Beyond the truth new edited translation

Eduard Atanesyan


PROLOGUE

“…and the Khan said: “The negotiations are over, Prince. I have sworn by the beard of the Prophet  that you’ll return back. But you must know that from Morocco to Tavriz and from Valencia to the Upper Niles all the tongs have bowed before the glory and the authority of the Caliph. And those who haven’t – have lost their very lives, as those who reject to recognize the Caliph, don’t accept Allah himself. You’re a brave man, facing the death without any fear. But you must know that your fate will befall to all of your soldiers and the old and young, as if one doesn’t accept the power of the Caliph to judge, then he can’t count on the Caliph’s favor”.
Alex O’Connell shifted his gaze from the storyteller to the trio of boys from seven to eleven year-old. Sitting on the edge of the cliff, they were hazardously competing in pebble throwing into the abyss.
“And what happened then?” He asked the thirty-years-old one-armed man, who had been accompanying him almost for the second day.
“The Khan broke his promise. He got annoyed with…, how can I say it…,” the guide smiled, trying to pick up a fitting term, “yeah – stubbornness, the inflexibility of the Prince, who refused to recognize the rule of the Caliph of Baghdad.”
“Yeah, I’d hardly call that stand reasonable. Especially considering the presence of a direct and obvious threat,” Alex smiled back, drawing something on the yellowish dust of the path by a dry twig.
“There's no doubt about it: stubbornness is our same integral strain, just as hospitality”, the guide shrugged his shoulders and went on: “The Prince was put into irons, and before his very eyes the Khan’s army launched the last – the twenty-ninth  attack, and rushed into the fortress. The defenders, deprived of their military leader, were assassinated. Just as the Khan had promised – nobody survived, neither old, nor young. The Prince was taken to Baghdad and decapitated as soon as he denied genuflecting before the Caliph. As the legend says, his soul turned into a hawk, and he got resettled in his empty and ruined citadel. Even today, when someone breaks the rest of the ruins, the hawk flies up and fills the vicinities with an alarm shout.”
Alex looked at the top of the rocky mountain, overgrown with shrubs. Now he knew the local story about the bird of prey, which had been gracefully soaring in the cloudless sky for more than an hour already. He shifted his gaze to the mountain again. His trained sight stopped on a thin snaky fortification wall, hardly detectable among the surrounding rank vegetation. The village Mets  was left far behind, and for many miles around there were high bluish mountains, here and there covered with woods, thorny shrubs and everywhere – verdant grass, basking in the May sun. One could wonder if the surrounding peaceful nature could had any connection to the dramatic events, taken place on these slopes more than 11 centuries ago.
“Looks like Balkans,” thought Alex and, aiming the greenish double circle of the camera’s view-finder at a blackberry bush miraculously caught on the edge of the cliff, took few pictures. 
“So tell me, do we have enough time left to reach the top and return to the village before sunset? I guess, we need few hours in any case, George,” he addressed to his ‘Guardian Angel’, whose name he had already altered in an English manner.
George turned to the children – the permanent escort of a man-with-camera, be it in Asia, Europe or America – and said something. The kids nodded and quickly babbled something in their freaky highland dialect. They weren’t happy with the prospect of returning home, and it was evident without any word.
“What are we going to do, Alex? Shall we take them with us?”
The black eyes of the youngest were full of entreaty: he was sure, that if George allowed them to stay, then the man with camera wouldn’t precisely send them home, and, probably, would even let him to take some photos of his fellows standing by with the same hope in their eyes. 
“Can they reach the ruins? That’s a pretty long way to climb.”
The kids turned to smiling George. They got delighted as soon as he explained the situation and, pointing at the fortress, quickly nodded again and started shouting something in a hot rivalry. Alex didn’t speak their language, but their gestures were even more eloquent than words. 
“Well, okay. We’ll go together. But we’ve to do it rapidly to return before the dark falls.” Alex placed the camera in its case, picked up his jacket, shook it down and binding up the sleeves around his waist, moved up the steep slope.
The trio didn’t deceive the expectations: they immediately rushed ahead and soon dropped out of sight. George was ten steps ahead of the American. The last was closing the picturesque procession. Despite the fact that his job required a definite portion of endurance and mobility, he would certainly prefer blacktop to steep hillsides. 
Hardly anything could dispose to meditation better than a road, and certainly nothing could revive the memories of home better, then a tricky mountain path. Climbing up the mountainside, Alex was caught by a warm wave of nostalgia on his hearth and home and the cozy microcosm, which he had been shaping up during the last years. Some episodes of his life passed by his eyes screening the dusty path, and finally he clearly saw her face. Her face... Alex smiled, and his hand mechanically pulled to the breast pocket, to a small notebook with her photo inside. In the morning, just before the mountain-tour ne had taken it from the wallet to place into the notebook. “Closer to my heart,” he had confusedly explained to George, who tactfully smiled as a casual witness of the episode. 
The pleasant train of Alex’s thoughts was interrupted by a small thorn, stuck into his arm. The sudden, though not sharp, pain forced him to return from the virtual world of memoirs. He stopped, accurately extracted the barb from his arm and moved aside the limb with a set of similar sharp and curve thorns looking like shark teeth. The path was making an abrupt right turn and sharply getting upwards. The figures of the boys flashed somewhere ahead of him. George disappeared from the sight, but Alex could still hear his voice: the young man was telling something to the kids, and they were responding with loud childish voices and laughter. A-400-yard-wide violent sea of shrubs lasted from the turn of the path and up to the top, here and there outlined by the remaining of the fortifications. In the slanting beams of the setting sun the steep slope looked emerald, and one could hardly believe, that this eye-candy green was full of millions of small and sharp needles, ready to strike any casual passer-by at any moment. 
“Per aspera ad astra,” whispered Alex.



