The Diamond Chariot

A DRAGONFLY’S RAINBOW WINGS




Fandorin woke up soon after dawn, suffering from an agonising migraine. The day before it had been a dull pain, sweeping over him in waves, but now it was as if someone had inserted a large screw into his temple and they kept turning it, turning it. Even though it was already in right up to its head and could go no farther, some implacable force still kept on tightening that screw, and he felt as if his cranium would give way and crack open at any moment.

But even worse was the fact that O-Yumi had disappeared again. When Erast Petrovich opened his eyes, the only person he saw beside the bed was Masa, holding a small basin of ice and a wet towel at the ready. The mistress went away, he explained as best as he could. Before midnight. She put on her cloak and left. She said she would be back and ordered me to prepare ice.

Where had she gone? Why? And would she come back?

His thoughts were agonising. Thanks to them and the icy compresses, he managed to forget about the screw for a while.

His second arrived at half past seven, dressed as befitted the solemn occasion – in a black frock coat, black trousers and a top hat instead of his customary fez. The top hat did not suit the Don’s plump-cheeked face.

The titular counsellor had been ready for some time. His agonised face was as white as his shirt, but his tie was knotted neatly, the parting in his hair glinted sleekly and the ends of his moustache were the very model of symmetry.

Not being entirely convinced of his valet’s acting ability, Erast Petrovich had not explained to him that Tsurumaki had been identified as the major akunin, so Masa greeted the Don with every possible politeness. And the servant was also not aware, thank God, of the purpose of this morning visit, otherwise he would quite certainly have tagged along after his master. He was told to stay at home and wait for O-Yumi to arrive.

They got into a carriage and set off.

‘Everything has been done as planned,’ the Don informed Fandorin in a conspiratorial voice. ‘The rumour has been circulated. It’s a convenient spot for people to spy on events. There will be witnesses, have no doubt about that.’

It was depressing to look at the villain’s ruddy, smiling face, but the titular counsellor made an effort and forced himself to thank Tsurumaki and talk about the weather, which was simply wonderful for the rainy season: overcast but dry, with a sea breeze.

The carriage drove higher and higher along the main road. The seafront and the prim residences of the Bluff had been left behind now, and on all sides there were hills, bushes and sandy paths for healthy walks.

‘They’re here already,’ said Tsurumaki.

Three black figures were standing off to one side of the road, in a round open space surrounded on three sides by thick undergrowth. One of the men removed his hat to wipe his forehead with a handkerchief – from the red locks, Fandorin recognised Bullcox. The second man was wearing a scarlet uniform with a sword, and holding a long bundle under his arm. The third had a Gladstone bag between his feet. No doubt a doctor.

‘Aha, and there is the public.’ The Japanese chuckled contentedly. ‘We have a full house.’

The spot certainly had been well chosen. Although the bushes might appear to conceal the sparring area from prying eyes, the impression of privacy was deceptive. A cliff rose up right above the open space, its top also overgrown with some kind of vegetation, and protruding from the greenery were top hats and bowler hats, and even a couple of ladies’ white umbrellas. If the sun had peeped out from behind the clouds, no doubt there would also have been the glinting of opera glasses.

The public will be disappointed, thought Fandorin, stepping across the grass, which was wet with dew.

Bullcox’s second nodded curtly and introduced himself – Major Ruskin. He also named the doctor – Dr Stein.

‘I have something important to say to Mr Bullcox,’ the titular counsellor said when the major unrolled the piece of silk wrapped around two swords.

The reserve plan was absolutely elementary. Ask Bullcox whether he had broken his wrist recently. Bullcox would say no, he hadn’t. Then expose Tsurumaki publicly, in front of witnesses. Starting with the base deception unworthy of a second, then immediately moving on to the most important part – the accusation of conspiring against Okubo. There was no proof, but the treachery shown by Tsurumaki would set the witnesses against the Japanese and make them hear the vice-consul out. Bullcox might be beside himself with jealousy, but he was a state official and would understand quite clearly the significance of the vice-consul’s declaration. Tsurumaki had not only organised a political assassination, he had attempted to cast suspicion on Britain and its representative. That which was hidden would be revealed, and Bullcox wouldn’t be interested in a duel any more. The audience was in for a disappointment.

If not for his headache and his anxiety about O-Yumi, the titular counsellor would undoubtedly have contrived something more serviceable. The reserve plan, the frail child of a migraine, proved to be no good for anything and crumbled to dust at the very first contact with reality.

‘The Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox warned me that you were capable of something like this,’ Ruskin replied with a frown. ‘No, no. No apologies. The duel will go ahead in any case.’

‘I do not intend to apologise,’ the vice-consul assured him coldly. ‘This is a m-matter of state importance.’

The major’s face set in an expression of dull-witted intransigence.

‘I have received clear instructions. No negotiations between the two opponents. Would you care to choose a sword?’

‘Hey, Ruskin, why are you dragging things out over there?’ Bullcox shouted irritably.

‘I have been informed that your friend recently suffered a fracture of the right wrist,’ Fandorin told the second hastily, starting to feel anxious. ‘If that is so, a duel with swords cannot take place. That is actually what I intended …’

The Englishman interrupted disdainfully:

‘Rubbish. Algernon has never broken his arm. That trick won’t work. I’d been told there were not many gentlemen among the Russians, but everything has its limits!’

