Turkish Gambit

Chapter Three WHICH IS DEVOTED ALMOST ENTIRELY TO ORIENTAL GUILE

'Well then, how am I to address you, as "madame" or "mademoiselle"?' asked the beetle-black lieutenant-colonel of gendarmes, twisting his lips revoltingly. 'This is not a ballroom, but army headquarters, and I am not paying you compliments, but conducting an interrogation, so I would be obliged if you would stop beating about the bush!'

The lieutenant-colonel was called Ivan Kharitonovich Kazanzaki, and since he was resolutely determined not to see Varya's side of things, the most likely outcome in prospect for her was clearly compulsory deportation to Russia.

When they had finally reached Tsarevitsy the day before, it was almost night. Fandorin had immediately set out for the headquarters staff building and Varya, by this time so tired that she could barely stand, had set about doing what had to be done. The charitable nurses from Baroness Vreiskaya's medical unit had given her some clothes and heated some water for her and, after she had tidied herself up, Varya had collapsed on to a field hospital bed - fortunately the wards were almost completely empty of wounded. Her meeting with Petya had been postponed until the following day, for she would require full command of all her faculties during the important discussion that lay ahead.

In the morning, however, Varya had not been allowed to catch up on her sleep. Two gendarmes wearing hard helmets and carrying carbines had turned up and escorted 'the individual styling herself Miss Suvorova' directly to the special unit of the Western Division, without even allowing her to arrange her hair properly.

And now she had been attempting for hours to explain to this clean-shaven, bushy-browed monster in the blue uniform the precise nature of the

4i relationship that bound her to the cryptographer Pyotr Yablokov.

'Why on earth don't you call Pyotr Afanasievich and he will confirm everything himself,' Varya kept repeating, but the lieutenant-colonel's reply was always the same: 'All in good time.'

Kazanzaki was particularly interested in the details of her encounter with 'the individual styling himself Titular Counsellor Fandorin'. The lieutenant-colonel noted down all about Yusuf-pasha and Vidin, and the coffee with French conversation, and freedom won in a game of backgammon,- but his professional curiosity was galvanised most powerfully by the discovery that the volunteer had spoken to the Bashi-Bazouks in Turkish, and he demanded to know exactly how he had spoken - with a stammer or without. Simply clarifying all that nonsense about the stammer must have taken at least half an hour.

And then, when Varya was already on the verge of dry, tearless hysterics, the door of the mud-walled peasant hut that housed the special section had suddenly swung open and in had walked, or rather run, an extremely important-looking general with imperiously bulging eyes and luxuriant whiskers.

'Adjutant-General Mizinov,' he bellowed from the doorway and glanced sternly at the lieutenant-colonel. 'Kazanzaki?'

Taken by surprise, the gendarme stood sharply to attention and began twitching his lips, while Varya stared wide-eyed at the oriental despot and butcher for whom the progressive youth of Russia took the head of the Third Section and Chief of Gendarmes, Lavrenty Arkadievich Mizinov.

'Yes, sir, Your Excellency!' Varya's tormentor wheezed hoarsely. 'Lieutenant-Colonel of the Gendarmes Corps Kazanzaki. Previously serving in the Kishinev office, now appointed to head the special section, Western Division Headquarters. Conducting the interrogation of a prisoner.'

'Who is she?' asked the general, raising an eyebrow and giving Varya a disapproving glance.

'Varvara Suvorova. Claims to have travelled here in a private capacity in order to meet her fiance, operations section cryptographer Yablokov.'

'Suvorova?' Mizinov mused, intrigued. 'Could we perhaps be related? My great-grandfather on my mother's side was Alexander Vasilievich Suvorov-Rymniksky.'

'I very much hope not,' Varya snapped.

The satrap gave a wry smile and paid no more attention to the prisoner.

'Now then, Kazanzaki, don't you go trying to pull the wool over my eyes. Where's Fandorin? It says in the report that you have him.'

'Yes, sir; he is being held in custody,' the lieutenant-colonel reported smartly and added, lowering his voice, 'I have reason to believe that he is our keenly anticipated visitor, Anwar-effendi. Everything fits perfectly, Your Excellency. That story about Osman-pasha and Plevna is blatant misinformation. But how skilfully he spun the . . .'

