The Turkish Gambit Page 14

  “He’s combing them fine,” Varya heard someone say. “So much for the artillery preparation. They shouldn’t have wasted time showing off with their damned idiotic psychology. They should have just kept pounding them.”

  “They’ve run! They’re running!” Kazanzaki grabbed Varya’s shoulder and squeezed it tightly.

  She glanced up at him indignantly, but realized the man was completely carried away. Somehow she managed to free herself and looked in the direction of the field.

  It was hidden under a veil of smoke through which she caught brief glimpses of something white, and black lumps of earth were flying through the air.

  All talk on the hill stopped. A crowd of silent men came running out of the blue-gray mist, skirting the observation point on both sides. Varya saw red blotches on the white tunics and cringed.

  The smoke thinned a little and the valley was exposed, covered with the black rings of shell craters and white dots of soldiers’ tunics. Varya noticed that the white dots were moving and she heard a dull howling sound that seemed to come from out of the earth itself—the cannon had just that moment stopped firing.

  “The first trial of strength is over,” said a major she knew who had been attached to the journalists from central headquarters staff. “Osman is well dug in; it’ll take some effort to budge him. First more artillery preparation, and then ‘hurrah-hurrah’ again.”

  Varya felt sick.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In which Fandorin

  receives a reprimand

  from his chief

  THE RUSSIAN GAZETTE (St. Petersburg)

  31 August (12 September) 1877

  Recalling the paternal parting words of his ardently adored commander, the intrepid youth exclaimed: “I will get the message through, Mikhail Dmitrich, if it costs me my life!” The nineteen-year-old hero leapt up onto his Cossack steed and galloped off across the valley swept by winds of lead, to where the main forces of the army lay, beyond the Bashi-Bazouks lurking in ambush. Bullets whistled over the rider’s head, but he only spurred on his fiery steed, whispering: “Faster! Faster! The outcome of the battle depends on me!”

  But alas, malign fate is more powerful than courage. Shots rang out from the ambush, sending the valiant orderly crashing to the ground. Drenched in blood, he leapt to his feet and dashed at the Mohammedan infidels, sword in hand, but like black kites the cruel enemy flung themselves on him and slew him, then hacked at his lifeless body with their swords.

  Such was the death of Sergei Bereshchagin, the brother of the illustrious artist.

  Thus there perished in the bud a most promising talent, fated never to blossom.

  So fell the third of the riders dispatched by Sobolev to the emperor . . .

  SOMETIME AFTER SEVEN in the evening she found herself back at the familiar fork in the road, but instead of the hoarse-voiced captain she found an equally hoarse lieutenant, giving instructions. He was having an even harder time than his predecessor, because now he had to direct two opposed streams of traffic: the line of ammunition wagons still moving up to the front line and the wounded being evacuated from the battlefield.

  After the first attack Varya had lost her nerve and she realized that another terrible spectacle like that would be too much for her. She had set out for the rear, even crying a little along the way—fortunately there was nobody she knew anywhere nearby. But she hadn’t gone all the way back to the camp, because she felt ashamed.

  Shrinking violet, prim young lady, weaker sex, she rebuked herself. You knew you were going to a war, not a garden party at Pavlovsk Park. And on top of everything, she desperately did not want to give the titular counselor the satisfaction of knowing that he had been proved right yet again.

  And so she turned back.

  She rode her horse at a walk, her heart sinking lower and lower as the sounds of battle drew nearer. In the center the rifle fire had almost died away and there was only the rumbling of cannon, but from the Lovcha highway, where Sobolev’s isolated detachment was fighting, there came constant volleys of shots and the incessant roar of a multitude of voices, only faintly audible at such a distance. General Michel was apparently not having an easy time.

  Suddenly Varya was startled by the sight of McLaughlin emerging from the bushes on his horse, spattered with mud. His hat had slipped over to one side of his head, his face was red, and sweat was streaming down his forehead.

  “What’s happening? How’s the battle going?” Varya asked, catching the Irishman’s horse by the bridle.

  “Well, I think,” he replied, wiping his cheeks with a handkerchief. “Oof—I got stuck in some kind of undergrowth and just barely managed to get out again.”

