The Turkish Gambit Read online

  “Mesdames, keep well away from men when they are excited by battle or, even worse, by victory. It rouses an atavistic savagery in them, and any man, even an alumnus of the Corps of Pages, is temporarily transformed into a barbarian. Leave them in their male company to cool off, and afterward they will return to civilized manners and become manageable once again.”

  In fact, apart from the exaggerated gallantry and excessively loud voices, Varya noticed nothing particularly wild about her neighbors at the table. They seated her in the place of honor, on Sobolev’s right. Paladin was on his left.

  After she had drunk some champagne and calmed down a little, she asked, “Tell me, Michel, what’s that train doing here? I can’t remember the last time I saw a locomotive standing on the tracks and not lying at the bottom of an embankment.”

  “So you haven’t heard!” exclaimed a young colonel sitting at the side of the table. “The war’s over! The truce envoys arrived from Constantinople today! By railway, just like in peacetime!”

  “And exactly how many of these envoys are there?” Varya asked in surprise. “A whole trainload?”

  “No, Varya,” Sobolev explained. “There are only two envoys. But after the fall of Adrianople the Turks were afraid to waste any more time, so they simply hitched their staff carriage onto an ordinary train. Only without any passengers, of course.”

  “Then where are the envoys now?”

  “I sent them off to the grand duke in carriages. There’s a break in the track further up.”

  “Oh, it’s ages since I had a ride in a train,” she sighed dreamily. “Lie back on your soft seat, open a book, drink some hot tea. The telegraph posts flicking past the window, the wheels hammering . . .”

  “I would take you for a ride,” said Sobolev, “but unfortunately the route is rather limited. The only place you can go to from here is Constantinople.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” exclaimed Paladin in his French accent. “An excellent idea! La guerre est en fait finie, the Turks aren’t shooting anymore! And anyway, the train is flying the Turkish flag! Why don’t we take a ride to San Stefano and back? Aller et retour, eh, Michel?” He switched completely into French as his enthusiasm mounted ever higher. “Mademoiselle Barbara will ride in a first-class carriage, I’ll write a splendid article about it, and someone from headquarters staff will ride along with us and take a look at the Turks’ rear lines. My God, Michel, it will all go off without a hitch! They’ll never suspect a thing! And, even if they do, they won’t dare fire a single shot—you’ve got their envoys! And then, Michel, from San Stefano it’s only a stone’s throw to the bright lights of Constantinople! The Turkish viziers have their country villas at San Stefano! Ah, what an opportunity!”

  “Irresponsible adventurism,” snapped Lieutenant Colonel Perepyolkin. “I trust, Mikhail Dmitrievich, that you will have the good sense not to be tempted.”

  Eremei Perepyolkin was so annoying—such a stick-in-the-mud. In fact, during the last few months Varya had developed quite an active dislike for the man, even though she accepted on trust the superlative administrative abilities of Sobolev’s chief of staff. If only he wouldn’t be so serious about everything! It was less than six months since he had leap-frogged from captain to lieutenant colonel and picked up a St. George medal, not to mention a sword of St. Anne for being wounded in action. And all thanks to Michel. And still he glared at Varya as if he thought she’d stolen something that was his by right. But then she could understand him; he was simply jealous; he wanted Achilles to belong to him and nobody else. Perhaps Eremei Ionovich was tainted with Kazanzaki’s old sin? One day she had even tried hinting at it when she was talking to Sobolev, but the idea had made him laugh so hard that he almost choked.

  This time, however, the repugnant Perepyolkin was absolutely right. Varya thought Charles’s “excellent idea” was absolutely lunacy. But the carousing officers were all fully in favor of the project: One Cossack colonel even slapped the Frenchman on the back and called him a “crazy fool.” Sobolev smiled but didn’t say anything.

  “Permit me to go, Mikhail Dmitrievich,” one dashing cavalry general suggested (Varya seemed to remember that his name was Strukov). “I’ll fill up the carriages with my Cossack lads and we’ll ride down the line like the wind. Who knows—we might even capture ourselves another pasha or two. We still have the right, don’t we? We haven’t received any orders to cease military operations yet.”

