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"It's for your work."
"Mister," the guy said, "we just fixed the wheel. It costs twenty
"unicorns."
"Where are you going now?" Bemish asked.
"I am going to the Blue Ravine, to the village's left end."
"Get in," Bemish said, "I'll give you a ride." The village stretched
along the road, between the mountain and the canyon. It was rarely more than
hundred meters wide and about eight kilometers long. The guy squeezed
himself in a corner almost under the seat and kept silent. One could think
that he sat in the car first time in his life. "Hmm," Bemish thought, "on
the other hand, a master and an alien is giving him a ride for the first
time... I hope I am not compromising White Falcon clan's honor."
"How long has Ashidan been living in the castle?" Bemish asked.
"It's been two months, master."
"Does he drink?"
"No, master," the guy said nervously.
Bemish dropped the guy off at a field where girls in blue and red
skirts were already starting to dance and came closer to see what it was
that they grew in this field. He was going to ask for how long the peasants
had been growing this stuff but the bailiff rushed towards him. Bemish
turned around and drove away.
It was just before the sunset - he drove down a forest till he found a
nice lawn to the road's left. He drove into the lawn, turned the ignition
off, lifted the hood and gazed at the engine.
The carburetor was assembled like a bird's nest from many different
parts and the air filter was also taken from another car. The night thieves
from the only auto repair shop in the village had installed everything else
where they had taken it from.
Bemish turned around and drove back.
Kissur had already descended to the yard and they explored the castle
together. It was huge, the walls rose one after another like cabbage leaves.
The castle sat on the very mountaintop and only one road led to it from
the west. The outer wall hovered above an abyss on all the other sides and
the abyss had been hewed off for better defense, forming a wall smooth like
glass.
Kissur showed his guest a yard where Kanut the Falcon had been killed
and a small castle garden where Kissur's great grandmother had sinned with a
winged two-headed bull under an apple tree. Bemish told Kissur that tourists
from the whole Galaxy could visit the castle.
"This castle is not fit for tourists," Kissur smirked, "It does not
have disabled access." And he squeezed himself nimbly onto a narrow and
incredibly steep staircase spiraling along one of the outside walls.
Merriness ruled the castle in the evening - the grooms braided the
horses' tails, servants dragged out of the closets huge yew old bows,
wrapped in old rotten cloth with silver inscriptions. Bemish glanced into a
semi-dark stable and froze - Kissur, smiling coldly, was hiding a stubby
black assault rifle in a saddlebag.
Bemish stepped inside. Kissur lowered the woven bag lid.
"What game," Bemish asked, "are we going to hunt tomorrow?"
"In this area," Kissur said, "people have been hunting big game -
boars, bears - since old times."
A question hung on Bemish's tongue tip, "What kind of boar would you
hunt with an assault rifle?" But Bemish licked his lips and swallowed the
question.
They rode out before the crescent left the black sky, equipped the same
way as eight or hundred years ago - Kissur wore grey suede tall boots,
decorated with lilies, with high red heels but without spurs, green pants
and a red jacket girdled with a heavy belt made out of gold plates - every
plate depicted a beast or a fish. Kissur's overcoat was also green, with two
wide lanes sewn with golden mesh. A bow hung on his shoulder and a leather
quiver hung behind his back; arrow feathers, white like plastic foam, stuck
out of the quiver. A throw-axe hung at his belt and two yew javelins and a
sword hung at the saddle. The other nobles were dressed the same way. It
would be wrong to call it carnival dress - Kissur, like the majority of
Weians, dressed archaically even in the capital and he practically always
wore a wide necklace, made out of jade plates set in woven gold and
depicting falcons. As for Bemish, he clearly understood that his hunting bib
layered with PVC would call the local gods' fury at his head and they would
withhold the game that they guarded, from him. Now he felt like an impostor
in leather pants embroidered with silver.
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Before leaving, Kissur threw a piece of fresh meat on an altar next to
the gate and tapped a bare sword over a rock to attract the god's attention.
Bemish looked at the sword with interest; it was very heavy and long,
with a three edged blade and some engraving that looked like running horses
along its edge. The handle had been made in the shape of intertwined snakes.
Bemish asked why they needed a sword and Kissur replied that gods didn't
grant fortune without a sword since the road to the other world went along
its edge and they brought and took away beasts down this road.
They watched the sunrise from a mountaintop, aerial wind danced in
their horses' tails - they said that this wind used to mount fillies in
ancient times and black horses with white spots had been born of this wind -
shells scrunched occasionally under the hooves reminding that a sea had been
there millions of years ago. Then, Kissur espied a deer that also decided to
enjoy the sunrise and they released the dogs and rode following them.
There were five nobles - Kissur, Ashidan, Khanadar the Dried Date,
Aldon and Bemish, there were also eight dogs and three servants - they drove
the deer at Kissur and he, having opened his eyes wide and screamed wildly,
threw a spear handed to him by one of the servants. Painted yellow, with a
green pinecone on the end, the spear almost pierced the deer all the way
through easier than it pierced the old maple in Kissur's manor in the
capital. Suddenly the forest buzzed and leaves flew. Either it entered
Bemish's mind on its own or the gods gave him a hint, "Kissur will get in an
accident. The mountain took the horse yesterday, today..."
By noon, Bemish was drunk with blood, the servants lagged somewhere
behind, he, Kissur and Ashidan rode out to a lawn overgrown with red
flowers. Kissur, having ridden to another side of the lawn, was making out
moss on a tree, he was probably foretelling.
At this moment, a bear cub jumped out on the lawn and crazily rushed up
the tree.
"Don't do it," Kissur told his brother, "It's a bad omen."
But Ashidan had already pulled his bow and shot - the cub let the tree
go and fell. Ashidan jumped off the saddle and ran to the cub. The bushes
were pulled apart, a roar issued forth and a huge black and brown she-bear
barged in.
"Ashidan," Bemish screamed.
Ashidan turned around. The she-bear rose on her hind paws and the youth
stood in front of her, bewildered with a broken arrow pulled out of her son.
Bemish snatched at his gun. Before he raised his hand, Kissur had
rolled off his saddle with a sword in his hand and dived under the bear's
belly. Ashidan with a squeal jumped aside. Bemish fired. The bear swung its
paws heavily in the air and crashed on Kissur. She shuddered and froze like
a pile of peat dumped off a truck.
Bemish and Ashidan rushed to the bear.
"Kissur are you alive?"
No answer issued.
Bemish approached the bear and started pulling it by its ear. At this
moment the pile of seemingly dead meat moved and Kissur materialized.
"Damn," he bared his teeth, "sword..."
But the sword, after they had turned the bear over, appeared to be fine
- it had entered her belly almost all the way to the guard. They examined
her snout - the bullet hit the bear right in her eye.
Yes, the hunt was excellent, even Dried Date who was not capable of
smiling screamed and hooted. He sat at the fire next to Kissur's knees and
started singing his songs that Bemish had heard so many times from boom
boxes in the workers' barracks that he came to liking them.
They rode back in the dusk. The horses walked down the path two
abreast, black oily earth crumbled under their hooves, a forested slope rose
like a dark wall on the right, the fuzzy sun was rolling behind the faraway
mountains covered with gleaming snow like a cake glazed with white. The
birds fluttered up from under the hooves and life was wondrously good. "Oh,
my God, it's such a great place for a hotel," a thought passed Bemish's
mind. He was a practical man and he always sought for ways to adjust nature
to money.
After the bear cub accident, Ashidan saddened and it happened somehow
that Kissur and his retinue raced in front and Bemish lagged behind them and
rode next to Ashidan. The latter was pale - either due to the weed that the
peasants grew in a local field or because of Cambridge. Bemish leaned to
Ashidan and asked quietly,
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"Does Kissur know that you are a drug addict?"
"I am not a drug addict, I am just curious! I can stop this any
moment."
Bemish sniggered involuntarily. The youth shuddered. Then he abruptly
turned his grey eyes to the Earthman. His pupils were unnaturally
contracted.
It's not my fault, it's yours," he said, "Seven years ago Warnaraine
was ruled from this castle, and now it's a dump because there is no eight
line highway next to it! You have chased our gods away and what have you
given us instead, a Pepsi can?"
Ashidan grabbed the Earthman by his hand.
"This weed has always grown here! They ate it to speak to the gods! You
declared even talking to the gods to be a crime!"
"Come on, Ashidan! You don't converse to a god or a demon, you just
gobble this weed up to get high and you are afraid of Kissur because he will
throw you into a hospital for drug addicts or just chain you."
"I am afraid of the sword he took," Ashidan said, "I saw this sword in
Khanalai's hand and if people are killed, their souls enter their swords."
Khanalai was the rebel that fought Kissur seven years ago.
"Khanalai?" Bemish was astonished, "Have you met Khanalai?"
"He took me prisoner," Ashidan answered.
Bemish stared at the youth - he was young, slim like a snake and
incredibly beautiful, with golden hair and grey eyes heavily mascara coated
for the hunt.
"Oh, my God! How old were you?"
"I was fifteen, almost fifteen. Kissur entrusted me with five thousand
horsemen and Dried Date and Aldon's uncle - Aldon the Striped - were with
me. We should have waited for Kissur in the Black Mountains. But we heard
that down there, in the town of Lukhun, merchants had come in for a fair and
were bunched all together there because of the war. We decided to seize this
town because we would get more loot if we didn't wait for Kissur.
So, we approached this town with a guide and when the sun came out we
realized that it was a trap - Khanalai's army encircled us. Khanalai was
going to catch Kissur."
Ashidan rocked in the saddle.
I rode forward and challenged Khanalai to a duel. My shield had an
image of the White Falcon on it; Khanalai thought that Kissur himself got in
his trap. He really didn't want to fight but he had to accept the challenge.
He was afraid that his captains would mock him.
There is not much to say about this fight - Khanalai split my shoulder
and threw me to the ground like a kitten and then he removed my helmet to
cut my head off. He was really surprised and he asked me, "Who are you,
brat, to wear a White Falcon shield?" I told him that my name was Ashidan
and that my brother Kissur would avenge me and why wouldn't he just shut his
lousy trap and cut my head off. I was a very cute boy and Khanalai suddenly
took pity on me. He raised his sword and then he thought, "I will die - and
these words contained all the horror of irreversible, you couldn't sleep at
night having heard them. So, would it be worth it to bring the sword down?"
At least, that's what he told me afterwards. So he threw me like a wench
over his horse's back and rode to his army. And my army was obliterated down
to the last man. You see, it was a war very different from a war between two
countries. When one country and another country make a war, it's fair to
spare the enemy and to make him your vassal. While when a government fights
rebels, it's fair to obliterate the rebels completely.
"What happened to Dried Date?" Bemish suddenly realized.
"Dried Date and old Aldon were taken prisoners."
"And what happened next?"
They brought me and Dried Date to Khanalai's tent where he was feasting
after the battle and Khanalai said that he would like to hear a song about
this battle from Dried Date. Dried Date answered that the battle was not
finished yet because not everybody, supposed to be executed after this
battle, was executed and when Khalai executed everybody who was supposed to
be executed, there would be nobody left to sing this song. Khanalai grinned
and gave his new lute and his sword to Dried Date, and this sword was so
valuable that it cost more that Dried Date's honor. He sat and sang a song
of praise to Khanalai and I don't think that you'll ever hear it from Dried
Date or on a tape recorder. Then, Khanalai turned to me and said that he
would like to let me go. I was insolent to him. He paused and said, "All
right, they will crucify you tomorrow, brat. At first they will crucify
Aldon and then you."
|
"What happened tomorrow?"
"They brought Aldon and me out and Khanalai said, `If you let me pardon
you, I will let Aldon go.' I spit in his face."
Ashidan paused. He face paled completely and Bemish suddenly imagined
how cute a boy he had been at "almost fifteen."
"Khanalai rocked on his feet for a while and then said, `You are too
beautiful a boy to die.' They crucified Aldon and quarreled for a while and
then took me away."
"And what happened to Dried Date?"
"Dried Date sang songs of praise to Khanalai till he was offended, that
he, a man from a noble family, was serving a commoner who used to tread cow
dung in his childhood. He cut one of Khanalai's aides head off, threw it in
a sack and raced to Kissur with this ransom. And he also gave Khanalai's
sword to Kissur."
Ashidan paused and said, "I also met Khanalai's son there - we were of
the same age and the lad was quite gifted. I think that Khanalai took mercy
on me because of him. He asked me once, "What if Kissur gets a hold of my
son? Do you think he will let him live like I let you?"
"Yes," Bemish thought, "Kissur, however, didn't take mercy on
Khanalai's son and he didn't take mercy on anybody else."
"Hey," Khanadar the Dried Date shouted ahead, "have you fallen asleep?
Come here quickly!"
Bemish and Ashidan hastened their horses. The road split in two in
front of them, the riders grouped at the fork.
"We should go left," Kissur said, "We should visit Aldis so that the
next hunt would be even more fruitful than the last one."
"Well," Ashidan objected, "we won't reach the castle before nightfall."
"No problem," Kissur said, "we will sleep over at the old altar house."
Ashidan's face fell.
"Look," Khanadar said, "you aren't afraid of the old altar house, are
you?"
And he continued having turned to Bemish,
"Aldis the White Falcon is buried next to the old altar and two
families were assigned to take care of the grave. But they ignored their
duty and Aldis ate them and he liked it - he started climbing out every
night, chased passersby with all his retinue and herded them into his place
for a feast. A traveler passes by and sees a manor with lights on, and only
his bones are left by the morning. People took notice - if on a new moon
night there were fire and commotion at the old altar house - then, some
family would wail somewhere soon enough. They would have pounded a stake
down his coffin long time ago if he had been a commoner but they are afraid
of doing it - you know, he is Kissur's great grandfather." Ashidan grinned.
"It's not fitting to visit ancestors' graves with an Earthman
outlander," he said, "It's enough for a stranger that we took him for a
hunt."
"I have never hunted here before," Kissur answered, "and not shared my
booty with my ancestor."
And they rode to the old altar house, having dismissed the servants and
having tied the bear cub's body to a saddle.
The old altar house sat between a forest and a horseshoe shaped
mountain on the very edge of a sheer, as if cut with a knife, gorge. Behind
a black carved fence, one could see a roof tied in a knot; yellow light
issued forth from a round window, people's voices were coming from behind
the fence. Ashidan's face acquired a pallid color of toothpowder.
"Oh-ho-ho," Kissur said, "is Aldis getting rowdy again?"
The riders quietly dismounted, Kissur petted his horse so it wouldn't
neigh and stuck covertly a stubby assault rifle under his overcoat. A pine
tree, that had fallen last year, crushed the fence and miraculously spared
the chapel - they took a look over the tree log into a wide yard. There, on
a stone site, a small space boat Orinoko-22 stood looking like a striped
squash. People in body suits were standing in a line and passing sacks from
the altar house to the boat.
"Heia," Kissur said loudly, "that's called progress! Even ghosts can no
longer fly without engines!"
He bounced over the log and stepped in the lit circle. Frankly, it was
Kissur that looked more like a ghost here - a hunter in an ancient green
caftan with a yew bow hanging over his shoulder and his face painted with
blue stripes for the hunt - amidst people in flying suits who froze for a
moment next to a cargo hatch. The people dropped plastic sacks. Three guys
jumped out of an altar house window with long barreled lasers in their
hands. A horse quietly neighed - Khanadar and Ashidan stepped out into the
light from the other side, leading their horses.
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"False alarm," somebody said, "these are the landlords."
Kissur unhurriedly walked to a short round eyed character whom Bemish
recognized to be the local bailiff.
"Oh, it's you Lakhor. What are you doing here?"
"You know, my Lord," Lakhor said with a certain dignity, "We are
loading..."
Kissur placed his foot on a sack, dragged a hunting knife from his belt
and ripped the plastic cover from top to bottom.
"I swear by god's goiter," Kissur said, "Everybody around says "Lord,"
"Lord" to you, kisses your knees while you don't even know what it is that
you lord over. What are these oats you are hauling to the boat? Nothing but
oats has ever grown around here, if my memory doesn't fail me."
Kissur scooped up a bit out of the sack with his hand and sniffed it.
"No," he shook his head, "no way, oats could smell like this. Khanadar,
do you know what it is?"
Khanadar also picked a sack, tore it apart with his whip's claw, picked
some weed up and stuck it under his horse's nose. It neighed and turned its
head aside.
"No," Khanadar said, "I don't know what it is but it's not oats. Look,
Striped is putting its nose up and it doesn't want it." At this point, Aldon
the Lynx Cub joined the conversation.
"Hey, it's hemp," he said, "wolf's whisk." Weian zealots and local
serfs have used it since old times to visit the skies and now people carry
it to the Sky in plastic bags. I heard, they pay a lot of money for this
weed on the sky. Earthmen always pay a lot of money for what a horse put its
nose up away."
The only thing that Bemish couldn't understand was why they were all
still alive.
Here, Ashidan's breaking voice sounded.
"Kissur," he said, "it's my fault. I failed to ask your permission."
Kissur span around.
"Are you trying to say," he spoke with a phony astonishment, "that you
allowed my serfs to trade weed grown in my lands without asking for my
consent?"
"But I was not sure..." Ashidan started.
"Tell me," Kissur inquired, "who is the senior in our clan, you or me?"
"You are."
"And who owns the land and everything above it and below it, the senior
or the junior?"
"The senior does."
"Then, why are you breaking the law and pocketing the profit from this
business?"
"I was afraid that you won't understand..."
"Of course, I won't understand," Kissur thundered, "my serfs on my land
start a business and don't pay me two cents! Who should feed me, the
sovereign or my own holding?"
"My Lord, my Lord," round eyed Lakhor hurried, "We didn't know that
master Ashidan paid you nothing, I'll turn into a frog if we wanted to break
the law!"
At this point, a man in a flying suit ducked out of the cargo hatch.
"I bring my apologies, Mr. Kissur," he said in Interenglish, "We really
didn't know that you were not aware of our modest business."
Kissur looked him over from head to toes.
"How much do you pay my brother for a sack?"
"Ten."
"You will pay me twelve. I want money now."
"Do you think I have so much?" the pilot snapped.
"Don't cross him," Lakhor peeped in horror.
"I am waiting," Kissur said coldly, "or I will rip all the sacks
apart."
"Don't pick a fight with him," another Earthman said, "he is livid."
"You would become livid here," Khanadar the Dried Date objected, "when
your own serfs don't pay you their taxes fairly and you brother cheats you -
hasn't Ashidan promised you Kissur's protection?"
Kissur and the pilot disappeared in the hatch opening. Ashidan sat on
the log not raising his pale face. Bemish's mind was reeling. If Kissur
hadn't known whom he would meet at the old altar house, why had he brought
the assault rifle that he was now carefully hiding under his hunting coat?
And if he had known, why had he dragged Bemish with him? Did he think that
Bemish would keep silent? No, damn it, did he think that Terence Bemish
would swallow even that? Or would he suggest landing these boats in Assalah
spaceport?
Kissur and the pilot stepped out of the hatch again. The pilot was
smiling. It was clear that in his opinion he got away cheaply and found
himself such a protector that all Weian police would not be able to lay a
finger on him. Kissur stuck the money in his pants pocket and, having bent
his leg, placed it right in front of the pilot on a boarding ramp's aluminum
stair.
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The latter started looking around confusedly.
"Stupid," old Lakhor hissed, "Kiss the foot, the Lord's foot."
The Earthman shrugged his shoulders and bended down to the dusty boot.
At this moment, Kissur kneed the pilot under his chin. The pilot
squealed. His body flew upwards and Kissur's joined hands crushed his neck -
his backbone crunched.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bemish barely managed to see how Aldon
plucked Ashidan and threw him into the bushes. Kissur went flat behind a
steel landing support, whipped his gun out and started firing at the
confused people, Aldon and Khanadar joined the fray.
Three Earthmen with guns went supine, the fourth one, unnoticed by
Kissur, leaped out of the altar house. Bemish jumped at him and kicked his
gun away; both of them went to the ground. The gunman seized Bemish's throat
and started choking him. Bemish rolled on his back and quite nimbly kicked
the attacker in the place where legs grow from. The latter said "ouch"
loudly and let Bemish go but he immediately recovered and butted him in the
stomach and then punched him with the right hand. Bemish intercepted this
punch, seized the gunman's sleeve with his left hand and, with fingers
spread apart, hit him in the eyes. One eye burst and oozed down his cheek.
"Aaahhh!" the gunman screamed. In a tight embrace, they rolled down to
the abyss over boulders and hummocks.
Bemish banged a rock with his back badly and he fainted for a moment.
The gunman whipped an arrow out of the quiver, hanging behind Bemish's back.
The arrow was sharp and firm, with white icy feathers. A hexagonal titanium
tip gleaned in the moonlight above Bemish. "That's it," Bemish thought.
The smuggler dropped the arrow, however, and then he sighed and fell on
Bemish's chest. Bemish shook himself up and climbed from under his enemy's
body. A long knife was stuck in the guy's back and Khanadar the Dried Date
stood over the knife.
Date extended his hand and helped Bemish get up. They climbed the loose
rocks uphill to the lighted altar house and space boat.
Everything had already been done there. Bemish counted the corpses -
sixteen people, five wore body suits or jeans and the others were locals.
The gunpowder smell of shots mixed with the smell of fresh hemp and blood.
Ashidan sat on a rock holding his head in his hands.
Following Kissur's orders they gathered the corpses and the sacks next
to the altar house walls, poured gas over them and lit them on fire.
"I feel bad about the grave," Khanadar said.
"It's desecrated now, what can we do?" Kissur responded. Still, he
untied the bear cub off the saddle and threw it in the fire.
Afterwards, Kissur tore off the emergency control seals, turned the
safety block off and started clicking the switches till the main screen
swelled red and screamed in an ugly voice.
"Mount," Kissur yelled, running out of the space boat. Khanadar had
already leaped across the broken fence and he was prancing on his horse next
to the forest.
"Should I repeat it for you?" Kissur screamed at Ashidan, "It will blow
up in a moment."
Ashidan raced following the others.
It blew up in such a way that the moon almost dropped off the sky and
fire imps leaped out of the mountains and danced over the altar house left
behind; when people in the village found the remnants, they said, with
astonishment, that old Aldis had dragged stupid travelers from the sky to
him and nothing good, of course, had come out of it.
With his head low, Ashidan rode between Aldon and Khanadar and Khanadar
held his horse's reins.
Bemish rode behind everybody. He didn't feel all that good. A dull pain
walked up and down where his spine had banged against the rock and his side
was skinned in places. Kissur suddenly slowed his horse a bit and waited for
his friend.
Kissur jabbed Bemish with his elbow and said, with a laugh,
"So, Earthman, admit that your feet got cold? Admit that you decided I
would ask you to land this boat next time in Assalah spaceport?"
"You should have called police in."
"I," Kissur said, "am the master over this land's taxes and courts.
What would have happened if I had called police? Firstly, I wouldn't have
found this boat, because our justice is worse than a whore and they would be
warned away. When the justice sells out, a man should take it in its own
hands. Or do you think that I acted wrongly?"
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"Yes," Bemish answered, "I don't think that you acted right. It was not
justice you cared about but rather shame besmirching your clan's honor. If
you had executed people accordingly to their guilt, Ashidan would have been
executed first since he knows perfectly well that selling drugs is a crime,
unlike a stupid old serf who did what his master told him to and anyway he
had no clue that it's illegal to eat this weed, since all the shamans in
this village have been eating it for the last thousand years and so what?
You would have given him couple lashes and sent him away."
They rode down a broad dark path between the abyss and the cliff and
the sky on the other side of the cliff was red and crackled.
"Ashidan," Kissur quietly called out, "do you hear what Terence is
saying? He is saying that your guilt is larger than that of people who are
dead already and it's not fair."
Even in the light brought by the moon and by the faraway fire one could
see the youth's shoulders shaking.
"Get off the horse, Ashidan," Kissur ordered. Ashidan dismounted.
Kissur also jumped down and pulled the sword with the intertwined snakes
handle out of the sheath fastened to the saddle.
"Get on your knees," Kissur ordered.
Ashidan wordlessly kneeled next to the abyss. The wind started playing
with his golden hair and it glistened in the moonlight. Ashidan lowered his
head and pulled his hair off the base of the neck with his own hand.
"It would have been better," Kissur spoke, "if you had died of his
sword eight years ago and not now," and he raised the sword over the
brother's bowed head.
Bemish jumped off his horse and seized Kissur's hand.
"Isn't enough for today, Kissur? You are drunk with blood."
"You said it yourself," Kissur objected, "that I acted unfairly. I
don't want people to say that about me."
"Damn it," Bemish said, "you did everything correct. Let the lad be."
"Get in the saddle, Ashidan," Kissur spoke quietly.
In a week, Bemish returned to the capital. He was buried up to his neck
in work, he had to attend a benefit dinner, a risk strategy and investment
conference, a Fall Leaves celebration in the palace, and a negotiation round
with the management of a Chakhar company that Bemish had plans for.
Ronald Trevis was also at the conference, he gained some weight since
they had met last time and, as Bemish learned, he had exchanged his third
wife for a fourth one. Shavash invited both friends to join his retinue and
visit Chakhar and after the vice minister had introduced the two Earthmen to
the company director, the negotiations were concluded surprisingly quickly.
In the evening, Bemish and Trevis suddenly found themselves at a villa
with Shavash while the rest of his retinue hung out at another hotel. The
guests were served an incomparable dinner but, when the girls that had
circling around the guests left and a waiter from the security department
brought a counter surveillance device with the desert, Bemish realized that
the serious conversation was just starting.
"I would like," Shavash said, leaning back in his armchair and putting
an empty bowl for the glazed fruits aside, "to discuss with you our state
debt. We are stuck all the way to our ears. The interest payments alone are
bigger that one third of our GDP."
"I wouldn't say that you have a large state debt," Trevis mentioned,
"You just have a very small GDP."
"That's what I have in mind," Shavash nodded, "when I suggest
restructuring the debt."
Trevis bounced in his chair about to protest against this idea but
Shavash's next words caused his eyes to pop out.
"I think that it would be possible to create a private company that
will be responsible for paying interest on certain state debt tranches and
this company will obtain Chakhar."
"What do you mean, Chakhar?" Trevis was astonished.
"I mean Chakhar or any other province where this company would be able
to collect taxes, make laws and build factories. If a province frightens
you, you can limit yourself with some mining deposits."
A long silence ruled the table.
"Shavash, aren't you afraid that someday they will arrest you for
treason?" Trevis finally inquired.
|
The small official shrugged his shoulders.
"Why? It's just a way to decrease budget expenses. If a company doesn't
pay the state debt out, it will, of course, loose the license. I've already
talked to Dachanak and Ibinna and they are ready to be the company's
co-founders. Mr. Bemish will fit perfectly there and as for you," here
Shavash smiled charmingly at the banker, "I would like you, Ronald, to
handle the negotiations with the bonds' owners."
Ronald Trevis leaned forward - his eyes reflected the lights from the
candles burning on the table and the green illumination coming from the
counter surveillance device. "He will never stop," a thought passed Bemish's
mind, "He will handle the most fantastic deals for Shavash because Shavash
can offer him what nobody has ever done in the Galaxy yet. He will be a
consultant if Shavash asks him to privatize the ministry of finance."
Three days later, Bemish dropped by Assalah, for a couple of hours - he
was accompanying a Galactic Bank committee.
The committee was shown a new section of finished launching pads,
numbers seven to seventeen, and was escorted down the unfinished but already
working spaceport building with twelve underground service floors and a
fifteen story tower that housed Bemish's office on its very top.
Bemish entered his office with the bank vice president and
contemplated, smiling slightly, his table covered with a barely perceptible
layer of dust.
After the committee had left, Giles walked into the office.
"How is Kissur's castle?" the spy inquired.
Bemish mumbled something vague.
"By the way," Giles said, "satellites observed a space boat explosion
in this area. It was something like a Colombine or a Trial with a boosted up
engine - they use them to traffic drugs. By any chance, have you heard about
it?"
"I witnessed it," Bemish said. "Kissur blew up the boat. Before that,
he torched ten million worth of drugs and killed sixteen men. Afterwards he
almost cut his own brother's head off. Ashidan was involved in the
business."
"Did you memorize the space boat's license plate number?"
"It was D-3756A Orinoko, if the plate wasn't a fake."
Giles paused.
"Do you think that Kissur took you with him on purpose? Did he know
that we suspected him in drug trafficking and that they had refused his
application to the military academy exactly because of this?"
"Yes. Only, Kissur is a proud man and he will die before he says it out
loud."
Giles was biting his lips.
"Where is Ashidan now?" he asked finally.
"Ashidan stayed in the castle. More precisely, he stayed in the
castle's cellar." Bemish specified.
He paused and added,
"You said that you had proof of Kissur's connection to drug dealers.
Where did you get this proof?"
"Make a guess."
"Shavash?"
Giles nodded and spoke,
"But he could just be mistaken."
Bemish blew up and banged his fist on the table,
"There is no way this bastard could be mistaken!" he screamed, "You can
fool the Earthmen from a sky far away and tell them that Kissur traffics in
drugs! You can't fool Shavash! He has better spies that all the local
gangsters combined! He knew for sure that Kissur had nothing to do with it!
But he also knew that Kissur, if cornered, would sooner or later break his
head!"
"But Shavash is Kissur's friend..."
"Friend? The only thing he wants is to get into Idari's bed! If Kissur
keels over, before a year goes by, Idari will have a choice - either to go
bumming or to marry Shavash!"
Giles looked at Bemish and said suddenly,
"I think that Mrs. Idari will also have the third alternative - to
marry the Assalah spaceport director. Not that a barbarian from the stars
could really allure her..."
The Eleventh Chapter
Where Terence Bemish's assistant goes to the sectants' meeting in
Imissa while Kissur the White Falcon looks around the Galaxy for abandoned
warheads.
Two days later, Ashinik returned to the spaceport and he didn't drop a
word about the Inissa meeting. It could not be ruled out that the zealots
had made certain decisions and that these decisions could include an order
for Ashinik to plant a bomb for Bemish or to throw it down a launching
chute. But Bemish didn't have time to think about it.
|
Three days later, Bemish wandered into his office for half an hour to
dictate a whole pile of documents, Ashinik interrupted him calling from
somewhere in the port.
"Mr. Bemish, could you find an hour for me? There is a man here who
would like to meet you. "
"What man?" Bemish asked.
"It's an... old man."
Bemish was quite impressed. He cleaned up his office and changed his
jacket, just in case; he hung his regular one in the closet and picked out a
light grey jacket that had one very useful feature - it could resist a laser
burst at a three meter distance.
Ashinik led into the office an eighty-year-old man in peasant clothing,
with white and bushy eyebrows, straight back and a square cap on a seemingly
bald head. The old man looked at the Earthman with scary bulging eyes.
"You," the old man said, "are the boss of this place. And who am I?"
"You are probably," Bemish said, "the boss of the people who don't like
this place."
"We don't have bosses," the old man declared, "We have students and
teachers."
Bemish had nothing to reply, so he asked, "Would you like some tea?"
Strangely, the old man agreed. Bemish ordered it and soon Inis entered
the office carrying a tray with a teapot, cups, and several baskets filled
with sweet cookies.
The old man disapprovingly stared at Inis' skirt. It was exactly one
meter shorter than what he would consider decent. Even Bemish, in the back
of his mind, disapproved of Inis strolling in this skirt anywhere outside of
his bedroom. But what could he do? Inis enjoyed very few things besides
skirts and earrings and Bemish felt sorry for her and never contradicted her
about her skirts.
The main demon and the arch foe of the demons silently drank tea for a
while.
"How are you going to scamper from here to the sky?" the White Elder
asked. "I walked around your construction and I saw holes going down but I
haven't seen any ladders going to the sky."
"We don't use ladders," Bemish explained patiently, "to go to the sky.
We use space ships. Before starting, these ships stay in underground chutes,
like pigeons resting in a pigeon house between flights."
The White Elder looked at him with interest and Bemish started
explaining where to and why ships flew. He tried very hard. He even got to
the concept of an escape velocity when the old man interrupted him and
asked, "Ok, I believe that you fly to the sky and not underground. But why
wouldn't you still build a ladder so that people don't get confused?"
Bemish suppressed a desire to burst into hysterical laughter. Then he
recalled the stories about the zealots' cunning and how they enjoyed placing
a man in absurd situations and watching his actions. What if the old man
understood everything about space ships? He knew exactly that Bemish would
be able to explain to him what an escape velocity was but he didn't know
what Bemish would do after such a question.
Bemish hadn't exactly shown himself in the best light and he stuck his
nose in the tea cup.
"Listen," the old man said, having realized that he wouldn't get an
answer, "you talked to this puppy and to Kissur and to the great sovereign
and even to this briber Shavash and you managed to find the common ground
with everyone. How have you managed it?"
"I don't know," Bemish said. "It probably happened because I always try
to speak truth. People rarely tell the truth to each other. They either
flatter each other and think that they are lying or they are rude to each
and think that they are telling the truth. But they tell the truth very
rarely."
"What truth will you say about yourself? Will you admit that you are a
demon?"
"No," Bemish said, "I will not lie and say that I am a demon and I will
not say that you are wrong. You see, I grew up in a country where they think
that the people are always right. If so, many people feel themselves
slighted, they must have reasons for it. If so many people hate Earthmen
they must have reasons for it. I think that the main reason is that you are
poorer than Earthmen. And I think that the only way to change it is to help
you to become as rich as Earthmen. That's why I am building this spaceport."
|
"You are connected to some very bad people," the old man said, "For
instance, to a man named Shavash. He is a backside of the world, a jerboa
turned into a man, a filthy duck with seven tongues and no soul. His black
shadow found its way into our counsel and his black shadow stretches over
the construction. Think upon my words."
Having said this, the old man stood and left without bowing. Ashinik
rushed out with him.
Three more days passed and Ashinik said, "Mr. Bemish, if you wish to
talk to the White Elder again, you should be in the capital, in the hotel
Archan the day after tomorrow at the dew hour."
Bemish couldn't fall asleep throughout the night. Archan was
unquestionably the Empire's most luxurious hotel. It was located in the
Emperor's palace territory, where the place where the Cloud Houses for
visiting officials used to be. Archan retained all the crazy luxury of the
dwellings built for visiting provincial governors and judges of the ninth
rank; additionally it acquired all the newest comforts, including
computerized climate control. Evil tongues added that Archan also retained
hidden passages that executioners had used to visit the governors called to
the capital to receive capital punishment. The medieval spy holes had been
adapted for communication equipment and much more modern surveillance
hardware had taken over.
The fact that White Elder stayed at Archan and not at a five star
Hilton demonstrated that the sect not only had considerably more money that
Bemish had suspected before but it also had some patrons at the very top.
Who were these patrons? Clearly, it was not Shavash. The old man spoke about
Shavash with fresh disgust. Bemish was ready to swear that an informer of
Shavash's had either been near Iniss or even attended the meeting itself and
that crabs had already feasted on him.
Bemish lay in his bed and thought that maybe he, the main demon of the
Empire, who never sent spies, never bribed and never intrigued, managed to
succeed where the cunning official Shavash failed. He managed to make the
White Elder, the Earthmen's enemy, reconsider his policy.
"You are absent-minded tonight," Inis said. "Has anything happened?"
Terence smiled in the dark.
"It's nothing. Sleep little one."
The woman carefully caressed his chest.
"Oh, Mr. Bemish, I can feel that you are troubled. I hope that it's not
due to the accounting error I made yesterday. If it's something else, why
don't you tell me about it?"
Bemish smiled slightly imagining Inis advising him. She, however, was
right - he, indeed, needed advice.
Bemish climbed out of bed and, having walked to the bathroom, dialed a
number. Surprisingly, he heard an answer immediately even though it was
quite late.
"Mrs. Idari? This is Bemish. I need to talk to you."
"I am listening, Terence."
"It's not a phone conversation. I will be in the capital in two hours.
May I see you?"
"Yes."
Idari met him in the large living room. Bemish didn't ask about
Kissur's whereabouts - the majordomo had already whispered to him that
Kissur was on a pub crawl accompanied by two barbarians and one bandit.
Idari wore a solemn house mistress dress - long black pants and a black
blouse. The blouse's sleeves were embroidered with entwined flowers and
stems. She was girdled by a wide belt of silver segments. She walked by
Bemish carefully stepping on the beasts and grasses weaved on the rugs and
Bemish felt as if her feet were stepping on his heart.
Bemish sat down in a soft chair in the small living room and Idari sat
cross legged across him on the carpet.
"I am meeting the White Elder tomorrow," Terence said.
Alarm crossed the woman's face.
"Be careful, Terence, it has to be a trap. They can kill or kidnap you.
You have tamed a kitten Ashinik but don't think that you have learned a
forest tiger's habits."
"It's not a trap," Bemish said. "They can't set a trap for my body in
that place. But... You see... The sect is ready to reconsider its policy
towards Earthmen."
Idari smiled with her blue eyes.
"I... I was happy at first. I was able to do what Shavash couldn't. You
know how dangerous they are. But now I am afraid. The White Elder is doing
me a huge favor. He will ask something in return. An eye for an eye. I want
to know what it will be."
|
"It's very simple," Idari said. "They say you are the foreigner who is
the closest to the sovereign. The White Elder will ask you to persuade the
sovereign to dismiss Shavash."
Bemish shuddered. The negotiations concerning the company that would
obtain a half of Chakhar's ore deposits in exchange for taking
responsibility of one of the state loans were proceeding at full speed. The
company even had a name, BOAR project. Nobody knew about the project yet,
but...
"But... But... Oh my God, it's impossible! Shavash will bankrupt me!"
The woman smiled imperceptibly.
"You should have realized what could happen, Terence, when you offered
Ashinik a job. Or do you think that would have let Ashinik
serve a demon if they hadn't thought that the demon had made himself a snare
they could catch him with?"
Bemish arrived at Archan at eight thirty.
The hotel's malachite columns gleamed and the mirrors on the lobby's
walls were inlaid with the thinnest silver layers on top. Above the mirrors,
where the gods had been depicted in the past, elegant clocks were now set;
they showed the local time, Melbourn time - Melbourn being the Federation of
Nineteen capital during this decade - and time in London, New York, Khoine
and in a dozen other largest Galaxy's business centers.
A certain disturbance was taking place in the hotel's lobby, a palace
guardsman in a green caftan (palace guardsmen were in charge of hotel
security) was silently and forcefully pushing a journalist with a camera
away. Bemish approached the registration desk and expressed a wish to talk
to the resident of room number fifteen on the hotel phone. The girl behind
the desk was quite surprised. A hand touched Bemish on the back and the
hand's owner turned Bemish around to face him in a somewhat impolite manner.
"My dear fellow," he started unceremoniously and then he choked,
thought a bit and asked tightly, "Mr. Bemish?"
"That's me."
The man with palace guard captain insignia was clearly nervous.
"Excuse me," he said, "do I understand correctly that you were
inquiring about the resident of the room number fifteen?"
"Yes," Bemish said exasperatedly, "I have a meeting with him at nine."
"It's impossible."
"Why?"
"An hour and a half ago the man who stayed in the room number fifteen
and two bodyguards of his were killed by a bomb that exploded in the room."
Bemish put his elbows on the desk and squeezed his temples with his
hands in anguish and, right at that moment, a journalist hiding behind a
large flower pot happily clicked his camera.
In half an hour Bemish rushed up Shavash's city manor staircase. The
vice-minister was drinking his morning tea in the blue living room.
"What happened, Terence?" he stood up in astonishment, meeting Bemish.
"Murderer!" Bemish shouted.
"What's happened?"
"Don't play games with me!"
"Are you talking about the Archan accident? Terence, honestly, I have
nothing to do with it..."
Shavash's face demonstrated sincere surprise and affection. Bemish's
fist collided with this affectionate face maybe not at a half of his full
power but definitely at one third of it.
Shavash flew to the floor. He squeaked, rolled on the carpet and jumped
on his feet. His face burned and a red mark stretched across his left cheek.
"Listen, Terence," the official said, chewing on his lips, "you will
fall out the zealots' favor this morning. It will be bad if you also fall
out of my favor..."
Bemish sagged heavily in a chair.
"Well, tell me what happened."
"There is nothing to tell you. You know it all. This morning I was
supposed to meet the White Elder in Archan. The White Elder was going to
reconsider his attitude towards Earthmen. Now he is as dead as a wasted frog
and, since it happened thanks to his meeting with an Earthman, the zealots
will consider us demons just as they considered us before. They will also
remain banned and, being more dangerous for the country, they will be less
dangerous for you, Shavash."
The small official grinned.
"Don't you think Terence that if you meet a man who signed a death
warrant to your friend, you should let you friend know about it?"
|
"No."
Shavash threw himself back in the chair. His voice became flatter and
less caressing.
"Suppose," Shavash said, "that somebody informed me about the White
Elder's stay in Archan and his meeting with you. Don't I know the conditions
of this meeting and what they asked you to do so that Earthmen would stop
being demons?"
"They didn't ask me anything."
"They would have asked my resignation from you."
"And it's better for you to kill a man who could make a peace between
Earthmen and millions of people that to resign, isn't it?"
"Oh, Terence, you don't understand anything. Tell me, what could you
tell the sovereign that the sovereign could revoke my appointment?"
"What?! One tenth of what I know..."
"Exactly. You can get me to resign only based on the deals we have
handled together. And if my part in these deals is known, would I keep
silence about your part? And if your part is known, even the moderate
newspapers will agree that you are a demon."
Shavash spread his hands.
"The White Elder had no intention of making peace with Earthmen. He was
going to use you as a tool to cause my resignation and your own destruction
while the sect's attitude would not change a bit. I think that this decision
was made in Inissa during the same sect's meeting that you beloved Ashinik
attended."
"This is bullshit," Bemish said, "This is bullshit that you don't
believe, because if it had happened this way, you would have just talked and
told me that the White Elder was leading me by my nose. Instead of that you
killed him, because they came to another decision at the sect's meeting."
"Actually, I was going to talk to you," Shavash replied, "today, after
your meeting with the White Elder. But somebody outwitted us both."
"Who is it?"
"It's Yadan."
"Who?"
"He is the teacher of your Ashinik, the number two man in the sect who
will become the first one now. I bet that he was the only one who knew or
suspected about the White Elder's plan to throttle you with your own hands.
He killed him to take his position, knowing that in the current
circumstances half Weia would blame me for the murder and the other half
would blame you."
"Bullshit! I saw enough to be sure that it was a professional
assassination. Should I believe that the same people who call all the Earth
technology a phantom, used sinex explosives?"
"They call it a phantom but they can use it quite well, Terence. Don't
worry. And they have many more opportunities to organize an assassination; I
can bet my life that it was a suicide bomber."
Ashinik spent this night in the company director's bed with Inis, as he
spent all the other nights when Bemish was away from the spaceport. He
learned about the accident from the morning news report, right from one of
the multiple screens hanging in a lounge that Ashinik was passing through.
Ashinik stood in silence boring the screen through with his eyes. A
worker passed by and slid a note into the lad's hand. He unwrapped and read
it; the note ordered him to attend a meeting at one of the sect's secret
places - an old temple next to a tavern three hundred kilometers to the
north from Assalah.
Ashinik paled and hurried to an exit.
They waited for him at the exit - two people in black and white
uniforms of the security service silently blocked his way. Ashinik made an
attempt to turn aside.
"Follow us, vice-president," an officer said quietly, "the boss would
like to talk to you."
He raised his hand to his mouth and spoke into a round badge on his
wrist,
"We are going upstairs, sir,"
Richard Giles, the spaceport security head was waiting for Ashinik in
his white soundproof office on the tower's twelfth floor. When Giles saw the
vice-president who actually outranked him, he didn't even move.
The people in black and white uniform seated Ashinik in an armchair and
left at a sign from their boss. The office doors slid towards each other
behind their backs with a soft hiss; Ashinik and Giles were alone.
"Have you introduced the White Elder to Terence?" Giles asked.
It was useless to deny it.
"Yes."
"Why haven't I been notified?"
|
"It's Mr. Bemish's prerogative," Ashinik answered, "If he had liked to,
he would've let you know. When I came to work here, Bemish promised me that
I didn't have to answer any questions and I haven't been asked anything so
far."
"That was under different circumstances. What did Bemish and the White
Elder talk about?"
"I don't know."
"What was discussed at your sect's meeting in Inissa?"
"I won't tell you."
"Either you, Ashinik, tell me what happened in Inissa or I will tell
Terence in whose bed you sleep every night that he spends outside of the
spaceport, including tonight."
Ashinik paled.
"And I can even show him some pictures." Ashinik sat motionlessly.
"What happened in Inissa?
"We... we agreed not to consider Earthmen to be demons."
"How interesting... Why?"
"It was my suggestion."
"Did everybody support it?"
"The White Elder agreed. That was enough."
"What about the others? Who was against it?"
"Yadan, Akhunna and a man nicknamed Garlic Dan were against it."
"Why did the White Elder agree?"
"He said that he would make peace with the spaceport's boss if the
latter broke up with Shavash."
"Aha. So, who killed the White Elder, Shavash or Yadan?"
"I don't know."
"What will happen to you?"
Giles was silent.
"Ashinik, have you received anything from the sect after the
assassination?"
"No."
Giles looked at the youth carefully.
"When you receive anything, let me know."
Ashinik was silent.
"Ashinik, don't you understand? You were the one who supported making
an agreement with Earthmen! You will be the next victim after the White
Elder. They will kill you if you are not with us!"
"I know," Ashinik said quietly.
Giles sighed.
"Listen, Ashinik," he spoke suddenly, "why have you gotten involved
with Inis? She is a dumb broad; you can get a bunch of them for an ishevik."
In the evening Ashinik sat at the same table again, together with Giles
and Bemish. Wind and engines howled behind a huge dark window, the glares of
the beacons darted across the landing field and chunks of pollen from
blooming nut trees traveled back and forth over the landing space.
Technicians cursed under their breath - the pollen found its way inside all
the hardware. Superstitious locals said that it was a bad omen. Pollen
whirlwinds were always considered to be witches and the places where they
moved particularly high were known to be damned.
On the space field open to the winds and to the powerful blows from
plasma engines the witches danced their best.
"When are you meeting Yadan?" Bemish asked.
Ashinik was silent. He had burned the note long ago but its words still
flared inside his mind. Should he answer or not?
But here Giles entered the conversation.
"We know that a courier from Yadan arrived in the spaceport territory.
He gave you a note. When did it happen?"
"Nobody has given me any notes. Where is your courier? Have you
arrested or photographed him?"
"No," Giles admitted.
"Why not?"
"Shavash's people saw him. They told me."
"Don't you understand that Shavash lied to you," Ashinik asked, "and
that you can't believe a single word of his?"
"Listen, Ashinik," Giles said, "I know that after the death of your
sect's head, the new head has to be elected in two days. And I know that as
a member of the upper circle, you have to be there because otherwise the
meeting will be invalid. Where and when do you meet?"
"I don't know."
Giles grabbed the youth by the lapels of his jacket.
"Idiot! Do you understand that they called you there to kill you? You
will get out of there alive only if you agree to kill Terence!"
Ashinik paled. His pupils suddenly dilated covering his whole eyeballs.
"Don't touch me, demon!" the youth suddenly screamed.
Bemish leaped up. Ashinik's face was contorted and foam bubbled on his
lips - a fit started.
Ashinik was carried away and then an inner door to Giles' office opened
and a man, who had watched the conversation from the next room, walked out
of it; it was Shavash.
"Are you sure that a meeting will occur?" Giles asked.
"I am three hundred percent sure," Shavash replied. "The top of the
sect will be there. It's our only chance - to pick them all and cut them
down to a demon's snot!"
|
"It's your only chance," Bemish said through his teeth.
"Terence! We are both in the same shit here. Zealots are not like
Galactic police. Nobody is gonna care whether it was you or me who sent the
bomb to the White Elder. They will finish both of us off. Give me Ashinik."
"What do you mean?" Bemish inquired.
"Are you a child?"
And a private jail's owner made a straightforward gesture with his hand
as if he was squeezing water out of a sheet.
"No," Bemish cut him off.
"Ronald will be very angry with you," Shavash purred. "He has already
started the negotiations with the owners of large debt blocks. If you don't
join BOAR stock owners..."
"I will think about it," Bemish said in a suddenly low voice.
Shavash didn't insist. He knew that the Earthman had never exchanged a
friend's life before for a certain - even if very large - amount of money
and he thought that a man had to get used to such a thought.
He stopped talking and he excused himself soon. Giles stepped out to
walk him down. On the space field where nobody could overhear them, Giles
whispered several words to Shavash and the latter smiled at the spy with his
eyes.
Ashinik woke up late at night. He was in the medical room on the fifth
floor and the sky blinked red and blue behind the window.
He didn't remember what exactly happened before and during the fit. It
seemed like this demon, Shavash, demanded something from him. A demon? How
could it be a demon? Shavash is a Weian. But Yadan is also a Weian and he
killed the White Elder. Only a demon could kill the White Elder. Then, are
the zealots demons? No, they only invent demons. But if you invent somebody,
you will turn into him...
Ashinik sat up in bed with a jerk. He remembered now. He, as a member
of the first circle, was called to the sect's meeting. If he doesn't arrive,
he will be outlawed. What if he arrives? It's crazy. The Earthmen are
watching him. He will act as a bee leading them to its beehive and they will
burn the beehive out with their rocket launchers.
Ashinik looked around. The room wasn't large and though he couldn't see
anything out of ordinary around him, Ashinik felt as if the closed circuit
cameras were zooming in at him from all directions. Ashinik dug in his
clothing hanging on a chair next to him and fished out a flat pebble with
two holes. They had given him this pebble at Inissa meeting and told him
that the pebble had been bewitched and it would render all Earthmen
electronic eyes impotent.
Ashinik smiled bitterly; he knew all too well that no sorcery would
help against a video camera. "If I don't come and use surveillance as a
reason they will accuse me of unbelieving into the power of the holy
talisman," a thought glanced in his mind.
Why would they watch him though? He usually stayed in bed for a day or
two after a fit. Who would figure it out that the foam on his lips came from
a "foamy nut" that he had chewed on and that he fainted from this nut for a
couple of hours at most.
At the same time he needed to leave due to a very simple reason.
