Rimanoa [Vladimir Anderson] (fb2) читать онлайн

Vladimir Anderson Rimanoa

Prologue

His appearance is the last thing many people will see before they die…..

The dark figure reached the middle of the room and turned toward the bed, where a man in his thirties and a pretty girl dwelt in deep sleep.

The unknown man pointed a gun in their direction. He didn't want to take the girl away at all, and he shouldn't have: according to the latest data, the object was alone in the apartment.

But in fact, there was a stranger in the room. A stranger who could easily be a witness. The old thought of success stabbed into my head like an arrow, "No witnesses."

His finger pulled the trigger six times, and there was one less living thing in this world.

With a shriek, the girl instantly woke up, "Don't kill me, please. Don't kill me, I beg you… I want to live…"

She's so young and beautiful, she's got her whole life ahead of her. Why kill her?

She's not gonna tell us anything anyway.

"No witnesses!!!" — rumbled a terrible thunder in the killer's head.

"Noooooo!" — wailed the victim, noticing the bottomless abyss in the shooter's eyes.

The bullet flew into the forehead, tumbled in it for a couple of moments and, flying out of the back of the head, crashed into the wall along with pieces of skull and drops of blood …

Change of plans

11:14 p.m. July 21.

"Where are we going?" — Giuseppe asked me as the back door of the Skoda Fabia slammed shut.

"To the pay phone," I replied and thought. — One more incident like this and I'm going to be a total paranoid freak. No, seriously, I can't even walk into a regular bar anymore. Or maybe I'm just getting too old for this job…"

We drove down Wilsonova Street, turned left, stopped, and the chauffeur's upraised hand showed me a pay phone.

54 year old Garibaldi is our 4th level employee in Prague (under the supervision of Jean Carlo LaScoltz ("Ambassador" of the Family in the Czech Republic)). A long time ago he worked as a cab driver, but after accidentally saving the life of one of our higher-ups, he joined the organization, went where it was "quieter", and now he drives people like me around the city. From the point of view of work, he was perfect: he didn't know much, didn't want to know much, had no memory for faces and names… And what else does a good driver need but good driving with good knowledge of the city — nothing.

"Hello."

"This is Faust (my call signs in the underworld)." "You're in Prague?"

"Yes."

"When by the way did you pri…" "Weren't you warned I was here?" "No, why?"

Robert Emerson was talking to me, you could understand it not even by his poor pronunciation (he could hardly speak Italian), but by his "smart" head (no one really had to know that I was in the Czech Republic), it's not clear how he got to Koza Nostra in the first place, perhaps because of an old friendship, though I doubt it — hell knows. "Yeah, nothing," I smiled into the phone.

"So. The Ambassador is sick…" "That's a real problem…"

"Yes. And we have a meeting…" "With who?"

"Some Morten…"

"Morten? The butcher who (with my dog job I managed to keep my sense of humor)?" "I don't know… Maybe…"

"So, what does he want?" "Meet…"

"That's it?"

"I don't know…"

"Ah…" the cell phone rang, "Okay, bye. "But…"

I hung up the phone, stepped out of the booth, and moved toward the car. "Hello."

"It's Richard."

Richard "Lionheart" (we all have weird nicknames) was sort of my personal dispatcher and his call was almost always a sign of a change of plans.

"What?"

"The ambassador is sick…" "That's news."

"He was supposed to meet with some goods carrier (felons talking on the phone sometimes resembles the chatter of toddlers in kindergarten)."

"Let me guess, he can't get out of bed and you want me to replace him…" "Yes."

"Where? In bed?" "No, at the meeting…"

Despite the fact that Richard had never killed anyone, he had no sense of humor at all. "Where do I have to go?"

"The ambassador will tell you himself. Everything." I turned my phone off.

"To the Ambassador, Jos."

"Whatever you say (he never argued, he just liked to ride)."

After getting a chance to sleep, I laid my head back on the seat and closed my eyes.

It's been a long time

11:41 p.m. July 21.

"Faust, stop snoozing. We're here."

I opened my eyes and saw the driver in front of me and Nerudova Street outside the window: this was where LaScolza lived. When I got out of the car and crossed the road, I pressed the bell. The door was opened by Jarno Galanzio (he didn't need a nickname), one of the landlord's ten bodyguards (he hadn't changed at all in the six years I hadn't seen him).

He was still as tall, muscular, with fire in his eyes. His most terrible disadvantage in the physical sense was a slight lethargy at those moments when the situation at the

"shooters" was heated to the limit and the shooting started. So he was the last to know about the fact that everything had gone wrong… But he opened fire with a frenzy. You should see it. A big "eagle" fires like a man possessed, screaming all over "Ivanovskaya" and never hits anyone: all the bullets seem to fly in the wrong direction on purpose. And it's not that he didn't want to hit and aimed too badly, it's just that during such "eruptions" of emotions and adrenaline, his hands shook a lot, and consequently the weapon in these hands. In general, he is not a bad guy, but he takes his work too close to his heart and considers Koza-Nostra his direct family, probably because he has no family of his own. The organization simply pulled him out of the orphanage when he was seventeen and made him their "son".

He led me down a long corridor, stopped suddenly and pointed to a small door on the right: "The boss has moved in there for a while. I opened it and saw Jean Carlo lying on a disassembled sofa.

Usually a very formidable and strong-willed man without a single trace of insecurity in his voice, who always gave the right commands left and right, was now lying in bed almost helplessly. LaSkoltza knew how to find the right "warm" approach to each of his subordinates, so that he not only did a good job, but put his heart into it (possessing a wonderful talent — finding the "golden mean" between "carrot and stick"). He was very often directly involved in some cases, thus encouraging the guys. Three times the Ambassador was in critical condition after shootings, and each time, when his life seemed to be over, he had a second breath. Such people can be "waterboarded" for the rest of their lives, so the fact of his illness surprised me very much.

"Oh, I greet you Faust, come closer. — I entered, closed the door, and approached the sofa as requested. — That's it… well — he coughed, along with rusty wheezes and extraneous noises, it was clear to a fool (I emphasize, only to a fool) that it was pneumonia — at the hour of the meeting… you see… I can't, you see for yourself…. — he pointed to his throat — and you are the highest rank after me in all Bohemia at the moment — a smile spread on his face — yes… I remember myself the same way… Well, go… Cepino will explain everything — the cough was coming out of him.

"Get well," I replied and thought, "If only you were still sick."

Found the man

11:44 p.m. July 21.

I was led to the end room of the corridor, where Cepino, who had a short mustache and narrow sideburns, was located. It was the first time I'd seen this guy, but I knew at once that he was no genius. I could see nothing interesting in his face. It seemed too trivial, even with the extra vegetation. The eyes are just empty and seemingly monochromatic (black circle on a white background). The forehead was too narrow, and if you could tell the weight of brains by it, anyone would say: "About 200 grams."

"Vice-boss," — quipped our young man. "What?"

"Now that's what you should be called…" "Call me Faust and don't call me Faust." "Whatever you say…"

"The brake lights don't work?"

"Yes, yes… Whatever you say… Anyway, there's a meeting with Koschei the Immortal…"

"You didn't get anything mixed up, did you?" "No."

"Are you sure?" "Yes."

"So who's the meeting with?" "With Koschei."

"Alright, Serpent Gorynych, you better tell me who he is and why we should mess with him?"

"He's the new head of the local mafia…"

"You must be the first to answer my first question." "His name is Koschey…"

"Cool. Someone tell me, are there any other smart people inducted here?"

Galanzio, standing behind me raised his voice, "No one else knows the situation except the Ambassador and Cepino, sorry."

"Nothing, Jarno, it's not your fault… So, Gorynych, tell me, what's his first and last name?"

"José Mortain." "A Frenchman?" "Yes."

"Have you looked at the dossier?" "No."

"Then what makes you think he's a he?" "Well… Last name and first name…"

"And my name is Faust, that I am a German?" "Ah, don't you think so?"

"Your next task will be a dossier." "Will do."

"Next. What does he want?" "Wants to talk…"

"I realize it's not to go to the bathhouse. What does he want?" "Talk…"

"Yeah, about what, your three-headed head." "About the case."

"Which one?" "Obviously important."

"Uh, how about a little more specific?" "I don't get it."

"Do you know what this is about?" "No. He just wanted to meet…" "He doesn't have a cell phone?" "He doesn't trust him."

"Have you, what, already tried it?". "I don't, the boss does."

"Well, okay I'll try it too. Isn't he a 'lefty' by any chance?" "What do you mean?"

"I mean, isn't he a policeman?" "Apparently not. The source is reliable." "Which one?"

"Police Connections."

"I see. That's probably what you said, 'Isn't he a cop?'" "I don't know? I wasn't the one who asked."

"I see. His phone number?" "253-43-58"

"Where's the phone? (You can call anywhere from here, this is the Koza Nostra embassy, no one sends a letter here without authorization)"

"Over there," Galanzio pointed to a desk in the corner. I took a few steps toward it, picked up the phone, and dialed the right number. I heard a ringing bass: "Yes." "This is who you wanted to meet."

"One minute."

Came the wheeze of a man as old as they live, "This is José Mortain on the line…" "The meeting's canceled."

"Why?"

"What did you want us to do?" "Talk…"

"You have that opportunity now." "Can't do it over the phone." "Your Difficulties."

"But it's really serious." "Appreciate in money." "Thirty million." "Which ones?"

"Euro".

"What kind of occupation?" "Contraband."

"What do you mean, we don't do that sort of thing, it's against the law (either he really is a cop and wanted to catch me in a "clean confession over the phone" or he's a headless horseman).

"But…"

I hung up the phone and called back (actually, I could, like LaSkoltza, forget the whole thing, but he had already passed it to me (but I have no one to pass it on to here), and

then they might inadvertently ask me: "Faust, and why the hell did you refuse the "easy" 15 million? And what will I answer: "The mood was bad…" or something even worse.

In short, no matter how it's done, but I'm not going to be patted on the head for refusing). The hoarse one.

"Hello?"

"Meeting July 22 at four o'clock." "It's late."

"Explain."

"Can't on the phone." "Your Difficulties."

"The goods are already in place. We need protection, and you're the only ones we can trust here."

"What makes you think that?" "Your reputation…"

"Our reputation is worth 50 percent." "But that's robbery, isn't it?!" "Goodbye, then…"

"Wait!"

"What?"

"45 %".

"We don't bargain, goodbye…" "Okay, okay, come on over…" "Where to?"

"You know that."

"It wouldn't hurt to refresh your memory." "Petrska ul. 7".

"He's all yours?" "Temporarily rented." "When would that suit you?" "On the hour."

"I'm doing you a favor." "Thank you…"

"You do realize that if even a small part of what you said is not true, someone is going to get hurt badly."

"Yes."

I hung up the phone and decided to get some more sleep before fifteen minutes past one so I wouldn't fall asleep at an inopportune moment in the meeting. When I woke up, the brief dossier was already ready: Jose Morten was born in 1971 (you can't tell by the voice, although my husky baritone in my fifteen everyone accepted as in thirty) in the city of Kladno, near Prague, moved with his family to the capital six years later, studied medicine, but after graduation became the personal doctor of the local mafia, slowly rose through the ranks, starting to carry out torture with enemies of the organization and finally seized power in his own hands in 2002. Appearance (a nice picture was attached, with a BMW and several eagles nearby): tall, sturdy, brunette, square-shaped face. Special data: hates Jews. Methods: thinks everything is good, so he is unpredictable. Count: according to our calculations, six murders with firearms, edged weapons, explosives, poisonous and narcotic substances, as well as electroshock (so much for "he thinks all methods are good"; a real amateur; one thing is clear — he is not a plant agent).

"So," I barked, gathering six men (Galanzio, Cepino, Garibaldi, Gento, Reynato, Penzalla (the last three also bodyguards)) around me in a small hall, "gentlemen, we have an unpredictable man to deal with (it's always best to re-insure the morale of your men against shocks), so arm yourselves to the fullest, we'll go in three cars. Which ones do you have?" Replied Galanzio, "Two Skoda's and the boss's Mercedes."

"Alright, first group: me, Galanzio, Garibaldi, second: Cepino and Reynato, third: Gento and Penzalla, all will ride the Skoda."

"Nah, well, we kinda only have two of them," Cepino objected. "And Garibaldi's car."

"Ah, yes."

"So, your next assignment is to not ask stupid questions. Does everyone know where to go?"

"Yes," replied all but Garibaldi. "Where to?" — I asked Cepino. "D. 7 on Petrska Street."

"You're a fast learner!!! — At the moment of my speech, the mustachioed man vigorously tapped his fists, reminding me of King Kong — "We leave in 13 minutes.

Under the cover of night

0:55 July 22.

"What exactly do you want?" — I asked Morten, standing ten meters ahead of the car, after the whole Skoda group, having passed the red gate of the garage d. 7 on Petrska Street, drove onto its yellow sand with clean tires. "Escort those trucks over there to d. 3 on Jeremenkova Street," he pointed to three KAMAZs, two of them with two people in each, the third with only one (obviously the second seat was for the main smuggler himself). "Let's go in three groups on different roads," I commanded.

We drove a little behind the "Russian light tank" along Petrska Street, then Truhlarska, turned off at Rybna, Hybernska, Rytirska. My cell phone rang.

"Hello."

"It's Richard." "Well, what else?"

"We have another important case…"

"Hey, I need a vacation too, send someone else."

"No one else can handle it, it takes an experienced person…" "There are no irreplaceable people."

"Maybe, but we haven't found anyone."

"First, tell me, what do you want?"

"Some work needs to be done in the city of Brno…" "Which one?"

"Teach one guy some tricks…" "Take him to the circus."

"I mean it…" "Me too."

"We'll pay 500,000 thousand…" "How long is this job designed for?" "5 Days…"

"Don't tell me that's where I'm supposed to arrive at five o'clock tomorrow night…" "No, five o'clock in the morning."

"There you go…" "Yes."

"All right, it's a deal."

We were passing Spalena Street when I turned off the phone, we got onto Reslova, Rasinovo, finally we reached Podolske highway and, having passed it more than halfway, we turned onto Jeremenkova Street. "The KAMAZ stopped at the next red gate, Giuseppe a little farther on. Morten got out of the "tank", approached the gate and knocked, which made the latter open with an unknown hand. The smuggler said something, and then the barrier moved away, the KAMAZ moved inside, the Skoda too. We found ourselves in the same garage as on Petrska Street. As we went along, it became clear that the people standing in front of the KAMAZ were the buyers (three fat men in white suits) and their bodyguards (three big men in black near each of them).

The room could hold a total of six long-haul vehicles. At the end stood a couple of containers. On the sides were large crates, canisters, cylinders, and the like. There were two more men looming at the gate (one of them had opened whatever it was he was looming at in the past).

Me and Jarno climbed to the surface, Morten went inside, and the fat guys went to the truck to inspect the cargo.

"Well, show me," the fattest, and obviously the main fat man, "what you've got. Morten jumped up and opened the doors, "Here, look," and behind them was a pile of wooden crates, mostly used for gas masks or "plastic ice cream scoops" (as I sometimes call things that are not needed in the business). The white blazer waved his hand to the black, and the two (let's designate them #1 and #2) hissed, reached in, and opened the first one they found. It was overloaded with grenade launchers…..

Satisfied with the result

1:40 a.m. July 22.

"Uh-huh… okay…" the right-handed shopper steadied himself as he looked at the weapon, "Where's it from?"

"Poland, Yugoslavia, even Russia, by the way, Russian guns are more expensive. — The seller praised his goods with evident pleasure, "First of all, they are better and, secondly, they are harder to get".

"When will the rest arrive?" "Any minute now."

"My time is worth a lot."

"We arrived ahead of schedule." "Okay, you can examine the board."

Nos. 3 and 4 went to the containers and opened them more than to the limit. Fresh European Union currency was revealed.

"It's all thirty million here."

Morten was on the spot in a bullet, "hugged" the entire pile of the first container he found, grabbed a wad of bills, flipped through them, sniffed, took out the money, checked it for light, sniffed again, and put it back.

There was a knock on the gate — a second party with an escort had arrived. The guard repeated his procedure. It turned out to be Gento's crew, Penzal's. They too climbed out of the car, and their ward vehicle was also opened and the contents examined. The bosses were inspecting the merchandise, seeming to take some pleasure in it. The next five minutes passed at this pace, and I realized that something had happened to Cepino, so I turned to Galanzio almost in a whisper, "Hey, Jarno, does Cepino have a cell phone?"

"Yes."

"Number."

"954-7848".

I poked at the receiver and heard a familiar voice say, "Yes." "It's Faust, why aren't you there yet?"

"I don't know, the KAMAZ is going the wrong way." "Where are you?"

"On Ostrovskeho St "

"Wait."

I leaned over to Garibaldi and asked: "Joz, where is Ostrovskeho St.? How far is it from here?"

"On the other side of the Vltava River. "

I whispered into my cell phone, "What the hell are you doing there?! Quickly catch up with the driver and set his mind right, does he know where to go or not?"

"Said he did "

"I don't care if he gurgled, the load has to be here, not across town!" "Okay now we'll do it."

"Fly!!!!"

I slammed the phone down. What kind of people, they can't do anything humanly I

wonder where they got this fool from? We have trade going on in full swing here, and he's driving around behind a truck, saying he was told only to guard it And why do I

always have to work with such people, I should raise my salary.

If I had worked like that in my twenty-five, I wouldn't have lived to be twenty-six…..

I remembered how I was driving around Syracuse here and there, looking for some car, wanted by the police along with others like me, and still did not find, remembered how I guarded the boss, remembered that I am already forty-seven and that my son is now sitting at home with a nightmarish disease …

Suddenly I noticed the hands of the No. s reaching under their jackets, saw their faces and the glare in their eyes. Those glares are the first thing that give people away before they want to whack someone. The second thing is what they want to turn it in with.

I grabbed a Kedr (Yevgeny Dragunov's design; being in the "embassy" I had replaced the pistol with a submachine gun), which had the safety off and was set on automatic firing mode, pulled it out and opened fire. The firing began…

I took out three of them at once (the right boss and two of his #'s). On our side we shot Morten, Penzall and the trucker (he just didn't have a chance — the cab of the truck was in front of the middle fat guy with his Nos. who had been standing there since I saw them), Garibaldi was wounded in the shoulder, as I found out later, I was not hit (all the time I was there I was covered by the back door of the Skoda), Jarno, despite his sluggishness, survived and, following my example, opened the door nearest to him and started shooting, blasting away even more fiercely than before.

