EF06 - The State Counsellor (23 page)

Fandorin knocked and entered the office of the head of the Department of Security.

Pozharsky was sitting beside the lamp in an extremely snug-looking pose, with his feet pulled up on to his leather armchair. In his hand the deputy director of police, aide-de-camp and rising star was holding an open copy of the popular new magazine
The Journal of Foreign Literature.

'Erast Petrovich!' Gleb Georgievich exclaimed enthusiastically. 'How delightful of you to call in. Please, have a seat.' He put the magazine down and smiled disarmingly.

'Are you angry with me for edging you out of the case? I understand; in your place I would be annoyed too. But it's the Emperor's own order; I am not at liberty to change anything. I only regret that I have been deprived of any access to your analytical talent, about which I have heard so much. I did not dare give you an assignment, since I am not your superior. I must admit, however, that I very much hope you will meet with success in your independent line of inquiry. Well then, do you have a result?'

'What result could I possibly have, when you hold absolutely all the threads in your hands?' Fandorin asked with a shrug of feigned indifference. 'But I believe you have nothing here either?'

The prince declared confidently: 'They're checking Gvidon. That's very good. He has already begun to hate his former comrades - because he has betrayed them. And now he will develop an absolutely passionate hatred for them. I know human nature. Especially the nature of betrayal -I
am obliged to understand that by virtue of my profession.'

'Tell me then, is the psychology of betrayal always the same?' the State Counsellor asked, intrigued by the subject despite himself.

'By no means; it is infinitely varied. There is betrayal out of fear, betrayal out of resentment, out of love, out of ambition and a host of different causes, up to and including betrayal out of gratitude.'

'Out of g-gratitude?'

'Yes indeed. Permit me to relate to you a certain incident from my professional experience.' Pozharsky took a slim
papyrosa
out of his cigarette case, lit it and savoured the smoke as he drew it in. 'One of my finest agents was a sweet, pure, unselfish old woman - the very kindest of creatures. She doted on her only son, but in his youthful foolishness the boy got mixed up in a business that smacked of hard labour. She came to me, begging and weeping, told me the entire story of her life. I was younger myself then, and more soft-hearted than I am now - anyway, I took pity on her. Just between the two of us, I even went so far as to commit an official crime: I removed certain documents from the case file. To cut the story short, the boy was released; he got off with a fatherly caution, which, to be quite honest, made not the slightest impression on him. He became involved with revolutionaries again and plunged into a life of dissipation. But then what do you think happened? Inspired by her undying gratitude to me, his mother began diligently providing me with highly valuable information. Her son's comrades had known her for a long time as a hospitable hostess, they felt quite uninhibited by the innocuous old woman's presence and spoke quite openly in her company. She used to make notes of everything on scraps of paper and bring them to me. There was even one report that was written on the back of a recipe. Truly a case of, Do good and ye shall have your reward.'

Erast Petrovich listened to this edifying homily with mounting irritation and then could not help asking: 'Gleb Georgievich, isn't that repugnant? - encouraging a mother to inform on her own son?'

Pozharsky paused before he replied, and when he did, his tone had changed - it was no longer jocular, but serious and rather tired.

Mr Fandorin, you give the impression of being an intelligent, mature individual. Are you really like that pink-cheeked boy-officer who was here yesterday? Do you really not understand that we have no time now for goody-goody sentiment? Do you not see that there is a genuine war going on?'

'I do see. Of course I do,' the State Counsellor said passionately. 'But even in war there are rules. And in war people are usually hanged for employing traitors to spy for them.'

