EF06 - The State Counsellor (10 page)

The Lieutenant Colonel stroked his short-cropped hair in bewilderment, clearly not knowing whose side to take, but Fandorin replied imperturbably.

'Very well, we will go. But I am waiting for an answer.'

The woman moved towards the window, so that the grey rectangle framed her shapely silhouette.

'The killing of Khrapov is an open secret. Every revolutionary group in Moscow already knows about it and is rejoicing. This evening there will be a party to celebrate the occasion. I have been invited, but I shall not go. You, however, could call in. If you are lucky you might pick up a few illegal activists. The gathering is at the apartment of engineer Larionov. Twenty-eight Povarskaya Street.'

'Why didn't you ask her directly about Sverchinsky?' the Lieutenant Colonel exclaimed angrily as they rode back to the Department in the sleigh. 'I suspect that he visited her yesterday and he could easily have given something away. You saw for yourself what kind of character she is. She toys with men like a cat with mice.'

'Yes,' Fandorin replied absent-mindedly, nodding. 'A lady of some character. But never mind her. What we have to do is put this Larionov's apartment under surveillance. Assign the most experienced agents, let them follow each of the guests home and establish their identity. And then we'll run through all of their contacts, right along the chain. And when we come across the person who was the first to find out about Khrapov, from there it will only be a short step to the Combat Group.'

Burlyaev responded patronisingly: 'There's no need to do any of that. Larionov's one of our agents. We set up the apartment specially - to maintain our surveillance of'discontents and dubious individuals. It was Zubtsov's idea, the clever chap. All sorts of riff-raff with revolutionary connections get together at Larionov's place - to abuse the authorities, to sing forbidden songs and, of course, for a drink and a bite to eat. Larionov keeps a good table; our secret fund pays for it. We take note of the blabbermouths and open a file on each one of them. As soon as we can nab them for something serious, we already have the full collected works on the little darlings.'

'But that's entrapment!' Erast Petrovich protested with a frown. 'First you engender nihilists, and then you arrest them.'

Burlyaev set his hand to his chest in a gesture of respect. 'Begging your pardon, Mr Fandorin, you are, of course, a well-known authority in the field of criminal investigation, but you have little understanding of our trade in the line of security.'

'Well then, there is no need to have Larionov's guests shadowed?'

'There is not.'

'Then what d-do you suggest?'

'No need to suggest anything; everything's clear enough as it is. When I get back now, I'll instruct Evstratii Pavlovich to put together an arrest operation. A single broad sweep - we'll pull in all the little darlings at once, then I'll give them the full works. One thing you're right about is that the thread leads from one of them to the Combat Group.'

Arrest? On what grounds?'

'On the grounds, dear Erast Petrovich, that, as Diana so rightly remarked, in a day or two you and I will be flung out on our backsides. There's no time to waste on tailing people. We need results.'

Fandorin felt it necessary to adopt an official tone. 'Do not forget, Mr Lieutenant Colonel, that you have been instructed to follow my directions. I will not permit any arrests without due grounds.'

Burlyaev, however, did not buckle under pressure. 'Correct, I have been so instructed. By the Governor General. But in the line of investigation I am subordinated to the Police Department, not the Governor's office and so I must politely beg your pardon. If you wish to be present at the arrest - by all means; only do not interfere. If you prefer to stay out of it - that's up to you.'

Erast Petrovich said nothing. He knitted his brows and his eyes glinted menacingly, but no thunderbolt or peal of lightning followed.

After a pause the State Counsellor said coolly: 'Very well. I shall not interfere, but I shall be present.'

At eight o'clock that evening all the preparations for the operation were complete

The building on Povarskaya Street had been surrounded since half past six. The first ring of the cordon, the closest, consisted of five agents: one of them, in a white apron, was scraping up the snow outside the very doors of the single-storey house that bore the number twenty-eight; three, the shortest and puniest, were pretending to be juveniles, building a snow casde in the yard; another two were repairing a gas lamp on the corner of Ss. Boris and Gleb Lane. The second ring, consisting of eleven agents, had a radius of a hundred paces: three 'cabbies', a 'police constable', an 'organ-grinder', two 'drunks' and four 'yard-keepers'.

