Boris Akunin - The State Counsellor

'Don't insult me, Julie,' Pozharsky replied in the same language. 'I don't believe I have ever let you down.'

Erast Petrovich tugged on the reins and set the horse moving along Kalanchovka Street in the direction of Sadovo-Spasskaya Street.

To all appearances the young lady was in a very good mood: first she purred some song without any words, then she started singing in a low voice about a red sarafan. She had a wonderfully melodic voice.

'Lubyanka, lady' Fandorin announced. 'Where to now?'

She turned her head this way and that and muttered peevishly to herself: 'How unbearable he is, always playing the conspirator.

'I tell you what: drive me round in circles.'

The State Counsellor chorded and set off along the edge of the square, driving round the ice-covered fountain and the cab stand.

On the fourth circuit a man in a black coat bounded off the pavement and jumped lightly into the sleigh.

'I'll give you a jump, you bandit!' the 'cabby' roared, raising his whip to lash at the impertinent prankster.

But this proved to be no ordinary passenger; he was very special: Mr Green in person. Only this time he'd glued on a light-coloured moustache and put on a pair of spectacles.

'He's a friend of mine,' the beautiful lady explained. 'The one I was expecting. Where are we going, Greeny?'

The new passenger gave the order: 'Drive across Theatre Lane. Then I'll tell you where next.'

'What's happened?' the songstress asked. 'What does "important business" mean? I dropped everything and here I am, just like magic. Perhaps you were simply missing me?' she asked, with a hint of cunning in her voice.

'I'll tell you when we get there,' the special passenger said, clearly not in the mood for conversation.

After that they drove in silence.

The passengers got out on Prechistenka Street, beside the estate of the counts Dobrinsky, but instead of going in through the gates, they walked up on to the porch of a wing of the main palace building.

Erast Petrovich, who had got down to tighten his horse's girth, saw a young woman open the door: a pale, severe face and smooth hair drawn back into a tight bun.

Following that, State Counsellor Fandorin acted rapidly and without hesitating for even a moment, as if he were not following instinct but carrying through a clear, carefully worked-out plan.

First he drove on for another five hundred paces, then tied the reins to a bollard beside the road, threw the sheepskin coat and cap into the sleigh, thrust his sword under the seat and walked back to the railings of the estate. There were hardly any people in the street, but he waited until it was completely empty before clambering nimbly up the railings and jumping down to the ground on the inside.

He ran quickly across the yard to the wing and found himself under a window with its small upper frame conveniently standing open. Erast Petrovich stood quite still for a moment, listening. Then without any obvious effort he clambered up on to the window sill, squeezed himself up tight and wriggled through the small aperture of the open window in a truly virtuoso feat of gutta-percha flexibility.

The hardest thing of all was to lower himself on to the floor without making any noise, but the State Counsellor managed even that. He found himself in a kitchen that was small but very tidy and wonderfully well heated. Here he had to listen carefully again, because he could hear voices from somewhere deeper inside the wing. Once he had determined which direction the sound was coming from, Erast Petrovich took his Herstahl-Baillard out of its holster and set off soundlessly along the corridor.

For the second time that day Erast Petrovich found himself spying and eavesdropping on someone through a half-open door, but this time he felt no embarrassment or pangs of conscience -only the excitement of the hunt and a thrill of joyful anticipation. His dear friend Gleb's luck could not last for ever, and he could learn more from Fandorin than how to guess the colour of cards.

There were three people in the room. The woman with the smooth hair whom he had seen at the front door was sitting at a table, sideways on to the door of the room, and performing strange manipulations: scooping a grey, jelly-like mass out of a jar with a small spoon and transferring it very carefully, a few drops at a time, to a narrow tin like the ones in which they sold olive essence or tomato paste. There were more tins standing there, both narrow ones and ordinary, half-pound ones. She's making bombs, the State Counsellor realised, his joy dimming a little. He had to put the Herstahl away - the woman only had to start in fright or surprise, and the entire wing of the house would be reduced to rubble. The female bomb-maker was not involved in the conversation being conducted by the other two.

'You're simply insane,' the woman who had come on the train said in dismay. 'Working in the underground has given you a persecution complex. You never used to be like that. If you can even suspect me

It was said in such a sincere and convincing tone that if Erast Petrovich had not seen the young lady in Pozharsky's company with his own eyes, he would certainly have believed her. The dark-haired man with the immobile features stamped in metal had not been present at the meeting at the station, and yet there was a note of unshakeable certainty in his voice.

'I don't suspect. I know. You left the notes. Only I didn't know if something went wrong or it was a deliberate provocation. Now I can see it was deliberate. Two questions. The first is: who? The second...' The terrorist leader hesitated. 'Why, Julie? Why? ... All right, you needn't answer the second one. But you must answer the first. Otherwise I'll kill you. Right now. If you say, I won't kill you. Party court.'

It was quite clear that this was no idle threat. Erast Petrovich opened the door a little wider and saw that Pozharsky's collaborator was staring in horror at a dagger clutched in the terrorist's hand.

'Could you kill me?' - the double agent's voice trembled pitifully - 'after what happened between us? Surely you haven't forgotten?'

There was a faint tinkle of glass from the direction of the woman making the bombs. Turning his head slighdy, Erast Petrovich saw that she had turned pale and was biting her lip.

Green, on the contrary, had turned red, but his voice was as steely as ever.

'Who?' he repeated. 'But tell the truth ... No? Then ... He grabbed the beauty's neck tightly with his left hand and drew back the right one to strike.

'Pozharsky,' she said quickly. 'Pozharsky, the deputy director of the Police Department, and now the head police-master of Moscow. Don't kill me, Green. You promised!'

The stern-faced man appeared shaken by her confession, but he put his knife away.

'Why him?' he asked. 'I don't understand. Yesterday I understand, but before then?'

'Don't ask me about that,' Julie said with a shrug.

Having realised that her life was not in immediate danger, she calmed down quite remarkably quickly and even started tidying her hair.

'I'm not interested in your games of cops and robbers. All you boys ever want to do is chase around after each other, fire your pop-guns and throw bombs. Women have more serious concerns.'

And what are your concerns?' Green asked, giving her an intense, perplexed look. 'What is the most important thing in your life?'

'You have to ask? Love, of course. There is nothing more important. You men are monsters because you don't understand that.'

All for love?' Russia's most dangerous terrorist asked slowly. 'Bullfinch, Emelya, the others - for love?'

Julie wrinkled up her sweet nose. 'For what else? My Gleb's a monster too, the same as you, although he plays for the cops, not the robbers. I did what he asked me to. If we women love, we do it with all our heart, and then we stop at nothing. Not even if the whole world goes to hell.'