'When the journalists heard about the successful incursion on the southern flank they all went dashing to their telegraph apparatuses, but Anwar set off in pursuit of Zurov and Kazanzaki. On his famous mount Yataghan he overhauled them with no difficulty and once they reached a deserted spot, he shot them both. Evidently, when he attacked he was galloping along between Zurov and Kazanzaki, with the captain on his right and the gendarme on his left. Anwar shoots the hussar in the left temple, at point-blank range, and a moment later despatches a bullet into the forehead of the lieutenant-colonel, who has turned towards him at the sound of the shot. The whole thing took no more than a second. There were troops moving all around, but the horsemen were riding along a depression,- no one could see them and the shots could hardly have attracted attention in the middle of an artillery bombardment. The killer left Zurov's body lying where it was, but thrust the gendarme's dagger into its shoulder. In other words, first he shot him, and then he stabbed him when he was already dead, and not, as we initially believed, the other way round. Anwar's intent is clear: to cast suspicion on Kazanzaki. For the same reason he moved the lieutenant-colonel's body to the nearest bushes and staged the suicide.'
'But what about the letter?' Varya reminded him. 'From that - what was his name? - Shalunishka?'
'A magnificent ploy,' Fandorin acknowledged. 'Turkish intelligence had evidently been aware of Kazanzaki's unnatural inclinations since his old days in Tiflis. I presume that Anwar-effendi kept an eye on the lieutenant-colonel, bearing in mind the possibility of resorting to blackmail at some time in the future. When events took an unexpected turn, he used the information to good effect to throw us off the scent. Anwar simply took a blank sheet of paper and dashed off a caricature of a letter from a homosexual lover. But he rather overdid it, and even at the time I thought the letter seemed suspicious. In the first place, it is hard to believe that a Georgian prince could write such abominable Russian - he ought at least to have received a grammar-school education. And in the second place, perhaps you recall my asking Lavrenty Arkadievich about the envelope and learning that the letter had been lying in the dead man's pocket unprotected? But in that case, how could it have remained so clean and crisp when Kazanzaki must have been carrying it around with him for an entire year?'
'This is all very fine,' Mizinov said impatiently, 'and this is the second time in the last twenty-four hours that you have expounded your ideas on this matter to me, but I ask you once again: Why were you so secretive? Why did you not share your doubts earlier?'
'If one rejects one explanation, one must propose another, and I simply could not make all the pieces fit together,' replied Erast Petrovich. 'My opponent employed far too wide a range of devices. I am ashamed to admit it, but for a while my main suspect was Mister Perepyolkin.'
'Eremei?' Sobolev exclaimed in astonishment, throwing his hands up in disbelief. 'Come now, gentlemen, this is sheer paranoia.'
Perepyolkin himself blinked several times and nervously unbuttoned his tight collar.
'Yes, it is stupid,' Fandorin agreed, 'but whichever way we went, we kept tripping over the lieutenant-colonel. Even the way he made his first appearance seemed rather suspicious - the miraculous liberation from captivity, the failed shot at point-blank range. The Bashi-Bazouks usually shoot better than that. And then the business with the coded message - it was Perepyolkin who delivered the telegram with the order to attack Nikopol to General Kriedener. And who was it that egged on the credulous journalist Paladin to sneak into Plevna under the very noses of the Turks? And the mysterious letter "J". Thanks to Zurov's easy wit, everyone had begun to call Eremei Ionovich "Jerome". That is on the one hand. On the other hand, you must admit that Anwar-effendi's cover was ideal. I could construct any number of logical hypotheses, but the moment I looked at Charles Paladin, all my arguments crumbled to dust. Just take a look at this man.' Fandorin pointed to the journalist. Everybody looked at Paladin, who bowed with exaggerated humility. 'How is it possible to believe that this charming, witty, thoroughly European gentleman and the perfidious, cruel head of the Turkish secret service are one and the same person?'
'Never, not for the world!' declared Sobolev. 'And even now I don't believe it!'