I hid with my head behind the door to at least cool down the ardor of those who were shooting at me, then I came out with a new machine-gun burst — this time only two "black" corpses (people had time to scatter), again "got behind the rock" and heard that the glass on the door shattered into pieces (this event surprised me a little, because I was absolutely sure that it was bulletproof).

Suddenly a thought pierced me like an arrow: two more men behind me. I turned around lightning fast, but saw only two corpses in their own pools of blood. I could tell from the amount of red substance that they had been killed seconds ago, that is, almost at the time of the "start" of the firefight.

"Wait. — One thing struck me about this case," The guards were killed at the beginning, or possibly before the beginning, that would explain the fact that the #'s reacted in sync…"

The bullet hit the foot of my left leg: my body started to roll to the left (away from the car), but I managed to catch the wounded part and put my knee in its place. This brought me to my senses, because, jumping out and shooting from behind the door with a brutal murderous scream, I ran out the last three "competitors" (one fat guy and two #'s). The battle was over…

It's not clear to everyone

1:48 a.m. July 22.

I stepped away from the door, looked at her (shot up in a flash) and shouted: "Who among us is still alive?" Gento and Garibaldi answered.

I waddled over to Jarno — forehead shot through (obviously shot from a Yugoslavian "monster" "Zastava" (a six-shot revolver, if you can call it that)), Morten — three holes in his torso (he didn't even have time to move), KAMAZ driver — head, neck, shoulders (hands on the wheel), Penzalla — torso, arms, legs, in a word, got the most (hand with a gun pointed towards the garage door).

"So. — I stretched out, turning to Gento — Who's been slaughtering the gatekeepers?" "Penzalla…" — he replied.

"Jos, you saw Penzalla shooting at the guards at the gate."

"I didn't see anything, I hid here in the car… You know… I'm just a chauffeur…" "Nothing, nothing…" I reassured Garibaldi and continued with Gento, "And why should I believe you? Maybe you couldn't stand it yourself and then blamed it on Penzalla." "See for yourself the position he's in… The hand with the gun is pointing toward the gate…"

"Who knows, maybe you were the one who put him in that position while I was walking around inspecting dead bodies."

"Yeah, no, he laid down like that right away…" "We'll figure it out…"

I decided to use the famous check tactic: I turned around, took one step, then did a 180- degree flip with my weapon in my hand (in this case a Russian Kedr). Gento managed to get the gun, but not to point it at me, most likely he wanted to finish me off, after Garibaldi, and tell Cepino that it happened during the firefight (it's not hard to convince Cepino of this, and after all the corpses will be removed and neither our best specialist Francesco Scarabelli, nor our colleague from the Yakuza Ishiro Yamomoto will be able to find out what really happened).

"Drop the gun!" — I yelled.

"Come on, I just wanted to clean it…" "Drop it!!!!"

He didn't though put the firearm down on the sand.

"Turn around. Hands behind your head," my voice came back to normal. "You've got it all wrong."

He obeyed the order, and I sprang up and slapped the handle on his head, just as there was a knock on the gate: Cepino had arrived at last.

"Jos, open up, ah… I'm getting tired of limping."

Garibaldi, holding his shoulder, repeated the dead man's procedure. "Hey…Uh…Guys, what happened here?"

"Don't you see, the price didn't add up."

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed a number: "Richard, this is Faust, send the guys to 3 Jeremenkova Street, we need to clean up the trash."

"Will do."

I looked around and, not seeing someone, I said to Cepino, "Where's the KAMAZ driver?"

"You said to set his mind right…" "What, did you kill him or something?" "Yeah…"

"Idiot!!! I told you to fix his brains, not knock him out!!!" "Didn't they right themselves?"

"Where did you put the bodies?!" "Put it in the KAMAZ, by the crates."

"One more prank like that and you'll be dealing with Rimanoa."

Rimanoa was the "executioner" in the family, he was only seen once (except for the boss and those who sometimes took the condemned to him, but all criminals above the second rank knew his name; he is our symbol of invincibility, and if we had a flag, I have no doubt that with the boss in the middle and his right hand Roberta Tobia on the right, Rimanoa would be on the left (there are 7 ranks in total: 1 — simple bouncers, badasses and security guards (such as Jarno Galanzio); 2 — already experienced thugs (the so-called "bros": Gento, Penzalla); 3 — thug commanders (sort of like officers: Cepino (although this man, generally speaking, should be rank zero, i.e. corpse); 4 — liaisons and excellent chauffeurs (Lionheart and Garibaldi); 5 — professional killers (killers), as well as people engaged in private affairs and assignments ("managers"), all this — the highest officers (this is me, and I used to be a killer, now — manager); 6 — "ambassadors", advisors to the boss and "viceroys" (LaSkoltza); 7 — the boss himself). Cepino fell silent.

Let's start a new one

10: 34 Aug. 15.

In the end I was taken to the doctor, the corpses were cleaned up, Gento was dealt with (what became of him is of absolutely no interest to me) and now I have to deal with the case for which I am to receive an additional five hundred thousand euros.

It turned out to be that a very rich daddy wanted to train his little boy in the skills of murder and all that went with it.

"First of all, — I said, when I arrived the next day in Brno at our big training center and saw this very student (a tall thin twenty-year-old guy with a "dirty" head, dressed in a nice expensive suit and holding an AKM over his shoulder; his eyes were empty, his brain, probably, too; in a word — a mediocrity) — I'm not going to teach you all the skills, you understand that right away. — I yawned — Secondly, the strength of a professional is not in his weapon, but in the ability to think quickly and correctly. — My voice rose sharply — So, put that thing on the floor!"

There was no one else in the room besides us, so even if he was a complete dimwit, could have realized I was saying that to him.

"Are you talking to me?" — he interjected. "Yes."

He threw the Kalashnikov with a tremendous crack about ten meters to his right. "Pick it up."

"You're giving it to me again?"

"Everything I'm about to say will be directed specifically to you, okay?" "Yes."

He raised the machine gun. "Put it down."

This time the AKM flew to the left and much farther away. "Pick it up."

After twenty attempts to understand that guns shouldn't be handled like that, I couldn't take it anymore: "Why don't you finally realize that you can't throw such things left and right!"

"Can only go back and forth or what?"

Now I understand why this job is worth 500,000,000 Euros in monetary terms. "He can't be thrown at all."

"I see."

"It has to be gently, affectionately, carefully placed." "I see."

"Demonstrate to me how it should be done."

He threw the object at his feet with such a dope that it messed up the floor. "And that's called putting it down?"

"He's lying…"

I moved closer, picked up the barrel and put it back down so quietly that I didn't even hear anything myself.

"That's the way it should be done." "I see."

He picked up the gun and tossed it back a little easier than last time, and I thought about the visible progress.

"Okay this exam you passed with a positive grade (I meant greater than zero), now let's see how you shoot… — I pointed to the leftmost target at the other end of the forty meter hall — Shoot."

He didn't get into any kind of stance, he just took the shot, one-handed. I was petrified: he hit the bull's-eye.

"Not bad, not bad. Now try lying down."

The apprentice did the same thing and hit the same spot, again shooting with only one hand — obvious talent was evident.

"Are you going to shoot with two hands after all?" "I'm more comfortable…"

"Try it though."

The sniper leaned his other hand against the barrel, which made the latter shake with such force that the bullet hit the "milk". It was clear that either he had only fired a pistol before, or there was something wrong with his hand.

"What's your name, kid?" "Michael Williams."

"Two, never tell me your name." "I see."

"Third, you must have at least five other names instead of your real name." "I see."

"Come up with some." "Michael Williams." "It has to be different." "I see."

"So that not even the initials match." "Uh…"

"Since you can't come up with one yourself, I'll come up with one." "I see."

"Your name is Amanda Last." "I see."

"Do you agree?" "Completely."

"Fourth, it has to match your gender."

"I see."

"So what?"

"It doesn't fit."

"That's right. You'll be James Last." "Good."

"So, James — I had already braced myself for another wave of misunderstandings, but nothing like this — Fifth, you need to stand out from the crowd as little as possible." "I see."

"So, what does that mean."

"I have to hide behind someone all the time…"

"No. If it's hot, you — walk in light clothes, if it's cold — in warm clothes, your gait is loose, your stride is not too big or small, you don't make eye contact or turn your head often and sharply. Things like that."

"I see."

"Sixth, you shouldn't drive around in a Ferrari either, but you should drive less. Use public transportation more often, and best of all, walk, that's for sure."

I remembered walking twenty kilometers once for safety reasons. "So, show me how to walk."

He strode through the hall as if he had been kicked out of the institute twenty minutes ago and was now facing the army.

"Now you walked too slowly, dragging your feet and hanging your head, and that always attracts some attention. You should walk freely, as if you were going for bread and nothing else interested you."

"I see." "Try again."

This time his gait meant that the chief was not in the mood today. "To hell with the gait," I thought.

"Okay, seventh, you need to be completely healthy, lest another firefight reveal you have a broken leg in four places."

"I see."

"That's why you should have your own personal doctor who can treat almost anything. I say practically, because you won't need a gynecologist."

"I see."

"This very doctor should not know who you are, what your name is, should always be available, he should only know your 'upper shell'."

"I see."

"Do you know what an 'upper shell' is?" "No."

"It's your body and fake first names, last names, IDs, etc.". "I see."

As the little fellow was not thinking clearly, I added: "Keep in mind that the doctor only has to know one name."

"I see."

"So what name are you going to tell him?" "Michael Williams."

"I said only falsity." "I see."

"So tell him James Last." "I see."

"Speaking of which, you can't get hung up on the same phrases." "I see."

"What are you doing?" "What?"

"You say it all the time — understandable, understandable, understandable." "I see."

"Here we go again… Say 'okay', 'clear', 'yes' and your favorite 'understandable' in a variety of ways."

"I see."

"As of this minute." "I see."

The guy had already realized something with his "understandable". "Yeah and, what's wrong with your arm?"

"No big deal…"

"Here, you take care of this nonsense with our 'local' doctor, and then we'll continue training. Call me when you've sorted out your affairs, ask for "Pierce Brosman" (our man, who does various "miracles" and is at that moment in Brno in that very training center, and therefore knows my cell phone number).

No questions followed.

Let's go back to our old ways

What's old is what's not new, and what's not new is this — the assignment to find out from a certain Bill Garrison (code name — "tourist") where Joseph Gutgold is (that was the order, nothing to be done). I'd already received an advance of $500,000 in jewelry at the Hello Bar. "with a shabby reputation."

This case requires seven men (me, two of my family, and four mercenaries): Frank Polazzi (41 years old, worked with me for twelve years and has the nickname Marlboro, and he got it because he keeps a cigarette of this brand in his mouth all the time (except for very important operations), and rarely when he smokes it; knows how to control himself, is an excellent marksman — in some ways we are similar to him), Carlo Salvatore (34 years old, worked with me for seven years, nickname — Shock, for his instant understanding of what is going on and instant (although, unfortunately, not always the best) suggestion of a simple and quick way out of the situation), Emilien Rozh (31 years old, a good doctor and a safecracker, a very rare combination; a very sociable and pleasant-looking man; talks about anything (not counting his work as a "bear hunter") and with anyone; likes to drink), Danila and Konstantin Bulatov (27 and 24 years old, two former thugs from the GRU special forces, I know many good Russians, but these two for some reason did not come out in public, however, everywhere there are exceptions; the main entertainment for them is to shoot and fight (especially the second); another anti-national trait is excessively low consumption of vodka and alcohol in general), Michael Luttvets (36 years old, former special forces of the Bundeswehr, now "Ghost"; the complete opposite of Rozh — doesn't like to talk almost on the level of principles; a loner; probably, that's why he has the gift of moving quietly and stealthily, which is why he earned himself such a strange nickname, having killed 15 enemy soldiers quietly during one secret mission, thus making the task easier for everyone else, roughly speaking, by half).

Target location information: three-story villa in the thick of taiga forests; 100 kilometers to the nearest town; Washington State, USA.

Notes: (this time there was no photo, only a verbal portrait) fat, broad-shouldered, brown eyes, dented nose, thin lips, a small scar on the forehead.

In 10 kilometers from the cabin we needed there was an abandoned town of miners, where you could come by car (in the same way we expected to leave).

"B" day

7:06 a.m. Aug. 16.

The "five-minute stopover" was a one-story house with one front door and six windows. It was typical for such a place: two rooms, a kitchen, and a toilet (no furniture, and the only indication of a bathroom and toilet was a small unbroken patch of ceramic against the door). I climbed into the latrine to contact the Syracuse base (two people).

No sooner had I opened my laptop than the jamming sounded. Since only Ghost had a jammer out of the whole group, I had to radio to him: "Mih, what else is there?"

"It's okay two less…" "Two what?"

"By enemies…"

"What enemies, warrior? Are you sure they're not just passersby?" "I'm sure they have machine guns."

"Okay, well, over and out." The battle has begun…

I pushed the door open and saw a machine gunner running fifty meters outside the window. I noticed him, he noticed me, which prompted me to "dive" into the depths of the toilet. After shattering the proof of the existence of the latrine. Having honored the memory of the tile with two seconds of inactivity, I stuck out the muzzle of the automatic rifle (this time it was a Russian NA (Nikonov's Abakan automatic rifle with a magazine for 60 cartridges; the most successful caliber — 5.45, superfast rate of fire — 2000 v/min., almost record initial velocity of 950 m/sec., low recoil due to the unique system of recoil, low recoil due to a unique system of barrel recoil during firing, as well as a special mode of firing two cartridges (the sound merges into one) and high accuracy, in short, not a machine gun, but a fairy tale — a weapon of the twenty-first century) and pulled the trigger, then climbed out of the now worthless room and saw the same "hero", but with five holes in the chest. "I'm getting old," I thought, as I fired six shots and only hit five. There was no one else visible outside the window, and the shots, as if on cue, stopped messing up my hearing.

"Don't move for exactly two minutes," I said into the radio. Two minutes passed, there were no rustles, the ceramics and glass were gone, and there was a pile of corpses outside the windows.

"Alright, we go in groups to the forest at three minute intervals (the groups had long ago been arranged in order and composition: #1 — Me and Polazzi, #2 Salvatore and Rozh, #3 — Bulatovs, and finally #4 — 'Ghost'; actually it would be more appropriate to combine Lüttvec with Rozh, since the commander that I am usually isn't in any pair, but the German is used to working alone).

I won't drag on: everyone made it to the woods, but Michael was a little late: "What took you so long? Did you forget your watch at home?"

"In that situation, there was only one way not to waste time…" "Like what?"

"Lay down your weapons." "Why didn't you fold it?"

"Hehe, you're kidding, commander."

"Well, okay, we don't have a long way to go at 9.5 kilometers, uh, by the way, did anyone bring spray with them?"

"I've got it, Commander," Emilien echoed.

"And I've noticed it works wonderfully," Danila confirmed and clapped the Frenchman on the shoulder, squashing the insect.

"I don't get it…"

"A mosquito. — Bulatov showed the parasite, pulling a vial out of his back pocket, "This one will help much better.

The collapse of a three-story empire

8:46 a.m. Aug. 16.

Surprisingly enough, we made it to the walls and, after climbing over the fence, to the doors of the mansion without adventure (there were two doors, one had #1 and #2, the other had the rest).

The instruments of attack played — I kicked the door off to I don't know what mother, we flew in like butterflies, shrieking and knocking over everyone and everything in our path.

Nothing made the billets of defense — the corpses of the guards remained where my or, at the very least, not my cannon found them. It gave the impression that we were Vandals, and they were poor and rich, peaceful and warlike, weak and strong… the inhabitants of Rome.

From the large hall connected to the entrance, there was a wide corridor turning to the right and left (Nos. 1, 2 were distributed accordingly). After running a few meters and shooting three of the defenders, I crouched down to transfer into the house (it could be a soul running around like a rabbit, and the body is still around that corner). Marlboro followed suit.

Transported to "Rome," I was able to see what I saw. It wasn't a long, greasy corridor, flanked by doors that hadn't yet been smashed open by some barbarian.

О! Here is one opening, and there is someone's "pumpkin", already broken by my bullet (just in case, this time the armor-piercing ones were in the clip). "Pumpkin" and everything else fell, fell, crashed, whatever you want, from the top to the foot. The foot (that is, the carpet) crumpled, the sculpture standing next to it staggered, but I remained as calm as ever and went on, going into each room in turn.

The scheme of penetration is not complicated: I take the door to the same mother, Polazzi covers, I break into the room, Polazzi closes the rear; sometimes a standard hand grenade flew in.

In one sat something like a scientist (deemed unnecessary, so dead), in the second empty, in the third two (one with a machine gun, one with a bat) killed by me.

The corridor at the end again became "crowded". The Italians had to split up: me to the right, Marlboro to the left.

My move turned out to be quite pretty: the floor turned into a staircase going down, the walls, with a distance of 66 centimeters between each other (I have an excellent eye gauge), flowed with nasty yellow liquid, but there was only one door sitting there. Near it I stopped to reload Nikonov (better to do it in front of the door than behind it), and then it opens, and behind it "ace" with a barrel.

I grabbed the knife on my belt and delivered a hard overhead stab with a reverse grip at the opener. He staggered, and I thought that wasn't enough and stabbed him with my knee. The victim fell to the bare concrete with a fountain of his own blood.

Behind him, a whole torture room opened up…..

The empty "Shed" resembled Jack the Ripper's apartment, more blood on the many chained bodies on the tables than on the keeper I'd just slaughtered, but this is the terminus station, so it's best to head back.

I returned to the place where the group had split up and walked toward Polazzi. His path was much nicer than mine: three creatures could fit through the opening. But he had more work to do, with bodies lying here and there, and, uh, wait a minute, that's him.

HE — Marlboro, not sure what he was doing on the carpet. No, I get it— lying there with two holes in his torso.

I leaned over, took my pulse, and whispered: "Buddy, are you okay?" Even though his pulse was ticking, my friend was silent: he probably didn't have long to live.

I made a quick call to Rog: "Doc, can you hear me, Doc?" — nothing, I contacted Konstantin: "Con, I've got — Con, Con!" Nothing but hisses. "Yeah, where are you all?!" — I yelled into the comms. The Ghost responded: "Commander, why are you making so much noise?"

"You, where are you?"

"Some hallway, wait, that's not you crouched there. I'm about to shoot a lamp standing

a meter away from you "

"What, what…I don't get it HELLO, HELLO, HELLO!!!"

There was a shot, from which the lamp that was resting near me exploded into a hundred of its kind. "Who's messing around?", — I thought and said into the radio, — "Wait, there's someone messing around".