"This is not the kind of war in which any rules apply,' the prince countered with equal conviction. 'It is not two European powers who are fighting here. No, Erast Petrovich, this is the savage, primordial war of order with chaos, the West with the East, Christian chivalry with Mamai's horde. In this war no peace envoys are despatched, no conventions are signed, no one is released on his word of honour. This is a war fought with all the relentless cruelty of Asiatic science; molten lead is poured down men's throats and they are flayed alive, innocents are slaughtered. Did you hear about our agent Shverubovich getting sulphuric acid thrown in his face? Or the murder of General von Heinkel? They blew up the entire house, in which, apart from the General himself - who, as it happens, was a fine blackguard -there happened to be his wife, three children and servants. The only survivor was the youngest daughter; she was thrown from the balcony by the blast. Her back was broken and her leg was crushed, so that it had to be amputated. How do like that for a war?'

And you, the custodian of society, are prepared to wage war on those kind of term' - to reply with the same methods?' asked Fandorin, stunned.

'What would you have me do - capitulate? Let the frenzied mobs burn houses and toss the best people of Russia on their pitchforks? Let our home-grown Robespierres inundate our cities with blood? Let our Empire become a bogeyman for the rest of humanity and be thrown back three hundred years? Erast Petrovich, I am no lover of high-flown sentiment, but let me tell you that we are only a narrow cordon, holding back the mindless, malevolent elements. Once they break through the cordon, nothing will stop them. There is no one standing behind us. Only ladies in hats, old grannies in mob-caps, young Turgenevian ladies and children in sailor suits - the little, decent world that sprang up in the wild Scythian steppes less than a hundred years ago thanks to the idealism of Emperor Alexander the Blessed.'

The prince broke off his impassioned speech, clearly embarrassed by his own outburst, and suddenly changed the subject. 'And by the way, concerning methods... Tell me, my dear Erast Petrovich, why did you plant a hermaphrodite in my bed?'

Fandorin assumed he must have misheard.

'I beg your pardon?'

'Nothing really important, just a charming joke. Yesterday evening, after taking supper in the restaurant, I went back to my room. When I enter it - good Lord, what a surprise! Lying there in my bed is a lovely lady, entirely undressed; I can see her delightful breasts above the top of the blanket. I try to show her out - she does not wish to get up. And a moment later there is a mass invasion: a police officer, constables and the porter shouting in a phoney voice: "This is a respectable establishment!" I can even see a reporter trying to slip in from the corridor, with a photographer in tow. And then things get even more interesting. My visitor jumps up out of bed, and, my sainted fathers, I've never seen the like before in all my life! A complete double set of sexual characteristics. Apparently an individual well known around Moscow, a certain gentleman - or a certain lady - who goes by the name of Coco. Very popular among those gourmands who prefer exotic amusements. An excellent idea, Erast Petrovich, bravo. I never expected it of you. Showing me up in an absurd and indecent light is the best possible way to regain control over the investigation. The sovereign will not tolerate lascivious behaviour from the servants of the throne. Goodbye to my aide-de-camp's monogram and farewell to my career.' Gleb Georgievich assumed an expression of exaggerated admiration. A most excellent plan, but I wasn't born yesterday, after all. When necessary I am more than capable of employing tricks of that kind myself, as you have had occasion to see in the case of Rahmet-Gvidon. Life, my dearest Erast Petrovich, has taught me to be cautious. When I leave my room, I always place an invisible mark on the door, and the servants are strictly forbidden to enter in my absence. When I looked at the door, I saw that the hair I left had been broken! The rooms on each side were occupied by my men -I
brought them from St Petersburg. So I called them, and I was not alone when I entered the room -they were with me. When your police inspector saw these serious people with revolvers at the ready, he was confused and embarrassed. He grabbed the outlandish creature by the hair and dragged it out of the room, taking the newspaper men away with him as well; but never mind, the porter, a certain Teplugov, was still there and he was absolutely frank with me. He explained who this Coco was, and he told me how the gentlemen from the police had told him to be ready. Just see what enterprising action you have proved capable of, and yet you condemn my methods.'

'I knew nothing about this!' Erast Petrovich exclaimed indig-nandy, and immediately blushed - he had remembered Sverchinsky muttering something about Coco the day before. So that was what Stanislav Filippovich had had in mind when he was planning to make the official from St Petersburg a general laughing stock.

