Turkish Gambit (23 page)

The emperor nodded. 'What say you now, Mikhail Alexandrovich?'

The chancellor half-closed his eyes: 'That an interesting scheme could be made of this, Your Majesty. If it is all true, then this time the English have allowed themselves to get carried away and overstepped the mark. With a bit of careful planning we could still be the gainers from all this.'

'Well then, well then, what exactly are you scheming?' Alexander asked curiously.

'Sire, with the capture of Plevna the war has entered its concluding phase. The final victory over the Turks is only a matter of weeks away. I emphasise: over the Turks. But we must avoid the same thing happening as in fifty-three, when we began with a war against the Turks and ended up fighting the whole of Europe. Our finances could not bear the strain of such a conflict. You are already aware of how much this campaign has cost us.'

The tsar frowned as if he had a toothache and Mizinov shook his head sadly.

'I am greatly alarmed by the resoluteness and callousness with which this McLaughlin acts,' Korchakov continued. 'It indicates that in her desire to prevent us from reaching the straits, Britain is prepared to resort to any measures, even the most extreme. Let us not forget that they have a navy squadron in the Bosporus. And at the same time our dear friend Austria has its guns trained on our rear, having stabbed your father in the back once already. To be quite honest, while you have been fighting Osman-pasha, I have been thinking more and more about a different war, a diplomatic one. After all, we are spilling blood, expending enormous funds and resources, and we may well even so end up with nothing. That accursed Plevna has devoured precious time and besmirched the reputation of our army. Please forgive an old man, Your Majesty, for being such a prophet of doom on a day like today . . .'

'Enough of that, Mikhail Alexandrovich,' sighed the emperor; 'we are not on parade. Do you think I don't understand?'

'Until I heard the explanations offered by Lavrenty Arkadievich, I was inclined to be very sceptical. If someone had said to me an hour ago: "Tell me, old fox, what can we count on after the victory? ", I would have replied honestly: "Bulgarian autonomy and a little piece of the Caucasus; that is the maximum possible, a paltry return for tens of thousands killed and millions wasted."'

'And now?' asked Alexander, leaning forward slightly.

The chancellor looked quizzically at Varya and Fandorin.

Mizinov caught the meaning of his glance and said: 'Your Majesty, I understand what Mikhail Alexandrovich has in mind. I had come to the same conclusion, and I did not bring Titular Counsellor Fandorin with me by chance. But I think we could perhaps allow Miss Suvorova to leave now.'

Varya snorted indignantly. Apparently she was not trusted here. How humiliating to be put out of the room - and just at the most interesting point!

'Please p-pardon my impertinence,' said Fandorin, opening his mouth for the first time in the entire audience, 'but that is not reasonable.'

'What precisely is not?' asked the emperor, knitting his gingerish brows.

'One should not trust an employee only halfway, Your M-Majesty. It creates unnecessary resentment and is harmful to the cause. Varvara Andreevna knows so much already that she will q-quite easily guess the rest.'

'You are right,' the tsar conceded. 'Go on, Prince.'

'We must exploit this business to shame Britain in front of the entire world. Sabotage, murder, a conspiracy with one of the combatants in contravention of declared neutrality - it is entirely unprecedented. To be quite honest, I am astounded at Beaconsfield's rashness. What if we had captured McLaughlin and he had testified? What a scandal! What a nightmare! I mean for England, of course. She would have had to withdraw her navy squadron and justify her actions to the whole of Europe, and she would still have been licking her wounds for a long time after that. In any case, the Court of St James would have been obliged to throw in its hand on the eastern conflict; and without London the ardour of our Austro-Hungarian friends would have cooled immediately. Then we would have been able to exploit the fruits of victory to the full and—'

'Dreams’ said Alexander, interrupting the old man rather sharply. 'We do not have McLaughlin. The question is: What are we to do now?'

'Get him,' Korchakov replied imperturbably.

'But how?'

'I don't know, Your Majesty; I am not the head of the Third Section.' The chancellor fell silent, folding his hands complacently across his skinny belly.

