Zhora still hoping something. The loss was surprisingly big for him. Maybe for bigwigs scale Bondi Bohm it was a penny, so small perk, compared with those incomes, which came to him through his high public and state provision, but for him, Jora, it was a fortune, which he is hard and not idle, and the more frustrating it was to feel a poor man, whose rich man takes the last.
Some time ago, in the middle of summer, in the hands of the Жоре, which pals, and all criminals in his hometown, knew not, except under the nickname Behemoth got the whole archive of all kinds of documents.
The paper always represent some value, especially if they contain the threat of exposure to someone.
Those contained, and not one, e several tens if not hundreds of people, that's totally strangers to each other, and never had been seen and living in different regions of the country, therefore addresses for sale were very much and address each separately indefensible wasteful.
Behemoth сбыл paper мелкооптовыми parties, растасовав in groups.
And recently he became aware that his "papers" are on such a fabulous price, that the money that he rescued them from a sale — a bribe to a beggar. Their trade is now conducted, blackmailing its customers, the Bondi BOM widely known in the shadow areas of large воротила. This is him through intermediaries сбыл their goods Zhora and now, having learned about the true cost of securities, willing to return true причитаующуюся share. To achieve this has already been spent мнгого forces and means. For this Behemoth is the second week he lived in Moscow, where life was now so expensive. But it was the little things in life than какеи costs had to be re-gathering information.
George knew that started hunting for the beast, which will devour it in the same минтуту as soon as he notices his attention in his address. Therefore act required secretly, and ambush appear only at the moment when everything will be ready for powerful impact of the strike.
However shelter it meant a lot of holes that he had just unknown: they were surrounded by strangers, and money were unreliable guarantee that it will not give the opponent in this situation. We had friendship, support circular bail on which you would expect at home, in their city, where he had some weight in the world of criminals and profiteers local caliber. His authority there was quite noticeable. In Moscow he was a stranger, brazen visiting an upstart from the province, who came to compete with the capital clans and even расситывающим more from them to get back.
Besides the hundreds of dossiers with подмоченными reputations was in the cache and there's something else. Paintings, icons, silver jewelry, gold salaries, kitchen utensils antique production, small antiquarian, — all this was kept тамнеизвестно how many years, cooked by someone to the shipment collected and carefully laid in neat boxes, перестелянные straw and cardboard. It was not difficult to carry it in a safe "their" place. There were thousands of ancient books, manuscripts, some folders with the drawings, containers with diskettes and галлограммами to the records, it would seem, will have to deal not one year, but it was worth it. George was a nose for money, and it smelled very big money.
To ensure that intuition fails him, Zhora immediately after the captured content hiding place, chosen by нанытого them an electronic engineer, one of the folders with some schemes, drawings and nested floppy disk to the computer, which would interest some leading electronic company, and заслал with courier to Japan, where, after several days brought great "merci" in a Swiss Bank and laser holographic VCR latest model as a gift.
However, apart from this one folder to use Zhora nothing more did not: while he rested on the black sea coast, visiting his company, all the beaches from геледжика to Sochi, all these values were blatantly stolen. Warehouse, where they were stored someone blatantly hacked and stole what Hippo hoped to build the Foundation for future prosperity.
That gave him one single folder, was quite enough to play a chic wedding with Veronica, buy her as a wedding gift a large two-bedroom apartment, and the "Mercedes" of the latest brand to which he had long had a passion.
Now, however, had very little money, and by the end of егопребывания in Moscow should they were completely exhausted. But George was hoping that by the time he is going though something back, and this will help to live equally безбеднео and in style.
Theft incredibly surprised and outraged Jora. To his secret warehouses knew only pretty people close to him, but still a few people that were of relevance to the case, of strangers. Случайныце robbers could not steal so much. In лечшем case they took only gold, silver, well, maybe that инконы. To выве6зти all, it would require a good truck, which in its time availed himself Behemoth. Those who there came to know this.
Behemoth began to make inquiries about possible похитителях immediately upon returning from the Black sea. Thread again ran to Moscow. Somebody worked in a large way. From local to such a few people were capable of, but the quality of operations, organization, and "quiet" and does completely rejected the "local" option.
