Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor

– It scares me, the old donkey, – he thought bitterly, – but you won't get the documents anyway.

– Do you like it?

– It's a tasty apple, boss.

– I meant something else.

– The real one?

– What did you think? I have one craftsman, a real Indian from the Maya tribe; he can't read knots, true, but he knows how to dry heads in hot sand… I think I'll leave the collection to the anthropology museum in my will.

– Is there a museum that collects skulls?

– You're dense, uneducated. I wouldn't trust you with any other position, but you'll handle the inquisition.

– I'll do my best, boss, just don't deny me in council.

– I won't deny you, not at all.

– The council is all-powerful… Can I go now, boss?

– Go… Wait! – Ahmed stopped Aman-Jalil at the door. – Why did you remove my pilot? I understand getting rid of those two crooks, but why the pilot? He's loyal to me; I don't understand.

– Nadir will dig the ground, and the pilot will be next. He won't cover for me: they flew there together, he'll say, and only one came back… I could see the question in his eyes. The pilot will say, Nadir will understand whose man I am, and that's your end…

– You cut off all the links, you're the only one left?

– If there's nothing else to do, I should be cut off too…

Ahmed suddenly calmed down.

– You understand, then?

– Even a blind man can see…

– Go, get to work!

Aman-Jalil left the office. Ahmed was left alone. Here it is, the new generation… Who can I work with? He doesn't chatter, he acts quickly. But for him, a person isn't a person, anything but a living person with their own troubles, desires, thoughts. And this one will only know the desires of the bosses and his own desires. Uncertain days are coming. There are few of his own people; I have to take such people. It's dangerous to work with them. Like a circus trainer: the tigers seem tame, but how many trainers have been torn apart as soon as they sense weakness… Oh, damn, I forgot!

Ahmed called. The secretary entered.

– Did Aman-Jalil leave? Bring him back immediately.

The secretary disappeared… After a while, during which Ahmed sat as if hypnotized, staring at one spot, Aman-Jalil entered.

– Listen carefully, jigit: do you know what your first task in the inquisition will be?

– What is it, boss!

– The Gyarov case!

Aman-Jalil was silent.

– Why so quiet?

– I'm calculating.

– Money?

– Time!

Ahmed looked at Aman-Jalil with surprise, and he hastened to explain.

– How much time I'll need for it.

– How much?

– About a month.

– Why don't you ask why?

– Orders aren't discussed.

– He's your own uncle.

– I've known him since childhood; you can't stop someone like him: can't bribe him, can't scare him… Killing him now is out of the question, they'll say it's "terror"!.. So I need a month to prepare everything…

…Wazir looked at Aman-Jalil with pity as he indulged in his favorite pastime: shooting flies. Aman-Jalil's eyes gleamed with the success of his hunt, fingers and rubber band stained with blood.

– What kind of monster have you become, boy?

– A passing young man!

– What kind, what kind?

– My grandmother tells me: "not from mother, not from father, but from a passing young man."

– You have such a wonderful uncle to look up to.

– Everyone's eager to give me examples: at school, on the street, at home. Some say – these are bad, others – those are bad, the third – both are bad. Leave me alone, I am my own "example".

The reflections from the window glass danced on his face, leaving bloody traces. Aman-Jalil, as usual, wiped the sweat from his forehead with blood-stained fingers… Wazir recalled that horrible scene again, tied to the pole, forced to watch as youths just a little older than Aman-Jalil violated his young wife: they frolicked like puppies, squealing with excitement, shoving each other, and then formed a line; the penultimate one failed, frustration stirred his anger and rage; he grabbed a dagger and slit the stomach of the victim lying beneath him. The last one, denied his share, struck the killer, who, his face smeared with the victim's blood, lunged at the offender. They were separated: "there can be no scores between our own," they made them shake hands and kiss each other. The second one also got smeared in blood. The last one was offered to rape Wazir, quickly untied him from the pole and pulled down his pants, but the last one kicked Wazir in the naked ass and left, offended and unsatisfied…

"The same face, the same fanatical eyes, one thought has seized him, one crazy thought, but who can you prove it to? I see, no one else… Gyarov, such a good man, and he thinks highly of his nephew: obedient, kind, willing to share his last piece… They see what they want to see, they don't see what they don't want to understand. Now he's frying flies and calmly watching their suffering, not just calmly, but with pleasure, and then… Gyarov laughs: 'children always grow up as researchers, studying nature, curious about it'… This is not studying, this is self-education"…

Wazir went to his room but then turned around and quietly asked:

– Why do you kill flies?

