Turkish Gambit

Chapter Fourteen IN WHICH RUSSIA IS DECRIED AND THE LANGUAGE OF DANTE IS HEARD

Paladin released his grip on Varvara, and she darted away from him in horror. She heard the muted sound of voices behind the massive door.

'Name your terms, Anwar!' It was Erast Petrovich.

'No terms!' (That was Mizinov.) 'Open the door immediately or I'll have it blown open with dynamite!'

'Save your orders for the gendarme corps!' (That was Sobolev.) 'Use dynamite and she'll be killed!'

'Gentlemen,' shouted Paladin - who was not really Paladin at all - in French. 'This is hardly polite! You are preventing me from discussing the situation with the lady!'

'Charles! Or whatever your name is!' Sobolev roared in a booming general's bass. 'If a single hair of Varvara Andreevna's head is harmed, I'll have you strung up without benefit of trial!'

'One more word and I'll shoot her first then myself!' Paladin declared, raising his voice dramatically, then suddenly winked at Varya, as though he had cracked a slightly improper but terribly funny joke.

There was silence behind the door.

'Do not look at me like that, as though I have suddenly sprouted horns and grown fangs, Mademoiselle Barbara,' Paladin said in a low voice, speaking normally now. 'Of course I am not going to kill you and I would not wish to place your life in danger for the world.'

'Indeed?' she asked acidly. 'Then what is the point of this farce? Why did you kill three entirely innocent people? What are you hoping to achieve?'

Anwar-effendi (it was time to forget Paladin) took out his watch. 'Five minutes past six. I needed "this farce" in order to gain time. And by the way, you need not be concerned about the junior lieutenant. Knowing your fondness for him I merely put a hole in his thigh -nothing too serious. Afterwards he will boast of his war wound. And as for the gendarmes, that is the nature of their job.'

Varya asked warily: 'To gain time? What for?'

'Well, Mademoiselle Barbara, according to the plan, a regiment of Anatolian infantry is due to enter San Stefano in one hour and twenty-five minutes - that is, at half past seven. They are one of the finest units in the entire Turkish guards. The assumption was that by then Sobolev's detachment would already have reached the outskirts of Istanbul, come under fire from the English fleet and pulled back. The riflemen would have struck the Russians from the rear as they withdrew in disorder. An elegant plan and everything was going without a hitch until the very last minute.'

'What plan do you mean?'

'As I said, it was an elegant one. First gently prompt Michel to start thinking about that temptingly abandoned passenger train. You were very helpful to me in that, for which I thank you. "Open a book and drink some hot tea" - that was magnificent. After that it was simple - the vaulting ambition of our peerless Achilles, his indomitable mettle and belief in his star would have carried things to their conclusion. Oh, Sobolev would not have been killed. I would not have allowed that. In the first place, I am genuinely obligated to him, and in the second place, the capture of the great Ak-pasha would have made a spectacular start to the second stage of the Balkan war.' Anwar sighed. 'It is a shame the plan miscarried. Your youthful old man is to be congratulated. As the Eastern sages say, it is karma.'

'What is it that they say?' Varya asked in astonishment.

'There now, you see, Mademoiselle Barbara, you are an educated, cultured young lady, but there are elementary things that you do not know,' her bizarre companion said reproachfully. 'Karma is one of the fundamental concepts of Hindu and Buddhist philosophy -something akin to the Christian Providence, but far more interesting. After all, the East is far more ancient, wise and complex. My country Turkey happens to be situated precisely at the crossroads of the East and the West; it is a country that could have a great future.'

'No more lectures, if you please,' said Varya, cutting short his deliberations. 'What do you intend to do?'

'Why, what can I do?' Anwar asked in astonishment. 'Naturally, I shall wait until half past seven. The original plan has failed, but the Anatolian infantry will arrive nonetheless. There will be a battle. If our guardsmen prevail - and they have the advantage of numbers, and the training, and the factor of surprise - then I am saved. However, if Sobolev's men hold out . . . But let us not attempt to guess the future. By the way,' he said, looking Varya in the eye earnestly, 'I know how determined you can be, but do not imagine you can warn your friends about the attack. The moment you open your mouth to shout, I shall be obliged to stop it with a gag. And I will do it, despite the sincere respect and sympathy that I feel for you.'

So saying, he unfastened his necktie, rolled it into a tight ball and put it in his pocket.

'A gag for a lady?' Varya laughed. 'I liked you much better as a Frenchman.'