CHAPTER 1

Roger Archibald O’Connell, branded on the Hill as Roger ‘The Tower’, was a modest contribution of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts to the Upper Chamber of the U.S. supreme legislative body - the Senate. The grade of the modesty and, especially, the relevance of the contribution mentioned had been repeatedly challenged by his rival-Republicans even in those times, when O’Connell was nothing more than a young and promising ‘Gentlemen from Boston’ – the cradle of the Revolution and the Irish stronghold on the Atlantic Coast. At the very beginning the lack of sympathy to ‘The Boston Upstart’ was sharply smelt even among the highest circles of the Washington Donkeys. And for a certain period of time some evil tongues had been claiming that Roger was far from being the best choice of the State Democratic Committee, “which had endowed the country with much more eminent people”, and that O’Connell could brag of clearly nothing, but his imposing shapes and the bursting temper. But O’Connell had never been the man to refuse to take the dare. The devastating landslides generated by him each time during the elections to the House of Representatives, and then – the Senate, had strongly assigned to him the glory of an unbeatable politician, and had secured the ‘throne’ of the elected representative under him.
As a cockleshell envelops a swallowed mote to give birth to a miracle of nature – pearl, so the Democrats of the ancestral lands of Kennedy Clan had toiled enough over the task of giving an appropriate shape and shine to Roger Archibald’s versatile personality. And even the Party chroniclers had to ascertain, that the guys weren’t always succeeded in doing that. All the attempts of the MA Democratic Committee to put this ‘dark horse’ into a team-harness with the entire State Delegation had been invariably encountered with the unshakable will of O’Connell, who had always preferred to “play a lone hand” – as he had once deigned to declare.
Taking up a quote by Sam Person – a regular contributor to the ‘Hill in News’ rubric of the Boston Daily News, who had once created a newspaper pearl titled “O’Connell: Conservative Donkey Eastern Coast Watchtower”, - the D.C. political backstage had immediately echoed with ‘The Tower’ brand, which had stuck Roger Archibald almost immediately. He, however, apprehended the nickname as a due appreciation of his stand and, after the re-election for the second Congress term, proudly added it to his Hill Suite nameplate.
Despite of his cocky temper and the permanent malignant gossip of the rivals and political opponents, Congressman, and then – Senator O’Connell had always impressed the MA grassroots, and especially, those of Middlesex County – the lands of the U.S. most European city – Boston. And even in spite of the very fact that in Charlestown – the quickly changing seaside neighborhoods of the city – it was still possible to come across with some of Roger’s messmates ready to testify on the Holy Bible, that in due times the Gentleman from Massachusetts used to be an arrant scrapper and a port pubs haunter, the voters, nevertheless, would always demonstrate an enviable loyalty to their favorite and would ascribe all kinds of speculations to Rogers’s envies and less fortunate fellows. His tall stature, magnificent mop of red hair and impressive voice were warmly appreciated by his electorate, and especially by the housewives of the city, traditionally known for the unique mix of the Anglo-Saxon conservatism and the Celtic liberalism, so common for the North-East. As for them – Roger’s person was a watchtower of their interests in the Federal District of Columbia, an insuperable advanced post of protection of their Constitutional rights and freedoms.
That evening Senator Roger Archibald ‘The Tower’ O’Connell (MA, D) was thoughtfully sauntering over a thick fleecy carpet in his Capitol Hill suite, located on the 3rd floor of Hart’s Senate Building. The rain had just begun, and its heavy drops were steeply drumming on the windows. Left alone with his thoughts, Senator looked into the window, and then, probably giving in to an inside impulse, pulled aside the heavy velvet curtain and opened the high oak frame. The rough smell of the metropolitan tarmac, heated under the August sun, rushed into the office with the rain drops. The man turned his face to the water. While a madcap of his neighborhood, he used to go to the quay during storms. He admired seizing the parapet and watching the huge waves, cut with the breakwater, hitting the stone quay and, breaking into millions of sparks, overflowing him with salt and sea smells. Today, after years, the effect was somewhat alike, but far not the same: there was no salt in the drops and instead of the endless sea he was observing the countless roofs – gradually becoming glossy in the sunset – and the statue on the Capitol steeple. In the lightening gleams one would think that it weren’t the billions of the drops falling downwards, but the Statue of Freedom that soared up to fly upwards, making its way through the gust streams. This time Senator, contrary to his habits, didn’t state anything apt to the case: “I would hardly ever run for her position,” or alike. He didn’t pay attention to the water droplets, flowing down his face either.
The impulse of the pressing nostalgia for the Great Times vanished, but the youthful enthusiasm was still there: it was just raining in Washington D.C., but soon a storm would burst, now the Hill was soaking, while tomorrow it would shake as if on a volcano, because Roger Archibald’s reflections weren’t originated from a minute weakness or by an inflow of memoirs. No, they weren’t. The venerable sir was preparing himself for a speech before the Senate Appropriations Committee, and he was doing it on a grand scale so peculiar to him. The plot of the address was an appeal to the Upper Chamber to support the President and to accept the challenge, cast by the history and to achieve that the U.S. eventually must begin establishing the rule and order in the Eastern Europe, which had been becoming more and more disturbing day by day. The text of his speech, teemed with precise calculations, appropriate reasoning and figures was almost ready, but, as it often happened in similar cases – the general impression was far not satisfying, as the report was obviously lacking in something essential. 
Moving away from the window the Senator approached to the mahogany desk, packed up with papers and pressed a button on the intercom.
“Yes, sir,” answered the device in a pleasant female voice, filled, alongside with the traditional respect towards the head of the Senate Committee, with some interrogative intonations (“Well, now what?”), which, however, were quite justified by the late hour. 
“Are you still here, Marilyn? Get in, please.”
The owner of the voice - Marilyn Jacobs, the Senator’s Administrative Assistant – got silently materialized in the office in a shape of a somewhat-above-thirty young woman in a dark blue, well fitting suit, holding a routine yellow ruled notebook in her left hand, slightly bent in elbow. All her guise was an expression of a surprising combination of rigid will and efficiency placed into a fragile female body. Despite of the tight working day, - ‘The Tower’ had pored above the speech all the day long – and the late time, she, nevertheless, was comporting herself without embarrassment and if even she had a battle waging in her soul between the human rights and the duty of a public employee, then, however, this confrontation wasn’t anyhow reflecting on her face. There was a completely different type of sense on it. More correctly, it was a wide palette of emotions between surprise and alarm, because as soon as she entered the boss’s office, her attention was firstly caught by the wide open window, then the desk filled up by papers and finally, Roger Archibald’s thoughtful and – what was the most surprising – suspiciously wet face. The face of a man always identified with the qualities other then despondency.
The Senator, still busy by sorting out papers, glanced at Mrs. Jacobs and caught her sight.
“Something wrong, Marilyn?”
His mighty voice didn’t anyhow correspond to her scrappy and unsystematic assumptions.
“Your face, sir...”
He instinctively leaded his hand to his nose: “So what? Ah, yeah, I’ve absolutely forgotten. Probably our dear Marilyn, who is blessed with an amazing ability to interpret the nuances of the Federal Code, has confused the drops with something else… That’s rain, Marilyn. I’ve just opened the window and, and…,” the Senator couldn’t master himself and roared with laughter, and soon the real tears mixed up with the rain water.
Marilyn Jacobs belonged to the type of women who in their attitude towards the respectable bosses, despite the considerable age difference, would motivate themselves rather by the maternity instinct, than, let’s say, the Senate Stuff Management Agreement provisions. That’s why, while the Senator set back in his armchair to savor the joke, she closed the window, wiped dry the window-sill by a tissue and approached to the boss with another one in her hand.
Trying to suppress the laughter, Roger invited her to take a seat and, wiping the real tears, said:
“Dear Marilyn, forgive me for such a rough reaction. Don’t take it up. I’m old enough to be your father. You know, what you’ve said was so... unexpected: me and tears...”
Gratefully nodding, he took the napkin, cleaned his face and went on:
“Wait a minute; there was such a fact. Then I was as young as now my first grandson is, I mean Roger-boy, Charlotte’s son. It was in 1943 or 44. My Dad was serving with the Marine Corps. Once while in leave he spent a week taking my brother and me to baseball matches, switchback, museums and stuff like that. In those days hardly anyone could guaranty a lucky return home… Dad had an exclusive manner of educating in a patriotic way: just before leaving the man had richly endowed us with an Abe Lincoln per nose – sort of an appropriate fixation of the classes learnt. It was a damn wealth, it really was. That was my very first chance to touch that sheet of paper. The new, crackling banknote was my chance to get the bicycle I’d looked for in a second-hand shop on the Union Street and had dreamed of for a long time. I was imagining myself riding around on that almost new dandy-roadster with a yellow frame and red stop signs. You know, infant impressions never vanish, even after a successful public career in this country. And today, after more than four decades, I still remember the ringing of the bell, bolted on its handlebar... By the way, Marilyn, how is your wonderful baby doing?”
All of a sudden Roger turned to her.
“She’s okay. Thank you, sir.” 
“And who is looking after her, it’s late now,” he looked at the massive bronze clock decorated with nymphs – an ordinary mantelpiece attribute in the offices of power.
“Don’t worry, sir. My husband does and, besides, we’ve a baby-sitter. We asked her to stay for a bit longer tonight.”
“Very well... When your daughter grows a little up, don’t forget to purchase a bike for her,” the Senator gave one of his usual firm advices, “Okay and where did I stop at?”
“You were talking about a five-dollar banknote.”
“Right. So, my brother lost his money and my five bucks by the way. Totalizator stakes. He staked on a wrong horse. Marilyn, have you ever played on a tote? You’re right; you shouldn’t do it in the future either. I remember, I was weeping then. It was pity, and not just because I had lost the money, but because I myself had entrusted my wealth to my brother... All right, let’s talk business. I’ve looked through the final variant of the speech, and it’s not bad at all. But, dear Mrs. Jacobs, I still have an impression that something is omitted in it. I’m not talking about the facts, but rather of rhetoric. Have you let Andrew off? Yes, one and a half hour ago…? Damn, indeed, I let him go. Well, that’s right, he’s young, he needs to have, so to say … an operative space for actions. While in his age I used to…”
“Sir, can I take his place?”
Certainly, it was rather an indelicate step. But it’s necessary to give Marilyn’s due; she would always interrupt her boss only with an aim to redirect the rough flow of his ideas to the right direction.
“Maybe, maybe... You know what, Marilyn? You should remember the Marshall Plan – a grandiose project of the post-war Europe restoration. You see where the money of our taxpayers goes... So, I guess, that Old Cheap Ike should have voiced a special convincing speech in the Congress on a similar occasion. As you know, the realization of such a step without a proper political and other support of the Hill is merely impossible. Everybody knows that I’m a furious opponent of plagiarism and references to the others’ words. But, my dear Marilyn, I’m also convenient, that we have the very unique case – one among thousands, - when the national interest call for a revision of radical approaches. Shortly, please find the address and brush through the stylistics. All I need is to know which buttons Ike had pushed on. I guess, we could set a couple of parallels: in fact, the nowadays situation, as far as I understand politics, is quite similar. What do you think?”
“That’s a good idea, sir. Learning of the key points of the Secretary J. Marshall’s June 5, 1947 address at the Harvard University won’t require special effort.”
The young woman raised, smoothly turned on her heels and headed to the door.
“Yes, Marilyn...,” and here the Senator undoubtedly committed another regrettable miss, however, that was his expansive nature, “you should certainly know, that the Old Man Ike is President Dwight Eisenhower?”
“I guess, sir.” Some notes of reproach obviously blinked in the rapid turn of her head, topped with a mop of curly hair, in her tired eyes and even her voice.
Indeed, the greatest expressiveness is always reached when the means of its expression are limited.
“Damn, I always underestimate her,” the Senator crossed the tips of his fingers on the level of his breast and, comfortably sitting in his leather throne, plunged into thoughts.
