Boris Akunin - The State Counsellor

In Moscow the eternal enmity between gendarmes and okhranniks was mitigated to a certain extent by unified management - both sides were subordinated to the head police-master of the city - but under this arrangement the inhabitants of the green house were at a certain advantage: since they possessed a larger network of agents, they were better informed than their blue-uniformed colleagues about the life and moods of the great city, and for the top brass, better informed meant more valuable. The relative superiority of the Okhranka was evident even in the Department's location: in the immediate vicinity of the residence of the head police-master, with only a short walk across a closed yard from one back entrance to the other, whereas from Malaya Nikitskaya Street to the police-master's home was a brisk walk of at least a quarter of an hour.

However, the prolonged absence of a supreme police commander in Moscow had disrupted the fragile equilibrium between Malaya Nikitskaya Street and Gnezdikovsky Lane, a fact of which Erast Petrovich was well aware. Therefore Sverchinsky's insinuations concerning Lieutenant Colonel Burlyaev and his subordinates had to be regarded with a certain degree of circumspection.

Fandorin pushed open the plain door and found himself in a dark entrance hall with a low, cracked ceiling. Without slowing his stride, the State Counsellor nodded to an individual in civilian clothes (who bowed respectfully in reply, without speaking) and set off up the old winding stairs to the first floor. Smolyaninov clattered after him, holding his sword still.

Upstairs the ambience was quite different: a broad, brightly lit corridor with a carpet runner on the floor, the brisk tapping of typewriters from behind leather-upholstered doors, tasteful prints with views of old Moscow hanging on the walls.

The gendarme lieutenant, evidently in hostile territory for the first time, gazed around with undisguised curiosity.

'You sit here for a while,' said Erast Petrovich, pointing to a row of chairs, and walked into the commander's office.

'Glad to see you looking so well!' the Lieutenant Colonel declared, jumping up from behind the desk and hastening to shake his visitor's hand with exaggerated vivacity, although they had parted only some two hours previously and the State Counsellor had not given the slightest reason for any apprehension concerning his state of health.

Fandorin interpreted Burlyaev's nervousness as an indication of the Lieutenant Colonel's embarrassment over the recent arrest. However, all the appropriate apologies had been made in exaggeratedly verbose style at the railway station, and so the State Counsellor did not return to the annoying incident, regarding the matter as already closed, but went straight to the main point.

'Pyotr Ivanovich, yesterday you reported to me on the measures proposed for ensuring s-security during Adjutant General Khrapov's visit. I approved your proposals. As far as I recall, you allocated twelve agents to cover the General's arrival at the station, another four dressed as porters to accompany him in the street, and two brigades of seven men to patrol the environs of the mansion on the Sparrow Hills.'

'Precisely so,' Burlyaev confirmed cautiously, anticipating a trick.

'Were your agents informed of the name of the individual who w-was arriving?'

'Only the leaders of each brigade - four men in total, all highly reliable.'

'I see.' The State Counsellor crossed one leg over the other, set his top hat and gloves down on a nearby chair and enquired casually, 'I hope you did not forget to inform these four men that overall command of the security operation had been entrusted to me?'

The Lieutenant Colonel shrugged and spread his hands. 'Why no, I didn't do that, Erast Petrovich. I didn't think it necessary. Should I have done? My apologies.'

'Well then, apart from you no one in the entire department knew that I had been charged with receiving the General?' asked Fandorin, suddenly leaning forward.

'Only my closest aides knew that - Collegiate Assessor Mylnikov and my senior operations officer, Zubtsov - no one else. In our organisation it's not customary to gossip. Mylnikov, as you know, is in charge of the plain-clothes section, it could not have been kept from him. And Sergei Vitalievich Zubtsov is the most competent man I have; he was the one who invented the COM scenario. It's his professional pride and joy, you might say'

'I beg your pardon, what scenario was that?' Erast Petrovich asked in surprise.

