The conveyance in which the triumphant victors rode back to the consulate presented a truly unusual sight: snoring away in the middle was the secretary Shirota, wearing a morning coat and a string tie; this respectable-looking gentleman was flanked by two semi-naked peasants, sleeping soundly with their heads resting on his shoulders, and one of them was caked all over in dried dung.
Alas, however, Erast Petrovich was not given a chance to sleep all night, all day and all night again.
At eleven in the morning, when he was sleeping like a log, the vice-consul was shaken awake by his immediate superior.
Pale and trembling, Vsevolod Vitalievich splashed cold water over Fandorin, drank the liquid remaining in the mug and read out the express message that had just arrived from the embassy:
‘Early this morning Okubo was killed on the way to the imperial palace. Six unidentified men drew concealed swords, killed the postillion, hacked at the horse’s legs and stabbed the minister to death when he jumped out of the carriage. The minister had no guards. As yet nothing is known about the killers, but eyewitnesses claim that they addressed each other in the Satsuma dialect. Please report to the embassy immediately with Vice-Consul Fandorin.’
‘How is that possible?’ the titular counsellor exclaimed. ‘The conspirators were wiped out!’
‘It is now clear that the group you have been hunting only existed in order to divert the authorities’ energy and attention. Or else the man with the withered arm and his group were given a secondary role once they had attracted the attention of the police. The main group was waiting patiently for its chance. The moment Okubo broke his cover and was left without any protection, the killers struck. Ah, Fandorin, I fear this is an irredeemable blow. And the worst disaster is still to come. The consequences for Russia will be lamentable. There is no one to tame the beast, the cage is empty, the Japanese tiger will break free.’
The zoo is empty,
All the visitors have fled.
Tiger on the loose
THE SCENT OF IRISES
Six morose-looking gentlemen were sitting in the office of the Russian ambassador: five in black frock coats and one in naval uniform, also black. The frivolous May sun was shining outside the windows of the building, but its rays were blocked out by thick curtains, and the room was as gloomy as the general mood.
The nominal chairman of the meeting was the ambassador himself, Full State Counsellor Kirill Vasilievich Korf, but His Excellency hardly even opened his mouth, maintaining a significant silence and merely nodding gravely when Bukhartsev, sitting on his right, had the floor. The seats on the left of the plenipotentiary representative of the Russian Empire were occupied by another two diplomatic colleagues, the first secretary and a youthful attaché, but they did not participate in the conversation, and in introducing themselves, they had murmured their names so quietly that Erast Petrovich could not make them out.
The consul and vice-consul were seated on the other side of the long table, which gave the impression, if not of direct confrontation, then at least of a certain opposition between Tokyoites and Yokohamans.
First they discussed the details of the assassination: the attackers had revolvers, but they fired only into the air, to cause fright and confusion; the unfortunate Okubo had tried to protect himself from the sword blades with his bare hands, so his forearms were covered in slashes; the fatal blow had split the brilliant minister’s head in half; from the scene of the killing, the conspirators had gone straight to the police to surrender and had submitted a written statement, in which the dictator was declared a usurper and enemy of the nation; all six were former samurai from Satsuma, their victim’s home region.
Fandorin was astounded.
‘They surrendered? They didn’t try to kill themselves?’
‘There’s no point now,’ the consul explained. ‘They’ve done their job. There will be a trial, they will make beautiful speeches, the public will regard them as heroes. Plays will be written about them, and prints will be made. And then, of course, they’ll chop their heads off, but they have secured themselves an honourable place in Japanese history.’
After that they moved on to the main item on the agenda – discussing the political situation and forecasting imminent changes. Two of the men – the consul and the maritime agent – argued, the others listened.
‘Japan will now inevitably be transformed from our ally into our rival and, with time, our sworn enemy,’ Vsevolod Vitalievich prophesied morosely. ‘Such, I fear, is the law of political physics. Under Okubo, an advocate of strict control over all aspects of social life, Japan was developing along the Russian path; a firm vertical structure of power, state management of the basic industrial sectors, no democratic games. But now the hour of the English party has been ushered in. The country will turn on to the British path – with a parliament and political parties, with the development of private capital on a large scale. And what is the British model of development, gentlemen? It is outward extension and expansion, a gaseous state, that is, the urge to fill all available space: a weak Korea, a decrepit China. That is the ground on which we will meet the Japanese tiger.’
Lieutenant Captain Bukhartsev was not alarmed in the least by the prospect that the Yokohama consul had outlined.
‘What tiger are you talking about, sir? This is quite absurd. It’s no tiger, it’s a pussy cat, and a scabby, mangy one at that. Japan’s annual budget is only a tenth of Russia’s. And what can I say about their military forces? The Mikado’s peacetime army is thirty-five thousand men. The Tsar’s is almost a million. And what kind of soldiers do the Japanese have? They barely come up to the chests of our brave lads. And their navy! In the line of duty, I visited a battleship they bought recently in England. I could have laughed till I cried! Tiny little Lilliputs, crawling all over Gulliver. How do they intend to manage the turret mechanism for twelve-inch guns? Are five of them going to jump up and hang on the wheel? And as for Korea and China, oh, come now, Vsevolod Vitalievich! With God’s help, the Japanese might just liberate the island of Hokkaido!’
The ambassador liked what Bukhartsev had said – he smiled and started nodding. But out of the blue Doronin asked:
‘Tell me, Mstislav Nikolaievich, whose homes are cleaner – the Russian peasants’, or the Japanese peasants’?’
‘What has that go to do with the point?’
‘The Japanese say: “If the homes are clean, the government is respected and stable”. Our homes, my dear compatriots, are not clean – in fact, they are very unclean. Filth, drunkenness and, at the slightest provocation, the red cock crows under the landowner’s roof. We, my dear sirs, have bombers. Opposition is considered bon ton among our educated young people, but for the Japanese it is patriotism and respect for the authorities. And as for the difference in physique, that can be compensated for in time. We say: Healthy in body, healthy in mind. The Japanese are convinced of the opposite. And you know, I agree with them on that. Four-fifths of our population are illiterate, but they have passed a law on universal education. Soon every child here will go to school. Patriotism, a healthy mind and education – that is the recipe for the feed that will allow this “mangy pussy cat” to grow into a tiger very quickly indeed. And, in addition, do not forget the most important treasure that the Japanese possess, one that is, unfortunately, very rare in our parts. It is called “dignity”.’
The ambassador was surprised.
‘I beg your pardon, how do you mean that?’
‘In the most direct sense possible, Your Excellency. Japan is a country of politeness. Every individual, even the very poorest, conducts himself with dignity. A Japanese fears nothing so much as to forfeit the respect of those around him. Yes, today this is a poor, backward country, but it stands on a firm foundation, and therefore it will realise its aspirations. And that will happen far more quickly than we think.’