After the tiger: Blind, #7

By Andrei Voronin

FSB superagent Gleb Siverov, nicknamed Blind, steps onto the dangerous path of the Ussuri taiga to unravel the mystery of the ogre tiger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: EDGARS-LTD GROUP
• Release date: Jun 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224699292

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

— How do you feel about wild animals? - asked General Potapchuk, drinking in small sips the pale brown liquid, which he called coffee, and Siverov called general-style coffee.

Gleb put out a long cigarette butt in the ashtray and cast a quick, inquisitive glance at his interlocutor from under his glasses. The blinds on the window were raised to the very top, and the window itself was slightly open: during the night spent at the computer, Siverov created a lot of smoke in the apartment and Fyodor Filippovich, as soon as he entered here, demanded that an influx of fresh air be created. Raising the blinds and opening the window, Gleb closed the translucent curtain, which hid from prying eyes what was happening inside the apartment, but, alas, could not serve as a serious obstacle to the spring sun, which poured into the room in a wide stream, mercilessly highlighting every detail of the godless mess, left by Gleb on the desktop. In this cheerful daylight, too bright for the sensitive pupils of the Blind One, it was clearly visible that the room was still filled with a bluish foggy haze; With every minute this haze thinned out - tobacco smoke was slowly drawn out through the crack of the slightly open window, and instead of it, fresh April air flowed into the room with a cool, slightly chilly stream.

The blind man automatically pointed his index finger at the bridge of his nose, adjusting his glasses, which protected his eyes from too bright light and gave all the furnishings the usual twilight coloring. That’s the question! - he thought, looking sideways at the general and rejoicing that his eyes were hidden behind dark lenses. - How do I feel about wild animals... But really, how do I feel about them? No way, in general... But what is he getting at? It’s clear that he came for a reason...

There was no point in delaying the pause any longer. A little more, and this pause will become noticeable, and then meaningful. Therefore, Gleb took a sip from his cup, placed it on the saucer with emphasized accuracy, sat up straighter and said:

- I do not belong to them.

- Hm-yes? - Potapchuk smiled dryly at one corner of his mouth and also put down his cup. This smile made his face look twenty years younger, momentarily restoring his former firmness and clarity of lines. - You don’t, that means... Well, what is the question - that is the answer. Let me put it differently...

Yes, do me a favor, asked Siverov, shaking a new cigarette out of the pack.

Potapchuk glanced displeasedly at the cigarette - he was envious. Gleb understood that the sight of an open cigarette pack was a difficult test for Fyodor Filippovich, but he deliberately ignored the general’s problems: if you don’t give a word, be strong, but if you give a word, hold on. The sympathy of others provokes self-pity in a person, and self-pity is contraindicated for those who quit smoking. It’s better to be proud of yourself, even if this pride is groundless: they say, I’m so strong, no one suspects how difficult it is for me, but I hold on and don’t show it.

Gleb turned the lighter over in his hands, wondering whether he should put the cigarette back in the pack, but decided not to: it would look like mockery. He turned the wheel, striking a fire, and took a deep breath of bitter smoke. Potapchuk with a noticeable effort looked away from the smoldering tip of the cigarette, wincing, took a sip from a cup of watery liquor, which he called coffee, and said:

- Jokes aside, I would still like to know how you feel about the problem of protecting wild animals. Keep in mind, this is not an idle question.

I already understood that, said Gleb. I just don’t understand, what do animals have to do with it? We, the kings of nature, are often unable to protect even our loved ones, and also protect animals...

— So you think that there is no need to protect rare and endangered species? - Potapchuk clarified. - Let them die out?

No, of course not, the blind man shrugged his broad shoulders and finished off his cooled coffee in one quick gulp. - Why is it necessary for them to die out? Who are they bothering? At least not for me. They are in the forest, and I am in the city... He noticed that Potapchuk was beginning to frown, and changed his tone: I don’t know, Fyodor Filippovich, what answer you expect from me." Of course, wild animals, especially rare and endangered ones, need protection. Or rather, they need people to finally leave them alone. But, I repeat, many people need this, and not all of these many walk on four legs. In general, I probably have a neutral attitude towards animals: they don’t touch me, and I’m not going to touch them. However, you asked how I feel about the problem of their protection...

