Boris Akunin: The State Counsellor

The windows on the left were blank, sightless wall eyes, crusted with ice and wet snow. The panes of glass jangled dolefully as the wind hurled the soft, sticky flakes against them and swayed the heavy carcass of the carriage to and fro in an obstinate effort to shove the train off the slippery rails and send it tumbling over and over, like a long black sausage, across the broad white plain -over the frozen river, over the dead fields, and on towards the blurred streak of dark forest at the distant junction of earth and sky.

A wide expanse of this mournful landscape could be examined through the remarkably clear-sighted windows on the right, but what point was there in looking out at it? Nothing but snow, nothing but the wild whistling of the wind, the low, murky sky -darkness, cold and death.

On the inside, however, the ministerial saloon carriage was warm and welcoming: a cosy gloom, tinged with blue from the silk lampshade, logs crackling behind the bronze door of the stove, a teaspoon tinkling rhythmically in a glass. The small but excellently equipped study - with a conference table, leather armchairs and a map of the Empire on the wall - was hurtling along at a speed of fifty versts an hour through the raging blizzard and the dead light of the inclement winter dawn.

An old man with a virile and imperious face was dozing in one of the armchairs, with a warm Scottish rug pulled right up to his chin. Even in sleep the grey brows were knitted sternly, the corners of the mouth were set in world-weary folds, and from time to time the wrinkled eyelids fluttered nervously. The circle of light cast by the lamp swayed this way and that, repeatedly plucking out of the darkness a sturdy hand set on the mahogany armrest and glinting brightly in the diamond ring set on one finger.

On the table, directly below the lamp, there was a pile of newspapers. Lying on top was the illegal Zurich publication The People's Will, the very latest issue from only two days before. On the open page an article had been circled in angry red pencil:

Hiding the Butcher from Vengeance

Our editors have been informed by a highly reliable source that Adjutant General Khrapov, who last Thursday was removed from the positions of Deputy Minister of the Interior and commander of the Special Corps of Gendarmes, will shortly be appointed Governor General of Siberia and will depart to take up his new post immediately.

The motives underlying this move are only too clear. The Tsar wishes to save Khrapov from the people's revenge by hiding his vicious guard dog away for a while in a place as far removed as possible from the two capitals. But the sentence that our party has pronounced on this bloody satrap remains in force. By issuing the monstrous command to subject the political prisoner Polina Ivantsova to a savage flogging, Khrapov has set himself outside the laws of humanity. He cannot be allowed to live. The butcher has twice succeeded in evading his avengers, but nonetheless he is doomed.

From the same source we have learned that Khrapov has already been promised the portfolio of Minister of the Interior. The appointment to Siberia is a temporary measure intended to place Khrapov beyond the reach of the chastening sword of the people's wrath. The tsar's oprichniks anticipate being able to locate and eliminate our Combat Group, which has been instructed to carry the butcher's sentence into effect. And then, when the danger has passed, the minion Khrapov will make a triumphant return to St Petersburg and assume unlimited powers.

This shall not be! The wasted lives of our comrades cry out for retribution.

Unable to bear her shame, Ivantsova hanged herself in her cell. She was only seventeen years old.

The twenty-three-year-old student Skokova fired at the satrap, missed and was hanged.

One of our comrades from the Combat Group, whose name must remain secret, was killed by a splinter from his own bomb, and Khrapov survived yet again.

But never you mind, Your Excellency, no matter how much a string might twist and turn, it cannot go on for ever. Our Combat Group will seek you out even in Siberia.

A pleasant journey to you!

The locomotive gave a long, quavering howl, followed by several short blasts on its whisde: Whoo-ooo-ooo-ooo! Whoo! Whoo! Whoo!

The sleeper's lips trembled restlessly and a low, dull moan escaped from between them. The eyes opened, darting in bewilderment to the left - towards the white windows - and then to the right - towards the black ones; gradually their gaze cleared, acquiring intelligence and focus. The stern old man threw off the rug to reveal a velvet jacket, a white shirt and a black tie. Working his dry lips, he reached out and rang a small hand bell.

A moment later the door leading from the study into the reception room opened. A smart young lieutenant colonel in a blue gendarme uniform with white aiguillettes came dashing in, adjusting his sword belt.

'Good morning, Your Excellency!'

'Have we passed Tver?' the General asked in a thick voice, ignoring the greeting.

'Yes indeed, Ivan Fyodorovich. We're approaching Klin.'

'What do you mean, Klin?' the seated man asked, growing angry. Already? Why didn't you wake me earlier? Did you oversleep?'

The officer rubbed his creased cheek. 'Certainly not, sir. I saw you had fallen asleep. And I thought, Let Ivan Fyodorovich get a bit of a rest. It's all right, you'll have enough time to get washed and dressed and drink tea. There's a whole hour to go to Moscow'

The train slowed down, preparing to brake. Occasional lights began flitting past outside the windows and then widely spaced lamp posts and snow-covered roofs came into view.

The General yawned. All right, have them put the samovar on. I just can't seem to wake up somehow'

The gendarme saluted and went out, closing the door soundlessly behind him.

In the reception room there was a bright light burning and the air smelled of liqueur and cigar smoke. Sitting at the writing desk with his head propped in his hands was another officer -bright blond hair, light eyebrows and long eyelashes that made his pink face resemble a piglet's. He stretched, cracking his joints, and asked the Lieutenant Colonel: 'Well, how are things in there?'

'He wants tea. I'll see to it.'

A-ha,' the albino drawled and glanced out of the window. 'What's this - Klin? Sit down, Michel, I'll tell them about the samovar. I'll get out for a moment and stretch my legs. And at the same time I'll check to make sure those devils aren't dozing.'

He stood up, pulled down his uniform jacket and walked out, spurs jangling, into the third room of this remarkable carriage. The conditions here were basic: chairs along the walls, pegs for hanging outer clothing, a little table in the corner with tea things and a samovar. Two sturdy men wearing identical three-piece camlet suits and sporting identically curled moustaches (one of which was sandy-coloured and the other ginger), sitting motionless facing each other; another two men sleeping on chairs set together.

When the white-haired officer appeared, the two men who were sitting jumped to their feet, but he put one finger to his lips, as if to say: Let the others sleep, then pointed to the samovar and whispered: 'Tea for His Excellency. Phew, it's stuffy in here. I'm going out for a breath of air.'

In the small vestibule two gendarmes stood smartly to attention. The vestibule was not heated, and the sentries were wearing their greatcoats, caps and hoods.

'Are you off duty soon?' the officer asked, pulling on a pair of white gloves and peering out at the station platform as it slowly drifted closer.

'Only just come on, Your Honour!' the watch leader barked. 'Now it's all the way to Moscow for us.' 'All right, all right.'