At five minutes past eight Burlyaev and Fandorin rode down Povarskaya Street on a sleigh. Sitting on the driving box, half-turned towards them, was the undercover agents' commander, Mylnikov, pointing out how things had been set up.

'Excellent, Evstratii Pavlovich,' the Lieutenant Colonel said, approving the arrangements with a triumphant glance at the State Counsellor, who so far had not said a single word. 'Well now, Mr Fandorin, do my men know how to do their job or not?'

Erast Petrovich said nothing. The sleigh turned on to Skaryatinsky Lane, drove on a little further and stopped.

'How many of the little darlings are there?' asked Burlyaev.

'In all, not counting Larionov and his cook, there are eight individuals,' Mylnikov began explaining in a pleasant north Russian accent. He was a plump gentleman who looked about forty years old, with a light-brown beard and long hair cut pudding-basin style. At six o'clock, when we started setting up the cordon, by your leave, Pyotr Ivanovich, I sent in one of my men, supposedly with a registered letter. The cook whispered to him that there were three outsiders. And then another five showed up - all of them individuals known to us, and the list has already been drawn up: six individuals of the male sex and two of the female. My man told the cook to stay in her room and not stick her head out. I took a look in through the window from the next roof - the nihilists are enjoying themselves, drinking wine; they've already started singing. A real revolutionary Shrovetide it is.'

Mylnikov giggled briefly, to make quite sure no doubt could remain that these final words were a joke.

'I think, Pyotr Ivanovich, that now's the time to take them. Or else they'll take a drop too much; they might even offer resistance if they get their Dutch courage up. Or some early bird will make for the door and we'll have to divide our forces. We'd have to take him real careful like, some ways off, so as not to stir up the rest of them.'

'Perhaps you haven't brought in enough men, Evstratii Pavlovich. After all, there are eight of them,' the Lieutenant Colonel said doubtfully. 'I told you it would be a good idea to take some police constables from the station and put a third circle round the yards and the crossroads.'

'No need for that, Pyotr Ivanovich,' Mylnikov purred, unconcerned. 'My men are trained wolfhounds, and this lot, begging your pardon, are only small fry, minnows - young ladies and little students.'

Burlyaev rubbed his nose with his glove (as evening approached it had started to get frosty). 'Never mind; if the small fry already know about Khrapov, that means one of them is well in with a big fish. Godspeed, Evstratii Pavlovich; get to work.'

The sleigh drove along Povarskaya Street again, but this time the false cabby had hung a lantern on the horses' shaft, and at this signal the second ring moved in closer. At precisely eight thirty Mylnikov put four fingers in his mouth and whistled, and that very instant the seven agents broke into the house.

The top men - Burlyaev, Mylnikov and Fandorin - entered immediately behind them. The others formed a new cordon and stood under the windows.

In the entrance hall Erast Petrovich peeped out from behind the Lieutenant Colonel's back and saw a spacious drawing room, a number of young people sitting at a table and a young lady at a piano.

'Don't get up, or I'll put a bullet through your bonce!' Mylnikov thundered in a terrible voice quite unlike his previous one and struck a student who had jumped up off his chair on the forehead with the handle of his revolver. Instantly turning pale, the student sat back down and a scarlet stream sprang from his split eyebrow. The other guests at the party stared at the blood, spellbound, and not one of them said a word. The agents quickly took up positions round the table, holding their guns at the ready.

'Two, four, six, eight,' Mylnikov said quickly, counting the heads. 'Eremeev, Zykov, check the rooms, quick! There should be another one!' As the agents went out, he shouted at their backs: 'And don't forget the privy!'

"Well now, well now, what's the meaning of all this?' the man with spectacles and a goatee beard sitting at the head of the table - evidently the host - exclaimed in a trembling voice. "This is my name-day celebration! I am engineer Larionov of the Tryokhgorny cement factory! This is absolutely outrageous!'

