The Diamond Chariot (49 page)

He didn’t understand how it happened: either Iwaoka wasn’t careful enough, or the Satsuman turned round by chance, but it didn’t work out neatly at all.

The last samurai, the youngest, looked round when the commissar was only five steps away. The young man’s reactions were simply astounding.

Before he had even finished turning his head, he squealed and jerked his blade out of the scabbard. The other two leapt away from the wall as if they had been flung out by a spring and also drew their weapons.

A sword glinted above Iwaoka’s head and clanged against the fan held up to block it, sending sparks flying. The commissar turned his wrist slightly, opened his strange weapon wider and sliced at the air, almost playfully, but the steel edge caught the Satsuman across the throat. Blood spurted out and the first opponent had been disposed of. He slumped to the ground, grabbing at his throat with his hands, and soon fell silent.

The second one flew at Iwaoka like a whirlwind, but the old wolf easily dodged the blow. With a deceptively casual movement, he flicked the fan across the samurai’s wrist and the sword fell out of the severed hand. The samurai leaned down and picked the
katana
up with his other hand, but the commissar struck again, and the samurai tumbled to the ground with his head split open.

All this took about three seconds. Fandorin still hadn’t had a chance to throw his lasso. He stood there, whirling it above his head in whistling circles, but the man with the withered arm moved so fast that he couldn’t choose the moment for the throw.

The steel blade clashed with the steel fan, and the fearsome opponents leapt back and circled round each other, ready to pounce again.

When the man with the withered arm slowed down, Erast Petrovich seized the moment and threw his lasso. It went whistling through the air – but the Satsuman leapt forward, knocked the fan aside, swung round his axis and slashed at Iwaoka’s legs.

Something appalling happened: the commissar’s feet stayed where they were, but his severed ankles slipped off them and stuck in the ground. The old campaigner swayed, but before he fell, the sword blade sliced him in half – from his right shoulder to his left hip. The body settled into a formless heap.

Celebrating his victory, the man with the withered arm froze on the spot for a mere second, but that was enough for Fandorin to make another throw. This one was faultlessly precise and the broad noose encircled the samurai’s shoulders. Erast Petrovich allowed it to slip down to his elbows and tugged it towards him, forcing the Satsuman to spin round his own axis again. In just a few moments, the prisoner had been bound securely and laid out on the ground. Snarling furiously and baring his teeth, he writhed and twisted, even trying to reach the rope with his teeth, but there was nothing he could do.

Suga and Asagawa dragged over the hunchback with his wrists tied to his ankles, so that he could neither walk nor stand – when they let go of him, he tumbled over on to his side. There was a wooden gag protruding from his mouth, with laces that were tied at the back of his head.

The vice-intendant walked over to the commissar’s mutilated body and heaved a deep sigh, but that was as far as the expression of grief went.

When the general turned towards Fandorin, he was smiling.

‘We forgot about the signal,’ he said cheerfully, holding up his whistle. ‘Never mind, we managed without any back-up. We’ve taken the main two villains alive. That’s incredibly good luck.’

He stood in front of the man with the withered arm, who had stopped thrashing about on the ground and was lying there quite still, pale-faced, with his eyes squeezed tight shut.

Suga said something harsh and kicked the prone man contemptuously, then grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and stood him on his feet.

The samurai opened his eyes. Never before had Fandorin seen such sheer animal fury in a human stare.

‘An excellent technique,’ said Suga, fingering the noose of the lasso. ‘We’ll have to add it to our repertoire. Now I understand how the Turks managed to take you prisoner.’

The titular counsellor made no comment – his didn’t want to disappoint the Japanese police chief. In actual fact he had been captured with a brigade of Serbian volunteers who had been cut off from their own lines and used up all their cartridges. According to the samurai code, apparently they should have choked themselves with their own shoulder belts …

‘What is that for?’ Erast Petrovich asked, pointing to the gag in the hunchback’s mouth.

‘So that he won’t take it into his head …’

Suga never finished what he was saying. With a hoarse growl, the man with the withered arm pushed the general aside with his knee, lunged forward into a run and smashed his forehead into the corner of the shrine at full speed.

