Turkish Gambit

Chapter Eleven IN WHICH VARYA INFILTRATES THE SUPREME SPHERE OF POLITICS

Varya had put on all her best finery for the parade in the presence of His Imperial Majesty, and so she would have no cause to blush for her costume in front of her sovereign - that was the first thought that came into her head. The pale-lilac hat with the watered-silk ribbon and veil, the violet dress with the embroidery on the bodice and the moderate train, the black boots with the mother-of-pearl buttons: modest and unaffected, but decent enough - thanks to the shops of Bucharest.

'Are we going to be decorated?' she asked Erast Petrovich on the way.

He was also decked out in his finest: creased trousers, boots polished up like mirrors, an order of some kind in the buttonhole of his neatly ironed frock coat. There was no denying that the titular counsellor looked every inch the part, except that he was so extremely young.

'Hardly.'

'Why not?' asked Varya in astonishment.

'We're not important enough,' Fandorin replied thoughtfully. 'They still haven't decorated all the generals, and we come low down on the list.'

'But after all, if it weren't for us ... I mean, if it weren't for you, Osman-pasha would have been bound to break out. Just think what would have happened then!'

'I realise that. But after a victory people don't usually think of such things. No, trust me, my experience tells me this smacks of politics.'

There were only six rooms in the 'field palace', and therefore the function of waiting room was assumed by the porch, where a dozen or so generals and senior officers were already shuffling their feet as they waited for their invitations to present themselves to the royal gaze. They were all wearing rather silly, delighted expressions - there was a whiff of decorations and promotions in the air. The waiting men stared at Varya with understandable curiosity. She glanced haughtily over their heads at the low winter sun: let them rack their brains trying to guess who this young woman in the veil was and why she had presented herself for an audience.

The wait stretched out, but it was not boring at all.

'Who has been in there for so long, General?' Varya asked grandly, addressing a tall old man with tangled masses of whiskers at the sides of his mouth.

'Sobolev,' said the general, putting on a significant expression. 'He went in half an hour ago.' He drew himself erect and touched a hand to the brand-new decoration with the black-and-orange bow on his chest. 'Pardon me, madam, I have not introduced myself. Ivan Stepanovich Ganetsky, commander of the grenadier corps.' He paused expectantly.

'Varvara Andreevna Suvorova,' said Varya with a nod. 'Pleased to meet you.'

At this point Fandorin demonstrated a brusqueness quite untypical of him in normal circumstances and pushed forward, preventing her from finishing what she was going to say.

'Tell me, General, just before the assault, was the Daily Post correspondent McLaughlin at your headquarters?'

Ganetsky glanced in annoyance at this civilian whippersnapper, but then clearly decided that not just anybody would be invited to see His Majesty and replied politely: 'Why yes, he was. He was the reason it all happened.'

'What exactly?' Erast Petrovich asked with a rather stupid expression.

'Why, surely you must have heard?' - this was evidently not the first time the general had explained. 'I know McLaughlin from St Petersburg. A serious man and a friend of Russia, even though he is a subject of

Queen Victoria. When he told me that Osman was going to surrender to me at any moment, I sent off runners to the forward edge of our lines, so that no one, God forbid, would open fire. And like an old fool, I went to put on my dress uniform.' The general gave an embarrassed smile, and Varya decided that he was terribly nice. 'So the Turks took the patrols without a single shot being fired. It was a good job my grenadiers didn't let me down - fine lads, they held out until Mikhail Dmitrievich attacked Osman from the rear.'

'What happened to McLaughlin?' the titular counsellor asked, staring fixedly at Ganetsky with his cold blue eyes.

'I didn't see,' said the general with a shrug. 'I was busy. My God, but it was a fine mess. The Bashi-Bazouks reached our actual headquarters; I was lucky to get away with my life in my dress tunic'

The door opened and Sobolcv emerged on to the porch, with a red face and a special, unusual gleam in his eyes.

'On what shall we congratulate you, Mikhail Dmitrievich?' asked a general of Caucasian appearance in a Circassian coat with a gilded cartridge belt.

Everybody held their breath, but Sobolev was in no hurry to answer. He paused for effect, glancing round at all of them and winking gaily at Varya.

