The State Counsellor

CHAPTER 3 in which the costs of dual subordination are demonstrated

'How much longer will we be subjected to scrutiny?' Erast Petrovich asked drearily, glancing round at Burlyaev.

About five minutes had passed since the State Counsellor and the Lieutenant Colonel (who had changed his blue uniform for civilian clothes) first entered the gate of the modest townhouse on Arbat Street and rang the bell. At first the curtain in the window of the attic storey had swayed in very promising fashion, but since then nothing had happened.

'I warned you,' the head of the Okhranka said in a low voice: 'a capricious character. Without me here she wouldn't open the door to a stranger at all.' He threw his head back and shouted -not for the first time: 'Diana, it's me, open up! And the gentleman I telephoned you about is with me!'

No reply.

Fandorin already knew that this little townhouse, rented through an intermediary, was one of the Department of Security's clandestine meeting places, and it had been placed entirely at the disposal of the highly valued collaborator. Meetings with her always took place here and nowhere else, and always by prior arrangement, for which purpose a telephone had been specially installed in the house.

'Madam!' said Erast Petrovich, raising his voice, 'you will f-freeze us! This is quite simply impolite! Do you wish to take a better look at me? Then you should have said so straight away'

He took off his top hat, raised his face, swung round to present his left profile, then his right and - oh, wonder of wonders! - a small window frame opened slightly, white fingers were thrust out through it and a bronze key fell at his very feet.

'Ooph,' said the Lieutenant Colonel, bending down. 'Let me do it. There's a trick to the lock..."

They took off their coats in the empty hallway. Pyotr Ivanovich seemed strangely agitated. He combed his hair in the mirror and set off first up the creaking stairs to the mezzanine.

At the top of the stairs there was a short corridor with two doors. The Lieutenant Colonel knocked briefly on the door on the left and entered without waiting for an answer.

Strangely enough, it was almost completely dark in the room. Erast Petrovich's nostrils caught the scent of musk oil, and on looking round he saw that the curtains were tightly closed and there was no lamp in the room. It seemed to be a study. At least, there was the dark form of something like a secretaire over by the wall, and the grey silhouette of a desk in the corner. It was a few moments before the State Counsellor spotted the slim female figure with the disproportionately large head that was standing motionless beside the window. Fandorin took two steps forward and realised that his hostess was wearing a hat with a veil.

'Please be seated, gentlemen,' the woman said in a voice hushed to a sibilant whisper, gesturing elegantly to a pair of armchairs. 'Good morning, Pyotr Ivanovich. What is so very urgent? And who is your companion?'

'This is Mr Fandorin, Count Dolgorukoi's Deputy for Special Assignments,' Burlyaev replied, also in a whisper. 'He is conducting the investigation into the murder of Adjutant General Khrapov. Perhaps you have already heard?'

Diana nodded and waited until her guests were seated, then also sat down - on a divan standing against the opposite wall.

'How could you have heard? There's been n-nothing in the newspapers about it yet.'

The words were pronounced in a perfectly normal voice, but by contrast with the whisper that had preceded them, they sounded very loud.

'News travels fast,' the collaborator murmured mockingly. 'We revolutionaries have our own telegraph wires.'

'But more p-precisely? Where could you have heard?' said the State Counsellor, ignoring her frivolous tone.

'Diana, this is very important,' Burlyaev rumbled in his deep bass, as if he were trying to smooth over the abruptness of the question. 'You can't possibly imagine just how important—'

'Why not? - I understand.' The woman leaned back. 'For Khrapov you could all be thrown out of your cosy little jobs. Is that not so, Erast Petrovich?'

There was no denying that the low, hushed voice was provocatively sensuous, thought Fandorin - like the scent of musk, and the casually graceful movements of the slim hand idly toying with the earring in her ear. He was beginning to understand why this Messalina roused such intense passions in the Office of Gendarmes and the Department of Security.

'How do you know my first name and patronymic?' he asked, leaning forward slightly. 'Has somebody already told you about me?'

He thought Diana must have smiled - her whisper became even more insinuating.

'On more than one occasion. There are many people in Moscow who take an interest in you, Monsieur Fandorin. You are a fascinating character.'

'And has anybody spoken to you about the State Counsellor just recently?' Burlyaev put in. 'Yesterday, for instance? Have you had any visitors here?'

Erast Fandorin glanced sideways in displeasure at this intrusive assistance, and Diana laughed soundlessly.

'I have many visitors, Pierre. Have any of them spoken to me about Monsieur Fandorin? I can't really recall

She won't say, Erast Petrovich realised, taking mental note of that 'Pierre'. This was a waste of time.

He introduced a hint of metal into his voice. 'You have not answered my first question. From whom exactly did you learn that General Khrapov had been killed?'

Diana rose abrupdy to her feet and the tone of her whisper changed from caressing to piercing, like the hiss of an enraged snake. 'I am not on your payroll and I am not obliged to report to you! You forget yourself! Or perhaps they have not explained to you who I am? Very well, I shall answer your question, but that will be the end of the conversation. And do not come here any more. Do you hear, Pyotr Ivanovich - let me never see this gentleman here again!'

The Lieutenant Colonel stroked his short-cropped hair in bewilderment, clearly not knowing whose side to take, but Fandorin replied imperturbably.

'Very well, we will go. But I am waiting for an answer.'

The woman moved towards the window, so that the grey rectangle framed her shapely silhouette.

'The killing of Khrapov is an open secret. Every revolutionary group in Moscow already knows about it and is rejoicing. This evening there will be a party to celebrate the occasion. I have been invited, but I shall not go. You, however, could call in. If you are lucky you might pick up a few illegal activists. The gathering is at the apartment of engineer Larionov. Twenty-eight Povarskaya Street.'

