Free The Death of Achilles by Boris Akunin
Authors: Boris Akunin
it’s pointless; he’s an old hand. I’d rather bring in this Wanda, Your Excellency, and put her under serious pressure. You never know, it might turn up a few leads.”
The fourth participant in the secret conference, Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky, remained silent.
They had been in conference for a long time already, since first thing that morning. Erast Petrovich had reported on the events of the previous evening and how he had followed the mysterious visitor, who had proved to be the German businessman Hans-Georg Knabe, the Moscow representative of the Berlin banking firm Kerbel und Schmidt, with a residence on Karyetny Ryad. When the collegiate assessor related the sinister conversation between Knabe and Wanda, his report had to be interrupted briefly, because Prince Dolgorukoi became extremely agitated and began shouting and waving his fists in the air.
“Ah, the villains, ah, the blackguards! Were they the ones who murdered the noble knight of the Russian land? What heinous treachery! An international scandal! Oh, the Germans will pay for this!”
“That will do, Your Excellency,” the head of the secret section, Khurtinsky, murmured reassuringly. “This is too dubious a hypothesis. Poison the White General! Nonsense! I can’t believe the Germans would take such a risk. They are a civilized nation, not treacherous Persian conspirators!”
“Civilized?” exclaimed General Karachentsev, baring his teeth in a snarl. “I have here the articles from today’s British and German newspapers, sent to me by the Russian Telegraph Agency. As we know, Mikhail Dmitrievich was no great lover of either of these two countries, and he made no secret of his views. But compare the tone! With your permission, Your Excellency?” The chief of police set his pince-nez on his nose and took a sheet of paper out of a file.
The English Standard writes:
Sobolev’s compatriots will find him hard to replace. His mere appearance on a white horse ahead of the firing line was enough to inspire in his soldiers an enthusiasm such as even the veterans of Napoleon hardly ever displayed. The death of such a man during the present critical period is an irreparable loss for Russia. He was an enemy of England, but in this country his exploits were followed with scarcely less interest than in his homeland .
“Indeed, frankly and nobly put,” said the prince approvingly.
“Precisely. And now I will read you an article from Saturday’s Bbrsen Kurier .” Karachentsev picked up another sheet of paper. “Mm… Well, this piece will do:”
The Russian bear is no longer dangerous. Let the pan-Slavists weep over the grave of Sobolev. But as for us Germans, we must honestly admit that we are glad of the death of a formidable enemy. We do not experience any feelings of regret. The only man in Russia who was genuinely able to act upon his word is dead .
“And so on in the same vein. How’s that for civilization, eh?”
The governor was outraged.
“Shameless impudence! Of course, the anti-German feelings of the deceased are well known. We can all remember the genuine furor caused by his speech in Paris on the Slav question — it almost caused a serious falling-out between the emperor and the kaiser. “The road to Constantinople lies through Berlin and Vienna!” Strongly put, with no diplomatic niceties. But to stoop to murder! Why, it’s quite unheard-of! I shall inform His Majesty immediately! Even without Sobolev we’ll give those sausage-eaters a dose of medicine that will—”
“Your Excellency,” said Evgeny Osipovich, gently interrupting the fuming governor. “Should we not first listen to the rest of what Mr. Fan-dorin has to say?”
After that they had heard Erast Petrovich out without interruption, although his culminating proposal to limit themselves to placing Knabe under observation was clearly a disappointment to his listeners, as the remarks adduced above testify. To the chief of police Fandorin said: “To
The fourth participant in the secret conference, Pyotr Parmyonovich Khurtinsky, remained silent.
They had been in conference for a long time already, since first thing that morning. Erast Petrovich had reported on the events of the previous evening and how he had followed the mysterious visitor, who had proved to be the German businessman Hans-Georg Knabe, the Moscow representative of the Berlin banking firm Kerbel und Schmidt, with a residence on Karyetny Ryad. When the collegiate assessor related the sinister conversation between Knabe and Wanda, his report had to be interrupted briefly, because Prince Dolgorukoi became extremely agitated and began shouting and waving his fists in the air.
“Ah, the villains, ah, the blackguards! Were they the ones who murdered the noble knight of the Russian land? What heinous treachery! An international scandal! Oh, the Germans will pay for this!”
“That will do, Your Excellency,” the head of the secret section, Khurtinsky, murmured reassuringly. “This is too dubious a hypothesis. Poison the White General! Nonsense! I can’t believe the Germans would take such a risk. They are a civilized nation, not treacherous Persian conspirators!”
“Civilized?” exclaimed General Karachentsev, baring his teeth in a snarl. “I have here the articles from today’s British and German newspapers, sent to me by the Russian Telegraph Agency. As we know, Mikhail Dmitrievich was no great lover of either of these two countries, and he made no secret of his views. But compare the tone! With your permission, Your Excellency?” The chief of police set his pince-nez on his nose and took a sheet of paper out of a file.
The English Standard writes:
Sobolev’s compatriots will find him hard to replace. His mere appearance on a white horse ahead of the firing line was enough to inspire in his soldiers an enthusiasm such as even the veterans of Napoleon hardly ever displayed. The death of such a man during the present critical period is an irreparable loss for Russia. He was an enemy of England, but in this country his exploits were followed with scarcely less interest than in his homeland .
“Indeed, frankly and nobly put,” said the prince approvingly.
“Precisely. And now I will read you an article from Saturday’s Bbrsen Kurier .” Karachentsev picked up another sheet of paper. “Mm… Well, this piece will do:”
The Russian bear is no longer dangerous. Let the pan-Slavists weep over the grave of Sobolev. But as for us Germans, we must honestly admit that we are glad of the death of a formidable enemy. We do not experience any feelings of regret. The only man in Russia who was genuinely able to act upon his word is dead .
“And so on in the same vein. How’s that for civilization, eh?”
The governor was outraged.
“Shameless impudence! Of course, the anti-German feelings of the deceased are well known. We can all remember the genuine furor caused by his speech in Paris on the Slav question — it almost caused a serious falling-out between the emperor and the kaiser. “The road to Constantinople lies through Berlin and Vienna!” Strongly put, with no diplomatic niceties. But to stoop to murder! Why, it’s quite unheard-of! I shall inform His Majesty immediately! Even without Sobolev we’ll give those sausage-eaters a dose of medicine that will—”
“Your Excellency,” said Evgeny Osipovich, gently interrupting the fuming governor. “Should we not first listen to the rest of what Mr. Fan-dorin has to say?”
After that they had heard Erast Petrovich out without interruption, although his culminating proposal to limit themselves to placing Knabe under observation was clearly a disappointment to his listeners, as the remarks adduced above testify. To the chief of police Fandorin said: “To