He smashed his fist down on the table and stood up, but the agent standing behind him seized his throat in a grip of iron, reducing Larionov's voice to a feeble wheeze.

Mylnikov said imposingly: 'I'll give you a name day. If anyone else so much as twitches, it's a bullet in the belly, straight off. I have my orders: if there's any resistance, shoot without warning. Sit down!' he barked at the engineer, who was pale from pain and fear, and the man plumped down on to his chair.

Eremeev and Zykov came in from the corridor, leading a man who was doubled over with his hands forced up behind his back. They tossed him into an empty seat.

Burlyaev cleared his throat and stepped forward. Evidently it was his turn now. 'Hmm, Mr Collegiate Assessor, that's going a bit too far. You need to see who it is you're dealing with. We appear to have been misled. These people are not bombers;

they're a perfectly decent group. And then' - he lowered his voice, but it could still be heard - 'I told you to manage the arrest tactfully. Why go hitting people on the head with revolvers and twisting their arms? That really is too bad.'

Evstratii Pavlovich frowned in annoyance and muttered: As you wish, Mr Lieutenant Colonel, but I'd like to have a little talk with these bastards after my own fashion. You'll only spoil everything with all this liberalism of yours. Just give them to me for half an hour and they'll sing like nightingales, I give you my word of honour as a gentleman on that.'

'Oh no,' Pyotr Ivanovich hissed. 'Spare me your methods, please. I'll find out everything I need to know for myself. Mr Larionov, what have you got behind that door over there - a study? You don't mind if I use it to have a chat with your guests, one at a time, do you? Please do excuse me, gentlemen, but this is a bit of an emergency' The Lieutenant Colonel ran his glance over the detainees. 'This morning Adjutant General Khrapov was murdered. The same Khrapov ... Ah, but I see you're not surprised? Well, we'll have a little chat about that too. If you have no objections.'

'"If you have no objections" - Oh, my God!' Mylnikov exclaimed, grinding his teeth as he dashed out into the corridor in a fury, knocking over a chair on the way.

Erast Petrovich gave a doleful sigh - the entire manoeuvre was far too transparent; but it seemed to produce the required effect on the detainees. At least, all of them were gazing in stupefaction at the door through which Evstratii Pavlovich had made his exit.

But no, not all of them. One slim young lady who was sitting by the piano, off to one side of the main developments, did not appear to be stupefied at all. Her black eyes were blazing with indignation, the pretty, dark features of her face contorted into a mask of hatred. The young woman curled up her scarlet lips in a furious, silent whisper, reached out one slim hand to the handbag lying on the piano and pulled out a small, elegant revolver.

The intrepid young miss grasped the gun tightly with both hands, aiming it straight at the back of the Lieutenant Colonel of gendarmes. From a standing start, Erast Petrovich vaulted almost halfway across the drawing room in a single prodigious leap, lashing his cane down on the gun barrel before his feet even touched the floor.

The toy with the mother-of-pearl handle struck the floor and fired - not really all that loudly, but Burlyaev flung himself violently to one side and all the agents swung their gun barrels round towards the reckless young woman. They would undoubtedly have riddled her with bullets if not for Erast Petrovich, whose tremendous jump had terminated just in front of the piano, so that the malefactress was hidden behind the State Counsellor's back.

Ah, so that's the way!' exclaimed the Lieutenant Colonel, still recovering from the shock. 'So that's the way! You bitch! I'll kill you where you stand!' And he pulled a large revolver out of his pocket.

Mylnikov came running in from the corridor at the noise and shouted: 'Pyotr Ivanovich! Stop! We need her alive! Take her, lads!'

The agents lowered their guns and two of them dashed over to the young lady and seized her by the arms.

Burlyaev unceremoniously shoved the State Counsellor aside and stood in front of the black-haired terrorist, towering over her by almost a full head.

'Who are you?' he gasped out, struggling to recover his breath. 'What's your name?'

'I shall not reply to impolite questions,' the nihilist replied jauntily, looking up at the gendarme.