Ashinik couldn't rely on Bemish's behavior. It's true that the Earthman had
been very magnanimous so far but it had also been in his interest. Now
Bemish was utterly interested in the destruction of the sect and he would
doubtfully be particularly nice to Ashinik.
Ashinik stood and pulled on the door handle. It was not locked but the
corridor it led to was blocked by a closed department door in two or three
meters. Ashinik knew it for sure that unlocking this door would be
dangerous. It was connected to the night alarm system in case of thieves and
other accidents.
Ashinik stuck his nose into a couple of offices. They were mostly
filled with medical equipment. Two rooms teemed with plastic paint buckets
and other construction paraphernalia - they were being furnished. Sharp
paint smell hadn't disappeared completely yet and the workers laboring here
during the day had left a window ajar.
A couple of disgustingly dirty worker overalls lay on the floor.
The next moment, Ashinik's eyes gleamed and he rushed to where the
paint was. Yes! A small white roll, about an elbow wide, was there, behind
the plastic buckets. It was not a rope, no; it was just sound resistant
insulation tape that was used for seal soundproofing linnit blocks. Ashinik
knew, however, that the tape was incredibly strong - the construction
workers loved to sell it on the side to the peasants who wove horse
harnesses out of it. The tape length in a standard pack was sixty meters but
the workers had already utilized some. By Ashinik's estimate, about one
sixth of the tape had been used. It should be enough for eighteen floors.
Ashinik pulled torn overalls over his pajama, walked to a window and wrapped
the tape's end around the window frame. He briefly prayed to the White Elder
and climbed out of the window.
|
The descent was hard. The tape was sticky just to the right degree and
it was unwrapping slowly under Ashinik's weight. Sometimes it got stuck and
Ashinik had to pull the tape off jerkily with one hand while hanging from
the other one.
In five minutes, Ashinik jumped down onto a sidewalk and ran at top
speed across stiff and booming thermoconcrete. This spaceport's sector was
relatively empty - two helicopters stood next to its border and a hefty
trans-galactic liner was being loaded far away. With an open mouth, Ashinik
stared at the containers floating into the cargo hatch for several moments.
What if he just crept in the ship and flew away from this damned planet? At
least, nobody would kill or betray him there.
Ashinik raced to the fifth sector, squeezed through a hole in the fence
and ran down an unpaved road, illuminated by silvery moonlight, to a small
jeep that was perched at the curb. Earlier, he had asked a worker to leave a
car there.
Ashinik jumped into the jeep and stuck his hand under the driver's
seat. Thank God - the car keys were right where they were supposed to be,
wrapped in a dirty rag. Ashinik turned the ignition on and a cold gun barrel
touched his temple and somebody said quietly, "Be nice and drive straight,
cutie."
Ashinik glanced aside - he could see the speaker in the rearview
mirror. Ashinik recognized him to be a personal bodyguard of Shavash's, one
out of five that he was rumored to hold in his complete confidence.
"Go!"
The jeep started moving slowly. The guard got his radio out and quietly
reported,
"The fish is on the hook. Meet us behind the bridge." Ashinik ground
his teeth.
"Just wait," he uttered, "my master will learn that you seized me and
you will get you butt kicked!" The guard laughed.
"Firstly," he spoke, "it would be difficult for Bemish to find out that
we caught you because you escaped on your own. But if you are really
interested in it, it was Mr. Bemish who handed you over to us. He told us
where the jeep would be and suggested that we trapped you.
Ashinik's heart plummeted.
"You are lying! The master wouldn't do it!"
"Eh, my dear, the master didn't do it while he still hoped to make
peace with the sect. And now he can only hope to find out where the Meeting
of Choosing will occur and burn them all out with a laser or with DDT. We
can learn where it is from you, right? Of course, Mr. Bemish could skin you
himself but Bemish is a squeamish Earthman. Why should he get his hands
dirty if there are other people around? That's why he sold you out,
Ashinik."
Ashinik drove silently. Nearby, the spaceships' exhausts hissed warming
up and signal lights blinked behind the spaceport wall. The unpaved road
finally ended, the jeep climbed onto a six lane highway and rolled towards
Lannah Bridge.
"So, where is the meeting?"
"I don't know."
The car raced over a ramp next to the spaceport eastern gates; a
passenger car's lights blinked below.
"Ashinik, why are you so stubborn? Don't you understand that you are
the third one on their extermination list, right after Bemish and my boss?
You aren't crazy. You don't believe that Yadan was born out of a golden egg,
do you? Tell us and we will let you go because my masters are normal people
and yours are nuts!"
Ashinik suddenly swerved the steering wheel all the way to the right.
The car hit the concrete sidewalk, jumped and hit the fence head-on. The
guard shot and the bullet burned Ashinik's hair and made a neat hole in the
windshield.
"Ouch! What are you doing, bastard?!"
The rail caved in, bursting. Ashinik threw the door open and rolled
out. He was barely able to grab the poles at the ramp's edge.
The busted rail links glimmered on their way down and the car followed
them spinning in the air. Ashinik heard it hitting the ground; the sound of
a muted explosion came next.
Ashinik climbed onto the ramp and ran as fast as he could.
The next morning, barefoot Ashinik dressed in peasant clothing with a
sack behind his shoulder stepped out of a bus three hundred kilometers away
from Assalah.
In half an hour, he entered a village tavern on Mer Lake shore.
|
Five people in simple clothing sat in the tavern. It seemed that none
of them paid any attention to Ashinik. It was as if not a man came through
the door but just a bug flew in. "Why have I come," a thought desperately
beat at Ashinik's mind, "Why have I come? They will kill me like they killed
the White Elder." Ashinik sat on an unoccupied chair. Now all six chairs at
the table were taken.
"Rashan is dead," one of the seated people stated quietly. "He is dead
because he desired to make peace with the demons and the man who advised him
to do so is responsible for his death."
Rashan was the White Elder's name and it was forbidden to say it while
he held this position. Since this name was mentioned, it meant that the
White Elder had already been elected and Ashinik's heart shuddered when he
realized that it had been done without him.
All five people turned and started looking at Ashinik.
"Rashan's soul is lonely; those that defiled it should follow it," Dush
said; he sat next to Ashinik.
Two small seven-year-old boys entered the room and started walking
among the people with two goblets, a white and a black one. Everyone put his
hand into one goblet and then into the other one.
Dush also lowered his hand into the white goblet and then into the
black one. He had a dry bean in his hand - he was supposed to drop it in one
of the goblets - nobody could see in which one. Ashinik didn't have any
difficulties, however, guessing that Dush chose the white one.
The boys walked around all six people and then they turned the goblets
over onto the table. There was nothing in the black one and there were five
beans in the white one. Five out of six people sitting here voted for
Ashinik's death. The sixth one abstained.
Ashinik observed himself with a cold curiosity. His mind separated in
two halves and both halves were watching the current events independently.
One half was Ashinik-Assalah vice-president, the youngest Weian manager, the
man who earned ten times more money than all the other people here combined.
Another half was Ashinik-zealot who put the Elder's orders above his death.
What's the value of one life if there are so many of them? It's better to
die with honor and come to your next life into a good family than to die as
a coward and be reborn as a spider.
Two men in red hoods picked Ashinik up by his hands, dragged him for
several steps and put him on a rug unrolled between two tripods. One of them
threw a sturdy rope noose over Ashinik's neck quickly and efficiently. "No!"
Ashinik wanted to cry out as an Earthman would have cried at his place.
"Let me put my hair in place," Ashinik heard his own voice and his
hands rose and removed several hair curls from under the rope."
One executioner pushed him closer to the altar and the other one
started unhurriedly putting the candles' flame out with a wooden board.
Ashinik knew that he would be killed when the last candle dies.
Ashinik stood on his knees immobile and watched how darkness was slowly
conquering the room. Soon only one flame tongue was left...
"Leave us alone," a voice spoke suddenly.
The rope on his neck was loosened up. Ashinik heard the chairs and door
squeaking quietly. He turned his head slightly and saw that he was left
alone with Yadan. He realized that Yadan was now the White Elder by how
quickly his order had been obeyed.
"It's not right to kill a man," Yadan said, "who can serve our purpose
still, however guilty he is. You want to serve our purpose, don't you?"
"I want it with all my heart."
"Do you agree that you are responsible for Rashan's demise?"
"Yes."
Ashinik answered automatically. He knew what he would be told to do
now. He would be commanded to kill Shavash or his master.
"The demons taught you a lot. Can you return to Terence Bemish?"
"No. Bemish betrayed me."
"It's not important that Bemish betrayed you," Yadan noticed
sarcastically. "It's important that Bemish betrayed Rashan. He will answer
for that."
Two days later, when Bemish flew to hunt with Khanadar, he heard that
yet another assassination attempt had been made on Shavash's life. This
time, it was no longer amateurs. A car packed with serit explosives had been
parked in Shavash's car path and it exploded exactly when the cars were next
to each other. The assassination attempt had been organized very well; the
criminals had clearly studied all of the vice-minister's possible routes and
they had maintained constant radio communication. Once it became clear that
Shavash would drive by Azure circle, the corresponding order had been given.
The car with explosives had been parked literally five minutes before the
official drove by.
|
Shavash was saved by a freaky accident. Just a moment before the
explosion, a doll rolled onto the road and an eight-year-old girl rushed out
there after it. The driver stepped on the brake sharply trying not to hit
the girl and the car spun across the road.
Right then the explosion hit. Since the car faced the blast with its
back instead of its side, it was hurled forward for several meters and it
hit a glass shop window (while it was already disintegrating) head on. It
bounced backwards, jumped and its trunk hit a small electric auto that was
quietly hurrying to the Cheese Precinct.
The car leaped quite nimbly on the electric auto with its rear wheels,
jumped from its hood onto its roof, froze there for a second, tipped over
and banged into the road cover face on.
The driver banged his forehead on the steering wheel and hurt himself
quite a bit. Shavash obtained a minor concussion and got the driver's blood
all over his excellent suit. The bodyguard had been sitting in the back
seat, against the regulations, and he was not so lucky - he sustained a rib
fracture and a lacerated spleen.
Having learned about serit explosives, Bemish went cold. This
particular explosive had been used often in the earlier stage of the
spaceport's construction.
Quite a crowd gathered in the foyer in front of Bemish's office. Bemish
walked into his office gesturing to Giles to follow him. The security
service director's face acquired a wooden expression and he came after
Bemish.
"Ashinik hasn't showed up, has he?" Bemish asked Giles.
"No," the latter said.
"Dick, run a check on the used explosives up to the last milligram,"
Bemish said quietly.
"If I was you, I would not address this issue," Giles answered just as
quietly even though they were alone.
"Being me, I will not wait till Shavash addresses this issue."
In an hour Inis entered Bemish's office. Bemish raised his eyes and got
a surprise - Inis was very serious, her eyebrows were furled and her face
was pale. She even wore a skirt that almost reached to the ground though it
was somewhat transparent.
"Terence," she said, lowering her eyes, "Ashinik has been arrested. He
had just being sitting in a tavern and they jumped upon him and drove him
away."
"How do you know this?"
"I got a phone call."
Bemish paused.
"Terence, I swear to you that he is not guilty! These people... they
just used him as a dummy front! It's their technique - they decided to get
rid of the man who is half Earthman already and they decided to do it with
Shavash's hands!"
Bemish was astonished. Inis could well be correct. But how did this
girl figure it out? Who suggested this to her? Bemish almost asked her this
question and then he went pale. He understood what had happened. It was not
"who" it was "what."
"You should go to Shavash," Inis said.
"Why?"
Inis suddenly put her hands on her hips.
"Three months ago you would not ask, "Why?" You would know that you
couldn't control the workers without Ashinik. Now Ashinik has performed his
function and you can give him away! He taught the workers to be rich and
sated and nobody will betray you anymore!"
Oh my God! Inis was no longer a bedding girl, content with her dresses
and sweets. Bemish leaped from his armchair and grabbed her by her
shoulders.
"Why are you asking for him? Why do you care about my deputy? Why have
they called you and not me?"
Then, Inis burst into tears. She kneed, embraced Bemish's legs and
wailed confusedly, "I... I can't be without him..."
Bemish paled.
"Are you lovers?"
Inis was crawling next to his feet. Bemish ran his hands over the table
and the woman cried out and leapt up. She looked at the intercom button with
horror as if she was expecting Terence Bemish to push it and order the
spaceport's security service director to find a jute sack somewhere, stick
the unfaithful lover of the general director in it and sew it up.
Bemish turned and rushed out of the office.
When Bemish got to Shavash, the small official was eating a breakfast.
"You've arrested my employee!" Bemish declared at the doorstep. "On
what grounds did you do it?"
|
"He is a zealot and he was involved in yesterday's assassination
attempt."
"Where is the proof?"
Shavash grinned.
"The arrest comes first. He will supply us with the proof later."
"If I were you, I wouldn't particularly trust to a testimony obtained
under torture."
"And I would never," Shavash said, "trust a zealot's testimony obtained
without torture. Why are you looking at me as if a live carp is stuck
between my teeth?"
"You are a scoundrel!" Bemish shouted.
"You have said it before, Terence."
"And you are shaking with fright and rushed to arrest everybody left
and right!"
"Terence," Shavash said, "we are now on one side. Look, Ashinik had run
away from you and he never came back to you. Why? Because he was ordered to
wring our necks."
"If he had returned to Assalah," Bemish noticed, "it would have been
much easier."
"If he had returned to Assalah, Giles would take him apart in half a
minute."
"Shavash, I know Ashinik a little bit. Listen, if he had set this
assassination up, you would not have survived. He would have used three
times more explosives. He would not let any accidents get in his way."
"It's possible," Shavash said, "but you see, if you arrest a fool that
carried out the assassination, he can only tell you what a fool knows. If
you arrest Ashinik who is not particularly strong in his faith, thanks to
your efforts, he will tell us everything. Three days later, after Ashinik
tells us everything, nothing will be left of the sect."
"Nothing will be left except the reasons for its existence - poverty of
the people, embezzling officials and rude Earthmen."
Shavash grinned.
"You are a strange man, Terence. If I were you, I would thank a man who
arrested my concubine's lover."
Bemish paled. Even that was out. Damn it, everybody, including the
zealots, knew it except for him...
"You, of course, do not love Inis. You love another woman. But still
it's not a reason to appeal on Inis' beau's behalf."
Shavash yawned and covered his mouth with his hand.
Bemish shouted in such a voice that the glass doors in a cabinet
clanged.
"Either you will show me the proof that Ashinik's arrest is based on or
you will go with me and free him!"
Shavash thought for a bit and then he rose, gestured at Bemish with his
finger to follow him and stepped out of the office. They walked down a
corridor with a beautiful hardwood floor, passed by two or three halls
decorated with the utmost luxury and covered with ancient rugs. It was
rumored that Shavash had ordered these rugs to be ripped off the walls of
Isia-ratough temple in Chakhar (they had processed this robbery later as the
sale of these rugs at some ridiculously low price). Having passed two or
three more doors, they found themselves in a concrete corridor leading
underground. Bemish suddenly remembered with a shudder how Shavash had
boasted about his personal jail. He also recalled the words attributed to
Shavash, "You are powerful not if you can afford a personal villa; you are
powerful if you can afford a personal dungeon." So, they hadn't even taken
Ashinik to a state prison...
A low desperate cry came from behind a door at the very end of the
corridor. Shavash threw the door wide open.
Bemish noticed a pile of bloody rags in a corner, some pliers in a bowl
and Ashinik's dead eyes. Completely naked, he was hanging head down on metal
rings attached to a wall and Bemish's attention was pulled to his right hand
- all the nails there had been torn out. Then Shavash stepped forward moving
his friend aside and said in a tired and ironic voice, "The first set is
finished. Take the pear off the branch."
They took half-dead Ashinik off the rings and seated him astride a
chair. Shavash stood above the prisoner, pulled his head up and asked, "Who
placed the bomb?"
Ashinik was silent. His black hair stood up straight soaked with blood.
Bemish rushed to the youth but the guards blocked his way at once and one of
them, baring his rotten teeth, silently stuck a gun into Bemish's side.
Ashinik's eyes were as empty as RAM in a turned off computer. Then he
whispered something. His lips didn't work. Bemish understood only the end of
the sentence - Ashinik swore dirty.
|
"That's not an answer." Shavash said.
Ashinik licked his broken lips and spit with all his strength at
Shavash's face.
His saliva and blood were all over the official's lips and chin.
Everybody froze. Shavash slowly turned and walked to an old sink built into
the room's right corner. The splashing water and the washing official's
snorts sounded very clear in the quiet room. Shavash closed the tap and
approached the prisoner again.
"Do you hope that your boss will get you out of this?"
He spun to Bemish.
"Choose, Terence - this guy or the controlling stock block of BOAR."
The single second, that passed by, seemed like eternity to Ashinik.
Then the Assalah general director pushed the gun, pointed at him, away and
said loudly, "You are such a scoundrel, Shavash!"
Astonishment glanced in Ashinik's wide open eyes.
"You are free," Shavash told Ashinik, "And when you set up another
assassination, take care that your boss is around, otherwise nobody will
step in on your behalf."
Bemish pushed the official away, looked around and, grinning viciously,
started pulling the pants and shirt off one of the torturers. The torturer
squeaked fearfully, pulled out of the boss' hands and ran away. He came back
in a minute, carrying clean clothes.
The second guard smiled exasperatedly and unlocked the cuffs holding
Ashinik's bloodied wrists together.
"Shouldn't we wash the lad?" he asked.
Bemish hissed at him like a goose and started pulling the pants on
Ashinik. Then he buttoned up the jacket on the youth and dragged him away.
Bemish had dropped his car right at the main staircase of the city
manor. He threw the lad into the car like a sack and he drove the car over a
flower bed planted with rare orchids while making a turn.
Bemish stopped at the first private hospital; they washed Ashinik and a
physician with frightened eyes bandaged him. The youth was silent and he
only cried occasionally.
Bemish looked at the crying Ashinik and thought that he and the
official had not even discussed whether or not the lad was guilty.
When they arrived to Assalah, the sun was setting down. The pilot and
Bemish picked up Ashinik and helped him to walk to the administration
building. Ashinik was slowly getting over the shock and his eyes started
looking more alert.
Bemish locked the youth in his office and went to deal with the
representatives of the freight company SpaceMart.
When he returned in an hour, he had a white plastic folder in his
hands. Ashinik had squeezed into a corner and he sat there shaking horribly.
A comfortable leather armchair was next to him but Ashinik squatted in his
ancestors' way. It was strange to see a man in Earth clothing squatting.
Bemish walked to the youth.
"Did you have anything to do with this explosion?"
"No."
"Will you lie to me, like you just lied to Shavash? Do I look like his
executioners?"
The Assalah company vice president squeezed himself further into the
wall.
"Ashinik, I know that there are people you must obey unquestionably.
They could have given you orders. If this is the case, I wouldn't tell
Shavash anything. I will help you to go to Earth, to any place where nobody
can give you orders. Did you have anything to do with this explosion?"
"They told me that you had sold me to Shavash. That you exchanged me
for a controlling stock block of the aluminum plant!"
"Oh-ho," Bemish muttered, "and you tried to kill Shavash. Did you try
to kill me, too?"
Ashinik hid his face in his knees and burst in tears.
"Master! Why are you torturing me? It was Shavash first, now it's you!
Not again!"
Bemish was silent. In six months he grew attached to this
twenty-year-old youth as if the latter were his son. The lad was almost the
right age. Bemish had gotten used to feeling like Ashinik's patron. He
picked up a dirty guy with lice in his hair and crazy visions and he
transformed him into a manager with a tie around his neck and a cell phone
in his pocket. And now this manager seduced his concubine. He also tried to
send to the other world a man who in a strange way had become one of Terence
Bemish's closest friends. And, possibly...
|
Bemish paused.
"Our score is even, Ashinik," the Earthman said. "You saved my company.
I saved your life. It's one to one. I don't owe you anything."
Bemish threw the white plastic folder at his deputy.
"You will find here your last check from Assalah Company, two tickets
to Earth, and an application form to Havishem; it's one of the best business
schools. I talked to Trevis - they will accept you to Havishem. Trevis will
pay your tuition fees."
Ashinik pulled the papers out of the folder. His bandaged right hand
shook slightly.
"There are two tickets," Ashinik said suddenly.
"Don't worry," Bemish snickered, "I'll buy myself a new concubine."
While all these unpleasant adventures related to the White Elder's
assassination were taking place on the planet of Weia, Kissur napped in a
wide first class seat of a passenger spaceship flying to the planet of
Lakhan.
The flight took almost eighteen hours.
Kissur left the spaceport for a cheap hotel, took a shower, changed
into old grey pants and a worn out shirt with a popular band's logo pictured
on it, made a couple of phone calls and took off. He went to the western
part of the city, to Danachin University; the famous Lakhan student uprising
had taken place there ten years ago.
Kissur took the main street across the block, turned left and left
again and, bending slightly, dived into the roar and light of a bar's
entrance. He chose a table next a window, leaned to a wall and started
waiting.
In half an hour, Kissur finally saw a tall and skinny guy with olive
skin and a ponytail who was finding his way to the bar's stand.
"Hey, Lore," Kissur said.
Lore turned around and shuddered but he recovered and, having picked up
a beer can, he joined Kissur.
"How is it going, dude?" Lore asked. "You haven't gone back to your
Weia, have you?"
Kissur just waived his hand.
"I have a question to you," he said, "You've told me once that you knew
a man who was ready to trade a tiny gadget."
"What gadget?"
Kissur picked up a napkin and drew something on it.
Lore's eyes widened a bit.
"There is such a man," he said, "but capitalist rot has eaten all the
way through him. He will not do anything for his brothers, he only works for
money."
"Tell him that there is a man who will pay money for his goods."
"How many pieces do you want to buy?"
"I want everything."
Lore's eyes grew suspicious.
"Kissur, where have you gotten the dough?"
Kissur silently presented a three-day-old newspaper to him. It was a
Weian paper published in Interenglish and an article about a daring robbery
of Weian Industrial Bank, the second largest bank in the Empire, covered its
front page.
"We will teach these capitalists a good lesson," Kissur spoke, "we will
show them that we can fight for peace not only with our mouths."
Denny Hill worked on a stationary base Nordwest located on a tiny
natural moon of Danae planet. Nordwest was the only base constructed on a
planet that didn't have either atmosphere or population. It was only fitting
that it had assumed an unpleasant role of a nuclear waste garbage pit for
all the outdated and not particularly outdated armament of the whole Galaxy.
Nordwest storage areas bored through the planet like huge honeycombs.
Weaponry was sent there if it became obsolete or banned due to political
reasons or due to the activities of peace mongers.
The rumors traveled around the base that the oldest units in storage
were shells from the First Moon War. What Denny Hill, a technician at
Nordwest, knew for sure however, was that retired Cassiopeia missiles were
stored at Nordwest.
These missiles had caused a major military scandal at some point. The
missiles were equipped with S-field generators capable of twisting space
around them. It meant that, once launched, they could not be intercepted.
Any wall, defense screen or field can, in principle, be destroyed. To
destroy something, however, you have to interact with it. Interaction means
passing through space but it's impossible to pass through twisted space.
Ten years ago, Gera had raised a great hassle demanding the ban of all
types of offensive armament equipped with S-field. It had been calculated
that the construction of one S-field missile cost as much as the
construction of twenty five subsidized houses for the underprivileged.
|
The world shed tears. Instead of building missiles and employing the
same underprivileged as a workforce - that would enable them to buy their
houses with their earned income - the Federation signed a treaty offered by
Gera and started constructing houses for the poor.
Now Gera now didn't have to build expensive missiles and it put
everything into an effort to develop alternative types of S-field that would
not be covered by the treaty and would be cheaper.
Some missiles had been destroyed outright and some had been partially
disassembled and brought to a "relatively disabled" stage. The missiles from
three bases - Arcon, Mino and Delos - had been transported to Nordwest.
The accompanying documentation pointed out that there were one hundred
forty six "relatively disabled" missiles. The whole Galaxy thought that
there were one hundred forty six of them. Only Denny Hill, a civilian
technician at the base, was energetic enough to take a count of the newest
(though disassembled) missiles and he found out that there were one hundred
fifty eight of them. The missiles were stored in a huge depositary area
where the alarm system had been disabled by a local anaerobic life form and
Denny Hill was supposed to take a census of the storage once a month.
Formally speaking, it should have been a committee made out of three local
employees and federal inspectors but the army didn't have any money for all
these stupid committees and the base didn't have enough employees. That was
why Denny Hill conducted the census on his own.
In two weeks on a planet with the beautiful name of Grace, two people
approached Denny Hill who was spending his vacation there. Denny would have
ever taken them for students - both guys were well-built and lean like
pedigreed greyhounds and the senior guy had an old horrible scar above his
neckline. They were Kissur and Khanadar.
"Lore sends you his greetings," Kissur said.
"Hello," Denny Hill said guardedly. "Why are there two of you?"
"You are seeing only one person here. Consider the other one to be his
shadow."
Denny Hill was not completely satisfied with this explanation and he
continued sipping on his soup silently- the meeting was taking place at a
restaurant table.
Kissur sat still. He wanted Hill to start talking first.
"Is it true that you would like to buy goods?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Twelve."
"Three million a piece."
"One million nine hundred."
"Two seventy five."
"One million eight hundred."
"Two fifty. It's manufacturing cost."
"Nobody sells stolen goods at their manufacturing cost."
"When these birdies fly to their destination, the counter-intelligence
will be ready to cough up ten million for information about their original
residency."
"They won't fly anywhere," Kissur said.
"Lore told me something else."
"Who cares what Lore said? I am an Emperor's servant. Do you think that
a sovereign of the Amaride Dynasty and a man of the White Falcon clan will
buy your toys to bust a supermarket? Don't you know that we are a Federation
ally? The Federation won't go nuts if it learns that its ally obtained these
trifles."
"Well, that's different," Denny agreed. "I want two million a piece and
a new passport because I won't like to be here when they start figuring out
who should get a medal for providing a Federation ally with military
support."
In a month, the next scheduled ship arrived at Nordwest bringing food
rations in bright boxes. The ship was going to take retired scanning
equipment away. Loading was completely automatic and the only person at the
dock was Denny Hill. Theoretically, the regulations required the presence of
two people, a civilian and a military operator that would track each other's
actions. But only a quarter of the positions was currently filled at the
base and the only thing that the regulations were good for was taking memory
in the computer.
Denny Hill counterfeited a backup copy of the loading papers and locked
it in a safe. He was not able to fake the files in the computer itself - the
computer was protected too well.
Three days later Denny shoved Jack the Ripper virus into the computer,
the virus overwrote all of the files' headers and Denny's boss told him to
clean the computer up and to recover all the documentation from the backup
copies.
|
Denny pulled the fake backup copy out of the safe and wrote it to the
hard drive removing the last traces of his real activities.
It took three hours for the cargo ship Antei, license number 284-AP-354
registered at the planet of Agassa, to reach Lakhan spaceport. Lore Sigel
was in charge of freight shipping at the spaceport. A while ago, Lore had
been a very promising young man but his social-anarchy tendencies interfered
with his career. He spent three days in jail for offending the public - he
attempted to register a pig bought at a pig farm as a candidate on the
presidential elections in Austria. He was a witness at a number of notorious
terrorist trials and he had a habit of constantly moving from one place to
another. All this finally brought Lore to this small provincial planet where
he worked as a cargo department manager.
Lore employed as longshoremen five or six friends that nobody else
would hire since the central department of security wouldn't recommend it.
Not surprisingly, the unloading of the ship with license number
284-AP-354 started very late, after the ship's yawning crew walked away to
sleep in a hotel next to the port.
Lore and his friends unloaded the boxes with the retired radio scanning
equipment. There were twelve more boxes in the ship than had been
registered. The identification numbers on the extra boxes were removed and
the boxes were packed in the new containers and sealed. The new containers
were loaded on the ship Astra flying to the planet Issan. Accordingly to the
documentation, the new containers housed geo-physical equipment for the
company Ambeko.
The containers, however, never reached the planet Issan. Three hours
after the ship's departure, the captain extracted a box out of his pocket.
Out of the box, he extracted a paralyzed lightning beetle, a dweller of
Lakhan deserts known for its ability to generate 370V electric sparks. The
beetle was placed under the front panel cover of the control room. Having
regained its senses the beetle discharged, causing minor damages to the main
flight control system. The ship had to exit hyperspace and the crew began
repairs. While the technicians were digging out the beetle and fixing the
problems, twelve containers were dumped off the ship.
The ship soon continued its way. The reason for its deviation off route
in deep space was documented and presented to the authorities in a bottle
with formaldehyde. The authorities reprimanded the crew for its lack of
attention that had let the malevolent representative of the local fauna
infiltrate the ship and the captain didn't receive a bonus.
Meanwhile, a small ship picked up the containers; since the ship was on
a charter flight, it didn't really require all the justifying paperwork. The
ship's name was Laissa. The documentation accompanying the twelve containers
was changed again and the containers were now marked as medical equipment.
The ship was flying to the planet of Weia, to the Assalah spaceport.
On the seventeenth of the month of rains, Terence Bemish got a phone
call in the evening. Shavash was on the line. They discussed a Chakhar
nickel facility construction project for a while and then Shavash advised
his friend to sell Inissa Logging Corporation stocks in case Terence had
them.
"Oh, by the way, Shavash recalled, "a charter ship Laissa will arrive
at your spaceport tomorrow. Could you make sure that customs don't bother
them too much and check that their freight could be stored in some nice
storage facility."
"All my storage space is crammed," Bemish replied.
"Why don't you load it into 17B?"
17B storage was empty - it had been built for military equipment and
its walls, covered with lead sheets, insulated all irradiation.
"What about Giles?"
"Giles won't object," Shavash snorted.
The next day, the phone rang in Bemish's office. It was Ashinik.
"A charter flight has arrived," Ashinik said...
"Is it Laissa?"
"Yes."
"Send them to 17B storage."
In half an hour Ashinik came to Bemish to get storage "keys" - its
electronic locks required an ingenious system of codes and, additionally, it
had a microprocessor that could recognize the owner's retina pattern. The
lock could store ten retina patterns in its memory but it currently had only
two - Bemish's and Giles'. Only Bemish, however, knew the password.
|
The cargo delivered by Laissa was registered as medical equipment. That
was not surprising. Every day, three hundred tons of medical equipment
passed the spaceport. Accordingly to Bemish's calculations, every Weian
peasant had by now one and a half CAT scanner.
Medical equipment was the only hardware that could be imported without
tariffs and a lot of stuff entered the planet registered as such. It would
be pretty hard to transport an oil drill, even disassembled, in cardboard
boxes from Pepsi-Cola.
This time the cargo was too heavy to be unloaded by a forklift. Bemish
watched for a while loading platforms with huge cubes, sealed and painted in
green color, moving inside the classified storage area.
"Who owns the cargo?" Bemish inquired.
"Ascon Company."
Having returned to his office, Bemish checked Ascon Company out. It had
been registered two months ago and it was an IC offshoot. Out of its
cofounders, two were anonymous - they were probably colonel Giles and
Shavash.
That's our Giles, that's our fighter for democracy! No surprise here
that he won't object about his offshoot company using his storage area!
In three days, a party took place in Lore's house that was located half
an hour away from the spaceport. Lore, five longshoremen, and Kissur were at
the party.
Lore said, "I don't have to introduce our old friend to you. I will
only say that two thousand years ago, a man named Irshahchan achieved at his
planet what Marx wrote about five centuries ago and Shrainer half a
century... Of course, Irshahchan was limited by his epoch and culture but,
generally, his actions were correct. And I don't think that anybody has
achieved more for the recovery of Irshahchan's and Marx' ideals than Kissur
has. Now, we - six Earthmen - should be proud that we are helping, albeit to
a small degree, to fix the world that our countrymen, obsessed by the spirit
of capitalism, have corrupted."
Everybody agreed that, generally, the sovereign Irshahchan had thought
a lot in unison with Marx and Shrainer - half a century ago - even though he
had been somewhat backwards compared to the abovementioned thinkers. He had
still been a despotic ruler of a patriarchic society.
By the midnight the company had gotten pretty high and Kissur suggested
driving around. They loaded in Lore's Dodge and rushed downhill on a
mountainous road. At a zigzag turn Lore, driving the car, suddenly saw a
beetle shaped truck blocking the road. Lore lost his wits for a moment and
Kissur, sitting next to him, swerved the steering wheel to the right and
having opened the door, jumped out of the car.
None of the other passengers had Kissur's reflexes. The car smashed
through the guard rail, dived into the gulf, flew two hundred meters down to
the rocks and exploded. The explosion wouldn't have happened all that
easily, if Kissur had not put an extra hydrogen tank in the trunk. This tank
went off.
Kissur looked beyond the torn guard rail, made sure that everything was
fine, climbed into the beetle shaped truck and was gone. Khanadar the Dried
Date was at the truck's steering wheel.
The death of Lore Sigel and his friends didn't cause any suspicions. He
had had at least eight crashes before and he had been quite high every time.
And now they also found LSD in the blood of the magnificent six.
Nobody found anything connecting this episode and an unfortunate
accident that happened two days later on a provincial planet Issan. Denny
Hill, a technician from Nordwest base, was on the vacation at a local
resort. He swam too far out in the local ocean and drowned.
The Twelfth Chapter
Where the Emperor of the Country of Great Light finds out the real
purpose of the Assalah construction from the opposition press and expresses
his confusion.
In the beginning of May a large article filled a quarter of a page in
one of the most influential newspapers - MegaMoney. A well known economy
journalist and a Ronald Trevis' fan Christopher Blant figured out (or got a
hint) to perform the simplest calculation - he took secondary balances that
large banks had to publish and added up all the credits granted to the
Empire of Great Light.
|
The result was that this year Weia had to pay off about one hundred
forty million dinars on all its foreign and domestic loans; at the same time
the total sum of all taxes collected this year would be only one hundred
twenty million dinars. "The real total of all the Weian loans is probably
higher," Blant wrote, "and it's clear that the only way Weia can make
payments on its loans is to obtain more loans at a higher interest rate. It
can't go on forever. Weian economy will crash and Weian ishevik will be
devalued."
The investors clutched their heads. They demanded the Weian government
to publish the real debt figures. During next week, the government published
three different figures - eighty, hundred and hundred and thirteen billion -
all of them signed by the finance minister.
It only spread the panic further.
Somebody started a rumor that the payments on the two billion dinars
credit obtained by Weia from Galactic Bank would be postponed first - this
credit had been turned into securities and distributed on the market after
the bank had gone public.
The quotes went down by a factor of two and after that Weian government
came out with a restructuring plan.
The two billion loan would be taken over by a new company BOAR that
would obtain in exchange - at no cost - one of the largest nickel and other
non-ferrous metals deposits in the Galaxy where the government had already
built an ore enrichment facility. The concern and all the other companies
registered at its territories would not have to pay anything towards the
state's budget.
Three very influential Weian entrepreneurs and Terence Bemish were the
company's cofounders. Even by the most modest estimate, the profit from the
export of non-ferrous metals would be three times larger that the payments
on the state's debt that the company would have to make. The bond prices
skyrocketed at once to 97% of their face value.
The bankers were tearing their hair out in shock. The newspaper article
resulted - without any responsibility from the Weian government's side - in
devaluation of the bonds. Their value could have dropped to even 30% if
somebody hadn't bought devalued securities through Ronald Trevis.
Inissa governor came, probably, the closest to the understanding of the
true reasons behind the panic; he didn't really like Shavash and he sent him
a birthday gift - a disinfectant can with a label "for avarice."
Bemish started visiting Earth often on BOAR business and every time he
would wonder at a skyline awkwardly constricted by the buildings and a
meager lonely moon. Once, in June, Trevis remarked that the calculations
that Bemish held in his hands had been done by Ashinik and the lad had an
internship in the head office during his holidays.
"How is he?" Bemish asked unaffectedly.
"He is trying hard," Trevis said, "but he is very disappointed."
"What is he disappointed with?"
"He is disappointed that nobody kisses his boots. They kissed his boots
on Weia when he led the sect, didn't they?"
"No," Bemish answered, "they didn't kiss his boots. They gathered dust
where he walked and gave it to the pregnant and to the sick to drink."
"Well," Trevis said, "he is disappointed that nobody gathers his dust."
"How is his wife doing?" Bemish asked unexpectedly.
"Is he married?" Trevis was surprised.
Bemish didn't answer.
Bemish had a bit of time after his meetings and before the ship's
departure; he ascended to his hotel room and connected to the White Pages
website via a computer. The computer thought for a while and then belched
forth several green lines. On the black screen, they resembled a rim of
meson irradiation formed around the exhausts of an interstar ship. Bemish
sat on a coach motionless for a while and then he ordered a taxi and rode in
it to the address that he got in the White Pages.
Ashinik was renting an apartment in an old building and there was no
camera at the entrance, only intercom buttons bristled to the right. Bemish
pushed the button number 27.
"Who is it?" Ashinik's voice replied.
Bemish let the button go. He expected that Ashinik wouldn't be at home
at daytime, only Inis would be there. His expectations proved to be wrong.
There were two more hours left before the ship's departure; Bemish turned
and walked away.
|
Only when the ship pulled into the orbit and was almost out of the
regular T-phone reception range, Bemish called Trevis.
"Listen," Bemish said, "I looked through the papers prepared by Ashinik
and I found them to be pretty good. Send him to me."
Trevis said that he would like to have the young Weian in his office
due to the growing number of Weian deals.
"This guy cost me ten percent of a company with a yearly export size of
forty billion dinars," Bemish said, "and he will work it all off for me."
Trevis asked something else but then the receiver croaked and hissed
and the connection broke off.
Ashinik returned to Weia in three weeks. He looked completely
different. Instead of a skinny frightened young lad that had left the Empire
eight months ago, a confident man with cold blue eyes and wide shoulders
walked into Bemish's office.
"I am sorry that I pulled you out," Bemish said, embracing the youth,
"but I need you. It concerns BOAR."
Ashinik lowered his head. When half a year ago, half-dead from torture
he heard Shavash's voice offering his master to choose between him, Ashinik,
and a twenty five percent controlling BOAR stock block, the company name
couldn't tell him anything. Now the word BOAR decorated the financial
newspapers' front pages and Bemish's share of the company was perfectly well
known to be fourteen percent. Ashinik knew for sure that neither his direct
boss nor Trevis nor even Ashinik himself would have exchanged the control of
the deal of the century for a man.
"I...I...," Ashinik muttered. Bemish took the youth's hand.
"It doesn't matter. Where are you staying?"
"I am staying in a hotel," the lad replied turning to a window. There,
behind the burned caramel color glass and sharp points of the ships, a huge
glass body of a luxurious hotel was melting in the sun.
"You can move to my villa," Bemish said. "How is Inis doing?"
"She is with me," Ashinik replied. He paused and added, "I don't want
to leave her alone. She shouldn't wave her skirt around.
It became quiet for a moment in the office, and then Bemish said,
"I left her alone often and nothing good came out of it. In three
hours, Giles will meet people from Chakhar Trade Bank in the capital. Could
you go with him?"
Ashinik went to the capital. He took part in the talks and stayed at a
party celebrating the third year anniversary of Sadd Company. Giles
introduced him to the economics minister.
Ashinik's hands went cold when, having approached a cluster of people,
he saw in its center the beautiful, slightly corpulent face of Shavash.
"How is your health," Shavash asked abruptly, interrupting his
conversation with an Earthman and nodding welcomingly to Ashinik.
"I am well, thanks," Ashinik heard his own voice as if it was coming
out of a phone receiver.
"How is your wife doing?"
Ashinik uttered something about his wife being also fine.
"I recommend you this young man," Shavash said, "He helped us a lot
with BOAR company."
The people who crowded around Shavash but stood to far to start a
conversation with him moved slowly and started surrounding Ashinik.
In a while after Shavash had left, Ashinik realized suddenly with cold
curiosity that he felt good about Shavash's nodding to him - the same
Shavash that he had been trained in his previous life to exterminate like a
mongoose exterminates snakes. In the hierarchy of his new life this nod
immediately distinguished him out of the other young people and it was as if
a small beacon lit above Ashinik's head and the guests flew towards this
beacon as moths fly towards light.
The door slammed behind Ashinik and Bemish still sat the same way
looking absent-mindedly at a field through the window. He picked up a lot of
Empire's customs in his two years on Weia. One thing he hadn't apparently
done yet - he had never killed a man because he wanted his wife.
Now, in seven months after their last meeting, Bemish didn't have any
feelings towards ex-zealot Ashinik who started to resemble, frighteningly, a
polished novice broker. He only felt quite annoyed thinking about the lost
BOAR shares. On the other hand, the accident brought Bemish certain
benefits. It had somehow leaked out - probably via Shavash who didn't find
anything appalling there - and it improved Bemish's reputation tremendously.
The biggest people on Weia knew that the Earthman hadn't turned his friend
into for money and it was a Weian custom not to betray friends. It would be
fine to send an innocent man to the gallows to help your friend or to
embezzle money from the state treasury but to betray your friend was not
nice.
|
Bemish didn't need Ashinik. But he realized with a surprise that he
needed Inis. While his concubine had been next to him and he could take her
any minute, could walk upstairs with her or simply lock the office door,
caress her soft body and think about another woman - unavailable and
forbidden - then it seemed to Bemish that talking about love would be
stupid. Do you love your car? You just use it and if you crash it, you buy
another one.
But buying another car proved to be difficult. Bemish tried three or
four concubines during that time and threw them out, wincing. The sluts
called in by Bemish didn't help either. Kissur seeing the Earthman suffering
once took him to such a place that... yikes, it's better to forget all about
it...
Then, there was some celebration at Shavash's palace where, besides
everything else, they presented an ancient play about an Inissa prince.
Watching it, Bemish suddenly realized that in this world it had always been
considered normal for a man to desire two women simultaneously and that he,
Terence Bemish, had turned Weian to a greater degree than he expected.
A penetrating beep of the phone interrupted Bemish's contemplation.
Having answered the call, Bemish stood up abruptly. It was time to face the
truth - he called Ashinik to Weia to take his wife away from him. It would
possibly not work on Earth. But here, on Weia, where Bemish was no longer a
man that would be called "businessman" on Earth but rather became a man that
would be called "prince" - nobody would dare refuse him.
When Bemish with a large wrapped gift package entered a hotel room,
Inis sat next to a mirror. She turned around and froze seeing the Earthman.
Bemish, without taking his light overcoat off, approached her and kissed her
silently. The woman didn't resist.
"It's for you," Bemish said, gently pushing her away in several
minutes.
Blushing with joy, Inis started unwrapping the package. In a moment,
she cried out happily admiring a necklace of large bluish pearls.
Bemish carefully took the necklace out of her hands and put it on her
neck. Inis tried to turn away.
"What's wrong?"
Bemish tenderly turned her face towards him. It was only then that he
noticed an ugly round bruise on her cheekbone.
"What is it?"
"Ashinik hit me."
"Ashinik?"
"He beats me often."
"Why?"
"He doesn't like anything," Inis said. "He doesn't like my dresses, he
doesn't like that I was his master's concubine, he doesn't like that people
don't kowtow in front of him, and he doesn't like it when I dance with
anybody else. At first he works day and night closing a deal and then he
gets a bonus and says that it's a sugar lump that they gave to a trained
Weian dog for jumping through a hoop."
Bemish sat on the bed. He suddenly didn't have anything to say. Two
people in the room were silent and the setting sun, melting in the sky, was
rapidly floating to the west following a rising freight ship.
"You didn't buy yourself a new concubine, did you?" Inis suddenly
asked.
"No," Bemish said.
"Why?"
"I don't know. I think I didn't stop loving the previous one enough."
Inis carefully sat down next to Bemish's feet. Her eyes, large and
green, were almost like Idari's eyes and they looked at Bemish with
admiration and hope.
When Ashinik returned to the hotel room in the evening, the bedroom
door was slightly open and an immobile silhouette sat on the bed.
"Inis!" Ashinik called opening the door and stopped short.
It was not Inis sitting on the bed, it was Yadan.
It was difficult to recognize the zealots' leader - he wore a
well-tailored suit with a fashionable standing collar and a wide tie.
"Are you back?" Yadan asked.
Ashinik felt cold fury rising inside him.
"What do you want from me?"
"I saved you ten years ago, my boy. I gave you a gift of your life
after my predecessor's death. It's time to pay back."
"I paid you back. It's a miracle that I survived."
"You didn't pay back well and a lot of people could not understand why
your bomb was not as good as the demons promised."
"I don't owe you anything, Yadan. I owe Terence Bemish who made a man
out of me."
|
"They bought you, my boy."
"No."
"Yes. The demons buy some people for a gold piece, others for a
thousand gold pieces, others for a million. They say, you were bought for a
billion, for a piece of the demon's company that you called BOAR and for an
opportunity to live like demons. You even got a concubine that her owner was
bored with..."
Yadan paused and then cried out,
"You, a man who could become the White Elder and rule the millions of
hearts, were bought for an opportunity to have a house in Los Angeles
suburbs and to work eight hours a day!"
"Get out!" Ashinik squealed.
"Have you forgotten how you talked to the gods, Ashinik? Have you
forgotten how they took you alive to the sky, how thousands of ears listened
to you in the way that nobody listens to anybody in this whole stupid
Galaxy?"
"And what have the gods spilled out to me? That you were born out of a
golden egg? That one could stop a laser ray with a spell? That Earthmen were
demons? Great things your gods have told me!"
"You are a fool, Ashinik," Yadan grinned, "and Earthmen are demons. Do
you know that they built this spaceport for a war between Gera and Earth and
that when this war commences, it will start raining bombs on our planet.
They made our world a lawn where elephants will tread and nobody will get
two cents for it except Shavash who collected six million out of it!
Wouldn't you call it demons' work?"
"Bullshit," Ashinik replied, "there is as much bullshit here as there
is in the fable about you hatching out of a gold egg."
"Do you know that Giles works for Federal Intelligence?"
"I built this spaceport and I know that it's a civil port!"
"And do you know how much they steal there? Do you know how much of our
Motherhood they rob via this spaceport?
Right then, light steps sounded in the corridor and Inis flitted into
the room.
"Get out of here," Ashinik told Yadan quietly but furiously, "I am not
afraid of all of you anymore."
"You don't talk to the gods anymore, do you?" Yadan grinned.
Having risen quietly, he slid by Inis to the door. Ashinik didn't
notice how Yadan covertly threw a grain of yellow substance into a barely
smoking brazier while leaving.
He sat on the bed with his hands wrapped about his head. Yadan's last
words stung him sharply. He really didn't speak to the gods anymore. And
though today's Ashinik new very well that only mad people talked to the
gods, he remembered these conversations deep in his mind and he remembered
that it had been a proof of him being chosen.
Inis approached him and stroked him on his head and Ashinik was
surprised to see an antique necklace of bluish Assaisse pearls.
"Where have you been?" irritated Ashinik asked her.
"Well, I walked around the town."
"Where did you get this necklace?"
"It's a gift from Idari," the woman replied quickly. "I received it
today in a basket."
Such a quick answer put Ashinik on his guard.
"Is it a gift from Bemish?" he bared his teeth.
Inis put her hands on her hips.
"And so what?!" she cried out, "If you don't give me beautiful things
you shouldn't at least forbid other people do it!"
"You still love him, don't you?" Ashinik screamed.
"Shame on you!"
"You love him! You were just jealous of this bitch Idari! Everybody
knows that she had slept with Shavash before Kissur! And then she and Bemish
hit it off together! You whored with me to punish your Terence!"
Ashinik could no longer hear what he was screaming; his eyes darted
wildly as if they were trying to follow something invisible filling the
room. His vision became obscured by a red wavering veil that seemed to
separate this place from the otherworld and it could fall apart any moment.
Noises and voices were buzzing in his ears as if a TV set had fifty channels
on simultaneously... Ashinik was quite familiar with this state - it used to
precede an event that his brothers in sect called an "appearance of gods"
and Earthmen called a fit.
"Give it to me!" Ashinik screamed grabbing the woman and falling onto
the bed with her and he started tearing the necklace off. But the necklace
was strong and small and it wasn't easy to either tear the thread or take it
off Inis.
|
"You slept with him, didn't you," Ashinik shouted, "in exchange for
this thing?"
"So what," Inis grinned suddenly. "Or are you going to buy a necklace
for me with your stipend? What would you have become without Terence,
Ashinik? Would you be entertaining a crowd at a fair with your talks about
demons?"
Something exploded in Ashinik's mind and white light blazed across it
and he heard a familiar voice telling him,
"Kill the demoness! Kill the demon's lover or she will get knocked up
and a demon will be born that will destroy the whole world!"
Instead of tearing the necklace, his hands tightened it around Inis'
neck. The woman screamed and thrashed. "Pull it! Pull it!" the voice
screamed in Ashinik's mind. "Pull it, my son!"
Ashinik regained his senses only in the morning. He lay supine on the
red carpet and the morning sun seeped through the blinds. He didn't remember
anything except the very beginning of the quarrel.
"Inis," Ashinik called.
There was no response. "She left," a thought passed through Ashinik's
mind, "she left for the Earthman!"
Somebody knocked into the door.
"Who is there?" Ashinik asked hoarsely.
"Breakfast," the answer came.
Ashinik walked unsteadily to the living room and opened the door.
A cute maid looked at him with certain sympathy - the young financier's
suit was wrinkled and bedraggled and the suit's owner stood there swaying
with disheveled hair and black circles under his eyes.
"When did my wife leave?" Ashinik asked hoarsely.
"I don't know," the maid answered and winked slightly at the man, "but
if you need a woman..."
"Go away."
The maid rushed out of the room.
Ashinik climbed into the bathtub and washed and shaved himself
recovering slowly. His recollections were becoming clearer and now he was
absolutely sure that he indeed had had a fit yesterday. Damned Yadan! He
drove Ashinik to it with his forked tongue. But how could Inis walk away
when he was in the middle of a fit? Did she leave her helpless husband
rolling on the floor?
Wincing, Ashinik swallowed two cups of coffee and walked back to the
bedroom to change his clothing. Only now he noticed what he had not noticed
half an hour ago - a white woman's arm on the carpet, on the other side of
the bed, closer to the window.
Ashinik moved nearer and froze.
Inis lay on the carpet on the other side of the bed and the pearls set
in silver were scattered all around her - the necklace did snap. A red mark
darkened her neck but that was not all of it - her body was hacked and
covered in blood and a knife with a bone handle lay next to her.