  Sobolev glanced at Varya and she noticed an unusual glint in his eyes.

  “Oh, no, Strukov. Adrianople was enough for you.” Achilles smiled rapaciously and raised his voice. “Gentlemen, listen to my orders!” The room fell silent immediately. “I am transferring my field headquarters to San Stefano. The third battalion of chasseurs is to board the train. I want every last one of them in those carriages, even if they have to squeeze in like sardines. I’ll travel in the staff carriage. The train will then immediately return to Adrianople for reinforcements and go back and forth continuously. By midday tomorrow I shall have an entire regiment. You, Strukov, are to arrive with your cavalry no later than tomorrow evening. In the meantime, one battalion will be all I need. According to reconnaissance reports, there are no battle-worthy Turkish forces ahead of us—only the sultan’s guards in Constantinople itself, and they’re busy guarding Abdul-Hamid.”

  “It’s not the Turks we need to be afraid of, your excellency,” Perepyolkin said in his squeaky voice. “We may assume that the Turks will not touch you—they’ve run out of steam. But the commander in chief will not be pleased at all.”

  “Ah, but that’s not quite true, Eremei Ionovich,” said Sobolev, squinting cunningly. “Everybody knows what a madcap yours truly, Ak Pasha, is, and we can use that as an excuse for all sorts of things. You know, it might prove very handy indeed for His Imperial Highness if news that one of the suburbs of Constantinople has been captured were to arrive just as the negotiations are in full swing. They might rebuke me in public, but they’ll thank me in private. It wouldn’t be the first time by any means. And kindly be so good as not to discuss matters when an order has already been issued.”

  “Absolument!” declared Paladin, shaking his head in admiration. “Un tour de génie, Michel! My idea wasn’t the best after all. This article is going to be even better than I thought.”

  Sobolev got to his feet and offered Varya his arm with a grand ges-ture.

  “What would you say to a glimpse of the lights of Constantinople, Varvara Andreevna?”

  THE TRAIN HURTLED on through the darkness so fast that Varya scarcely had time to read the names of the stations: Babaeski, Luleburgaz, Chorlu. They were ordinary railway stations, just like stations somewhere in Tambov province, only they were white instead of yellow. Flickering lights, the elegant silhouettes of cypress trees, and once, through the iron lacework of a bridge, a glimpse of a moonlit swathe of river water.

  The carriage was comfortable, with plush-covered divans and a large mahogany table. The escort and Sobolev’s white mare, Gulnora, were riding in the accompanying retinue’s compartment. Every now and again Varya heard the sound of neighing from Gulnora, who still hadn’t settled down after the anxious process of boarding. The company riding in the main compartment consisted of the general, Varya, Paladin, and several officers, including Mitya Gridnev, who was sleeping peacefully in the corner. A handful of officers were smoking and crowding round Perepyolkin as he marked off the train’s progress on a map, the correspondent was writing something in his notepad, and Varya and Sobolev were standing apart from everyone else by the window, making awkward conversation.

  “I thought it was love,” Michel confessed in a soft voice, seeming to stare out into the darkness through the window, but Varya knew he was looking at her reflection in the glass. “But I won’t try to lie to you. I never actually thought about love. My true passion is my ambition, and everything else comes second. That’s just the way I am. But ambition is no sin if it is directed to an exalted goal. I believe in
my star and my fate, Varvara Andreevna. My star shines brightly, and my fate is special. I feel it in my heart. When I was still a young cadet—”

  “You were telling me about your wife,” said Varya, gently guiding him back to the more interesting subject.

  “Ah, yes. I married out of ambition, I admit it. I made a mistake. Ambition may be a good reason to face a hail of bullets, but not to get married, not under any circumstances. How did it all happen? I came back from Turkestan to the first glimmerings of fame and glory, but I was still a parvenu, an upstart, a peasant made good. My grandfather served his way up all the way from the lower ranks. And suddenly there was Princess Titova, with a line going all the way back to Rurik. I could move straight from the garrison into high society. How could I not be tempted?”

