The Death of Achilles Read Free

frowned, because something was definitely not right. The record had a whiff of danger about it. The governor-general had already looked through his new associate’s personal file several times, but things had not become any clearer as a result.
    Fandorin’s file really did read most enigmatically. Well, now, twenty-six years of age, Orthodox Christian by confession, hereditary nobleman, and native of Moscow. So far, so good. On finishing his secondary school studies, at his own request appointed by decree of the Moscow police to the rank of collegiate registrar and given a position as a clerk in the Criminal Investigation Department. That was clear enough, too. But then followed a series of absolute marvels. What was this, for instance, only two months later:
For outstanding devotion to duty and superlative service graciously promoted by His Majesty to the rank of titular counselor without regard to seniority and attached to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’?
    And, further on, in the awards section, something even more outlandish:
Order of St. Vladimir, fourth class, for the Azazel case (secret archive of the Special Gendarmes Corps )
     
    Order of St. Stanislav, third class, for the ‘Turkish Gambit’ case (secret archive of the Ministry of War )
     
    Order of St. Anne for the ‘Diamond Chariot’ case (secret archive of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs ).
    Nothing but one secret after another!
    Erast Petrovich cast a tactful but acute glance at his superior and formed his first impression in a moment. On the whole it was a positive one. The prince was old, but not doddering, and there was still something of the actor about him. Nor did the struggle that was reflected on His Excellency’s face as he looked through the service record escape the collegiate assessor’s attention. Fandorin sighed sympathetically, for although he had not read his own personal file, he could more or less imagine what might be written in it.
    Erast Petrovich also took advantage of the pause in the conversation to glance at the two functionaries whose duty it was to know all Moscow’s secrets. Khurtinsky squinted at him cordially, smiling with only his lips in an apparently friendly manner, and yet somehow smiling not at Fandorin, but at daydreams of his own. Erast Petrovich did not return the court counselor’s smile; he was only too familiar with people of this kind and disliked them intensely. However, he quite liked the look of the chief of police and smiled briefly at the general, although without the slightest hint of servility. The general nodded courteously, and yet the glance he cast at the young man seemed strangely tinged with pity. Erast Petrovich did not allow this to bother him — everything would be made clear in good time — and he turned back to the prince, who was also participating in this silent ritual of mutual inspection, conducted circumspectly within the bounds of due propriety.
    One especially deep wrinkle had appeared on the prince’s brow in testimony to his state of extreme preoccupation. The main thought in His Excellency’s mind at that precise moment was: Could you possibly have been sent by the plotters, my pretty young fellow? To undermine my position, perhaps? It looks very much like it. I have enough trouble already with Karachentsev.
    The police chief’s pitying glance, however, resulted from considerations of an entirely different nature. Lying in Evgeny Osipovich’s pocket was a letter from his direct superior, the director of the Department of State Police, Vyacheslav Konstantinovich Plevako. Karachentsev’s old friend and mentor had written in a private capacity to tell him that Fan-dorin was a sound individual of proven merit who had formerly enjoyed the confidence of the late monarch, and in particular of the chief of gendarmes, but during his years of foreign service he had lost touch with high-level politics and had now been dispatched to Moscow because no use could be found for him in St.