The Death of Achilles (25 page)

“What frightens me most of all is that in every case either no suspicion of murder arises at all or, as in the case of Knabe or Little Misha, it is laid very firmly at someone else’s door — in the first case, German agents, and in the second, Fiska. That is a sign of supreme professionalism,” said Erast Petrovich, hooding his eyes. “There is just one thing I can’t make any sense of — why he would have left Wanda alive… By the way, Evgeny Osipovich, we need to send a detail for her immediately and get her out of the Anglia. What if the real Klonov should telephone her? Or even worse, decide to correct his incomprehensible oversight?”

“Sverchinsky!” the general shouted and left the reception room to issue instructions.

When he returned, the collegiate assessor was standing in front of a map of the city that was hanging on the wall and running his finger across it.

“This Trinity Inn — where is it?” he asked.

“The Trinity Inn is a block of apartments on Pokrovka Street, not far from Holy Trinity Church. Here it is,” said the general, pointing. “Khokhlovsky Lane. At one time there actually was a monastery inn there, but now it’s a labyrinth of annexes and extensions, semi-slums. The apartments are usually just called the Trinity. Not a salubrious area, only a stone’s throw from the Khitrovka slums. But the people who live in the Trinity are not entirely lost souls — actresses, milliners, ruined businessmen. Tenants don’t stay there for long: They either scramble their way back up into society or fall even lower, into the Khitrovka abyss.”

As he gave this lengthy answer to a simple question, Karachentsev was thinking about something else, and it was clear that he was having difficulty reaching a decision. When the chief of police finished speaking, there was a pause. Erast Petrovich realized that the conversation was entering its most crucial phase.

“Naturally, this is an extremely risky step to take, Evgeny Osipovich,” the collegiate assessor said quietly. “If my suppositions are mistaken, you could ruin your career, and you are an ambitious man. But I have come to you, and not to Prince Dolgorukoi, because he would definitely not wish to take the risk. He is too cautious — that is the effect of his age. On the other hand, his position is also less delicate than yours. In any case, the ministry has plotted and intrigued behind your back and — pardon my bluntness — assigned you the role of a dummy hand in the game. Count Tolstov did not think it possible to initiate you, the head of the Moscow police, into the details of the Sobolev case, and yet he trusted Khurtinsky, a dishonorable individual and a criminal to boot. Someone more cunning than the minister has conducted a successful operation of his own here. You were not involved in all these events, but in the final analysis responsibility will be laid at your door. I am afraid that it will be you who foots the bill for damaged goods. And the most annoying thing of all is that you will still not find out who it was that damaged them and why. In order to understand the true meaning of this intrigue, you have to catch Klonov. Then you will be holding an ace.”

“And if he is a state agent, after all, then I shall find myself rapidly shunted into retirement. In the best case, that is,” Karachentsev objected gloomily.

“Evgeny Osipovich, it is hardly likely in any case that you will be able to hush the matter up, and it would be a sin — not even so much because of Sobolev as because of one terrible question: What mysterious p-power is toying with the fate of Russia? By what right? And what ideas will this power come up with tomorrow?”

“Are you hinting at the Masons?” the general asked in amazement. “Count Tolstov is a member of a lodge, certainly, and so is Vyacheslav Konstantinovich Plevako, the director of the Department of Police. Half the movers and shakers in St. Petersburg are Masons. But they have no use for political murder; they can twist anyone they like into a ram’s horn by using the law.”

“I don’t mean the Masons,” said Fandorin, wrinkling his smooth forehead in annoyance. “Everybody knows about them. What we have here is an absolutely genuine conspiracy, not the operetta kind. And if we are successful, Your Excellency, you could discover the key to an Aladdin’s cave that would take your breath away.”

