EF06 - The State Counsellor (9 page)

He asked Melnikov. No, the party Central Committee had not sent the note.

Was it a gendarme trap? It didn't look like one. Why beat about the bush like that? Why lure him to Ekaterinburg? If the police knew his clandestine apartment, they would have arrested him right there.

It had to be a third option. Someone wanted to help the Combat Group while remaining in the shadows.

After some hesitation, Green had decided to risk it. Of course, Governor Bogdanov was no major VIP, but the year before he had been condemned to death by the party for his vicious suppression of peasant riots in the Streletsk district. It wasn't a top priority mission, but why not? Green needed a success.

And he had got one. The operation went off wonderfully well, if you disregarded the scuffle with the police. Green left a sheet of paper at the scene - the party's death sentence, signed with the initials 'CG'.

Then, at the very beginning of winter, a second letter had appeared: he found it in the pocket of his own coat. He was at a wedding - not a genuine wedding, of course, but a fictitious one. Two party members had wed for the sake of the cause, and at the same time an opportunity had been provided to meet legally and discuss a few urgent matters. There had not been any letter in his coat when he took it off. But when he put his hand in the pocket as he was leaving, there was the sheet of paper.

The lieutenant general of gendarmes, Selivanov, who is well known to you, is inspecting the foreign agents of the Department of Security incognito. At half past two in the

afternoon on 13
December he will go to a clandestine apartment at 24
rue Annamite in Paris.

TG

And once again everything had happened exacdy as the unknown TG had promised: taking the cunning fox Selivanov had been almost child's play, in fact - something they could never have dreamed of in St Petersburg. They waited for the gendarme in the entrance, Green grabbed him by the elbows, and Rahmet stuck the dagger into him. The Combat Group became the sensation of Europe.

Green had found the third letter on the floor in the entrance hall earlier this year, when the four of them were living on Vasilievsky Island in St Petersburg. This time the writer had directed his attention to Colonel Pozharsky, an artful rogue who was one of the new crop of gendarmes. The previous autumn Pozharsky had destroyed the Warsaw branch of the party, and he had just arrested an anarchist sailors' organisation in Kronstadt that had been planning to blow up the royal yacht. As a reward he had received a high post in the Police Department and an aide-de-camp's monogram for saving the imperial family.

The note had read as follows:

The search for the CG has been entrusted to the new deputy director for political affairs at the Police Department, Count Pozharsky. He is a dangerous opponent who will cause you a lot of trouble. On Wednesday evening between nine and ten he has a meeting with an important agent on Aptekarsky Island near the Kerbel company dacha. A convenient moment: do not let it slip.

TG

They
had
let the moment slip, even though it really was convenient. Pozharsky had demonstrated quite supernatural agility, returning fire as he melted away into the darkness. His companion had proved less nimble and Rahmet had caught him with a bullet in the back as he was running off.

Even so, the operation had proved useful and caused a sensation, because Green had recognised the man who was killed as Stasov, a member of the party's Central Committee and an old veteran of the Schlisselburg Fortress who had only just returned illegally to Russia from Switzerland. Who could have imagined that the police had people like that among their informers?

The latest message from TG, the fourth and most valuable, had appeared yesterday morning. It was hot in the house, and they had left the small upper window open for the night. In the morning Emelya had found the letter wrapped round a stone on the floor beside the window. He had read it and gone running to wake Green.

And now it is Khrapov's turn. He is leaving for Siberia today by the eleven o'clock express, in a ministerial carriage. I have managed to discover the following: Khrapov will make a stop in Moscow. The person responsible for his security while in Moscow is State Counsellor Fandorin, Prince Dolgorukoi's Deputy for Special Assignments. Description: 35
years old, slim build, tall, black hair, narrow moustache, grey temples, stammers in conversation. Extreme security measures have been planned in St Petersburg and Moscow. It is only possible to get close to Khrapov between these points. Think of something. There will be four agents in the carriage,
and a duty guard of gendarmes in both lobbies (the front lobby is blind, with no access to the saloon). The head of Khrapov's guard is Staff Captain von Seidlitz: 32
years of age, very light hair, tall, solidly built. Khrapov's adjutant is Lieutenant Colonel Modzalevsky: 39
years of age, stout, medium height, dark-brown hair, small sideburns.

TG

Green had put together a daring but perfecdy feasible plan and made all the necessary preparations. The group had left for Klin on the three o'clock passenger train.

Once again TG's information had proved to be impeccable. Everything went without a hitch. It was the Combat Group's greatest triumph so far. It might have seemed that now he could afford to relax and congratulate himself on a job well done. The match had not been extinguished, it was still burning, and meanwhile the fire it had kindled was blazing ever more furiously.

But his enjoyment was marred by the mystery. Green could not abide mystery. Where there was mystery, there was unpredictability, and that was dangerous.

He had to work out who TG was - understand what kind of man he was and what he was after.

He had only one possible explanation.

One of his helpers, or even a member of the actual Combat Group, had someone in the secret police from whom he received confidential information that he passed on anonymously to Green. It was clear why he did not make himself known. That was to maintain secrecy; he did not wish to increase the number of people who knew his secret (Green himself always behaved in the same way). Or he was shielding his informant, bound by his word of honour - that sort of thing happened.

But what if it was entrapment?

No, that was out of the question. The blows that the group had struck against the machinery of state with the assistance of TG were too substantial. No tactical expediency could possibly justify an entrapment operation on that level. And most importantly of all: not once in all these past months had they been under surveillance. Green had an especially keen nose for that.

Two abbreviations: CG and TG. The first stood for an organisation. Did the second stand for a name? Why had there been any need for a signature at all?