"Who's messing around? Is that how the lamp broke?" "What lamp…oh yeah how do you know?"

"So I'm her. "

"What are you hers?" "Shattered."

"How?"

"By gunshot, WOW!!!"

I looked closely, saw Lüttwitz crouching twenty-five meters from me, stood up and shouted: "Come here now, there are wounded!".

After a short "cross", I was asked where he was, the wounded man. I pointed to the unconscious Polazzi: "You take care of him, and I'll find out what happened to the others.

I ran the fork, parting group #1, then #1 with #2 and headed after the second group, their road also divided (this time my choice lay in favor of the left side).

The same picture, but now he (Emilien Roge) was dead…..

Eyes open, crouched posture, in his hand a cleaver stuck in the throat of his own killer, holding a Barracuda (a Belgian six-shot revolver). The Frenchman died of a bullet wound to the head…..

Taking off my beret, I honored the Norman (he was born there) with a 30 second silence (time is short).

But at least now I can see why the last one didn't answer…..

After trying once again to contact Konstantin and making sure no one was answering, I raced to the "Russian proxy neighborhood."

There were more dead there than in all the other zones combined (it's always like that with Russians). But I couldn't see any Russians, so I bellowed into the radio: "Danila, Konstantin, over!!!" This response came through: "Commander, this is Danila, as you can hear me, ko "

"Why haven't you been in touch?!" "Was she?"

"Was!"

"Really?"

"Yes."

"No, really?"

"No, I was kidding Answer the question!"

"Commander, there was no communication "

"What do you mean it wasn't, what are you weaving?!" "Pure Truth."

"So what's the deal?" "Well… I don't know "

"Are you all right?"

"I do, Konstantin probably does too, we parted ways on the last corner about five minutes ago "

"QUICK TO HIM!!! You got it, TO HIM!!!"

"Perfectly understood…already on my way to look for it "

I myself was looking at the stairs going up and decided to check what was there. The staircase had about twenty steps that did not crack.

So shots went off, the thing is, one "devil" took up a defense at the entrance to the

second floor. He ended up with his head blown off.

I looked out and, not seeing a "soul", decided to take a break from the eternal running and fighting. And then the walkie-talkie ranted: "Commander, this is Salvatore, the first floor is ours!"

"Great, get to the second one." "Okay "

"What's up with you and Konstantin?" "The bullet hit the radio, but Emilien "

"I know, I know Tell Kon to look at all the bodies."

"Okay "

"What's wrong with Frank?"

"Because of the body armor, only bruises, he can continue the operation "

"Let him help Konstantin. Over and out."

The second floor appeared to be in the state of one large room, or rather hall, in which no one appeared.

"The second floor is taken, commander," Carlo informed me, standing a few feet away from me and from the stairs to the third floor, along with the rest of the team, except for the "gravedigger" Constantine and the dead Emilien. "Yes I can see that," I snapped back, " — Upstairs take everyone alive.

"I see."

We started moving to the finishing floor, the staircase, which this time was not guarded by any smart guy. And on the whole floor there was only one guard… uh… and where is the one we came for? Maybe we missed him somewhere… And the one in the robe… I got in touch with Konstantin: "Kon, look at the first room to the right from the fork of the corridor… uh… the main entrance".

"Just looked…"

"And, what…"

"Commander, look —" Danila interrupted me. "Con, wait… What else is there?"

"The steel ladder upstairs in the closet."

"Go up and check it out. So… so, what's up, Con?" "George Harrison's citizen's passport…"

"George Harrison?" "Yes."

Obviously he's the brother of the target, but, where is the target himself? "Ah, what's with the guards then?"

"They have FBI agent IDs… WARNING! WARNING…" "Hey, what the hell is that?!"

"Looks like cops."

"Frank, Con, grab Rog's body and fly here!!! On three!!!"

"Commander, there's a helipad…," — Danila returned. Now it was clear how the object had disappeared from the house.

"Very well! When your brother and Polazzi come up with Roja's body, lock the doors on the stairs! Afterward, go upstairs and don't forget to bandage the guard and close the closet (the guard couldn't see our faces, so he had a tangible chance of staying alive)." "Good."

I climbed to the roof through a closet, and once there, I opened my laptop to contact the base, "We have a problem, send a helicopter to the roof right away."

"The helicopter will arrive in twelve minutes."

"This is FBI Agent Betterer speaking, surrender, the building is surrounded!!!" — came a man's voice from downstairs, next to the sirens.

I decided to stall for time, so I called back in a muffled voice, "We have 26 of your employees hostage, as well as George Garrison!!!"

"What do you want?"

"Forty million dollars! I'll give you an hour!" "Okay, we'll get the money."

"Here's proof that we're not kidding!!! — I turned to Shock, who was standing next to me, "Carlo, bring me a dead body.

The body was there in twenty seconds. After counting two bullet holes in the body and firing two shots into the air, I walked to the ledge and threw the body away (nice trick, wasn't it).

"Well, how is it?"

"I hear you, please no more!"

"I won't if none of your people go near the doors of the building!!!! (I remembered the pieces of wood smashed to incomprehensible pieces of wood)"

"No one's coming up."

Then "came" the Bulatovs, the Marlboro, the dead Rye, the Ghost. "Did you lock the closet and the doors?"

"Yes."

"Good."

A helicopter's here.

A couple degrees off

9:06 a.m. Aug. 16.

"What is it, why are we going down?" — I asked the pilot, after three minutes of flight. "We're running out of gas."

"Sit over there," — I pointed to a sturdy two-story house with a helipad in that very mining village (probably the home of the owner of the mine itself or its director). "Good."

We landed, climbed out, leaving only the pilot and Rozh's body in the helicopter, and took up defense in the house just in case: "Shok" — on the second floor, me, Bulatovs, Marlboro — on the ground floor. "Ghost" on my order rushed for spare canisters of kerosene in those "Ford", on which we came here (it is too dangerous to go on the "Ford" itself — the FBI has already blocked everything).

"Chief, I've got a…," our bumblebee on the second one chortled. "The chief is in a cab," I corrected him.

"Excuse me, Commander, we have a problem here." "Speak."

"I spotted some men with guns up north at the edge of the woods (clearly FBIers)." "Don't do anything until I start shooting."

"Got it."

"Hello… Rob (that was the pilot's name), turn off the engine." "Got it."

"Michael, are you coming soon?" "Five meters to the house."

When Lüttvec reached the helicopter, the gunners were trotting seven hundred meters from the double-decker, I opened fire with the words, "Michael get in the helicopter and wait. Everyone else get ready to withdraw."

Shots rang out from the roof, then returned shots at the helicopter that took off and headed towards the forest, I shouted: "What's the matter, where is it headed?!", and apparently from the firing from the roof it fell on the roof of a neighboring house. "Michael, what's the brothel up there?"

"Son of a dog, the pilot, wanted to cum me, but…" "Are you hurt?"

"Bullets in the vest…"

"Okay… Michael, Carlo, bring the Ford to the exit (we were seriously lucky this time, as both the Ford and the exit were located on the side of the house where there were no agents), Bulatovs, are you ready to bail?"

"Yes. That's right," they echoed. "Go away, I've got your back."

No chase or pickets were seen on the road.

The Sicilian hole

2:16 p.m. Aug. 16.

The first question is, why did the pilot start shooting at the Lüttwitz and trying to fly away? Option one, he's a bought one, or he's not ours at all.

The second question is, by whom? There are as many options as there are enemies. Question three, how could anyone know I was even there. My entire squad, every one of whom I can vouch for, and the base knew.

The base consisted of two hired men: Bruce Milton — liaison and information officer, Ray Dulfer — hacker and coordinator. Some of them play for two teams, but I can only find out in person when I see their eyes with my own eyes (one very big advantage of the old man is experience, which helps to determine "who is right and who is wrong" quite accurately), so let's go to Syracuse.

They were located in an absolutely extraordinary hotel in the center of the city on the 20th floor. Sometimes I ask myself the question: "Why the fuck should some people who break the law risk their lives every second of their existence and sometimes be in "dog" conditions, and others, also breaking the law, luxuriate in similar establishments?"

The door was opened by Bruce, who exclaimed, "Oh! I didn't think you'd stop by. Ray, Faust is here!".

My fist smashed into his jaw with the words, "What are you yelling about?". Bruce slumped down, a smile on his face, while Rei entered from the other room, saying, "Good to see you, Commander…"

"You're better off because one of you is a woodpecker…" By the way, their eyes are already glistening, they're both woodpeckers…

Milton was staring out the window and at Ray, Ray was staring at me and at Bruce, and I was staring out the window and at Bruce and Ray. It's a cool picture called: "Faust appears."

"So, what are we going to do?"

"Or maybe you were wrong, Commander?" — Rei suggested. "It's possible, isn't it?" — Bruce chimed in.

I pulled out my phone, dialed a number, and announced, "This is Faust. Milton and Dulfer are sons of bitches who betrayed the organization. Send the boys to the Hotel San Remo, room 214…" — I turned off the communication device — "You have the option to live an extra few hours on the run, but know this — either way you're going to get caught. Whether you use it or not is up to you, but I wouldn't drag this out if I were you."

"But, Faust…"

"Commander…"

I left the room and walked down the long, long hallway, finding myself pretty sure that they were going to come out of that building either alive or dead, but either way, both.

Wet island

11:45 p.m. Aug. 16.

It was time to get back to the task at hand. The subject, thinking that the further he is from trouble, the easier his life will be, has fled to the island of Great Britain, namely London. Now we have to spend some time in a land where it rains only when there is no fog. And to better understand the psychology of the English I will tell you a short anecdote:

"Sir, he will not be able to receive you at afternoon tea. — "The guest's servant assures the guest, 'You will be taken by his deputy. The flavor of the coffee will not change.

So, the facility set up in a prestigious hotel with its next shivering security guard, who had nothing to do but hope.

Five scowling young men in floor-length black coats, shined shoes and embarrassing sunglasses piled inside and headed for the elevator. Only a clerk was able to stop them, at the still closed doors of the elevator: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but…"

From under the floor of Danila's cloak flew out and with a tremendous crack hit the shining floor "APB" (automatic pistol Stechkin with silencer Neugodov; 9 mm, large capacity magazine (20 pieces), high combat speed (40–90 shots per minute), sighting range — up to 200 meters, a distinctive feature — retarder of the rate of fire (so successful that it is repeated in many foreign analogues), in general, the gun is good, but under clothes it is not very much worn — as it is now).

Witness #2 (a gray-haired old man with a small brown valise on a couch at the other end of the lobby) ignored, but started to gather himself. "So, what did you want?" — I muttered to lighten the mood.

"Lllllyft, no-no-it doesn't work…"

"Thanks, for your help," the unclenched fist of his left hand flew into the clerk's underbelly, while his right hand snatched up a Glock and fired at a vase standing two meters away from the old man. No. 1 went down, No. 2 froze.

Seven hundred and seventy-seventh heaven

11:58 p.m. Aug. 16.

The tourist ended up in the presidential suite (what a crook, he took the whole 22nd floor). And now we still have to walk to him, but the rewound witnesses are lying peacefully in the toilet on the first floor.

I stopped everybody on 21 and I said: "Okay, we're going according to plan… Let's go." Bulatovs rushed from this side, and "Shock" with Marlboro, respectively, from the other (if you wonder where "Ghost" is, he is downstairs, waiting in the Ford Transit). A minute later a call on the radio: "The way is cleared".

"Wait for me at the door," I instructed, then climbed the stairs, walked past the corpses of the bodyguards to room 777 (the boor's lodgings), knocked and shouted: "Your dinner has arrived!"

"What the hell is dinner at twelve o'clock at night!" — came from there as the door opened. It was opened, oddly enough, not by the guard, but by the owner himself, but my fist still smacked his nose. "Tourist" flew back into the room, me and the two Italians rushed inside and closed the door, "You're coming with us."

"What do you want? But… uh… mmmmmmmmmmmm…" — The duct tape sat firmly on his mouth, his hands, also a too dusty bag sat on his head, and muffled gasps were heard from behind the door.

I jumped out of the room, saw Konstantin sliding down the wall, Danila shooting at the guard in the opposite room 778, and a man shooting at me from the other end of the hallway. The result was three dead men: two guards and Konstantin.

Questions from the darkness of the night

1:02 a.m. Aug. 17.

"Big Barn" near London, faint light, interrogation in progress.

"Shall we talk?" — I asked the poor man in a completely cold-blooded voice, turning on the chainsaw. He opened his mouth and whispered something, but due to the squealing of the ratchet, neither I nor the rest of the expeditionary army could hear. Я отключил визг и услышал писк: «Ммммммииииииимммммгхгх».

"Is that it?" — The saw started up again, but now for two seconds. Ghost's bass was heard: "Can I give it a try, eh, Commander?"

I decided to see what would come of it. The German picked up the iron and jabbed it as carefully as he could at the injured man, making him look like he was going to vomit on someone.

"Okay, that's it, that's enough or we won't know anything except what he had for dinner tonight. — I put the saw down on the concrete — Let's start simple. What's your name?" "Bbbbill."

"Last Name." "Harrison."

"Very good… — it felt as if I had learned valuable information — Now the hard part… Where is Joseph Gutgold?"

"This is the first time I've heard such a thing…"

"I see… Hey Mih, you can try again." Lüttvets, standing a little to my left, picked up his recently thrown club and swung it.

"Don't, please don't…"

"Wait…" he raised his hand, "Where's Gutgold?"

"He's in Boston, Westside St., 15. 15, I don't know anything else, nothing." "Okay, we'll check…"

But there was no point in checking whether it was so — if he said HIS name and surname correctly the first time, it was not wise that he would tell all other people's names as well.

A mismatch in thought

I opened my laptop and (in case anyone is interested, it's in a small case, always carried with me, besides it there are: two standard hand (F-1), tear and smoke grenades, five 9- caliber magazines (two more in my jacket), a vial of liquid that burns even in water, some floppy disks and three of the forty passports that belonged to me, as well as some clean underpants, pairs of socks, two bottles of Vorago toilet water and Nivea for men deodorant, an Oral-b toothbrush with a tube of Blend-a-med toothpaste, Head and Shoulders shampoo and some medicines), typed in the customer's address and typed: "Order completed."

1:03 a.m. Aug. 17.

"Information…"

"First, a quarter of the amount. — "$750000 transferred to the Banco Nacional de México account." — Boston."

"That's it?"

"Another quarter another hundred thousand added. — Westside Street."

"More money?"

"That's right — only 1.5 million so far — D. 15."

The tie-up ended without transferring the rest of the 3 million fee.

The customer refused to pay, which could only mean one thing… That he didn't pay…

And he didn't pay not just anyone, but a killer. And not just any killer, but a killer working for Koza-Nostra. So who would want to fight with Koza-Nostra?

I closed the computer and, opening my cell phone, dialed a number: "Richard, this is Faust, find me the courier who handed over the briefcase on July 21 at the Good Day Bar in Prague."

"Ahhhh, that's the one on 5 knetna st…" "Yes."

"Wait two minutes." "Waiting."

It's been two minutes.

"Barcelona, Hotel Indala Park, room 155." "Okay, thank you."

Finding the six was no problem, unlike finding the boss himself.

Trouble with livestock

4:36 p.m. Aug. 17.

I broke in the door, not entered (there was no point in pretending to be a pizza delivery guy — the subject had seen me before). The victim had a very puzzled look on his face (he's just a six-pack who doesn't understand or see anything), but his appearance was of absolutely no concern to me: "Out of order with the banks?" A question to start a conversation — it's clear to the elephant that he knows nothing about the underpayment. "What do you mean?"

"Where's the payment?"

"Payment?… Ah, didn't you get the money?"

"Why, you sheep, do you answer a question with a question?" "Who told you that?"

Just then, some dick with a shotgun pops out of the bathroom, chilling nearby, and starts pulling the trigger. "I didn't know you hung out with such maniacs," I said after our hero lay down from three Glock bullets. — А? You're such an asshole… Well, okay, who do you work for?"

"Not on anyone."

"Shame on you for lying." "It's…"

"I have other methods, though."

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Richard's number, "Send a man…" "Indala Park?"

"Right."

I knew that in a couple of minutes Edgar Norman ("Sugar", if you don't understand, it's because of his insensitivity to the life and death of others) would arrive in a black BMW. How many people this man killed for no reason (for fun) is God only knows. For him the expression "no witnesses" most likely meant that no one should see him at all.

And before he killed someone, his face was blurred with a malicious smile, and his eyes did not glisten, as in most killers, but glowed with red-black flames.

living three blocks away in a small house, so he didn't even order dinner, but bandaged the front of the hands and back of the legs of the "pig" (code name of the courier, given by me recently), and put the body of the "shotgunner" in the bathroom, took off his gloves, heavily doused with the famous liquid and, pouring the water set it on fire.

Gestapo methods

4:42 p.m. Aug. 17.

"Okay, how do we leave?" — Norman asked, walking in and closing the door behind him.

"Through the door, how else?" "We can through the window…"

"No, consider there's no window… We'll go out the second exit by the pool so the clerk won't notice… Come on, grab that teapot and get it in the car, I'll be a little later."

I went back into the bathroom, filled it all the way up with water, tossed the tequila bottle that had been standing in the hall before, added my own liquid to it, and lit it once more (I don't know if it didn't burn all the way through).

I left the room, walked down the stairs, left the hotel, got into a BMW parked nearby and asked Norman, "Oh, where's the six?"

"In the trunk…"

"Well, yeah your style." "Going to the warehouse?" "Yes."

We left the city and, having covered a distance of 15 kilometers, stopped at a small hill (behind which even a BELAZ could hide), where there was a barely visible steel door. We entered it, walked about 200 meters along a narrow tunnel and, opening a banal wooden door (on the other side it was a wall, that is — a secret passage), saw right in front of us a "torture chair" (an ordinary chair with a lot of straps) in a large dusty room. This was the so-called warehouse, but there were no materials there.

I asked the fateful question, "What's your name?"

Finding herself in such a wonderful environment, the victim managed to squeeze out, "Robert."

"Where do you live?" "In hotels…"

"In what?"

"Where the boss says…oops…uh…"

"Well, there, see, you've got a boss now…" "I don't have a boss!!!!"

"Yeah, well."

"I'm an independent!!!!" "No way."

"That's right!!!" — the guy totally freaked out.

"Yeah, come on kicking yourself I turned to Norman, "You can calm down.

Norman came over and started a showdown (what's the point).

The first blow flew with a crackle into his stomach, the second into his nose, the next fifteen into his jaw. Norman pulled out the knife.