‘After Bullcox, I’ll deal with you,’ the titular counsellor promised. ‘And I’ll hammer those words back into your cast-iron head.’

This shameful outburst by Fandorin can only be explained by his annoyance with himself – Erast Petrovich was already beginning to realise that nothing would come of his plan. He only had to look at Tsurumaki, who was making no attempt to conceal his smirk of triumph. Could he have guessed about the plan? And now, of course, he was quite sure that the Russian had lost.

But there was still one hope left – to tell Bullcox everything when they stood face to face. Without looking, the vice-consul took hold of one of the swords by its leather-covered hilt. He dropped his cloak on the ground, leaving himself in just his shirt.

The major drew his sabre.

‘Assume your positions. Cross swords. Commence at my blow. The conditions state that fighting continues as long as one of the opponents is capable of holding a weapon. Go!’

He rapped his sabre against the crossed swords with a clang and jumped aside.

‘I have something I must tell you.’ Fandorin began rapidly in a low voice, so that the seconds would not overhear and interfere.

‘Hah!’ the Right Honourable gasped instead of answering, and launched a furious barrage of blows at his opponent.

Barely able to defend himself, the vice-consul was obliged to retreat.

There were exclamations above his head, the sound of applause; a woman’s voice shouted, ‘Bravo!’

‘Just wait, will you! We’ll have plenty of time to fight! You and I have been the victims of a political intrigue.’

‘I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you! Only not straight away. First I’ll neuter you, like a ram,’ Bullcox wheezed, then slid his blade along Fandorin’s sword and made a thrust straight for his crotch.

By some miracle Erast Petrovich managed to dodge. He fell, jumped to his feet and assumed a defensive stance again.

‘You idiot!’ he hissed. ‘This concerns the honour of Britain.’

But looking into the Right Honourable’s bloodshot eyes, he realised that the other man simply couldn’t hear him, and just at this moment he couldn’t care less for the honour of Britain, or for any matters of state importance. What did Okubo and devious plots have to do with this? This was an event as old as the world itself, a battle between two males over a female, there was nothing in the world more urgent and remorseless than this battle. The clever Don had understood that from the beginning. He knew there was no power capable of placating the bloodlust that seizes the abandoned lover.

And the titular counsellor felt afraid.

From the way Bullcox attacked and the assuredness with which he parried the clumsy thrusts of the former provincial grammar-school champion, the outcome of the duel was clearly a foregone conclusion. The Englishman could have killed his opponent many times over, there was only one thing stopping him: he was absolutely determined to carry out his threat and kept directing all his attacks exclusively at Fandorin’s loins. To some degree this simplified the task of his weaker opponent, who only had to concentrate on defending one area of his body, but the resistance could not continue for long. His wrist, unaccustomed to swordplay, turned numb, and parrying blows became harder and harder. Erast Petrovich repeatedly fell, unable to retain his balance, and Bullcox waited for him to get up. Twice he had to beat off a thrust that had pierced his defences with his bare left hand, and once the tip of the blade furrowed his thigh as Fandorin barely managed to wrench himself out of the way.

His shirt was black from dirt and green from grass stains, there were red blotches spreading on his sleeves and blood was flowing down one of his legs.

In his despair the titular counsellor was struck by a comforting idea – since all was lost, why not run over to the Don and slash his fat belly open in farewell?

The vice-consul had long ago abandoned his attempts to bring Bullcox to his senses. He was saving his breath, his eyes fixed on only one point – his opponent’s slashing sword. He didn’t try to counter-attack, there was no question of that. He could only fend off steel with steel and, if that didn’t work, with his arm.

It was becoming clear, however, that the Englishman did not run in circles round the cricket field every morning, or stretch a chest-expander, or raise heavy weights. For all his subtle skill and dexterity, Bullcox was beginning to tire. The sweat was streaming down his crimson face, his fiery curls were glued together, his movements were becoming more economical.

And then he stopped and wiped his sweat away with his sleeve in a most unaristocratic manner. He hissed:

‘All right, damn you. Die as a man.’

This was followed by a furious onslaught that drove Erast Petrovich into a corner of the open area, right up against the bushes. A series of lunges was followed by a mighty, slashing blow. This time too, Fandorin managed to jump back in time, but that was what the attacker was counting on; the vice-consul’s heel struck a projecting root and he fell flat on his back. The audience on high gasped, seeing that this time the Right Honourable was not going to allow his opponent to get up – the performance had reached its climax.

Bullcox had already pressed Fandorin’s right hand down with his foot and raised his sword to pin the Russian to the ground, when he suddenly started pondering, or perhaps even daydreaming; his eyelids closed halfway, while his mouth, on the contrary, fell half open. With this strange expression on his face the Right Honourable swayed to and fro for a second or two, them went limp and collapsed directly on to the panting Erast Petrovich.

A startled dragonfly soared up out of the grass in a flutter of little rainbow wings.

They are just the same

As those of angels and elves –

A dragonfly’s wings





A BLUE STAR




How greatly everything had changed compared with the night before! The world had not ceased to be dangerous. On the contrary, it had become even more unpredictable and predatory. From somewhere out there in the gloom – Fandorin knew this for certain – the keen eyes of a man with cold serpent’s blood were watching him relentlessly. But even so, life was beautiful.