But she did not discover exactly how the emperor had honoured the hero of Plevna, because the dull, workaday features of Lavrenty Arkadievich Mizinov appeared behind the Olympian's shoulder. The chief gendarme of the empire beckoned with one finger to Fandorin and Varya. Her heart began to race.

As they were walking past Sobolev, he whispered quietly: 'Varvara Andreevna, I will wait for you without fail’

From the entrance hall they stepped straight into the aide-de-camp's room, where the duty general and two officers were sitting at a table. The emperor's personal apartments were on the right, his study was on the left.

'Answer questions loudly, clearly and fully,' Mizinov instructed them as they walked along. 'In detail, but without deviating from the subject.'

There were two people in the simple study furnished with portable items of Karelian birch. One was sitting in an armchair, the other standing with his back to the window. Varya naturally glanced first at the seated individual, but he was not Alexander; he was a wizened old man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, with an intelligent, thin-lipped face and eyes of ice that allowed nothing in: State Chancellor Prince Korchakov in person, exactly the way he looked in his portraits, except perhaps rather more delicate,- a legendary individual in his own way. Varya believed he had been minister of foreign affairs before she was even born. But most importantly of all, he had studied at the Lycee with the Poet. He was the one who was the 'Darling of fashion, friend of high society, observer of its dazzling ways' -though at the age of eighty the 'darling of fashion' put her more in mind of a different poem that was included in the grammar-school curriculum.

The chancellor's hand really was trembling. He took a cambric handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose, which did not hinder him in the least from surveying first Varya and then Erast Petrovich in the most censorious manner; and, moreover, the legendary person's gaze lingered for a long moment on Fandorin.

Spellbound by the sight of the alumnus of the Tsarskoe Selo Lycee, Varya had entirely forgotten the most important individual present. Embarrassed, she turned towards the window, thought for a moment and then curtseyed - as they used to do at the grammar school when the headmistress entered the classroom.

Unlike Korchakov, His Majesty demonstrated distinctly more interest in her person than in Fandorin's. The famous Romanov eyes - piercing, mesmerising and distinctly slanted - gazed at her with fastidious severity. They see into your very soul, she thought - that's the expression-, and then she felt quite angry with herself for slipping into the slave mentality of ignorant prejudice. He was simply imitating the 'basilisk stare' that his father, may he lie uneasy in his grave, had been so proud of. And she began pointedly inspecting the man whose will governed the lives of eighty million subjects.

The first observation: why, he was really old! Swollen eyelids, sideburns, a moustache with curly ends and a pronounced sprinkling of grey, knotty, gouty fingers. But then, of course - next year he would be sixty. Almost as old as her grandmother.

The second observation: he didn't look as kind as the newspapers said he was. He seemed indifferent and weary. He'd seen everything in the world there was to see; nothing could surprise him, nothing could make him feel particularly happy.

The third observation, and the most interesting: despite his age and his imperial lineage, he was not indifferent to the female sex. Otherwise, why, Your Majesty, would you be running your eyes over my breasts and my waist like thatl It was obviously true what they said about him and Princess Dolgorukova, who was only half his age. Varya stopped being even slightly afraid of the Tsar-Liberator.

Their chief introduced them: 'Your Majesty, this is Titular Counsellor Fandorin, the one you have heard about. With him is his assistant, Miss Suvorova.'

The tsar did not say 'hello' or even nod. He concluded his inspection of Varya's figure without hurrying, then turned his head towards Erast Petrovich and said in a low voice modulated like an actor's: 'I remember, Azazel. And Sobolev was just telling me.'

He sat down at the desk and nodded to Mizinov. 'You begin. Mikhail Alexandrovich and I will listen.'

He might offer a lady a chair, even if he is an emperor, Varya thought disapprovingly, abandoning her final shred of belief in the monarchic principle.

'How much time do I have?' the general asked respectfully. 'I know, Your Majesty, how busy you are today. And the heroes of Plevna are waiting.'

'As much time as is needed. This is not merely a strategic matter, but a diplomatic one too,' the emperor rumbled and glanced at Korchakov with an affectionate smile. 'Mikhail Alexandrovich here has come from

Bucharest specially. Rattling his old bones in a carriage’

The prince stretched his mouth in a habitual manner to form a smile devoid of the slightest sign of merriment, and Varya remembered that the previous year the chancellor had suffered some kind of personal tragedy. Someone close to him had died - either his son or his grandson.