"I'll be killed if I say, KILLED!!!!" — The victim was screaming like a slaughterer, though he had not yet been touched by the cold blade of the cleaver.

"Wait…," I ordered Norman, "See he's gotten worse. "

"Robert, tell me, what do you want?" "Security "

"Yeah, security… Hear, Edgar, he needs security Well, okay, Robert, your guard will

be… will be… will be… well… Oh! That's right, your guard will be Norman "

"Don't "

"Come on, Edgar, guard him. "

A knife appeared in the courier's shoulder, further beating, but now after the twenty- fifth blow Norman stopped and redirected the knife to the other shoulder, after a brawl involving one.

"I'll say, I'll say!!!" — the victim had all the strength in the world. No one thought to interrupt. "Cave, I work for Albert Cave!!!" It was the seventieth stroke…

"CAVE, CAVE, CAVE!!!"

I stopped the 'charging', "See what it's come to "

"Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah," said the "boxer" and the "pear" with different intonation. "So you say we need "

"Cave, Cave, Albert Cave!" "Very well. Where does he live?" "New York."

"More specifically "

"I don't know."

"How's that? It's not clear. Norman, he doesn't know "

"Jack knows, Jack knows!" "Who is it?"

"He was with me at the hotel "

"I see… Uh-huh Well, who else?"

"More… more… more… more. "

"Norman, he wants more!" "Don't. No! Buttoned up "

"No, Edgar, your aim is obviously off. — I scolded Norman and continued with Robert, "Now, who are you calling buttoned up???"

"No, no, buttoned up knows "

"I see. Oh, who is this guy anyway?"

"I don't know "

"Great! Where is he?" "In Beijing "

"Beijing… No, I'm not going there. "

"This is the chief of police of Barcelona speaking. Surrender. The building is surrounded! — A voice in Spanish (which I didn't know, by the way) suddenly started blabbering.

"Fuck him left," Norman whispered. "What does that mean?"

"Everything sucks… Our friend needs to be finished…" "Yeah, what was said? Stop pulling the cat by the…"

"Surrender the building is surrounded… And friend must be ended…" "Surrounded by whom?"

"Cops… No, a friend needs to cum…"

"Friend knows nothing, leave him alone, let's run for the door."

"No… we have to run him out…" — Norman pulled out a Beretta 92F (Italian 9-caliber pistol; very handy in practical sense, the pistol's peculiarity is a convenient safety; weighs 1.1 kilograms, muzzle velocity — 375 m/s, magazines for 15 and 20 rounds, maximum aiming range — up to 100 meters, muzzle energy 500 joules) and put two bullets into Robert's head. He didn't have time for the third one, five bullets crashed into him…

Running without looking back

4:55 p.m. Aug. 17.

Saying, "Well, I'm off…", I rushed to the secret door. The "balalaikas" started blaring as if I were not a "common criminal" but the first terrorist in the world. I reached the steel door and found it closed.

Edgar had the key, and he wasn't the same Edgar he'd been — he had five extra holes in him. "If we can't get in the door, we'll get in the window," I thought of a movie.

"But there's a catch. — I reassured myself, firing twice at the lock, — There are no windows in the tunnels. The steel door opened… The light dawn (it's five in the morning and already light here) and heavy sand came into my eyes… The BMW was not found….

Someone stole my car (or rather not my car, but the keys though no, the dead

"Sukhar" has the keys too). What to do, we went east, no, we ran, because the flicks will be upset, having missed the "big fish", by the way, the question may arise: "How did they find us?".

I will answer this question a little later, but for now it was pouring rain, to such an extent that my tires were asking to become rain tires. In addition to the downpour, a siren started blaring, prompting me to get off the road and temporarily stop hitchhiking. After my "disengagement", a police freak ran down the road on all his own and other people's pairs (of course, he did not notice me, being in a horizontal position). After a dozen seconds I got up and "wandered" further, but not having made even twenty steps, I heard the "grinding of well-tested brakes". Behind me was a red Peugeot. The driver's bald head came out of it: "Do you want a ride?"

Brakes without brains

4:57 p.m. Aug. 17.

"How's it going?" — the chauffeur asked, after I settled into the back seat, telling me to drive east to the nearest port.

"I'm fine. They just stole a car."

Baranocnik turned on the first speed, sharply pressed the gas pedal, which made the car move its "limbs", sliding on the wet highway: "Ohhhh… I'm sorry. It's not my first car either…"

"You stole it too?" "No, I sold it." "What brand?" "Renault."

"And I have a BMW, white (to confuse you, if anything)." "Nice car."

"Uh-huh."

"And what is your occupation?" "Businessman, came to Spain for a vacation…" "This time of year?"

It's a cop out. You can feel it right away, because he asks too many questions, from which he himself derives new ones and some of which he has to answer several times, like now. Finally, and most importantly, he speaks Italian to me.

"And it seems to always be warm here…" "Warm. А…"

"How far away are we?"

"No, not particularly, about five kilometers."

Flick is taking me to his own, which is not five, but half a kilometer away. I know their rough calculations for criminals — 100 meters ~ 1000 meters.

"Do you hear that? Pull over. I need to relieve myself." "Okay…" — he stopped the car.

I got out with my gear, covered my field of vision with my cloak, put the case behind the curb, opened it, put the Glock, two magazines and the MSP Groza with the mechanism inside and turned on the self-destruct mode with one of those floppy disks for 4 minutes (it is absolutely clear that there is no escape from here, so I have to surrender clean, they have no evidence against me anyway).

On the way to the car I dialed Richard's number, "I'm about to be picked up, I'm not far from Barcelona…"

"I see."

Apparently, the chauffeur hoped to return for the abandoned later, so he didn't say anything about the suitcase disappearing.

We ended up on a hill and saw a whole bunch of local law enforcement officers very nearby. Turning around with revolver in hand, the driver muttered: "That's it, Mr.

Cordarro, here we are. (the name of the fake passport under which I entered this country)."

Strange prison

5:02 a.m. Aug. 17.

"Hey, pops, what are you in for?" — I was asked by a 25-year-old man who had occupied the cell before I arrived.

"I don't know myself. — I took the seat across from him. — What about you?"

"Yeah, I was walking around. So, like, I went into a liquor store. I ordered a beer,yeah. "I'm sitting there drinking, I don't care. Some guy walks in, like, a little gloomy. You can tell by the look on his face that he's a man without a clue, yeah. Not our kid. I'm like, "Who are you?" And he's like, "Nobody." You know, yeah. He's all puffed up. So I hit him in the face with a mug, yeah. And he started waving his arms around. So I hit him with another beer. But he's still standing there, dog. You know, yeah. So, like, I knocked his head off, so the flicks came and got him, and I'm sitting here. "What's wrong with you?"

"Oh, come to think of it. Like, car, stolen, yeah." "Here, assholes…"

"Well, like, I'm walking, yeah. It's also raining. I'm, like, soaked. "I can't get my head up. Some dick stops, says he can give me a ride. So I said yes, yeah. We drove, like, two kilometers, he turns around with a gun in his hand, like a flick, says, "Here we are. Now the dogs are investigating some kind of murder."

"Oh, assholes…"

"Yeah, like, assholes…"

After an hour and a half of such conversations, four cellmates (four exactly, usually such escorts are given only in high-security prisons, like the old Alcatraz) "came to the door": "Come out, Mr. Cordarro."

I was taken to a small room with one table, two chairs and a bunch of witnesses behind a glass on the wall (the favorite thing of all top-ranking police officers is to look at the person they can't put in jail behind a mirror like that).

The investigator sitting at the table, trimmed to "Hedgehog", offered me a seat and, letting only two guards go (now it is clear — it is no longer the police, it is something more important, more likely Interpol, because there is nothing serious in Spain, obviously they know my approximate orientation), began: "What's your name?" "I'll answer, only next to my lawyer."

"By law, you must answer our questions before a lawyer arrives (these investigators are very fond of "noodling around" with newcomers to crime, for me he probably wanted to "mess with my head" or try his luck)."

"I know my rights (in such interrogations one must watch one's every word, for words like remove, remove, end can be interpreted as one wishes); besides, I am an Italian subject, and that has some significance."

"Which is?"

"Get me a lawyer first."

"Once again, I repeat that you are obliged to answer our questions first (his 'must' turned into 'must', meaning he was starting to push, which means he has nothing against me, at most something particularly strong)."

"All answers only with the assistance of an attorney."

"Okay, get him out of here," — he tapped on the table, whereupon those two guards who had left earlier came in.

This time I was taken not to a cell, but to a prison-transport car, which could very well have taken me to another country — these guys did not want to part with me so easily, so they even decided to break the law and not let me make a phone call, so that at least a lawyer could find me, or inform, for example, the embassy (just an example, because probably the Italian security services know about it all) that their subject was so-and-so; it's hard to imagine how long they could have taken me to different places, thus effectively kidnapping me, if I hadn't called my lawyer before they took me, because they wouldn't have started looking for me right away.

"Well, shall we talk?" — The investigator (now his hair was slicked back and glistening in the light) asked me, but in a completely different place, where I already had a solitary room at my disposal.

"How about a lawyer?"

"I already said that you must answer our questions first."

"The way the case is supposed to work is as follows? You call a lawyer, and while he hurries to the place, you break a comedy in front of me, claiming that I am obliged to answer your questions at once, but I did not want to answer them, and the lawyer did not arrive after a whole twenty-four hours, so you did not call him. You violated the law by not giving me the right to a lawyer.

"You want to have a straight talk? Go ahead. We're not going to let you go because we know who you're working for. We promise you security, you'll live like a paradise if you tell us everything you know."

"I am a private entrepreneur with Italian citizenship (they always tape such conversations), you have no right to detain me here for more than 48 hours and must provide a lawyer, or let me contact mine."

"You're very uncooperative, Mr. Cordarro. Realize that you have two ways out of here: with our help, or with the help of the old lady with the scythe."

"Old ladies with a scythe? There are many old ladies, but to have a scythe… I don't know any old ladies… With or without a scythe. I don't know… I just have no idea who you're talking about."

"You can fool around indefinitely, but either way, you're not getting out of here alive." "Smells like a threat…"

"It's not a threat, it's the truth." "I need a lawyer for the truth."

"The lawyer won't arrive. No one is coming. Understand that, Mr. Cordarro." "You will get nothing from me. That's my final answer."

"Your will, but note that we have plenty of time," — he tapped the table again, whereupon I was taken to solitary.

Such a revelation could only mean two things: either I was turned in by my own people, which would be the worst case scenario for me, or there was a big hunt for all of Koza Nostra, which would be the worst case scenario for the organization.

I don't know, I haven't heard, I don't understand

4:23 p.m. Aug. 19.

Interrogation number 3.

"Mr. Cordarro, I hope you've finally realized that you have no way out." "There's always a way out."

"Of course. But you have a special position." "Oh, really?"

"Yes, Mr. Faust (apparently some information they had on me just that day)." "Faust who else?"

"No need for pretense. We know exactly who you are."

"Of course, I've already told you that I'm a private entrepreneur with…" "Criminal Cases."

"No."

"You used to kill people the organization called you, now in most cases, you pick your own targets…"

"Bullshit."

"You also manage particularly complex operations…"

"You haven't had enough. You've gone from kidnapping to slander. Who are you people anyway? (I finally waited for a moment when I could ask such a question without compromising my role as the impeccable Mr. Cordarro)"

"Law Enforcement Agencies." "Which ones?"

"That's what you'll find out after you answer our questions."

"I've been taken for a complete idiot lately. I know my rights pretty well." "Okay, Faust…"

"My name is Mr. Cordarro."

"Hehe, okay, so be it. Mr. Cordarro, you have no rights here." "I'm sick of listening to this nonsense."

"Understand, Mr. Cordarro, soon your entire mafia will be tied up like a rabbit, and only those who help us will be alive or free (now it's clear that it's the organization, not me personally). Everyone will be killed: your great boss, and all his entourage, and even that elusive Rimanoa of yours — everyone, only you will be able to remain unharmed (I started lying again, besides me, probably a few other people like Giovani Gambino (someone like me) are already being processed).

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't be stubborn, Mr. Cordarro, we chose you because you have an extensive information base, besides there are rumors about you that you want to retire (always bullshit, no one has ever started such rumors, unless some dead enemy of mine). So, you have a great opportunity to do it — to retire alive, not dead."

"How many times do I have to tell you again that I have nothing to do with crime." "You can run around that song all you want, it's useless. Get him in the cell."

Self-activity in detention

7:25 a.m. Aug. 19.

Interrogation number 4.

"Will you cooperate with us, Mr. Cordarro?"

"I am a good citizen. I have always cooperated with…" "You're at it again…"

I moved closer to him and whispered so that neither the receivers nor the ears behind the glass on the wall could hear anything (again, the well-known rule: "Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law," although they obviously had no intention of trying me, it was just a broken habit): "You know I won't talk in front of bugs, so take me to the open countryside".

"All right, Mr. Cordarro, we'll think about it. Take him away."

They thought very carefully and put me back in the Very Important Persons transportation car with the grated windows.

"Now, Mr. Cordarro, it's time to talk," — began the scruffy investigator in the open as I was surrounded at a distance of about twenty meters by about thirty men (half SWAT, half costumed agents) armed with a wide variety of weapons ranging from Beretta 92Fs to RPG-22 Fly.

The terrain was really open: these bastards had made sure that if I tried to escape, I would be visible for several kilometers; by nature you could tell that this was the French Côte d'Azur (another proof that it was Interpol, because their center is in Lyon, still the same France).

I whispered into the investigator's face again, "Listen, you boar, this kind of terrain is no good!"

"Which one do you want?

"I want the forest, not this desert of yours." "You're out of line, Mr. Cordarro."

"Said. All conversations only in the woods!" — As soon as I finished that sentence, all thirty men mentally split into two groups and started shooting at each other. I had the impression that the special forces knew who to shoot at, but the agents didn't.

I grabbed the investigator, threw him to the ground, found a Manurin (a six-shot revolver of 9-caliber French manufacture) under his jacket and, already lying on the ground, poked it at the detective.

Above me there were rumbling explosions, a bunch of gunshots, muffled mate in different languages (mostly in French), but after a minute of such outrage there was silence, and along the field it was heard: "Get up, Faust".

A drug dream

1:40 p.m. Aug. 19

"I don't say this often, but you've done a really good job," — led toward the end of my conversation with Emanuel Revidon, our criminal records manager for the city of Montpelier.

I praised him for a reason, but for my release. After my call to Richard, a special group was sent to Spain and then France to develop and execute escapes. When they found out my location (a secret place of incarceration near the town of Lodève, 60 kilometers from Montpellier), as well as the very open place where I asked for an interpol officer, they came up with a daring escape plan.

The thing is that Interpol suspects are guarded by agents with personal weapons and a local special forces unit coming from a regular police station. The SWAT car was blown up on the way to the open countryside and replaced by their own, Sicilian, armed to the teeth, so I was guarded by their own colleagues, who had no trouble shooting the agents. We ended up with a backward-looking investigator in captivity, asking me his idiotic questions.

His name was Jose Fantin. 37 years old. Married, two children: 10 and 17 years old. Graduated from Toulouse Law School in 1986. He joined the criminal police. A few years later, for the excellent performance of his work, he was promoted to inspector and transferred to the French Interpol with the position of senior investigator for special cases. Finally, in 2002, he was captured by the Italian Cosa Nostra.

Interrogation #1.

Now it was my time for interrogation. Fantin was literally chained to a chair in front of a table with "interrogation" devices in a tiny room of a one-story house on the outskirts of Montpellier. I sat at the table, and Revidon, eager for work, stood beside the interrogator.

"Well, sit down, you'll be my guest. — My voice sounded cold and unhurried, — So, what's your name?"

"I will answer only in the presence of my lawyer," the interrogator simply mocked us, and Emanuel couldn't bear it: several blows flew into the interpol officer's nose area, which made the blood flow, and the tidiness turned into disheveledness.

"Yes, come on, Mr. Fanten. Understand, no one is coming. You'd better tell me, who did you take besides me?"

"Get me a lawyer first…," the lawman changed his speech to individual interjections from the aggression of Emanuel, who looked something like a dead Norman, beating everyone left and right.

After the battle, I continued my speech by taking a surgical scalpel from the table and waving it around: "All kidding aside. You realize what we're going to do to you if you sit there like this, waiting for a lawyer… No? Okay, you don't want to do it the easy way… Give him scopotolomine (a narcotic drug that makes the subject overly sociable, outspoken and complacent).

After administering the substance and after some time had passed, the investigator rambled, "Oooooh, and you know, I'm going to Hawaii with my wife in early September."

"Uh, what's your name?"

"José Fantin. Well, there, and there…" "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a special investigator…" "Very good."

"I want a third child. You know, I have two girls and I want a boy…" "What's your latest case?"

"Yeah, what's all this about work?! I'm sick of it! Enough! Stop working! I'm sick of it!" I got up from the chair, walked over to the victim and tapped him on the head: "I don't get it. What did you inject him with?"

Revidon looked a little puzzled, "Scopotolomine, as you said…" "Scopotolomine I saw him at the beginning, and at the end it was already amphetamine."

"I don't understand anything…"

"All right. When he wakes up, give him a mad cherry: let him rave until he gets out what we need."

"Where are you going?" "I'll be back soon."

I went to get a new outfit — the old one had blown up.

So, a cell phone, a Glock 26 again, four magazines for it, two fragmentation defensive grenades, a self-destruct bag, and a laptop (in all the

more or less large settlements we have so-called "arsenals", the size of which is determined by the size and degree of importance of the city (I was lucky to still have a Glock there), as for a cell phone and a laptop, they can, of course, be purchased legally).

5:25 p.m. Aug. 19.

"So, did you get out?" — I asked Emanuel, returning from replenishing weapons and equipment.

"He's a son of a bitch. — growled the listener of the ramblings," Talking about his wife, his kids, even how he went to school. Anything. Just not about work. Dog!" — he snapped and got into a fight with the half-dead investigator.

"Stop, it won't help." "No!!! It will help!!!!"

I pulled out a Glock, twisted the silencer off of it and fired it at the ceiling, "Calm down!"

The Frenchman calmed down.

"When you bring him to his senses, tell me. I'll be in the next room."

I stepped out of the room and settled into another to get some respite from all the out-of- control people surrounding me.

"Hello?" — came a steady and calm voice. "It's Faust. We need help."

"Where?"

"Montpellier, you know the place." "Target."

"Interpol's silent agent." "When?"

"Now."

"I'll be there at 8:00 p.m. your time. That's it."

