Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor
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Aman-Jalil understood there was no way out.
– It will be done, boss!
Aman-Jalil, after his father was killed, was raised by his uncle. His mother had suffered a stroke, lying motionless, cared for by his grandmother, leaving the boy orphaned, and Uncle Musa took him in. Musa had a son a year younger than Aman-Jalil, Jumshid. Aman-Jalil spent six months with his uncle. He bonded so well with his brother that Jumshid cried, clinging to Aman-Jalil when his recovering mother came to take him home. Since then, they knew everything about each other, or rather, Aman-Jalil knew everything about him.
Now, Jumshid managed the largest trading base in the city after graduating from the Trade Institute. And immediately after Ahmed's reminder about the unfinished task, Aman-Jalil visited his brother at the base.
– How are things, dear?
The brothers embraced. Jumshid took a stack of papers and shook them.
– Everyone is asking for trucks, but where am I supposed to get so many? It's their business, but I have all the headaches, I'm responsible for everything, they won't lift a finger, won't even move, and I'm the one sweating it out.
– Ask Dad for help, – Aman-Jalil advised his brother. – He's the mayor after all, let him assist.
– Do you not know your uncle? His own son comes last: a good salary, an apartment, a personal car. Believe it or not, I still walk everywhere.
– At least you're not under the table, – Aman-Jalil joked.
– Easy for you to joke, it seems. The Inquisition has gathered a bunch of jokers, huh?
– I'll help as a brother; they'll give you trucks. Where do you need them sent?
– To Koralen, first to pick up lemons and oranges, the whole batch is heading to Duitsland, you understand, they must be fresh.
– Prepare the warehouse, tomorrow morning five trucks will arrive at least!
Aman-Jalil chatted with his brother about trivial matters, drank a glass of tea with quince jam, kissed his brother goodbye, and they didn't meet again.
Aman-Jalil called Ahmed.
– Chief, we urgently need trucks!
– We need them, take them! – came the reply.
– We need to get them from Gyaur, please call him. But don't ask for trucks from him; press for urgent execution of the lemon and orange delivery plan to Doichland, he'll understand and give the trucks to his son, the rest is my business.
Ahmed promised to help. The day before, Aman-Jalil learned about an underground opium warehouse, took it with his loyal people, naturally didn't report it to his superiors, and now all his people sat there in ambush. But their strange assignment was to cut oranges in half, carefully remove the contents, send it down their throats, insert a pouch of opium into the peel, seal the halves with dark wax, then wrap each fruit in paper and affix a long label: "Maroka," shorthand for "World Autonomous Republican Vegetable Company"… Meanwhile, the trucks headed to the plantation for citrus cargo for Doichland, which in return supplied machines for cigarette stuffing and sturdy condoms. One of the drivers was Aman-Jalil's man. And the agents sitting in the warehouse were engaged in an unusual occupation, the kind they usually relentlessly hunted down and caught. Now the agents were experiencing firsthand the hard work of smugglers and drug dealers…
On the way back, one of the trucks turned off the route and stopped at the underground warehouse. Aman-Jalil's people quickly unloaded half the crates from the truck and instead loaded their crates with special oranges. The truck drove to Jumshid's warehouse, while the agents stayed in ambush. Out of boredom, they ate the oranges they had unloaded from the truck. They overate to the point they couldn't look at them for the rest of their lives. Especially since Aman-Jalil deducted the cost of those oranges from their money, but paid them for overtime, instilling a deep conviction of justice in their hearts…
And the trucks calmly unloaded at the base managed by Jumshid, who specially cleared a warehouse for them. Satisfied, Jumshid didn't leave the base until each crate was weighed, stacked in piles in the warehouse, and the documents were processed.
Meanwhile, Aman-Jalil "stopped by" at Jumshid's house, surprised that he lingered at work so long: "he doesn't take care of himself," stayed for tea, and seized the moment when Jumshid's wife busied herself in the kitchen, slipped a bundle of foreign currency under Jumshid's mattress. Then Aman-Jalil lingered over tea with his favorite cherry jam, praised the hostess, and left without waiting for his brother, citing urgent matters. From a nearby phone booth, he called the Inquisition, the narcotics control department, changing his voice with a candy in his mouth, he said:
– A loyal subject reports: there's a large batch of drugs at Jumshid's first warehouse, a few crates of oranges. They will go to Duitsland in the morning.
And, satisfied, he hung up. The car would start, he knew that well…
Exhausted like never before, Jumshid was already leaving for home when the base perimeter was surrounded by soldiers, and three plainclothes men approached Jumshid, demanding the keys to the first warehouse. Jumshid didn't even bother asking for their documents; each of the inquisitors was recognizable by their kind and responsive gaze. He returned to the office, grabbed the keys, reached into his pocket for something, and was immediately seized by one of the plainclothes men. He was quickly searched and released.
– Why? – Jumshid was offended. – I've never owned a weapon in my life.
– It's better to be safe than sorry, – the inquisitor apologized softly.
In the warehouse, a squad of soldiers clumsily but swiftly opened crates of oranges, more breaking than opening, slashing each fruit with combat knives and greedily destroying them. When this squad had their fill, they called in a second, and the rampage continued.
Jumshid attempted to protest.
– What are you doing? This is our currency, the shipment is headed to Deutschland.
– Shut up! – the inquisitor gently hushed him. – It's going to Animaland.
Jumshid sat on an empty crate that once held oranges and helplessly watched this savage feast… By the time crates of narcotics were finally discovered towards dawn, he was beyond surprise, in a daze, everything swirling before his eyes like in a fog. After signing the confiscation report for a large shipment of narcotics from the first warehouse of the base entrusted to him, Jumshid accompanied the inquisitors home, still in a fog. In a daze, he saw his wife's pale frightened face, numbly acknowledged the stacks of foreign currency found under the mattress. And so, in a daze, he lived for many years on the distant island of Bibir in Antarctica, until he accidentally got involved in a drunken brawl among criminals and received a fatal knife wound in the midst of the fighting. The pain dispelled the fog, and the last thing Jumshid saw before him wasn't his daughter's face, his wife's, his father's, or mother's, but his brother's smile. Aman-Jalil smiled kindly, warmly, friendly. But his eyes bore the cold muzzle of a gun.