'Hasan-bei spent the night under lock and key in the guardroom, singing loud arias from Lucia di Lammermoor, by which they say Anwar-effendi was absolutely entranced. Anwar even tried to obtain a pardon for the valiant criminal, but the enraged ministers were adamant and in the morning the killer was hanged from a tree. The ladies of the harem, who loved their Circassian so passionately, came to watch his execution, weeping bitter tears and blowing him kisses from afar.
'Henceforth there was no one to hinder Midhat's plans, apart from fate, which dealt him a blow from an entirely unexpected quarter. The great politician was let down by his own puppet, the new sultan Murad.
'As early as the morning of the 31st of May, immediately following the coup, Midhat-pasha had paid a visit to Prince Murad, the nephew of the deposed sultan, and thereby frightened Murad quite indescribably. Permit me at this point to digress somewhat, in order to explain the pitiful plight of the heir to the throne of the Ottoman Empire.
'The problem is that although the Prophet Mohamed had fifteen wives, he did not have a single son and he left no instructions concerning the succession to the throne. Therefore down through the centuries every one of the multitudinous sultanas has dreamed of placing her own son on the throne and attempted to eliminate the sons of her rivals by every possible means. There is even a special cemetery at the palace for innocent princes who have been murdered, so we Russians, with our Boris and Gleb and Tsarevich Dmitry, appear quite laughable by Turkish standards.
'In the Ottoman Empire the throne is not transmitted from father to son, but from the older brother to the younger. When one line of brothers is exhausted, the next generation inherits, and again the throne passes from older brother to younger. Every sultan is mortally afraid of his younger brother or oldest nephew, and the chances of an heir actually living to reign are extremely slight. The crown prince is kept in total isolation, nobody is allowed to visit him, and the scoundrels even try to ensure that his concubines are not capable of bearing children. According to an ancient tradition the future padishah is attended by servants whose tongues have been cut out and whose eardrums have been punctured. You can imagine what effect this kind of upbringing has on Their Highnesses' state of mind. For instance, Suleiman II spent thirty-nine years in confinement, writing out and colouring in copies of the Koran. And when he finally did become sultan, it was not long before he began asking to go back and abdicated the throne. How well I understand him. Colouring in pictures is so much more pleasant.
'However, let us return to Murad. He was a handsome youth, by no means stupid and actually extremely well read, although he had a tendency to drink to excess and suffered from an entirely justified persecution mania. He was delighted to entrust the reins of government to the wise Midhat, and so everything seemed to be continuing according to plan for our crafty conspirators. But the sudden elevation and remarkable death of his uncle had such a powerful effect on poor Murad that he began raving and lapsing into violent fits. The European psychiatrists who visited the padishah in secret came to the conclusion that he was incurable and his condition could only deteriorate as time went on.
'Now note Anwar-effendi's incredible farsightedness. On the first day of Murad's reign, when the sky ahead was still bright and cloudless, our mutual friend had suddenly asked to be made secretary to Prince Abdul-Hamid, the sultan's brother and now the heir to the throne. When I learned this, it became clear to me that Midhat-pasha was not certain of Murad V. After making a thorough assessment of the crown prince, Anwar evidently considered him acceptable, and Midhat set Abdul-Hamid a single condition: promise that you will introduce a constitution and you will be padishah. The prince naturally agreed.
'What came after that you already know. On the 3rst of August Abdul-Hamid II ascended the throne, replacing the insane Murad V, Midhat became grand vizier, and Anwar remained as the new sultan's puppet-master behind the scenes and undeclared chief of the secret police - in other words, Lavrenty (ha-ha!), your colleague.
'It is significant that in Turkey hardly anybody at all has even heard of Anwar-effendi. He does not push himself forward or appear in public. I, for instance, have only seen him once, when I was presented to the new padishah. Anwar was sitting off to one side of the throne, wearing an immense black beard (I believe it was false) and also dark glasses, which in general is a quite unprecedented breach of court etiquette. During the audience Abdul-Hamid glanced at him several times, as if he were seeking support or advice.