'Why didn't you ask her directly about Sverchinsky?' the Lieutenant Colonel exclaimed angrily as they rode back to the Department in the sleigh. 'I suspect that he visited her yesterday and he could easily have given something away. You saw for yourself what kind of character she is. She toys with men like a cat with mice.'

'Yes,' Fandorin replied absent-mindedly, nodding. 'A lady of some character. But never mind her. What we have to do is put this Larionov's apartment under surveillance. Assign the most experienced agents, let them follow each of the guests home and establish their identity. And then we'll run through all of their contacts, right along the chain. And when we come across the person who was the first to find out about Khrapov, from there it will only be a short step to the Combat Group.'

Burlyaev responded patronisingly: 'There's no need to do any of that. Larionov's one of our agents. We set up the apartment specially - to maintain our surveillance of'discontents and dubious individuals. It was Zubtsov's idea, the clever chap. All sorts of riff-raff with revolutionary connections get together at Larionov's place - to abuse the authorities, to sing forbidden songs and, of course, for a drink and a bite to eat. Larionov keeps a good table; our secret fund pays for it. We take note of the blabbermouths and open a file on each one of them. As soon as we can nab them for something serious, we already have the full collected works on the little darlings.'

'But that's entrapment!' Erast Petrovich protested with a frown. 'First you engender nihilists, and then you arrest them.'

Burlyaev set his hand to his chest in a gesture of respect. 'Begging your pardon, Mr Fandorin, you are, of course, a well-known authority in the field of criminal investigation, but you have little understanding of our trade in the line of security.'

'Well then, there is no need to have Larionov's guests shadowed?'

'There is not.'

'Then what d-do you suggest?'

'No need to suggest anything; everything's clear enough as it is. When I get back now, I'll instruct Evstratii Pavlovich to put together an arrest operation. A single broad sweep - we'll pull in all the little darlings at once, then I'll give them the full works. One thing you're right about is that the thread leads from one of them to the Combat Group.'

Arrest? On what grounds?'

'On the grounds, dear Erast Petrovich, that, as Diana so rightly remarked, in a day or two you and I will be flung out on our backsides. There's no time to waste on tailing people. We need results.'

Fandorin felt it necessary to adopt an official tone. 'Do not forget, Mr Lieutenant Colonel, that you have been instructed to follow my directions. I will not permit any arrests without due grounds.'

Burlyaev, however, did not buckle under pressure. 'Correct, I have been so instructed. By the Governor General. But in the line of investigation I am subordinated to the Police Department, not the Governor's office and so I must politely beg your pardon. If you wish to be present at the arrest - by all means; only do not interfere. If you prefer to stay out of it - that's up to you.'

Erast Petrovich said nothing. He knitted his brows and his eyes glinted menacingly, but no thunderbolt or peal of lightning followed.

After a pause the State Counsellor said coolly: 'Very well. I shall not interfere, but I shall be present.'

At eight o'clock that evening all the preparations for the operation were complete

The building on Povarskaya Street had been surrounded since half past six. The first ring of the cordon, the closest, consisted of five agents: one of them, in a white apron, was scraping up the snow outside the very doors of the single-storey house that bore the number twenty-eight; three, the shortest and puniest, were pretending to be juveniles, building a snow casde in the yard; another two were repairing a gas lamp on the corner of Ss. Boris and Gleb Lane. The second ring, consisting of eleven agents, had a radius of a hundred paces: three 'cabbies', a 'police constable', an 'organ-grinder', two 'drunks' and four 'yard-keepers'.

At five minutes past eight Burlyaev and Fandorin rode down Povarskaya Street on a sleigh. Sitting on the driving box, half-turned towards them, was the undercover agents' commander, Mylnikov, pointing out how things had been set up.

'Excellent, Evstratii Pavlovich,' the Lieutenant Colonel said, approving the arrangements with a triumphant glance at the State Counsellor, who so far had not said a single word. 'Well now, Mr Fandorin, do my men know how to do their job or not?'

Erast Petrovich said nothing. The sleigh turned on to Skaryatinsky Lane, drove on a little further and stopped.

'How many of the little darlings are there?' asked Burlyaev.

'In all, not counting Larionov and his cook, there are eight individuals,' Mylnikov began explaining in a pleasant north Russian accent. He was a plump gentleman who looked about forty years old, with a light-brown beard and long hair cut pudding-basin style. At six o'clock, when we started setting up the cordon, by your leave, Pyotr Ivanovich, I sent in one of my men, supposedly with a registered letter. The cook whispered to him that there were three outsiders. And then another five showed up - all of them individuals known to us, and the list has already been drawn up: six individuals of the male sex and two of the female. My man told the cook to stay in her room and not stick her head out. I took a look in through the window from the next roof - the nihilists are enjoying themselves, drinking wine; they've already started singing. A real revolutionary Shrovetide it is.'

Mylnikov giggled briefly, to make quite sure no doubt could remain that these final words were a joke.

'I think, Pyotr Ivanovich, that now's the time to take them. Or else they'll take a drop too much; they might even offer resistance if they get their Dutch courage up. Or some early bird will make for the door and we'll have to divide our forces. We'd have to take him real careful like, some ways off, so as not to stir up the rest of them.'

'Perhaps you haven't brought in enough men, Evstratii Pavlovich. After all, there are eight of them,' the Lieutenant Colonel said doubtfully. 'I told you it would be a good idea to take some police constables from the station and put a third circle round the yards and the crossroads.'

'No need for that, Pyotr Ivanovich,' Mylnikov purred, unconcerned. 'My men are trained wolfhounds, and this lot, begging your pardon, are only small fry, minnows - young ladies and little students.'

Burlyaev rubbed his nose with his glove (as evening approached it had started to get frosty). 'Never mind; if the small fry already know about Khrapov, that means one of them is well in with a big fish. Godspeed, Evstratii Pavlovich; get to work.'

