Boris Akunin - Turkish Gambit

‘I can just picture what is going on in Constantinople now,' Paladin said absent-mindedly, also gazing out of the window. 'Ak-pasha in San Stefano! There is panic in the palace, the harem is being evacuated, the eunuchs are running around with their fat backsides wobbling. I wonder if Abdul-Hamid has already crossed to the Asiatic side yet? And it will not even occur to anyone, Michel, that you have come here with only a single battalion. If this were a game of poker, it would make a fine bluff, with the opponent absolutely guaranteed to throw in his hand and pass.'

'This is getting worse and worse,' Perepyolkin cried in alarm. 'Mikhail Dmitrievich, Your Excellency, don't listen to him! It would be the end of you! You've already put your head in the wolf's mouth! Forget about Abdul-Hamid!'

Sobolev and the correspondent looked each other in the eye.

'What have I got to lose?' said the general, crunching the knuckles of his fist. 'If the sultan's guard doesn't panic and opens fire, I'll just pull back, that's all. Tell me, Charles, is the sultan's guard very strong?'

'The guard is a fine force, but Abdul-Hamid will never let it leave his side.'

'That means they won't pursue us. We could enter the city in a column, flags flying and drums beating; I'd be riding at the front on Gulnora,' said Sobolev, warming to his theme as he strode round the room. 'Before it gets light, so they can't see how few of us there are. And then to the palace. Without a single shot being fired! Would they bring me out the keys of Constantinople?'

'Of course they would!' Paladin exclaimed passionately. 'And that would be total capitulation!'

'Face the English with a fait accompli!' said the general, sawing the air with his hand; 'Before they know what's happening, the city is already in Russian hands and the Turks have surrendered. And if anything goes wrong, I might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. No one authorised me to take San Stefano either!'

'It would be an absolutely glorious finale! And to think that I would be an eyewitness to it!' the journalist said excitedly.

'Not a witness - one of the actors,' said Sobolev, slapping him on the shoulder.

'I won't let you out!' said Perepyolkin, blocking the doorway. He looked absolutely desperate, with his brown eyes goggling insanely and his forehead covered in beads of sweat. 'As the chief of staff I protest! Think, Your Excellency! You are a general of His Imperial Highness's retinue, not some wild Bashi-Bashouk! I implore you!'

'Out of the way, Perepyolkin, I'm sick of you!' the fearsome Olympian shouted at the rationalist pygmy. 'When Osman-pasha tried to break out of Plevna, you implored me then not to act without orders too. You went down on your knees! But who was right that time! You'll see: I shall have the keys to Constantinople!'

'How marvellous!' exclaimed Mitya. 'Isn't it wonderful, Varvara Andreevna?'

Varya said nothing, because she was not sure whether it was wonderful or not. Sobolev's impetuous derring-do had set her head spinning; and there was the little question of what she was supposed to do. Was she to march to the sound of drums with the chasseurs, holding Gulnora's reins?

'Gridnev, I'm leaving you my escort; you'll guard the bank, or the locals will loot it and then blame Sobolev,' said the general.

'But Your Excellency! Mikhail Dmitrievich!' the ensign howled. 'I want to go to Constantinople too!'

'And then who would protect Varvara Andreevna?' Paladin asked reproachfully, burring his r's.

Sobolev took a gold watch out of his pocket and the lid rang as he flicked it open.

'Half past five. In two hours or two and a half it will start to get light. Hey there, Gukmasov!'

'Yes, Your Excellency,' said the handsome cornet as he dashed into the office.

'Assemble the companies! Fall in the battalion in marching order! Banners and drums to the fore! Let's march in style! Saddle up Gulnora! Look lively! We depart at six hundred hours!' The orderly dashed out.

Sobolev stretched sweetly and said: 'Well now, Varvara Andreevna, I shall either be a greater hero than Bonaparte, or finally lose my foolish head at last.'

'You won't lose it,' she replied, gazing at the general in sincere admiration - he looked so wonderfully fine just at the moment: the Russian Achilles.

'Touch wood,' said Sobolev superstitiously, reaching for the table.

'It's not too late to change your mind!' Perepyolkin piped up. 'With your permission, Mikhail Dmitrievich, I can call Gukmasov back!'

He took a step towards the door, but just at that very moment . . .

At that moment there was a loud clattering of numerous pairs of boots on the staircase, the door swung open and two men entered the room: Lavrenty Arkadievich Mizinov and Fandorin.

'Erast Petrovich!' Varya squealed and almost flung herself on his neck, but she stopped herself just in time.

Mizinov rumbled: 'Aha, here he is! Excellent!'

'Your Excellency!' Sobelev said with a frown, spotting the gendarmes in blue uniforms behind the first two men. 'Why are you here? Of course, I am guilty of acting on my own initiative, but arresting me is really going rather too far.'

'Arrest you?' Mizinov was amazed. 'What on earth for? We barely managed to get through to you on handcars with half a company of gendarmes. The telegraph isn't working and the railway line has been cut.

We came under fire three times and lost seven men. I've got a bullet hole here in my greatcoat.' He showed Sobolev his sleeve.

Erast Petrovich stepped forward. He hadn't changed at all while he had been away, but he looked a real dandy in his civilian clothes: a top hat, a cloak with a pelerine, a starched collar.

'Hello, Varvara Andreevna,' the titular counsellor said cordially. 'How well your hair has grown. I think perhaps it is better like that.'

He bowed briefly to Sobolev.

'My congratulations on the diamond-studded sword, Your Excellency. That is a great honour.'

He nodded quickly to Perepyolkin and finally turned towards the French correspondent.

'Salaam aleichem, Anwar-effendi.'

This is no joke, gentlemen. One would have to be an ostrich with one's head buried in the sand not to see the danger hanging over the whole of enlightened Europe. To procrastinate is to perish. If we simply sit back and do nothing, watching the Scythian hordes . . .

Fandorin threw his cloak back off his shoulder and the burnished steel of a small, handsome revolver glinted dully in his right hand. The very same instant Mizinov clicked his fingers and two gendarmes entered the room and trained their carbines on the correspondent.

'What sort of tomfoolery is this?' barked Sobolev.

'What's all this '''salaam-aleichem" and "effendi" nonsense?'

Varya glanced round at Charles. He was standing by the wall with his arms crossed on his chest, watching the titular counsellor with a wary, sarcastic smile.

'Erast Petrovich!' Varya babbled. 'Surely you went to get McLaughlin!'