Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor. Nikita Dandy

'That's Kato, daughter of an enemy of the people. Be careful, she might recruit you… as a spy. Get in, we'll take you.'

      Gunshots rang out nearby.

      – 'It's starting again!' grumbled the policeman. 'Get in quickly, I said, we're taking you to the blue-eyed one.'

      Bulov quickly hopped into the police car, and within minutes, Bulov found himself circling Kato's house, they were on the scene. The policeman ascended the stairs first and pounded on the door as hard as he could. There was dead silence behind the door.

      – 'Kato, open up!'

      The policeman hammered on the door with his mighty fist, like a sledgehammer.

      – 'Did she fall asleep or what, damn whore!'

      It was three in the morning. Bulov stood behind the policeman's broad shoulders, trembling like a leaf, cursing his love for adventure. For ten minutes, there was no sign of life from behind the door, and for those ten minutes, the policeman pounded relentlessly with his fearsome fist. Finally, a disgruntled voice came from behind the door:

      – 'Couldn't find a better time for a visit?'

      The door opened, and a startled Kato peered out through a crack. Upon seeing the policeman, she yelled:

      – 'What the hell…'

      – 'Open up, open up, witch!'

      Kato swung open the door and yelled even louder:

      – 'How many times have I told you not to come in the middle of the night, you damned pimp!'

      – 'Shut your trap, I'm here on business.' The policeman nudged Bulov forward. 'Is this your client?'

      Only then did Kato spot a trembling Bulov behind the policeman's broad back and burst into laughter until tears streamed down her face. Ignoring her laughter completely, the policeman pushed Bulov into the room and left, closing the door behind him. Meanwhile, Kato continued to laugh. Every time she looked at the nearly naked Bulov, a new wave of laughter shook her.

      Frozen, Bulov leaped headlong into the bed, warming up in the warm sheets and stopping his teeth from chattering, he looked around and noticed that his clothes had disappeared.

      – 'Hey, where's my clothes?' he wondered.

      Kato bent over laughing even harder.

      – 'Oh, I can't, I'm going to die right now…'

      – 'Hey, don't die, where did you put them?' Bulov asked worriedly.

      – 'I burned your clothes, threw them in the stove, burned everything.'

      – 'Are you out of your mind?'

      – 'You brought this on yourself.' Kato stopped laughing. 'Half an hour later, I went to look for you, thought maybe you fell into a pit, that board there is completely rotted. You weren't in the toilet, or in the pit either, I walked around, shouted, nowhere to be found, came home worried, every morning we find at least one corpse, how many don't we find?..'

      – 'What does my clothes have to do with it?' Bulov asked in surprise.

      – 'They started shooting, then the police, I didn't know who came, thought they'd find your clothes and I'd be done for, stage by stage, goodbye to my native land. I threw everything into the stove, banged so hard on the door that I heard your voice when I went to open it, and it was too late anyway, I doused your clothes with kerosene, burned them so they'd burn faster.'

      – 'My manuscript was in the jacket.'

      – "Been and gone," Kato grumbled. "You don't know what 'big shmuck' means. They'll find any little thing, it's curtains for me, blow it up into a political case."

      Bulov sighed. There was no use complaining, especially not to a cop nicknamed "the pimp."

      "Well, I'll say I gave Kasym the manuscript. Kasym never reads Ayesha's crappy works anyway."

      In the morning, Kato brought him old trousers and a shirt borrowed from a neighbor, and Bulov trudged home, checking the route against Kato's map every second to avoid getting lost again.

      "I didn't burn the manuscript. Pulled it out of my jacket pocket out of boredom, recognized his signature right away. I've typed enough of his manuscripts over those two years, I know the typewriter font by heart. Started reading this one and couldn't put it down: this story was once written by my father, the reason he disappeared into the wilds of Bibir Island. And the one who snitched on my father, after he read the manuscript, now claims his story as his own, pseudonym Pendyr might fool anyone else, not me. Scoundrel! How he pretended to care about me when father vanished without a trace, leaving me with nothing, everything confiscated, he was father's friend, indeed, all for the sake of dragging me into his bed. I was fifteen then… Two years later, I found the draft of the denunciation, unsigned, incomplete, but in his typewriter font… I nearly died, I loved him. Kept silent. And he found a lucrative wife and threw me out onto the street, saying, 'you're grown, work!' But where to work, when everyone avoided me like the plague, no one would hire me… Until I found 'the panel.' It unites them all: professionals and amateurs. Those amateurs, I'd tear them all apart: they have families, children, everything I dreamed of as heaven… What drove them to the panel? Were they starving like me and my kind?… Were they pursued like rabid, sick, homeless dogs?… That's where you sent me to work!… Never mind, now you're in my hands. I'm sure those who sent my father away so far haven't read this story themselves. Iosif Besarionis's cockroach mustaches are sacred, and anyone who laughs at them is a blasphemer… But we must wait. Our inquisitors will catch on… Yesterday, one guard, they're just as talkative in bed as anyone else, said they're expecting a big boss's arrival, Iosif Besarionis's closest aide… He's coming to inspect… If he can't pass it on, we'll wait, there's no rush, live while you can."

      Aman-Jalil got married. It was advantageous. And he couldn't refuse.

      Ahmed called him to his office over the phone:

      "Come in, my dear, I have a gift for you!"

      Aman-Jalil hurried to his boss. Aman-Jalil's nervousness wasn't unfounded; Ahmed's gifts were hard for many to stomach, and some perished from indigestion. Anything could happen, so Aman-Jalil checked his channels, known only to him. There seemed to be no storm brewing, at least nobody knew anything.

      In Ahmed's office, Aman-Jalil saw a young, beautiful girl. Aman-Jalil liked her, but she glanced briefly at him, frowned maliciously, and turned away. Ahmed stood up from his desk, approached him like a long-awaited guest.

      "I'm glad to see you, my dear! Great Iosif Besarionis said he's watching your work and is pleased with it. He remembers you… And you, remember who you owe everything to… Now, back to business, I invited you here for this… Look at this beauty! Listen, you can't imagine how long it took me to persuade her. Every day on the phone, I told her about your great love, how you torment me with your talks about her, sent her your gifts, ordered flowers at your request. If I didn't love you like a son, I would have grown tired long ago of coaxing this capricious beauty. So, you owe me! I've fulfilled your pleas: she agreed to be your wife. Now you can call me 'dad'!… Let's kiss!"

      Ahmed embraced Aman-Jalil and shed tears. Anyone who didn't know Ahmed, seeing this scene, might seriously think he was a "kind uncle." Aman-Jalil knew better. So, he shed tears in response, respectfully kissed Ahmed's hand.

      "My gratitude knows no bounds! You are the light that illuminates the beautiful path to an unparalleled future! I owe you everything, and until my last breath, I will remember this."

      Ahmed led Aman-Jalil to the capricious and discontented beauty.

      "My daughter! Here's that shy admirer who tormented me with his stories of his love for you. Look, Majnun, here's