boulevard, swinging his top hat melancholically.

However, no sooner had Erast Fandorin moved a little distance away from the yellow building with the white columns than his bearing underwent a quite dramatic change. He suddenly ran out into the roadway and waved his hand to stop the first cab that came along.

'Where to, Your Excellency?' the grey-bearded cabby cried smardy in a Vladimir accent when he spotted the glittering cross of a medal under the open fur coat. 'We'll get you there quick as a flash!'

But the important gent didn't get in; instead he took a look at the sturdy, shaggy-haired horse and kicked the sleigh's runner with the toe of his boot.

'So how much is a rig like this nowadays?'

The cabby wasn't surprised, because this wasn't his first year driving a cab in Moscow and he'd seen all sorts of cranks in his time. In fact those cranks were the best tippers.

'Oh, nigh on five hundred,' he boasted, naturally stretching the truth a bit to make the figure sound respectable.

And then the gent did something really queer. He took a gold watch on a gold chain out of his pocket and said: 'This diamond Breguette is worth at least a thousand roubles. Take it, and give me the sleigh and the horse.'

The cabby's jaw dropped and his eyes went blank. He gazed spellbound at the bright specks of sunlight dancing on the gold.

'Make your mind up quickly' the crazy general shouted, 'or I'll st-stop someone else.'

The cabby snatched the watch and stuffed it into his cheek, but the chain wouldn't fit, so it was left dangling down across his beard. He got out of the sleigh, dropped his whip, slapped the sorrel mare on the rump in farewell and legged it.

'Stop!' the weird gent shouted after him - he must have changed his mind. 'Come back!'

The cabby plodded miserably back towards the sleigh, but he didn't take the booty out of his cheek yet; he was still hoping.

'M-m-ma-m, mimim, mamimi mummi mumi mamokumi,' he mooed reproachfully, which meant: 'Shame on a gent like you for playing tricks like that, you should have given me a tip for vodka too.'

'L-Let's swap clothes,' the crackpot said. 'Your sheepskin coat and mittens for my heavy coat. And take your cap off too.'

The gent pulled on the sheepskin coat and tugged the flaps of the sheepskin cap down over his ears. He tossed the cabby his cloth-covered beaver-fur coat and plonked the suede top hat down on his head. And then he yelled: 'That's it, now clear out!'

The cabby picked up the skirts of the heavy coat that was too long for him and set off across the boulevard, tramping heavily in his patched felt boots, with the chain of the gold watch dangling beside his ear.

Fandorin got into the sleigh, clicked his tongue to the horse to reassure it, and started waiting.

About five minutes later a closed sleigh drove up to the door of the head police-master's house. Pozharsky came out of the building carrying a bouquet of tea roses and ducked into the closed sleigh. It set off immediately. Another sleigh carrying two gentlemen who were already familiar to Erast Petrovich set off in pursuit.

After waiting for a little while, the State Counsellor gave a wild bandit whistle and whooped: 'Giddup, lazybones! Get moving!'

The sorrel mare shook its combed mane, jangled its sleigh bell and set off at a fast trot.

It turned out that they were going to the Nikolaevsky Station.

There Pozharsky jumped out of the carriage, tidied his bouquet and ran lightly up the station steps, two at a time. The 'guardian angels' followed him, keeping their customary distance.

Then the sham cabby got out of his own sleigh. As if he were simply strolling about aimlessly, he walked close to the covered carriage, dropped his mitten and bent down to pick it up, but didn't straighten up again immediately. He glanced around slyly and suddenly smashed the mounting of the suspension with an immensely powerful blow of his fist, delivered with such lightning speed that it was almost impossible to see. The sleigh shuddered and sagged slightly to one side. The alarmed driver hung down from his box to look, but saw nothing suspicious, because Fandorin had already straightened up and was looking the other way.

After that, while he sat in his sleigh, he refused several fares from the St Petersburg train, one of which was actually highly advantageous: to Sokolniki for a rouble and twenty-five kopecks.

Pozharsky returned with company: an extremely attractive young lady. She was burying her face in the roses and laughing happily. And the prince was not his usual self: his face was positively glowing with carefree merriment.