There was a sickening crunch and the bound man collapsed face down. A red puddle started spreading rapidly beneath him.

Suga bent down over the samurai, felt the pulse in the man’s neck and waved his hand hopelessly.

‘The
hami
is needed to prevent the prisoner from biting off his own tongue,’ Asagawa concluded for his superior. ‘It is not enough simply to take enemies like this alive. You have to prevent them dying afterwards as well.’

Fandorin said nothing, he was stunned. He felt guilty – and not just because he had not bound an important prisoner securely enough. He was feeling even more ashamed of something else.

‘There’s something I have to tell you, Inspector,’ he said, blushing as he led Asagawa aside.

The vice-intendant was left beside the remaining prisoner: he checked to make sure the ropes were pulled tight. Once he was convinced that everything was in order, he went to inspect the shrine.

In the meantime Fandorin, stammering more than usual, confessed his perfidious deceit to the inspector. He told him about the tar, and about his suspicions concerning the Japanese police.

‘I know I have c-caused you a great deal of unpleasantness and damaged your reputation with your s-superiors. I ask you to forgive me and bear no grudge …’

Asagawa heard him out with a stony face; only the slight trembling of his lips betrayed his agitation. Erast Petrovich was prepared for a sharp, well-deserved rebuff, but the inspector surprised him.

‘You could have never admitted anything,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘I would never have known the truth, and you would have remained an impeccable hero. But your confession required even greater courage. Your apology is accepted.’

He bowed ceremoniously. Fandorin replied with a precisely similar bow.

Suga came out of the shrine, holding three bundles in his hands.

‘This is all there is,’ he said. ‘The search specialists will take a more thorough look later. Maybe they’ll find some kind of hiding place. I’d like to know who helped these villains, who supplied them with new swords. Oh, I have plenty to talk about with Mr Semushi! I’ll question him myself,’ said the vice-intendant, with a smile so ferocious it made Erast Petrovich wonder whether the interrogation would be conducted in accordance with civilised norms. ‘Everyone is in line for decorations. A high order for you, Fandorinsan. Perhaps even …
Miro
!’ the general exclaimed suddenly, pointing to Semushi. ‘
Hami!
’

The titular counsellor saw that the wooden gag was no longer protruding from between the hunchback’s teeth, but dangling on its laces. Inspector Agasawa dashed towards the prisoner, but too late – Semushi opened his mouth wide and clenched his jaws shut with a snarl. A dense red torrent gushed out of his mouth on to his bare chest.

There was a blood-curdling roar that faded into spasmodic gurgling. Suga and Asagawa prised open the suicide’s teeth and stuffed a rag into his mouth, but it was clear that the bleeding could not be stopped. Five minutes later Semushi stopped groaning and went quiet.

Asagawa was a pitiful sight. He bowed to his superior and to Fandorin, insisting that he had no idea how the prisoner could have chewed through the lace – it had evidently not been strong enough and he, Asagawa, was to blame for not checking it properly.

The general listened to all this and waved his hand dismissively. His voice sounded reassuring. Fandorin made out the familiar word ‘
akunin
’.

‘I was saying that it’s not possible to take a genuine villain alive, no matter how hard you try,’ said Suga, translating his own words. ‘When a man has a strong
hara
, there’s nothing you can do with him. But the mission is a success in any case. The minister will be delighted, he’s sick to death of sitting under lock and key. The great man has been saved, for which Japan will be grateful to Russia and to you personally, Mr Vice-Consul.’

That evening Erast Petrovich betrayed his principles and rode home in a
kuruma
pulled by three rikshas. After all his emotional and physical tribulations, the titular counsellor was absolutely worn out. He couldn’t tell what had undermined his strength more –the bloody spectacle of the two suicides or the hour and a half spent weeding, but the moment he got into the
kuruma
, he fell asleep, muttering:

‘I’m going to sleep all night, all day and all night again …’

The conveyance in which the triumphant victors rode back to the consulate presented a truly unusual sight: snoring away in the middle was the secretary Shirota, wearing a morning coat and a string tie; this respectable-looking gentleman was flanked by two semi-naked peasants, sleeping soundly with their heads resting on his shoulders, and one of them was caked all over in dried dung.

