Special Officer. Pavel Alekseevich Zasetsky: Official for Special Assignments

For most of his life, the great Russian writer Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev lived abroad, although he had no friction with the authorities, and his works were actively published in Russia.
The writer died in 1883. Turgenev's body was, according to his desire, brought to St. Petersburg and buried at the Volkovskoye cemetery with a large gathering of people.
These are the main milestones of his life.
And now about the alleged service in intelligence.
In 1832, the III Branch of His Imperial Majesty's Own
Chancellery, the new body of the Russian political police, brought in foreign agents, who were also engaged in foreign propaganda. With the money of the branch in France, Prussia, Austria and Germany, Russian newspapers were published. These newspapers were published ostensibly for immigrants, but in fact they quite subtly propagated the tsarist foreign policy. The branch was supposed to build bridges with the official and semi-official media and with the foreign writers of the time. And get some loyalty out of them. And it required specially trained highly educated personnel. That is why, upon returning to Russia in January 1843, Ivan Turgenev enters "by invitation" to serve in the Ministry of the Interior. Next - service in the "special office" under the direct supervision of Vladimir Ivanovich Dahl - official for special assignments in the Ministry of the Interior.
November 1, 1843 Turgenev meets the singer Pauline Viardot. Young Turgenev fell in love on the spot. They say that he admired Polina so noisily in conversations with friends that he even annoyed many! The critic Vissarion Belinsky once allegedly told him: "Well, how can true love be as noisy as yours?" Was it love or was the affair with Pauline Viardot just a lucky legend for him?
Some circumstances of Ivan Sergeevich's life indirectly indicate that he really could work in intelligence.
To begin with, the great Russian writer was fluent in five European languages. “Turgenev spoke German quite fluently,” wrote the German philologist, Professor Ludwig Friedländer. “Very rarely he resorted to English or French words when he could not immediately find the corresponding German.”
"And how well he spoke French! - wrote Sergei Lvovich Tolstoy, brother of the famous writer. - It is known that the French themselves admired his accent and turns of speech."
Thanks to his brilliant knowledge of languages ​​and education, Ivan Sergeevich freely communicated with the best minds of Europe. Among his friends, he had writers George Sand, Gustave Flaubert, Emile Zola, Victor Hugo, Alphonse Daudet. Of course, with such connections, Turgenev could influence public opinion and form a positive image of Russia in the press!
Ivan Sergeevich also had extensive connections among the Russian emigration. “It was rare to find Ivan Sergeevich alone,” recalled the writer Alexandra Budzianik. “During office hours, one or several people always had to be caught talking to him ...”.
In this sense, his beloved, Pauline Viardot, who was friends with many influential people, was also very useful to him. German King Wilhelm and Queen Augusta, Dutch and Belgian princes and princesses easily came to her salon in Baden-Baden. In Paris, Viardot's house was also open to aristocrats, politicians and intellectuals.
In 1878, at the international literary congress in Paris, the writer was elected vice-president; in 1879 he received an honorary doctorate from Oxford University. Of course, with such connections, Turgenev could influence public opinion and form a positive image of Russia in the press!
His task, perhaps, was to track all false information about Russia in the foreign press, as well as to create a favorable image of our state in the West. That is, Turgenev was a kind of participant in the then ideological war.
Unfortunately, there is no reliable data on the intelligence activities of the writer. At best, these data were preserved in some archive, classified even before 1913.
We, modern readers, who were fond of the novels of Yulian Semenov, are not shocked by the image of the writer Turgenev in the role of a kind of Stirlitz, on the contrary, we are attracted, we want to take his novels and re-read from a different angle ...
Detail:

The first part of the "long road in the dunes" is over - in Russia, at last, a federal commissioner for the protection of business interests has appeared. This event was preceded by endless discussions on a number of fundamentally important issues, the main of which was the following: what will the business community get from a certain intercessor for its own affairs? Who will he be, this ombudsman - an adviser, a public figure or just an official under the head of government?

Our local coordinating council for SMEs, I remember, emphasized that this position should be state, with a clearly defined terms of reference, otherwise who will listen to the “authorized person”? The voice of the defender of the merchants will not reach the ear of the boss, who will have the right to "final paper". There was already an example of this kind. In Ulyanovsk, the Ombudsman holds the rank of Deputy Prime Minister of the regional government. But if it is an official, then his circulation in society will also be bureaucratic in its main features, that is, it is known which one ... And even though they will call him a beautiful foreign name, designed to mediate, this will not introduce anything fundamentally new into social metabolism. Unless it will become a new word in state construction.

And if so, then it would be better if the German experience was taken as a model. There, not only is there no entrepreneurship outside of membership in the chambers of commerce and industry, but also these chambers are like a special entrepreneurial ministry: they sit everywhere, participate everywhere, all laws are voted - at least by signatures, without which, however, not a single act of business will not take off. At the moment, the German chambers of commerce and industry are involved in the formation of budgets at all levels, the development of construction and industry, the preparation of bills relating to the regulation of small businesses. Chambers of Commerce and Industry have a great influence on all aspects of society, participating in the meeting of local governments.

In our country, this topic was well highlighted last summer at a meeting of the Public Chamber of the Republic of Tatarstan by Khuzina from Delovaya Rossiya and Shamsutdinov from Right Cause. "DR" boasted of the analytical notes of the "Barometer" project, with which she filled up the tables of the government, and "PD" was importunately interested in:

- Veta is not?

- And what is under the veto in the country? - DR boiled. “If it were, we wouldn’t be sitting here.

Symptomatically: "public activists" longed for an administrative cudgel, and not, for example, to develop arbitration arbitration, which would not allow a mass of disputes to reach an official trial, with which business representatives are categorically dissatisfied.