'COM - Category One Meeting. That's our professional terminology. We conduct secret surveillance according to categories, depending on the number of agents involved. "Category Two Shadowing", "Category Three Arrest", and so forth. "Category One Meeting" is when we need to ensure the safety of an individual of the first rank. For instance, two weeks ago the heir to the Austrian throne, the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, arrived in Moscow. Thirty agents were involved then too: twelve at the station, four in droshkies and two teams of seven around the residence. But the "Supreme Category" is only used for His Imperial Majesty. All sixty agents work on that, and the Flying Squad comes down from St Petersburg as well. That's not counting the court security guards, the gendarmes and so forth.'

'I know Mylnikov,' Fandorin said in a thoughtful voice. 'Evstratii Pavlovich, I believe his name is? I've seen him in action; he's very adroit. Didn't he serve his way up from the ranks?'

'Yes, he rose from being a simple constable. Not well educated, but sharp and tenacious, very quick on the uptake. The agents all idolise him, and he looks out for them too. Worth his weight in gold; I'm delighted with him.'

'Gold?' Fandorin queried doubtfully. 'I've heard it s-said that Mylnikov is light-fingered. He lives beyond his means and supposedly there was even an internal investigation into the expenditure of official funds?'

Burlyaev lowered his voice confidentially.

'Erast Petrovich, Mylnikov has total control of substantial funds to provide financial incentives for the agents. How he disposes of that money is none of my concern. I require first-class service from his section, and that's what Evstratii Paviovich provides. What more can I ask?'

The Governor General's assistant for special assignments pondered this opinion and was clearly unable to think of any objections to it.

'Very well. Then what sort of man is Zubtsov? I hardly know him at all. That is, I've seen him, of course, but never worked with him. Do I remember aright that he is a former revolutionary?'

'Indeed he is,' the boss of the Okhranka replied with obvious relish. "That's a story I'm very proud of. I arrested Sergei Vitalievich myself, when he was still a student. He cost me a fair deal of trouble - at first he just scowled and wouldn't say a word. I had him in my punishment cell, on bread and water, and I yelled at him and threatened him with hard labour. But the way I finally got him was not through fear, but through persuasion. Looking at the lad, I could see he had very nimble wits, and people like that, by the very way their brains work, aren't naturally inclined to terror and other violent tactics. The bomb and the revolver are for the stupid ones, who don't have enough imagination to realise you can't butt your way through a brick wall. But I noticed that my Sergei Vitalievich liked to discuss parliamentarianism, an alliance of right-thinking patriots and so forth. Conducting his interrogations was a sheer pleasure -would you believe that sometimes we sat up in the holding cell until morning? He used to make critical comments about his comrades in the revolutionary group; I could see he understood how limited they were, that they were doomed, and he was looking for a way out: he wanted to correct social injustice, but without blowing the country to pieces with dynamite. I really liked that. I managed to get his case closed. Naturally, his comrades suspected he had betrayed them and they turned their backs on him. He was offended - his conscience was clear as far as they were concerned. You could say I was the only friend he had left. We used to meet to talk about this and that, and I told him what I could about my work, about the various difficulties and snags. And what do you think? Sergei Vitalievich started giving me advice - on the best way to talk to young people, how to tell a propagandist from a terrorist, which pieces of revolutionary literature I should read, and so forth. Extremely valuable advice it was too. One day over a glass of cognac I said to him: "Sergei Vitalievich, my dear fellow, I've grown quite fond of you over all these months, and it pains me to see the way you're torn between two truths. I understand that our nihilists have their own truth, only now there's no way back to them for you. But I tell you what," I said, "you join our truth and, by God, you'll find it's more profound. I can see you're a genuine patriot of the Russian land; you couldn't care less for all their Internationals. Well, I'm just as much a patriot as you are. Let's help Russia together." And what do you think? Sergei Vitalievich thought about it for a day or two, wrote a letter to his former friends - you know, saying our ways have parted, and so on -and then put in an application to be taken on to serve under my command. Now he's my right hand, and he'll go a long way yet, you'll see. And by the way, he's a passionate admirer of yours. He's simply in love with you, on my word of honour. Talks of nothing all the time except your great feats of deduction. Sometimes it makes me feel quite jealous.'