'Blockhead!' roared Mizinov, so fiercely that the lieutenant-colonel cringed and pulled his head down into his shoulders. 'Bring him here immediately! And look lively about it!'

Kazanzaki dashed headlong out of the room and

Varya shrank back into her chair, but the agitated general had forgotten all about her. He carried on wheezing loudly and drumming his fingers nervously on the table, only stopping when the lieutenant-colonel returned with Fandorin.

The volunteer looked haggard and exhausted and dark circles had appeared under his eyes: he had obviously not slept the night before.

'G-Good morning, Lavrenty Arkadievich’ he said listlessly and bowed briefly to Varya.

'My God, Fandorin, is it really you?' the satrap gasped. 'I would never have recognised you. You've aged a good ten years! Have a seat, my dear fellow, I'm delighted to see you.'

The general sat Erast Petrovich on a chair and took a seat himself, so that Varya was behind him and Kazanzaki was left standing to attention, rooted to the spot outside the door.

'How are you now?' asked Mizinov. 'I wanted to give you my most sincere—'

'I would rather not talk about that, Your Excellency,' Fandorin interrupted politely but firmly. 'I am perfectly all right now. Tell me, rather, whether this g-gentleman' he nodded dismissively towards the lieutenant-colonel 'has told you about Plevna. Every hour is precious.'

'Yes, yes. I have with me an order from the commander-in-chief, but first of all I wanted to make sure that it was really you. Here, listen.' He took a sheet of paper out of his pocket, set a monocle in his eye and read: '"To the commander of the Western Division, Lieutenant-General Baron Kriedener. I order you to occupy Plevna and secure your position there with a force of at least one division. Nikolai."'

Fandorin nodded.

'Lieutenant-Colonel, have this encoded immediately and forwarded to Kriedener by telegraph,' Mizinov ordered.

Kazanzaki respectfully took the sheet of paper and ran off to carry out the order, his spurs jangling.

'So perhaps you can come back to work now?' the general asked.

Erast Petrovich frowned. 'Lavrenty Arkadievich, I believe I have fulfilled by d-duty by reporting the Turkish flanking manoeuvre. But as for fighting against poor Turkey, which would have fallen apart quite happily without our heroic efforts - please spare me that.'

'I shall not spare you, sir, I will not!' said Mizinov, growing angry. 'If patriotism is merely an empty word to you, then permit me to remind you, Mister Titular Counsellor, that you are not in retirement, but only on indefinite leave, and although you may be listed as a member of the diplomatic corps, you are still on service with me, in the Third Section!'

Varya gave a feeble gasp of amazement. She had taken Fandorin for a decent man - but he was a police agent! And he had even made himself out to be some kind of romantic hero, like Lermontov's Pechorin. That intriguing pallor, that languid glance, that nobly greying hair. How could she trust anyone after this?

'Your Excellency,' Erast Petrovich said in a quiet voice, clearly not even suspecting that in Varya's eyes he was now irrevocably damned, 'it is not you that I serve, but Russia. And I do not wish to take any part in a war that is not only pointless, but actually ruinous for her.'

'It is not your place, or mine, to draw conclusions concerning the war. His Majesty the Emperor decides such matters’ Mizinov retorted curtly.

An awkward pause ensued. When the chief of gendarmes began speaking again, his voice sounded quite different.

'Erast Petrovich, my dear fellow,' he began imploringly. 'Hundreds of thousands of Russian people are risking their lives, the burden of war has almost brought the country to its knees . . . and I have a dark presentiment of disaster. Things are going far too smoothly altogether. I am afraid it will all end very badly

When no reply was forthcoming, the general rubbed his eyes wearily and confessed: 'It is hard, Fandorin, I am struggling, surrounded by chaos and incompetence. I am short of men, especially intelligent and capable ones, and I have no wish to burden you with dull routine. I have a little task in mind that is very far from simple, but just the very thing for you.'

At that Erast Petrovich inclined his head, intrigued, and the general continued ingratiatingly: 'Do you recall Anwar-effendi? Sultan Abdul-Hamid's secretary. You know, the Turk who surfaced briefly in the "Azazel" case?'

Erast gave the faintest of shudders, but he said nothing.