The country has a great number of public organizations designed to represent and protect the interests of business. And there are many of them in the republic - more than three dozen. And what? Who among the entrepreneurs will remember them offhand?

- The Association of Small and Medium Businesses, the Association of Enterprises and Entrepreneurs, the Chamber of Commerce and Industry, the Farmers Association - what else? What else can be known to a businessman of my level? - exclaimed then the general director of "Elemte" Z. Shafikova.

We have organizations for every taste: for parties, New Year's balls, training courses ... But businessmen do not really want to go to matinees and vernissages. Almost 170 thousand SMEs alone - and only 20 thousand members of public organizations. Will the authorities seriously listen to every eighth or ninth person?

Vladimir Zhuikov, who represented the "Center for Business Services" of the Chamber of Commerce and Industry, I remember, for a long time listed organizations that, in theory, should protect the interests of entrepreneurs. And he asked himself a rhetorical question: will there be a “synergistic effect” from the establishment of a regional ombudsman? It will, of course, how not to be. Will it block another synergistic effect that comes from fear of the authorities and legal illiteracy?

There are, of course, serious successes in the profile, so to speak, properties. The Farmer's Association designs insurance and banking products and offers them to bankers and insurers. You can deal with arbitration courts, legal services, business lunches. Yes, not much else. But a specific area of ​​relations with the administration has been and continues to be served by specific intercessor mediators. It is difficult to expect that the Ombudsman will strongly press them.

So far, there is a regional ombudsman only in Ulyanovsk. But what the Ulyanovsk guest, Deputy Prime Minister Anatoly Saga told our local entrepreneurs, did not connect in his mind with human rights activities, even if they were so specific. At best, it looks like the work of a specialist in psychological communications between the population and the authorities. Relations are warming, of course, but that's all.

No one then objected and does not object that ombudsmen-arbitrators are needed and important - regional and federal. But it is more logical to develop what already exists and for some reason is stalling.

Public activists-businessmen bitterly stated that, for example, Canadian public activists consider bank interest more important than anything else, which they are not interested in. Business rights are protected by the state of businessmen. And disputes are resolved in courts.

“Half of the people need loans, investors. Public organizations do not have systematic work on this part. Focus on the financial component." Maybe, indeed, kickbacks and other things of the same kind are inevitable when they are waiting for help from the state? The giver will always hurt the taker.

Baitemirov has long been talking about the turnover of land - more precisely, its absence, Salagaev - about huge kickbacks to administrators who "will put in a good word" for a loan applicant, others - about "leasing", squandering state support to entrepreneurs ... It was, in essence, about a threat to the entire economy. About threats to all citizens. This means that it is rather strange to artificially narrow the issue down to the entrepreneurial segment, the plots recorded only within this social stratum. It's like a substitution of concepts. In the West, the financial ombudsman resolves disputes between banks and consumers of their services, without distinguishing between the social status of people. In Britain, the Guardian, for example, maintains an independent ombudsman editor to deal with reader complaints about journalists - all readers!

Most likely, judging by the statements of Boris Titov, it is not investments that will come to the fore in the work of the ombudsmen, but the rights of businessmen, the review of cases opened against entrepreneurs, and contacts with the law enforcement system. In any case, violations of rights long before the appointment of the federal commissioner were monitored by the Opora Rossii special bureau. Apparently not relying on the speedy progress of the judicial system, Titov also called for the development of powerful arbitral tribunals - that is, to bring business community disputes out of the jurisdiction of official courts as much as possible.

Another note. In progressive countries, the ombudsman is a "parliamentary" rank that controls the actions of government departments. Is the Deputy Prime Minister in this case an ombudsman? Rather, another official on special assignments. Putin called such a figure "procedurally significant." Characteristically, no one remembers the Guild of SMEs, which brought people to the streets. The full is not a friend to the hungry.

The Ombudsman will have the right to defend the interests of entrepreneurs in court, consider their claims, make proposals to state authorities, as well as the right to suspend departmental regulations pending a court decision and, as interim measures, apply to the court to promptly suspend the actions of officials. In addition, according to the prime minister, associations of entrepreneurs will have the right to file lawsuits to protect the interests of merchants.

ABOUT mbudsman(from Swedish ombudsman, ombudsman, “representative”, entered Russian through English, hence “men”) - in some states, an official who is entrusted with the functions of monitoring the observance of the legitimate rights and interests of citizens in the activities of executive authorities and officials. The official job titles vary from country to country.

The post of "parliamentary ombudsman" was first established by the Swedish Riksdag in 1809. The official title of the position of such a state controller is different: for example, in France - an intermediary, in the UK, New Zealand, India - a parliamentary commissioner (authorized). In some countries, there are several ombudsmen, each of which is assigned a specific area of ​​​​management (in Sweden, for example, civil, military and consumer affairs). They are elected by parliament or appointed by the head of state. When checking the actions of officials of the state apparatus, the Ombudsman does not have the right to cancel their decisions, but can give appropriate recommendations. In most countries, its control is very limited, it does not extend to the activities of the government, ministers, foreign affairs agencies, police, municipal bodies.

Current page: 2 (total book has 22 pages) [accessible reading excerpt: 6 pages]

Oper, looking at the genuine confusion of the state councilor, has already begun to think - for evil or for the good of his appearance here? He did not suffer from youthful maximalism for a long time. And about the butterfly Ray Bradbury remembered well. And, also, where the road paved with good intentions leads. He understood one thing very well - he would not achieve a complete understanding of the situation from the locals. Monarchists will be loyal to the tsar, regardless of whether it will turn out to be good or bad for Russia. Revolutionaries, too, take out and put down the overthrow of the autocracy, and no nails. And then they will take each other like spiders in a jar.