"Inis!" Ashinik screamed desperately clutching at his wife's face.
Ashinik stood up from his knees in fifteen minutes. He was completely
covered with blood now. He swayed. His thoughts darted around like hungry
mice in a cage. His memory was getting clearer and clearer. An ugly quarrel
had happened at first and a fit followed it. Is it possible that he killed
his wife during the fit? It's possible. The police will certainly think
along these lines. It will be a gift worthy of an Emperor for Shavash...
What if it was not him? He refused to follow Yadan's orders - Yadan
knows that Ashinik loses himself completely during a fit; one of Yadan's men
could have been there watching them and he could have punished Ashinik for
being obstinate!
It just had to have happened like that!
Though why would the sect need a scandal that would certainly hit it?
The "yellow coats" will squeeze everything out of Ashinik! Does Yadan hope
that Ashinik will run back to the zealots for help? "Only they can help me,"
Ashinik thought, "Only they can hide a corpse and hide me."
Or maybe it's not Yadan. It could be a spy of Shavash's. It could be
anybody who hates Ashinik. Who hates Ashinik? The whole world hates him! His
only home is the sect but the Earthmen took it away from him!
Bemish! Terence Bemish will understand him!
In seven minutes Ashinik, pale but already groomed, climbed out of a
taxi at the main spaceport building. He didn't have an ID that allowed
access to the service floors anymore but a manager recognized Ashinik and
walked him upstairs.
|
Thankfully, Terence Bemish was in his office. He immediately stood up
greeting Ashinik.
"Oh my God, Ashinik! What happened to you? Are you sick?"
"I had a fit," Ashinik said. "What am I saying," a thought glanced in
his mind, "When they find Inis, he will immediately think about the fit. On
the other hand, I am going to tell him everything..."
But at that point something beeped and whined at Bemish's belt.
"Yes," the Assalah director shouted into the receiver. Having turned it
off in five minutes, he said, "Ashinik, I need to go!"
"I will come with you!"
"No, it's ok. Get yourself a coffee and I'll be back in a moment."
He disappeared through the door.
Ashinik mechanically sat down in the office owner's armchair. He was
confused and deeply offended that Terence hadn't even heard him out. Several
minutes had passed before Ashinik moved. It was not the first occasion when
he was sitting in this armchair as the Assalah director's deputy but then he
had used his own password...
When Bemish returned to his office in three hours, he didn't find
Ashinik there.
"He figured out why I called him to Weia," Bemish thought. He leaned
back in the armchair and dialed Ashinik's hotel room number. Nobody picked
up a receiver - the room was empty. Bemish called his villa and his headman
told him that the mistress hadn't arrived yet and that everything was ready
for her arrival accordingly to Bemish's orders.
With a smile Bemish called the border control chief - just in case -
and told him not to let Ashinik and Inis off the planet. Time and again
later he blamed himself that he hadn't called police at once, though it
would have made no difference by then.
In two days at five in the morning, a phone call woke Bemish up at the
villa. It was Shavash's personal secretary and Bemish's heart skipped a beat
because a phone call so early could be only about Inis - she and Ashinik had
disappeared out of the hotel room without a trace like a rotting mushroom
would disappear in the earth in the fall.
"Mr. Bemish?"
"Yes."
"Have you seen today's ?"
"No, I haven't seen it."
"Take a look."
The secretary hung the receiver.
"Where are the newspapers?!" Bemish screamed rushing out at the
terrace.
His secretary, pale with fear, handed the newspapers to him. The front
page had it all, "The Earthmen are building a military base next to the
capital - Weia is now a hostage in the superpowers' fight." The second page
boasted another title, "The last bribe of Shavash's. What's the price of
your country?" The phone rang. It was Kissur.
"Terence? The Emperor wants to see you. You should be in the Fragrant
Solemnity Pavilion in half an hour."
The phone screamed again.
"I am not here, not here, I am already flying!" Bemish shouted leaping
out of his bathrobe. A helicopter was beating his transparent wings at the
landing field behind the white wall.
Bemish spent half an hour in the helicopter studying the damned Blue
Sun, a shitty newspaper that belonged to the rebels. "I've always known that
it would come to that," he thought. The newspaper lied only in the minor
details. The bribe received by Shavash had actually been thirty percent
higher. Terence Bemish was called "a professional spy, an experienced agent
who wormed his way into the confidence of some people close to the
sovereign." There was even some bullshit story about Bemish being kicked out
of Gera three years ago for espionage - it didn't speak in favor of his
spying skills.
They were already awaiting him in the carved halls. Sweetish smoke was
rising out of the silver corollas of the braziers. The gold peacocks, cast
during Empress Cassia's rule, stood on the both sides of the forbidden door
and gawked at the Earthman with bewilderment and condemnation. The Emperor,
confused and pale, sat in an armchair. Dressed up Shavash faced the Emperor
expressionlessly and the first minister Yanik stood to the right. He was
devouring Shavash with his eyes.
"How do you do, Mr. Bemish?" the Emperor said.
Bemish felt himself blushing as if he were a boy caught in a
supermarket while stealing a chocolate bar and not the man responsible for
the largest military scandal of the century.
|
The sovereign paused and added, "It's not my place to judge but,
really, should the Emperor of the Country of Great Light find what you do to
my country out of newspapers?"
Precisely at that moment, the doors of the golden peacocks moved apart
and another character - Giles - walked in.
Bemish turned to him and said vengefully, "Well, what have I told you?
We got it."
"I am very upset, Mr. Bemish," sovereign Varnazd continued, "I
considered you to be an honest man. I am always wrong about people."
"Bemish has nothing to do with it," Giles said, "Our company was
supposed to get the license. It took us a while to persuade Mr. Bemish so
that he agreed to build it our way."
"And how much has it cost you for Mr. Bemish to agree?" the Emperor
smiled.
Bemish became as red as the apples on the tapestry behind the Emperor
and said, "It cost them nothing. I thought that if I had to screw around, I
would at least do it for free."
"Just a moment," Giles was astonished, "What do you mean, "for free?"
You received..."
Bemish turned and started walking towards Giles.
"Son of a bitch," he hissed. At that point, Shavash spoke in calm
voice, "This is my fault, Mr. Giles. I took some money from you to give to
Mr. Bemish but I spoke to him and he refused the money. So, I took it upon
myself to keep it."
Absurdly, Giles and Bemish burst out laughing.
"I swear by god's goiter," Yanik spoke through his clenched teeth
looking at the small official. But the Emperor didn't pay much attention to
Shavash's confession; he was probably used to these things. The first
minister started pompously, "They used to boil criminals in oil for selling
the country and to crucify them on gates! How can you justify yourself, Mr.
Shavash?"
"I," Shavash said, "don't see what I should justify. I signed a treaty
that transformed Weia from a pebble in the Galaxy's backyard into an ally of
the Federation of Nineteen and its potential member. The way the agreement
is defined makes it most profitable for the Weian people. Accordingly to the
treaty, three months ago we obtained a seven billion dinar credit that the
first minister had conducted unsuccessful negotiations for. I made the most
profitable deal for Weia in the last seven years and I made the Earthmen pay
for it with a seven billion credit!"
"Well," the Emperor hesitated, "if it is indeed the case..."
"But how will this man justify his actions?" Shavash continued, "He
lost his way among his bribes and he is completely incapable of performing
his duties. He is ready to destroy the Empire just to destroy me with it.
How will this man justify his actions when he delivered the information
concerning a classified agreement to the newspapers of the heretics? How
will you justify it, first minister?"
Yanik went gray in the face.
"It's not true," he muttered.
"Nonsense! I will prove that it's true and I will demonstrate how you,
instead of notifying the Emperor, preferred to let the heretics know about
everything!"
"Come here, Mr. Yanik," the Emperor said.
The old minister made one hesitating step forward, than another one.
"Is it correct? Who gave the information to ?"
The official paled and his hands started shaking.
"Tell me the truth..."
"I... I...," the old man muttered, "It's the military consul of Gera...
I didn't take any actions against it, but... Unfortunately, I don't know
what to do..."
"Resign," the Emperor said. The old official desperately threw up his
hands. Shavash banged his fist on a brazier.
"Who cares about Gera?" he cried out, "We are now Earth's ally. We
should admit that Bemish's company will obtain a military commission from
us! We should admit that the Empire has finally drawn a lucky number after
seven years of suffering!"
The Emperor faced Shavash with a sick smile.
"Should we appoint you to the first minister position?"
"Yes," Shavash said, "it will confirm that we made a military agreement
with Earth and that we will not turn away."
"If Mr. Shavash becomes the first minister," Giles reached out, "Earth
will consider it to be a... favorable omen. It would mean that the
government's position is firm. We are ready to consider a new loan."
|
"Sovereign," Shavash said," I haven't taken a single bribe that was not
beneficial for our people but you can't have a first minister who betrays
his country and his Emperor in order to get even with his personal enemy!"
The Emperor was quiet. Everybody stood motionless. The golden peacocks
stretched their necks listening to the silence. The brazier smoke quietly
danced atop a sun ray. When the Emperor spoke, it seemed to Bemish that gods
on the skies and demons in the underground went still listening to him.
"You are right, Mr. Shavash. It would make sense to appoint you as a
first minister. Unfortunately, I can't do it."
"Why?" Shavash asked.
The Emperor raised his grey eyes at the official.
"I can't do it because you are a scoundrel, Shavash."
The official was taken aback. In another place, he would probably make
a standard repartee that he had never heard that scoundrels couldn't be
first ministers and he would generally comment in detail about this most
childish argument. Here, he suddenly closed his mouth and blinked like a
gosling.
"I will not appoint you as a first minister, Shavash, while I am
alive," the Emperor continued quietly. "You are a scoundrel. When you
appoint a scoundrel to such a position, in the end he always causes more
harm that good for the country."
He paused and raised his eyes at Bemish.
"Great Wei, what should I do? What would you, Terence, do at my place?"
"I had an honor to present my opinion to you," Bemish answered, "And my
opinion was that first ministers should not be appointed by a sovereign, but
rather be appointed by the people via their duly elected representatives."
The sovereign laughed nervously. Then he guffawed out loud.
"You are right, Terence," he spoke, "You are right! I will gather
your... representatives. Let them decide themselves who is gonna be the
minister! And let Mr. Shavash prove them that he acted for the people's
good, let's see if my people are as stupid as I am!"
The Emperor rose and rushed into the inner halls. Giles and Shavash
hurried after him but the guards didn't let them through. Bemish turned
around, tripped over a golden peacock and bolted downstairs. Halfway down,
he almost collided with Kissur who was ascending quickly.
"Kissur," Bemish said desperately, "You know that they forced me to do
it."
Kissur just waved his hand.
"How is the sovereign?" he asked.
"He fired Yanik."
"Great Wei! Who is the first minister?! Shavash?!"
"Nobody," Bemish said, "The sovereign promised to announce elections to
the Parliament."
Kissur's face contorted.
"You suggested this to him, didn't you?"
"You know my views."
"I know your views. You don't give a damn about this country. You think
that democracy will raise the stock quotes of your blasted companies!"
"Time spent with me was beneficial for you, Kissur. How long ago was it
when your understanding of stocks equaled my understanding of horses?"
Kissur threw himself down on a stair and squashed Bemish's foot. He sat
there for a while and then he stood up.
"It's not a problem. I've hanged one fully assembled parliament already
and I will hang another one. Take this into account when you plan your
investments."
And he ran up jumping over three stairs at a time - however, they were
quite low.
Still airborne on his way to Assalah, Bemish spent an hour giving
orders to buy the stocks of Weian companies, to buy as many of them as
possible and to keep low profile while doing it.
In an hour, having finished all his calls, Bemish extracted a sheet of
paper and started drawing a diagram illustrating his company's refinancing
scheme. High yield Assalah bonds currently paid off at fourteen percent a
month. Parliament elections and the subsequent rise of the country's rating
would increase the bonds' value. Accordingly to Bemish's calculations, they
should cost a hundred and three to a hundred and four cents for a dinar in
two to three months. Even now they reached a hundred and one point one cents
for a dinar - under these conditions even a bond bought at the price above
its face value still brought thirteen percent. Accordingly to the IPO's
conditions, rise (and fall) of the bonds' value caused the interest rates to
adjust so that the bonds would cost hundred cents per dinar. New Assalah
bonds, Bemish calculated, should make eleven to twelve percent.
|
A phone call interrupted his calculations.
"I have news about Inis," over the receiver he heard Giles' cold voice.
"Finally. Where is she?"
"You should better come to the villa."
In half an hour Bemish stood in a far corner of his luxurious garden,
next to a carved gazebo entwined with ivy. He stood near an ornamental well
that was a necessary feature - together with a hermit's hut and tame deer -
of a country manor. Nobody used it for the original purpose since running
water available was available. But tame beasts started behaving strange next
to the well and three hours ago a meticulous gardener had taken a look into
it in case something was wrong.
Bemish stood and watched two security service guys, clad in tight
rubber and leather, pulling a white swollen body over the well's edge. Far
away in the sky among the stars, danced blue and yellow lights of the rising
ships and a bold nightingale in a neighboring bush was singing a song
accompanied by a chorus of night cicadas.
"Do you know what will publish tomorrow?" Giles moved nearby.
"It will write that a foreign vampire killed his lover and hid her body in
an abandoned well.
Bemish turned and Giles saw with horror that the businessman's grey
eyes were as empty as a safe that robbers had broken into. Then, the general
director of Assalah Company swayed and, unconscious, slowly collapsed in
Giles's hands.
The Thirteenth Chapter
Where the nation expresses its will with unpredictable results.
Two months passed by. Preparations for the elections were at their
peak. Throughout the whole country, the officials had their precinct gates
wide open and fed their future electorate with, square like Weia, rice pies
and with, round like the sky, wheat pies. Throughout the whole country,
zealots performed shows about iron people. Throughout the whole country,
entrepreneurs and traders made donations to the officials' election
campaigns instead of bribing them.
Bemish spent this time flying around the Galaxy. The people closest to
him knew that he was horribly upset about Inis' death. The Earthman hadn't
stepped out of his bedroom for the first two days and, then, he threw
himself into his business like a fish dives into the ocean with an evident
and almost hysterical desire to drive the recent events out of his mind.
Various suggestions were made about the murderer's identity, including
the ex-first minister Yanik and the a number of people
suspected them to be connected. Mr. Yanik, alike the zealots, didn't approve
of the Empire being bought by the people from the stars. He wholeheartedly
wanted his friends to buy the Empire but, unfortunately, the people from the
stars had more money.
Shavash was also mentioned quite often; people said that the vengeful
official had killed Ashinik in retaliation for the old assassination attempt
and that he had killed the woman because once Bemish hadn't shared her with
him and also to mislead the investigation. They said that the Earthman
grieved so much because he knew who the man behind the murder was but he
could avenge it only by destroying his business in the process. Frankly, the
comments hit reasonably close to the truth.
Another rumor was also popular - the Earthman had knifed the woman to
demonstrate his grief and to alleviate the suspicions about his love for
another woman - they mentioned Idari quite loudly.
They searched for Ashinik very thoroughly, sometimes suspecting him of
his wife's murder and sometimes thinking that he had been killed together
with his wife as a traitor. But Ashinik disappeared without a trace. They,
however, found the man who had handed the papers about the spaceport's
military future to the zealots. It was the marxist technician who had
arrived with Ashidan at Kissur's villa and spied on the spaceport later.
Bemish went to see what was what left of this man. The next day, during
negotiations in Los Angeles Bemish would catch himself thinking occasionally
about possible reactions of his polite colleague in tortoise glasses if this
colleague knew that six hours ago the respectable director of Assalah
Company had cold-bloodedly observed how an alive man had his flesh cut off
him bit after bit and how this man screamed at the top of his lungs that he
knew nothing, absolutely nothing about Inis.
|
Having traveled for a month, Bemish returned to Weia. He had
practically finished the negotiations concerning BOAR. At the spaceport, he
ran into a flock of journalists who arrived to monitor the fairness of the
election preparations. One of the journalists asked him, "What do you
estimate Yadan's chances to win the elections are?"
Three hours before Bemish's arrival, the leader of the White Sect, a
mortal foe of the Earthmen and, therefore a mortal foe of all their
inventions such as democracy, credit cards and pizza, had declared that he
would participate in the elections.
"What are Yadan's chances?" Bemish was astonished.
"He is a madman who believes that Earthmen are demons. He looks at my
spaceport and says that I built a hole to hell. He says that he climbs a
ladder to the sky every morning and there are no Earthmen here. It means
that all our ships and equipment are phantoms and our spaceports are holes
leading underground. He also says that he was born out of a golden egg."
The journalist grinned and asked, "Why, in this case, does Ashinik
follow Yadan in the party's hierarchy? He was a vice-president in your
company and he seems to have worked under the billionaire Ronald Trevis.
Does he also think that the spaceport is a hole leading underground?"
Bemish froze. Ashinik is alive! The journalist pursed his lips and
said, "Aren't you ashamed to repeat the rumors spread by corrupted officials
to discredit the people's leaders?"
The next day, Bemish read an article about Weia in an influential and,
therefore, liberal newspaper . The article was written by the
abovementioned journalist. The article presented the election company on
Weia as the fight between the corrupted officials and the true democratic
representatives of the people. Yadan was the true democratic representative
of the people. The corrupted officials and certain Earthmen who had reaped
off a lot of money robbing Weia tried all they could to smear the people's
leader.
An interview with Yadan followed the article. The journalist asked
Yadan, "Is it true that you consider Earthmen to be demons?"
"I don't know where this crazy rumor came from. You see, Mr. Bemish
doesn't speak Weian very well. You sometimes say "Go to hell" and we say
"You are a demon, go home." It could be that one of my friends swore at
Bemish and he, not really understanding our culture, took this expression
literally. I can give you another example. Some Earthmen started a rumor
that claimed that their leader had been born out of a
golden egg. But it's just a metaphorical expression. "To be born out of a
golden egg" is equivalent to your expression "to be born with a silver spoon
in your mouth."
Having finished the article, Bemish ordered Ashinik to be delivered to
him. It appeared to be a difficult task. Even though Ashinik was no longer
in hiding, he appeared everywhere accompanied by a triple layer of
bodyguards. Bemish had to limit himself to the zealot's satellite phone
number which was known only to a dozen people. He called him and screamed at
him in perfect Weian, "I don't really speak Weian, do I? Was it your
invention, Ashinik, to use Earth media to strengthen the sect's position?
Was it your idea to persuade a passerby pen pusher that he knew the
subtleties of local culture better than the Assalah Company director?"
"Ai-tana khari (Demon, go home)," Ashinik replied sarcastically and he
dropped the receiver.
Bemish was pissed off to such a degree that he gave an order to fire
Ashinik. The latter had still been formally a member of the Board of
Directors.
Together with the majority of the Earthmen living and working in the
Empire Bemish found himself facing a strange problem. On one hand, the local
Earthmen understood perfectly well - better than the local officials - what
exactly the so-called party of the people's freedom, led by co-chairmen
Yadan and Ashinik, was about. It would not be difficult to start a large
scale media campaign against these people. But such a campaign would crash
the Weian stock market because nothing is as easy to scare away as money. At
the same time, this campaign would not hurt the zealots since they didn't
give a damn about demons' newspapers anyway.
|
The local Earthmen took a counsel and came to the conclusion that there
was no chance these halfwits would win the election. So, let the liberal
newspapers idolize the new heroes. Why should they bother exposing them? It
would only be bad publicity for the new IPOs.
As the elections were approaching, the fund index grew like bamboo,
since fund indexes in developing countries always grow before the elections.
To scream about the party of the people's freedom under these conditions
meant killing your own profit. A considerable part of the paper and
speculation profits, obtained by the Earthmen financiers and manufacturers,
was donated to Shavash's election campaign. They and their wallets just
loved this future country's leader. Their enthusiasm for donations was based
on the solid and persuading results of the sociological studies predicting
Shavash's victory.
What the financiers didn't know was that these studies were paid for by
Shavash. It is much easier to buy two hundred sociologists than to buy fifty
million of voters.
The elections caused certain problems, however, to Assalah Company.
Ashinik occasionally appeared on the pages of the Galaxy newspapers. While
his general comments towards Earthmen were restrained, he used Terence
Bemish as an example to explain the peculiarities of the corruption in the
Empire. Mostly, he commented on the abuses of Assalah customs and unabashed
insider trading in Bemish's funds.
It wasn't particularly beneficial for the company's quotes and their
growth lagged noticeably behind the general fund index.
But the worst for Bemish was that, due to the elections, Kissur and
Shavash - two people that meant a lot for the planet and quite a bit for
Bemish personally - quarreled. Their breach started almost unnoticeably, at
the moment when Kissur declared openly that he was against all the
elections. Shavash had opposite views. When the sovereign declared in
Shavash's face that he would never appoint him as a first minister, Shavash
realized that he would be able to become a first minister only by people's
volition.
Practically immediately, in a great hurry, Shavash channeled all his
power and money into a huge political campaign and into the creation of his
own party. Shavash's methods were as primordial as they were effective. The
doors to the vice-prefect's manor stood wide open for the poor - they could
get there free soup and pies day and night.
The minimal wage law was under consideration at that time. The first
minister Yanik insisted on a fifty isheviks minimal wage while Shavash
suggested eighty. Yanik won. Then, the vice-prefect Shavash declared that he
would pay the difference to the workers in the capital drawing a salary of
less than eighty isheviks.
Two assassination attempts were made at Shavash's life. It's hard to
say whether or not they were real but Shavash clearly gained from them. He
became the only man opposing the zealots for both foreign investors and
well-intentioned people.
While Kissur and Shavash could live in peace at the Emperor's court,
the fallout between became inevitable once the latter emerged as the head of
Weian Democratic Alliance party since the former considered democracy to be
an ultimate stupidity that Weia needed just as much as somebody would need a
fur hat amidst a hot summer.
The final quarrel happened at a party in one of Shavash's country
houses. Bemish attended it - he needed to meet some officials from Chakhar
and hand a check for the election campaign to Shavash.
They were all drunk; Kissur was somewhat more sober while Shavash was
boozed up completely. Shavash reclined on a sofa with one of his slaves
sitting on his knees. The slave was a cute fourteen-year-old boy and nobody
had any doubts about the precise nature of his relationship with Shavash.
The boy was kissing his master's fingers and picking bits off his plate and
finally the time arrived when the future prime minister, the light and hope
of the people, the enemy of inflation and the paragon of virtue started
walking towards an exit pushing the boy in front of him and looking horny.
Two or three supplicants had been circling around Shavash hoping to discuss
some important matters; they jumped out of his way not willing to distract
the vice minister away from his modest boy. At that point, Kissur appeared
in front of Shavash.
|
"Shavash," an Empire's ex-first minister said, "are you really going to
Lannakh tomorrow?"
A meeting of three provinces was taking place in Lannakh with feasts
for the chosen and pies for everybody.
"Yes."
"I beseech you not to go there."
Shavash smiled confounded.
"I can't, Kissur. The people are waiting for me there."
"I beseech you, Shavash, don't do it. I ask you in the name of our
friendship. It's not befitting for a Weian official to ape these stupid
Earthmen and to take part in the elections."
Shavash giggled drunkenly.
"Is it your personal request?"
"No, I speak on the other's behalf."
Kissur didn't say "other person's". He never called the Emperor Varnazd
a man. The Emperor was always a god in his eyes.
"Is he, in whose name you speak, afraid of me winning the elections?"
"You are not worthy of heading the country."
Everybody was listening to this dialog breathlessly; soon afterwards,
it was to acquire the most fantastic details added to it. Both Kissur and
Shavash were boozed up to the hilt and what a sober man has on his mind, a
drunkard has on his tongue...
Shavash laughed.
"What would you offer me instead, Kissur?"
"Anything you wish. You wanted Iman. (The sovereign gave to Kissur a
lot of land in the oil-rich areas of Iman). Would you like me to cut Yadan
down?"
Shavash giggled louder. He swayed and grabbed Kissur's shoulder to
avoid falling. Then, he missed a step and dropped on his knees. His lips
touched Kissur's hand.
"Kissur... Give me Idari and I won't participate in the elections."
Everybody froze not comprehending yet what was happening. Kissur was
the first one to react. His hands were next to Shavash's face, they suddenly
locked together on their own and Kissur hit Shavash with his locked hands in
the chin.
The vice minister sailed in a long arch through the air and landed with
his back on the banquet table. Sauces and appetizers flew to the sides and
priceless fifth dynasty china plates were smashed.
Kissur grabbed the object that was closest to him and it was a tall
five candle chandelier in the shape of a burning rose on a bronze rod and
rushed at Shavash roaring wildly. At this point, Bemish and Shavash's guards
tackled him and if it had not been for them, Kissur would have certainly
slaughtered the welcoming host. As it was, he had to limit himself to
killing one guard and leaving another one disabled.
The next day Bemish came to Kissur's manor to beg forgiveness. Green
with hangover, Kissur lay in a wide bed with a broken hand in a sling.
Bemish had broken this hand yesterday.
Kissur's brother, Ashidan, and Khanadar the Dried Date sat at Kissur's
feet and they weren't particularly welcoming towards Bemish.
"Son of a bitch," Kissur said out of his pillows. "I'll kill him
anyway."
He meant Shavash.
"You were drunk," Bemish objected, "You will still make peace."
Kissur laughed hoarsely.
"Don't be an idiot, Kissur! Shavash is just a horny goat. He almost
took Inis away from me! He sleeps with the wives of all his employees!"
"Exactly. He sleeps with everything that has a hole between its legs
whether this hole is in the front or in the back, he never leaves the pubs,
he drags his brat even to the negotiations with Galactic Bank and he dares
to ask me to give him my wife!"
The elections for the first Weian parliament took place on the fifth of
Shuyun, July, 17 by the interplanetary calendar. The
overwhelming majority of the electorate - 67.5% - voted for the party of the
people's freedom, the ex-sect .
The same day, the sovereign declared the results invalid and issued
arrest warrants for Yadan and Ashinik, two best known leaders of the sect.
Yadan disappeared. Ashinik escaped to Earth. His arrival caused a huge
sensation in the liberal media. He was a charming twenty two year old young
man with perfect English, a year's working experience as a vice president in
a large trans galactic company and a one year college experience in an elite
business school. He totally didn't look like somebody accused by Weian
authorities of terrorism, manipulation of people's minds, mass hypnosis and
the literal understanding of the electoral campaign slogan "Earthmen are
demons."
|
Two days after his escape, Ashinik gave a long interview on the seventh
intergalactic TV channel. He explained all of the rumors attacking the party
of the people's freedom in a very simple way. The officials had decided to
run the elections hoping to obtain more power than they had before. When the
people's party won the elections, the results were declared invalid and a
huge incomparable libel campaign started against the party.
They asked Ashinik if his party was going to nationalize the foreign
companies' property if it came to power.
"No," Ashinik answered, "but we were going to make businessmen and
financiers of the Federation of Nineteen follow the Federation's laws."
As an example, Ashinik referred to Terence Bemish. Mr. Bemish had
created one of the largest industrial companies on Weia and Ashinik had
worked for him for a year. Terence Bemish bought eighteen million dollars
worth of Ichar non-ferrous metals facility stocks in an hour after his
friend Shavash had cleared this facility's sale to MetalUranium Company and
a day before the deal went public. Terence Bemish made thirty million.
Terence Bemish bought twenty million worth of bonds after
Shavash's close friend Oshin had announced that the payments on this loan's
interest would possibly be postponed; this announcement dropped the bonds'
prices by forty percent. Oshin was fired in a week, the bonds' value grew
back to the same level and Terence Bemish made sixteen millions. In a week,
Bemish hired Oshin as a manager of one of his funds.
"These actions resemble insider trading too much; they would cause
legal proceedings to happen anywhere else in the world," Ashinik claimed.
"Clearly, Terence Bemish has bought securities knowing that their value
would increase sharply. Persecution of these criminal activities doesn't
threaten the market. On the opposite, it would guarantee equal opportunity
for everyone. As for Assalah Company," Ashinik explained, "it hasn't only
provided ships with landing opportunities; it also has allowed the ship
owners to avoid paying import tariffs. A conveyor belt of export-import
companies was created at the spaceport with every company's life time being
two months. Accordingly to Weian regulations, a company should issue tax
reports every two months and, if it exists less than that, it just doesn't
pay any taxes. Of course, the local officials knew everything about it but
they were browbeaten or bought off. The companies were used for two
purposes. Mostly a successor company would fulfill its predecessor's
obligations in full but sometimes, if Bemish or Shavash needed to punish
somebody, the successor would not pay for the goods or, inversely, wouldn't
deliver prepaid merchandise. It was not difficult since most freight didn't
have accompanying documentation issued. That's why Assalah imports were
thirty percent cheaper than imports via any other spaceport."
"Does it mean," a journalist inquired, "that having gained power you
will collect all the tariffs in full?"
"No," the clever Havishem graduate answered, "quite the opposite, we
will lower tariffs. We are against protectionism and limiting foreign trade.
But I would like to stress that Yanik's government charged some companies
and didn't charge the others. This is not protectionism of domestic
industry. They favor some importers at the price paid by the others and this
is even worse than protectionism."
The journalist inquired how conscientiously Assalah paid its taxes and
Ashinik said that the year before last, Bemish had paid the taxes with the
bonds of bankrupted Weian National Bank. The trick was that Bemish had
bought the securities on Exchange at 7% of their face value while the state
budget accepted them at 100% of their face value.
The last year they started experimenting issuing tax promissory notes
on Weia. These promissory notes were securities based a company's debts to
the treasury. Everybody knew that Bemish wouldn't pay anything on these
promissory notes and they cost 3-4% of their face value. Bemish bought them
at this price via dummy fronts and he didn't have to pay the taxes this year
anymore. Bemish also acquired a lot of promissory notes of the companies
that he had some designs for and the state helped him to exchange the notes
into the stocks of these companies.
|
The Assalah securities didn't take this interview well - their price
plummeted by thirty points.
Bemish ordered his employees to compile and send to Earth a small
ethnographic report about the activities of so that the
TV audience could clearly understand that the political goals of the sect
were not limited to the removal of protectionism and insider trading in
stock market.
The next day, Ashinik made an official announcement that nuclear
weapons were stored in Assalah spaceport including Cassiopeia nuclear
missiles equipped with S-field that had been delivered there accordingly to
a secret treaty between the Empire and the Federation governments. The
proliferation of these missiles had been banned accordingly to the
S-armament non-proliferation treaty signed by the UN countries.
Bemish called this statement a horrible lie.
Ashinik demanded the spaceport to be inspected by the people.
Bemish announced that he would not allow a people's inspection because
a Weian peasant would not see any difference between a nuclear missile and a
landing stabilizer support and he, Bemish, didn't want somebody to throw an
explosive device in a landing chute during such an "inspection." All this
"people's inspection" was demagoguery anyway, why didn't experts just come
in and inspect whatever they want to?
Ashinik claimed that Earth experts would be bought by Bemish and the
Federation counter-intelligence.
Bemish announced that he didn't understand what a people's inspection
was.
Ashinik promised to explain to Bemish what a people's inspection was.
Two days later, the spaceport security service informed Bemish that a
crowd was moving towards the spaceport. Almost synchronously, two dozen
zealots, that had infiltrated the lounge before, descended to the storage
area to reclaim their luggage containing rocket launchers and other assorted
killing utensils.
The luggage had been X-rayed earlier and the zealots were arrested in
. Bemish announced that it was an organized terrorist
activity and, if the people's inspection was going to happen along the same
lines, he wouldn't allow it. The zealots were taken to the capital and all
the confessions were beaten out of them quite quickly.
Bemish issued to order to guard the whole spaceport's perimeter closely
and to allow only ticket holders inside the port due to the emergency
situation. The next day, he showed to the journalists two bombs extracted
from an unknown man's luggage; the man arrived at the spaceport with a
ticket to the planet of Gera and left the spaceport in an unknown direction.
Ashinik claimed that Bemish had engineered the whole thing himself just
as he had with the zealots and rocket launchers. As for their "confession"
to the Weian police, Ashinik noted that Mr. Shavash could make an elephant
confess that it was a mouse in disguise. Ashinik claimed that the protests
were perfectly peaceful.
A huge crowd of zealots blocked the spaceport. The journalists from all
over the Galaxy flew to Assalah in search of prize news.
New people arrived at the roadblocks every day. They introduced
themselves to the journalists as "simple peasants that didn't like their
motherland being traded away for a jar of sour cream." Bemish, on the other
hand, claimed that they were not peasants but staunch zealots.
The traffic on the highway connecting Assalah to the capital was
completely paralyzed. Two monorails, Assalah - Sky City and Assalah -
I-Chakhar, were used for cargo transport. The blocked-off area in the
vicinity of the monorails was controlled by the satellites launched
specifically for this purpose; the satellites called alarm three times a day
and the trains had to be stopped; the cargo transportation schedule went to
hell.
Trucks traveled in groups accompanied by sharpshooters. Bemish
announced that the spaceport's administration would not take any
responsibility for the people's safety if they used passenger cars to get to
the capital. The car rental agencies went hysterical. The helicopter drivers
lived in the state of bliss. Three hundred taxi drivers that had been
temporarily hired by the spaceport security were ready to tear the zealots
apart.
|
The media approach shocked Bemish somewhat. They would interview an
ardent zealot - a professional agitator who had been bumming around fairs
since the age of five and who was lost in his own lies to such an extant
that he no longer knew whether or not Earthmen were demons. They would call
him a "Weian peasant who came to Assalah to fight for the freedom of the
elections and his country's freedom." On the other hand, a Weian taxi driver
whose car had been burned out two days ago by a zealot crowd was called "a
secret agent of security service bought by Bemish."
The spaceport sustained huge losses due to cargo being delayed and
frightened passengers hurriedly picking other travel routes. Twenty thousand
tons of gourmet Iniss peaches turned into peach chowder after spending five
hours in crazy summer heat in a monorail train with a disabled cooling
system. Ashinik called a bomb found on the monorail "a spaceport special
services' instigation."
Continuous magnetrone inspection of cargo damaged a Crudge-14A with
superconductive circuits traveling to the Iniss branch of Mountain TDL and
the corporation raised a horrible fuss about it.
The security service employees had all of their vacations cancelled.
They worked fourteen hours a day without holidays and slept right there,
crowding in the spaceport hotel rooms. Three hundred enraged taxi drivers
and long distance truck drivers joined the security service. Three hundred
highly professional colleagues of Giles' arrived quietly at the spaceport
and the journalists learned about their incognito arrival five minutes after
the space liner had landed.
Assalah stocks dropped five points a day on the average. Assalah
high-margin bonds were being sold twenty cents a dinar by the end of this
week.
However, Bemish's personal finances were in much better state than that
of the company. Bemish had realized that the zealots were sure to win before
the election's results were declared invalid and he ordered to sell quickly
practically everything that they traded with on Weian Exchange. Going short
brought at least forty million dinars to Weian Special and Second Investment
Fund but it was the first time in Terence Bemish's life when he was not
particularly happy to short.
Bemish requested governmental assistance with the protesters. The
government dallied and wavered and finally told him that while it was
sympathetic towards the Assalah issues but it was not willing to utilize
Weian police against Weian peasants to protect a foreign company that,
additionally, employed a right of "tax and trial" inside its territory.
Confidentially the government hinted that it was afraid to be kicked out of
power if tried to do anything along these lines.
Ronald Trevis arrived at Assalah on the third day. Three hours after
his arrival, a twenty person Ajax landed in the spaceport and suntanned
Kissur climbed out of it. Kissur hurried to Bemish's office where a
management meeting was taking place and he started shouting right at the
doorstep.
"What's this mess? Why don't you just shoot this muck? What are all
these rubber sticks doing here instead of rocket launchers?"
"If I shoot all this muck," Bemish said, "I will do what Ashinik dreams
about. It will bury the relationship between Weia and the Federation.
Ashinik will start screaming that foreigners at his planet shoot at
absolutely peaceful protestors. He will be somewhat correct about that. The
foreigners should not have a right to make such decisions."
"Why the hell did you ask for the right of "trial and taxes?"
"It was my mistake."
"I swear by the god's balls!" Kissur cursed. "Why don't you ask the
police minister for assistance?"
"I've asked him already. The government doesn't want to shoot its own
citizens for a foreign company's profit. If it does it, it will have to
shoot its own citizens to save its own ass tomorrow. Also, everybody knows
that an official, who gives such an order, will find a bomb in his first
Sunday soup even though Ashinik will assure that the bomb was planted by
provocateurs."
"All right," Kissur said and he slammed the door and took off.
|
Kissur returned in six hours, after dark. Eight skyers with large load
capacity landed at the spacefield and delivered about five hundred fighters
with blackened teeth wearing soft ox leather Alom boots. The fighters were
armed right up to their blackened teeth.
Two beetle-shaped amphibian tanks dropped out of the skyers' bellies;
the tanks were equipped with unusually short guns and they stuck upwards at
the rear resembling beetle's forewings folded at its back. The tanks were
covered with a non-metallic dully gleaming skin. Astonished, Giles whispered
into Bemish's ear that these were the latest generation BCC-29 tanks
designed to be dropped off a plane with a parachute onto any surface no less
than six minutes after a thermonuclear explosion.
Presenting his blackened teeth to flashing cameras, Kissur explained
that he came here to help his friend Bemish out and that his people couldn't
be taken for foreigners by any stretch of imagination and that only his
friend Bemish's squeals stopped him from burning this zealot muck one meter
deep into the ground.
He said that Bemish was a pansy, that the government was a flock of
horny dumb goats and that Ashinik was a dog that he, Kissur, would hang
right at that loading crane if they found one more bomb in the spaceport.
Kissur's people took over almost all spaceport security. A half of all
regular spaceport security employees went to sleep. Frankly, they were
mostly peaceful people who had never seen anything more dangerous than a
drug trafficker trying to hide hundred grams of barnithole or good old LSD
in his stomach; their familiarity with electric shockers was only
theoretical.
The passengers arriving at the spaceport glanced with frightened
admiration at the huge, almost two meter tall, wild looking men who
seemingly napped at the terminals having folded their hands on stubby
assault rifles. The ladies felt quite a specific curiosity towards these
lads, comparing them with their civilized husbands who contemplated morning
meetings even in bed.
The journalists waited breathlessly. It seemed absolutely certain that
any careless action of the crowd besieging the spaceport would lead to the
crowd's bloody demise.
It was five pm when Kissur entered Bemish's office; Ronald Trevis, the
head of LSV bank, had just arrived from Earth and he sat in the room
reclining in an armchair.
"Hello," Kissur said, "What are you doing here?"
"We are discussing the spaceport's future," Trevis replied.
"Oh, yes. These...eh stocks of yours plummeted."
"The spaceport's stocks," Trevis spoke, "belong to me, Bemish and Nan.
We are discussing the future of bonds."
"What's wrong with those?"
"They cost twenty cents a dinar."
"So what?"
"It would not be a problem if they were regular bonds. They are,
however, bonds with adjustable rate."
"What kind of beast is that?"
"It was my suggestion. The interest payments on the bonds are set up in
such a way that a bond's value is hundred cents for a dinar," Bemish entered
the conversation.
"I don't understand."
"The interest on the bonds is fourteen and a half percent," Bemish
said. "It's quite a bit. I hoped that I would be able to lower it. The
Assalah bonds cost hundred and three cents a dinar before the crisis. They
cost twenty cents now."
"It's crazy. I never knew about these clever securities."
"Unlike you, Ashinik knew it perfectly well," Bemish said, "I walked
him through our financial structure myself."
"Are you going to adjust yield?"
"No. There is not a single company that could handle it, even if it had
a large cash flow. Our cash flow dropped by thirty percent this month."
"What are you going to do?"
"I offered new securities to the investors instead of this crap."
"What did they do?"
"They sent me to hell. Ronald just delivered their responses."
"I see. Is this company bankrupt?"
Bemish didn't answer.
"If we flatten all this shit into the ground, will your bonds cost
more?"
"We should flatten this shit into the ground anyway," Trevis muttered,
"even if it doesn't save the company."
Later, they reconstructed the events the following way. At 18:00,
Kissur accompanied by Khanadar the Dried Date and by ten fighters walked
into the main office where all the upper company management had already
gathered; Trevis was also there with two aides. Bemish and Giles came in
slightly later. They were both armed. Bemish took a note that Kissur was
dressed very carefully - he wore a perfect white shirt, a proper black suit
and an unassuming tie of correct width - the clothing item that Kissur
loathed the most. On the other hand, a gun under Kissur's armpit was large
enough that even a perfectly designed suit failed to conceal it. Giles
slapped Kissur on the shoulder and said, "Damn it, Kissur! You are the man!
Without you we would be in shit up to our necks!"
|
"This way we will be in blood up to our necks," Bemish spoke quietly.
Giles spun.
"Be silent, Terence, when other people have to do your laundry." And he
turned back to Kissur.
"What are you going to do to the zealots?"
"What should I do to them to be accepted to the military academy?"
Giles was dumb-founded for a moment and then he answered, "Shoot them."
Bemish swallowed. He was certain that Kissur would agree to this
proposal. Doesn't he understand, however, that no public opinion would
tolerate him in the academy after such a bloodbath?
Kissur laughed out, slapped, in his turn, Giles on his shoulder and
declared, "Better late than never. You, Earthmen, get bold only when the
stocks of your companies plummet! Listen, Dick, let's exchange!"
And Kissur pulled his 9mm Star out of the gun holder and handed it over
to Giles handle first. The gun's barrel was in its original state while its
handle was covered by beautiful engraving over attached silver plates.
Giles hesitated for a moment, pulled his gun out and handled it over to
Kissur.
He took the gun, checked if it was loaded and declared loudly, "And
now, monkeys, stick your faces in the floor and your asses in the air! You
are under arrest!"
The fighters behind Kissur raised their assault rifles.
"Are you joking, Kissur?"
"It's not a joke, dog! Get down! Down!"
Giles was lost; he looked at the Star in his hands and pulled the
trigger. The gun only clicked - it was not loaded.
Several employees started slowly rising out of the table with the hands
up.
The next moment, Bemish whipped his gun out of the holder but, before
he was able to pull the trigger, fighter kicked the gun out of his hand with
his rifle's butt. Bemish turned and, with a dull thud, his fist collided
with the fighter's solar plexus. The latter moaned and sagged to the floor.
Two Alom fighters rushed at Giles. The security service head dropped
the useless gun and the guys started twisting his elbows back. Giles butted
one of them with his head in the stomach and threw the other one over. The
fighter dropped his rifle and Giles snatched the falling weapon. The next
moment a rifle burst sounded - Kissur was firing. One after another, heavy
bullets with zinc outer layer were making holes in the clothing and the body
of the security service chief. Giles swayed. His face showed astonishment.
He looked at his jacket stained with blood, muttered, "Why?" and crashed to
the floor letting the gun go.
Meanwhile, two more fighters rushed at Bemish. Having cried out, one of
them smashed into the table with his face. The papers prepared for the
meeting flittered and flew around the room like white geese. The other one
sailed ass forward into a flat, built in terminal, crashed to the floor and
stayed there. Bemish leaped over the table and charged at Kissur. A rifle
burst formed a series of holes in the floor in front of Bemish and he froze.
Kissur and the company director stood surrounded by the fighters.
"Don't be dumb, Terence," Kissur said, waving the gun, "Put your hands
behind your head or you will enter the other world together with Giles."
Bemish stood with his tie askew and his perfect shirt's collar torn.
The shirt had been absolutely fresh. Bemish took a shower half an hour ago
and changed it and he felt now how the cloth under his armpits and behind
his back was getting wet and sticky with his sweat.
"Raise your hands, Terence," Trevis muttered lying on the floor, "Don't
you see - they are nuts."
The next moment Bemish dove forward and his hand locked on Kissur's
wrist. In a moment the gun flew to the side and Kissur and Bemish rolled
over the floor in a tight embrace. The fighters didn't dare shoot - they
were afraid of hitting their master and they also believed that to kill one
of the enemies locked in personal combat was not cool.
Kissur's steel hands locked at his foe's neck. Bemish's ears rung, the
room's ceiling spun and started floating upwards. Bemish hit Kissur in the
groin with his knee. The latter hissed but didn't let go. Twisting, Bemish
rolled onto his side and drove his heel into Kissur's kneecap.
|
Kissur roared. A lock and a snatch followed and, having thrown the
barbarian over, Bemish leapt on his feet.
Time froze as a sentinel at a gate. Bemish was watching Kissur falling
vertically, head down to the floor and he could already hear the crunching
sound that vertebrae would make breaking over hard wood. For a moment he
wanted to rush to his friend and spot him but he realized that he would be
late. He also realized that he would die a second after this sound came.
At the last moment, Kissur threw his arms forward and his hands rustled
touching the hardwood floor. Kissur somersaulted over his head and having
pushed himself off the floor with his hands, kicked Bemish horribly with
both legs in his chest. Bemish flew away to the wall. Kissur's fist missed
his jaw by a millimeter. Bemish dove and landed a short jab in Kissur's
solar plexus. Kissur swayed. Bemish drove his heel into Kissur's groin. The
latter roared. The next moment, he jumped at his opponent and he jammed
Bemish in the ribs with his knee. The company director was thrown to the
floor. He barely had time to turn aside and then Kissur's heavy boot kicked
him in the chin once and again.
Bemish tucked his knees in and, right at this moment, he saw in the
ceiling's light Kissur's contorted face far above him and his blackened fist
right next to his eyes. Then something exploded and flashed in Bemish's
head. The world sank and fell like a flower petal and Bemish lolled on the
floor like a man who had his skeleton extracted so that only the meat was
left. Two fighters locked handcuffs on his wrists and dragged him by his
legs out of the room. The Assalah director's head trailed down the office's
freshly waxed hardwood floor, blood seeped out of his light hair.
"If anybody moves," Kissur said, "he will get nine grams heavier."
And he pointed at dead Giles.
"What does it mean?" Ronald Trevis asked from the floor.
"The spaceport is taken over."
"Who took over it?"
"It is the party of people's freedom."
Then, dressed in Earth clothing, Kissur smiled and took a broad marine
knife from a warrior standing next to him. Slowly and enjoying himself, he
wrapped his dark red bordeaux colored tie around his left hand and, grinning
broadly, he cut it off at the top.
Afterwards, everybody admitted that, on the technical side, the
operation had been performed brilliantly.
At 18.05, an announcement sounded out of the Assalah spaceport
loudspeakers. A slightly hoarse voice with a trace of Alom accent said,
"Ladies and gentlemen! The Assalah spaceport is controlled by me, Kissur,
and the party of people's freedom. All the spaceport guards have been
disarmed. Nobody should move from where they are. Anybody resisting my
troops will be shot dead on the spot. Any panic will be considered a
resistance attempt.
The Earthmen will soon be allowed to leave the spaceport. Before that,
however, they are considered to be hostages and they will be killed if they
take any hostile actions towards us.
Ladies and gentlemen, have a good day. Goodbye."
Immediately after the announcement, Kissur's fighters, present in
practically every lounge, custom corridor, restaurant and shop jerked their
assault rifles up at the ready position and screamed, "Everybody down on the
floor! Ass up, hands behind your head! Go! The majority of people submitted
obediently, dropping in the process the souvenirs they just bought - Inis
lacquered figurines and flat wooden bottles with Chakhar vodka. This order
effectively stopped panic (that was to be treated as resistance). Occasional
gun bursts above the heads took place; five spaceport security service
employees attempted to escape - four were shot dead and the fifth died two
hours later at a surgery table.
In the air traffic control room, assault rifles were aimed at the
workers and the latter unquestioningly obeyed Khanadar's directions - to
announce Assalah, without getting into any extra details, to be a closed-off
zone. Therefore, the ships that were not on the landing trajectory yet,
should go land anywhere the hell they want but not in Assalah; the ships
that were already moving on the landing trajectory should continue landing.
|
The pilots are a well trained crowd and they were accustomed to landing
the way they were told to. The last two ships had time to figure out that
they were landing in a spaceport taken over by terrorists. Attesting to the
professional level of their crews, the ships didn't vacillate in the air -
that could've been very dangerous - and landed in the spaceport. After the
landing, they immediately required a permission to launch; the permission
was refused.
At least, not a single ship crashed missing the launching chutes; it
would've been very probable if the air traffic controllers had panicked.
The flight schedule board in the main lounge blinked and went dead.
Then, an announcement appeared on it, "Long live the party of people's
freedom!" The announcement was written in Weian and English. The English
variation contained a grammatical mistake.
There were total of eight thousand people in the spaceport, five
hundred volunteer and regular security service employees, twenty three
hundred of regular personnel and fifty two hundred passengers.
About four dozens passengers, mostly journalists, recognizable thanks
to their cameras, were pulled out of the crowd and brought to an office.
Kissur and his younger brother Ashidan sat there and young Ashinik with the
old man Yadan represented the zealots. Kissur offered the guests to take
part in the inspection of the spaceport and he added that he would rely
completely upon their honest reports. Afterwards, the whole Galaxy saw the
pictures made by these journalists.
The following is an excerpt from the testimony given by Francis F.
Carr, an employee of a large auditing firm Coupere, Lir and Gambacher; he
had been among the forty selected hostages. Mr. Carr gave this testimony to
a senate committee during an investigation concerning the spaceport's
takeover a month and a half later.
"Why did they pick you?"
"I don't know. Two fighters approached me, one of them stuck his finger
at me and they took me away. They didn't speak English. I thought that they
were going to shoot me."
"Did they beat you?"
"Frankly, I got a good kick in the butt and, when we were passing the
peasants, somebody threw a rotten tomato at me."
"What did they fighters do?"
"They screamed something at the crowd and they cleaned the tomato off
me."
"What happened next?"
"They took me to a large room, there were already about thirty people
there. A lot of journalists were there and nobody obstructed from taking
pictures. Kissur and his brother sat at a table together with the leaders of
the party of people's freedom. Kissur told the journalists to save their
film - he was going to take them on a trip through the spaceport and they
would get good shots there."
"What happened next?"
