The Death of Achilles (9 page)

“The lying in state and funeral service are tomorrow,” said Dolgo-rukoi. “Muscovites wish to pay their final tribute to their hero. Then I presume the body will be sent by train to St. Petersburg? His Majesty will surely give instructions to arrange a state burial. There will be many people who wish to take their leave of Mikhail Sobolev.” He assumed a dignified air. “Measures have been taken, Your Highness. The body has been embalmed; so no problems will arise.”

The duke glanced sideways at his wife, who was wiping away her inexhaustible flow of tears, and said in a low voice, “The thing is, Pwince, the empewor has acceded to the wishes of the family and gwanted them permission to buwy Michel
en famille
at their Wyazan estate.”

Vladimir Andreevich responded with a haste that Fandorin thought slightly excessive.

“Quite right, too; things are more human that way, without all the pomp. What a man he was, such a great heart.”

He ought not to have said that. The countess, who had begun to calm down, started sobbing even more loudly than before. The governor began blinking rapidly, took out an immense handkerchief, and wiped Zinaida Dmitrievna’s face in a paternal manner, after which, overcome by emotion, he loudly blew his nose into it. Evgeny Maximilianovich observed this intemperate Slavic display of emotion with a certain degree of consternation.

“How could it happen, Vladi… Vladimir Andre… evich?” the countess asked and fell against the prince’s chest, which was squeezed up and out by his corset. “He is only six years older than me. Ooh-ooh-ooh,” she wailed in a quite unaristocratic, entirely demotic manner, like a peasant woman, and Dolgorukoi’s composure dissolved completely.

“My dear fellow,” he said to Fandorin over Zinaida Dmitrievna’s brown head of hair. “You… you know… You go on. I’ll stay here for a while. You go, take Frol and go. The carriage can come back for me afterward. And you have a word there with Evgeny Osipovich. Decide matters for yourselves. You can how see how things are.”

All the way back, Frol Grigorievich complained about intriguers (whom he called ‘antreegars’) and embezzlers of public funds.

“The things they get up to, those monsters! Every louse trying to grab a piece of everything for himself! Say a tradesman wants to open up a shop, for instance, and sell corduroy pants. You might think, what could be simpler? Pay the fifteen- ruble municipal tax and trade away. Ah, but no! Pay the local policeman, pay the excise man, pay the sanitation inspector! And all bypassing the treasury. And the top price for the pants should be a ruble and fifty kopecks — but they go for three. This isn’t Moscow, it’s an absolute jungle, that’s what it is.”

“What?” asked Fandorin, who hadn’t understood.

“Jungle. Beast against beast. Or take vodka, for example. Oh, my, sir, vodka’s an entire tragedy in itself. Let me tell you…”

And there followed the dramatic history of how the merchants, in contravention of all laws human and divine, bought duty stamps from the excise officials at one kopeck each and stuck them on bottles of home brew in order to pass it off as state produce. Erast Petrovich had absolutely no idea what to say, but fortunately his participation in the conversation did not seem to be required.

When the carriage rumbled over the cobblestones up to the front entrance of the governor’s residence, Vedishchev cut short his bitter tirade in mid-phrase: “You go straight up to the study. The chief of police must be tired of waiting by now. I’ll get on about my business.” And with an alacrity surprising in one of such great age and with such impressive sideburns, he darted down one of the side corridors.

The professional tete-a-tete went well. Fandorin and Karachentsev caught each other’s meaning at once, which both of them found exceedingly pleasant.

The general settled himself in the armchair by the window and Erast Petrovich sat facing him on a velvet-covered chair.

“First, let me tell you about Herr Knabe,” Evgeny Osipovich began, holding his folder at the ready but not glancing into it for the time being. “An individual well known to me. I simply did not wish, in such a crowd…” He made a wry face, and Fandorin realized that he was referring to Khurtinsky. The general slapped his hand down on the folder. “I have here a secret circular from last year. From the department, from the Third Office, which, as you know, deals with all sorts of political matters, and they instruct me to keep an eye on Hans-Georg Knabe. To make sure he doesn’t overstep the mark.”

Erast Petrovich inclined his head inquiringly to one side.