Erast Petrovich sat in the darkness, with the peak of his uniform cap pulled down over his eyes, waiting for the agreed signal. The tip of his cigar glowed brightly in the dark – it must be visible from any of the roofs nearby.

The titular counsellor was in a state of bliss that flooded body, heart and mind.

His body – because the migraine had passed off and his cuts and bruises were not aching or stinging at all. When the bleeding duellist was brought home, the first to run out to meet him had been O-Yumi. She wouldn’t allow Doronin to call a doctor and dealt with the injured man herself. She smeared something smelly on the slashes on his arms and thigh – and the bleeding instantly stopped. Then she gave Erast Petrovich a herbal infusion to drink – and a tight steel band seemed to fall away from round his head. Fandorin shook his head and batted his eyelids and even smacked himself on the temple, but there was no nausea, or pain, or dizziness at all. And what was more, the tiredness had also disappeared. His muscles were supple and taut, rippling with strength, he could have taken up his sword again – and who could tell who would have come off best this time? This magical new-found lightness in all his limbs had not faded during the day; in fact the feeling had grown stronger. And that was very apropos – the night ahead promised to be stormy.

Bliss filled his heart because O-Yumi was sleeping in the next room. And when all was said and done, wasn’t that the most important thing?

Bliss filled his mind because once again Erast Petrovich had a plan, and this time a real one, thoroughly thought through and prepared, unlike that recent bastard mongrel of a plan created by a sick brain, which had almost cost him his life. It was simply miraculous that he had survived!

When the victorious Bullcox collapsed on his vanquished foe, none of the spectators could understand what had happened, let alone Fandorin, who had already prepared himself for death. He pushed off the Englishman’s heavy carcass and wiped down his forehead (which was streaming with cold sweat) with his hand (which was streaming with hot blood). The Right Honourable lay there face down with his hand flung out, still clutching the hilt of his sword.

The doctor and seconds were already running towards the men on the ground.

‘Are you seriously hurt?’ shouted Dr Stein, squatting down on his haunches.

Without waiting for an answer, he hastily ran his hands over the vice-consul, waved his hand dismissively at the cuts (‘That can wait’) and turned to Bullcox.

He took his pulse, raised his eyelid and whistled.

‘Apoplexy. A man can’t do all this jumping and jigging about with blood as congested as that! Mr Tsurumaki, your carriage is the most spacious. Will you take him home? I’ll come with you.’

‘Of course I’ll take him, he’s my neighbour,’ said the Don, making a show of taking the Right Honourable under the arms and avoiding looking at Fandorin.

Erast Petrovich was taken to the consulate by Major Ruskin, who was no less pale than the vice-consul. He was courteous and attentive, and apologised for his rudeness, which had been the consequence of a misunderstanding – he was obviously seriously concerned about the safety of his ‘cast-iron head’. But the major was the last thing on the titular counsellor’s mind. The young man was shaking all over – not in relief and not from overworked nerves. Fandorin was simply overwhelmed by the evident prejudice of fate, which had saved him yet again, come to his assistance in a quite desperate, hopeless situation. He could hardly believe that Bullcox had suffered a stroke at precisely the moment when his vanquished foe had only a second left to live! No doubt the sceptics would find rational explanations for this, say that the vengeful anticipation of the Englishman, who was already panting and short of breath, had sent the blood rushing to his head, and a blood vessel had burst in his brain. But Erast Petrovich himself knew that he had been saved once again by his lucky star, also known as Destiny. But for what purpose? And how long would this go on?

The entire population of the consulate had assembled at the bedside of the bloodied victim: Vsevolod Vitalievich, turned completely yellow in his grief, with Obayasi-san; and Shirota, chewing on his lips; and Sophia Diogenovna, sobbing; and even the servant Natsuko, who actually spent most of the time ogling Masa. It was a touching picture, almost harrowing in fact – an impression facilitated in no small part by the spinster Blagolepova, who appealed to everyone to send for the priest from the frigate Governor, ‘before it’s too late’, but O-Yumi performed her magical manipulations and the man pretending to be at death’s door returned miraculously to life. He sat up on the bed, then got up and walked round the room. And finally he declared that he felt hungry, dammit.

At this point it emerged that no one in the embassy had taken breakfast yet – everyone had known about the duel and been so worried about Erast Petrovich that they couldn’t eat a single bite. A table was hastily laid, right there in Doronin’s office – for a confidential strategic discussion.

They spoke about the duel for a while, and then turned their attention to Don Tsurumaki. The titular counsellor’s reawakened reason was eager for rehabilitation. The plan came together instantly, over roast beef and fried eggs.

‘He is certain that I am lying flat on my back and will not get up any time soon, so he is not expecting a visit from me. That is one,’ said Fandorin, brandishing a fork. ‘He doesn’t have any guards at the villa, he told me many times that he is not afraid of anyone. That is two. I still have a key to the gates, that is three. The conclusion? Tonight I shall pay him a visit àl’anglais,1 that is to say, uninvited.’