"Kissur said that he demanded that everything photographed was shown on
Galactic channels. He said that the films should be sent to a place that had
broadcasting equipment and that the broadcast should be shown on all
channels. He said that they had agents on different planets and that if the
broadcast started later than 9am of the next day, he would shoot five
hostages for every minute of delay. Somebody asked what would happen to the
hostages if his demands were complied with. Kissur said that he was not
enough of a scoundrel to make eight thousand Earthmen hostages in his future
fight with Gera. Then, they asked him why he had seized the spaceport and he
said that it was the only way to expose all its secret depositaries. He said
that it was impossible to pick a moment when no passengers were present in
the spaceport and that he didn't know any way to prevent panic spreading
among civilians but to make them drop on their bellies and to shoot a dozen
or two as an example. They asked him what he was going to do with the
passengers and he said that after the broadcast was shown, he would free the
hostages."
"What about the personnel?"
"He said that he had to detain the employees that were necessary for
the proper operation of the spaceport."
"Have you witnessed any abuse of the passengers?"
"Yes. I saw a terrorist hitting a man with his rifle's butt only
because the man rose without obtaining permission. Also a guy, sitting on
the floor, stretched his legs; a terrorist thought that the guy was trying
to trip him and the fighter hit him with his knee in the temple."
|
"What else has Kissur said?"
"He said that he had arrived at the spaceport to defend his friend
Bemish. Then, he obtained reliable information that the military had been
transporting toxic gas in a ship and that they were going to use it against
the protesters. He had tried to persuade Bemish's deputy, an Intelligence
Service employee Giles, not to utilize the gas. The latter said, "Shut up,
Weian monkey." Kissur shot Giles."
"Have you seen the gas?"
"Yes. In a ship that was one of the latest to arrive, neurotoxin
containers made up half the cargo. The containers were marked as a military
cargo accordingly to the standard rules of the Federation Space Force. We
were the first ones to enter the ship and the journalists photographed
everything."
"Are you aware of the fact that the Federation defense department
claims that it does not own these containers?"
"Yes, your honor."
"In your opinion, could Kissur load the containers before showing them
to you?"
"That would be impossible. When we stood at the loading dock, the after
landing warning lights were still lit on the board and they were just
dragging the crew outside."
"What happened next?"
"They took us down a lot of storage areas. Quite often, the goods that
were stored there had nothing to do with custom department's documentation
describing them. More precisely, it was practically never the case. Cars
were called medical equipment, computers were called canned food. I saw
boxes of Lamass lace that were exported as glass."
"Were you offered any explanation?"
"Yes. The goods that were not duty free were documented as goods that
were. Most export-import companies had a life expectation of less than two
months. I don't know how corruption in customs looks on other planets but I
was shocked by what I saw there. They didn't steal by containers, they stole
by whole cargo loads."
"What happened next?"
"Finally, they took us to an area of space field that was almost never
used for the civil flights. The chutes there looked slightly different from
the civil ones. They showed us papers demonstrating that these chutes were
intended for military ships. There were certain differences in construction
between military and civil chutes, for instance ceramics deposition on the
support columns allowed a ship to have a launching acceleration of five to
six times higher than a civilian spaceship would require. They also..."
"We are not discussing technical parameters of military chutes at this
hearing. Did you only see chutes?"
"No. There were several storage areas there - 17A, 17B and 17C - that
had walls and locks designed in a different way. In particular, the storages
had radiation shielding. Mr. Bemish was brought in and he opened the
storage."
"How was Bemish treated?"
"They dragged him on a leash."
"How did he look?"
"He looked horrible. His suit was torn, there was blood on his shirt
and he had a huge wale under his right eye. On the other hand, Kissur had
the same size wale under his left eye and, as far as I know, Bemish got it
all while fighting. Nobody beat him when his hands were tied."
"What was in the storage?"
"Some imported apparel was stored in 17A though, accordingly to the
documentation, it was supposed to be empty. 17B was also supposed to be
empty accordingly to the documentation. However, containers with medical
markings were stored there. Right in front of us, they extracted
constructions out of the containers that were later identified as partially
functional Cassiopeia missiles."
"Why was Bemish needed there?"
"The storage areas were computer controlled and the computer had eye
retina recognition lock system. There were only two retina images loaded
into the computer memory, the spaceport director's and his deputy's -
Terence Bemish and Richard Giles."
"Therefore, the missiles could be stored there only if the above named
persons were involved. Is it correct?"
"Yes, your honor."
Bemish lay on a leather sofa in his own office and his hands were tied
tightly behind his back. If he moved his eyes to the side strenuously
enough, he could see out of an office's window a small section of the
landing field and an arching asphalt ramp. Peasants wandered around in the
landing field. A beetle shaped passenger bus crawled down the ramp.
|
The door squeaked and Kissur entered the office. Bemish turned
pointedly to the wall; the pain in his twisted hand made him hiss sharply.
"Hello to a TV star," Kissur said, "They will show you tomorrow on all
the channels - together with 17B storage area."
Bemish turned and hissed again.
"How did those damned missiles get here?" Bemish asked.
"My dear," Kissur said, "that's a question for you."
"Don't clown around! I sent them there on Shavash's request..."
"And Shavash thought that he was importing cute little cars," Kissur
finished for him.
"You know, Shavash can goof up sometimes too... I don't have my own
dummy fronts so I had to use one of vice minister's."
"What are you striving for, Kissur?" Bemish asked. "Have you forgotten
how you shouted with joy when they told you that they would build a military
base here? And I was almost killed when I refused to do it!"
Kissur was smiling and nursing an assault rifle on his knees.
"All right. You abased Shavash. You filmed him being a thief. You
filmed me being a thief. You buried our military in unforgettable shit
though, for my death's sake, I can't figure out how you got these damned
missiles. What do you want?"
"What do I want? I want this spaceport to be nationalized. I want all
this crap that the foreigners have built here to be nationalized. I want to
change the government that steals just like our little brother Shavash. The
foreigners station armaments, which are forbidden across the whole Galaxy,
on our land and without our knowledge. Do you think that it's enough of a
reason to expropriate the goods that the rich had stolen from us and return
them to the people?"
Bemish jerked.
"Idiot! You will fail completely!"
"Why?"
"Why?! Are you asking me, why? Just look at the people you allied
yourself with! You will ruin your country and lose your head! Can you name a
single official allied with you, can you name just one man who knows what a
budget is and what a balance is?! Your allies are idiots who think that
Earthmen are demons! Look, Ashinik can only discourse on the eradication of
protectionism and setting the same rules for everybody till the moment when
he gets to power. When he gets to power, however, either he will do what his
party wants or they will devour him whole. Do you think that with such
allies you will be able to produce anything but a circuit performance? Do
you think that anybody will talk to you? What about the hostages and the
victims?"
"I will release the hostages," Kissur said.
"You mean the passengers. What about the personnel? Damn it, if you let
the personnel go, the whole place will collapse. Are you going to stick a
Weian zealot behind a VIS operating terminal?"
"I will release all the Earthmen hostages," Kissur repeated, "The
personnel staying here are citizens of the Empire. I assure you that all
Earth journalists will say that I released the hostages since they consider
only Earthmen to be the hostages. The Empire's officials don't care -
hostages or no hostages - we have never considered it to be a crime to begin
with."
Bemish shut his eyes and groaned. It was correct. If Kissur was saying
the truth, it was the end of it. The party of people's freedom had in its
power five thousand foreigners and it immediately released them. The whole
thing would look pretty good compared to the thievery and missiles that had
been discovered after the party's desperate actions. And it was not just
that; all the rumors that the government had been spreading about the party
such as the zealots considering Earthmen to be demons... The party's
honorable actions would prove the rumors to be a bunch of lies. It was
smart. It was smart and... unlike Kissur.
At that point, another man showed up at the office's entrance.
"So, we've met again, master."
Bemish turned his head.
"Should I thank you, Ashinik," he asked, "for PR strategy and tactics?"
The young man smiled. His hands nursed an assault rifle nervously.
"You are probably cursing the day when you didn't allow Kissur to kill
me, aren't you, master?"
Bemish ground his teeth.
"Just a bit," he muttered, "At least, Inis would have been alive."
|
"Don't touch her name, murderer!" Ashinik leaped.
"What's this crap?"
"You would've killed me too if I hadn't escaped!"
"That's bullshit. She was killed on Yadan's command in order to cause a
quarrel between us! Yadan acted exactly the same way as he had done earlier
with his predecessor! Why would I've killed her?"
"You did it out of jealousy."
"What jealousy are you talking about, idiot? I had given her away to
you. And she asked me that day to take her back!"
"Gave her away, take her back," Ashinik paled and whispered, "Are Weian
women property to take and give away?"
"How long are you going to carp for?" Kissur inquired.
Ashinik regained his senses.
"Ashinik hasn't told us the most important thing yet," Bemish noted
sarcastically. "What tree is he going to use to hang the murderer of an
unfaithful concubine? This is not, by the way, a crime accordingly to the
ancient laws that he holds so dear."
"Mr. Bemish," Ashinik said, "the new Weian revolutionary government is
not going to detain you. We would like you to convey our demands, the
demands of the people. They are very simple and they are in the best
interest of both the Emperor and the people. Only corrupted officials and
gluttonous foreigners would resist them. We demand that the current
government resign and that the corrupted officials are persecuted by the
court. We demand that Kissur the White Falcon leads the Empire as he did ten
years ago. We demand that the foreign concept of elections is crossed out
from the government's edicts - this concept is not fitting for the Weian
people's spirit. Since our party won your stupid elections, we are clearly
acting in the majority's interests. We demand all the companies that belong
to the foreigners to be unconditionally nationalized. We demand all the
other private property holders submit themselves to an investigation. We are
not against businessmen, we are against the bad and the gluttonous
businessmen that suck on the people's marrow and don't think about the
people's interests! We will eradicate the bad businessmen and we will
support the good ones!"
"In your opinion, the bad businessmen," Bemish couldn't hold it back,
"are the ones that don't bribe you and the good businessmen are the ones
that do!"
"Shut up!" Ashinik screamed. "It's not for you to talk about bribery,
Mr. Bemish! Not after they took a walk down your storage areas with
cameras!"
The Fourteenth Chapter
Or the first minister as an international terrorist.
At 19.54 they crammed Bemish into his own Mercedes and an unsmiling
Khanadar drove him to the last post located in front of the old village. The
village seemed to be dead. Dust hovered above the field - a flock of
military skyers had just passed by.
About two hundred meters away from the post, a roadblock gate had been
installed in a hurry. Antennas, resembling overgrown burdocks, stuck out
behind the gate and a herd of military Jeeps hang out nearby. Another
kilometer further, Bemish's own villa stood out, a gift from the terrorists'
chief and the Empire's ex-first minister...
It was two hundred meters. Two hundred meters separated an ex-spaceport
taken over by the terrorists from the normal world populated with corrupted
officials and stupid Earthmen. It was two hundred meters for the ex-director
of Assalah Company, Mr. Bemish. On his neck, he carried a suitcase
containing the terrorists' demands to nationalize his company and a key from
the handcuffs - his hands were still locked behind his back. For two hundred
meters sun rays and the red lights of laser sights danced on his face.
Bemish stepped behind the gate. The red lights went out and people in
military uniforms rushed towards him. There were some civilians present;
Bemish recognized Michael Severin, the Federation envoy. There were
absolutely no journalists present.
They crammed Bemish into a car and the car rushed towards the villa.
"How did the missiles got there?" a man in a colonel's uniform screamed
at Bemish.
"You should ask Shavash about it," Bemish bit back, "He asked me to
take care of this cargo."
"We will ask him," the colonel uttered.
|
"We know how the missiles got there," the second guy said. "They got
there from NordWest base. It's a base located on Agaia's moon. An old
acquaintance of Kissur's -an anarchist - used to work in one of Agaia's
spaceports. He visited Weia six months ago and Kissur went Agaia last month.
A week after his arrival, an accident occurred. This anarchist Lore and his
five friends missed a sharp turn on a road and fell into a chasm. It was
just an accident. The same day, another accident occured a light year and a
half away from Agaia; a mechanic at the base, Denny Hill, simply drowned
next to a crowded beach - he was on a vacation. It's quite clear where
Kissur got the missiles. On the other hand, how did you get them, Mr.
Bemish?"
"Why don't you start with yourselves?" Bemish bit back. "They steal
your missiles like they would steal wheat out of a kitchen cabinet. Do you
know their demands?"
"We do. They have already reported them on SV. Do you think that he can
really kill the hostages if we don't transmit the news over TV?"
"Kill them?" Bemish got angry. "He is capable of eating them, marinated
or fried! Do you know that nine years ago he hanged three thousand city
dwellers that rebelled in the capital? During the civil war, he hanged three
hundred people on the Orch's left shore and three hundred people on the
right one! Have you forgotten about the Khanalai's camp?"
The car stopped in the villa's yard and Bemish was the first to jump
out of it on the sand.
"Where are the journalists, by the way?" he asked.
"That's just what we are missing," the colonel snorted.
"You are wrong," Bemish said. "Kissur is running a show for the
journalists while you kicked them out. They lack minds of their own and they
repeat whatever you tell them. You will see that they will praise Kissur and
shit on you."
"They will praise Kissur, won't they?!" the colonel was enraged. "Will
they praise a scoundrel who took eight thousand people hostage?!"
Shavash rushed towards Bemish right from the villa staircase. He hadn't
come to meet him - he was scared! The small official was deathly pale and a
sleeve of his velvet coat was dirty - it looked out of place on usually tidy
Shavash.
"What is he doing?!" Shavash cried out. "Has he demanded anything of
me, Terence?"
"He demanded exactly the same," Bemish replied, "as he did when you
suggested swapping wives."
Shavash grabbed his head.
"Terence Bemish claims," The colonel said, "that the cargo belonging to
Dassa Company was placed into 17B storage area accordingly to your orders.
Is it true?"
Shavash raised his crazy eyes.
"How does it matter?!" he shouted exasperated.
"Were those your orders or not?"
"Oh my God, I probably ordered it," the official screamed in fury, "Big
deal! They gave me two hundred thousand for a phone call and I called. It
was not my cargo!"
"It's clearly not yours!" the colonel spoke with unconcealed contempt
looking at the small official.
"Are you any better?!" Shavash screamed. "They go around shoplifting
your missiles in your base like chocolate bars in a supermarket, why do you
point your finger at me?"
Ten minutes later, in the main villa's hall - it was a charming hall
decorated with blue and pale yellow silk - the Assalah emergency committee
opened a session. The following people took place in the meeting: six high
Weian officials, Terence Bemish as the director of the company where this
whole disgrace was taking place, the Earth envoy, three military advisors,
also from Earth, and two colleagues of deceased Giles from the Intelligence
Service. Mr. Shavash headed the committee which was quite unusual. The small
official generally preferred to stay in the shadow during storms but this
time he didn't have enough patience for it. He presided over the meeting
looking like a corpse.
"Generally speaking, it's quite a surprising alliance," envoy Severin
said. "There is practically nothing in common between Kissur and the
zealots. Kissur didn't take part in the elections, the zealots won them.
Kissur is an ex-first minister of Weia; his political views are those of a
strong armed state supporter if not of an outright fascist. He hates
everything that weakens state's power. It's natural for him to hate sects
and heresies. Ignoring the liberal media's views, the zealots, even the ones
that studied at Hevishem - here the Envoy glanced at Bemish reproachfully -
consider Earthmen to be demons. Kissur doesn't think so. The demands of the
nationalization of the foreign companies clearly come from the zealots.
However extravagant Kissur's views are, the presence of Mr. Bemish here
demonstrates that Kissur is capable of a very good attitude towards a
foreign swindler... I think that it would be enough just to stall it for a
while and this coalition will fall apart on its own - they just don't have
anything in common..."
|
"Can't you see what they have in common?!" Shavash cried out in
desperation. "They want my head separated from my body!"
Everybody was somewhat shocked by this cowardice. The colonel, having
leaned towards Bemish, whispered at his ear, "If this is the case, I will
soon join the coalition."
"Are you trying to say, Mr. Shavash," the envoy inquired in an icy
voice, "that it was only the desire to hang you that made them organize the
massacre at the spaceport, take eight thousand people hostage, discredit our
military forces and demand the changeover of the Empire's government?"
"Gentlemen, let's stop bickering," Bemish said, "You should figure out
your response to Kissur's demands. And I would like to note that since these
demands concern the Weian government and its internal politics, it's quite
astonishing that half of our committee are Earthmen."
"Have you forgotten that Earthmen have been taken hostages at the
spaceport?" the colonel asked.
"The Earthmen are a minority of the hostages," Bemish replied. "As the
Assalah director, I should inform you that 80% of the passengers and 93% of
the personnel are Weian. Go ahead and calculate how many Earthmen are
currently at the spaceport."
"I can tell you, Terence, why the Earthmen are sitting here," Shavash
intervened. "Our government decided to request the Federation of Nineteen's
military assistance to quench the rebellion and free the hostages."
"So, you are not going to accept their demands, are you?" Bemish
inquired.
"It's simply impossible," the foreign affairs minister Khasha claimed.
"Aren't you of the same opinion, Mr. Bemish?"
"I would succumb to their demands," Bemish said.
Everybody went still for a moment.
"Oh," the minister spoke smirking. "Haven't you forgotten that one of
their demands is nationalization of foreign companies? Do you have
another spaceport with one and a half billion isheviks annual profit stashed
somewhere, director?"
Bemish paused.
"I would prefer to get the spaceport back in two years," Bemish
replied, "after Kissur's policy crashes completely, rather than be a
murderer of eight thousand people."
"You have it easy, Earthman," the minister said. "You will lose the
spaceport while others will lose their heads."
"Don't you understand, Terence," Shavash cried, "he's a psycho, a
maniac! This man will grind you flat. What do you think will happen to the
country when they start sorting good businessmen from bad ones?! We should
annihilate him! We should call the Federation troops in and squash him like
a bug!"
"As the chairman of the Assalah Company's board of directors," Bemish
said, "I protest fully against allowing the Federation troops on its
territory. And I would like to remind the people present here that if they
start using Federation troops to solve their internal problems..."
"Don't teach us, Earthman," an enraged Shainna screamed - he was the
deputy chairman of Weia Central Bank and a buddy of Shavash's.
"I will teach you!" Bemish screamed just as loudly, "You don't give a
damn about Kissur's industry nationalization demands! You have been living
for two thousand years with nationalized industry! What you care about is
that Kissur demands to hang you personally, Shainna, and you, Shavash for
corruption! Here, a lot of people would agree with Kissur..."
Shavash stood.
"As the official inspector having full authority to deal with the
Assalah emergency situation, I request the assistance of the Federation of
Nineteen troops."
Bemish rose.
"Gentlemen, I refuse to take part in this abomination."
And he left.
The sunrise was starting somewhere far away. The fragrance of the
jasmine bushes was sharp and sleepy bulls mooed in the village having
returned from the late plowing.
Wrapping himself in an overcoat and shuddering from cold, Bemish walked
to an old gazebo. A servant, stepping softly, brought a basket with liquors
to the gazebo and asked what they should serve the guests for the dinner and
what they should do to the policemen. The latter started screaming already
and the servants had to give them twenty sacks from storage...
|
Bemish barked at him such that the slave ran away in fear. The basket,
however, came to be quite useful. Bemish grabbed a wooden bottle plaited
with bark, tore the plug out, threw his head back and started gulping palm
vodka.
He stopped only after having drunk half of it.
Far away, through a woven gazebo wall he could see the spaceport.
Unlike usual, t didn't gleam at night. The main buildings shined with a dull
light and where only yesterday the landing lights used to sparkle, darkness
and fog sprawled above the chutes. The monorail gleamed as a lonely horn
sticking out of the dark and posts of armed people swarmed every hundred
meters on the highway.
Somewhere far away, at the first gates blocking the access to the
villa, the whole crowd of journalists was throwing a fit. These idiots,
Weian officials, insisted on not letting them in... Bemish, however, didn't
want to see the journalists. He could imagine what questions they would ask
him. And he couldn't even tell them one tenth of what he had said at the
emergency committee meeting.
The gazebo door squeaked. Bemish turned his head and saw the envoy. The
latter's crazy eyes wandered around for a while and then he grabbed the
vodka bottle.
"I've drunk out of it already," Bemish warned him.
The envoy just waved his hand.
"You were correct when you left," Severin said. He finished the vodka
off and dropped heavily on a bench. "Everybody taking part in this accident
will be in shit up to their ears."
"Have they decided to call the troops in?"
"The commandoes will be here in two hours. It's the Eleventh Federal
Paratrooper Division. They are damned good. At the moment Kissur lets the
hostages go, they'll roll over him."
"In two hours?! How did they get here so fast?"
"They were being moved to their new positions."
"So, that they could be closer to Gera, right?"
The envoy smirked and nodded.
"Do you understand that this is Shavash's decision? The only thing that
he is afraid of is that Kissur will hang him on the tallest catalpa? He went
nuts from fear."
"That's right," the envoy said. "I have never seen it before in my life
- Mr. Shavash made a public statement supporting a certain decision and he
took all the responsibility. Can you imagine that - he signed the request
for the Federal troops himself! All the ministers there kindly passed this
honor to him..."
Bemish muttered something.
"Do you know why the officials agreed to invite the troops? They
understand that this will make Shavash a political nonentity... You,
however, were very brave. Don't you regret losing your company?"
Bemish paused. Then he added, smiling.
"My company is bankrupt. My stocks are worth less than rutabaga in a
farmer's market. I don't care whether my creditors get one cent or ten cents
for a dinar."
By the time sunrise came to Assalah spaceport and another working day
ended in Melbourne, the Federation capital, the news of the Assalah accident
had spread across the whole Galaxy. Assalah was photographed from above,
from below and from the side. This place used to be known only to a small
group of financiers as a great example of investment into a development
market. Now it occupied the front pages of newspapers. A number of channels
started delivering hourly news from Assalah. Everybody was waiting for the
broadcast that was assigned to start (after minor technical arguments with
Kissur) at fifteen thirty. Even if Kissur hadn't given his horrible
ultimatum - five shot hostages for every minute of delay - few people
would've missed such a possibility to peep at history.
The division arrived in Weian orbit by seven. They landed in Salgar
spaceport by eight and, in four hours, military helicopters unloaded most of
the commandoes next to Bemish's villa. Tanks, gleaming dully and looking
like huge beetles, spread in a large semicircle; indecipherable peeps of
coded signals filled ether; soldiers had already started setting hardy
camouflaged tents; bread and canned meat were being passed to the companies
off the helicopters.
At the same time, the first media conference finally took place. Weian
"yellow jackets" ran a body search on a dozen of journalists, crammed them
in a bus and drove them to the villa. There, Shavash, Bemish and Envoy
Severin sat decorously in a row, expecting them.
|
Shavash familiarized the media with Kissur's ultimatum and he kept
talking for a while. Accordingly to his words, the Weian government would
not allow any nationalization of private industry to take place. He also
said that as the Assalah emergency committee head, he had requested the
Federation's military assistance and that 11 space commando
division was currently disembarking next to Assalah.
"Are they going to attack the spaceport?" a journalist asked.
"Absolutely not," Shavash lied unabashedly. "We can't endanger the
hostages. We are going to blockade the spaceport so that we can negotiate
from a better position."
At fifteen thirty, Bemish and the other members of the emergency
committee gathered to watch the broadcast made by the hostage journalists.
One had to admit that the journalists did their best. They made it
clear that they were reporting at gun point. They made it clear that the men
who had them at gun point would sacrifice the other people's lives
unhesitatingly. They also made it clear that the terrorists would also
sacrifice their own lives unhesitatingly.
Their denunciations were horrifying. The cameras coldly stared inside
the reinforced chutes while, behind the screen, Kissur monotonously
commented that these particular types of boarding joints were built only for
military rockets. The dull sides of Cassiopeia missiles gleamed slightly.
The old accusations spread by zealots about the spaceport's dual purpose
were confirmed. The most fantastic rumors spread by Gera about the
Federation clandestinely breaking the non-proliferation treaties pompously
signed in the past were also confirmed.
Luxury cars had been imported labeled as assistance to the victims of
natural disasters and ancient Lamass vases had been exported as scrap brass.
Laws and regulations had been flouted at an incredible scale. The takeover
of the spaceport looked like a desperate attempt - however cruel and
despicable it was - to demonstrate the scale of current administration's
thievery, corruption and treachery. Several Earth auditors and financiers
unwillingly confirmed Ashinik's calculations of the chicanery that had taken
place at the spaceport.
Once the broadcast had come to an end, the party of people's freedom
started a media conference. It was relayed to Weia in real time and to the
Galaxy with a five minute delay.
Kissur and his cronies sat in the company's director office. Kissur
said that right after the conference, they would start releasing the
hostages.
"Aren't you afraid," a journalist asked, "that they will obliterate you
immediately after the hostages are released?"
Here Kissur answered that the party of people's freedom had acted out
of despair and had tried to reveal the ultimate corruption of the current
government. They also wanted to demonstrate that the military treaties,
catastrophic for Weia, did in fact exist in spite of blatant denials coming
from the government. Killing several thousand unarmed peasants would only
confirm the treaty's presence and it would be difficult to imagine the
government ready to compromise itself so much.
Ashinik spoke afterwards.
He said that certain corrupted Weian officials attempted to force the
Emperor to follow their policies. When the Emperor had refused to oblige
them, they forced him to declare the elections. They hoped to gain the power
that the Emperor refused them by lying to the people. When the bureaucrats'
party lost the elections, they refused to acknowledge their results.
Ashinik stressed that he was one of leaders of the party that had won
the elections and his demands were the demands of the people. He declared
that his party demanded the complete changeover of the government and that
the most corrupted officials should be taken to trial. He declared that
people wanted to see Kissur as the first minister and he listed the
remaining future cabinet. (Ashinik would become the finance minister.)
Ashinik said that the Weian government would have to stop payments on its
loans.
"The largest part of the country's debt consists of private bank loans
that the finance ministry had been bribed to take at a very high interest,"
Ashinik declared. "It's very difficult for me to say this but it's the only
way out for a country where the total taxation amount is smaller that the
debt payments. In any case, it's absolutely impossible that the most
profitable companies would use paying this debt off as an excuse to avoid
paying taxes and would turn into practically independent states inside our
country. At first Shavash received millions leading the country into a debt
trap and now he wants to receive billions getting the country out of this
trap."
|
Ashinik also claimed that in exceptional cases, related to the state
security or following ultimate abuses of the state's interests, foreign
companies should be nationalized. Assalah spaceport was such a case.
"The Assalah spaceport's director claims," a journalist said, "that you
would like to nationalize all Weian industry, throw the foreigners out and
ban private property. Is it true?"
"That's a monstrous lie," Ashinik stated. "I don't know where Bemish
got this idea."
The press conference with Kissur in Assalah spaceport and the press
conference with emergency committee at Bemish's villa, ten kilometers away,
took place practically simultaneously. Shavash, Bemish and Earth envoy
answered the journalists' questions.
They asked Bemish what he could say about the new government's demands
and Bemish stated, "The banishment of foreign businessmen would only be the
first step. Having obtained power, these people will start nationalizing
industry."
"How do you know this?" a journalist asked.
"Their leader, Ashinik, officially stated that at our last meeting."
"We have also received this information," the journalist said. "Ten
minutes ago, Ashinik, Yadan and Kissur claimed that they had never said such
a stupid thing. How would you explain, Mr. Bemish, the fact that during the
election campaign the party of people's freedom had been repeatedly and
falsely claimed to hold monstrous views and programs?"
Bemish gaped at such affront of the terrorists. "Oh-oh, I got it," a
thought glanced in his head.
"This party has never taken hostages either!" Severin exploded, "hasn't
it? They are practically saints!"
"Is it true that a secret military agreement signed during Assalah
construction included building a military base at the spaceport and delivery
and storage of Cassiopeia missiles?"
"That's a monstrous lie," the envoy said.
"How will you then explain the presence of the missiles at the
spaceport?"
"We are currently investigating how terrorists were able to steal these
missiles from one of our space military bases and transport them to
Assalah."
"Are you trying to say that they stole twelve missiles from our bases
in such a way that nobody noticed anything and that the best use of them the
thief was able to figure out was to hide them at a storage area that could
be unlocked only by two people in the Galaxy?"
"We are investigating it."
"Could you, please, tell us, if the fact that Earth troops have been
summoned here confirms that there was a secret military agreement? Does it
also confirm, indirectly, that the presence of missiles was a part of the
agreement?"
"No."
Kissur held his word. Immediately after the end of the press
conference, the journalists started taping buses and monorail trains leaving
the spaceport. The hostages cried, but were incredibly obedient. The
fighters screamed that they would shoot anybody who would cut the line
trying to get into a bus and nobody tried cutting the line.
Five LSV bank employees and Ronald Trevis - bearing some cuts and
biting his lips - left with one of the buses. Journalists ambushed him
leaving the bus but he blocked his face with his hands, bolted to a
helicopter and flew to Arvadan. Two hours later he left Arvadan for Earth
and became completely inaccessible. Journalists yearned to question the king
of the hidden market about his company's part in financing the most
scandalous construction of the century. The journalists didn't have their
yearning satisfied and they had to limit themselves with their own
commentaries. These commentaries were not particularly benevolent.
By 18:00 the last train with passenger hostages left the platform.
About eighty employees stayed in the spaceport - they were necessary for the
crucial spaceport's systems to function. Five hundred armed fighters and
several thousand Weian zealot peasants also stayed.
Also by 18:00, next to the spaceport the 11 division had
almost finished d disembarking. Heavy helicopters were landing right on the
fields behind the company director's villa, amphibian tanks were crawling
out of their bellies and sturdy guys in bulletproof uniforms were jumping
out.
|
Bemish walked down where the same two counter-intelligence guys were
meeting the division commander - colonel Rogov, short and sturdy like a ball
bearing.
"I think," The colonel said, "that Mr. Bemish should also take part in
the planning of the operation. As I understand, you have constructed this
spaceport and you should know how to infiltrate the buildings with minimal
losses."
"Yes," Bemish nodded, "I've already thought about it. For instance,
there is a place where the monorail station's ventilation chutes are right
next to a cave system. It wouldn't be difficult to enter the caves about
three kilometers away from here. We had to reinforce them during
construction."
"That's excellent," the colonel rejoiced.
"Unfortunately," Bemish continued, "a man named Ashinik was my closest
assistant. He is now heading the terrorists and he remembers this story with
the caves quite well."
One of counter-intelligence officers swore loudly.
"What do you think about toxic gases?" the colonel asked.
"I have to disappoint you. A possibility of chemical attack or, more
precisely, an explosion or damage of rocket elements emitting toxins has
been taken into account during the construction. A monitoring system would
automatically turn an alarm on, block buildings off and start
detoxification."
The colonel bit his lips for a while.
"I am not a military man," Bemish said, "but I think that if you want
to kick the terrorists out of the spaceport, the only way to do it is to
drive tanks in and shoot at everything that shoots or surrenders.
"It looks like you are correct," the colonel said.
"What losses will you sustain?" the envoy asked the colonel.
"Well, I don't think that this party of people's freedom will fight all
that well. It's just civilians..."
Bemish got suddenly irritated at the military man.
"The zealots can't fight. But if I were you, I wouldn't be in a hurry
to classify Aloms as civilians..."
"Aloms?!"
Bemish looked at him, surprised.
"I mean Kissur's Aloms. It's a mountain people who... Listen, haven't
you been briefed about the Assalah takeover?"
"No," the commander said, "I don't know the details. The assistance
request said that it was a rebellion of Weian zealots who had won the
elections."
"Generally, it's correct," the envoy shrugged his shoulders. "The
majority of people in the spaceport are zealots."
"So, is the spaceport occupied by Aloms and not by the indigenous
people of the Empire?" the colonel specified with unnatural lack of
expression.
"What difference does it make for you?" the exasperated envoy shouted.
Bemish shuddered.
"Sorry, colonel, but how do you know about the difference between
Weians and Aloms?"
"Yes," the colonel said, "what's the difference? We follow orders."
It was already dark, when Bemish, having finished briefing colonel
Rogov on the spaceport's specific details, walked into the garden.
Bemish had never run into the Federation Army before even though he had
recently become acquainted to the Federation Counter Intelligence. He liked
colonel Rogov - Bemish had considered military people to be much more
stupid. One thing astounded him. There were dozens of populated planets in
the Galaxy. Weia was located in the backyard of the civilized world. How
could a Federal Army colonel know about the enmity between Weians and Aloms
who had conquered the former a number of times? When did they start teaching
galactic ethnography in military academies? Even he, Bemish, had needed
quite a bit of time to realize how deep was the gap between the peoples that
outsider observers considered to belong to the same race - the "Empire
people" and the "mountainous barbarians."
Bemish stood and looked at the night bustling with people. Somewhere an
engine yelped piteously like a cat that somebody kept stepping on the tail.
The crackling of cicadas mixed with rustling of faraway power stations.
That's it. Tomorrow this division would throw all its force at the
construction - he had dedicated the last two years of his life to this
construction and he had put his soul into it. They would hack the roadways
with their tanks, turn buildings and terminals into dust. Crazy zealots
would face the tanks with prayers and spells; they would be sure that all
this machinery was simply demonic phantoms and that their leaders would rise
into the air and turn the demonic fighting machines into paper and their
grenade launchers into beans...
|
Tomorrow Kissur would die. Because even if a termite shell's direct hit
didn't flatten him into the floor and a fan laser burst didn't find him and
a shock wave didn't roll over him, he would still kill himself. It would
happen because Kissur always lived as if he had died a long time ago. Never
would Kissur let himself be taken alive by commandos called in by Shavash.
And then somebody just to Bemish's left said in Alom,
"Do you have a fag?"
Bemish turned there in astonishment.
A Federation soldier sitting next to a fire silently flicked a pack of
cigarettes to his comrade.
Bemish rushed to the soldier. The latter was clicking his lighter but
having seen a civilian he stood up to attention hurriedly.
"What have you just said?" Bemish asked.
"I asked for a smoke, sir," the soldier was speaking English now. He
spoke it with a strange but quite familiar accent.
A horrible hunch entered Bemish's mind.
"Are you Alom?" he asked sharply in Alom. The soldier was silent.
"Are you Alom?"
Federation soldiers are forbidden to speak foreign languages, sir," the
private replied.
"To the hell with this! What's your name?"
"Khaina, sir."
Khaina, "wolf," was one of the most widely used names among the
fighting clans of the mountainous country.
"Whose vassal was your father?"
"He was a vassal of Sarvak clan."
Sarvak clan! Sarvaks were vassals of the White Falcon clan that Kissur
belonged to.
"How many Aloms are in the division?" Bemish asked trying to suppress
shudder in his voice.
"I can't know, sir. We are Federation soldiers and we swore an oath to
serve the Federation. Aloms do not break their oaths."
Bemish paused. Ten soldiers sitting around the fire looked at him with
curiosity. Almost everybody had blond or reddish hair, wide eyes and
eyebrows tips that were almost flying...
"What's your contract salary?" Bemish asked suddenly.
"Three hundred credits a year, sir," Khaina said.
Three hundred credits a year! The minimal yearly unemployment benefits
for a Federation citizen was eleven hundred twelve credits!
Bemish turned and walked away searching for the colonel. Now he
understood why the latter knew the difference between Aloms and Weians.
Bemish found Rogov in the living room. The colonel and several of his
officers watched the day's broadcast closely. The colonel was interested not
in the broadcast's content but rather in the layout of hangars, storages and
chutes. The officers were watching the broadcast for the third time and the
sound was turned off. It was difficult to guess, looking at their faces,
what they thought about the broadcast after having seen it the first time.
"Colonel! How many Aloms are in the division?"
The colonel and the officers turned around like one. It looked like
there were no Aloms among them except for this one, on the side... No, he
was not an Alom, he was a half-breed something like a mix of a Dane and a
Vietnamese...
"Nobody has counted them," the colonel said calmly, as if he had been
waiting for this question for a while, "but I think that it's about eighty
to eighty five percent."
"Eighty?!! Why?"
The colonel grinned.
"Mr. Bemish, have you ever served in the army?"
"No."
"Why?"
"Because..." Bemish broke off. On the second day of their acquaintance,
Kissur had asked him why he had never served in the army and Bemish
remembered what he had said.
The colonel smiled as if he guessed what Bemish had answered then and
said.
"The majority of fully fledged Federation citizens share your attitude
towards the army, director. The army receives twenty times less budget
financing than medicine.
"And you enlist Aloms in the army!"
"We enlist anybody who agrees to serve in the army."
Here Bemish turned around and noticed that two more people entered the
living room attracted by the argument - the Earth envoy, Mr. Severin and the
emergency committee head, Mr. Shavash.
"But three hundred credits is four times less than unemployment
benefits!"
"The unemployment benefits are allotted to Federation citizens, not to
Aloms. You know very well that they are doomed to much greater poverty in
their mountains. For centuries they have been indoctrinated that war is the
only occupation worthy of a man, that man should kill, that death is the way
to glory. They are happy to join Federation forces. The ones who pass our
admission committees take it as a pass to heaven. They know that they will
obtain citizenship in ten years of service. By the way, having received it,
they don't leave the service. They are as happy to hold weapons in their
hands as others are to hold women or money... Where else will you find such
warriors? If a Federation citizen is born in a middle class family, he
graduates from a college and he makes money. If he is born in a garbage can,
he receives unemployment benefits and gobbles up hallucinogens..."
|
"But three hundred credits!"
"How much can we pay them? The military budget is one half percent of
the GDP!"
The envoy listened to their conversation in astonishment. Clearly, he
also hadn't known who exactly guarded the borders of his great motherland.
Probably, it was a delicate and not particularly popular subject. The
military command was not in a hurry to announce that foreign barbarians made
up eighty percent of the army, and that strong, healthy guys with excellent
muscles and decent brains got paid three times less than hereditary
unemployed saturated with drugs.
"So, your soldiers are happy, aren't they?" Bemish asked with certain
irony.
"They are very happy, businessman! They grew up without commercials,
human rights, credit cards and whores. They were taught that battle is the
road to God! When their contracts run out and they become Federation
citizens, they enlist again. They stay in the service!"
"Where else can they go to?" Bemish grinned, "Into an investment
company? You don't teach them anything but to how to kill. They are aliens
in the world of the Federation."
"They love the army! And they make twenty times more money here than
they would make in their mountains!"
"I think that they love the army in their first year, colonel. They
love the army when they come there out of a mountain hut where their fathers
had two sheep and where ten people slept in one room on a mud floor. In the
barracks they have their own bunk beds and they get good food and they see
3D TV first time in their lives. But half a year or a year passes and they
watch TV and learn our language. They start understanding that the country
that enlisted them into their army pays their soldiers four times less than
it pays its unemployed. They start understanding that three hundred credits
would be enough to buy a farm in the mountains but it would not be enough to
afford a bottle of beer every evening in a bar half a kilometer away from
the camp... And they start comparing their own bunk beds not with their clay
huts but with the cottages that they pass as they ride to training. And they
start thinking that it's not fair that brave and strong people sit in
barracks for three hundred credits a year while drooling weaklings sit on
boards of directors. Is it true?"
The colonel was silent.
"Do you know how the previous Weian dynasty fell?"
"Yes. Aloms conquered the Empire."
"Your soldiers misinformed you, colonel. The people of the Empire were
rich and lazy. They didn't like fighting and the government enlisted mostly
war-loving barbarians into the army. Aloms didn't conquer the Empire. They
simply served in its army and they came to own the Empire when no other
troops were left."
"How can you say so, Bemish?" the envoy was startled. "It's absolutely
impossible. We are talking about a totally different time; they are just
commandos, for God's sake!"
A moan - or maybe a squeal - sounded next to Bemish.. The Earthman
turned around. Shavash - the emergency committee's chairman, the official
who called Federation troops in to Assalah to destroy his enemies - covered
his face with his hands and was slowly sliding down the door frame to the
floor. Shredding cloth crackled - Shavash's jacket caught on a brass
decoration on the door frame, the jacket ripped apart and the official
fainted and fell all the way to the floor.
Bemish stepped across his partner in export-import cooperative, Assako,
and walked outside. Stars sparkled in the garden and the engine of an
armored troop carrier still roared just as rhythmically as it had roared an
hour ago - something was wrong with it. The army still bustled in the dark.
It was not evident anymore, however, what side the army was on. Half of
these people were White Falcons' vassals. The vassal oath was not inferior
in any way to a military one! And nobody could claim that White Falcons
would send them to fight for three hundred credits while they were sitting
idle and getting rich. White Falcons didn't consider war to be an occupation
suitable only for people who couldn't make money on the Exchange. Whatever
else happened, when an Alom army entered a battle, White Falcons would ride
in front.
|
Somebody moved behind Bemish. The latter glanced aside and saw the
colonel. Simultaneously, they started slowly walking down a path.
"On what side do you think, your soldiers will fight?" Bemish asked.
"I was going to ask you the same question," the colonel answered.
They walked silently for a while.
"I've heard a lot about Kissur," the colonel said.
"Have you heard about him from the soldiers?"
"Yes. I mean, from their songs. They don't always go nuts about our
bands. They often sing their own songs."
"Do they sing about Kissur?"
"They sing about Kissur, about his father, grandfather, great
grandfather, and so on - all the way to the original clan founder who, if I
am not mistaken, married a forest mermaid."
"You are mistaken. He didn't marry her, he raped her. And that caused
some friction between him and a variety of forest and other outdoor
fairies."
"Oh, yes, that's right. They sang something along these lines. By the
way, these are the songs by their other idol, Khanadar."
"This villa is a gift of Kissur's," Bemish said.
Here the garden path finished and they found themselves next to a pond.
A small altar to Buzhva stood on the lawn in front of the pond and behind it
rhododendrons were blooming. Bemish noticed some food out of a trooper's
ration lying in the cup on the altar. If Aloms ate next to a god, they
always shared their food.
Seven or eight soldiers sat on the ground under the blooming
rhododendrons passing along a white plastic flask with local wine. Bemish
silently sat next to the soldiers and the colonel sat next to him.
"Is it true that they don't allow you to speak Alom?" Bemish asked a
soldier suddenly.
He leaped up startled.
"No... Why not..." He muttered in his native tongue.
The colonel lay on the ground and closed his eyes.
The soldier looked embarrassed; he stood up quickly and hurriedly
disappeared behind the bushes.
"This is the first man who talked to me in Alom," Bemish said.
"He didn't know the Earthmen's language," the colonel spoke quietly.
It took a bit for the colonel's words to soak into Bemish's mind.
"He didn't know the Earthmen's language... Are you trying to say that
it was not your soldier but rather a scout of Kissur's?"
"Be silent, Mr. Bemish. I am not going to make speeches for you
tonight."
The soldiers around the fire sat in silence as if they didn't hear the
conversation. The soldier that the spy had sat next to, handed the flask to
Bemish.
"Drink with us," he said in English.
Bemish didn't fall asleep till four am, he watched the camp's
inhabitants escaping it like rats running away from a sinking ship. He saw a
helicopter with the Federation envoy lifting - the latter suddenly decided
to visit the capital. A couple of officials left afterwards. Then the
counter-intelligence officers left. Strangely, Shavash was the last one to
sneak away to the capital. Three officials, whose names decorated the list
of the functionaries to be hanged, left with him. Now, only Federal troops
were left.
What's the deal, if you think about it? Why should it matter where a
soldier was born? In the end, all of them swore the oath of allegiance to
the Federation while only slightly more than one third of them were Kissur's
vassals.
The sentries stood guard perfectly but Bemish heard more and more of
Alom spoken around the tents. They switched back to English at his
appearance, however.
Bemish returned to the bedroom about four. Not taking his clothes off,
he crashed down on the bed and almost immediately fell asleep.
It was light, by the time Bemish woke up, wind out of the window blew a
gauze curtain inside and the sun beat and hopped on a marble table's
surface.
Bemish turned around still feeling groggy - something was lacking in
his attire. What was it, jacket or, excuse me, underwear? Bemish turned
around again, feeling the empty gun holder flatten under him. Everything was
there except for the gun.
Bemish jumped off the bed and ran to the entrance door. The door opened
wide and Bemish was relieved to see a commando wearing a Federation uniform
behind it. The commando, placed his feet wider apart, shifted his hands on
his assault rifle to a more comfortable position and declared,
|
"Sorry, Mr. Bemish. You are not allowed to leave."
"Who says so?"
"I do," a voice came from behind.
Bemish turned around.
Kissur stood next to the door leading into the inner halls. Two or
three paratroopers lingered behind him.
Bemish silently, without thinking jumped at Kissur. This time he was
even less lucky. Kissur locked his leg and Bemish tried twisting in the air.
At this moment, the commando standing behind him connected his rifle's butt
to Bemish's head. The latter barely heard Kissur screaming at the soldier,
then, the walls and floor around him turned into thousands of fiery
butterflies and flew at him. Bemish fainted.
He regained his senses much later - he sat in a military helicopter
that had, probably, just taken off the villa's roof. Bemish's hands were
handcuffed to a stand behind the pilot's chair and commandos guarded him on
both sides. Bemish thought that he was unlikely to escape but here the
helicopter jerked in the air. Bemish dropped his head on an Alom's shoulder
and fainted again.
Next time, he recovered in the spaceport - in his own office, well
known to him. His wrists were still handcuffed and somebody thoughtfully
deposited him on a black leather sofa located behind his own working table.
Having turned his head slightly, he could barely make out the tall back of
his own armchair - the armchair that Ashinik had boorishly sat in two days
ago. However, nobody was present in the armchair now. Kissur adroitly
operated Bemish's own computer sitting slightly to the side, where a
department's head would usually be.
"Well," Kissur said, "Who was right, you or me? I didn't loose a fight
with the special forces' paratroopers, did I?"
"You knew," Bemish articulated. His tongue resisted him and lolled in
his mouth like a swollen sausage.
"You knew how many Aloms served in Federal troops."
"Naturally I did."
"You are an idiot, Kissur. You took over one division and you think
that you won the fight with Federation."
"Oh, are you going to send me more troops? Thank you, it's very kind of
Earthmen."
"Cretin! How many of you, Aloms, are in the army - twenty or thirty
thousand? Do you think that ten thousand - even if they are very well
trained cutthroats - can win a fight with the Federation of twenty billion?
With all our equipment? They will just press a button and eliminate you."
"How?" Kissur asked him, "Are you going to drop a nuclear bomb on us?
Or is it going to be a meson one?"
Bemish bit his lip. It was true. To use standard shock troops against
Kissur would be either dangerous - if there were Aloms among them- or simply
useless. The troops would meet with at least equally trained Federation
paratroopers. To use nuclear weapons against a tiny bit of barbarians on a
backwards planet would demonstrate Federation's incredible military
weakness. It went without saying, that such actions would violate all
official and unofficial human rights regulations.
"You are free," Kissur said. "You can go to the capital. Tell them,
that our conditions changed. We demand Federation representatives to come to
Assalah - we would like to discuss the future relationship between Weia and
the Federation. The Federation president or the first minister should come
with the delegation."
Bemish suddenly imagined old Yadan conducting talks with the demons'
president and this idea was so comical that he couldn't smother laughter.
"I would like to ask you one thing, Kissur," Bemish spoke unexpectedly.
"Everything that you ask for is yours," the Alom replied.
"Don't kill Shavash... He... In the end, you got your commandos thanks
to him!"
A strange, almost laughing expression came over Kissur's face.
"He has already killed the little scoundrel..." Bemish thought. "He
killed or disabled him with his own hands..."
At this moment, however, something moved on his side. Shavash entered
the office and sat to the right of Kissur, in the director's armchair.
"I took it upon myself to overhear your conversation at the door," the
official spoke, smiling. "Your request touched me, Terence. But as you see,
Kissur was not going to kill me, to begin with."
|
"You? What are you doing in this office?"
Shavash, laughing, placed his hand on Kissur's shoulder.
"Why shouldn't I be in this office? You see, it's my armchair...
Haven't you forgotten that I was the Assalah Company director? Do you think
that could I request this state appointment back due to the company's
bankruptcy?"
"Do you think, Terence," Kissur inquired, "that Shavash didn't know how
many Aloms serve in your army? But even he had to sweat quite a bit, to get
them called in! I've never thought that there could be a country that was so
set against sending its troops anywhere!"
Bemish lowered his head. He could see already the scale of the
swindling operation. Oh, my God! That's why such a careful official for the
first time in his life insisted so decisively on taking an unpopular action.
To think that the other Weians agreed to it to compromise Shavash! Still,
something smelled fishy here...
"So," Bemish said, "was the quarrel between you and Kissur completely
faked?
"I am sorry, Terence, I am so sorry. It was a complete and utter fake."
"But Yadan, you and Yadan, you and Ashinik - it's not possible,
Shavash! The fanatics hate you."
Kissur left the room, smiling; he was probably going to give some
orders. The official silently beckoned Bemish with his finger and the latter
crawled off the sofa, fighting the pain. Shavash approached a window and
pulled the blinds up. Bemish stretched his head over Shavash's shoulder and
looked out of the window.
Out of the director's office windows, a beautiful view opened up at the
landing field strewn with the black bodies of fighter helicopters and
commandos in spotty camouflage. But the construction's director attention
was pulled towards something else. They had used railroad tracks to pull a
huge cargo crane RV-37 into the middle of the field. The crane was generally
used to correct the positioning of rockets and to load containers heavier
than 700 tons. This time, the crane's load was much smaller than the maximum
allowed weight. The crane's jib pointed to the sky and twelve... no,
thirteen bodies were swinging under it and Bemish recognized his ex-deputy -
young Ashinik - hanging to the side. Two squeaking yellow vultures were
already circling the crane...
"The zealots and rebels," Shavash said coolly, "disturbed the Empire,
babbled too much and addled people's minds. It was not possible to catch
them all at once - they hid, showed up only separately and threatened to
avenge the deaths of their comrades. Now we gathered all of the zealots in
one place and destroyed this filth once and forever. Now, when we are not
bothered by the crazy gangs, we can negotiate with the Federation as a real
state. The simple people that believed zealots will believe Kissur. The
officials terrified by zealots will trust me."
Shavash turned away from the window. The setting sun was burning and
melting in the small official's eyes, his half-opened lips were twisted in a
smile...
"Why?" Bemish asked suddenly. "Why do you hate us, Shavash? I don't
mean myself, I mean the Federation."
The official's face contorted.
"Why? Can't you figure it out, Terence? I hate you because you are so
clean; I hate your sparkling cars, your gleaming wraps, your advertisement
boards. I hate you because when you arrive at the dirtiest town, you build a
hotel for yourself without dirt and poverty. A poor people hate a rich one,
haven't you known that?"