Erast Petrovich nodded in satisfaction. 'And now for the business with McLaughlin and the failed breakout. In this case everything was very simple, with no risk. It was not difficult to interest the gullible Seamus in a piece of "sensational" news. No doubt the informer he concealed from us, and of whom he was so proud, was working for you, Effendi.'
Varya shuddered at hearing that form of address used to Charles. No, there must be something wrong here. What kind of 'effendi' was he!
'The way you exploited McLaughlin's trusting nature, as well as his vanity, was very clever. How envious he was of the brilliant Charles Paladin, how he dreamed of outshining him! So far he had only managed to beat him at chess, and then not every time; but now he had this fantastic stroke of luck! Exclusive information from most reliable sources! And what incredible information it was! For information like that any reporter would sell his very soul to the devil. If McLaughlin had not happened to meet Varvara Andreevna on his way and blurt out his secret to her . . . Osman would have swept aside the corps of grenadiers, broken out of the blockade and fallen back to Shipka. And then the situation on the front would have been stalemate.'
'But if McLaughlin is not a spy, what has become of him?' asked Varya.
'Do you recall Ganetsky's story of how the Bashi-Bazouks attacked his command headquarters and the ageing general barely managed to escape with his life? I think it was not Ganetsky that the saboteurs wanted, but McLaughlin. He had to be eliminated, and he disappeared. Without trace. Very probably the deceived and much-maligned Irishman is lying somewhere at the bottom of the River Vid with a stone round his neck. Or possibly the Bashi-Bazouks, following their usual charming custom, hacked him to pieces.'
Varya shuddered, recalling how the round-faced correspondent had wolfed down her jam pies during their final meeting. When he had only an hour or two left to live . . .
'Did you not feel sorry for poor McLaughlin?' Fandorin inquired, but Paladin (or was he really Anwar-effendi after all?) merely invited him to continue with an elegant gesture and concealed his hands behind his back again.
Varya remembered that, according to the science of psychology, hands concealed behind the back indicate secretiveness and a reluctance to speak the truth. Was it really possible? She moved closer to the journalist, gazing inquisitively into his face in an attempt to discover something alien and fearsome in those familiar features. The face was the same as ever, except perhaps a little paler. Paladin did not look at Varya.
'The attempted breakout failed, but you emerged unscathed yet again. I rushed back to the theatre of military action from Paris as fast as I could. I already knew for certain who you were, and I realised just how dangerous you are.'
'You could have sent a telegram,' Mizinov growled.
'Saying what, Your Excellency? "The journalist Paladin is Anwar-effendi" ? You would have thought that Fandorin had lost his mind. Remember how long it took me to present my proof to you - you flatly refused to abandon the idea of British machinations. And General Sobolev, as you can see, is still not convinced, even after my rather extensive explanation.'
Sobolev shook his head stubbornly. 'We'll hear you out, Fandorin, and then we'll give Charles his chance to speak. A court hearing cannot consist of nothing but the prosecutor's address.'
'Merci, Michel,' said Paladin with a smile, and proceeded to speak in a mixture of French and Russian. 'Comme dit Vautre, a friend in need is a friend indeed. One question for Monsieur le Procureur: When were your doubts finally laid to rest? Pray satisfy my curiosity.'
'In Paris, at the Revue offices,' said Fandorin. 'You committed one act of serious carelessness. When McLaughlin introduced you on the occasion of our first encounter, he pronounced your name as Charles Paladin-Devray. But when I began looking through your early articles, where you signed yourself by your full nom de plume - Paladin d'Hevrais - I immediately recalled that according to some sources our primary enemy Anwar-effendi was born in the small Bosnian town of Hef-Rai's. Paladin d'Hevrais: the "Champion of Hef-Rai's". You must agree that as a pseudonym it is far too transparent. It is not good to be so ostentatious and underestimate one's opponents so badly! No doubt when you began your journalistic career you still had no idea that your mask as a journalist would be required for activities of a rather different nature. I am sure that you began writing for a Parisian newspaper out of entirely innocent considerations: in order to find an outlet for your exceptional literary talent while at the same time stimulating European interest in the problems of the Turkish Empire and especially in the figure of the great reformer Midhat-pasha. In fact, you were rather successful in those aims. The name of the wise Midhat appears at least fifty times in your published articles. You were effectively responsible for making the pasha a popular and respected personality throughout the whole of Europe, and especially in France, where he happens to be at the present moment.'