  “Well, you say? Have the redoubts been taken?”

  “No, the Turks stood firm in the center, but twenty minutes ago Count Zurov galloped past our observation point in a great hurry to get to headquarters. All he shouted was: ‘Victory! We are in Plevna! No time now, gentlemen, an urgent dispatch!” Monsieur Kazanzaki set off after him. No doubt that highly ambitious gentleman wishes to be there beside the bearer of good news in case some of the glory rubs off on him.” McLaughlin shook his head disapprovingly. “And then the gentlemen of the press went dashing off helter-skelter—every one of them has his own man among the telegraphists. Take my word for it, telegrams reporting the capture of Plevna are winging their way to their newspapers at this very moment.”

  “Then what are you doing here?”

  The correspondent replied with dignity: “I never rush things, Mademoiselle Suvorova. You have to check all the details thoroughly first. Instead of a bald statement of fact, I shall send an entire article, and it will be in time for the same morning edition as their skimpy telegrams.”

  “So we can go back to the camp?” Varya asked in relief.

  “Yes, I believe so. We’ll find out more at the staff building than out here in this savannah. And it will be dark soon, too.”

  HOWEVER, AT THE STAFF BUILDING no one really knew anything, because no dispatches about the capture of Plevna had been received from field headquarters—quite the contrary, in fact. All the major thrusts of the offensive had apparently been repulsed and the losses were absolutely astronomical, at least twenty thousand men. They said the emperor had completely lost heart and responded to questions about Sobolev’s success with a shrug: How could Sobolev take Plevna with his two brigades if sixty battalions in the center and on the right flank had not even been able to take the first line of redoubts?

  It didn’t make any sense at all. McLaughlin was triumphant, delighted at his own circumspection, but Varya was furious with Zurov: That braggart and liar had only confused everybody with his arrant nonsense.

  Night fell and the dispirited generals returned to staff headquarters. Varya saw Grand Duke Nikolai Nikolaevich enter the little operations-section building, surrounded by his adjutants. His equine face was twitching spasmodically between the thick sideburns.

  Everyone was talking in whispers about the huge losses—the news was that a quarter of the army had been killed. But out loud they spoke about the heroism displayed by the officers and men. A great deal of heroism had been displayed, especially by the officers.

  Shortly after twelve, Varya was sought out by Fandorin. He looked dejected.

  “Come with me, Varvara Andreevna. The chief wants to see us.”

  “Us?” she asked, surprised.

  “Yes, the entire staff of the special section. And that includes both of us.”

  They walked quickly to the mud-walled hut where Lieutenant Colonel Kazanzaki’s department was located.

  The officers and staff of the Special Section of the Western Division were all gathered in the familiar room, but their commanding officer was not among them.

  However, Lavrenty Arkadievich Mizinov was there, scowling menacingly behind the desk.

  “Ah-hah, the titular counselor and his lady secretary have decided to join us,” he said acidly. “Wonderful—now we only have to w
ait for His Worship the lieutenant colonel to arrive and we can begin. Where’s Kazanzaki?” barked the general.

  “Nobody has seen Ivan Kharitonovich this evening,” the most senior officer present replied timidly.

  “Magnificent. Fine protectors of secrets you all are.”

  Mizinov jumped up and began walking around the room, stamping his feet loudly.

  “This isn’t an army, it’s a circus, a cabaret show with escape artists! Whenever you want to see someone, they tell you he isn’t here. He’s disappeared! Without trace!”

  “Your excellency, you are sp-speaking in riddles? What is the m-matter?” Fandorin asked in a low voice.

  “I don’t know, Erast Petrovich, I don’t know!” exclaimed Mizinov. “I was hoping that you and Mr. Kazanzaki would tell me that.” He stopped for a moment to get a grip on himself and then continued more calmly: “Very well. We’re not waiting for anyone else. I’ve just come from the emperor, where I witnessed a most interesting scene: Major General of His Imperial Majesty’s retinue Sobolev the Second shouting at His Imperial Majesty and His Imperial Highness, and the tsar and the commander in chief apologizing to him.”

  “Impossible!” one of the gendarmes gasped.

