The Diamond Chariot

TIGER ON THE LOOSE




It turned out to be possible to get used to a foul smell. The stench of the dung stopped tormenting the titular counsellor’s nose quite soon. The flies were far worse. Attracted by the appetising aroma, they flew to congregate on poor Fandorin from all over the Japanese archipelago or, at the very least, from all over the prefecture of Kanagawa. At first he tried to drive them away, then he gave up, because a peasant flapping his hands about might attract attention. He gritted his teeth and endured the nauseating tickling of the multitude of little green brutes busily crawling over his back and chest and face.

The doubled-over diplomat moved along slowly, up to his knees in water, pulling up some kind of vegetation. No one had bothered to explain to him what the weeds looked like, so he was very probably disposing of shoots of rice, but that was the last thing the sweat-drenched vice-consul was worried about. He hated rice, and flooded-field farming, and his own stubbornness, which had secured him a place in an assault group.

The other member of his group was the instigator of the anointment with dung, Iwaoka of the grey moustache. Although, in fact, the commissar no longer had his dashingly curled moustache – he had shaved it off before the operation began, in order to look more like a peasant. Erast Petrovich had managed to save his own moustache, but he had moistened it and let it dangle at the corners of his mouth like two small icicles. This was the only consolation now left to the titular counsellor – in every other respect Iwaoka had come off far more comfortably.

First, the flies took absolutely no interest in him at all – smelly Erast Petrovich was quite enough for them. Secondly, the commissar moved through the champing mud without any visible effort, and the weeding seemed to be no problem to him – every now and then he stopped and rested, waiting for his lagging partner. But Fandorin’s envy was provoked most powerfully of all by the large white fan with which the prudent Japanese had armed himself. The titular counsellor would have paid any price now, simply to be able to waft the air on to his face and blow off the accursed flies.

His straw hat, lowered almost all the way down to his chin, had two holes in it so that he could observe the shrine without raising his head. The two ‘peasants’ had covered the two hundred paces separating the hill from the edge of the field in about an hour and a half. Now they were trampling mud about thirty feet from dry land, but they mustn’t go any closer, in order not to alarm the lookout. He already had his eyes fixed on them as it was. They turned this way and that to let him see that they were men of peace, harmless, there was nowhere they could be hiding any weapons.

The support group, consisting of six policemen minus uniforms, was keeping its distance. There was another support group at work on the other side; it couldn’t be seen from here.

The vice-intendant was still nowhere to be seen, and Fandorin started feeling concerned about whether he would be able to straighten up when the time for action finally arrived. He cautiously kneaded his waist with one hand, and it responded with an intense ache.

Suddenly, without raising his head, Iwaoka hissed quietly.

It had started!

Two people were walking along the path to the shrine: striding along solemnly in front was the Shinto priest or kannusi, in black robes and a hood, and trotting behind him came the female servant of the shrine, or miko, in a white kimono and loose scarlet trousers, with long straight hair hanging down at both sides of her face. She stumbled, dropping some kind of bowl, and squatted down gracefully. Then she ran to catch up with the priest, wiggling her hips awkwardly like a young girl. Fandorin couldn’t help smiling. Well done, Asagawa, what fine acting!

In front of the steps, the kannusi halted, lowered a small twig broom into the bowl and started waving it in all directions, singing something at the same time – Suga had begun the ritual of purification. The vice-intendant’s moustache was now dangling downwards, like Fandorin’s, and a long, thin grey beard had been glued to His Excellency’s chin.

The commissar whispered:

‘Go!’

The sentry was surely watching the unexpected visitors, he wouldn’t be interested in the peasants now.

Erast Petrovich started moving towards the hill, trying not to splash through the water. Fifteen seconds later they were both in the bamboo thickets. There was liquid mud flowing down over the titular counsellor’s ankles.

Iwaoka went up the slope first. He took a few silent steps, stopped to listen, then waved to his partner to say: Come on, it’s all right.

And so Fandorin climbed to the top of the hill, staring at the commissar’s broad, muscular back.

They lay down under a bush and started looking around.

Iwaoka had picked the ideal spot. From here they could see the shrine, and the stone steps with the two figures – one black, one red and white – slowly climbing up them. On every step Suga stopped and waved his twig broom about. His nasal chant was slowly getting closer.

Up at the top, Semushi was waiting in the sacred gateway. He was wearing just a loincloth – in order to demonstrate his deformity, one must assume – and bowing abjectly right down to the ground.

He’s pretending to be a cripple who has found refuge in the abandoned shrine, Fandorin guessed. He wants to make the priest feel sorry for him.

But what about the others?

There they were, the cunning devils.

The Satsumans had hidden behind the shrine – Suga and Asagawa couldn’t see that, but from here in the bushes they had a very good view.

Three men in light kimonos were standing, pressing themselves up against the wall, about a dozen paces away from the commissar and the titular counsellor. One, with his withered left arm strapped to his side, was peeping cautiously round the corner, the two others kept their eyes fixed on him.

All three of them had swords, Fandorin noted. They had obtained new ones from somewhere, but he couldn’t see any firearms.

The man with the withered arm looked as if he was well past forty – there were traces of grey in the plait glued to the crown of his head. The other two were young, mere youths.

Then the ‘priest’ noticed the tramp. He stopped chanting his incantations, shouted something angrily and started walking quickly up the steps. The miko hurried after him.

The hunchback flopped down on to his knees and pressed his forehead against the ground. Excellent – it would be easier to grab him.

The commissar seemed to think the same. He touched Fandorin on the shoulder: Time to go!

Erast Petrovich stuck his hand into his loincloth and pulled out a thin rope from round his waist. He rapidly wound it round his hand and his elbow, leaving a large loop dangling.