Evgeny Osipovich shuffled his ginger eyebrows in agitation. It was an enticing prospect, very enticing. And he could show that Judas, Vyacheslav Konstantinovich (his so-called comrade), and even Count Tolstov a thing or two. Don’t trifle with Karachentsev; don’t go trying to make a fool out of him. You’ve overplayed your hand, gentlemen, now look what a mess you’re in! Secret surveillance of a conspirator is all well and good — in a case like this, discretion was required. But to allow a national hero to be killed under the very noses of your agents — that is scandalous. You St. Petersburg know-it-alls have botched the job! And now you’re probably quaking in your armchairs, tearing your hair out. And here comes Evgeny Osipovich offering you the cunning rogue on a plate: Here’s your villain, take him! Hmm, or perhaps he should be offered up on a plate to someone a little higher? Oh, this was truly momentous business!

In his mind’s eye, the chief of police pictured prospects of such transcendental glory that they took his breath away. But at the same time he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He was afraid.

“Very well,” Karachentsev said tentatively. “Let us say we have arrested Klonov. But he just clams up and won’t say a word. Belying on his patrons to protect him. Then what are we going to do?”

“A perfectly reasonable way to state the matter,” said the collegiate assessor with a nod, betraying no sign of his delight that the conversation had moved on from the theoretical stage to the practical. “I have been thinking about that, too. To take Klonov will be very difficult, and to make him talk will be a hundred times harder. Therefore I have a proposal.”

Evgeny Osipovich pricked up his ears at that, knowing from experience that this bright young man would not propose anything stupid and would take on the most difficult tasks himself.

“Your people will blockade the Trinity from all sides so that the cockroach cannot slip out,” said Fandorin, prodding passionately at the map.

“A cordon here, and one here, and here. Close off all the open courtyards throughout the entire district — fortunately it will be early in the morning and most people will still be asleep. Around the Trinity itself just a few of your best agents, three or four men, no more. They must act with extreme caution, and be well disguised in order not to frighten him off, God forbid. Their job is to wait for my signal. I shall go into Klonov’s room alone and play a game of confessions with him. He will not kill me straight away, because he will want to discover how much I know, where I came from, and what my interest is in all this. He and I will perform an elegant pas de deux: I shall part the curtain slightly for him, he will tell me a few frank truths; then I shall have another turn, and then so will he, quite certain that he can eliminate me at any moment. This way Klonov will be more talkative than if we arrest him. And I do not see any other way.”

“But think of the risk,” said Karachentsev. “If you’re right and he is such a virtuoso in the art of murder, then, God forbid…”

Erast Petrovich shrugged his shoulders flippantly.

“As Confucius said, the noble man must bear responsibility for his own errors.”

“Well, then, God be with you. This is serious business. They’ll either give you a medal or take your head off.” The police chief’s voice trembled with feeling. He shook Fandorin’s hand firmly. “Go to your hotel, Erast Petrovich, and catch up on your sleep as well as you can. Don’t be concerned about anything, I shall organize the operation in person and make sure everything is done absolutely right. When you go to the Trinity in the morning, you will see for yourself how good my lads’ disguises are.”

“You are just like Vasilisa the Wise in the fairy tale, Your Excellency,” the collegiate assessor laughed, displaying his white teeth: “ “Sleep, Ivanushka, morning is wiser than evening.” Well, I really am a little tired, and tomorrow is an important day. I shall be at the Trinity at precisely six o’clock. The signal at which your men should come to my assistance is a whistle. Until there is a whistle they must not interfere, no matter what. And if something happens — do not let him get away. That is a p-personal request, Evgeny Osipovich.”

“Don’t worry,” the general said seriously, still holding the young man by the hand. “The whole thing will come off like clockwork. I’ll detail my most valued agents, and more than enough of them. But take care and don’t go doing anything rash, you daredevil.”

Erast Petrovich had long ago trained himself to wake at the time that he had determined the day before. At precisely five o’clock he opened his eyes and smiled, because the very edge of the sun was just appearing over the windowsill and it looked as if someone bald and round-headed were peeping in at the window.

As he shaved, Fandorin whistled an aria from
The Love Potion
and even took a certain pleasure in admiring his own remarkably handsome face in the mirror. A samurai is not supposed to take breakfast before battle, and so instead of his morning coffee the collegiate assessor worked with his weights for a while and prepared his equipment thoroughly and unhurriedly. He armed himself to the very fullest extent of his arsenal, for he was facing a serious opponent.

Masa helped his master equip himself, demonstrating an increasingly obvious concern. Eventually he could hold back no longer.