  “Silence!” shrieked the general. “Be quiet and listen! Apparently, sometime after three o’clock this afternoon, Sobolev’s detachment, having taken the Krishin redoubt by a frontal attack, broke through into the southern outskirts of Plevna at the rear of the main force of the Turkish army, but was forced to a halt by a lack of infantry and artillery support. Sobolev dispatched several riders with a request to send reinforcements immediately, but they were intercepted by the Bashi-Bazouks. Finally, at six o’clock, Adjutant Zurov, accompanied by fifty Cossacks, managed to break through to the central army group positions. The Cossacks went back to Sobolev because he needed every man he could get, and Zurov galloped on to headquarters alone. In Plevna they were expecting reinforcements to arrive at any minute, but they never came. And that is not surprising, because Zurov never reached headquarters and we never learned about the breakthrough on the left flank. In the evening the Turks redeployed their forces to bring their full might to bear on Sobolev; shortly before midnight, having lost most of his men, he withdrew to his initial position. But we had Plevna in the bag! A question for all of you here: What could have happened to Adjutant Zurov, in broad daylight, in the very center of our positions? Who can answer me that?”

  “Evidently Lieutenant Colonel Kazanzaki can,” said Varya, and everyone turned to look at her.

  She related excitedly what she had heard from McLaughlin.

  After a prolonged pause, the chief of gendarmes turned to Fandorin:

  “Your conclusions, Erast Petrovich?”

  “The battle has been lost, there is no p-point in wailing and beating our chests—emotions merely hinder the effort of investigation,” the titular counselor replied coolly. “What we need to do is this. Divide up the t-territory between the correspondents’ observation point and the field headquarters into squares. That’s the first thing. At the first light of d-dawn, search every last centimeter of each square. That’s the second thing. If the b-bodies of Zurov or Kazanzaki are found, nothing must be touched and the ground around them must not be trampled—that’s the third thing. And, just to be certain, search for both of them among the seriously wounded in the infirmaries—that’s the fourth thing. For the moment, Lavrenty Arkadievich, there is n-nothing more to be done.”

  “What do you suggest I should report to His Majesty? Treason?”

  Erast Petrovich sighed.

  “More likely s-sabotage. But in any case we shall find out in the morning.”

  THEY DID NOT SLEEP that night. There was a lot of work to be done; the members of the special section divided the area up into half-verst squares on a map and allocated people to the search teams, while Varya rode around to all six hospitals and infirmaries and checked the officers who had been brought back unconscious. The sights she saw were so horrible that by dawn she had slipped into a peculiar numb stupor, but she had not found either Zurov or Kazanzaki, although she had seen quite a number of her acquaintances among the wounded, including Perepyolkin. The captain had also attempted to break out and bring help, but for his pains he had received a blow from a crooked saber across the collarbone—he had no luck where the Bashi-Bazouks were concerned. The poor man was lying on his bed, pale-faced and miserable, and the expression in his sunken brown eyes was almost as mournful as on that unforgettable day when they first met. Varya dashed across to him, but he turned away and said nothing. What had she done to make him dislike her?

  The first rays of the sun found Varya on a bench beside the special-section building. Fandorin had virtually forced her down onto it and ordered her to rest, and Varya had slumped, weary and numb, against the wall and sunk into a restless half-sleep. Her entire body ached and she felt a little sick—after all the nervous strain and a sleepless night, that was hardly surprising.

  The search teams had set out for their squares before first light. At a quarter past seven a messenger from Section Fourteen arrived at a gallop and ran into the hut; Fandorin came dashing out, buttoning up his tunic on the run.

  “Let’s go, Varvara Andreevna, they’ve found Zurov,” he said tersely.

  “Is he dead?” she sobbed.

  Erast Petrovich did not answer.

  The hussar was lying on his stomach with his head twisted to one side. Even from a distance Varya spotted the silver handle of the Caucasian dagger thrust deep into his left shoulder. When she dismounted, she saw his face in profile: the beautiful glint of the glassy eye staring in surprise, the dark powder burn ringing the gaping bullet wound in the temple.

  Varya sobbed again without crying and turned away from the terrible sight.