'We are certain of the Englishman's guilt and we have circumstantial evidence, but no solid proof,' said Mizinov, picking up where the chancellor had left off. 'That means we shall have to obtain it . . . or create it. Hmm . . .'

'Explain your meaning,' the tsar pressed him, 'and do not mumble, Mizinov; speak straight out: we are not playing forfeits.'

'Yes, Your Majesty. McLaughlin is now either in Constantinople or, most likely, making his way to England, since his mission has been accomplished. In Constantinople we have an entire network of secret agents, and kidnapping the scoundrel will not be too difficult. In England it is a harder proposition, but with sensible organisation . . .'

'I do not wish to hear this!' Alexander exclaimed. 'What sort of abominations are you talking?'

'Sire, you did order me not to mumble,' said the general with a shrug.

'Bringing McLaughlin back in a sack wouldn't be such a bad thing,' the chancellor mused, 'but it's too bothersome and unreliable. We could find ourselves caught up in a scandal. Yes, that kind of thing is fine in Constantinople, but in London I would not recommend it.'

'Very well,' said Mizinov with a vehement shake of his head. 'If McLaughlin is found in London, we shall not touch him. But we will stir up a scandal in the English press about the British correspondent's inappropriate behaviour. The English public will not approve of McLaughlin's exploits, because they do not fit their much-vaunted idea of "fair play".'

Korchakov was pleased: 'Now that's more to the point. In order to tie Beaconsfield's and Derby's hands, a good scandal in the newspapers is all we need.'

While this conversation was going on, Varya had been imperceptibly edging closer to Erast Petrovich until now she finally found herself right beside the titular counsellor.

'Who is this Derby?' she asked in a whisper.

'The foreign secretary,' Fandorin hissed, scarcely even moving his lips.

Mizinov glanced round at the whisperers and knitted his brows in a threatening frown.

'This McLaughlin of yours is clearly an old hand, with no particular prejudices or sentiments,' said the chancellor, continuing with his deliberations. 'If he is found in London, then before there is any scandal, we could have a confidential little talk with him - present him with the evidence, threaten him with exposure . . . After all, if there is a scandal, he is finished. I know how the British are about such things; no one in society will ever offer him their hand again, even if he is hung with medals from head to foot. Then again, two murders is no laughing matter. There is the prospect of criminal proceedings. He is an intelligent man. If we also offer him a good sum of money and present him with an estate somewhere beyond the Volga ... he might give us the information we need, and Shuvalov could use it to put pressure on Lord Derby. If he threatened to expose them, the British cabinet would suddenly become as meek as lambs . . . What do you think, General - would a combination of threats and bribery work on McLaughlin?'

'They would be bound to,' the general promised confidently. 'I have also considered this option, which is why I brought Erast Fandorin with me. I did not dare appoint a man to such a delicate mission without Your Majesty's approval. There is far too much at stake. Fandorin is resourceful and determined, he has an original mind and, most importantly of all, he has already worked on one highly complex secret mission in London and managed it quite brilliantly. He knows the language. He knows McLaughlin personally. If necessary he will kidnap him. If that is not possible he will come to terms with him. If he cannot come to terms, then he will assist Shuvalov to arrange a fine scandal. He can even testify against McLaughlin as a direct eyewitness. He possesses exceptional powers of persuasion.'

'And who's Shuvalov?' Varya whispered.

'Our ambassador,' the titular counsellor replied absent-mindedly, with his mind on something else. He did not really seem to be following what the general was saying.

'Well, Fandorin, can you manage that?' the emperor asked. 'Will you go to London?'

'Yes, I will go, Your Majesty,' said Erast Petrovich. 'Certainly I will go . . .'

The autocrat eyed him keenly, having caught the echo of something left unsaid; but Fandorin did not add anything else.

'Well then, Mizinov, act along both lines,' said Alexander, summing up. 'Look for him in Constantinople and in London. Only do not waste any time; we have very little left.'

When they came out into the aide-de-camp's room, Varya asked the general: 'But what if McLaughlin can't be found at all?'

'You can rely on my instinct, my dear,' the general sighed. 'We shall definitely be seeing that gentleman again.'

