Free Turkish Gambit by Boris Akunin Page A

behave with me. That is one. You do not wish to feel grateful, and therefore you get angry. That is two. If you will simply forget about your damnable gratitude we shall g-get along very well. That is three.'
    Such blatant condescension only made Varya even more furious, especially since the cold-blooded secret agent was absolutely right. 'I noticed yesterday that you talk like a dancing teacher: one-two-three, one-two-three. Where did you learn such a stupid mannerism?'
    'I had my teachers,' Fandorin replied vaguely and rudely stuck his nose back into his Turkish book.
    The marquee where the journalists accredited to central headquarters gathered was visible from a distance. The entrance was festooned with the flags of various countries hanging on a long string, the pennants of magazines and newspapers, and even a pair of red braces with white stars.
    'I expect they were celebrating the success at Lovcha yesterday’ volunteered Petya. 'Someone must have celebrated so hard that he lost his braces.'
    He pulled aside the canvas flap and Varya glanced inside.
    The club was untidy but quite cosy in its own way: wooden tables, canvas chairs, a bar counter with rows of bottles. It smelled of tobacco smoke, candle wax and men's eau de cologne. There were heaps of Russian and foreign newspapers lying on a separate long table. The newspapers looked rather unusual, because they were made up of telegraph tapes glued together. On taking a closer look at the London Daily Post, Varya was surprised to see that it was that morning's issue. Evidently the newspaper offices forwarded them everything by telegraph. How wonderful!
    Varya was particularly gratified to note that there were only two women present, both wearing pince-nez and no longer in the first flush of youth; but there were lots and lots of men, and she spied her acquaintances among them.
    First of all there was Fandorin, still with his book. That was rather stupid - he could have read it in his tent.
    In the opposite corner a session of simultaneous chess was in progress. McLaughlin was striding up and down on one side of the table, smoking his cigar with a condescendingly good-natured expression, while seated along the other side, all concentrating intensely, were Sobolev, Paladin and two other men.
    'Bah, it's our little Bulgarian!' exclaimed General Michel, getting up from the chessboard with relief. 'Why, how you have changed! All right, Seamus, we'll call it a draw.'
    Paladin smiled affably at the new arrivals and his gaze lingered on Varya (which was very pleasant), but then he continued with his game.
    However, a dark-complexioned officer in a positively dazzling uniform came dashing up to Sobolev, set a finger to one point of his over-exuberant waxed moustache and exclaimed in French: 'General, I implore you, introduce me to your enchanting acquaintance! Extinguish the candles, gentlemen! They are needed no longer, for the sun has risen!'
    Both the elderly ladies cast glances of extreme disapproval in Varya's direction, and in fact even she was rather taken aback by such a headlong assault.
    'This is Colonel Lukan, the personal representative of our invaluable ally His Highness Prince Karl of Roumania,' said Sobolev with a smile. 'I must warn you, Varvara Andreevna, that when it comes to ladies' hearts the colonel is more deadly than any upas tree.'
    It was clear from his tone of voice that it would be best not to lead the Roumanian on, and Varya replied stand-offishly, leaning demonstratively against Petya's arm: 'Pleased to meet you. My fiance, volunteer Pyotr Yablokov.'
    Lukan took Varya's wrist gallantly between his finger and thumb (a ring studded with a very substantial diamond glittered on his hand), but when he attempted to kiss her fingers, he was instead duly rebuffed.
    'In St Petersburg one does not kiss modern women's hands.'
    Nonetheless, the company here was certainly intriguing, and Varya took a liking to the correspondents' club. The only annoying thing