'This is the man with whom you will be dealing from now on. If my intuition does not mislead me, Midhat and Anwar will continue to manipulate the sultan as they see fit, and in another year or two . . .
'Well, the rest is of no great interest,' said Mizinov, breaking off his long recitation and wiping the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. 'Especially since the brilliant Nikolai Pavlovich was indeed misled by his intuition after all. Midhat-pasha failed to retain his grip on power and he was exiled.'
Erast Petrovich, who had listened very attentively and not moved even once the whole time (unlike
Varya, who had fidgeted herself half to death on her hard chair), asked tersely: 'The opening is clear, and so is the mid-game. But what about the end-game?'
The general nodded approvingly. 'That is the whole point. The end-game proved to be so intricate that even Gnatiev, with all his experience, was taken by surprise. On the seventh of February this year Midhat-pasha was summoned to the sultan, placed under armed guard and put on board a ship, which carried off the disgraced head of government on a tour round Europe. And our Anwar, having betrayed his benefactor, from being the prime minister's "eminence grise", began playing the same role for the sultan. He did everything possible to get relations between the Sublime Porte and Russia broken off. And a little while ago, when Turkey's fate was already hanging by a thread, according to information received from our agents, Anwar set out for the theatre of military operations in order to intervene in the course of events by means of certain secret activities, the nature of which we can only guess.'
At this point Fandorin began speaking rather strangely: 'No formal d-duties. That is one. Complete freedom of action. That is t-two. Reporting only to you. That is three.'
Varya did not understand what these words meant, but the chief of gendarmes was delighted and promptly replied: 'Well, that's just splendid! Now I recognise the old Fandorin. Why, my dear fellow, you'd become quite chilly and indifferent. Now don't hold this against me, I'm not talking as your superior, just as someone who is older, like a father . . . You mustn't go burying yourself alive. Leave the graveyard for the dead. At your age, why it doesn't bear thinking about! As the aria puts it, you have toute la vie devant soi.'
'Lavrenty Arkadievich!' In an instant the volunteer's pale cheeks flushed deep crimson and his voice grated like iron. 'I do not b-believe that I invited any effusion of p-personal sentiment . . .'
Varya thought his remark quite unforgivably rude and shrank down on her chair: Mizinov would be mortally offended by such an insult to his finer feelings; how he would roar!
But the satrap merely sighed and said dryly: 'Your terms are accepted. You can have your freedom of action. That was actually what I had in mind. Just keep your eyes and your ears open and if you notice anything unusual . . . Well, you don't need me to tell you what to do.'
'Aa-choo!' Varya sneezed and then shrank back down into her chair again in fright.
The general was even more frightened than she was. He started, swung round and stared dumbfounded at the involuntary witness of his confidential conversation.
'Madam, what are you doing here? Why did you not leave the room with the lieutenant-colonel? How dare you?'
'You ought to have looked,' Varya replied with dignity. 'I'm not some mosquito or fly that you can just choose to ignore. I happen to be under arrest, and no one has given me leave to go yet.'
She thought she saw Fandorin's lips twitch ever so slightly. But no, she had imagined it - this specimen did not even know how to smile.
'Very well then, all right.' Mizinov's tone of voice held a quiet threat. 'You, my dear non-relative, have learned things which you absolutely ought not to know. In the interests of state security I am placing you under temporary administrative arrest. You will be taken under escort to the Kishinev garrison quarantine station and detained there under guard until the end of the campaign. And you have only yourself to blame.'
Varya turned pale. 'But I haven't even seen my fiance . . .'
'You'll see each other after the war,' snapped Lavrenty Mizinov, turning towards the door to summon his ophchniks; but then Erast Fandorin intervened.
'Lavrenty Arkadievich, I think it would be quite sufficient to ask Miss Suvorova to give her word of honour.'
‘I give my word of honour!' Varya cried, encouraged by this unexpected intercession on her behalf.