Chapter Twelve

IN WHICH EVENTS TAKE AN UNEXPECTED TURN

The St Petersburg Gazette

8 (20) January 1878

Turks Sue For Peace!

After the capitulation of Vessel-pasha, the capture of Philippopol and the surrender of ancient Adrianople, which yesterday flung its gates open to admit the Cossacks of the White General, the outcome of the war has finally been settled, and this morning a train carrying the Turkish truce envoys arrived at the positions of our valiant forces. The train was detained at Adrianople and the pashas were transferred from there to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief, currently quartered in the village of Germanly. When the head of the Turkish delegation, 76-year-old Namyk-pasha, learned the provisional terms of the peace settlement, he exclaimed in despair: 'Votre armee est victorieuse, votre ambition est satisfaite et la Turkie est detruite!'

Well now, say we, that is no more than Turkey deserves.

They hadn't said goodbye properly. Sobolev had collected Varya from the porch of the 'field palace', enveloped her in his magnetic aura of success and glory and whisked her away to his headquarters to celebrate the victory. She had barely even had time to nod to Erast Petrovich, and in the morning he was not in the camp. His orderly Trifon said: 'His Honour has gone away. Call back in a month.'

But a month had passed, and the titular counsellor had still not returned. Evidently it was not proving so easy to find McLaughlin in England.

It was not that Varya actually missed him - on the contrary: once they decamped from Plevna, life had become quite fascinating. Every day there were moves to new places, new cities, stupendous mountain landscapes and endless celebrations of almost daily military victories. The commander-in-chief's headquarters first moved to Kazanlyk, beyond the Balkan range, and then still further south, to Germanly. Here there was no winter at all. The trees were all green and the only snow to be seen was on the summits of the distant mountains.

With Fandorin gone there was nothing that Varya had to do. She was still, however, officially attached to the headquarters staff and she received her salary punctually for December and January, plus travelling expenses, plus a bonus for Christmas. She had accumulated quite a tidy sum, but she had nothing to spend it on. Once in Sophia she had wanted to buy a charming copper lamp (it was exactly like Aladdin's), but Paladin and Gridnev had not allowed her. In fact, they had almost come to blows over who would present Varya with the trinket, and she had been obliged to give way.

Concerning Gridnev: the eighteen-year-old ensign had been attached to Varya by Sobolev. The hero of Plevna and Sheinov was kept busy day and night with army affairs, but he had not forgotten about Varya. Whenever he could find a free moment to visit headquarters, he always called in to see her, sent her gigantic bouquets of flowers and invited her to celebrations (they saw in the New Year twice, according to the Western calendar and the Russian calendar). But this was still not enough for the tenacious Michel, so he had placed one of his orderlies at Varya's disposal - 'for assistance on the road and protection'. At first the ensign had sulked and glared hostilely at his superior in a skirt, but quite soon he had grown tame, and even seemed to have developed certain romantic feelings for her. It was funny of course, but flattering. Gridnev was not handsome - that strategist Sobolev would not have sent anyone handsome - but he was as lovable and eager to please as a puppy. In his company twenty-two-year-old Varya felt like a very grown-up and worldly-wise woman.

She was in a rather strange position now. At headquarters they apparently assumed that she was Sobolev's mistress, but since everyone regarded the White General with indulgent adoration, no one condemned her for it. On the contrary, some small portion of Sobolev's halo seemed to extend to her as well. Many of the officers would probably have been quite indignant if they had discovered that she dared to refuse to enter into intimate relations with the glorious Russian Achilles and was remaining faithful to some lowly cryptographer.

To be honest, things were not going all that well with Petya. No, he didn't get jealous and he didn't make scenes, but since his failed suicide Varya found it hard to be with him. In the first place, she hardly ever saw him - Petya was atoning for his guilt with work, since it was impossible to atone for it with blood in the cryptography section. He worked two consecutive shifts each day, slept at his post on a folding bed, no longer visited the journalists in their club and took no part in the general junketing. She had been obliged to celebrate Christmas and Epiphany without him. At the sight of Varya his face lit up with a gentle, quiet joy; and he spoke to her as if she were an icon of the Virgin of Vladimir: she was the light of his life, and his only hope, and without her he would never have survived.