Читать книгу Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor онлайн

Only the most elite and trusted were there, but as Arif looked around, he realized that none of them could be fully relied upon; they would betray at the first opportunity. But the speeches were more loyal and friendly than the next. Ahmed sang praises of Iosif Besarionis’s wisdom and other virtues…

By rank, Aman-Jalil wasn’t supposed to speak, but he was more anxious than the speakers. Several times he caught Arif’s glances, the second-in-command, as he was flatteringly called in Iosif Besarionis’s circle. And he felt uncomfortable under that scrutinizing gaze.

Arif was indeed closely observing Aman-Jalil. Ahmed had recommended appointing his newly acquired relative as the head of the region’s inquisition. For this reason, Arif was against the appointment. And Nadir was buzzing, setting Iosif Besarionis against Aman-Jalil and Ahmed. Nadir’s people had uncovered details of Sardar Ali’s death; someone saw Aman-Jalil with the thugs whose poisoned bodies were found at the office. Ahmed’s private jet arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed either, and the sudden death of the pilot hinted at grim conclusions. But Iosif Besarionis inherently disliked Nadir, the kind and simple giant, and his accusations only piqued his interest in the son of the man whose stomach was shot through because of Iosif Besarionis, followed by a beheading. Arif noticed Iosif Besarionis’s increased interest and decided to take this young rogue under his wing, especially since he noticed a fleeting smirk on Aman-Jalil’s face when he looked at Ahmed; only someone watching every move closely could catch such a momentary smile. Arif was pleased, catching the smirk: it meant Aman-Jalil didn’t much like his boss and close relative. Well, Arif knew how to turn a small crack into a deep chasm.

Aman-Jalil wasn’t the kind of man with whom one needed to play a complicated diplomatic game. Seizing a moment, Arif whispered to Aman-Jalil:

– Comrade, escort me to my bed!

Aman-Jalil bowed obediently, his breath catching: either it was death itself, or they’d let him into the tower of the chosen ones, where the only way out was to flutter out the window like a bird, but fluttering out didn’t mean flying like a bird, a cry and a short fall, the ground’s firmness and a soft impact the consciousness no longer felt…