Philip Ravani was on his way to see us. — is the best psychologist I've ever known. Skilled in hypnotizing, neuro-linguistic programming, zombification, suggestion, and everything else imaginable in the field of psychology. There were even rumors about him that his first hypnotic session was with his mother, to whom he gave her the task of doing something personal and very important for him at night while sleeping. What exactly it was is hard to imagine. He was chosen not because he was a master of his craft, but because he knew French.

A mind boggler

August 19, 20:02.

The investigator had been sitting tied to a chair for the past hour and was ready to fall asleep at any minute.

Ravani sat down across from me and turned to me, "Do you have a tape recorder?"

I nodded to Emanuel and he in turn left the room and entered it a minute and a half later with a black Panasonic.

Ravani plugged in the cassette and headphones, walked over to the interrogator and put on the "ears", pressing the "Play" button. Usually, the individual is given to listen to "shamanic" music, rarely to "space" music.

The next step to prepare the victim for hypnosis was to administer an intravenous drink containing Noxiron (0.25 g).

After taking another portion, Ravani stated that it was necessary to wait for another half an hour.

August 19, 20:34.

The policeman sat in his chair like a bewitched man and was probably asleep by now. Ravani walked over to the sleeping man waved his hand around, returned to his position and began: "Sleep deeper. Sleep deeper (repeated for several minutes)… You are sound asleep… You can hear my voice very well and you are not disturbed… Go deeper… Go deeper… Go deeper…"

He then indicated one verifying command to him and, finding that the subject had indeed fallen into a hypnotic sleep, continued: "Now you wish to answer my questions while remaining asleep… What is your name?"

The dreamer's answer turned out to be very unintelligible and vague: "José Fantin." "Very good… You answer my questions perfectly… Do you like soccer?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a wife?" "Yes."

"Kids?"

"Yes."

"Do you love them?"

"Yes," the subject's voice changed slightly to humanity, so Ravani interrupted his survey a bit, "Sleep deeper… Even deeper… You really like to sleep…" "Hhhhhhhhhh."

"What is your profession?" "Policeman."

"What is your position?"

"A special investigator…" "Sleep deeper…"

"YEAH, ENOUGH ALREADY!!! ENOUGH WITH YOUR SLEEP!!! — Emanuel said,

"Tell me, you son of a bitch, who else you got!!!"

I hit Emanuel on the head, and he fell to the floor with a tremendous crack. The hypnotized person was clearly out of trance and began to talk "nonsense". The hypnotist was calm, but clearly upset.

My cell phone rang. "Yes."

"This is Richard. Get out of there immediately and destroy all evidence. The cops have uncovered the place."

Aug. 19, 8:41 p.m.

Shouting: "Bring Emanuel to his senses!", I flew out of the room and rushed to another where two gasoline canisters stood.

A minute and a half later, the first floor was flooded with fuel (there was no time and no point in flooding the second floor — there was nothing interesting there for the cops or even the burglars, as it was empty), while Ravani was still agonizing with the victim. "Well, what's the matter?" — I asked with a little shortness of breath (I'm not what I used to be), finishing the job.

"You shouldn't have chiseled him like that!" — replied the mind eclipser. "Indeed. It's better that he yells like an uncut pig."

"It's easier to burn him down here altogether…" "Yeah, and a detective at the same time."

"Any better suggestions?"

"Yeah, you carry the flick and I'll carry him," I kicked Emanuel lightly with my foot. Emanuel turned out to be remarkably easy, and even too easy. We crossed a rather long corridor and came to the street where our two cars (the black BMW in which Emanuel and I had arrived and Ravani's white Peugeot) were located.

While Ravani was loading our "precious cargo", I organized a "Parade of White Lights" in the now former "torture chamber".

Aug. 19, 8:57 p.m.

The organization had no other such "room of trivial questions" in Montpellier, so we had to stop by the "embassy", although by all our articles it was a violation of all principles to torture and, in general, to bring all kinds of trash there, but it was a matter of the utmost importance.

At the "black" gate, we had to stop.

I got out of the car and headed for the entrance with big, quick steps (the flicks were after us, after all, so I was nervous). After two knocks and twenty seconds, the door was opened by a lanky man in his twenties, dressed in a standard black suit with two buttons on the jacket. He was clearly ignorant of etiquette, and the bottom button was buttoned. He had a square face, shoulders like an arshin, fists to hammer nails with, in short, another heartless bat in crime. I'd never seen this eagle before.

He asked the question that I recommended asking in all embassies at such meetings (two years ago I personally supervised the foundation of all the security systems of our representative offices in France, three in total: in Montpellier, Paris, and Brest): "You, on what subject?"

"I am Faust."

Not a single muscle trembled on the square face, "So what?" The guy is new not only to Montpellier, but also to Cosa Nostra.

"Inform Ducon that Faust has arrived," — Ducon is ambassador to Montpellier.

"No such here, sorry," — the newcomer replied and slammed the door shut, a trick that was also my invention.

Serious information even for two ears

August 19, 23:03.

We were given a very small room by Ducon, but with serious luxury (in fact, the whole house was like that): wonderful landscapes and still-lifes on fine paintings, a Persian carpet for the whole room (a real work of art), oak furniture (two chairs and a table, on which, by the way, stood, I think, a Chinese vase). There are no windows at all, but the lighting is nevertheless good, thanks to the gilded wall lampshades.

There were three people in the room: me, Ravani, Fantin. Emilien was in the next room coming to his senses.

Ravani did all his procedures again and after thirty minutes he started the session, "Sleep deeply… (familiar phrase with the same length of repetition) You are sleeping soundly and you can hear my voice perfectly…".

Obviously, after the first time, Ravani recognized that the victim was incapable of psychological resistance and did not give a verifying command, but simply continued: "You really like to sleep… Now you want to answer my questions… Continue to sleep and answer my questions… What is your name?"

The investigator muttered under his breath, just as he had the last time, "José Fantin." "Sleep deeper… Deeper still… Where do you work?"

"In the prosecutor's office."

Similar rudimentary questions followed, and after about the thirtieth Ravani got down to business, "What is your latest case?"

"The Koza-Nostra Case."

"Sleep deeper… Deeper… Do you love your children?" "Yes."

"Do you love your wife?" "Yes."

"Do you love your job?" "Yes."

"Do you want to be with your family more often?" "Yes."

"You're going to tell me everything."

The subject hesitated a bit, but then came to some senses, spewing out: "Yes (the system the hypnotherapist used is familiar to me — four natural positives and a squeezed inertial fifth response)."

"Sleep deeply… I am your superior Nicolas Sivan (the first and last name of the superior Ravani had learned during the past thirty questions).

"Yes, Chief."

"I'm waiting for your report…" "Faust doesn't want to split…"

"Sleep deeper… We need to emphasize others…" "Yes, Chief."

"Who did you take but Faust?" "Giovani Gambino…"

"Sleep deeper… Name everyone else…"

"Mario Orsoni ("The Bodyguard" — for seven years he personally supervised the security of our favorite boss (he was given this nickname because during his tenure there were twenty-two assassination attempts on the boss, of course without results — a kind of record)), Ricardo Azzaronni ("Pegasus" — almost always walked in white, and also escaped from the scene of a crime with simple cosmic speed), Pierce Brosman (this is a nickname, his real name is unknown to others as well as mine)".

"Sleep deeper… Is that it?" "Yes, Chief…"

I whispered in Ravani's ear, "Good boy, quit talking. We don't need him anymore.

Top secret

As it turned out a little later, "Brosman" (so he was called not because he bore a resemblance to the last James Bond, but because his equipment always included such things, which even in the world of Hollywood never dreamed of. Eight years ago I had the opportunity to work with him. It was in Milan. It was necessary to eliminate one figure who felt too confident in the criminal environment (in short, a complete outlaw), so the case was entrusted to the "masters". The object was located in the famous Milan center of economy, surrounded by guards of fifty people (actually he lived in another place, but then we had to show that any person who would do such things (before arriving in Milan, the object without permission robbed a bank in Palermo, and then our brothel, and then shooting all the visitors and employees) should be killed brutally and immediately). I alone entered through the main entrance, and six minutes later, having gone through a lot of difficulties with the guards (long story, but then my bullets killed eighteen people), I found myself in the final room. By this time Brosman had already ripped the victim's stomach open. How he managed to find himself in his room, where, by the way, there were no windows and the door was under constant surveillance by his personal guards (they were indeed ironclad: they were all loyal to their boss because of their high salaries and excellent attitude and approach, for which he was even nicknamed "Socium" (for caring about the workers)), I have never been able to understand. And this is only a story about his personal abilities, and about his "tricks" and even more about their principle of action can be told for days.) got out from under the clutches of the agents himself, and Gambino was shot while trying to escape during the arrest, incidentally taking with him to the other world a good two and a half dozen local law enforcement officers (they tried to arrest him in Istanbul, when he was watching the shipment of Afghan drugs to Western Europe through the Middle East and the Mediterranean Sea).

Orsoni (work in England) and Azaronni (work in Germany) remained, and since it is much more difficult to work in Germany than in England (unlike England, where ordinary patrolmen do not have the right to carry firearms, in Germany in case of emergency all roads are instantly blocked and not by investigators or even operatives, but by special forces — it is clear that under such conditions there is no time to have fun: all the minimum time to work).

While I was dealing with Fantin, the escaped "Brosman" extracted information from another representative of the law about the whereabouts of Orsoni (Liverpool) and Azaronni (Munich), and that the original documents on the Cosa Nostra case were at the Interpol headquarters in Lyon, the other two copies near the detainees Orsoni and Azaronni. Whether there are more copies, the interrogator did not say.

Who's on Koza Nostra?

Aug. 20, 11:43 a.m.

Twenty people came out of the building (nineteen men in black suits, two of whom were handcuffed to another man, but already in a white suit and with a particularly fashionable, as it seemed to me, tie (this is the famous "Pegasus")) and headed towards the cars standing next to them (three Volkswagen minibuses and two Audi). After their "departure" they were joined by another big bus of "Mercedes" company (obviously, it is a special forces). That is, in total, in the first minute of liberation we could resist up to sixty flicks, including special forces, and what will happen after the arrival of reinforcements, it is difficult to imagine. The conclusion is that the Germans and their guards had not just overdone it, but had gone completely nuts.

Clearly, they were taking him for an investigative experiment. If these are not the two places where we have ambushes, the liberation of Azaronni can be thought of as a myth

— these disciplined Aryans will not give a second chance, and then our man will be sitting in a cell of a reinforced concrete building surrounded by two hundred people (try to navigate: if you start shooting, you will have to wrap your guts around your elbow). Two of our cars (both BMWs, with myself in the first one) "tailed" the convoy. I don't know Munich very well, so I can't tell you the names of the streets we drove along.

Anyway, but in twenty-five minutes the motorcade arrived at an old abandoned warehouse, used by us three years ago as a temporary storage place for the remnants of drugs transported to Western Europe. Next stops: France, Great Britain, Ireland, Spain and Portugal.

Fortunately it was one of the two areas where we had ambushes, namely ten snipers on the second floor (the warehouse is very high and the second floor is a side platforms on the edges of a meter and a half wide), two mined plots of land (1st — TNT at the entrance (how much only the explosives knew), 2nd — C-4 a little further away from the center on the side of the entrance), and armed to the teeth thugs, camouflaged in the corners and near the walls (the number of about 30–40 people).

Aug. 20, 12:09 p.m.

After driving through almost the entire building, the first car stopped at the far wall. The others were distributed around the main van, where the prisoner was. The bus closed the ring at the entrance.

As soon as the doors of the trailing vehicle opened, two explosions went off: one a little further away from the center, destroying two cars ("Audi" and "Volkswagen") in the blink of an eye, and the second at the gate itself, blowing the entire bus with the special forces to pieces. The most horrible shooting started on the remaining three cars….

Most of the policemen did not even have time to draw their weapons, especially those who were sitting in the car — the Audi was riddled to such an extent that two doors flew off their hinges (the front and rear doors on the left side; the point is that the "brothers" were firing their guns at the "unnecessary" Audi and Volkswagen on the left side, and the snipers on the second tier at the car where Azaronni was, so we had the opportunity to attack the enemy from both sides, and without the risk of hitting each other).

After about fifteen seconds there was silence, interrupted by a ringing voice from the distance: "It's all right, Pegasus. It's all right, Pegasus."

Aug. 20, 7:10 p.m.

I ran over to a more or less intact car and pushed the door aside. Behind it, Azaronni was in an incomprehensible state. I could not imagine how much adrenaline had been pumped into his bloodstream. Imagine: first everything explodes to hell, and then bullets whistle centimeters from his head. The white jacket turned more like red. The hands handcuffed to the two corpses, ready to bend the other way.

I fired at the chains, and the Pegasus woke up: "Holy shit, you guys! I almost shit my pants!"

"Come out quickly, the police are coming. The explosions were heard throughout the whole town.

The last words finally woke the freed man up, and he literally flew out of the Volkswagen.

August 20, 19:16

So we got lucky, we got very lucky. We had prepared only two of the dozens of possible hundreds of places where the prisoner would appear, and this was it. We prepared only two ambushes, because we simply did not have time to bring more people to Munich, besides, only near three possible places we had "dons". German policemen search unusually fast, so there is very little time to hide — it is vital to have a shelter (in which, in fact, I personally will have to hide for at least a couple of days).

The shelter next to the warehouse was located two minutes away.

"To be honest, when I heard the bloody investigator speak," Azaronni admitted, "I really thought I was unlikely to get out…"

"Here, have a beer… It'll make you feel better… — I handed Pegasus a mug of Holsten beer… You almost went crazy in that jail, didn't you?"

"Yeah got off."

I laughed out loud.

"I actually didn't feel very comfortable in an establishment like that either…"

"Have you been asked the same retarded questions too?" — By now Pegasus had emptied the mug almost to the bottom in volleys.

"Well, yeah… By the way, they didn't tell you anything about your major?" "They said, yes as much as I didn't know about myself…"

"I don't get it…"

"They even practiced chiromancy. They told me about some bumps on the palm of their hands, some other shit…"

"Really? I didn't get anything like that…" — I noticed the empty vessel in the poor man's hands and turned to Adolf Becker, the "brother" standing next to me — "Listen, eagle, bring me another drink…"

"Eagle" came out hastily.

"They didn't tell you anything else?"

"They said they'd take everyone, and even Rimanoa…"

"That's what I heard too… Did they show you any pictures or documents?" "Showed your picture and…"

"Wait. From here on out… Which one? What was on it?"

"There's some kind of hole… Two some men… Well, one was straight up lying on the counter…"

"So… Who was behind the bar? What did the bartender look like?"

"Well… He's so… Bald… I think… The picture is black and white… You can't see well…" "Maybe he was fat?"

"I guess so…"

"And the other one… Well, the one that was lying off the counter… Any special markings?"

"Personally, he had nothing, but there was a club lying next to him…" "Dubya?"

"Yes."

"Which one is it?"

"It was hard to see, and I was only shown the photo once…" "Stretch your memory. Remember the club."

"I think it was kind of chipped…" "Could she have been a chair leg?"

"Well, I guess I could have… Although… Oh, hell knows. I don't remember." "Okay, rest."

I left the room, went into another room, and tried to remember the last time I'd been in a bar. It was Prague… Yeah, well, I got an advance on a job, that damn assignment where I had to look for Bill Garrison to ask where Joseph Gutgold was, then took the subway and got into a car with Garibaldi. Okay, let's try to remember what happened at the bar….

(I note that I write the whole of the next chapter as if in parentheses).

Remember everything

10:54 p.m. July 21.

I was sitting in the most goddamn shithole called Zdrasti bar on Legerova Street in Prague, waiting for the courier, who was already fourteen minutes late.

The owner of the place, a bald and fat man in his fifties, was fulfilling my order, that is, "organizing" the beer by filling a large glass mug with it. He did it in such a way that I could drink to my heart's content before the foam settled down, because the splashes from the powerful jet of yellow liquid flew in all directions, including my cunning "wolf" face. If this face were twenty-five years younger, the bartender's brains would be dripping off the counter, but experience says one thing: "The fewer dead people, the fewer problems.

"Here you go…" — he blurted out as the 'wolf' soared to seventh heaven with happiness over the free booze.

"Thank you," I interjected to finish the sentence and get the pourer back on track with his usual customers, whose representative was third from my right, but followed up with, "Don't mind that mark. — He got out from behind his seat a little and showed me a massive scratch on the outside of the counter. — There's a lot of drunks hanging around…"

The spokesman retorted: "You're the one who's drunk! Just a little drink with the guys last night… And, in general… You're drunk yourself!"

"Sit still. He had a drink with the guys … Yeah … You and your guys …"

"Come here, ssssu —" — the drunk interrupted him, grabbing a plastic club that used to be a chair leg and climbing over the counter.

"Stay where you are," the old bartender "dug out" a shotgun from somewhere below and pointed it at the "stormtrooper".

The "diplomat" stood like a stumbling block. My hand slightly opened the floor of my cloak — behind it in a black leather holster hung a Glock 26 (a compact Austrian-made 9- caliber pistol) with a small silencer attached, capable of turning an elephant's roar into a light "Tuh".

"Sit back down… Or you won't get any more drinks" — the fat man turned around, pointing his muzzle at me — "See… What kind of morons do you have to deal with, and you say…" — His speech was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening — the delivery man was moving it.

He came inside with a large aluminum briefcase, as if he'd been kicked in the ass. Although he was wearing what I said he was wearing (gray suit, hat with brim, sandals), he still looked like a liaison, thanks to his sly face.

The courier came to the counter, ordered a "screwdriver" (another flaw, I asked them to order something stronger and then drink it, but after a cocktail of vodka + orange juice

this guy would have fallen down and stopped seeing anything further than his nose, and you still have to distinguish between Godzilla and Cindy Crawford during the "handoff").

"Here's the money," he began, throwing the 'trunk' on the counter and swinging it open to its fullest extent. The two 'outsiders' stared at the contents, even the shotgunner opened his eyes. Either those who sent this clown didn't know he was like this, or they were all like this, but either way it was a disrespect to work with them.

"This is all for me? — I had to impersonate a passing tourist, speaking in a French accent

— Olia-la-la!"

"You asked for so much…" — I had hoped that he could at least move his brain a little and would realize that it was necessary to close the case immediately, solemnly announce that it was a joke and the money wasn't real, laugh out loud and leave, realizing that something was wrong, but nothing like that.

"Great joke! Ha! Ha! Ha!" — I was still hoping he'd be smart, but then the bartender intervened, "Hehehe! Come on… Mother of all… Hands up!"