– They spread disease; we were taught in school, – Aman-Jalil calmly replied, without anger or irritation.

– Want me to give you a flyswatter? "With one swipe, I'll kill seven."

– I don't want one, what do I need it for? Flies don't interest me; I'm interested in hitting or missing with the rubber band, where I hit: the head, or the wing, or the abdomen. And your flyswatter, I've seen it, slap, and the fly falls whole, like alive.

Wazir left the room. Fiery circles danced before his eyes, and someone's voice drove each word into his head like a nail: "And I saw in the right hand of him that sat on the throne a book written within and on the backside, sealed with seven seals. And I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, who is worthy to open the book, and to loose the seals thereof? And no man in heaven, nor in earth, neither under the earth, was able to open the book, neither to look thereon. And I wept much, because no man was found worthy to open and to read the book, neither to look thereon"…

Day after day, Aman-Jalil walked joyfully, but the appointment as chief inquisitor of the region did not come from the capital. Gradually, the joy began to fade, doubts arose that Aman-Jalil didn't want to admit to himself: "Did they pass me over?.. Ahmed can't know about the documents. Then who? Who crossed the line?"

Finally, Ahmed summoned Aman-Jalil. He was silent for a long time, imitating the Great Iosif Besarionis, smoking his favorite "Duchess" cigarettes.

– You'll work as deputy for now… – he began apologetically. – They've decided at the palace that you're still too young to be the chief inquisitor. Besides, the current chief is an old fighter, a comrade of the Leader… Between us, I'll tell you, he's seriously ill, won't last long, a few years at most, he has cancer, you see?

– There are already two deputies for the chief; who will I replace?

– Not in place of anyone… You'll be the third… Directives came from the emir's palace: about liquidation.

– What does that mean?

– All dissenters, all who oppose can be plundered, proceeds go to the state.

– Glorious, eh!

– You will handle this.

– As you say, boss… And if someone resists or complains?

– Those who resist, you can kill them, and those who complain, exile them to the most remote and coldest island of Bibir.

– Understood, sir!

Ahmed fell silent again for a long while, but Aman-Jalil pressed on.

– It's been half a month for Gyaur… Anything yet?

– Sir, I've been waiting for the appointment…

– You only have half a month left.

– Not enough time.

– I can't wait. – Ahmed crushed an unfinished cigarette into a golden ashtray. – Gyaur is obstructing me… And you'll be the chief inquisitor of the region only after the old fighter for justice dies, that's the order I got from the unmatched Iosif Besarionis himself. By the way, he already knows all about you, remembers your father, so consider your appointment assured… I stand by you, but you must be decisive. In two weeks, you must eliminate Gyaur by any means necessary, or he will be arrested. You promised me stellar performance. I want to see it.

Aman-Jalil understood there was no way out.

– It will be done, boss!

Aman-Jalil, after his father was killed, was raised by his uncle. His mother had suffered a stroke, lying motionless, cared for by his grandmother, leaving the boy orphaned, and Uncle Musa took him in. Musa had a son a year younger than Aman-Jalil, Jumshid. Aman-Jalil spent six months with his uncle. He bonded so well with his brother that Jumshid cried, clinging to Aman-Jalil when his recovering mother came to take him home. Since then, they knew everything about each other, or rather, Aman-Jalil knew everything about him.

Now, Jumshid managed the largest trading base in the city after graduating from the Trade Institute. And immediately after Ahmed's reminder about the unfinished task, Aman-Jalil visited his brother at the base.

– How are things, dear?

The brothers embraced. Jumshid took a stack of papers and shook them.

– Everyone is asking for trucks, but where am I supposed to get so many? It's their business, but I have all the headaches, I'm responsible for everything, they won't lift a finger, won't even move, and I'm the one sweating it out.