  “We haven’t touched anything, Mr. Fandorin, just as you ordered,” the gendarme in charge of the team reported. “He had only one verst left to ride to the command post. This area’s in a hollow; that’s why no one saw anything. And as for the shot, there was so much shooting going on. . . . The picture’s quite clear: He was stabbed in the back with the dagger unexpectedly, taken by surprise. Then they finished him off with a bullet in the left temple at point-blank range.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Erast Petrovich replied vaguely, leaning down over the body.

  The officer lowered his voice: “It’s Lieutenant Colonel Kazanzaki’s dagger; I recognized it immediately. He showed it to us, said it was a pres-ent from a Georgian prince.”

  To that Erast Petrovich replied: “Splendid.”

  Varya felt sicker than ever now, and she squeezed her eyes shut to fight off the nausea.

  “Are there any hoofprints?” asked Fandorin, squatting down on his haunches.

  “Unfortunately not. As you can see, the bank of the stream here is nothing but gravel, and further up the whole area is trampled—the cavalry squadrons must have come this way yesterday.”

  The titular counselor straightened up and stood by the sprawling corpse for about a minute. His face was fixed and expressionless, the same gray color as his temples. And he’s hardly more than twenty, thought Varya with a shudder.

  “Very well, Lieutenant. Transfer the body to the camp. Let’s go, Varvara Andreevna.”

  On the way she asked him: “Surely Kazanzaki isn’t a Turkish agent? It’s unbelievable! He is repulsive, of course, but even so . . .”

  “Not to that extent?” asked Fandorin with a humorless chuckle.

  Just before noon the lieutenant colonel was also found—after Erast Petrovich had given orders for the small grove of trees and the bushes near the spot where poor Hipppolyte had died to be searched again, this time more thoroughly.

  From what Varya was told (she didn’t go to see for herself), Kazanzaki was half-sitting, half-lying with his back slumped against a boulder. He had a revolver in his right hand and a hole in his forehead.

  The meeting to discuss the results of the search was led by Mizinov himself
.

  “First of all, I must say that I am extremely dissatisfied with the results of Titular Counselor Fandorin’s work,” the general began in a voice that boded no good. “Erast Petrovich, a dangerous and sophisticated enemy has been operating right under your very nose, inflicting severe damage on our cause and putting the success of the entire campaign in jeopardy, and you have still not identified him. Certainly this was no easy task, but then you are by no means what I would call a beginner. I can’t expect any more from the rank-and-file members of the special section. They were recruited from various provincial offices, where for the most part they were previously involved in standard investigations. But for you, with your exceptional abilities, this is quite inexcusable.”

  Varya pressed a hand to her throbbing temple and cast a sideways glance at Fandorin. He appeared entirely unperturbed, but his cheekbones had turned ever-so-slightly pink (probably nobody but Varya would have noticed that)—his chief’s words had obviously cut him to the quick.

  “And so, gentlemen, what do we have? We have a fiasco entirely without precedent in world history. The head of the secret Special Section of the Western Division, the most important formation in the entire Army of the Danube, was a traitor.”

  “Can we regard that as established fact, your excellency?” the most senior gendarme officer present asked timidly.

  “Judge for yourself, major. Of course, the fact that Kazanzaki was Greek by origin and that there are many Turkish agents among the Greeks is not in itself proof. But remember the mysterious letter ‘J’ that figured in Lukan’s notes. Now we can see what that J meant—’gendarme.’ ”

  “But the word ‘gendarme’ is written with a ‘G’,” the major with the gray mustache persisted.

  “It is written that way in French, but in Romanian it is written with a J—’jandarm,’ ” his chief explained condescendingly. “Kazanzaki was the puppet-master who pulled the Romanian colonel’s strings. And in addition: Who was it that went dashing after Zurov when he was on his way to deliver the message on which the outcome of the battle, perhaps even the whole war, depended? Kazanzaki. And in addition. Whose dagger was used to kill Zurov? Your superior’s. And in addition—what else in addition? When he was unable to extract the knife from his victim’s shoulder blade, the killer realized there was no way he could avoid suspicion and he shot himself. By the way, there are two bullets missing from the chamber of his revolver.”