Mizinov hemmed ironically. 'You know, that idiot Kazanzaki took you for him - I ask you! We have information that this interesting Turk is personally heading a secret operation against our forces. An audacious individual, with a flair for adventure. He could quite easily turn up at our positions in person,in fact, it would be just like him. Well, are you interested?'

'I am l-listening, Lavrenty Arkadievich’ said Fandorin, with a sideways glance at Varya.

'Well, that's splendid,' Mizinov said delightedly and shouted, 'Novgorodtsev! The file!'

A middle-aged major with adjutant's aiguillettes walked quietly into the room, handed the general a folder bound in red calico and immediately went out again. Varya spotted Lieutenant-Colonel Kazanzaki's sweaty features through the doorway and gave him a gleeful, mocking grin - Serves you right, you sadist, stand out there now and stew in your own juice.

'Right then, this is what we have on Anwar,' said the general, rustling the sheets of paper. 'Would you like to take notes?'

'I shall remember it,' replied Erast Petrovich.

'The facts about his early life are very scanty. He was born approximately thirty-five years ago - according to some sources, in the Bosnian Moslem village of Hef-Rai's. His parents are unknown. He was raised somewhere in Europe, in one of Lady Astair's celebrated educational institutions. You remember her, of course, from the "Azazel" business.'

It was the second time that Varya had heard that strange name, and the second time that Fandorin reacted strangely, jerking his chin as though his collar had suddenly become too tight for him.

'Anwar-effendi's name cropped up about ten years ago, when Europe first began hearing about the great Turkish reformer Midhat-pasha. Our Anwar, who at that time was still far from being any kind of effendi, worked as his secretary. Just lend a brief ear to this Midhat's service record.' Mizinov took out a separate sheet of paper and coughed to clear his throat. 'At that time he was the governor-general of the Danubian Vilajet. Under his patronage Anwar established a stagecoach service in those parts, built railways and even set up a network of islahhans - charitable educational establishments for orphan children from both the Moslem and Christian confessions.'

'Did he, indeed?' Fandorin remarked.

'Yes. A most praiseworthy initiative, is it not? Overall, the scale of Midhat-pasha's and Anwar's activities was so great that a genuine danger arose of Bulgaria escaping from the zone of Russian influence. Our ambassador in Constantinople, Nikolai Pavlovich Gnatiev, used all his influence with Sultan Abdul-Aziz and eventually managed to have the excessively zealous governor recalled. After that Midhat became chairman of the Council of State and steered through a law introducing universal public education - a remarkable law, and also, by the way, one that we still do not have here in Russia. Can you guess who drafted the bill? Yes, of course: Anwar-effendi. This would all be very moving, if not for the fact that in addition to his educational activities, at that time our opponent was also very actively involved in the intrigues at court, seeing that his patron had more than his share of enemies. Assassins were sent to kill Midhat; his coffee was poisoned; once, indeed, they even slipped him a concubine infected with leprosy - and Anwar's duties included protecting the great man from all these delightful pranks. But in any case, the Russian party at court got the upper hand and the pasha was banished into remote exile as the governor-general of poor and backward Mesopotamia. When Midhat tried to introduce his reforms there, an insurrection broke out in Baghdad. And do you know what he did? He summoned all the city elders and the clergy and made a brief speech as follows. I shall read it verbatim, since I find its power and style genuinely delightful: "Venerable mullahs and elders, if the public disorders have not ceased in two hours from now, I shall order you all to be hanged and put the four quarters of the glorious city of Baghdad to the flame, and afterwards may the great Padishah, Allah preserve him, also have me hanged for this heinous crime."' Mizinov chuckled and shook his head. 'So now he could proceed with his reforms. In less than three years of Midhat's governorship, his devoted deputy Anwar-effendi managed to build telegraph lines, introduce horse-drawn streetcars in Baghdad, set steamships sailing up and down the Euphrates, establish the first Iraqi newspaper and enrol pupils in a school of commerce. Not bad, eh? I hardly even need mention a mere trifle such as the establishment of the "Osman-Osman Shipping Line", whose ships sail as far as London via the Suez Canal. Then, by means of a certain cunning intrigue, Anwar managed to depose the Grand Vizier, Mahmoud Nedim, who was so intimate with the Russian ambassador that the Turks used to call him "Nedimov". Midhat became the head of the sultan's government, but only managed to hold on to this high office for two and a half months - our Gnatiev outwitted him yet again. Midhat's greatest failing - and one that is absolutely unforgivable in the eyes of the other pashas - is his incorruptibility. He launched a campaign against bribe-taking and was incautious enough to utter the phrase that was his undoing in the presence of European diplomats: "The time has come to show Europe that not all Turks are despicable prostitutes." For that word "prostitutes" he was thrown out of Istanbul and appointed governor of Salonika. The little Greek town immediately began to flourish, while the sultan's court settled back into luxurious indolence and sloth financed by the embezzlement of public funds.'

