The Death of Achilles (33 page)

Leila was almost ideal. She could spend the whole day from morning till evening combing her long black hair, singing, and playing herself at backgammon. She was never sulky, never demanded attention. In addition to her native tongue she knew only Turkish and Chechen, which meant that Achimas was the only one who could talk to her and she communicated with the servants by means of gestures. If he wanted to be entertained, she knew numerous amusing stories from the life of Constantinople — Leila had formerly lived in the harem of the grand vizier.

Recently Achimas had accepted work only rarely, two or three times a year: either for very big money or for some special reward. For instance, in March he had received a secret commission from the Italian government to seek out and eliminate the anarchist Gino Zappa, known as the Jackal, who was planning to kill King Umberto. The terrorist was regarded as extremely dangerous and quite impossible to catch.

In itself the job had proved to be rather simple (the Jackal had been traced by Achimas’s assistants, and he had only needed to take a trip to Lugano and press the trigger once), but the fee he had been promised was quite outstanding. First, Achimas received an Italian diplomatic passport in the name of the Cavaliere Welde, and second, he was granted the option of buying the island of Santa Croce in the Tyrrhenian Sea. If Achimas should decide to exercise this option and buy the small scrap of land, in addition to the title of the Count of Santa Croce he would also be granted the right of extraterritoriality, which was particularly attractive. He could be his own sovereign, his own police, his own court? Hmm.

Out of curiosity Achimas took the trip to inspect the island and was captivated. There was nothing remarkable about it — it was nothing but rocks, a couple of olive groves, and a bay. It was possible to walk around the entire shoreline of the island in an hour. For the last four hundred years no one had lived here and the only visitors had been occasional fishermen seeking to replenish their supplies of fresh water.

The title of count held little attraction for Achimas, although in traveling around Europe a fine-sounding title could sometimes have its uses. But an island of his own?

There he could be alone with the sea and the sky. There he could create his own world, belonging to nobody but him. It was tempting.

To withdraw into peaceful retirement. To spend his time sailing and hunting mountain goats, to feel time stand still and fuse with eternity.

No more adventures; he was not a boy anymore.

Perhaps he could even start a family?

But the idea of a family was not really serious — it was more of a mental exercise. Achimas knew he would never have a family. He was afraid that once deprived of his solitude, he would begin to fear death. As other people feared it.

As he was he had no fear of death at all. It was the foundation underpinning the sturdy edifice that went by the name of Achimas Welde. If a pistol should happen to misfire, or a victim prove too cunning and lucky, then Achimas would die. That was all there was to it. It simply meant that nothing would exist any longer. One of the ancient philosophers — he thought it was Epicurus — had said all there was to say on that score: While I exist, death does not exist, and when it comes, I shall not exist.

Achimas Welde had lived long enough and seen enough of the world. One thing he had never known was love, but that was because of his profession. Attachment made you weak and love made you completely defenseless. As he was, Achimas was invulnerable. What leverage is there against a man who fears nothing and holds nothing and nobody dear?

But an island of his own — that was worth thinking about.

There was only one difficulty with the idea — finance. The redemption of his option would cost a lot of money; it would consume all of his funds in the banks in Zurich and London. How would he pay for the equipping and appointment of his count’s fiefdom? He could sell his villa, but that would probably not be enough. Somewhat more substantial capital would be required.

Perhaps he should simply put these idle fantasies out of his head?

And yet an island was more than your own cliff, and the sea was more than a lake. How was it possible to rest content with a little if you were offered more?

These were the reflections with which Achimas was occupied when he received a visit from a man in a mask.

First his butler, Archibald, brought him a calling card — a piece of white cardboard with a gold coronet and a name in ornamental Gothic script: Baron Eugenius von Steinitz. A brief note in German was attached to the card:

Baron von Steinit requests Mr. Welde to receive him today at ten o ‘clock in the evening on a confidential matter
.