The lovely lady put her free hand round his shoulders and kissed him on the lips so passionately that Gleb Georgievich's pine-marten cap slipped over to one side of his head.

Fandorin could not help shaking his head in amazement at the surprises thrown up by human nature. Who would ever have thought that the ambitious predator from St Petersburg was capable of such romantic behaviour? But what had all this to do with the Combat Group?

As soon as the prince seated his companion in the carriage, it heeled over decisively to the right, making quite clear that there was no chance of travelling any further in it.

Erast Fandorin pulled his cap further down over his eyes, turned up his collar, cracked his whip smartly and drove straight up to the scene of the mishap.

'Here's a fine light Vladimir sleigh for you!' the State Counsellor yelled in a high falsetto that had nothing in common with his normal voice. 'Get in, Your Honour, I'll take you and the mamselle wherever you like, and I won't ask a lot: just a roople, and a half a roople, and a quarter roople for tea and sugar!'

Pozharsky glanced at this dashing fellow, then at the lopsided carriage and said: 'You can take the lady to Lubyanskaya Square. And I', he said, addressing the new arrival herself, 'will ride to Tverskoi Boulevard with my sworn protectors. I'll be waiting for news.'

As she got into the sleigh and covered her knees with the bearskin rug, the beautiful woman said in French: 'Only I beg you, darling, no police tricks, no shadowing. He's certain to sense it.'

'Don't insult me, Julie,' Pozharsky replied in the same language. 'I don't believe I have ever let you down.'

Erast Petrovich tugged on the reins and set the horse moving along Kalanchovka Street in the direction of Sadovo-Spasskaya Street.

To all appearances the young lady was in a very good mood: first she purred some song without any words, then she started singing in a low voice about a red sarafan. She had a wonderfully melodic voice.

'Lubyanka, lady' Fandorin announced. 'Where to now?'

She turned her head this way and that and muttered peevishly to herself: 'How unbearable he is, always playing the conspirator.

'I tell you what: drive me round in circles.'

The State Counsellor chorded and set off along the edge of the square, driving round the ice-covered fountain and the cab stand.

On the fourth circuit a man in a black coat bounded off the pavement and jumped lightly into the sleigh.

'I'll give you a jump, you bandit!' the 'cabby' roared, raising his whip to lash at the impertinent prankster.

But this proved to be no ordinary passenger; he was very special: Mr Green in person. Only this time he'd glued on a light-coloured moustache and put on a pair of spectacles.

'He's a friend of mine,' the beautiful lady explained. 'The one I was expecting. Where are we going, Greeny?'

The new passenger gave the order: 'Drive across Theatre Lane. Then I'll tell you where next.'

'What's happened?' the songstress asked. 'What does "important business" mean? I dropped everything and here I am, just like magic. Perhaps you were simply missing me?' she asked, with a hint of cunning in her voice.

'I'll tell you when we get there,' the special passenger said, clearly not in the mood for conversation.

After that they drove in silence.

The passengers got out on Prechistenka Street, beside the estate of the counts Dobrinsky, but instead of going in through the gates, they walked up on to the porch of a wing of the main palace building.

Erast Petrovich, who had got down to tighten his horse's girth, saw a young woman open the door: a pale, severe face and smooth hair drawn back into a tight bun.

Following that, State Counsellor Fandorin acted rapidly and without hesitating for even a moment, as if he were not following instinct but carrying through a clear, carefully worked-out plan.

First he drove on for another five hundred paces, then tied the reins to a bollard beside the road, threw the sheepskin coat and cap into the sleigh, thrust his sword under the seat and walked back to the railings of the estate. There were hardly any people in the street, but he waited until it was completely empty before clambering nimbly up the railings and jumping down to the ground on the inside.

He ran quickly across the yard to the wing and found himself under a window with its small upper frame conveniently standing open. Erast Petrovich stood quite still for a moment, listening. Then without any obvious effort he clambered up on to the window sill, squeezed himself up tight and wriggled through the small aperture of the open window in a truly virtuoso feat of gutta-percha flexibility.