'I assure you that a French spy would behave in exactly the same way if so much depended on his actions. I am used to taking no thought for my own life; I have gambled it so many times for the sake of the cause. And that gives me the right to take no thought for the lives of others. In this game, Mademoiselle Barbara, the rules are the same for all. It is a cruel game, but then life is a cruel business. Do you imagine I felt no pity for the brave-hearted Zurov or the good-hearted McLaughlin? Why, of course I did, but there are higher values than personal sentiment.'

'And exactly what values might those be?' Varya exclaimed. 'Pray explain to me, Monsieur Intrigant, what exalted ideas can justify killing a man who regards you as his friend?'

'An excellent subject for discussion,' said Anwar, moving up a chair. 'Please, take a seat, Mademoiselle Barbara; we need some way to while away the time. And do not scowl at me in that manner. I am no ogre,-1 am merely an enemy of your country. I do not wish you to regard me as the heartless monster depicted by the preternaturally perceptive Monsieur Fandorin. He was the one who should have been neutralised in good time . . . Yes, I am a killer. But then all of us here are killers - your Fandorin, and the deceased Zurov, and Mizinov. But Sobolev is a super-killer; he is simply swimming in blood. In these men's games of ours there are only two possible roles: the killer and the victim. Do not cherish any illusions, mademoiselle; we all live in the jungle. Try to regard me without prejudice: forget that you are Russian and I am a Turk. I am a man who has chosen a very difficult path in life. And, moreover, a man to whom you are not indifferent. I am even a little in love with you myself.'

Varya frowned, stung by the words 'a little'.

'I am most exceedingly grateful.'

'There now, I have expressed myself clumsily,' said Anwar with a shrug. 'I cannot possibly allow myself to fall in love in earnest; it would be an unforgivable and dangerous indulgence. Let us not talk of that. Let me rather answer your question. It is distressing to deceive or kill a friend, but that is a price which must sometimes be paid. I have had to do things . . .' He twitched the corner of his mouth nervously. 'However, if one commits oneself absolutely to a great idea, one is obliged to sacrifice one's personal attachments. One hardly needs to go far to seek examples! I have no doubt that, as a progressive young woman, you are inclined to view revolutionary ideas sympathetically. Am I not right? I have noticed that in your Russia the revolutionaries have already started shooting occasionally. But soon a genuine clandestine war will begin - you may take the word of a professional on that. Idealistic young men and women will start blowing up palaces, trains and carriages. And inevitably, in addition to the reactionary minister or the villainous governor, they will contain innocent people - relatives, assistants, servants. But that is all right if it is for the sake of the idea. Give them time and your idealists will worm their way into positions of trust, and spy, and deceive, and kill apostates - and all for the sake of an idea.'

'And just what is your idea?' Varya asked sharply.

'I will tell you, by all means.' Anwar leaned his elbow against the shelves full of bags of money. 'I see salvation not in revolution, but in evolution. But evolution needs to be set on the right path; it has to be given a helping hand. This nineteenth century of ours is a decisive period for the fate of humanity - of that I am profoundly convinced. The forces of reason and tolerance must be helped to prevail, otherwise serious and needless convulsions await the Earth in the very near future.'

'And where do reason and tolerance dwell? In the realms of your Abdul-Hamid?'

'No, of course not. I am thinking of those countries where a man learns to respect himself and others a little - not to bludgeon others into agreement, but to convince them through argument, to support the weak and tolerate those who think differently from him. Ah what promising processes are in train in Western Europe and the United States of North America! Naturally, I do not idealise them - far from it. They have a lot of filth of their own, many crimes and a lot of stupidity. But they are heading in the right general direction. The world has to follow the same course, otherwise mankind will founder, sink into an abyss of chaos and tyranny. As yet the bright spot on the map of the world is still very small - though it is expanding rapidly. But it needs to be protected against the onslaught of darkness and ignorance. A grandiose game of chess is being played out, and I am playing for the white pieces.'

'And I suppose Russia is playing for the black?'