The sleigh drove along Povarskaya Street again, but this time the false cabby had hung a lantern on the horses' shaft, and at this signal the second ring moved in closer. At precisely eight thirty Mylnikov put four fingers in his mouth and whistled, and that very instant the seven agents broke into the house.

The top men - Burlyaev, Mylnikov and Fandorin - entered immediately behind them. The others formed a new cordon and stood under the windows.

In the entrance hall Erast Petrovich peeped out from behind the Lieutenant Colonel's back and saw a spacious drawing room, a number of young people sitting at a table and a young lady at a piano.

'Don't get up, or I'll put a bullet through your bonce!' Mylnikov thundered in a terrible voice quite unlike his previous one and struck a student who had jumped up off his chair on the forehead with the handle of his revolver. Instantly turning pale, the student sat back down and a scarlet stream sprang from his split eyebrow. The other guests at the party stared at the blood, spellbound, and not one of them said a word. The agents quickly took up positions round the table, holding their guns at the ready.

'Two, four, six, eight,' Mylnikov said quickly, counting the heads. 'Eremeev, Zykov, check the rooms, quick! There should be another one!' As the agents went out, he shouted at their backs: 'And don't forget the privy!'

"Well now, well now, what's the meaning of all this?' the man with spectacles and a goatee beard sitting at the head of the table - evidently the host - exclaimed in a trembling voice. "This is my name-day celebration! I am engineer Larionov of the Tryokhgorny cement factory! This is absolutely outrageous!'

He smashed his fist down on the table and stood up, but the agent standing behind him seized his throat in a grip of iron, reducing Larionov's voice to a feeble wheeze.

Mylnikov said imposingly: 'I'll give you a name day. If anyone else so much as twitches, it's a bullet in the belly, straight off. I have my orders: if there's any resistance, shoot without warning. Sit down!' he barked at the engineer, who was pale from pain and fear, and the man plumped down on to his chair.

Eremeev and Zykov came in from the corridor, leading a man who was doubled over with his hands forced up behind his back. They tossed him into an empty seat.

Burlyaev cleared his throat and stepped forward. Evidently it was his turn now. 'Hmm, Mr Collegiate Assessor, that's going a bit too far. You need to see who it is you're dealing with. We appear to have been misled. These people are not bombers;

they're a perfectly decent group. And then' - he lowered his voice, but it could still be heard - 'I told you to manage the arrest tactfully. Why go hitting people on the head with revolvers and twisting their arms? That really is too bad.'

Evstratii Pavlovich frowned in annoyance and muttered: As you wish, Mr Lieutenant Colonel, but I'd like to have a little talk with these bastards after my own fashion. You'll only spoil everything with all this liberalism of yours. Just give them to me for half an hour and they'll sing like nightingales, I give you my word of honour as a gentleman on that.'

'Oh no,' Pyotr Ivanovich hissed. 'Spare me your methods, please. I'll find out everything I need to know for myself. Mr Larionov, what have you got behind that door over there - a study? You don't mind if I use it to have a chat with your guests, one at a time, do you? Please do excuse me, gentlemen, but this is a bit of an emergency' The Lieutenant Colonel ran his glance over the detainees. 'This morning Adjutant General Khrapov was murdered. The same Khrapov ... Ah, but I see you're not surprised? Well, we'll have a little chat about that too. If you have no objections.'

'"If you have no objections" - Oh, my God!' Mylnikov exclaimed, grinding his teeth as he dashed out into the corridor in a fury, knocking over a chair on the way.

Erast Petrovich gave a doleful sigh - the entire manoeuvre was far too transparent; but it seemed to produce the required effect on the detainees. At least, all of them were gazing in stupefaction at the door through which Evstratii Pavlovich had made his exit.

But no, not all of them. One slim young lady who was sitting by the piano, off to one side of the main developments, did not appear to be stupefied at all. Her black eyes were blazing with indignation, the pretty, dark features of her face contorted into a mask of hatred. The young woman curled up her scarlet lips in a furious, silent whisper, reached out one slim hand to the handbag lying on the piano and pulled out a small, elegant revolver.

The intrepid young miss grasped the gun tightly with both hands, aiming it straight at the back of the Lieutenant Colonel of gendarmes. From a standing start, Erast Petrovich vaulted almost halfway across the drawing room in a single prodigious leap, lashing his cane down on the gun barrel before his feet even touched the floor.

The toy with the mother-of-pearl handle struck the floor and fired - not really all that loudly, but Burlyaev flung himself violently to one side and all the agents swung their gun barrels round towards the reckless young woman. They would undoubtedly have riddled her with bullets if not for Erast Petrovich, whose tremendous jump had terminated just in front of the piano, so that the malefactress was hidden behind the State Counsellor's back.

Ah, so that's the way!' exclaimed the Lieutenant Colonel, still recovering from the shock. 'So that's the way! You bitch! I'll kill you where you stand!' And he pulled a large revolver out of his pocket.

Mylnikov came running in from the corridor at the noise and shouted: 'Pyotr Ivanovich! Stop! We need her alive! Take her, lads!'

The agents lowered their guns and two of them dashed over to the young lady and seized her by the arms.

Burlyaev unceremoniously shoved the State Counsellor aside and stood in front of the black-haired terrorist, towering over her by almost a full head.

'Who are you?' he gasped out, struggling to recover his breath. 'What's your name?'

'I shall not reply to impolite questions,' the nihilist replied jauntily, looking up at the gendarme.

Mylnikov came over. 'Would you please tell me your name?' he asked patiently. And your title. Do let us know who you are.'

'Esfir Litvinova, daughter of a full state counsellor,' the detainee replied with equal politeness.