“’Woody-Woodpecker’ was rights: the series of ‘velvet revolutions’ in the East Europe are capable to promptly reshape the political map of the whole continent. Traditional division on ‘the friends’ and ‘the foes’ is gradually losing its usual contours, and the ‘Iron curtain’, still separating the system of the Western values from ‘the Evil Empire’, will soon roll to the East inch by inch. It seems, as Brzezinski has predicted, that the day is approaching, when the Soviet Union will break apart due to the growth of centrifugal forces and activation of the nationalist elites on the ground. But before it happens, there’ll be a buffer zone between the West and the rests of the East. The symptoms are evident. The democratic romanticism, anti-Soviet moods and support of the West will generate new national elites. But for now, years are needed to turn all this present mixture of democratic slogans, student marches, demonstrators-oppositionists, trade union pickets and new elections into a System. Meanwhile, the reigning Chaos is considered by everyone as ‘The Freedom’. Has it anything common with the freedom? In this regard the U.S. must accept the historical challenge of taking the control over that Chaos and directing it into the right, constructive way. What it looks like now – nothing but a ‘Molotov cocktail’. What a successful comparison: ‘Molotov cocktail’. I’d better keep it in mind for the debates. Certainly, Gorby-boy isn’t a bad guy, I like him personally. But to tell the truth, now he looks like that guy from the ‘General Motors’ advertising – in hope to start the engine of a 1930’s car a man pushes it down the hill, and then vainly tries to catch up and get the steering wheel. Okay, ‘GM’ was just promoting its new brakes system. Bravo, another brilliant comparison: what kind of brakes the guys in Kremlin are going to rely on? Indeed, Brzezinski is a clever guy, his analyses appear to be correct, and all his predictions become reality. Anyway, his voice is indeed very rasping, so he deserves his ‘Woody Woodpecker’ nickname.”
The chain of the Senator’s thoughts was interrupted by a phone call.
“Yes, Marilyn. Anything got wrong with the speech?”
“You have a visitor, sir. I had just received a call from the lobby.”
“A voter? No? Are you sure? Well, please, explain him or her that it’s too late. Tell that I receive visitors on Wednesdays and Thursdays. And if the visitor agrees, please, make a reservation in the reception-list.”
“This isn’t an ordinary visitor.”
“Dear Marilyn, there can’t be ordinary or unordinary visitors for a U.S. Senator. Anyone, who appeals to the U.S. Congress Upper Chamber representative should, sine qua non, be received and carefully listened,” – here the Senator, as usually, made an abrupt U-turn and, passing from the hurrah-patriotic intonations to bureaucratic language, finished his idea with a wording worthy to become the next Amendment to the Constitution, “be received and listened on an agreed date”.
“That’s Alexander O’Connell.” Marilyn knew the reason of ‘The Tower’s’ popularity. 
“Hey! Damn, that’s my son. Let him come, let him get up here. The prodigal son comes back to his loving daddy,” he rubbed his hands.
Roger Archibald was a loving father indeed. His rude habits and frequently excessive straightforwardness were veiling a loving heart of a parent. As any loving father, he could patiently stand tricks and whims of his children, and in particular, that of the junior son – the third offspring of the O’Connell couple. The pleasure of the forthcoming meeting curtained all the ideas and plans, and, giving in to the inflow of warm parental feelings, the Senator didn’t even bother to ask himself: “Okay than, what is the reason of such an unexpected late visit of the boy?”
The father and the son embraced. Roger, leading his hand over the son’s wetted hair, headed to the bathroom.
“You’re soaking wet,” his voice was heard from the bath, “just as if you’ve dived into the sea.”
Soon he appeared with a terry towel, passed it to Alex, and called Marilyn to ask her for hot tea.
“What a heap of scrap metal you’ve got down there in the foyer, Dad?” After a minute Alex was sitting with tousled hair and looking around in the office. A difficult conversation with Dad was coming and he was brooding how to start. After getting through all the possible case-scenarios in the taxi he was sure that the news is going to afflict his father – something that he would wish to avoid. 
“That was a sculpture: ‘Hills and Clouds’ or stuff like that. As for me – it’s a mere heap of metal. All right, get to the bathroom and comb your hair, sonny. An O’Connell isn’t allowed to be tousled even in an office of another O’Connell,” the Senator took the opposite armchair and smiled.
Even outwardly Alex resembled his father more than his mother: the same features and determined character. All he had inherited from mother was the color of his hair. Following the son by eyes, Roger approached to the cupboard bar and picked out a started bottle of rum. Meanwhile Marilyn, assuming the role of mistress, brought in two cups of tea and put them on a small coffee table just between two deep leather armchairs. The Senator uncorked the bottle and added some rum into the tea.
“That’s just what you need,” he explained to the son, “otherwise you’ll catch cold. Your mother will never pardon me for that, she’ll grumble at me, well, you know, as usually: “He came to you for a couple of days, and you didn’t manage to take care of him”. By the way, why didn’t she come back here? She has promised to return in a week, but is off for ten days already.”
“Dad, I’ve something to tell you,” there was determination in Alex’s voice, “you see, I’m here not for a couple of days, but for a longer, much longer term...”
“Come on. What about your education in Harvard?” The Senator paused mixing the tea with a spoon and glanced at the son with astonishment: “So what, you don’t want to study? Okay, I see, you’re a young man, you can have various passions, a hobby, music, a girl, finally. But admit, Alex, none of them can be at the bottom of an O’Connell’s refusal to get education and, hence, to make a career. So, what’s going on, son?”
“I don’t mind education, quite the contrary... The problem is that I’m already enrolled to the Department of Journalism of the George Washington University. It’s here. I’ve succeeded to pass all the tests a week ago and am preliminary taken in as a first-year student.”
Roger recognized himself in his son: the same self-sufficiency, unpredictability and self-reliance. Yeah, perhaps in other circumstances he would clap son’s shoulder and proudly tell Marilyn, that “Alex is the true embodiment of the Dad” and would even suggest celebrating the son’s trick in a pub. But not now. After all, Alex was mature enough to decide what to do. But in his turn, Roger Archibald must also have a Constitutional right to tell his son what shouldn’t be done. One shouldn’t refuse the chance to receive education at the one of the most prestigious educational institutions of the country. It’s not .., to cut a long story short – it’s Harvard, full stop and no comments. 
The Senator rose from his place to pace out the room by his huge steps so fitting to his height.
“Is your mother aware of it?” He had suspicion in his voice.
“Yes, I returned home to inform them as soon as I got the notification of enrollment...”
“To inform them, but me...”
The Senator stood by the window. The rain had already stopped. It was completely dark outside, and only the Capitol Hill complex was standing out with its illuminated wax contours against the background of the black sky. 
              “You probably know, Alex that I’ve always dreamed of giving you, your brother and Charlotte good education. Have you ever asked yourself why? All I wanted was to make your lives a bit easier than mine. In your age I couldn’t afford myself a university degree, those were different times. I don’t complain of my destiny – that would be at least a blasphemy. Nevertheless, all I’ve managed to reach cost me health and nerves. Today I’m in a position to keep away my children from these problems, to provide them with good starting positions. That’s why I recommend Harvard. A degree in Public Law together with my contacts – and you know, I have plenty of them, - would open wide prospects in front of you. Sonny, this country is pillared on jurisprudence. Laws – both written and unwritten – is the blood of the system, which regulates all the spheres of life. If you know the principles laid in the basis of this society – you’re aboard floating ahead even if winds blow to your face, instead of back. The Degree in Law would give you a free choice, and you could work for the Government or start a private business. “O’Connell’s Law Office” - sounds well, I guess. A gifted man like you could achieve a lot: public weight, respect, and for sure, money. Here, in the Home of Laws every second lawyer makes more dough than the Man. Alex, you could push ahead sensational cases, papers would write about you, and you would become a welcome guest on TV and places like that. And it’s quite possible that once, waking up in a morning,” Roger made a broad gesture pointing his suite, “you will decide to follow Dad’s path and run for Congress.”
Roger Archibald silently stood with his hands folded on the breast.
“… You know, sonny,” he continued after a minute pause during which he was mentally climbing up his own route to the Hill, “counteraction to challenges is the core of our system. If you take them off, then all our state, society and economy will get in a collapse and deep depression. Problems keep our attention strained, they add dynamics to everything, and each of us – be it a mere D.C. mall salesperson or the President himself – live in a milieu of total rivalry. But it’s a routine already, it’s boring. Given your character and capacities, you’re just born for politics. And its nature, as you know, is far cooler than the Texas rodeos, though has the same principle: you saddle it, and it kicks and strives to throw you off. You would realize what it means – to accept a challenge.”
Roger again stopped by the window, with his right hand over the window sill and a smile on his lips. His eyes were looking at the place, where he himself would soon accept his own challenge – one of those challenges that in total are called to define the U.S. role and place in the world – these were the thoughts circulating in the senator’s mind. 
Meanwhile, Alex had detected the ‘Achilles' heel’ of the father’s arguments.
“You’re right, Dad. I do agree that everyone must always move ahead or, let’s say, upwards. That’s what the rule of life says. But another rule tells that everyone should get his own way out. Maybe in a due time I’ll tell the same about making easier the burden of my children. But now I’m sure that all I need is to go my own way. As the saying goes: ‘Per aspera ad astra.’ And as for politics…, politics and journalism are closely interconnected. For instance, even the President himself used to be a journalist.”
“Reagan is a GOPster,” snapped back Roger, who had evidently come to senses. Approaching to the table he pushed the button to call his Administrative Assistant:
“Marilyn, dear, I apologize for bothering you…, could you please get me a coffee. Yeah, a spoon of coffee and two of sugar, please.”
Then he turned to his son and said fluttering his hear:
“If you talk Presidents, then know that one of them, namely – Abe Lincoln while in your age had bought an old barrel for a pair of cents and there, under some old rags, found few books on jurisprudence. This guy had spent nights studying all this literature to pass examinations and receive a bar license. He became one of the prominent Presidents of this country, he banned slavery and, kicking the Dixie’s asses, prevented the split of the Union.”
“And thus created the Republican Party,” – Alex smiled.
“We’re talking different things”, Roger frowned, “I mean, you have even more chances than Abraham Lincoln had in his time.”
“It’s too late, Dad. I have crossed Rubicon.”
“Look at this guy,” Roger turned to Marilyn, who came in with a cup of instant coffee, “I knew, I was sure, that all his petty intrigues with camera wouldn’t end up well. And here is the outcome: my son is here to tell me about his enrollment to the Department of Journalism of G. Washington University. Can you imagine it?”
“Accept my congratulations, Alex. I hope that some day you’ll reach the same heights, as Larry King or Walter Cronkite. We’ll wait.”
“Don’t even mention Cronkite’s name. He was the first to declare Kennedy’s death, so he’s a Messenger of Death for me. Secondly, Marilyn...., the problem is that Alex has refused to join the Harvard School of Law called after the same Kennedy and thus tries to prove his choice by some Latin proverbs. This guy had a real chance to make a good lawyer, and a politician in the future. But he prefers to rush around with a notebook as a true muckraker.”
“Well, sir,” the young lady smiled, “if it comes to the outcomes, then an appropriate editorial from the ‘Washington Times’ may be easily compared to a statement by the State Department… Besides, sometimes even you...”
“That’s not my day,” ‘The Tower’ waved his hands. “Everything and everyone are against me, even Marilyn. Do you really want me to abandon in a damn hour everything I had dreamed of for decades? Should I be happy when my son makes kind of crucial decisions without any confer with me? I’m outflanked and am off the game, Marilyn. I can’t control the situation even in my own family...”
And then one of those exclusive moments came, when Ms. Destiny smiled as if at a dentist’s. Alex smelled the right moment.
“Not absolutely, Dad. What I have is a preliminary enrollment. The final one will take place when I confirm my solvency or credit capacity, on your discretion. And for this purpose, as you see, the assent of the Senate appropriate committee is extremely needed. More shortly – if I’m not able to present corresponding documents in a fortnight term, then I’ll be sent down. So, venerable sir, you completely control the state of affairs.”
“Aha, you’re here for funds,” Roger flop down into the deep armchair with all his might. “It appears that the younger O’Connell appealed to the older O’Connell with a request to allocate the required study assignments, otherwise America will lose one of its most promising pen pushers? Bravo, son, you have the cheeks to come and demand money. He’s a chip off the old block –i.e. me.”
Roger burst in a thunderous laughter for the second time in that evening. “Who else could go against the will of the father and ask money for that purpose. It’s a pity that the guy had chosen a different path; he would undoubtedly make a sense.”
“Listen, Alex,” he said passing his palm over his eyes, “before Marilyn goes home, and we celebrate your enrolment at a good Irish pub, I’ll tell you two things. Remember properly, and let’s Marilyn becomes the witness: I respect your right to make your choice. I’ll make it possible for you to study wherever you want. But if you want me to respect your choice, then you must do your best and earn it by your work. Get out yourself, buddy. These are very soft preconditions, Alex, and hardly any nation can boast that it receives assignments on more favorable terms.”
It wasn’t Roger Archibald speaking anymore, but the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Appropriations.
The younger O’Connell understood that he was in luck, so far. He accepted the challenge: it’s a must to deserve the father’s respect, and he would achieve it!
Oh, the youth. They’re ambitious and pathetic, and they see challenges everywhere.
“By the way, Alex, just as Reagan, you like to throw dust into people’s eyes by your proverbs, something like: “Via the prickles to the Capitol Hill”. I think, that’s exactly what I need. Repeat what you’ve said and let’s Marilyn put it down.”
“Per aspera ad astra.”