‘The purpose?’ asked Doronin, narrowing his eyes.

‘We’ll have a little friendly chat. I think the Don and I can find a thing or two to talk about.’

The consul shook his head.

‘Are you thinking of trying to frighten him? You’ve had plenty of opportunity to realise that the Japanese akunin is not afraid of death. And you’re not going to kill him anyway.’

Erast Petrovich wiped his lips with a napkin, sipped his red wine and took a slice of Philippine pineapple. It was a long time, a very long time, since he had eaten with such a good appetite.

‘Why should I want to frighten him? He’s not some nervous young damsel, and I’m not a g-ghost. No, gentlemen, it will not be like that at all. Shirota, may I count on your assistance?’

The secretary nodded, keeping his eyes fixed on the vice-consul.

‘Excellent. Don’t be alarmed, you won’t have to do anything against the law. Masa and I will enter the house. Your job, starting in the evening, is to sit on the hill that overlooks the estate. It is an excellent observation point, and it can also be seen from here. As soon as the lights go out in the house, you will signal. Can you find a coloured lantern?’

‘Yes, there are some left over from the New Year. A green one, a red one and a blue one.’

‘Let it be the blue one. Flash three times, several times in succession. Masa will be watching for the signal on the porch.’

‘Is that all?’ Shirota asked disappointedly. ‘Just give the signal when the lights go out in the house?’

‘That’s all. They put the lights out there when the servants leave. I take responsibility for everything after that.’

Vsevolod Vitalievich was indignant.

‘How you love an air of mystery! Well, all right, you get into the house, and then what?’

Erast Petrovich smiled.

‘The Don has a secret safe. That is one. I know where it is, in the library, behind the bookshelves. That is two. I also know where to find the key to the safe – hanging round the Don’s neck. That is three. I do not intend to frighten Tsurumaki, I shall only borrow his key and take a look at what is in the safe, and in the meantime Masa will keep our hospitable host in his sights.’

‘Do you know what he has in the safe?’ asked Doronin.

‘No, but I can guess. Tsurumaki told me once that he keeps gold bars in it. I’m sure he was lying. No, there is something more valuable than gold in there. For instance, a certain diagram with serpentine symbols. Or there may possibly be even more interesting documents to be found …’

At this point the consul did something very strange: he grabbed his blue spectacles off his nose and started blinking at the bright light. His mouth started twitching and twisting, living a life of its own. He sank his teeth into his thin lip.

‘Even if you do find something important, you won’t be able to read it,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich said in a flat voice. ‘You don’t know Japanese. And your servant won’t be much use to you. I tell you what …’ He faltered, but only for a second, and then went on in a perfectly firm voice. ‘I tell you what, I’ll go with you. In the interests of the cause. I’m tired of being a spectator. It’s a shameful and depressing pastime.’

Erast Petrovich knew that even the slightest show of astonishment would seriously wound the consul’s feelings, so he took his time before answering, as if he was thinking over the advisability of the suggestion.

‘In the interests of the cause, it would be better if you stayed here. If my little excursion ends badly, than what more can they do to me – a young pup, a duellist and adventurer? The lieutenant captain has already written me off. Things stand differently with you – a pillar of Yokohama society and Consul of the Russian Empire.’

Vsevolod Vitalievich’s eyebrows arched up like angry leeches, but at this point Shirota intervened in the conversation.

‘I’ll go,’ he said quickly. ‘Or why should I bother at all? Am I just going to give the signal and then sit on the hill? That’s rather stupid.’

‘If my assistant and my secretary get involved in a scandalous incident, I’m done for anyway!’ Doronin fumed. ‘So I’d better go myself.’

But Shirota disrespectfully interrupted his superior.

‘I do not count. Firstly, I am a hired employee, a native.’ He gave a crooked smile. ‘And secondly, I shall write a resignation note this very minute and put yesterday’s date on it. The letter will say that I no longer wish to serve Russia, because I have become disillusioned with its policy towards Japan, or something of the kind. In that way, if Mr Fandorin and I are involved in a scandalous incident, as you put it, it will be a criminal conspiracy between a young pup and adventurer (I beg your pardon, Erast Petrovich, but that is what you called yourself) and a crazy native who has already been dismissed from his job serving Russia. No more than that.’

This was all said in solemn tones, with restrained dignity, and that was how the discussion ended. They started discussing the details.

When he got back to his apartment, Erast Petrovich found O-Yumi lying in the bed barely alive. Her face was pale and bloodless, her feet were bound in rags.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ he cried in horror. ‘Are you ill?’

She smiled weakly.

‘No, I’m just very, very tired. But it’s all right, it will pass.’

‘But what’s wrong with your feet?’

‘I grazed them.’

He went down on his knees, took hold of her hand and said imploringly:

‘Tell me the truth. Where were you last night? Where did you go today? What is happening to you? The truth, for God’s sake, the truth!’

O-Yumi looked at him affectionately.

‘Very well. I will tell you the truth – as far as I can. And you promise me two things: that you won’t ask any more questions and that you will tell me the truth too.’

‘I promise. But you first. Where were you?’

