Boris Akunin - The State Counsellor

The killer unclasped the dead man's fingers from his hand with fastidious disgust. Then he tore off his false moustache and rubbed his grey temples, which turned as black as the rest of his hair.

With a glance round at the closed door, the resolute man of action walked over to one of the blind windows overlooking the railway tracks, but the frame was frozen solid and absolutely refused to budge. The strange State Counsellor, however, was not disconcerted. He took hold of the curved handle with both hands and heaved. The veins stood out on his forehead, his clenched teeth ground together and - wonder of wonders! -the window frame squeaked and started moving downwards. A chilly blast flung powdery snow into the strong man's face and set the curtains flapping in delight. In a single agile movement the killer threw himself through the open frame and melted away into the grey morning twilight.

The scene in the study was transformed: overjoyed at this sudden opportunity, the wind started driving important documents across the carpet, tugging at the fringe of the tablecloth, tousling the grey hair on the General's head.

The blue lampshade began swaying impetuously and the patch of light began dodging about on the dead man's chest, revealing two letters carved into the ivory handle of the dagger driven in right up to the hilt: CG.

The day got off to a bad start Erast Petrovich Fandorin rose at the crack of dawn because at half past eight he had to be at the Nikolaevsky Station. He and his Japanese valet performed their usual comprehensive gymnastics routine, he drank green tea and was already shaving while performing his breathing exercises at the same time, when the telephone rang. It turned out that the State Counsellor need not have risen at such an ungodly hour after all: the express train from St Petersburg was expected to arrive two hours late because of snowdrifts on the railway line.

Since all the necessary instructions for ensuring the safety of the important visitor from the capital had been issued the previous day, Erast Petrovich could not immediately think of any way to occupy his unexpected leisure time. He thought of going to the station early, but decided against it. Why set his subordinates' nerves on edge unnecessarily? He could be quite certain that Colonel Sverchinsky, the acting head of the Provincial Office of Gendarmes, had carried out his instructions to the letter: platform one, at which the express train would arrive, was surrounded by agents in civilian clothes, there was an armoured carriage waiting right beside the platform, and the escort had been selected with meticulous care. It should really be quite enough to arrive at the station fifteen minutes ahead of time - and that merely for the sake of good order rather than to expose any oversights.

The task he had been set by His Excellency Prince Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi was a highly responsible one, but not difficult: meet a VIP, accompany him to breakfast with the prince, after that escort him to the securely guarded residence on the Sparrow Hills to take a rest, and in the evening take the newly appointed Governor General of Siberia to the Chelyabinsk train, on to which the ministerial carriage would already have been coupled. That was really all there was to it.

There was only one point of difficulty, which had been tormenting Erast Petrovich since the previous day: should he shake the hand of Adjutant General Khrapov, who had sullied his own name with a base or, at the very least, unforgivably stupid act?

From the point of view of his position and career, of course, he ought to disregard his own feelings, especially since those who should know were predicting a rapid return to the highest echelons of power for the former gendarme commander. Fandorin, however, decided not to decline the handshake for a quite different reason - a guest is a guest, and it is not permissible to insult him. It would be sufficient to maintain a cool attitude and an emphatically official tone.

This decision was correct, indeed indisputably so, but nonetheless it had left the State Counsellor with an uneasy feeling: perhaps careerist considerations had played some part in it after all?

That was why Erast Petrovich was not at all upset by this unexpected delay - he now had extra time to resolve his complex moral dilemma.

Fandorin ordered his valet Masa to brew some strong coffee, settled into an armchair and began weighing up all the pros and cons again, involuntarily clenching and unclenching his right hand as he did so.

But before long his musings were interrupted by another ring, this time at the door. He heard the sound of voices in the hallway - at first quiet, and then loud. Someone was attempting to force his way through into the study, but Masa was keeping him out, making hissing and spluttering sounds eloquendy expressive of the former Japanese subject's bellicose state of mind.

'Who's there, Masa?' Erast Petrovich shouted, walking out of the study into the drawing room.

There he saw that he had unexpected visitors: the head of Moscow's Department of Security, Lieutenant Colonel of Gendarmes Burlyaev, accompanied by two gentlemen in check coats, evidently plain-clothes agents. Masa was holding his arms out wide, blocking the three men's way: he was clearly intending to move from words to action in the immediate future.

'My apologies, Mr Fandorin,' said Burlyaev, doffing his cap and running one hand through his stiff salt-and-pepper French crop. 'It's some kind of misunderstanding, but I have here a telegram from the Police Department' - he waved a piece of paper through the air - 'informing me that Adjutant General Khrapov has been murdered, and that ... er, er ... you killed him ... and that you must be placed under arrest immediately. They've completely lost their minds, but orders are orders ... You'd better calm your Japanese down, I've heard about the spry way he fights with his feet.'

The first thing Erast Petrovich felt was an absurd sense of relief at the realisation that the problem of the handshake had been resolved of its own accord, and it was only afterwards that the full, nightmarish force of what he had heard struck him.

Fandorin was only cleared of suspicion after the delayed express finally arrived. Before the train had even stopped moving, the white-haired Staff Captain leapt out of the ministerial carriage on to the platform and set off along it at a furious pace, spewing out curses with his face contorted in rage, towards the spot where the arrested State Counsellor was standing surrounded by police agents. But when he was only a few steps away, the Staff Captain slowed to a walk and then came to a complete halt. He fluttered his white eyelashes and punched himself hard on the thigh.

'It's not him. Like him, but not him! And not even really like him! Just the moustache, and the grey temples - no other similarity at all!' the officer muttered in bewilderment. 'Who's this you've brought? Where's Fandorin?'

'I assure you, M-Mr von Seidlitz, that I am Fandorin,' the State Counsellor said with exaggerated gentleness, as if he were speaking to someone who was mentally ill, and turned to Burlyaev, who had flushed a deep crimson. 'Pyotr Ivanovich, please tell your men that they can let go of my elbows now. Staff Captain, where are Lieutenant Colonel Modzalevsky and your men from the guard? I need to question them all and record their testimony'

'Question them? Record their testimony?' Seidlitz cried in a hoarse voice, raising his clenched fists to the heavens. 'What damned testimony! Don't you understand? He's dead, dead! My God, it's the end of everything; everything! I have to run, get the gendarmes and the police moving! If I don't find that masquerading blackguard, that—' He choked and starting hiccupping convulsively. 'But I will find him, I will, I'll exonerate myself! I'll move heaven and earth! Otherwise there'll be nothing for it but to blow my brains out!'