Exactly, Potapchuk grumbled.

Gleb was silent for a while. Jets of cool air, rushing through the slightly open window, fluttered the light curtain, crushed the thin stream of smoke rising from the cigarette; Along with the air and light, spring sounds penetrated the room - the drunken chirping of sparrows, the clicking of heels on the pavement, the breathless muttering of a diesel engine, the rustling of brushes and the grinding of metal on asphalt. The first real downpour washed away the remnants of black spongy snowdrifts from the streets and squares, and now the sand and other debris that had lain under the snow all winter were removed from the pavements and sidewalks. The city was putting itself in order before getting out of the wardrobe and trying on green summer clothes again.

I believe that such a problem really exists and that it is being solved very poorly, Blind finally said. It probably can’t be any other way. This is a state matter, but our state cannot install heating in houses. Where can he protect animals?

— What about public organizations? — the general asked with an interest incomprehensible to Gleb. — Are there all sorts of foundations there or, say, Greenpeace? Siverov shrugged his shoulders again and waved his hand, as if shooing away a fly.

- The first ones are swindlers, the second ones are simply blessed, whom no one takes seriously. All these far-fetched actions in defense of poor animals are pure nonsense. They don't change anything, and they can't change anything. Even the most drastic measures taken by the government - any government, not just ours - are just passive defense. A person is greedy, and when there is really big money ahead, he takes any risk. All these nature reserves, rangers, fines and even the prospect of being behind bars - very, by the way, dubious - are nonsense. Now, if lives were at stake... You see, it’s like in a casino: everyone knows that the dealer always wins in the end, but they still continue to play because they only risk money and hope to win. And in our case, a poacher risks much less than a player in a casino... They should simply be shot without trial, and then the problem of protecting endangered species will be solved by itself.

He looked at Potapchuk, and the surprise that possessed him intensified many times over: Fyodor Filippovich looked pleased, like a teacher whose favorite student had just proved Fermat’s theorem. He was grinning: the same way a cat might grin after devouring a neighbor’s goldfish, and this was absolutely incomprehensible to Gleb. That is, he understood, of course, that this whole environmental conversation was started for a reason and that his answer turned out to be exactly what General Potapchuk expected from him. But at the same time, Blind could not understand how this conversation relates to real life and the affairs that connected him and Fyodor Filippovich.

He took one last drag on his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. Outside the window, the horn whined nasally, the diesel engine rattling at idle angrily growled, coughed, firing the muffler, and the sound began to gradually fade away. Footsteps, voices, and snatches of conversations began to be heard again. Right under the window, a female voice in bad English asked an invisible interlocutor how he liked Moscow. Gleb couldn’t make out the answer—the speakers turned the corner.

I don’t understand what you’re getting at, he repeated. — What do I have to do with protecting endangered animals? You, Fyodor Filippovich, haven’t changed your job in an hour? Maybe you became a forest ranger?

You see, Potapchuk said, ceasing to shine and acquiring a businesslike look. But you say you don’t understand... You understood everything very correctly, Gleb Petrovich.

That is... Siverov gently nudged him.

— That is, there is work for you in the field of wildlife conservation, which, as you probably know, is a national treasure. This is not the first time you have come to the defense of national property, right?

Hm, said Gleb and fell silent, not knowing what else to say. This is all very unusual.

Potapchuk watched him with interest, waiting for him to continue. Siverov stood up, thoughtfully fiddling with his earlobe, charged the coffee maker, turned it on and went to the window.

Okay, he said, looking at the street through the translucent curtain. - So who will I have to protect - bunnies, squirrels or maybe red-crowned cranes? And how do you imagine that?

A breeze blew from the street, the curtain inflated like a sail, the light fabric slid over Gleb’s cheek, catching for a second on the temple of his dark glasses. The draft smelled slightly like exhaust gases, and Gleb thought that in the forest now the air was probably clean and cool, like spring water. Under the trees there are still tongues of snow frozen to stone hardness, thickly sprinkled with pine needles, and cold is coming from the ravines, like from an open refrigerator...