'I see you are p-perfectly enamoured with this man,' Erast Petrovich said, interrupting the general.

'You mean Midhat? Absolutely,' said Mizinov with a shrug. 'And I would be more than glad to see him at the head of the Russian government. But he is not a Russian; he is a Turk. And moreover, a Turk who takes his bearings from England. Our aspirations are directly opposed, which makes Midhat our enemy. And an extremely dangerous enemy he is. Europe dislikes and fears us, but it lauds Midhat to the heavens, especially since he gave Turkey a constitution. And now, Erast Petrovich, I must ask you to bear with me while I read you a long letter that Nikolai Pavlovich Gnatiev wrote to me last year. It will give you a clear picture of the enemy with whom we shall be dealing.'

The chief of gendarmes drew out of the folder several sheets of paper covered in the fine, regular handwriting of a clerk and began reading:

'Dear Lavrenty,

Events here where Allah watches over us in Istanbul are unfolding so rapidly that even I am unable to keep up with them, although, setting aside all false modesty, your humble servant has had his finger on the pulse of the Sick Man of Europe for no small number of years. Due in some measure to my own zealous efforts, that pulse was gradually fading away and promised soon to come to a complete stop, but since the month of May . . .

'He is talking about May of last year, 1876,' Mizinov felt it necessary to explain.

'. . . but since the month of May it has begun beating so frantically that any moment the Bosporus could burst its banks and the walls of Constantinople could crumble, leaving you with nothing on which to hang your shield.

'And all this due to the fact that in May Midhat-pasha made a triumphant return from exile to the capital of the mighty and incomparable Sultan Abdul-Aziz, Shadow of the Most High and Defender of the Faith, bringing with him his "eminence grise", the wily Anwar-effendi.

'On this occasion, Anwar was wiser and he took no risks, acting like both a European and an Oriental. He began in the European style: his agents began to frequent the dockyards, the arsenal and the mint -and the workers, who had not been paid their wages for a very long time, poured out into the streets. That was followed by a purely eastern ruse. On the 25th of May Midhat-pasha announced that the Prophet had visited him in a dream (verify that if you can!) and instructed His servant to save Turkey from ruin.

'Meanwhile my dear friend Abdul-Aziz, as usual, was sitting in his harem, delighting in the company of his favourite wife, the charming Mihri-khanum, who was due to give birth soon and was therefore acting very capriciously, demanding that her lord and master must be constantly at her side. In addition to her celestial beauty, this golden-haired, blue-eyed Circassian woman is also famed for having drained the sultan's treasury absolutely dry. During the last year alone she left more than ten million roubles in the French shops on Vera Avenue, and it is quite understandable that the people of Constantinople were, as the English would say, with their penchant for understatement, far from fond of her.

'Believe me, Lavrenty, there was nothing I could do to alter matters. I entreated, I threatened, I intrigued like a eunuch in the harem, but Abdul-Aziz was deaf and dumb. On the 29th of May there was a crowd of many thousands buzzing round the Dolmabahce Palace (an extremely ugly building in an eclectic European-Oriental style), but the Padishah did not even attempt to reassure his subjects - he locked himself into the female quarters of his residence, access to which is barred to me, and listened to Mihri-khanum playing Viennese waltzes on the forte-piano.