"I didn't know that you were poor," Bemish muttered. "I thought that
you stole enough from your own people."
Shavash laughed.
"I was not always rich - have you forgotten that? Do you know how I
became literate? I stood next to announcement boards and compared the
herald's words with letters. My father was the poorest shaman in the
village; I stole on the streets and drank out of mud pools. I was lucky - I
met Nan and instead of ending up in a gang, I ended up in the White Buzhva
Lycee. Not that it would make any difference to an Earthman... When I was an
official seven years ago, I had been waiting for my arrest, torture and
exile every day. Have you ever expected being arrested, Terence? Even if you
were arrested for DWI, I don't think that you would be thrown in an earth
pit."
|
"I don't argue that," Bemish agreed. "The earth pits are a strong point
of your civilization."
"They are a strong point, indeed, Terence - life lacks spice without
them. It's like meat without salt." Shavash swung his hand sharply.
"When you convey our demands for negotiations Terence, don't forget to
stress that they should take place at the highest level. The Federation
president will head the Galactic delegation and I will head the Weian one."
"You are both nuts," Bemish muttered glumly. "Damn the day when I
thought that you, Shavash, were a normal official only because you took a
lot of bribes."
Accompanied by Kissur, Bemish walked down the main spaceport building.
It was in somewhat better condition than he had expected - he saw even
occasional unbroken bottles in the bars. The floor had been cleaned recently
and the main hall's announcement board still carried the old slogan "Long
live the party of people's freedom."
The building had suffered several millions worth of damage but Bemish,
surprisingly, didn't really care. Really, yesterday morning he had been sure
that they would fire meson artillery directly at the construction. What was
a torn apart monitor next to a SpaceExtra stand after that? Ashinik,
Ashinik! Did you think that after demanding Kissur's appointment to the
first minister that the latter would hang you on a tower crane in twenty
four hours?!
"Where are common zealots?"
Kissur ran his hand across his neck. Bemish realized why the floor had
been recently washed.
"How many of them were here?"
"It was no more than a hundred," Kissur lied coolly.
"Bullshit! There were more than two thousand of them!"
Kissur shrugged his shoulders.
"Can I see colonel Rogov?" Bemish asked.
They walked up a motionless ascender to the second floor and entered
the air traffic control room.
The colonel lay on the table. Somebody had placed a white pillow under
his head, crossed his hands on his chest and placed a funeral wreath made
out of white flowers. It was an Alom burial custom for warriors.
"Have they killed him?"
"He was a real warrior and he didn't need another's hand to pull the
trigger," Kissur answered.
Bemish shifted the wreath up and saw a barely noticeable hole at the
colonel's temple under large whitecandle petals."
"Should I have done the same?" Bemish asked.
"You are a businessman. It's not yours."
Bemish lowered the wreath silently and left the room.
Kissur stayed for a moment to rearrange the flowers correctly.
"I am glad that there are still warriors left on Earth," Kissur said.
It proved impossible later to find out how many zealots had been killed
that day accordingly to Shavash's and Kissur's orders. It was absolutely
known that not a single zealot present in the spaceport during the night of
ninth had escaped it alive.
Shavash and Kissur always claimed that it had been about one hundred to
one hundred fifty corpses. They were interested in bringing the estimated
number of "lunatic maniacs" down. Accordingly to Bemish's calculations, at
least three thousand zealots crowded in the spaceport when the whole thing
started. They had all been let inside the buildings and on the landing
field. Most of these peasants had never seen before wondrous buildings of
glass and steel where staircase moved on their own and announcement ran
across the ceiling, where they couldn't even squat in a corner to take a
crap. Few of them walked away, returning to their homes, on the second day
of their stay in the spaceport, especially since "yellow coats" blocked the
roads. It became clear why Kissur had let the passenger hostages go - he
didn't want any witnesses around and he didn't want them to get in the way
accidentally.
Later, Bemish dragged some details of the massacre out of his own
employees. Everything happened only after the paratroopers had come in.
There were two thousand of Aloms in the spaceport and there were two trained
supermen per every unarmed peasant. They killed the zealots with knives and
bare hands; they didn't use any firearms or lasers. They were not afraid of
noise, especially since lasers didn't make any. However, they were afraid of
damaging the equipment and they didn't want a laser ray, for instance, to
jab into the floor and leave a trace that they would not be able to hide
afterwards. They accidentally killed a dozen personnel including the head
technician of the heating systems. He was the only heating systems tech left
in the spaceport and they almost got themselves into a crisis. Thankfully, a
commando sergeant figured the system out.
|
Then they performed the great cleaning of the building - they washed
the floors, scrubbed guts of the walls, checked everything mercilessly - so
that, God forbid, somebody's brains would not get stuck in a bar behind a
box with salted peanuts.
They dragged the corpses away to the landing field, opened the
thermoconcrete up and burned the hell out of everything with modern weapons
- neutron guns and annihilators. Not a speck was left of the corpses and the
ground was baked for two hundred meters down into a glass pancake... Then
they sealed thermoconcrete back up and everything was tip-top. They
threatened the personnel to cut their families down to a fifth removed
degree, including children in their mothers' bellies if anybody spoke an
extra word to the media. One hundred fifty people were all. You could count
them - all the stiffs were present, lying in a neat pile next to the cargo
terminal...
Concerning commandos, it was discovered that there were twenty six
hundred three Aloms and eighty six Earthmen in the division. Sixteen
Earthmen were officers. The most interesting part of it was that while all
non-Aloms had the opportunity to leave, some of them stayed. The colonel and
two more officers shot themselves and sixteen Earthmen, desperate
adventurers joined their comrades and went to Kissur the White Falcon. In
spite of the official Federation language being the only one allowed spoken
in the army, they had picked up some Alom on the way.
They took Bemish on a brief trip around the building that belonged to
him. At every corner, he saw people wearing Federation military uniforms and
babbling in Alom. In the air traffic control office, he saw a small group of
personnel that were so sleep deprived that they were no longer frightened of
anything. The guards walked Bemish to a car that stood on the landing field
with the engine already running and politely suggested to him to get out of
there.
Bemish silently climbed into the car and pushed the accelerator. One
after another, the gates on the landing field opened, letting him through.
Bemish drove down the same road that they had taken yesterday bringing him
in.
Rice fields still glistened in the sun and olive trees still stood
along the old road. The soldiers and the zealots had torn all the fruits off
breaking the branches in the process. Olive trees were always planted along
the roads - road dust covered fruits forcing them to ripe quicker.
A fighting banner of the White Falcon clan and a standard of the Empire
were swaying above his villa. Bemish kept going forward.
Kissur, however, still didn't have that many soldiers and it looked to
Bemish like they were mostly concentrated in the spaceport. Few posts were
present on the road - they were constantly on the line with the
headquarters. Next to the turn leading to the villa, Bemish noticed a dozen
commandos.
A line of "yellow jackets" and Empire troops started soon after, a
kilometer and a half away from the villa. Journalists lingered behind them.
The soldiers at the road block waved their hands and their assault
rifles at him. A studded chain lay across the road, Bemish slowed down,
turned across the chain and waited - a large pack of policemen, journalists
and Earthmen was running towards him.
Strangely, there were many more journalists this time and Bemish could
only blink at the camera flashes. The reasons for that were pretty simple.
Most of the officials that had tried to keep the media away were now in
Assalah.
"Are you all right, sir?" a guard asked. Another clicked the gun bolt.
The assault rifle in his hands gleamed in the sun reflecting rice fields and
clouds turned upwards down.
"Yes," Bemish said climbing out of the car. Five minutes later, a
police helicopter with a yellow band on the side - the symbol of the
Department of Serenity and Justice - was flying him to the capital.
The helicopter landed next to the sovereign's palace, right at Seven
Grains Hotel. Here, the highest provincial functionaries used to await their
award or execution; here, the head of the sect that wanted to make peace to
Earthmen had been killed eleven months ago.
|
A whole flock of journalists rushed towards Bemish. The first among
them was a guy wearing a square pattern sleeveless shirt. This guy had
written a while ago that the Assalah Company director hadn't been proficient
in Weian and had mistakenly taken metaphorical "demons" for a literate
statement.
"Is it true that the Federation troops switched their alliance to
Kissur?"
"It is true," Bemish replied.
"Why?"
"The division was 90% Alom," Bemish replied. "At the same time, there
was not a single Alom officer in it. So, the Federation soldiers decided to
fight for the man who belonged to the clan that their ancestors swore fealty
to. They didn't want to fight for the people that paid them three hundred
credits a year. I was told that the other commando divisions had the same
number of Aloms in them."
"About ten members of the emergency committee ended up in Kissur's
hands. Kissur demanded their arrest and execution. What happened to them? Is
it true that Shavash is dead?"
"Shavash is quite alive," Bemish said. "His quarrel with Kissur was an
utter fabrication. He called the Federation soldiers in to provide Kissur
with troops."
Everybody gaped - they didn't know anything yet and Bemish was the
first one to openly state what had happened.
"What about the zealots?" a journalist shouted, "Are they also in?"
"No," Bemish said.
"The fight between Shavash and zealots could end only with one of the
sides being destroyed. Once the Federation soldiers had switched their
alliance to Kissur, he used them to exterminate the zealots. I saw the
sect's leaders hanging on a cargo crane with my own eyes."
It was astonishing that nobody asked at that moment what happened to
the rest of the zealots. Somehow everybody decided that "the extermination
of zealots" was limited only to the execution of a dozen leaders.
"What does Kissur want?" somebody shouted. "They demanded that the
corrupted government to step down and now half of the corrupted government
is hanging out in Assalah! What's gonna happen next?"
"Kissur has no more demands for his own government," Bemish explained.
"Kissur would like Weia and the Federation to conduct talks about their
future relations. The negotiations are to be held at the highest possible
level."
After this brief but shocking interview, Bemish entered the hotel where
they were already waiting for him.
In the Hall of the Gifts from Afar, a table made in the shape of a
grape bunch stood on gilded legs that resembled ram's hooves. At this table,
provincial governors had officially delivered gifts to palace department
heads. Now twenty people sat behind it. Bemish recognized half a dozen of
them - Federation envoy Severin, general Stesh, the deceased Giles' boss,
ex-first minister Yanik and a couple of high Weian officials. The others
were Earthmen - five senators and three people with general insignias.
"They flew in here without troops," Bemish thought about the people in
military uniforms. "They don't make generals out of Aloms, they only make
soldiers out of them."
Bemish's story about his stay in the terrorists' nest was heard out in
dead silence.
"Are you sure that there is not a single zealot left in the spaceport?"
envoy Severin asked again.
"There is not a single alive zealot present," Bemish assured him.
"But it totally changes the situation," a delegate said. "We wouldn't
have been able to conduct negotiations with zealots. Shavash's presence
changes the picture. He is a normal person..."
"Shavash is a normal man, isn't he?!" Bemish shouted. "Would, in your
opinion, a normal man get three thousand people together just to exterminate
them all?"
"Well, you can't deny that it improved the situation in the country.
Shavash's desire to get rid of destabilizing forces..."
"He wouldn't give a fig about them being destabilizing forces! Shavash
would make a deal with destabilizing forces, demons, devils, Gera, with God
knows whom. He just had a misfortune to have a personal quarrel with the
zealots' spiritual head and so he killed them all."
"What are you suggesting we do?" it was Severin talking.
|
"There are no more hostages in the spaceport. There are only terrorists
and soldiers that betrayed their oath. We have the right to destroy them by
any means accessible to a superpower," Bemish said.
"Do you mean nuclear weapons?" Severin inquired.
"I suggest doing what Kissur would do in our situation. He would not
think for a moment about negotiating with an enemy. He would not think about
it even if there were three thousand hostages! We should not do what Kissur
expects us to."
One general elbowed another quietly and asked him about the
relationship between Bemish and the spaceport. Having found out that Bemish
was certainly the owner of the property to be destroyed, he gazed at the
businessman with satisfaction.
"I have a firm opinion," Bemish continued, "that we should not hold any
negotiations with Shavash. This man doesn't even know what ethics is,
whether is has wings or a tail. He treats people in the following way, "If
one parrot keels over, we'll buy another one." He will cheat you because he
will lie to you about the things that you take for granted. You wouldn't
even consider checking them out as you wouldn't consider testing the
gravitational constant."
"Unfortunately," a counter-intelligence officer spoke, "there are six
large paratrooper divisions currently in Weian orbit. They had all been
called in just before the commandos switched over to Kissur. There are about
ten thousand commandos there and eighty five hundred of them are Aloms.
These ships rotate around Weia and we don't really know whose side they are
on. As long as the Federation agrees to negotiate with Kissur, they are
certainly the Federal troops. If the soldiers learn, however, that an order
came out to use nuclear weapons against Kissur..."
"What will happen then?"
"We have certain reasons to believe," the officer spoke surrounded by
dead silence, "that in this case our own commandos may commit a series of
terrorist attacks similar to Kissur's. They may do it on Earth, on Vain, on
Tennox - on the largest Federation planets."
"So, we just don't have an alternative - we have to negotiate with Mr.
Shavash," Bemish summarized.
"Yes. We have to do it at the highest level, as they demanded."
Truly, the delegation came out to be very impressive. It was led by the
state secretary Khaime Khodsky, the third person in the Federation after the
president. It also included the foreign affairs minister Camilla Leyson, the
defense minister, two four star generals (one of them commanded the Fourth
Space Army) and five senators.
They spent a while arguing about where to conduct the talks. Shavash
told them to fly to Assalah - just land on the field and we'll meet you
there. However, Bemish didn't like that idea. The belligerent financier
somehow happened to become one of the key figures during the talks and he
was especially appreciated by the army people who had insisted on immediate
cancellation of the negotiations. Bemish claimed that as the Assalah
spaceport director he couldn't guarantee the safety of the landing on purely
technical grounds. It was not a joke - there were almost no qualified air
traffic controllers left and the few that were still around had been
crapping in their pants with fright for three days in a row.
Shavash declared that he would not go to the capital.
"Are you afraid that you will be arrested?"
Shavash briskly objected that he was afraid of nothing but he didn't
trust a lot of people, first of all, Mr. Bemish who had learned some things
on Weia.
"Who have I learned it from?" Bemish exploded right in the face that
was smiling at him from the screen, "Hasn't it been you and Kissur?"
"State secretary, could you please, get this mutt out of here?" Shavash
demanded. "He is not even a Federation official!"
Bemish silently turned away and left the hall without waiting to be
shown to the door.
Behind the wall, in the foyer, General Ackles, the Fourth Space Army's
commander, sat surrounded by all the military HQ small fries and silently
studied the carved ceiling.
The ceiling was decorated with hanging grape bunches.
|
"That's a fancy room," the general said. "What does the writing above
the door say?"
"It's the name of the room," Bemish answered. "It's the Hall of Seven
Grape Bunches. It's quite a historic place. Here Emperor Attakh ordered the
head to be hacked off to his most faithful military commander."
"Why?" the general inquired.
"The people claim that it happened because of an imps' wedding. These
local demons needed a place for a wedding and they bribed a palace official.
The demons had fun in the hall all night and no correct decisions can be
made here since. That's why the commander was executed."
The general gave a long turbid look to the company director and then
asked him,
"Have they arranged the meeting?"
"No. Shavash is afraid of coming to the capital."
"Do you understand what he wants?"
"Hell knows what he wants," Bemish said exasperatedly. "He can't really
want any territorial concessions, can he, general? And if he wants the
Earthmen to get off Weia, he doesn't even have to ask us about it. I think
that after what's happened, we will run away from this planet faster than a
mouse runs away from a fox."
"If they can't agree on where to hold the negotiations, it will all
fall through," the general noted.
Here, somebody carefully touched Bemish on the shoulder. The latter
turned around - the minister of the police, Mr. Akhotoi stood behind him.
"They would like to talk to you," Akhotoi said, "Could you, please,
follow me?"
Akhotoi walked Bemish down hotel corridors, where frightened brass gods
squinted their eyes from the daylight lamps, and down garden paths covered
with yellow sand. Akhotoi walked Bemish to a small pavilion with a roof that
resembled swallow's wings and opened the doors in front of him.
A slim man with a white, almost transparent face and flying eyebrows
sat inside the pavilion. Even though the man wore European dress, Bemish
recognized the Emperor almost immediately and he was jolted a bit. It was
quite surprising that during the last three days of the crisis when
everybody - Kissur, zealots, governmental officials and even Earthmen - had
the Emperor's name on their tongue tips the entire time, nobody, as far as
Bemish remembered, heard anything from the Emperor himself. And nobody
discussed anything with him. Or was that really the case? Did Kissur call
the Emperor?
Another man stood next to the Emperor - an Empire's ex-first minister
Nan also known as David Steighton.
"Bow immediately," the police minister hissed from behind.
Bemish hurriedly created something between a bow and a one knee stand
and as he was rising, he saw a sarcastic smile on Nan's face.
"Good day, Mr. Bemish," Emperor Varnazd's voice was quiet as usual and
it somewhat resembled a child's cry. "I am glad to see you hale. Tell me,
what," here the Emperor stumbled "does my vice minister of finance, Shavash,
want from the Federation?"
"Is he still a vice minister? Hasn't he been declared a criminal?"
The Emperor looked sulky. That's right. Shavash had so many friends now
that even the Emperor would not even dare to withdraw his appointment. Damn
it, the man was blackmailing the whole Galaxy and his state was too timid
even to kick him in the butt! That was no good. It looked like an authorized
Empire official would be making demands of the Earthmen.
"It would be very hard for me to declare Kissur a criminal," the
Emperor whispered. "What do they want?"
"I don't know. They will announce it only when they meet the
delegation."
"Nan is saying the same," the Emperor spoke, turning his face towards
the figure standing soundlessly next to a carved column. "But he landed in
Assalah."
That was news for Bemish. He knew that the ex-first minister was flying
to Weia but to land in the spaceport taken over by the terrorists...
"When will the talks start?"
"It's unknown. Our delegation is not going to go to Assalah and Shavash
is scared to death of going to the capital of the county where he is an
authorized official."
The sarcasm in Bemish's voice was too evident and the Emperor looked
petulant.
"The talks can take place in my palace," sovereign Varnazd said. "I
swear that both sides will be safe here. I don't think that our troops or
Earth's security services would dare to smear our traditions and start any
violence in my palace. I also don't think that Mr. Shavash would dare refuse
coming into his sovereign's palace when the sovereign guarrantees his
safety."
|
The sovereign lowered his head showing that the meeting came to an end.
Bemish bowed to take a leave when suddenly the Emperor said quietly,
"What about Kissur? How is he? He looked so pale on the screen..."
"Kissur feels like a fish in the river," Bemish assured him, "unlike
the three thousand men he killed yesterday."
And he left.
Of course, Shavash didn't dare to ignore the guarantees given by the
sovereign. Really, if an Empire's vice minister, defending the sovereign's
interests, refused to come to the palace, in the least, it would look like
he handed an official resignation notice.
A helicopter with Shavash accompanied by a dozen of his bodyguards
landed at the sovereign's palace at six in the morning. Palace guards with
expressionless faces walked the incomers to the Rainbow Pavilion where the
Federation delegates had gathered.
The meeting took place on the first floor, in the Hall of White Clouds.
The Earthmen sat around the table and silently studied their notebooks
involuntarily glancing at the beautiful jars of pure silver decorated with
dancing swans and peacocks. The palace servants brought these jars in,
filled with special palace wine aged on nut leaves mixed with pine needles.
The state secretary Khodsky was probably very thirsty - he would
constantly wet his lips in a wine glass, sniff at the smell that felt wrong
at a diplomatic meeting and put the glass back down.
Bemish suddenly realized that conducting the negotiations in palace
territory handed certain advantages to Shavash. Everything here was filled
with traditions and Empire; the proficient palace servants put wondrous wine
jars on the table but they didn't even think about bringing mineral water in
plastic bottles. The people sitting here were quite well off and one of them
had almost had to resign a year ago having spent too much money refurnishing
a new Federation Defense building. However, the deeply alien luxury of this
hall, scaly pictures on the walls and silver beams that were round like the
sun could not but influence the delegates, albeit on a subconscious level.
Shavash, on the other hand, had visited this hall for dozens of times. He
was in his element.
At 6:15 they heard steps and Shavash walked into the meeting hall. He
wore a European suit and he was impeccably shaved but something foreign
entered the hall with him. Bemish sniffed and realized what happened -
instead of eau-de-cologne Shavash used an expensive local perfume. Bemish
unwillingly thought that it would throw the delegates off a bit. At the same
time, when Shavash started giving interviews to journalists, he would look
like a true Galaxy man - you could not film a perfume.
After some hesitation, state secretary Khodsky silently rose to meet
Shavash. The latter bowed to him and took a place across the table from
Khodsky. Bemish noticed Khodsky's nose twitching alertly taking the
unfamiliar smell in.
"We," the state secretary said, "fulfilled your requirements and
arrived at Weia. Now, we would like to listen to your conditions."
"We would like," Shavash answered, "you to accept the Empire of Great
Light into the Federation of Nineteen."
Bemish thought that he had missed something.
"We will withdraw from the confrontation and release the remaining
hostages," Shavash repeated, "if Weia joins the Federation of Nineteen as a
federation state."
Several seconds passed by in stunned silence.
"To achieve this," the Fourth Space Army commander acidly noted, "you
didn't have to declare a war on the Federation of Nineteen."
"On the contrary," Shavash objected, "if we hadn't declared a war, you
wouldn't have even considered our proposition. You would have calculated
quickly the cost of all the social programs and long-term investments that
you would have to run on Weia as a Federation state. Afterwards, you would
have politely told us that moral reasons would prevent you from taking
actions that could be considered as a annexation of an independent state."
Shavash was smiling. Bemish went cold. Really, incorporating Weia into
the Federation of Nineteen would solve many if not all of its problems...
But... Such a pile of money... Bemish imagined a barefoot street beggar
getting minimal Federation unemployment benefits.
|
"But," the state secretary broke off, "there are no precedents..."
"That's not true," Shavash replied, "In the first century BC, Latin
tribes declared a war on Rome trying to obtain Roman citizenship. During the
Mexican War of 1848, the radical party of Mexico insisted that the country
should be annexed by the United States. It's sad, gentlemen, that a Weian
knows your history better than you do."
Bemish grinned. Referring to the past was indeed typical for a Weian
official. Shavash continued, smiling.
"Imagine that you reject our proposal and continue the war. Accordingly
to well-known reasons, your mobile tactical units are unreliable and you
can't use them. There are too many Weians there. It means that you will have
to destroy half of the Empire with strategic weapons. The reputation of the
Federation of Nineteen will be horribly compromised!
At the same time, you will exhibit unspeakable cruelty destroying a
completely powerless country and you will exhibit unspeakable weakness.
Really, what's can you say about the fighting ability of the country when
half of its shock troops comes from a potential enemy?! The Federation's
authority will be shattered. Gera and other enemies of yours will obtain a
moral advantage. The Federation members, that have been demanding
independence, will hurry to leave the union - they will declare that they
completely disagree with Earth's politics."
Shavash paused, sipped on his wine and continued.
"Let's imagine now that you agree to our proposal and the Federation of
Nineteen becomes the Federation of Twenty. It will be a triumph of democracy
and freedom! An empire, a whole planet voluntarily sheds its freedom and
independence to become a member of the Federation! The Federation doesn't
need any weapons - it simply wins hearts over!"
"It's crazy," the state secretary muttered.
"This century is the time of separatism. Maybe the Empire is fated to
turn this process back. Vadda desires independence. Won't its people change
their opinion after the Empire's example? In any case, local politicians
will find it more difficult to assure the nation that real happiness will
come when the politicians don't have to obey the metropolis any longer."
The state secretary's eyes lit up. He arrived at the Empire, having
interrupted negotiations with Vadda. This planet was going to leave the
Federation either with a scandal or with a huge scandal. Merry imps danced
across the state secretary's eyes as he was thinking about Shavash's words.
Meanwhile, Shavash continued.
"What are the gains of winning a war? You take over a foreign country
for the present and protect your future. What are the drawbacks of winning a
war? The losers are embittered and they want revenge; the neighbors get
wary. We offer you all the gains of a victorious war without its single
drawback!
Our proposal takes care of a multitude of problems.
For instance, there is the problem of the lands surrounding the Empire.
Their development has already started. It will clearly cause conflicts
between the sovereign Empire and the Federation. If we are to join, the
reasons for the conflicts will be gone.
If you let us get away with our actions, you will demonstrate your
weakness. Having declared a war on us, you will exhibit weakness and cruelty
simultaneously. Both winning and losing the war will be catastrophic for you
- you will find yourselves internationally isolated. You will look like
demagogues instead of democrats. The Federation forces developing planets to
respect the human rights. However, when the same planets ask it to uphold
human rights, the Federation drops nuclear bombs on them having decided that
upholding the human rights is just too expensive.
If you reject our proposal, even a victorious war will be catastrophic
for you. If you accept it, you remain a beacon of democracy and freedom. In
the case of war, you will find yourself without tactical troops but with a
reputation of a militaristic state. In the case of peace, you will obtain
again the most reliable soldiers in the Galaxy and the reputation of a
peaceful country!"
|
"What will happen to the Emperor?" the state secretary asked.
"What's wrong about having an Emperor?" the official objected. "There
are kings and emperors in various states of Earth - in Arabia, in Belgium.
The Emperor will be the symbol of the nation and the country will have a
first minister and universal elections."
"And Earth will be accused of forcing democracy on you, won't it?" the
state secretary inquired.
Shavash spread his hands.
"It's unlikely," he said, "that Earth will be accused in forcing
democracy on us in the current circumstances."
Somebody snickered.
"Also," the official added, "we have already silenced the most
bellicose blabbermouths so that you won't get too upset."
"You did it as preliminary measure before instituting democracy,"
General Al Saad noted.
Shavash preferred to ignore the comment and continued, "We are not
talking about Weia; we are talking about the Federation. Will it prefer to
become internationally isolated and fall apart or to obtain a strategic
stronghold and flourish? Take into account that in twenty years you will
have to spend forty times more for a war against Gera than you would have to
invest now into economics and infrastructure of the Federation's new state!"
"We will think your proposal over," the state secretary said.
Bemish left the hall together with Fifth Fleet commander Al Saad.
"What do you think about this?" Bemish inquired.
"Do you know," the general answered, "this joke? A man is walking down
a forest and an old woman points a blaster at him. "Weren't you going to
rape me, dearie?" -"Absolutely not, granny!" - "You don't have a choice,
dearie!"
Bemish burst out in laughter.
Five minutes later, tired and hungry Bemish ascended into a small
triangular hall. The tables for the delegation stood there, filled with
appetizers and dishes. The guards were everywhere and a dozen of journalists
waiting for the negotiations to finish, hunted the solitary delegates.
Having come in, Bemish discovered that the adroit journalists and
attendants had already taken care of the food and only the most exotic
dishes were left. Bemish made himself comfortable next to a dish of a
sauteed dog and Al Saad, having hesitated for a moment, followed him.
A wide TV screen stood in the right corner of the hall. It showed a
Weian meeting next to the palace walls, first, and the Geran envoy's speech,
second. The Geran thanked Kissur and the selfless Weians for uncovering the
intrigues of Earth warmongers. He confirmed that Gera was ready to assist
the exploited and mislead Weian people if the Federation dared to attack
them.
Then Shavash entered the hall accompanied by two or three attendants.
Shavash probably didn't want to approach the Assalah director but he
clearly wanted to eat. The only edible object left on the table was the
sauteed dog that Bemish sat next to.
Shavash came to the dog and started cutting it with a knife. Bemish
pointedly turned away.
The anchorman on the TV screen read the announcement of Geran
president. The president promised assistance to Weians and everybody else.
He suggested to everybody exploited by the Federation to unite in defense of
the betrayed Weians and to join their ranks fighting "the corrupted
democracy of the Federation."
The TV set was not performing well. An indistinct web of blue and green
lines pulsated on the screen. It was an indication that a powerful two
channel trans communication unit was working somewhere nearby. The state
secretary was probably speaking directly to the Federation president. Bemish
stared fixedly at the green lines on the screen as if he could figure the
conversation's content out of them.
The palace servants came in, changed tablecloths and covered the tables
with new dishes. However, Bemish was full. In about an hour, green and blue
ripples disappeared and, almost immediately, envoy Severin entered the hall.
Severin approached Shavash and asked him to walk upstairs.
"The Federation president would like to talk to you," he said quietly,
"on the transcom."
Shavash walked upstairs; Bemish and the general followed him
simultaneously. A number of people were present in the room upstairs - a
dozen diplomats and the same number of technicians. Nobody stopped Bemish
and the general when they entered the room following Shavash.
|
A simple computer with a transcom unit connected directly to the
parallel port stood on the table. Shavash leaned over the keyboard, somebody
quickly pushed a button and president's Kerry face appeared in front of
Shavash on the wide monitor screen.
"Mr. Shavash?" the president said.
"I am listening to you," the small official replied.
"I discussed your proposal with the heads of the Federation states. We
concluded that it would put the Federation in a difficult, almost critical
financial situation. However, it is mutually profitable and honorable. The
executive heads of the Federation will agree to your proposal on one
condition."
"What is it?"
"Your personal actions, Mr. Shavash, are extraordinary, or more
directly, monstrous. You obtained quite a scandalous reputation even on your
own planet. It's possible that, thanks to your successful actions, the
people will choose you as the head of the new Federation state. It will be
very unpleasant for us to see you in the Assembly of the heads of the
states. Our condition is the following - we will accept Weia into the
Federation as long as you don't participate in the new elections. If you
really care about your country's well-being, you will find it easy to agree
to our condition."
For a while, Shavash expressionlessly looked at the screen. Bemish
suddenly recalled with malice how the small official had regretted a while
ago that the Federation hadn't conquered Weia and he, Shavash, couldn't
become the Federation Emperor's slave and worm his way into the Assembly of
the heads of the states.
"I agree," the first vice minister of finance finally said.
Half an hour later, Bemish sat in the garden with a laptop in his
hands, deeply immersed in calculations. The year before last, the total
volume of direct and portfolio investments into the Empire's economy was
four billion dinars. The last year, thanks to Bemish's example, it was
sixteen billion. Just before the elections, the investment flow increased a
bit more and it dropped almost to zero afterwards.
The total sum of allowances, benefits and investment credits for a new
Federation member would be, accordingly to Bemish's calculations, six
thousand four billion dinars - six trillion.
Somebody approached and stood next to him. Bemish turned around and saw
Nan and Shavash.
"Why are you pouting, Terence," Shavash asked. "Can you imagine how
much Assalah stocks will cost tomorrow?"
"That's why I am upset," Bemish grinned. "You could at least give me a
hint. Confess, how much have you made on this deal?"
"I don't really know yet," the small official spoke. "I, however, have
a gift for you, Mr. Bemish. During the crisis, I took it upon myself to buy
Assalah bonds at the total sum of three hundred million dinars. On the
average, I paid eight cent for a dinar. I would like to give you a half of
them."
Shavash paused.
"Also, as you remember, I am authorized to invest Special Weian fund's
money in whatever way I see fit. During the emergency, the fund was buying
everything it could."
Bemish raised his eyes at him, shocked. Of course, he immediately
realized that for every stock that Shavash had bought for the fund, he had
bought twenty for himself.
Bemish realized that the foxy official managed the most astonishing
insider deal in the stock market history - he had dropped the market's
rating at the very bottom and had bought everything. He knew that after his
ultimatum, Weia would obtain the federal exchange status and his investments
would increase tenfold. Suddenly Bemish understood why Shavash agreed to the
president's condition - not to participate in the elections - so easily.
"Why did you instigate the whole thing?" Bemish asked. "Did you want to
get 2000% profit in ten days? Were you trying to save your country or were
you spinning an insider deal?"
"Where is insider trading here?" Shavash was surprised. "I didn't know
how your government would reply to my proposal."
"And still, having reaped your profits, you refused to become the first
minister of Weia."
Here Shavash smiled slowly and victoriously.
"There are a lot of people," he said, "who are worthier of this
appointment than I am. At a certain point, Mr. Nan was dismissed from the
first minister position under the pretext that he was a citizen of another
country. They passed a law that made it impossible for foreigners to hold
governmental appointments. Now, we are all citizens of the same state and
the law is no longer valid. You have to agree, that it will be quite
advantageous if an Earthman represents our country in the Assembly of the
heads of the states."
|
<pre>
--------------------------------------
Анонимный перевод
Паук. - СПб.: Кристалл, 2000. (Б-ка мировой лит. Малая серия).
OCR Бычков М.Н. mailto:bmn@lib.ru
--------------------------------------
Отцы ели кислый виноград,
А у детей на зубах оскомина.
Книга Иезекииля
Я познакомился с доном Пабло, когда в бытность мою в Оризабе я должен
был застрелить старого осла. Оризаба - маленький городок, который служит
местом отправления для людей, совершающих восхождение на вершину горы
Оризаба, про которую нам в школах говорили, что она называется
Попокатепетль. Я был тогда совсем юным птенцом и при всяком удобном и
неудобном случае примешивал к моему испанскому языку множество ацтекских и
тласкаланских слов; тогда мне это казалось необыкновенно "мексиканским". К
сожалению, мексиканцы не ценили этого и предпочитали смесь с английским
жаргоном.
Итак, Оризаба - прелестный городок...
Однако у меня нет желания распространяться относительно Оризабы,
городок этот не имеет никакого отношения к этому рассказу. Я должен был
упомянуть о нем только потому, что я пристрелил там одного старого осла,
который также не имеет никакого отношения к этому рассказу. Впрочем, этот
старый осел мне нужен, потому что благодаря ему я познакомился с доном
Пабло, а о доне Пабло я должен говорить, так как благодаря ему я попал к
синим индейцам.
Так вот, старый осел стоял в отдаленной части парка.
Парк этот квадратный и не очень большой и находится в конце города. Там
много высоких деревьев, и дорожки заросли травой, так как туда никогда не
заглядывает ни один человек: обыватели Оризабы предпочитают городскую
площадь, которая находится в самом центре города, - там играет музыка. Был
уже поздний вечер, шел сильный дождь, когда я отправился в городской парк; в
задней части парка, где поднимаются стены гор, я увидел старого осла. Он был
совсем мокрый и пасся в сырой траве; я хорошо заметил, что он посмотрел на
меня, когда я проходил мимо.
На следующий вечер я снова пошел в городской парк, дождь продолжал
идти. Я нашел старого осла на том же месте. Он не был привязан, вблизи не
было ни дома, ни хижины, где могли бы жить его хозяева. Я подошел к
нему; тут только я заметил, что он стоит на трех ногах, левая задняя нога
болталась в воздухе. Он был очень стар, и у него было много ран и нарывов от
слишком узкой подпруги, от ударов хлыста и от уколов остроконечной палкой.
Задняя нога была сломана в двух местах, вокруг нее висела грязная тряпка. Я
вынул носовой платок и сделал, по мере возможности, перевязку.
На следующее утро мы поехали в город, но повернули обратно через два
дня, промокнув до костей от непрекращавшегося дождя. Мы продрогли, и у нас
зуб на зуб не попадал в этом промозглом холоде. Старый осел не выходил у
меня из головы все время; я отправился в парк прямо на своей кобыле, не дав
ей отдохнуть в конюшне. Осел все еще стоял на старом месте; он поднял
голову, когда увидел меня. Я спешился, подошел к нему и стал его гладить,
ласково приговаривая. Это мне было очень тяжело, потому что от него исходило
страшное зловоние; я прикусил себе губы, чтобы подавить тошноту. Я
наклонился и поднял его больную ногу: она была поражена гангреной, мясо
разложилось и издавало зловоние, гораздо более невыносимое, чем...
Этого я рассказывать не буду. Довольно, если я скажу, что я это
выдержал, и я знаю, чего мне это стоило. Старый осел смотрел мне в глаза, и
я понял, о чем он меня просит. Я вынул браунинг и нарвал пригоршню травы:
"Ешь", - сказал я ему. Однако бедное животное не могло уже больше есть. Оно
только смотрело на меня. Я приставил револьвер ему за ухо и спустил курок.
Выстрела не раздалось. Еще и еще раз, но выстрела не было. Револьвер давал
осечку, отсырел и заржавел в мокром кармане. Я обнял голову осла и обещал
ему снова прийти. Он посмотрел на меня большими измученными глазами, в
которых был написан страх: "Но придешь ли ты? Наверное ли придешь?"
Я вскочил в седло и хлестнул свою кобылу. В эту минуту с ветвей
ближайших деревьев снялись коршуны, сторожившие момент, когда их жертва
свалится, чтобы наброситься на нее, - они не ждут, чтобы она издохла. А
между тем они терпеливо ждут целые дни напролет и не теряют из виду больного
животного, пока оно наконец не свалится.
|
Животное падает, потом опять встает, дрожит перед тем ужасом, который
его ожидает, и снова падает; о, оно хорошо знает свою участь. Если бы оно
могло еще издохнуть где-нибудь в укромном месте, одно, подальше от этих
страшных птиц! Но коршуны подстерегают свою жертву и сейчас же слетаются к
ней, как только она падает и уже не имеет больше сил подняться на ноги.
Хищные птицы должны ждать еще несколько дней возле павшего животного, пока,
под напором гнилостных газов в трупе, не лопнет шкура, которую они не в
силах проклевать. Но едва животное падает, они сейчас же набрасываются на
самый лакомый кусочек, на изысканную закуску: глаза живого животного... Я
повернулся в седле:
- Смотри, стой и не сдавайся, - крикнул я, - держись крепко! Я скоро
вернусь.
Грязь брызгала во все стороны, когда я скакал по размытым дождем
улицам; я приехал в гостиницу, словно какой-то бродяга. Я вошел в общую
залу; за угловым столом пили наиболее почетные гости - немцы, англичане,
французы.
- Кто даст мне ненадолго револьвер? - крикнул я.
Все взялись за карманы, только один спросил:
- Для чего?
Тогда я рассказал о моем старом осле. Все вынули руки из карманов,
никто не дал мне своего браунинга.
- Нет, - ответили они мне, - нет, этого мы не должны делать, это
принесет вам много хлопот и неприятностей.
- Но ведь осел никому не принадлежит, - вскрикнул я, - по-видимому,
хозяин выгнал его и предоставил ему разлагаться заживо и быть съеденным
коршунами!
Пивовар засмеялся:
- Совершенно верно, теперь он никому не принадлежит. Но стоит вам
только его пристрелить, как сейчас же найдется хозяин, который потребует от
вас в виде вознаграждения за понесенный убыток такую сумму, на которую вы
могли бы купить двадцать лошадей.
- Я вышвырну его за дверь.
- Ну конечно, в том-то вся и штука. Но этот человек обратится к
содействию полиции и судьи - тогда посмотрим, как вы откажетесь
удовлетворить его иск. Кроме того, с вами будут обращаться хуже, чем в
Пруссии, а это едва ли вам понравится. На следующий день вы будете
подвергнуты аресту, и нам придется пустить в ход все наше влияние, чтобы
выручить вас, - вот чем может окончиться вся эта история. Верьте, что в
Мексике тоже существуют законы.
- Вот как? - воскликнул я. - Законы?
И я указал на несколько следов пуль в стене:
- Нечего сказать, хороши законы. А это что?..
Английский инженер прервал меня:
- Это? Но ведь мы вам вчера рассказывали. Вон тот застрелил в этой
комнате в шутку двух женщин и трех мужчин, но это были индейцы и
проститутки, которые далеко не стоят того, чего стоит осел. Убийцу присудили
к заключению в тюрьме на полгода, но он отделался тем, что пробыл в больнице
дня два. Недурно, но не забывайте: это был мексиканец и племянник
губернатора. Законы существуют в этой стране для иностранцев, и тогда они
применяются самым строгим образом. Я уверен, что вы были бы обречены на
долголетнее заключение в тюрьме из-за вашего старого осла, если бы мы не
вступились за вас, - а это стоило бы нам не одну тысячу: и полицмейстер, и
судья, и губернатор - никто не пропустит такого удобного случая. Отказывая
вам в револьвере, мы только бережем наши деньги.
Так никто и не дал мне браунинга. Я просил, но меня высмеяли, и я в
бешенстве выбежал из залы. Четверть часа спустя кто-то постучал в дверь моей
комнаты - это был дон Пабло.
- Вот вам мой револьвер, - сказал он.
Потом он сделал мне несколько намеков:
- Уложите ваши чемоданы, пойдите как можно позже в парк, займите место
в поезде, который отправляется в три часа ночи. Это мне будет особенно
приятно, так как я отправляюсь с этим поездом и тогда у меня будет попутчик.
* * *
Действительно, я оказался его попутчиком, и не на один только день. Дон
Пабло таскал меня по всей Мексике в течение нескольких месяцев. Словно один
из своих семи сундуков. Дело в том, что он был коммивояжером из Ремшейда.
В той стране, по которой он разъезжал, прекрасно знают, что это
означает; но те, кто читает мою книгу, понятия не имеют об этом, а потому я
расскажу, что это такое. Коммивояжер торговой фирмы в Реймшейде говорит на
всех языках и на всех наречиях. У него в Америке в каждом городе, начиная с
Галифакса и кончая Пунта-Аренасом, есть хорошие друзья и приятели, он в
точности знает кредитоспособность каждого купца. Его патрон в отчаянии, что
должен платить ему пятьдесят тысяч марок в год, но в то же время он очень
доволен тем, что тот вознаграждает его за это в десять раз; рано или поздно,
но дело всегда кончается тем, что глава фирмы делает такого коммивояжера
своим компаньоном. Это передвижной Вертхейм {Громадный торговый дом в
Берлине.}, его сундуки с образцами товаров наполняют два вагона. И чего
только в них нет! Тут и подвязки, и иконы, и кастрюли, и зубные щетки, и
части машин и т. п. И коммивояжер хорошо знает, где лежит каждый , он знает
свои сундуки не хуже той страны, по которой путешествует. Тем, кому выпадает
на долю путешествовать с ним, нет надобности в путеводителях, он наизусть
знает все, что написано в путеводителях, а кроме того, еще много другого.
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Моего ремшейдца звали Пауль Беккер, но я буду называть его "доном
Пабло", потому что так его называют по всей Мексике, да и сам он так
называет себя там. Я немного замешкался и пришел на вокзал в последнюю
минуту; второпях, вскакивая в вагон, я оборвал свои подтяжки. Дон Пабло
сейчас же подарил мне новые в счет своей фирмы. Потом он выругал меня за то,
что я купил себе билет. Сам он вместо того, чтобы предъявить кондуктору
билет, подарил ему старый карманный ножик.
Сперва дон Пабло повез меня в Пуэбло, потом в Тласкалу. Мы разъезжали
по всем штатам, были в Юкатане и в Соноре, в Тамаулипасе, в Ялиско, в
Кампехэ и в Коахиле.
Пока можно было пользоваться железными дорогами, я молчал. Но когда
пришлось нагружать двадцать семь тяжелых сундуков на мулов и медленно
тащиться то в гору, то под гору - мне скоро это надоело. Несколько раз я уже
собирался забастовать, но дон Пабло говорил в таких случаях с возмущением:
- Что? Но ведь вы не видели еще руин Митлы!
И я снова запасался терпением недели на две. Но этому не было конца:
мне постоянно надо было видеть еще и еще что-нибудь интересное. Однажды дон
Пабло сказал мне:
- Ну, теперь мы отправляемся в Гуэрреро.
Я ответил ему, что пусть он едет туда один, что мне уже в достаточной
степени надоела Мексика. На это он возразил, что я должен обязательно видеть
индейцев штата Гуэрреро, иначе у меня будет весьма несовершенное понятие о
Мексике. Я наотрез отказался от дальнейшего путешествия и сказал, что видел
уже более сотни индейских племен и что я ничего не выиграю, если увижу еще
одно лишнее племя.
- Голубчик, - воскликнул дон Пабло, - уверяю вас, что вам необходимо
посмотреть индейцев Гуэрреро, если вы вообще когда-нибудь собираетесь
разговаривать об индейцах. Дело в том, что индейцы Гуэрреро...
- Очень глупы, - прервал я его, - как и все индейцы.
- Конечно, - подтвердил дон Пабло.
- И страшно ленивы.
- Само собою разумеется.
- И очень хорошие католики и утратили все свои старинные обычаи.
- Совершенно верно.
- Какой же интерес они могут представлять для меня, скажите, ради Бога?
- Вы должны только посмотреть их самих, - сказал дон Пабло с гордостью.
- Дело в том, что там есть племя совершенно синих индейцев.
- Синих?
- Да, синих.
- Синих?
- Ну да, синих, синих! Они такие же синие, как мантии на мадоннах,
изображения которых я вожу с собой. Ярко-синие. Василькового цвета.
Ну хорошо, мы купили себе новых лошадей, ослов и мулов и, выехав из
Толуки, направились через Сьерра-Мадре. Раза два мы останавливались, чтобы
демонстрировать наши образцы; в то время, как дон Пабло заезжал в Тикстлу, я
удостоился чести вести переговоры с клиентами в Чилапе. Вообще же мы
совершили это путешествие сравнительно быстро: уже недели через три мы были
на берегу Тихого океана, в Акапулько, столице штата, в которой оказалась
настоящая гостиница. Я высматривал всюду синих индейцев, но не нашел их,
хотя дон Пабло и уверял, что здесь их часто можно встретить. Он призвал
хозяина гостиницы, итальянца, в свидетели; и тот подтвердил, что,
действительно, синие момоскапаны появляются иногда в городе. Всего только
несколько месяцев тому назад два французских врача возвратились из
Истотасинты, места жительства этого племени, они пробыли там полгода, изучая
"синюю болезнь", - по мнению врачей, синий цвет кожи этих людей -
болезненное явление. Эти два врача сказали ему, что момоскапаны кроме своей
синей окраски отличаются еще поразительной памятью, распространяющейся на
самое раннее детство, что главным образом объясняется тем обстоятельством,
что это маленькое племя с незапамятных времен питается исключительно рыбой и
моллюсками. Впрочем, хозяин посоветовал мне лучше съездить самому посмотреть
на это племя, которое живет при впадении Момохушики в море, днях в десяти
езды от города.
Дон Пабло поблагодарил и отказался ехать туда, так как был уверен в
том, что среди момоскапанов не найдет ни одного клиента, могущего доставить
хоть какую-нибудь прибыль его фирме. Тогда я отправился один, взяв с собой
только трех индейцев, из которых один был узаматольтек с СьерраМадре,
понимавший немного по-ислапекски. Можно было предполагать, что кто-нибудь из
синих индейцев понимает немного этот язык соседнего им племени.
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То, что я хотел видеть у момоскапанов, я увидел уже в четверти часа
езды от города. Я мог констатировать, что они, действительно, синие, что уже
до меня, по всей вероятности, заметили сотни других путешественников.
Основным цветом их кожи, конечно, был желтоватый, свойственный всем
мексиканским индейцам, однако от этого цвета остались лишь небольшие пятна,
величиной с ладонь, большей частью на лице. Но синий цвет кожи был
преобладающим, в противоположность тигровым индейцам из Санта-Марты в
Колумбии, у которых яркий желтый цвет преобладает над ржаво-коричневым.
Несмотря на это, мне кажется, между этими двумя случаями игры природы есть
много общего - хотя бы то, что индейцы из Санта-Марты также питаются
исключительно продуктами моря. К сожалению, в накожных болезнях я также мало
смыслю, как имперский немецкий посланник в дипломатии; в книгах также мне
никогда не приходилось ничего читать относительно синего цвета момоскапанов,
иначе я охотно вплел бы сюда несколько научных сентенций. Это наверное
произвело бы выгодное впечатление. Но, глядя на этих удивительных людей, я
мог только вытаращить глаза и сказать:
- Гм, - странно!
Когда я был в шестом классе, то по дороге в гимназию всегда встречал
банкира Левенштейна. Он возвращался с прогулки верхом, на нем была шапка, на
ногах гамаши, и он размахивал хлыстиком. Он был маленький и толстый, в левом
глазу носил монокль, а вся правая сторона его лица была покрыта
темно-фиолетовым пятном. Глядя на него, я думал: "Вот потому-то он и носит
монокль: если бы он носил пенсне, то при каком-нибудь неловком толчке оно
могло бы оцарапать ему правую, синюю, сторону носа".
И потом я уже никогда не мог больше отделаться от мучительной мысли:
"Если ты подойдешь к нему слишком близко, то ты можешь задеть своей верхней
пуговицей за его щеку, ах, и тогда ты ему сразу сдерешь всю кожу со щеки!"
Эта мысль мешала мне даже во сне и во время занятий в школе, завидя его
издалека, я сворачивал в сторону, а в конце концов начал ходить другой
дорогой.
Такие же синие, почти фиолетовые, как пятно на щеке банкира
Левенштейна, были и синие индейцы. И с первого же мгновения при виде их у
меня снова явился страх, который я испытал двадцать четыре года тому назад,
- как бы верхняя пуговица моего сюртука не разодрала им кожу. Я был до такой
степени во власти этого детского впечатления, что в течение нескольких
недель, прожитых мною среди момоскапанов, ни разу не мог заставить себя
дотронуться хотя бы до одного из них.
А между тем я хорошо видел, что это вовсе не кровоподтеки. Кожа была
гладкая и блестящая и была бы даже красива, если бы не светлые пятна,
которые пестрили кожу. И только моя странная, непреодолимая мания мешала мне
привыкнуть к оригинальной окраске кожи этих индейцев.
Раз я уже был в Истотасинте и раз не знал, что мне делать с синими
феноменами, то я решил, по крайней мере, заняться другой загадкой, то есть
поразительной памятью синих индейцев, о которой говорили французские врачи
моему хозяину в Акапулько.