– Ask Dad for help, – Aman-Jalil advised his brother. – He's the mayor after all, let him assist.

– Do you not know your uncle? His own son comes last: a good salary, an apartment, a personal car. Believe it or not, I still walk everywhere.

– At least you're not under the table, – Aman-Jalil joked.

– Easy for you to joke, it seems. The Inquisition has gathered a bunch of jokers, huh?

– I'll help as a brother; they'll give you trucks. Where do you need them sent?

– To Koralen, first to pick up lemons and oranges, the whole batch is heading to Duitsland, you understand, they must be fresh.

– Prepare the warehouse, tomorrow morning five trucks will arrive at least!

Aman-Jalil chatted with his brother about trivial matters, drank a glass of tea with quince jam, kissed his brother goodbye, and they didn't meet again.

Aman-Jalil called Ahmed.

– Chief, we urgently need trucks!

– We need them, take them! – came the reply.

– We need to get them from Gyaur, please call him. But don't ask for trucks from him; press for urgent execution of the lemon and orange delivery plan to Doichland, he'll understand and give the trucks to his son, the rest is my business.

Ahmed promised to help. The day before, Aman-Jalil learned about an underground opium warehouse, took it with his loyal people, naturally didn't report it to his superiors, and now all his people sat there in ambush. But their strange assignment was to cut oranges in half, carefully remove the contents, send it down their throats, insert a pouch of opium into the peel, seal the halves with dark wax, then wrap each fruit in paper and affix a long label: "Maroka," shorthand for "World Autonomous Republican Vegetable Company"… Meanwhile, the trucks headed to the plantation for citrus cargo for Doichland, which in return supplied machines for cigarette stuffing and sturdy condoms. One of the drivers was Aman-Jalil's man. And the agents sitting in the warehouse were engaged in an unusual occupation, the kind they usually relentlessly hunted down and caught. Now the agents were experiencing firsthand the hard work of smugglers and drug dealers…

On the way back, one of the trucks turned off the route and stopped at the underground warehouse. Aman-Jalil's people quickly unloaded half the crates from the truck and instead loaded their crates with special oranges. The truck drove to Jumshid's warehouse, while the agents stayed in ambush. Out of boredom, they ate the oranges they had unloaded from the truck. They overate to the point they couldn't look at them for the rest of their lives. Especially since Aman-Jalil deducted the cost of those oranges from their money, but paid them for overtime, instilling a deep conviction of justice in their hearts…

And the trucks calmly unloaded at the base managed by Jumshid, who specially cleared a warehouse for them. Satisfied, Jumshid didn't leave the base until each crate was weighed, stacked in piles in the warehouse, and the documents were processed.

Meanwhile, Aman-Jalil "stopped by" at Jumshid's house, surprised that he lingered at work so long: "he doesn't take care of himself," stayed for tea, and seized the moment when Jumshid's wife busied herself in the kitchen, slipped a bundle of foreign currency under Jumshid's mattress. Then Aman-Jalil lingered over tea with his favorite cherry jam, praised the hostess, and left without waiting for his brother, citing urgent matters. From a nearby phone booth, he called the Inquisition, the narcotics control department, changing his voice with a candy in his mouth, he said:

– A loyal subject reports: there's a large batch of drugs at Jumshid's first warehouse, a few crates of oranges. They will go to Duitsland in the morning.

And, satisfied, he hung up. The car would start, he knew that well…

Exhausted like never before, Jumshid was already leaving for home when the base perimeter was surrounded by soldiers, and three plainclothes men approached Jumshid, demanding the keys to the first warehouse. Jumshid didn't even bother asking for their documents; each of the inquisitors was recognizable by their kind and responsive gaze. He returned to the office, grabbed the keys, reached into his pocket for something, and was immediately seized by one of the plainclothes men. He was quickly searched and released.

– Why? – Jumshid was offended. – I've never owned a weapon in my life.

– It's better to be safe than sorry, – the inquisitor apologized softly.

In the warehouse, a squad of soldiers clumsily but swiftly opened crates of oranges, more breaking than opening, slashing each fruit with combat knives and greedily destroying them. When this squad had their fill, they called in a second, and the rampage continued.

Jumshid attempted to protest.