Don’t worry, Potapchuk said behind him. You won’t have to patrol the forest lands. Actually, you won’t have to protect the poor, as you put it, animals either. They are already being protected without you. Your task is to protect these same defenders. Just make sure that the poor animals don’t eat you, and at the same time those you will look after.

Interesting, said Gleb. But I still don’t understand a thing. Could you be a little clearer for a change? What kind of animals are these, for example, that I should protect and fear at the same time? Wolves of some kind?

Take it higher, Potapchuk answered, shaking his head. — Ussuri tigers.

Gleb whistled. Now it’s clear why he kept it dark for so long, he thought about the general. — Ussuri tigers live in the Ussuri region, almost on the border with China. In the remote taiga, where there is probably no smell of spring yet. Fir trees, this is in the middle of nowhere! Irina will simply be beside herself, because this task is not one that can be completed in a week. That’s why Fyodor Filippovich is so fussy! And he wants to inject himself... But I still can’t understand: why does the FSB general care about the Ussuri tigers?"

— What relation do you and I have to the Ussuri tigers? - asked Gleb.

Nothing yet, said Potapchuk and, raising his index finger, repeated: Bye. But it is possible that someday the management will instruct us to take a closer look at this problem. National treasure is national treasure, be it gold, currency, diamonds, tigers or some wild flowers...

Hemp, for example, Gleb couldn’t resist.

At least it’s hemp, Potapchuk agreed defiantly. "It’s not about the name or even the essence of the object that we are entrusted with protecting. The point is this: if irreparable damage is regularly caused to a national treasure, we should expect that sooner or later you and I will be ordered to stop this outrage... one way or another.

Theoretically, everything is correct, Gleb said doubtfully, turning off the coffee maker, over which a cloud of fragrant steam was swirling. - Extremely logical and in some ways even noble. But the last thing I expected was that our leadership would decide to get serious about saving the Ussuri tiger from extinction. Do we have nothing else to do?

Potapchuk silently accepted the steaming cup from him, silently topped it up with water from a glass jug and still silently, looking at Gleb with an expressionless gaze, took the first sip. Only now it dawned on Gleb: a minute ago Potapchuk said that the management COULD entrust him with the protection of the notorious tigers. Some day. He also said: it’s possible. And at the same time, the entire conversation is structured as if this order had already been received and now all that remains is to carry it out. And in general, in order to convey the order of the command to the executor, it is not at all necessary to make such a lengthy introduction...

Fyodor Filippovich, said Blind, let’s be honest. I see that you don’t have an order and all this tiger bullshit has nothing to do with your direct official duties. You and I have known each other for a hundred years, we’ve eaten a ton of salt together, so why not say directly what you want from me?

Potapchuk took another sip of coffee, couldn’t stand it - he winced, irritably slammed the cup onto the table, spilling some of the pale brown mud, similar to water from a swamp window, onto the saucer.

Close the window, he said. - And you can lower the blinds...

- Is it blowing? - asked Siverov, closing the frame and turning the lock handle.

The general vaguely twirled his palm in the air with his fingers spread and recited in a sing-song voice:

- Our ears are on top of our heads. Only the morning illuminated the cannons and the blue tops of the forests...

The French are right here, Gleb finished, lowered the blinds with a crash and took off his dark glasses. Having finished this, he returned to the table and began to sip coffee with pleasure, looking expectantly at the general.

That’s a different matter, Potapchuk said. - Sorry, Gleb, but I can’t talk to you when you’re wearing those glasses of yours. You look like this... Well, who used to run around with a shotgun, but now he’s become a governor.

Schwarzenegger, suggested Gleb, without any doubt that even if Fyodor Filippovich Potapchuk forgot the name of the actor who played the Terminator, then FSB General Potapchuk probably remembers the name of the new governor of California.

That’s it, Potapchuk nodded, then shook his head, puzzled. - Tell me what’s going on in the world! An actor, and not the best one at that, became a governor!

- What surprises you? Reagan, let’s say, didn’t play at Lenkom either, but specialized more and more in Westerns. And nothing, he even managed the presidential post... But you, it seems, wanted to talk about tigers?

You’re in a hurry, Potapchuk grinned, you’re in a hurry... If only you knew where you’re in a hurry! But the truth is yours. Why bother, really?

