UNDERGROUND

3

Chapter 3

Although the difference between them was only ten years, Pustovalov called the colonel "you" and this had an extremely practical meaning. Pustovalov generally avoided other meanings when it came to work. In negotiations with Yasin, he did not want to attract too much attention, and the role of Basurov's assistant suited him perfectly.

The colonel smiled sourly.

- Do you want a take? I almost fell into a hole there.

- What hatch?

- In the woods. Maybe an abandoned bomb shelter? - Basurov jerked the zipper on his jacket and twisted his face, as if his stomach hurt badly. - And yet, on the other side of the car is a cop.

Pustovalov said nothing, but Basurov obviously expected a different reaction.

- What do you say?

Pustovalov shook his head.

“I didn’t look too hard, though. Maybe DPS?

- Not.

Basurov looked at Pustovalov and screwed up his eyes.

- Oh, Sanya. Get on the right path, you would have made a good military man. Did you even serve?

Instead of answering, Pustovalov, like a pilot, began to turn on the toggle switches above his head before takeoff.

- Well, yes, - Basurov grinned, - a trifle, go, poked, then something bigger. Were your parents drunks?

“I’m from an orphanage,” Pustovalov answered, starting the engine.

- What is it about. The Colonel sighed. “These are the only ones that get through. And on both sides, which is interesting.

- Which side are you on?

- You're joking, Sasha, but I can close you and your corrupt cops for a long time.

The colonel scratched his forehead and glanced at the flat chrome-plated block bolted to the side post, on which Pustovalov was flicking toggle switches.

- And what's that?

- Design improvements.

Do you think I'm completely stupid? I'm talking about the hand. Show me.

Pustovalov unfolded his hand. Two sharp parallel scars crossed the brush along the fingers and the bottom of the palm.

- From what?

- Saw blade.

– Manual? For metal?

Pustovalov nodded and narrowed his eyes, which made his huge eyes turn completely black.

The Colonel shook his head.

“You rotten people, whatever you say. I served nine years in the technical control department. There is no handmade canvas of this width. When, why is this. Did you climb into someone else's lair?

Pustovalov lifted the corner of his mouth - he already understood that Colonel Basurov would no longer be able to sit silently.

- Listen, about Yasin ...

- I will not address him by your criminal nicknames! Basurov got angry, exposing his excitement.

- It's a name, but he doesn't mind being called Jacob.

"It's not too late," a thought flashed through Pustovalov's head.

This time he looked seriously at Basurov. At the fifth second, the colonel gave up.

- Well. - He said in an undertone. - What are we to fear?

Pustovalov really wanted to lie, but, alas, this would only make things worse.

Elastic tanned skin stretched, revealing a row of even teeth and dimples on Pustovalov's cheeks.

Basurov gave a forced laugh.

“But it's just business. The commodity is money. Money is a commodity. Win-win, as they say.

Pustovalov shook his head.

- “Just business” is selling pasties or changing mixers for grandmothers. Look at it differently. Like a profession with its side effects.

“Listen, I wasn’t born yesterday,” the colonel fidgeted in his chair, “I didn’t want to hear from you.

“You know why you are here. Just do what you have to and you will be in chocolate. You wanted it.

The Colonel was silent. Its elongated profile set off the dim light of a lantern outside the window. Finally, he sighed, turned around and, looking into the glove compartment, said:

- Yes, they all went.

- That's better. Wipe their nose.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren howled piercingly. The black BMW X5 moved off powerfully, crossed the path of cat tracks, turned and after thirty meters ran into a tall automatic gate with a small brick checkpoint.

Pustovalov turned his head. In the light of the lantern, his bronzed face, framed by dark, wavy hair, looked particularly masculine. Basurov looked at him wearily, without lifting the back of his head from the headrest.

“Listen, about this…problem.

- I dont know. - Pustovalov said quickly and signaled.

Trust me, it will be easier for me.

“In fact, I don’t know,” Pustovalov repeated ingenuously, looking around the upper edge of the gate, crowned with a row of spikes made of thin reinforcement.