I wonder if an official for special assignments is a big enough "bump" to start his game? Yes, no, - he mentally pulled himself up, - have you lost your mind, or what? It's cheaper to squeeze between Scylla and Charybdis. There, and then, more chances. Yes, what is there, if we talk about the chances, he has them, like a mouse between two millstones.

- All right, colleague, - Koshko yawned, - let's sleep, perhaps. We will arrive in Kyiv only tomorrow evening. The emperor will only arrive in five or six days. So, I think we have time. Yes, how do you like the facilities here? You, I suppose, progress has stepped so far that we, the dark ones, could not even dream of.

- How can I tell you, - Stas answered evasively, - I didn’t ride in the general’s cars. In simple, of course, there is no such luxury. But trains, of course, run faster. Good night, Your Excellency.

He, little by little, began to grow into this new old life._

1 Stas did not make a reservation, this is exactly what is written in the materials of the criminal case. The fact is that until about the 30s of the 20th century, the words “pistol” and “revolver” were full synonyms.

Chapter 3

The train arrived in Kyiv when it was already getting dark. The travelers stepped onto the platform. True, it was still quite light, and the lanterns were not lit.

When they came to the station square, a cab dashingly rolled up to them.

- Where would you like, gentlemen?

Stas looked back at Arkady Frantsevich - he had never been to Kyiv in his previous life.

“To Fundukleevskaya, to the Hermitage,” he casually threw, sitting down on the seat.

“What, the driver doesn’t know which street the hotel is on?” Stas chuckled softly.

“So that you don’t roll around in circles, like visitors,” Koshko waved him off, thinking about something of his own.

It turns out that the tricks of taxi drivers were born before the advent of the taxi itself, as such. Indeed, there is nothing new under the sun.

Realizing that the state councilor was not up to him, Sizov leaned back on the soft seat, looking with interest at the streets along which they were driven by a cab. They didn't bear much resemblance to the old chronicles he had seen. Maybe the fact is that black-and-white films with unnaturally hurrying characters did not much resemble these streets with people alive and calmly going about their business. Rather, it looked like an image from a feature film. Strictly speaking, these streets, as they say, did not catch the eye - everything is ordinary, except that passers-by are dressed a little differently, and there are different cabs and carriages instead of cars.

They got out near the Hermitage Hotel, met by no one, and went inside. In the huge hall, behind the counter, the receptionist was bored. When they appeared, he instantly threw off his sleepy stupor and stared at the newcomers with the greatest attention.

“A room for two,” Koshko threw, casually handing over his passport.

Stas handed in his own, briefly noting that the detective's passport was issued in the name of the tradesman Ivan Petrovich Fadeev. Apparently, there was enough intrigue between the services. If so, their task becomes more complicated by an order of magnitude - it is unlikely that the head of the local gendarmerie will accept them with open arms and will discuss his agents with them.

“I definitely wouldn’t,” Stas honestly admitted to himself, following the “bosses” along the red carpet to their room.

In the process of further discussion of the details of the operation, it turned out that he was absolutely right in his suspicions.

- It seems that we are doing one thing, - the chief of the Russian detective said with annoyance, walking around with a glass of tea in his hands around the luxurious room, - Well, it would be okay, it was about something really secret. That these are re-evolutionary, - he said this word with unspeakable contempt. - the gendarmes knock on each other, like crazy woodpeckers - an open secret. I hope that at least you, at the end of the 20th century, are not familiar with these troubles?

- What is there, - sighed operas, - as if, even worse than yours.

- How? - amazed, Koshko stood up like a statue. - Stop! Have I misunderstood that you have a ... um ... state of workers and peasants, right?

“So,” Stas nodded doomedly, feeling like a lecturer who was obliged to explain to the younger group of the kindergarten how communism differs from war communism.

- And who is revolutionizing there, let me ask you a curiosity? What happened there, among the workers and peasants, their pariahs and patricians appeared?

“You have remarkably accurately expressed the essence of the problem,” Sizov smiled wryly. However, they didn't go anywhere.

“Yes, well…,” the detective shook his head, “poor Russia, it seems, is not destined for her to live long without shocks.

- Well, he who is warned is armed.

- What?! What do you want to say?

The State Councilor Koshko looked as if he had been poked on the crown of his head by a Newtonian apple. Oper looked at him with a grin. As soon as he finally realized that he had fallen into this world for a long time, the understanding came that if it was possible to stop the assassination of Stolypin, why not stop the revolution?

No matter how absurd it sounded, the task did not seem hopeless to him. Difficult, almost impossible - yes! But, as we say, "a little bit" does not count. Stas was not some sort of idealist. Rather, on the contrary - solving some problem, he became pragmatic to the point of disgrace. But, paradoxically, among his colleagues, Senior Lieutenant Sizov was known as a reckless idealist. For the simple reason that nothing could stop Stas, who “fell on the trail”. Except, perhaps, a direct order. Yes, and that.

Jumping from roof to roof, entering the apartment through the balcony on the seventh floor and other exploits created a reputation for him, which, as Stas himself soberly assessed, did not deserve in any way. Perhaps best of all, he was characterized by one case. Then, in the large cities of Russia, teenage gangs were gaining strength. Fight "district to district" was, at that time, a common thing. He acted as duty officer in the department, and in the evening the duty officer in the city informed him via “direct communication” that two large groups of teenagers were moving towards each other, and the proposed meeting should take place, precisely, on their territory. It is too late to raise the riot police - they will have time, perhaps, already in the midst of the massacre. Plus, kids.