CHAPTER 2

“What are you mumbling?” George was sitting on a stone with his legs stretched forward. He had an observable expression of pleasure on his face and a cigarette in his mouth.
“That’s a Latin proverb. It says that to achieve something one must overcome obstacles. That’s the rule of life.”
“Tell me about it. And I thought that you just red the motto from a ‘Rothman’s pack”, George crafty grinned and, feeling in his pocket, got out a matchbox. “Take a seat. I had no idea that you’re a philosopher. All of you, journalists, are strange people.”
George picked up a match by two fingers, then grasped it by his thumb, the middle and the ring finger and pressed it to the matchbox, which he was holding in the palm by the remaining fingers. Then he made a sharp knock on his knee, the box fell down, and the match lit up up. A simple action of lighting a cigarette, that regular smokers mechanically do tens times a day in the case of this one-armed guy required a special knack and skill. He had no lighter, so his Wild-West-style-trick wasn’t a pose, but something he was forced to perform.
George inhaled the smoke and let it out by nose.
“You kill yourself, George. You do it slowly, and, judging by your face – with a pleasure.”
“You’re right. But you probably meant ‘by pieces’”, George shook the remaining of his left hand.
“How did you manage to lose it? Was it a bullet wound?”
Alex was far from everything associated with war.
“No, they couldn’t get me by a bullet. I used to be a machine gunner and wouldn’t let them relax. Machine gun is a good tool. I’ve made it clink like a tight string, and used to keep it in a canvas cover between the actions. Therefore people used to call me Stradivarius, and my weapon was named ‘the violin’. Imagine, during the battles our jokers would often announce by radio my ‘exit’ with a ‘solo violin concerto’. As the result, I gained such an appreciable publicity that the opponents started a true hunting for my soul. So, eventually, I was hit by a mortar shell fragments. Mortar is the filthiest thing, I shall tell you. Two splinters fell to my share: the lesser got into the shoulder, and the second one disrupted my arm. That was a really bad show: the arm hardly hung. It was impossible to attach it back, so I became a guide for the inquisitive journalists like you. …Something you have there, in Las Vegas, yeah, ‘one-armed gangster’,” he picked up the matchbox and put into the pocket. “Let’s go, Alex, the kids must be already in the fortress.”
The journalist rose from the stone, and razing his camera, took a couple of shots of the far hillsides covered by a bluish haze.
“You know, George, I want to ask about your arm … I’ve heard a story here... Probably I could include it into my essay, to make it sort of the main subject line. Do you mind? I mean the funeral story...”
“All right, Mr. Journalist,” the guide grinned, shaking his head, “if you’re planning to hear anything mythological, then you’ve got a wrong man. Humans aren’t indifferent to heroics and myths; they have it in their blood. And the story, it was..., well, it was just a foolery. Call it the way you want... After the surgery, when I was taken to the ward – a separate tent for the guys like me – the four out of the six beds were already occupied: someone had lost an arm, others – a leg, and one of them - both legs at once. There was no chance to evacuate us to Stepanakert – the roads were exposed to gunfire up and down. So we were left on the racks in the backwoods... There I met the folks with wild melancholy on their faces. I myself wasn’t in mood at all: I had lost three of my pals, my shoulder was burning and, on the top of all, my nonexistent hand was terribly aching. But when I looked at those grown-up and bristly guys who had gone through fire and water, and who were stupidly staring at one point, I felt ill at ease. Have you ever heard a bearded man crying in the middle of night, hiding from everyone and shuddering at each rustle? I was strong enough to tolerate the atmosphere of the ward for two days, and on the third day had decided that some readjustment of the air by means of shock therapy is a real must. Even before the operation, when the young surgeon had warned me that he had no means to keep my hand intact and offered me a bottle of homemade vodka instead of anesthesia, I had asked him to keep my arm after the amputation. I remember how it put him out of countenance; then he frowned the way that one could read on his forehead: “The patient has gone crazy.” I don’t know why, maybe it was due to the stress, but then it seemed to me that my arm would fall a prey to jackals. To avoid it, I was drawing serious plans about burying it without witnesses in a secluded place. It must be looking stupidly now... The Doc kept his word: he managed to keep the arm. How and where? I don’t know. I received it on the morning of the third day, put it into a wooden cartridge box and, getting together my fellow-sufferers, and solemnly buried my upper left extremity under a tree, in a thicket. When I laughed and begun covering the ‘tomb’ by soil, the folks suspected that I had gone mad. Afterwards I arranged a magnificent commemoration party – my friends had supplied me with a good wine. And there I voiced the toast. “I have wiped off my scores with the death,” said I, “let the worms not to count on me in the nearest half a century”. At first the folks were sitting with stone faces, and then they thawed: probably they got the message that all I said was about us and not only me. That’s approximately how all happened. Later the story acquired some heroic details, and when you publish it, no pain and sufferings will remain behind the lines and columns, there’ll be only bravado... All right, we’re  arriving. I can’t hear the kids for a long time already.” 
His cigarette draw an arch in the air and, hitting against a grey and mossy boulder, scattered into a thick bunch of tiny sparkles.
“Nevertheless, George, tell me, was it hard at that time?” Alex rose from the stone, shook off his trousers and, avoiding looking at the interlocutor’s eyes, extended his hand. His party gloomily smiled, but grasped the hand and rose too.
“Thanks …, and was it hard...? Once I had almost collided face to face with an Azerbaijani on a narrow path. The fighting fastened in some 100 yards up the slope - we were attacking a base of their infantry. There were five of us; we were cautiously prowling ahead through the thicket to strike from their flank thus preventing them from outflanking our men. The guy appeared suddenly, yet a freshman, with a Kalashnikov in one hand, peering into the footpath: he was certainly afraid of landmines. I signaled to my fellows not to shoot and not to give themselves away as I had decided to take the rookie a prisoner. Then I began to slink slowly towards him. When he noticed me, I was already some ten steps away, and he was on my sights. The boy didn’t get frightened at all, probably he had no time: just turned red as a guilty child. “Throw down your weapon, and you’ll live”, I shouted. He immediately shouldered the gun, but was behind the time to shoot: I threw myself aside and gave a burst at him while falling. Machine gun isn’t something to be trifled with. The bullets stitched up the guy slantwise.”
George stopped and moved aside a barb.
“Was it fearsome?”
“No, it was hard. My fellows appeared by in a second, they lifted me and turned over to make sure that I was still in one piece. Everything happened in some two-three seconds. First I thought that he was slow to shoot, but then it appeared that he couldn’t do it at all – the adjoined magazine case was empty. If I had hesitated for a damn second, then would probably realize that the kid was actually unarmed and I wouldn’t shoot. Can you imagine that – a second and a human being survives? He had an unfinished note to home and a letter from home in his pocket. The last one was from his mother; she wrote that their cow had calved. I still remember how painful reading that letter was... If I anyhow got his commander I would shoot him down, without any hesitation.” 
“And what if he had cartridges? Then you’d probably take the event not so hard,” Alex broke the silence.
“Do you have skyscrapers back to your city?” George asked stopping.
“Yes,” Alex shrugged his shoulders; he didn’t comprehend what was the connection of the question with the subject. 
“Are there people who throw themselves down from those buildings?”
“Maybe. Some psychically unbalanced people may really undertake such an action.”
“And should accusation for their deaths fell on those who had constructed the buildings so high, that falling from them inevitably leads to death?”
“Sure, not. But why do you tell all this?”
“Because that guy had came to a place where he had little chance to survive.” 
“So you don’t have to worry for the incident. He came as a soldier, and perished as a soldier. So what’s up then?”
“All is right, but one aspect. He had no choice, he couldn’t escape engagement into this war, and nobody would ask his opinion. And now look at our men, they’re here on their own free will – they’re free people. It would be quite difficult to press them. All those, who had chosen a different way, have left a long time ago. And the matter is that the soldier’s mother will damn us for the death of her son, but thus will hardly ask herself: “And what was her armed son doing so far from his home and so close to mine?”    
The interlocutors silently walked for a little. 
“You know, Alex,” George broke the pause, “when you write about all this, please don’t mention the episode with the cow: hardly any of your readers will understand it…”
Further they went silently. Each of them was thinking about his own questions, and more true – both of them thought the same, but in their own way. War is a many-sided phenomenon and along with plentiful food for worms, as Roger Archibald liked to put it, it gives a plentiful stuff for the writing brotherhood as well. Although... Everything, Alex managed to hear during the lust days, wouldn’t guide his reflections towards work. He was excited with other things: what forced these people to abandon their harmless routine and plunge deep into the abyss of blood and sufferings. He wasn’t able to comprehend it. He had already reconciled with the idea, that he’s a person of another world, another system of values and of other priorities. Two more days, and he’ll return to his habitual life. Anyway, he would hardly leave the same he had arrived here. That was the second point he had reconciled with.
However, they weren’t the only people to think about the war.
Several tenacious eyes had been watchfully examining the interlocutors through their optic sights for quite a long time: four men in strange shapeless garments of grey homespun wool were hiding behind a jut of the ruined fortification wall, camouflaged by the foliage of blackberry bushes. Three more strangers in odd cauldron-looking headgears were guarding the scared children, knelt back to the wall with their hands tied behind. The gesture, shown by one of the men, was more than clear: the palm pressed to his lips, and then taken over his throat.
Five of the strangers were armed by sub-machine guns; one by a machine gun and the sevenths had a sniper rifle in his hands. There were six army backpacks in the corner of the small courtyard, next to the pile of collapsed stones, covered by waist-high brushwood of nettle and weeds. Three short green pipes – one-shot grenade launchers – were leaned to the wall just by.
Strangers obviously didn’t expect these uninvited guests able to frustrate their plans. These were serious folks, dislike our interlocutors, they weren’t just thinking of war, they had been living for it. 
“The kids have calmed down, George.”
“That’s okay, they’re probably horsing around somewhere – the site is large. Do you see the hollow in the wall, it’s above those stones. There, on the right hand in the wall you’ll find a ledge and when you climb, just grasp it with your right hand and seize the rhizome by your left. I’ll help you, and then you’ll pull me up. I can’t climb by myself and it will take me too much time to make a bypass. Yeah, be careful: snakes and scorpions are already out to bask in the sun.”
Shortly after they approached to the rests of the wall, and Alex began to climb up the gray stones, painted with stains of greenish moss. A step, another one, and he appeared in front of the aperture. Following George's instructions, he grasped a stone jutting out the wall by the right hand, and groped by left the rhizome George had mentioned. A slight effort and the journalist was standing in the gap of the wall, shaking the dust off his hands. 
“All right, I’m already in, get ready,” he untied the sleeves of his jacket, grasped one of them and threw another one to George. “Turn it around your hand and I’ll pull you up.”
George caught the sleeve by his intact hand and begun his slow ascent up the wall.
“You’d better fix your grip not to lose poise,” he smiled.
“I’m okay, don’t worry.”
Alex squatted and holding the sleeve in the hand, began fumbling about in behind. His palm stumbled across small stones and old withered grass. An unexpected pain forced him to immediately straighten out his hand and turn back. In couple of yards away, behind the high nettle which had just stung him, he saw a bearded man lurking. His right hand rested on the trigger of a Kalashnikov sub-machine gun whose dark muzzle was more expressive than the stranger’s palm which he had pressed to his lips. 




