Читать книгу Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor онлайн

– "Arif's marksman… badge in my pocket."

– "Wear it proudly. You've earned it."

– "Boss, maybe it's better for me to go to the villa in the province? I'll be your coachman: box of grenades, box of peaches, box of grapes, figs… your kids can have their 'milk'…"

– "Coachman—it's not dignified. No, driver in rye, Mr. Mauser on the side… And the car has more space; I allow myself a few things too… There are enough coachmen in the area. Let everyone think you're high-ranking; people will assume you can take down the district chief and come to you with complaints. Support them, and then we'll 'nail' these complainers, promising something serious might open up, or else 'every stitch in line'… Remember: 'the first pancake is a lump,'—you'll remain a 'lump' all your life… On guard… And if you do well, I have high hopes for you… Dismissed!"

Aman-Jalil vanished. Ahmed remained alone. Heavy thoughts weighed on him: the underground struggle in the mountains of Serra had bonded him with Iosif Besarionis, then a humble and compassionate fighter known as Sucker. Thanks to this friendship, Ahmed stood firm, but how to 'dig'? One could easily collapse; so many former friends of Sucker had already perished—from stomach ulcer surgeries, colds with blue spots appearing on their bodies, to fatal accidents—corpses' ropes removed later, doctors losing sight, health fading, and sudden death, never ill… So the whole province had to be taken over quickly, then thrown to the feet of the great Iosif Besarionis, lest replacements arrive faster than one could pray to Allah in the mosque…

Wind whipped dust along the street, forming diverse outfits and annoying those unlucky pedestrians who ventured out in the midday heat. Hot sand polished their skin like sandpaper, irritated their eyes to inflammation, and made breathing difficult. From the heat, people moved like sleepy flies, while flies crawled like drunken people, and amidst them walked Aman-Jalil, bewildered by heat, with a needle, matches, and his beloved rubber band… A swat struck a fly's wing, causing it to circle slowly in place. Aman-Jalil expertly caught it by one whole wing, impaled it on the needle, lit a match, and began slowly roasting it until it charred or the match burned his fingers. Then Aman-Jalil tossed the remaining match to the ground, flicked off the tiny ember from the needle's point, and started again. Endless auto-da-fé, always with enough material…