Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor

Aman-Jalil stayed late in the office, catching up on work accumulated during his honeymoon. The driver waited obediently; it was his shift. He was nervous, feeling a gnawing unease.

– Curse the day and hour when the crazy thought of taking Gulshan came to my mind, – he scolded himself. – For one sweet night, I might end up on Bibir Island if that fool confesses to Aman-Jalil… No, she wouldn’t. Is she mad? They'll send me to the island, but she'll never forgive that night with me, kick me out… And she has a child! She might even say it's mine… No, she'll stay silent, I'm sure. I'll wait… If she keeps quiet, she's scared. When the boss is busy, I'll make her sleep with me again; now, he'll be busy at night often: young wife, beautiful, not like that village girl… But what a body she has, what a body. A houri!

Late at night, Aman-Jalil finally got into the car and ordered the driver to take him to Gulshan. The escort car followed them, but Aman-Jalil didn’t take any guards with him. Hearing the address, the driver got scared, sweat trickling down his spine. Driving as if in a dream, he reached the house, feverishly contemplating: will there be a talk with the three of them, after which he’d be sent away, and that would be the best outcome, or not? Stopping the car at the entrance, the driver quickly jumped out to open the door for Aman-Jalil.

And then rifle shots rang out. Consecutively. Three bullets hit the driver. The first bullet wounded him. He turned around and looked pleadingly at Aman-Jalil. He sat still, smiling at him. In Aman-Jalil’s eyes, the driver read his verdict. And it was only death. It came with the second bullet. So, the third was redundant. The guards rushed out at the shots, thoroughly searching the nearby houses but found no strangers.

The widow mourned at the funeral; she still felt sorry for her foolish young husband, the father of her little daughter. But Gulshan smiled, beginning to enjoy the power to control life and death…

All the morning newspapers were filled with descriptions of the nocturnal attack by the enemies of the people on the defender of law and order. They detailed Aman-Jalil’s firmness and bravery. They praised the driver’s heroism: "the valor of a soldier shielding his commander with his body." The driver was posthumously awarded a high honor. A toilet on Liberation Square was named after him, and Gulshan loved to visit it whenever she was in the center, to pay her respects… The widow was granted a pension and a hero’s ration. Gulshan’s mother took her little daughter back to her hometown. Now she was not ashamed to return…

Arif, Iosif Besarionis’s closest aide, hadn’t visited Ahmed in a while.

– How many years have passed? – he mused, standing by the train window, watching the endless salt flats roll by. – Ah, it was the year when I failed to catch that shepherd boy. Clever boy! Vanished like a ghost, even abroad they can’t find him, probably changed his name. I always said: clever boy!… What a memory Sucker has. So many years, and he remembers every look. Hears another word behind every word. A true Great Leader!… If he’s sending me on an inspection, it means he's dissatisfied with Ahmed. Impossible to find out, the Great One doesn’t share such thoughts, so better find a replacement for Ahmed just in case. But who?… Candidates are plenty.

The special train raced on, not stopping even at major stations. And who doesn't love a fast ride. Other trains moved aside, letting this armored, weapon-laden, thug-filled convoy pass without complaint. When the train safely passed through a station, the station master crossed himself, whether he was a follower of Allah or Buddha…

The platform, washed with hot soapy water, smelled of French perfumes and church incense. For a week, all public toilets within a five-hundred-meter radius around the platform had been closed. On the platform, covered with expensive Persian carpets, stood the local elite headed by Ahmed. An honor guard of beast-like Indians from the Chech-In and In-Gu tribes was assembled. Young girls in national Indian costumes, all plump and to Arif’s liking, practiced their poetic greeting one last time.