For such occasions I had made a special mechanism, which worked when I raised my arms strongly, then I fired MSP "Groza" (a small-sized special pistol made in Russia), attached to my right armpit, so that I just had to aim better.

I raised my hands. The gun went off. A small 7.62 caliber hole appeared in my raincoat. The bartender went down, the liaison and the rep froze in place.

Thank God there was no one else in the bar, so I "put" all the muscles in my right arm into the drunkenness, grabbed my briefcase, nodded menacingly to the clown, and left the premises.

Next, my path went to M Pavlova, at the intersection of Legerova and Jecna streets.

(brackets closed).

…I pulled out my laptop and started poking at buttons.

A few moments later connected to "Brosman" (the boss personally blessed us to work together after my release): "Hello, Jürgen, it's Ralf (password open)."

The answer is, "What's wrong?"

"Uncle Rudolph wanted me to tell you that everything is fine. We bought a TV." "We should have been rocking out at the Prague Fall, not at the Vienna Conference flapping our ears (password closed)."

"Freedom is a sweet word, especially for "Pegasus" (in the open, even on the Internet, it is not recommended to have a conversation)"

"Well, Bodyguard will honor her, too." "Papers with him?"

"Yes, take it."

The information "flew" to my computer. I found a little about myself there: the very sent photo (as it turned out it was not one photo, but the whole movie, where I get money from the courier in the bar "Zdrasti", filmed obviously from the ceiling), other intimate photos (1st — as it turned out the whole mansion in Washington was covered with hidden cameras, and 2nd — the hotel "Indala Garden" in Barcelona, where I set fire to Jack's body in a bathtub), other intimate photos (1st — as it turned out the whole mansion in Washington was covered with hidden cameras, and 2nd — the hotel "Indala Garden" in Barcelona, where I set fire to Jack's body.Washington was covered with hidden cameras, and the 2nd — hotel "Indala Garden" in Barcelona, where I set Jack's body on fire in the bathtub), and of course the record of my "clean" interrogations.

That's it. There's more.

All in all, using the findings, especially, of course, in the mansion, you can more than give me the death penalty.

My cell phone rang. "Hello."

"It's Richard. The red lantern is lit in Munich, France is left." "Okay, bye."

This proposal meant that all documents on the Cosa Nostra case in Germany were now destroyed, only the Interpol headquarters in Lyon remained.

Doubtful man

It's not my job to blow up buildings, our pyrotechnician Luigi Costenza will do that. And I asked to get some information on Cave, the man who, according to Norman Robert, who was shot and killed, underpaid me 7 and a half million dollars.

And here is what came out of the archives: Mr. Albert Cave — Italian citizen, real name Vescusi, was born in 1956 in Naples, graduated from business school and moved to work in the U.S., contacted the crime syndicate led by Tom Hopkins and began a rapid rise in the ranks. By the present time is the right hand of the boss of the clan "Long Island Mafia". There is no information about his physical appearance.

I then contacted another source of information to find out whether Albert Vescusi was registered as an Italian citizen. They replied that it takes time to find out such information, but they did not say how long.

Now there was only to wait, first, it was necessary not to get caught in Munich, and, secondly, to wait for them to our "underpayer".

Nine hours later the information arrived, "Albert Vescusi is not registered as an Italian citizen."

Obviously, Vescusi is not Italian, maybe he doesn't even exist, but then who should pay me extra. Maybe it's because Robert got confused and was scared and told me the name at random. But if he was in a panic, how did he manage to make up a person who was in our records but not a citizen? It's all too confusing.

But there is another thread. Joseph Gutgold, living at 15 Westside Street in Boston. Maybe something can be found out in the US, but there's nothing else to go on.

That's some bullshit

Aug 21, 11:57 AM.

To get to America was not so easy: first to get out of Germany (they put me in a secret compartment of a long-haul truck — at the very end of the luggage compartment of the truck is mounted camouflaged room), and then a multi-hour flight across the Atlantic. In Boston, I was met by a man whom I had asked to come in advance to "keep me company". His name was Lonje Amoramente (nicknamed "Lightning" because his movements were lightning fast during the operation).

Quite a young guy — about twenty-five years old, but how it works.

For him, work is a means of making money for a living, so he evaluated it objectively, and in our business it's always good to be able to look from the outside not blindly.

I'm glad to deal with him, because I used to be the same, but now my "roof" is completely off — I've killed too many people, seen too many corpses: I'm sick of everything.

So the guy knew how to kill, kill fast and without pleasure, and what else do you need for a "clean" crime. He's fast-moving, reactive, quick on his feet, quick on his feet, not much of a wordsmith. "No hot phrases. The thing is that some people before killing someone like to show off and say something like "Allah akhbar", "Bunchos Muchos" or, finally, "Die, you bastard!!!". Amoramente's in great control, which is why he's never been caught by the cops. I would like my son to be like him, but unfortunately, my son in his twenties is worse than "Sukhar", "Faust" and "The Executioner" combined.

"Lightning drove a black Jeep Cherokee he bought four years ago.

After fifty minutes of driving, we arrived at Westside Street, at house 15. And what did I see there?

A crumbling brick building that probably hasn't been lived in for a hundred years. It was a rather long structure (about 150 meters along the street), two stories high. The former plaster was lying near the wall, the bricks of which were coming together and falling out (while we were looking at all this with our mouths open, five sun-dried pieces of sand "managed to disappear" from the wall). In the middle of the wall there was an entrance (without doors, of course).

I got out of the car and headed for the entrance. Longe followed me.

When I reached the door, I slipped my hand under my cloak and clutched the Glock with slightly sweaty fingers so as not to be taken by surprise, then stepped inside.

I have already told you what the building was like from the outside, but what was inside was not only obscene, but even impossible to talk about. Some kind of urine was always flowing from the walls, and there were toilets everywhere (just imagine: the whole building was a piece of shit!).

Nevertheless, after forty seconds of running exploration, nothing was found in the house. This is supposed to be where Joseph Gutgold lives, isn't it?!

Now I'm doubting that there is such a person. So, no client, no victim. Just a courier who handed over the money in Prague and was shot dead by Norman near Barcelona.

It's too dubious, and it's right before the hunt for Koza Nostra. Maybe it has something to do with this?

Well, let's say. In that case, what evidence do we have? A hidden camera at the Hello Bar. What would it be doing in an ordinary establishment? So it's a setup: they are especially prepared to wait for me in the eatery where I made the appointment. The courier enters, of course, their employee, pours money on the counter and thereby provokes me to active actions against the fat man with a shotgun. The hypothesis looks pretty good…

Let's put it another way. I wouldn't have an SMG Thunderbolt tucked under my armpit. Consequently, I wouldn't have been able to get away with a shotgun attack. What would they do then… Most likely, they just wanted to keep the money (even Interpol could use an extra million dollars), and kick me out of the bar and send me to the party. This is where it gets confusing. After all, the situation looks implausible: what if I came back and shot them all to hell? No, they probably knew about my surprise with the spare gun. In that case, I take my hat off to the highly skilled work of Interpol. Or maybe there's more than just Interpol involved. Doesn't Koza Nostra have enough enemies? Don't I have enough enemies? Plenty. Including the living and the dead. It raises questions again.

Interpol is too strong an organization to be on the strings of anyone. Even if someone anonymously informed them that, for example, Koza-Nostre was involved in some terrorist act or murder, why should they believe them, let alone open a hunt.

It is also possible that Interpol itself offered to cooperate with a syndicate. But what kind of a syndicate is it that has enough information and power to help the flicks, and in addition to that to break all the unwritten rules of the mafia and go to work together, thereby incurring the wrath and fury of all criminal organizations without exception.

The stumbling block is that Interpol is not strong enough to take on this case on its own and with such success, and there is no possibility of alliance with anyone.

Here one very interesting thought flashed in my head: "Interpol cannot work with such a scale in the U.S., with which it worked in Europe (Americans do not allow on their territory to quietly fight not their organization), namely in Washington, where there were cameras everywhere, where, now it is obvious, the FBI was waiting for us. And the FBI belongs to the USA. From this fact the following is deduced: Interpol was cooperating with the FBI. And I don't think that's all. Americans like to stick their noses where they don't belong, and here they are just invited. Why not use foreign intelligence and poke around overseas?

My cell phone rang. "Hello."

"It's Richard, we found a guy who might know something about your case." "What other guy?"

"Robert Brown…"

"What the hell is this nonsense?" "Anyway, Brosman did his best and…" "Stop fooling around…"

"Just listen to me already!"

"Okay, talk…" — a little grudgingly, I allowed Heart to speak.

"So. Brosman found out that Albert Cave doesn't exist, and that there's a Robert Brown in his place…"

I almost laughed into the tube at the words "in his place".

"So what now? Do I go and bilk the money out of Brown instead of Cave?"

"Well… I don't know Oh, and by the way, Pierce will be waiting for you personally at

the Hilton Hotel in #413 in five hours." "What's that for?"

"I don't know exactly, but rumor has it the Boss ordered him to help you." "I see, bye," — a little taken aback by the last phrase of the interlocutor.

The Lionheart call confused the hell out of me. Some Bobby in New York knows something about my case… And Brosman found out it on behalf of the Boss And now

he'll be waiting for me at the hotel What can I think? But anyway, Pierce's credibility

is as good as mine, and he's worth listening to and going to this town.

"Silent Dialogue."

August 21, 17:48

Covering the three hundred kilometers from Boston to New York is no problem at all, but figuring out what's going on is the real challenge. First of all, what is there to ask Bob? Secondly, this monstrous question — why did the Boss suddenly decide to attach Brosman to me and, finally, from whom did Pierce find out about that guy? Oh, come on. We'll get there. We'll find out.

There was a muffled knock on the door, and ten seconds later a questioning voice came from behind it: "What else?"

"Our own," Brosman knew my voice, so I didn't have to come up with anything witty. The door opened abruptly, revealing the muzzle of a silencer screwed onto an MP5 Kurtz (a compact German submachine gun with a rate of fire of 900 rounds per minute, 9 millimeter caliber) with a bent 30-round clip. "Lightning" instantly pulled out his "Jericho" (a bulky Israeli-made pistol with a significant muzzle energy of 450 joules, 357 caliber, 9 rounds in the clip). They almost started shooting, but the two "paranoids", not being too nervous, managed not to pull the triggers of their monsters too hard. "Phooey," Brosman was resting after a not-so-rare incident in crime, when "guys from the same team" could easily finish each other off, and me, too….

I brazenly stepped in between the 'dogfighting', "You guys would fuss a little less." Brosman put the gun away and gestured with his hand to invite the guests into the room. Lonje settled down a little and followed me inside before the lights in his eyes could go out.

The apartment was not presidential, but still, living in a three-room suite alone was more luxury than convenience.

The innkeeper ushered us into the next room and seated us in chairs, opening a laptop computer that stood in the middle of a table that was extremely close to the piece of furniture where we had settled. He himself pulled up a small lacquered chair and leaned a finger to his lips, pressing a couple of buttons on the keyboard. On the monitor came up, "This place is full of bugs. Speak only through the computer."

My next move was, "Explain yourself about Brown. What kind of guy is he? And what else happened in my absence?"

"The thing is, of all the documents on the Cosa Nostra case, yours turned out to be the vast majority, and even too much. There was only a little general information and a couple of videos about the other 'managers' and above, so I thought you were in on it. But after I found out there was no Albert Cave, your alleged client, it all made sense. Your real client…"

I pulled his hands away from the keyboard and typed back, "I know who. And now we've temporarily gotten rid of them. By the way, I haven't heard anything about the 'mysterious explosions in Lyon'."

"No, there's nothing wrong there, but you see… You didn't just get one customer, you got several…"

"Yeah, the FBI is involved in this too…" — it hit me. Damn them all!!! Since the FBI is an equal ally of Interpol, they also have documents on the Cosa Nostra case. I can see why Lyon hasn't been bombed yet. Because if they had, the documents would have multiplied again from overseas friends, so they must be destroyed at the same time. And the organization figured it out. Good for them. That's why Richard on the phone said, "A guy who might know something about your case," that's why Brosman decided to help me. They all guessed, as I did, that Albert Cave and Interpol's alliance with the FBI and the CIA. It was this alliance that was the ordering agency, not some double-agent Albert Cave they made up and shoved into our archives!

I continued, poking at the keys: "Anyway, I got it, Pierce, where's Brown?" "Paladin Motel, #32."

"Is he alone in there?" "It's not known."

"His picture?"

Brosman with a slight movement of his hand on the "not the most recent miracle of technology" displayed a picture on the monitor: at the big jeep (which one, from this angle, you can't recognize) one man was shaking hands with another.

"Which one is it?"

The finger of the "technician" pointed to a tiny spot at the edge of the photo. I moved closer, straining my eyesight, and saw a frail "dystrophic" who could barely stand on his feet.

"What's that?"

{ "object".

"I sense this is going to be fun… Any personality traits?"

"None."

"When are we leaving?" "Now."

We're here

6:06 p.m. Aug. 18

Brosman pulled a Spas-15 (a nightmarish Italian-made Winchester) from under his cloak and fired a looping shot into the neighborhoods, then moved his foot on the door. After the front door fell open, he handed me a flick badge with the words, "Stay on the lookout," and "went deep" into his work, while I leaned against the doorjamb and began to wait for guests.

From the room there was crazy shouting, screaming, yelling, yelling, in short, someone was being tortured; the neighbors were very interested in this fact and came out into the corridor. I finally and irrevocably blocked the empty passageway, showing off my fresh badge and telling everyone about my job.

My cell phone rang. "Hello."

"This is Longe, we have guests here," — Lightning was sitting in his Jeep, keeping watch at the entrance gate to the motel grounds, and also waiting for us.

"Okay. Don't do anything, we'll figure it out."

There was a siren. Apparently someone just didn't believe my gibberish, because the voices were getting stronger and stronger from the apartment.

But if I'm going to play this opera, I'm going to play it to the end, even in front of the flicks that ended up in front of me, stepping out of the "crowd" (there was already one person watching the spectacle) and seeing the sign, "What happened?"

"Some hag is listening to the TV too loud, my partner's dealing with it right now." "What took you so long, Captain (I didn't understand why he called me that). And why is the door kicked in?"

I looked at the piece of wood lying two meters away from the hinges: "You know, they're getting so shoddy with all this stuff nowadays… If you pull it, it falls off…" The sounds stopped. — Well, that's it, you can go away," no one even blinked an eye.

Once outside, Brosman looked at the cops puzzled and seemed to want to do something. "So that's it I broke the dead silence with a steely expression. — What took you so

long?"

"I… Yeah. Uh… Well…" — Pierce reached under his jacket.

"Let me in…" — the cop mumbled and stormed in, the other one following him. Brosman gave me a dumbfounded look, and I ducked out the door and saw the blue- collar guys running into the bathroom, and the next moment there were ripping moans coming from the wet room. After sneaking a few meters through the apartment in their direction, I smelled a pungent odor of rot (or something like that) and, trying not to breathe, looked into the currently relevant room. There were two corpses lying there (one with his head in a … filled to the brim, the other on the floor with blood on his face and trickles of red stuff from his nose) and two of our disemboweled heroes. My hand snatched a revolver from the holster of the first flick and, pointing it at each of them in turn, fired a shot.

Faust is Bond

6:16 p.m. Aug. 18

"Oh, you asshole. And you call that 'standing guard'!" — I started the "bazaar" after we got back to the car.

"There were two of them there." "So…"

"They're faggots." "So…"

"I took them psychologically, meaning I tortured one and forced the other to watch." "So…"

"Bobby turned out to have a weak heart… But I managed to learn something about a certain 'Zipped'…"

"Oh, what about the other one?" "The other one had to be drowned."

"Uh-huh, good for you, slapping two pederasts…" "I always do that, since there are no witnesses…"

"Idiot, I was just waving my fake badge around here!"

"I've already called ours… The bodies are about to be removed, but see… There's no door…"

"Yeah, no way."

"And… We have to wait…" "There, you wait, and I'm off…" "Where to?"

"To the buttoned-up one, by the way, what's his name?" "I don't know…"

{ "address".

"I don't know…"

"You should have asked Brown." "Why?"

Details for latecomers

6:23 p.m. Aug. 18.

"Where are we going?" — while I was in the backseat with Pierce, Longe cranked up the first speed and set off (you never know what's going to happen in the next second).

"To the Long Island Bridge," — Brosman replied, turning on his cell phone and dialing the damn number.

"Who are you calling?"

"To your dispatcher… Hello. This is Brosman. Get me the location of the Zippy— Zippy. What are you listening to… All right… Uh-huh… Bye…"

Bond disconnected the receiver.

"Well, what?" — I asked the special effects buff. "Yeah, nothing… We'll find out soon enough…"

"Yeah, by the way, are you sure your guys cleaned up the bodies?" "Of course, they're professionals…"

"How many of them came?" "Usually three…"

"What do you mean 'usually', did you wait for them or didn't you!" "Actually, no…"

"What the devil did you do that for?!" "What's the big deal?"

"A room without a door, two corpses inside. Really, a completely banal domestic situation. One probably had a seizure and the other drowned from it. Who cares?" "Of course, no one…"

"You put up a sign too…" "Of course you did, hung…" "Well, where to?"

"At the door."

"There's no door there anymore…" "So I hung onto the broken…" "What's the sign?"

"Quiet, please."

"I blurted out to two cops that there was a hag inside listening to the TV loudly…" "I didn't make you say anything like that…"

"Oh, what, I should have just stood there?!"

"Well, you could, that's actually what I gave you the captain's badge for…" "Kappitanskaya?"

"Well, yeah."

I quickly pulled out and examined the badge, "No, are you, what, are you crazy?" "What's the big deal?"

A subtle glimpse flashed in my mind of the cop coming up to me in that fuss and especially scrutinizing my badge. I could see why he called me captain. "Captains don't deal with petty matters!"

"Yeah, okay…"

"And I also said I had a partner." "Why?"

"And with all that frantic yelling, how would I keep them out of there?" "Well, you're the captain…"

"Yeah, with a partner… Yaaaaaahhhh… You sure helped me out good. I'll say…" "Do you want me to fix anything you don't like?"

"What?"

"Well, I'll find out exactly which cops were coming there and kill them…" "Ooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh… Don't be crazy. Let's finish this business with Zipper and get out of here. There's no need for an unnecessary funeral."

"Well, it's up to you."

The cell phone (mine) rang. "Hello."

"This is Richard. You can find the buttoned-up one at the following address…"

I listened to the rest of the speech, turned off my cell phone, thanking the contact, and smiled happily. Masters. One killer asks a question, and the answer comes to another. Now I don't even know how to tell Brosman about it — he'd be upset.