Indeed, Gleb assented, leaning back on the sofa and raising the cup to his lips.

So, Fyodor Filippovich continued, pointedly not paying attention to his ironic tone, "the fact is that the other day an old acquaintance unexpectedly found me ...

***

The restaurant had a lot of carved mahogany, mirrors and painted frosted glass. All this splendor was visible through the glass door of the lobby. Fyodor Filippovich paused briefly at the entrance to look at the goldfish, which, lazily moving their fins, slowly moved inside the open, stone-lined pool. Seeing him from under the water, the fish rushed to him, huddled in a dense heap at the side of the pool and began, crowding, pushing and sticking their stupid muzzles with round, yawning mouths to the surface, begging for a handout.

I should throw you parasites into the frying pan, the general grumbled and, turning to the large wall-length mirror, began to smooth the remains of his hair.

He did this slowly - there was still a good five minutes left before the agreed time, and anyway... In general, Fyodor Filippovich, during his long and very eventful life, somehow managed to never visit a Chinese restaurant and was now slightly timid. In fact, who knows what kind of order they have here? They will also force you to take off your shoes... However, they do take off your shoes in Japanese restaurants, and even then, according to rumors, not in all... What about chopsticks? After all, you’ll probably have to eat with chopsticks! Exotic... Damn it, this exotic! Well, why, one might ask, would a Russian man, and an elderly one at that, and a general at that, torture himself in his old age by pushing rice around his plate with some kind of chips? As if it was impossible to make an appointment somewhere else...

Fyodor Filippovich hid the comb in his jacket pocket, straightened the knot of his tie, straightened his lapels and moved towards the door. An elderly, stocky Chinese man in a neat white jacket - a waiter, or perhaps the owner of the establishment - who had been hovering at the entrance for some time, stepped towards him with a smile, opened the door and stepped back, making an inviting gesture with his hand.

Welcome, he said with a funny oriental accent. - We are glad to see you.

You shouldn’t be happy, thought the general. It was just after six, and there were no more than five people sitting at the tables in the restaurant. Fyodor Filippovich looked around the cramped room with a mirrored ceiling and glass partitions framed by carved mahogany. A man sitting at a table in the corner stood up and waved his hand. Potapchuk nodded to the Chinese and moved forward, maneuvering between the closely spaced tables.

Korneev rose to meet him, holding out his hand to shake. During the twenty-odd years that they had not seen each other, Nikolai Stepanovich Korneev had noticeably grown in size and lost most of his wavy hair, but he looked youthful, behaved at ease, dressed like a needle and generally gave the impression of a successful man. His palm was wide, white, with carefully groomed and, it seemed, even polished nails, and he shook Fyodor Filippovich’s hand firmly, as in his youth, and perhaps even stronger. Potapchuk appreciated everything at first glance: the healthy smoothness of the skin, the deceptively simple cut of the suit, the shine of the gold watch on his wrist, muted by the snow-white cuff, and the bright, flash-like Hollywood smile of an old friend, and the aroma of expensive French perfume emanating from him, and the calm , a confident demeanor - in a word, all those little things that speak more eloquently than any words about success. However, Fyodor Filippovich did not expect anything else, since immediately after Korneev’s call he took the trouble to make inquiries about him. At the moment, Nikolai Stepanovich Korneev held a prominent position in the Fund for the Protection of Rare and Endangered Species. In parallel with his social activities, he was very successfully engaged in business, and Fyodor Filippovich was incredibly glad to learn that his old friend was not involved in any shady dealings. Korneev had an impeccable reputation and was clean - as clean, of course, as one can remain clean when doing business in Russia.

- Sit down, Fyodor Filippovich, sit down, dear! - Korneev spoke animatedly, moving a chair for the general. - Long time no see! You look great. Damn, I'm so glad to see you!

- Well, yes? - Potapchuk asked ironically, sitting down and unbuttoning his jacket. - Wow, what a lucky day today is! Everyone is happy to see me, as if I were Santa Claus.

