EF06 - The State Counsellor (17 page)

Pozharsky suddenly walked up to the terrorist, grasped his shoulders firmly in both hands and started speaking in a slow, regular rhythm, as if he were hammering in nails: 'You, Seleznyov, will not get a heroic trial with all the pretty ladies in the courtroom swooning over you. Your own comrades will spit at you as treacherous scum who has besmirched the bright countenance of the revolution.'

The prisoner gazed up, spellbound, as Pozharsky went on.

And now let me outline another possibility to you.' The prince removed his hands from Seleznyov's shoulders, pulled up a chair and sat down, crossing one leg elegantly over the other. 'You are a brave man, vivacious and high-spirited. What do you find so interesting in hobnobbing with these miserable would-be martyrs, your tedious comrades in the revolutionary struggle? They're like bees who need to bunch together in a swarm and live according to the rules; but you're a loner, you do things your own way, you have your own laws. Admit it, in the depths of your heart you really despise them. They're alien to you. You enjoy playing cops and robbers, risking your life, leading the police a merry dance. Well, I'll give you a chance to play a game far more amusing and much riskier than revolution. Right now you're just a puppet in the hands of the party theoreticians, who drink their coffee with cream in Geneva and Zurich and other such places, while fools like you water the pavements of Russia with your blood. But I'm offering you the opportunity to become the puppet-master and pull the strings of the entire pack of them. And I assure you, you would find it delightful.'

'I'll be pulling their strings, and you'll be pulling mine?' Seleznyov asked in a hoarse voice.

'I can't see anyone ever pulling your strings.' Pozharsky laughed. 'On the contrary, I shall be totally and completely dependent on you. I'm staking a lot on you - going for broke, in fact. If you make a mess of things, my career's over. You see, Seleznyov, I'm being absolutely frank with you. By the way, what's your revolutionary alias?'

'Rahmet.'

'Well, for me you will be ... let's say, Gvidon.'

'Why Gvidon?' Seleznyov asked with a puzzled frown, as if he were totally confused by the pace of events.

'Because you will come flying to me in the realm of the glorious Tsar Saltan from your island of Buyan, sometimes as a mosquito, sometimes as a fly, sometimes as a bumblebee.'

Erast Petrovich suddenly realised that the process of recruitment was already complete. The word 'yes' had not yet been spoken, but some invisible boundary line had been crossed. And after that everything happened very quickly, in the space of just a few minutes.

At first Rahmet answered his virtuoso interrogator's questions absent-mindedly, as if they concerned insignificant matters and not the membership of the Combat Group (it turned out that there were only four of them: the leader with the alias Green, Emelya, Bullfinch and Rahmet himself). Then he provided a clear and vivid psychological portrait of each of them. What he said about the leader, for instance, was: 'He's like Frankenstein's monster in the English novel, half man, half machine. Every time he speaks or moves, you can literally hear the gearwheels creaking. Green sees everything in black and white, nothing puts him off.'

Rahmet gave the address of the clandestine apartment just as willingly, offering no resistance at all, and he dashed off his agreement to cooperate on a voluntary basis as blithely as if it were a billet-doux. His expression as he did so was anything but frightened or even ashamed; it seemed more thoughtful, the expression of a man who has unexpectedly discovered wide new horizons and not yet had time to take in the stunning view now extending before his eyes.

'Off you go, Gvidon,' said Pozharsky, shaking him firmly by the hand. 'Your job is to find Green and hand him over to us. A difficult task, but you're up to it. And don't be afraid that we'll let you down. You're our most important man now; we're putting all our trust in you. Contacts as we agreed. Go with God. And if you don't believe in God, a fair wind to your sails."

The moment the door closed behind the former terrorist Rahmet and the new collaborator Gvidon, Burlyaev said confidently: 'He'll make a run for it. Why don't you have us put a couple of good agents on his tail?'