CHAPTER 3

Whatever the various philosophical schools identify such a complex phenomenon as human consciousness, it doesn’t care much and still remains nothing else but a set of feelings and perceptions. This or something alike flashed in Paul’s mind, when he woke up on a late Sunday morning in his apartment on Beacon Hill, Boston, MA. 
At first he felt the spring sun rays breaking through his bedroom’s window jalousie and almost steeply falling on his eyes. A bit after, turning on his right side, he began to recognize the traffic sounds and the rhythmical clickety-clack of an approaching tram or the ‘T’, as it was named here. And only after extending his legs and feeling the cold of the varnished wooden bed-backs, he got finally realized that that wasn’t the fatty-looking-sergeant-shaped alarm clock which used to pipe his whistle and shout “Get up, soldier” that had waken him up, but the nasty trill of the most recent human leap in the field of telecommunications – the cell phone that he had left the day before on the bedside-table.
“I’ve got to change that damn melody”, - once again flashed in his mind.
Paul was a disciplined individual. He would wake up at a 645 a.m. and, still in bed, with his eyes closed, do a mental ‘reconnaissance on the ground and in the time’ as he used to call it. Following the habit shaped during the years of practice, he would lend an ear to sounds, analyze smells, and determine his position in the room, then recall the current date, the previous day activities and the plans for the forthcoming day. And finally, after bringing up together the entire picture of the surrounding world of sounds, smells, motions and problems out of his fragmented conclusions, he would understand who he was today, and what he had to do. 
This time however, he came to the point quicker than usually. Instead of the speculative conclusions a feminine voice rushed into his brain out of the cell phone. Judging by the overheard parts of the conversation one could confidently assume that Paul was a divorced man in his fifties, that he had long since acquired the skills of a bachelor’s life, that his ex-spouse and daughter lived in New York, NY, that their names were accordingly Miriam and Dora, that Dora expected her father for the birthday party and that she was going to get married. The last news was something new to Paul.
“What do you mean: “is going to get married”…? Tiny Dora marries?”
A big German sheep dog named Bone, lounged on a carpet in the opposite corner of the bedroom, roared and, lifting his head, picked up the ears. Still talking, Paul approached to it and patted its head. Then he put on an old silk dressing gown – a fifteen-years-old sale purchase, and sitting down on the bed, fumbled under it by his feet in search of the house shoes.
“Wait, wait... She’s only twenty-five, she has all her life ahead, she must complete her education and, finally – what if that’s a wrong choice?”
Accompanied by the dog, the man proceeded to the dining room, to the chimney board packed with a big number of classical accessories of an upper middle class man living space – cups, souvenirs and statuettes – were he used to keep some mahogany framed family photos. Still pressing the cell phone to the ear, Paul took a picture by both hands and began to examine it with a smile on his lips. A tiny ridiculous girl was sitting on his arms and looking aside with surprise in her eyes. Smiling Paul was pointing with his finger at the lens, trying to invite the child’s attention to it, while smiling Miriam was standing to his left and holding Dora’s back by both hands. There was a part of a beach with sea, a palm trunk and ‘The Big Ostrich Tavern’ signboard behind the family. That day Dora noticed the big toy ostrich, placed by the entrance of the caf;. “What a big chicken,” whispered the child, causing laughter of her parents and a passing by gentleman who met halfway Paul’s request to take a photo of the family.
Almost twenty-three years – a whole life – had passed between the captured sketch and the still continuing phone call.
“You know, now I look at our picture, you remember, we had a photograph on the beach, near your brother’s caf;. What an amusing child she was! And now she’s a grown person, she’s about to create her own family…”
“You become sentimental... She’s an independent adult. Dora decided to get married on her birthday and she’s looking forward to see you here. Look, Paul, this time you must be here, and please, don’t you upset her the way you did the last time… What we plan, isn’t an ordinary party.”
“Come on, you know that I was off on an important business and had sent her a bouquet. Besides, I guess that in her age it’s better to get money instead of gifts: the girl knows how to spend them… That’s concerning the last time… I’ve talked with Dora last Monday, she told me neither about her wedding, nor about the fianc;. Who’s he? I need to see him before the official ceremony.” 
“I think it’s possible. You’d be here in advance.”
Evidently the rest of the conversation appeared to be less interesting for Bone, so he sluggishly yawned to demonstrate his terrible incisors, and slowly made his way to the kitchen, where as long as yesterday he had left a nickel-plated bowl decorated with an inscription ‘Bone’ and a bone, drawn by a primitivist. Before he had time to make sure that the trough was still empty, his master appeared in the kitchen in a light blue shirt and threw a leather muzzle to the dog:
“Put it on, Bone, we’re  going out.”
That was an odd manner to joke.
The unexpected call didn’t affect Paul’s plans; anyway, it added additional dynamism to his actions. Ten minutes later the respectable gentleman got out from the house on the Brookline and Fletcher streets corner and, politely bowing to an aged lady – his below neighbor – stopped a cab and ordered “Watertown” to the Hindu driver, scowling at the dog. Quarter of an hour later Paul and the dog walked through a small park by a cobble-stone paved path to a red-and-green fast food van. Though it was a bit early for lunch, however two Japanese tourists had already placed themselves at the counter – probably with an aim to interrupt the traditional sight-hunting with a gastronomic pause. Scrutinizing the nearest brick buildings visible through the fresh spring foliage, they were inertly chewing ham-and-mustard sandwiches. The owner of the mobile kitchen – if one could give such a name to a ‘GM’ reequipped van – was rubbing his hands by a lap of a clean white apron and mumbling something on the other side of the counter.
“Good morning, Joe. Gentlemen, bon appetite…”
The tourists smiled and nodded back, and Joe – a bold Afro-American in his sixties – cast a look at Paul and plunged again into his business: now he was wiping his right palm by a spirit napkin.
“Good morning, sir. I’ll finish in a minute. I have warned that wretch that something is wrong with this damn deep-fryer; look, I’ve got smeared with oil again. You know, sir, Tony has left for mountains with a company of the same good-for-nothings, and so I’m left alone to potter about with this cursed kerosene stove on wheels. Wait a little, and I’ll serve you in the gastronomic field.” 
“Don’t worry, I’m not hungry. You’d better feed my pet, Joe.”
“So you’re here too, Bone?” The old man glanced downwards, leaning by his big paunch against the counter and dropping a plastic glass with rests of Cola. “Yeah, your name already fits you, boy. Here I’ve a wonderful slice able to brighten up your doggy life. Let me prepare it for you. If I could advice you, sir, Bone is old now and flesh must be too tough either for teeth and guts, so you’d better get him ‘Pedigree’.”
The old man fumbled about in a small refrigerator behind the counter. 
              “Okay, Joe, I’ll think about it. Could you keep an eye on him for a minute while I’m off? You know, he’s disciplined and won’t bother you. We’ll talk later.” 
“Well, but please fasten him to that tree: the City Hall has forbidden lasting stay of animals within less than ten yards from such caf;s,” Joe indignantly shook a sheet of paper he had pulled out of his breast pocket, “You see?... sir, it appears that some folks are more vulnerable to allergens in spring…”
Leaving Bone, Paul bypassed a large puddle, emerged on the place of sunken pavement plates, crossed the road and headed towards the building of a round-the-week bank. The reason of his visit was stored there for more than a decade; it was kept in a depositary box in the bunker. When the common formalities were completed, he turned his key in the lock simultaneously with the bank clerk who immediately left him alone with the contents of a pulled out black ebonite box.
He opened a small, red velvet toppled case, placed among a thick bale of papers, envelopes, a couple of child color drawings and some other boxes.
“Bingo,” he whispered, getting out a graceful lady finger-ring, “I’ve got it.”
Feasting his eyes on the ring for a while, Paul returned it into the case and placed into his raincoat’s inset pocket. Reviewing some of the documents he smiled, - probably, giving in to some memories, then placed the papers into the ebonite box and pushed it back to the sell. Soon Paul appeared in the foyer and, choosing the right time, approached to the desk of a pretty lady-officer. Handing in the required documents, he asked about the state of his financial affairs. The correlation of the credit and expenditures looked favorable, so Paul made some arrangements and eventually putting his signature to a stretched paper he paid the lady a compliment and immediately left the bank accompanied by a pair of “beautiful brown eyes“ that he, what a pity, hadn’t come across in a due time of his previous life. 
             His talk with Joe wasn’t long-lasting either. Paul passed him an address and few banknotes.
“…You can’t find such foodstuff anywhere else. Don’t forget, Joe, every other day, and please, let it be fresh.”
Passing a little, Paul looked at his watch and unbinding the lead, set Bone free. As soon as the dog felt lack of restrictions, it jerked to the pigeons perching on a low pedestal of a small sculptural composition erected right in the middle of the public park.
“You have half an hour at your disposal, Bone. Remember: pigeons symbolize peace. And don’t you even think of crapping near this work of art, as that would be both vulgarity and discourtesy towards the history of this country.”
He sat down on the edge of a green-painted bench and, picking up a small brochure out of his pocket, got deep into reading. 