“A spy,” the chief of police explained. “According to our information, a captain of the German General Staff. The head of the kaiser’s intelligence service in Moscow. Knowing that, I believed what you told us immediately and unconditionally.”

“And you don’t pick him up because a secret agent you know is better than one you don’t,” the collegiate assessor stated rather than asked.

“Precisely. And there are certain rules of diplomatic propriety. If I arrest him and expel him, then what? The Germans immediately expel one of our men. What good is that to anyone? It’s simply not done, touching foreign agents without specific instructions to do so. However, this particular incident goes far beyond the bounds of gentlemanly behavior.”

Erast Petrovich could not help smiling at such an obvious understatement.

“Yes, indeed, to put it mildly.”

The general smiled, too.

“And so we are going to pick up Herr Knabe. The question is, where and when?” Evgeny Osipovich’s smile broadened even further. “I think, this evening, at the Alpine Rose restaurant. You see, according to information in my possession” — he slapped his hand down on the closed folder once again — “Knabe often spends the evening there. He phoned them again today and booked a table for seven o’clock. For some reason under the name of Rosenberg, although, as you can imagine, he is very well known at the restaurant.”

“Interesting,” remarked Fandorin. “And he really ought to be brought in.”

The general nodded. “I have instructions from the governor-general for the arrest. I operate as a soldier: The superiors give the orders, I carry them out.”

“How do we know that Knabe t-telephoned and booked a table under a false name?” Erast Petrovich asked after a moment’s thought.

“Technical progress.” The police chief’s eyes glinted cunningly. “It is possible to listen to telephone conversations at the exchange. But that is strictly between you and me. If they ever find out, I shall lose half my sources of information. By the way, your friend Wanda will be performing at the Rose today as well. She told the porter to have a carriage at the door at six. This evening presents an interesting prospect. It would be good to pick up the pair of them together. The question is, how to proceed?”

“Resolutely, but keeping everything neat and tidy.”

Karachentsev sighed.

“My dashing lads are fine when it’s a matter of being resolute. But they’re not so good when it comes to tidiness.”

Erast Petrovich began speaking in half phrases.

“What if I do it? As a private individual? If anything happens — no diplomatic incidents. Your men standing by, eh? Only, Your Excellency, no duplication, like yesterday in the Anglia.”

Well, I’ll be damned if it isn’t a sheer pleasure working with you, the general thought. But out loud he said: “I apologize for yesterday. It won’t happen again. But about today… two outside, two inside, in the hall. What do you think?”

“There should be none in the hall at all — a professional will always spot them,” the collegiate assessor declared confidently. “But outside — one in a carriage at the front door and one at the back door. Just in case. I think that will be enough. He’s an agent after all, not a terrorist.”

“How are you thinking of proceeding?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’ll see how it goes; take a close look, observe for a while. I don’t like trying to guess ahead.”

“I understand,” said the general, nodding. “And I have full confidence in your judgment. Do you have a weapon? Our Mr. Knabe is in a desperate situation. In this case he won’t get off with simple deportation, and his superiors will disown him if anything happens. He may not be a terrorist, but he’ll probably be very nervous.”

Erast Petrovich slipped his hand in under his frock coat, and a moment later there was a small, neat-looking revolver with a fluted handle, worn down by frequent use, lying on the palm of his hand.

“A Herstal-Agent?” Evgeny Osipovich asked respectfully. “An elegant little piece. Do you mind if I take a look?”

The general took hold of the revolver, opened the cylinder deftly, and clicked his tongue in admiration: “Gas-operated? That’s splendid! Fire off all six bullets one after another if you like. But isn’t the trigger a bit too sensitive?”

“This button here is the safety catch,” said Fandorin, pointing. “So it won’t go off in your pocket. It’s not all that accurate, of course, but then in our business the main thing is a rapid rate of fire. We don’t need to hit a mink in the eye.”

“Perfectly true,” agreed Evgeny Osipovich, handing back the gun. “So, will she recognize you? Wanda, I mean.”

“Please do not b-be concerned, Your Excellency. I have an entire chest full of makeup. She won’t recognize me.”