'The banker Litvinov's daughter,' Evstratii Pavlovich explained to his superior in a low voice. 'Under investigation. But not previously known to be involved in anything like this.'

'I don't care if her father's Rothschild himself!' Burlyaev hissed, wiping the sweat offhis forehead. 'You'll get hard labour for this, you scum. Where they won't feed you any of your Yiddish kosher delicacies.'

Erast Petrovich knitted his brows, preparing to intercede for the young mademoiselle's honour, but apparently his intercession was not required.

The banker's daughter propped her hands on her hips and screeched contemptuously at the Lieutenant Colonel: 'You bastard! You animal! How would you like a slap in the face, like Khrapov?'

Burlyaev began rapidly turning scarlet. When he reached a genuine beetroot colour, he roared: 'Evstratii Pavlovich, put the detainees in the sleighs and take them to the remand cells.'

'Wait, Mr Mylnikov,' said the State Counsellor, raising one finger. 'I will not allow you to take anyone away. I came here especially to see whether the provisions of the law would be observed during the operation. Unfortunately, you have disregarded them. On what grounds have these people been detained? They have not committed any overt offence, and so there can be no question of detaining them for the actual commission of a crime. If you intend to make an arrest on grounds of suspicion, you require specific sanction. Mr Burlyaev recendy told me that in the matter of investigation the Department of Security is not subordinated to the municipal authorities. That is correct. But the making of arrests falls within the jurisdiction of the Governor General. And as His Excellency's plenipotentiary representative I order you to release your prisoners immediately'

Fandorin turned towards the detainees, who were listening to his dispassionate and authoritative speech in dumbfounded amazement.

'You are free to go, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of Count Dolgorukoi I apologise to you for the wrongful actions of Lieutenant Colonel Burlyaev and his subordinates.'

'This is unheard of!' Pyotr Ivanovich roared, the colour of his face now resembling not so much a beetroot as an aubergine. 'Whose side are you on?'

'I am on the side of the law. And you?' Fandorin enquired.

Burlyaev threw his arms up as if he were lost for words and demonstratively turned his back on the State Counsellor.

'Take Litvinova and let's go,' he ordered his agents and shook his fist at the seated guests. 'You just watch out, you cattle! I know every one of you!'

'You will have to release Miss Litvinova too,' Erast Petrovich said in a soft voice.

'But she fired at me!' said the Lieutenant Colonel, swinging round again and fixing the Governor's Deputy for Special Assignments with an incredulous stare. At an officer of the law! Engaged in the performance of his duty!'

'She did not fire at you. That is one. As for you being an officer of the law, she was not necessarily aware of that - since you did not introduce yourself and you are not in uniform. That is t-two. And as for the performance of your duty, it would be better not to mention that. You did not even announce that an arrest was taking place. That is three. You broke down the door and burst in, shouting and waving guns about. In the place of these gentlemen, I should have taken you for bandits and if I had had a revolver I should have fired first and asked questions later. You could have taken Mr Burlyaev for a b-bandit, could you not?' Erast Petrovich asked the young lady, who was regarding him with an extremely strange look.

'Why, is he not a bandit?' Esfir Litvinova responded immediately, assuming an expression of great amazement. 'Who are you all, anyway? Are you from the Department of Security? Then why didn't you say so straight away?'

'Right, I shan't let it go at this, Mr Fandorin,' Burlyaev said menacingly. 'We'll see whose department is the more powerful. Let's go, damn it!'

This final remark was addressed to the agents, who put their guns away and filed towards the door in disciplined fashion.

Mylnikov brought up the rear of the procession. In the doorway he looked round, smiled as he wagged a monitory finger at the young people, bowed politely to the State Counsellor and went out.

For about half a minute the only sound in the drawing room was the ticking of the clock on the wall. Then the student with the split eyebrow jumped to his feet and dashed headlong for the door. Without bothering to take their leave, the others followed him out no less rapidly.

After another half-minute there were only three people left in the room: Fandorin, Larionov and the fiery young lady.

The banker's daughter stared hard at Erast Petrovich with her bold, lively eyes, and those full lips that seemed almost out of place on the thin face curved into a caustic grin.

'So that was your little drama, was it?' Mademoiselle Lit-vinova enquired, shaking her short-cropped head in feigned admiration. 'Original. And superbly played - as good as Korsh's Theatre. What should come next according to your scenario? The grateful maiden falls on the chest of her handsome saviour, sprinkling his starched shirt with her tears, and vows eternal devotion? And then she informs against all her comrades, right?'

Erast Petrovich noticed something quite astonishing: the short haircut, far from spoiling the young lady, actually suited her boyish face very well.

'Surely you didn't really intend to fire, did you?' he asked. 'Stupid. With a t-trinket like that' - he pointed with his cane to the little revolver lying on the floor - 'you wouldn't have killed Burlyaev anyway, but they would certainly have torn you to pieces on the spot. And in addition—'

'I'm not afraid!' the effusive damsel interrupted him. 'What if they would have torn me to pieces? This bestial despotism must be given no quarter!'

'And in addition,' Fandorin continued, paying no heed to her impassioned retort, 'you would have doomed your friends. Your soiree would have been declared a gathering of terrorists and they would all have been sent off to penal servitude.'

Mademoiselle Litvinova was taken aback, but only for an instant. 'My, how very humane!' she exclaimed. 'But I don't believe in noble musketeers from the gendarmerie. The polished and polite ones like you are even worse than the outright bloodsuckers like that red-faced brute. You're a hundred times more dangerous! Do you at least understand, Mr Handsome, that none of you will escape retribution?'

The young lady stepped forward belligerendy, and Erast Petrovich was obliged to retreat as a slim finger with a sharp nail sliced through the air just in front of his nose.

'Butchers! Oprkhniks! You won't be able to hide from the people's vengeance behind the bayonets of your bodyguards!'