CHAPTER 4

The solar beams were making their way through narrow door cracks to rip up the gloom of the cellar and draw oblong spots on its earthen floor spotted by big and small half-sunk rubbles. If the old wooden door, hardly hanged by its two rusty loops and heavily corroded by wood-engravers, had any of human nature, then it would definitely become proud of itself. And it wouldn’t be something reasonless. After all, for the first time during the last decades it had retained the honorable and responsible duty of concealing something more valuable and significant, than the winter potato supplies and some house lumber that the masters used to keep beyond its nine parallel and two perpendicular planks. Certainly, the door couldn’t brag of its insuperability, however it wouldn’t belittle its current status at all: for the prisoners it was nothing but an embodiment of a physical and metaphysical boundary dividing the reality into two unequal parts: the bright world of freedom and the dark cellar of captivity. And even the obvious fragility of this border was meant, as one could wonder, to intensify the emotional experiences of the prisoners. The sound of the wind, playing among the young leaves in the garden, was reaching the cellar. Sometimes, giving in to the next impulse of the wind, the leaves would block the way of the rays and the spots on the floor would shiver and take fantastical shapes, so one would wonder if the door was winking at those inside.
Alex was lying on his side and watching the golden suspension of dust soaring within the sun beams. He could hardly believe that there could be that much dust particles in the cool and damp air of the vault. All the more instead of its smell he caught an acrid and disgusting smell of a plant, which had probably been taken here with the bottle of the last year's hay. He tore off a branch and brought it to the light. The smell got stronger. The herb had sharp leaves, with small prongs along the edges, and a fleshy stem. The smell became intolerable. “What a shit”, - he threw the plant aside and, rubbing his fingers over the hay, turned towards the children. He couldn’t see them in the heart of the place, but instead could hear their whisper. 
Alex couldn’t get rid of the feeling that everything that had happened to him was unreal. “No, it’s impossible, because it isn’t right at all,” - he thought. It was a pleasant spring day outside. He could see the warm May sun and the blue cloudless sky through the cracks of the doors. The wind puffs would waft leave rustling and the piping of the birds, hidden in the trees. One could wonder that the nature itself was casting contemplation and harmony, however the pressing feeling of uncertainty and danger wouldn’t leave him even for a second: he was a hostage, and his destiny entirely depended on the plans, and, probably, even the moods of those people. 
Once again he returned back in his mind. The incident seemed to be a nightmare and he could hardly believe that less then twenty-four hours passed since the moment he was captured. The events would pass in his head again and again.
As soon as he noticed the shouldered  gun,  he became so overcame by surprise that let the sleeve of the jacket go and tried to slowly reach for his plastic press-badge, hung on his neck.
“I’m a journalist… I’m a U.S. citizen,” he could utter before he was knocked down and rummaged around his pockets – his motion was certainly misinterpreted.
He heard George’s groans coming from beyond the wall while he himself was fixed with his face down, with a knee pressing down his scapula and a cold gun barrel, poked at the back of his head. The guy couldn’t be seen, however Alex hadn’t heard gunshots and very much hoped that the guide had simply fallen from the wall and wasn’t hurt much. The event seemed as unreal as a dream.
While the strangers were tying up his arms behind his back, the journalist somehow managed to turn his head to the wall. There he saw one of the strangers aiming downwards from the sub-machine gun with a strange thick pipe attached to its barrel. A bearded person in black with big field glasses in his hands – probably the commander – came up to the guerrilla. Pointing downwards with his hand, he exchanged few words with his subordinate, who got down the wall. Shortly after the man returned with the jacket and the camera, Alex had left below. Meanwhile George continued groaning, and now that was something encouraging. The man in black closely examined the camera, then opened it and spoiled the film by exposing it to the light. The next thing to capture his attention was the American’s passport. Looking through it, he fluently examined the wallet and approached to Alex, who had been knelt down with his back towards the pass in the wall.
“It’s a mistake, you can’t do that. Does anybody speak English here?” Alex was still thinking that the incident had occurred through misunderstanding: earlier in the morning he was told that the mountain-tour would be safe, that the front line was passing far in the east, and that there were either no mines or combatants on the rout.
“I’m a U.S. citizen, and not a combatant; I’m protected by international conventions. You’re going to have certain problems with your command…”
The commander of the gunmen lifted Alex's chin by the open passport and looked into his eyes.
“You’re really the one you pretend to be,” he said in fluent English. “And as for the problems with my commanders, then be sure that the reaction can be quite the contrary. I’d advise you not to take all these up. And generally, Mr. O’Connell, you’ve appeared here in the best possible time. You’ve not only spared a lot of time for us, but also, very likely, have saved lives.”
“Who are you and what are you going to do?”
“Let me say, that in this bickering we occupy the other side of the barricades,” the stranger grinned and theatrically added, “But it doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re going to cause any harm to you or your young fellows. But definitely with a strict precondition: you won’t dare to give us troubles.”
“What are you going to do with George?”
“If you mean the one-armed guy lying under the wall, then you’ve maimed him by letting the jacket to slip out of your hands. I guess, your friend has broken his leg. But don’t worry, we’ll leave him here as our messenger, so he’ll inform his comrades that you’re captured. Further it will be a child’s play, and if all goes well, then within two days you’ll return here safe and sound to continue the sightseeing.”
“But we can’t leave the hurt man here alone, without any help”, Alex could only imagine the lot of helpless George. 
“You’d prefer to take him with us, or you think it would be fair to call an ambulance?” said the man in black in a mocking tone. “And where is your faith? Actually, we entrust him to the God and not the humans. All right, enough of that! It’s time to move. And now, for your safety, we’ll deprive you of the freedom of speech.”
The commander of the strangers signaled to his subordinates, and soon the mouths of the prisoners were taped by tapes. One of the gunmen went to the passage in the wall and dropped Alex's badge and jacket on George. Anyway, he kept Alex’s watch and the photo-camera as a war trophy.
Soon the commander noticed the gesture of his scouts informing him that the way was clear. He lined up the prisoners in a single file, tied them up to each other and led to the east. The opposite slope of the mountain appeared to be less slanting, and instead of bushes, it was covered by small oak woods, separated by high grass of alpine meadows. Two scouts were advancing on the flanks of the group, leaving it behind for as far as 200-300 yards. They would often stop, strain their hearing and attentively peer at the surrounding landscape. Several times within the six-hour march Alex and the children would fall prone on the ground, and being alarmed with the uncertainty, listen to the mad palpation of their own hearts. But in all those cases the warning signal submitted by avant-garde of the small procession appeared to be false.
The guerillas were equipped with small portable radio sets, however, judging by all, the group was keeping radio-silence: they would always communicate by signs and rarely speak to each other. Their commander, or the Black, as Alex had named the guy to himself, would go forward to the scouts, then wait for the others to approach or climb up a tree and, casting a glance at his watch, look into his field-glass. During the short periods of rest reserved by him every half an hour, his lieutenants would unstuck the corners of the tape and allow the prisoners to sip some water through a straw.
Cautiously passing from one coppice to another, the procession got down from the slope and crossed a wide-gullies-marked ground road. Then they crossed a narrow streamlet, running through a flat ravine with abrupt clay slopes, and begun to ascend the woody slope of a mountain ridge. In the approaching twilight Alex made out a wide hazy plain, laying behind the chain of peaks and extending far to the east.
Apparently, the armed men knew the vicinities well enough not to come across with any new unbidden witness on the way back. When the night fell they didn’t even ease down the tempo of walking, but on the contrary, hurried the prisoners. With no idea of the way ahead and practically unable to make anything out in the darkness, the children would constantly stumble, and the American, who headed the captured, would several times find himself on the ground, hauled down by the weight of the collapsing children. Meanwhile the kidnappers, dressed in wide trousers and loose overalls, would quickly pace with their bare feet in their light self-made leather shoes. It seemed that these strange people were tireless and knew no mercy: getting up the fallen they would whip them on by the barrels and butts of their weapons. 
It was already late night, when the convoy reached a small farm. The half-ruined building was erected on the western slope of a hill towering above an undulating plain adjoining to the mountain ridge. The night was serene, and in the light of the rising moon one could observe around dry vineyards, here and there stained by white ruins. The front line was nearby, and sometimes a roar of a single shot or a short automatic burst would break the cacophony of cicadas.
The Black ordered to station the prisoners in the farm building. The light would get inside the construction through windows and large breaches in the walls and roof. The marks of the recent stubborn skirmishes were evident even in the twilight: in several places the white, shell striated walls had turned black of the soot, penetrated into the white stones of the masonry – these were the traces of the direct hits. However Alex and the children showed little interest of these barely visible details: looking forward for a rest, the prisoners cleared away a small patch in the dark and sat down right on the floor. The kids were exhausted, however that time they were deprived of the water and nobody made them get up, but. 
Sending his scouts ahead, the Black approached to those sitting on the floor. 
“You probably understand that we’re close to the front line. I guess, your feelings towards us are far from being warm and friendly. But given your current status, you’re not in a position to choose. I have no intention to remind you once again about your status: the thing is that we’re going to quietly pass to the opposite side within the forthcoming half an hour. The proximity of the Karabakhi positions is some 350 yards. Approximately the same is the distance between the Azerbaijani and Karabakhi sides. We must pass these yards silently; otherwise any noise can provoke enemy fire, friendly fire, cross-fire, or all at once. The outcome will be the same – there’ll be no us anymore. Your hands will be free as you’ll need them. But remember, we’re chained by the same fate. I warn you that any unauthorized move will be strictly stopped. If anyone tries to escape, then my men will shoot as I’ve already ordered them. Trust me; they’ll do the job quickly and silently as they have silencers on their rifles, so the fire won’t cause much noise. Nevertheless, such a death would be even more humane than the fate of those who’ll try to escape through the mine-fields. Children will go first. Journalist, you’ll go the last and I’ll personally keep you company. It’s possible that during the operation, or - the ‘infiltration’, as you, Americans, often put it, the Azerbaijani side will open fire for derivation of the opponent. Remain calm and don’t twitch. If you see flares, just freeze and press yourself to the ground. I don’t speak the tongue of these kids; anyway, let’s hope that their instinct of self-preservation will suggest them what to do. And now, my men will prepare you for the operation”. 
One of the guards went out and shortly after returned with an armful of green branches. It took few more minutes for the gunmen to fix them on the clothes of the prisoners by the same green sticky tape. Soon the silhouettes of people lost their habitual contours and under the slanting beams of the moonlight turned into shapeless bushes. Then, tearing one of sleeping bags, the gunmen wrapped the feet of the captives with its soft cloth. The feet became big and soft: now they wouldn’t let out a rustle while walking.
Meanwhile the Black had opened a map, adjusted his radio set to a required wave. Then, covering himself by a waterproof cape, he switched on a small lamp and began making arrangements. Less than in a minute he stopped the radio contact and, taking off the cape, gave few short orders. Four of his men adjusted their radio microphones to their cauldron-looking headgears, then opened their backpacks, dropped out the food and water supplies, sleeping bags, some other equipment and accurately piled everything by one of the wall braches. Judging by a metal clang, the lean backpacks now contained mainly ammunition. Tightening the backpacks and placing them back on the shoulders, all the four began swinging their hands and bouncing along: on one foot, then on the other and finally – on the both. They finished the preparations by decorated each other with branches and getting satisfied with the result of the job, lined up in front of the commander.
Casting a look at his watch, the Black approached to the first man in the line. That was a tall man with streaks of grey in his beard. Probably he was the oldest in the group. Getting the signal of the commander, he bowed his head, raised his hands to the ceiling and then, leading them over his cheeks put them together on the breast, right under his chin. That was a ritual gesture, but a strange one: the guerilla had some paint on his hands, because leading of them over his face he had left wide black strips on it. Maybe the man had whispered a pray, but the night hided everything. He took out a blued knife and cut the cord, tying the hands of the smallest boy. Probably the kids had already comprehended what was going on: he didn’t even get frightened when the man approached him with a knife, but coolly extended his tied hands. Setting the hands of the captive free, the gunmen seized the child’s belt from the rear and lightly pushed him to the breach in the masonry.
The agony of suspense was intolerable. Alex was sure that if something went wrong and the people on the Karabakhi side learned about the attempt to cross the front-line, then a fierce firing would break out. Getting into such a skirmish would leave no chances to survive. It was nothing left to him but to hope, that everything would go well. Pushing the children in front of themselves the gunmen would one after another disappear in the breach, each time making Alex to renew his attempts to pick up any sound from the outside through the rumble of his own heart. Only the radio would occasionally chatter in the hands of the Black, and the cicadas would crazily chirr in the farmyard. Only once the echo had wafted the boom of a shot, but it came from the right, so catching no anxiety on the Black’s face hardly visible in the twilight, Paul calmed down. Ten minutes had passed since the last child was taken, when the Black stirred. Looking at the luminous dial of his watch, he adjusted the radio to his shirt and whispered to the American:
“Get ready, it’s time.”
Then he and his remaining lieutenant repeated the odd face ritual and releasing Alex’s hands, moved ahead. Almost getting out of the half-ruined farm, the Black dropped something on the heap of the piled stuff. The sleeping bags softened the impact of the falling object.
“We’ve fifteen minutes left,” he whispered to Alex almost inaudibly.
Hiding behind tall blackberry bushes, the trio quickly walked down to the hill-foot and kept quiet behind the low rim of a reservoir – the dark blue of it’s inside could be seen even in the moonlight. A deep and narrow concrete drain was passing by the verge of the vineyard, then making an abrupt turn to the left and disappearing behind a small stony hill. Silence reigned around, and only the warm wind was rustling in the bushes, shaking the last year's withered grass at the eastern rim of the reservoir.
The Black pointed the drain. Seizing Alex’s belt by his right hand and holding silencer equipped Kalashnikov in the left, he ordered the American to slip into the drain and creep ahead. The narrow and superficial concrete structure – hardly a foot deep – was full of dirt, but safe. Creeping over the slush, they quickly reached the rocky ‘islet’, where they quickly hided among grayish and still warm mossy stones. Here Alex could mass his rubbed elbows, while the gunmen carefully investigated the area. The Karabakhi outposts were in about 300 yards to the right, somewhere among the trees. Their soldiers were out of sight, and only the rare sparkles flashing through the trunks would gave out the presence of people.
The Black knew that there were sentries on the hillock, and some of them probably had night-vision goggles. The gentle slope of a mountain covered with rare and low bush sharply ascended on the left of the ‘islet’. There was a well equipped machine-gun emplacement on the beetling slope, capable to control the slant at night and almost all the approaches to the Karabakhis’ left flank in daytime. In front of them for several miles to the east lied dry vineyards, whose sickly foliage could hardly suggest any cover. Moreover, the passes between the well-disposed stake lines were mined, so the guerillas and the prisoners had to cross them in strictly defined places.
The Black couldn’t see the positions of the friendly Azerbaijani troops, anyway he was sure that they were awake, waiting for the return of the remained members of the group. Soon he distinguished a luminous scrap, marking a hardly appreciable thin wire stretched deep into the vineyard: that was the safe pass for the withdrawal. According to the plan, the scouts would lay an ambush in front of the opponent’s positions and wait for a signal. After eighty yards the Areadna’s string was ending with a double knot at the foot of a concrete stock. There was a bare space left on the both sides of a ground road, heading perpendicularly towards the Karabakhi positions and then turning to the small masonry with the strange blue reservoir.
For sure this open territory – some fifty yards in width and half a mile in length – was well monitored and could be easily exposed to dense fire from the Karabakhi positions even at night, and particularly now, when the moon was in its zenith. There was a drainage canal behind the road, on the opposite side of the vineyard. It was dug before the war for the waste water. Apparently, the other captives had passed through it before the moon had got from the mountains and lit up the surroundings with its pale light. Focusing his field-glass on the opposite side of the ground road, the Black distinguished another tiny scrap of a luminous tape, stuck on a stake. That was the way. Recording the place in his mind, he opened the cap of his army watch. It was 345. Then he bent to the American and whispered: “Get ready. As soon as I give the signal, we quickly pass the road in that place”. Then he switched on the radio and stopped his eyes on the mountains, they had gone down from several hours ago.