Achimas noted that the top edge of the sheet of paper had been torn off. Apparently the prospective visitor did not wish Achimas to see his monogram, which meant that he might perhaps be a genuine ‘von,’ but he was certainly not Steinitz.

The visitor arrived at precisely ten o’clock, not a single minute earlier or later. With such punctuality, it could safely be presumed that he was indeed German. The baron’s face was concealed by a velvet half mask, for which he apologized politely, citing the extremely delicate nature of his business. Achimas noted nothing special about von Steinitz’s appearance — light hair, neat sideburns, blue eyes w ith a troubled expression. The baron was dressed in a cloak, top hat, starched shirt, white tie, and black tails.

They sat on the veranda with the lake glittering below them in the moonlight. Von Steinitz didn’t even glance at the peaceful view; instead he scrutinized Achimas continually through the openings in his operetta mask, seeming in no hurry to begin the conversation. He crossed his legs and lit a cigar.

Achimas had seen all of this many times before and he waited calmly for his visitor to make his mind up to begin.

“I am applying to you on the recommendation of Monsieur du Vallet,” the baron eventually began. “He asked me to give you his most humble greetings and to wish you the utmost… no, it was the most complete prosperity.”

Achimas acknowledged the name of his Paris intermediary and his password with a silent nod.

“I have come on a matter of immense importance and absolute confidentiality,” von Steinitz declared, lowering his voice.

“Precisely the kind of matter that is usually brought to me,” Achimas remarked impassively.

Until this point the conversation had been conducted in German, but now the visitor suddenly switched to Russian, which he spoke perfectly and correctly, with only a slight burring of his r’s.

“The work has to be cawwied out in Wussia, in Moscow. The job has to be done by a foweigner who knows the Wussian language and is fa-miwiar with Wussian customs. You are ideally suited. We have made in-quiwies about you.”

Made inquiries? And who might ‘we’ be? Achimas didn’t like the sound of that. He was on the point of breaking off the conversation immediately, but then his lisping visitor said: “For performing this difficult and delicate task, you will weceive a million Fwench fwancs in advance, and on the completion of our… mm… contwact, a million wubles.”

That changed matters. A sum like that would be a worthy consummation of a brilliant professional career. Achimas recalled the whimsical outline of Santa Croce when the island first hove into view on the horizon — exactly like a bowler hat lying on green velvet.

“You, sir, are an intermediary,” he said coolly, speaking in German. “And it is my principle only to deal directly with the client. My terms are as follows. You immediately transfer the advance payment to my account in Zurich. After that I meet with the client at a place of his choosing and he recounts all the ins and outs of this matter to me. If for some reason I do not find the terms acceptable, I shall return half of the advance.”

‘Baron Eugenius von Steinitz’ indignantly fluttered a pampered hand (an old sapphire glinted on the middle finger), but Achimas had already risen to his feet.

“I will speak only with the principal. If I cannot, you must find another man for the job.”

The meeting with the client took place in St. Petersburg, on a quiet little street to which Achimas was delivered in a closed phaeton. The carriage wound through the streets this way and that for a long time, with its blinds completely obscuring the windows. This precaution made Achimas smile.

He made no attempt to remember the route, although he knew the geography of Russia’s capital intimately — in times past he had fulfilled several serious contracts here. In any case, Achimas had no need to peep stealthily through the crack beside the blind and count the turns in the road. He had taken steps to ensure his own safety: first by arming himself in an appropriate fashion, and second by bringing four assistants with him.

They had traveled to Russia in the next carriage of his train and now they were following the phaeton in two droshkys. His assistants were professionals, and Achimas knew that they would not fall behind or give themselves away.

The phaeton halted. The taciturn driver, who had met Achimas at the station and — to judge from his military bearing — was no driver at all, opened the door and gestured for Achimas to follow him.