'I'm not hiding at all,' the State Counsellor replied resentfully. 'I don't have any bodyguards and my address is listed in all the address books. You can check for yourself: Erast Petrovich Fandorin, Deputy for Special Assignments to the Governor General.'

Aha, that Fandorin!' the young woman said with an excited glance at Larionov, as if she were calling on him to witness this astounding discovery. 'Haroun al-Rashid! The slave of the lamp!'

'What lamp?' Erast Petrovich asked in surprise.

'You know what I mean. The mighty genie who stands guard over the old sultan, Dolgorukoi. So that, Ivan Ignatievich, was why he threatened the police agents with the Governor,' she said, turning to the engineer once again. 'But I wonder just what kind of high-up it is who doesn't give a fig for the Okhranka? I rather thought, Mr Genie, that you despised political detective work.'

She transfixed Erast Petrovich with a final, lethal, withering glance, nodded in farewell to her host and set off majestically towards the door.

'Wait,' Fandorin called to her.

'What else do you want from me?' the young lady asked, bending her elegant neck into a proud curve. 'Have you decided to arrest me after all?'

'You have forgotten your gun.' The State Counsellor picked up the revolver and held it out to her, handle first.

Esfir took the gun with her finger and thumb, as if she disdained to touch the official's hand, and walked out of the room.

Fandorin waited until the front door slammed shut, then turned to the engineer and said in a low voice: 'Mr Larionov, I am aware of your relationship with the Department of Security'

The engineer shuddered as if he had been struck. An expression of melancholy despair appeared on his yellowish face with the puffy bags under the eyes. 'Yes,' he said with a nod, wearily lowering himself on to a chair. 'What do you want to know? Ask.'

'I do not make use of the services of secret informers,' Erast Petrovich replied coolly. 'I regard it as odious to spy on one's comrades. The name for what you do here is entrapment. You make new acquaintances among the romantically inclined youth, you encourage talk against the government, and then you report on your achievements to the Okhranka. Aren't you ashamed of yourself? After all, you're a n-nobleman, I've read your file.'

Larionov laughed unpleasandy and took a papyrosa out of a pack with trembling fingers.

Ashamed? You try talking about pangs of conscience with Mr Sergei Vitalievich Zubtsov. And about entrapment too. That's a word Mr Zubtsov doesn't like at all. He calls it "public sanitation". Says it's better to mark down potentially dangerous parties at an early stage and sift them out. If they don't meet at my place, under Sergei Vitalievich's watchful eye, they'll only meet somewhere else. And there's no knowing what ideas they'll come up with there, or what they might get up to. But here they're all in open view. The moment anyone stops making idle conversation and turns to serious talk, they grab the poor fellow straight away. Peace and quiet for the state, promotion for Mr Zubtsov and sleepless nights for the Judas Larionov ...' The engineer covered his face with his hands and stopped speaking. To judge from the heaving of his shoulders, he was struggling against his tears. Erast Petrovich sat down facing him and sighed. 'What on earth made you do it? It's loathsome.'

'Of course it's loathsome,' Larionov replied, speaking through his hands in a dull, muffled voice. As a student I used to dream of social justice too. I pasted up leaflets in the university. That was what I was doing when they took me.'

He took his hands away and Fandorin saw that his eyes were moist and gleaming. The engineer struck a match and drew in the smoke of his papyrosa convulsively.

'Sergei Vitalievich is a humane individual. "You, Ivan Ignatievich," he said, "have an old mother, in poor health. If they throw you out of university - and that's the least that you're looking at - she'll never survive it. Well, and if it's exile or, God forbid, prison, you'll send her to her grave, no doubt about it. For what, Ivan Ignatievich? For the sake of chimerical fantasies!" And then he went on explaining about public sanitation, only in more detail, with more fine phrases. Telling me he wasn't inviting me to be an informer, but a rescuer of children. "There they are, the silly, pure-hearted creatures, running around among the flowers, and they don't see the steep precipice down at the end of the meadow. Why don't you stand on the edge of that precipice and help me save the children from falling?" Sergei Vitalievich is a great talker and, above all, he believes what he says himself. Well, I believed it too' - the engineer smiled bitterly - 'or, to be more honest, I made myself believe it. My mother really wouldn't have survived the blow... Well, anyway, I graduated from university, and Mr Zubtsov found me a good job. Only it turned out that I wasn't a rescuer at all, just a perfecdy ordinary collaborator. As they say, it's not possible to be half-pregnant. I even get a salary, fifty-five roubles. Plus fifty roubles expenses, payable on account.' His smile widened even further, becoming a mocking grin. 'All in all, life simply couldn't be better. Except that I can't sleep at night.' He gave a chilly shudder. 'I nod off for a moment and then I wake with a start -I hear a knock and I think they've come for me - one side or the other. And I carry on shuddering like that all night long. Knock-knock. Knock-knock.'

At that very moment the door-knocker clattered loudly. Larionov shuddered and laughed nervously. 'Someone's come late. Missed all the fun. Mr Fandorin, you hide behind that door there for the time being. No point in your being seen. You can explain your business afterwards. I'll get rid of them quickly.'

Erast Petrovich walked through into the next room. He tried not to eavesdrop, but the caller's voice was loud and clear.

'... And they didn't tell you we were going to stay with you? Strange.'

'Nobody gave me any message!' Larionov replied and then, speaking louder than necessary, he asked, 'Are you really in the Combat Group? You mustn't stay here! They're looking for you everywhere! I've just had the police round!'

Forgetting his scruples, Fandorin stole quiedy up to the door and opened it a crack.

The young man standing in front of the engineer was wearing a short winter coat and an English cap, with a long strand of light-coloured hair dangling out from under it. The late visitor was holding his hands in his pockets and there were sparks of mischief glinting in his eyes.

