Indeed, the operation looked so simple that Tamba wanted to take only Dan with him, but Erast Petrovich insisted on taking part. He knew he would be a burden to the Stealthy Ones, but he was afraid that if he did not exterminate Tsurumaki with his own hands, the tight ring constricting his chest would never open again.
In a secluded spot on the high seashore, they changed into black and covered their faces with masks.
‘A genuine shinobi,’ said Tamba, shaking his head as he examined the titular counsellor. ‘Only very lanky…’
Masa was ordered to stay and guard the clothes, and when Fandorin’s servant tried to rebel, Tamba took him gently by the neck and pressed – and the rebel closed his eyes, lay down on the ground and started snuffling sweetly.
They didn’t head straight for the gates – there were always sentries on duty there. They went through the garden of the Right Honourable Algernon Bullcox. The ferocious mastiffs were pacified by Dan; he blew into a little pipe three times, and the terrifying monsters sank into a peaceful sleep, just like Masa.
As they walked past the familiar house with the dark windows, Erast Petrovich kept looking up at the first floor and waiting for something to stir in his soul. Nothing stirred.
They stopped at the small gate that led out of the garden into the neighbouring estate. Dan took out some kind of slide-whistle and trilled like a cicada.
The gate swung open without a sound, not even the spring jangled – Shirota had taken care of that by lubricating the gate earlier.
‘That way,’ said Fandorin, pointing towards the pond and the dark silhouette of the pavilion.
Everything was set to end where it had begun. In a detailed note, Shirota had informed them that Tsurumaki did not spend the night in the house. One of his men went to bed in his room and the master of the house went off to sleep in the pavilion. No one else in the house knew about this, apart from Shirota and two bodyguards.
That was why Tamba regarded the operation as not very complicated.
As they approached the pavilion where he had spent so many happy hours, Erast listened to his heart again – would it start pounding or not? No, it didn’t.
The jonin put his hand on Fandorin’s shoulder and gestured for him to lie down on the ground. Only the shinobi went on from there. They didn’t crawl, they didn’t freeze on the spot – they simply walked, but in such an amazing way that Fandorin could hardly see them.
The shadows of the night clouds slid across the grass and the paths, and Tamba and his nephew managed to stay in the dark patches all the time, not getting caught even once in a brightly lit patch.
When the sentry on duty between them and the pool suddenly turned his head and listened, they both froze absolutely still. It seemed to Erast Petrovich that the bodyguard was looking straight at the Stealthy Ones, who were separated from him by a distance of no more than ten paces. But the sentry yawned and started gazing at the glimmering surface of the water again.
There was a very faint sound, like a light exhalation. The sentry tumbled over gently on to his side, dropping his carbine. Dan had fired a dart from his blowpipe. The sleeping drug took effect instantly. The man would wake up in fifteen minutes’ time, and think he had just dozed off a second ago. The young ninja ran straight over to the wall and round the corner. A few moments later he peeped back round and gave a signaclass="underline" the second bodyguard had also been put to sleep.
Fandorin could get up now.
Tamba was waiting for the titular counsellor by the door. He didn’t let Fandorin go ahead, though, but ducked in first himself.
He leaned down over the sleeping man for no more than an instant and then said in a voice that was low, but not a whisper:
‘Come in, he’s yours.’
The night lamp came on with a flash – the same one that Erast Petrovich had used so many times. Don Tsurumaki was lying on the futon with his eyes closed.
Even the bed was the same one…
Tamba shook his head as he looked at the sleeping man.
‘I pressed his sleep point, he won’t wake up. A good death, with no fear or pain. An akunin like this deserves worse.’ He held out a little stick with a pointed end. ‘Prick him on the chest or the neck. Lightly, so that only one drop of blood seeps out. That will be enough – no one will guess that the Don was killed. The bodyguards will swear that they never closed their eyes. A natural death. His heart stopped in his sleep. It happens with excessively full-blooded individuals.’
Erast Petrovich looked at the ruddy features of his sworn enemy in the grip of a magical stupor. This is no chimerical dйjб vu, he told himself. This really has happened once before. I stood over the sleeping Don and listened to his regular breathing. But everything was different then. He wasn’t asleep, he was pretending. That is one. I was the prey and not the hunter. That is two. And on that occasion my heart was pounding, but now it is calm.
‘I cannot kill a sleeping man,’ said Fandorin. ‘Wake him.’
Tamba muttered something under his breath – invective, no doubt. But he didn’t argue.
‘All right. Only be careful. He is cunning and brave.’
The jonin touched the fat man’s neck and skipped back into the shadow.
Tsurumaki started and opened his eyes, which opened wider at the sight of the black figure with one hand raised.
Erast Petrovich pulled the mask off his face, and the Don’s eyes opened wider still.
The most stupid thing that Erast Petrovich could do in this situation was enter into conversation with the condemned man, but how could he strike a man who was unarmed, and without saying anything, like an executioner?
‘It’s not a dream,’ said Fandorin. ‘Farewell, akunin, and may you be cursed.’
Well, he had said his farewell, but he still hadn’t struck the blow.
Who could tell how all this would have ended – but the titular counsellor was lucky. Don Tsurumaki, a man with strong nerves, snatched a revolver out from under his pillow, and then, with a feeling of relief, Erast Petrovich prodded the villain on the collarbone.
The Don made a strange, snoring sound, dropped the gun, twitched several times and lay still. The whites of his upturned eyes glinted between the half-closed eyelids.
Fandorin tried to breathe with his full chest, but he couldn’t!
What was this? The death of his enemy had not brought him relief? Perhaps because it had happened too quickly and simply?
He swung his hand back to strike another blow, but Tamba interfered and grabbed his wrist.
‘Enough! It will leave marks.’
‘I still can’t get my breath.’
‘That’s all right, it will pass off now,’ said the jonin, slapping the vice-consul on the back. ‘The death of an enemy is the very best medicine.’
Incredibly enough, at those words Fandorin suddenly felt better. It was as if some kind of spring unwound inside him. He breathed in cautiously – and the air flowed easily into his chest, filling it right up. The sensation was so delightful that it set Erast Petrovich’s head spinning.
So it hadn’t all been in vain!
While the titular counsellor was relishing his new-found freedom of breath, Tamba hid the revolver under the pillow again, laid the dead man out more naturally, opened his mouth slightly, sprayed something into it, and bubbles of foam sprang out on to the lips. Then he lowered the collar of the nightshirt and wiped away the solitary drop of blood.
‘That’s it, let us go! Let us not cause trouble for our friend Shirota. Well, what’s wrong with you?’
Fandorin’s clarity of thought had returned to him together with his breathing. He looked at Tamba, and seemed to see him properly for the first time – see all of him, just as he was, right through.