A week after the honey month, Behemoth find a truck driver. The split rapidly, " to him don't even have to use any serious measures. Version was confirmed: ran capital guests. The gunner was one of those strangers with whom Behemoth had to have common interests in the latter case, but the traces of his also disappeared somewhere in the capital. Bastard got a decent Kush from the Zhora, but apparently decided that this is not enough, and decided to enter into a more dangerous and a cool game. George knew now how he would deal with him at a meeting...
-Igor! Go here called his mark Ilich.
Zhora was distracted from his thoughts. Mark Ильичт give him a floppy disk. His face is played elusive, подловатая smile. Zhora instinctively felt that relaxed comes down something. But what exactly?
-No, perhaps I'll check it. Put it back into the drive.
-In the drive? Please.
Semblance of a smile on the face of mark Ilyich faded again, and George even thought out whether he's on the right track, and not going whether this жидявый old man with a computer in the chest to slip him some wrong diskette.
The drive again charged. Mark Ilich pressed a few buttons. Once again went to blink, as if перелистываемые page видеотекста.
-The printer, " said George.
-What? I love mark Ilich.
-Print to the printer. Suddenly you ккакой any software virus on a floppy disk. I will include, where everything сотретсмя. Want a copy was on paper, it is more reliable.
'Well, please mark Ilich touched before a few buttons. In the neighbouring Department of chest buzzer sang the printer.
George opened the box and followed выползающим from there one by one, sheets of paper, reading the text.
-Tell, please, dear, Marc Zakharovich, and to damn me, say, this: "Прохлдя service in the military unit ... разукомплектовал engines of KAMAZ vehicles, sold three pump, two generators." Witnesses Артемин, Zhukov. Address Why?
-You asked for a complete, exhaustive information. Now, please get. Isn't this evidence? Here's your crime, but you are witnesses. He who underlined, it can give information for a fee, and the other is unknown.
-Well, all right, " said George, feeling still a catch all that is happening.
He gathered the sheets together, put the floppy disk in карманг, asked:
-Folders you have a cigarette?
-No. With you ten thousand.
-What? Ten thousand.
-Do not RUB, of course.
-Why are there so many?
-Information on such a large man. Give it — is very dangerous. Take is your personal business, but to give. Besides all the documents certified by a notary offices and other authorities so reliable. Collect them is hard work, and it should be paid well to those who need, who will be interested in it, understand?
-But you spot, at least two-three thousand! I just have no money!
-Well, then leave documents and come here another time, when there will be money. Only do not stay for a long time, otherwise I'll just kill.
Feeling that apparently, this was a trick, Zhora snatched from his inner pocket costume revolver.
-Oh! "asked mark Ilich. — In this case I have it all covered! Boy! Turn around.
George looked over his shoulder. Behind him stood a man. In his hand was a gun pointed to him, Жоре, right in the back of the head.
-Throw weapon! "said mark Ilich. — Count to three, then he will shoot! So. Times. Two...
Жоре had to obey. It was disarmed, everything had been taken away дерньги and values that he had pushed out to the porch.
When Zhora was completed, the landlord went into a small room, got dressed, went to his home, sending also guard, and locked up as it should be double door hidden under clothing in the corridor and reminiscent of the door. Before leaving, he phoned the reception Толстунину:
-And where is Boris Borisovich?
-At the meeting. Who yemtsyu calling?
-Mark Ilich. Pass that they are interested in. Check the Fax machine.
Chapter 9. (04).
"Every man is guilty himself in all the misfortunes that happen to him", — Gladyshev stood on the bridge and looked down at the waves on the surface of the Moscow river, talking to himself.
He himself could not say how he got to the bridge, aimlessly wandering around the city, sometimes dropping down in the subway and leaving it on some quite unnecessary to him stations.
Past flashed one after another machine. The way their неизмсенно laid past the red Square, St. Basil's Cathedral, Parking, crammed with large buses. On the other side stood the elegant hotel "Russia", surrounded on all sides of his foot with shops, restaurants, bars and even a cinema at the entrance crowded now a lot of people assembled for the next session.
Late at night, and in the Windows and stained-glass Windows "Russia" more загоралось light. The sun had already disappeared behind the horizon, but the sky still continued to be light blue.
Гладушеву we didn't want the evening.