Предоставляю науке установить, действительно ли и в какой степени
повлияло питание исключительно рыбой на синюю окраску кожи момоскапанов,
предоставляю науке же разрешить аналогичный вопрос, до сих пор мало
исследованный, относительно красного цвета индейцев Санта-Марты. Эти
колумбийские тигрокожие едят очень много черепах, а мексиканские синекожие
совсем не едят их, может быть, какой-нибудь исследователь сделает из этого
особый вывод. Пусть наука также установит причину все возрастающей
человеческой памяти при преобладающем или исключительном питании морскими
продуктами - для меня это уже не имеет особого значения. J течение целого
полугода я производил над собой этот опыт и достиг того, что во мне вновь
возродились некоторые исчезнувшие воспоминания из моего раннего детства, к
которым я, впрочем, был вполне равнодушен. А потому я прекратил эти опыты к
великой пользе моего сильно пострадавшего желудка и глотки. Среди индейского
племени момоскапанов я не нашел ни одного индивида, который не помнил бы до
мельчайших подробностей все, что ему пришлось пережить в своей, к сожалению
очень однообразной, жизни; многие помнили свою жизнь, начиная с первого
года. Особенно удивляться этому нечего, особенно если принять во внимание то
обстоятельство, что это маленькое племя с незапамятных времен, из поколения
в поколение, никогда не питалось ни мясом, ни плодами, ни зеленью, а
исключительно только дарами моря, и главным образом особого рода моллюсками,
содержащими в себе громадное количество фосфора. Однако надо сказать, что
этот обычай ничего не имеет общего с требованиями религии, и продукты земли,
идущие в пищу, отнюдь не подвергаются какому-либо "табу": синие индейцы не
пользуются этой пищей только потому, что на этом пустынном, бесплодном
берегу ничего не водится и не растет. Синие индейцы ничего не имели против
некоторого разнообразия в пище и с величайшей благодарностью принимали
остатки моих консервов.
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Как и б_о_льшая часть мексиканских индейцев, момоскапаны очень ленивы,
неразвиты и крайне миролюбивы - они не знают даже употребления оружия.
Благодаря посещению французских врачей, которые сделали им много подарков,
они несколько привыкли к иностранцам и, когда узнали о причине моего
посещения и поняли, что мне надо, фазу проявили величайшую
предупредительность по отношению ко мне и сами стали приводить ко мне тех из
своих соплеменников, которые отличались особенной памятью. Однако мне скоро
надоело выслушивать эти однообразные исповеди, причем очень часто мне
приходилось прибегать к помощи двух переводчиков, к моему узаматольтеку и
еще одному старому кацику, который в самой незначительной степени владел
изальпекским языком. Но вот однажды мне привели подростка, который крайне
удивил меня. Сперва он рассказал мне всякие пустяки о своем раннем детстве,
но потом заговорил о своей свадьбе и о том, что поймал тридцать больших рыб
и зажарил их и что вскоре после этого он был со своей женой в Акапулько. И
он подробно описал Акапулько. В этом не было ничего особенного, но
замечательно было то, что подростку едва ли было тринадцать лет и что он
наверное не был женат и никогда не был за пределами Момохучики. Я заметил
ему это через переводчика. Он глупо посмотрел на меня и ничего не ответил.
Но старик сказал, ухмыляясь:
- Пала (отец).
Должен сознаться, что в эту ночь я не спал, хотя меня и не кусали
москиты. Одно из двух: или мальчик налгал мне, или же я открыл изумительный
феномен - память, которая заходила за пределы жизни человека и захватывала
случаи из жизни предков.
Почему бы это было невозможно? У меня зеленые глаза, как у моей матери,
и выпуклый лоб, как у моего отца. Все может быть наследственно, каждая
склонность, каждый талант. А разве память не может переходить по наследству?
Самый маленький котенок, на которого лает собака, выгибает спинку и фыркает.
Потому что у него вдруг совершенно инстинктивно является воспоминание,
унаследованное им от тысячи предыдущих поколений, о том, что это - лучшее
средство защиты. Еж, - ах, стоит только раскрыть Брема, - и на каждой
странице можно найти какую-нибудь странную привычку, которой животные не
могли бы выучиться сами, но по памяти унаследовали от бесконечного множества
предыдущих поколений. В этом-то и заключается инстинкт - в воспоминании,
унаследованном от предков. А эти индейцы, мозг которых был освобожден от
всякой другой работы, эти синие индейцы, предки которых питались
исключительно пищей, удивительным образом развивающей память, конечно,
должны были обладать еще более развитой памятью - перешедшей к ним от
родителей.
Родители продолжают жить в своих детях. В самом деле? Но что же
продолжает жить? Быть может, лицо. Дочь музыкальна, как отец, а сын левша,
как мать. Случайность. Нет, нет, мы умираем, а наши дети совсем, совсем
другие люди. Мать была уличной потаскухой, а сын сделался известным
миссионером. Или: отец был обер-прокурором, а дочка поет в казино. Нам
приходится утешать себя бессмертием души, которая поет "Аллилуйя" на зеленых
лугах в Небесном селении - на этой земле жизнь наша кончена, на этой земле,
которую мы знаем и любим. Кончена.
И мы не хотим умирать. Мы делаем невероятные усилия для того, чтобы
как-нибудь продолжить нашу жизнь в воспоминании, - мы умираем спокойно, если
имя наше напечатано в энциклопедическом словаре. Мы счастливы только тогда,
когда сознаем себя бессмертными хотя бы на одну секунду в течение двухсот
лет. Всякому хочется жить в воспоминании человечества или своего народа,
или, по крайней мере, своей семьи. Вот почему толстый бюргер хочет иметь
детей - наследников своего имени.
* * *
Нечто живет - и, может быть, лучшее. Многое умерло - и, может быть,
лучшее. Как знать? Ибо все умерло, что так или иначе не сохранилось в
воспоминании. Тот совершенно умер, кто забыт, а не тот, кто умер. Но в
том-то все дело: люди начинают понимать, что не воспоминание хорошо, а
забвение. Воспоминание - это домовой, это изнурительная болезнь,
отвратительная чума, душащая живую жизнь. Мы не должны больше наследовать от
отца и матери, не должны смотреть на них вверх, нет, мы должны смотреть на
них вниз, в самую глубину, ибо мы больше их, выше их. Мы должны разбить
"вчера" потому, что живем сегодня, и потому, что наше "сегодня" лучше. В
этом наша великая вера, настолько сильная, что мы вовсе не думаем о том, что
это великое "сегодня" уже завтра превратится в жалкое "вчера", достойное
быть брошенным в мусорную кучу. Вечная борьба с вечным поражением: только
когда мысли наши отходят в область прошедшего, они побеждают.
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Мы - рабы понятий наших отцов. Мы мучимся в этих оковах, задыхаемся в
узкой темнице жизни - в темнице, которую создали наши праотцы. Но мы строим
новую, более обширную, храмину, и только в момент нашей смерти мы
заканчиваем эту постройку - и тогда оказывается, что потомки наши попали в
наши оковы.
Но не ошибся ли я в выводе? Что если сегодня я в одно и то же время
представляю себя самого, моего отца и моего праотца? Что если то, что
содержит мой мозг, - не умрет, если оно будет жить дальше, разрастаться в
моем сыне и внуке? Что если я могу примирить в себе самом вечный переворот?
* * *
Я отдал приказание приводить ко мне всех, чья память переходила за
пределы собственного рождения; и каждый день ко мне приводили кого-нибудь -
мужчину, женщину или ребенка. Я констатировал, что способность воспоминания
у детей распространяется как на жизнь отца, так и на жизнь матери, последнее
преобладало. Однако во всех случаях эта способность ограничивалась
воспоминанием событий из жизни родителей до рождения детей,
свидетельствующих о них, и по большей части воспоминания эти касались
какой-нибудь случайности на свадебном торжестве или какого-нибудь события из
последнего года перед зачатием ребенка. В некоторых случаях я мог наблюдать,
что воспоминания относятся к жизни предшествующего поколения. Так, например,
один индеец, мать которого умерла при его рождении и который был ее
единственным сыном, рассказывал мне подробности о других рождениях, которые,
по-видимому, относились к жизни его бабушки или прабабушки. Все эти исповеди
были, конечно, малоинтересны, все они повторялись в том же порядке и давали
маленькую картину сонной, мирной и однообразной жизни этих ихтиофагов. Из
целого сборника моих заметок я могу отметить только два момента, которые
представляют собой некоторый интерес и имеют значение. Никто из тех, кто
приходил ко мне исповедоваться, никогда не говорил: "Мой отец сделал то-то",
"Моя мать, моя бабушка сделала то-то", каждый рассказывал только про самого
себя. Очень немногие пожилые люди, как, например, кацик, который помогал мне
в качестве переводчика, уяснили себе, что многие воспоминания относятся не к
жизни тех, кто их рассказывает, а к жизни их предков; однако большая часть
синекожих, и главным образом те, память которых переходила за пределы их
рождения, были убеждены, не отдавая себе в этом отчета, что все деяния их
родителей относятся к ним самим. Второй момент, который я отметил,
заключается в том, что все эти люди никогда не вспоминали о смерти отца или
матери, так как их воспоминания относились только к жизни родителей. Но так
как многие из них собственными глазами видели, как умирали их родители, то,
быть может, вследствие этого и создалась бессознательная тенденция относить
к себе самим все воспоминания, касающиеся жизни родителей. Таким образом,
получились эти маленькие qui pro quo, которые производили иногда забавное
впечатление; так, например, когда мальчик, который никогда не покидал своего
песчаного берега, начинал восхвалять великолепие Акапулько, или когда
какой-нибудь десятилетний мальчик - с серьезным выражением на лице старой
опытной повитухи повествовал о своих семи родах, или когда маленький ребенок
со слезами рассказывал, что у него утонул во время рыбной ловли маленький
братец, который родился и умер до его рождения.
В моих записках значится: 16 июля, Терезита, дочь Элии Митцекацихуатлъ,
14 лет.
Ее отец привел ее ко мне в хижину и с гордостью объявил, что дочь его
говорит по-испански. Она недавно вышла замуж, была хорошо сложена и была
беременна; цвет ее кожи был почти сплошь синий, только единственное пятно на
спине величиной с ладонь напоминало еще о ее первоначальном цвете. Хотя,
по-видимому, она очень гордилась тем, что ей позволили предстать передо
мной, она все-таки проявляла большое смущение и страх, чего я до сих пор не
заметил ни в одном из момоскапанов. На все наши просьбы говорить она
отвечала гримасой и упорно молчала. Даже ее муж, который только что
возвратился с рыбной ловли и угрожал подкрепить увещевания отцовской палки
концом своего каната, достиг только того, что ее смущенная улыбка перешла в
жалобное завывание. Тогда я показал ей большую безобразную олеографию св.
Франциска и обещал подарить ей ее, если она наконец заговорит. Тут ее черты
немного прояснели, но она все-таки не заговорила, и только после того, как я
обещал подарить ей также и св. Гарибальди - ремшейдская фирма приобрела
где-то целую партию олеографий Гарибальди по очень дешевой цене, и их-то дон
Пабло продавал за св. Алоизия, изображения которого уже были все распроданы,
- только тогда я победил наконец Терезиту, и она сдалась при виде всех этих
великолепий. Я начал осторожно делать обычные вопросы, и она, заикаясь,
стала рассказывать обычные глупые детские воспоминания, которые я уже слышал
бесконечное множество раз. Мало-помалу она перестала бояться, начала
говорить свободнее и рассказала некоторые факты, относившиеся к жизни матери
и бабушки. Потом, совершенно неожиданно, маленькая индианка крикнула вдруг
громко и пронзительно, но вместе с тем низким голосом, как и до сих пор:
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- Алааф!
Едва она произнесла это слово, как запнулась и замолчала; она потирала
колени руками, покачивала головой из стороны в сторону и не произносила
больше ни слова. Отец, чрезвычайно гордый, что его дочь "заговорила наконец
по-испански", стал уговаривать ее, грозил ей, но все было напрасно. Я видел,
что в этот день от нее больше ничего не добьешься, отдал ей ее картинки и
отпустил ее. На следующий вечер меня постигла с нею та же неудача, как и в
два последующих дня. Терезита рассказывала все те же пустяки из детских
воспоминаний и замолкала на первом иностранном слове. Казалось, будто она до
смерти пугается каждый раз, как другое существо в ней резко выкрикивает:
"Алааф!" С большим трудом мне удалось добиться от ее отца, что ее
способность говорить на иностранных языках далеко не проявляется
каждодневно, только раза два в своей жизни, при исключительных
обстоятельствах, когда она бывала особенно возбуждена, она говорила
по-испански, как, например, накануне своей свадьбы, во время пляски на
ночном празднестве. Сам он никогда не произнес ни одного испанского слова,
но как его отец, так и его старшая сестра умели объясняться на этом языке.
Я каждый день дарил Терезите и ее родным всякую мелочь, обещал им еще
много прекрасных вещей, зеркало, изображения святых, бусы и даже отделанный
серебром кушак, если только Терезита заговорит наконец на "чужом" языке.
Алчность всей семьи была возбуждена до крайности, а бедная девочка мучилась
больше всех, так как все набрасывались на нее одну. Старый кацик чутьем
угадал, что Терезита заговорит только под влиянием сильного возбуждения, как
бы в состоянии экстаза, а потому я предложил ему подождать до одного
праздника, на котором предполагалась пляска и который должен был состояться
на следующей неделе. На это мне однако возразили, что беременные женщины
отнюдь не могут принимать участия в подобных празднествах, моя настойчивая
просьба, подкрепленная заманчивыми обещаниями, хоть раз сделать исключение,
ни к чему не привела. Доказательством тому, что отказ этот не обусловливался
гуманными чувствами, было его предложение бить Терезиту до тех пор, пока в
ней не появится необходимое возбуждение. Это, конечно, привело бы к желанной
цели и не слишком повредило бы индианке, так как женщины в этой стране
привыкли к побоям и переносят их лучше всякого мула. Однако, несмотря на то,
что Терезита позволила бы десять раз избить себя до полусмерти, чтобы только
получить серебряный кушак, я отклонил это предложение. Я уже готов был
отказаться от дальнейшей попытки заставить заговорить Терезиту, как вдруг
кацик сделал мне новое предложение: он решил дать Терезите пейот. Этот
любимый индейцами опьяняющий яд употребляется мужчинами в торжественных
случаях, но строго запрещается женщинам. Я очень хорошо понял, почему кацик,
за хорошее вознаграждение, конечно, в этом случае был сговорчивее, чем в
первом: если бы Терезита, вопреки запрещению, приняла участие в пляске, то
все племя увидало бы это; тогда как напоить ее опьяняющим напитком можно
было в моей хижине, втайне от всех. Да и приготовился старик к этому очень
тщательно: он пришел ко мне глухой ночью, велел двум индейцам, находившимся
у меня в услужении, лечь у самого порога моей двери, а отца Терезиты, ее
мужа и одного из ее братьев, который тоже был посвящен в эту тайну,
расставил вокруг хижины в виде караульных. А чтобы успокоить также и свою
совесть, он одел молодую женщину в мужское платье; она имела очень смешной
вид в длинных кожаных штанах своего отца и голубой рубашке мужа. Ради шутки
я взялся дополнить ее туалет: в то время как варилась горькая настойка из
головок кактуса, я нахлобучил ей на глаза мое сомбреро и подарил один из
пунцовых кушаков дона Пабло, которые пользуются таким успехом у индейцев.
Сидя на полу на корточках, молодая женщина выпила большую чашу отвара; мы
сидели вокруг нее и курили одну папиросу за другой, ожидая действия яда.
Прошло довольно много времени. Наконец верхняя часть ее туловища начала
медленно отклоняться назад, она упала с широко раскрытыми глазами и
погрузилась в тот своеобразный сон, который является результатом отравления
пейотом. Я наблюдал за тем, как ее взоры жадно глотали дикие краски
галлюцинаций, но очень сомневался в том, что она в состоянии этого
пассивного опьянения проявит какой-нибудь активный экстаз. И действительно,
губы ее были плотно сжаты. Старый кацик не мог не видеть, что его план не
удался, что опьянение при помощи пейота произвело на молодую женщину то же
действие, какое производило на него самого и его соплеменников. Но,
по-видимому, в нем заговорило желание поставить на своем: он стал варить
вторую порцию отвара с таким количеством головок кактуса, что этим отваром
можно было сбить с ног целую дюжину сильных мужчин. Потом он приподнял
опьяневшую женщину и поднес к ее губам чашу с горячим напитком. Послушно
втянула она в себя первый глоток, но ее горло отказалось проглотить горький
напиток, и она выплюнула его. Тогда старик, шипя от ярости, схватил ее за
горло, плюнул на нее и сказал, что задушит ее, если она не выпьет всю чашу.
В смертельном страхе она схватила чашу и, сделав над собой невероятное
усилие, проглотила ядовитый отвар и упала навзничь. Последствия эти были
ужасны: все ее тело приподнялось, скорчилось, словно какая-то бесформенная
змея, ноги ее переплелись друг с другом в воздухе. Потом она прижала обе
руки ко рту, и видно было, что она делает невероятные усилия, чтобы удержать
в себе отвратительный отвар. Но это не удалось ей. Страшная судорога
приподняла ее вверх, и она извергла из себя яд. Старый кацик задрожал от
ярости; я видел, как он схватил кинжал, которым разрезал головки кактуса, и
как с криком бросился на несчастную женщину. Я успел схватить его за ногу, и
он плашмя упал на глиняный пол. Однако Терезита успела заметить его движение
и остолбенела, словно приросла к соломенной стене, потом она издала
протяжный стон, как изголодавшийся пес. Ее зрачки закатились под самый лоб,
и видны были почти только одни белки, которые ярко светились на ее
фиолетовом лице; из судорожно сжатого рта еще сочилась коричневая жидкость.
Но вот ее колени слегка задрожали, она поднялась на ноги, встряхнула своим
сильным телом, как бы собираясь с духом, выпятила грудь, с силой взмахнула
руками и стала все быстрее и быстрее биться головой о стену. Все это обещало
очень банальный и совершенно нежелательный исход. Невольно я пробормотал про
себя:
|
- Черт возьми, какое свинство!
Но вдруг с губ Терезиты раздался резкий, грубый крик:
- Дуннеркиель!
Она крикнула это не своим голосом, и казалось, будто с этим голосом
прекратилась какая-то отчаянная борьба. Судороги сразу прошли, все ее тело
успокоилось, уверенным жестом Терезита вытерла рукавом рубашки лицо, а потом
- совсем как немецкие крестьяне - нос и рот. Тело ее отделилось от стены, на
лице появилась широкая спокойная улыбка. Она твердой поступью вышла из угла
и подошла к очагу, оттолкнула старика, перед которым только что трепетала в
смертельном страхе, и самоуверенным жестом приказала ему встать в стороне.
Тут только я увидел, что это была уже не Терезита, это был кто-то другой.
И этот другой, не спрашивая, схватил стоявшую на земле чашу с вином и
залпом осушил ее.
- Благодарю тебя, брат. Пресвятая Дева защитила нашего генерала! К
черту этих лютеранских свиней. Pax vobiscum!
Она взяла мой хлыст и, ударив им старика, крикнула:
- Повторяй за мной, собака: Pax vobiscum!
Старик весь сиял:
- Вот видите, вот видите: она заговорила по-испански.
Однако Терезита говорила вовсе не по-испански. С ее синих, широко
улыбающихся губ срывалось чистейшее старинное нижнегерманское наречие:
- Ах, они не понимают христианского языка, это чертово отродье.
Потом она молодцевато передернула плечами:
- Клянусь святым Жуаном де Компостелла. Я голоден, чертовски голоден, а
ведь у меня брюшко не хуже, чем у виттенбергского шутовского попа. Эй, брат,
раздели со мной твой паек.
Я сделал знак старику; пока я наполнял чашу вином, он принес из угла
сухарей и кусок жареной рыбы. Терезита посмотрела на него:
- А, отлично! Ах, эти синие собаки! Что скажет мне мой кельнский
архиепископ, если узнает, что я проповедовал христианство этим синим
обезьянам? Я должен ему привезти несколько штук, иначе он не поверит. Но это
правда, брат, это правда: кожа у вас не выкрашена, она, действительно,
синяя. Мы этих собак оттирали щетками и скребли напильником. Мы сдирали с
них целые куски кожи, и оказалось, что она синяя и снаружи, и внутри.
Терезита пила и ела и беспрестанно наполняла чашу вином. Я начал
задавать ей вопросы, очень осторожно, сообразуясь с тем, что она говорила;
при этом я подражал, насколько мог, ее говору, вставляя время от времени в
старогерманское наречие голландские слова, прибавляя к этому испанскую
ругань и латинские цитаты. Вначале я плохо понимал ее, и целые фразы
проходили для меня непонятными, однако мало-помалу я привык к этому
старинному наречию. Раз я чуть было не испортил того, чего мы добились после
страшных усилий: я спросил, как ее зовут. Как-то невольно у меня вырвались
те единственных два момоскапанских слова, которым я выучился за все мое
пребывание среди синих индейцев и которые мне так часто приходилось
повторять: "Хуатухтон туапли?" ("Как тебя зовут?") Тут по лицу Терезиты
прошла легкая судорога, и она боязливо ответила мне на своем языке и своим
собственным застенчивым голосом:
- Меня зовут Терезита.
Я испугался, думая, что она сейчас придет в себя. Однако того прадеда,
который продолжал жить в ней, не так-то легко было изгнать: Терезита снова
засмеялась громко и беззастенчиво:
- Хочешь пойти со мной, брат? Завтра я опять велю зажарить троих,
которые слишком глупы для того, чтобы выучиться делать крестное знамение.
Из отрывочных фраз Терезиты мне удалось до некоторой степени установить
биографию предка синей индианки. Он родился на Нижнем Рейне, в Кельне; в
качестве францисканца он был посвящен в сан священника и затем совершал
походы вместе с испанскими войсками как полковой священник; он побывал на
Рейне, в Баварии и во Фландрии. В Милане он познакомился с ван Штратеном,
который позже уехал в Мексику, где был пятым, после Кортеса, губернатором.
Предок Терезиты последовал за ним в Мексику и с ним вместе совершил
известный поход в Гондурас. Каким-то образом он в конце концов попал в
Истотасинту к синим индейцам, среди которых насаждал на свой особый лад
христианскую культуру.
Терезита продолжала пить одну чашу за другой; ее голос становился все
грубее и прерывистее, и болтовня полкового попа становилась все развязнее.
Она рассказала о взятии Квантутачи, где предводительствовала с саблей в
одной руке и крестом - в другой. Она рассказала о сожжении трехсот Майя при
взятии Мериды. Она плавала в море крови и огня; она упивалась победами и
оргиями с женщинами во время разгромления храмов. Такого множества людей еще
никто не убивал.
|
<pre>
--------------------------------
© Copyright Виктор Иванович Леденев
Email: ew1af(а)mail.ru
Date: 27 Dec 2003
изд. "Харвест", серия АСТ "Новый русский детектив", тир.40000
--------------------------------
Все события, описанные в этой повести основаны на реальных фактах,
еще мало известных широкой публике даже сегодня. Изменены имена действующих
лиц и некоторых населенных пунктов. Всякая схожесть героев повести с
реальными людьми является почти случайной.
(Автор)
Я проснулся от мата, точнее от удивления. Мало того, что исполнитель
монолога был довольно визглив, но, прежде всего, был полным дилетантом в
области лексикона. Ни один сапер, а тем более подрывник-диверсант не мог
быть так примитивен и визглив одновременно. Сапер ругает бомбу или ракету,
которую разряжает, степенно, уважительно и, главное, весьма разнообразно.
Те, кто допускали многочисленные повторы или пытались кричать, а тем более
визжать при этом важном процессе, увы, уже не имели возможности исправиться.
В джунглях во время стычки с такими же идиотами, как мы сами, диверсант
ругался азартно и выразительно, даже по рации. Ни один спец из их сраного
ЦРУ не понял бы смысла ни единого сообщения, зато мы все секли и потому, а
бывало, что только поэтому мы были живы и могли совершенствоваться в этой
отрасли великого и могучего русского языка.
Вот такие мысли пришли мне в голову, точнее чугунную гирю, которая еще
вчера (точно помню) была моей головой. Открывать глаза и отрывать эту гирю
от подушки очень не хотелось, но любопытство сгубило даже кошку.
Противомоскитная сетка над кроватью была наполовину поднята, и я увидел
натурального Джеймса Бонда, как его представляли наши инструкторы, которые
на специальных просмотрах видели фильмы о нем, а потом пересказывали нам их
содержание, делая главный упор на жутком вражеском нутре этого супермена. Не
знаю, как выглядел Бонд на экране, но этот был в классической тенниске и
хлопчатобумажных китайских брюках цвета хека серебристого из наших родных
гастрономов. От натуги он раскраснелся, и внушительного вида кулаки были
сжаты до побеления. Видать рассердился сильно. По виду он тянул на полкана
из Москвы, так как наш Командир робко (если это слово вообще можно было
применить к Командиру) стоял у него за спиной и дико вращал глазами,
приказывая мне не открывать рот и молчать, как тот самый хек серебристый.
Вообще-то я смекалистый, и потому молча и очень стремительно вскочил с
койки и встал перед полканом как лист перед травой. Мало того, я даже
попытался отдать четкое воинское приветствие. К сожалению, на мне не было не
только какого-либо головного убора, но даже трусов (жарковато в этой
стране), то полкан взял еще на полтона выше и орал уже что-то совсем
несусветное. Командир и проснувшиеся ребята с интересом наблюдали за
бесплатным спектаклем, и я старался, как мог перед публикой. Якобы
сконфузившись, я резко, по-американски, отбросил ладонь от головы и зацепил
ею противомоскитную сетку, которая свалилась на меня и полкана - у Командира
реакция что надо и он отскочил в сторону. Завывания старшего по званию были
совершенно заглушены громовым хохотом наших парней, а уж они-то ржать умели
как, впрочем, и многое другое, о чем этот московский инспектор только мог
подозревать.
Наконец, расправившись с сеткой, он приказал явиться к Командиру через
час, но не в таком ненормальном виде. При этом почему-то ткнул пальцем в
сторону самого низа моего живота. Что он нашел там ненормального, я не понял
- все мои знакомые девушки как раз единогласно утверждали, что где-где, а
тут у меня все было абсолютно нормальным и надежным. Но не станешь спорить
со старшим по званию, да и свидетельниц вызвать было бы трудновато, далеко
все-таки. А здешние ни бельмеса не смыслили по-русски и смогли бы выразить
свой восторг лишь закатыванием миндальных глаз и нечленораздельными для
нормального европейского уха восклицаниями.
Когда они уже выходили из комнаты, Командир повернулся и каким-то
жестким казенным голосом четко произнес: "Ровно через час - ко мне". Ох, не
понравился мне этот его тон... Ясно, что не за вчерашнюю пьянку пойдет речь,
а о последнем рейде, когда мы закопали Славку за двести километров отсюда в
этих проклятых джунглях, Дениса с его простреленной рукой вообще отправили
домой, а я отвалялся неделю с разбитой головой (благо она у меня крепкая) в
местном госпитале. Ох, не нравилось мне все это...
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Нацепив для порядка на себя шорты и майку, я побрел в радиорубку, как
мы обычно называли совершенно недоступное для большинства ребят помещение
радиостанции. Автоматически набрав секретный код замка, я так же
автоматически отстучал телеграфом по кнопке звукового сигнала еще один код.
Замок негромко клацнул, и я вошел в знакомую до мелочей комнату. Приемники
все работали одновременно и только такой слух, как у моего напарника Кольки
мог одновременно слышать все и, если нужно врубать запись какого-нибудь
интересного диалога между пилотом и диспетчером где-нибудь в Дананге. А
Колька занимался любимым делом - что-то паял. Страсть к рационализации у
него было неистребима, где-нибудь в конструкторском бюро, а не здесь, в
вонючих джунглях, ему бы цены не было. Но там сидели другие люди, Колька
доводил до ума их хитроумные электронные разработки без всякого специального
образования, кроме радиотехникума. Проклятые цэрэушники, если б знали о
Кольке, специальную группу захвата не пожалели бы для него, но гении обычно
прозябают в неизвестности и Колька не был исключением.
Легонько хлопнув его по плечу в знак приветствия, я получил столь же
лаконичный ответ в виде кивка головой - руки его были заняты паяльником. Я с
удовольствием вдохнул знакомый запах разогретой канифоли и открыл
холодильник - предмет нашей гордости и зависти всех остальных ребят. Мы его
использовали не только по прямому назначению, но и как кондиционер - в
сорокоградусную жару, да еще когда наша суперсовременная электроника в виде
сотен радиоламп добавляла в тесной комнатушке пару-тройку лишних градусов.
При круглосуточном дежурстве засунуть голову во чрево нашего спасителя хоть
на несколько минут, было просто спасением от примитивного теплового удара,
перед которым пасуют все, даже, наверно легендарный Джеймс Бонд.
Но у меня там хранилось еще одно лекарство от головной боли,
радикальное, как гильотина - запотевшая глиняная бутылка гнуснейшей в мире
рисовой водки. На заморские деликатесы в виде "Столичной" или "Московской"
наших скудных финансов не хватало. Обходились и рисовой.
Я поставил бутылку среди груды радиодеталей перед Колькой и сказал со
всем великодушием, которое мог себе позволить в этот тяжкий момент.
- Бери. Закрывай свою богадельню, Кулибин, и выпей за мое и свое
здоровье, чтоб оно нам еще понадобилось.
Колька обрадовано и недоуменно поднял глаза от своего очередного радио
шедевра.
- Это ж твоя!
Он был прав, по нашим неписаным законам никто не мог претендовать без
специального приглашения на выпивку группы, вернувшейся с задания. Водка
была наша и ничья больше.
- Было наше, стало ваше. Нельзя мне сегодня, Командир зовет.
Я уже убедился, что Колька умеет виртуозно стучать не только на
телеграфном ключе, и добавил: - Пойду получать втык за вчерашнюю прогулку.
Колька, работая под наивняка, закинул наживку.
- А может снова рапорт писать о последнем рейде?
Наживка не сработала.
- А что я еще могу написать. Я из госпиталя-то сбежал, потому что меня
там не лечили, а заставляли писать эти рапорты. "Чего же боле, что я еще
могу сказать, теперь, конечно в вашей воле..."
Это я продемонстрировал свою глубочайшую эрудицию и высокий интеллект,
а заодно постарался показать, что мне все это уже осточертело и никак меня
не волнует. Вид целенькой бутылки перевел мысли Кольки в нужное русло и он,
быстренько распихав детали по коробочкам и ящикам, выдернул из розетки
паяльник и вопросительно посмотрел на меня, крепко сжимая горлышко бутылки.
- Так я пошел?
- Иди, иди, и помни, что у тебя есть такой верный друг.
В этот момент я казался себе настоящим добрым самаритянином и чуть не
прослезился от собственного благородства - вот так, за здорово живешь отдать
целехонькую бутылку водки! Чтобы не разрыдаться от жалости к самому себе я
быстренько подтолкнул осчастливленного Кольку к двери и с облегчением
захлопнул ее за ним. У меня оставалось уже только двадцать четыре минуты.
Торопливо открыв железный ящик, громко именуемый сейфом, я быстро
нашел, что мне надо. Вообще-то в этом сейфе по инструкции хранились мои
личные коды, но, пользуясь тем, что доступ к нему мог быть у кого-либо
только в том печальном случае, если меня подстрелят, взорвут или прирежут
шикарным ножичком, который так обожают иметь при себе американские зеленые
береты. А до тех пор в ящике хранилось, кроме кодовых таблиц много полезных
вещей, среди которых небольшое, со спичечный коробок приспособление, очень
полезное в некоторых случаях, а такой случай как раз и был.
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Я не ошибся. Это действительно был полкан или немного пониже, но явно с
чрезвычайными полномочиями, так как восседал за командирским столом, а сам
Командир сидел на единственной табуретке в его "кабинете" - малюсенькой
комнатке с железным шкафом, столом и кроватью с противомоскитной сеткой,
свисающей до пола. Командир кивнул в сторону кровати и я, откинув сетку,
присел на краешек, всем видом выражая искреннее раскаяние и готовность
понести любое наказание. Полкан начал издалека.
- Что это вы себе позволяете? Не успел я приехать, а уже весь Ханой
знает, что советские специалисты, приехавшие помогать дружественной стране
тракторами и другой сельхозтехникой, ведут себя, как последние бандиты и
хулиганы. Мало того, что вы напились до скотского состояния, что себя не
помните, так еще и воровством занялись - отобрали у бедного вьетнамца
ананасы! И избили его!
Тут полкан был не прав. Я обладал не всегда приятной особенностью
помнить все до мельчайших деталей, даже если был пьян, по его словам, до
скотского состояния. Во-вторых, мы ничего не воровали, мы честно отдали тому
вьетнамцу все оставшиеся у нас донги. Правда, он лепетал что-то по своему,
видимо, ему показалось мало, но мы-то тут причем - отдали все, что было. И
никто его не избивал, просто Серый его немного толкнул в грудь ладонью (даже
не кулаком). И опять-таки причем тут мы - просто у Серого ладонь величиной с
совковую лопату. Вьетнамец элементарно отлетел в сторону. И уж совершенно мы
не виноваты, что при этом он врезался в каменную стену дома. Здесь уж все
претензии к строителям славного города Ханоя - стены здесь крепкие и
твердые. А когда мы увидели, что вьетнамец больше не возражает, мы и
прикатили тележку с ананасами и угостили ребят, многие из которых вообще их
в жизни не пробовали, вот и съели все до единого.
Примерно так выглядели мои объяснения по поводу вчерашнего
происшествия, как я скромно охарактеризовал все случившееся. К чести
полкана, он выслушал весь этот бред, не перебивая. Я понял, что вся эта
галиматья с выпивкой ему до лампочки, он пришел по мою душу совсем по другой
причине. И он меня не разочаровал.
- Ладно, оставим пока в стороне эту вашу хулиганскую выходку и вернемся
немного назад, к вашему удивительному спасению из плена.
Так вопрос о нашем последнем неудачном рейде пока никто не ставил:
Славку застрелили почти в самом начале - нас застали врасплох и в этом,
конечно, мы сами виноваты, меня треснули по башке прикладом и вырубили
начисто. Но ведь против нас работали не мальчики из мафии, а южные рейнджеры
с двумя американскими инструкторами. Это не в кошки-мышки играть против
таких ребят. Правда, одному я все-таки успел сломать руку, а Славка другого
смастерил ножом, а еще одному голову отвернул в другую сторону, но ведь их
было двенадцать, а нас двое. И, в конце-то концов, я успел переключить рацию
на аварийный сигнал, и остальные ребята меня вытащили из того дерьма, в
котором я сидел по уши. Да и сам я воспользовался славкиным "стечкиным" и
сполна рассчитался кое с кем, особенно с теми двумя янки. До сих пор,
наверно там и лежат их косточки - зверье быстро работает. И вот тебе на -
плен! Какой же это плен, если я наверно полчаса был в отключке, потом меня
использовали как боксерскую грушу для отработки наиболее чувствительных
ударов, а когда подоспели Миша, Роман и Денис со своими "калашами" (плюс мой
"стечкин") тут все и стало ясно, в чью пользу счет. У нас один труп, один
тяжело раненый (Денису чуть не напрочь оторвало руку) и я - полуживой после
всех этих боксерско-каратистских упражнений, но все-таки ходячий. И рация
была цела и "вертушка" (храни тебя Бог, Вася) подоспела, и мы успели
дотащить Дениса живого... Все это полкан знал, как азбуку - мы исписали
полтонны бумаги, подробно описывая каждую секунду того боя. И вот тебе новый
поворот - мне собираются шить пребывание в плену, который я, дескать,
предпочел, вместо того, чтобы с шиком и криком "За Родину" застрелиться. Мне
стало совсем грустно. Это вам не пьянка и не драка с вьетнамцем...
Полкан опять-таки внимательно меня выслушал, не перебивая и не задавая
вопросов (все писал на пленку, после будет выискивать несовпадения или еще
что-нибудь) потом вдруг стал мирным, даже добрым и, достав из нагрудного
кармана пачку московской "Явы", предложил закурить. Я вежливо отказался,
присовокупив, что предпочитаю свой любимый "кэмел". И тут, как на грех,
когда я собирался лихо достать своего "верблюда", пачка зацепилась, и
сигареты посыпались по полу. Пока я на карачках лихорадочно их собирал,
полкан даже вежливо отвернулся, о чем-то заговорив с Командиром. Наконец, я
встал с четверенек и, чтобы хоть как-то реабилитироваться за свою
оплошность, лихо прикурил, смачно щелкнув трофейным "Зиппо". Полкан
укоризненно покачал головой и переменил тему разговора.
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- Стыдно, Мочалов, напиваться до такого состояния, что даже сейчас не
можете разобрать, с кем вы разговариваете в данный момент, не понимаете, с
кем можно балаганить, как вы сейчас, а с кем нет.
Тут уж и меня повело.
- Никак нет, товарищ полковник. Вам около 45-46 лет, рост 176, вес
около 84, в Комитете примерно 4-5 лет, пришли из МВД. Имеете опыт
милицейской оперативной работы, у вас повреждены сухожилия на левой руке, во
время краткосрочной подготовки совершили один или два прыжка с парашютом -
последний неудачно, с переломом голени и вы служите в инспекционном отделе.
В последнее время пробыли не менее двух месяцев в Западной Европе, работая в
посольстве. В Юго-Восточной Азии впервые, по образованию, скорее всего
историк или юрист, учились заочно. У вас есть где-то сильная рука и,
возможно, скоро станете генералом.
На полкана тяжело было смотреть, зато Командир сиял от удовольствия.
Наконец полкан обрел способность снова дышать.
- Откуда это все вам известно?
- Из наблюдений, товарищ полковник. Бродя по свету, я не закрываю глаз.
- Это он О.Генри цитирует, - счел нужным просветить полковника
Командир.
- О.Генри, он, что из Интелленжент сервис, ирландец? Я осмелился
вмешаться в этот литературный диспут.
- Никак нет, американец. Из ЦРУ.
- Так вот как вы повышаете свое образование...
Полкан начал подозрительно багроветь и Командир еле заметным кивком
указал мне на дверь.
Мне трудно было удержаться рвануть бегом в родимую радиорубку, но
заставил себя неторопливо покурить с ребятами, аккуратно потушил сигарету и,
деловито взглянув на часы, пошел к своей комнате. О Кольке можно было, не
беспокоится, ребята мимоходом сообщили, что он что-то уж больно веселый
отправился погулять на берег речки и прихватил своего закадычного дружка.
При этом намекнули, что в руках у него был объемистый сверток. Так что
Колька часа на три-четыре нейтрализован. Приемники в рубке привычно
бормотали, шипели, наигрывали музычку и просто болтали. Я подсел к
"укавешнику" и привычно нашел нужную частоту. Качество передачи было просто
отличным. Полкан говорил жестко и громко.
- ...и вы не сможете доказать, что он не вступил в контакт с
американской разведкой во время его так называемого плена?
Командир тоже не выглядел овечкой.
- Не говорите глупостей, Лев Сергеевич. Ведь он был частично без
сознания, потом - бой и Павел лично разнес вдребезги как раз обоих
американцев.
Да, ну и рожи были у них, когда они увидели у меня в руках славкин
"стечкин". Силенок у меня оставалось маловато, и я страшно боялся промазать,
но с двух рук я не промазал. Первая же очередь превратила их тупые или
нет(?) головы в кровавые фонтаны. Потом уже перевел ствол и на вьетнамцев...
- А вы не думаете, что он это сделал умышленно, так как понимал, что в
случае захвата в плен этих цэрэушников другими членами группы, они могли
заговорить и выдать его?
- Мои ребята в плен никого не берут, и раненых не добивают. Они просто
умеют смываться быстро и без лишнего шума.
- Но ведь такое могло случиться?
- Случиться может все, но то, в чем вы подозреваете Павла, полная чушь
и причина этого - ваша полная некомпетентность в специфике нашей работы
здесь.
(Во, дает Командир! Сказануть такое москвичу...)
- Все-таки я считаю, что Мочалова нужно отправить в Москву и пусть
разбираются с ним там, там умеют это делать. Если он завербован - расскажет
все.
(Ага, как же! Там расскажешь даже то, о чем и слыхом не слыхивал и
видом не видывал. Не идиоты, знаем, как это делается.)
- Категорически возражаю. Мочалов один из лучших моих людей -
прекрасный радист и подрывник, а потом знаете ли вы, Лев Сергеевич, его
кликуху здесь у ребят?
- Вы говорите, как какой-то уголовник, а не профессиональный разведчик,
"кликуха"...
- А я и не профессиональный разведчик, я - диверсант и сапер. Именно
потому я здесь и делаю всю вашу грязную работу.
- Интересно, инженер-капитан второго ранга, что вы нашу работу
называете грязной, очень интересно, что охота за военными новинками нашего
потенциального противника вам кажется грязной.
- Не передергивайте карты, полковник. В КГБ и ГРУ есть специальные
отделы, прекрасные спецы, которых вы годами готовите для этой работы, а сюда
послали ребят, которые и в армии-то не числятся, и потому вы и пальцем не
пошевелите, если с ними что-то случается - это, мол, не мы, не наши люди и
мы знать ничего не знаем! Сами боитесь запачкать руки, и мы делаем все
вместо вас. Вот это я и называю грязью.
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- Интересная точка зрения для кадрового военного, думаю, ее будет
интересно узнать и в Москве.
- Не пугайте полковник, здесь нам и своего страха хватает, мы не
супермены какие-то, а обычные люди в необычных условиях. И ни к кому из моих
ребят я не имею претензий - бывает, они ошибаются, но то, что вы сказали о
Мочалове, это же верная смерть для него. Вы же знаете, сами, виновен он или
нет, а я знаю, что нет, живым вы его из своего ведомства не выпустите.
Какой-нибудь несчастный случай, сердечный приступ, внезапный грипп со
смертельным исходом... А вот вы оскорбились словом "кликуха", а зря.
Мочалова прозвали "ликтором".
- Это что, из греко-римской мифологии?
(Точно, он исторический заканчивал, раз такие слова знает.)
- Нет, все гораздо менее заумно - это просто сокращение слова
ликвидатор, он гений в этом деле. У него в башке есть специальный отдел,
который выдает такие планы по ликвидации объектов, что у вашего заклятого
врага ЦРУ мозгов не хватает, чтобы додуматься до такого. Так что Мочалова я
вам не отдам.
- Тогда я вынужден буду обратиться в Москву, и вы получите официальный
приказ, это вам же дороже обойдется, идем на вашу радиостанцию и свяжемся с
Москвой.
(Ого, дело пахнет керосином...)
- К радиостанции я вас подпустить не могу, и передавать ваши запросы не
имею права. Здесь у нас свои законы. Выходите на вашего координатора и
ведите связь через него. Кстати, а почему бы вам ни поискать этого вашего
"соловья" среди ваших людей?
Ведь о точном месте ребят в том рейде знал только он, ребята поменяли
место эвакуации всего за два часа перед инцидентом, даже нам они не успели
сообщить, а их там уже ждали... Подумайте об этом.
- Как вы смеете сомневаться в наших людях. Вы просто зарываетесь!
Координатор - многократно проверенный человек, потомственный, можно сказать,
разведчик. Знаете, кто его отец?
- Не знаю и знать не хочу, а на вас, видимо, слишком действует эта
фамилия, если вы начали болтать лишнее даже в беседе со мной.
(Браво, Командир, отличный удар в челюсть. Полковник сразу сник)
- Я же знаю, с кем говорю, это между нами, чтобы доказать абсурдность
ваших подозрений об утечке информации о ваших последних рейдах из наших
источников.
(Так, я, кажется, не захватил кусочек важного разговора. Дело тут уже
пахнет не керосином, а хорошенькой бомбой килотонн на двадцать и Москва
срочно ищет козла отпущения. Догадываюсь, кто этот козел. Это я.)
- А откуда у вашего Мочалова такая точная информация обо мне? Вы что ли
ему рассказали?
- Бог с вами, Лев Сергеевич, он же вам все объяснил - элементарная
наблюдательность.
- Но он же меня видел всего несколько минут. Да еще с похмелья.
- Ему хватило, а остальное - результат элементарной дедукции, как у
Шерлока Холмса. (Слава Богу, про Холмса полкан слыхал, и Командиру не
пришлось объяснять, что Шерлок не работает на ЦРУ)
- Короче говоря, ваш Мочалов мне весьма подозрителен. Все его рапорты и
остальное поведение требуют серьезной проверки.
- Вот и проверяйте по своим каналам, здесь у вас людей, как сельдей в
бочке, ищите да обрящете.
- Хорошо, мы будем искать, но до получения приказа из Москвы, а я
думаю, дня через два его получу, Мочалов должен быть под наблюдением -
никаких отпусков в Ханой, никаких прогулок за территорией объекта.
Отстранить от участия в будущей операции "Сайгон".
(Ну, молодцы, даже название успели придумать. Очень оригинальное и
жутко закодированное - ни за что не догадаешься, о чем речь!)
- Это невозможно, весь план разработан им и он единственный из ребят,
кто побывал там и знает обстановку лично, а не по рассказам и планам. Он же
ликвидатор - ему все равно, каков объект: крыса или железнодорожный мост и
он сделает все так, что ни у крысы, ни у моста не будет ни единого шанса
уцелеть.
- Вот меня и пугает, как здорово он у вас работает, а в Сайгоне
пепельницы в отелях ворует, прямо, как в Москве. Сувениров ему, видите ли,
захотелось. А если б его прищучил какой-нибудь элементарный полицейский?
- Вы плохо изучили его рапорт, товарищ полковник. Как раз он нашел
единственно правильное решение в той ситуации. Он ушел от весьма неприятной
встречи с американской военной полицией, а местная полиция не представляла
угрозы...
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- Это он вам так доложил, а вы всему верите.
- Данные не только из его рапорта, но по объективным сведениям,
полученных по трем независимым друг от друга каналам. Между прочим, один из
них - ваш.
(Я знал, что нас трижды перепроверяют, но ведь я был там только с одним
вьетнамцем из их штаба диверсионных операций, откуда же еще каналы? На этого
полкана видно кто-то сильно давит, вот он и мечет икру.)
Коридор у нас был гулкий (бывшая средняя ихняя школа), а наша
радиорубка в самом его конце, так что у меня, было, навалом времени, чтобы
переключить диапазон в приемнике, вырубить магнитофон и заменить пленку.
Колька, кажется, был на взводе, так как последнюю цифру кодового сигнала
отстучал неуверенно.
Точно, его слегка пошатывало, и, конечно, несло рисовой сивухой на
десять метров в округе.
- Привет бродягам эфира, - начал, было, он, но покачнулся и схватился
за маг, намертво прикрученный к стене.
- Ого, тепленький... ты, кажется, кого-то унюхал и зафиксировал. Ну-ка,
что там за новенькие секреты у проклятых империалистов.
Рука его неожиданно точным и совершенно трезвым движением повернула
ручку прослушивания записи. Из динамика раздал ровный шум чистой ленты.
Колькино разочарование было великовато даже для пьяного, и он уставился на
меня, не мигая своими серенькими глазками.
- На дурку нарвался, пустышку записал, вот и стер, чтобы не
позориться. Но тебя-то не проведешь, я вижу.
Он ухмыльнулся.
- Эт-то точно, нас, королей эфира, не проведешь. Ладно, я иду в
табакерку, ты меня не видел, я тебя не слышал, Пока.
Он ушел, а я еще пяток минут приводил нервы в порядок. Версия, которую
я выдал Кольке, была абсолютно правдоподобна - американцы часто запускали в
эфир магнитофонную запись большой активности где-нибудь на одной из своих
авиабаз и пока мы радостно писали километры пленки "ценной" информации,
где-то в другом месте проходила настоящая подготовка очередного налета или
еще какой-нибудь пакости. Не сразу, но мы научились распознавать эту "липу",
правда, для этого иногда требовалось всего полчаса, а иногда можно было
купиться часа на два. Такие "оплошности" мы старались не выносить за пределы
нашего маленького коллектива, и ничего особенного в расспросах Кольки не
было, но уж как-то сразу он обратил внимание на теплый магнитофон. Блестящая
советская электроника, базирующаяся на радиолампах еще пятидесятых годов,
увы, выдала меня. Ничего вроде бы необычного, но для пьяного такая
наблюдательность... А-а-а, нервы все это, случайность, не более.
"Табакеркой" у нас называлась кладовка, где мы хранили наши запасы
сигарет. После того, как кончилась завезенная заранее "Прима" какой то
расторопный чиновник снабдил нас целым грузовиком "Кэмела", как-то попавшем
в руки вьетнамцев. Мы этому обрадовались вдвойне - и сигареты не в пример
"Приме", да и в наших же интересах была такая замена. Что, скажем, должен
думать офицер ихней сраной контрразведки, обнаружив, например, километрах в
двадцати от Сайгона окурок "Примы"? Ничего хорошего, а вот окурок "Кэмела" -
и ему и ежу понятно. Все довольны и счастливы.
Я перегнал запись на старенький трофейный "Сони", потом подумал и убрал
из записи последние слова Командира. Его подставлять не стоило. Стандартную
ленту я начисто размагнитил и теперь сам Господь не смог бы узнать, что на
ней было до этого. Теперь оставалось подумать, как спрятать этот динамит и
решить, для чего он вообще нужен. Спрятать было просто - я разобрал кассету,
разорвал и крепко помял часть чистой пленки, она приобрела вид нуждающейся в
ремонте, и потому вряд ли кто-то мог случайно всунуть ее в маг и прослушать.
Но это была временная мера, если начнут искать круто - найдут. Но все это
дело весьма туманного будущего и я отправился досыпать.
Сон был тяжелым из-за дикой духоты и совершенно расстроенной нервной
системы - это же надо столько свалиться на мою бедную голову в один день.
Зато полкан думал по другому и решил устроить для нас маленький праздник -
собрал нас в большой комнате, бывшей когда-то школьным актовым залом, и
закатил нам часовую речугу о том, какие мы тут молодцы-храбрецы, как нами
гордится Родина и Партия, как важно для нас узнать все пакостные секреты
этих противных янки и их гнусных приспешников, а потому Родина и Вьетнам
награждает некоторых из нас высокими правительственными наградами. К
величайшему моему удивлению мне досталось аж две: "За боевые заслуги" и
какой-то там орден вьетнамский не то сломанного, не то найденного меча.
