Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor. Nikita Dandy

the head?

      – Wherever you say!…

      – And… when I say… Remember: initiative is punishable…

      – I don't know what that is, teacher.

      – Do nothing without orders…

      – As you say, so it will be.

      – As it will be, so I will say…

      The old spider looked at the young man searchingly: "His jaws are still weak, but they will become steel, and I will forge them," he thought. "My clan needs fresh blood, and he's ready for anything… Everyone beneath him is mere flies!"

      Aman-Jalil gazed at Ahmed with devotion and determination. "Here's the center of the web, where he will strive, where all threads are held and all signals known, and the main prey to him, the center," he thought, but in his eyes read: "I am loyal, like your hand, foot, so loyal that—if I'm gone, it'll hurt you as much as if your hand or foot were amputated"… He knew a few more foreign words: condom, impotent, pederast, gonorrhea, syphilis, cosmopolitan, agent, spy, career, boss, chief, head honcho, beefsteak, stuffed cabbage, kasha Guryevskaya… "Maybe I should throw in something else for Ahmed," Aman-Jalil pondered. "He'll understand right away that I didn't just arrive from the village yesterday"…

      – Listen and remember, no need to write anything down: take a car with a driver, head to the Kalanvale district-vilayet, where my enemy rules everything, writes about me to Iosif Besarionis himself in the capital, estranges my father from the entire world, all nations and peoples, the leader and teacher from historical deeds. The great commander, whose toenail all the Caesars and Napoleons combined are not worthy to stand near, is forced to waste precious time not thinking about how to defeat all enemies, but on dirty accusations, where there's no more truth than hydrogen in the air…

      Ahmed fell silent, staring intensely at Aman-Jalil, pondering: "Does the Messiah find it interesting, having descended upon our sinful, shit-stained planet, that I ordered the spring wheat planting a month earlier, and the cotton planting half a month later, that my own sheep graze alongside the state's, and if my sheep perish, they are forever listed in the state's records… Does the Universe care to know that each position has its own tariff? Of course, you fool, don't know that word. Must I give away a lucrative position just for pretty eyes? Yet for pretty eyes, I award positions. My seventy-eighth wife received a country estate in the reserve, and her brother became the chief forester. True, he sells timber, exterminates game, young when he strolls, but are such trivialities not for the ears of the pillar of the universe…"

      Ahmed stepped away from the table, approaching Aman-Jalil. The latter tried to rise from his chair, but Ahmed placed a hand on his shoulder, urging him to stay seated.

      – "I'm telling you all this so you appreciate my trust. The details, they'll tell you on site in detail. Maybe even reveal more. I myself don't know much, and from the emir's palace, they won't inform… Funny?" Ahmed suddenly barked.

      – "Sad, boss, that a scoundrel like me intrudes on your trust. Such villains should be killed, like dung flies," replied Aman-Jalil.

      – "I'm not allowing killing yet. The villain has a 'hairy hand' in the capital, and at the emir's palace… You must, you simply must gather 'compromising material' on him."

      – "What's 'compromising material'?"

      – "'Compromising material'—some dark deal, he's not holy, but if he is, find such a deal with tar, so it won't wash off till death, understand?"

      – "Alright, teacher. If not that, then that!"

      – "What's your education? Higher?"

      – "Incomplete secondary…"

      – "Parties need fighters, not specialists. And if specialists, then special: 'specialists in life's collisions.' Don't bother recalling, I don't even know the meaning of that word… Did you learn to shoot in the army?"

      – "Arif's marksman… badge in my pocket."

      – "Wear it proudly. You've earned it."

      – "Boss, maybe it's better for me to go to the villa in the province? I'll be your coachman: box of grenades, box of peaches, box of grapes, figs… your kids can have their 'milk'…"

      – "Coachman—it's not dignified. No, driver in rye, Mr. Mauser on the side… And the car has more space; I allow myself a few things too… There are enough coachmen in the area. Let everyone think you're high-ranking; people will assume you can take down the district chief and come to you with complaints. Support them, and then we'll 'nail' these complainers, promising something serious might open up, or else 'every stitch in line'… Remember: 'the first pancake is a lump,'—you'll remain a 'lump' all your life… On guard… And if you do well, I have high hopes for you… Dismissed!"

      Aman-Jalil vanished. Ahmed remained alone. Heavy thoughts weighed on him: the underground struggle in the mountains of Serra had bonded him with Iosif Besarionis, then a humble and compassionate fighter known as Sucker. Thanks to this friendship, Ahmed stood firm, but how to 'dig'? One could easily collapse; so many former friends of Sucker had already perished—from stomach ulcer surgeries, colds with blue spots appearing on their bodies, to fatal accidents—corpses' ropes removed later, doctors losing sight, health fading, and sudden death, never ill… So the whole province had to be taken over quickly, then thrown to the feet of the great Iosif Besarionis, lest replacements arrive faster than one could pray to Allah in the mosque…

      Wind whipped dust along the street, forming diverse outfits and annoying those unlucky pedestrians who ventured out in the midday heat. Hot sand polished their skin like sandpaper, irritated their eyes to inflammation, and made breathing difficult. From the heat, people moved like sleepy flies, while flies crawled like drunken people, and amidst them walked Aman-Jalil, bewildered by heat, with a needle, matches, and his beloved rubber band… A swat struck a fly's wing, causing it to circle slowly in place. Aman-Jalil expertly caught it by one whole wing, impaled it on the needle, lit a match, and began slowly roasting it until it charred or the match burned his fingers. Then Aman-Jalil tossed the remaining match to the ground, flicked off the tiny ember from the needle's point, and started again. Endless auto-da-fé, always with enough material…

      A few years ago, Aman-Jalil found Dilber sitting on the stairs, crying with an open book.

      – "Did someone hit you?" asked Aman-Jalil, who himself was struck three or four times a day.

      – "No, no one ever hits me!" sobbed Dilber.

      – "Then why cry, dummy?" Aman-Jalil was disappointed.

      – "I feel sorry for the little monkey," complained Dilber, pointing at the book.

      Aman-Jalil took the open book and slowly read aloud how little Philip burned a monkey on a homemade bonfire in the palace. – "Royal pleasure," sighed Aman-Jalil to himself, and ever since, he experienced and satisfied it daily, burning flies…

      Wazir stepped onto the veranda from his room, heading to the bathroom. In the hot midday sun, his consciousness nearly shut down, granting him a brief respite: the dusty, straight, sun-drenched road, the pole to which he was tied, and his young wife Anush, whose torn body Wazir carried through life like a heavy cross.

      – "Boy, what grade are you in?" asked Wazir, as if seeing Aman-Jalil for the first time.

      – "Sixth," Aman-Jalil replied dismissively, expecting another insult.

      – "Want me to take you to a concert at the philharmonic? Have you ever been to a concert?"

      – "Don't want to!"

      – "You'll meet Mozart, Beethoven…"

      – "Don't