Blind man one step away from death: Blind, #8

By Andrei Voronin

Ministerial resignations, mysterious deaths of high-ranking officials, contract killings and high-profile court cases have shaken the whole of Russia. Read Andrei Voronin's new super action movie about a secret FSB agent Gleb Siverov nicknamed "Blind".

• Language: English
• Publisher: EDGARS-LTD GROUP
• Release date: Jun 30, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224110520

Book preview

Chapter 1

FSB General Fyodor Filippovich Potapchuk ordered his assistant not to let anyone in or connect with him for two hours. The desk in his office was, as always, perfectly clean, all the papers necessary for work were stored in locked desk drawers and in a safe.

Potapchuk turned the key, pulled out the drawer and took out a thick brown folder. He hesitated for a few moments, holding it in his hands, then carefully placed it on the table and opened it. Even at first glance one could understand that it would not be possible to read all of this in less than six hours. But it was required not just to read, but, after carefully studying the essence of the issue, to make the optimal decision. What kind of time frame can such work be squeezed into?..

Fyodor Filippovich Potapchuk armed himself with a sharpened pencil and delved into reading the first document. Handwritten stamp Int. pointed out that this paper would never leave General Potapchuk’s reception room, even if it was requested by higher authorities. It was a memo from FSB Colonel Kashirin.

Well, well, Oleg Ivanovich, after reading two paragraphs, Potapchuk exhaled with a whistle through tightly compressed lips, in my opinion, Colonel, you are going too far. You paint the situation in too gloomy tones.

The more the general penetrated into the meaning of what was stated, the more concerned his face became. He even tapped his pencil several times on the oak tabletop, as if this Morse code knock could give an answer, suggest a solution.

But there was no solution.

The general pushed the folder away, closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair and thought. He sat like that for several minutes, turning over in his mind the facts cited by Colonel Kashirin. Then he pressed the selector button and immediately heard the voice of his assistant:

- I’m listening, Fyodor Filippovich.

- Brew me some tea. Only in a large glass.

- Will be done.

Five minutes later, on the table, on which the closed folder was still lying, the assistant put a glass of tea - dark, steeply brewed.

- Anything else?

No, General Potapchuk spoke quietly.

The assistant headed for the door, but already at the exit from the long general’s office he inquired:

– Your order, Fyodor Filippovich, remains in force? Still not connecting to anyone?

- With no one.

The assistant gently closed the doors behind him, first one, then the other.

The general took a glass in a massive cupronickel glass holder depicting Kremlin towers with stars that no longer exist and took a sip. I instantly wanted to smoke. Fyodor Filippovich pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket.

Maybe we should abstain? I smoke a bit too much, he thought. But tell me, how can I not smoke when I read this?!" , Half closing his eyes, the general flicked his lighter. The cigarette was slowly smoldering. Potapchuk took one puff, then a second.

He smoked, and his long, narrow face maintained a constant expression, as if something was tormenting the general and did not give him peace.

Oh, that’s it! – Potapchuk got up, went to the safe and pulled out another folder, an exact similarity to the one that was lying on his desk.

Standing by the window, he quickly leafed through it, found the document he needed and, returning to the table, opened the first folder with a note from Colonel Kashirin. Many details, even minor ones, in these documents, which were in no way related to each other, coincided.

What is this? Artfully crafted disinformation?

But Potapchuk could not help but trust two independent sources. Colonel Kashirin was a reliable, proven person and worked with General Potapchuk for more than five years.

Strange, strange... If this is disinformation, then it’s very cleverly crafted. It’s true... and our crime rate is strong, the general reasoned.

Taking out a blank sheet of paper from the top drawer of his desk and placing it in front of him, Potapchuk drew a horizontal line with a pencil, dividing the sheet into two parts. Below the line he wrote the letters Bn. with a small dot. Then, higher up, I drew a second line and under it the letters Bz. with the same small neat dot. And finally, the third line, and under it - Pl.

– Bandits, businessmen, politicians. The scheme is simple. - Fyodor Filippovich muttered.

"The first layer is the most numerous, but also the poorest, has contact only with the second. The second is in contact with the third, feeds it, following the instructions of those at the top and transporting them down to the first layer. So with the help of organized crime, then I mean, bandits, politicians solve their issues by arranging fights among themselves.

There is, of course, official power, a huge apparatus of officials, the army, the Ministry of Internal Affairs, the FSB, the FSK... According to the scheme, it turns out that Oleg Ivanovich Kashirin seems to be right. But this is according to the scheme... although many facts indicate that the upper layer is served not only by official structures, but also by well-known bandits."

