Boris Akunin: All the World's a Stage

Fandorin was rarely left in peace for long, because of the reputation that he had acquired in international professional circles over the last twenty years. Since the ill-starred war with Japan, the independent expert’s own state had often turned to him for help. There had been times when Erast Petrovich refused – his concepts of good and evil did not always coincide with those of the government. It was only with extreme reluctance, for instance, that he accepted cases involving internal politics, unless it was a matter of some especially heinous villainy.

This business of the attempt on the prime minister’s life had a whiff of precisely that kind of villainy about it. There were too many strange, unexplained aspects. According to confidential information received, someone in St Petersburg was of the same opinion. Fandorin’s friends in the capital had informed him by telephone that yesterday the minister of justice had set out for Kiev, in order to head up the investigation in person. That meant that he had no confidence in the Department of Police and the Okhrana. If not today, then tomorrow the ‘independent expert’ Fandorin would also be invited to join the investigation. And if he was not invited, it would mean that the rot in the apparatus of state had spread to the very top…

Erast Petrovich already knew what action to take.

Concerning the chemical means of influence, some thought was still required, but the psychological and hypnotic methods could perfectly well be applied to the killer. Fandorin would have to assume that they would prove adequate. The terrorist Bogrov had to reveal the most important thing: whose instrument was he? Exactly who had provided him with the pass and allowed him into the theatre with a revolver?

And it would also be no bad thing to compel the candour of the head of the Kiev Department for the Defence of Public Security, Lieutenant-Colonel Kulyabko, and the deputy director of the Police Department, State Councillor Verigin, who had been responsible for the security measures. There was probably no need to be over-fastidious with these extremely dubious gentlemen, bearing in mind their line of business and general lack of scruples. It was unlikely that they would allow themselves to be hypnotised, but he could sit tête-à-tête for a while with each of them, in an unofficial context, and add a drop or two of his secret formulation to the lieutenant-colonel’s favourite cognac and the teetotaller Verigin’s tea. And they would tell him about the mysterious pass, and why there was not a single bodyguard present beside the prime minister during the interval, despite the fact that Stolypin had been hunted for years by the Social Revolutionaries and the anarchists, as well as by various solitary crusaders against tyranny…

The idea that the organs responsible for the protection of the empire could be implicit in an attempt on the life of the head of the government made Fandorin shudder. This was the fourth day he had spent wandering round his apartment like a man demented, either telling his green beads or tracing out diagrams on paper that only he could understand. He smoked cigars and kept demanding tea, but ate almost nothing.

Masa – his servant and friend, and the only person in the world who was close to him – knew perfectly well that when the master was in this state, it was best to leave him alone. The Japanese remained near by all the time, but he didn’t call any attention to himself, he was as quiet as a mouse. He cancelled two assignations and sent the caretaker’s wife off to the Chinese shop to get tea. Masa’s narrow, oriental eyes glinted fervently – he was anticipating interesting events.

In the previous year the faithful companion had also reached the fifty mark, and he had responded to this milestone date with truly Japanese seriousness, changing his life in an even more radical manner than his master.

Firstly, in accordance with ancient tradition, he had completely shaved his head – as a sign that inwardly he was entering into the condition of a monk and renouncing the vanity of this world as he prepared to withdraw to another. Certainly, Fandorin had not yet noticed that Masa had altered his Céladonesque habits in any way. But then, the rules of Japanese monks do not necessarily prescribe chastity of the flesh.

Secondly, Masa had decided to take a new name, in order to make a complete break with his old self. But here a difficulty arose: it transpired that, according to the laws of the Russian Empire, in order to change one’s given name, it was necessary to undergo baptism. However, this was no obstacle to the Japanese. He happily accepted the Orthodox faith, suspended a substantial crucifix round his neck and started crossing himself fervently at the sight of every church dome, and even at the sound of bells chiming – none of which prevented him from continuing to burn incense in front of his domestic Buddhist altar. According to his documents, his name was no longer Masahiro, but Mikhail Erastovich (the patronymic having been taken from his godfather). Fandorin was also obliged to share his surname with this brand-new servant of God – the Japanese had requested this as the very greatest reward that his sovereign lord could bestow on his devoted vassal for long and zealous service.

A passport is one thing, but Erast Petrovich nonetheless reserved the right to call his servant by the name he had always used – Masa. And he ruthlessly nipped in the bud any attempts by his godson to call his master ‘ faza-san ’ (father), and especially ‘papa’.

So Erast Petrovich and Mikhail Erastovich had been stuck in the house for four days, all the while glancing impatiently at the telephone, anticipating a summons. But the lacquered box had remained stubbornly silent. Fandorin was not often disturbed on trifling matters, since not many people knew his number.

On Monday, 5 September, at three in the afternoon, at last there was a call.

Masa grabbed the receiver – he just happened to be polishing the instrument with a little velvet cloth, as if he were trying to propitiate a capricious deity.

Fandorin walked out into the other room and stood at the window, preparing himself inwardly for the important clarification of the situation. Insist on the maximum authority and absolute freedom of action, immediately , he thought. Otherwise do not accept. That is one …

Masa glanced in through the door. His expression was intent.

‘I don’t know whose call you have been expecting for so many days, master, but I think this is the one. The lady’s voice is trembling. She says it is a very urgent matter, of ex-cep-tion-ar im-port-ance .’ Masa pronounced the last three words in Russian.

‘A l-lady?’ Erast Petrovich queried in surprise.

‘She says “Origa”.’

Masa considered Russian patronymics an inessential decorative element, remembered them poorly and often omitted them.

Fandorin’s bewilderment was resolved. Olga… Why, naturally. He should have been expecting this. In a case as tangled and fraught with unpredictable complications as this one, the authorities would not wish to approach a private individual directly in order to ask for help. It was more appropriate to act through the family. Fandorin was acquainted with Olga Borisovna Stolypina, wife of the wounded prime minister and great-granddaughter of the great general Suvorov. A woman of firm will and intelligence, not the kind of individual to be bowed or broken by any blows of fate.

Of course, she was aware that she would be a widow very soon. It was also quite possible that she was telephoning on her own initiative, having sensed something strange in the way the official investigation was being conducted.

Erast Petrovich heaved a deep sigh and took the receiver.