'Meanwhile Anwar was ensconced in the offices of the minister of war, where he was inclining that cautious and prudent gentleman to a change of political orientation. According to a report from one of my agents, who worked for the pasha as a cook (hence the specific tone of the report), the course of the epoch-making negotiations ran as follows. Anwar came to see the minister at precisely midday, and coffee and bread rolls were ordered. A quarter of an hour later His Excellency the minister was heard bellowing in indignation and his adjutants led Anwar out of his office and away to the guardroom. Then the pasha strode about his office on his own for half an hour and ate two plates of halva, of which he was extremely fond. After that he decided to interrogate the traitor in person and set out for the guardroom himself. At half past two the order was given to bring fruits and sweets. At a quarter to four, cognac and champagne. Some time between four and five, after taking coffee, the pasha and his guest left to see Midhat. According to the rumours, for his involvement in the conspiracy the minister was promised the position of grand vizier and a million pounds sterling from English patrons.

'Before the end of the day, the two main conspirators had reached an excellent understanding and the coup d'etat took place that very night. The fleet blockaded the palace from the seaward side, the commander of the metropolitan garrison replaced the guard with his own men, and the sultan, his mother and the pregnant Mihri-khanum were transported to the Feriie Palace by boat.

'Four days later the sultan attempted to trim his beard with a pair of nail scissors, but so clumsily that he cut the veins on both of his wrists and expired forthwith. The doctors from the European embassies, who were summoned to examine the body, unanimously declared that it was a case of suicide, since absolutely no signs of a struggle had been discovered on the dead man. In short, it was all played out as simply and elegantly as a good game of chess. Such is the style of Anwar-effendi.

'But that was merely the opening; next came the mid-game.

'Once he had played his part, the minister of war became a serious hindrance, for he had not the slightest inclination to introduce reforms and a constitution, and the only question that really interested him was when he would receive the million pounds that he had been promised by Anwar. In fact the minister of war began behaving as if he were the most important member of the government and never wearied of reminding people that it was he, and not Midhat, who had overthrown Abdul-Aziz.

'Anwar endeavoured to convince a certain gallant officer, who had served as the deceased sultan's adjutant, that the minister's claim was true. The officer in question was called Hasan-bei, the brother of the beautiful Mihri-khanum. He enjoyed quite remarkable popularity among the sultry temptresses at court, since he was very handsome and dashing and he performed Italian arias with superlative flair. Everybody referred to Hasan-bei simply as "the Circassian".

'Several days after Abdul-Aziz trimmed his beard in such a clumsy fashion, the inconsolable Mihri-khanum gave birth to a dead child and died in great torment. And that was the precise moment at which Anwar and the Circassian become bosom friends. On one occasion, when Hasan-bei entered Anwar's residence to pay him a visit, his friend was not at home, but the ministers had gathered at the pasha's house for a meeting. The Circassian was a familiar face in the house and nobody questioned his presence. He drank coffee with the adjutants, had a smoke and chatted about this and that. Then he strolled slowly along the corridor and suddenly burst into the hall where the meeting was taking place. Hasan-bei did not touch Midhat and the other dignitaries, but he fired two bullets from his revolver into the chest of the minister of war, and then finished the old man off with his yataghan. The more judicious ministers took to their heels, and only two decided to be heroic. Their attempt was ill-advised, for the raging Hasan-bei killed one of them on the spot and seriously wounded the other. At this point the bold Midhat-pasha returned with two of his adjutants. Hasan-bei shot them both dead, but once again he left Midhat-pasha himself untouched. The killer was eventually captured and bound, but only after he had killed one police officer and wounded seven soldiers. And all this time our friend Anwar was praying devoutly in the mosque, a fact confirmed by numerous witnesses.

'Hasan-bei spent the night under lock and key in the guardroom, singing loud arias from Lucia di Lammermoor, by which they say Anwar-effendi was absolutely entranced. Anwar even tried to obtain a pardon for the valiant criminal, but the enraged ministers were adamant and in the morning the killer was hanged from a tree. The ladies of the harem, who loved their Circassian so passionately, came to watch his execution, weeping bitter tears and blowing him kisses from afar.

'Henceforth there was no one to hinder Midhat's plans, apart from fate, which dealt him a blow from an entirely unexpected quarter. The great politician was let down by his own puppet, the new sultan Murad.

'As early as the morning of the 31st of May, immediately following the coup, Midhat-pasha had paid a visit to Prince Murad, the nephew of the deposed sultan, and thereby frightened Murad quite indescribably. Permit me at this point to digress somewhat, in order to explain the pitiful plight of the heir to the throne of the Ottoman Empire.