‘In the mountains. The maso herb only grows in one place, on the southern slope of Mount Tanzawa, and that is fifteen ri from here. I had to make two trips, because the infusion has to be brewed twice, and it must be absolutely fresh. That is all I have to tell. Now you tell me. I can see that you are planning something and I feel alarmed. I have a bad premonition.’

Fifteen ri – that’s almost sixty versts in each direction, Fandorin calculated. No wonder she’s barely alive!

‘To ride thirty ri in one night!’ he exclaimed. ‘You must have driven the horses half to death!’

For some reason O-Yumi found his words amusing, and she broke into quiet laughter.

‘That’s all. No more questions, you promised. Now you tell me.’

And he told her: about the duel, about how Bullcox’s fury burst a blood vessel in his brain, about Don Tsurumaki, and about the forthcoming operation. O-Yumi’s face became more and more uneasy, sadder and sadder.

‘How terrible …’ she whispered when he finished.

‘You mean about your Algie?’ Fandorin asked, immediately jealous. ‘Then go to him and feed him your infusion!’

‘No, I don’t mean him. I feel sorry for Algie, but one or the other of you had to come to grief. What you have planned is terrible. Don’t go anywhere tonight! It will end badly! I can see that from the shadow on your temple!’ she said, reaching out her hand to his head, and when Erast Petrovich smiled, she exclaimed despairingly, ‘You don’t believe in ninso!’

They argued for a long time after that, but Fandorin was adamant, and in the end O-Yumi fell asleep, exhausted. He walked out carefully, afraid of disturbing her sleep with an accidental movement or the creak of a chair.

The remainder of the day passed in preparations. There wasn’t a sound from the bedroom – O-Yumi was sleeping soundly.

But late in the evening, when Masa was already sitting on the porch, gazing in the direction of the dark hills above the Bluff, there was a surprise in store for Erast Petrovich.

As he walked past the bedroom yet again, he put his ear to the door. This time he thought he heard a gentle rustling and he cautiously opened the door slightly.

No, O-Yumi was still sleeping – he could her quiet, regular breathing from the bed.

He tiptoed over to the window in order to close it – there was a cold draught coming in. He glanced at the grey silhouette of the house opposite and suddenly froze.

Something had moved over there, up by the chimney. A cat? Then it was a very big one.

His heart started pounding like a wild thing, but Fandorin gave no sign of being alarmed in any way. On the contrary, he stretched lazily, closed the window, locked it with all the latches and slowly walked away.

Out in the corridor, he broke into a run.

It was the roof of the Club Hotel, Erast Petrovich realised, and he could climb up there from the back, using the fire escape ladder.

Hunched over, he ran along the railings to the next building. A minute later he was already up there. Resting one knee on the tiles, which were wet with rain, he pulled his Herstal out of it holster.

He heard rustling steps close by, on the other pitch of the roof.

No longer trying to hide, Fandorin dashed forward, with just one thought in his head – how to avoid slipping.

He reached the ridge of the roof and glanced over it – just in time to glimpse a black figure in a close-fitting black costume over by the edge of the roof. The invisible man again!

The titular counsellor threw up his hand, but it was too late to fire: the ninja jumped down.

Spreading his feet wide, Erast Petrovich slithered head first down the tiles, grabbed hold of the gutter and leaned out.

Where was the ninja?

Had he been killed by the fall, was he still moving?

But no matter how hard he stared, he couldn’t make out anyone down below. The invisible man had disappeared.

‘Omaeh ikanai. Hitori iku,’2 Fandorin told his servant when he got back to the consulate. ‘O-Yumi-san mamoru. Wakaru?’3

And Masa understood. He nodded, without taking his eyes off the hill on which sooner or later the little blue light would flash. Erast Petrovich had been lucky with his servant after all.

An hour later, or maybe an hour and a half, the titular counsellor was sitting at the window in a peaked uniform cap, smoking cigars and, as has already been mentioned, his body, heart and mind were flooded with bliss.

So they were following him? Let them. The motto of tonight’s lightning raid was speed and more speed.

During the fourth cigar Masa looked into the room. It was time!

Fandorin left his servant with some simple instructions and walked out on to the porch.

Yes, the signal. Over there above the Bluff (but it looked as if it was at the very edge of the sky) a little blue star flashed on and off several times.

In the bright blue sky

Just you try to make it out –

A small bright blue star

1 In the English style (French)

2 ‘You’re not going. I’m going alone’ (distorted Japanese)

3 ‘To protect O-Yumi. Understand?’ (distorted Japanese)





A BRIAR PIPE




He grabbed hold of the tricycle that had been positioned in advance, lowered it off the porch and pushed it along the pathway at a run. Outside the gates he jumped into the saddle and started pressing hard on the pedals. Come on, then, just you try to follow me!

In order to throw any possible spies off the scent, instead of turning to the right, towards the Bluff, he turned left. He hurtled along at top speed, glancing in the mirror every now and then, but he didn’t glimpse a single black figure behind him on the brightly lit promenade. Perhaps his simple attempt at cunning had succeeded. Everyone knew that the simplest tricks were the most reliable.

The trick really was childish in its simplicity. Instead of the vice-consul, Masa was now sitting in the vice-consul’s window – in a peaked cap, with a cigar in his teeth. If they were lucky, the substitution would not be noticed soon.