Interesting... the general took a sip of the cooled tea and lit a second cigarette. At this time, his hand absolutely involuntarily drew crosses, stars and various geometric shapes on the sheet over three horizontal lines, connecting them into an intricate pattern.

The general picked up the phone and dialed the number.

- Yes, I’m listening! – Colonel Kashirin’s slightly tired voice rang out.

– Oleg Ivanovich, Potapchuk greets you.

I found out it was you before I picked up the phone, Fyodor Filippovich. I have a phone with caller ID.

- Oh, this technique! Previously, bosses were recognized by their breathing. There was a whole science. Come up to me, Oleg Ivanovich, in about three hours.

Colonel Kashirin looked at the wall clock and checked it with his hand clock.

- In three hours, that is, at nineteen zero zero, Fyodor Filippovich?

- Yes, at nineteen.

- Sorry, I can’t.

- What is it?

- I have a meeting.

– Can’t you cancel?

– Unfortunately, no, Fyodor Filippovich.

– Well, then we’ll postpone the conversation until tomorrow, in the morning. Are you satisfied, Colonel?

That’s right, Oleg Ivanovich Kashirin said in military style.

- Well, good luck to you.

General Potapchuk knew perfectly well what his subordinate meant. At nineteen o'clock the colonel has an appointment with an informant, and not with some small fry, but with a figure, most likely a large one, because Kashirin has not met with ordinary informants for a long time. He handed them all over to the capable hands of his employees. Colonel Kashirin himself secretly worked only with very important people.

This is good. Perhaps tomorrow morning some new facts will appear. Apparently, he is meeting with Pavel Nikolaevich Bubnovsky, thought Potapchuk, and Bubnovsky, as a rule, gives important and timely information.

Bubnovsky had been working with Kashirin for five years, and, thanks to his reports, General Potapchuk knew a lot about what was happening and what was planned in the upper echelons of power. After all, Bubnovsky is an important official in the Prime Minister’s office, his information is worth a lot. True, once or twice he reported unverified information, but thanks to the caution and prudence of Fyodor Filippovich Potapchuk, they were not put into use, and Bubnovsky retained his position and continued to remain an undetected and very useful agent.

In recent months, Potapchuk has more than once encountered strange phenomena that defy ordinary logic. This suggested a conclusion that made the general feel cold inside. The conclusion, at first glance, was surprisingly simple and therefore even more threatening. There was one unknown missing, the presence of which the general had calculated in advance.

But it’s one thing to calculate it, and quite another to find it in the equation. Moreover, it is necessary not only to discover this unknown, but also to irrefutably prove the fact of its existence.

But there was not enough evidence yet. General Potapchuk instructed Kashirin to work in this direction. That's what the colonel has been doing lately.

According to Potapchuk’s conclusions, it turned out that there was another structure, no less significant than the FSB and FSK, and even more powerful than the presidential guard. This structure is invisible, intangible, it seems to be dissolved in society.

Its existence can only be traced by the consequences of the operations carried out, when among the explanations of a particular event, the most convincing seems to be the presence of an unidentified structure, unknown to whom it obeys, unknown how it is structured, a structure that leaves no documentary traces of its actions. Orders in such a structure are most likely given not in writing, but orally, in private meetings. The organization must be very well kept secret...

If, of course, it really exists, if it is not a figment of the imagination of General Potapchuk and Colonel Kashirin.

Indirect facts were also alarming: many of those who previously served in the all-powerful KGB, and then in the FSB and FSK, retired from service, but live without poverty, everyone is busy. And if you ask what they do, they will only shrug their shoulders and answer some kind of nonsense, which at first glance is convincing, or rather, convincing for someone who does not delve into the essence of the matter.

And General Potapchuk loved to delve into things. If they answered him I work for a company, he tried to find out what kind of company it was, what it did, who it contacted, and most importantly, where the funding came from. Some former work comrades said during the meeting that they help famous politicians, give lectures, and give consultations. But what kind of these consultations are and why they pay a lot of money for them, Potapchuk in some cases could only guess.

It is clear that many of the former worked for anyone as long as they got paid; but not all - Potapchuk was convinced of this. After all, he himself did not serve for the sake of money. Money, of course, is a necessary component, but not the main thing in life. The general worked because he could not help but work. And he knew who he was working for - for the state, for the president, for the legal, constitutional government. And the facts, small facts, at first glance, barely noticeable, visible only upon very close study, indicated that many of the former KGB and FSB employees also work for the sake of interest, for the future. But what prospect can they have outside the system? Any power is not eternal, and if people work for the future, it means they see a successor to the current president.