Ahmed was nervous, though he skillfully concealed it. Aman-Jalil, gazing devotedly into his eyes, inwardly gloated; he also understood that an inspection, especially by Arif, wasn’t just a friendly visit; it meant the ground was burning under Ahmed’s feet. It would be skillful to pour gasoline, but without burning his own hair…

Arif was met with music, flowers, kisses, and welcoming speeches. He was taken in armored limousines to the palace of honored guests. Ahmed and two plump schoolgirls, handpicked by Arif, sat in the car with him. Arif liked them very much. After the journey, they took Arif to a Finnish sauna, where the chosen schoolgirls gently washed him, and then he lovingly washed them. Clean and satisfied, they sat down to eat what the gods had sent.

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…

One would think they’d avoid that terrible tower, but no: they rushed there, jostling at the entrance, shoving each other, elbowing to give a blow, tripping each other or hitting the ear, stepping on the foot or the soul. The door was so narrow that two couldn’t pass, so everyone tried to break through first, just to be one of those who were worshipped, one of those who were feared, one of those who had the right to control the lives and deaths, property and careers, happiness or misery of thousands and thousands of people.

Ah, what a magnificent system they’ve created, what a new societal pyramid they’ve built, nothing compared to the ancient pyramids of Egypt and America, the Maya and the Aztecs; millennia of your experience were compressed into ten years, and they also managed to fit in the experience of Chinese mandarins and the rich experience of the Chinggisids. A vast historical legacy from which everyone draws according to their taste. One likes chocolate, another likes pork cartilage. "Only he who is worthy of life and freedom goes every day"… Goes where ordered, does what is told, thinks like everyone else, and everyone as one, and one is the Great Iosif Besarionis. An ideal state!…

Let the decadent, decaying enemies slander: police state… barracks… terror… Yes, terror: every ten years – a purge, every five years – a campaign… The campaign of devastation brought enormous income to the tower. But among the landowners appeared a new layer of strong masters; they had food, they had money, but no leader to openly declare their power…

Ahmed himself ordered Aman-Jalil to keep an eye on the guest, to be by his side all the time, not to leave even a step away, and to report to him personally about every step Arif took. Aman-Jalil eagerly assured the boss that he would try to occupy and talk to the guest so that none of Ahmed’s secret enemies could penetrate the palace of high guests. And at night, two plump schoolgirls would watch over Arif, submitting a written report every morning, which would be counted instead of an essay in native literature, to Aman-Jalil. Luckily for Ahmed, the regional inquisition chief was ill, and Aman-Jalil’s hands were free. Aman-Jalil’s men surrounded the high guest in a triple ring; not even a fly would pass through, Aman-Jalil himself killed flies, walking around the palace with a rubber thread, hunting them, an hour in the morning, an hour in the evening…

Aman-Jalil personally escorted Arif to the bedroom, respectfully supporting him by the elbow; he was very drunk.

– Let’s have a drink! – Arif proposed soberly, as if he hadn’t drunk so much just at the feast. – I have some whiskey; the Saxon chief sends it in exchange for cognac, stronger than vodka, but the taste is peculiar, you have to get used to it.

– If necessary, I’m ready! – Aman-Jalil responded seriously.

– Ready is good! – Arif smirked.

Aman-Jalil looked Arif straight in the eyes, not averting his gaze, with devoted and serious readiness. Arif took a bottle of whiskey from his suitcase, opened it, and poured it into glasses.

– With ice or will you dilute it with water?

– To be honest with you, dear guest, I’ve never drunk this whiskey, I can’t know! – Aman-Jalil admitted honestly.

– Ice is better, throw in a couple of cubes! – advised Arif, pushing a bowl of crushed ice towards Aman-Jalil.

All these preparations foretold a long conversation. Aman-Jalil was ready for it, and Arif wasn’t in a hurry, waiting for something, sizing up, appraising… He took out a bar of Swiss chocolate, broke it into pieces, so hospitably offered it to Aman-Jalil that his legs started to feel cold.

– Well, tell me! – Arif quietly suggested.

– What do you wish to know? – Aman-Jalil agreed readily.

– How you killed Sardar Ali and the witnesses?..