'The problem is that although the Prophet Mohamed had fifteen wives, he did not have a single son and he left no instructions concerning the succession to the throne. Therefore down through the centuries every one of the multitudinous sultanas has dreamed of placing her own son on the throne and attempted to eliminate the sons of her rivals by every possible means. There is even a special cemetery at the palace for innocent princes who have been murdered, so we Russians, with our Boris and Gleb and Tsarevich Dmitry, appear quite laughable by Turkish standards.

'In the Ottoman Empire the throne is not transmitted from father to son, but from the older brother to the younger. When one line of brothers is exhausted, the next generation inherits, and again the throne passes from older brother to younger. Every sultan is mortally afraid of his younger brother or oldest nephew, and the chances of an heir actually living to reign are extremely slight. The crown prince is kept in total isolation, nobody is allowed to visit him, and the scoundrels even try to ensure that his concubines are not capable of bearing children. According to an ancient tradition the future padishah is attended by servants whose tongues have been cut out and whose eardrums have been punctured. You can imagine what effect this kind of upbringing has on Their Highnesses' state of mind. For instance, Suleiman II spent thirty-nine years in confinement, writing out and colouring in copies of the Koran. And when he finally did become sultan, it was not long before he began asking to go back and abdicated the throne. How well I understand him. Colouring in pictures is so much more pleasant.

'However, let us return to Murad. He was a handsome youth, by no means stupid and actually extremely well read, although he had a tendency to drink to excess and suffered from an entirely justified persecution mania. He was delighted to entrust the reins of government to the wise Midhat, and so everything seemed to be continuing according to plan for our crafty conspirators. But the sudden elevation and remarkable death of his uncle had such a powerful effect on poor Murad that he began raving and lapsing into violent fits. The European psychiatrists who visited the padishah in secret came to the conclusion that he was incurable and his condition could only deteriorate as time went on.

'Now note Anwar-effendi's incredible farsightedness. On the first day of Murad's reign, when the sky ahead was still bright and cloudless, our mutual friend had suddenly asked to be made secretary to Prince Abdul-Hamid, the sultan's brother and now the heir to the throne. When I learned this, it became clear to me that Midhat-pasha was not certain of Murad V. After making a thorough assessment of the crown prince, Anwar evidently considered him acceptable, and Midhat set Abdul-Hamid a single condition: promise that you will introduce a constitution and you will be padishah. The prince naturally agreed.

'What came after that you already know. On the 3rst of August Abdul-Hamid II ascended the throne, replacing the insane Murad V, Midhat became grand vizier, and Anwar remained as the new sultan's puppet-master behind the scenes and undeclared chief of the secret police - in other words, Lavrenty (ha-ha!), your colleague.

'It is significant that in Turkey hardly anybody at all has even heard of Anwar-effendi. He does not push himself forward or appear in public. I, for instance, have only seen him once, when I was presented to the new padishah. Anwar was sitting off to one side of the throne, wearing an immense black beard (I believe it was false) and also dark glasses, which in general is a quite unprecedented breach of court etiquette. During the audience Abdul-Hamid glanced at him several times, as if he were seeking support or advice.

'This is the man with whom you will be dealing from now on. If my intuition does not mislead me, Midhat and Anwar will continue to manipulate the sultan as they see fit, and in another year or two . . .

'Well, the rest is of no great interest,' said Mizinov, breaking off his long recitation and wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. 'Especially since the brilliant Nikolai Pavlovich was indeed misled by his intuition after all. Midhat-pasha failed to retain his grip on power and he was exiled.'

Erast Petrovich, who had listened very attentively and not moved even once the whole time (unlike

Varya, who had fidgeted herself half to death on her hard chair), asked tersely: 'The opening is clear, and so is the mid-game. But what about the end-game?'

The general nodded approvingly. 'That is the whole point. The end-game proved to be so intricate that even Gnatiev, with all his experience, was taken by surprise. On the seventh of February this year Midhat-pasha was summoned to the sultan, placed under armed guard and put on board a ship, which carried off the disgraced head of government on a tour round Europe. And our Anwar, having betrayed his benefactor, from being the prime minister's "eminence grise", began playing the same role for the sultan. He did everything possible to get relations between the Sublime Porte and Russia broken off. And a little while ago, when Turkey's fate was already hanging by a thread, according to information received from our agents, Anwar set out for the theatre of military operations in order to intervene in the course of events by means of certain secret activities, the nature of which we can only guess.'