The hardest thing of all was to lower himself on to the floor without making any noise, but the State Counsellor managed even that. He found himself in a kitchen that was small but very tidy and wonderfully well heated. Here he had to listen carefully again, because he could hear voices from somewhere deeper inside the wing. Once he had determined which direction the sound was coming from, Erast Petrovich took his Herstahl-Baillard out of its holster and set off soundlessly along the corridor.

For the second time that day Erast Petrovich found himself spying and eavesdropping on someone through a half-open door, but this time he felt no embarrassment or pangs of conscience -only the excitement of the hunt and a thrill of joyful anticipation. His dear friend Gleb's luck could not last for ever, and he could learn more from Fandorin than how to guess the colour of cards.

There were three people in the room. The woman with the smooth hair whom he had seen at the front door was sitting at a table, sideways on to the door of the room, and performing strange manipulations: scooping a grey, jelly-like mass out of a jar with a small spoon and transferring it very carefully, a few drops at a time, to a narrow tin like the ones in which they sold olive essence or tomato paste. There were more tins standing there, both narrow ones and ordinary, half-pound ones. She's making bombs, the State Counsellor realised, his joy dimming a little. He had to put the Herstahl away - the woman only had to start in fright or surprise, and the entire wing of the house would be reduced to rubble. The female bomb-maker was not involved in the conversation being conducted by the other two.

'You're simply insane,' the woman who had come on the train said in dismay. 'Working in the underground has given you a persecution complex. You never used to be like that. If you can even suspect me

It was said in such a sincere and convincing tone that if Erast Petrovich had not seen the young lady in Pozharsky's company with his own eyes, he would certainly have believed her. The dark-haired man with the immobile features stamped in metal had not been present at the meeting at the station, and yet there was a note of unshakeable certainty in his voice.

'I don't suspect. I know. You left the notes. Only I didn't know if something went wrong or it was a deliberate provocation. Now I can see it was deliberate. Two questions. The first is: who? The second...' The terrorist leader hesitated. 'Why, Julie? Why? ... All right, you needn't answer the second one. But you must answer the first. Otherwise I'll kill you. Right now. If you say, I won't kill you. Party court.'

It was quite clear that this was no idle threat. Erast Petrovich opened the door a little wider and saw that Pozharsky's collaborator was staring in horror at a dagger clutched in the terrorist's hand.

'Could you kill me?' - the double agent's voice trembled pitifully - 'after what happened between us? Surely you haven't forgotten?'

There was a faint tinkle of glass from the direction of the woman making the bombs. Turning his head slighdy, Erast Petrovich saw that she had turned pale and was biting her lip.

Green, on the contrary, had turned red, but his voice was as steely as ever.

'Who?' he repeated. 'But tell the truth ... No? Then ... He grabbed the beauty's neck tightly with his left hand and drew back the right one to strike.

'Pozharsky,' she said quickly. 'Pozharsky, the deputy director of the Police Department, and now the head police-master of Moscow. Don't kill me, Green. You promised!'

The stern-faced man appeared shaken by her confession, but he put his knife away.

'Why him?' he asked. 'I don't understand. Yesterday I understand, but before then?'

'Don't ask me about that,' Julie said with a shrug.

Having realised that her life was not in immediate danger, she calmed down quite remarkably quickly and even started tidying her hair.

'I'm not interested in your games of cops and robbers. All you boys ever want to do is chase around after each other, fire your pop-guns and throw bombs. Women have more serious concerns.'

And what are your concerns?' Green asked, giving her an intense, perplexed look. 'What is the most important thing in your life?'

'You have to ask? Love, of course. There is nothing more important. You men are monsters because you don't understand that.'

All for love?' Russia's most dangerous terrorist asked slowly. 'Bullfinch, Emelya, the others - for love?'

Julie wrinkled up her sweet nose. 'For what else? My Gleb's a monster too, the same as you, although he plays for the cops, not the robbers. I did what he asked me to. If we women love, we do it with all our heart, and then we stop at nothing. Not even if the whole world goes to hell.'

'I'll check that now,' Green said and suddenly took his dagger out again.

'What are you doing?' the collaborator squealed, recoiling. 'I confessed! What else do you need to check?'

'Who you love more - him or yourself'

The terrorist took a step towards her and she backed away towards the wall, throwing her hands up.

'Now you're going to telephone your protector and tell him to come here. Alone. Yes or no?'

