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.