The devil knows whether the “policeman” really thought that it was inappropriate to raise the special forces, or simply “got off” because he overslept this matter, Stas did not delve into it - what's the difference now? How can the duty officer in the department react to a mass brawl? Yes, nothing. This was well understood by both, but one "leaked" responsibility to the other. And, this "other" exit had two. And both are dead ends - not to do a damn thing, referring to the fact that in his submission, at the time of receipt of the information, there were only a guard and a driver. Or go there alone and become a victim of a group attack. Even if you are lucky to stay alive and keep your service weapon (unless, of course, you can believe that curious youngsters will not take the weapon from the cop lying dead), a long unsubscribe to the prosecutor's office on various stupid issues.

However, Stas acted madly simply. Taking a machine gun from the ruzhpark, he left the guard in his place and drove to the very “rendezvous point”. He was lucky - he accurately calculated that the "skhodnyak" would break out, exactly, in the school yard. Having entered there, he calmly got out of the car and, looking at how the "vanguards" had already begun to jump from two different ends over the fences. And then, just as calmly, he gave the command: “Disperse!” and gave the turn up. The teenagers splashed in all directions and the incident was thus settled.

It is difficult to say what was more here - luck or calculation. Stas himself adhered to the second version. Management and colleagues, as expected - the first.

- How could you think of - on children with a machine gun? Are you crazy? - then the head of the department asked him in horror.

- Evgeny Savelyevich, - Stas answered calmly, - everything was calculated: until the fight began, they were still thinking. They are not fools - to rush to the machine. On the contrary, a cop came out with a machine gun. This is an adventure - they will be proud of it, they will retell it to their friends. And the price of this case is three Akaem cartridges. And the only victim.

- Who?! “Tusk” exclaimed in horror (as the boss was called behind the eyes).

“Pomdezh,” Sizov grinned, “he had to clean his machine gun. And if I hadn't stopped them, there would have been more of them.

Winners, as a rule, are not judged, and everything ended up with verbal “creaking” from the authorities and from colleagues - verbal censures in obscene form. Here, of course, the situation is more complicated. Stas understood perfectly well that the revolution was not a crowd of drunken sailors who took the Winter Palace in the mood. Any revolution is, firstly, big money. He knew that the Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, Socialist-Revolutionaries and others were being financed very intensively from outside.

Moreover, not only foreign intelligence agencies, who needed a stable Russia, like a boil on their ass. The bourgeoisie, so hated by the proletariat, whom the workers and peasants then lustfully shot and hung on street lamps, also took part in this - be healthy! Of course, you can understand them. To arrange a bourgeois republic instead of the autocracy that has set its teeth on edge - this is the carrot that the industrialists fell for. They underestimated the Bolsheviks, which is already there.

Accordingly, the second important factor follows from this - people. Or rather, personalities. Lenin, Stalin, and others like them, are idiots only in the inflamed imagination of the Soviet intellectual. Well, what is the demand from them. In these very peculiarly arranged heads such contradictory circumstances perfectly fit together, such as what the clever and brilliant politician Churchill considered one of the outstanding rulers of the “paranoid” and “bloody executioner” Stalin. However, God is with them, it is a sin to laugh at the poor ..

And Stas was well aware that he was losing to them in all positions, except for one and only - he knew the buy-in.

And so, looking into the dumbfounded eyes of the great detective, he smiled broadly.

– I want to say that you and I have a chance to save Russia.

And, taking the bottle, contrary to all etiquette, he drilled himself brandy directly into a tea glass and waved it in one gulp.

In the morning, State Councilor Koshko went on a visit to the head of the Kyiv gendarme department, Kulyabko.

“Oh, if you knew, Stanislav, how much I don’t want to pay this visit,” he sighed.

- I guess, - Stas nodded, - it's a pleasure to communicate with the "neighbors".

- Neighbors? - the detective did not understand, - Ah! You mean the neighboring department? It's funny noticed, it will be necessary to tell colleagues, they will have a lot of fun. Well, for now, take a walk around the city, or something.

“Ah, in fact,” thought the opera, “there is no time to sit around. At least look at the approaches to the theater.

Speaking frankly, he did not really believe that Arkady Frantsevich and the gendarme could come to a consensus. The reaction of the latter is quite predictable - thanks for the information and - goodbye! We are professionals, we ourselves, without snotty, will figure it out.

It is right, of course, that everyone is minding their own business, otherwise it would not be a job, but a real house of tolerance - you will not understand who, whom and for what. However, it is also true that "the specialist is like a flux - he is one-sided." Kozma Prutkov was right. And the fact that the ark was built by an amateur, and the Titanic by professionals, is also said not to the eyebrow, but to the eye.

“In general,” Stas grunted to himself, walking along the morning streets of Kyiv, “hope on the gendarme, but don’t make a mistake yourself.”

The bell boomed with a booming bass, and its voice hung in the air for a long time above the gilded domes that rose above the city like the helmets of ancient warriors. The fresh air, not “weighted” by the exhaust, invigorated, it was easy to breathe, he looked at the signs on small shops and stores with curiosity. The service people hurried, forever afraid of being late. With a loud clatter of hooves, a young cornet prattled, judging by his serious look, with an assignment. Bouncing on the cobblestones with wheels, a heavily loaded wagon train creaked, it was overtaken, honking, by a shiny car, behind the wheel of which a driver wrapped in leather proudly sat.

For some reason, looking at this couple, Stas immediately decided that they were going to the theater. Moreover, they are not just going there, they are the flesh of the flesh of this theater. There was something in them, bohemian, or something. Both of them were tall and slender. But, judging by their clothes, sewn, albeit with pretensions, but clearly by a small-town dressmaker, they were far from the upper class. One had big bright eyes. So big that he immediately, out of habit, dubbed her the Dragonfly. The second had sharp facial features and Stas, to himself, designated her Bird.

He was sure that their belonging to the world of art identified correctly. Perhaps the look with which both "shot" at a tall handsome opera. Or maybe the very weightless vibes that he, as an experienced cop, caught with his “upper flair”. Stas, over the years of service in the mentor, got used to trust this feeling. More than once it saved him from trouble, but a couple of times, for sure, from certain death.