“Master, your face is the one you have when death is very near.”

“But you know that a genuine samurai must wake every day fully prepared to die,” Erast Petrovich joked as he put on his jacket of light-colored wild silk.

“In Japan you always took me with you,” his servant complained. “I know that I have already failed you twice, but it will not happen again. I swear — if it does may I be born a jellyfish in the next life! Take me with you, master. I beg you.”

Fandorin gave him an affectionate flick on his little nose.

“This time there will be nothing you can do to help me. I must be alone. But in any case, I am not really alone; I have an entire army of policemen with me. It is my enemy who is all alone.”

“Is he dangerous?”

“Very. The same one who tricked you into giving him the briefcase.”

Masa snorted, knitted his sparse eyebrows, and said no more.

Erast Petrovich decided to make his way on foot. Ah, how lovely Moscow was after the rain! The freshness of the air, the pink haze of daybreak, the quietness. If he had to die, then let it be on just such a heavenly morning, the collegiate assessor thought, and immediately rebuked himself for his predisposition to melodrama. Walking at a comfortable stroll and whistling as he went, he came out onto Lubyanskaya Square, where the cabbies were watering their horses at the fountain. He turned onto Solyanka Street and blissfully inhaled the aroma of fresh bread wafting from the open windows of a bakery in a semi-basement.

And now here was his corner. The houses here were a bit poorer, the pavement a bit narrower, and on the final approach to the Trinity, the landscape shed its final remaining elements of picturesqueness: There were puddles in the roadway, rickety, lopsided fences, flaking painted walls. Erast Petrovich was very pleased that for all his keen powers of observation, he had been unable to spot the police cordon.

At the entrance to the yard he looked at his watch — five minutes to six. Exactly on time. Wooden gates with a crooked sign hanging on them: trinity inn. A jumble of single-story buildings, every room with a separate entrance. There was number one, number two, three, four, five, six. Number seven ought to be around the corner, on the left.

If only Klonov didn’t start shooting straight off, before he was drawn into conversation. He needed to prepare some phrase that would disconcert him. For instance: “Greetings from Mademoiselle Wanda.” Or something a bit more complicated than that: “Are you aware that Sobolev is actually still alive?” The essential thing was not to lose the initiative. And then to follow his intuition. He could feel his trusty Herstal weighing down his pocket.

Erast Petrovich turned in resolutely at the gates. A yardkeeper in a dirty apron was lazily dragging a broom through a puddle. He glanced at the elegant gentleman out of the corner of his eye and Erast Petrovich winked at him discreetly. A most convincing yardkeeper, no doubt about it. There was another agent sitting over by the gates, pretending to be drunk: snoring, with his cap tipped down over his face. That was pretty good, too. Fandorin glanced over his shoulder and saw a fat-bellied woman in a shapeless coat, trudging along the street with a brightly patterned shawl pulled right down over her eyes. That was going a bit too far, the collegiate assessor thought, with a shake of his head. It almost bordered on the farcical.

Apartment seven was indeed the first one around the corner, in the inner yard. Two steps leading up to a low porch and ‘No. 7’ written on the door in white oil paint.

Erast Petrovich halted and took a deep breath, filling his lungs completely with air, then breathed it out in short, even jerks.

He raised his hand and knocked gently.

Twice, three times, then twice again.

ACHIMAS

Skyrovsk

His father was called Pelef, which in ancient Hebrew means ‘flight’. In the year of his birth disaster befell the Brothers of Christ, who had lived in Moravia for two hundred years: The emperor revoked the dispensation under which the community was exempted from military service, because he had begun a great war with another emperor and he needed many soldiers.

The community picked up and left in a single night, abandoning their land and houses. They moved to Prussia. The Brothers of Christ did not care what differences the emperors might argue over — their strict faith forbade them to serve earthly masters, to swear an oath of loyalty to them, to take weapons in their hands, or to wear a uniform with buttons bearing coats of arms, which are impressions from the seal of Satan. This was why the Brothers’ long brown camisoles, the cut of which had scarcely changed in two and a half centuries, had no buttons; only cord fastenings were tolerated.