скачать книгу бесплатно
– Let’s have a drink! – Arif proposed soberly, as if he hadn’t drunk so much just at the feast. – I have some whiskey; the Saxon chief sends it in exchange for cognac, stronger than vodka, but the taste is peculiar, you have to get used to it.
– If necessary, I’m ready! – Aman-Jalil responded seriously.
– Ready is good! – Arif smirked.
Aman-Jalil looked Arif straight in the eyes, not averting his gaze, with devoted and serious readiness. Arif took a bottle of whiskey from his suitcase, opened it, and poured it into glasses.
– With ice or will you dilute it with water?
– To be honest with you, dear guest, I’ve never drunk this whiskey, I can’t know! – Aman-Jalil admitted honestly.
– Ice is better, throw in a couple of cubes! – advised Arif, pushing a bowl of crushed ice towards Aman-Jalil.
All these preparations foretold a long conversation. Aman-Jalil was ready for it, and Arif wasn’t in a hurry, waiting for something, sizing up, appraising… He took out a bar of Swiss chocolate, broke it into pieces, so hospitably offered it to Aman-Jalil that his legs started to feel cold.
– Well, tell me! – Arif quietly suggested.
– What do you wish to know? – Aman-Jalil agreed readily.
– How you killed Sardar Ali and the witnesses?..
Aman-Jalil’s vision darkened and his breath caught. "Death, death!" – pounded in his temples. He decided to go all-in.
– You, comrade, are obviously interested in the details?
– Not the details. Everything!… Who ordered it… well, you know everything yourself, – Arif grumbled angrily, lighting a cigar with a golden band "Havana."
– Sardar Kareem conducted his own investigation into Ahmed’s affairs, and Ahmed instructed me to deal with him. We didn’t intend to kill him, just wanted to squeeze his throat… I succeeded, you saw the photos, they’re genuine, but Sardar Kareem didn’t give up, rushed into the Emir’s palace. As you understand, if he had managed to pass the papers through Nadir to Iosif Besarionis, our one and only father and teacher, Ahmed would have been finished, and hence, me even earlier. No need to tell you, comrade, but this couldn’t be allowed. We were lucky. Nadir wasn’t home. We kept an eye on Sardar Ali all the time and got rid of him quietly: we rented rooms nearby, and in the morning, when he settled down and fell asleep, unlocked the door, chloroformed his face so he wouldn’t scream, and threw him out the window into the courtyard. A painless death, like in a dream.
– Why did you get rid of the helpers?
– One of them looked into Sardar’s papers, understood everything, he wasn’t a fool. Together with him, we had to remove three more.
– Not two? We only found two with him.
– The pilot of Ahmed’s private jet as well.
– Why 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. He was at home, preparing for the concert.
– Dear Kasym, sorry to bother you, you’re probably preparing for the concert, I keep forgetting to ask if Bulov gave you my story?.. What, no! He told me he did, maybe you forgot?
Ayesha slowly put down the phone and started mumbling incoherently. Aman-Jalil slapped him to bring him to his senses.
– He didn't get the story?
The writer's dead look spoke more than words. Aman-Jalil knocked Ayesha down with a punch to the stomach and pulled out a Walther. Seeing the gun, Ayesha wet himself in fear, sobbing and groveling at Aman-Jalil’s feet. Aman-Jalil wanted to shoot him but a brilliant idea struck him at the last moment.
– I can always shoot him later, – he thought. – I need to salvage the situation.
After relishing the writer's terror for another minute, he ordered:
– Get up, scum. Quickly wash up, change clothes, you reek of piss like an old mule.
Ten minutes later, Ayesha was unrecognizable. When he came out of the bathroom, he smelled of French cologne. Another two minutes to dress in a formal suit.
– Take a second copy of the story, go to the theater, – Aman-Jalil instructed. – By any means, you must make Kasym read this story today. Or tomorrow you won’t see freedom, or even light.
Ayesha looked at him with slavishly devoted eyes and agreed to everything.
The terrified writer rushed to the theater by taxi. There were no strangers in Kasym’s dressing room, and his wife had stepped out. Ayesha boldly handed the manuscript to Kasym.
– Look it over, you might like it, though, honestly, it’s quite bold, I think, not the time…
Kasym, dressing and applying makeup, started reading the story, and the more he read, the more agitated he became.
– I didn't expect such genius from you, honestly… Why didn’t you bring it to me earlier, I would have learned it for today's concert, I'm tired of the same old reprises.
– Bulov, the scoundrel, let us down! I was busy, asked him to give it to you, and he… Listen, you have a phenomenal memory, learn it for the second act! – Ayesha innocently suggested.
– That’s an idea! – Kasym lit up. – I’ll move the reprises from the second act to the first, and read the story in the second. Decided!
The writer embraced Kasym and left the theater, informing Aman-Jalil on the way that everything was in order.
Kasym’s wife, Nigar, entered the dressing room.
– What did that scoundrel bring this time?… Another cheap piece?
– Why do you dislike him so much? He admires you, praises you everywhere…
– Better if he left us alone, talentless hack!
– Don’t spoil your mood before the concert, my joy… By the way, that "scoundrel" brought me a wonderful story. Here, read it!
And Kasym handed his wife the manuscript. She took it with such distrust that Kasym laughed. Nigar read the story carefully and, running her hand over her face, said:
– It can’t be!
– Don’t believe your eyes?