Iwaoka nodded sagely and demonstrated with his fingers: the one with the withered arm is yours, the other two are mine. That was rational. If they were going to take someone alive, of course it ought to be the leader.

‘But where’s your weapon?’ Fandorin asked, also in gestures.

The commissar didn’t understand at first. Then he smiled briefly and held out the fan, which turned out not to be made of paper or cardboard, but steel, with sharply honed edges.

‘Wait, I go first,’ Iwaoka ordered.

He moved soundlessly along the bushes, circling round behind the Satsumans.

Now he was right behind them: an intent expression on his face, his knees slightly bent, his feet stepping silently across the ground.

The samurai didn’t see him or hear him – the two young ones were looking at the back of their leader’s head, and he was following what was happening on the steps.

Suga was acting for all he was worth: yelling, waving his arms about, even striking the ‘tramp’ on the back of the neck with his twig broom a couple of times. The miko stood slightly to one side of the hunchback, with her eyes lowered modestly.

Erast Petrovich got up and started swaying his lasso back and forth.

One more second and it would start.

Iwaoka would drop one and get to grips with another. When they heard a noise, Suga and Asagawa would grab the hunchback. The titular counsellor’s job was to throw the lasso accurately and pull it good and tight. Not such a difficult trick if you had the knack, and Erast Petrovich certainly did. He had done a lot of practising in his Turkish prison, to combat the boredom and inactivity. It would all work out very neatly.

He didn’t understand how it happened: either Iwaoka wasn’t careful enough, or the Satsuman turned round by chance, but it didn’t work out neatly at all.

The last samurai, the youngest, looked round when the commissar was only five steps away. The young man’s reactions were simply astounding.

Before he had even finished turning his head, he squealed and jerked his blade out of the scabbard. The other two leapt away from the wall as if they had been flung out by a spring and also drew their weapons.

A sword glinted above Iwaoka’s head and clanged against the fan held up to block it, sending sparks flying. The commissar turned his wrist slightly, opened his strange weapon wider and sliced at the air, almost playfully, but the steel edge caught the Satsuman across the throat. Blood spurted out and the first opponent had been disposed of. He slumped to the ground, grabbing at his throat with his hands, and soon fell silent.

The second one flew at Iwaoka like a whirlwind, but the old wolf easily dodged the blow. With a deceptively casual movement, he flicked the fan across the samurai’s wrist and the sword fell out of the severed hand. The samurai leaned down and picked the katana up with his other hand, but the commissar struck again, and the samurai tumbled to the ground with his head split open.

All this took about three seconds. Fandorin still hadn’t had a chance to throw his lasso. He stood there, whirling it above his head in whistling circles, but the man with the withered arm moved so fast that he couldn’t choose the moment for the throw.

The steel blade clashed with the steel fan, and the fearsome opponents leapt back and circled round each other, ready to pounce again.

When the man with the withered arm slowed down, Erast Petrovich seized the moment and threw his lasso. It went whistling through the air – but the Satsuman leapt forward, knocked the fan aside, swung round his axis and slashed at Iwaoka’s legs.

Something appalling happened: the commissar’s feet stayed where they were, but his severed ankles slipped off them and stuck in the ground. The old campaigner swayed, but before he fell, the sword blade sliced him in half – from his right shoulder to his left hip. The body settled into a formless heap.

Celebrating his victory, the man with the withered arm froze on the spot for a mere second, but that was enough for Fandorin to make another throw. This one was faultlessly precise and the broad noose encircled the samurai’s shoulders. Erast Petrovich allowed it to slip down to his elbows and tugged it towards him, forcing the Satsuman to spin round his own axis again. In just a few moments, the prisoner had been bound securely and laid out on the ground. Snarling furiously and baring his teeth, he writhed and twisted, even trying to reach the rope with his teeth, but there was nothing he could do.

Suga and Asagawa dragged over the hunchback with his wrists tied to his ankles, so that he could neither walk nor stand – when they let go of him, he tumbled over on to his side. There was a wooden gag protruding from his mouth, with laces that were tied at the back of his head.

The vice-intendant walked over to the commissar’s mutilated body and heaved a deep sigh, but that was as far as the expression of grief went.

When the general turned towards Fandorin, he was smiling.

‘We forgot about the signal,’ he said cheerfully, holding up his whistle. ‘Never mind, we managed without any back-up. We’ve taken the main two villains alive. That’s incredibly good luck.’

He stood in front of the man with the withered arm, who had stopped thrashing about on the ground and was lying there quite still, pale-faced, with his eyes squeezed tight shut.

Suga said something harsh and kicked the prone man contemptuously, then grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and stood him on his feet.

The samurai opened his eyes. Never before had Fandorin seen such sheer animal fury in a human stare.

‘An excellent technique,’ said Suga, fingering the noose of the lasso. ‘We’ll have to add it to our repertoire. Now I understand how the Turks managed to take you prisoner.’

The titular counsellor made no comment – his didn’t want to disappoint the Japanese police chief. In actual fact he had been captured with a brigade of Serbian volunteers who had been cut off from their own lines and used up all their cartridges. According to the samurai code, apparently they should have choked themselves with their own shoulder belts …

‘What is that for?’ Erast Petrovich asked, pointing to the gag in the hunchback’s mouth.

‘So that he won’t take it into his head …’

Suga never finished what he was saying. With a hoarse growl, the man with the withered arm pushed the general aside with his knee, lunged forward into a run and smashed his forehead into the corner of the shrine at full speed.

There was a sickening crunch and the bound man collapsed face down. A red puddle started spreading rapidly beneath him.

Suga bent down over the samurai, felt the pulse in the man’s neck and waved his hand hopelessly.

‘The hami is needed to prevent the prisoner from biting off his own tongue,’ Asagawa concluded for his superior. ‘It is not enough simply to take enemies like this alive. You have to prevent them dying afterwards as well.’

