'Never mind,' the head police-master told her with a smile. 'I bear no grudge against you, only destiny. You made me feel happy and light-hearted, and as for betraying me, well, there was evidently nothing that could have been done about that.'
Incredibly enough, there were tears streaming down Julie's face. Green had never seen this carefree, frivolous woman cry before. But there was no sense in continuing the conversation. Everything had been explained already. Not even during the pogrom had Green ever felt so miserable as he did during these few minutes that had cancelled out the entire meaning of a long, hard struggle full of sacrifices. How would he carry on living? -that was the question he had to think about, and he knew it would not be easy to find an answer. But one thing was absolutely clear: this smiling man must die.
Green aimed the gun barrel at the manipulator's forehead.
'Hey, my dear chap!' Pozharsky exclaimed, throwing up one hand. 'What's the hurry? We were having such a wonderful chat. Don't you want to hear about Julie and our love? I assure you it is far more absorbing than any novel.'
Green shook his head and cocked the hammer: 'It's not important.'
'Gleb! No-o-o-o!'Julie screamed. She pounced on Green like a cat and hung on his arm. Her grip was surprisingly strong and her sharp teeth sank into the wrist of the hand holding the Colt.
Green shifted the revolver to his left hand, but it was too late: Pozharksy put his hand in his pocket and fired through the flap of his coat.
I'm hit, thought Green as his back struck the wall and he slid towards the floor. He tried to raise the hand holding the revolver, but it wouldn't obey him.
Julie sent the Colt flying with a kick of her shoe.
'Bravo, little girl,' said Pozharsky 'You're simply wonderful. I dragged things out for about as long as I could, but it still wasn't long enough. I told my men to wait for exactly ten minutes and then break in. He would have finished me by then.'
Something was roaring and howling in Green's ears and the room was swaying, first to the right, then to the left. He couldn't understand how the two men who came running in from the corridor managed to stay on their feet.
'You heard the shot?' the head police-master asked. 'Well done. I've downed this one, he's dying. The woman's for you; she's the famous Needle. She can't be left alive; she heard too much.'
The light began to dim. Pozharsky's face must not be the last thing he saw as his life drained away. Green ran his fading gaze round the room, searching for Needle. She was standing with her hands clasped together and looking at him without speaking, but he couldn't make out the expression in her eyes.
What was that glint between her fingers, that slim, bright thing?
A detonator - it's a detonator, Green realised.
Needle turned towards the vessel with the explosive mixture and snapped the narrow glass tube over it.
Life ended just as it was supposed to - in an instant flash of flame.
Epilogue
At the Kutafya Tower he had to let the cabby go and continue on foot. The new order of things was not yet obvious in the city, but here in the Kremlin things were no longer what they used to be: everything disciplined and carefully tended, patrols everywhere, and not a day that passed without the ice and snow being scraped off the cobblestones - you couldn't get through on a sleigh. Supreme authority had set up its home here now - the new master of the old capital had decided it was beneath him to live in the Governor General's residence and moved into the Maly Nikolaevsky Palace behind the tall red-brick walls.
Erast Petrovich walked uphill across the Trinity Bridge, one hand holding down his sword, the other clutching his cocked hat. Today was a most solemn day: the officials of Moscow were being presented to His Imperial Highness.
The old prince, Vladimir Andreevich Dolgorukoi, had departed to live out his remaining years in the odious leisure of Nice, and fundamental changes were afoot in the lives of his former subordinates - some would be elevated, some would be transferred to new positions, some would be retired altogether. An experienced man immediately took note of the time of day appointed for his reception or his department's. The earlier it was, the more alarming the implications. Everyone knows that a new broom sweeps briskly at first and its first priority is to be strict. There is a double purpose here: on the one hand, to instil the appropriate fear and trepidation in others, and on the other hand, to commence with punishments and conclude with favours. And again, it had been well known for a long time that the worst jobs - the district councils, the land-use committee, the orphans' trusteeship and all sorts of insignificant departments -were usually disposed of first of all, while the truly important positions were left until last.
Both of these signs indicated that State Counsellor Fandorin was an important individual, marked out for special attention. He had been invited to present himself to the clear gaze of the grand duke's eyes last of all, at half past five in the afternoon, even later than the commander of the military district and the top gendarme officers. This distinction, however, could signify absolutely anything, in either a flattering or an alarming sense, and therefore Erast Petrovich had not indulged in empty surmise but decided to entrust himself entirely to destiny. It has been said: 'The superior man meets wrath and favour with equal dignity'
Beside the walls of the Chudov Monastery, the State Counsellor ran into Lieutenant Smolyaninov, also in dress uniform and looking even more flushed than usual.
'Good afternoon, Erast Petrovich!' he exclaimed. 'On the way to your reception? He's seeing you very late. You must be due for promotion.'
Fandorin shrugged and asked politely: 'Have your people already been received? What happened?'
'There are changes at the Okhranka. Mylnikov has been kept in his old position, and Zubtsov has been appointed head of department. And still only a titular counsellor - how do you like that? They're sending us someone from St Petersburg for the Office of Gendarmes. But it's all the same to me. I'm putting in an application, Erast Petrovich. Moving from the Corps of Gendarmes to the Dragoons. I've finally made up my mind.'
Erast Petrovich was not at all surprised, but he asked anyway: 'Why so?'
'I didn't like the way His Highness spoke about the tasks of the state police,' the Lieutenant declared ardently '"You", he said, "must inspire the inhabitants with the fear and awe of authority. Your task is to spot the weeds in good time and eradicate them up without mercy, in order to educate and encourage the others." He said the man in the street should be petrified by the very sight of a blue uniform. That we have to strengthen the foundations of the Russian state, otherwise nihilism and permissiveness will finally erode it completely'
'Perhaps that's right?' Fandorin put in cautiously.
'Very possibly. Only I don't want anyone to be petrified at the very sight of me!' Smolyaninov tugged testily at his sabre knot. 'I was taught that we must eradicate lawlessness and protect the weak, that the Corps of Gendarmes is the spotless handkerchief with which the supreme power wipes away the tears of the suffering!'
The State Counsellor shook his head in sympathy: 'You'll f-find it hard in the army. You know yourself what the officers think of gendarmes.'
'Never mind,' the rosy-cheeked gendarme replied with a stubborn shake of his head. 'At first, of course, they'll turn their noses up, but then they'll see that I'm not any sort of police sneak. I'll fit in somehow.'