'Yes. Today your immensely powerful state constitutes the main danger to civilisation - with its vast expanses, its multitudinous, ignorant population, its cumbersome and aggressive state apparatus. I have taken a keen interest in Russia for a long time; I learned the language, I travelled a lot, I read historical works. I studied your state apparatus, became acquainted with your leaders. Try listening to our own darling Michel, with his aspirations to be the new Bonaparte! The mission of the Russian people is to take Constantinople and unite the Slavs? To what end? So that the Romanovs might once again impose their will on Europe? A nightmarish prospect indeed! It is not pleasant for you to hear this, Mademoiselle Barbara, but lurking within Russia is a terrible threat to civilisation. There are savage, destructive forces fermenting within her, forces which will break out sooner or later, and then the world will be in a bad way. It is an unstable, absurd country that has absorbed all the worst features of the West and the East. Russia has to be put back in its place; its reach has to be shortened. It will be good for you, and it will give Europe a chance to carry on developing in the right direction. You know, Mademoiselle Barbara' - Anwar's voice trembled unexpectedly - 'I love my poor unfortunate Turkey very much. It is a country of great missed opportunities. But I am prepared deliberately to sacrifice the Ottoman state in order to deflect the Russian threat to mankind. To put it in chess terms, do you know the meaning of the term "gambit" ? No? In Italian gambetto means a "a trip", as in "to trip someone up" - dare il gambetto. A gambit is an opening in a game of chess in which a piece is sacrificed to the opponent in order to obtain a strategic advantage. I myself devised the sequence of play in this particular game and I opened by offering Russia fat, appetising, weak Turkey. The Ottoman Empire will perish, but Tsar Alexander will not win the game. Indeed, the war has gone so well that all may not yet be lost for Turkey. She still has Midhat-pasha. He is a quite remarkable man, Mademoiselle Barbara. I deliberately left him out of the action for a while, but now I shall reintroduce him . . . provided, of course, that I am allowed the chance. Midhat-pasha will return to Istanbul unsullied and take power into his own hands. Perhaps then even Turkey will move from the zone of darkness into the zone of light.'

Mizinov's voice spoke from behind the door: 'Mr Anwar, what is the point of dragging this business out? This is mere cowardice! Come out and I promise you the status of a prisoner of war.'

'And the gallows for Kazanzaki and Zurov?' whispered Anwar.

Varya filled her lungs with air, but the Turk was on the alert - he took the gag out of his pocket and shook his head expressively. Then he shouted: 'I shall need to think about that, Monsieur General! I'll give you my answer at half past seven.'

After that he said nothing for a long time, striding agitatedly around the vault and looking at his watch several times.

'If only I could get out of here!' this strange man eventually murmured, striking a cast-iron shelf with his fist. 'Without me Abdul-Hamid will devour the noble Midhat!'

He glanced apologetically at Varya with his clear blue eyes and explained: 'Forgive me, Mademoiselle Barbara, my nerves are under strain. My life is of some considerable consequence in this game. My life is also a chess piece, but I value it more highly than the Ottoman Empire itself. We might say that the empire is a bishop, while I am a queen. Though for the sake of victory even a queen may be sacrificed ... In any case, I have not yet lost the game, and a tie is guaranteed!' he laughed excitedly. 'I managed to delay your army at Plevna for much longer than I had hoped. You have squandered your forces and wasted precious time. England has had time to prepare herself for the confrontation, Austria has recovered its courage. Even if there is no second stage of the war, Russia will still be left on the sidelines. It took her twenty years to recover from the Crimean campaign, and she will be licking her wounds for another twenty after this war. And that is now, at the end of the nineteenth century, when every year is so important. In twenty years Europe will move on far ahead. Henceforth Russia is destined to play the role of a second-class power. She will be devoured by the canker of corruption and nihilism; she will no longer pose a threat to progress.'

At this point Varya's patience gave out. 'Just who are you to judge who is the bringer of good to civilisation and who is the bringer of destruction? You studied the state apparatus, became acquainted with the leaders! And have you made the acquaintance of Count Tolstoy and Fyodor Dostoevsky? Have you read Russian literature? I suppose you had no time for that? Two times two is always four and three times three is always nine, isn't it? And two parallel lines never intersect? In your Euclid they don't intersect, but for our Lobachevsky they have!'

'I do not follow your logic,' Anwar said with a shrug. 'But of course I have read Russian literature. It is good literature, no worse than English or French. But literature is a toy, - in a normal country it cannot have any great importance. I am myself something of a literary man, in a sense. But one must do something serious, and not just compose sentimental fairy tales. Look at Switzerland. It has no great literature, but life there is incomparably more dignified than in your Russia. I spent almost my entire childhood and adolescence in Switzerland, so you may take my word for it that—'

Before he could finish, there was a crackle of gunfire in the distance.

‘It has begun! They have attacked ahead of time!' Anwar pressed his ear against the door with his eyes glittering feverishly. 'Curses! It is just my bad luck that this infernal vault does not have a single window!'