- A? - Korneev was surprised, but immediately laughed, remembering, apparently, the Chinese who greeted visitors at the door of the restaurant. - And you, brother, have not changed. Still the same joker. Your tongue has always been like a razor... Have you not been kicked out of your office because of it yet?

I’m holding on for now, Potapchuk said cautiously, accepting the menu in a thick embossed leather folder from the waiter with an absent-minded nod.

He opened the folder and blinked in surprise, looking at the coated sheet covered with hieroglyphs. Then he realized, turned the page and delved into studying the long list of dishes and drinks offered by the restaurant.

Drop it, drop it, said Korneev, taking the folder from him and carelessly placing it on the edge of the table. - There is nothing to watch, everything is decided. You are my guest, so the choice is mine. We'll eat duck with pineapples.

The general honestly tried to imagine what duck with pineapples might taste like. He remembered the taste of duck, and pineapples too, but he couldn’t mentally combine these two tastes. What came out was some kind of nonsense like pickles with strawberry jam or watermelon with horseradish.

Can’t we order something simpler? - he asked. — My stomach is conservative, and I’m not at the right age to experiment...

It’s never too late to experiment, Korneev objected. He nodded to the waiter, pointed his finger at the open menu and put two fingers in front of him, as if he were going to play horned goat with the Chinese. The waiter bowed his head and left to take the order. - And then, what are your years? - Nikolai Stepanovich continued, leaning back in his chair and again flashing his dazzling smile. - We are the same age, Fyodor Filippovich!

That’s it, said Potapchuk. - It's time to switch to oatmeal.

- What more! It's time to enjoy life and reap the fruits of your labors! You’ll say the same, oatmeal... Have you seen my mistress? No, of course, where do you come from... I’ll introduce you to you someday. Just keep in mind: if you try to beat it off, I’ll count all your ribs for old times sake, I won’t see that you’re a big shot in your office! Oatmeal...

- What makes you think that I’m a big shot? - Fyodor Filippovich was obviously surprised.

In fact, he did not feel any surprise, because he was sure: before dialing his home phone number, Korneev also made inquiries about him. And he probably called for a reason, but for some specific purpose. It simply cannot be otherwise, because it doesn’t happen: we haven’t seen each other for twenty-three years, living in the same city, and suddenly he jumped out at you like a jack-in-the-box and immediately dragged you to a restaurant... Is he in trouble, or what? - thought Fyodor Filippovich, taking his cell phone out of his pocket and turning it off. Not without that, probably... Competitors came, or maybe the tax authorities took it by the throat, so he remembered that he had a friend in his youth - Fedya Potapchuk, a sincere guy, and even a security officer to boot...

Well, of course, Korneev answered his question with a smile. If you haven’t kicked me out yet for having a long tongue and being too smart, then I’m sure you’ve promoted me. With your abilities, so that you don’t get promoted!.. Probably, you’re already a general?

In general, yes, Potapchuk answered restrainedly.

He was sad. He had been friends with Korneev, one might say, since childhood, and for some time they were inseparable. After school, their paths diverged, but the friends of their youth are not forgotten. You can not see them for a hundred years, and then accidentally run into them on the street, and the separation is gone. It was precisely this kind of relationship that connected Potapchuk and Korneev. They met rarely, once every ten to twenty years, they were very happy about these meetings, had a good time reminiscing about the days of their reckless youth, and again lost each other for decades. However, now, it seems, everything was different: Korneev was not saying something, for some reason he was probing Fyodor Filippovich, although he could have asked a direct question and received an equally direct answer to it. It’s all sad, if you look at it, thought Fyodor Filippovich, watching the Chinese waiter set up a tin brazier on the table and place flat candles in metal bowls inside it. - Is it really a matter of age? The older we get, the fewer real friends we have left with whom we can talk without hesitation, without cunning, frankly... Everyone has some business on their mind, some kind of benefit, and Kolka Korneev, my bosom friend, is not me Now I’m interested in my general’s shoulder straps, connections, opportunities. It's probably funny to complain about this. That’s the way the world works, but it doesn’t make it any easier for me..."

Yes, brother, you have flown high,

Korneev continued, shaking his head when the waiter left. - Wow - general! Now I won’t wash my right hand for a month, I’ll brag to everyone - the general shook this very hand with me!