Fandorin said nothing, he was stunned. He felt guilty – and not just because he had not bound an important prisoner securely enough. He was feeling even more ashamed of something else.

‘There’s something I have to tell you, Inspector,’ he said, blushing as he led Asagawa aside.

The vice-intendant was left beside the remaining prisoner: he checked to make sure the ropes were pulled tight. Once he was convinced that everything was in order, he went to inspect the shrine.

In the meantime Fandorin, stammering more than usual, confessed his perfidious deceit to the inspector. He told him about the tar, and about his suspicions concerning the Japanese police.

‘I know I have c-caused you a great deal of unpleasantness and damaged your reputation with your s-superiors. I ask you to forgive me and bear no grudge …’

Asagawa heard him out with a stony face; only the slight trembling of his lips betrayed his agitation. Erast Petrovich was prepared for a sharp, well-deserved rebuff, but the inspector surprised him.

‘You could have never admitted anything,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘I would never have known the truth, and you would have remained an impeccable hero. But your confession required even greater courage. Your apology is accepted.’

He bowed ceremoniously. Fandorin replied with a precisely similar bow.

Suga came out of the shrine, holding three bundles in his hands.

‘This is all there is,’ he said. ‘The search specialists will take a more thorough look later. Maybe they’ll find some kind of hiding place. I’d like to know who helped these villains, who supplied them with new swords. Oh, I have plenty to talk about with Mr Semushi! I’ll question him myself,’ said the vice-intendant, with a smile so ferocious it made Erast Petrovich wonder whether the interrogation would be conducted in accordance with civilised norms. ‘Everyone is in line for decorations. A high order for you, Fandorinsan. Perhaps even … Miro!’ the general exclaimed suddenly, pointing to Semushi. ‘Hami!’

The titular counsellor saw that the wooden gag was no longer protruding from between the hunchback’s teeth, but dangling on its laces. Inspector Agasawa dashed towards the prisoner, but too late – Semushi opened his mouth wide and clenched his jaws shut with a snarl. A dense red torrent gushed out of his mouth on to his bare chest.

There was a blood-curdling roar that faded into spasmodic gurgling. Suga and Asagawa prised open the suicide’s teeth and stuffed a rag into his mouth, but it was clear that the bleeding could not be stopped. Five minutes later Semushi stopped groaning and went quiet.

Asagawa was a pitiful sight. He bowed to his superior and to Fandorin, insisting that he had no idea how the prisoner could have chewed through the lace – it had evidently not been strong enough and he, Asagawa, was to blame for not checking it properly.

The general listened to all this and waved his hand dismissively. His voice sounded reassuring. Fandorin made out the familiar word ‘akunin’.

‘I was saying that it’s not possible to take a genuine villain alive, no matter how hard you try,’ said Suga, translating his own words. ‘When a man has a strong hara, there’s nothing you can do with him. But the mission is a success in any case. The minister will be delighted, he’s sick to death of sitting under lock and key. The great man has been saved, for which Japan will be grateful to Russia and to you personally, Mr Vice-Consul.’

That evening Erast Petrovich betrayed his principles and rode home in a kuruma pulled by three rikshas. After all his emotional and physical tribulations, the titular counsellor was absolutely worn out. He couldn’t tell what had undermined his strength more –the bloody spectacle of the two suicides or the hour and a half spent weeding, but the moment he got into the kuruma, he fell asleep, muttering:

‘I’m going to sleep all night, all day and all night again …’

The conveyance in which the triumphant victors rode back to the consulate presented a truly unusual sight: snoring away in the middle was the secretary Shirota, wearing a morning coat and a string tie; this respectable-looking gentleman was flanked by two semi-naked peasants, sleeping soundly with their heads resting on his shoulders, and one of them was caked all over in dried dung.

Alas, however, Erast Petrovich was not given a chance to sleep all night, all day and all night again.

At eleven in the morning, when he was sleeping like a log, the vice-consul was shaken awake by his immediate superior.

Pale and trembling, Vsevolod Vitalievich splashed cold water over Fandorin, drank the liquid remaining in the mug and read out the express message that had just arrived from the embassy:

‘Early this morning Okubo was killed on the way to the imperial palace. Six unidentified men drew concealed swords, killed the postillion, hacked at the horse’s legs and stabbed the minister to death when he jumped out of the carriage. The minister had no guards. As yet nothing is known about the killers, but eyewitnesses claim that they addressed each other in the Satsuma dialect. Please report to the embassy immediately with Vice-Consul Fandorin.’

‘How is that possible?’ the titular counsellor exclaimed. ‘The conspirators were wiped out!’

‘It is now clear that the group you have been hunting only existed in order to divert the authorities’ energy and attention. Or else the man with the withered arm and his group were given a secondary role once they had attracted the attention of the police. The main group was waiting patiently for its chance. The moment Okubo broke his cover and was left without any protection, the killers struck. Ah, Fandorin, I fear this is an irredeemable blow. And the worst disaster is still to come. The consequences for Russia will be lamentable. There is no one to tame the beast, the cage is empty, the Japanese tiger will break free.’

The zoo is empty,

All the visitors have fled.

Tiger on the loose





THE SCENT OF IRISES




Six morose-looking gentlemen were sitting in the office of the Russian ambassador: five in black frock coats and one in naval uniform, also black. The frivolous May sun was shining outside the windows of the building, but its rays were blocked out by thick curtains, and the room was as gloomy as the general mood.

