Boris Gorowoi

translated by Daria Ilyina

DON’T KILL

Cold may rain, has been washing Vienna the whole night and stopped just early in the morning.

Gerhard Brenner was carrying a small suitcase on wheels and was holding a voluminous suitcase in his hands.

- Guten morgen.

The old chartered driver opened the boot, put there the suitcase and wanted to put there a coffer.

- No, thank you.

Gerhard, having put the suitcase on his thin knees, sat next to the driver.

A dark universal Volkswagen was driving slowly along one-sided streets of old Vienna, by Hofburg palace, along the third ring road and set out sprightly to the airport Vienna Schwechat. Gerhard Brenner, a thirty-nine years old producer, had major business. He was a bachelor and he listened just to his mother. Gerhard’s mother, Evelin Augusta von Trapp, a fifty-seven years old woman in the full bloom of her years with especial rare beauty, she inherited fifty million dollars from her late husband when the only heir was two years old. Mother, for all her life, has been enlarging their capital by all means and she has done it with inflation glance over and over again.

They are both united by all-absorbing cupidity and correct borders if they had existed they would have crossed them. Several times, Gerhard asked his mother about his father and about his death and also about that capital but his mother was keeping silent or was making a joke in reply and he has ceased understanding this topic since that.

The passenger was keeping silent till the airport and just at the end of the trip he said:

- Danke.

Gerhard got the waiting room, put straight his grey crumpled chequered jacket and sat not far from the bar gleaming with his thick glasses. The waiting room has been gradually filling with people. He didn’t notice that there were two people supervising him independently of each other.

One of them had big hands, a neck and a head, although he wasn’t tall, he was swarthy, he had predatory nose, dark sloppy eyebrows and unpleasant contours of the bottom part of his face. There was constant tension in his eyes. He was Turk but was born in Germany not far from Würzburg. He served as a private soldier when BND special services noticed him. His name was Durmus Ekidge but he has often been called Turk.

Another tall one had puffy face, carrying horn-rimmed spectacles, was a nice opened man, he more resembled a worker of a big computer company than one of the best Mossad contract murderers who worked under cover as a butcher and who had a special number and account. His name was Ari Pick, also known as Hasia-Butcher.

Both representatives of that amazing hard job didn’t exchanged civilities due to their job but fixed each other moreover Hasia-Butcher understood that this meet with the Turk at the airport wasn’t casual. With animal intuition he got that there would be interesting.

The number of the flight BA 699\ CX 252 British - Hong Kong, company Cathay Pacific at 7:40 AM on the 19 of May 2015 from Vienna to Hong Kong with changing of plane at Heathrow shown up on the table.

*

The phone was ringing at 5 AM in the Renaissance Mayflower Hotel in Washington. Olivia hardly opened her eyes, slowly scrambled down to the coffee table and croaked:

- I'm fed up with you!

Then she cleared her throat and said melodiously:

- My darling!

Once, she was an announcer in her Belorechensk.

- Hello, Vasiliy Ivanovich.

Vasiliy Ivanovich began giving instructions in a low voice:

- At eleven AM you have to be at the Art Freer Gallery. You have to imitate the beginning of family divorce.

- And who is he?

- His surname is Helmut von Neumann.

- How old is he?

- Seventy eight.

- Seventy eight!?

- Don’t worry. He is strong and he can leave younger generation in the dust.

She felt her partner next to her. Robert who didn’t understand any Russian word embraced Olivia and started stroking her beautiful legs.

- He has to leave loudly and you have to cry somewhere near.

- Vasiliy Ivanovich, I know everyrhing.

They left the room at eight AM hardly been in time for breakfast. Lusika, a Chinese woman responding the breakfast was looking at the couple with interest.

- We have broken away, - she thought, - eyes as drug addict people have and this smell.

*

A south night with big stars and million of cicadas was coming to an end. Light contours of milky dawn started to appear above the mountains. Colonel was drinking up whisky from his inlay churn which he has never left anywhere. No one knows why he has been called “Dux” since his school time.

A fairy huge five-star Hotel Caesar’s Temple, where Colonel without any plan has been staying for two weeks, consisted of villas and bungalows. Thirty-nine years old Leonie was telling a dull story of her life.

- We had to pledge our house and Karl had to ask his uncle to leave Sarah…

“One more week and I will kill her”, - thought Dux.

He was fed up with her cold lips, her face and stories. He had found this German woman accidentally when he was admiring morning sea dawn. This habit of many years to get orders early in the morning became a part of his life.

- Prosit, - he read on the distinct Leona’s bottom, he twisted his locket worn on his neck then he lied on the big snowy bed and fell asleep.

“These Russians are strange people”. Leonie looked at Colonel and started doing the room quickly. There were many small and big things, purpose of which she guessed about. There were wires scraps among covered with writing and crumpled piles of paper. She put the socks, briefs, shirts, trousers with different heavy unknown things in the pockets in a row. In this chaos the only system which could be formed was plastic-plastic, leavings-leavings, paper-paper as at the storehouse. Everything ended by that Leonie pressed some black device accidentally. A grey little ball rolled out of it on the floor. Having taken it Leonie felt acute burning on her palm. She ran to the bathroom, poured water. It was her mistake. The hotel shuddered. Her wail and scream resounded from the morning calm hotel, where Leonie dashed around, to the mountains. Colonel woke up, ran to the bathroom, examined the scene of the accident, smiled and understood that those new Swiss round mini-sedative worked great!

*

Aida Chtonova, a twenty-eight years old not tall, slim, Kirghiz was born in township Orlinskoe, at the foothills of Tien Shan. She has graduated from the Civil Engineering Department in Bishkek, entered the post graduate course, worked as a Young Pioneer organizer, as a master at the project, washed dishes and even was a conducter in the bus. Once, her life changed a lot when she had to help her father with the group of foreigner-hunters to shoot howling wolves at nights in the Tien Shan mountains.

Aid’s parents had graduated from the same institute and worked at the faculty of the steel concrete constructions but the main point of the family budget was her father’s talent as a guide and a hunter-trainer. He has been courting party bosses till 1991, in 90s he tracked the most dangerous cargos, often working as a sniper and since 2000, when he got the tour company, he has been specializing at “hunting”. Aida could feel mountains as animate creatures, as if inhabited pyramids with endless staircases inside were hiding behind them.

Once at the third course she was called to the local Kirghiz “lubyanka” and made her tell in details about all foreigners who had been hunting. Especially they were interested in one American who was the life and soul of that company. He was courting actively a one girl in the group.

Then Aida became proving her English, corresponding with them, firstly by letters then by the Internet. American’s name was Pit Gordon and he was watched closely by special services. Friendship with Pit gave Aida her first promotion. She became the senior lieutenant and started her first independent investigation.