Why then don’t they work openly, don’t go into open politics? Something is wrong here... – these thoughts made General Potapchuk feel uneasy. - But nothing, nothing, Kashirin will come tomorrow morning, he should receive new information... and, perhaps, everything will become clearer. You look, the devil is not as terrible as he is painted, I could be mistaken.

Potapchuk opened the folder and began to look through the documents, making notes here and there, question marks, crossing out something, removing unnecessary words. Sometimes he even ruled the style.

There must be precision in everything. Vague formulations should not be allowed.

Potapchuk was convinced of this. Strictly following the clear and concise style he had developed over the years, he tried to accustom his subordinates to this, who, judging by the documents they left behind, were making some progress in the ability to express their own thoughts.

* * *

Exactly at eighteen zero-zero Pavel Nikolayevich Bubnovsky, an official of the Prime Minister's office, went to the window of his office and looked out onto the street. From the window of the White House there was a view of the river, and behind it rose the high-rise building of the Ukraine Hotel. Doors slammed in the corridor, the working day ended, and employees gradually left the building. Cars drove up to the porch and took someone away. But with the end of the working day, life in the government house did not stop for a minute. Telephone operators answered calls, computer screens glowed, faxes beeped. The White House continued to operate. And although in the evening and night hours the work was carried out on duty, if necessary, the owners of the offices? would have gathered in the building in a matter of hours. Security checked the documents, sometimes a late visitor was asked to show the contents of the case, they called the officials back to find out whether they really invited an inopportune guest, apologized, and smiled.

Pavel Nikolaevich Bubnovsky looked at his watch, then collected documents from the table and took out the floppy disk from the computer. He locked all this in a safe, taking the keys with him. The head of the department had the keys to the other safes, but only Bubnovsky had access to this safe. He himself changed the core of the key. In the pocket of Pavel Nikolaevich’s jacket there were two sheets of paper folded in four. Neither a wallet with money, nor two credit cards were as valuable as these seemingly unremarkable sheets. Even the keys to the safe and the documents stored in it were nothing compared to two pages of text typed on a computer and printed out.

Bubnovsky destroyed the information on the hard drive, checking it twice. He was extremely neat and extremely careful. When leaving his workplace, Pavel Nikolaevich did not leave a single piece of paper on the table, he did not even make notes on the desk calendar, all the pages remained blank. Perhaps this style helped the official work for many years in responsible positions, slowly but steadily moving up the hierarchical ladder.

Well, you can go, Bubnovsky got dressed, took his briefcase, straightened his scarf and left the office.

He handed over the key to the door to the attendant.

- See you tomorrow, Pavel Nikolaevich? – asked the duty officer.

- Yes, I’ll be there tomorrow, in the morning.

Bubnovsky was never late for work. He arrived no earlier and no later - second by second - and ended the working day minute by minute.

An impeccable official, a campaigner, the likes of which the world has never seen. He was even often used as an example.

If he went somewhere, he always left coordinates where he could be found. When going on vacation, he invariably provided telephone numbers and addresses.

Pavel Nikolaevich went downstairs. He didn't order a company car today. The street greeted him with the coolness of the night. It was getting dark. A meeting with Colonel Kashirin was scheduled at the Ukraine Hotel. The colonel promised to come alone in his car, without a driver. Bubnovsky was supposed to sit in the back seat, and then somewhere in the yard or in the parking lot they would exchange information. This has happened more than once, the procedure was worked out to the smallest detail, only the meeting places varied.

Bubnovsky called Kashirin in the morning, from a payphone at a bus stop. He uttered conventional phrases, and the colonel immediately understood everything.

- Will it suit you at nineteen? My transport, Kashirin clarified.

- Yes, it is quite.

- At the hotel?

- Yes, it’s more convenient for me.

Okay, the colonel finished the conversation.

Meetings between Bubnovsky and Kashirin did not occur often, once a month or a month and a half. As a rule, Kashirin asked questions and asked Bubnovsky to find out what the FSB was interested in. Pavel Nikolaevich carefully carried out his assignments, if, of course, it was within his competence.