Aman-Jalil’s vision darkened and his breath caught. "Death, death!" – pounded in his temples. He decided to go all-in.

– You, comrade, are obviously interested in the details?

– Not the details. Everything!… Who ordered it… well, you know everything yourself, – Arif grumbled angrily, lighting a cigar with a golden band "Havana."

– Sardar Kareem conducted his own investigation into Ahmed’s affairs, and Ahmed instructed me to deal with him. We didn’t intend to kill him, just wanted to squeeze his throat… I succeeded, you saw the photos, they’re genuine, but Sardar Kareem didn’t give up, rushed into the Emir’s palace. As you understand, if he had managed to pass the papers through Nadir to Iosif Besarionis, our one and only father and teacher, Ahmed would have been finished, and hence, me even earlier. No need to tell you, comrade, but this couldn’t be allowed. We were lucky. Nadir wasn’t home. We kept an eye on Sardar Ali all the time and got rid of him quietly: we rented rooms nearby, and in the morning, when he settled down and fell asleep, unlocked the door, chloroformed his face so he wouldn’t scream, and threw him out the window into the courtyard. A painless death, like in a dream.

– Why did you get rid of the helpers?

– One of them looked into Sardar’s papers, understood everything, he wasn’t a fool. Together with him, we had to remove three more.

– Not two? We only found two with him.

– The pilot of Ahmed’s private jet as well.

– Why him?

– We flew there as three, I flew back alone… He would have figured everything out as soon as he read the newspaper, we have universal literacy.

Arif looked intently at Aman-Jalil.

– Are we being listened to?

– No, boss, I removed all the recording equipment myself, expecting this conversation.

– Then listen carefully, your answer depends on my decision: did you destroy those papers?

– Am I crazy?

– Does Ahmed know about them?

– No!

Arif smiled for the first time.

– I wasn't wrong about you. Keep them ready, when I'm leaving, bring them to the train. You can tell Ahmed that you convinced me of his loyalty to Iosif Besarionis, dispelled all doubts, destroyed all slander and libel.

– Ahmed will be pleased!

– I think so!… Listen, how do you feel about Iosif Besarionis? Many people don't like him.

– The word of the leader is my law! His smile is a reward! If he says: "Kill your brother!" – I'll kill him.

– Well said! The words of a man… Soon, we'll test you: words are not deeds, and we need men of action… You've given me an idea… Though, it's not for you to know…

…When a month later Aman-Jalil reads in the newspaper a brief notice that the former ambassador of the country in the French capital, a traitor who refused to return home, was sentenced to death and committed suicide by jumping out of the window of his house, he will remember Arif's words…

Aman-Jalil carefully caught every look from Arif, but he leaned back in his chair tiredly.

– We're done for today. Send me those two little ones and… the rest.

Aman-Jalil went to carry out the high guest's order but was stopped at the door.

– Wait!… Take the photographs you left in the room.

Aman-Jalil returned. Arif handed him the photos, but as soon as Aman-Jalil reached for them, Arif held onto them and, looking him in the eyes, said:

– And the original tomorrow night! Can you bring it?

Aman-Jalil's calmness surprised even himself.

– I'll do the impossible for you.

He hid the photos and left. On his signal, wine and exquisite snacks were brought in. After the snacks, two plump girls followed into Arif's bedroom.

Aman-Jalil hurried to Ahmed. On the way, he concocted a conspiracy and decided to include Kasym among the conspirators.

– Everything is fine, boss! – he reassured Ahmed. – A few scoundrels, including your relative Kasym, are behaving in such a way that it has reached the capital and the Great Leader. Arif didn't reveal names to me, but I’ll find out. He believed me that you have nothing to do with it, everything is fine.

Ahmed was pleased to hear that Aman-Jalil had skillfully averted the storm but frowned at the mention of Kasym.

– My relatives will eat me alive; I can't let you arrest that hooligan. Listen, take Arif to Nigar's concert tomorrow, secretly, don't tell anyone. If you catch Kasym doing anything, he's yours, but make sure Arif approves, understood?