'Pray do not take this amiss, Lavrenty Arkadievich,' the chancellor said in a doleful voice, 'but I am having doubts. It all sounds rather too shady, even for Mr Disraeli. And the heroes can wait. Waiting for a decoration is quite the most pleasant of pastimes. So please let us hear what you have to say.'

Mizinov straightened up his shoulders smartly and turned - not to Fandorin, but to Varya: 'Miss Suvorova, please tell us in detail about both of your meetings with the correspondent of the Daily Post, Seamus McLaughlin - during the third storming of Plevna and on the eve of Osman-pasha's breakout.'

And so Varya told them.

It turned out that the tsar and the chancellor were both good listeners. Korchakov only interrupted her twice. The first time he asked: 'Which Count Zurov is that? Not Alexander Platonovich's son?'

The second time he asked: 'McLaughlin knew Ganetsky well then, if he referred to him by his first name and patronymic?'

But His Majesty slapped his palm on the table in irritation when Varya explained that many of the journalists had acquired their own informants in Plevna: 'You still haven't explained to me, Mizinov, how Osman managed to bunch his entire army together for a breakout and your scouts failed to inform you in time!'

The chief of gendarmes started and prepared to make his excuses, but Alexander gestured to stop him. 'Later. Continue, Suvorova.'

'Continue' - how do you like that! Even in the first class at school they had been more polite to her. Varya paused demonstratively to make the point, then went on to finish her story nonetheless.

‘I think the picture is clear,' said the tsar, glancing at Korchakov. 'Let Shuvalov draw up a note.'

'But I am not convinced,' the chancellor replied. 'Let us hear what arguments our inestimable Lavrenty Arkadievich has to offer.'

Varya struggled in vain to understand where exactly the point of disagreement between the emperor and his senior diplomatic adviser lay.

Mizinov cleared up the matter for her. He took several sheets of paper out of his cuff, cleared his throat and began speaking like a swot who is top of the class:

'With your permission, I shall move from the specific to the general. Very well. First of all I must confess my own failings. All the time that our army was besieging Plevna, a cunning and merciless enemy was operating against us and my department failed to expose him in time. It was the intriguing of this cunning and clandestine enemy that resulted in our losing so much time and so many men and almost letting the fruits of many months of effort slip through our fingers on the thirtieth of November.'

At these words the emperor crossed himself. 'God has preserved Russia.'

'After the third assault we - or rather, I, for the conclusions drawn were mine - made a serious mistake in concluding that the main Turkish agent was Lieutenant-Colonel of the Gendarmes Kazanzaki, thereby granting the genuine culprit full freedom of action. It is now not open to doubt that from the very beginning we have been sabotaged by the British subject McLaughlin, who is quite certainly an absolutely top-class agent, and an exceptional actor who spent a long time training thoroughly for his mission.'

'How did this person ever come to be with our army in the field?' His Majesty asked, displeased. 'Were correspondents given visas entirely without verification?'

'Naturally, a check was carried out, and an extremely thorough one,' the chief of gendarmes said with a shrug. 'A list of publications was requested from the editorial offices of all the foreign journalists and crosschecked with our embassies. Every one of the journalists is a well-known professional of good repute who has no history of hostility to Russia. McLaughlin in particular. As I said: a most thorough gentleman. He was able to establish friendly relations with many Russian generals and officers during the Central Asian campaign. And his article last year about Turkish atrocities in Bulgaria earned McLaughlin the reputation of a friend of the Slavs and a genuine supporter of Russia. Whereas in fact all this time he must have been acting on secret instructions from his government, which is well known for its undisguised hostility to our eastern policy.

'Initially McLaughlin restricted his activities purely to spying. Of course, he was passing information about our army to Plevna, for which purpose he made full use of the freedom that was so precipitately afforded to foreign journalists. Yes, many of them did have contacts with the besieged town which were not controlled by us, and this did not arouse the suspicions of our counter-intelligence agents. We shall draw the appropriate conclusions for the future. Again I must accept the blame . . . For as long as he could, McLaughlin used others to do his dirty work. Your Majesty will of course recall the incident involving the Roumanian colonel Lukan, whose notebook included references to a certain mysterious "J". I precipitately decided that the person concerned was the gendarme Kazanzaki. Unfortunately I was mistaken. "J" stood for "journalist" - in other words, our British friend.