Well, judging by your appearance, the general is not a very big bird for you, Potapchuk noted, looking at the strange fish swimming in a huge wall-sized aquarium right behind Korneev’s back. — I suspect that among your acquaintances there are quite influential people - members of the government, deputies, bankers... Isn’t that right? Korneev laughed.

- You won’t be fooled!

This is the job, Fyodor Filippovich agreed. - And you know what, Nikolai, let’s be honest. I understand that sooner or later you will still explain why you came, but there is no need to pull the cat by the tail. It's a shame to watch how you court me! I invited him to a restaurant and ordered some kind of duck... With pineapples. Are you in trouble?

Korneev chuckled, took out a cigarette and lit it, avoiding looking the general in the eyes. Then he jerked his head up and again flashed his snow-white, obviously artificial teeth.

And you’re getting old, Fedor, he said. - You have become irritable, and the mania of persecution is obvious... Or is it your work that affects you that way? They're courting him, you see! You old fool! I don’t argue that I have a conversation with you, and a rather important one at that, but what makes you think that I care about my own skin? This matter, by the way, is of national importance, and here you are pretending to be... ugh, you devil!... an old maid!

Fyodor Filippovich immediately felt ashamed, but did not show it, especially since his guess turned out to be correct: Korneev needed not so much him as his shoulder straps. As if guessing his thoughts, Korneev continued:

- You understand, eccentric, there are a dime a dozen generals in Moscow. But I turned to you because you are my friend. Firstly, a friend and only secondly, a general. The first is good, but the second is simply... simply useful, because the general’s capabilities are, after all, wider than those of a captain or even a colonel. If you want to be honest, please: I desperately need help - qualified and strictly confidential.

- Competitors? - Potapchuk suggested.

Competitors are nonsense, Korneev waved it off. - Now, thank God, it’s not 1995, and you can almost always deal with competitors using civilized methods. Everything is much more complicated. You probably know that I work in a public organization...

I even know which one, agreed Fyodor Filippovich.

- No doubt. Let me assure you that our Foundation is not a trough for laundering dirty money. That is, to some extent, perhaps... But I know nothing about it. I know something else: we are busy with real and very necessary work, but, unfortunately, not everyone understands this.

Hm, said Potapchuk. — Is it possible without campaigning? We're not at a rally after all, what do you think?

Korneev opened his mouth and immediately closed it, because a waiter laden with a heavy tray approached their table. He deftly placed two porcelain dishes with some vague brownish mixture on the brazier, placed closed ceramic pots on the table - presumably with a side dish - wished them bon appetit and left. Fyodor Filippovich sniffed and was forced to admit that it smelled delicious. Opening the pot, he, as expected, found rice inside.

Come on, general, don’t turn your nose up, Korneev encouraged him, helping himself to some rice and pouring it with a brownish slurry in which some pieces and lumps were floating. — Lean on Chinese cuisine. The way to a man's heart is through his stomach, and now I just need to find this path.

He poured vodka for himself and Fyodor Filippovich. Potapchuk sniffed the glass doubtfully, and his heart eased a little: it was vodka in the glass, and not some exotic rubbish. They drank, ate, and Korneev spoke again, leaning across the table to Fyodor Filippovich.

So, he said, our Foundation, as its name implies, is engaged in the protection and rescue of rare and endangered species of wild animals. The creation and financing of nature reserves, the sponsoring of services involved in the fight against poachers - this is our daily work, our everyday life. In addition, our Foundation’s specialists are engaged in serious scientific work. Believe me, we have very good specialists, many of them world-famous.

I believe, said Fyodor Filippovich. - More precisely, I know. And if I didn’t know, I would believe it just by looking at you. As far as I know, scientists also have nothing against regular nutrition.

Exactly, Korneev laughed. — So our Foundation is fulfilling another noble mission - preventing brain drain.

You are saving a rare endangered species—homo sapiens, Potapchuk chimed in.

- Exactly! You grasp everything literally on the fly. So, last spring, almost a year ago, we equipped an expedition to the Ussuri region. Several of our, as you put it, sapiens went there to, as far as possible, trace the migration routes of the Ussuri tiger and clarify the population size. You probably know that the Ussuri tiger is close to complete extinction. In those parts, hunting for it has acquired the scale of a real business. They are shamelessly knocked out and sold for a lot of money to China...