Just to make certain of things, without reducing his speed, Erast Petrovich circled round the Settlement and rode into the Bluff from the other side, across the Okagawa river.

The rubber tyres swished through the puddles with a miraculous rustling sound and water splashed out from under the wheels, glinting joyously in the light of the street lamps. Fandorin felt like a hawk soaring above the dark streets of the night. He could see his goal, it was close, and nothing could halt or impede his impetuous attack. Watch out, you akunin!

Shirota was waiting at the agreed spot, on the corner of a side street.

‘I was watching through binoculars,’ the secretary reported. ‘The light went out thirty-five minutes ago, everywhere except for one window on the first floor. The servants withdrew to the house that stands at the back of the garden. Fifteen minutes ago the last window also went dark. Then I came down the hill.’

‘Did you look at the terrace? I told you that he l-likes to watch the stars.’

‘What stars are there today? It’s raining.’

Fandorin liked the secretary’s attitude. Calm, businesslike, with no sign of nerves. It could well be that Kanji Shirota’s true calling was not polishing an office desk with his elbows but a trade that required sangfroid and a love of risk.

Just as long as his courage didn’t fail him when it came to the real work.

‘Well, will you join me for dinner? The table’s all set,’ the titular counsellor said jocularly, gesturing towards the gates.

‘After you,’ Shirota replied in the same tone of voice. He really was holding up very well.

The lock and the hinges were well lubricated, they made their way inside without a single creak or squeak. And they had been exceptionally lucky with the weather: cloudy and dark, with the rain muffling any sound.

‘Do you remember the plan?’ Fandorin whispered as he walked up the steps. ‘We go into the house now. You wait downstairs. I’ll go up to …’

‘I remember everything,’ the secretary replied just as quietly. ‘Don’t waste time on that.’

The door into the house was not locked – a special point of pride for the owner that was also very handy for them. Fandorin ran up the carpeted steps to the first floor without making a sound. The bedroom was at the end of the corridor, beside the way out on to the terrace.

Wouldn’t it be fine if he woke up, Erast Petrovich suddenly thought when his left hand touched the door handle (the revolver was grasped in his right hand). Then, regardless of any unworthy desire for revenge, I would be perfectly justified in smacking the villain on the forehead with the butt of my gun.

When Fandorin stole up to the bed he even sighed deliberately, but Don Tsurumaki didn’t wake up. He was sleeping sweetly on a soft feather bed. He had a white nightcap with a vulgar pompom on his head instead of a fez. The silk blanket rose and fell peacefully on the millionaire’s broad chest. His lush lips were parted slightly.

The gold chain glinted in the opening of his nightshirt.

Now he’s sure to wake up, Erast Petrovich thought as he lined up the pliers, and he raised the hand holding the revolver. His heart was beating out a deafening drum-roll of triumph.

There was a metallic click, and the chain slid down the sleeping man’s neck. He lowed blissfully and turned over on to his side. The prickly golden rose was lying on Fandorin’s palm.

The soundest sleepers are not those who have a clear conscience, but those who never had one to begin with, the vice-consul told himself philosophically.

He walked downstairs, gestured for Shirota to go in the direction of the study-library, where he had once taken Prince Onokoji – may the Japanese God rest his sinful soul – by surprise at the scene of his crime.

He ran the beam of his little torch over the closed curtains, the tall cupboards with the solid doors, the bookshelves. There, that was the one.

‘You hold the light.’

He handed the little torch to the secretary, then spent two minutes feeling the spines of the books and the wooden uprights. Finally, when he pressed on a weighty tome of Sacred Writings (third from the left on the last shelf but one), something clicked. He pulled the shelves towards himself and they swung open like a door. Behind them in the wall was a small steel door.

‘On the keyhole, the keyhole,’ said Erast Petrovich, pointing impatiently.

The thorny rose wiggled and jiggled and slipped into the opening like a hand into a glove. Before turning the key, the titular counsellor carefully examined the wall, the floor and the skirting board for any electric alarm wires – and sure enough, he discovered a thick, hard string under the wallpaper. To get caught in the same trap twice would be unseemly, to say the least.

The pliers were called on again. One snip and the alarm was disconnected.

‘Open, sesame,’ Erast Petrovich whispered, in order to encourage Shirota. The beam of the torch had started wavering a bit – it looked as if the clerical worker’s nerves were beginning to find the tension too much.

‘What?’ the Japanese asked in surprise. ‘What did you say?’

Apparently he had never read the Arabian Nights.

There was a quiet ringing sound and the little door opened. Fandorin first squeezed his eyes shut, then swore under his breath.

Lying there in the steel box, glittering brilliantly in the electric light, were gold ingots. There were a lot of them; they looked like bricks in a wall.

Erast Petrovich’s disappointment knew no bounds. The Don had not lied. He really did keep gold in his safe. What a stupid, nouveau riche thing to do! Had this entire operation really been undertaken in vain?

Still unable to believe in such a crushing fiasco, he pulled out one ingot and glanced into the gap, but there was yellow metal glinting in the second row as well.

‘At the scene of the crime,’ a loud, mocking voice declared behind him.

The titular counsellor swung round sharply and saw a burly, stocky figure in the doorway. The next moment the chandelier on the ceiling blazed into life and the silhouette acquired colour, volume and texture.