That was what he must do when he got back to Peter: draw up a list of everyone who had had access to the places where the notes had been left. If he included only those who could have reached all four places, the list was a short one. Only a few people in addition to the members of the group. He had to identify who it was and engage them in candid conversation. One to one, with proper guarantees of confidentiality.

But it was a quarter past twelve already. His two hours were up. It was time to wake Rahmet.

Green walked through the drawing room into the dark bedroom. He heard Bullfinch's regular snuffling, Emelya's gentle snoring.

'Rahmet, get up,' Green whispered, leaning down over the bed and reaching out his hand.

There was nothing there. He squatted down and felt around on the floor: there were no boots.

Rahmet, the cornflower-blue man, was gone. He had either set out in search of adventures or simply run off.

CHAPTER 3

in which the costs of dual subordination are demonstrated

'How much longer will we be subjected to scrutiny?' Erast Petrovich asked drearily, glancing round at Burlyaev.

About five minutes had passed since the State Counsellor and the Lieutenant Colonel (who had changed his blue uniform for civilian clothes) first entered the gate of the modest townhouse on Arbat Street and rang the bell. At first the curtain in the window of the attic storey had swayed in very promising fashion, but since then nothing had happened.

'I warned you,' the head of the Okhranka said in a low voice: 'a capricious character. Without me here she wouldn't open the door to a stranger at all.' He threw his head back and shouted -not for the first time: 'Diana, it's me, open up! And the gentleman I telephoned you about is with me!'

No reply.

Fandorin already knew that this little townhouse, rented through an intermediary, was one of the Department of Security's clandestine meeting places, and it had been placed entirely at the disposal of the highly valued collaborator. Meetings with her always took place here and nowhere else, and always by prior arrangement, for which purpose a telephone had been specially installed in the house.

'Madam!' said Erast Petrovich, raising his voice, 'you will f-freeze us! This is quite simply impolite! Do you wish to take a better look at me? Then you should have said so straight away'

He took off his top hat, raised his face, swung round to present his left profile, then his right and - oh, wonder of wonders! - a small window frame opened slightly, white fingers were thrust out through it and a bronze key fell at his very feet.

'Ooph,' said the Lieutenant Colonel, bending down. 'Let me do it. There's a trick to the lock..."

They took off their coats in the empty hallway. Pyotr Ivanovich seemed strangely agitated. He combed his hair in the mirror and set off first up the creaking stairs to the mezzanine.

At the top of the stairs there was a short corridor with two doors. The Lieutenant Colonel knocked briefly on the door on the left and entered without waiting for an answer.

Strangely enough, it was almost completely dark in the room. Erast Petrovich's nostrils caught the scent of musk oil, and on looking round he saw that the curtains were tightly closed and there was no lamp in the room. It seemed to be a study. At least, there was the dark form of something like a secretaire over by the wall, and the grey silhouette of a desk in the corner. It was a few moments before the State Counsellor spotted the slim female figure with the disproportionately large head that was standing motionless beside the window. Fandorin took two steps forward and realised that his hostess was wearing a hat with a veil.

'Please be seated, gentlemen,' the woman said in a voice hushed to a sibilant whisper, gesturing elegantly to a pair of armchairs. 'Good morning, Pyotr Ivanovich. What is so very urgent? And who is your companion?'

'This is Mr Fandorin, Count Dolgorukoi's Deputy for Special Assignments,' Burlyaev replied, also in a whisper. 'He is conducting the investigation into the murder of Adjutant General Khrapov. Perhaps you have already heard?'

Diana nodded and waited until her guests were seated, then also sat down - on a divan standing against the opposite wall.

'How could you have heard? There's been n-nothing in the newspapers about it yet.'

The words were pronounced in a perfectly normal voice, but by contrast with the whisper that had preceded them, they sounded very loud.

'News travels fast,' the collaborator murmured mockingly. 'We revolutionaries have our own telegraph wires.'

'But more p-precisely? Where could you have heard?' said the State Counsellor, ignoring her frivolous tone.

'Diana, this is very important,' Burlyaev rumbled in his deep bass, as if he were trying to smooth over the abruptness of the question. 'You can't possibly imagine just how important—'

'Why not? - I understand.' The woman leaned back. 'For Khrapov you could all be thrown out of your cosy little jobs. Is that not so, Erast Petrovich?'

There was no denying that the low, hushed voice was provocatively sensuous, thought Fandorin - like the scent of musk, and the casually graceful movements of the slim hand idly toying with the earring in her ear. He was beginning to understand why this Messalina roused such intense passions in the Office of Gendarmes and the Department of Security.

'How do you know my first name and patronymic?' he asked, leaning forward slightly. 'Has somebody already told you about me?'

He thought Diana must have smiled - her whisper became even more insinuating.

'On more than one occasion. There are many people in Moscow who take an interest in you, Monsieur Fandorin. You are a fascinating character.'

'And has anybody spoken to you about the State Counsellor just recently?' Burlyaev put in. 'Yesterday, for instance? Have you had any visitors here?'

Erast Fandorin glanced sideways in displeasure at this intrusive assistance, and Diana laughed soundlessly.

'I have many visitors, Pierre. Have any of them spoken to me about Monsieur Fandorin? I can't really recall

She won't say,
Erast Petrovich realised, taking mental note of that 'Pierre'. This was a waste of time.

He introduced a hint of metal into his voice. 'You have not answered my first question. From whom exactly did you learn that General Khrapov had been killed?'

Diana rose abrupdy to her feet and the tone of her whisper changed from caressing to piercing, like the hiss of an enraged snake. 'I am not on your payroll and I am not obliged to report to you! You forget yourself! Or perhaps they have not explained to you who I am? Very well, I shall answer your question, but that will be the end of the conversation. And do not come here any more. Do you hear, Pyotr Ivanovich - let me never see this gentleman here again!'