'However, during the third assault the fate of Plevna and the entire war hung by a thread and McLaughlin changed his tactics to direct sabotage. I am sure that he did not simply act on his own discretion, but had instructions on what to do from his superiors. I regret that I did not put the British diplomatic agent Colonel Wellesley under secret observation from the very beginning. I have previously reported this gentleman's anti-Russian manoeuvrings to Your Majesty. It is quite clear that Turkish interests are closer to his heart than ours.

'Now let us reconstruct the events of the thirtieth of August. General Sobolev, acting on his own initiative, broke through the Turkish defences and reached the southern outskirts of Plevna. This is understandable, since Osman had been warned by his agent of our general plan of attack and drawn all his forces into the centre. Sobolev's attack caught him by surprise. However, our command was not informed of this success in time, and Sobolev had insufficient strength to continue his advance. McLaughlin and the other journalists and foreign observers - who included, I note in passing, Colonel Wellesley - happened by chance to be at the crucial point of our front, between the centre and the left flank. At six o'clock Count Zurov, Sobolev's adjutant, broke through the Turkish covering forces. As he rode past the journalists, whom he knew well, he shouted out the news of Sobolev's success. What happened after that? All the correspondents dashed to the rear in order to telegraph home the news that the Russian army was winning as soon as possible. All of them - except for McLaughlin. Suvorova met him about half an hour later - alone, spattered with mud and, strangely enough, riding out of the undergrowth. There is no doubt that the journalist had both the time and the opportunity to overtake the messenger and kill him, together with Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki, who to his own misfortune had set out in pursuit of Zurov. Both of them knew McLaughlin very well and could not possibly have anticipated any treachery from him. It was not difficult to stage the lieutenant-colonel's suicide - he dragged the body into the bushes, fired twice into the air from the gendarme's revolver, and it was done,- and that was the bait which we swallowed.'

Mizinov lowered his eyes contritely, but then continued without waiting for His Majesty to rebuke him: 'As for the recent attempted breakout, in this case McLaughlin was acting by agreement with the Turkish command. He could well be described as Osman's trump card. Their calculations were simple and accurate. Ganetsky is a distinguished general but -I beg your pardon for my bluntness - no towering intellect. As we know, he accepted the information conveyed to him by the journalist at face value without doubting it for a second. We have the resolve of Lieutenant-General Sobolev to thank . . .'

'It is Erast Petrovich whom you have to thank!' Varya exclaimed, unable to restrain the mortal offence she felt for Fandorin. He just stood there and said nothing, not even able to stand up for himself. Why had he been brought here - as a piece of furniture? 'It was Fandorin who galloped to Sobolev and persuaded him to attack!'

The emperor stared at her in amazement for this brazen violation of etiquette, and old Korchakov shook his head reproachfully. Even Fandorin looked embarrassed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. It seemed that everyone was displeased with her.

'Continue, Mizinov,' the emperor said with a nod.

'By your leave, Your Majesty,' said the wrinkled chancellor, raising a finger. 'If McLaughlin had undertaken such a substantial act of sabotage, why would he need to inform this young woman of his intentions?' The finger inclined in Varya's direction.

'Why, that is obvious,' said Mizinov, wiping the sweat from his brow. 'He calculated that Suvorova would spread this astounding news round the camp straight away and it would immediately reach the headquarters staff. Wild jubilation and confusion. They would think the cannonade in the distance was a salute. Perhaps even in their joy they would not believe the first report of an attack from Ganetsky and would wait to check it. A small detail of improvisation by a cunning intriguer.'

'Possibly,' the prince conceded.

'But where has this McLaughlin got to?' asked the tsar. 'That is who we need to interrogate, and arrange a face-to-face meeting with Wellesley. Oh, we wouldn't want the colonel to slip away!'

Korchakov sighed pensively: 'Yes, a compromisation like this, as they call it in the Zamoskvorechie district, would allow us to neutralise British diplomacy completely.'