Выяснить точнее не удалось, так как награды, пояснил полкан, будут нам
вручены после возвращения в Союз. Но все равно было чертовски приятно, как
будто эти железки уже позвякивали у нас на груди. Среди ребят началось
негласное обсуждение, где и как обмыть такое событие, тем более что полкан
продолжил свою речугу, а мне как на грех, именно в тот момент, когда он
распинался о высочайшей бдительности, ибо вражеская разведка и прочая
агентура не дремлет, захотелось сбегать до ветру, о чем я благодушно и
спросил разрешения. Полкан на мгновение заткнулся, ребята тоже (чтобы не
ржать), а я спокойно выскользнул за дверь. У меня от силы, было, минут
семь-восемь. Замок в комнате Командира не представлял никакого затруднения
даже для зачуханого домушника, и он поддался моей самодельной отмычке через
минуту, еще полминуты у меня ушло, чтобы забрать из-под кровати Командира
мою радио закладку, которую я там "забыл", когда рассыпал свой любимый
"Кэмел ", еще пара минут мне потребовались для визита в туалет. От этих
переживаний желудок и мочевой пузырь тоже расстроились и требовали свое. В
клозете меня и застал в "позе орла" Серега, которого полкан послал
проверить, не провалился ли я часом в "очко" (унитазов вьетнамцы почему-то
не любили). Такая забота меня просто растрогала, и я покорно поплелся
обратно в зал дослушивать полкана, который даже не взглянул на меня, когда я
скромненько пристроился неподалеку от двери...
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Не мог заснуть перед заданием, хоть тресни, лупал глазами, считал
слонов, жирафов, тараканов - не помогло. Где вы, великие психологи и
психиатры, которые гарантировали, что научили нас спать в любых условиях.
Может в другой раз я, и уснул бы хоть ненадолго, но последние события
здорово на меня подействовали. Не каждый день по твою душу приезжают аж из
Москвы, да еще с такими подарочками.
Я взглянул на светящийся циферблат "командирских" - 2 часа, до рассвета
с ума можно сойти. Ребята сопели во все дырки и мой тихий уход в коридор
никого не потревожил. Закурить я не решался, чтобы не вызвать нездоровых
ассоциаций и ноги автоматически повели меня к родимой радиорубке - посижу с
Колькой, пошарю по "кефиру"...
Бетонные ступени лестницы приятно холодили босые пятки, и я шел
нарочито медленно, продлевая удовольствие и потому совершенно бесшумно. Но
на последнем этаже пол был обычный, деревянный и те (я сразу засек, что шли
двое) шли тоже почти бесшумно, если бы не едва слышное поскрипывание
рассохшихся досок. Кажется, не мне одному не спиться... Желание тащиться в
радиорубку у меня сразу пропало.
Только я услышал знакомый звук набора шифра и тихое клацанье запора.
Свет от дежурной синей лампочки на секунду сделал черноту в коридоре
призрачной и исчез. Раз люди с такими предосторожностями заходят туда, куда
им не положено, значит не стоит их уведомлять, что я их видел - меньше
знаешь, крепче спишь. Только вот со сном загвоздка, теперь мне уже совсем
расхотелось спать. Я присел на ступеньки лестницы, ведущей на чердак, и
почувствовал запах сигареты - пролетом выше кто-то недавно курил. Стараясь
ступать еще тише, стал подниматься вверх по ступеням, прижимаясь спиной к
стене. Огонек окурка описал дугу и рассыпался искрами на верхней площадке. Я
пригнулся и правильно сделал - кто-то бросился на меня сверху и, судя по
завихрениям воздуха, здоровенный кулак скользнул по мой макушке и врезался в
стену. Поняв, что промахнулся, неизвестный издал понятное в таких случаях
хрюканье от боли, не стал повторять попытку и промчался по лестнице вниз и
остановился на этаже, где располагалась радиостанция и замер, ожидая меня.
Мне спешить было некуда и вовсе не хотелось, чтобы второй раз он не
промазал. И что все так хочется врезать мне именно по голове? Она и так у
меня не очень, а если стучать по ней регулярно, так ва-ааще! Пока я
лихорадочно соображал, на этаже вспыхнул свет, и мой противник рванул вниз,
не дожидаясь меня. Свет потух через пару секунд так же неожиданно, как и
включился. Времени у меня было в обрез. Я сделал тот же маневр и, стараясь
все-таки двигаться осторожно, почти бегом рванул к своей комнате и снова
забрался под противомоскитную сетку на родной коечке. Все эти чудеса в
решете меня начали тревожить всерьез - жили себе спокойно, лазили к
"южакам", таскали, что плохо или хорошо лежит, и горя себе не знали, так нет
же, какие-то тайны Мадридского двора начались...
Куда девался мой таинственный соперник, непонятно - я был на жилом
этаже двумя-тремя секундами позже его, а ни одна дверь не скрипнула. Стало
быть, он рванул ниже? А там что? Кладовки, подсобки, кухня, столовка и
прочая дребедень. До утра он там сидеть не будет. Стало быть, успел раньше
меня залечь в свою кровать, но в какую и зачем ему надо было сидеть в
темноте? Ждал меня? Это вряд ли, кто мог знать, что меня потянет в
путешествие по этажам этой ночью? Чепуха какая-то бессмысленная.
Случайность? Может, может...
Ребята от сопения перешли к сольному храпу, причем никто из троих моих
соседей по комнате не прерывал другого, Едва один заканчивал, начинал свое
соло другой - прямо по законам джаза. Молодцы, если б вы еще и на чем-нибудь
умели играть кроме, дребезжащей гитары, вам бы в мире цены не было с таким
чувством ритма.
И все же джаз-храп не помешал мне услышать шаги в коридоре - подвел
рассохшийся пол. И опять шел не один человек, потом они остановились, и
теперь уже я четко услышал, что по жилому коридору продолжил путь только
один. Другой (или другие) исчез, испарился, улетучился! Скрипнула дверь -
этот одинокий прохожий нашел свою комнату, а куда девался другой? По
лестнице можно идти бесшумно даже в сапогах, но куда - вниз или вверх? Все
эти рассуждения сильно утомили мою пострадавшую совсем недавно голову, и
меня потянуло в сон.
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Я отключился мгновенно, едва успев зафиксировать время - на все мои
путешествия у меня ушло всего 24 минуты...
Спал я недолго и проснулся внезапно, как будто что-то разбудило меня,
но вокруг была чистая прозрачная тишина, Мои кореша спали перед рассветом,
как младенцы - тихо и мирно. У меня же сна снова не было ни в одном глазу,
но на сей раз у меня не было желания прятаться. Наоборот, используя свою
привычку рано вставать, я поднялся, не особенно заботясь о тишине (разве что
чуть-чуть, в рамках приличия) и вышел на улицу. Часы показывали ровненько
четыре - прекрасное время для пробежки и небольшой разминки. Такая уж у меня
привычка. Я спокойно дважды обежал здание школы, боковым зрением стараясь не
упускать из виду окна жилого этажа. Рыбка клюнула - чье-то лицо на мгновение
промелькнуло в третьем слева окне. Кто-то еще страдал бессонницей, только
вот кто: третье слева окно было в так называемой комнате отдыха, и там мог
быть кто угодно. Но кое-какой улов все-таки был и я, не испытывая больше
судьбу тем же темпом двинул по знакомой тропке к безымянной речушке - нашем
любимом месте для негласной выпивки или просто раздумий. Вода была теплая, и
хоть немного остудила потное тело. Речушка была воробью по колено, и вместо
плавания просто приходилось лежать в воде, уцепившись за ветки. Я уже с
удовольствием подумал, как приятно будет бежать назад в мокрой одежде и
увидел ногу. Солнце еще пряталось в густой дымке тумана почти над самым
горизонтом, но голая ступня и в этом свете выделялась на фоне зелени, как
попугай на Северном полюсе. Бредя по колено в воде, я осторожно подошел.
Из воды на берег выходить мне почему-то не очень хотелось - земля здесь
всегда влажная и следы на ней... Просто мечта криминалиста.
На берегу лежал Толян. Толька. Анатолий Григорьев. Рядом на аккуратно
расстеленном куске брезента лежали масленка, пара запасных обойм, россыпь
патронов, промасленные тряпочки и початая бутылка со стаканом. И все.
Человек пришел немного расслабиться (несмотря на все запреты не пить перед
рейдом) и почистить оружие. Картинка мирная и в наших условиях просто
идиллическая. Все было нормально, если бы не кроваво-черная дыра в горле,
чуть пониже подбородка, куда вошла пуля из "стечкина", который Толян
продолжал сжимать в левой руке. Выходного отверстия с моего места не было
вино, но разбросанные чуть не на полметра вокруг кровь и мозги давали
понять, что помощь не нужна...
Машинально взглянул на часы - 4.55. Еще тридцать пять минут до подъема.
А еще через час и пять минут - выезд на воздушную базу.
Я побежал прямо по воде, чтобы выскочить на разминочную тропу хотя бы
метрах в трехстах от места последней выпивки Толяна. Лицо, мелькнувшее в
окне, вполне за это время могло вооружиться и биноклем. Дно было скользким,
и я изрядно запыхался. Кеды были в вонючей грязи, и пока я их отмыл до
приемлемого вида, у меня оставалось ровно двадцать минут на обратные почти
полтора километра. Почти уверенный, что за мной внимательно наблюдают, я
делал все, что положено в таких случаях - временами ускорялся, резко
разворачивался и бежал назад, несколько раз, а два качал маятник", короче
занимался самым обычным для нас делом без всяких признаков паники, спешки
или тревоги. Все, как обычно, разве что только один или два моих друга могли
знать, как я не любил все это проделывать на тренировках, и удивились бы
моему усердию.
У здания я был без трех минут подъем. Мой вспотевший вид никого не
удивил - просто решил человек размяться, его недавно трахнули по головке,
вот у него и проснулась любовь к физическим упражнениям. В душе я
внимательно посматривал на ребят, ничего особенного не заметил, как и то,
что в этот день никто на дальнюю пробежку к речке не решился - времени на
сборы дали маловато, а отсутствие никто и не заметил в идиотской атмосфере
сборов, это был не его черед идти на смерть. Был бы. Если б уже не наступил.
Но докладывать мне об этом не хотелось, нутром чуял, что попал в такую
заваруху, что в джунглях, под пулями буду в большей безопасности, чем здесь.
Игра пошла нешуточная, а я даже не знал правил. Так что сиди и помалкивай.
Ел обычную китайскую тушенку механически и боялся смотреть часто на
часы - хотя самым заветным желанием было убраться отсюда подальше и
поскорее. Полкан тоже завтракал с нами. Он все больше пугал меня - после
того разговора он то появлялся на базе, то уезжал, беседовал с командиром и
ни разу не попытался даже заговорить со мной. Командир тоже общался со мной
по поводу задания - не больше того и помалкивал обо всем остальном.
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По традиции остающиеся на базе переволокли нашу амуницию в крытый
грузовик, и вся группа ровно минуту постояла молча - каждый пытался
вспомнить, не забыл ли что, а остающиеся просто на всякий случай прощались с
нами. Может кто-то и не вернется...
Чей-то голос крикнул: "Эта война..."
Рев ребят закончил фразу: "Не наша!"
Тот же голос продолжил: "Но мы... победим" - закончили мы.
Двадцать семь кулаков врезались в ладони, которые тут же скользнули
вниз, образуя самый оскорбительный для всех мужиков в мире жест. Полковник
дико смотрел на всю эту процедуру, но промолчал и уставился на, словно хотел
что-то ему сказать, но только вяло махнул рукой.
Ребята вмиг вспрыгнули в борт вертолета МИ-6 и уже оттуда мы кокетливо
сделали ручкой остающимся. Пилот Вася (никто не знал, как его зовут на самом
деле, да и не интересовался) рявкнул "Добро пожаловать, крысы" и врубил
двигатели, после чего всякий разговор превратился в пытку. В Ми-6 дрожало,
вибрировало и тряслось все, что только могло это делать. Зубы стучали, как
кастаньеты, если кто-то пытался приоткрыть рот. Да и говорить было не о чем,
все сидели и пытались задремать в этом вибрирующем спальном вагоне. Вася
отлично знал маршрут, где нас надо высадить и улетать, чтобы снова прилететь
и забрать то, что от нас останется. Он был пилот божьей милостью и если бы
он летал не на этой летающей мишени Ми-6, он бы сделал карьеру в любой
стране мира, где есть вертолеты. Он был отлично проинструктирован и никогда
не задавал лишних вопросов. Это нас устраивало, его тоже - мы были квиты.
По-своему мы его даже любили - он всегда ждал нас там, где надо, даже
если его толстопузый был изрешечен пулями и напоминал дуршлаг. Вася всегда
прикидывался этаким дурачком, которому все равно кого или что надо везти. Но
мы видели слеза на его глазах, которые он безуспешно пытался сдержать, когда
мы однажды грузили два трупа, которые были нашими товарищами и которые еще
пару дней назад обменивались с ним шуточками.
Когда "вертушка" идет по рельефу местности, слабонервным не
рекомендуется заглядывать в иллюминатор, а если учесть, что местность
горная, тем более. Каждая скала, кажется, летит точненько на тебя, а до
стенок ущелья можно дотронутся рукой. Неизгладимое впечатление, гораздо
интереснее, чем в Диснейленде (хотя я там ни разу не был). Я отвернулся от
иллюминатора и закрыл глаза - было о чем поразмыслить. Главное, что я понял
- где-то там, наверху, готовится грандиозная операция по внедрению,
возможно, этого нашего Координатора, которого мы и в глаза не видели, только
выслушивали его задания. Как отвлекающий маневр - наша группа и, частности,
я. Значит, я не должен вернуться. Тогда и волки сыты и овцы целы. Я виноват
в провалах операций, но меня уже нет, значит и свалить меня можно все, что
угодно. И операцию задумали смертельную. Это же надо было придумать такое -
украсть из-под носа американцев целехонькую "Кобру" с последними новинками
вооружения и системами наведения. И группа отправилась нестандартная - семь
человек плюс пилот, на случай если американские пилоты заартачатся и
вздумают разыгрывать из себя героев. А для нас этот пилот лишняя обуза и
головная боль - ничего, кроме пилотирования его обожаемого вертолета делать
в джунглях не умел. Значит, нам придется рисковать лишний раз, чтобы пилота
не подстрелили, он нужен был не только живым, но и полностью невредимым.
Сделать это было для нас непросто и Сашка, в этот раз старшой группы,
показал пилоту увесистый кулак и произнес, четко выделяя слова: "Слушаться
каждого и выполнять не раздумывая. Иначе в лучшем случае тебя убьют, а
раненые нам самим не нужны". Может Сашка, и перегнул палку, но по опыту
знаю, это лучше, чем пытаться подробно объяснять, что, как и что почем.
Вася: он весь светился добродушием и заботой. Просто слуга царю, отец
солдатам.
И Командир чуть было не выдавил из меня скупую мужскую слезу - он
подошел ко мне, обнял меня и трижды расцеловал в обе щеки. Как у меня не
выпали глаза на пол от удивления, не знаю, но сдержался и в ответ тоже
лобызнул в его чеховскую бородку. Было от чего распустить нюни - наверняка
он просто прощался со мной...
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В вертолете я заметил штабель ящиков, тщательно прикрытых старым
куполом парашюта, другие же ящики со всеми нашими причиндалами лежали безо
всякой упаковки.
Затем мои мысли перенеслись к мертвому Толяну на берегу у речки. За что
его прихлопнули? Что его убили, и пытались сымитировать случайное
самоубийство, у меня не было никаких сомнений. Дело в том, что Толян был
левшой, но в детстве и дома и в школе учили действовать только правой рукой.
Он ел и писал правой рукой, однако во всем остальном левая была у него
главная. Так вот, Толян держал "стечкина" в левой руке, а ершик - в правой.
Человек, хладнокровно застреливший Толяна, был не из наших - мы хорошо знали
эту особенность Толяна и первое время даже подшучивали над ним... Стрелял не
наш и Толян тоже не застрелился случайно.
Возможно, ответ содержится в еще одном сложенном вчетверо конверте,
который я обнаружил в куртке после горячих объятий Командира. Но вокруг было
слишком много лишних глаз и приходилось ждать удобного случая. Я понимал
Командира - спасти меня от высшего командования он не мог, даже если бы
вызвал на дуэль (это в его духе) самого Генерального секретаря КПСС. Он
слишком хорошо знал всю подноготную системы - попади я в Союз живым и
невредимым, даже с иконостасом, как у самого Генерального секретаря, ничто
меня не спасет. Тотальная подозрительность и абсолютная уверенность, что
грехи есть у всех, обрекали меня на то, что мне оставались два наиболее
вероятных выхода: или я признаюсь во всех возможных прегрешениях, включая
то, что я являюсь заместителем директора ЦРУ по компьютерно-фекальным
коммуникациям с марсианами или я бесследно исчезаю. Третьего выхода не было,
или я его просто не видел.
Ясно, что задание было безысходным, но шанс всегда есть и может этот
шанс, и казался Командиру спасением для меня? Может быть. Командир всегда
был романтиком и, несмотря на профессию, порядочным человеком. Хотя вряд
ли... И он не верил. Оставалось одно - геройски погибнуть при исполнении
задания и спасти хоть свое имя.
Костерчик мы развели в неглубокой яме, бывшей воронке заросшей травой,
обнаружить нас можно было только с воздуха. Да и опасаться особенно некого
было. Для американцев, конечно камбоджийская граница и существовали, а лишь
как линия на карте, но они старались не держать здесь крупные гарнизоны или
базы. Так, по мелочам, на всякий случай, именно такой случай они подарили
нам.
Ми-6 мы разукрасили так, что его мама родная не узнала бы - ради такого
случая скрутили несколько бананов и посадили их вокруг вертолета, все, что
можно было принять за какой либо механизм, украсился гирляндами лиан, а
лопасти просто обмотали ими. Теперь в течение двух дней его можно было
обнаружить, только случайно наткнувшись на него. С воздуха тоже. Но дня
через два дня срубленные бананы будут жухнуть, и желтеть и вот тогда наш
"мишка" будет заметен даже с беспилотных самолетов-разведчиков, как лимон
среди снега. Но мы надеялись вернуться за два дня: так что, оставив Кольку в
помощь Васе - без привычки в джунглях одному очень не по себе, а пилоты
народ воздушный, где уж им ночевки в джунглях в одиночку.
Сашка засек вьетнамцев первым, опередив их командира, секунд на пять,
еще через полсекунды в его руке оказалась ярко-голубая косынка, своеобразный
пароль. Стволы с обеих сторон медленно опустились, и мы отправились к
вьетнамской временной базе. Обнаружить вход в нее можно разве что,
провалившись в отверстие диаметром сантиметров пятьдесят. Мы втиснулись в
кромешную тьму подземелья. Тогда один из вьетнамцев закрыл вход крышкой,
наверху которой, как ни в чем, ни бывало, росла самая обыкновенная трава.
В сырой подземной пещере величиной чуть больше коммунальной кухни на
корточках сидели вьетнамцы - как выяснилось, они уже четверо суток сидели
здесь, не высовывая носа. Это были профессионалы своего дела - Ханой не
пожалел для нас лучших рейнджеров из пресловутой Первой спец бригады. Мы
были наслышаны об их операциях и искренне радовались, что придется
действовать действительно с профессионалами, а не вчерашними крестьянами,
только недавно получившими автоматы. У этих ребят было даже собственное
прозвище - "летучие мыши". Их способности уходить от преследования после
операции стали просто легендарным, только вот запах, царивший в пещере,
вызывал рвоту - пахло мочой и экскрементами. Вальку вытошнило, чуть ли не на
самого командира, и валькина блевотина добавила новые нюансы к имеющимся
запахам.
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Сашка с главным вьетнамцем при свете фонарика что-то горячо обсуждали.
Вьетнамец прилично шпарил по-русски - даром, что ли учился в нашем училище,
а то и в академии. Мы мужественно привыкали к запахам и с удивлением
обнаружили, что и к этому можно привыкнуть. Затем и мы присоединились к
Сашке. У вьетнамцев разведка была поставлена отлично: на карте были нанесены
все постоянные и передвижные огневые точки, количество и тип оружия на
каждой, точное число охраны, полный список состава базы, включая
американцев-пилотов и техников. Был точный график смены караула и
контрольных проверок. Был даже подробный план казармы, где все свободные от
полетов и вахты пилоты отдыхали, Короче, было все, что мог бы пожелать
командир группы, желающий эту базу уничтожить. Но задачка у нас была
посложнее - нам нужен был не обгоревший остов вертолета, а полностью
целехонький со всеми его ракетами, пулеметами и радарами.
Сигнальная система вокруг базы была электронной, хотя и не очень
сложной, вроде той, что применяют наши "погранцы" на границах "железного
занавеса". Словом тронь или разорви контакт в каком-нибудь месте - взвоет
сирена, пульт укажет с точностью до метра, где это произошло. В общем,
детский сад, но это и понятно - база являлась резервной и постоянного
участия ни в каких действиях не принимала - нечто вроде скорой помощи, когда
рядом нет настоящего врача. Но система не давала возможности проникнуть на
базу незаметно, пульт управления наверняка в здании, а до него надо еще
добраться...
Оставалось одно - отвлекающий маневр и его должны были вьетнамцы. И
принять бой со всей охраной базы, так что шансов уцелеть у них практически
не было. У нас же их не было совсем. Они погибнут за свое правое дело
Ленина, Сталина и Хо-Ши-Мина, а вот нам гибнуть за их правое дело вовсе и не
хотелось, но у нас был приказ и все. На этом все сомнения и дискуссии
убирались прочь.
В системе огневой защиты база была одна малюсенькая оплошность, и мы
хотели ее использовать. Две из сторожевых вышек находились по разные стороны
небольшого холма и вполне могли помочь друг другу огнем, однако третья
отстояла от этих двух метров на 200, и этот самый холмик создавал мертвую
зону для ее пулеметов. Тут нам и придется прорываться на территорию база,
пока вьетнамцы будут имитировать нападение в другом конце аэродрома.
Короче, план не отличался ничем оригинальным и был прост, как грабли.
Единственная трудность состояла в том, чтобы убедить вьетнамцев не бить по
вертолетам. Они были весьма удивлены - налет на базу, а вертолеты беречь? Не
знаю, что уж там им растолковывал их командир, но, судя по всему, убедил их.
Потом наступила наша очередь, обсудить дела наши невеселы. От линии защиты
до казармы было примерно 100 метров и столько же от казармы до вертолетов.
Одна из "Хью Кобр" оказалась ближайшей, затем два "Хока" и еще две "Кобры".
Стометровку я бегал за 13 секунд. Не мировой рекорд, но для прицельной
стрельбы не очень удачная мишень.
Согласно писателю Ефремову - час Быка, наилучшее время для плохих дел.
Ну а наше дело назвать хорошим можно было только с большой натяжкой и то
только с точки зрения марксизма-ленинизма. Пока мы по очереди протискивались
через дыру, именуемую входом в убежище, было уже светловато. В ход быстро
пошли тюбики с краской и скоро мы стали похожи на племя команчей,
выступивших на тропу войны, а вьетнамцы после недельной отсидки в своей норе
были достаточно грязными и без маскировки. Рюкзаки мы оставили в кустах
возле убежищ и быстро разобрали портативные рации - единственная связь между
группами, быстренько проверили на прием и вырубили до самых крайних случаев.
Сашка поднял вверх обе руки с растопыренными пальцами: "Идем все".
Разговаривать и обсуждать что-либо времени уже не было. Оставалось
действовать. Вьетнамцы скоро свернули в сторону, на их лицах нельзя было
увидеть и намека, что идут они почти наверняка без надежды вернуться - их
задача продержаться, как можно дольше, прежде чем их успеют ухлопать. Наши
жизни тоже были сейчас в их руках, оставалось надеяться только на этих
маленьких солдат с "калашами" и гранатометами.
Мы, проклиная всякую грязь на свете, подползли к самой линии
ограждения. Вот она - тронь и через полминуты ты уже будешь не человеком, а
трупом. Наконец ударили гранатометы. Одна мина абсолютно точно накрыла
ближнюю от нас точку, вторая попала в основание, но точка не повалилась, а
продолжала косо стоять и ответила длинной очередью из М-60. Но работал
только один пулемет и не в нашу сторону. Ждать, пока вьетнамцы окончательно
заткнут ему глотку, было нечего и в мы вчетвером, пригибаясь за маленьким
пригорком, рванули к охранной линии. Удар ножа и... ничего, вьетнамцы успели
ее повредить, а эта система дважды не срабатывала. Пилоту мы оставили
автомат и приказали не высовываться и в бой не ввязываться, появиться, если
только сами не вызовем его по рации. Итак, у нас осталось два "калаша" и
"драгунка" с оптикой для прикрытия. Ничего, жить можно. Справа, со стороны
вьетнамцев пальба разгорелась нешуточная, видимо подоспели мобильные
патрули. Мы выжидали, чтобы как можно патрулей ввязались в эту драку. Палили
все, даже с дальних концов аэродрома без всякого успеха - палили, чтобы
спрятать страх. Утробно ухнул еще раз гранатомет, и вторая ближняя точка
превратилась в кучу горящих обломков. Теперь у вьетнамцев была еще более
сложная задача - укрепиться на месте бывших огневых и прикрывать наш бросок
к казармам. Удивительно было то, что из казармы никто не выскочил, чтобы
ввязаться в эту заваруху. Или пилоты слишком ценили свою жизнь, чтобы
подвергать ее опасностям, не имеющим отношения к их профессии, или решили
забаррикадироваться и превратить казарму в опорный огневой пункт.
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Ждать было больше нечего, справа бой был в самом разгаре и на нас никто
не обратил внимания. Ни одной очереди в нашу сторону не последовало, то ли
их сбила с панталыку наша американская форма, то ли они решили, что пилоты
тоже решили поупражняться в стрельбе, но до казармы мы добрались безо всяких
приключений. Еще ранее было условленно, что минимум два пилота должны быть
живыми и без единой серьезной царапины - фонарь под глазом или свернутая
челюсть в эти ограничения не входили. Из казармы никто не высовывался, и
оттуда не было ни одного выстрела, хотя бы для острастки. Сашка опробовал
дверь плечом - заперта надежно. Он махнул мне рукой. Как ни удивительно, но
нас пока не обнаружили и лишь изредка шальные пули взвизгивали над головой.
Но такое везение не могло быть долгим...
Я быстро прикрепил кусок пластиковой взрывчатки С5 в районе замка,
воткнул детонатор и оставил минимальный кусок шнура - времени не было. Взрыв
прогремел не слишком громко на фоне пальбы, и дверь была раскрыта
нараспашку. Заходите, пожалуйста, дорогие гости.
Но распахнутая дверь, окутанная пылью и дымом, привлекла внимание со
сторожевой вышки. Пулеметчик прекратил бессмысленную стрельбу по вьетнамцам
и целиком переключился на нас, хотя расстояние было далековато для точной
стрельбы, но и парень за пулеметом знал свое дело. Первая очередь хлестнула
по земле метрах в десяти, и это не радовало, вторая прошла чуть выше
(пулеметчик выбирал прицел). Следующая, по логике должна была накрыть нас, и
выбор был один - врываться в казарму, где тоже могла нас встретить очередь
из М-16. И она грохнула довольно точно - Женьке разнесло голову, и брызги
крови и мозгов ударили мне в лицо. А второй выстрел янки сделать уже не
успел - около моего уха громыхнула Валеркина "драгунка", а он очень редко
промахивался, и на этот раз тоже.
В комнате больше никого не было, кроме убитого янки, но была дверь,
явно из листового дюраля. Славка сделал через нее несколько выстрелов и
повесил на ручку гранату. На несколько секунд нам пришлось выскочить из
комнаты прямо под пулеметные очереди, но солдат видимо не ожидал такой
наглости и взрыв разворотил дверь прежде, чем он успел полить нас свинцом.
Да, пилоты было явно не из храбрецов, особенно в ближнем бою - это ведь
совсем не то, чтобы поливать деревни и жечь их ракетами с высоты и быть при
этом почти в полной безопасности. А здесь стояли реальные люди с серьезным
оружием и с не менее серьезными планами. К чести американцев, они сразу
поняли, что убивать сразу их не станут. Лишь один попытался что-либо сделать
- он медленно потянулся к кольту, но пуля, просвистевшая в нескольких
миллиметрах от его уха, быстро заставила его забыть свои ковбойские
привычки.
Сашка дал мне знак, и я вступил в игру. Перейдя с матерного на
английский, я как можно грубо скомандовал: "Пилоты "Кобр" первые и вторые
налево, пилоты "Хоков" направо, техникам сидеть на месте. Не разговаривать и
даже не дышать".
Таких послушных ребят я давно не видел - они рассортировались быстро,
как горох в руках опытного повара. Но один меня удивил. Он уселся на пол в
стороне от всех трех групп.
- Это твое спальное место или ты не умеешь водить даже автомобиль? -
пытался иронизировать я.
- Нет, я не служу в армии США, я вольнонаемный инструктор этих
молокососов, мне все равно, на чем летать, вот я, и не знаю, к какому берегу
мне пристать.
Ребята с интересом прислушивались к нашему диалогу, и мне пришлось
объяснить: "Токарь-многостаночник, летает на всем, что может летать. Пусть
посидит отдельно. Он мой. Ребята недоуменно переглянулись, а Сашка еле
заметно кивнул. Старшим по званию здесь был майор, он даже успел нацепить
форму, тогда как на остальных были только отдельные принадлежности армейской
амуниции - у кого куртка, у кого штаны, а большинство были просто в
спортивных костюмах. Ну не война, а отдых на курорте!
- Джипы есть, - спросил я майора.
- С той стороны навес. Там два джипа, оба с пулеметами.
- Всем одеться по полной форме, как для полетов. Все оружие сбрасывать
в тот угол. При малейшей попытке схитрить - стреляю.
- Майор, все машины заправлены?
- Под завязку на всякий случай,
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- Вот сейчас такой случай и наступил.
Инструктор, сидевший на полу передернул плечами. Мне это понравилось.
Сашка выступил вперед и с жутким акцентом спросил по-английски:
"Нам нужны два пилота для "Кобры". Если доберемся благополучно,
гарантирую жизнь, правда, в плену. Но, думаю, это все- таки лучше, если мы
перестреляем вас здесь, как стаю связанных куриц, так что выбирайте. Но
прежде - все оружие, что может быть припрятано - бросить в угол. Все делать
левой рукой. Некоторые с неохотой и досадой подаставали "кольты" и "беретты"
из карманов брюк и курток и с сожалением швырнули в угол.
- Так, ножи тоже, - не отставал Сашка.
Несколько стандартных армейских тесаков последовали за пистолетами.
- Теперь займемся добровольцами, кто первый?
Майор заколебался - неудобно перед младшими по званию, но его опередил
здоровенный детина с лейтенантскими отличиями на форме и внушительной
планкой наград. Майор шагнул следом.
Сашка довольно оглядел добровольцев и приказал всем остальным быть
паиньками и проследовать в нечто вроде кладовки. Все довольно послушно вошли
в кладовку, Сашка запер ее снаружи, а Дима подпер ручку прикладом М-16 -
винтовка крепкая, просто так не сломаешь.
Я проделал одну несложную, но весьма необходимую операцию - пройдя по
узкому коридору, я без труда обнаружил радиостанцию. Сердце у меня
обливалось кровью, когда я превращал эти электронные шедевры "Кенвуда",
"Сони" и прочих знаменитых фирм в груду бесполезного металла и пластмассы.
Инструктору, продолжавшему сидеть на полу и с интересом наблюдать за
всем происходящим, знаком я приказал оставаться на месте. Нас осталось трое
на трое - Женька остался лежать возле входа с кашей вместо головы.
- Другой выход к джипам есть?
Майор кивнул куда-то в сторону. Отлично, теперь надо попасть в джипы и
прорываться к вертолетам. Я осторожно приоткрыл дверь - стрельба была в
полном разгаре, со стороны ближайшей вышки мы были защищены казармой, вот
только как мы выскочим на открытое пространство, тут мы и станем мишенями.
Решили брать оба джипа и рассадить пилотов "Кобр" в разные, мало ли что
случится на этих двухстах метрах. Инструкторы уже были под защитой фюзеляжей
вертолетов. Они теперь могли достать нас только из подствольников, но их
явно удерживало нежелание расстреливать собственные вертолеты.
Пока Сашка с Валеркой запихивали в ближайшую "Хью Кобру" майора и
амбала, я кивком показал моему инструктору на соседний "Хок". К моему
удивлению он спокойно и даже деловито полез в машину. Мне же предстояло одно
маленькое, но очень важное дельце - прикрепить ко всем оставшимся машинам
маленькие магнитные мины с временной задержкой. С двумя обошлось как нельзя
лучше, но третий вертолет стоял в сторонке, и стоило мне едва высунутся, как
пара довольно точных очередей (земля попала в лицо!) заставили меня
отказаться от своих планов. С земли швырять гранату не очень-то удобно, и
она не долетела метров десять. Уверен, кроме дырок в бортах ничего этому
"Хоку" не сделала. Пришлось ползком добираться к своему родимому вертолету и
ползком взбираться в его открытое чрево. Мой инструктор времени не терял и
как только я оказался на борту, дыша, как рыба, выброшенная из воды, он
запустил двигатель и теперь ждал команды - покладистый парень, ничего не
скажешь. "Кобра" тоже свистела винтами, и я дал им знак взлетать. Как и
положено вертолету такого класса "Хью Кобра" прокатилась по площадке,
величаво оторвалась от земли и вдруг неожиданно быстро начала набирать
высоту, при этом умудряясь уворачиваться от пулеметных трасс с земли.
Понятно, американцам тоже хотелось выжить...
Инструктор хотел, было стартовать следом, но я знаком показал ему
оставаться на месте - надо было забрать ребят, которые прикрывали нас.
Увидев что "Кобра" благополучно взлетела, а "Хок" готов к взлету, ребята
рванули, что есть сил к вертолету. Но этот тип на вышке, как будто ждал их и
на открытом пространстве одной очередью уложил двоих. Пилот, судя по тому,
как он засучил ногами, он был не жилец на этом свете, Леху тоже уложили
наповал - вокруг головы растекалась кровавая лужа. Олег попытался ползти, но
эта сволочь, как на стрельбище всадила в него, как в учебную мишень, еще
одну очередь. Садизм пулеметчика спас Генку. Он едва успел ухватиться за
боковые поручни и встать ногами на посадочную лыжу, как пилот резко пошел
над самой землей в сторону уничтоженных нами накануне вышек. Через несколько
секунд мы вышли из зоны огня. Пилот поднялся выше, по локатору засек
опередившую нас "Кобру" и взял курс на нее.
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"Хок", быстро догнал тяжелую "Кобру" и вскоре мы пристроились к ней
немного выше и левее, как сторожевой пес возле хозяина, примерно в километре
позади нее.
- Шеф, за нами эскорт, неожиданно сказал Энди и ткнул большим пальцем
назад. Я высунулся, насколько мог, и увидел черную точку. Она, похоже,
двигалась тем же курсом, что и мы.
Чертов "Хок", который я не добил, идиот несчастный! Теперь получите
пилюлю! Мало тебе драки на земле, так получай ее еще и в воздухе. Что я,
Покрышкин, что ли?
Энди включил внутреннюю связь и неожиданно сказал: "Там была такая
суматоха, что, возможно, никто и не заметил, что ты в вертолете, он
наверняка считает, что я один преследую "Кобру". Попробуем помочь ему".
- Фокс Танго, я Фокс Дельта, преследую "Кобру". Это ты, Том?
- Фокс Дельта, я Фокс Танго, а это ты, Энди. Как твои дружки на борту?
- Спят, как младенцы и без доктора вряд ли когда-нибудь проснутся, а
доктора у меня на борту нет.
- Роджер, Энди, вдвоем мы этих сукиных сынов посадим задом в их
собственное дерьмо.
- О-кей, Том, держись триста футов ниже и левее меня. Никакой стрельбы
без команды.
- Роджер, Фокс Дельта, выполняю.
Вряд ли частоты уоки-токи и вертолетного приемника совпадали, но у него
мог быть сканер... Приходилось рисковать.
- Сашка, видишь горушку справа? Заворачивай за нее, спускайся на сто
метров ниже и жди. Я пройду первым - что бы я ни делал, не пытайся
вмешаться. Американец пройдет ниже, примерно на твоей высоте. Лупи по нему
из пулеметов и пушек, авось повезет, но главное, отвлеки его хоть на десять
секунд. И ни в коем случае не дай себя сбить.
Ракеты для тебя табу, даже и не думай притронуться к ним. Если меня
собьют, как хочешь, но уходи к "мишке". Все, связь кончаю, сейчас начнется
веселье.
"Кобра" сверкнула на прощанье хвостовым винтом и смылась за скалы. Мы
последовали за ней, и тут я впервые узнал, что такое падать на летающем
аппарате тяжелее воздуха, Наш "Хок" провалился вниз, как в яму, точнехонько
на самые острые камни, которые я когда-либо видел. Я знал, конечно, что
существует так называемый высший пилотаж на вертолетах, но лучше бы я только
знал о нем только теоретически, а не испытывал на себе. Желудок почему-то
оказался у меня в горле, а мозги просто потекли из ушей.
Том на несколько секунд потерял нас из вида и остановил своего мустанга
на полном скаку, разворачиваясь вокруг оси и выискивая, куда мы могли
провалиться. Здесь в игру вступила "Кобра" - она открыла огонь из всего, что
могло стрелять, включая НУРСы, класса воздух-земля. Такой неожиданный выпад
застал ковбоя врасплох, тем более, я заметил, одна из трасс точно угодила в
фюзеляж, правда без видимого вреда. Надо отдать должное, Томми
сориентировался почти мгновенно - его "Хок" неумолимо разворачивался всей
своей огневой мощью на "Кобру", несмотря на встречную стрельбу.
Ему-то ракет жалеть не надо было, и стоит ему захватить в прицел
"Кобру", тут ей и придет бесславный конец, как и всей нашей авантюре.
Но в деле еще оставался Энди. После сумасшедшего пикирования на скалы
он стал выводить машину из пике и послал ее вверх почти вертикально. Мне не
доводилось, не только видеть, но и слышать о подобных маневрах вертолетов,
но это было!
В результате я неожиданно увидел брюхо "ковбойского Хока" абсолютно
точно в перекрестье прицела и не поскупился на боеприпасы - всадил все, пока
"Хок" не превратился в огненный шар с вкраплением крупных и мелких обломков,
среди которых находилось тело незадачливого Тома. Мы вынуждены были
прорваться через этот шар - времени для маневра не было, и вертолет
вздрогнул - во что-то мы все-таки вмазались. Энди кивнул мне - посмотри, - и
я полез в хвостовой отсек. Картина была веселенькая - здоровенный кусок
лопасти пробил фюзеляж, но не повредил ничего существенного, хотя сделал нас
похожими на кита касатку, так как большая часть чужой лопасти торчала
наружу. Но серьезных повреждений не было, и с этим украшением мы вполне
могли дотянуть до "мишки".
- Сашка, вы в порядке? И как там янки?
- Порядок полный, янки хотят жить и ведут себя паиньками, никакого
героизма не наблюдается. А что это у вас там торчит из фюзеляжа?
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- Маскируемся под кита. Вперед, Саша.
"Кобра" набрала высоту и пошла прямым курсом по рельефу - у Сашки была
отличная карта. С легким отставанием мы последовали за ними.
Добрались мы до базы с опозданием, выбились из графика часа на четыре.
Надо было спешить. Ребята помянули не вернувшихся символическими ста
граммами и принялись за работу - надо было выгрузить ящики из Ми-6. Работа
была не из легких, ящики были довольно длинные и увесистые. Я тоже вертелся
под ногами, помогая, а порой мешая, пока меня не отправили восвояси
отдохнуть в родном "мишке", как недавно контуженного, что я с удовольствием
и сделал. Но отдыхать мне не пришлось - нашлась как раз подходящая работа.
Убедившись, что ничего не упустил, я с удовольствием растянулся на куске
брезента.
Не успел я закрыть глаза, чтоб хоть немного подремать - когда еще
удастся, меня тронул за плечо Колька.
- Слушай, Сашка сказал, что твоя уоки-токи что-то барахлит, возьми мою,
а мне она не понадобится в полете, у меня переноска есть. А к этой я
дополнительный аккумулятор поставил.
Действительно, к рации плотным слоем изоленты был прикручен еще один
аккумулятор, теперь я мог не так уж и экономить питание, да и мощность
несколько возросла.
Спорить мне не хотелось, я отстегнул свою рацию от пояса и протянул
Кольке. Колькину положил рядом, потом пристегну, не хотелось терять
последние минуты для отдыха. Скоро суматоха разгрузки затихла, все уселись
покурить, даже американцы, за исключением Энди, который успел вытащить
обломок лопасти и пытался заделать дыру в фюзеляже "Хока" листами дюрали.
- Ну что, "крысы" потопали домой, - первым поднялся пилот Вася. -
Времени в обрез, как раз до темноты успеем добраться до моей базы. А там вы
уже почти дома. По машинам.
Все дружно встали и недоуменно уставились на меня. В каждой руке у меня
было по "стечкину" и стволы были направлены на моих друзей.
- Стойте, где стоите, и не делайте глупостей. За автоматами не
бросайтесь - они без магазинов, к пистолетам рук не тянуть, а тихонько,
левой ручкой по одному бросить их мне под ноги, ясно?
Колька рванул пистолет из-за пояса, но я был готов к такому повороту
событий и спокойно прострелил ему руку чуть повыше кисти. Он взвыл и зажал
рану рукой. Упавший пистолет Сашка ногой отшвырнул ко мне, остальные
спокойно бросили свои пушки, и даже Вася брезгливо бросил свой "макаров".
- Все, ребята, нам больше не по пути. Передайте вашему сраному
полковнику и Командиру, что мне больше не хочется подставлять свою голову
под пули за их идеалы.
Если они им так дороги, пусть лезут в это пекло сами. Полковнику
отдельно передайте, чтобы он не забыл поцеловать себя в задницу.
Особо теплые пожелания родной партии и любимому правительству. А теперь
сбросьте мой рюкзак и моток репшнура, а сами по машинам, как сказал Вася.
Да, кстати, не особенно жалейте Кольку - он на всех вас стучит аж на
самый верх, так что не знаю, на кого свалят весь этот бардак. И еще, перед
отлетом я нашел Толяна, знаете, на нашем месте у речки. Его кто-то
пристрелил, видимо он услышал или увидел, совсем ему не положенное. А если
следы не все успели уничтожить, то поищите след колькиных кедов - у него
особые, сам покупал. А может, он одолжил свои кеды полкану из Москвы, кто
знает. Только я больше в ваши игры не играю.
Пока, ребята, и не советую за меня заступаться - этот полкан зверь и
проглотит каждого за одно слово в мою пользу. Привет Командиру. Вам пора
двигать.
Ребята хмуро рассаживались по вертолетам - Сашка и Валерка с
американцами, а в "мишке" остались пилот Вася, хныкающий от боли Колька и
еще не пришедший в себя от сумасшедших маневров Генка. Видно, что они
бесились от злости и явно были обескуражены ситуацией - нечасто боевой друг
переходит на сторону врага. Такое советский человек сделать не может!
Меня же волновала другая проблема - как быстро они сумеют найти
спрятанные в старом инструментальном ящике рожки для "калашей".
Генка, едва отошедший от сумасшедшей гонки на вертолетах, вдруг
взорвался таким приступом патриотизма и верности идеалам, что просто изумил
меня. Он всегда был тихим, неназойливым и как-то даже незаметным, а тут
вдруг... Я оказался агентом ЦРУ, НАТО и даже Моссада. Кроме того, я был ярым
антикоммунистом (это уже горячо) и диссидентом (это точно), по которому не
только тюрьма, но и виселица плачет (тут он перегнул - в СССР, как и в
Германии при Гитлере обожают стрелять в затылок).
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Но Сашка, (этот умница Сашка) приказал Генке заткнуться (все-таки
что-то заподозрил) и махнул рукой начинать посадку. Вертолеты: сначала Ми-6,
а затем и "Кобра" медленно оторвались от земли и отправились восвояси. Ни
одного выстрела с бортов не было. Я сел на траву примятую вертолетами и
задумался, и было о чем. В том скомканном конверте от Командира лежали две
бумажки. Одна из них - официальное подтверждение, что операция "Сайгон" не
может быть отменена никакими другими приказами и следует намеченному
графику. Вторая, личная записка Командира, была адресована мне и никому
больше. О том, что это может быть какая-то липа, не могло быть и речи,
Командир назвал меня моей студенческой кликухой, которая даже не значилось в
официальном досье. Вот эта записка, слово в слово: "Операцию надо завершить
успешно, верю, что сделать это можешь только ты. Но знай, независимо от
результата они из тебя собираются сделать отбивную, прав ты или виноват.
Помочь тебе не смогу, прости, Джазист. Думай и решай. Я неторопливо, достал
свой "Зиппо" и сжег обе записки, тщательно растерев пепел пальцами. Вот тебе
и шарада: налево пойдешь - голову потеряешь, направо пойдешь - без головы
останешься, выбор весьма невелик. Энди подсел ко мне, но рта не раскрывал,
видимо боялся нарваться на грубость. А что я ему мог сказать - вроде бы он
мой пленный, но находимся мы в нейтральной вроде бы Камбодже, пистолет я у
него не забрал, так кто у кого в плену?
Что же с ним делать дальше? Просто хладнокровно пристрелить я не мог
хотя бы из благодарности за спасение от того бешеного ковбоя. Оставлять
здесь нельзя - тут моя база и здесь меня должны встретить те, кому я так был
нужен в Сайгоне, кроме того, эти встречающие при одном виде американца тут
же нажмут на спусковые крючки...
Можно, конечно, дать ему убраться ко всем чертям со своим "Хоком", но
была у меня после всего, что произошло со мной в последние дни, одна смутная
идея, в которой все-таки минимальный шанс выжить у меня оставался. Но уж от
слишком многих факторов (я не говорю о тех "бяках", что ждали меня при
выполнении операции) и в этих смутных планах вертолет с таким классным
пилотом весьма пригодился бы, когда придется уносить ноги. Оставалось одно -
поговорить с Энди.
Сделав наиболее серьезное лицо из всех у меня имеющихся, я откашлялся и
начал лепить длинную лапшу, искусно и аккуратно навешивая ее на довольно
оттопыренные уши Энди. Наконец я выдохся и пустил в ход главный аргумент.
- Тебе знакомо такое имя - полковник Дао Тхай?
- Кто же в Сайгоне не знает этого мясника. О нем такое рассказывают,
что поверить трудно.
- Если бы я рассказал тебе, что он делает со своими жертвами на самом
деле, ты бы сам пошел и пристрелил эту помесь гориллы с гиеной.
- Да, не отказался бы всадить пару пуль в его жирное брюхо.
- А вот тут ты ошибаешься - он маленького росточка, худощавый, ездит
только в армейском бронетранспортере с такой охраной, что с твоим пистолетом
к нему приблизиться метров на сто безнаказанно невозможно. И все-таки его
надо убрать, слишком много крови он пролил и еще прольет. К твоему сведению,
не менее семи американцев, якобы пропавших без вести, свели счеты с жизнью
именно в ведомстве полковника. И поверь, смерть их не была легкой. Я тебе
это говорю, головой отвечая за свои слова. Я хочу, чтобы ты помог мне
размазать этого гада, как кусок говна на мостовой. Не хочешь помочь - у тебя
в руках пистолет, а рядом вертолет. Один выстрел и ты через два часа будешь
пить виски с соотечественниками. Только эта сволочь будет ходить по этой
земле, и будет считаться лучшим другом твоей обожаемой Америки. Знаешь, я
плохой агитатор, и прямо скажу - в Сайгоне ты мне на фиг не нужен, там я все
сам сделаю, а вот помочь мне уйти - ты можешь.
Эндрю сидел молча, только вертел в руках один из "стечкиных",
оставленных ребятами. Я повернулся к нему спиной и пошел к вертолету, после
всей этой суматохи жутко хотелось хоть часок вздремнуть. Честно скажу -
между лопатками было холодно, и тек пот, но я постарался не ускорять шаг и
небрежно растянулся во весь рост и закрыл глаза. Уже через несколько секунд
я намного расслабился, если он не выстрелил в спину, то в спящего человека
стрелять не станет. Это была моя маленькая победа. Попытка подремать
растянулась почти на полтора часа.
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В сгущавшихся сумерках я начал сортировать и ящики, сгруженные с Ми-6.
Они были двух видов: четыре куба весом примерно килограммов по пятьдесят,
шесть плоских и длинных - килограммов по тридцать. Плюс два рюкзака со
всякой всячиной вроде дистанционных взрывателей, километров отличной
шведской лески (мечты рыбака) и многое еще чего - наклейки на ящики из-под
бананов и ананасов, сделанные на тончайших листах алюминия, топоры, пилы и
еще черт знает что - авось и пригодится. Энди смотрел на меня, как на факира
в цирке, но от вопросов воздерживался: он тоже хорошо усвоил правило, меньше
знаешь, крепче спишь. Уже стемнело, когда я закончил инвентаризацию, и я
полез в вертолет, чтобы не засек мой фонарик какой-нибудь ретивый красный
кхмер, которых тут было пруд пруди, и действовали они в основном по ночам.
Из кармана жилета я достал гранату, к которой медной проволокой была
прикручена карта. Таких карт на свете было всего две. У кого была вторая, я
не знал, и знать не хотел. С помощью Энди (он с готовностью профессионала не
отказался помочь) мы определили наше точное расположение. Мне повезло - мы
находились почти в центре круга точек, где надо было оставить груз. Кто и
когда заберет его оттуда - меня не касалось. Но доставить придется на
собственном горбу! С этой радостной мыслью я и заснул.
Внутренние часы сработали четко, и проснулся я, как огурчик, примерно
за час до рассвета. Я приладил лямки к одному из кубов и, кряхтя, взвалил на
плечи. Энди с интересом следил за моими манипуляциями, потом начал
взгромождать второй кубик себе на спину.
Что ж, две точки находились примерно в одной стороне, и с помощью Энди
я сэкономил бы кучу времени, которого-то было в обрез. Он, наконец,
взгромоздил ящик с множеством чертыханий и прочих неприличных слов, а так
как в английском нет ни одного мало-мальски длинного ругательства, то мы
довольно скоро двинулись в путь.
