Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor - страница 50

– 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.