'No!' Julie shouted, sliding along the wall. 'Not for anything!' She reached the corner and shrank back into it.

Green moved close without speaking, holding his dagger at the ready.

'Yes,' she said in a weak voice. 'Yes, yes, all right... Just put that away'

Green turned to the seated woman, who was carrying on with her dangerous work as steadily as ever, and told her: 'Needle, find out what the head police-master's number is, will you?'

The woman with the strange alias - the courier that Rahmet-Gvidon had talked about - put down an unfinished bomb and stood up.

Erast Petrovich took heart and readied himself for action. Let Needle get at least ten steps away from that deadly table; then push the door open and cover the distance to Green in three -no four - bounds, stun him with a kick to the back of the head or, if he managed to turn round, to the chin, swing round to Needle and cut off her path to the table. Not easy, but feasible.

'Forty-four twenty-two,' Julie sobbed. 'I remember it, it's an easy number.'

And so, unfortunately, Needle stayed beside her bombs.

Fandorin could not see the telephone apparatus, but it was obviously there in the room, because Green put his dagger away again and pointed off somewhere to one side with his hand: 'Tell him to come. Say it's very urgent. Give me away and I'll kill you.'

'I'll kill you, I'll kill you.' Julie laughed. 'Oh Greeny, what a bore you are. You could at least get furious, shout and stamp your feet.'

What rapid transitions from fear to despair to insolence, the State Counsellor thought. A rare bird indeed.

And he proved to have underestimated her audacity.

'So you're sweet on her, are you?' she asked, nodding at Needle. 'You make a funny couple. I'd like to see you two getting lovey-dovey. It must be like metal clanking against metal. The love of two ironclads.'

Aware as he was of the loose morals typical of nihilist circles, the State Counsellor was not at all surprised by this declaration, but Needle suddenly became extremely animated - it was a good thing that she was standing up and not sitting over her bombs.

'What do you know about love?' she shouted in a ringing voice. 'One moment of our love is worth more than all your amorous adventures taken together!'

The beauty seemed to have her reply ready, but Green took her firmly by the shoulder and shoved her towards the invisible telephone: 'Get on with it!'

After that Julie was outside Fandorin's field of view, but he could hear her voice very distinctly.

'Central exchange? Young lady, forty-four, twenty-two,' the voice said without a trace of expression, and a second later it spoke again in a different tone, with overbearing insistence. 'Who? Duty Adjutant Keller? Listen, Keller, I have to speak to Gleb Georgievich immediately. Very urgent ... Julie, that's enough. He'll understand ... Ah, is he?... Yes, definitely' The receiver jangled against the cradle.

'He's not there yet. The adjutant said he's expected in a quarter of an hour at most. What shall I do?'

'Ring again in a quarter of an hour,' said Green.

Erast Petrovich backed silently away from the door and left the house quickly - following the same route by which he had entered.

The sorrel mare was still there, but someone had appropriated the sheepskin coat and cap - the temptation must have been too much.

Members of the public taking their Sunday stroll along Prechistenky Boulevard were able to observe the interesting spectacle of a cab sleigh hurtling along the road with a respectable-looking gentleman, dressed in full uniform complete with medals, standing erect in it, whistling wildly and lashing on the plain-looking, shaggy sorrel mare with his whip.

He was only just in time. He ran into Pozharsky in the doorway of the head police-master's residence. The prince was agitated, clearly in a hurry, and not pleased by this unexpected encounter. He flung out a few words without even breaking his stride: 'Later, Erast, later. The crucial moment is at hand!'

However, the State Counsellor grasped his superior's sleeve in fingers of steel and pulled the prince towards him.

'For you, Mr Pozharsky, the crucial moment has already arrived. Why don't we go to the office?'

His attitude and tone of voice produced the required impression. Gleb Georgievich gave Fandorin a curious glance.

'What's this then - are we back on formal terms, Erast? That gleam in your eyes suggests you must have discovered something interesting. Very well, let's go. But for no more than five minutes. I have pressing matters to deal with.'

The prince's entire demeanour made it clear that he had no time for long explanations, and he did not take a seat, nor did he offer Fandorin one, although the covers had already been removed from the furniture in the office. But then, Erast Petrovich had no intention of sitting down, since he was in belligerent mood.