'Are you alone here?' the visitor asked.

'There's the cook. She's sleeping in the boxroom. But you really mustn't stay here.'

'So the police came, took a sniff around and went away again?' The blond-haired man laughed. "Well, isn't that just miraculous?

'In Bryansk the cats on Railway Street Caught a sparrow they could eat. They licked a lot and licked a lot, But didn't eat a single jot.'

The jolly young man moved so that his back was towards the State Counsellor, while Larionov was obliged to stand facing the door.

The intriguing guest made a movement of his hand that Fandorin couldn't see and the engineer suddenly gasped and staggered back.

'What's wrong, Iscariot - afraid?' the caller enquired in the same flippant tone as ever.

Sensing that something was wrong, Erast Petrovich jerked the door open, but just at that moment there was the sound of a shot.

Larionov howled and doubled over; the shooter glanced round at the sudden clatter behind him and raised his hand. It was holding a compact, burnished-steel Bulldog. Fandorin dived under the shot and hurled himself at the young man's feet, but the caller leapt back nimbly, striking his back against the door jamb, and tumbled out into the hallway

Fandorin sat up over the wounded man and saw he was in a bad way: the engineer's face was rapidly turning a ghasdy shade of blue.

'I can't feel my legs,' Larionov whispered, gazing into Erast Petrovich's eyes in fright. 'It doesn't hurt at all, I just want to sleep

'I've got to catch him,' Fandorin said rapidly. 'I'll be quick, then I'll get a doctor straight away'

He darted out into the street and looked to the right - nobody there; he looked to the left - there it was, a fleeting shadow moving rapidly in the direction of Kudrinskaya Street.

As the State Counsellor ran, two thoughts came into his mind. The first was that Larionov wouldn't need a doctor. To judge from the symptoms, his spine was broken. Soon, very soon, the poor engineer would start making up for all his sleepless nights. The second thought was more practical. It was no great trick to overtake the killer, but then how would he deal with an armed man when he himself had no gun? The State Counsellor had not expected this to be a day of risky undertakings and his trusty Herstahl-Baillard (seven shots, the latest model) had been left at home. How useful it would have been just at this moment!

Erast Petrovich was running quickly, and the distance between him and the shadow was rapidly shortening. That, however, was no cause for rejoicing. At the corner of Ss. Boris and Gleb Street the killer glanced back. With a sharp crack, his gun spat a tongue of flame at the pursuer and Fandorin felt a hot wind fan his cheek.

Suddenly two more swift shadows sprang straight out of the wall of the nearest house and fused with the first, forming a nebulous, squirming tangle.

'Ah, you lousy scum, kick me, would you!' someone shouted in an angry voice.

By the time Erast Petrovich got close, the commotion was already over.

The jovial young man was lying face down with his arms twisted behind his back, swearing breathlessly. A solidly built man was sitting on him and grunting as he twisted his elbows even higher. Another man was holding Fandorin's fallen quarry by the hair, forcing his head back and up.

On looking more closely, the State Counsellor saw that the unexpected assistance had been provided by two of the police agents on duty that evening.

'You see, Erast Petrovich, even the Okhranka can come in useful sometimes,' an amiable voice said out of the darkness.

There proved to be a gateway close by, and standing in it was none other than Evstratii Pavlovich Mylnikov in person.

'Why are you here?' the State Counsellor asked, and then answered his own question. 'You stayed to follow me.'

'Not so much you, Your Honour - you're an individual far above suspicion; more the general course of events.' The head of the plain-clothes squad came out from the shadows on to the illuminated pavement. 'We were particularly curious to see whether you would go off anywhere with that fiery young hussy. My belief is that you decided to win her over with the carrot rather than the stick. And quite right too. The foolhardy ones like that only turn vicious under direct pressure and insults. You have to avoid rubbing them up the wrong way, stroke them with the fur, stroke them, and as soon as they roll over - go for their soft underbelly!'

Evstratii Pavlovich laughed and held up one palm in a conciliatory gesture, as if to say: Don't bother to deny it, I wasn't born yesterday.

'When I saw the young lady leave alone, I almost sent my dunderheads after her, and then I thought no, I'll wait a bit. His Honour is a man of the world, with a keen nose. If he's staying back, he has something in mind. And sure enough - soon this character turns up.' Mylnikov nodded at the arrested man, who was howling in pain and cursing. 'So it turns out I was right after all. Who is he?'

'Apparently a member of the Combat Group,' Erast Petrovich replied, feeling indebted to this obnoxious but far from stupid collegiate assessor.

Evstratii Pavlovich whisded and slapped himself on the thigh: 'Good old Mylnikov! He knew which horse to back, all right. When you write your report, don't forget this humble servant of God. Hey, lads, call for a sleigh! Give over twisting his arms, or he won't be able to write a confession.'

One of the agents ran for the sleigh and the other clicked a pair of handcuffs on to the recumbent man's wrists.

'You can go whistle for your confession,' the prisoner hissed.

It was well after midnight before Erast Petrovich reached the Department of Security. First he had had to attend to Larionov, who was bleeding to death. When he got back to the apartment, Fandorin found the engineer already unconscious. By the time the carriage he summoned by telephone from the Hospital of the Society of Fraternal Love finally arrived, there was no longer any point in taking the wounded man away. It had been a pointless waste of time. And the State Counsellor had had to make his own way to Bolshoi Gnezdikovsky Lane on foot - at that hour of the night he hadn't met a single cab.

The quiet side street was completely dark, only the windows of the familiar two-storey building were aglow with cheerful light. The Department of Security had no time for sleeping tonight.