CHAPTER 5

It was about 2 p.m. when Paul and Bone approached to an imperceptible two-storied brick building at the end of the Fleet Street. Nowadays hardly anyone could remember that in due times the opening of this business was marked by a splash of the most inconsistent moods in the city, which finally ignited a grandiose scandal.
The story started when the rumors about the forthcoming opening of the new enterprise on the Clark Street coincided, as fate had decreed, with the start of the municipal elections. The prospect of the proximity to the new company had caused a wave of dissatisfaction among the inhabitants of the street. The most active of them stated to the media, that such an enterprise would become a scandalous example of “an unjustified excess” and “an inadmissible luxury” in a city burdened with a complex problems dealing with the homeless, the socially-vulnerable citizens and unemployment. Thus, according to the ad-hoc Organizational Committee of the drive, the City Hall apparently didn’t demonstrate “a zealous efficiency and adherence to the principles” within the sphere of social issues. Meanwhile, the representatives of the opposite camp - most likely those who were aware of the problem not by hearsay – would on the contrary roughly welcome the innovation, fairly assuming that it would be a step forward and would not only allow to solve a number of routine problems, but, to a some extent, would even contribute to the activation of the public life.
The first owner of the business – some Kaminski – had in turn added oils to the flames in his interview to S. Pearson – then a beginner-journalist, perfecting his feather at the ‘High Life Chronicle’ column of the Boston Daily News. According to the paper, Kaminski had articulated literally the following: “I don’t see anything that would contradict to the conventional morals. It’s business, and if there is demand, then there should be supply. As the saying goes – this is the law established by Smith himself, though I personally, to tell the truth, don’t have even a hazy recollection of such a President”. In the next day issue the most zealous observers of morals accused him of “arguing his stand by almost the same wording, as, for instance, the drug-dealers, who trade marijuana at the bars neighboring with the campuses”. 
The gauntlet was thrown down, the charges were serious, and the air smelled gunpowder.
Before Kaminski had time to accept the challenge, the Municipal Police Office, and then the boards of trustees of more than twenty Boston educational institutions voiced their protest and a joint strict refutation of “an ostensible dominance of drug dealers in the city and, especially, within the neighborhood of the world-wide known educational institutions”. In the risen hubbub and speculations about the astronomical claims the public somehow forgot about the new enterprise, and soon the “Animals’ Hotel” located on the Fleet Street, played another trick, this time with its name – turning into the “Pet House”. The grammatically harmless word-combination was immediately sinned with an ambiguous transcription, which plunged the housewives into far not always favorable analogies with the characters of one of the most popular editions among the city male population – “Penthouse”. The history says nothing about the claims of the edition concerning the similarity of the trademarks. One is clear: the animal hotel thoroughly and permanently occupied its room in the section “P” of the local phone directory. In the middle of the seventies, simultaneously with the expansion of the Green Movement and the growth of the Animal Protection Movement popularity, the enterprise not only changed the owner, but also somewhat expanded the sphere of its specialization: along with the temporary care for the pets the “Pet House” now would offer full board to the aged home favorites. The eighties had marked themselves by another turning point in the life of the business: the old widow of a rich ship-owner who had bequeathed a substantial part of his megabuck wealth for the needs of homeless animals didn’t keep them awaiting too long either, and soon the establishment had once again reconstructed the building and almost completely altered everything that had still remained from the small, palisade decorated courtyard. But as the result, the stray dogs and cats of the city could obtain shelter, meal and health services within the hospitable walls of the Fleet Street house. 
In a word, by the moment when Paul with Bone on a Mexican buffalo leather dog-lead appeared at the reception, the animal business had already became a brilliant example of a successful commerce, which had been paying back the shareholders not only with good money, but also with public weight and support from a large variety of ‘Green’ NGOs. 
A young man in a dense gray cloth uniform pants and a dark blue shirt was sitting at the office rack and diligently registering something in the computer, continually casting looks into an open notebook hanged to the left of the display. For some reason it seemed that Tom – this name was indicated on the shine-polished copper tablet, attached to the left breast pocket of his shirt – was down in the dumps and shy of his snow-white gloves – an indispensable attribute of the trade. His entire appearance, including gel-smoothed hair, squinted brown eyes and even the dimple on his volitional Hollywood chin, didn’t in any way match to the feeling of an ineradicable love towards animals – the fundamental prerequisite, required from the ‘Pet House’ employees. One could confidently assume that the young man was a mere sponger, who wouldn’t trouble himself by searching for something more corresponding to his build, than a part-time work in the famous two-storied brick building. 
“Sir?” Tom leaned back and swinging around for a half-turn, tried to make a classical personification of courtesy.
“I need to accommodate him for couple of days,” answered Paul.
Bone, who had plenty of running about, was examining a colorful poster, advertising a new cat feed. During his last visit there were no jars with those disgusting red-yellow labels around. Instead, there was other one, proudly advertising some dog foodstuff.
“No problem, sir. How long would you like? And what about leaving him here for a lo-o-ng term?” Tom gave a competent wink.
“No, thanks, a week is enough. Here are his papers.”
As the rules required, Paul left his address and two additional ones so the ‘Pet House’ to be able to appeal in a case of “a force majeure situation with the owner”. Registering the data in the computer database, Tom returned the documents. He was obviously puzzled by something.
“Excuse me, but according to the papers, this dog, along with required obligatory inoculations, had received additional 3, and here are the names I’ve never met before. Yeah, and one more thing … the addresses: one of the locations is here, another one is in New York and here is the address of a federal agency without any additional information mentioned…,” Tom was examining Bone, who had placed himself by the master's shoes thus demonstrating no interest towards the routine conversation of the two humans.
“Let me reveal a small secret, Tom,” Paul conspiratorially winked and bending to the office rack, lowered his voice, - but promise to keep it here. Years ago this dog was a U.S. Government property. His valorous flair served had for Uncle Sam in Latin America and elsewhere. He has participated in drug sweep and elimination operations; he did his best to prevent its inflow to the U.S.A. You see, to a certain extent Bone is a unique dog, as he was simultaneously specialized on several forms of narcotics, well, you’ve probably read about them in the books – cocaine, heroin, marihuana, crack…”
As soon as he mentioned “crack”, Bone picked up his ears and got up on his feet. Smelling the air, he rounded the rack and, suspiciously glancing at Tom, approached to the table and scratched the bottom drawer. Tom got reddened.
“However now,” imperturbably went on Paul erecting himself and following the motions of the dog, “he’s retired and reacts to everything, including potato chips with chilly souse. And as to me,” said in the same monotonous, dull voice, “then I’m not a pro in herbs, and prefer bucks to any other green stuffs, and teaching to any other activity.”
It seemed that Tom felt relieved; and, still mistrustfully looking on the dog and the customer, he quickly finished the registration.
Paul paid the fee and pulled about the dog’s muzzle.
“He’s legible in foods, so, please, give him some fresh liver every other day; I’ve already made the necessary supply arrangements. Please, make sure he’s fed in time.”
When the young lady, called in by intercom, escorted Bone to the allocated ‘suit’, Paul waved his hand to the pet and nodding to Tom, left the office. 
It was 310 p.m. and he didn’t have his dinner yet, so passing by the Fleet Street he turned to the left, towards the shipyards. Passing two blocks by a stone-paved street, he turned to the right and came up to a small Italian fish restaurant with a pretentious name “Pompeii”. It was located on the ground floor of a 3-stored building made of red tuff, which, according to some architectural guidebooks, was quite common for the late 19th century Boston urban-planning customs.
The massive door – a mix of matte glass and decorative metal lattice – feigningly squeaked, clanging by its jamb at a small brass hand-bell and sonorously announced the arrival of the then sole visitor. A short thin person slightly above fifty was languidly looking through the sports page of a local newspaper sitting alone in the center of a small cozy hall with seven small round tables. He had a jagged crescent scar on his left cheek, lasting from the corner of his eye and down to his chin. Probably it was inflicted still in childhood by a blunt object. As the bell jingled, the man turned to the doors and, screwing up his eyes – as if he had optical problems – peered at the face of the visitor. For a second his face lost the mark of the severity, attached by the ugly scar. He smiled and, putting the paper aside, rose from the chair.
“I haven’t seen you around for a damn long time. I wondered if the beast has gobbled you up.”
They embraced. Clapping the friend on the shoulder, Paul sat at the nearest table and sniffed to the smell, coming from the kitchen:
“Just before we pass to business - I’m hungry and wouldn’t mind a horse, but now even a plateful of clam soup will do. Then I’d go on with a backed fish. But please, tell your guys to add the sweet ketchup with a generous hand, something they lacked the last time”. 
Then, looking around at the familiar reproductions of sea landscapes and bunches of spicy greens and garlic hanging down from the ceiling, – their ample quantity was usually hung for breaking the pungent fish smell – he pointed to the newspaper laying on the white stripped dark blue table-cloth:
             “Judging by the ‘inflow’ of customers, this job has hardly added any money to your purse, but, instead, it has perfectly coped with the gaps in your education, Gnocchi. As I see, you do read newspapers, and that’s a break-through, man.”
“Come on, you know that I’m not fond of making my way through the puzzles of smart words and expressions. I need something easier, you know – more pictures and fewer words. Comics, for instance, will do. Unfortunately, all of them still have one big lack: they don’t announce race results. And that’s the way I’m trying to improve my finances, as the restaurant season didn’t start yet. The sightseers will attack in the beginning of the summer, and then we’ll have a tough horsing round and probably will have to place few tables outside. And for now...”
“Change the signboard, Gnocchi. You need your own brand; something more exclusive, better associating with the Italian cuisine. For instance: “Fisheria”. Do you catch the hint?”   
“Yeah,” Gnocchi scratched his chin, “scusi…”
He turned to the waiter, standing in the other end of the hall to order something in Italian. The boy nodded his curly head and quickly appeared with a bottle of white wine, two glasses and a stuffed paprika.
“I don’t promise to keep you company, man, but I won’t mind a glass of good wine with you,” Gnocchi competently poured out wine and stretched the glass to Paul, “the wine is okay. Alla sua famiglia, to your family. By the way, how’re they? You’ve probably haven’t see them for a while, have you?”
“Well, that’s you who talks business. Dora marries.”
“Huh, that’s why you have that stupid expression on your face... I know you too long to hope that you’re here for “hello” or to tamp your paunch. Tiny Dora marries, and her fearful Daddy is afraid of the threat to become a granddad. Yes, that’s life and you’re getting older, man – Francesco Conti, nicknamed “Gnocchi”, the man Paul knew since his early childhood, rose from the chair clasped his friend and strongly slapped on the shoulder, - don’t worry, Frank has a decent tuxedo left to dance Tarantella during our baby’s wedding. So, dear sir, today you can’t escape our hospitality. Hey, Tony, come here quickly, you lazybones …”
After having a shindig dinner and a good and long talk with the old bud, Paul returned home at about 5 o'clock p.m. in a very good mood. Picking up his mail from the reception, he locked the door and was heading to the bathroom to take a shower, when a persevering knock on the door took him to the anteroom. There were 3 men behind the door – two strangers and the door-keeper. The last was shifting from one foot to the other.
“These gentlemen are looking for you. I didn’t want to let them in without informing you about their visit, but they would insist and say that they had an urgent task to see you and had no chance to wait. Unfortunately, sir, I couldn’t stop them. Should I call police?” the panted out door-keeper discontentedly looked at the sturdily built figures of the guests. Meanwhile those listened to the monologue with an emphasized coolness. 
“No, you shouldn’t. You’re free, Mails. Let me talk to the gentlemen.”
Mails left and the visitors turned to Paul. One of them was an Afro-American in his early forties, and the second was a young brunette slightly above thirty. Short haircuts, dark sunglasses, well fitting identical dark grey suits and almost identical motley ties with domination of red and yellow made the strangers look very similar, but only at first sight. The unforgettably white cuffs and collar of the dark blue shirt, absence of a brooch on the tie, and a pair of gold collar buttons with geometrical shapes on the background of the print of self-importance, faintly readable on the face of the brunette betrayed him as a rookie, who, unfortunately for his colleagues, had already been vested with a certain authority. 
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?”
The rookie moved ahead rocking and, still holding his left hand in the pant’s pocket, theatrically - somehow from below upwards – pointed his right hand’s forefinger at the brass tablet with the initials of the owner of the apartment.
“Is that you?”
“Your insight is unparalleled. Can I help you?”
The right hand of the man proceeded to his jacket’s pocket and picked out a leather wrapped nickel budge by a trained gesture. The move was excellently polished up; nevertheless something went wrong and the sign of powers so effectively demonstrated head over heels, was turned over into the normal position.
“Agent Bullock, Special Operations Bureau, and that’s Lieutenant Jefferson from the Military Intelligence. Sir, we were ordered to urgently convey you to D.C.”
“Come in, gentlemen,” Paul led the unexpected visitors to the dinning-room.
The attention of the lieutenant was almost immediately attracted by a refined collection of small knifes, accurately suspended on a black-claret Oriental carpet. Bullock, meanwhile, moved to the chimney shelf and began to carelessly examine its exposition. Paul offered them alcohol, but as the answer was negative, he proceeded to the kitchen to return with two high glasses and a misted over Coke.
“I’ve almost forgotten that you don’t have anything stronger while on duty,” said he, inviting the visitors to the low coffee table heaped up by magazines. “So, what lies behind the attention of such respectful institutions towards my humble personality? What happens?”
He sat down into a bent-bamboo armchair on the opposite. 
Bullock tarried and, returning a black ebonite figurine of a Polynesian idol to the shelf, went away from the fireplace, while Jefferson, who didn’t utter a sound so far, took a glass and made a gulp of Coke, thus demonstrating by all his view that the Bureau was in charge for the parade and he himself had nothing to tell.
“Sir, we lack in time: a jet is waiting for us at the airport,” the ‘Rookie’ said with an air of importance and looked on his plastic watch: probably, he had managed to read somewhere that such ones don’t crack in hand-to-hand fight. “We were instructed to convey you and not to arrange local briefings about the intentions of our bosses.”
Paul smiled. It was getting more and more interesting. First of all, there must be something really outstanding to set the competing offices in a single harness. Secondly, the way the ‘invitation’ to visit the capital was delivered – not even the Pentagon or Langley where the headquarters of the eternally competing structures were located – was also a bit uncommon. Usually the Offices would invite civilians ‘to dance’ exclusively in a case of emergency and would do it by phone, e-mail, and as a last resort – by a special messenger. So, given the above mentioned, the assignment of officers of the rival sides was something new. His phone number could be easily found in the telephone directory or, at a pinch, in a specialized Federal File on Professionals – a database on former and current federal employees, cared for by a special department of the Agency. And thirdly, according to the mass-media analyzes and the specialized information he had been receiving, there was not even a pale shadow of hint of such a hasty meeting with high-ranking representatives of the Intelligence Community.
“By your permission,” he made phone calls to his maid and the ‘Pet House’ to prolong Bone’s stay. Then he changed the shirt and the tie and, packing up something into a black capacious bag on a wide humeral belt, appeared before the visitors: “I’m ready”.
“Thanks, sir,” showing his the empty glass, Lieutenant Jefferson put it on the coffee table and proceeded to the exit.
Bullock followed him. They went downstairs and passed the hall where Paul left the keys and the number of his contact cell phone.
He didn’t bother about the beginning of the new working week; formally he was still on leave. 
A black and bulky “Lincoln” with Massachusetts plates – probably rented on site – slowly moved to the sidewalk. It took about forty minutes before the car, literally squeezing through traffic jams, dived into a gloomy concrete tunnel and then reaching the airport, rode out to the runway in a special sector serving private helicopter and small plane flights.
The routine ID check passed quickly and while the steel-blue “Gulf Stream” with a dark blue lengthwise strip was receiving the dispatcher’s “OK” and taxiing to the take-off position, Paul had enough time to hang up his raincoat, place the bag on the luggage shelf and, extending his feet ahead, made himself comfortable in a wide beige pork skin armchair. His fellow travelers occupied the fore-part of the saloon. Paul didn’t care about the forthcoming meeting; he could only regret about the missed shower. So, fastening the belts, he opened a narrow panel on the back of the front armchair, took out tiny headphones to go through the radio stations.
After a short take-off the plane steeply soared up in the air. Lying over the left wing, it made a pair of circles above the city and the ocean and flied to the southwest. Engines evenly hooted, and the toy-looking ships, visible from the illuminator, were soon replaced by tiny boxes of cars, creeping on grey serpent of asphalt. However, soon the bluish haze absorbed them too and only the small and almost correct rectangles of turning green tillage would flash through the white shreds of the clouds below.
However Paul couldn’t see all these anymore: he dozed under a London Symphonic Orchestra concerto. 




