'They would be bound to,' the general promised confidently. 'I have also considered this option, which is why I brought Erast Fandorin with me. I did not dare appoint a man to such a delicate mission without Your Majesty's approval. There is far too much at stake. Fandorin is resourceful and determined, he has an original mind and, most importantly of all, he has already worked on one highly complex secret mission in London and managed it quite brilliantly. He knows the language. He knows McLaughlin personally. If necessary he will kidnap him. If that is not possible he will come to terms with him. If he cannot come to terms, then he will assist Shuvalov to arrange a fine scandal. He can even testify against McLaughlin as a direct eyewitness. He possesses exceptional powers of persuasion.'
'And who's Shuvalov?' Varya whispered.
'Our ambassador,' the titular counsellor replied absent-mindedly, with his mind on something else. He did not really seem to be following what the general was saying.
'Well, Fandorin, can you manage that?' the emperor asked. 'Will you go to London?'
'Yes, I will go, Your Majesty,' said Erast Petrovich. 'Certainly I will go . . .'
The autocrat eyed him keenly, having caught the echo of something left unsaid; but Fandorin did not add anything else.
'Well then, Mizinov, act along both lines,' said Alexander, summing up. 'Look for him in Constantinople and in London. Only do not waste any time; we have very little left.'
When they came out into the aide-de-camp's room, Varya asked the generaclass="underline" 'But what if McLaughlin can't be found at all?'
'You can rely on my instinct, my dear,' the general sighed. 'We shall definitely be seeing that gentleman again.'
Chapter Twelve
IN WHICH EVENTS TAKE AN UNEXPECTED TURN
The St Petersburg Gazette
8 (20) January 1878
Turks Sue For Peace!
After the capitulation of Vessel-pasha, the capture of Philippopol and the surrender of ancient Adrianople, which yesterday flung its gates open to admit the Cossacks of the White General, the outcome of the war has finally been settled, and this morning a train carrying the Turkish truce envoys arrived at the positions of our valiant forces. The train was detained at Adrianople and the pashas were transferred from there to the headquarters of the commander-in-chief, currently quartered in the village of Germanly. When the head of the Turkish delegation, 76-year-old Namyk-pasha, learned the provisional terms of the peace settlement, he exclaimed in despair: 'Votre armee est victorieuse, votre ambition est satisfaite et la Turkie est detruite!'
Well now, say we, that is no more than Turkey deserves.
They hadn't said goodbye properly. Sobolev had collected Varya from the porch of the 'field palace', enveloped her in his magnetic aura of success and glory and whisked her away to his headquarters to celebrate the victory. She had barely even had time to nod to Erast Petrovich, and in the morning he was not in the camp. His orderly Trifon said: 'His Honour has gone away. Call back in a month.'
But a month had passed, and the titular counsellor had still not returned. Evidently it was not proving so easy to find McLaughlin in England.
It was not that Varya actually missed him - on the contrary: once they decamped from Plevna, life had become quite fascinating. Every day there were moves to new places, new cities, stupendous mountain landscapes and endless celebrations of almost daily military victories. The commander-in-chief's headquarters first moved to Kazanlyk, beyond the Balkan range, and then still further south, to Germanly. Here there was no winter at all. The trees were all green and the only snow to be seen was on the summits of the distant mountains.
With Fandorin gone there was nothing that Varya had to do. She was still, however, officially attached to the headquarters staff and she received her salary punctually for December and January, plus travelling expenses, plus a bonus for Christmas. She had accumulated quite a tidy sum, but she had nothing to spend it on. Once in Sophia she had wanted to buy a charming copper lamp (it was exactly like Aladdin's), but Paladin and Gridnev had not allowed her. In fact, they had almost come to blows over who would present Varya with the trinket, and she had been obliged to give way.
Concerning Gridnev: the eighteen-year-old ensign had been attached to Varya by Sobolev. The hero of Plevna and Sheinov was kept busy day and night with army affairs, but he had not forgotten about Varya. Whenever he could find a free moment to visit headquarters, he always called in to see her, sent her gigantic bouquets of flowers and invited her to celebrations (they saw in the New Year twice, according to the Western calendar and the Russian calendar). But this was still not enough for the tenacious Michel, so he had placed one of his orderlies at Varya's disposal - 'for assistance on the road and protection'. At first the ensign had sulked and glared hostilely at his superior in a skirt, but quite soon he had grown tame, and even seemed to have developed certain romantic feelings for her. It was funny of course, but flattering. Gridnev was not handsome - that strategist Sobolev would not have sent anyone handsome - but he was as lovable and eager to please as a puppy. In his company twenty-two-year-old Varya felt like a very grown-up and worldly-wise woman.
She was in a rather strange position now. At headquarters they apparently assumed that she was Sobolev's mistress, but since everyone regarded the White General with indulgent adoration, no one condemned her for it. On the contrary, some small portion of Sobolev's halo seemed to extend to her as well. Many of the officers would probably have been quite indignant if they had discovered that she dared to refuse to enter into intimate relations with the glorious Russian Achilles and was remaining faithful to some lowly cryptographer.
To be honest, things were not going all that well with Petya. No, he didn't get jealous and he didn't make scenes, but since his failed suicide Varya found it hard to be with him. In the first place, she hardly ever saw him - Petya was atoning for his guilt with work, since it was impossible to atone for it with blood in the cryptography section. He worked two consecutive shifts each day, slept at his post on a folding bed, no longer visited the journalists in their club and took no part in the general junketing. She had been obliged to celebrate Christmas and Epiphany without him. At the sight of Varya his face lit up with a gentle, quiet joy; and he spoke to her as if she were an icon of the Virgin of Vladimir: she was the light of his life, and his only hope, and without her he would never have survived.
She felt terribly sorry for him. Only more and more often now she found herself pondering the troublesome question of whether it was possible to marry out of pity, and the answer was always that it wasn't. But it was even more unthinkable to say: 'You know, Petya, I've changed my mind and decided not to be your wife.' It would be just like putting down a wounded animal. She was caught in a cleft stick.
A substantial gathering still convened as before in the press club as it migrated from place to place, but it was not as boisterous as in Zurov's unforgettable time. They gambled with restraint, for small stakes, and the chess sessions had ceased with McLaughlin's disappearance. The journalists did not mention the Irishman, at least in the company of Russians, but the two other British correspondents had been made the object of a demonstrative boycott and stopped coming to the club altogether.
Of course, there had been drinking sprees and scandals. Twice matters had almost reached the point of bloodshed, and both times, alas, because of Varya.