'Unfortunately McLaughlin has not been found, either among the prisoners or among the wounded,' said Mizinov, sighing in a different key. 'He managed to get away. But I have no idea how. He's a cunning serpent. Nor is Osman-pasha's infamous adviser Ali-bei among the prisoners - the bearded gentleman who ruined our first assault for us, and whom we assume to be the alter ego of Anwar-effendi. I have already presented Your Majesty with a report concerning the latter.'

The emperor nodded. 'What say you now, Mikhail Alexandrovich?'

The chancellor half-closed his eyes: 'That an interesting scheme could be made of this, Your Majesty. If it is all true, then this time the English have allowed themselves to get carried away and overstepped the mark. With a bit of careful planning we could still be the gainers from all this.'

'Well then, well then, what exactly are you scheming?' Alexander asked curiously.

'Sire, with the capture of Plevna the war has entered its concluding phase. The final victory over the Turks is only a matter of weeks away. I emphasise: over the Turks. But we must avoid the same thing happening as in fifty-three, when we began with a war against the Turks and ended up fighting the whole of Europe. Our finances could not bear the strain of such a conflict. You are already aware of how much this campaign has cost us.'

The tsar frowned as if he had a toothache and Mizinov shook his head sadly.

'I am greatly alarmed by the resoluteness and callousness with which this McLaughlin acts,' Korchakov continued. 'It indicates that in her desire to prevent us from reaching the straits, Britain is prepared to resort to any measures, even the most extreme. Let us not forget that they have a navy squadron in the Bosporus. And at the same time our dear friend Austria has its guns trained on our rear, having stabbed your father in the back once already. To be quite honest, while you have been fighting Osman-pasha, I have been thinking more and more about a different war, a diplomatic one. After all, we are spilling blood, expending enormous funds and resources, and we may well even so end up with nothing. That accursed Plevna has devoured precious time and besmirched the reputation of our army. Please forgive an old man, Your Majesty, for being such a prophet of doom on a day like today . . .'

'Enough of that, Mikhail Alexandrovich,' sighed the emperor; 'we are not on parade. Do you think I don't understand?'

'Until I heard the explanations offered by Lavrenty Arkadievich, I was inclined to be very sceptical. If someone had said to me an hour ago: "Tell me, old fox, what can we count on after the victory? ", I would have replied honestly: "Bulgarian autonomy and a little piece of the Caucasus; that is the maximum possible, a paltry return for tens of thousands killed and millions wasted."'

'And now?' asked Alexander, leaning forward slightly.

The chancellor looked quizzically at Varya and Fandorin.

Mizinov caught the meaning of his glance and said: 'Your Majesty, I understand what Mikhail Alexandrovich has in mind. I had come to the same conclusion, and I did not bring Titular Counsellor Fandorin with me by chance. But I think we could perhaps allow Miss Suvorova to leave now.'

Varya snorted indignantly. Apparently she was not trusted here. How humiliating to be put out of the room - and just at the most interesting point!

'Please p-pardon my impertinence,' said Fandorin, opening his mouth for the first time in the entire audience, 'but that is not reasonable.'

'What precisely is not?' asked the emperor, knitting his gingerish brows.

'One should not trust an employee only halfway, Your M-Majesty. It creates unnecessary resentment and is harmful to the cause. Varvara Andreevna knows so much already that she will q-quite easily guess the rest.'

'You are right,' the tsar conceded. 'Go on, Prince.'

'We must exploit this business to shame Britain in front of the entire world. Sabotage, murder, a conspiracy with one of the combatants in contravention of declared neutrality - it is entirely unprecedented. To be quite honest, I am astounded at Beaconsfield's rashness. What if we had captured McLaughlin and he had testified? What a scandal! What a nightmare! I mean for England, of course. She would have had to withdraw her navy squadron and justify her actions to the whole of Europe, and she would still have been licking her wounds for a long time after that. In any case, the Court of St James would have been obliged to throw in its hand on the eastern conflict; and without London the ardour of our Austro-Hungarian friends would have cooled immediately. Then we would have been able to exploit the fruits of victory to the full and—'

'Dreams’ said Alexander, interrupting the old man rather sharply. 'We do not have McLaughlin. The question is: What are we to do now?'

'Get him,' Korchakov replied imperturbably.

'But how?'