Therefore, without even having time to properly “suck” this unexpected inspiration on his own, he took a step towards the girls. There was no need to delay, for the theater was already at a distance of direct visibility.

- Forgive me, for God's sake, my impoliteness. Let me introduce myself - collegiate secretary Sizov Stanislav. Can you tell me how to get to the Opera?

They seemed to be waiting for this. The dragonfly smiled happily, as if meeting an old friend. The bird, on the contrary, modestly looked down. However, at the same time, she “gave a joint” so much that anyone who understands something in women would understand that if her friend can be “removed” in five seconds, counting inhalation and exhalation, then this one herself will “remove” anyone you want.

“Vika,” the big-eyed woman tilted her head.

“Nika,” a friend introduced herself to her tone.

“If you show us a little,” the big-eyed girl looked at him coquettishly, “you will come straight to the Opera.

- With great pleasure, - Stas bowed gallantly, sitting next to him. - you can see the servants of the muses from a mile away. Oh, the muses! Melpomene, Polyhymnia and Thalia! And the waist! - Exclaimed, struck in the heart, Mark Antony and Rome was instantly renamed.

The girls laughed merrily. The newly appeared cavalier, obviously, came to their liking. And dressed more than decently. It was so hard for them, poor servants of art, to break through in this world! In their dreams, they dreamed - no, not at all about a prince, rather, about a wealthy gentleman - preferably young and generous, who took under his wing a young talent. And the limit of girlish dreams is a successful marriage! And now, who knows, maybe it was Mrs. Fortune who suddenly became generous, giving them such a chance?

- Yes, it is felt that the muses honored you with their presence.

- Yes you! – picturesquely clutching his forehead, Stas continued to “sham”, “I am stupid, tongue-tied and clumsy, and only at the sight of you, a poet woke up in my soul, ready to admire every centimeter of your shoes with iambic pentameter.

- Wow, what a compliment you are, - not either condemning, or admiring, she stretched out, coquettishly moving her shoulder, Bird.

“Tonight they are giving The Tale of Tsar Saltan,” the Dragonfly announced proudly, “the Sovereign Emperor himself will be at the performance.

- The emperor himself? - made the "big eyes" of operas, - it turns out that you will be there until late. It's a pity. So, it will not be possible to bring you flowers and champagne ..

“Well.,” Dragonfly threw a quick glance at her friend, “actually….

- Nothing is impossible. There is one secret passage there, and we will show it to you. Only, uncle Vasya, a carpenter, needs to be paid two kopecks.

- Yes, I'll pay him a ruble, - Stas exclaimed passionately, giving both of them such a look that the Dragonfly blushed like a May flower, and the Bird gave a promising look.

Approaching the theater, the girls went around the building, beckoning Stas to follow them, and stopped in front of some unsightly door, which was not locked. A dim light bulb burned in the half-dark corridor, and there was a smell of wood and glue. Of the two doors, one was locked with a padlock, and light poured out of the second, and someone's voice, completely devoid of musicality, sang Lensky's aria:

- I-a lu-at-blue-at you. I love you, Olga.

- Uncle Vasya! - called the Dragonfly-Vika.

- Ash? - a grayish beard peeped out of the door, over which two rook eyes glittered.

“Uncle Vasya, hello,” Bird-Nika sang. - How is your health?

“Ah, it’s you, dragonflies,” the “singer” smiled. The old man has arrived.

He failed to reach an agreement. The front door swung open and a tall policeman walked in. Stas looked at the shoulder straps - green, like a foreman's, only a gray stripe.

“Sort of like a police officer,” he recalled, recalling what he had read in Koshko's office.

- Hello, who is in charge of this room?

“I, Mr. Police Officer,” Uncle Vasya stretched out “into the front”. - Carpenter Vasily Kutsenko, tradesman.

What about you young people? – the police officer turned to Stas.

“Sure,” he nodded. “However, please don’t stay here too long. An important event is underway.

- Yes, we have already almost agreed, - the operator smiled, - now we will leave.

“Tell me, my dear,” having lost interest in them, the policeman turned back to the carpenter. - Can I go inside the Opera House from here?

- No way, - "eating with his eyes" the authorities, rapped out Uncle Vasya. So, the room is closed.

"Where does this one lead to?" - looking into the carpentry, the warden showed, pointing to the locked door.

“So, don’t worry about it,” the carpenter began to fuss. - This is our closet.

– Open.

After making sure that the pantry had no way out, he turned back to Stas.

“I beg your pardon, office. Let me take a look at your papers.

Carefully looking at the passport, he looked at the opera attentively.

- Where would you like to stay?

- In the Hermitage.

- For what purpose did you come to the city?

- Commercial affairs.

- All the best, - having returned the passport, the police officer left.

“The authorities are worried,” Uncle Vasya chuckled sarcastically. - So, what, young man, shall we order a bookcase?

“Well, Uncle Vasya,” Nick drawled capriciously. This young man is our friend. Bring him to us tonight, please.

“No, no, no, don’t ask today,” the carpenter shook his head. – You see what is going on today, right, Sodom and Gomorrah.

Dragonfly-Vika, behind her friend, indicated a gesture familiar from the opera, rubbing her thumb on her index finger. Stas nodded understandingly and, unbuttoning his coat, took out a purse from his pocket.

It's good that he changed one of the quarter notes while having breakfast in a restaurant. For the sake of such a thing, it’s not a pity, as it were, but the carpenter, having received such an amount, would definitely have suspected something was wrong.

Rummaging in the coin compartment, he brought to light God's silver ruble and handed it to the carpenter.

– Drink, dear, for the health of our Sovereign Emperor.

