Boris Akunin - The State Counsellor

So, the first four letters had been received in St Petersburg, and almost five months had passed between the first and the last. But in Moscow TG's pace had been feverish - four letters in four days.

The fifth had been about Rahmet, and it had said Sverchinsky would be at the Nikolaevsky Station that night. It came on Tuesday the nineteenth. Once again, just as at the 'wedding', in some mysterious manner it had appeared in the pocket of his coat while it was hanging up. The typewriter had changed; this time it was a Remington No. 5 .The Underwood had evidently been left behind in Peter.

The sixth had been about the police blockade at the railway goods sheds and the new apartment. That was on Wednesday the twentieth. The letter was brought by Matvei, who found it in the pocket of his sheepskin coat. It was typed on a Remington.

The seventh had been about the Petrosov Baths. Dropped through the door on 21 February. The Remington again.

The last one, the eighth, luring them into the trap, had arrived in the same way. That was yesterday, Friday. The typewriter was a Remington.

What followed from all this?

Why had TG first provided invaluable help, and then betrayed him?

For the same reason as others turned traitor: he had been arrested and broken. Or he had been discovered and deliberately fed false information. Never mind, that was irrelevant.

The important question was: who was he?

In four cases out of eight TG or his intermediary had been in Green's immediate vicinity. In the other four, for some reason he hadn't wanted to come close to Green, or hadn't been able to, and he had acted, not from the inside, but from the outside: through an open window, through the door, through Matvei. Well, the situation at Kolpino was clear enough: after the January expropriation Green had put the group in quarantine and they had stayed at the dacha without going anywhere or seeing anyone.

But in Moscow TG had only had direct access to Green on one occasion, 19 February, when Ace gave his briefing before the attack on the state currency-shipping carriage. After that for some reason TG no longer had direct access. What had happened between Tuesday and Wednesday?

Green jerked upright in his chair, suddenly struck by the arithmetical simplicity of the solution. Why hadn't he thought of it before! Because there simply hadn't been that genuine, absolute necessity that lends such a wonderfully keen edge to the workings of thought.

'What is it?' Needle asked in fright. 'Are you feeling unwell?'

Without answering, he grabbed a pencil and a sheet of paper from the table. He paused for about a minute, then quickly dashed off a few lines and wrote an address at the top.

'This is for the telegraph office. The extra urgent rate.'

Green was not as Erast Petrovich had imagined him to be. The State Counsellor could not see anything fiendish or especially bloodthirsty about the man sitting on the next bench. A severe face, its features stamped in metal, a face that was hard to imagine smiling. And quite young still, despite the clumsy masquerade with that grey moustache and those sideburns.

Apart from Fandorin himself and the terrorists, Briusov Square seemed to be completely empty. Pozharsky had chosen an excellent spot for the operation. There was a policeman, undoubtedly someone in disguise, strolling along on the other side of the railings. Two young yard-keepers with unnaturally long beards and remarkably cultured expressions on their faces were clumsily scraping away snow with plywood spades. A little further away another two young lads were playing stick-knife, but they didn't really seem very interested in the game - they kept looking round far too often.

It was after nine already, but Pozharsky was taking his time. He was obviously waiting for the youngest of the terrorists, the one playing the part of a grammar-school boy, to come back.

And there he was now. He whistled as he walked across the avenue, sat down only an arm's length away from Erast Petrovich, right beside the snowdrift with the pit, and greedily thrust a handful of snow into his mouth. Would you believe it, the State Counsellor thought, no more than a child, and already a seasoned killer! Unlike the fake general, the 'schoolboy' looked perfectly convincing. He must be Bullfinch.

Pozharsky appeared, and the stick-knife players began drifting towards the centre of the park. Erast Petrovich focused his inner energies for action.

The prince shouted his offer for the nihilists to surrender and Fandorin sprang nimbly to his feet, effortlessly grabbed the 'schoolboy' by the collar of his coat and dragged him down into the refuge of the snowdrift. It was too soon for the boy to die.

The snow received the State Counsellor softly, but did not admit him very far - barely much more than an arshin, in fact. Bullfinch fell on top of him and began floundering about, but it was not easy to break free of Erast Petrovich's strong hands.

Shots thundered out from every side. Fandorin knew that the marksmen of the Flying Squad, reinforced by Mylnikov's agents, were firing from the monastery walls and the surrounding roofs, and they would not cease firing as long as there was anything left alive and moving in the square.

Where was the pit that had been promised?

Erast Petrovich applied gentle pressure to one of the young terrorist's nerve points to stop him kicking and struggling, then struck the ground with his fist - once, twice, three times. If it had been plywood there, under the snow, it would have yielded and sprung back, but no, the solid ground remained solid.

The 'schoolboy* no longer attempted to break free, but from time to time he jerked, as if stung by an electric shock, although there was no real reason why he should - Fandorin had not pressed the nerve point hard, only just enough for ten minutes of total calm.

Several times bullets slammed into the snow, too close for comfort, with a furious hissing sound. Erast Petrovich hammered ever more furiously on the unyielding plywood and even tried to bounce up and down on it, as far as that was possible in a lying position, with a load to support. The pit stubbornly refused to open up. Either the plywood had hardened to oak overnight, or something else had gone wrong.

Meanwhile the shooting had started to thin out and soon it died away completely.

He heard voices in the avenue: 'This one's a goner. A regular tea-strainer.'

'This one too. Just look at the way his face is all twisted and torn, unidentifiable.'

To climb out of the snowdrift would have been imprudent -they would have put a dozen bullets in him instantly - and so Erast Petrovich called out without getting up: 'Gentlemen, I am Fandorin, do not shoot!'

And only then, having set aside the peacefully sleeping Bullfinch, did he stand up, thinking that he probably looked like a snowman.

The park was full of men in civilian clothes. There must have been fifty of them at least, and he could see more outside the railings.

'Wiped out the lot, Your Honour,' said one of the 'flyers', who had a youthful air despite his grey moustache. 'No one left to arrest.'

'There is one still alive,' Erast Petrovich replied, dusting himself off. 'T-Take him and lay him out on a bench.'

The agents took hold of the 'schoolboy', but dropped him again immediately. The snow on his coat was stained red with blood in several places, and there was a black hole in his forehead, just below the hair line. It was clear now what had made the poor boy twitch so violently.

Erast Petrovich gazed in bewilderment at the lifeless body that had shielded him from the bullets, and failed to notice Pozharsky swooping down on him from behind.