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– Listen carefully, jigit: do you know what your first task in the inquisition will be?
– What is it, boss!
– The Gyarov case!
Aman-Jalil was silent.
– Why so quiet?
– I'm calculating.
– Money?
– Time!
Ahmed looked at Aman-Jalil with surprise, and he hastened to explain.
– How much time I'll need for it.
– How much?
– About a month.
– Why don't you ask why?
– Orders aren't discussed.
– He's your own uncle.
– I've known him since childhood; you can't stop someone like him: can't bribe him, can't scare him… Killing him now is out of the question, they'll say it's "terror"!.. So I need a month to prepare everything…
…Wazir looked at Aman-Jalil with pity as he indulged in his favorite pastime: shooting flies. Aman-Jalil's eyes gleamed with the success of his hunt, fingers and rubber band stained with blood.
– What kind of monster have you become, boy?
– A passing young man!
– What kind, what kind?
– My grandmother tells me: "not from mother, not from father, but from a passing young man."
– You have such a wonderful uncle to look up to.
– Everyone's eager to give me examples: at school, on the street, at home. Some say – these are bad, others – those are bad, the third – both are bad. Leave me alone, I am my own "example".
The reflections from the window glass danced on his face, leaving bloody traces. Aman-Jalil, as usual, wiped the sweat from his forehead with blood-stained fingers… Wazir recalled that horrible scene again, tied to the pole, forced to watch as youths just a little older than Aman-Jalil violated his young wife: they frolicked like puppies, squealing with excitement, shoving each other, and then formed a line; the penultimate one failed, frustration stirred his anger and rage; he grabbed a dagger and slit the stomach of the victim lying beneath him. The last one, denied his share, struck the killer, who, his face smeared with the victim's blood, lunged at the offender. They were separated: "there can be no scores between our own," they made them shake hands and kiss each other. The second one also got smeared in blood. The last one was offered to rape Wazir, quickly untied him from the pole and pulled down his pants, but the last one kicked Wazir in the naked ass and left, offended and unsatisfied…
"The same face, the same fanatical eyes, one thought has seized him, one crazy thought, but who can you prove it to? I see, no one else… Gyarov, such a good man, and he thinks highly of his nephew: obedient, kind, willing to share his last piece… They see what they want to see, they don't see what they don't want to understand. Now he's frying flies and calmly watching their suffering, not just calmly, but with pleasure, and then… Gyarov laughs: 'children always grow up as researchers, studying nature, curious about it'… This is not studying, this is self-education"…
Wazir went to his room but then turned around and quietly asked:
– Why do you kill flies?
– They spread disease; we were taught in school, – Aman-Jalil calmly replied, without anger or irritation.
– Want me to give you a flyswatter? "With one swipe, I'll kill seven."
– I don't want one, what do I need it for? Flies don't interest me; I'm interested in hitting or missing with the rubber band, where I hit: the head, or the wing, or the abdomen. And your flyswatter, I've seen it, slap, and the fly falls whole, like alive.
Wazir left the room. Fiery circles danced before his eyes, and someone's voice drove each word into his head like a nail: "And I saw in the right hand of him that sat on the throne a book written within and on the backside, sealed with seven seals. And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, who is worthy to open the book, and to loose the seals thereof? And no man in heaven, nor in earth, neither under the earth, was able to open the book, neither to look thereon. And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to open and to read the book, neither to look thereon"…
Day after day, Aman-Jalil walked joyfully, but the appointment as chief inquisitor of the region did not come from the capital. Gradually, the joy began to fade, doubts arose that Aman-Jalil didn't want to admit to himself: "Did they pass me over?.. Ahmed can't know about the documents. Then who? Who crossed the line?"
Finally, Ahmed summoned Aman-Jalil. He was silent for a long time, imitating the Great Iosif Besarionis, smoking his favorite "Duchess" cigarettes.
– You'll work as deputy for now… – he began apologetically. – They've decided at the palace that you're still too young to be the chief inquisitor. Besides, the current chief is an old fighter, a comrade of the Leader… Between us, I'll tell you, he's seriously ill, won't last long, a few years at most, he has cancer, you see?
– There are already two deputies for the chief; who will I replace?
– Not in place of anyone… You'll be the third… Directives came from the emir's palace: about liquidation.
– What does that mean?
– All dissenters, all who oppose can be plundered, proceeds go to the state.
– Glorious, eh!
– You will handle this.
– As you say, boss… And if someone resists or complains?
– Those who resist, you can kill them, and those who complain, exile them to the most remote and coldest island of Bibir.
