Turkish Gambit (15 page)

'The whole of Roumania is expecting an advancement,' the colonel declared with a solemn expression. 'It is now absolutely clear that the emperor of Russia has overestimated the strength of his army. I have learned from absolutely reliable sources,' he said, dropping his voice dramatically and leaning over so that the curl of his moustache tickled Varya's cheek, 'that General Kriedener will be relieved of the command of the Western Division, and the forces besieging Plevna will be placed under the leadership of our own Prince Karl.'

McLaughlin took a notepad out of his pocket and began taking notes.

'Mademoiselle Varvara, can I perhaps interest you in a nocturnal excursion through the streets of Bucharest?' Lukan whispered in her ear, taking astute advantage of the opportune pause. 'I can show you things you have never seen in that boring northern capital of yours. I swear it will be a night to remember.'

Ts that the decision of the Russian emperor or simply the wish of Prince Karl?' the inquisitive journalist asked.

'The wish of His Highness is more than enough,' snapped the colonel. 'Without Roumania and her army of fifty thousand valiant warriors the Russians are helpless. Let me tell you, Mister Correspondent, that my country has a great future ahead of it. Soon, very soon, Prince Karl will become king. And your humble servant,' he added, turning towards Varya, 'will become an extremely important person. Possibly even a senator. The perspicacity I have demonstrated has been adequately appreciated. Now what do you say to that romantic drive? I positively insist.'

‘I will think about it,' she promised evasively, desperately trying to think of a way to channel the conversation in the required direction.

At that moment Zurov and Paladin entered the restaurant - most inopportunely, from the point of view of the cause, but Varya was glad to see them anyway: in their company Lukan would be a bit less brazen.

Following the direction of her glance, the colonel muttered gloomily. 'They're letting absolutely anyone into the Royale nowadays. We should have gone into a separate room.'

'Good evening, gentlemen,' Varya greeted her acquaintances cheerfully. 'What a small town Bucharest is, to be sure! The colonel was just boasting to me of his perspicacity. He forecast in advance that the storming of Plevna would end in defeat.'

'Did he, indeed?' asked Paladin, looking closely at Lukan.

'You look absolutely magnificent, Varvara Andreevna,' said Zurov. 'What's that you have there, Martell? Waiter, some glasses over here!' The Roumanian took a drink of cognac and contemplated the two other men glumly.

'When did you make this prediction? Who did you tell?' asked McLaughlin, peering through half-closed eyes.

'It was in a report addressed to his sovereign,' Varya explained. 'And now the colonel's perspicacity has been adequately appreciated.'

'Eat and drink to your hearts' content, gentlemen,' said Lukan, inviting them with a broad sweep of his arm as he rose abruptly to his feet. 'It will all go on my bill. Miss Suvorova and I are going for a drive. She has promised me.'

Paladin raised his eyebrows in astonishment and Zurov exclaimed suspiciously: 'What is this I hear, Varvara Andreevna? You, going for a drive with Luke?'

Varya was close to panic. If she left with Lukan, her reputation would be ruined for ever, and there was no telling where it might lead; but if she refused, her mission would end in failure.

'I shall be straight back, gentlemen,' she said dejectedly and walked across to the exit as quickly as she could. She needed to gather her thoughts.

In the foyer she halted beside the tall mirror with the bronze scrolls and flourishes and pressed a hand to her blazing brow. How should she proceed? Go up to her room, lock herself in and refuse to answer the door. I'm sorry, Petya; please don't be angry with me,

Mister Titular Counsellor - Varya Suvorova is simply not cut out to be a spy.

The door creaked ominously and the colonel's red, angry face appeared in the mirror right behind her.

'I'm sorry, mademoiselle, but nobody treats Mikhai Lukan like that. First you make advances to me after your own fashion, and then you take it into your head to disgrace me in public? You've picked the wrong man this time! You're not in your scurvy press club now, this is my home ground!'

