Ahmed admired the presented "evidence."

– Look at these pictures, no, just look at them, – he suggested to Aman-Jalil, as if to an outsider. – Titian, Renoir… Listen, did you forge them?

– What do you mean, boss?

– They take a picture of a hooker with a pimp, then paste the faces of the ones they need onto them, and shoot a second exposure?

– I haven't dealt with that yet, boss, sorry, I'm young, I'll learn, but the photos are fresh and real, like those peaches you received, like those grenades, figs, and grapes…

– I believe you've paid honestly.

– Don't worry, chief, everything's by the book officially, but of course, a gift from your admirers, more so from admirers of your talent, from those who follow your path and are happy that it's you leading them.

– Did you get anything for yourself?

– Just a little: a small crate of peaches, an even smaller crate of grapes, a very tiny crate of grenades, and figs, it's embarrassing to say, a tiny one, the driver took a bit too, because of his broad shoulders, hardly noticeable…

Well, you couldn’t say the car wasn't seen. But Ahmed already knew everything anyway. They brought him information about all his supporters who held important positions, too… And now his assistant came in and laid out a summary of reports in front of Ahmed. Ahmed glanced over it briefly, making marks as he went, and suddenly went pale.

– Jigit, it's all over, Sardar Kareem went to the emir's palace. If Nadir is there, he'll definitely arrange a meeting with Iosif Besarionis out of spite. You wanted to become the chief inquisitor of the region, didn't you?

Aman-Jalil understood everything.

– He went by train?

– By train.

– Don't worry, boss, give me your personal plane, and I'll be in the capital before Sardar Ali… I swear on my father, he won't return alive: two gangs, a hundred coins, a lump of sugar, and the case is closed. Don't fret, boss, worrying gives you wrinkles on your forehead.

Every night, Ahmed had the same dream: he was chasing some neighbor girl around a bright sunlit construction site, they were both fourteen, and Ahmed, catching up with Ika, grabbed her breast, tight like an unripe peach, and Ika squirmed, evaded, and it all started again… The same thing. A sweet and painful dream… Ahmed never actually grabbed Ika's breast in real life, the neighbor girl died of diphtheria at eight years old, she never reached fourteen in life, and in the dream she never was older than fourteen, the same happy age. And this dream, the same one, never left Ahmed throughout all the years, it came to Ahmed in the mountains of the Sierra and here, at the peak of glory and honor, power and wealth. No matter how many women Ahmed had, not one of the most beautiful, passionate, loving women appeared in his dreams, Ahmed never saw his children in his dreams, or his parents, whom he vaguely remembered in reality. Ahmed had gotten used to this dream and loved it, and would be surprised and saddened, if not frightened, if he didn't see the expected dream.

Aman-Jalil had never been to the capital. It surprised him with its senseless bustle, but upon closer inspection, he realized that most of those running around were visitors, eager to hit ten spots at once.

With Aman-Jalil came two gangs, and in Aman-Jalil's safe were the evidence: both boys had participated in the robbery and murder of the carpet merchant Jumshid. The boys willingly agreed to serve in the government instead of going to prison and to follow Aman-Jalil's orders without question.

All three went to the railway station to meet the arriving train carrying Sardar Kareem, who was going to the capital to seek protection and justice from Iosif Besarionis with the help of his friend Nadir.