The nominal chairman of the meeting was the ambassador himself, Full State Counsellor Kirill Vasilievich Korf, but His Excellency hardly even opened his mouth, maintaining a significant silence and merely nodding gravely when Bukhartsev, sitting on his right, had the floor. The seats on the left of the plenipotentiary representative of the Russian Empire were occupied by another two diplomatic colleagues, the first secretary and a youthful attaché, but they did not participate in the conversation, and in introducing themselves, they had murmured their names so quietly that Erast Petrovich could not make them out.

The consul and vice-consul were seated on the other side of the long table, which gave the impression, if not of direct confrontation, then at least of a certain opposition between Tokyoites and Yokohamans.

First they discussed the details of the assassination: the attackers had revolvers, but they fired only into the air, to cause fright and confusion; the unfortunate Okubo had tried to protect himself from the sword blades with his bare hands, so his forearms were covered in slashes; the fatal blow had split the brilliant minister’s head in half; from the scene of the killing, the conspirators had gone straight to the police to surrender and had submitted a written statement, in which the dictator was declared a usurper and enemy of the nation; all six were former samurai from Satsuma, their victim’s home region.

Fandorin was astounded.

‘They surrendered? They didn’t try to kill themselves?’

‘There’s no point now,’ the consul explained. ‘They’ve done their job. There will be a trial, they will make beautiful speeches, the public will regard them as heroes. Plays will be written about them, and prints will be made. And then, of course, they’ll chop their heads off, but they have secured themselves an honourable place in Japanese history.’

After that they moved on to the main item on the agenda – discussing the political situation and forecasting imminent changes. Two of the men – the consul and the maritime agent – argued, the others listened.

‘Japan will now inevitably be transformed from our ally into our rival and, with time, our sworn enemy,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich prophesied morosely. ‘Such, I fear, is the law of political physics. Under Okubo, an advocate of strict control over all aspects of social life, Japan was developing along the Russian path; a firm vertical structure of power, state management of the basic industrial sectors, no democratic games. But now the hour of the English party has been ushered in. The country will turn on to the British path – with a parliament and political parties, with the development of private capital on a large scale. And what is the British model of development, gentlemen? It is outward extension and expansion, a gaseous state, that is, the urge to fill all available space: a weak Korea, a decrepit China. That is the ground on which we will meet the Japanese tiger.’

Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev was not alarmed in the least by the prospect that the Yokohama consul had outlined.

‘What tiger are you talking about, sir? This is quite absurd. It’s no tiger, it’s a p-ssy cat, and a scabby, mangy one at that. Japan’s annual budget is only a tenth of Russia’s. And what can I say about their military forces? The Mikado’s peacetime army is thirty-five thousand men. The Tsar’s is almost a million. And what kind of soldiers do the Japanese have? They barely come up to the chests of our brave lads. And their navy! In the line of duty, I visited a battleship they bought recently in England. I could have laughed till I cried! Tiny little Lilliputs, crawling all over Gulliver. How do they intend to manage the turret mechanism for twelve-inch guns? Are five of them going to jump up and hang on the wheel? And as for Korea and China, oh, come now, Vsevolod Vitalievich! With God’s help, the Japanese might just liberate the island of Hokkaido!’

The ambassador liked what Bukhartsev had said – he smiled and started nodding. But out of the blue Doronin asked:

‘Tell me, Mstislav Nikolaievich, whose homes are cleaner – the Russian peasants’, or the Japanese peasants’?’

‘What has that go to do with the point?’

‘The Japanese say: “If the homes are clean, the government is respected and stable”. Our homes, my dear compatriots, are not clean – in fact, they are very unclean. Filth, drunkenness and, at the slightest provocation, the red cock crows under the landowner’s roof. We, my dear sirs, have bombers. Opposition is considered bon ton among our educated young people, but for the Japanese it is patriotism and respect for the authorities. And as for the difference in physique, that can be compensated for in time. We say: Healthy in body, healthy in mind. The Japanese are convinced of the opposite. And you know, I agree with them on that. Four-fifths of our population are illiterate, but they have passed a law on universal education. Soon every child here will go to school. Patriotism, a healthy mind and education – that is the recipe for the feed that will allow this “mangy p-ssy cat” to grow into a tiger very quickly indeed. And, in addition, do not forget the most important treasure that the Japanese possess, one that is, unfortunately, very rare in our parts. It is called “dignity”.’

The ambassador was surprised.

‘I beg your pardon, how do you mean that?’

‘In the most direct sense possible, Your Excellency. Japan is a country of politeness. Every individual, even the very poorest, conducts himself with dignity. A Japanese fears nothing so much as to forfeit the respect of those around him. Yes, today this is a poor, backward country, but it stands on a firm foundation, and therefore it will realise its aspirations. And that will happen far more quickly than we think.’

Bukhartsev did not continue the sparring – he merely glanced at the ambassador with a smile and spread his hands eloquently.

And then His Excellency finally pronounced his own weighty word.

‘Vsevolod Vitalievich, I value you as a fine connoisseur of Japan, but I also know that you are an enthusiast. Staying too long in one place has its negative aspects: one starts viewing the situation through the eyes of the locals. This is sometimes useful, but don’t get carried away, don’t get carried away. The late Okubo used to say that he would not be killed as long as his country needed him. I understand fatalism of that sort, I take the same view of things and consider that, since Okubu is no longer with us, he had exhausted his usefulness. Naturally, you are right when you say that Japan’s political course will change now. But Mstislav Nikolaevich is also right: this Asiatic country does not have and cannot have the potential of a great power. It will possibly become a more influential and active force in the Far Eastern zone, but never a potential player. That is what I intend to state in my report to His Excellency the Chancellor. And henceforth the main question will be formulated in this way: Which tune will Japan dance to? – the Russian or the English?’ The baron sighed heavily. ‘I fear we shall find this rivalry hard going. The Britons have a stronger hand to play. And apart from that, we are still committing unforgivable blunders.’ His Excellency’s voice, which had so far been neutral and measured, took on a strict, even severe tone. ‘Take this business of hunting the false assassins. The entire diplomatic corps is abuzz with whispers that Okubo was killed because of a Russian plot. Supposedly we deliberately handed the police a few ragamuffins, leaving the real killers free to plot and strike unhindered. Today at lawn tennis the German ambassador remarked with a subtle smile: “Had Okubo ceased to be useful?” I was dumbfounded. I said: “Your Excellency, where could you have got such information?” It turned out that Bullcox had already found time to visit him. Oh, that Bullcox! It’s not enough for him that Britain has been relieved of its main political opponent, Bullcox wants to cast suspicion on Russia as well. And you gentlemen from Yokohama unwittingly assist his machinations!’