Buttoned up unbuttoned

7:31 p.m. Aug. 18

There's probably no house in all of America like Zipped's: tile roof, brick walls, oak front door spare metal.

This time Brosman stayed in the car "on the catch" and Lightning and I used the emergency entrance.

Amoramente struck the lock area with all his might, and no sooner had it opened all the way than the man in the jacket appeared in front of us at full height. Lonje reacted lightning fast and struck a blow with his fist straight to the stomach. From the blow, the supposed bodyguard bent a few steps back and, turning 90 degrees, began to slide slowly but surely off the wall.

I ran inside a little farther away from the dying man and took cover, while "Lightning" was finishing his work: he came closer to him, hit him again, but this time in the jaw, which caused the latter to open, and put the silencer of the Jericho into the opened mouth, firing once. The bullet flew into the palate and, flying out of the back of his head, "plunged" into the wall.

"Let's move," — I whispered to the youth.

Behind the door was a corridor, at the end of which there was a hallway, a smart one, with hangers (obviously all guests come through the second entrance, that's why the ambo was ventilated there. We turned right to a small door. Amoramente kept guard, and I turned the doorknob with a slight movement of my hand and opened the door.

In these apartments as it turned out, and was "Zipped" (to understand it is not difficult at all — he is wearing leather clothes with a lot of zippers, zipped, of course).

"What do you want?"

"I want to buy a Ferrari!" — I stepped inside, slammed the door shut, and smiled. "What's that got to do with me?"

"It's always you. How about a cup of coffee?"

"I don't drink coffee at night."

"The main thing is that I'm drinking, and on the way we'll have a chat about the Sicilian Mafia, for example… You know what I mean?"

"Uh… Ame… Ame… Ame… Ame…"

"Where's the paperwork, dummy?" — my face took on an intimidating look. "They… Uh… I'm going to get killed."

"Who? Papers?" "Ffffff… FBIers…"

I shot him in the kneecap (it's not hard to find where it is under his pants, the subject was sitting on a leather chair with leather armrests). The poor guy howled at the pain worse than a wolf at the moon.

"I'll have you not only howling but moaning… Where are the papers?"

"Wonnnnnnn there…" — He jabbed his finger at the bottom of the small oak cabinet next to me. With one eye still on the victim, I started rummaging through the cabinet and… found the entire pile of documents on the Koza-Nostra case. Not bad at all.

I could hear jamming behind the door, obviously Lightning is behind it, fending off attacks. And that's a sign that it was time to leave, but I continued talking to the client: "Where are the copies?"

"Noooo…there are no copies…"

"What's wrong with you? Don't you get it? Where are the copies?" "They…aren't…"

I shot the "living knee," causing the poor guy to groan. "Where are the copies?"

"I don't…"

I ran to the victim and punched him in the nose, then took him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him to the door. When I got there, I opened it. Amoramente was standing in full alert, waiting for more attacks from the enemy, whose remains I saw on the floor of the hall, on the stairs, almost everywhere. The hero turned in my direction for a moment and blurted out: "Well?"

"Help me carry this piece of shit to the car, that's what!"

Shortcut

7:41 p.m. Aug. 18

"The Cherokee was moving at a decent speed, but we had only traveled the second block in ten minutes, and our destination was still nine minutes away, so at this rate our bodies could have arrived not in a torture chamber in New York, but in a grave in a cemetery (that's not a typo: there's one dug hole for all of us).

Lightning and I were in the back, Brosman was driving. The "buttoned up" was lying at my feet with handcuffs and a black plastic garbage bag over his head, obviously unconscious.

"Listen, Pierce. — I broke the silence that had reigned in the cabin a second ago. — We're only scaring the cows away at this pace."

"Well, what can I do… You can't see it yourself… That cab over there is going like an invalid."

According to my observations this cab "slowed" us down no more than ten seconds, so the excuse of the master of "cool stuff" was just an excuse.

"You step on the gas."

"Well, what can I do," — he punched the 'ram' with expression.

I turned to Amoramente, "Longe, do you know of any other road?" The one shook his head negatively.

"Things are bad for us, that's what I'll tell you…" Brosman muttered something again to the cabbie. My cell phone rang.

"Hello."

"It's Richard. — The voice was overly nervous, as if he'd been hiding from the flicks after a bank raid. — What did you do there? I just got word that all of New York is looking for you on charges of murdering four four people including two cops, fraud and torture.

Every cop in the city will have your sketch soon. In addition, our man at the FBI says they're also looking for you on suspicion of kidnapping a citizen named Cliff Skunkzor, nicknamed "Zipper"…"

"Yeah… Well, thanks, bye. — "after I turned off the phone, my voice got a little higher. — Get out of the way, you son of a bitch, and hurry up, or it'll be too late!"

Brosman didn't understand at first and was a little embarrassed after such a sharp attack on someone, but finally he thought of it and turned left to the underground parking garage we were passing by.

Underground screaming

Aug. 19, 7:54 p.m.

"So what happened?" — Brosman stopped the SUV in an empty parking lot (also an obscure fact — how did we manage to "dig" a vacant parking lot out of the ground) by a hefty column and "started looking at me perplexed."

"Do you know what they just told me? — I literally lashed out at the driver, and without letting him make a sound, I continued. — They told me that the whole fucking city with two tens of thousands of cops is already looking for me in every nook and cranny… Oh, you know what for?"

"For what?" — His opponent's bewilderment grew even greater.

"Yes for the fact that someone had a particularly bad time at the Paladin, tortured two heroes there, and then killed them… That's why they're looking for me…"

"Well…" — the bewilderment was replaced by puzzlement. "That someone is you! Is it clear now?"

"Ahhhh… Well, what can you do… I should have spoken more confidently in front of the real flicks…"

"I should have known that gay men, like normal men, can't breathe underwater!" "Well, what can you do " he repeated a second time. — But, actually, I was giving

him plenty of air. "

"Okay, either way now we need to get rid of the Zippy quicker."

"Are you implying you can't kill him yourself?" — Brosman's hand reached under his jacket.

"No, I'm implying that we should interrogate him and get him the hell out of here as soon as possible," I snapped at my interlocutor and kicked the poor guy as hard as I could.

He woke up and mumbled something like, "What? Who?"

"Tell me where the rest of the papers are!" — I growled at Leatherman and kicked his shin again, but not as hard.

One could understand from his incomprehensible cries that he was in great pain because of his shot legs and at the same time unpleasant because of the dust bag on his head, because all the dust of this "nightmare" was in his mouth. Speaking of wounds. They turned out to be so serious that the whole bottom of the car under this "piece of leather and lightning" turned dark red.

The "victim" groaned, appropriately enough.

"Where's the rest of the paper, fuck, I don't have time for you Talk!" — my voice

became completely rough.

"Ahhhh… He's at CIA headquarters in Langley… Don't hit "

The last words put me (and not only me) in a completely different state of mind. If the documents are there, nothing can be done. This is the base of one of the strongest intelligence agencies in the world (we have very few people there, half of whom are old people who don't need anything and can't do anything anymore, and half of whom are newcomers who have no access to really serious documents), where there are advanced technical means, thanks to the "tsar's" financing.

"You didn't misspoke?" — I questioned the buttoned-up man. "No, they're there. " — The man replied, continuing to whimper.

"I see. Oh, well I repeated Brosman's phrase. — Thanks for your help."

"Don't hit "

"No one's going to hit you again — I assure you of that," — my bass reassured the victim. "Thank you. Thank you very much."

I took the Glock out of the holster and, leaning the silencer close to the head of the doomed man, pulled the trigger, then threw the firearm next to it (the same thing was done by the Lightning at home, that's what all professionals do; "If a gun is lit once, the second time it will burn with its owner", that's how my brain thinks every time I throw away a gun, this time it was a Glock 26. It was a shame to throw away such a thing, because instead of the usual 40 thousand effective shots that characterize a good gun, it gives 160 thousand; now in our brutal team only Brosman and his Kurtz had guns, although I had a secret weapon under my armpit, and Lonje had already thrown out his Israeli monster at home at the "Zasped") and turned to Amoramente: "You know, we'll have to burn your jeep after all…".

"Yeah I just…"

"It's okay, it's okay. I'll buy you a new one. There was a lot of blood here anyway because of the wounds in my knees."

"It's not about the money. It's just that it was given to me as a gift…"

"I'm sorry, but there's nothing you can do… There's too much blood… In the meantime, by the way, get behind the wheel… We may have to get the hell out of here… I know you're good at ramming…"

"Well, anyway, yeah," — the guy was clearly being modest — if he hadn't become a hitman, he would have become a racer, and what a racer, too….

He should be driving a tank

August 19, 20:03 PM.

Five minutes later the Cosa Nostra team is back on the road, but this time Amoramente and I are in the front and Brosman along with the corpse in the back.

If earlier I had said that Lonje could easily become a professional racing driver, now, watching his careful and tender handling of the car, my opinion of him was raised to the extent that he could not even afford long-haul flights on a Boeing 747.

After two minutes of such tenderness with pieces of metal, plastic and rubber for the "Sicilian Schumacher" came the test — turning left after the intersection, a police cordon appeared ahead.

"Quickly they…" — came from the back seat.

"Next time you do a forceful interrogation, don't forget you're not in the 'Wild West' — after the speech, I directed my gaze toward Lightning, immersed in a world of speed 100 percent.

The cordon consisted of three Ford cops placed perpendicular to the street bed, as well as the usual ordinary uniformed cops.

The cordon was 150 meters away when Amoramente "blew his foot" on the gas pedal, causing the car to accelerate at a speed that would have been able to get around a Porsche Boxter.

The cops in the cordon took notice of our car.

Sicilian Aerton Senna overtook cars so easily and effortlessly that it seemed as if he was playing some simple video game.

Finally, we reached a distance of about four meters to the nearest cordon car (at this point the car was speeding forward at 90 km/h — in the city, and especially in New York, such a speed with such a flow of cars can be recognized as a record), and the cops opened fire with single shots.

At that moment, Lightning jammed his foot into the brake, with the speed dropping to 30 km/h, and twisted the steering wheel slightly to the right.

With a wild roar, the Cherokee threw itself into the side of the Ford's trunk with the left corner of its steel bumper. After the collision, the Ford spun 210 degrees to the left, thus opening up the road for us, and Lonje put even more pressure on the throttle.

Flicks numbed from what they saw and stopped shooting, and all because Amoramente is not just a great driver, but because he also knows his armored car perfectly….

Minus one fool

August 19, 20:28 PM.

"I don't know how to get you out of here. — replied Luciano Anastozzi, the youngest "ambassador" of Cosa Nostra in its history (31 years old), who commanded in New York (his nickname was Vychico; why he had such a nickname, there is no explanation, maybe it was his childhood nickname, but he was a unique person. A lover of arguments and fights of such size and frenzy that they were remembered for a long time, not for him, but for the victims. If anything went wrong, as he wanted or even worse, from his mouth came just a terrible mat that I, sometimes being near, enriched my vocabulary. And, if he did not likesomething and seemed useless, he "processed" it with such words, that indeed, sometimes it could seem so. Among other things, he made a particularly good impression from the first minutes), fidgeting in his fancy chair for two thousand dollars. — They won't even take you alive anymore…"

"What makes you think that?" — Brosman asked in a flash.

"You said the cops took notice of you right after you accelerated. Is that right?" "So."

"And then, obviously, when they had time to see the license plates — they started shooting. They wouldn't just shoot a daredevil. They knew who they were shooting at." "Well… Maybe."

"The license plates were probably set by the FBI… By the way, Longe, I think this Jeep is yours?"

"Yes, — " Lightning withdrew.

"Well, there you see, so what's all this complete followed by a collection of matting

on the subject for a full twenty-five seconds — But the only good thing is that at least you got here, and I don't know what to do next "

"We just need to " — Brosman began.

"Nothing is simple. So you just forget the word 'just'," Vychiko snapped at him with his favorite expression.

"Anyway, we need to get out of town."

"Yes you are the cleverest!" — Anastozzi nodded his head. He liked to say "simple," though he usually didn't realize it.

"Maybe by helicopter "

"Yeah, we'll do some more digging. — I intervened. — We should wait until things calm down and— By the way, no one's seen you, Pierce, so you can go on your way."

My phrase gave Brosman a slight shock. Afterward, he grinned with great satisfaction and breathed a sigh of relief: "You're right, yikes. You're damn right."

"Oh, it's all complete…" — Vychiko began his new statement, while the "lover of intricate things" headed for the exit.

Plus one village

August 19, 20:31 PM.

The heated conversation between the wanted men and the head of the organization in the largest city in the United States continued.

Suddenly, the phone on the desk of the "boss" rang.

"What?" he replied, and after a few seconds added. — Have her come into my office." Then he hung up the phone and announced to the world, "Farmer will be right in." "Who the hell is that?" — Amoramente and I asked at the same time.

The expression on Anastozzi's face changed dramatically for the worse, "Don't you know Farmer?"

"No, I'm just asking…" — our humble duo remained the same. "Well, I guess you'll find out."

The door to the room opened and an ambalistic-looking "kolkhoznik" in his proper clothes entered. As a matter of fact, I had never seen such people in such clothes before, nor did I expect to see them in the "embassy". When this pile of "communist labor" was shifting from foot to foot, one could think that a hole would "grow" in the floor and plaster would fly from the walls (which, by the way, did not exist — they were replaced by gorgeous wallpaper).

Upon reaching the middle of the room, the 20th century wonder unclenched his lips and said, "The boss has arrived."

"Okay. I just got a call from David (obviously Anastozzi's right-hand man). Said you have a plan."

"It is."

"Tell me about it."

"From what I understand, three subjects need to get out of the city, and as soon as possible."

"You got it right."

"Since the surface is blocked off by the police, I suggest we exit through the sewers…" Vychiko's pupils dilated sharply, "Your idea is a complete… (mate again)."

"But the boss…"

"The idea of your… (checkmate again)."

"The sewer goes out to the Brooklyn Bridge…" "Look, you're wha… (the mate got into a rhythm)."

"Hold on, Luciano. — I got into someone else's mat. — I think that's a pretty good suggestion."

Anastozzi calmed down a bit, but still continued to swear.

"So you're suggesting we go out through the sewers to the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge and then cross the East River?"

"Quite right."

"Oh, it's all fairy tales," — exceeded the voice of the Sicilian master of the mat. "I said, 'Wait a minute, Luciano. Suppose we cross the East River, what next?" "That I don't know…"

"Yeah, you don't know neither…" — Võchiko continued to blubber. "Okay, I've thought of something…" — I wondered.

"What else did you come up with in there?"

"No big deal… Anyway, tell your guys to expect us in three cars from 10pm tomorrow." "Why tomorrow?"

"I want to sleep."

"And why on three?" — Lightning intervened. "For me, you and colch…"

"I'm not crawling in piles of shit."

"It's dangerous on the surface. The cops and fedaras are probably staring at the bridges over the river with their eyes wide open."

"I'm going in a helicopter."

"I think they'll follow up on all the requests to order helicopters and do something about it, so don't think Brosman's idea is any safer."

"I know, but either way I'm not facing the death penalty."

"It's up to you…" I turned back to Farmer. — And you, while I sleep, prepare the blueprints for the tunnels… Yes, by the way, maybe there are some communications under the East River and we won't have to swim to…"

"They're there, I know that, but you'll have to climb up to your neck in shit."

"Well, okay, we'll see, but I need to get some sleep first, we crawl out tomorrow at 2100 hours."

A safe road through the shit

August 20, 20:34 PM.

"Here, we'll pass through here, then here and come out here. — the collective farmer explained to me. — Where we go next is up to you…"

"So you're saying there's a shitload of shit in the communications under the East River?" "Yes."

I looked up at him, he was a head taller than me, "Up to your neck?" "Yes."

"You mean I'm going to have to swim there?" "I guess."

"In that case, we'll have to swim over the top."

"Your business, but you know, even though I've been climbing sewers for a long time and I'm used to the stench, I don't get much pleasure from it…"

"Yeah my job isn't great either, so you do as you're told, now I'm going to go change and you wait by the hatch."

"Good."

I went to the designated room and began my transformation from a smartly dressed man to an ordinary gas worker. The first thing that went down was my raincoat, followed by my pants. After I had to remove the mechanism from the MSP "Groza" and put it in a waterproof bag, then all the attributes of my "inconspicuous" suitcase went there, except for my laptop and passports (I had only one passport with me, made immediately after my release, the rest exploded with another diplomat before I was caught). Then, taking off my shirt, I pulled on the suit prepared for me and shoved the former clothes into the same bag.

When Farmer saw me, he almost fell through his favorite hatch in the underground garage of our "embassy." "And I thought you were going in your suit, Mr. "

"Just call me Joe," — why I chose that particular name this time, I don't know myself. "Paul, it's a pleasure," — we shook hands and got in the shit.

Before I could get to the bottom, I smelled such a stench that I almost threw up.

It was very dark, but you could see banana skins, the remains of pads and diapers, blurry absorbent cotton, colorful pieces of paper and so on, as well as, of course, the shit itself, without much difficulty.

The collective farmer lit a flashlight, and so did I. After Farmer tied me with a rope to himself, waved me towards the big darkness ahead and "went into his own business," followed by comrade Faust.

We'd been walking for a few minutes when Paul turned right and for a moment the beam of his "firefly" disappeared completely around the corner (I was surprised that the light didn't spread a bit into the immediate area, so it felt like I was walking there alone) and the rope tightened and started to yank.

I got to the end of the corner and saw the collective farmer there, walking already at a distance that took my body about twice as long to cover as it did his.

"Well, what a shitty thing to do. — I thought. — Our tour guide is speeding up, forgetting about the tourists "

Navigating the metropolis

August 20, 21:23

"We've made it, Joe," — came from somewhere in front, and suddenly the stench began to subside, the flow of the river and the breaking of its waves near the shore could be heard.

I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, and I was probably even happier than I had been when I was pulled out of Interpol's clutches. My legs, without a command from my brain, sped up the frequency of movement so that my body was now running. Eleven seconds later, the sewer ended.

The collective farmer stood by the shore and, stretching his arms, repeated, "Air… Air…"

"Yeah, air, for fuck's sake. — 'twisted' my bass at the conductor. — Tell me, when you were thinking about your fucking plan, did you even think a little bit?"

"Why?"

"No, it's nothing, it's just that I almost died out there, and dying in pieces of shit was never my dream."

"Well, who knew…"

"If I had a gun in my hand, I'd shoot you to hell for plans like that." "Good thing you don't have one…"

"Very well… Well, anyway, anyway, thank you for everything… — I held out my hand to Farmer, he shook it with great surprise. — Now, you know what? Get back to your working world, and don't let me see you again!"