Not a trace was left of the future senator's former gallantry. His yellowish-brown eyes rained bolts of lightning down on her. 'Let's go, mademoiselle, the carriage is waiting.' A swarthy, hirsute hand descended on to Varya's shoulder, clutching it with surprisingly powerful fingers that seemed to be forged of iron.

'You have lost your mind, Colonel! I am no courtesan!' Varya shrieked, glancing around.

There were quite a lot of people in the foyer, mostly gentlemen in light summer jackets and Roumanian officers. They were observing the titillating scene with interest, but apparently had no intention of intervening on behalf of the lady (if, indeed, she was a lady).

Lukan said something in Roumanian and the onlookers laughed knowingly.

'Had a bit too much to drink, Marusya?' one of them asked in Russian, and they all laughed even louder.

The colonel grabbed Varya masterfully round the waist and led her off towards the exit, performing the manoeuvre so adroitly that it was quite impossible to resist.

'You insolent lout!' Varya exclaimed and tried to hit Lukan on the cheek, but he grabbed hold of her wrist.

His face was close now, smelling of a mixture of stale alcohol and eau de cologne. I'm going to be sick, Varya thought in fright.

But a moment later the colonel's hands released their grip of their own accord. First there was a loud slap, then a resounding crunch, and Varya's assailant went flying back against the wall. One of his cheeks was bright red from a slap and the other was stark white from a heavy punch. She saw Paladin and Zurov standing shoulder to shoulder two paces away. The correspondent was shaking the fingers of his right hand; the hussar was massaging his right fist.

'The allies have just had a falling out,' Hippolyte declared. 'And that is only the beginning. You won't get away with just a broken face, Luke. People who treat ladies like that end up with holes in their hide.'

Paladin did not say a word. He simply pulled off one white glove and threw it in the colonel's face.

Lukan shook his head, straightened up and rubbed his temple. He looked from one of them to the other. What astounded Varya most of all was that all three of them seemed to have completely forgotten that she even existed.

'Am I being challenged to a duel?' the Roumanian forced the French words out hoarsely, as though with a great effort. 'Both of you at once? Or one at a time?'

'Choose whichever you like the look of,' Paladin replied coolly. 'And if you're lucky with the first, you'll have the second to deal with.'

'O-oh no,' the count objected. 'That won't do. I was the first to bring up the subject of his hide, and I'm the one he'll go shooting with.'

'Shooting?' Lukan exclaimed with an unpleasant laugh. 'Oh no, Mister Cardsharp, the choice of weapons is mine. I know perfectly well that you and Monsieur Scribbler here are crack shots. But this is Roumania, and we'll fight our way - the Wallachian way.'

He turned towards the watching crowd and shouted something, and several Roumanian officers promptly drew their sabres from their scabbards and held them out with the hilts forward.

'I choose Monsieur Journalist,' said the colonel, cracking his knuckles and laying a hand on the handle of his sabre. He was growing more sober and more elated even as they watched. 'Choose any of these swords you like and be so kind as to follow me out into the yard. First I'll skewer you, and then I'll slice off this brawler's ears.'

There was a murmur of approval in the crowd and someone even shouted, 'Bravo!'

Paladin shrugged and took hold of the sabre that was nearest.

McLaughlin pushed his way through the idle onlookers: 'Stop this! Charles, you must be insane! This is barbarous! He'll kill you! Fighting with sabres is the Balkan national sport; you don't have the skill.'

'I was taught to fence with a spadroon, and that's almost the same thing,' the Frenchman replied imperturbably, weighing the blade in his hand.

'Gentlemen, don't!' said Varya, at last recovering her voice. 'This is all because of me. The colonel had taken a little drink, but he did not mean to offend me, I am sure. Stop this immediately; it's absolutely absurd! Think of the position you are putting me in!' Her voice trembled piteously, but her entreaty fell on deaf ears.

