Boris Akunin - Turkish Gambit

'I do not follow your logic,' Anwar said with a shrug. 'But of course I have read Russian literature. It is good literature, no worse than English or French. But literature is a toy, - in a normal country it cannot have any great importance. I am myself something of a literary man, in a sense. But one must do something serious, and not just compose sentimental fairy tales. Look at Switzerland. It has no great literature, but life there is incomparably more dignified than in your Russia. I spent almost my entire childhood and adolescence in Switzerland, so you may take my word for it that—'

Before he could finish, there was a crackle of gunfire in the distance.

‘It has begun! They have attacked ahead of time!' Anwar pressed his ear against the door with his eyes glittering feverishly. 'Curses! It is just my bad luck that this infernal vault does not have a single window!'

Varya struggled in vain to calm her pounding heart. The thunderous noise of shooting was drawing nearer. She could hear Sobolev giving some command or other, but she couldn't make out the words. From somewhere there came a cry of 'Allah!' and a rapid volley of shots.

Anwar murmured as he spun the chamber of his revolver. ‘I could try to break out, but I have only three bullets left . . . How I detest inaction!' He started at the sudden sound of shots inside the building.

'If our men win, I shall send you to Adrianople,' Anwar said rapidly. 'Clearly, the war will end now. There will be no second stage. That is unfortunate. Not everything turns out the way you plan it. Perhaps you and I will meet again. At this moment, of course, you hate me, but time will pass and you will realise that I was right.'

‘I feel no hatred for you,' said Varya, 'but I do bitterly regret that such a talented man as you is engaged in such despicable goings-on. I remember Mizinov relating the story of your life . . .'

'Indeed?' Anwar put in absent-mindedly, still listening to the shooting.

'Yes. All those intrigues and all those people who died! Was that Circassian who sang an aria before his execution not a friend of yours? Did you sacrifice him as well?'

‘I do not care to recall that story’ he said severely. 'Do you know who I am? I am the midwife: I help the child to enter the world, and my arms are covered up to the elbows in blood and mucus . . .'

A volley of shots rang out very close by.

'I am going to open the door now and help my own side. You stay in here and for God's sake do not stick your head out. It will all be over soon.'

He pulled back the bolt and suddenly froze - there was no more shooting in the bank. There was a voice saying something, but it was not clear whether it was speaking Russian or Turkish. Varya held her breath.

‘I’ll rip your ugly face off! Sitting it out in the corner, you blankety-blank-blank,' a sergeant-major's deep bass roared, and the sweet sounds of her native speech set her heart singing.

They had held out! They had beaten them off!

The sound of shooting was moving further and further away, and there was a quite distinct, long-drawn-out cry of 'Hoorah!'

Anwar stood there with his eyes closed. His expression was calm and sad. When the firing stopped completely, he opened the door a little.

'It is over, mademoiselle. Your captivity is at an end. Go now.'

'What about you?' whispered Varya.

'The queen has been sacrificed without any particular gain. Regrettable. But everything else remains unchanged. Go, and I wish you happiness.'

'No!' she cried, dodging away from his hands. 'I will not leave you here. Give yourself up and I will testify on your behalf at the trial.'

'So that they can stitch up my throat and then hang me anyway?' laughed Anwar. 'Thank you kindly, but no. There are two things I detest more than anything else on earth: humiliation and capitulation. Farewell, I need to be alone for a moment.'

He managed to grab hold of Varya's sleeve and with a gentle push he sent her out through the doorway. The massive slab of steel immediately slammed shut.

Varya found herself facing a pale Fandorin. General Mizinov was standing by a shattered window and yelling at the gendarmes who were sweeping up the shards of glass. It was already light outside.

'Where is Michel?' Varya asked in fright. 'Is he dead? Wounded?'

'Alive and well,' replied Erast Petrovich, looking her over closely. 'He is in his natural element - pursuing the enemy. But poor Perepyolkin has been wounded again - a yataghan took off half of his ear. He will obviously be awarded another medal. And have no fear for Ensign Gridnev: he is alive too.'

'I know,' she said, and Fandorin's eyes narrowed slightly.

Mizinov came over to them and complained: 'Another hole in my greatcoat. What a day. So he let you out? Excellent! Now we can use the dynamite.' He approached the door of the strongroom cautiously and ran his hand over the steel surface. 'I'd say two charges ought to be just enough to do it. Or perhaps that's too much? It would be good to take the villain alive.'

A carefree and highly melodic whistling suddenly started up behind the door.

'And now he's whistling!' Mizinov exclaimed indignantly. 'Some nerve, eh? Well, I'll soon whistle you out of there! Novgorodtsev! Send the sappers' platoon for some dynamite!'

'No d-dynamite will be necessary,' Erast Petrovich said in a soft voice as he listened carefully to the whistling.

'You have started stammering again’ Varya told him. 'Does that mean everything is all over?'

Sobolev strode into the room with a loud clattering of boots, his white greatcoat with the scarlet cuffs hanging open.

'They have fallen back!' he announced in a voice hoarse after the battle. 'Our losses are appalling, but never mind, there should be a troop train here soon. Who's whistling that tune so marvellously? It's Lucia di Lammermoor-, I adore it!' And the general began singing along in his pleasant, husky baritone.

He sang the final stanza with feeling and at the very moment he reached the end there was the sound of a shot from behind the door.

'You see, a peace has been signed, and a very good one - despite your gloomy predictions, Mister Pessimist,' said Varya, failing yet again to find the words she really wanted to say.

The titular counsellor had already said goodbye to yesterday's suspect and today's free man, Petya, who had got into the carriage to settle into a compartment and lay out their things. In honour of the victorious conclusion of the war Pyotr Yablokov had been granted a complete pardon and even a medal for diligent service.

They could have left two weeks earlier, but although Petya had tried to hurry her, Varya had kept putting it off, as if she were waiting for something that she couldn't explain.