Having already crossed the bridge, Bubnovsky turned around - no one was there. Shivering from the cold wind, he went down to the hotel. In his hand Pavel Nikolaevich held an umbrella with a long curved handle. He stood for some time at the monument to Taras Shevchenko and looked around. No one was watching him, only the guard at the entrance to the hotel glanced at the man with an expensive leather briefcase and a large umbrella in his hands, by his appearance and habits he immediately recognized him as an official from a house across the river, and not a small one.

Apparently, he is waiting for someone, most likely a woman. Then they’ll go up to the hotel... the room has probably already been rented... They’ll go down to the restaurant, have dinner and stay here all night.

The guard had already seen enough of such couples, and such visitors were of little interest to him. They make no noise and, as a rule, no trouble. Officials, and this man appears to be from the White House, are being extremely cautious. Who wants to shine with his mistress - to lose a warm place?

But the guard was wrong. The man who caught his attention was not waiting for anyone. They were waiting for him. Bubnovsky looked around several times, as if fearing something, and then headed towards the parking lot, where cars gleamed in the rain.

Yes, not to us... I wonder if the woman stopped by? Not typical.

But the guard did not understand who was behind the tinted glass of the car - a man or a woman. The back door quickly opened, the official dashed into the cabin, and the Opel immediately took off and backed up. The brakes squealed and the car abruptly pulled out of the parking lot. The artistry with which this was done left no doubt that an experienced driver was behind the wheel.

And only when the gray Opel found itself in the traffic, Kashirin and Bubnovsky shook hands. The colonel, who was sitting behind the wheel, extended his hand over his shoulder without turning around. Bubnovsky took off his glove and tightly squeezed the slightly sweaty palm of the FSB colonel.

- How’s life, Pavel Nikolaevich? – Kashirin asked, turning onto a quieter street.

- The same as the weather. Now it’s raining, now it’s sunny, now it’s warm, now it’s cold. Like a volcano, we’re about to explode.

– The comparison is, of course, beautiful. The White House once looked like a volcano when it was shelled by tanks, but now it is quite clean and presentable.

- That's what I meant. But the inside remains the same! The lava is bubbling.

- Guts - yes. A person changes clothes, and the rest is always with him.

And then Colonel Kashirin noticed a black jeep tailing his Opel.

Maybe it seemed? Let’s check, I’ll turn it off.

The jeep did not lag behind. The colonel said nothing to his passenger and, having driven a block, suddenly turned left. The black jeep did not lag behind and followed the Opel for another three blocks. The pursuers' license plates were splashed with mud.

– I don’t like this for some reason.

- What? – asked Bubnovsky.

- Jeep behind. Didn't notice?

Bubnovsky looked around. But the black jeep was no longer there; behind them was a modest Lada, which had appeared from nowhere on this quiet street in the city center.

- There is no jeep there.

I see for myself that it’s no longer there, said Colonel Kashirin, he was replaced, and now a Zhiguli is coming for us. Listen, were you followed from the entrance, Pavel Nikolaevich?

- Apparently not, everything is as always. I walked to the hotel on foot.

Or maybe it’s in vain, the FSB colonel said almost in a whisper, turning the steering wheel sharply to the left and driving into a very narrow alley.

The Zhigul, as if nothing had happened, passed the intersection and disappeared behind the houses.

We’re waiting, Kashirin said, stopping the car, but without turning off the engine.

Through the windshield, along which large drops mixed with melted snowflakes were sliding, he looked at the end of the alley. Slowing down a little, the same Zhiguli cars flashed between the houses, and the colonel even noticed that the driver looked in their direction.

Or maybe I just imagined it? There is one-way traffic there, Kashirin knew, any driver would have performed such a maneuver.

But all these coincidences, very similar to professional surveillance, were already starting to get on my nerves.

– Did you bring it, Pavel Nikolaevich?

Yes, yes, I brought it, Bubnovsky responded, putting his hand into his coat pocket and pulling out two sheets of paper folded in four. - Here's the list.

– The one I asked for?

Exactly that one, Bubnovsky’s fingers trembled.

Kashirin guessed that his passenger was nervous, even scared.

Don’t worry, the colonel lightly squeezed Bubnovsky’s hand, light a cigarette.

– I don’t want to smoke.

- Light a cigarette, your nerves are frayed.

- Yeah, they're going to get crazy here. It would probably be better to meet at the apartment.

Sometimes for his meetings, Colonel Kashirin used a safe house on the top floor of an old house on Tsvetnoy Boulevard. But this time he decided that there was no threat, and they could meet at the hotel. Kashirin unfolded the sheets of paper handed over by Bubnovsky, lit a cigarette and immediately leaned back in his seat. He was a little farsighted, and in order to read the document, the sheets had to be held at arm's length, under the steering wheel.