“Well, perhaps, for the Emperor,” he muttered and, after hesitating a little, grabbed a coin. - You, Your Grace, come up, like that, half an hour before the start, I'll show you.

Chapter 4

Waving goodbye to the girls, Stas watched them enter the Opera House, sat down on a bench and reached into his pocket for cigarettes. The Winston he was used to was not here, of course. But the Troika, which he bought in a restaurant, turned out to be quite a decent thing.

“So, everything is as usual,” he grinned, looking at a flock of loud-mouthed sparrows, who started a showdown over a dropped crust of bread. - Having the right acquaintance, it will not be difficult to penetrate the object of labor.

He opened the box, noticing, out of the corner of his eye, that a figure, circling the area in front of the entrance, was heading towards him.

- Excuse me, can you extend the cigarette?

Stas brought a burning match to a cigarette, exhaled smoke and reached into his pocket.

- Do me a favor, - and noted with an inner grin that, once here, he began to express himself somehow old-fashioned, the atmosphere acts like that, or something.

Holding out the open box, he glanced at the petitioner. He'd seen that face before, for sure! I have not personally met, but it feels like just yesterday, I looked at him in a fresh orientation. In the documents that he shoveled from Koshko? Not sure, but possible. Thinking, he did not forget, out of the corner of his eye, to track the movements of the “object”. And he, in fact, did not make any special gestures. He walked away and sat down on another bench.

At this time, a well-dressed gentleman approached him. It is difficult to say why, but it seemed to Stas that, most of all, he looked like an official. Ask why, he wouldn't answer.

"Intuition, Watson.".

Serenely releasing smoke upwards, Stas, askance, watched the "object" and his counterpart. They continued to sit, talking quietly about something, and the opera, admiring the pretentious building of the Opera House, wondered if Arkady Frantsevich would be able to get some sense from the head of the local gendarmes. At the same time, not forgetting the whispering couple, mentally, purely out of habit, he made a verbal portrait of the “mustachioed”: tall, European-type face, blond hair with a strong reddish head, wears a mustache, and holds himself straight, like a military man.

Stop! Here it is! This is how people who constantly wear a uniform keep themselves. Police officer? Gendarme? Military? No, the policeman, perhaps, should be discarded - they know how to wear civilians - work obliges.

At this time, the "military" got up and, casually nodding, walked away.

- Alexander Ivanovich! the “object” called out to him.

Stas did not escape, as Alexander Ivanovich, involuntarily, shot his eyes around.

“Yeah, you don’t want to be recognized! - Stas laughed to himself, - Thank you, mister "shooter"! Here, I’ve had it, so, I’ve had it!”

The interlocutor with two quick steps returned to the “object”. It was obvious that he was saying something to him. He, listening to him, looked respectfully, but his lips involuntarily curled up, betraying contempt for the interlocutor.

"Curator from the gendarmerie?" - continued to "pump" Alexander Ivanovich operas.

The interlocutor mentioned, meanwhile, having said goodbye, went away. Noticing how professionally he looked around, Stas abandoned the idea of ​​following him and, even more inclined to think that he was dealing with a gendarme.

Arkady Frantsevich Koshko, meanwhile, was returning from the head of the Kyiv gendarme department. Despite the outward calmness, inside everything was seething, like in Vesuvius. No, Kulyabko, of course, was polite and helpful. Still would! The head of the department of the city cannot speak through the lip with the head of the state department. But! Services are different, this is the first. Secondly, the gendarmerie, whatever one may say, is higher than the police.

- Come in, please, Mr. State Councilor. How can I help you? - Kulyabko was polite, but nothing more.

- Mr. Colonel, I have received important information, which I consider it necessary to bring to your attention.

- I'm hearing you.

Koshko sighed.

- This is some kind of mistake, - the gendarme made a “muzzle with a teapot”, - and, in general, I cannot discuss intelligence issues with anyone. This is strictly prohibited by the circulars, and you are well aware of this.

- If I know about the very fact of agent contact, then it is ridiculous to refer to secret circulars, - Arkady Frantsevich could not resist a slight taunt, - Bogrov told you about a woman who is preparing a terrorist act. I can assure you, this is only a legend. No woman exists. Bogrov personally intends to shoot Prime Minister Stolypin.

To honor (or vice versa) Kulyabko, not a single vein on his face flinched. Unless, his face became utterly official.

“I don’t know anything about any Bogrov,” the colonel rapped out, “I don’t know anything about any assassination attempt. I cannot discuss matters of secret work with outsiders. Even with you, dear Mr. Koshko.

- Well, - Arkady Frantsevich nodded, - I have only one request for you. Order to issue passes to the Opera. For me and my assistant.

“One for you personally,” the gendarme replied dryly, “forgive me generously, but the seats in the twelfth row are strictly limited, and, if it happens, God forbid, no one will relieve me of responsibility.

He took out a pass from the table and, having entered the visitor into it, ornately signed it.

- I ask you to.

“I have the honor,” Koshko got up.

“I have the honor,” the owner of the office stood up.

Passing through the waiting room, he ran into a tall, red-haired gentleman entering the department from the street. In passing, he noted that he had seen this gentleman somewhere, but he was in no mood to remember.

When he, still blazing with righteous anger, went up to the room, Stas was already there.

- I don’t ask about the result, - the operator took a sip of tea from a glass that he held in his hand, I paced around the room, - sorry, you can see it on your face.

- Yes, communication with "neighbors", - Koshko used a new word, - is still a pleasure, I dare say.

- God bless them, - Stas waved his hand, - it was, is and will be. The main thing for us is to realize the information.

“They gave me only one pass, and, moreover, a nominal one,” the state councilor said with annoyance, taking off his coat and hat.

“This, of course, is grief,” the opera remarked philosophically, “but it doesn’t matter. I found a way to get in without any pass. Am I opera or where?

