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.
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.