– What are you doing? This is our currency, the shipment is headed to Deutschland.

– Shut up! – the inquisitor gently hushed him. – It's going to Animaland.

Jumshid sat on an empty crate that once held oranges and helplessly watched this savage feast… By the time crates of narcotics were finally discovered towards dawn, he was beyond surprise, in a daze, everything swirling before his eyes like in a fog. After signing the confiscation report for a large shipment of narcotics from the first warehouse of the base entrusted to him, Jumshid accompanied the inquisitors home, still in a fog. In a daze, he saw his wife's pale frightened face, numbly acknowledged the stacks of foreign currency found under the mattress. And so, in a daze, he lived for many years on the distant island of Bibir in Antarctica, until he accidentally got involved in a drunken brawl among criminals and received a fatal knife wound in the midst of the fighting. The pain dispelled the fog, and the last thing Jumshid saw before him wasn't his daughter's face, his wife's, his father's, or mother's, but his brother's smile. Aman-Jalil smiled kindly, warmly, friendly. But his eyes bore the cold muzzle of a gun.

Aman-Jalil came to Gyaurov early in the morning, before work had begun. He knew his uncle usually arrived an hour early, before everyone else, to work in peace, undisturbed by personal requests, which he had to learn to refuse since many were unlawful.

Gyaurov was very surprised to see his nephew so early in his office. And Aman-Jalil gently embraced him, kissed him.

– Hello, father!

– Has something happened?

Aman-Jalil laid photocopies of documents on the table.

– Uncle, you know how much I love you! For you, I committed an official crime. Here are the documents: the narcotics confiscation protocol from Jumshid's base first warehouse, the foreign currency confiscation protocol from his desk, the currency confiscation protocol from his home, Jumshid's interrogation protocol. They'll be coming for you in an hour; the arrest warrant is signed. I don't want you to stand trial, to be labeled a criminal, but the facts are against us. Jumshid claimed you didn't provide him with cars, but you gave them for this cargo… You're a brave and decisive man, uncle, you know what happens in such cases…

Gyaurov carefully examined the documents.

– Do you believe this? Can you believe it?

– I don't believe it, but it won't be me judging you, it'll be your sworn enemy Kochev. He's not to be trusted. There are witnesses too: the drivers, they'll say whatever Kochev tells them to say.

– Will Jumshid be shot?

– Along with you, yes! It'll be easier for me to save his life without you.

– Do you think he's guilty?

– I'm a hundred percent sure he knew nothing. A scatterbrain, he trusted everyone, needed or not. The warehouse manager disappeared, they're searching for him and will find him.

Aman-Jalil himself helped bury the warehouse manager's body in the olive grove, after shooting him in the back of the head.

Gyaurov stared into Aman-Jalil's eyes intently, but other than love and loyalty, he found nothing.

– Take the photocopies, you've risked a lot, thank you. I rely on you to save Jumshid's life and expose this lie and slander.

– I promise you, uncle. I'll put my life on it, and I'll find that scoundrel and make him pay.

Aman-Jalil tucked the photocopies of the documents into his pocket. Gyaurov hugged his nephew, and they kissed three times.

– Live long, – Gyaurov whispered and crossed Aman-Jalil as he left.

As Aman-Jalil approached the exit, a soft gunshot rang out from the office. No one noticed Aman-Jalil; the guard had summoned Aman-Jalil's assistant, and there were forty minutes until work began…