- Is this really a duck? - asked Fyodor Filippovich, showing Korneev a piece of meat impaled on a fork (thank God, they served forks here after all, not sticks!). - Not a tiger? It's a Chinese restaurant...

This is not funny, Fedor, Korneev said, wincing. Firstly, you and I simply wouldn’t have paid for the tiger meat, and secondly, there’s no reason for fun in this story. I understand that you serve in a serious department and are used to dealing with completely different problems - terrorism, espionage... What do you mean by some tigers? What they are, what they are not - it makes no difference to you, a Muscovite, a general. Now, if cows or, for example, pigs became extinct, you would feel it. Do you still love chops? What about tigers? Just think, tigers! It’s a pity, of course, but, on the other hand, it’s very easy to forget about it, to stop thinking about it. We are not eternal either. Tigers will die out, we will also die sooner or later, and our great-grandchildren will not even remember that such an animal once lived in the world - the Ussuri tiger. They will read about him in textbooks, like they read about dinosaurs. They died out, they say, in the process of natural selection, unable to withstand competition with the king of nature...

Fyodor Filippovich stopped chewing, carefully placed his fork on the edge of the plate and, dabbing his lips with a napkin, carefully peered into the face of his interlocutor. Korneev was very excited. He spoke heatedly and hastily, as if he was afraid that he would be interrupted and not allowed to finish. The veins on his cheekbones began to play, his eyes narrowed, and he emphasized each of his sentences by hitting the edge of the table with the edge of his palm. These blows gradually intensified, the dishes on the table began to clink quietly, and Fyodor Filippovich realized that they were about to start looking back at them.

Wait, he said, waiting for a short pause in Korneev’s speech, don’t break the furniture. Why are you fuming? I'm not arguing with you. Nature conservation is an important matter. Maybe even much more important than the things I do. In the end, when in a hundred years we all feel a lack of oxygen, terrorists will have no time for terrorism, and spies will have no time for espionage... And I am very glad that serious, wealthy people who know how to not only talk, but and make money. On the other hand, we may simply not live to see a lack of oxygen. Some stoned bastard will press the button, and we will all die out like dinosaurs, along with tigers and frogs... So, Nikolai, you and I are both busy with important things: you with yours, and I with mine. You have little understanding of the specifics of my work, and I don’t understand yours at all. And that's normal, isn't it? In short, I would be grateful if you would get straight to the point.

Korneev chuckled vaguely and poured him some vodka. Fyodor Filippovich did not object, although his working day was not over yet.

You see, said Korneev, the whole trick is that I’m talking about business. Shooting the Ussuri tiger is a very profitable business, bringing in a lot of money. And our Foundation, almost from the first day of its existence, has been making certain efforts to shut down this business...

He fell silent, looking expectantly at Fyodor Filippovich. The general put two and two together in his mind, and he did not like the result, to put it mildly.

Wait, he said. You said something about the expedition that you sent there last spring... Korneev nodded silently.

- So you want to say...

The expedition did not return, confirmed Korneev. She just disappeared, as if she had evaporated. And no traces. Potapchuk thoughtfully drummed his fingers on the edge of the table.

Investigation?.. he asked, knowing in advance what the answer would be. Korneev waved his hand hopelessly.

- How do you imagine it? Of course, there was an investigation, and rescuers flew over the taiga for a month... But these are thousands of square kilometers! And not the steppes, mind you, but the taiga. And the staff there, you know, you can count on your fingers. Of course, we are not beggars; there were no problems with financing the search. They were searched for even in winter - from the air, of course. But... Well, I told you: this is a business. And it’s not just about tigers. Illegal logging, for example. After all, timber by the thousands, millions of cubic meters floats to China. And not just any pine or aspen, but cedar! And they cut it into sticks and sell it to us fools - exotic! In a word, crazy money is being pumped out of these places, and the local authorities are probably in for a share. It is clear that the expedition, which spent the whole summer roaming around the taiga, carefully looked around and was always wondering, could not arouse ardent love in