By the end of his speech, the ambassador was thoroughly annoyed and, although he had been addressing the ‘gentlemen from Yokohama’, he had not looked at the consul, but at Erast Petrovich, and his gaze was anything but benign.

‘It is as I reported to Your Excellency. On the one hand – connivance, and on the other – irresponsible adventurism.’

The two parties – the conniving (that is, Vsevolod Vitalievich) and the irresponsibly adventurist (that is, Fandorin) – exchanged surreptitious glances. Things were taking a very nasty turn.

The baron chewed on his dry Ostsee lips, raised his watery eyes to the ceiling and frowned. However, no lightning bolt ensued, things went no farther than a roll of thunder.

‘Well then, you gentlemen from Yokohama, from now on, please stick to your immediate consular duties. There will be plenty of work for you, Fandorin: arranging supplies for ships, repairing ships, assisting sailors and traders, summarising commercial data. But do not stick your nose into political and strategic matters, they are beyond you. We have a military man, a specialist, for that.’

Well, it could have been worse.

They drove from the diplomatic quarter with the beautiful name of the Tiger Gates to the Shimbashi Station in the ambassador’s carriage – His Excellency was a tactful individual and he possessed the major administrative talent of being able to give a subordinate a dressing-down without causing personal offence. The carriage with the gilded coat of arms on the door was intended to sweeten the bitter pill that the baron forced the Yokohamans to swallow.

To Erast Petrovich, the city of Tokyo seemed remarkably like his own native Moscow. That is to say, naturally, the architecture was quite different, but the alternating hovels and palaces, narrow streets and waste lots were entirely Muscovite, and the fashionable Ginja Street, with its neat brick houses, was precisely like prim Tverskaya Street, pretending as hard as it could to be Nevsky Prospect.

The titular counsellor kept looking out of the window, contemplating the melange of Japanese and Western clothes, hairstyles and carriages. But Doronin gazed wearily at the velvet wall, and the consul’s conversation was dismal.

‘Russia’s own leaders are its ruin. What can be done so that the people who rule are those who have the talent and vocation for it, not those with ambition and connections? And our other misfortune, Fandorin, is that Mother Russia has her face turned to the West, and her back to the East. And furthermore, we have our nose stuck up the West’s backside, because the West couldn’t give a damn for us. But we expose our defenceless derrière to the East, and sooner or later the Japanese will sink their sharp teeth into our flabby buttocks.’

‘But what is to be done?’ asked Erast Petrovich, watching a double-decker omnibus drive past, harnessed to four stunted little horses. ‘Turn away from the West to the East? That is hardly possible.’

‘Our eagle is double-headed, so that one head can look to the West, and the other to the East. We need to have two capitals. And the second one should not be Moscow, but Vladivostok.’

‘But I’ve read that Vladivostok is an appalling dump, a mere village!’

‘What of it? St Petersburg wasn’t even a village when Peter stretched out his hand and said: “It is nature’s command that we break a window through to Europe here”. And in this case even the name suits: Vladivostok – Rule the East!’

Since conversation had touched on such a serious topic, Fandorin stopped gazing idly out of the window and turned towards the consul.

‘Vsevolod Vitalievich, why should I rule other people’s lands if I can’t even set my own to rights?’

Doronin smiled ironically.

‘You’re right, a thousand times right. No conquest can be secure if our own home is tottering. But that doesn’t apply only to Russia. Her Imperial Majesty Queen Victoria’s house also stands on shaky foundations. The Earth will not belong to either us or the Britons. Because we set about conquering it in the wrong way – by force. And force, Fandorin, is the weakest and least permanent of instruments. Those defeated by it will submit, of course, but they will simply wait for the moment to come when they can free themselves. None of the European conquests in Africa and Asia will last long. In fifty or a hundred years, at most, there will be no colonies left. And the Japanese tiger won’t come to anything either – they’re learning from the wrong teachers.’

‘And from whom should they learn?’

‘The Chinese. No, not the empress Tzu Hsi, of course, but the Chinese people’s thorough and deliberate approach. The inhabitants of the Celestial Empire will not budge until they have put their own house in order, and that’s a long job, about two hundred years. But then afterwards, when the Chinese started feeling cramped, they’ll show the world what genuine conquest is. They won’t rattle their weapons and send expeditionary forces abroad. Oh no! They’ll show the other countries that living the Chinese way is better and more rational. And gradually everyone will become Chinese, although it may take several generations.’

‘But I think the Americans will conquer the whole world,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘And it will happen within the next hundred years. What makes the Americans strong? The fact that they accept everyone into their country. Anyone who wants to b-be American can be, even if he used to be an Irishman, a Jew or a Russian. There’ll be a United States of the Earth, you’ll see.’

‘Unlikely. The Americans, of course, behave more intelligently than the European monarchies, but they lack patience. Their roots are Western too, and in the West they place too much importance on time. But in fact, time does not even exist, there is no “tomorrow”, only an eternal “now”. The unification of the world is a slow business, but then, what’s all the hurry? There won’t be any United States of the Earth, there’ll be one Celestial Empire, and then the hour of universal harmony will arrive. Thank God that you and I shall never see that heaven on earth.’