It was the master of the house, still in that idiotic nightcap, with a dressing gown over his nightshirt, but the style of the trousers showing under the dressing gown was anything but pyjama-like.

‘Does Mr Diplomat like gold?’ Tsurumaki asked with a smile, nodding at the ingot in Fandorin’s hand.

The millionaire’s face was not sleepy at all. And another remarkable detail was that he was not wearing household slippers on his feet, but shoes, laced up in an extremely neat manner.

A trap, thought Erast Petrovich, turning cold. He was lying in bed dressed, even with his shoes on. He was waiting, he knew!

The Don clapped his hands, and men emerged from everywhere – from behind the curtains, out of doors, even out of the cupboards in the walls, and they were all dressed in identical black jackets and black cotton trousers. The servants – but Shirota had said they had all gone away!

There were at least a dozen servants. Fandorin had seen one of them before – a sinewy, bandy-legged fellow with long arms like a monkey. The vice-consul thought he worked as something like a butler or major-domo.

‘What a disgrace for the Russian Empire,’ said Tsurumaki, clicking his tongue. ‘The vice-consul stealing gold from other people’s safes. Kamata, ju-o toreh.’

The last phrase, spoken in Japanese, was addressed to the man with long arms. Ju was ‘weapon’, toro meant ‘take’, Kamata was his name.

The titular counsellor recovered from his stupor. He flung up his hand and aimed the Herstal at the forehead of the master of the house.

Kamata immediately froze on the spot, as did the other Black Jackets.

‘I have nothing to lose,’ Fandorin warned Tsurumaki. ‘Tell your men to go out. Immediately, otherwise …’

The Don wasn’t smiling any longer, he was looking at the titular counsellor curiously, as if trying to guess whether he was bluffing or might really fire.

‘I’ll fire, have no doubt about that,’ Fandorin assured him. ‘Better death than dishonour. And if I’m going to die anyway, it will be more fun with you. You’re such an interesting specimen. Shirota, stand on my left, you’re blocking my view of Mr Tsurumaki.’

The secretary obeyed but, evidently out of agitation, he stood on the vice-consul’s right instead of the left.

‘You know perfectly well that I didn’t come here for the gold.’

The Don moved and Erast Petrovich clicked the safety catch. ‘Stand still! And get all these men out of here!’

But then something strange happened. Something quite incredible, in fact.

The titular counsellor’s faithful comrade-in-arms, the secretary Shirota, flung himself on Fandorin’s arm with a guttural cry. A shot rang out and the bullet clipped a long splinter off the oak parquet.

‘What are you doing?’ Erast Petrovich shouted, trying to shake off the insane Japanese, but Kamata bounded across to the vice-consul and twisted his arm behind his back, and others came darting after him.

A second later Fandorin, disarmed and helpless, was standing flattened against the wall: they were holding him by the arms, the legs and the neck.

But Erast Petrovich was not looking at the black-clad servants, only at the traitor, who picked the revolver up off the floor and handed it to the Don with a bow.

‘You Judas!’ the titular counsellor shouted hoarsely. ‘You coward! You scoundrel!’

Shirota asked the master of the house something in Japanese – apparently he was requesting permission to reply. Tsurumaki nodded.

Then the turncoat turned towards Fandorin: his face was a pale, frozen mask, but his voice was firm and steady.

‘I am not a coward or a scoundrel, and even less a traitor. Quite the contrary, I am faithful to my country. I used to think it was possible to serve two countries without any loss of honour. But Mr Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev opened my eyes. Now I know how Russia regards Japan and what we can expect from the Russians.’

Fandorin couldn’t bear it – he turned his eyes away. He remembered how Bukhartsev had pontificated about the ‘Yellow Peril’ without even thinking it necessary to lower his voice, and Shirota had been standing in the corridor all the time …

‘That’s politics,’ Erast Petrovich interrupted. ‘It can change. But betraying those who trust you is wrong! You are a member of the Russian consular staff!’

‘Not any longer. As you are aware, I handed in my resignation and even wrote exactly why I no longer wish to serve Russia.’

And that was true too!

‘Is it really more honourable to serve this murderer?’ Fandorin asked, nodding at the Don to emphasise this, his final argument.

‘Mr Tsurumaki is a sincere man. He is acting for the good of my Motherland. And he is also a strong man. If the supreme authority and the law damage the interests of our native land, he changes the authority and corrects the laws. I have decided that I shall help him. I never sat on any hill, I went straight to Mr Tsurumaki and told him about your plan. You could have harmed Japan, and I have stopped you.’

The longer Shirota talked, the more confident his voice became and the more brightly his eyes flashed. The modest, unassuming secretary had wound the smart Fandorin round his little finger; he even dared to be proud of the fact. Erast Petrovich, soundly drubbed on all counts, including even the moral issue, was seized by a spiteful desire to spoil the triumph of this champion of ‘sincerity’ in at least some small way.

‘I thought you loved Sophia Diogenovna. But you have betrayed her. You will never see her again.’

The moment he said it, he repented. It really was rather unworthy.

But Shirota was not perturbed.