'Under no circumstances,' said the prince, shaking his head and yawning. 'In the first place, the tails might be noticed, and we'll get him killed. And in the second place, let us not insult our little mosquito by not trusting him. I know his kind. Fear won't make him collaborate, but he'll put his heart into it, all his inspiration and imagination - until the keen edge of new sensations is blunted. The important thing here, gentlemen, is not to miss the moment that is bound to come, when our Gvidon realises it would be a greater thrill to commit double treason, that is, to pull the strings of both dolls, police and revolution, to make himself the head puppet-master. That's when our waltz with Nikolai Iosifovich will come to an end. We just have to hear that moment when the music stops playing.'

'How true that is!' Zubtsov exclaimed passionately, gazing at the psychologist from the capital with unfeigned admiration. 'I've thought about that a great deal myself, only I used a different name for it. Managing a collaborator, gentlemen, is like entering into a secret liaison with a married lady. You have to cherish her, love her sincerely and take constant care not to compromise her, not to destroy her family happiness. And when the feeling is exhausted, you have to part as friends and give her a nice present in farewell. There should be no bitterness, no mutual resentment.'

Pozharsky listened attentively to the young man's excited exclamations and commented: 'Romantically put, but essentially correct.'

'May I also say something?' Smolyaninov put in, blushing. 'Colonel, you were very cunning in the way you recruited this Rahmet, of course, but it seems to me unbecoming for the defenders of the state to employ dishonest methods.' At this point he started speaking quickly, obviously concerned that he might be interrupted. 'Actually, I've been wanting to speak out frankly for a long time ... The way we work isn't right, gentlemen. This Rahmet has shot the commander of a regiment, escaped from arrest, killed one of our people and committed God only knows how many other terrible crimes, but we let him go. He should be put in prison, but we wish to profit from his viciousness, and you even shake his hand. Of course, I understand that we shall solve the case more quickly that way, but do we want speed, if that is the price to be paid? We are supposed to maintain justice and morality, but we deprave society even more than the nihilists do. It is not good. Well, gentlemen?'

The Lieutenant looked round at both of his superiors, but Sverchinsky merely shook his head reproachfully in reply and while Fandorin's expression was sympathetic, he said nothing.

'Young man, where on earth did you get the idea that the state is justice arid morality?' Pozharsky asked, laughing good-naturedly. 'Fine justice indeed! My ancestors and yours, the bandits, stole all their wealth from their fellow countrymen and passed it on by inheritance to us, so that we could dress elegantly and listen to Schubert. In my own case, admittedly, there was no inheritance, but that's a specific instance. Have you read Proudhon? Property is theft. And you and I are guards set to protect the stolen booty. So don't go filling your head with foolish illusions. Better try to understand this, if you really must have a moral justification. Our state is unjust and immoral. But better a state like that than rebellion, bloodshed and chaos. Slowly and unwillingly, society becomes just a little bit more moral, a little bit more decent. It takes centuries. And revolution will throw it back to the times of Ivan the Terrible. There still won't be any justice, new bandits will simply appear, and again they'll have everything and the others will have nothing. And what I said about guards is actually too poetic. You and I, Lieutenant, are night-soil men. We clean out the backhouse privies, to prevent the shit sluicing out into the street. And if you don't wish to get dirty, then take off that smart blue uniform and look for another profession. I'm not threatening you, just giving you some well-meant advice.'

The deputy director of police confirmed the sincerity of his final words with a gentle smile.

Lieutenant Colonel Burlyaev waited for the end of this abstract discussion and asked briskly: 'Your Excellency, then shall I give instructions for private lecturer Aronson's apartment to be surrounded?'

'No. Any tracks there are long since cold. Leave Aronson alone - or we risk giving Gvidon away. And what can the private lecturer give us? He's chicken feed, a "sympathiser". Will he tell us what the real fighters look like? We already know that. I'm more interested in this Needle, the party courier. That's the one we need to find, and then—'

Breaking off in mid-sentence, the prince suddenly leapt to his feet. In two rapid strides he was at the door and jerked it open. The gendarme officer caught in the doorway froze. He had very light hair and a face as pink as a piglet's, which turned even pinker as they watched. Erast Petrovich recognised the officer as Staff Captain Seidlitz, erstwhile protector of Khrapov, the general who was now lying in the autopsy room and had no more need of his guard.