  Sobolev spoke haltingly, in a bitter voice, and he seemed sincere. Varya valued sincerity. And, of course, she had guessed where all this was leading. She could have put a stop to it then and there, turned the conversation in another direction, but she wasn’t strong enough. Who would have been?

  “But very soon I realized that high society was no place for the likes of me. The air doesn’t suit me. I was away on campaigns and she was back in St. Petersburg. And that was our life. When the war’s over, I’ll demand a divorce. I can afford to, I’ve earned it. And no one will rebuke me—after all, I am a hero.” Sobolev grinned cunningly. “So, what do you say, Varya?”

  “About what?” she asked with an innocent expression—her abominably flirtatious character leading her into trouble again. She knew this declaration was not what she really wanted, it would only cause complications, but it still felt wonderful.

  “Should I get divorced or not?”

  “That’s for you to decide.” This was the moment; now he would say those words.

  Sobolev sighed heavily and plunged headfirst into the whirlpool.

  “I’ve had my eye on you for a long time. You’re intelligent, sincere, bold, strong-willed. Just the kind of companion I need. With you, I’d be even stronger. And you’d never regret it, I swear. And so, Varvara Andreevna, you may consider this an official—”

  “Your excellency!” shouted Perepyolkin (damn him, why can’t he just disappear!). “San Stefano! Shall we disembark?”

  THE OPERATION WENT OFF without a hitch. They disarmed the dumb-founded guards at the station (it was a joke—only six sleepy soldiers) and spread out through the little town by platoons.

  Sobolev waited at the station while the occasional shooting continued in the streets. It was all over in half an hour. Their only casualty was one man wounded, and he had apparently been shot by mistake by their own men.

  The general made a cursory inspection of the center of the town with its gas streetlamps. Further on there was a dark labyrinth of crooked little alleys—it made no sense to go poking his nose in there. For his residence and defensive stronghold (in the case of any unpleasantness) Sobolev chose the local branch of the Osman-Osman Bank. One company of men was stationed in the bank and immediately outside it, another was left at the station, and a third was divided into teams to patrol the surrounding streets. The train immediately set off again to bring reinforcements.

  They were unable to inform the commander in chief’s headquarters by telegram that San Stefano had been taken, because the line was dead. Obviously the Turks’ doing.

  “The second battalion will be here by midday at the latest,” said Sobolev. “Nothing very interesting is likely to happen in the meantime. We can admire the lights of Constantinople and pass the time in pleasant conversation.”

  The temporary staff office was established on the second floor, in the director’s office. First, because from the windows you really could see the lights of the Turkish capital twinkling in the distance, and second because there was a steel door in the office that led directly into the bank’s strong room. There were little sacks with wax seals lying in neat rows on the room’s cast-iron shelves. Paladin read the Arabic script and said that each bag contained a hundred thousand lire.

  “And they say Turkey’s bankrupt,” said Mitya in amazement. “There are millions here!”

  “That’s why we’re going to use this office as our base,” Sobolev said firmly. “To keep it all safe. I’ve been accused once of making off with the khan’s treasury. Never again.”

  The door to the strong room was left half-open, and everyone forgot about the millions of lire. They brought a telegraph apparatus from the station to the waiting room and ran a wire straight out across the square. Every fifteen minutes Varya tried to contact at least Adrianople, but the apparatus betrayed no signs of life.

  A deputation arrived from the local merchants and clergy to ask them not to loot homes or destroy mosques, but specify the sum of a contribution instead, perhaps fifty thousand—the poor citizens of San Stefano would not be able to raise any more than that. However, when the head of the delegation, a fat, hook-nosed Turk in a tail coat and fez, realized that he was facing the legendary Ak Pasha himself, the sum of the proposed contribution immediately doubled.

  Sobolev assured the natives that he was not empowered to levy any contribution. The hook-nosed gentleman shot a sideways glance at the half-open door of the strong room and rolled his eyes respectfully.

  “I understand, effendi. For such a great man a hundred thousand is a mere trifle.”

