Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor - Nikita Dandy

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him?

      – We flew there as three, I flew back alone… He would have figured everything out as soon as he read the newspaper, we have universal literacy.

      Arif looked intently at Aman-Jalil.

      – Are we being listened to?

      – No, boss, I removed all the recording equipment myself, expecting this conversation.

      – Then listen carefully, your answer depends on my decision: did you destroy those papers?

      – Am I crazy?

      – Does Ahmed know about them?

      – No!

      Arif smiled for the first time.

      – I wasn't wrong about you. Keep them ready, when I'm leaving, bring them to the train. You can tell Ahmed that you convinced me of his loyalty to Iosif Besarionis, dispelled all doubts, destroyed all slander and libel.

      – Ahmed will be pleased!

      – I think so!… Listen, how do you feel about Iosif Besarionis? Many people don't like him.

      – The word of the leader is my law! His smile is a reward! If he says: "Kill your brother!" – I'll kill him.

      – Well said! The words of a man… Soon, we'll test you: words are not deeds, and we need men of action… You've given me an idea… Though, it's not for you to know…

      …When a month later Aman-Jalil reads in the newspaper a brief notice that the former ambassador of the country in the French capital, a traitor who refused to return home, was sentenced to death and committed suicide by jumping out of the window of his house, he will remember Arif's words…

      Aman-Jalil carefully caught every look from Arif, but he leaned back in his chair tiredly.

      – We're done for today. Send me those two little ones and… the rest.

      Aman-Jalil went to carry out the high guest's order but was stopped at the door.

      – Wait!… Take the photographs you left in the room.

      Aman-Jalil returned. Arif handed him the photos, but as soon as Aman-Jalil reached for them, Arif held onto them and, looking him in the eyes, said:

      – And the original tomorrow night! Can you bring it?

      Aman-Jalil's calmness surprised even himself.

      – I'll do the impossible for you.

      He hid the photos and left. On his signal, wine and exquisite snacks were brought in. After the snacks, two plump girls followed into Arif's bedroom.

      Aman-Jalil hurried to Ahmed. On the way, he concocted a conspiracy and decided to include Kasym among the conspirators.

      – Everything is fine, boss! – he reassured Ahmed. – A few scoundrels, including your relative Kasym, are behaving in such a way that it has reached the capital and the Great Leader. Arif didn't reveal names to me, but I’ll find out. He believed me that you have nothing to do with it, everything is fine.

      Ahmed was pleased to hear that Aman-Jalil had skillfully averted the storm but frowned at the mention of Kasym.

      – My relatives will eat me alive; I can't let you arrest that hooligan. Listen, take Arif to Nigar's concert tomorrow, secretly, don't tell anyone. If you catch Kasym doing anything, he's yours, but make sure Arif approves, understood?

      – As you command, father! – whispered Aman-Jalil quietly and submissively.

      Ahmed patted his cheek contentedly.

      Arif was surprised to hear such an unusual proposal: to attend a famous singer's concert, and secretly at that.

      – Why, dear? If something deserves your attention, send a servant, invite them, listen alone, if you want, pay them, their rates are low, if you want, don't pay, treat them royally, and if you don't like them, kick them out hungry.

      – There are rumors, esteemed one, that the MC tells a story that speaks indecently about Iosif Besarionis's mustache.

      – One such already disappeared on Bibir Island for such indecent hints and comparisons. He fell ill, and I personally included him in the barge list.

      – The barge? – Aman-Jalil was surprised. – Ah, you mean it metaphorically?

      – Literally, why metaphorically? We fill an old barge with the sick, take it out to the open sea. A small explosion, the barge sinks.

      Aman-Jalil feigned admiration, immediately understanding who was the author of this economical idea.

      – Genius, boss! Your Excellency, such inventions deserve a Nobel Prize. Higher, eh! No hospitals, no funeral team…

      – Why haven't you taken the scoundrel yet? – Arif was surprised.

      – Ahmed's wife's relative.

      – Which number?

      – It's complicated, your opinion will free Ahmed's hands.

      – I see, the old fighter has softened, got mired in domesticity, softened by women's tears… Yes, you haven't forgotten? – he suddenly asked in a different tone and about something completely different.

      – She'll be in bed with you at night.

      Aman-Jalil almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation: he could, of course, find a replacement for Gulshan, especially since her face wasn't visible in the photos left in Sardar Ali's room, but Aman-Jalil didn't want to risk over such a "trifle." If he married a pregnant virgin, Ahmed's daughter, Gulshan wouldn't stop his progress to the tower. True, she might resist and not go to bed with Arif, she had already led the young driver to bullets, but Aman-Jalil had already devised a plan based on information about how Arif behaves in bed: he attacks like a beast on a lying victim and likes the victim to lie submissively and calmly, not twitching, and once sated, he turns his back to her and immediately falls asleep, waking up early in the morning and leaving to work in his office, forgetting about the partner.

      – Everything will be fine! – he repeated unexpectedly firmly and harshly, crossing the final line separating him from his desired goal, and with it, crossing the line separating light from darkness. From now on, he was lost to goodness…

      – Good! – Arif unexpectedly agreed. – I'll give you these two hours, but make sure there are no traces.

      Aman-Jalil filled the streets around the theater with agents, but forbade them to enter the theater, so as not to arouse the slightest suspicion.

      Three hours before the concert, Aman-Jalil remembered that Ayesha hadn’t called to inform him whether Kasym had taken the manuscript or not, and whether he would read it. Aman-Jalil rushed to the writer, alone, without security.

      The writer, seeing him, paled, but tried to appear as a gracious host.

      – What an honor! Such a guest brings joy to the house! Come in, dear Aman-Jalil…

      – Why didn't you call me: did Kasym get the manuscript or not… I hope you gave it to him?

      – You see, dear Aman-Jalil, I felt uncomfortable imposing my work on a famous actor. I asked his friend, the famous director Bulov, to give him my story. He handed it over.

      – Call Kasym, ask, fool, couldn’t you have thought of that before. Trust, but verify!

      Ayesha, now as anxious as Aman-Jalil, feverishly dialed Kasym’s number.

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