Chapter 2

30 years later...

First passenger. 4,273 meters northeast

In the dim light of the lantern, the first November snowflakes were spinning, disappearing into the white muslin that covered the deserted road - in this industrial area, lost among the railway lines and old factory buildings, serenity reigned, which was not disturbed even by the roar from the Highway of Enthusiasts. Yet this serenity was deceptive. The harmony was broken by one false note, against which even Mr. Reeves was powerless, whose hypnotic voice poured into the cabin from the twelve speakers of the BMW X5.

Pustovalov woke up from the dope of distant memories and looked towards the copse, in which Colonel Basurov disappeared five minutes ago and once again thought that he had probably bet on the wrong horse.

It wasn't just the colonel, though he didn't give cause for concern at first. In the end, for a man who has not passed the temptation of money, Basurov rose quite well by his standards: he managed to sell a batch of Chinese engines at the price of French ones, sold fifty tons of expired beans to the Kazakhs, and carried out a couple of frauds with former colleagues from the contract department. Of course, this is not the level to compete with Yasin, but who could even compete with him?

It was something else. The fact is that Basurov has gone to the toilet for the third time in the last hour.

Pustovalov knew well that the experience of a negotiator teaches one to forget about such things as excitement, anxiety, and even despair. But such a number does not work with fear. This instinct is the strongest of human imperfections, and it has failed him more than once. A frightened person completely loses his adequacy, and Basurov already overestimated himself too much.

Even at a meeting an hour ago, he noticed his expanding nostrils. Excitement triggers the production of adrenaline and speeds up breathing. The lungs become wider, they need more air. They were sitting in the Coffee House on Aviamotornaya, and while Pustovalov habitually repeated the plan of action, Basurov's detached gaze glided along the same amplitude - from the window to the display case with cakes. There is no need to be a professional, as they say. The Colonel drank a double espresso in one gulp like cognac, then smoked two cigarettes, after which the runs to the toilet began. Pustovalov had not previously noticed that Basurov had problems with urination.

Pustovalov put his hand on the steering wheel.

Intuition, thanks to which he always managed to get between the jets, gave an unambiguous answer, but today, or rather, especially today, he did not want to follow it.

The fact is that today on Flotskaya Street, opposite house number thirty-six, Pustovalov was waiting for an inconspicuous cherry Volvo C80 of 2007, with a full gas tank, two spare canisters in the trunk, filled with fresh "consumables". No one knew that Pustovalov had sold two of his apartments and a house in Krasnaya Pakhra a month and a half ago, and since then he had been living in a rented one-room apartment near the Festival Park. And no one, of course, guessed that today in the apartment on Flotskaya Street a medium-sized bag was waiting for him, clean linen on the bed, prepared clothes in the closet, two sandwiches with ham, cheese, tomatoes and Wild Bill sauce wrapped in foil in the refrigerator and a thermos of coffee on the kitchen window. Everything you need for a quick dinner, shower and change.

Not later than two in the morning, Pustovalov must start the engine of the cherry-coloured Volvo S80 parked in a small parking lot seven hundred meters to the northeast, in order to leave the city along the Leningrad highway no later than a quarter to three. Leave the city where he will never return. And after eight hours, leave the country to which he will never return.

And, now, when it seemed that everything was already "on the ointment", a new problem appeared.

The main reason why Pustovalov chose Colonel Basurov was, of course, not his experience, but one of his former partners, some petty official from the Ministry of Defense, who pushed Yasin a batch of thermobaric warheads for grenade launchers a couple of years ago.

God knows - some kind of departmental swindler, but he was at least an official, unlike a retired colonel, who, in Yasin's understanding, was at best an empty place, and at worst a petty swindler. And yet, it was a way to reach Yasin. The idea to get close to Yasin using Basurov's "connection" seemed to Pustovalov a gift of fate.