Without even glancing at the lady whose honour was the reason for all the commotion, the knot of men trooped off down the corridor, talking excitedly, in the direction of the small internal courtyard. Varya was left alone with McLaughlin.

'This is stupid,' he said angrily. 'Spadroons, he says! I've seen the way the Roumanians handle a sabre. They don't assume the third position and say "en garde". They slice you up like blood pudding. Oh, what a writer will be lost, and all because of that idiotic French conceit. And it won't do that turkey-cock Lukan's prospects any good either. They'll stick him in jail and there he'll stay until the victory's won and an amnesty's signed. Back in Britain . . .'

'My God, my God, what can I do?' Varya muttered in dismay, not listening to him. 'I'm the one to blame for everything.'

'Flirting, madam, is certainly a great sin,' the Irishman unexpectedly agreed. 'Ever since the Trojan war . . .'

She heard a throng of male voices howl in the courtyard. 'What's happening? Surely it can't be over already?' Varya cried, clutching at her heart. 'So quickly! Go and take a look, Seamus. I beg you!'

The correspondent said nothing. He was listening, his genial features set in a mask of alarm. McLaughlin clearly did not wish to go out into the yard.

'Why are you wasting time?' said Varya, trying to stir him into action. 'Perhaps he needs medical assistance. Oh, you're useless!' She darted into the corridor and saw Zurov coming towards her with his spurs jangling.

'Oh, what a terrible shame, Varvara Andreevna,' he shouted out to her from a distance. 'What an irreparable loss!'

She slumped against the wall in black despair and her chin began to tremble.

'How on earth could we Russians have allowed ourselves to abandon the tradition of duelling with sabres,' Hippolyte continued with his lament. 'Such brilliance and pageantry, such elegance! Not just a bang and a puff of smoke and that's the end of it. Why it's a ballet, a poem, the Fountain of Bakhchisarai!'

'Stop babbling, Zurov!' Varya sobbed. 'Tell us what's going on!'

'Oh, you should have seen it!' said the captain, gazing excitedly at Varya and McLaughlin. 'It was all over in ten seconds. Just imagine the scene: a dark, shady courtyard. The broad flagstones lit by lanterns. We spectators are up on the gallery with only Paladin and Luke down below. The Roumanian vaults to and fro, brandishing his sabre and tracing out a figure eight in the air, tosses up an oak leaf and slices it in half. The audience applauds in delight. The Frenchman simply stands there, waiting for our peacock to stop his strutting. And then Luke bounded forward, embellishing the atmosphere with a treble clef, but without even moving from the spot Paladin leaned his trunk backwards to dodge the blow and then, with such lightning speed that I couldn't even see how he did it, he flicked the cutting edge of his sword right across the Roumanian's throat. Luke gurgled a little, fell flat on his face, jerked his legs a couple of times and that was it, retired without a pension. End of the duel.'

'Did they check? Is he dead?' the Irishman asked quickly.

'Dead as dead can be’ the hussar assured him. 'The blood would have filled Lake Ladoga. Why, Varvara Andreevna, you're upset! You look as pale as a ghost! Here, come lean against me' - and he promptly slipped his arm round Varya's waist, which in the circumstances was entirely appropriate.

'What about Paladin?' she murmured.

Zurov edged his hand a little higher as though inadvertently and said casually: 'What about him? He's gone to the commandant's office to hand himself in. That's the way it goes, you know; nobody's going to give him a pat on the back for this. That was no junior cadet he killed: he was a colonel. They'll pack him off back to France at the very least. Why don't I unfasten one of your buttons so that you can breathe more easily?'

Varya couldn't see or hear a thing. I'm disgraced, she thought. She had forfeited the name of a respectable woman for ever. She had bungled her spying, played with fire, and now look where it had got her. She was far too frivolous - and men were all beasts. Someone had been killed because of her. And she would never see Paladin again. But the worst thing of all was that the thread leading into the enemy's web had been snapped.