Once inside, Erast Petrovich witnessed a curious scene. Mylnikov was concluding his analysis of the evening's operation. All sixteen agents were lined up against the wall of the long corridor and the collegiate assessor was prowling softly along the ranks like some huge cat, admonishing them in a calm, measured voice, like a teacher in front of his class.

'Let me repeat that again, so that you blockheads will finally remember it. When detaining a group of political suspects, proceed as follows. First - stun them. Break in, making a din, yelling and banging and crashing, so you set their knees knocking. Even a brave man freezes when he's taken by surprise.

Second - immobilise them. Make sure every single detainee is rooted to the spot and can't even move a finger, let alone open their mouths. Third - search them for weapons. Did you do that? Ah? You, Guskov, it's you I'm asking; you were the senior man at the raid.' Mylnikov stopped in front of a middle-aged plain-clothes man with red slime streaming out of his flattened nose.

'Evstratii Pavlovich, Your Honour,' Guskov boomed. 'They was only small fry, snot-nosed kids, that was obvious straight off. Got a seasoned eye, I have.'

'I'll give you another one in that eye of yours,' the collegiate assessor said amicably. 'Don't even try to think, you numskull. Just do it right. And the fourth thing - keep a close watch on all the detainees all the time. But you sloppy dunces go and let a young lady take a pop-gun out of her reticule and none of you even see it. Right, then ...' Mylnikov clasped his hands behind his back and swayed back on his heels.

The agents waited for his verdict with baited breath.

'Only Shiryaev and Zhulko will receive gratuities. Fifteen roubles each, from me personally, for the arrest of a dangerous terrorist. And that goes in the official orders. As for you, Guskov, it's a ten-rouble fine. And one month's demotion from senior agent to the ranks. I reckon as that's fair, don't you?'

'I'm sorry, Your Honour,' said the punished man, hanging his head. 'Only don't take me off operations work. I'll make it up to you, I swear to God.'

All right, I believe you.'

Mylnikov turned towards Erast Petrovich and pretended to have only just noticed him.

'Delightful of you to drop in, Mr Fandorin. Pyotr Ivanovich and Zubtsov have been chatting with our friend for the best part of an hour and getting nowhere.'

'He refuses to talk?' the State Counsellor asked as he followed Mylnikov up the narrow winding stairs.

'On the contrary. He's a cocky one. I listened for a bit and then left. Nothing's going to come of it anyway. After what happened today Pyotr Ivanovich's nerves are a bit jittery. And then he's a bit vexed it was you and me as nabbed such a big fish,' Evstratii Pavlovich added in conspiratorial tones, half-turning round as he spoke.

They were conducting the interrogation in the boss's office. Fandorin's jovial acquaintance was sitting on a chair in the middle of the spacious room. It was a special chair, massive, with straps on the two front legs and the armrests. The prisoner's arms and legs were strapped down so tight that he could only move his head. The commanding officer of the Department of Security was standing on one side of him, and standing on the other was a lean gentleman of rather agreeable appearance who looked about twenty-seven, with a narrow English moustache.

Burlyaev scowled as he nodded to Fandorin and complained: 'A hardened villain. I've been flogging away for an hour now, and all for nothing. He won't even tell us his name.'

'What meaning has my name for thee?' the impudent prisoner asked the Lieutenant Colonel in a soulful voice. 'My darling, it will perish in a doleful murmur.'

Paying no attention to this insolent remark, the Lieutenant Colonel introduced the other man: 'Sergei Vitalievich Zubtsov. I told you about him.'

The lean man bowed respectfully and smiled at Erast Petrovich in an extremely affable manner.

'Delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr Fandorin. And even more delighted to be working with you.'

Aha,' the prisoner exclaimed in delight. 'Fandorin! That's right; now I see the grey temples. Didn't spot them before, I was in too much of a hurry. Why are you just standing there, gentlemen? Seize him, he killed that old ass Khrapov!' He laughed, delighted with his own joke.

'With your permission, I'll proceed,' Zubtsov said to both of his superiors and turned to face the criminal. All right, we know you're a member of the Combat Group and you were involved in the assassination of General Khrapov. You have just implicidy admitted that you were in possession of a description of the State Counsellor's appearance. We also know that your accomplices are in Moscow at present. Even if the prosecution is unable to prove your involvement in the assassination, you are still facing the severest possible penalty. You killed a man and offered armed resistance to representatives of the law. That is quite enough to send you to the gallows.'

Unable to restrain himself, Burlyaev interrupted: 'Do you realise, you scum, that you're going to dangle at the end of a rope? It's a terrible way to die, I've seen it more than once. First the man starts croaking and thrashing about. Sometimes for as long as fifteen minutes - it all depends how the knot's tied. Then his tongue flops out of his gullet, his eyes pop out of his skull and all the filth drains out of his belly. Remember the Bible, about Judas? 'And falling headlong he burst asunder in the midst and all his bowels gushed out.'"

Zubtsov cast a reproachful glance at Burlyaev: he evidently felt that these were the wrong tactics.

The prisoner responded lightheartedly to the threatening words: 'So what, I'll croak a bit and then stop. I'll be beyond caring then, but afterwards you'll have to clean up my shit. That's what your job is, fat-face.'

The Lieutenant Colonel struck the defiant man a sharp, crunching blow in the mouth.

'Pyotr Ivanovich!' Zubtsov exclaimed in protest, even taking the liberty of seizing his superior by the arm. 'This is absolutely impermissible. You are bringing the authorities into disrepute!'

Burlyaev turned his head in fury and was clearly about to put the insolent subordinate in his place, but at that point Erast Petrovich struck his cane against the floor and said in a commanding voice: 'Stop this!'

The Lieutenant Colonel pulled his arm free, breathing heavily. The terrorist spat a thick gob of blood out on to the floor, together with his two front teeth, then stared at the Lieutenant Colonel with a gleam in his blue eyes and a gap-toothed smile.