- Wow! - the colonel muttered. - What, is this one with them?

– Who do you mean, Oleg Ivanovich?

- Yes, here, at number seven. You could at least put them in alphabetical order.

- For what? I sorted them by importance.

They are all famous people: once you read them, you will immediately remember them.

– And yet, Pavel Nikolaevich, it seems to me that you have mixed up something. They can't be in the same company!

So it turns out, said Bubnovsky. – I checked and rechecked everything. Over the course of a month, they met with each other ten times and got together twice near Moscow.

- Well well! – Kashirin whistled. – What if there’s a mistake?

– No one is safe from mistakes – neither you nor me. You asked me to get information on them, I got it. You got what you wanted. Whether you like it or not is not my concern. Clearly, a list of conspirators is not a hundred dollar bill.

Colonel Kashirin conveyed the excitement of his interlocutor, which was visibly manifested on his face.

The eyelids trembled, the nodules appeared on the cheekbones, even beads of sweat appeared on the forehead.

- Fu, damn it, this one is here too!

– Read on, a few more names will surprise you.

Pavel Nikolaevich Bubnovsky sat leaning back in the back seat with an absolutely impassive face. He did his job, now let those who ordered the work sort it out. In the end, he is not to blame for what happened, he is only a messenger who brought bad news, only a mirror reflecting reality.

The FSB colonel turned on the windshield wipers, and they swept away large drops from the windshield.

Now the street was clearly visible. The city seemed completely extinct. The lights had not yet come on in the windows, passers-by were hiding, cars apparently rarely drove into this quiet alley.

What a weather it is, thought Bubnovsky, you won’t understand whether it’s winter or spring, hopeless darkness and rain that seems to never end.

And suddenly, through the twilight and a veil of rain mixed with snow, a jeep with extinguished headlights suddenly appeared in the alley, the same one that had been pursuing the Opel since the Ukraine Hotel.

Purely mechanically, Colonel Kashirin glanced in the rearview mirror. On the other side of the alley, Zhiguli cars were racing, splashing puddles.

- Here you go! - exclaimed the colonel.

He didn't have a weapon. He carried a pistol with him extremely rarely, only when participating in capture and liquidation operations.

The Jeep and the Lada stopped, blocking the Opel's movement both forward and backward. At the same time, the doors of both cars opened, people jumped out into the street and rushed to the Opel. Colonel Kashirin only managed to turn the key in the ignition, but the engine did not even purr.

Four shots rang out and glass rained down.

The attackers' pistols had silencers, and the shots were drowned out in the noise of bad weather and the monotonous roar of the big city.

In the back seat of the Opel, with a bullet through the back of his head and a bullet in his heart, Pavel Nikolaevich Bubnovsky was bleeding. With his hands clenched in death, he clutched his briefcase to his chest—the last thing the now former White House official managed to do.

A bullet hit Kashirin in the temple. He lay with his head buried in the steering wheel. Shards of wet glass sparkled in his short-cropped grayish hair. Blood from the wound flowed in spurts onto the colonel's trousers and onto the corrugated rubber mat. In his hand, Kashirin continued to squeeze two pieces of paper stained with blood with a list of names.

One of the attackers, apparently the eldest, reached out with a thin leather glove and pulled the sheets of paper from the fingers of the dead Colonel Kashirin. Two others were already searching the dead Bubnovsky. They took his briefcase, examined the car, but found nothing interesting - no documents, no weapons.

- Let's leave! – the elder, a clean-shaven man in a black coat, ordered quietly. The jeep and the Lada, without turning on their headlights, like ghosts, silently drove off in different directions.

And wet snow fell on the Opel and immediately melted, falling on the still warm windshield. Drops rolled down onto the back of Colonel Kashirin’s head, mixed with blood, and flooded the seat covers.

Show me, a man in a long leather jacket extended his hand to the one of the attackers who commanded the operation, and was now sitting in the back seat of a black jeep.

He casually handed over pieces of paper.

- Oh, look, Korovin is here too.

- Yes, I already noticed that. And not only him. There are many.

It’s good that we made it on time.

And we always make it on time, said a clean-shaven man with expensive glasses on a thin, hooked nose in a tone that brooks no objection.

The person reading the list winced as if from a toothache, annoying and unpleasant. It was unclear what bothered him more - either the blood on good Finnish paper, or the names on the list.

