Free She Lover of Death: The Further Adventures of Erast Fandorin by Boris Akunin Page A

out, like a beaten puppy dog. Columbine frowned. Surely she hadn’t looked as pitiful as that the night before?
    Petya’s expulsion gave her a distinctly wicked pleasure. I definitely have what it takes to be a femme fatale, Columbine told herself, and sat down by the window to read the poem by the ugly individual who in life had borne the ugly name of Nikifor Sipyaga.
    A Riddle
     
A nervous night, a hostile night,
The bed clatters its teeth,
Arching its back in wolfish spite.
I dare not sleep .
     
I fear sleep. In my waking trance
The wall-eyed windows show
Blue ash-tree skeletons that dance.
They creak, they groan .
     
I am still in this world, still here,
Warm, quivering, afraid.
The wind, knowing the Beast is near,
Taps on the pane .
     
The sated Beast will still be here,
The wind will sob and sigh
But I shall not be in this world.
Oh where am I?
     
    Columbine suddenly felt quite unbearably afraid – afraid enough to make her want to go running after Petya and ask him to come back.
    ‘Oh, dear mother,’ whispered the femme fatale. ‘What Beast is this?’
     

III. From the ‘Agents’ Reports’ File
     
    To His Honour Lieutenant-Colonel Besikov
(Private and confidential)
    Dear Lieutenant-Colonel,
    Ever since our latest exchange of opinions I have been reproaching myself for failing to display the firmness of character required to answer you in the appropriate manner. I am a weak man, and you possess the strange ability to stifle my will. The most disgusting thing of all is that I experience a strange pleasure in submitting to you, for which I hate myself afterwards. I swear that I shall drive this base, voluptuous servility out of myself !
    Alone with a sheet of paper, it is easier for me to say what I think of your outrageous demand!
    I think that you are abusing my goodwill and my readiness to assist the authorities voluntarily and render entirely disinterested assistance in eradicating this deadly cancer that is consuming society. For after all, it was I who informed you about my family tragedy, about my dearly beloved brother who became obsessed with the idea of suicide. I am a principled opponent of evil, and not some ‘collaborator’ as you call paid informers in your department. And if I have agreed to write you these letters (do not dare to call them ‘reports’), it is not at all out of fear of being exiled for my former political views (as you once threatened), but only because I have realised just how truly malign spiritual nihilism is and come to fear it. You are absolutely right – materialism and inflated concern for the rights of the individual are not the Russian way, I am in complete agreement with you on that, and I believe I have already demonstrated quite adequately the sincerity of my enlightenment. It would appear, however, that you have decided to make it impossible for me to remain a decent human being! That is going too far.
    I hereby declare categorically and irrevocably that I will not tell you the real names of the members of the club (in fact, I do not even know most of them), indeed, I will not even tell you the absurd aliases that they use among themselves, for that would be dishonourable and it smacks of simple informing.
    Be merciful. I yielded to your insistent requests and agreed to find the secret society of potential suicides and insinuate myself into it, because you saw a political background to this sinister movement, like the medieval Arab order of assassins, fanatical killers who placed no value at all on human life – neither other people’s nor their own. You must admit that I carried out your difficult assignment quite excellently, and now you receive reliable first-hand information about the ‘Lovers of Death’. And I have had enough of you. Do not ask me to do anything more.
    It has become absolutely clear to me that the Doge and his followers have no connection whatever with terrorists, socialists or anarchists. And what is more, these people