Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor - страница 21

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…