– Understood, sir!
Ahmed fell silent again for a long while, but Aman-Jalil pressed on.
– It's been half a month for Gyaur… Anything yet?
– Sir, I've been waiting for the appointment…
– You only have half a month left.
– Not enough time.
– I can't wait. – Ahmed crushed an unfinished cigarette into a golden ashtray. – Gyaur is obstructing me… And you'll be the chief inquisitor of the region only after the old fighter for justice dies, that's the order I got from the unmatched Iosif Besarionis himself. By the way, he already knows all about you, remembers your father, so consider your appointment assured… I stand by you, but you must be decisive. In two weeks, you must eliminate Gyaur by any means necessary, or he will be arrested. You promised me stellar performance. I want to see it.
Aman-Jalil understood there was no way out.
– It will be done, boss!
Aman-Jalil, after his father was killed, was raised by his uncle. His mother had suffered a stroke, lying motionless, cared for by his grandmother, leaving the boy orphaned, and Uncle Musa took him in. Musa had a son a year younger than Aman-Jalil, Jumshid. Aman-Jalil spent six months with his uncle. He bonded so well with his brother that Jumshid cried, clinging to Aman-Jalil when his recovering mother came to take him home. Since then, they knew everything about each other, or rather, Aman-Jalil knew everything about him.
Now, Jumshid managed the largest trading base in the city after graduating from the Trade Institute. And immediately after Ahmed's reminder about the unfinished task, Aman-Jalil visited his brother at the base.
– How are things, dear?
The brothers embraced. Jumshid took a stack of papers and shook them.
– Everyone is asking for trucks, but where am I supposed to get so many? It's their business, but I have all the headaches, I'm responsible for everything, they won't lift a finger, won't even move, and I'm the one sweating it out.
– Ask Dad for help, – Aman-Jalil advised his brother. – He's the mayor after all, let him assist.
– Do you not know your uncle? His own son comes last: a good salary, an apartment, a personal car. Believe it or not, I still walk everywhere.
– At least you're not under the table, – Aman-Jalil joked.
– Easy for you to joke, it seems. The Inquisition has gathered a bunch of jokers, huh?
– I'll help as a brother; they'll give you trucks. Where do you need them sent?
– To Koralen, first to pick up lemons and oranges, the whole batch is heading to Duitsland, you understand, they must be fresh.
– Prepare the warehouse, tomorrow morning five trucks will arrive at least!
Aman-Jalil chatted with his brother about trivial matters, drank a glass of tea with quince jam, kissed his brother goodbye, and they didn't meet again.
Aman-Jalil called Ahmed.
– Chief, we urgently need trucks!
– We need them, take them! – came the reply.
– We need to get them from Gyaur, please call him. But don't ask for trucks from him; press for urgent execution of the lemon and orange delivery plan to Doichland, he'll understand and give the trucks to his son, the rest is my business.
Ahmed promised to help. The day before, Aman-Jalil learned about an underground opium warehouse, took it with his loyal people, naturally didn't report it to his superiors, and now all his people sat there in ambush. But their strange assignment was to cut oranges in half, carefully remove the contents, send it down their throats, insert a pouch of opium into the peel, seal the halves with dark wax, then wrap each fruit in paper and affix a long label: "Maroka," shorthand for "World Autonomous Republican Vegetable Company"… Meanwhile, the trucks headed to the plantation for citrus cargo for Doichland, which in return supplied machines for cigarette stuffing and sturdy condoms. One of the drivers was Aman-Jalil's man. And the agents sitting in the warehouse were engaged in an unusual occupation, the kind they usually relentlessly hunted down and caught. Now the agents were experiencing firsthand the hard work of smugglers and drug dealers…
On the way back, one of the trucks turned off the route and stopped at the underground warehouse. Aman-Jalil's people quickly unloaded half the crates from the truck and instead loaded their crates with special oranges. The truck drove to Jumshid's warehouse, while the agents stayed in ambush. Out of boredom, they ate the oranges they had unloaded from the truck. They overate to the point they couldn't look at them for the rest of their lives. Especially since Aman-Jalil deducted the cost of those oranges from their money, but paid them for overtime, instilling a deep conviction of justice in their hearts…
And the trucks calmly unloaded at the base managed by Jumshid, who specially cleared a warehouse for them. Satisfied, Jumshid didn't leave the base until each crate was weighed, stacked in piles in the warehouse, and the documents were processed.
