Boris Akunin: Turkish Gambit

'No. Neither of him nor of you,' Varya snapped; but she was lying, because the whole of Russia had heard of Sobolev the Second, the hero of Turkestan, the conqueror of Khiva and Makhram.

People said various things about the general. Some idolised him as a warrior of matchless bravery, a knight without fear or reproach, calling him the next Suvorov or even Bonaparte, while others derided him as an ambitious poseur. The newspapers wrote of how Sobolev had single-handedly beaten off an entire horde of Turkomans, standing his ground even though he was wounded seven times; how he had crossed the lifeless desert with a small detachment of men and crushed the forces of the fearsome Abdurahman-bek, who had a tenfold advantage in numbers; but one of Varya's acquaintances had relayed rumours of a very different kind - claims that hostages had been executed and the Treasury of Kokand had been plundered.

Gazing into the handsome general's clear blue eyes, Varya could see immediately that the stories about the seven wounds and Abdurahman-bek were perfectly true, but the tales of hostages and the khan's treasury were obviously absolute nonsense, the inventions of envious slanderers - especially since Sobolev had now begun paying attention to Varya again, and this time he seemed to have noticed something interesting about her.

'But how on earth, madam, did you come to be here, where the blood flows in streams? And dressed like this? I am intrigued.'

Varya introduced herself and gave a brief account of her adventures, an infallible instinct assuring her that Sobolev would not betray her secret and have her despatched to Bucharest under armed escort.

'I envy your fiance, Varvara Andreevna,' said the general, caressing Varya with his eyes. 'You are an extraordinary young woman. However, allow me to introduce my comrades. I believe you have already made the acquaintance of Mr McLaughlin, and this is my orderly, Sergei Bereshchagin, the brother of the other Bereshchagin, the artist.' (A slender, good-looking youth in a long-waisted Cossack coat bowed awkwardly to Varya.) 'By the way, he is an excellent draughtsman himself. During a reconnaissance mission on the Danube he drew a picture of the Turkish positions - it was quite lovely. But where has Paladin got to? Hey, Paladin, come over here; let me introduce you to an interesting lady.'

Varya peered curiously at the Frenchman, who had ridden up last. The Frenchman (the armband on his sleeve said 'Correspondent No. 32') was impressively handsome, no worse in his own way than Sobolev: a slim aquiline nose, a sandy moustache with the ends curled up, a little gingerish imperial, intelligent grey eyes. But the expression in those eyes was angry.

'Those villains are a disgrace to the Turkish army!' the journalist exclaimed passionately in French. 'They're good for nothing but slaughtering peaceful civilians, but as soon as they even smell a battle -they're off into the bushes. If I were Kerim-pasha I'd disarm every one of them and have them hanged.'

'Calm down, my bold chevalier, there's a lady present,' McLaughlin interrupted him jovially. 'You're in luck: you have made your entrance in the guise of a romantic hero, so make the most of it. See the way she is looking at you.'

Varya blushed and hurled a furious glance at the Irishman, but McLaughlin simply burst into good-natured laughter. Paladin, however, behaved as a genuine Frenchman should: he dismounted and bowed.

'Charles Paladin, at your service, mademoiselle.'

'Varvara Suvorova,' she said amiably. 'Pleased to make your acquaintance. And thank you all, gentlemen. Your appearance was most timely.'

'And may I know your name?' Paladin asked with an inquisitive glance at Fandorin.

'Erast Fandorin,' replied the volunteer, although he was looking at Sobolev, not the Frenchman. 'I have been fighting in Serbia and am now on my way to general headquarters with an important message.'

The general looked Fandorin over from head to toe. He inquired deferentially: 'I expect you've seen your share of grief? What did you do before Serbia?'

'I was at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. A titular counsellor.'

This was a surprise. A diplomat? To be quite honest, all these new impressions had rather undermined the immense (why pretend otherwise?) impact produced on Varya by her taciturn companion, but now she looked at him with newly admiring eyes. A diplomat going off to war as a volunteer - that certainly did not happen very often. Yes indeed, all three of them were quite remarkably handsome, each in his own way: Fandorin, Sobolev and Paladin.

'What message?' Sobolev asked with a frown.

Fandorin hesitated, evidently unwilling to say.

'Come on now, don't go making a Spanish court secret out of it!' the general shouted at him. 'After all's said and done, that's simply being impolite to your rescuers.'

Nonetheless the volunteer lowered his voice, and the correspondents pricked up their ears. 'I am making my way from Vidin, G-General. Three days ago Osman-pasha set out for P-Plevna with an army corps.'

'Who is this Osman? And where in the blazes is Plevna?'

'Osman Nuri-pasha is the finest commander in the Turkish army, the conqueror of the Serbs. At the age of only forty-five, he is already a m-mushir, that is, a field-marshal. And his soldiers are beyond all comparison with those who were stationed on the Danube. Plevna is a little town thirty vyersts to the west of here. It controls the road to Sophia. We have to reach this strategically important point before the pasha and occupy it.'

Sobolev slapped a hand against his knee and his horse shifted its feet nervously. 'Ah, if I only had at least a regiment! But I am not involved in the action, Fandorin. You need to go to headquarters, to the commander-in-chief. I have to complete my reconnaissance, but I'll provide you with an escort to Tsarevitsy. Perhaps you will be my guest this evening, Varvara Andreevna? It can be quite jolly at times in the war correspondents' marquee.'

'With pleasure’ said Varya, casting a nervous glance towards the spot where the freed prisoner had been laid on the grass. Two Cossacks were squatting on their haunches beside the officer and doing something to him.

'That officer is dead, isn't he?'

'Alive and kicking,' replied the general. 'The lucky devil, he'll live for a hundred years now. When we started chasing the Bashi-Bazouks, they shot him in the head and high-tailed it. But everyone knows you can't trust a bullet. It shot off at a tangent and only tore off a little scrap of skin. Well then, my lads, have you bandaged up the captain?' he shouted loudly to the Cossacks.

The Cossacks helped the officer to get up. He swayed, but stayed on his feet and stubbornly pushed away the Cossacks, who were trying to support him by the elbows. He took several jerky, faltering steps on legs that seemed about to buckle under him at any moment, stood to attention and wheezed in a hoarse voice: 'Captain of General Headquarters Eremei Pere-pyolkin, Your Excellency. I was proceeding from Zimnitsa to my posting at the headquarters of the Western Division, where I had been appointed to Lieutenant-General Kriedener's operations section. On the way I was attacked by a unit of hostile irregular cavalry and taken prisoner. It was my own fault ... I simply did not expect anything of the kind in our rear ... I did not even have a pistol with me, only my sword . . .'

Varya was able to get a better look at the poor victim now. He was short and sinewy, with dishevelled chestnut hair, a narrow mouth with almost no lips and stern brown eyes - or rather, one brown eye, because the second one was still not visible,- but at least the captain's gaze was no longer full of anguish or despair.

'You're alive, and that's splendid’Sobolev said magnanimously. 'But an officer must always carry a pistol, even a staff officer. Otherwise it's like a lady going out into the street without a hat - she'll be taken for a loose woman.' He laughed, then caught Varya's angry look and hemmed as if he were clearing his throat. 'Pardon, mademoiselle.'