– As you command, father! – whispered Aman-Jalil quietly and submissively.

Ahmed patted his cheek contentedly.

Arif was surprised to hear such an unusual proposal: to attend a famous singer's concert, and secretly at that.

– Why, dear? If something deserves your attention, send a servant, invite them, listen alone, if you want, pay them, their rates are low, if you want, don't pay, treat them royally, and if you don't like them, kick them out hungry.

– There are rumors, esteemed one, that the MC tells a story that speaks indecently about Iosif Besarionis's mustache.

– One such already disappeared on Bibir Island for such indecent hints and comparisons. He fell ill, and I personally included him in the barge list.

– The barge? – Aman-Jalil was surprised. – Ah, you mean it metaphorically?

– Literally, why metaphorically? We fill an old barge with the sick, take it out to the open sea. A small explosion, the barge sinks.

Aman-Jalil feigned admiration, immediately understanding who was the author of this economical idea.

– Genius, boss! Your Excellency, such inventions deserve a Nobel Prize. Higher, eh! No hospitals, no funeral team…

– Why haven't you taken the scoundrel yet? – Arif was surprised.

– Ahmed's wife's relative.

– Which number?

– It's complicated, your opinion will free Ahmed's hands.

– I see, the old fighter has softened, got mired in domesticity, softened by women's tears… Yes, you haven't forgotten? – he suddenly asked in a different tone and about something completely different.

– She'll be in bed with you at night.

Aman-Jalil almost laughed at the absurdity of the situation: he could, of course, find a replacement for Gulshan, especially since her face wasn't visible in the photos left in Sardar Ali's room, but Aman-Jalil didn't want to risk over such a "trifle." If he married a pregnant virgin, Ahmed's daughter, Gulshan wouldn't stop his progress to the tower. True, she might resist and not go to bed with Arif, she had already led the young driver to bullets, but Aman-Jalil had already devised a plan based on information about how Arif behaves in bed: he attacks like a beast on a lying victim and likes the victim to lie submissively and calmly, not twitching, and once sated, he turns his back to her and immediately falls asleep, waking up early in the morning and leaving to work in his office, forgetting about the partner.

– Everything will be fine! – he repeated unexpectedly firmly and harshly, crossing the final line separating him from his desired goal, and with it, crossing the line separating light from darkness. From now on, he was lost to goodness…

– Good! – Arif unexpectedly agreed. – I'll give you these two hours, but make sure there are no traces.

Aman-Jalil filled the streets around the theater with agents, but forbade them to enter the theater, so as not to arouse the slightest suspicion.

Three hours before the concert, Aman-Jalil remembered that Ayesha hadn’t called to inform him whether Kasym had taken the manuscript or not, and whether he would read it. Aman-Jalil rushed to the writer, alone, without security.

The writer, seeing him, paled, but tried to appear as a gracious host.

– What an honor! Such a guest brings joy to the house! Come in, dear Aman-Jalil…

– Why didn't you call me: did Kasym get the manuscript or not… I hope you gave it to him?

– You see, dear Aman-Jalil, I felt uncomfortable imposing my work on a famous actor. I asked his friend, the famous director Bulov, to give him my story. He handed it over.

– Call Kasym, ask, fool, couldn’t you have thought of that before. Trust, but verify!

Ayesha, now as anxious as Aman-Jalil, feverishly dialed Kasym’s number. He was at home, preparing for the concert.

– Dear Kasym, sorry to bother you, you’re probably preparing for the concert, I keep forgetting to ask if Bulov gave you my story?.. What, no! He told me he did, maybe you forgot?

Ayesha slowly put down the phone and started mumbling incoherently. Aman-Jalil slapped him to bring him to his senses.

– He didn't get the story?