Pustovalov leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly. It's a shame to abandon the work done, especially if this is the only "catch" for the whole year. Pustovalov was about to give up and go to rest with what he had - earned enough for the rest of his life, but two months ago, an informant reported that one front office was interested in laser equipment for cutting materials with non-existent strength indicators. Pustovalov quickly realized that this was the most personal request for a specific device. He forwarded the technical part of the request to an employee of the Institute of Applied Physics, Matvey Bocharov, who often advised him. Bocharov said,

Employees of "Spetsmetallov" were waiting for the device in the capital on October 20, but it did not reach Moscow. On October 19, at half past three in the morning, at the unloading and loading station Melekhovo-1, Pustovalov and his partner, the old bear cub Dementyev, opened the locking and sealed device of the freight train container, and to their delight they found not one, but two whole LXN-1000 - a device on wheels, dimensions resembling a large underwater tugboat.

However, the joy was short-lived - it quickly became clear that one copy was just a spare capsule. However, both devices had access passwords for opening titanium cases, written on factory tags attached to the casing lugs. For about a week they stood in the GSK near Tula, and by the first of November, Dementyev on the Gazelle delivered them to Moscow.

By this time, Pustovalov had found out that Yasin was behind the front office - a man from among those with whom Pustovalov preferred not to get involved, but, nevertheless, he had everything for a successful deal. He "strained" his "contacts" and went to Basurov. He seemed to be related to Yasin through a connection with a former partner, although he never met directly with him. Not the most reliable option, of course, but time passed, Pustovalov was about to leave, almost a million euros were at stake. A good bonus for the end of a career. And Pustovalov decided that for the sake of the last case it was worth taking a risk by contacting unreliable and dangerous people.

Matvey Bocharov checked the installation and helped to change the code. Pustovalov, with the help of Basurov, began to prepare for the deal. At that time, he did not really trust the colonel and therefore, for verification, he instructed to deliver to the place of exchange not a real LXN-1000, but a capsule “dummy”, on which, just in case, he also changed the code, remembering how Bocharov did it on the main device.

On an old broken-down Gazelle, the colonel, who had the rights of all categories, delivered the capsule to the parking lot of a shopping center near Bitsa. The real Pustovalov brought there two hours later in his old Ford Transit van with a large inscription "Wells and Septic Tanks" and parked it in a nearby parking lot.

Basurov was sympathetic when Pustovalov told him that he was carrying a fake LXN-1000 and at first showed all the signs of adequacy - he confidently agreed with Yasin's confidant, "introduced" Pustovalov to him, although Pustovalov was sure that Yasin had already made inquiries about him . Pustovalov hoped that Basurov would help give weight to their not very impressive tandem, flaunting connections in various structures, but now there is no trace of this confidence. Now Yasin can decide that they are just a couple of suckers who decided to play "serious people", which was, in general, not far from the truth. And no one pays a million euros to suckers. Especially people like Yasin.

There was another thing that bothered Pustovalov - despite all his efforts, he could not find out who was behind Yasin.

Movement behind the glass interrupted the flow of gloomy thoughts.

A few meters from the hood of his BMW X5, a black cat sniffed the air gracefully in a hunting pose. Pustovalov switched on the dipped headlights. The cat jumped up and gracefully jumped over the curb and disappeared into the darkness of the woods.

Pustovalov looked after her. The snow swirled, settled on the trees, the ground and the pavement, corroding the thick November haze that had had time to get bored. Pustovalov did not like darkness. When he was alone with her for a long time, sooner or later an old garage block appeared before his eyes, settled in loose loam on the outskirts of Kubinka near Moscow. Early nineties. The outlines of a dirty brick box that went a meter underground, of course, not because of the peculiarities of the soils near Moscow, but because of the incorrect laying of the supporting walls laid out during the construction of a hidden basement - this picture has appeared even now.

Pustovalov closed his eyes and, opening his eyes, saw the tall figure of Basurov against the backdrop of a copse. The Colonel stepped unsteadily on the fresh snow, tightening his trouser belt as he went. Now there was nothing left of an experienced negotiator in him.

Pustovalov turned off the radio and leaned over the "torpedo" to open the door for the colonel.

The tart smell of cologne mixed with tobacco and frost filled the salon.

- Why did you turn on the headlights?

- Because of the cat.

- Black?

You said you don't believe in omens.