What do you mean, "or where"? Arkady Frantsevich was puzzled.

This is a joke, don't pay attention. I now have two urgent questions: what kind of guy met with Bogrov and where should I shoot the barrel. The second one is even faster than the first one.

- And forget to think, - the detective waved his hands, - in the presence of the First Person of the State, only bodyguards can have weapons.

- Yeah. And the terrorists, - Stas quipped, - they seem to have a special position. And then, you forgot that I will come through the back door. I will not be searched at the entrance.

- Well, - Koshko thought, - let's say, a person of my status is not supposed to be searched.

- That's it, - the opera chuckled, - otherwise, it hurts that we are law-abiding. To the delight of every bastard.

Arkady Frantsevich grunted, but did not object.

“There is a shooting range not far from here, in the police station. The gun should be like a native, here you are absolutely right. It is gratifying to see that our descendants have not lost the heritage that we collect bit by bit.

“Of course,” Stas replied, not wanting to upset a good man.

Lost is an understatement. Pissed off - or rather it will be. And, everything that is possible. And even what is impossible. There are grains left - that's right. However, the state councilor does not need to know about this, he has his own worries here - through the roof. "His wickedness prevails for the day," the ancients truly said.

At the police station, as expected, there were no problems. The head of the department, imbued, at the sight of the distinguished guest, singled out a hefty gloomy non-commissioned officer for them as assistants.

- Non-commissioned officer Kalashnikov, - he introduced him, - in shooting, I assure you, a pure virtuoso. Treat them like me.

“Let me inquire, Your Highness,” the non-commissioned officer turned to Arkady Frantsevich.

“Please,” he nodded.

- Duty sighting or for a specific task?

- Under specific.

- If you please, name the conditions, - the non-commissioned officer said businesslike, - we will do everything in the best possible way.

They went down to the shooting range. The big man opened the heavy door with a key and let the distinguished guests go ahead. Stas looked around. A good, solid service shooting range. Without electronic bells and whistles, of course, where did they come from, at the beginning of the 20th century?

So, what are the conditions? the non-commissioned officer asked, turning on the backlight.

- The object is moving, suddenly appearing, the target is chest, the distance is ten to fifteen meters, in conditions of temporary shortage, - he rapped out, without hesitation, operas, - in the sense, there will be little time. A second or two, no more.

“You understand, Your Honor,” Kalashnikov replied respectfully, sorting through the targets.

He selected a few from the pile and walked forward. At the click of an invisible toggle switch, at a distance of about fifteen meters, seven growth targets turned, standing one next to the other, at a distance of a meter from each other.

“Your Highness,” whispered Stas, “such a shooting range, in my opinion, deserves at least gratitude. We have the same.

“Shoot, Your Honor,” Kalashnikov nodded, returning to the line.

Koshko, with obvious interest, watched as his young colleague took a step forward, unbuttoned his jacket and stared at the targets intently, as if he were estimating the distance to the target.

- Mr. non-commissioned officer, - without turning around, asked Stas, - command me, please.

- I obey, Vashbrod, - the non-commissioned officer answered, - get ready, pli!

Stas, throwing back the hem of his jacket, grabbed the Parabellum. One after another, in a row, flashes flashed, shots rumbled, flying shells rang.

“Check the targets,” Kalashnikov commanded.

When the three of them approached the targets, the sergeant grunted.

- Pretty much, Stanislav, - the state councilor nodded.

Stas carefully examined the holes - all the bullets hit, but there were only two in the center, the other five were at different ends of the targets, but closer to the edge.

- No, one more time, perhaps, it is necessary, - the opera shook his head, - no one will give me a second attempt. I have one shot. Got more ammo? – he turned to the non-commissioned officer.

“Don’t worry, Vashbrod,” he replied respectfully, “take as much as you need. You see, you have an important task.

“Your truth,” Stas nodded, returning to the line.

He took out an empty magazine and handed it to the non-commissioned officer. The second series was more successful. After the fifth shooting, he finally gained the necessary confidence. While Stas was cleaning his weapons, Koshko was quietly talking about something with the head of the department. By the contented appearance of the latter, it was easy to determine the subject of the conversation. Without a doubt, the recommendation of the opera fell on fertile ground.

Without any interference, Stas went into the carpentry. The owner of the premises whiled away the time, shuffling a board with a planer and desperately distorting the melody, pleasing his ear with another aria. Seeing him, Uncle Vasya, who was already quite drunk, raised his open palm to his shoulder, as if to say: “Everything is as it should be!” Rising heavily, he went out into the corridor and with unsteady hands unlocked the lock on the second door. At the bewildered look of the opera, he winked roguishly and, stepping inside, with one movement, habitually pushed back the cabinet standing against the wall.

“Here it is, how it turns out,” he breathed a fresh fumes, “that young thing, again, does not tolerate too much eye.

Behind the shifted furniture was a neat opening in the wall.

Yuri and Vera Kamensky

Officer for Special Assignments

Part I. Unaccounted for

Chapter 1

From a trifle, everything, in general, began. Of course, when you are going to "firearms", all seven senses are fully mobilized. And then, delov, interrogate the teacher on fraud. Among other gullible fools, she gave money for cheap black caviar. Well, you have to think about it. So where does this smart girl teach?

Stas glanced at the diary. Gymnasium No. 1520 ... a, in Leontievsky, next to the old MUR. He himself, of course, did not catch this, the building in Bolshoy Gnezdnikovsky was demolished before the war.

The weather was surprisingly sunny. For Moscow March, the phenomenon is, frankly, atypical. You can also walk on foot, fortunately, not so far, otherwise you have already smoked all the lungs in the office.