The writer's dead look spoke more than words. Aman-Jalil knocked Ayesha down with a punch to the stomach and pulled out a Walther. Seeing the gun, Ayesha wet himself in fear, sobbing and groveling at Aman-Jalil’s feet. Aman-Jalil wanted to shoot him but a brilliant idea struck him at the last moment.

– I can always shoot him later, – he thought. – I need to salvage the situation.

After relishing the writer's terror for another minute, he ordered:

– Get up, scum. Quickly wash up, change clothes, you reek of piss like an old mule.

Ten minutes later, Ayesha was unrecognizable. When he came out of the bathroom, he smelled of French cologne. Another two minutes to dress in a formal suit.

– Take a second copy of the story, go to the theater, – Aman-Jalil instructed. – By any means, you must make Kasym read this story today. Or tomorrow you won’t see freedom, or even light.

Ayesha looked at him with slavishly devoted eyes and agreed to everything.

The terrified writer rushed to the theater by taxi. There were no strangers in Kasym’s dressing room, and his wife had stepped out. Ayesha boldly handed the manuscript to Kasym.

– Look it over, you might like it, though, honestly, it’s quite bold, I think, not the time…

Kasym, dressing and applying makeup, started reading the story, and the more he read, the more agitated he became.

– I didn't expect such genius from you, honestly… Why didn’t you bring it to me earlier, I would have learned it for today's concert, I'm tired of the same old reprises.

– Bulov, the scoundrel, let us down! I was busy, asked him to give it to you, and he… Listen, you have a phenomenal memory, learn it for the second act! – Ayesha innocently suggested.

– That’s an idea! – Kasym lit up. – I’ll move the reprises from the second act to the first, and read the story in the second. Decided!

The writer embraced Kasym and left the theater, informing Aman-Jalil on the way that everything was in order.

Kasym’s wife, Nigar, entered the dressing room.

– What did that scoundrel bring this time?… Another cheap piece?

– Why do you dislike him so much? He admires you, praises you everywhere…

– Better if he left us alone, talentless hack!

– Don’t spoil your mood before the concert, my joy… By the way, that "scoundrel" brought me a wonderful story. Here, read it!

And Kasym handed his wife the manuscript. She took it with such distrust that Kasym laughed. Nigar read the story carefully and, running her hand over her face, said:

– It can’t be!

– Don’t believe your eyes?

– I don’t believe it! Such a scoundrel couldn’t write such a wonderful story… No, I don’t believe it!

– I’ll read it in the second act.

– You’ve gone mad? Do you think they won’t figure it out?

– The audience today is good, the working class, if they figure it out, they won’t run to inform.

– Kasym, I beg you! Ahmed won’t cover for you forever.

– He will! He won’t have a choice… Yes, I’m showing a "fig in the pocket"! So what? The world won’t change because of it.

– This is not a fig, it’s a slap in the face. They won’t forgive you.

– They ignore these mosquito bites… Instead of calling for revolution, we settle for jokes and consider ourselves honest, but we’re no better than others…

– Do you think betraying or not betraying is the same? Informing or not informing, killing or not killing?

– We see everything, we know everything, we understand everything. If we cowardly remain silent, we’re no better than others. If we keep quiet, others, seeing us, also close their mouths, adapt. If the desire to survive is stronger, if the desire to keep comforts, a comfortable life, is stronger, then we’re animals, not predators, but herbivores. Sheep calmly watch their brother or sister being slaughtered. We’ve all become like that. We’ve lost the right to be called humans. We were promised freedom! The only freedom left is the freedom to choose: to cowardly, submissively remain silent or to go to torment, and even this freedom will soon be taken from us, everything is heading that way. A stone thrown from a mountain drags other stones behind it, each not posing much danger individually, but together they form an avalanche that sweeps away everything in its path: trees, houses, and people. And already the submissive will be swept away by this terrible force, and those weaker stones in the avalanche will crumble into dust from the weight, but the avalanche will continue to grow, until it loses its strength in fighting itself. It’s not enough to be honest with oneself, one must be honest with others. That’s the hardest part!