Boris Akunin - Special Assignments

Kuzma gave a low grunt, turning away, and Eropkin's pale features appeared from behind his broad, massive shoulder.

Then, without looking up, the holy hermit spoke in a clear, resonant voice: 'Come here, Samson. I have been expecting you. You are mentioned in the secret book.' And he jabbed his finger at an engraving showing Gulliver surrounded by Houyhnhnms.

Stepping carefully, the entire honourable company entered the chapel: the most venerable Samson Kharitonovich, clutching the boy Paisii tightly by the hand, Kuzma and the same two men as before, who lugged in a plump bast sack.

The sage pierced Eropkin with a menacing glance from his single eye under its matted eyebrow and held up a finger in admonition. In response to this gesture, one of the candles suddenly hissed and went out. The bloodsucker gasped and let go of the boy's hand - which was the required effect.

The trick with the candle was a simple one, but impressive. Momos himself had invented it for use when he ran into difficulties at cards: the candles looked like ordinary ones, but the wick slid freely inside the wax. It was an unusually long wick, threaded though a crack in the table underneath the candle. Jerk your left hand under the table, and the candle went out (of course, Momos had the dolly to control the wicks hanging on his sling).

'I know, I know who you are and what kind of man you are,' the hermit said with an ominous laugh. 'Give me that sack of yours, stuffed full of blood and tears; put it there ... Not on the table, not on the magic book!" he shouted at the two men. 'Toss it under the table, so I can set my lame leg on it.'

He nudged the sack gently with one foot - it was damned weighty. Must be all one-rouble and three-rouble notes. At least three stones. But never mind - what's your own isn't heavy.

Eropkin was superstitious and none too sharp-witted, but he wasn't going to give away his sack that simply. Miracles alone weren't enough. Psychology was required: sudden pressure, rapid surprises. He mustn't be allowed to gather his wits, and think, to take a close look. So giddy up, now!

The old sage wagged his finger at Eropkin in warning, and immediately a second candle went out.

Samson Kharitonovich crossed himself

'Don't you go crossing yourself here!' Momos barked at him in a terrifying voice. 'Your hands will wither and fall off! Or don't you know who you've come to see, you fool?'

'I kn— I know, father,' Eropkin hissed: 'a holy hermit.'

Momos threw back his head and laughed malevolently - just like Mephistopheles played by Giuseppe Bardini.

'You are a stupid man, Samson Eropkin. Did you not count the coins in the treasure?'

'I did ...'

And how many were there?'

'Six hundred and sixty-six.'

And where did you hear the voice from?'

'From under the ground

'Who speaks from under the ground, eh? Don't you know that?'

Eropkin sat down, horrified - his legs had clearly given way under him. He was about to cross himself, but suddenly felt afraid and hastily hid his hands behind his back - then looked round at his men to make sure they weren't crossing themselves either. They weren't, but they were trembling.

'I need you, Samson,' said Momos, switching into a more cordial tone and shifting the sack ever so slightly towards himself with his foot. 'You are going to be mine. You are going to serve me.'

He snapped his fingers with a loud crunch; a third candle went out, and the darkness under the gloomy vaults immediately grew thicker.

Eropkin backed away.

'Where are you going? I'll turn you to stone!' Momos growled, and then he played on contrast once again, speaking ingratiatingly. 'Don't be afraid of me, Samson. I need men like you. Do you want a mountain of money that would make your lousy sack look like a heap of dust?' He gave the sack a derisive kick. 'You'll keep your sack; stop trembling over it. But how would you like me to give you a hundred like it? Or is that not enough for you? Do you want more? Do you want power over humankind?'

Eropkin gulped, but he didn't say anything.

'Pronounce the words of the Great Oath, and you will be mine for ever! Agreed?' Momos roared out the last word so that it echoed back and forth between the old walls.

Eropkin pulled his head down into his shoulders and nodded.

'You, Azael, stand here at my left hand,' the old man ordered the boy who ran behind the table and stood beside him.

'When the fourth candle goes out, repeat what I say, word for word,' the mysterious old man instructed Eropkin. And don't gawp at me - look up.'

Once he was sure that all four future servants of the Evil One had obediently thrown back their heads, Momos extinguished the final candle, squeezed his eyes shut and nudged Mimi in the ribs: Don't look!

The voice rang out again in the darkness: 'Look up! Look up!'

He pulled the sack towards himself with one hand and prepared to press the button with the other.

Up above, where the light of the candles had not reached, even when they were still burning, Momos had installed a magnesium Blitzlicht, the very latest German invention for photography. When its unendurable white flash blazed out in the pitch darkness, Eropkin and his cut-throats would be left totally blind for about five minutes. And in the meantime, the jolly trio - Momos, Mimi and the Money - would slip out through the back door, which had been oiled in readiness.

Outside the door there were a light American sleigh and a fleet little horse who was probably already weary of waiting. Once that sleigh darted away, then you, Samson Kharitonovich Eropkin, might as well try to catch the wind. This was no operation, it was a work of art.

It was time!

Momos pressed the button. Something fizzed, but he didn't see any bright flash from behind his closed eyelids.

Of all things, a misfire, just at that very moment! So much for the vaunted achievements of technical progress! At the rehearsal everything had been just perfect, but now the premiere had been turned into a fiasco!

Swearing silently to himself, Momos picked up the sack and tugged on Mimi's sleeve. They backed away towards the exit, trying not to make any noise.

But just then the accursed Blitzlicht came to life: it hissed, gave a dull flash, belched out a cloud of white smoke, and the chapel was illuminated with a feeble, flickering light. Four figures could clearly be made out, frozen motionless on one side of the table, and two others creeping away on the other.

'Stop! Where are you going?' Eropkin squealed. 'Give me my sack! Hold them, lads; they're Freemasons! Ah, the stinking rats!'

Momos made a dash for the door, since the light had faded, but then something whistled through the air and a noose tightened round his throat. That damned Kuzma and his cursed whip! Momos dropped the sack and clutched at his throat with a croak.

'Momchik, what's wrong?' Mimi asked, puzzled. She grabbed hold of him: 'Let's run!'

But it was too late. Rough hands emerged from the darkness, grabbed Momos's collar and threw him to the floor. Terrified and choking without air, he lost consciousness.

When consciousness returned, the first thing he saw was crimson shadows swaying across the black ceiling and the smoke-blackened frescoes. There was a lighted lantern flickering on the floor; it must have been brought from the sleigh.

Momos realised that he was lying on the floor with his hands tied behind his back. He turned his head this way and that, trying to assess the situation. The situation was awful; it couldn't possibly have been worse.

Mimi was squatting on her haunches, huddled up into a tight ball, with the mute monster Kuzma towering up over her, lovingly caressing his whip, the very sight of which made Momos twitch. The raw skin on his throat still stung.