"What a funeral, what a funeral," Wazir thought, watching the endless procession with mourning banners. "How we love our dead, look at how we love our dead, if only this love were shown to the living, maybe paradise would come… But why? Because the dead pose no danger, there's no need to fear the dead, unless you believe in ghosts. They announced he died of a heart attack, but they say, 'he shot himself, couldn't bear the shame'… Oh, Jumshid, Jumshid, what have you done, scoundrel? May you suffer forever, such a glorious, esteemed father disappointed. What does a man need? He had everything: a good job, health, a beautiful wife, an apartment, money… Ingrate! It wasn't enough, he craved more. He wanted currency. Foreign coins to buy schnapps at the tavern. Doesn't he understand they'll ask right away: 'where'd you get this'?… What will you say? Found it at the market?… No, what a funeral… Nosaty walked with Gyaurov's wife, like the principal relative. But Jumshid's beautiful wife wasn't there. Shame on her husband. Killed his father, but saved his own skin. It's nothing; they'll send him to Bibir Island, where there's no warmth and comfort. All desires will freeze… No, what a funeral. Nothing to say, we love our dead, we love them more than the living… We're all the same: mothers during life too lazy to write an extra letter, but at the grave, they cry like little… And I'm no better: did I love Anush so much in life as I worship her after her martyr's death. Perhaps that's why we remember, love the dead so much, the guilt torments, the guilt that we didn't remember, didn't love in life. What good is our love to the dead? The living need it. Alive! I need to marry before it's too late… I need children, then maybe I won't suffer so much, that terrible road will leave me, my endless path of grief and despair"…

"Don't be jealous of evil people and don't wish to be with them: for their heart thinks about violence, and their mouth speaks evil. By wisdom a house is built, and by understanding it is established."

Over Ahmed's grave, a speech was delivered:

– Today, we bid farewell to our friend, our comrade-in-arms, one of the indomitable fighters against global injustice, against the exploitation of man by man. In the Serra mountains, he repeatedly proved his unwavering bravery, desperate courage, and steadfastness. He dedicated all his strength to serving the people, to the cause of the rebels. The underground in the Serra mountains forged his character; his heart turned to iron, sometimes even steel. Step by step, he climbed the ladder of his earned glory, a life full of dangers but also the joys that these dangers bring. Neither threats nor bribes, neither cold nor heat, nor rain nor snow could deter him from this path of glory. He reached the summit, but his heart, filled with love for his suffering people, could not bear this monstrous burden, this selfless dedication. We will all remember this remarkable man, a wonderful father and teacher. You, my friend, will serve as an example for everyone, entering the future legends that a grateful people will compose about heroes like you. Rest peacefully, brave friend. You did all you could!

The orchestra played a funeral march. Farewell salutes pierced the cemetery's silence, adorning Gyaurov's grave in the alley of eternal glory with mountains of wreaths and fresh flowers… The mourners dispersed silently. Many were ashamed to look each other in the eye.

Aman-Jalil swiftly expanded his bustling activities. His appointment as the third deputy in the Inquisition was met with cool, if not outright cold reception. Two factions within the Inquisition vied against each other, smiling and kissing on meetings. "Didn't sleep well, my dear? Pale as a ghost, take care of yourself, need me to recommend a doctor?" "Thanks, my friend! How are things with you?" "Flourishing and smelling sweet!" "Indeed, life couldn't be better."

Both factions kept an eye on Aman-Jalil, strategizing to sway him to their side. Thus, neither faction gave him any of their own people, take whoever you want. Aman-Jalil paid homage to Ahmed, doubling the Inquisition's ranks, and recruited his own supporters, all who hung on his every word, drank from his bottle. Instantly, he became a force to be reckoned with.

No one knew how to enforce the directive on confiscation, so Aman-Jalil did whatever he deemed necessary. He swiftly identified those with movable and immovable property: wealthy merchants, remnants of the aristocracy… He taxed all the underground millionaires. According to the palace-approved list, Aman-Jalil razed a clan every day, those displeasing Iosif Besarionis.

Aman-Jalil's men stormed homes, confiscated valuables, leaving a receipt as a reminder that they once lived well. Those who resisted were killed: shot or stabbed. If nothing was found but they were on the list, they were tortured until they revealed a hiding place or died. Few could hide anything while watching their wives and daughters being violated, their sons abused. Who could trade their children for wealth? Will all the gold in the world, all the diamond mines of Golconda, replace the laughter of happy children, the sparks of happiness in their eyes…

"And I saw when the Lamb opened one of the seals, and I heard, as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beasts saying, Come and see. And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer. And when he had opened the second seal, I heard the second beast say, Come and see. And there went out another horse that was red: and power was given to him that sat thereon to take peace from the earth, and that they should kill one another: and there was given unto him a great sword. And when he had opened the third seal, I heard the third beast say, Come and see. And I beheld, and lo a black horse; and he that sat on him had a pair of balances in his hand… And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with the sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth…"