He continued to stand, leaning over cast iron railings, and perhaps risking перевалиться through them and go down to where sailed lit lights теплоходик. In his hand was the folder with the manuscript of the novel, and, looking at her, Gladyshev only smirked bitterly.
Article Ortona, perhaps, you'd think a young man preparing to swallow paper and, choking them to fall from the bridge into the river, ending suicide. It even policeman came and asked:
-What are you waiting for?
-So easy! — turned Gladyshev.
-Down or something, сигануть going?
-No. I think I shall do nothing more!
-Look, kid...
The policeman wanted to add something else, but waved his hand, post оял, staring stupidly, about ten seconds and walked away.
His appearance only briefly distracted Gladysheva from gloomy meditations, and. although he think not thought about suicide, his head flashed the crazy driving in the back of the idea: "In fact, why not jump?" онаи stuck on to it as an infectious disease and pulled down.
He barely managed to break free from these sudden and strong bonds.
With наступолением evening was quickly getting colder, and on the street looking distinctly uncomfortable. Gladyshev wanted to go back to the hotel, but the bridge is already engulfed in darkness and reflections from car headlights, surrounded by lights from all the sides not want to let it go.
At the bottom mysteriously darkened river. From there rose cool.
Gladyshev grinned to himself and, as a cigarette butt, not бросилл even, but just published a folder of papers.
It opened sheets typing slipped out from there, scattered, dispersed and sad Listopad, swinging from the darkness unclear glare. Tumbling and circling, began to sink down.
A flock of them melted into the darkness, and Gladyshev presented themselves as they lay on the surface of the river and swam slowly downstream.
"Stuffer!" — with a stinging bitterly thought Gladyshev, trying to hurt yourself as much as possible, so that the soul зашлась from неизгладимой sorrow and longing to her one word was like hitting a sharply honed razor, who cut her half in two rebels against the other.
He finally came unstuck from pig-iron, covered with oily, sticky dust railing of the old fence of the bridge and walked away.
It seems Gladyshev knew exactly this bridge was called Kuznetsk and, rumor has it, was famous for the fact that here many years ago landed a German pilot, a boy of twenty, the спортинвом plane, вылетивший of Germany, and after this flight paid chair a Minister of defense, not to mention сошках smaller.
Гладышеву wanted to smoke. Smoking, as he rightly thought it was a bad habit, but now that it would not stop. However cigarettes he had no money for them either, and "shoot" a cigarette he could not decide, although towards roamed smokers.
On the street it was already quite dark. Descending from the bridge, Gladyshev went to the "Russia", walked around, observing the life of the huge Windows, where everything shone in the glare of the light, the broken in crystal lamps and chandeliers. There were smiling, idle people. They stood at the luxurious shop-Windows, choosing purchase, and in their hands they sparkled chain and ring, some gold jewelry sat in a comfortable tables in soft, deep armchairs, and fussed around them, going in and waiters.
Gladyshev suddenly caught myself thinking that jealous of these people, while trying not to do that. They had money, it was something that never was and never will be. He knew it was too good to not have to envy, envy yet gradually закрадывалась in his soul, and with it we had to fight, because it sowed hatred.
Red Square is not empty, and people crowded at the mausoleum, waiting for the changing of the guard. Gladyshev crossed it obliquely, went down the street and around the Kremlin, got in the Park.
Some places on the benches here you can meet people sitting couples and small groups. It was fairly common in everyday day, the more autumn.
"Why is it doesn't work, that man was just a writer, without any obstacles that he did not create any obstacles, " he thought, slowly crossing the Park down the alley. — People worked, sweated, I thought. Somewhere deep down, he hoped, perhaps, that his work will be appreciated, and when his hard work is over, he will find even if not fame and respect, not wide recognition and honor, but a new quality, which will allow him to feel if not a party to art, if not the Creator, at least not rejected and humiliated as I".
Something told him that the fruit of his secret efforts will be in vain, and that his love affair will never be published. Because he is not a writer, and therefore has no right to write. This requires some special status, official certainty that starts before the thoughts in my head, and, apparently, as behind the wheel can't sit without a license, and writing Desk — without a crust member of the Union of writers, or at least a diploma of the faculty of literary slant.