Senior Lieutenant Sizov ran down the stairs, showed his ID to the sentry at the exit, and, opening the heavy doors, went out into the street. The sun was already shining like spring, and, behold, the breeze was blowing quite fresh. He squinted at the sun, zipped his jacket up to his neck, and slowly walked down the stairs.

A flock of laughing female students hurried to the glass cafe, giving him, on the run, appraising and mischievous glances. Next, a pensioner in "professor's" glasses walked sedately, leading a red-haired dachshund with a gray-haired muzzle on a leash. From the balcony, a black dog greeted her with a booming bass, thumping with his tail on the bars that protected his freedom - you see, old acquaintances. Granny, hurrying to the bus that was approaching the bus stop, awkwardly hit him with a shopping bag, and she herself was almost knocked down by a skateboarder who flew by with a torpedo.

Somewhere, on the verge of hearing, the ambulance siren was screaming, hurrying to the call. A bluish cloud of exhaust hung in the air from cars rolling in a wave, another hour, and traffic jams would begin. Everyone has their own affairs and worries, no one cares about him. Leisurely walking along Strastnoy Boulevard, Stas was not thinking about the upcoming interrogation. Why break your head there, everything is simple, like a child's ass. Yesterday's book was in my head. The name of the author was somehow interesting - Marhuz or a surname like that? He even “scored” it into Yandex, having learned, among other things, that it was some kind of fabulous beast. Already by this it was clear that the writer was a great original.

The book was written in the alternative history genre. It seems that the entire literary world is simply obsessed with this "alternative" - ​​they shred this poor story, whoever is into it. However, "The Elder Tsar John the Fifth", unlike other writers, was written in a very entertaining way. And made me think, for that matter. At least, that our life is a chain of continuous accidents. Here, for example, if he falls ill now, and all the cases that he has in production will go to Mishka.

Not even the point is that the “roommate” in the office will curse him with the last words. They just have a very different way of working. Mikhail, straight as a handle from a shovel, working with suspects, suppressed their will. No, not with fists. Beating is the last thing, pure profanity. Well, you make a person sign the protocol of interrogation, so what? He will sit in a cell for a week, listen to experienced "prisoners", talk to a lawyer - and went to the prosecutor's office "cart".

It's not even that the prosecutor's office and the "bounty hunters" will drink a bucket of blood. She is sucked for far-fetched reasons - just go! - and, simply, a swindler in a court session will sing the same song. And he will be justified, this is not the old days for you, the end of the 20th century is in the yard. Humanization, glasnost, pluralism and, God knows how much, any fashionable chiaroscuro. Thanks to enlightened Europe, you might think that before them we slurped cabbage soup with bast shoes.

So, Bradbury, perhaps, was right about something - if you crush a butterfly in the Cretaceous period, you will get another president “at the exit”. Another thing is that no one, of course, will follow this regularity, and will take it for granted. He will also say with a smart look: "History does not know the subjunctive mood." She told you herself, didn't she?

The screech of brakes whipped through his nerves, causing him to look up. The gleaming radiator of the Land Cruiser moved inexorably toward him, and time seemed to stretch. Stas already felt the heat from the engine, the smell of burnt gasoline, the car was advancing slowly and steadily, like a steam locomotive going downhill. The body did not have time to get out of the way, and, then again, the leg caught on the curb .... He rushed with all his strength, and suddenly ... a snoring horse's muzzle appeared right before his eyes, his face smelled of acrid horse sweat. The end of the shaft hit his chest, knocking the last of the air out of his lungs. The street swirled before my eyes. The last thing he heard, falling on his back, was a selective mate.

Coming to his senses, he felt an unpleasant cold on his face, as if he had been buried with his muzzle in a melted snowdrift. Stas tried to brush away this cold, but someone held his hand.

Lie down, young man, - said a calm male voice.

His head was still spinning, he opened his eyes, saw a man with a beard leaning over him. The light irritated and Stas closed his eyelids again.

“A doctor with an ambulance,” a thought surfaced, “it wasn’t enough to thunder in Sklif yet. Damn it, like, nothing is broken. They’ll keep them for a week, and then I’ll rake things with a shovel. Where did the horse come from?

And the people, standing over him, discussed him as if he was not there, or he had already died.

You see, alien.

"Why did it happen? A native Muscovite, by the way.

American, apparently. You see, the pants are stitched. I took one of these.

“Is he talking about jeans, or what? Found, damn it, a curiosity - jeans in Moscow. Village, right? Yes, they are in any village.

Wouldn't die.

"Ah, here, to hell with you, you can't wait."

Overpowering himself, Stas opened his eyes and tried to sit up.

Lie down, lie down, it's bad for you to move.

Again this one, with a beard.

It’s bad for me to lie down, - Stas muttered, - there is no time.

He stood up with difficulty, listening to himself. The chest, of course, ached a little, but it was quite tolerable. Brushing off his pants, he glanced at the people standing next to him. The fact that “something is not right” with them, he understood immediately. What exactly is "not that"? Consciousness gradually cleared up and, slowly, began to evaluate the information that, without stint, gave eyes.

Now, of course, it is difficult to surprise anyone with the strangest clothes, but, to be like this, all at once? As if he got into the crowd on the filming of the "old time". Naturally, the cab driver standing next to the cab is dressed like a cab driver from the beginning of the century. And a lady with a coat on her shoulders, well, straight to you, the lady from the picture, and next to her, a simple-looking woman in a plush skirt opened her mouth. The pot-bellied uncle snorted and puzzledly scratched the top of his head with his five fingers. Signboards with "yat" climbed over my eyes. The Mummers, in turn, stared at him like kindergartners at a Christmas tree. Now, of course, there are no services of any kind ... and shows. Who will surprise you with this “retro” now? But a bunch of logical "inconsistencies" grew like an avalanche.