And on that melancholy note the conversation about the future of mankind broke off – the carriage had stopped at the station.

The following morning Vice-Consul Fandorin took up his routine work: compiling a register of Russian ships due to arrive in the port of Yokohama in June and July 1878.

Erast Petrovich scribbled the heading of this boring document in slapdash style (the spinster Blagolepova would type it out again later anyway), but that was as far as the work got. The window of the small office located on the first floor presented a glorious view of the consulate garden, the lively Bund and the harbour roadstead. The titular counsellor was in a sour mood, and his thoughts drifted aimlessly. Propping one cheek on his fist, he started watching the people walking by and the carriages driving along the promenade.

And he saw a sight worth seeing.

Algernon Bullcox’s lacquered carriage drove past, moving in the direction of the Bluff. Russia’s perfidious enemy and his concubine were perched beside each other on the leather seat like two turtle doves. And, moreover, O-Yumi was holding the Englishman’s arm and whispering something in his ear and the Right Honourable was smiling unctuously.

The immoral kept woman did not even glance in the direction of the Russian consulate.

Despite the distance, with his sharp eyes Erast Petrovich could make out a small lock of hair fluttering behind her ear, and then the wind brought the scent of irises from the garden …

The pencil crunched in his strong hand, snapped in half.

What was she whispering to him, why were they laughing? And at whom? Could it be at him?

Life is cruel, essentially meaningless and infinitely humiliating, Erast Petrovich thought morosely, glancing at the sheet of paper waiting for the register of shipping. All of life’s charms, delights and enticements existed only in order to melt a man’s heart, to get him to roll over on to his back, waving all four paws trustingly in the air and exposing his defenceless underbelly. And life wouldn’t miss her chance – she’d strike a blow that would send you scuttling away howling, with your tail tucked between your legs.

So what was the conclusion?

It was this: never give way to tender feelings, always remain on your guard, with all weapons at the ready. If you see the finger of fate beckoning, then bite the damn thing off, and the entire hand too, if you can manage it.

With a serious effort of will, the vice-consul forced himself to concentrate on tonnages, itineraries and captains’ names.

The empty columns gradually filled up. The Big Ben grandfather clock ticked quietly in the corner.

And at six o’clock in the evening, at the end of the office day, Erast Fandorin, feeling weary and gloomy, went downstairs to his apartment to eat the dinner that Masa had prepared.

None of it ever happened, Erast Petrovich told himself, chewing in disgust on the gooey rice that stuck to his teeth. There never was any lasso clutched in his hand, or any hot pulsing of blood, or any scent of irises. Especially the scent of irises. It was all a monstrous delusion that had nothing at all to do with real life. What did exist was clear, simple, necessary work. And there was also breakfast, lunch and dinner. There was sunrise and sunset. Rule, routine and procedure – and no chaos. Chaos had disappeared, it would not come back again. And thank God for that.

At that point the door creaked behind the titular counsellor’s back and he heard someone clear their throat delicately. Without turning round, without even knowing who it was, simply from what he could feel inside, Fandorin guessed that it was chaos – it had come back again.

Chaos took the form of Inspector Asagawa. He was standing in the doorway of the dining room, holding his hat in his hand, and his face was firmly set in an expression of determination.

‘Hello, Inspector. Is there something …’

The Japanese suddenly toppled to the floor. He pressed the palms of his hands against the carpet and started beating his head against it.

Erast Petrovich snatched off his napkin and jumped to his feet.

‘What is all this?’

‘You were right not to trust me,’ Asagawa blurted out without raising his head. ‘I am to blame for everything. It is my fault that the minister was killed.’

Despite the contrite pose, the words were spoken clearly and precisely, without the ponderous formulae of politeness typical of the inspector’s usual conversation.

‘What’s that? Drop all this Japanese c-ceremonial, will you! Get up!’

Asagawa did not get to his feet, but he did at least straighten his back and put his hands on his knees. His eyes – Fandorin could see them very clearly now – were glowing with a steady, furious light.

‘At first I was insulted. I thought: How dare he suspect the Japanese police! The leak must have happened on their side, on the side of the foreigners, because we have order, and they do not. But today, when the catastrophe occurred, my eyes were suddenly opened. I told myself: Sergeant Lockston and the Russian vice-consul could have let something slip to the wrong person, about the witness to the murder, about the ambush at the godaun, about the fingerprints, but how could they have known when exactly the guards were dismissed and where the minister would go in the morning?’

‘Go on, go on!’ Fandorin pressed him.

‘You and I were looking for three samurai. But the conspirators had planned their attack thoroughly. There was another group of six assassins. And perhaps there were others, in reserve. Why not? The minister had plenty of enemies. The important thing here is this: all these fanatics, no matter how many of them there were, were controlled from one centre and their actions were coordinated. Someone provided them with extremely precise information. The moment the minister acquired guards, the killers went into hiding. And as soon as His Excellency left his residence without any protection, they struck immediately. What does this mean?’

‘That the conspirators received information from Okubo’s inner circle.’

‘Precisely! From someone who was closer to him than you or I! And as soon as I realised this, everything fell into place. Do you remember the tongue?’

‘Which tongue?’

‘The one that was bitten off! I could not get it out of my mind. I remember that I checked the hami and the lace was perfectly all right. Semushi could not have bitten through it, and it could not have come loose – my knots do not come untied … This morning I went to the stockroom, where they keep the clues and material evidence relating to the case of the man with the withered arm and his gang: weapons, clothes, equipment used – everything we are trying to use in order to establish their identities and get a lead on their contacts. I examined the hami very closely. Here it is, look’

The inspector took a wooden gag-bit with dangling tapes out of his pocket.

