Boris Akunin - The Coronation

‘That must not happen, no matter what!’ said Karnovich, joining in the conversation for the first time. ‘Remember, Mr Fandorin, you have guaranteed the stone’s safety with your own life.’

Fandorin smiled at me as if he had not heard the colonel.

‘In that eventuality, Ziukin, I have another surprise in store for the doctor.’

However the smile, which was really quite inappropriate in the situation, rapidly disappeared, to be replaced by an expression of uncertainty or perhaps even embarrassment.

‘Emilie, Afanasii Stepanovich . . . the risk to which you are exposing yourselves is undoubtedly v-very great. Lind is a man of paradoxical intelligence; his actions and reactions are frequently unpredictable. A plan is all very well, but anything at all could happen. And after all, Emilie, you are a lady and not even a Russian subject . . .’

‘Never mind the risk, that is all right,’ Mademoiselle said with sublime dignity. ‘But we – Mr Ziukin and I – will be easier in our minds if we know what other surprise you have in mind.’

Fandorin carefully closed the gold lid and the blue radiance glimmering above the table disappeared.

‘It is best if you do not know that. Itmust be a surprise for you two as well. Otherwise the plan may go awry.’

A strange business. When we found ourselves alone together, sealed off from the world in the dark carriage, neither of us said a word for a long time. I listened to Mademoiselle’s regular breathing, and as time passed and my eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, I could make out her vague silhouette. I wanted to hear her voice, to say something encouraging to her but, as usual, I simply could not find the right words. The metal sphere was lying on my knees, and although the detonator was not yet activated, I gripped the infernal device firmly with both hands.

My fears that I would have problems with Doctor Lind’s intermediary concerning the strangely rounded bulky bundle had proved unfounded. The first stage of the operation had gone smoothly – as the common folk say, without a hitch.

Mademoiselle and I had been standing in the cathedral for less than five minuteswhen a boywho looked like one of the ordinary little beggars who are always jostling on the porch there handed me a note – I even had to give the little villain five kopecks of my own money. Our shoulders pressed together as we unfolded the sheet of paper (once again I caught a whiff of the scent The Earl of Essex) and read the single short line: ‘L’église d’Ilya Prorok’. 2I did not know where that was, but Mademoiselle, who had had an opportunity to study all the surrounding streets and side streets in close detail, confidently showed me the way.

A few minutes later we were outside a small church, and there was a black carriage with curtained windows waiting in front of the next building. It looked very much like the one that I had seen a week earlier, although I could not vouch for it being the same one. A tall man with a hat pulled down very low jumped down off the coach box. All I could see of his face was a thick black beard. Without saying a word, he opened the door and pushed Mademoiselle inside.

I showed him my bundle and pronounced the phrase that I had prepared in a severe tone of voice: ‘This is the object of the exchange. It must not be touched.’

I do not know if he understood me, but he did not touch the bundle. He squatted down and very rapidly ran his hands over my entire body, touching even the most intimate places without the slightest sign of embarrassment.

‘If you do not mind, sir . . .’ I protested, but the search was already over.

Without speaking, the bearded man pushed me in the back, I got into the carriage and the door slammed. I heard the squeak of a bolt. The carriage swayed, and we set off.

I expect that at least half an hour must have passed before we struck up a conversation. It was Mademoiselle who began it, because I had still not thought of a way to start.

‘Strange,’ she said when the carriage swayed on a corner and our shoulders touched. ‘It is strange that he did not caress me today.’

‘What?’ I asked, amazed.

‘How do you say – perquisitionner ?’

‘Ah, to frisk, to search.’

‘Yes, thank you. Strange that he did not search me. He usually does, to see if it is possible to hide a little pistol in the pantaloons.’

I took the liberty of leaning down to her ear and whispering: ‘We have a better weapon than that.’

‘Careful!’ Mademoiselle gasped. ‘I’m afraid!’

A woman is always a woman, even the very bravest!

‘It’s all right,’ I reassured her. ‘The detonator has not been activated yet; there is nothing to be afraid of.’

‘I keep thinking about Monsieur Fandorin’s second surprise,’ Mademoiselle suddenly said in French. ‘Could it possibly be that the bomb will go off in any case, blowing us and Doctor Lind and His Highness to pieces, and then afterwards, as Monsieur Fandorin said, they will find the stone among the rubble? The most important thing for the tsar is to keep the Orlov and avoid any publicity. And for Monsieur Fandorin, the main thing is to take his revenge on Doctor Lind. What do you think, Athanas?’

To be quite honest, her suspicions seemed quite plausible to me, but after a moment’s thought I found an appropriate objection.

‘In that case they would have given us a fake instead of the genuine stone. Then they would not have to search for anything in the rubble.’

‘And what makes you sure that it is the genuine Orlov in the sphere?’ she asked nervously. ‘We are not jewellers, after all. When you press the button, there will be an explosion, and that will be the promised surprise that you and I were not supposed to know about under any circumstances.’

I turned cold inside. This conjecture seemed only too logical.

‘Then that is our destiny,’ I said, crossing myself. ‘If you have guessed right, then the decision was taken by a higher power, and I shall carry it out to the letter. But you do not have to go into the chapel. When we get there, I shall tell the driver that there is no need for you to be present; I shall collect Mikhail Georgievich myself.’

Mademoiselle squeezed my hand.

‘Thank you, Athanas. You have restored my faith in human dignity. No. No, I shall go with you. I feel ashamed that I could have suspected Erast of being disloyal. For him, no precious stone, not even such a special one, could possibly be more important than the life of a child. And our lives too,’ she concluded in a quiet voice.

The second half of her brief emotional declaration somewhat spoiled the pleasant impression of the first, but nonetheless Iwas touched. I wanted to respond to her grip on my fingers, but that would probably have been too great a liberty. And so we rode on, with her hand still touching mine.

Unlike Mademoiselle, I was not entirely convinced of Mr Fandorin’s nobility. I thought it quite probable that the earthly existence of Afanasii Ziukin would come to an end in the very near future, and not in a quiet, humdrum fashion, as the entire logic of my lifewould have dictated, but amidst unseemly uproar and clamour. Emilie’s company rendered this thought less repulsive, which was undoubtedly an expression of a quality that I cannot stand in other people and have always tried to suppress in myself – cowardly selfishness.

Meanwhile, it was becoming harder and harder to breathe in the sealed carriage. There were drops of sweat running down my face and inside my collar. This was unpleasantly ticklish, but I could not wipe them away with my handkerchief – to do that, I would have had to take my hand away. Mademoiselle was also breathing rapidly.

Suddenly a thought occurred to me, so simple and terrible that the sweat started flowing even more abundantly. I tried to insert my hand into the bundle and open the lid of the sphere quietly without frightening Mademoiselle, but even so therewas an audible click.