Not a soul on the street. A single-story detached mansion. Modest, but neat and tidy. Only one unusual feature: Although it was summer, all the windows were closed and curtained. One of the curtains quivered slightly and once again Achimas’s thin lips extended in a momentary smile. He was beginning to find these dilettante attempts at cunning amusing. It was all quite clear: aristocrats playing at conspiracy.

His guide led him toward their destination through a series of dark connecting rooms. When they reached the last one, he stopped to let Achimas go on ahead. Once Achimas stepped inside, the double door closed behind his back and he heard the sound of a key turning in a lock.

Achimas glanced around curiously. An intriguing room — not a single window. The only furniture was a small round table with two high-backed armchairs beside it. It was hard, however, to get a clear impression of the interior, since it was only lit by a single candle that did not cast its feeble light as far as the gloom in the corners.

Achimas waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness before he examined the walls with a practiced glance. He failed to discern anything suspicious — no secret spy-holes from which a gun could be trained on him, no additional doors. But there proved to be another chair standing in the far corner.

Achimas sat down in an armchair. Five minutes later the doors swung open and a tall man entered. He did not take the second armchair, but walked across the room and sat on the chair in the corner without greeting Achimas in any way.

So the client was not so stupid after all. An excellent arrangement: Achimas sitting in full view, illuminated by the candle, and his partner in conversation enveloped in dense shadow. And his full face was not visible — only the silhouette.

Unlike ‘Baron von Steinitz,’ this individual wasted no time in getting straight to the point.

“You wished to meet the principal party in this matter,” the man in the corner said in Russian. “I have consented. Be certain not to disappoint me, Mr. Welde. I shall not introduce myself; to you I am Monsieur NN.”

To judge from his pronunciation, he was a man from the very highest levels of society. He sounded about forty years old, but might be younger — his was a voice accustomed to command, and they always sounded older. His grand manner suggested that he was a man to be taken seriously.

The conclusion? If this was a high-society conspiracy, it was certainly no laughing matter.

“Please explain the gist of the proposal,” said Achimas.

“You speak Russian well,” said the shadow with a nod. “I was informed that at one time you were a Russian subject. That is most convenient. There will be no need for superfluous explanations. And it will certainly not be necessary to impress upon you the importance of the individual who has to be killed.”

Achimas noted the remarkable directness of expression — no equivocations, nothing about ‘eliminating’, ‘removing’ or ‘neutralizing’.

Meanwhile Monsieur NN continued in the same even tone, without the slightest pause: “It is Mikhail Sobolev.”

“The one they call the White General?” Achimas inquired. “The hero of recent wars and the most popular general in the Russian army?”

“Yes, Adjutant General Sobolev, commander of the Fourth Army Corps,” the silhouette confirmed dispassionately.

“I beg your pardon, but I must refuse your request,” Achimas declared politely and crossed his arms on his chest.

The science of gestures defined the meaning of this pose as calm composure and adamant determination. In addition, it happened to set the fingers of his right hand against the handle of the little revolver lying in a special pocket in his waistcoat. The revolver was called a ‘velodog,’ and it had been invented for cyclists who were pestered by stray canines. Four little round-headed twenty-two-caliber bullets. A mere trinket, of course, but in situations like today’s it could prove very useful.

A refusal to accept a commission after the target had already been named was an extremely dangerous move. If complications arose, Achimas intended to act as follows: put a bullet in the client’s brain and jump back into the darkest corner. It would be no easy job to subdue Achimas there.

There had been no search at the entrance, so his entire arsenal was still intact: the Colt manufactured to his personal order, the throwing knife, and the Spanish knife with the sprung blade. And therefore Achimas was tense but calm.

“Surely you are not also one of Sobolev’s devotees?” the client inquired with irritation.

“I have no interest in Sobolev; I am a devotee of common sense. And common sense requires me not to involve myself in matters that entail the subsequent elimination of the agent employed, that is, in the present case, myself. No witnesses are ever left alive after an act of such immense importance. My advice is to find yourself another agent, some novice. An ordinary political assassination is not such a very tricky job.”