"Have you, what, already tried it?". "I don't, the boss does."

"Well, okay I'll try it too. Isn't he a 'lefty' by any chance?" "What do you mean?"

"I mean, isn't he a policeman?" "Apparently not. The source is reliable." "Which one?"

"Police Connections."

"I see. That's probably what you said, 'Isn't he a cop?'" "I don't know? I wasn't the one who asked."

"I see. His phone number?" "253-43-58"

"Where's the phone? (You can call anywhere from here, this is the Koza Nostra embassy, no one sends a letter here without authorization)"

"Over there," Galanzio pointed to a desk in the corner. I took a few steps toward it, picked up the phone, and dialed the right number. I heard a ringing bass: "Yes." "This is who you wanted to meet."

"One minute."

Came the wheeze of a man as old as they live, "This is José Mortain on the line…" "The meeting's canceled."

"Why?"

"What did you want us to do?" "Talk…"

"You have that opportunity now." "Can't do it over the phone." "Your Difficulties."

"But it's really serious." "Appreciate in money." "Thirty million." "Which ones?"

"Euro".

"What kind of occupation?" "Contraband."

"What do you mean, we don't do that sort of thing, it's against the law (either he really is a cop and wanted to catch me in a "clean confession over the phone" or he's a headless horseman).

"But…"

I hung up the phone and called back (actually, I could, like LaSkoltza, forget the whole thing, but he had already passed it to me (but I have no one to pass it on to here), and

then they might inadvertently ask me: "Faust, and why the hell did you refuse the "easy" 15 million? And what will I answer: "The mood was bad…" or something even worse.

In short, no matter how it's done, but I'm not going to be patted on the head for refusing). The hoarse one.

"Hello?"

"Meeting July 22 at four o'clock." "It's late."

"Explain."

"Can't on the phone." "Your Difficulties."

"The goods are already in place. We need protection, and you're the only ones we can trust here."

"What makes you think that?" "Your reputation…"

"Our reputation is worth 50 percent." "But that's robbery, isn't it?!" "Goodbye, then…"

"Wait!"

"What?"

"45%".

"We don't bargain, goodbye…" "Okay, okay, come on over…" "Where to?"

"You know that."

"It wouldn't hurt to refresh your memory." "Petrska ul. 7".

"He's all yours?" "Temporarily rented." "When would that suit you?" "On the hour."

"I'm doing you a favor." "Thank you…"

"You do realize that if even a small part of what you said is not true, someone is going to get hurt badly."

"Yes."

I hung up the phone and decided to get some more sleep before fifteen minutes past one so I wouldn't fall asleep at an inopportune moment in the meeting. When I woke up, the brief dossier was already ready: Jose Morten was born in 1971 (you can't tell by the voice, although my husky baritone in my fifteen everyone accepted as in thirty) in the city of Kladno, near Prague, moved with his family to the capital six years later, studied medicine, but after graduation became the personal doctor of the local mafia, slowly rose through the ranks, starting to carry out torture with enemies of the organization and finally seized power in his own hands in 2002. Appearance (a nice picture was

attached, with a BMW and several eagles nearby): tall, sturdy, brunette, square-shaped face. Special data: hates Jews. Methods: thinks everything is good, so he is unpredictable. Count: according to our calculations, six murders with firearms, edged weapons, explosives, poisonous and narcotic substances, as well as electroshock (so much for "he thinks all methods are good"; a real amateur; one thing is clear – he is not a plant agent).