'You are a provocateur, a double agent and a state criminal,' he said in a cold fury, skipping through his consonants with no trace of a stammer. 'It was you, not Diana, and you communicated with the terrorists of the Combat Group by means of letters. You were responsible for Khrapov's death, you informed the terrorists about the Petrosov Baths, and you deliberately misinformed me about the snowdrift. You wanted to get rid of me. You are a traitor! Shall I present my evidence?'

Gleb Georgievich continued to regard the State Counsellor with the same expression of curiosity, taking his time before replying.

'I don't think there's any need,' he said after a long moment's thought. 'I believe that you do have evidence, and I have no time for wrangling. Naturally, I'm very curious about how you found out, but you can tell me about that some time later. Well, so be it, I extend the length of our conversation from five minutes to ten, but that's the most I can do. So get straight to the point. All right, I am a provocateur, a double agent and a traitor. I arranged Khrapov's assassination and a number of other remarkable stunts, up to and including a couple of attempts on my own life. Now what? What do you want?'

Erast Petrovich was taken aback, since he had been prepared for long and stubborn denials, and therefore the question that he had intended to ask at the very end had a rather pathetic ring as he stammered it out.

'B-But why? What d-did you want to achieve with all this scheming?'

Pozharsky began speaking with grating confidence: 'I am the man who can save Russia - because I am intelligent, bold and do not suffer from mushy sentiment. My enemies are numerous and powerful: on one side the fanatics of revolt, and on the other the stupid, fossilised swines in generals' uniforms. For a long time I had no connections, no protection. I would have fought my way to the top in any case, but too late: time is passing and Russia has very little of it left. That was why I had to hurry. The Combat Group is my adopted child. I nurtured that organisation, made its name and created its reputation. It has already given me everything it could, and now the time has come to put a full stop at the end of this story. Today I shall eliminate Green. The fame that I created for that uncompromising gentleman will help me rise a few steps higher and bring me closer to my ultimate goal. That's the gist of it, brief and unadorned. Is that enough?'

And you did all this for the salvation of Russia?' Fandorin asked, but his sarcasm was lost on the prince.

'Yes. And naturally for myself too. I make no distinction between myself and Russia. After all, Russia was founded a thousand years ago by one of my ancestors, and three hundred years ago another assisted in her revival.' Pozharsky thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat and swayed back on his heels. 'And don't think, Erast, that I am afraid of your revelations. What can you do? You have no one in St Petersburg. Your protector in Moscow has been overthrown. No one will believe you, no one will even hear what you say. You can't possibly have anything more than circumstantial evidence and assumptions. Will you go to the newspapers? They won't print it. This is not Europe, thank God. You know' - Gleb Georgievich lowered his voice confidentially - 'I have a revolver in my pocket and it is aimed at your stomach. I could shoot you. Right now, here in this office. I would proclaim that you were an agent for the terrorists, that you are linked with them through your little Jewish girl and you tried to kill me. In the present circumstances I should easily get away with it, I'd even get a medal. But I am opposed to unnecessary extravagance. There is no need to kill you, because you really are no danger to me. Choose, Erast: either play with me, by my rules, or make yourself look like a fool. Actually, there is a third way, which is probably more to your taste. Say nothing and retire quietly. You will at least retain the dignity that is so dear to you. So what is your choice? Play the game, play the fool or keep quiet?'

The State Counsellor turned pale, his eyebrows shifted up and down and his thin moustache twitched. The prince followed this internal struggle with a rather scornful expression, waiting calmly for its outcome.

'Well?'

All right,' Erast Petrovich said quietly. 'Since it is what you wish, I shall k-keep quiet

'Well, that's excellent.' The triumphant prince smiled and glanced at his watch. 'We didn't need ten minutes after all; five was enough. But do think about playing the game. Don't bury your talent in the ground, like the lazy, scheming servant described by Saint Matthew.'

So saying, the head police-master strode towards the door.

Fandorin gave a sudden start and opened his mouth to stop him, but instead of a loud call, all that emerged from his lips were four barely audible words:' "Eradicating evil with evil”