‘The cord has been cut!’ Fandorin exclaimed. ‘But how could that have happened?’

‘Remember the way it was,’ said Asagawa, finally getting to his feet and standing beside the vice-consul. ‘I walked over to you and we stood there, talking. You asked me to forgive you. But he stayed beside the hunchback, pretending to check how well his binds were tied. Remember?’

‘Suga!’ the titular counsellor whispered. ‘Impossible! But he was with us, he risked his life! He planned the operation and implemented it brilliantly!’

The Japanese laughed bitterly.

‘Naturally. He wanted to be on the spot, to make sure that none of the conspirators fell into our hands alive. Remember how Suga came out of the shrine and pointed at the hunchback and shouted: “Hami!”? That was because Semushi was taking too long, he couldn’t bring himself to do it …’

‘An assumption, n-nothing more,’ the titular counsellor said with a shake of his head.

‘And is this also an assumption?’ asked Asagawa, holding up the severed cord. ‘Only Suga could have done that. Wait, Fandorin-san, I still haven’t finished what I want to say. Even when I found this terrible, incontrovertible proof, I still couldn’t believe that the vice-intendant of police was capable of such a crime. It’s absolutely beyond belief! And I went to Tokyo, to the Department of Police.’

‘What f-for?’

‘The head of the secretariat is an old friend of my father’s, also an old yoriki … I went to him and said I had forgotten to keep a copy of one of the reports that I had sent to the vice-intendant.’

Fandorin pricked up his ears.

‘What reports?’

‘After every conversation and meeting that we had, I had to report to Suga immediately, by special courier. Those were my instructions, and I followed them meticulously. I sent eight reports in all. But when the head of the secretariat gave me the file containing my reports, I found only five of them in it. Three were missing: the one about your servant having seen the presumed killer; the one about the ambush at the godaun; and the one about the municipal police holding the fingerprints of the mysterious shinobi …’

The inspector seemed to have said everything he wanted to say. For a while the room was silent while Fandorin thought very hard and Asagawa waited to see what the result of this thinking would be.

The result was a question that the titular counsellor asked, gazing straight into Asagawa’s eyes.

‘Why did you come to me and not the intendant of police?’

Asagawa was evidently expecting this and had prepared his answer in advance.

‘The intendant of police is a vacuous individual, they only keep him in that position because of his high-sounding title. And in addition …’ – the Japanese lowered his eyes, it was obviously hard for him to say something like this to a foreigner – ‘… how can I know who else was in the conspiracy? Even in the police secretariat there are some who say that the Satsumans are guilty of crimes against the state, of course, but even so they are heroes. Some even whisper that Okubo got what he deserved. That is the first reason why I decided to turn to you …’

‘And what is the second?’

‘Yesterday you asked me to forgive you, although you did not have to. You are a sincere man.’

For a moment the titular counsellor could not understand what sincerity had to do with this, but then he decided it must be a failure of translation. No doubt the English phrase ‘sincere man’, as used by Asagawa, or its Russian equivalent, ‘iskrennii chelovek’, as used by the secretary Shirota to express his respect for Pushkin, Martial Saigo and Dr Twigs, did not adequately convey the essential quality that the Japanese valued so highly. Perhaps it should be ‘unaffected’ or ‘genuine’? He would have to ask Vsevolod Vitalievich about this …

‘But I still do not understand why you have come to me with this,’ said Erast Petrovich. ‘What can you change now? Mr Okubo is dead. His opponents have the upper hand, and now they will determine the policies of your state.’

Asagawa was terribly surprised.

‘How can you ask: “What can you change?” I know nothing about politics, that is not my business, I am a policeman. A policeman is a man who is needed to prevent evil-doing from going unpunished. Desertion of duty, conspiracy and murder are serious crimes. Suga must pay for them. If I cannot punish him, then I am not a policeman. That, as you like to say, is one. And now, two: Suga has insulted me very seriously – he has made me look like a stupid kitten, trying to pounce on a ribbon tied to a string. A sincere man does not allow anyone to treat him like that. And so, if Suga’s crime goes unpunished, I am, firstly, not a policeman and, secondly, not a sincere man. Then who am I, if I may be allowed to ask?’

No, a ‘sincere man’ is what we call a ‘man of honour’, the titular counsellor guessed.

‘Do you want to kill him, then?’

Asagawa nodded.

‘Yes, very much. But I will not kill him. Because I am a policeman. Policemen do not kill criminals, they expose them and hand them over to the system of justice.’

‘Well said indeed. But how can it be done?’

‘I do not know. And that is the third reason why I have come to you. We Japanese are predictable, we always act according to the rules. This is both our strength and our weakness. I am a hereditary yoriki, which makes me doubly Japanese. From when I was very little, my father used to say to me: “Act in accordance with the law, and everything else is not your concern”. And that is how I have lived until now, I do not know how to live otherwise. You are made differently – that much is clear from the story of the hunchback’s escape. Your brain is not shackled by rules.’

That should probably not be taken as a compliment, especially coming from a Japanese, Erast Petrovich thought. But the inspector was certainly right about one thing: you should never allow anyone to make you look a fool, and that was exactly how the wily Suga had behaved with the leader of the consular investigation. A kitten, with a ribbon dangling in front of it on a string?

‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ Fandorin murmured in Russian.

‘I already know you well enough,’ Asagawa went on. ‘You will start thinking about the vice-intendant and you will definitely think of something. When you do – let me know. Only do not come to my station yourself. It is quite possible that one of my men …’ He heaved a sigh, without finishing the phrase. ‘Let us communicate with notes. If we need to meet, then in some quiet place, with no witnesses. For instance, in a hotel or a park. Is it a deal?’