'I beg your pardon, Mr Fandorin,' Burlyaev growled reluctantly. 'I got carried away. You can see for yourself what a fine hero we have here. What would you have me do with someone like this?'

'What is your opinion, Sergei Vitalievich?' the State Counsellor asked the likeable young man.

Zubtsov rubbed the bridge of his nose in embarrassment, but he replied immediately, with no hesitation. 'I think we are wasting our time here. I would postpone the interrogation.'

'Qu-Quite right. And what we should also do, Mr Lieutenant Colonel, is the following. Immediately draw up a verbal portrait of the prisoner and carry out a thorough Bertillonage, complete in every detail. And then send the description and the results of the anthropometric measurements to the Police Department by telegram. They might possibly have a file on this man there. And be so good as to make haste. The message must reach St Petersburg no later than an hour from now.'

Once again - how many times was it now in the last twenty-four hours - Fandorin walked along Tverskaya Boulevard, which was entirely deserted at this dead hour of night. The long day that seemed so reluctant to end had brought a bit of everything -raging blizzards, quiet snowfalls, and sudden, bright interludes of sunshine; but the night was filled with a calm solemnity: the soft light of the gas lamps, the white silhouettes of the trees that seemed to be draped with muslin, the gentle, gliding fall of the snowflakes.

The State Counsellor himself did not really understand why he had declined the official state sleigh until he felt the fresh, untrampled snow on the pathway crunching crisply beneath his feet. He needed to rid himself of a painful, nagging sense of defilement: if he didn't, he would not be able to sleep in any case.

Erast Petrovich strode unhurriedly between the melancholy elms, striving to comprehend why any business connected with politics always had such a rotten smell about it. This seemed like a normal enough investigation, simply one that was more important than the others. And the objective was a worthy one: to protect public peace and the interests of the state. So why this feeling of contamination?

Clean up dirt, and you're bound to get dirty - it was a sentiment Fandorin had heard often enough, especially from practitioners of law enforcement. However, he had concluded long ago that only people who lacked any talent for this subtle trade reasoned in that way. Those who were lazy, who sought simple means to resolve complex problems, never became genuine professionals. A good yard-keeper's apron was always snow-white, because he didn't scrape up the dirt with his hands, down on all fours - he had a broom, a spade and a shovel, and he knew how to use them. In all his dealings with heartless killers, ruthless swindlers and bloodthirsty monsters, Erast Petrovich had never experienced such keen revulsion as today.

Why? What was wrong?

He could not find the answer.

He turned on to Malaya Nikitskaya Street, where there were even fewer street lamps than on the boulevard. The pavement began here and the steel tip of his cane repeatedly clacked against the flagstones as it pierced the thin layer of snow.

At the wicket gate, scarcely visible among the fancy lace work of the estate gates, the State Counsellor froze as he sensed, rather than saw, a slight movement off to one side of him. He swung round sharply, his left hand grabbing the shaft of his cane (there was a sword with a thirty-inch blade inside it), but then immediately relaxed his taut muscles.

There was someone standing in the shadow of the railings, but this individual was clearly a member of the weaker sex.

'Who are you?' Erast Petrovich asked, peering intently into the gloom.

The slight figure moved closer. First he saw the fur collar of the winter coat and the sable semicircle of the hood, then the immense eyes set in the triangular face glittered as they suddenly caught the light of a distant street lamp.

'Miss Litvinova?' Fandorin asked in surprise. 'What are you doing here? And at such a late hour!'

The young lady from Larionov's apartment moved very close to him. She was holding her hands in a thick fur muff. Her eyes glowed with a truly unearthly radiance.

'You scoundrel!' the ecstatic maiden proclaimed in a voice that rang with hatred. Tve been standing here for two hours! I'm frozen through!'

'Why am I a scoundrel?' Erast Petrovich protested. 'I had no idea that you were waiting

'That's not why! Don't pretend to be a dunce! You understand perfectly well! You're a scoundrel! I've got your measure! You deliberately tried to hoodwink me! Making yourself out to be an angel! Oh, I can see right through you! You really are a thousand times worse than all the Khrapovs and Burlyaevs! You have to be eliminated without mercy!'

So saying, the reckless young lady drew her hand out of the muff, and there glinting in it was the familiar revolver that the State Counsellor had so imprudently returned to its owner.

Erast Petrovich waited to see if a shot would follow, but when he saw that the hand in the fluffy glove was trembling and the gun was swaying erratically, he took a quick step forward, grabbed hold of Mademoiselle Litvinova's slim wrist and turned the barrel aside.

Are you quite determined to shoot a servant of the law today?' Fandorin asked in a quiet voice, gazing into the young lady's face, which was very close now.

'I hate you! You oprichnik!' she whispered and struck him on the chest with her free fist.

He was obliged to drop his cane and grasp the girl's other hand too.

'Police spy!'

As Erast Petrovich examined her more closely, he noticed two things. First, framed in fur that was dusted with snowflakes, in the pale light of the gas lamps, the stars and the moon, Mademoiselle Litvinova's face was quite stunningly beautiful. And second, her eyes seemed to be blazing altogether too brighdy for mere hatred.

He leant down with a sigh, put his arms round her shoulders and kissed her firmly on the lips - in defiance of all the laws of physics, they were warm.

'Gendarme!' the nihilist protested languidly, pulling away from him. But then she instantly put both arms round his neck and pulled him towards her. The hard edge of the revolver jabbed into the back of Fandorin's head.

'How did you find me?' he asked, gasping for air.

'And you're a fool too!' Esfir declared. 'You told me yourself it was in all the address books

She pulled him to her again, with a fierce, sharp movement, and the toy revolver fired up into the sky, deafening Erast Petrovich's right ear and startling into flight the jackdaws sitting on a nearby poplar tree.