'I can see you didn't know,' Pozharsky said, nodding. 'Naturally, it's not the way you behave. I just wanted to make sure. In actual fact the responsibility for this trick with Coco lies, of course, with the highly experienced Colonel Sverchinsky. I came to that conclusion this morning, when Sverchinsky started calling me every hour. He was checking to see if I had guessed. Of course it was him, it couldn't be anyone else. Burlyaev lacks the imagination for tricks like that.'

Just at that moment there was a tramping of numerous feet outside the door, and Burlyaev himself - speak of the devil! -came bursting in.

'Disaster, gentlemen,' he gasped. 'I've just been informed that there's been a hold-up - the carriage of the state financial instruments depository. There are dead and wounded. They stole six-hundred-thousand roubles! And they left their sign: CG.'

Dejected confusion - that was the predominant mood at the extraordinary meeting of the leaders of the Office of Gendarmes and the Department of Security that dragged on late into the evening.

Occupying the chair at this doleful council was the Deputy Director of the Police Department, Prince Pozharsky - tousle-haired, pale-faced and angry.

'How wonderfully well you do things here in Moscow,' the man from the capital repeated yet again. 'Every day you despatch state funds for transfer to the most remote regions of the Empire, but you don't even have even any official instructions for the transportation of such immense sums! Who has ever heard of security guards going dashing after some bomber and leaving the money almost completely unprotected? All right, gentlemen, there's no point in repeating myself,' said Pozharksy, gesturing despairingly. 'We have all visited the scene of the crime and seen everything. Let us draw the sad conclusions. Six hundred thousand roubles have migrated to the revolutionary treasury which, by dint of great effort, I had only just emptied. It is terrible to think of all the atrocities the nihilists will commit with that money... We have three men dead and two wounded, but during the shooting in Somovsky Cul-de-Sac only one man was wounded, and then only slightly. How was it possible not to guess that the shooting was started as a deliberate diversion, while the main action was taking place at the carriage?' the prince asked, growing furious now. 'And again that insolent challenge - the CG's calling card! What a blow to the prestige of the authorities! We underestimated the size of the Combat Group and its daring! There are not four men at all, but at least ten. I shall demand reinforcements from St Petersburg and special powers. And what wonderful execution! They had absolutely precise information about the route of the carriage and the guards! They struck quickly, confidently, mercilessly. They left no witnesses. Another example for our discussion of methods.' Gleb Georgievich glanced at Fandorin, who was sitting in the far corner of Burlyaev's office. 'True, one man -the driver Kulikov - did manage to get away alive. We know from him that the core group consisted of two men. Going by his description, one of them is our beloved Mr Green. The other was called Ace. Now, that seems like a clue! Ah, but no! The body of a man with a fractured skull was discovered at the India Inn. He was dressed exactly like Ace, and Kulikov identified him. Ace is a rather common alias in criminal circles; it signifies "a dare-devil, successful bandit". But most likely this was the legendary St Petersburg hold-up specialist Tikhon Bogoyavlensky. He is rumoured to have had connections with the nihilists. As you are aware, the body has been sent to the capital for identification. But what's the point! Mr Green has snapped that thread in any case. Most convenient, no need to share the money either ...' The prince hooked his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. 'But the robbery is by no means the worst of our troubles. There is an even more distressing development.'

The room was completely silent, for those present could not imagine any misfortune worse than the robbery.

'You know that Titular Counsellor Zubtsov found out who owns the telephone from which some man called shortly before the attack on the carriage. It is in an apartment belonging to the well-known barrister Zimin, on Myasnitskaya Street. Since Zimin is presently involved in a trial in Warsaw - all the newspapers are writing about it -I
sent my agents to make discreet enquiries about the gentleman who was too shy to speak with Sergei Vitalievich. The agents saw that there was no light on in the apartment, they opened the door and inside they discovered a body ...'

The new silence that followed was broken by Erast Petrovich, who asked in a quiet voice: 'Could it have been Gvidon?'