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 déjá 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.
‘Our friend?’ Erast Petrovich repeated slowly. ‘Why, of course, this whole business is about Shirota. That’s what you needed me for. You could have avenged yourself on the Don without me. But that’s not enough for you, you want to restore your alliance with the powerful organisation that Tsurumaki created. You calculated that once the Don was gone, Shirota, his right-hand man, would take over the organisation. Especially if you helped him to do it. But you didn’t know how to approach Shirota. And then you decided to use me. Right?’
The jonin didn’t answer. The eyes in the slit of his mask blazed with a furious fire. But, swept on by the irrepressible flood of liberated mental energy, Fandorin continued:
‘I couldn’t breathe! Now I remember how it began. Beside the funeral pyre, when you pretended to restrain me, you squeezed my chest very hard! I thought I couldn’t breathe because of the shock, but it was all your tricks. With my lungs half paralysed, my soul frozen and my rational mind numbed, I was like wax in your hands. And the reason why it has passed off just now is nothing to do with the death of my enemy – it’s because you slapped me on the back! But now I’ve played my part, and my usefulness is exhausted. You’re going to kill me. The Don was a villain, but the blood in all his veins was alive and hot. He wasn’t the real akunin, you are – with your cold heart, devoid of all love and nobility. You didn’t even love your daughter at all. Poor Midori! At her funeral all you were thinking about was how to make the most advantageous use of her death!’
Evidently Erast Petrovich’s mental clarity had not returned to him in full. Otherwise he would not have shouted his accusations out loud, he would not have shown that he had seen through the old shinobi’s game.
There was only one way to correct this fatal error. The titular counsellor lunged, aiming the poisoned stick at the schemer’s chest. But Tamba was prepared for an attack. He dodged and struck Fandorin gently on the wrist, leaving the hand dangling limply. The jonin immediately took the wooden weapon.
Erast Petrovich was not in the right state of mind to clutch at life. Holding his numbed hand, he turned his chest towards Tamba and waited for the blow.
‘Your conclusions are only half right,’ said the jonin, putting the small stick away. ‘Yes, I am a real akunin. But I won’t kill you. Let us get out of here. The guards will wake up any minute now. This is not the time or the place for explanations. Especially since they will be long. Let us go. And I’ll tell you about the Diamond Chariot and a real akunin.’