At this point Fandorin began speaking rather strangely: 'No formal d-duties. That is one. Complete freedom of action. That is t-two. Reporting only to you. That is three.'

Varya did not understand what these words meant, but the chief of gendarmes was delighted and promptly replied: 'Well, that's just splendid! Now I recognise the old Fandorin. Why, my dear fellow, you'd become quite chilly and indifferent. Now don't hold this against me, I'm not talking as your superior, just as someone who is older, like a father . . . You mustn't go burying yourself alive. Leave the graveyard for the dead. At your age, why it doesn't bear thinking about! As the aria puts it, you have toute la vie devant soi.'

'Lavrenty Arkadievich!' In an instant the volunteer's pale cheeks flushed deep crimson and his voice grated like iron. 'I do not b-believe that I invited any effusion of p-personal sentiment . . .'

Varya thought his remark quite unforgivably rude and shrank down on her chair: Mizinov would be mortally offended by such an insult to his finer feelings; how he would roar!

But the satrap merely sighed and said dryly: 'Your terms are accepted. You can have your freedom of action. That was actually what I had in mind. Just keep your eyes and your ears open and if you notice anything unusual . . . Well, you don't need me to tell you what to do.'

'Aa-choo!' Varya sneezed and then shrank back down into her chair again in fright.

The general was even more frightened than she was. He started, swung round and stared dumbfounded at the involuntary witness of his confidential conversation.

'Madam, what are you doing here? Why did you not leave the room with the lieutenant-colonel? How dare you?'

'You ought to have looked,' Varya replied with dignity. 'I'm not some mosquito or fly that you can just choose to ignore. I happen to be under arrest, and no one has given me leave to go yet.'

She thought she saw Fandorin's lips twitch ever so slightly. But no, she had imagined it - this specimen did not even know how to smile.

'Very well then, all right.' Mizinov's tone of voice held a quiet threat. 'You, my dear non-relative, have learned things which you absolutely ought not to know. In the interests of state security I am placing you under temporary administrative arrest. You will be taken under escort to the Kishinev garrison quarantine station and detained there under guard until the end of the campaign. And you have only yourself to blame.'

Varya turned pale. 'But I haven't even seen my fiance . . .'

'You'll see each other after the war,' snapped Lavrenty Mizinov, turning towards the door to summon his ophchniks; but then Erast Fandorin intervened.

'Lavrenty Arkadievich, I think it would be quite sufficient to ask Miss Suvorova to give her word of honour.'

‘I give my word of honour!' Varya cried, encouraged by this unexpected intercession on her behalf.

'I'm sorry, dear chap, we can't take the risk,' the general snapped without even looking at her. Then there's this fiance of hers. And how can we trust a girl? You know what they say: "The longer the braid, the dafter the maid."'

‘I don't have any braid! And that is a base insult to my intelligence!' Varya's voice trembled, threatening to break. 'What do I want with all your Anwars and Midhats anyway?'

'On my responsibility, Your Excellency. I vouch for Varvara Andreevna.'

Mizinov said nothing, frowning in annoyance, and Varya realised that even among secret police agents there were clearly some people who were not entirely beyond salvation. After all, he was a Serbian volunteer.

'It's stupid,' growled the general. He turned towards

Varya and asked gruffly: 'Do you know how to do anything? Is your handwriting good?'

'I qualified as a stenographer! I worked as a telegrapher! And a midwife!' said Varya, stretching the truth just a little.

'A stenographer and a telegrapher?' said Mizinov, surprised. 'All the better, then. Erast Petrovich, I will allow this woman to remain here on one single condition: she will fulfil the duties of your secretary. You will in any case require some kind of courier or messenger who will not arouse unnecessary suspicion. Only bear in mind that you have vouched for her.'

'Oh no!' Varya and Fandorin exclaimed in a single voice. Then they continued speaking together, but in different words.

Erast Petrovich said: 'I have no need of a secretary.'

Varya said: 'I will not serve in the Okhranka.'

'As you wish,' said the general, rising to his feet with a shrug. 'Novgorodtsev, the escort!'

'I agree!' shouted Varya.

Fandorin said nothing.