‘On the contrary. Today I proposed to Sophie and I was accepted. I warned her that if she married me, she would have to become Japanese. She replied: “With you I would live in the jungle.”’ The hateful face of the Russian Empire’s new enemy dissolved into a smile of happiness. ‘It is bitter for me to part from you like this. I have profound respect for you. But nothing bad will happen to you, Mr Tsurumaki has promised me that. The safe was specially filled with gold instead of documents that contain state secrets. Thanks to this, you will not be charged with spying. And Mr Tsurumaki will not sue you for attempted robbery. You will remain alive, you will not go to jail. You will simply be expelled from Japan. You cannot be left here, you are far too dynamic, and you are also embittered because of your friends who have been killed.’

He turned to the Don and bowed to indicate that the conversation in Russian was over.

Tsurumaki added in English:

‘Shirota-san is a genuine Japanese patriot. A man of honour who knows that duty to the Motherland comes above all other things. Go, my friend. You should not be here when the police arrive.’

With a low bow to his new master and a brief nod to Fandorin, Shirota left the room.

The titular counsellor was still being held as tightly as ever, and that could mean only one thing.

‘The police, of course, will arrive t-too late,’ Erast said to the master of the house. ‘The thief will be killed while attempting to escape or resisting capture. That is why you have sent the idealistic Shirota away. I am such a dynamic individual – not only can I not be left in Japan, I cannot even be left alive, right?’

The smile with which Tsurumaki listened to these words was full of jovial surprise, as if the millionaire had not expected to hear such a subtle and witty comment from his prisoner.

The Don turned the Herstal over in his hand and asked:

‘Self-winding? Hammerless?’

‘Yes. Simply press the trigger and all seven bullets will be fired, one after another. That is, six, one round has already been spent,’ replied Fandorin, inwardly feeling proud of his own cool composure.

Tsurumaki weighed the small revolver in his hand and the titular counsellor readied himself: now it would be very painful, then the pain would become duller, and then it would pass off altogether …

But the Herstal was sent flying to the floor. Erast Petrovich was surprised only for a moment. Then he noticed that the Don’s pocket was bulging. Of course: it would be strange if the robber were to be shot with his own revolver.

As if to confirm this guess, the master of the house lowered his hand into that pocket. Events were clearly approaching their conclusion.

Suddenly Kamata, who had been keeping his eyes fixed on the titular counsellor, turned his bony face covered with coarse wrinkles towards the door.

There were shouts and crashing sounds coming from somewhere outside.

Had the police arrived? But then why the noise?

Another Black Jacket came running into the room. He bowed to the master and Kamata and jabbered something.

‘Tsurete koi,’1 Tsurumaki ordered, without taking his hand out of his pocket.

The servant ran out, and half a minute later Masa, looking much the worse for wear, was led in by the arms.

When he saw Fandorin, he shouted something in a desperate voice.

Only one word was comprehensible: ‘O-Yumi-san’.

‘What’s he saying? What’s he saying?’ the vice-consul asked, jerking in the arms of his guards.

To judge from the master’s face, he was astounded by the news. He asked Masa something, received an answer and suddenly started thinking very intently. He took no notice of Fandorin’s repeated questions and merely scratched at his black beard furiously. Masa kept on trying to bow to Erast Petrovich (which was not easy to do with his arms twisted behind his back) and repeating: ‘Moosiwake arimasen! Moosiwake arimasen!’

‘What is that he’s muttering?’ the titular counsellor exclaimed in helpless fury. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It means: “There can be no forgiveness for me!”,’ said Tsurumaki, suddenly looking at him keenly. ‘Your servant is saying some very interesting things. He says he was sitting at the window and smoking a cigar. That he felt stuffy and he opened one windowpane. That there was a whistling sound, something stung him in the neck, and after that he remembers nothing. He woke up on the floor. There was something like a thorn sticking out of his neck. He dashed into the next room and saw that O-Yumi had disappeared. The bed was empty.’

Erast Petrovich groaned, and the master of the house asked Masa another question. When he received an answer he jerked his chin, and Fandorin’s servant was immediately released. Masa reached inside the front of his jacket and took out what looked like a wooden needle.

‘What’s that?’ asked Fandorin.

The Don examined the ‘thorn’ gloomily.

‘A fukibari. They smear this piece of rubbish with poison or some other kind of potion – to paralyse someone temporarily, for instance, or put them to sleep – and fire it out of a blowpipe. The ninja’s favourite weapon. I’m afraid, Fandorin, that your girlfriend has been abducted by the “Stealthy Ones”.’

At that very moment Erast Petrovich, who had fully prepared himself to die, suddenly felt that he wanted terribly not to. Why, one might think, should he care about anything in the world? If there are only a few seconds of life left, do unsolved puzzles, or even the abduction of the woman you love, really have any importance? But he wanted so much to live that when the Don’s hand moved in that ominous pocket, Fandorin gritted his teeth tightly – in order not to beg for a respite. They wouldn’t grant him a respite in any case, and even if they did, he couldn’t possibly ask a murderer for anything.

The vice-consul forced himself to look at the hand as it slowly pulled a black, gleaming object out of the pocket until it emerged completely.

It was a briar pipe.

After I read it –

The Latin word for ‘briar’ –

I took up a pipe

1 ‘Bring him’ (Japanese)