Varya started, recalling how Paladin had spoken of the father he loved so dearly, who lived in France. Could it really all be true then? She glanced at the journalist in horror. He was still as calm as ever, but Varya thought his smile seemed rather forced.
'And by the way,' the titular counsellor continued, ‘I do not believe that you betrayed Midhat-pasha. That was some kind of subtle ploy. Now that Turkey has been defeated, he will return, crowned with the laurels of a martyr, and take up the reins of government once again. From Europe's point of view, he is an absolutely ideal figure. In Paris they positively idolise him.' Fandorin touched a hand to his temple, and Varya suddenly noticed how pale and tired he looked. ‘I was in a great hurry to get back, but the three hundred vyersts from Sophia to Germanly took me longer than the fifteen hundred vyersts from Paris to Sophia. The roads in the rear defy all description. Thank God Lavrenty Arkadie-vich and I arrived in time. As soon as General Strukov informed me that His Excellency had set out for San Stefano accompanied by the journalist Paladin, I realised that that this was Anwar-effendi's final, deadly move. It was no accident that the telegraph wires were cut. I was very much afraid, Mikhail Dmitrievich, that this man would exploit your valiant spirit and ambition to persuade you to enter Constantinople.'
'And what exactly was it that made you so afraid, Mister Prosecutor?' Sobolev inquired ironically. 'What matter if Russian soldiers had entered the Turkish capital?'
'What matter?' Mizinov exclaimed apoplectically. 'Are you out of your mind? It would have been the end of everything!'
'What "everything"?' the bold Achilles asked with a shrug, but Varya spotted a glint of alarm in his eyes.
'Our army, our conquests, Russia!' the chief of gendarmes thundered. 'Our ambassador in England, Count Shuvalov, has forwarded a coded message. He has seen a secret memorandum of the Court of St James with his own eyes. Under the terms of a secret agreement between the British and Austro-Hungarian empires, if even a single Russian soldier should appear in Constantinople, Admiral Hornby's squadron of ironclads will immediately open fire and the Austro-Hungarian army will cross the Serbian and Russian borders. You see the difficulty, Mikhail Dmitrievich? In that case we would have suffered a rout far more terrible than the Crimea. The country is exhausted by the epic struggle at Plevna; we have no fleet in the Black Sea; the treasury is empty. It would have been a total and utter disaster.'
Sobolev could think of nothing to say.
'But Your Excellency had the wisdom and forbearance not to proceed beyond San Stefano,' Fandorin said deferentially. 'Lavrenty Arkadievich and I need not have been in quite such a great hurry.'
Varya saw the White General's face turn red. Sobolev cleared his throat and nodded with a serious air as he surveyed the marble floor.
And then who should squeeze in through the door at that very moment but the cornet Gukmasov. He peered hostilely at the blue uniforms and barked: 'By your leave I beg to report, Your Excellency!'
Varya suddenly felt sorry for poor Achilles and she looked away, but that oaf carried on and reported sten-toriously: 'Six o'clock precisely! According to orders the battalion is drawn up and Gulnora is saddled and ready! We are only waiting for Your Excellency in order to advance on the gates of Constantinople!'
'Stop there, you blockhead!' mumbled the crimson-faced hero. 'To hell with the damned gates . . .'
Gukmasov backed disconcertedly out of the door. It had barely closed behind him when something unexpected happened.
'Et maintenant, mesdames et messieurs, la parole est a la defence,' Paladin declared in a loud voice. He pulled his right hand out from behind his back. It was holding a pistol. Twice the pistol belched thunder and lightning.
Varya saw the uniform jackets of both gendarmes torn open on the left side of the chest, as though by some mutual agreement. Their carbines clattered to the floor, and the gendarmes collapsed with hardly a sound.
Varya's ears were ringing from the shots. She had no time to cry out or feel frightened before Paladin had reached out his left hand, grasped her tightly by the elbow and pulled her towards him, protecting himself with her like a shield.