Meanwhile, Aman-Jalil "stopped by" at Jumshid's house, surprised that he lingered at work so long: "he doesn't take care of himself," stayed for tea, and seized the moment when Jumshid's wife busied herself in the kitchen, slipped a bundle of foreign currency under Jumshid's mattress. Then Aman-Jalil lingered over tea with his favorite cherry jam, praised the hostess, and left without waiting for his brother, citing urgent matters. From a nearby phone booth, he called the Inquisition, the narcotics control department, changing his voice with a candy in his mouth, he said:
– A loyal subject reports: there's a large batch of drugs at Jumshid's first warehouse, a few crates of oranges. They will go to Duitsland in the morning.
And, satisfied, he hung up. The car would start, he knew that well…
Exhausted like never before, Jumshid was already leaving for home when the base perimeter was surrounded by soldiers, and three plainclothes men approached Jumshid, demanding the keys to the first warehouse. Jumshid didn't even bother asking for their documents; each of the inquisitors was recognizable by their kind and responsive gaze. He returned to the office, grabbed the keys, reached into his pocket for something, and was immediately seized by one of the plainclothes men. He was quickly searched and released.
– Why? – Jumshid was offended. – I've never owned a weapon in my life.
– It's better to be safe than sorry, – the inquisitor apologized softly.
In the warehouse, a squad of soldiers clumsily but swiftly opened crates of oranges, more breaking than opening, slashing each fruit with combat knives and greedily destroying them. When this squad had their fill, they called in a second, and the rampage continued.
Jumshid attempted to protest.
– What are you doing? This is our currency, the shipment is headed to Deutschland.
– Shut up! – the inquisitor gently hushed him. – It's going to Animaland.
Jumshid sat on an empty crate that once held oranges and helplessly watched this savage feast… By the time crates of narcotics were finally discovered towards dawn, he was beyond surprise, in a daze, everything swirling before his eyes like in a fog. After signing the confiscation report for a large shipment of narcotics from the first warehouse of the base entrusted to him, Jumshid accompanied the inquisitors home, still in a fog. In a daze, he saw his wife's pale frightened face, numbly acknowledged the stacks of foreign currency found under the mattress. And so, in a daze, he lived for many years on the distant island of Bibir in Antarctica, until he accidentally got involved in a drunken brawl among criminals and received a fatal knife wound in the midst of the fighting. The pain dispelled the fog, and the last thing Jumshid saw before him wasn't his daughter's face, his wife's, his father's, or mother's, but his brother's smile. Aman-Jalil smiled kindly, warmly, friendly. But his eyes bore the cold muzzle of a gun.
Aman-Jalil came to Gyaurov early in the morning, before work had begun. He knew his uncle usually arrived an hour early, before everyone else, to work in peace, undisturbed by personal requests, which he had to learn to refuse since many were unlawful.
Gyaurov was very surprised to see his nephew so early in his office. And Aman-Jalil gently embraced him, kissed him.
– Hello, father!
– Has something happened?
Aman-Jalil laid photocopies of documents on the table.
– Uncle, you know how much I love you! For you, I committed an official crime. Here are the documents: the narcotics confiscation protocol from Jumshid's base first warehouse, the foreign currency confiscation protocol from his desk, the currency confiscation protocol from his home, Jumshid's interrogation protocol. They'll be coming for you in an hour; the arrest warrant is signed. I don't want you to stand trial, to be labeled a criminal, but the facts are against us. Jumshid claimed you didn't provide him with cars, but you gave them for this cargo… You're a brave and decisive man, uncle, you know what happens in such cases…
Gyaurov carefully examined the documents.
– Do you believe this? Can you believe it?
– I don't believe it, but it won't be me judging you, it'll be your sworn enemy Kochev. He's not to be trusted. There are witnesses too: the drivers, they'll say whatever Kochev tells them to say.
– Will Jumshid be shot?
– Along with you, yes! It'll be easier for me to save his life without you.
– Do you think he's guilty?
– I'm a hundred percent sure he knew nothing. A scatterbrain, he trusted everyone, needed or not. The warehouse manager disappeared, they're searching for him and will find him.
Aman-Jalil himself helped bury the warehouse manager's body in the olive grove, after shooting him in the back of the head.
Gyaurov stared into Aman-Jalil's eyes intently, but other than love and loyalty, he found nothing.
– Take the photocopies, you've risked a lot, thank you. I rely on you to save Jumshid's life and expose this lie and slander.
– I promise you, uncle. I'll put my life on it, and I'll find that scoundrel and make him pay.
Aman-Jalil tucked the photocopies of the documents into his pocket. Gyaurov hugged his nephew, and they kissed three times.