The American phrase ‘Is it a deal’, combined with an outstretched hand, was not Asagawa’s style at all. He must have picked that up from Lockston, the titular counsellor surmised as he sealed the agreement with a handshake.

The inspector gave a low bow, swung round and disappeared through the door without saying another word.

It turned out that the Japanese had studied his Russian associate rather well. Erast Petrovich did indeed immediately start thinking about the vice-intendant of police, who had deliberately and cunningly brought about the death of a great man whom it was his professional duty to protect against his numerous enemies.

Fandorin did not think about how to expose the faithless traitor yet. First of all he had to understand what this individual who went by the name of Suga Kinsukeh was like. The best way to do this was to reconstruct the sequence of his actions, for surely it was actions that defined a personality most vividly and accurately of all.

And so, in order.

Suga had taken part in a conspiracy against the minister, and perhaps even led that conspiracy. The threads from the groups hunting the dictator all led back to him. On the evening of 8 May at Don Tsurumaki’s ball, the vice-intendant learns that the group led by the man with the withered arm has been discovered. He cannot conceal the alarming news from his superior – the deceit would certainly have been discovered. Instead, Suga acts paradoxically: he takes the initiative and tries to get Okubo to accept extremely tight security measures, and the general supervision of the investigation is quite naturally assigned to Suga, and not any other police official. Suga takes advantage of this to order the Yokohama precinct chief Asagawa to report in detail on all the investigative group’s plans – this also appears entirely natural. The vice-intendant tries with consistent obstinacy to protect his associates in the conspiracy from arrest, even taking risks for them. On 9 May he informs No-Face, the master of secret skills, about the evidence that the investigative group is holding. On 10 May he warns the man with the withered arm about the ambush. The situation is completely under control. He only has to hold on for a few more days, until the impatient Okubo rebels and sends his guards and the consular investigation and even the solicitous Suga to hell. Then the conspirators will be able to strike, following their carefully prepared plan, baiting the minister from all sides, like a bear.

Then, however, something unforeseen comes along – in the person of Titular Counsellor Fandorin. On 13 May the man with the withered arm and his group, together with their messenger, the hunchback, are caught in a trap. How does Suga act? Once again, in the face of danger, he seeks to ride the very crest of the wave, by taking personal command of the operation to seize this band of killers, so that not one of the dangerous witnesses will be taken prisoner. Suga’s greatest tour de force is the way in which he reverses the course of the game when it has already been half lost, by using the death of one group of assassins to lure the dictator within reach of the swords of another! A brilliant chess move, worthy of a grandmaster.

And what follows from all this?

That this is a brave and resolute man, with a quick, keen mind. And as far as his goals are concerned, he has probably acted out of conviction, confident that he was in the right.

What else could be added to this from Fandorin’s personal contact with the man? Exceptional administrative talent. And charm.

A positively ideal individual, Fandorin thought with a chuckle. If not for two small points: calculated cruelty and disloyalty. No matter how strongly you might believe that your ideas were right, to stab someone in the back after he had put his trust in you was simply vile.

Having composed a psychological portrait of the akunin, Erast Petrovich moved on to the next phase of his deliberations: how to expose such an enterprising and artful gentleman, who also effectively controlled the entire Japanese police force …

The severed cord of the wooden gag could only serve as proof for Asagawa and Fandorin. What was their testimony worth against the word of General Suga?

The reports that had disappeared from the case file? Also useless. Perhaps they had never been in the file at all? And even if they had, and some trace had been left in an office register somewhere, then how in hell’s name could they prove who had removed them?

Erast Petrovich pondered until midnight, sitting in an armchair and gazing at the red glow of his cigar. But precisely at midnight his servant came into the dark drawing room and handed him a note that had been delivered by the express municipal post.

The message on the sheet of paper was written in large letters in English: ‘Grand Hotel, Room 16. Now!’

Apparently Asagawa had not been wasting his time either. What could he have thought of? Had he found out something?

Fandorin was about to set out to the rendezvous immediately, but an unexpected obstacle arose in the person of Masa.

The Japanese valet was not going to let his master go out alone in the middle of the night. He stuck that idiotic bowler on his head and his umbrella under his arm, and the stubborn line of his jutting chin made it quite clear that he was going to stick close.

Explaining things to him without a common language was difficult, and Fandorin begrudged the time – after all, the note said ‘Now!’ And he couldn’t take this scarecrow with him to the hotel, either. Erast Petrovich was intending to slip into the hotel unnoticed, but with his wooden clogs Masa clattered like an entire squadron of soldiers.

Fandorin was obliged to employ cunning.

He pretended that he had changed his mind about going out. He took off his top hat and cloak and went back into his rooms. He even washed for the night.

But when Masa bowed and withdrew, the titular counsellor climbed on to the windowsill and jumped down into the garden. In the darkness he banged his knee and swore. How absurd to be harassed like this by his own servant!

The Grand Hotel was only a stone’s throw away.

Erast Petrovich walked along the deserted promenade and glanced into the foyer.

Luckily for him, the receptionist was dozing behind his counter.

A few silent steps and the nocturnal visitor was already on the stairs.

He ran up to the first floor.

Aha, there was room number 16. The key was sticking out of the lock – very thoughtful, he could enter without knocking, which could easily have attracted the unwelcome attention of some sleepless guest.

Fandorin half-opened the door and slipped inside.

There was a figure silhouetted against the window – but not Asagawa’s, it was much slimmer than that.

The figure darted towards the dumbstruck vice-consul, moving like a cat.

Long slim fingers clasped his face.

‘I have to be with you!’ sang that unforgettable, slightly husky voice.

The titular counsellor’s nostrils caught a tantalising whiff of the magical aroma of irises.

Sad thoughts fill the mind,

Pain fills the heart, and then comes

That sweet iris scent