'I -I
came to see Mr Burlyaev. To ask if he'd found any clues that would lead to the murderers... I heard a whisper that there was an arrest last night... You're Prince Pozharsky, aren't you? I'm—'

'I know who you are,' the aide-de-camp interrupted sharply. 'You are a man who failed in an assignment of the utmost importance. You, Seidlitz, are a criminal, and you will be tried by a court of law. I forbid you to leave Moscow until specifically instructed to do so. What are you doing here anyway? Were you eavesdropping at the door?'

For the third time in the short period since his arrival the visitor from St Petersburg underwent a total metamorphosis. Benign with his colleagues and assertive with Rahmet, now he was sharp to the point of rudeness with this offender.

'I won't allow this!' Seidlitz burst out, almost crying. Tm a gendarme officer. Let them try me, but you have no right to talk to me like that! I know what I did was unforgivable. But I swear I will atone for it!'

'You'll atone for it in a penal battalion,' the prince interrupted him, and slammed the door unceremoniously.

When Pozharsky turned round, there was not a trace of anger in his face - only intense concentration and excitement. 'That's all, gentlemen; now to work,' he said, rubbing his hands. 'Let us assign roles. You, Pyotr Ivanovich, are responsible for intelligence work. Feel out all the revolutionary groups, all your contacts. If you can't find Green, then at least bring me Mademoiselle Needle. And one more job for your agents: sit on Seidlitz's tail, and his men's too. After the tongue-lashing I just gave him, that Ostsee blockhead will stop at nothing to save his own skin. He will demonstrate truly miraculous zeal. And he won't be any too particular about his methods either. Let him pull the chestnuts out of the fire, but we'll be the ones who eat them. Now for you, Stanislav Filippovich. Distribute the descriptions of the criminals to your men at the railway stations and turnpikes. You're responsible for making sure that Green doesn't leave the Moscow city limits. And I' -the prince smiled radiantly - 'will work with Gvidon. After all, that's only fair, since I recruited him. Now I'm going to the Loskutnaya Hotel, to take a good room and catch up on my sleep. Sergei Vitalievich, I ask you to stay by the telephone at all times in case a message comes in from Gvidon. Let me know immediately. Everything will be just fine, gentlemen, you'll see. As the Gallic gentlemen say, we shall not let our noses droop.'

They rode back in the sleigh in absolute silence. Smolyaninov looked as if he would have liked to express an opinion, but he didn't dare. Sverchinsky twirled the end of his pampered moustache. But Fandorin seemed unusually lethargic and subdued.

And in all honesty, he had good reason.

Set against the brilliant glow of the celebrity from the national capital, the flattering aura surrounding the State Counsellor had dimmed substantially. From being an individual of the first magnitude, whose every word, and even silence, commanded the respectful attention of those around him, Erast Petrovich had suddenly been transformed into a dispensable and even rather comical character. Who was he now? The investigation had been taken over by an experienced, brilliant specialist who would clearly manage the case better than the Moscow governor's Deputy for Special Assignments. The success of the search would also be facilitated by the fact that the aforementioned specialist was obviously not hampered by excessive scruples. However, Fandorin immediately relented of that thought as unworthy and prompted by his own wounded vanity.

The main cause of his discomfiture lay elsewhere - the State Counsellor honestly admitted that to himself. For the first time in his life, destiny had brought him face to face with a man who possessed greater talents as a detective. Well, perhaps not for the first time, but the second. A long, long time ago, at the very beginning of his career, Erast Petrovich had encountered another such talent, only he did not much like to recall that story from the dim and distant past.

But then, he couldn't withdraw from the investigation either, could he? That would be giving way to his pride and betraying his beneficent mentor Prince Dolgorukoi, who was relying on his deputy for support and even salvation.

When they reached the Office of Gendarmes they walked into Sverchinsky's office, still without speaking. Here it turned out that on the way the Colonel had also been thinking about the Governor General.