Pustovalov looked to the left. The concrete fence behind the checkpoint went into the darkness of the coppice, thick barbed wire coiled tightly over it. Above the gate, he noticed two cameras: one was aimed at the entrance, the second at the entrance to the checkpoint.

Pustovalov again regretted that he had not found the time to study the map of the area. He's been in too much of a hurry lately.

- I will give a signal when I understand it myself.

- Symbol?

- Well, yes, I will say, for example ... For example, "the first snow."

- First snow?

- The first snow is a code phrase. Is it coming?

“A child,” Basurov said unexpectedly, looking out the window.

- What?

- Your palm. Basurov turned his head and looked at Pustovalov. - You were a child.

Pustovalov looked down at his double-scarred right palm and clenched it into a fist.

***

Hinges creaked. A massive metal panel slid open to reveal a car-cluttered courtyard in front of the end of a four-story building.

Out of habit, Pustovalov was in no hurry to move in, as if he was waiting for an invitation.

A strong guard came out from behind the gate, from the side of the checkpoint. A couple of seconds later, his twin brother appeared on the left, half a head shorter, and waved his hand - they say drive in. In the bright xenon light, a molten ear flickered under the short haircut.

Pustovalov nodded and slowly set off. Upon entering, he immediately stopped the car, ignoring the bearded man, who vigorously shook his bearish hand in the direction of the dumpster.

Pustovalov looked around. The gates closed quickly. The brain is working as usual.

- Why are you? - Colonel Basurov gave his voice. His eyes sparkled in the darkness of the cabin.

They want us to park there.

- AND?

Instead of answering, Pustovalov jerked off abruptly. A powerful car rolled out into the middle of the yard, and, braking a millimeter from the chrome-plated Hummer, squeezed its back between two cars right in the middle of the site, leaving the front end in the roadway. He did all this in a matter of seconds. From the darkness under the visor of the vestibule, a figure in a coat separated.

- Sanya...

- Get out faster! - Pustovalov told him.

He was already getting out of the car. His movements took on an unexpected briskness.

The bearded guards approached.

The figure in the overcoat turned out to be an imposing man of medium height with sad, avoidant eyes and a curly, lamb-like head. Pustovalov expected to see such a manager in the office of a large company, and not at the Yasinsk slaughterhouse.

“Good evening,” the man addressed them in a trained voice, “move the car there, please.”

He pointed towards the container. There really was a lot of free space.

Instead of answering, Pustovalov put the key in his pocket. One of the bearded men stood in the way.

- Sanya, what's the matter? Basurov tensed up.

“Sorry, brother,” said Pustovalov, rounding the hood of the BMW, watching the bearded men out of the corner of his eye, “Yasin is waiting for us at twelve-thirty.

The man in the overcoat shook his head wearily.

- I understand, but…

No, friend, you don't understand. Pustovalov put his hands in his pockets and stood opposite the man. “Twelve-thirty is not just time. This is the beginning. The beginning of the auction, in which your boss will debut as a VIP participant. But if by the beginning of this important procedure we do not have time to present him, then ... well, boys, you know better what will happen to Yasin when, through your fault, he finds himself in a stupid position.

Basurov followed Pustovalov with interest. He had never seen his new partner so confident before. Pustovalova's facial expressions artistically echoed the tact and intonations of her voice. His big eyes shone, he bowed his head first to the left side, then to the right - he seemed to be playing a role, but this game seemed so natural that Basurov literally physically felt a wave of disarming charm.

The man looked at the bearded men and nodded slightly. They parted.

Pustovalov tapped his finger on the dial of his watch and headed towards the building. Basurov followed.

But before entering the building, Pustovalov stopped and looked to the right towards the dumpster.

The street LED hung on the wall behind the container, and the smooth line of the shadow outline almost connected with the blind area of ​​the building. At the far end of this line, Pustovalov caught movement and, looking closely, noticed a small uneven shadow. Someone was crouching behind the container.

Pustovalov looked back at the yard.

A man with a sad face, along with bearded men, stood near his car.

“You will be met,” he shouted, thinking that Pustovalov did not know where to go.