Operation "Island"

“Daily Journal” offers its readers an excerpt from the new story of Viktor Schenderovich “Operation“ Island ”.

Leonard Pesotsky, a federal producer, throws important things and breaks on vacation on a distant island in Thailand. Everything is designed to the smallest detail: on the island, a mistress is already waiting for him, and ahead of pleasure ahead. But this promising plan is not destined to come true: a suitcase with a mobile phone, computer and other important attributes of life leaves in a completely different direction. Is it by accidental circumstances or by someone's evil will? On the mysterious island, Pesotsky remains without a familiar connection with the world - alone with his thoughts ...

A love story and incredible, almost detective circumstances are woven into one tense, exciting plot. The book was published by the Astrel Publishing House.

In the morning, he even managed to fall asleep, but Pesotsky woke up with a broken heart: in a dream, someone looked at him point blank. In the stomach ached with fear. Without remembering, whose gaze was, Pesotsky knew that fear was related to reality and that, having woken up completely, he only dives deeper into this pool.

... It happened several years ago in one closed club, where Pesotsky got into the meeting with curators. The club was very correct, with a specific face control. Tea, not dashing nineties! Not every oligarch could get there, only completely his own ...

Pesotsky, the owner of an honorary card, beat, fed here that day of one local DiCaprio, settled the issues of the contract.

The place of the meeting was chosen with the intent: the closed Kremlin party hinted at the possibility of the host side, and the local DiCaprio was overwhelmed by glory and demanded inhuman money, threatening to interrupt the shooting in the series and move on to competitors who varied a similar wort ... The press was already linked, and the press had already sucked bones, anticipating the new war of the canals. In short, the meeting was important.

DiCaprio turned out to be capricious, but with a dense pressure fuel, Pesotsky gently yanked him and, having spent, stayed in the club - to relax in the elite semi -half, and to wait out the traffic jams. And having already drunk the last Fresh, he heard a fragment of the conversation. Actually, I heard only one remark:

- According to Zaik, the question was closed.

Pesotsky shuddered and turned his head reflexively - and ran into the eyes of a dense ridge man. The title of not lower than Colonel was written on this person, and the colonel is not a medical service. And with all the obviously, that service, the belonging to which in the Fatherland by that time any doors were knocked out for four years.

“The issue was closed by Zaik,” said Kryzhisty, and shuddered Pesotsky because he knew which Zaika he was talking about, and he knew how the question was closed.

He stuttered, touching and funny, a journalist, known in Soviet times, a strange person with children's eyes on an aging face. Atavism looked at his romantic deputy - having spent many years at the feeder, this holy fool lived on his ten hundred parts along the Kyiv highway ... By thoughtlessness (or desperate courage, thoughtlessness of the equal), he climbed with his deputy requests to such corridors, where he was ordered to go without demand, and he was killed.

They killed so that even a criminal case was not instituted; They killed an intricate-matting way, as if on a edification remaining. This was the first such closure of the issue. Then they began to kill against the system with the regularity of sports victories, the people ceased to be surprised.

Pesotsky ran into the eyes of the ridge and realized that the quarrel also understood everything.

Strictly speaking ... Well, so, without taking into account the context, saying ...-something should have been done, but the context was already spilled in the air and clogged into the lungs, and there could be no talk of any movement against these people. No one would even move in any prosecutor’s office, and then ... Pesotsky felt a cold glissando on the back, imagining how they would “close the question” with him.

But the most vile: that quarrel recognized him, briefly fixed his eyes - and nodded, as his own. And he continued a quiet imposing conversation with the interlocutor, already on abstract topics. This demonstrative calm was insulting - he knew the quarrel that Pesotsky would not go anywhere.

No, the most vile, the fact that the waking up soul of Pesotsky in a gray predawn bungalow was not even this offensive, but that, after all, he had already calculated and wanted to go, but after meeting with the eyes of the stranger he still sat a little, carefully giving his face a distracted expression.

As if unrestrainedly emphasizing: nothing happened ....

And he managed to feel a short, attentive look a couple of times a couple of times. And each time he blurred from the fear of failure - as if he, and not looking at the killer who threatened the exposure.

With unexpected clarity, Pesotsky, who was now lying in his bungalow, was opened: tomorrow time will start underfoot, the grass sitting below will dare and rush to see one in front of the new owners-and as in the spring in the taiga, from under the tagging ten-year-old snow, old corpses will climb to the surface.

And for some time the corpses have gone a series. Somehow gradually around it became wet-mookro ...

Pesotsky recalled Tolik Gasov, a hat of youthful times. Everything was always in order of Tolik-a nomenclature, Mom-Nomenclature, MGIMO, an early take-off to my father's floors ... Now he was moving to the unprecedented peaks, where there was dad, and in the nineties, it was a matter, led one private television company-liberal liberal ... And somehow at the end of the nineties, he relaxed Pesotsky for one fearless Corruption fighter, perestroika star.

He blackmail the owners of the television company, on which he himself worked.

"Why?" - shrugged Gasov, sipping the compote. A fearless fighter with corruption was wetting his cutlet right there, in the buffet on the eleventh Ostankino floor. As if sensing something, he wary raised his round charming head from the cutlet.

- Hello, Senya! - Friendly Gasov waved his hand.

At present, blackmail was rather modest-just a dozen green “lemons” asked for a wrestler with corruption for non-contingency of one gray Central Asian gas supply scheme. In the nineties, it could still have occurred - blackmail gas magnates ...

In a strange way, this story of Pesotsky at that time consoled: rubbish rubbish, so be it! One compote is eating, in the same world of mazan ... the general smell, although by no means a world, reconciled him with his own biography.

When, after a couple of months, the wrestler with corruption suddenly gave the ends right on the corporate party, Pesotsky came to the funeral - not so much to show himself as to see others.

He looked at the motionless body, which suddenly lost interest in blackmail, at the sad representatives of the corporation, who habitually spread black tapes on a heavy wreath. By chance, he met his eyes with the Hasov: will he flicker in these eyes?

Nothing flashed there. Gasov was mournful, mourned and state -owned even with a mention of an excess of sandwich with a salmon.

Shit, shit around ...

Pesotsky lay, looking at the ceiling of the Bungalo.

The face of the murdered holy Zaika again painted in dawn smoke. After all, they even drank once in one company-in those funny times when Pesotsky was young and did not know what the administration building looked from the inside. It was a club of “General Newspaper”, and Democrat Pesotsky, in line with other democrats, poisoned stories, and everyone had fun. The company of those democrats, leaving in the positions of endangered perestroika luminaries, then moved in a marching step into the unbending statesmen ... Zaika laughed, ridiculously flashing his hands, then tried to tell something, slowing down on the consonants ... What was the absurd!

But not shit and not a killer.

The gaze of the quarrel, forcing Pesotsky to wake up, again stood in front of his eyes tired upstairs. When the corpses climb from under the snow to the light of God, these people will begin to be nervous and clean the ends.

Pesotsky rolled over to the other side. No no! He will not be touched. Should not. He is his own, he proved so many times ... From such a shameful argument for his own safety, Pesotsky woke up completely and now lay with hatred, looking into the brightening ceiling.