Fly Hunter: The Story of an Inquisitor
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Aman-Jalil came to Gyaurov early in the morning, before work had begun. He knew his uncle usually arrived an hour early, before everyone else, to work in peace, undisturbed by personal requests, which he had to learn to refuse since many were unlawful.
Gyaurov was very surprised to see his nephew so early in his office. And Aman-Jalil gently embraced him, kissed him.
– Hello, father!
– Has something happened?
Aman-Jalil laid photocopies of documents on the table.
– Uncle, you know how much I love you! For you, I committed an official crime. Here are the documents: the narcotics confiscation protocol from Jumshid's base first warehouse, the foreign currency confiscation protocol from his desk, the currency confiscation protocol from his home, Jumshid's interrogation protocol. They'll be coming for you in an hour; the arrest warrant is signed. I don't want you to stand trial, to be labeled a criminal, but the facts are against us. Jumshid claimed you didn't provide him with cars, but you gave them for this cargo… You're a brave and decisive man, uncle, you know what happens in such cases…
Gyaurov carefully examined the documents.
– Do you believe this? Can you believe it?
– I don't believe it, but it won't be me judging you, it'll be your sworn enemy Kochev. He's not to be trusted. There are witnesses too: the drivers, they'll say whatever Kochev tells them to say.
– Will Jumshid be shot?
– Along with you, yes! It'll be easier for me to save his life without you.
– Do you think he's guilty?
– I'm a hundred percent sure he knew nothing. A scatterbrain, he trusted everyone, needed or not. The warehouse manager disappeared, they're searching for him and will find him.
Aman-Jalil himself helped bury the warehouse manager's body in the olive grove, after shooting him in the back of the head.
Gyaurov stared into Aman-Jalil's eyes intently, but other than love and loyalty, he found nothing.
– Take the photocopies, you've risked a lot, thank you. I rely on you to save Jumshid's life and expose this lie and slander.
– I promise you, uncle. I'll put my life on it, and I'll find that scoundrel and make him pay.
Aman-Jalil tucked the photocopies of the documents into his pocket. Gyaurov hugged his nephew, and they kissed three times.
– Live long, – Gyaurov whispered and crossed Aman-Jalil as he left.
As Aman-Jalil approached the exit, a soft gunshot rang out from the office. No one noticed Aman-Jalil; the guard had summoned Aman-Jalil's assistant, and there were forty minutes until work began…
"What a funeral, what a funeral," Wazir thought, watching the endless procession with mourning banners. "How we love our dead, look at how we love our dead, if only this love were shown to the living, maybe paradise would come… But why? Because the dead pose no danger, there's no need to fear the dead, unless you believe in ghosts. They announced he died of a heart attack, but they say, 'he shot himself, couldn't bear the shame'… Oh, Jumshid, Jumshid, what have you done, scoundrel? May you suffer forever, such a glorious, esteemed father disappointed. What does a man need? He had everything: a good job, health, a beautiful wife, an apartment, money… Ingrate! It wasn't enough, he craved more. He wanted currency. Foreign coins to buy schnapps at the tavern. Doesn't he understand they'll ask right away: 'where'd you get this'?… What will you say? Found it at the market?… No, what a funeral… Nosaty walked with Gyaurov's wife, like the principal relative. But Jumshid's beautiful wife wasn't there. Shame on her husband. Killed his father, but saved his own skin. It's nothing; they'll send him to Bibir Island, where there's no warmth and comfort. All desires will freeze… No, what a funeral. Nothing to say, we love our dead, we love them more than the living… We're all the same: mothers during life too lazy to write an extra letter, but at the grave, they cry like little… And I'm no better: did I love Anush so much in life as I worship her after her martyr's death. Perhaps that's why we remember, love the dead so much, the guilt torments, the guilt that we didn't remember, didn't love in life. What good is our love to the dead? The living need it. Alive! I need to marry before it's too late… I need children, then maybe I won't suffer so much, that terrible road will leave me, my endless path of grief and despair"…
"Don't be jealous of evil people and don't wish to be with them: for their heart thinks about violence, and their mouth speaks evil. By wisdom a house is built, and by understanding it is established."
Over Ahmed's grave, a speech was delivered:
– Today, we bid farewell to our friend, our comrade-in-arms, one of the indomitable fighters against global injustice, against the exploitation of man by man. In the Serra mountains, he repeatedly proved his unwavering bravery, desperate courage, and steadfastness. He dedicated all his strength to serving the people, to the cause of the rebels. The underground in the Serra mountains forged his character; his heart turned to iron, sometimes even steel. Step by step, he climbed the ladder of his earned glory, a life full of dangers but also the joys that these dangers bring. Neither threats nor bribes, neither cold nor heat, nor rain nor snow could deter him from this path of glory. He reached the summit, but his heart, filled with love for his suffering people, could not bear this monstrous burden, this selfless dedication. We will all remember this remarkable man, a wonderful father and teacher. You, my friend, will serve as an example for everyone, entering the future legends that a grateful people will compose about heroes like you. Rest peacefully, brave friend. You did all you could!
The orchestra played a funeral march. Farewell salutes pierced the cemetery's silence, adorning Gyaurov's grave in the alley of eternal glory with mountains of wreaths and fresh flowers… The mourners dispersed silently. Many were ashamed to look each other in the eye.
Aman-Jalil swiftly expanded his bustling activities. His appointment as the third deputy in the Inquisition was met with cool, if not outright cold reception. Two factions within the Inquisition vied against each other, smiling and kissing on meetings. "Didn't sleep well, my dear? Pale as a ghost, take care of yourself, need me to recommend a doctor?" "Thanks, my friend! How are things with you?" "Flourishing and smelling sweet!" "Indeed, life couldn't be better."
Both factions kept an eye on Aman-Jalil, strategizing to sway him to their side. Thus, neither faction gave him any of their own people, take whoever you want. Aman-Jalil paid homage to Ahmed, doubling the Inquisition's ranks, and recruited his own supporters, all who hung on his every word, drank from his bottle. Instantly, he became a force to be reckoned with.
No one knew how to enforce the directive on confiscation, so Aman-Jalil did whatever he deemed necessary. He swiftly identified those with movable and immovable property: wealthy merchants, remnants of the aristocracy… He taxed all the underground millionaires. According to the palace-approved list, Aman-Jalil razed a clan every day, those displeasing Iosif Besarionis.
Aman-Jalil's men stormed homes, confiscated valuables, leaving a receipt as a reminder that they once lived well. Those who resisted were killed: shot or stabbed. If nothing was found but they were on the list, they were tortured until they revealed a hiding place or died. Few could hide anything while watching their wives and daughters being violated, their sons abused. Who could trade their children for wealth? Will all the gold in the world, all the diamond mines of Golconda, replace the laughter of happy children, the sparks of happiness in their eyes…