'I don't know, Your Majesty; I am not the head of the Third Section.' The chancellor fell silent, folding his hands complacently across his skinny belly.

'We are certain of the Englishman's guilt and we have circumstantial evidence, but no solid proof,' said Mizinov, picking up where the chancellor had left off. 'That means we shall have to obtain it . . . or create it. Hmm . . .'

'Explain your meaning,' the tsar pressed him, 'and do not mumble, Mizinov; speak straight out: we are not playing forfeits.'

'Yes, Your Majesty. McLaughlin is now either in Constantinople or, most likely, making his way to England, since his mission has been accomplished. In Constantinople we have an entire network of secret agents, and kidnapping the scoundrel will not be too difficult. In England it is a harder proposition, but with sensible organisation . . .'

'I do not wish to hear this!' Alexander exclaimed. 'What sort of abominations are you talking?'

'Sire, you did order me not to mumble,' said the general with a shrug.

'Bringing McLaughlin back in a sack wouldn't be such a bad thing,' the chancellor mused, 'but it's too bothersome and unreliable. We could find ourselves caught up in a scandal. Yes, that kind of thing is fine in Constantinople, but in London I would not recommend it.'

'Very well,' said Mizinov with a vehement shake of his head. 'If McLaughlin is found in London, we shall not touch him. But we will stir up a scandal in the English press about the British correspondent's inappropriate behaviour. The English public will not approve of McLaughlin's exploits, because they do not fit their much-vaunted idea of "fair play".'

Korchakov was pleased: 'Now that's more to the point. In order to tie Beaconsfield's and Derby's hands, a good scandal in the newspapers is all we need.'

While this conversation was going on, Varya had been imperceptibly edging closer to Erast Petrovich until now she finally found herself right beside the titular counsellor.

'Who is this Derby?' she asked in a whisper.

'The foreign secretary,' Fandorin hissed, scarcely even moving his lips.

Mizinov glanced round at the whisperers and knitted his brows in a threatening frown.

'This McLaughlin of yours is clearly an old hand, with no particular prejudices or sentiments,' said the chancellor, continuing with his deliberations. 'If he is found in London, then before there is any scandal, we could have a confidential little talk with him - present him with the evidence, threaten him with exposure . . . After all, if there is a scandal, he is finished. I know how the British are about such things; no one in society will ever offer him their hand again, even if he is hung with medals from head to foot. Then again, two murders is no laughing matter. There is the prospect of criminal proceedings. He is an intelligent man. If we also offer him a good sum of money and present him with an estate somewhere beyond the Volga ... he might give us the information we need, and Shuvalov could use it to put pressure on Lord Derby. If he threatened to expose them, the British cabinet would suddenly become as meek as lambs . . . What do you think, General - would a combination of threats and bribery work on McLaughlin?'

'They would be bound to,' the general promised confidently. 'I have also considered this option, which is why I brought Erast Fandorin with me. I did not dare appoint a man to such a delicate mission without Your Majesty's approval. There is far too much at stake. Fandorin is resourceful and determined, he has an original mind and, most importantly of all, he has already worked on one highly complex secret mission in London and managed it quite brilliantly. He knows the language. He knows McLaughlin personally. If necessary he will kidnap him. If that is not possible he will come to terms with him. If he cannot come to terms, then he will assist Shuvalov to arrange a fine scandal. He can even testify against McLaughlin as a direct eyewitness. He possesses exceptional powers of persuasion.'

'And who's Shuvalov?' Varya whispered.

'Our ambassador,' the titular counsellor replied absent-mindedly, with his mind on something else. He did not really seem to be following what the general was saying.

'Well, Fandorin, can you manage that?' the emperor asked. 'Will you go to London?'

'Yes, I will go, Your Majesty,' said Erast Petrovich. 'Certainly I will go . . .'

The autocrat eyed him keenly, having caught the echo of something left unsaid; but Fandorin did not add anything else.

'Well then, Mizinov, act along both lines,' said Alexander, summing up. 'Look for him in Constantinople and in London. Only do not waste any time; we have very little left.'

When they came out into the aide-de-camp's room, Varya asked the general: 'But what if McLaughlin can't be found at all?'

'You can rely on my instinct, my dear,' the general sighed. 'We shall definitely be seeing that gentleman again.'