Alas, however, Erast Petrovich was not given a chance to sleep all night, all day and all night again.

At eleven in the morning, when he was sleeping like a log, the vice-consul was shaken awake by his immediate superior.

Pale and trembling, Vsevolod Vitalievich splashed cold water over Fandorin, drank the liquid remaining in the mug and read out the express message that had just arrived from the embassy:

‘
Early this morning Okubo was killed on the way to the imperial palace. Six unidentified men drew concealed swords, killed the postillion, hacked at the horse’s legs and stabbed the minister to death when he jumped out of the carriage. The minister had no guards. As yet nothing is known about the killers, but eyewitnesses claim that they addressed each other in the Satsuma dialect. Please report to the embassy immediately with Vice-Consul Fandorin
.’

‘How is that possible?’ the titular counsellor exclaimed. ‘The conspirators were wiped out!’

‘It is now clear that the group you have been hunting only existed in order to divert the authorities’ energy and attention. Or else the man with the withered arm and his group were given a secondary role once they had attracted the attention of the police. The main group was waiting patiently for its chance. The moment Okubo broke his cover and was left without any protection, the killers struck. Ah, Fandorin, I fear this is an irredeemable blow. And the worst disaster is still to come. The consequences for Russia will be lamentable. There is no one to tame the beast, the cage is empty, the Japanese tiger will break free.’

The zoo is empty,
All the visitors have fled.
Tiger on the loose

THE SCENT OF IRISES

Six morose-looking gentlemen were sitting in the office of the Russian ambassador: five in black frock coats and one in naval uniform, also black. The frivolous May sun was shining outside the windows of the building, but its rays were blocked out by thick curtains, and the room was as gloomy as the general mood.

The nominal chairman of the meeting was the ambassador himself, Full State Counsellor Kirill Vasilievich Korf, but His Excellency hardly even opened his mouth, maintaining a significant silence and merely nodding gravely when Bukhartsev, sitting on his right, had the floor. The seats on the left of the plenipotentiary representative of the Russian Empire were occupied by another two diplomatic colleagues, the first secretary and a youthful attaché, but they did not participate in the conversation, and in introducing themselves, they had murmured their names so quietly that Erast Petrovich could not make them out.

The consul and vice-consul were seated on the other side of the long table, which gave the impression, if not of direct confrontation, then at least of a certain opposition between Tokyoites and Yokohamans.

First they discussed the details of the assassination: the attackers had revolvers, but they fired only into the air, to cause fright and confusion; the unfortunate Okubo had tried to protect himself from the sword blades with his bare hands, so his forearms were covered in slashes; the fatal blow had split the brilliant minister’s head in half; from the scene of the killing, the conspirators had gone straight to the police to surrender and had submitted a written statement, in which the dictator was declared a usurper and enemy of the nation; all six were former samurai from Satsuma, their victim’s home region.

Fandorin was astounded.

‘They surrendered? They didn’t try to kill themselves?’

‘There’s no point now,’ the consul explained. ‘They’ve done their job. There will be a trial, they will make beautiful speeches, the public will regard them as heroes. Plays will be written about them, and prints will be made. And then, of course, they’ll chop their heads off, but they have secured themselves an honourable place in Japanese history.’

After that they moved on to the main item on the agenda – discussing the political situation and forecasting imminent changes. Two of the men – the consul and the maritime agent – argued, the others listened.

‘Japan will now inevitably be transformed from our ally into our rival and, with time, our sworn enemy,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich prophesied morosely. ‘Such, I fear, is the law of political physics. Under Okubo, an advocate of strict control over all aspects of social life, Japan was developing along the Russian path; a firm vertical structure of power, state management of the basic industrial sectors, no democratic games. But now the hour of the English party has been ushered in. The country will turn on to the British path – with a parliament and political parties, with the development of private capital on a large scale. And what is the British model of development, gentlemen? It is outward extension and expansion, a gaseous state, that is, the urge to fill all available space: a weak Korea, a decrepit China. That is the ground on which we will meet the Japanese tiger.’