"But can we catch our breath?"

"You can't. Get in quickly, or I have to swim." "But I'm not bothering you…"

"You're in the way. Get in the pipe quick said!"

"Well, okay…" — Paul sighed and strode towards the pipe, I didn't feel the slightest bit sorry for him. He came to the start, took a deep breath and burst into the slop, while I watched the figure of the unconventional worker disappear into the utilities for good, and climbed into the water.

Escape from Manhattan

August 20, 22:31 PM.

When I reached the other shore, the sun had already disappeared behind the city and it was starting to get dark. Not far from where I was docked, there were two blue Ford Mondeo cars (right under the bridge itself; if I told you this story, you wouldn't believe it) with dark windows, so you couldn't see if anyone was inside.

Dripping with muddy East River water and a light sweat thanks to the bag I had to drag behind me the whole way, I waddled over to the nearest car and knocked on the window.

The car door opened. Brosman was behind it.

"Oba-na," I muttered with the last of my strength (the stench of the subway took the lion's share of it). — You again."

"Yes, me. In person."

"Okay. Anyway, I need to get changed, and you wait," I got in the backseat and began to transform into a seasoned assassin. After changing, the wet, smelly, decrepit, bloody waterproof suit slid into the trunk, and my discussion with Pierce continued, "So, what are you doing here?"

"The boss told me to get you out of town and bring you to Palermo. He wants to talk to you."

"What's wrong?"

"I don't know, he just asked me to bring you there."

"Who's in the second car?" — The finger of my right hand waved toward the second Ford.

"Yes, that's right. Bros…"

We got into the car (once again, traveling with Brosman, I sat in the back seat — there was still a danger of being seen, but the dark windows helped) and drove toward the airport.

The "lover of cool stuff" did not introduce me to the very brothers who followed us all the way, which meant that either he was ordered not to show me to them, or vice versa. Since the first option has almost no right to exist (those sitting in the car could easily see my face from the distance they were at, unlike myself), let's consider the second one.

Why can't I see them? Perhaps because some of them are familiar to me, and that could somehow interfere with plans. Their plans. Their plans. What were their plans?

Officially, they were supposed to be guarding me and Brosman. What if it was just Brosman? But either way, if I look at them, it won't stop them from guarding whoever they are. So that's not the point.

How about we start all over again? Two cars came to meet me. Why was Brosman, a Category Five man, there? The information that my boss was waiting for me "at home" (in Sicily) could have been given by anyone, since it contained nothing secret. So the main purpose is not to escort me to the airport. Why?

Let's go back even further. According to Brosman, his boss told him that I should work directly with him, arguing that the case was serious and there was no room for error, but what if it were otherwise?

While I was thinking, it was completely dark. And it was that darkness that helped me think it through.

"Look, Pierce, slow down, I gotta take a piss…" — said my thick voice to the driver (there was no one in the car but me and Brosman).

As soon as the car stopped, I slammed my fist into Brosman's head with all the force I had, and it was enough, so he lost consciousness instantly. It is impossible to see this gesture from the second Ford — besides the dark windows in both cars, it was completely dark outside.

I took the MP5K out from under the driver's jacket, hid it under my raincoat, then opened the door, got out, stepped back a bit, and started pissing. It lasted for about forty seconds (I don't know how I accumulated so much, because as soon as I wanted to, I started almost immediately — my wise thoughts in the car during the road ended not only with the conclusion, but also with the need for a natural need).

After finishing the business of emptying my bladder, I neither quickly nor slowly approached the front corner of the second Mondeo and, lightning-fast, I grabbed a submachine gun from my sinus and opened hurricane fire on the windshield. Having fired the entire clip, I leaned over the hood and recognized the dead men: the first one was "Lightning", the second one was unknown to me, sitting behind the steering wheel, who, by the way, got the most, was bleeding more than a slaughtered pig, and the third one, placed in the middle of the back seat — Paolo di Nicola — Cosa Nostra's specialist in counterintelligence (nickname — antiseptic; because of how many traitors (or allegedly so) he found and destroyed; how he works, rests or lives I have never seen or even heard).

This was the physical evidence that I was being "checked for lice" to the organization and, obviously, that I had already been sentenced, because there was a myth that all especially important sentenced traitors to the organization were killed personally by the chief of counterintelligence. Almost no one knew him. Almost. Except for me and a few others. That's why Brosman didn't show me the owners of the second car.

The only one of them I felt a little sorry for was Amoramente. He even managed to get under his jacket and grab what was obviously Jericho, though he didn't have time to do so-just a second before I drew my gun myself.

I put the firearm on the hood, then dragged Brosman to the spot where I was shooting from, lifted him up, pulled out the Groza SMG and put two single bullets in his head. After he fell, he shoved his personal weapon into the dead man's hand and threw his minigun next to him.

Now the story was that Brosman shot the passengers sitting in the second car, and a third person (that is, me) killed him afterward. Such an episode should have given me some more much needed time.

The road home

Aug. 21, 8:03 a.m.

Every killer, even the worst one, has a home (professionals have several: one main home and several reserve homes). So my home was in Berlin. The keys to the apartment were buried at the entrance. Good thing that I had enough money to get to Germany (I had 100 dollars and 100 euros in cash + a MasterCard credit card with my 500 euros).

My apartment is something between a Batman cave and the laboratory of a weapons- crazed designer. The stuffing of the apartment is so expensive that it more than took up my two "fees" of 250,000 euros. What only there was not: from pistol "TK" (Tula Korovin; old Russian pistol caliber 6.35) to RPG-29 "Vampire" (the best Russian grenade launcher caliber 105.2 millimeters), from "Pentium 4" to a portable computer "Omni book 6000" and, of course, several copies of floppy disks containing such information that even the Goat-Nostra will not be sweet. But in the meantime, I have one very important thing to complete, so I logged on to the Internet and contacted a very important person: "This is Faust".

"I figured out what you asked."

{ "info".

The data I've been looking for for five whole years now came across my monitor. "Are the terms agreed upon?"

"Yes, fifty million dollars."

"Thank you, now we're even," — the connection stopped.

A master with greedy hands

Aug. 21, 11:06 a.m.

Strangely enough, what I was looking for was actually right under my nose, that is, in the city of Hamburg, Fridrihstrasse 17, square 243.

I made one short and one long ring at the door. After a minute, the door was opened by a swarthy old man with a nasty look (obviously Turkish): "What do you want?"

"I'm on the record," I replied and nodded toward the briefcase in my left hand (50 million (in jewelry, since in bills it would be several containers; I had to explain this to the "salesman" who spent a full ten minutes "chiming in" on the fact that he had seen such sums and even more transported in small light-colored aluminum suitcases in movies) from a Swiss bank from my now 116-million-dollar account).

"Okay, come on in."

He walked me down a hallway shared with the neighboring apartment to his front door, stopped me at the threshold and said, "Everything in place?"

Before I could make a sound, the door swung open, and the big Rottweiler behind it growled at me like a madman.

"Don't worry, he doesn't bite… So, what about payment?"

"It's all right. Let's go in and make sure, but in the meantime, put the dog away…" "He doesn't bite…"

"I said put the dog away."

"The Professor" took the dog by the collar and led him away, and I weaved in…

"Here's everything-" I opened the case on the table. — It's your turn. Where's the medicine?"

"Oooooh… No way…" "Where's the cure?"

"The Professor" took out some glass from behind his sinus and held it up, "Give me the diplomat or I'll break it!"

I closed the case and threw it to the floor, "Don't be fooled Professor, let's do this the easy way…"

The one in turn tossed the vial over to me and began examining the pile of jewelry. "Where do you need to put it in?"

"Intravenously… By the way, you're not leaving yet… You only have one part of the medicine in your hands, capable of only suspending the tumor, but if you don't take the second… This one! — he grabbed the second vial. — The disease will worsen, and the patient will be dead in a few days. So bring more of this."

"Let's not complicate things. Just think about it, where do you need this much?" "Science is priceless…"

I took out a Beretta 93R (actually the same as 92F, but with automatic firing mode, which, by the way, was on) with a 20-round clip and a big silencer screwed on the muzzle, after which it was impossible to hear anything at all, pulled the trigger and continued: "Anyway, if you don't want to do it the hard way, you can do it the hard way (if he demands money for the second time, it's not certain that he won't demand it for the third time, and so you can go on and on)".

"Suit yourself…" — The asshole threw the glass on the floor, and I fired wildly at the white coat. A black dog jumped out from around the corner and ran in my direction. Bullets kept whistling here and there….

Hello, son

Aug. 21, 3:13 p.m.

As I have already mentioned "my son is at home with a terrible disease", this disease is called Cancer of the brain (not all of it of course). Of course, there's no cure for cancer, except for that schizo in Hamburg. He said the drug had to be administered intravenously. Maybe he was lying, but in any case, there is no other cure. It was time to try it.

My son lived very close to my main apartment — just a block away. He had lived there alone for six years, after a car accident that killed his mother (but not my wife; there was no time for a wife), and the last time we met was four years ago….

I opened the door with my key and stepped inside, covering the metal barrier. A long hallway opened up in front of me, turning in two directions (one into the kitchen and bathroom, the other into another bathroom and the living area of the five-room apartment).

The atmosphere was very quiet, but tense (my son was rarely in silence and in peace in general, so, most likely, the dead hum could be only without him, but not this time) — it felt something creepy, wild and very dangerous, as if in the lair of an ogre.

I took out the "CZ-85" (Czech pistol with good reviews, for example, good penetration ability with 500–518 J. of muzzle energy, CZ — Czech zbrojovka; "Beretta 93R" "lay" next to the mad scientist, and the new barrel again from home) and headed slowly and carefully towards the kitchen. After taking a couple steps and hiding around the corner, there was a loud and nasty creaking sound around the same corner. I turned around, knowing for sure that there was someone around the corner and, obviously, that someone was armed as well (I remember a similar case, when I had to stand in that position for two hours without twitching or even breathing deeply — it's not hard to guess who won then, but five years had passed since then, and at my age only a month has a big impact).

I heard the sound of movement, sharp, lightning-fast. I responded in kind, sticking the barrel out and preparing to pull the trigger, and saw… a sly, calm "wolf" face, like my own twenty years ago.

"What, you want to put a hole in your father?"

It was my son, poking at his submachine gun "VIKHR" (a shortened version of the special automatic rifle "Val"; caliber 9 mm with the use of special (SP-5 and SP-6) cartridges, not to mention the penetrating ability — at a distance of 150 meters this thing penetrates the engine block of the car, so that if a bullet hits my head from such a distance, the brains would fly in all directions; By the way, for those who do not know — made in Russia). This is the life we have, when two close people almost killed each other out of joy.

After the tension created, there was a quick release: we simultaneously, as if off the chain and hugged each other, patting each other on the back and almost shouting at mutual speech lines: "Long time no see!"

"Four whole years!"

"Why don't you come, you ask?" "Dog work…"

"So dump her to hell!"

"Already quit…" — after I said the phrase, my son pulled away from me and looked straight into my eyes with complete bewilderment, not believing his ears, and then asked again: "Dumped?"

"Yeah, I quit. I'm bored."

"I don't understand anything… Did he run away or something?" "Well, yeah."

"We both know perfectly well that you will be found…"

"Nobody lives forever, but you know, either way, my task is at least somewhat accomplished…"

"What do you mean?"

I pulled out a vial of medicine: "This should help (actually my doubts about it were 100 percent, but it's better to 'plant optimism in the native land')."

"What the hell is that?" "The Cure."

"There is no cure for Cancer."

"Now there is," — no sooner had I finished my part of the dialog than the "son of Faust" faltered and was about to fall — it was not a fainting from happiness, it was one of the effects of the disease.

For a drink

August 21, 21:47 PM.

My son fainted for over six hours. One day is not enough, but what if it happens every day? And I was constantly "killed" by the fact that in addition to fainting, he had terrible headaches and black eyes.

"How long was I asleep?" — he asked, opening his eyelids. "Six to seven hours."

"Yeah…"

"Well, anyway…"

"I saw a doctor recently… He said I have six months to live at the most…"

"Six months? — The phrase made me even more eager to find out if the cure would work — not much risk to take anyway. — Uh… Anyway, here's the cure." "Bring him in, please."

By this time the syringe was already prepared and I easily injected, "Well, does it feel better?"

"Not a damn thing…"

"Well, that's right… Not all at once…" we laughed heartily at the same time. — I haven't laughed in a long time.

"Likewise… and to be honest, I'm absolutely sick of living like a junkie: I remember here, I don't remember there."

"And for me, looking around at all the morons and sadists with big eyes popping out of their orbits from fear or cruelty."

"By the way, do you know who has the biggest eyes in the world?" "Well… Uh… No, I don't know…"

"At Fear."

"А. I see. Good riddle."

"And what makes you suddenly decide to get out of the organization?" "Tired of it."

"Yeah, come on, you were sick of this life 15 years ago." "What makes you say that?"

"Well, that I haven't seen you: you walk around like a haggard and you don't even know who to look at with what eyes anymore."

"Actually, you're right."

"I honestly don't know how you can run around like an eagle with a job like that and at the age of 47…"

"Here I don't know… Yeah… How do you exercise all sorts of arts around here?" "Well, you know I'm a worse shot than you…"

"Well, how much do you knock out from 50 meters with a pistol in 10 shots?"

"Usually three or four in the bullseye, the rest wherever you have to go… You know I'm more into grenades and a sea of bullets…"

"A sea of bullets, either for intimidation or to show off… Well, okay, how far do you throw your damn grenade?"

"F-1 at 60 meters, RGD-5 at 80."

"Yeah, that's a record. I should be able to throw thirty. I'm getting old…"

"For a job like this, yes, but in general, I've told you before that even 50-plus is still maturity, but 70 is the time limit."

"Had you said those last words in front of my 'coworkers', everyone would be on the floor laughing by now."

"If I saw your coleagues, they'd be lying on the floor from death by now…" "And you're with them."

"Yeah, I don't care."

"Well, okay, what else do you do?"

"Studying survival techniques in extreme environments. Equatorial forests, for example, desert…"

"Good for you… How many languages do you know?" "It's four now."

"Not bad… Which one did you learn last (I already knew the other three: English, German, Italian)?"

"Russian".

"Ohhhh! Well, let's do it in it," I suggested in one of the world's most difficult languages.

"Come on," — replied the son similarly.

"Learn Spanish and you can consider Latin America open to you…" "Why didn't you learn it yourself then?"

"No time left… Are you interested in fiction?" "Almost not."

"Have you read Faust?"

The room erupted into rolling laughter again.

"What's there to read? I've seen him live… By the way, why do you have such a strange nickname?"

"It's long to explain…" "And yet?"

"Yes, I almost forgot… — I took out a small envelope from the inside pocket of my jacket (I wore it this time, too). — This is so important and secret information that in skillful hands it can destroy Koza-Nostra as well…"

"What's in it for me?"

"This is just in case I get killed… Inside the envelope contains instructions on what to do and a disk of information… If I get killed open the envelope and follow the instructions, not before…"

"Okay. I'll do it, but it's still a matter of which one of us dies first." There was laughter in the room, but now not as expressive and sincere.

"Yeah… Also, I've been wondering. How do you manage to cross borders like they don't even exist?"

"That along with some other useful stuff is on the disk… Well, okay I'm off. It's getting late… I'll call you tomorrow."

"Suit yourself."

Welcome to the underworld

11:50 p.m. Aug. 24.

Almost all experienced professional criminals feel something before they are caught or killed, and I was no exception, so I felt… something important before I left my son. And I didn't see him off so abruptly for nothing, for I knew that if he knew I was in danger, he'd be sitting outside my doorway all night with a machine gun. And there would be more than one man after me, and not a novice, and it was unlikely that either of us would be left alive after that.

I set the alarm (my alarm system is connected to the county police department, so after a couple minutes of trespassing, I'll have a SWAT team at my house, so it's unlikely anyone will be able to escape) and went to bed without too many complications (not everyone goes to bed feeling very threatened).

After a couple hours of sleeplessness, I heard a thud from down the hallway, and then footsteps, so many of them that they became a rumble.

I fumbled for an F-1 grenade, specially strapped under my pillow for emergencies, and pulled the pin, holding on to the lever (when it "flies" off the main part of the grenade, it takes 3.2 to 4.2 seconds to detonate, depending on the force of the rebound).

Half a minute later, the door to the room quietly boiled open and footsteps made their way inside, and when they spread throughout the entire room, there was a light whisper: "Now, wait a minute, I'll just find out what his name is…..

I remembered my real name and said aloud, firmly and deadly: "Rimanoa was just expecting a visitor. Welcome," and then, laughing a wicked, devilish laugh, I turned on the little light bulb whose switch was located three centimeters from the sheet that covered the bed.

A dim light covered the room.

Eight people stood in front of the bed, one in front of the other. All armed to the teeth in the literal sense (one "comrade" had a key in his mouth, though it was unknown how he was going to use it).

The reaction was exactly what I expected: they hissed, staggered, trembled, just like all the other 156 people being taken to me for execution, realizing that Rimanoa was the "Executioner". Their eyes completely deepened in panic, and spoke of the rest of their bodies being unable to take any action. The rookie killers realized that in front of them stood not just a very experienced killer capable of shooting them all without much difficulty, not just an iron authority in the underworld, but death itself, just waiting to kiss someone else.

I carefully pulled my hand out from under the pillow and tossed the grenade at the feet of the nearest "Faust hunter" to spare them the agony…

Оглавление

Prologue

Change of plans

It's been a long time

Found the man

Under the cover of night

Satisfied with the result

It's not clear to everyone

Let's start a new one

Let's go back to our old ways

"B" day

The collapse of a three-story empire

A couple degrees off

The Sicilian hole

Wet island

Seven hundred and seventy-seventh heaven

Questions from the darkness of the night

A mismatch in thought

Trouble with livestock

Gestapo methods

Running without looking back

Brakes without brains

Strange prison

I don't know, I haven't heard, I don't understand

A mind boggler

Serious information even for two ears

Top secret

Who's on Koza Nostra?

Remember everything

Doubtful man

That's some bullshit

"Silent Dialogue."

We're here

Faust is Bond

Details for latecomers

Buttoned up unbuttoned

Shortcut

Underground screaming

He should be driving a tank

Minus one fool

Plus one village

A safe road through the shit

Navigating the metropolis

Escape from Manhattan

The road home

A master with greedy hands

Hello, son

For a drink

Welcome to the underworld