  News traveled quickly in these parts. No more than two hours after San Stefano’s petitioners had left, a deputation of Greek traders from Constantinople arrived to see Ak Pasha. They did not offer any contributions, but they had brought sweets and wine “for the brave Christian warriors.” They said that there were many Orthodox Christians in the city, asked the Russians not to fire their cannons, and if they really had to, not to train them on the Pera quarter, where there were shops and warehouses full of goods, but at the Galata quarter, or—even better—the Armenian and European quarters. When they tried to present Sobolev with a golden sword set with precious stones, they were shown out but apparently left feeling reassured.

  “Constantinople!” said Sobolev, his voice trembling with feeling as he gazed out through the window at the glittering lights of the great city. “The eternal, unattainable dream of the Russian tsars. The very roots of our faith and civilization are here. This is the key to the whole of the Mediterranean. So close! Just reach out and grasp it. Are we really going to go away empty-handed again?”

  “Impossible, your excellency!” Gridnev exclaimed. “His Majesty will never allow it!”

  “Ah, Mitya. You can be sure that the big brains in the rear, the Korchakovs and the Gnatievs, are already horse-trading and fawning to the English. They won’t have the courage to take what belongs to Russia by ancient right. In twenty-nine Dibich stopped at Adrianople, and now we’ve got as far as San Stefano. So near and yet so far. I see a great and powerful Russia uniting the Slavs from Archangel to Constantinople and from Trieste to Vladivostok! Only then will the Romanovs fulfil their historical destiny and finally be able to leave these eternal wars behind them and devote themselves to the improvement of their own long-suffering dominion. But if we pull back, then our sons and grandsons will once again spill their own blood and the blood of others along the road to the walls of Constantinople. Such is the cross the Russian people must bear!”

  “I can just picture what’s going on in Constantinople now,” Paladin said absentmindedly, also gazing out the window. “Ak Pasha in San Stefano! There is panic in the palace, the harem is being evacuated, the eunuchs are running around with their fat backsides wobbling. I wonder if Abdul-Hamid has already crossed to the Asiatic side yet? And it will not even occur to anyone, Michel, that you have come here with only a single battalion. If this were a game of poker it would make a fine bluff, with the opponent absolutely guaranteed to throw in his hand and pass.”

  “This is getting worse and worse,” Perepyolkin cried in alarm. “Mikhail Dmitrievich, your excellency, don’t listen to him! It would be the end of you! You’ve alrea
dy put your head in the wolf’s mouth! Forget about Abdul-Hamid!”

  Sobolev and the correspondent looked each other in the eye.

  “What have I got to lose?” said the general, cracking his knuckles. “If the sultan’s guard doesn’t panic and opens fire, I’ll just pull back and that’s it. Tell me, Charles, is the sultan’s guard very strong?”

  “The guard is a fine force, but Abdul-Hamid will never allow it to leave his side.”

  “That means they won’t pursue us. We could enter the city in a column, flags flying and drums beating. I’d be riding at the front on Gulnora,” said Sobolev, warming to his theme as he strode round the room. “Before it gets light, so they can’t see how few of us there are. And then to the palace. Without a single shot being fired! Would they bring me out the keys of Constantinople?”

  “Of course they would!” Paladin exclaimed passionately. “And that would be total capitulation!”

  “Present the English with a fait accompli!” said the general, sawing the air with his hand. “Before they know what’s happening, the city is already in Russian hands and the Turks have surrendered. And if anything goes wrong, I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. No one authorized me to take San Stefano, either!”

  “It would be an absolutely glorious finale! And to think that I would be an eyewitness to it!” the journalist said excitedly.

  “Not a witness, one of the actors,” said Sobolev, slapping him on the shoulder.

  “I won’t let you go!” said Perepyolkin, blocking the doorway. He looked absolutely desperate, with his brown eyes goggling insanely and his forehead covered with beads of sweat. “As the chief of staff, I protest! Think, your excellency! You are a general of His Imperial Highness’s retinue, not some wild Bashi-Bashouk! I implore you!”

  “Out of the way, Perepyolkin, I’m sick of you!” the fearsome Olympian shouted at the rationalist pygmy. “When Osman Pasha tried to break out of Plevna, you implored me then not to act without orders, too. You went down on your knees! But who was right that time? You’ll see—I shall have the keys to Constantinople!”