- How do they know about him? – the pointing finger stopped in front of one of the names. He didn’t seem to be shining, we took him out.

"We brought him out, but Bubnovsky started digging a long time ago, and we only identified him ten days ago, then we only started to drive him, follow him...

- It's good that he's a mug. A professional would immediately feel like he was being followed.

- It's a bummer, but he made a sensible list.

I think the FSB would pay dearly for it.

It would be expensive for all of us if they took it now.

- Yes, it seems like there’s no reason for it yet, they did a good job.

The driver behind the wheel of the jeep turned around sharply.

Phone, he said abruptly.

Come here, a hand in a thin leather glove took the phone and brought the receiver to his ear.

– ...

- Yes, everything is done, there will be no continuation.

– ...

- Where are you now?

– ...

- Fine.

– ...

- I'll find you myself.

– ...

- No, you don’t need to go there. Disappear for a couple of days and stay out of sight. You were not in the city.

Us too.

– ...

I love understanding people, it’s nice to work with people like that, the man casually put the phone on his lap and, taking one of the sheets of paper, began to study the columns of surnames.

His thin lips moved, silently uttering some words, and instantly became dry from excitement; from time to time he quickly licked them with his wet tongue like a snake.

Forty minutes later, a black jeep drove onto the ring road. Meanwhile, the Zhiguli drove up to the station, and three men left the car, leaving only the driver in the car. The passengers headed to the station building, and the driver carefully wiped the door handles, glass, steering wheel, even the dashboard and speedometer glass, although there was no need for this - no one touched the speedometer. But if you’re going to do something, do it thoroughly.

Chapter 2

On the occasion of Saturday, FSB Colonel Evgeniy Ilyich Samokhvalov was at home and, sitting in the kitchen, had been monotonously stirring his tea with a silver spoon for about five minutes.

- Yes, it’s already cooled down! – the wife’s voice was heard.

- What? – Evgeny Ilyich turned his head.

I’m telling you, your tea is cold! And you asked for some hot water.

- Oh, yes, yes, thank you, Zina, thank you. You, as always, notice everything.

– Although, unlike you, I do not serve in the FSB.

– Are you in the FSB?! I can imagine how you would drive your subordinates.

- Not like you, liberal. You don’t even have the courage to just shout at someone.

Why shout at them, objected Evgeniy Ilyich, they already work well, they try.

- They try, they try... But you just have to take the rap for their work.

– What can you do, the boss is always responsible for his subordinates.

– Drink tea, after all! I made fresh sandwiches for you, and you sit there as if in prostration. Again, you're probably thinking about something of your own? I haven’t been myself for a whole month now... Zhenya, I don’t recognize you.

If something happens, tell me, share, maybe I’ll help or at least support.

– You already support me. Nothing happened, never mind.

- What do you mean, don’t take it? Yes, I just can’t look at you without pain. Even my daughter is already asking:

What's going on with dad? Maybe you've got yourself a mistress?

- I? – Evgeny Ilyich smiled, but the smile turned out to be pitiful, confused, and he wanted to look reckless.

– You don’t know how to pretend, not like your work friends. You can never tell from them what is in their soul. Are you some kind of...

– But that’s why you love me, because I’m some kind? Which one, by the way?

- Yes, yes, I love it. Finally, drink tea! Let me add some boiling water.

Add, Evgeny Ilyich moved the cup, his wife added boiling water.

But Samokhvalov began again, clanking the spoon against the cup, stirring the golden aromatic liquid.

- Give it here! – the wife took the teaspoon and threw it into the sink. - So have you definitely decided to go?

We must, Yevgeny Ilyich confirmed not very confidently.

- What do you mean?

There hasn’t been anyone there for two weeks. The house was as cold as a doghouse.

- You'll still get sick.

- I won’t get sick.

-Who do you need to meet?

Yes, with one person, he offers me a job, Evgeniy Ilyich sighed heavily.

- Does he offer a job? Why didn't you say it right away?

Now I understand why you are like this! I remember how you suffered when you were offered to go to a think tank... What kind of job?

Good, muttered Evgeniy Ilyich.

-What do you mean good?

- They will pay a lot.

– What about the prospects?

- What are you talking about, Zina? What are the prospects?

- Well, is the general’s star shining or not?

Maybe it’s shining, maybe it’s not. Are my three not enough for you?

- Few! – the wife smiled. - Three stars is good, but only one big