Boris Akunin - Turkish Gambit

'Charles, you must be insane!' shouted Sobolev, taking a step forward, 'hiding behind a lady!'

'But Monsieur Fandorin has proved that I am a Turk,' Paladin replied sarcastically, and Varya could feel his hot breath on the back of her head. 'And in Turkey no one stands on ceremony with ladies.'

'Ooh-ooh-ooh!' Mitya howled; then he lowered his head like a calf and rushed forward.

Paladin's pistol thundered once again and the young lieutenant fell face down with a grunt.

Everyone froze again.

Paladin was pulling Varya now - backwards and off to one side.

'If anyone moves, I'll kill them,' he warned them all in a soft voice.

The wall behind Varya seemed to part, and suddenly she and Paladin were in a different room. Oh, yes, the strongroom!

Paladin slammed the steel door shut and slid the bolt home.

The two of them were alone.

Paladin released his grip on Varvara, and she darted away from him in horror. She heard the muted sound of voices behind the massive door.

'Name your terms, Anwar!' It was Erast Petrovich.

'No terms!' (That was Mizinov.) 'Open the door immediately or I'll have it blown open with dynamite!'

'Save your orders for the gendarme corps!' (That was Sobolev.) 'Use dynamite and she'll be killed!'

'Gentlemen,' shouted Paladin - who was not really Paladin at all - in French. 'This is hardly polite! You are preventing me from discussing the situation with the lady!'

'Charles! Or whatever your name is!' Sobolev roared in a booming general's bass. 'If a single hair of Varvara Andreevna's head is harmed, I'll have you strung up without benefit of trial!'

'One more word and I'll shoot her first then myself!' Paladin declared, raising his voice dramatically, then suddenly winked at Varya, as though he had cracked a slightly improper but terribly funny joke.

There was silence behind the door.

'Do not look at me like that, as though I have suddenly sprouted horns and grown fangs, Mademoiselle Barbara,' Paladin said in a low voice, speaking normally now. 'Of course I am not going to kill you and I would not wish to place your life in danger for the world.'

'Indeed?' she asked acidly. 'Then what is the point of this farce? Why did you kill three entirely innocent people? What are you hoping to achieve?'

Anwar-effendi (it was time to forget Paladin) took out his watch. 'Five minutes past six. I needed "this farce" in order to gain time. And by the way, you need not be concerned about the junior lieutenant. Knowing your fondness for him I merely put a hole in his thigh -nothing too serious. Afterwards he will boast of his war wound. And as for the gendarmes, that is the nature of their job.'

Varya asked warily: 'To gain time? What for?'

'Well, Mademoiselle Barbara, according to the plan, a regiment of Anatolian infantry is due to enter San Stefano in one hour and twenty-five minutes - that is, at half past seven. They are one of the finest units in the entire Turkish guards. The assumption was that by then Sobolev's detachment would already have reached the outskirts of Istanbul, come under fire from the English fleet and pulled back. The riflemen would have struck the Russians from the rear as they withdrew in disorder. An elegant plan and everything was going without a hitch until the very last minute.'

'What plan do you mean?'

'As I said, it was an elegant one. First gently prompt Michel to start thinking about that temptingly abandoned passenger train. You were very helpful to me in that, for which I thank you. "Open a book and drink some hot tea" - that was magnificent. After that it was simple - the vaulting ambition of our peerless Achilles, his indomitable mettle and belief in his star would have carried things to their conclusion. Oh, Sobolev would not have been killed. I would not have allowed that. In the first place, I am genuinely obligated to him, and in the second place, the capture of the great Ak-pasha would have made a spectacular start to the second stage of the Balkan war.' Anwar sighed. 'It is a shame the plan miscarried. Your youthful old man is to be congratulated. As the Eastern sages say, it is karma.'

'What is it that they say?' Varya asked in astonishment.

'There now, you see, Mademoiselle Barbara, you are an educated, cultured young lady, but there are elementary things that you do not know,' her bizarre companion said reproachfully. 'Karma is one of the fundamental concepts of Hindu and Buddhist philosophy -something akin to the Christian Providence, but far more interesting. After all, the East is far more ancient, wise and complex. My country Turkey happens to be situated precisely at the crossroads of the East and the West; it is a country that could have a great future.'

'No more lectures, if you please,' said Varya, cutting short his deliberations. 'What do you intend to do?'

'Why, what can I do?' Anwar asked in astonishment. 'Naturally, I shall wait until half past seven. The original plan has failed, but the Anatolian infantry will arrive nonetheless. There will be a battle. If our guardsmen prevail - and they have the advantage of numbers, and the training, and the factor of surprise - then I am saved. However, if Sobolev's men hold out . . . But let us not attempt to guess the future. By the way,' he said, looking Varya in the eye earnestly, 'I know how determined you can be, but do not imagine you can warn your friends about the attack. The moment you open your mouth to shout, I shall be obliged to stop it with a gag. And I will do it, despite the sincere respect and sympathy that I feel for you.'

So saying, he unfastened his necktie, rolled it into a tight ball and put it in his pocket.

'A gag for a lady?' Varya laughed. 'I liked you much better as a Frenchman.'

'I assure you that a French spy would behave in exactly the same way if so much depended on his actions. I am used to taking no thought for my own life; I have gambled it so many times for the sake of the cause. And that gives me the right to take no thought for the lives of others. In this game, Mademoiselle Barbara, the rules are the same for all. It is a cruel game, but then life is a cruel business. Do you imagine I felt no pity for the brave-hearted Zurov or the good-hearted McLaughlin? Why, of course I did, but there are higher values than personal sentiment.'

'And exactly what values might those be?' Varya exclaimed. 'Pray explain to me, Monsieur Intrigant, what exalted ideas can justify killing a man who regards you as his friend?'

'An excellent subject for discussion,' said Anwar, moving up a chair. 'Please, take a seat, Mademoiselle Barbara; we need some way to while away the time. And do not scowl at me in that manner. I am no ogre,-1 am merely an enemy of your country. I do not wish you to regard me as the heartless monster depicted by the preternaturally perceptive Monsieur Fandorin. He was the one who should have been neutralised in good time . . . Yes, I am a killer. But then all of us here are killers - your Fandorin, and the deceased Zurov, and Mizinov. But Sobolev is a super-killer; he is simply swimming in blood. In these men's games of ours there are only two possible roles: the killer and the victim. Do not cherish any illusions, mademoiselle; we all live in the jungle. Try to regard me without prejudice: forget that you are Russian and I am a Turk. I am a man who has chosen a very difficult path in life. And, moreover, a man to whom you are not indifferent. I am even a little in love with you myself.'