Entirely satisfied, Karachentsev leaned back in his chair, and, although the discussion of business had apparently been concluded, he seemed in no hurry to say good-bye. The general offered Fandorin a cigar, but the collegiate assessor took out his own, from an elegant suede case.

“Genuine Batavia, Evgeny Osipovich. Would you like to try one?”

The chief of police took a slim, chocolate-colored wand, lit it, and released a thin stream of smoke, savoring the flavor. The general very definitely liked Mr. Fandorin, and that was why the final decision was taken to steer the conversation in a delicate direction.

“You are new to our Moscow jungle…,” he began cautiously.

He talks about the jungle, too, Erast thought in surprise, but gave no sign of it. He only said: “And to the Russian jungle, too.”

“Yes, indeed. While you’ve been on your travels things have changed a great deal.”

Fandorin waited with an attentive smile for what would follow — all the signs suggested that the conversation to follow would not be a trivial one.

“What do you make of our old beau?” the chief of police suddenly asked.

Erast Petrovich hesitated before replying: “I think that His Excellency is by no means as simple as he seems.”

“Alas.” The general forcibly blew a thick stream of smoke up into the air. “In his time the prince was far from simple, very far indeed. It’s no easy thing, maintaining a grip of iron on the old capital for sixteen years. But the old wolf’s teeth have come loose. It’s hardly surprising — he’s over seventy now. He’s gotten old and lost his grip.” Evgeny Osipovich leaned forward and lowered his voice confidentially. “He hasn’t got much time left. You can see for yourself, those lackeys of his, Khurtinsky and Vedishchev, can twist him around their little fingers. And that famous cathedral of his. It’s sucked the city completely dry. And for what? Think of all the orphanages and hospitals you could build with money like that! No, our latter-day pharaoh is determined to leave his own pyramid after him when he’s gone.”

Erast Petrovich listened attentively without opening his mouth.

“I understand that it’s awkward for you to discuss this,” said Karachentsev, leaning back in his armchair again. “But just listen to someone who is genuinely well-disposed toward you. I can tell you that there is dissatisfaction with Dolgorukoi at court. The slightest blunder from his side and it will be the end. Off into retirement, to Nice. And then, Erast Petrovich, his entire Moscow junta will fall apart. A new man will come, someone quite different. He will bring his own people. In fact, they’re already here, his people. Making ready.”

“You, for instance?”

“You take my meaning at once. And that means I do not need to continue. The essence of the proposal is clear to you.”

This really is more like a jungle than the old capital city, thought Erast Petrovich, looking into the redheaded police chief’s eyes, positively aglow with goodwill — to all appearances the eyes of an honest and intelligent man. The collegiate assessor smiled in a most agreeable manner and shrugged.

“I appreciate your confidence; indeed I am flattered by it. Perhaps Moscow would indeed be better off with a new governor. But I cannot undertake to judge, since I still understand nothing about Moscow affairs. I have, however, lived in Japan for four years, Your Excellency, and, would you believe, I have become completely Japanese — sometimes I even surprise myself. In Japan a samurai — and in their terms you and I are both samurai — must keep faith with his overlord, no matter how bad he might be. Otherwise nothing would work; the whole system would collapse. Vladimir Andreevich is not exactly my sovereign lord, and yet I cannot feel entirely free of all obligations to him. Please do not take this amiss.”

“Well, that is a shame,” sighed the general, realizing that any attempt at persuasion would be futile. “You could have had a great future. But never mind. Perhaps you still will. You can always count on my support. May I hope that this little chat will remain between the two of us?”

“You may,” the collegiate assessor replied tersely, and Karachentsev immediately believed him.

“Time to get going,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll issue instructions concerning the Rose and select some of my brighter deputies for you, and you, in turn…”

They left the governor’s study, discussing the final details of the forthcoming operation as they went. A second later a small door in the corner of the room opened — it led to the private lounge where the old prince liked to doze after lunch. Frol Grigorievich Vedishchev emerged from behind the door, stepping silently in his thick felt slippers. His bushy gray eyebrows were knitted in a grim frown. The prince’s valet walked across to the chair on which the chief of police had been sitting a minute earlier and spat savagely, leaving a brown gob of tobacco spittle on the leather seat.