Дорогой или тропинкой это можно было назвать только из симпатии к
Камбодже, но, тем не менее, всего за каких-нибудь часа два-три мы обнаружили
условные знаки на деревьях и надежно припрятали ящики. Возвращение было
просто удовольствием без этих угловатых сундуков, правда портила настроение
мысль об еще одном таком грузовом рейде. А пока что мы перекусили
стандартным десантным рационами и немного полежали на травке, думая каждый о
своем. Две другие точки находились в разных направлениях, и я раздумывал о
риске доверить Энди часть карты с нужной точкой. Наконец лень победила
здравый смысл и я, разорвав карту, вручил нужный обрывок Энди. С удивлением
я заметил его благодарный взгляд, но он был настолько мимолетен, что уже
через несколько минут я считал, что мне просто померещилось. Мы разошлись,
на сей раз в разные стороны, и меня всю дорогу мучили сомнения, правильно ли
я поступил. Как ни странно, это бесконечные размышления о собственной
глупости или гениальности здорово облегчили мне путь, и я не заметил, как
оказался на точке. Так, знак на месте, яма приготовлена, оставалось опустить
ящик и хорошенько прикрыть листьями и лианами. Сюда же я сбросил и ящик с
дополнительным оборудованием - этот тайник Энди доверить я не мог. Без него
вся моя гениальная затея превратится в пшик и весьма слабенький, если не
считать, что погибнут люди. Много людей. На моей совести и так было
достаточно смертей, порой случайных и ненужных, так что мне не хотелось
вешать на себя еще и эту неудачу. Тем более, план был полностью мой и никто,
кроме меня и Командира не знал его целиком. Остальные участники могли
погибнуть, так и не узнав, за что. Но это было единственным шансом на успех
- информация с Юга на Север и наоборот просачивалась, несмотря на все меры
безопасности. Идеология идеологией, но воевал-то один и тот же народ...
Теперь настала пора подготовиться к тому, как уносить ноги. Уйти из
кольца, которым будет наглухо перекрыт Сайгон уже через час после
праздничного фейерверка, само по себе было задачей практически невыполнимой.
Но, допустим, что такая невероятная история все-таки произошла (на этот счет
имелись разработанные варианты) и я должен был включить свою рацию для
наведения Ми-6 на нас, чтобы другой вертолет (не Васин, ему не полагалось
знать) почти за пятьдесят километров от Сайгона мог меня забрать (или не
забрать, если я погибну смертью храбрых) в очень опасной близости от
настоящих вертолетных американских баз, где сидели не паршивые резервисты, а
настоящие асы и уйти от них на этой телеге Ми-6 было невозможно. Кроме того,
времени на уход из Сайгона было маловато и мое поспешное бегство целиком
зависело от сайгонских друзей. Оставалось верить в удачу и надежду, что
никто раньше не продаст. И для них и для меня важно было скрыть мое участие
в этой операции, зачем, правда, я не знаю - красные советские уши все равно
были видны даже зеленому цэрэушнику. А там сидели ребята крутые, их на
мякине не проведешь. Но приказ приказом, его надо выполнить, но при этом я
все-таки очень хотел остаться живым. Это были два очень веских аргумента
(особенно последний), чтобы я с особой тщательностью позаботился о
благопристойном улепетывании с места преступления против суверенного
государства под названием Южный Вьетнам.
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Но все это я отложил на утро, слишком мы устали, перетаскивая эти
"гробы". Энди лежал рядом и тихо спросил: "Почему ты не убил меня, ведь ты и
сам бы справился с вертолетом. И удрать ты можешь тоже без меня, я для тебя
просто обуза и ты уберешь меня, когда тебе это будет необходимо. Или просто
брошу тебя и пойду к своим, а?
- Пойти ты можешь, и потом долго будешь рассказывать многим ведомствам,
в том числе и преемнику этого чертова ублюдка, как ты превратил своего
коллегу в крошево обломков...
- Но стрелял ты!
- А вот это ты и будешь им доказывать. Во-вторых, ты сам согласился,
что полковник Дао Тхой подонок, которому места нет на земле, и даже помог
мне перетаскивать эти ящики. У нас это называется помощью противнику.
- У нас тоже. Жалко тебя стало...
- Это у пчелки жалко, а у тебя своя голова на плечах. Чего ты сюда
приперся из своей Алабамы?
- Не из Алабамы, а Калифорнии. Денег подзаработать, я же не служу в
американской армии, а работаю по контракту. Двести баксов за обычный вылет,
тысяча - в районе боевых действий. Бабки неплохие, месяца через три контракт
кончится и можно домой и не с пустым карманом. Это вы, коммунисты, воюете за
какие-то там идеи, а мне баксы важнее любых идей...
- А если бы я или северяне тебя пристрелили, нужны бы были твои баксы?
Энди в темноте пожал плечами: "За риск и платят. А семьи у меня нет.
Даже в наследство мои деньги никому бы не достались".
- Ну, вот и дорисковался: южаки тебя возьмут - из тюряги не вылезешь,
северяне просто прихлопнут на месте, так что оставайся со мной. Мне цыганка
нагадала, что я везучий, авось, вместе и выберемся.
- Знаешь, Паша, хотя догадываюсь, что это не твое настоящее имя, думаю,
ты знаешь, что у нас был такой замечательный писатель О.Генри...
- Ха-ха, он мне говорит про О.Генри! Да я его чуть не наизусть знаю.
- Тогда ты легче поймешь меня. У него есть рассказ "Дороги, которые мы
выбираем", так вот в нем герой сказал одну гениальную фразу: "Дело не в
дороге, а в том, что внутри нас заставляет выбрать ту или иную дорогу". И
сейчас я стою на развилке и решаю, какую из дорог мне выбрать.
Ты прав, меня затаскают по всяким отделам - от ЦРУ до военной
контрразведки и их вьетнамских друзей, которые с радостью выполняют самую
грязную работу, потому что наши чистенькие мальчики не выносят вида крови.
Но даже не это меня пугает - в конце концов, в моей стране я все-таки
смогу найти возможность защитить себя, надеюсь, во всяком случае. Это
маленький, но шанс. Как я понял, у тебя шансов нет. Если ты чудом вырвешься
из Сайгона, за тобой никто не прилетит, это раз, во-вторых, тебя могут
просто убить твои же помощники, когда ты им не будешь нужен.
- Вот тут, Энди, ты совершенно прав. Браво! Дай-ка мне мою уоки-токи,
что мне так любезно оставили мои друзья. Так, вот я ее поставлю на эту
развилку, я думаю, что с 50 метров ты не промахнешься...
Энди с интересом наблюдал за моими манипуляциями.
- Дополнительный аккумулятор, как же. Просто трогательная забота о
ближнем! Так, теперь приляжем за это дерево, зрелище, я полагаю, будет не
только поучительное, но и опасное.
Я сунул в руки Энди "стечкин" с глушителем (для большего эффекта).
- Проверим, чему тебя учили в твоей хваленой американской армии. Цель -
радиостанция, дистанция примерно 50 метров или сколько-то там ярдов, тебе
лучше знать. Попасть с первого выстрела, а то спишу в рядовые.
- Паша, но ведь это твой единственный шанс на спасение, это же маяк!
- Разговорчики, Энди! Огонь!
Энди явно боялся промазать и уложил пистолет на ствол дерева для упора,
прицелился и выстрелил. Я мгновенно засунул его голову за ствол дерева, ибо
эффект превзошел все мои ожидания. Мои дружки не поскупились на взрывчатку.
Скорее всего и радиостанция и "аккумулятор" были под завязку забиты
пластиковой взрывчаткой, а металлические корпуса рации и аккумулятора
создали эффект мины.
Полдерева от развилки, как топором обрубило, а среди соседних прошел
ураган "Тереза".
- Это на тот случай, если я выберусь из Сайгона живым, - пояснил я
Энди, а то вдруг он что-то не понял. - Если бы я включил этот маяк, то не
дай тебе Бог находиться было рядом со мной. Эта штука могла Белый Дом
разнести вдребезги, так что они работали наверняка. Посмотрим, что дальше
будет - это у них такие заготовки на будущее, а сейчас я им нужен в Сайгоне
и до окончания операции, они будут беречь меня даже от простуды.
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- Плохой ты коммунист, видимо, Паша, если тебя так запросто отдают на
растерзание, а я, видно, не стопроцентный американец из журнала "Тайм". Я
приехал заколотить деньжат, в условиях контракта было специально оговорено,
что я никакого участия в боевых действиях не принимаю. Однако мне пришлось,
и бомбить деревни и расстреливать вьетконговцев на дорогах... Я закрывал на
это глаза и глушил совесть виски - издержки профессии. Но сыт я этим по
горло, а выхода никакого у меня не было. Ваш налет сделал для меня главное -
дал эту самую свободу: хочу - возвращаюсь к своим, хочу - порываю контракт,
и пусть он катятся к чертовой матери, неустойку я им заплачу, все-таки успел
кое-что заработать, да и дома в банке у меня есть про запас...
Хочу - иду с тобой до конца: скорее всего твоего, извини, а хочу и
вообще улетаю без тебя подальше от этих мест, в какую-нибудь глушь и ловлю
рыбку до конца своих дней... Спасибо, Паша, ты открыл мне снова дорогу в
мир, и теперь я думаю, что внутри меня заставит выбрать дорогу? И знаешь,
Паша, это что-то непостижимое толкает меня остаться с тобой до конца. До
любого. О-кей?
- Не берусь судить тебя за выбор, он твой и только, но - спасибо.
- О-кей, Паша. Пойду с тобой, а там видно будет.
- Вот и договорились. А теперь спать, завтра денек будет еще тот...
Денек и вправду оказался нелегким. Я распаковал длинные ящики - там
попарно аккуратно были уложены самые мощные в мире гранатометы РГ-7. Мины
осколочные - кумулятивные мне ни к чему - танки пока по джунглям не бродят.
Энди с удивлением и неподдельным интересом наблюдал за моими приготовлениями
для улучшения качества этого блестящего оружия. Прежде всего, надо было
переделать системы спуска. Мне не надо было прицеливаться, вводить поправки
к прицелу, брать упреждение и прочее, что необходимо при обычной стрельбе из
этой сверхмощной базуки.
Скотчем мы склеили разорванную карту и начали обсуждать наиболее
безопасный, а главное самый быстрый путь отхода. Захватив по три
гранатомета, мы отправились по вероятному пути отступления. Пройдя
километров пять, решили, что хватит. Пока Энди репшнуром накрепко привязывал
трубы гранатометов к достаточно толстым деревьям, я искусно маскировал
зеленую, под цвет травы, миллиметровую японскую леску, На нее кита вытащить
можно, не то чтобы заставить сработать мой примитивный спуск на гранатомете.
Все гениальное просто, скромно объяснил я Энди: берется кусок зеленого
бамбука, привязывается серединой к трубе, и под оба конца подкладываются
деревянные бабашки: одна просто для упругости, другая как раз над кнопкой
пуска. Привязывается леска, маскируется и всякий, кто имел неосторожность за
нее задеть, получал хорошенькую мину со множеством осколков. Этот способ
явно не был рассчитан на точное поражение цели, он имел скорее
психологическое значение - дескать, нас тут много, у нас гранатометы и
прочие игрушки, так что подумайте, прежде чем соваться сюда. Такая тактика
давала нам главное преимущество - время, чтобы оторваться от погони хоть на
полчаса...
Два гранатомета мы установили почти рядом, чтобы создать видимость
многочисленности отряда прикрытия, другие довольно хаотично, но на наиболее
вероятных путях преследования.
Еще одним рейдом мы прикрыли совсем уже ближние подступы к вертолету -
не более полукилометра.
Итого двенадцать штук. Если сработает хоть половина, уже неплохо. Три
штуки и небольшой запас мин я оставил в вертолете - береженого бог бережет.
Усталые, как гончие собаки после охоты на зайцев, мы прилегли в тени
вертолета и блаженно вытянули гудящие ноги. Мне надо было бы соснуть пару
часов, но ничего не получалось. Энди повернулся на живот и неожиданно
спросил:
"Может, я покажусь тебе идиотом, но возьми меня с собой в Сайгон. Я
внутренним чутьем уловил его искренность, но вынужден был ответить коротким
- нет. Я не мог рассказать, что только один человек, занятый в операции
знает меня в лицо, а я его. Появление постороннего могло сорвать всю
операцию - мне попросту бы не поверили и сочли за провокатора и мой труп
утром обнаружили бы в какой-нибудь сточной канаве. Вместе с Энди. Я не мог
рассказать ему, что существует реальная угроза, что его, встретит случайно
один из его знакомых, да и мало ли каких еще непредвиденных случайностей
могла принести спонтанная акция с появлением Энди в Сайгоне. Энди без
разъяснений принял мой ответ, как должное и мне даже стало жаль его.
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- Энди, ты и так принимаешь участие в операции и без тебя она
невозможна, просто у каждого своя задача.
Он обиженно засопел и затих. Жара спадала, нот духота по-прежнему не
давала нормально дышать. Через час мне надо было идти. Я распаковал
последний рюкзак. Энди усмехнулся: "Я все время с интересом наблюдаю, что
ты, великий иллюзионист, вытащишь из цилиндра на этот раз?"
- Смотри и любуйся, смертельный номер программы!
После этого я достал "тайжер страйпс", классическую форму зеленых
беретов США, не новенькую, а уже ношеную и достаточно пропотевшую и
выгоревшую на плечах. На куртке красовались нашивки медалей "Пурпурное
сердце", "За храбрость" и знаки отличного стрелка и за прыжки с парашютом. Я
был скромен и никаких цацек себе больше не присвоил. Далее из рюкзака
появился, пресловутый зеленый берет, пояс со стандартным армейским "кольтом"
и нормальные армейские бутсы. По мелочам стоило прибавить стандартное
армейское белье, часы "Сейку" в водонепроницаемом корпусе и универсальный
десантный нож. В отдельном запечатанном пакете лежали документы: армейская
книжка на имя Виктора Алексейчука (эмигранта во втором поколении, для снятия
подозрения по поводу моего акцента), выписка из госпиталя, что я еще могу
находиться на отдыхе две недели, после чего отправляться в свою любимую
Америку, водительская лицензия штата Нью-Йорк и прочие бумажки - письма
любимых девушек, несколько порнографических открыток, пара презервативов.
Словом все, что и положено иметь бравому зеленому берету в этой богом
забытой стране.
Энди с уважением наблюдал за моим перевоплощением в его
соотечественника и даже улыбнулся, когда я продемонстрировал ему пару лучших
в мире (так было указано на упаковке) презервативов. В глубине души я
надеялся (чисто интуитивно) что Энди все-таки не изменит решения, но вечный
червячок сомнения все-таки точил душу.
Когда я изложил ему свою версию его участия в операции, у него отвисла
челюсть и только с помощью моего легкого тычка приняла нормальное положение.
Он просто отказался поверить в возможность такого варианта, и потому могли
знать только мы двое - все равно в это никто бы не поверил.
Я быстро переоделся, посоветовал Энди состряпать маленький костер из
моей старой экипировки, навернул глушитель на верного "стечкина" и подвесил
его между лопаток в пяти сантиметрах от воротника куртки. Осталось всего два
часа до моей встречи с проводником, пройти предстояло немало. Да и на месте
следовало быть пораньше (вдруг мой сайгонский друг приведет целую делегацию
для моей торжественной встречи. Пожав, друг другу руки (вот уж не думал
когда-либо о таком), мы не обмолвились ни одним словом напутствия или
прощания.
Все уже было сказано, а произойдет оно или нет, один Христос или там
Будда знает.
На этот раз я шел осторожно, обходя наиболее густые заросли - неловко
как-то зеленому берету только что из госпиталя шататься по Сайгону в рваной
форме, сержанты из военной полиции страсть как этого не любят. На
условленное место я пришел примерно за полчаса до срока и облюбовал чудное
место в развилке дерева, откуда открывался прекрасный вид на подходы с трех
сторон метров на триста, с четвертой стороной дело обстояло хуже, но вполне
приемлемо для первого выстрела.
Нужный человек тоже пришел раньше назначенного срока, внимательно
обшарил взглядом близлежащие кусты и деревья. Место, как я уже говорил, было
чудное - спрятаться неподалеку кому-нибудь из любопытных было бы весьма
затруднительно. Мой визави, похоже, тоже остался доволен местом и уселся в
расселину среди камней, почти слившись с окружающим ландшафтом. Он
расположился почти подо мной, и я с гордостью отметил качество моей
маскировки. Еще и еще раз я внимательно изучил каждый дециметр кустов,
особенно с той стороны, откуда пришел вьетнамец.
Есть! На крошечную долю секунды в самой гуще зарослей блеснул маленький
зайчик. За моим приятелем следили. Не знаю, кто и зачем, было ли это связано
с предстоящей операцией - неважно. Важно было то, что место, выбранное мною,
оказывалось теперь открытой ареной цирка, где мне вовсе не хотелось
выступить в роли рыжего клоуна. Громким шепотом (хотя даже для
фокусированного микрофона расстояние от ближайших зарослей далековато) я
свирепо произнес по-русски, так как по договоренности должен был прийти
вьетнамец с хорошим знанием русского языка: "Сиди и не шевелись. Медленно
подними голову и взгляни вверх на большое дерево".
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Он все понял, для начала повертел головой в разные стороны, потом
лениво задрал ее вверх. Картина ему не понравилась - над его головой, метрах
в десяти, правее и выше сидел на большом суку я и в левой руке у меня был
пистолет с глушителем и в правой тоже. Он был профессионал, чтобы надолго
задержать на мне свой взгляд и равнодушно отвернул голову в другую сторону.
- Ты шел один?
- Нет, меня прикрывали два человека, они должны были повернуть три
километра назад и подойти к точке с разных сторон, не обнаруживая себя.
- У твоих приятелей был бинокль?
- Нет. Кроме оружия - ничего.
- Похоже, кто-то еще интересуется нами. Посиди еще полминуты, сделай
вид, что встреча не состоялась и медленно возвращайся. Без меня, их будешь
интересовать только ты. Но там может быть не один.
- Это правильно, там есть место, где одному не пройти.
- Тогда вперед, за меня не беспокойся, я буду рядом.
Вьетнамец встал и неторопливо отправился в обратную дорогу. Теперь
передо мной стала шарада, ребус - как слезть с моего замечательного дерева
незамеченным. Я решил ее самым простым путем - спрыгнул с закрытой от кустов
стороны. Наверняка наблюдатель переключил свое внимание на вьетнамца
(хорошо, если так) и мой маневр оказался незамеченным. Гадать на кофейной
гуще было бесполезно, и я попер вправо, к ближайшим зарослям, чтобы первым
успеть к началу представления. Изредка, прорываясь сквозь особенно густые
заросли, я мысленно хвалил создателей одежды для зеленых беретов - порой она
намертво зацеплялась за куст, но ни разу я не услышал подозрительного треска
рвущейся ткани.
Весь в поту, царапинах, не говоря уже тысячах колючек, сидевших во всех
частях моего тела, я выбрался на еле заметную тропку, по которой, я понял,
прошли как минимум двое. Тигра камышовых зарослях услышишь раньше, чем
вьетнамца, который не хочет, чтобы его услышали. Я не столько слухом,
сколько зрением уловил скользящую тень - это двигался "мой" вьетнамец.
Второй шел явно небрежно, более шумно, более нагло, как привыкший к
безнаказанности злодей - пусть меня бояться! Выстрел я произвел точно по
инструкции - пистолет держал обеими руками, совместил прицел с целью (в
данном случае - месте чуть повыше уха) и плавно надавил спуск. Шипящий
хлопок спугнул птичку, которая распевала где-то неподалеку. Зато сзади
раздался звук, как будто паровоз сошел с рельсов. Я еще успел оглянуться, но
только для того, чтобы увидеть, как на меня валится в прыжке здоровенная
туша другого весьма солидной комплекции вьетнамца. Я лишь слегка успел
дернуться в сторону, и это спасло мне жизнь - здоровенный кинжал вонзился в
землю рядом с моей шеей. Начало мне не понравилось, так как второй рукой он
успел так смазать мне по морде, что небо показалось мне самой маленькой
овчинкой в мире. Я очень крепко выругался, и насколько хватило сил, скорее
инстинктивно, чем сознательно, взмахнул все еще зажатым в руке пистолетом.
Длинный глушитель мешал использовать пистолет по прямому назначению, но
в качестве увесистой дубинки он сработал отлично - туша свалилась с меня, и
мы оба попытались встать на ноги. Я уже почти стоял и приподнимал ствол, как
снова раздался шипящий звук выстрела с глушителем. Амбал рухнул без единого
звука. "Мой" вьетнамец тоже знал, куда стрелять. Я пошарил в небольшом
рюкзачке убитого, там был сильный бинокль, пачек вьетнамских сигарет,
армейский полевой рацион и все. Потом мы взялись за второго - у него находка
была поважнее - карта охранной зоны Сайгона и пунктиром проложен путь моего
проводника. У пояса была рация, помощнее наших. Я включил ее на прием -
тишина, попробовал переключить на передачу - загорелась контрольная
лампочка, сигнализируя о почти полной разрядке аккумуляторов. Стоило
призадуматься, когда он успел посадить батареи - передавая на пути
промежуточные ориентиры или в конце, когда весь путь был ему уже известен?
Я угостил вьетнамца "Кэмелом", пожал руку. Все его приметы мне были
хорошо известны, я их изучил еще сидя на дереве, он же придирчиво
всматривался в шрамы на моем лице, в цвет глаз и, чтобы помочь ему, я задрал
куртку и показал шрам на левом боку. Он, видимо, и без этих доказательств
уже поверил мне, но теперь окончательно успокоился.
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- Я - Павел.
- Я - Тханг.
Он был такой же Тханг, как я Паша, но это сейчас не имело никакого
значения. Он достал свою уоки-токи и произнес одно коротенькое слово,
которое я не сумел бы даже воспроизвести - нечто среднее между мяуканьем
голодной сиамской кошки и открываемым шампанским.
- Подождем, - Тханг явно не страдал многословием. Чего-чего, а ждать
здесь, во Вьетнаме, я научился, потому полностью переключился на
продумывание каждого хода операции. О чем думал Тханг, не смог бы определить
лучший психиатр мира - он просто застыл и не двинулся, пока в кустах совсем
неподалеку не послышался голос какой-то пташки. Как он их различал по
голосам, для меня оставалось загадкой - потревоженные было легкой
перестрелкой в лесу, они снова завели свои трели. Чем эта отличалась от
остальных - ума не приложу, но Тханг ответил чем-то подобным, и на свет
божий из зарослей показались два пугала - вьетнамцы почти с головы до ног
закамуфлированные настоящей травой. Мимо такого пройдешь, и даже захочется
присесть на такой милый кустик зелененькой травки.
- Они останутся здесь прикрывать вертолет и пилота. Это несколько
меняло мои первоначальные планы - надо было самому отвести этих неожиданных
телохранителей, а то Энди задумает провести битву при Чаттануге и кто в ней
победит, сказать трудно. Чертыхаясь, я снова побрел к вертолету и еще раз с
гордостью оценил маскировку - вьетнамцы чуть ни носами воткнулись в могучие
заросли лиан, бамбука и еще черт-те чего, названия которому я не знал, а
ботанической энциклопедии у меня, как на грех, под рукой не было. Я был
польщен, когда вьетнамцы со всех сторон обошли наше произведение искусства и
восторженно цокали языками. Дополнительные цоканья у них вызвали два ручных
пулемета, несколько автоматов с запасом патронов и парочка гранатометов с
ящиком мин. Они даже благоговейно застыли внутри вертолета, увидев все эти
несметные сокровища. Я же, как заправский Али-Баба, небрежно кивнул -
пользуйтесь моей добротой, а на душе скребли кошки - что я здесь увижу,
когда вернусь. Если вернусь...
На прощание я повторил последний вариант для Энди.
Тханг посмотрел на часы и махнул рукой в знак прощания с остающимися. Я
взвалил свой рюкзак, сумку полегче поручил Тхангу и повторил его жест рукой,
Говорить ничего не хотелось, тем более слышать банальные слова напутствия,
пожелания удачи и т.д. Удача лежала в наших рюкзаках и хранилась в наших
головах, больше у нас ничего не было.
По сравнению с Тхангом я шел шумно, как и полагается русскому медведю,
все попытки стараться идти с таким грузом бесшумно требовали таких усилий,
что я выдыхался буквально через полчаса и снова начинал топать, как
нормальный буйвол.
Тханг морщился, но со свойственным восточному человеку тактом,
помалкивал, тем более что мы шли по достаточно спокойной местности. Разве
что случайный патруль или неожиданно появившийся вертолет могли нас засечь.
Но вертолет слышно издалека, а патрули ездят по дорогам, хотя бы и разбитым
вдрызг. Вот впереди дело было поставлено образцово - колючая проволока с
сигнализацией, посты, связанные телефоном, минные поля и прочие игрушки,
мешающие порядочному человеку попасть в легендарный город шикарных потаскух
и контрабандного товара.
Ночь была лунной, но густые облака прикрывали ее предательский свет и в
разрывах облаков мы просто лежали, уткнувшись мордой в грязь.
Как только наплывала новая гряда облаков мы, со всей поспешностью
устремлялись вперед. Хорошо хоть Сайгон расположен не в горах, а то мне
больно было думать о себе...
Вдруг джунгли закончились. Только что я продирался сквозь стену из
листьев, как ничего не стало. Пусто. Предательская луна вновь вынырнула из
облаков, и у меня по коже пополз холод - у меня что-то все-таки с головой
произошло, удар прикладом по макушке у кого хочешь, может отбить некоторую
часть умственных способностей. То, что я увидел в лунном свете, просто не
могло существовать на свете. Может на Марсе или на Сириусе такое увидишь
каждый день, но здесь...
Это была картина Дали в натуре. Фантастически изогнутые стволы мертвых
деревьев, все еще объятые толстыми и голыми, как огромные змеи лианами, и ни
одного листочка... Казалось, деревья тянут к небу руки с мольбой и немым
вопросом - кто и зачем это сделал. Привычная мягкость травы под ногами тоже
исчезла, вместо нее было что-то похожее на золу - это было то, что создал
Бог и назвал травой и листьями. Теперь он превратились в нечто, которое
никогда не сгниет, не даст жизнь ничему другому, никому не даст приюта или
пищи. Я хотел потрогать одно из деревьев, но Тханг резко ударил меня по
руке. Пока я недоуменно в темноте пытался сообразить что-либо, Тханг достал
из своего рюкзачка две широкие полосы ткани и одну из них протянул мне.
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- Оранж, - наконец раскрыл рот Тханг, хотя я тоже успел сообразить.
Янки хотели создать абсолютную зону безопасности и впервые попробовали
здесь, а потом и везде, где бы им хотелось. Так, что это пустынное место -
ни янки, ни наши сюда не заходят. А вот мы пойдем, это самый короткий путь,
а времени на обход у нас нет. Я к вам шел этим путем.
Пока Тханг объяснял все это, он сложил вдвое полосу ткани, помочился на
нее и наглухо завязал на лице от подбородка до самых глаз. Меня слегка
передернуло от такого противогаза, но безропотно повторил его действия.
Путешествие по этому лесу было попросту каким-то бредом безнадежного психа.
Не знаю, как бы все это было днем, но при луне все это казалось невозможным,
не существующим на этом свете. Такого не могло быть, потому что быть не
могло вообще. Но оно было, и мы брели среди шизофренических деревьев,
стараясь не загребать эту бывшую жизнь ногами... К счастью полоса работы
"оранжа" была не широкой, и я с наслаждением услышал шелест травы под
подошвами своих бутсов и с еще большим наслаждением сорвал пахнущую
собственной мочой тряпку. Тханг сделал то же самое, но перед тем, как
забросить тряпки в кусты, показал мне мою собственную. Напротив рта и носа,
которыми я с трудом глотал воздух через эту сортирную тряпку, были два
черных пятна, ясно различимых даже ночью. Как только я подумал, что все это
могло быть в моих прекрасных легких (ну, может слегка подпорченных
никотином), мне стало не по себе.
Тханг поднял руку, мы оба рухнули на землю - впереди была первая линия:
колючка с примитивной сигнализацией и навешанными там и сям гранатами.
Кто-то приготовил нам проход, проволока примерно на полметра была приподнята
над землей. С моим рюкзачищем мне было явно не просунуться, пришлось снять и
толкать его перед собой. Сопя от напряжения, я все-таки протиснулся и ничем
не зацепился. В почти полной темноте я увидел ухмылку Тханга, или мне это
просто показалось...
Первую полосу мы прошли. Впереди было минное поле - его не обойдешь и
ночью в темноте не проложишь тропку. Тханг ткнул пальцем влево и шепотом
пояснил - поле не широкое, но нашпиговано итальянскими противопехотными
минами типа 69 под завязку. Есть только один путь, через болото. Там мины не
ставили, во-первых, не было точек опоры, во-вторых, два солдата захлебнулись
в болоте, и начальство решило, что само болото лучше любых мин прикроет
дорогу к Сайгону.
Мне особенно понравилась история о двух потонувших беднягах, и я стал
сомневаться - не проще ли прорываться с боем, все-таки хоть маленький шанс
будет. Но Тханг уверенно шел по самой границе минной зоны, пока мы не
добрались до озера средних размеров (так, во всяком случае, мне показалось в
темноте и со страху). Тханг выудил из воды палку и начал что-то искать,
опасаясь ступить даже на кромку воды. Наконец он издал довольное восклицание
и вытащил на берег веревочную петлю. Вешаться он, кажется, не собирался, да
и дерева подходящего рядом не было, но Тханг был явно доволен: "Очень быстро
нашли, время сэкономим". Как сэкономить время с помощью веревочной петли,
мне было до сих пор неясно и, слава Богу. Ибо, когда я узнал, что мне
предстоит сделать, я сел на землю, чтобы ноги сами не подкосились от страха.
Секрет переправы был прост, как колумбово яйцо. С двух сторон болота (вода
только скрывала страшную трясину) каким-то образом (каким, моя фантазия
оказывалась бессильной) глубоко, в твердой земле были вбиты(!) два столба, к
ним под водой прикреплены блоки и протянута через все это озеро-болото петля
из тонкого стального троса. Мне предстояло прицепиться к тросу, а Тханг,
перебирая петлю руками, переправит меня на тот берег, потом мой рюкзак, а
потом я сам перетащу его. Все просто и дьявольски изобретательно, как и все
на Востоке. Тханг протянул мне специальную удавку - она намертво крепилась и
к тросу и к руке, чтобы в порыве слабости не выпустить ее из рук - тогда
жалкая смерть в смрадном болоте...
Помянув Господа, всех святых и нечистых одним скопом, я закрепил петлю
на правой руке и пополз в болото, входить в него было смертельно опасно -
оно засасывало с бешеной скоростью и сил одного человека может оказаться
маловато, чтобы вытащить жертву из убийственных объятий грязной жижи. Тханг
достал брезентовые рукавицы и решительно взялся за трос. Я почувствовал, что
меня потащило в трясину. Такого со мной еще не было, приходилось бывать в
разных неприятных переделках, но одна мысль, что такой тоненький трос
оборвется или с Тхангом что-нибудь случится, сковывала меня ледяным холодом.
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Но трос двигался равномерно и я постепенно приспособился к тому, чтобы
моя физиономия большей частью оказывалась над водой. Путешествию, казалось,
не будет конца, как вдруг я стукнулся головой о что-то твердое - это был
противоположный столб. Памятуя о наставлениях Тханга, я пополз по жиже к
берегу на животе. Наконец я почувствовал под коленями более или менее
твердую почву и продолжил путь на четвереньках. Страшно хотелось курить, но
для этого не было ни возможностей, ни сил.
Отдышавшись, я дважды дернул за трос, почувствовал ответные рывки и
потянул. Если раньше я считал, что болтаться на тросе неприятное занятие, то
сейчас понял - тащить было не легче, тем более свой рюкзак, набитый всякой
тяжелой всячиной. Вдобавок человеческое тело в воде не тонет, в чем я
убедился, перетаскивая Тханга. Минут десять мы оба лежали на траве, чтобы
хоть как-нибудь привести в нормальное состояние наши измученные этой
переправой тела. А потом пришло чувство удовлетворения - мы все-таки прошли!
Тханг посветил на карту игольчатым фонарикам и указал направление.
Насколько я успел заметить, мы направлялись к деревне. Здесь мой опыт и
знания были ни к чему, и я полностью положился на своего проводника. В конце
концов, это была его часть работы - доставить меня невредимым в Сайгон.
Тханг знаком приказал мне лечь и условным стуком подал весть о себе в
ближайший к дороге дом. Дверь тихо скрипнула, и Тханг опять же жестом позвал
меня в дом. Обычная крестьянская хижина из ветвей и соломы. Внутри еле
светился маленький светильник и даже в его свете я увидел, во что
превратились мои "тайжер страйпс"! Все тигровые полосы слились в одно
грязное пятно, хотя дырок я не заметил. Ниоткуда возникшая девушка
по-английски предложила мне раздеться. Я стянул брюки и куртку, но она
показала и на то немногое, что на мне осталось. Тханг повелительно кивнул
головой, и я предстал перед очаровательной девушкой в чем мать родила.
Она усмехнулась, и через минуту я услышал характерные звуки стирки.
Тханг бросил мне нечто вроде домотканого пледа и счел нужным пояснить, что
такой грязный "зеленый берет", возвращающийся от своей шлюхи, может вызвать
лишние вопросы на контрольном посту. Упоминание о контрольном посте повергло
меня в ступор, мне казалось, что и дальше мы будем пробираться нехожеными
тропами - во мне вдруг проснулся дух дикой природы, даже болото мне
показалось детскими играми по сравнению со встречей с рейнджерами на КПП.
Тханг казался совершенно спокойным, достал аккуратно сложенный пропуск,
доказывающий, что я, "зеленый берет" находящийся в отпуске по случаю ранения
с последующей отправкой в Штаты для более полного излечения от ножевой раны,
проследовал на джипе "Ларедо" через контрольный пункт, находящийся в двух
километрах от этого (ближайшего), в соседнюю деревушку с местной хорошо
известной в местных краях и Сайгоне шлюхой Фай, по прозвищу Кошелек, с
шофером-сутенером по имени Тханг в 22 часа местного времени и обязан
вернуться через любой КПП не позже, чем через сутки.
На бумаге стояли внушительные печати и замысловатые подписи.
- И что все это значит?
- Ничего, вчера ты приехал с Фай (он кивнул в сторону девушки) и
сегодня после отличного траханья и выпивки возвращаешься домой, залечивать
свои раны.
- Но КПП другой?
- Это неважно, здесь указан любой пункт в этой зоне, а если им так уж
захочется проверить, то с тем пунктом неувязка: почему-то через полчаса
прервется телефонная связь, здесь так часто бывает. Кроме того сегодня
никого из американцев на пункте не будет, их временно похитили две
очаровательные шлюшки на пару часов.
- А я что, действительно проезжал через тот пункт?
- Ты - нет, а вот Фай с американцем абсолютно точно.
- И где же он?
- Его никто никогда не найдет, так что, какая разница, где он
Теперь из-за ширмы слышалось интенсивное шипение - Фай сушила и гладила
мою форму допотопным утюгом.
- А как хоть называется деревня?
- А вот это тебе знать не обязательно - пьяный рейнджер, если помнит
имя своей подружки - гений, так что не строй из себя университетского
умника.
Наконец Фай вынесла мои вещи, и я под ее улыбкой натягивал их на себя,
Тханг работал над моими документами: слегка помял, потом потер некоторые
страницы солдатской книжки, поставил пару пятен на других бумагах,
наполовину вымочил одну из них в воде, а пропуск просто измял, как старый
трамвайный билет и все это рассовал по моим карманам, причем старался так,
чтобы я кроме солдатской книжки и удостоверений на награды, не знал даже в
каком из карманов куртки они лежат. Работал профессионал, и было приятно
видеть отличную работу.
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"Стечкина" я подвесил за спину, на прежнее место, кольт успокоился в
кобуре. Стандартный тесак я тоже пристроил на виду, а свой любимый длинный
стилет скотчем прикрепил к внутренней стороне лодыжки. Тем временем Тханг
подогнал к хижине потрепанный "Ларедо". Машина что надо - и по бездорожью
проползет и на шоссе даст фору многим. Для удирания лучше машины и не надо.
Я попытался сесть за руль, но Тханг указал мне место позади, рядом с Фай, на
которой кроме легкого шелкового платьица ничегошеньки больше не было, если
не считать сережек и красных туфелек. Даже после того, что мне пришлось
вынести, тащась по болотам за Тхангом, брюки у меня начали подозрительно
оттопыриваться. Фай заметила это и прильнула ко мне своим грациозным телом.
Тханг достал бутылку скотча и приказал понемногу выпить и немного пролить
виски на мою отглаженную форму.
После поворота показался первый шлагбаум. Тханг остановился и пошел к
солдатам, лениво посиживавшим в тенечке. Обнимая Фай и грубо, как и
полагается фронтовому герою, хватал ее за разные прелестные места, краем
глаза успел заметить, что пулеметчик на вышке никак не реагирует на наши
забавы, а пристально всматривается в нас сквозь прорезь прицела. Это
нервировало, но паниковать было рановато. Одна из сложнейших задач операции
- безупречный проход в Сайгон без всякого шума, трупов и прочей
бестолковщины, какая бывает при небрежной подготовке. Тханг возвращался с
легкой улыбкой на лице в сопровождении двоих южаков с М-16 наперевес. Но вид
у них был вовсе не устрашающий. Я сделал вид, что еле выполз из кабины, Фай
заливалась хохотом, глядя на мои неуклюжие движения, пока я не предстал
перед двумя южаками в полной амуниции, с цацками на груди и возвышаясь над
ними примерно на полметра.
- Ну что, наши дорогие союзники. Вам показать свои документы?
Пжалуй-й-ста,- я начал шарить по карманам, доставая все подряд и
небрежно всовывая им в руки.
- Полный порядок, особенно вон та девка! Высший класс! Я теперь к вам,
пока меня отсюда не выпрут домой, каждый день ездить буду. Или заберу
девчонку с собой, поедешь, а? Будешь звездой Бродвея.
Болтая всякую чушь, боковым зрением я наблюдал за действиями
патрульных. Тханг стоял с непроницаемым лицом - он только водитель, а кого и
куда возить, ему все равно и по этой дороге он проезжал не менее четырех раз
в день. Патрульному что-то не понравилось в моем временном пропуске в зону,
и он пошел к телефону - Тханг оказался провидцем, телефон не работал. Второй
патрульный, которому явно надоело стоять на солнцепеке, что-то
примирительное сказал коллеге и тот махнул рукой, чтобы открыли стальные
шлагбаумы.
Уже из машины я оглянулся назад и увидел, что пулеметчик проводил нас
стволом своего пулемета. Можно было вздохнуть с облегчением, но пытка еще не
кончилась - весьма возможной могла быть встреча с военным патрулем, а у них
в машинах рации, связанные с главным сайгонским компьютером и, боюсь, моя
фамилия там не значилась. Но обошлось без сюрпризов. Мы въехали в самый
бедный и суматошный район Сайгона. Американцы сюда обычно не совались, разве
что для облавы и то главную работу выполняли вьетнамские полицейские, а
американцы руководили, не заходя в вонючие подворотни и закоулки. Здесь
можно было спрятаться от любой облавы, если только не угодить в мышеловку
случайно или по глупости. Здесь и была на два дня моя база. Несмотря на
усталость, я чувствовал себя на подъеме, правда я знал, что этот подъем
закончится часа через два, а работать мне предстояло минимум сутки. Фай на
прощанье так поцеловала меня и прижалась телом, что я дал себе слово
заглянуть к ней хоть на часок, если сумею, конечно.
Я не стал ждать проявлений усталости и достал пробирку с первитином,
пять таблеток для начала, думаю достаточно. Через десять минут мозги у меня
были свеженькие, как снег в Гималаях и я приступил к работе. В комнате
никого не было, помощники мне не были и нужны, зато подходы к моему убежищу
прикрывали, я думаю не менее трех радиусов. Причем, я уверен, никто из них и
понятия не имел, что и зачем он прикрывает. Я стал важной персоной. Этот
район только назывался так громко - район, скорее беспорядочное скопление
всего, чего угодно и что можно было приспособить для ночлега и хоть
какого-то жилья. Ни американцы, ни вьетнамские полицейские сюда не
заглядывали, разве что во время какой-нибудь уж очень большой и важной
облавы. У меня были основания подозревать, что если бы кто-то из них узнал о
моем пребывании здесь - облава была бы самая, что ни на есть грандиозная.
Но, судя по обычным уличным скандалам, крикам детей и гнусным запахам от
перегорелого масла, никакой облавой пока не пахло.
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Кубические ящики аккуратно были поставлены в углу. Я с трудом подтащил
один поближе к столу, включил очень яркую настольную лампу (Тханг заверил,
что светомаскировка будет полной.) В ящиках плотно переложенные поролоном
лежали обыкновенные ПТУРСы - противотанковые управляемые реактивные снаряды.
Только вот начинка во всех было разная - кумулятивная, как обычно, но и
по особому заказу - осколочная. Такой уж я кровожадный - мне не только танки
подавай, но и тех, кто из них успеет выскочить.
Кроме снарядов в каждом ящике находился специальный комплект для особо
любознательных диверсантов - множество стальных и алюминиевых листов, труб,
болтов и даже инструменты. В моем распоряжении была всего ночь. План родился
у меня в голове, когда я в первый раз побывал в Сайгоне. Он был не особенно
сложен, главное, чтобы все сработало безотказно и во время... Мне удалось
найти одно слабое место в охране полковника - меняя ежедневно маршруты, он
все же никак не мог миновать одного перекрестка, почти в центре города, где
было полно полицейских и переодетых агентов, который внимательно
контролировали каждый квартал, без особых проверок здесь могли появляться
традиционные торговцы овощами, бананами, ананасами и прочей зеленью. Они
составляли неотъемлемую часть пейзажа и все полицейские, за исключением
новичков, давно знали каждого торговца в лицо и не утруждали себя проверкой
их самих и их тележек с фруктами. На этом и основывался мой план. Четыре
тележки стояли во дворе лачуги, и мне предстояло за ночь сделать из них
нечто вроде овощных танков. Дело, в общем-то, было несложное, я уже
потренировался в сборке пусковых установок для ПТУРСов, по существу это были
упрощенные до предела системы типа древних "катюш" или более современных
"градов" - короткие трубы с прорезями для стабилизаторов. Сложность была в
системе запуска, снаряды должны вылетать с определенными интервалами и из
разных мест, так уж придумал свою систему охрану этот полковник. Часам к
трем ночи все четыре установки были собраны и закреплены в тележках, только
нижние части боковых стенок в тележках были сделаны из тонкого алюминия и
могли быть выдернуты одним движением. Я, было, думал стрелять прямо сквозь
эти перегородки, но потом решил не рисковать - даже малейшая зацепка могла
искривить траекторию полета снаряда, а это... Нет, осечки быть не должно,
через пару часов эти тележки должны стоять на своих местах, и развернуты
так, как это нужно было мне. Я даже сделал там соответствующие малозаметные
отметки. Продавцы при появлении кортежа на одной из трех улиц, по которым
полковник мог подъехать к перекрестку, должны были сдвинуть полосы алюминия
и исчезнуть с места покушения, чтобы потом их вовсе переправили из Сайгона
или спрятали сверхнадежно. У меня, правда, было смутное подозрение, что их
все-таки найдут, но в виде трупов в реке под названием Меконг... Но это было
не мое дело.
Вся тонкость состояла в тщательной установке дистанционных детонаторов
запуска, ведь ПТУРСы использовались совсем в ином качестве. На всякий случай
я еще раз проверил контактные группы, промаркировал по группам снарядов
последовательность пусков. Ошибка могла привести к непоправимой ошибке и
провалу всего замысла. Еще одна проверка - все диоды зажглись точно по моей
команде, и теперь можно было присоединять детонаторы и укладывать хвостатую
смерть в уютные направляющие. Потом с величайшей осторожностью пакеты со
снарядами легли на днища фруктовых тележек. Высота - 90 сантиметров, с
учетом допустимых погрешностей полета - это оптимальная высота для
эффективного поражения механизированной цели типа БТР.
До рассвета оставалось менее часа, когда послышался условный посвист
рядом с моей лачугой. Я положил пистолет в трех сантиметрах от руки и
ответил. Вошел Тханг. Все. Все, что я мог сделать, я сделал. Теперь все
зависело от людей, которых я никогда не увижу, не узнаю их имен, и которые
возможно не все вернутся после операции или исчезнут надолго... Я и Тханг
вышли, за тележками придут позже, встретиться мы не имели права.
Тханг повел меня на чердак, единственный в радиусе 500 метров, откуда я
мог наблюдать и управлять развитием событий. Кроме грязного пакета, внутри
которого лежал тщательно упакованный дистанционный взрыватель, на всякий
случай, у меня в руках была стандартная сумка с небольшим запасом гранат (ну
почему у меня так много всяких случаев, что приходиться таскать такие
игрушки!) и мощный бинокль с дальномером. Мне предстояло сидеть долго, не
двигаясь и, главное, без курева. Ждать.
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Полковник традиционно проезжал между 9 и 10. К этому времени, укрывшись
подальше от слухового окна, чтобы не бликануть линзами бинокля, отметил, что
все четыре тележки, заваленные всяческими экзотическими на мой русский вкус
фруктами, заняли нужные позиции. Времени у меня было достаточно, чтобы
рассчитать все возможные варианты обстрела. Скорость снаряда - 0,5 секунды
на сто метров, 0,9 на 200 и 1,3 на 300.
Дальномером я определил все возможные варианты для первых выстрелов,
главное было секунд на двадцать приостановить кортеж. Все зависело, на какой
из улиц появится полковничий бронетранспортер и с какой точки начинать
стрельбу наверняка, а дальше я их добью, как разбегающихся тараканов. Чтобы
не дай Бог, не перепутать, я даже вспомнил студенческие времена и составил
шпаргалку. Теперь оставалось только надеяться на безотказность аппаратуры
управления... Проскочили два подозрительных автомобили - они крутанулись
вокруг соседних кварталов и вновь возвратились на одну и ту же улицу. Теперь
на 90 процентов следовало ожидать полковника отсюда. Если так - неплохо. БТР
подставит борт под ближайшую тележку.
Издалека донесся короткий вой сирены - началось! Крышки на тележках уже
должны быть открыты, и это был самый уязвимый момент операции. Какой-нибудь
чересчур бдительный агент или полицейский мог заметить эту странность и
все...
Мои худшие опасения подтверждались, один из мирно гуляющих хорошо
одетых вьетнамцев решительно направился к одной из тележек (слава Богу, не к
той, что по моим расчетам должна начать!) и резко схватив стоявшую рядом с
тележкой девушку за руку, что-то начал ей говорить, тыкая пальцем в тележку.
Черт побери, все службы безопасности на свете, что б вам всем гореть в
преисподней! А я и не подумал, что одной из продавщиц могла быть девушка, и
надо же было ей задержаться...
Но времени, следить за этой драматической сценой у меня больше не было.
Колонна двигалась не очень быстро, на мой взгляд, не более 60 км. Я прильнул
к дальномеру, не думая больше, заметит кто-нибудь блики или нет. 100, 70, 30
метров до поворота. Первой проскочит патрульный джип с пулеметом на турели,
десять метров за ним - бронетранспортер. Секунда до начала поворота,
полсекунды для снаряда. Я нажал кнопку и сразу же вторую! Предосторожность
оказалась правильной - оба снаряда врубились в БТР. Один из них в переднюю
часть, второй - точнехонько в середину, где и любил восседать полковник.
Вообще-то ПТУРС рассчитан на танк, так что, после попаданий, от легкого БТРа
осталось довольно мало. Джипы кортежа сгрудились вокруг железных обломков, и
я не мог отказать себе в удовольствии сначала лупануть по ним кумулятивными
снарядами, а закончить двумя осколочными (два все-таки отказали). Снаряды
разворотили несколько джипов, один снаряд врезался в стену дома, пробил ее и
взорвался где-то внутри. Еще один влетел в витрину большого магазина. Что он
там натворил, думать не хотелось... Взрывы хорошенько врезали мне по ушам
даже на таком расстоянии. Вся площадь была завалена телами мертвых или
раненых людей. Здесь были и солдаты охраны, и агенты, и случайные прохожие,
и покупатели магазинов, на свою беду оказавшиеся не вовремя на этом
перекрестке смерти. Расстояние было слишком велико, и я не слышал их стонов,
криков и проклятий. Только в бинокль видел перекошенные от боли лица,
раскрытые от крика рты и огромные лужи крови: быстро темнеющие под палящим
солнцем...
В тот момент я сам себе не признался бы что я "хомо сапиенс". Не должен
"хомо сапиенс" творить такое с себе подобными и я это, к несчастью, понимал.
Последний раз я выглянул в слуховое окошко, взглянуть на дело рук своих
и успел заметить маленького оборванного вьетнамца, который улепетывал со
всех ног, но при этом прижимал к груди черный кейс или портфель. Он успел
юркнуть в какую-то подворотню, прежде чем я успел сообразить, что же такое
ценное и кто так смело мог тащить в этой кровавой каше. Но свои собственные
дела заставили забыть и о вьетнамце и о его кейсе. Пора было думать о своей
шкуре.
Рукояткой пистолета я быстро превратил дистанционное управление в груду
электронного лома, завернул вместе с биноклем в заранее заготовленное тряпье
и закопал в слой грязи, пыли и птичьего помета, покрывавший настил чердака.
Тщательно осмотрел себя - не осталось ли пыли или грязи на моей боевой
форме, расстегнул несколько лишних пуговиц, морда была достаточно небритой и
помятой после всех моих прогулок, так что я вполне мог сойти за американца,
возвращающегося от очередной шлюхи после солидной выпивки. Теперь я опять
попадал в полную зависимость от Тханга. Надо было как-то выбираться отсюда,
и наверняка все входы и выходы из Сайгона перекрыты. Сидеть здесь несколько
недель, как крыса в норе, мне вовсе не улыбалось. Во-первых, у меня были
свои соображения по поводу дальнейшего развития событий, а главное, я совсем
уж не был уверен, что тот же Тханг или кто-то другой не пристрелят меня в
затылок, стоит только мне повернуться к ним спиной. Свое дело мавр сделал и
о нем просто можно просто позабыть, а здесь я исчезну настолько бесследно,
что меня смогут не найти и в день Страшного суда. Но об этом подумаем
чуть-чуть позже.
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Subsets and Splits