'I'm sorry, dear chap, we can't take the risk,' the general snapped without even looking at her. Then there's this fiance of hers. And how can we trust a girl? You know what they say: "The longer the braid, the dafter the maid."'
‘I don't have any braid! And that is a base insult to my intelligence!' Varya's voice trembled, threatening to break. 'What do I want with all your Anwars and Midhats anyway?'
'On my responsibility, Your Excellency. I vouch for Varvara Andreevna.'
Mizinov said nothing, frowning in annoyance, and Varya realised that even among secret police agents there were clearly some people who were not entirely beyond salvation. After all, he was a Serbian volunteer.
'It's stupid,' growled the general. He turned towards
Varya and asked gruffly: 'Do you know how to do anything? Is your handwriting good?'
'I qualified as a stenographer! I worked as a telegrapher! And a midwife!' said Varya, stretching the truth just a little.
'A stenographer and a telegrapher?' said Mizinov, surprised. 'All the better, then. Erast Petrovich, I will allow this woman to remain here on one single condition: she will fulfil the duties of your secretary. You will in any case require some kind of courier or messenger who will not arouse unnecessary suspicion. Only bear in mind that you have vouched for her.'
'Oh no!' Varya and Fandorin exclaimed in a single voice. Then they continued speaking together, but in different words.
Erast Petrovich said: 'I have no need of a secretary.'
Varya said: 'I will not serve in the Okhranka.'
'As you wish,' said the general, rising to his feet with a shrug. 'Novgorodtsev, the escort!'
'I agree!' shouted Varya.
Fandorin said nothing.
Chapter Four
IN WHICH THE ENEMY STRIKES THE FIRST BLOW
The Daily Post
(London) 15 (3) July 1877
... an advance detachment of the dashing General Gurko's forces has captured Trnovo, the ancient capital of the Kingdom of Bulgaria, and is pressing on apace towards the Shipka Pass, the gateway to the defenceless plains that extend to the walls of Constantinople itself. The military vizier Abdul Kerim-pasha has been removed from all his posts and committed for trial. Only a miracle can save Turkey now.
They halted by the porch. Some kind of understanding had to be reached.
Fandorin coughed to clear his throat and began: 'Varvara Andreevna, I very much regret that things have turned out like this. Naturally, you are entirely at liberty and I shall not oblige you to work for me in any way.'
'Thank you,' she replied coldly. 'That is very noble of you. I must confess that for a moment I thought you had arranged all this deliberately. You could see that I was there perfectly well, and you must have anticipated how everything would turn out. Well, do you really need a secretary so badly?'
Once again Erast Fandorin's eyes glinted briefly in a way that she might have taken for a sign of merriment in any normal man.
'You are most perceptive. But unjust. I was indeed guided by an ulterior motive, but I was acting entirely in your own interests. Lavrenty Arkadievich would quite certainly have banished you as far away as possible from the active forces. And Mr Kazanzaki would have set a gendarme to guard you. But now you have a p-perfectly legitimate basis for remaining here.'
Varya could hardly raise any objection to that, but she did not wish to thank this contemptible spy. 'I see you are a truly subtle practitioner of your despised profession’ she said acidly. 'You even managed to outwit the head ogre.'
'By "ogre" you mean Lavrenty Arkadievich?' Fandorin asked in surprise. 'He hardly fits the p-part, I think. And then, what is so d-despicable about defending the interests of the state?'
What point was there in talking to someone like that? Varya demonstratively turned away and ran her eyes over the camp: little white-walled houses, neat rows of tents, brand-new telegraph posts. She saw a soldier running along the street, waving his long, awkward arms in a very familiar-looking fashion.
'Varya, Varenka!' the soldier called out from a distance, tugging his long-peaked cap off his head and waving it in the air. 'So you really did come!'
'Petya!' she gasped and, instantly forgetting Fandorin, she dashed towards the man for whose sake she had made the long journey of one and a half thousand vyersts.