Varya struggled in vain to calm her pounding heart. The thunderous noise of shooting was drawing nearer. She could hear Sobolev giving some command or other, but she couldn't make out the words. From somewhere there came a cry of 'Allah!' and a rapid volley of shots.

Anwar murmured as he spun the chamber of his revolver. ‘I could try to break out, but I have only three bullets left . . . How I detest inaction!' He started at the sudden sound of shots inside the building.

'If our men win, I shall send you to Adrianople,' Anwar said rapidly. 'Clearly, the war will end now. There will be no second stage. That is unfortunate. Not everything turns out the way you plan it. Perhaps you and I will meet again. At this moment, of course, you hate me, but time will pass and you will realise that I was right.'

‘I feel no hatred for you,' said Varya, 'but I do bitterly regret that such a talented man as you is engaged in such despicable goings-on. I remember Mizinov relating the story of your life . . .'

'Indeed?' Anwar put in absent-mindedly, still listening to the shooting.

'Yes. All those intrigues and all those people who died! Was that Circassian who sang an aria before his execution not a friend of yours? Did you sacrifice him as well?'

‘I do not care to recall that story’ he said severely. 'Do you know who I am? I am the midwife: I help the child to enter the world, and my arms are covered up to the elbows in blood and mucus . . .'

A volley of shots rang out very close by.

'I am going to open the door now and help my own side. You stay in here and for God's sake do not stick your head out. It will all be over soon.'

He pulled back the bolt and suddenly froze - there was no more shooting in the bank. There was a voice saying something, but it was not clear whether it was speaking Russian or Turkish. Varya held her breath.

‘I’ll rip your ugly face off! Sitting it out in the corner, you blankety-blank-blank,' a sergeant-major's deep bass roared, and the sweet sounds of her native speech set her heart singing.

They had held out! They had beaten them off!

The sound of shooting was moving further and further away, and there was a quite distinct, long-drawn-out cry of 'Hoorah!'

Anwar stood there with his eyes closed. His expression was calm and sad. When the firing stopped completely, he opened the door a little.

'It is over, mademoiselle. Your captivity is at an end. Go now.'

'What about you?' whispered Varya.

'The queen has been sacrificed without any particular gain. Regrettable. But everything else remains unchanged. Go, and I wish you happiness.'

'No!' she cried, dodging away from his hands. 'I will not leave you here. Give yourself up and I will testify on your behalf at the trial.'

'So that they can stitch up my throat and then hang me anyway?' laughed Anwar. 'Thank you kindly, but no. There are two things I detest more than anything else on earth: humiliation and capitulation. Farewell, I need to be alone for a moment.'

He managed to grab hold of Varya's sleeve and with a gentle push he sent her out through the doorway. The massive slab of steel immediately slammed shut.

Varya found herself facing a pale Fandorin. General Mizinov was standing by a shattered window and yelling at the gendarmes who were sweeping up the shards of glass. It was already light outside.

'Where is Michel?' Varya asked in fright. 'Is he dead? Wounded?'

'Alive and well,' replied Erast Petrovich, looking her over closely. 'He is in his natural element - pursuing the enemy. But poor Perepyolkin has been wounded again - a yataghan took off half of his ear. He will obviously be awarded another medal. And have no fear for Ensign Gridnev: he is alive too.'

'I know,' she said, and Fandorin's eyes narrowed slightly.

Mizinov came over to them and complained: 'Another hole in my greatcoat. What a day. So he let you out? Excellent! Now we can use the dynamite.' He approached the door of the strongroom cautiously and ran his hand over the steel surface. 'I'd say two charges ought to be just enough to do it. Or perhaps that's too much? It would be good to take the villain alive.'

A carefree and highly melodic whistling suddenly started up behind the door.

'And now he's whistling!' Mizinov exclaimed indignantly. 'Some nerve, eh? Well, I'll soon whistle you out of there! Novgorodtsev! Send the sappers' platoon for some dynamite!'

'No d-dynamite will be necessary,' Erast Petrovich said in a soft voice as he listened carefully to the whistling.

'You have started stammering again’ Varya told him. 'Does that mean everything is all over?'

Sobolev strode into the room with a loud clattering of boots, his white greatcoat with the scarlet cuffs hanging open.

'They have fallen back!' he announced in a voice hoarse after the battle. 'Our losses are appalling, but never mind, there should be a troop train here soon. Who's whistling that tune so marvellously? It's Lucia di Lammermoor-, I adore it!' And the general began singing along in his pleasant, husky baritone.

He sang the final stanza with feeling and at the very moment he reached the end there was the sound of a shot from behind the door.