CHAPTER 6

The slanting beams of the sun, seeping through the door cracks, sharply ceased for a while thus plunging the cellar into darkness. Then the door went back with a scratch and a powerful stream of sunlight and fresh spring air rushed into the small room, some five by six yards in size. The captives who had got used to the twilight instinctively covered their eyes with hands and froze in a disturbing wait. Another second passed and a human figure blocked the doorway. The sun was shining in his back precisely outlining his silhouette and covering his face and eyes. Eyes are considered to be the mirror of the soul for the majority of the ordinary people. Meanwhile, in the case of captives everything was much more complicated and the eyes of the warder could cast some light on their destiny.
The sentry put a bucket by the entrance and dropped something wrapped in a yellowed newspaper on the hay just before Alex. The parcel fall apart and some aluminum bowls and spoons fell down.
Five minutes later, when the captives – already taken out of the cellar and squatted in the yard – were examining the contents of the bowls with their eyes squinting in the sun, the Black appeared by with two off his men. This time he was dressed in wide grey trousers and a green military waistcoat above the black shirt left over the trousers. He was methodically pushing his right hand into the pocket of the waistcoat, drugging out handful of hazelnuts, cracking the soft ones in hand and crashing the others by his teeth. The commander was in good mood.
“Eat,” he grinned and made a gesture as if he was eating with a spoon from a bowl, “it’s far not MacDonald’s stuff, and let Allah be the witness, that none is going to poison you with nitrates.”
He interpreted his remark to the escort causing a burst of laugh. 
“I’ve promised,” continued the Black, “that your problems will end soon, and you’ll be back. And for now, you must eat: I don’t want to be sinned with an inhuman attitude towards the POWs. Unlike others, we’re humanists.”
“How is the wounded man?”
“Glory to Allah,” the Black, his company and the sentry erected their eyes to the sky and, leading their hands over their cheeks, connected them on their breasts, “he’s all right. If something had gone wrong, then, trust me, it would be very difficult to claim tolerance towards you from my subordinates. Even for me. So have a rest and thank the Most High who had rescued you in the yesterday's skirmish…” 
The yesterday's firing had burst out unexpectedly.
The darkness was torn apart by a fiery sheaf which had simultaneously pulled out from the windows, the wall breaches and the roof of the ruined farm. Alex was dozing sitting aback to the farm, and soon after the explosion, the flash shined on the cracks spotted concrete stake twisted up to its third by a grapevine runaway, and a powerful detonation passed over his back by an elastic wave, echoing by a bell ring in his ears. Suddenness and fear threw Alex prone to the ground. Almost at the same second two bright points took off somewhere from the front and flowing through the vineyard with a terrible roar, crushed into the hill and blew into fountains of fire, debris and dust within twenty yards from each other. The attacked side immediately replied with a chaotic automatic burst.
As soon as the Black’s avant-garde opened fire – that were his man to fire the grenade launchers at the opponents’ positions – he picked up the American from the belt and, pushing him forward, almost yield into his ear: “Go, go, go!” Then everything went as in a time-lapsed filming: bending down and practically pushing off the ground by hands, the captive and his guard ran through the open area to the saving drain. The reckoning was correct: the midnight explosion at the rear and the followed grenade attack on the positions couldn’t cause any tangible harm to the opponent, but, for sure, had confused him. It would take time until the blinded and deafened people could make out the shadows, passing to the other side in the darkness. However, though the opponent had lost the ability to see, that, however, didn’t anyhow affect his ability to comprehend and soon one, and then few more sub-machine guns accompanied by the slope machine gun, struck at the adjoining vineyard. A bit latter the cacophony was joined by booming bursts from the neighboring positions.   
The companions had practically reached the saving channel when Alex caught by his side-sight some strange green spots hanging on low in the night sky. Practically at the same second he was pushed down and, falling to the ground, could saw that the guerrilla, who had been following him as a shadow, fell down in front of him. His eyes just sheen in the moonlight, and the journalist heard the hollow flaps of the tracing by green glowworms, the shattering of the concrete stake above his head, and then a flat thrust and the pale face of the person who had just obstructed him with his body. The bullet stroke at his right shoulder, and the American saw how the ground immediately darkened from blood. The wounded guerrilla croaked something and crept to the cover. Alex again realized that the Black was jerkily pulling him in the same direction. “Come on, hurry up, they’ll start shooting again”, - he whispered anxiously and indicated something to his subordinate. Few seconds later they approached the superficial flute. It was safe there, anyway the commander of the guerillas ordered to get deeper into the vineyard. The wounded man, creeping on his left side, was leaving a black bold strip behind. Alex’s knees were shivering, and leant to the side of the drainage channel, he was unconsciously fixing the leader of the kidnappers tearing a package by teeth, making an injection into the guerrilla’s hand and trying to stop the bleeding. Probably he couldn’t do it, as he quickly leaned back and covering the luminous radio display by his left bloody palm, begun to search the channels. His radio headphone was certainly damaged, as after feeling it over by hands, the Black sworn and pulling it out with the cord, cast it aside. Finally, catching the required frequency and ordering something to his men, he rested his gun butt against the clay bottom of the flute and, rising above its edge, peered at the kindling exchange of fire. 
After the long minutes of wait Alex heard a quiet precautionary whistling coming through the roar of shots and the whine of the bullets, flowing above their heads. The rustle repeated and two silhouettes appeared in the channel. Alex recognized the gunmen, who had passed the frontline with one of the kids approximately an hour before. “The children have gone through without a problem”, - automatically suggested his tired brain. Meanwhile the rescuers took the outer clothing off their companion-in-arms and quickly bandaged the wound. In the light of the moon the thin body of the wounded seemed as pale as a ghost; he was groaning. The man was laid on a stretcher and his fellows, bowing down, quickly carried him along the channel, trying to trick the opponent’s bullets.
The Black followed the stretcher by eyes. Sitting on the bottom of the channel with his back leaned at the wall, extended right leg and the left bent beneath, he would rather resemble a tired traveler, than the commander of a group which had just made an impudent brake-through over a frontline. Even his sub-machine gun, resting with its butt on the oozy ground looked rather as a shepherd staff, than a weapon of a warrior. Meanwhile, the Afghan got out a small metal flask, unscrewed the lid and made two gulps.
“He saved your life.” The Black rubbed off his face by the sleeve and offered the flask to the captive.
His face was covered by the lunar shadow; however Alex caught tiredness in his voice.
The captive was sitting in the moonlight so he could indicate that his mouth was stuck.
“Take it off, but remember: “No foolery”.
The journalist cautiously removed the sticky tape. He practically felt no pain, anyway after some six hours it could hardly be called a pleasant exercise. The American was stunned by the incident, his thoughts – confused, and when he brought the flask to the lips by his shivering hands, its aluminum neck clattered at his teeth several times. When Alex finally managed to make a gulp, he didn’t at once realize that that wasn’t water. Disgustingly warm liquid burnt his throat setting his inside on fire.
The Black turned back again to look over the breastwork of mixed lumps of earth and foliage. 
 “Believe me; he did it not because of an aggravated altruism and not even for your sake. You’re just a small change, though paid up by blood. As you Americans like to put it in your ‘life movies’: “a man, who came across in a wrong place and in a wrong time.”
He got the flask back, made a sip and spitted.
“Shit… All right, let’s go, the fire ceased.”
Alex stood up and staggering – weariness, excitement and, maybe, the two gulps of the muck he had drunk, were manifesting themselves.
Covered by the lunar shadow, they remained invisible for the marksmen hiding among the trees and the 500-yards-away machine gunner. Nevertheless, few times stray bullets cut sparks from the stakes almost above their heads and Alex had to hurl into the dirt and cover his eyes from the small concrete debris, scattering around the vineyard. The skipping bullets were ringing so strident, as if someone behind him had been occasionally pulling a short and hardly tensed string.
Soon the drain curved to the left and almost perpendicularly went to a complicated system of trenches and passages. Then the channel made an abrupt turn to the right to round another large heap of stones, topped by dense blackberry thickets, and continued in the southeast direction – in parallel with the trenches, within some thirty yards from them. As soon as they passed the last turn, they were met by two men in camouflaged shapeless garments. On of them – a short full-bodied man with a Kalashnikov on his shoulder stepped up to the Black and embraced him. The second one, with a metal helmet pulled over his eyes, motionlessly laid in a dug-out with the barrel of a heavy machine-gun protruding out.
Here someone pulled a bag on Alex's head, and soon the stumbling American was led by equipped emplacements, a dug around AMV and a group of people in military uniform, nestled around a small fire hidden from the opponent by an earthen embankment with foxholes dug in it. The dusty bag with the rests of crumbs inside strengthened the feeling of humiliation and discomfort, but, in the meantime it would hide Alex from the unfriendly sights of the soldiers. One could hardly believe that the man in the dirt blackened jeans and sports sweater was an American, even more – a journalist taken prisoner by accident. As for them, he was someone from the opposite side, i.e. – an enemy. And if not the short full-bodied officer, grandly escorting the captive and the man in black to the van, they would certainly be less constrained in their gloat.
While the Black and his friend were talking nearby, the old guerrilla, who had been smoking sitting on an empty box, killed the cigarette and dragged Alex into the car. When he was freed from the bag, then in the dim light of the bulb which could hardly illuminate the saloon of the decrepit military car, Alex saw the children and two of the gunmen. They had been here for a long time already: two of the boys were sleeping with their heads leaned at the shoulders of their elder fellow. The guerillas sitting in front of them also didn’t anyhow react to the occurrence of the American – they were tired and exhausted as well. And only the wounded guy and both of his rescuers were off: another vehicle with them had departed minutes before.
Soon an unfamiliar gray-haired man in military uniform got onto the driver’s seat and started the engine. Placing himself by, the Black turned back and grinned as all of his people had fallen asleep. He didn’t wake them up, but limited himself by saying something to the elder guerilla. The last also grinned and passing backwards, sat on the floor, tilting his back to the door. His face was still black because of the smeared paint, and the fibers of his eyes were sharply contrasting with it.
These eyes – and subsequently, when Alex slowly slipped down by the board and somehow placed his head on the floor – the black sinewy hand, resting on the sub-machine gun, were the last scraps of the passing day that the deadly tired journalist was able to make out through his grown heavy lids. Soon he dropped to a semiconscious condition, and the surrounding events could hardly reach his mind which dropped in the depths of a dark and deep well. 
The car slowly moved ahead and rounded few shell-holes with its headlights off. Soon the wide trench ended, and they got to an open place, where the driver directed the vehicle towards an alley of high trees. Somewhere there the ground road, spotted by deep gullies, would pass a small sentry post with a bar and a sleeping guard, and climbing on the asphalt highway, go to the northeast – the rear.



CHAPTER 7

“How shall I introduce you, sir?”
“I’m working with the Central Asia Regional Analysis Fund or CARAF, to your discretion,” Paul stretched his business card. 
The secretary registered the information in the computer.
“Do you mind to wait a little, sir? The boss has a call on line.”
Paul sat into a comfortable leather armchair to look through some illustrated magazines, spread out all over the low table. Fellow travelers weren’t accompanying him anymore. Instead, leaving him at the spacious reception of the Director of the National Association on Strategic Forecast and Analysis, Bullock and Jefferson hastily proceeded to B3 Section where an important gathering was about to start. 
At first sight an ordinary analytical office – something common in and around Washington D.C. – it was actually a semiofficial affiliate to a very significant federal agency, which had developed a widely branched-out intelligence-intellectual network, permanently involved in the promotion of Uncle Sam’s vital interests. It was there, over the ocean where the concept of ‘intelligence’ was still associating with an importunate guy ‘a la Pinkerton’: a chap in a foolish raincoat with lifted collar, a hat and sunglasses; someone constantly in the way and persistently smelling out something. Even here, in the U.S. capital, the term ‘intelligence’ could hardly evoke the classics glorified by the cinematograph: a romantic dandy ‘a la Bond’, seeking adventures to his own harm in a dangerous hunt for super classified data. All that stuff had sunk into oblivion, and the realities of the New Age had peacefully and without any fanfares transformed ‘the spiteful grin of the imperialistic intelligence’ – the Russians’ wording – into a totally harmless ‘whalebone filter’.
Every other second the American political system, which can reasonably pretend to the global leadership in the fields of structural transparency, system flexibility and political predictability, passes through itself information flows with invaluable – as for the intelligence community perspective – particles of data. Tens of interest groups, hundreds of lobbyist offices and thousands of legal and advisory firms initially receive trustworthy information about the original state of affairs in states, about the problems, interests and pranks of the elites, political parties, celebrities, charismatic persons and even quite promising personalities, still unknown to the public at large. And here, among the rich afloat ‘plankton’ of petitions, letters, consultations, meetings, forums, political campaigns, recommendations, memorandums, follow-ups, backgrounds, projects, bills and programs, the advanced minds of the intelligence community pedantically work days and nights around. Screened off the external world by the fine jalousie of their two-ply matte windows and occasionally lending an attentive ear to the rhythmical rumbling of their air conditioners, these guys masterly and quietly rake away the Augean stables of the blockages created by the dominating product of the modern civilization – information. Manipulating by intricate formulas and algorithms, known only for them, these men and women literally produce from the stuff that any other office would send to the real and virtual baskets without hesitation. And if their production is offered for sale in the drugstores then they could rightfully add at the end of the each sentence: “Made of 100% reprocessed material”.
It may look paradoxical, but the development of the modern Information Technologies and the expansion of the World Wide Web have struck a crushing blow at the new generation and have quickly reanimated ‘the old men’, including those ‘exiled’ to the semiofficial institutions for an honorable resignation. Though here ex-spies had much more individual freedom in everything, including some modest predilections of personal character, however they, with the vim peculiar to the good old schooling, began to methodically win the right to define the national security priorities. Their experience and grip helped them to size up the merits and demerits of the IT progress. Yeah, the greenhorn and the ambitious youth, motivated by the dreams of becoming ‘inimitable’ thanks to their resourcefulness and zeal, strongly yielded in briskness when it came to the electronic database search engines, and soon the analytical-informational potential of the harmless funds and agencies had led to a slow, but an inevitable flow of a whole series of decision-shaping elements off the wall of the complex, stretched on some 286 acres in Langley, Virginia. Certainly, at all this it would be naive to believe, that the financial self-sufficient and, to a certain extent, politically independent institutions could slip down to unplanned actions. No way, all the cells of the system both on the level of the operational priorities and the personnel structure were completely incorporated into the integrated intelligence community. The methodology of functioning of these ‘friendly’ analytical structures – packed schedules with numerous meetings, seminars and trainings – was specially developed to grant ‘windows’ for the interdepartmental cooperation and interaction concerning the issues that would generally require ‘maximum of cooperation and minimum of publicity’ even within the limits of the community. 
“Mr. Gordon is waiting for you, sir. Could you leave your bag here?”
Jeremy Lee Gordon, named ‘JG’ behind his back by his elder employees and “Jam” - by the young, was a well cared-for brunette in his early forties. The red strings of capillaries surfacing on his face sharply contrasted with the blue of his ideally shaved chin, fat cheeks and chubby upper lip, which would attach an inexpressible charm of a Christmas card baker to his smile.   
“Hey, Paul, buddy, how’re you doing?”
JG leaned back in his armchair and driving back for a yard fitfully rose to his foot. The empty capacious lounger continued its way and jabbed into a dent beaten out in a smooth cream-colored surface of the wall, just under the huge portrait of General Georges Washington in his military uniform. The right hand of the Founder-Father was resting upon the hilt of a wide sword, his eyes were inquiring the visitor, and there was a mute question frozen in the corner of his lips: “And so, bloke, do you really thing that Gordon is in charge around here? “ 
Meanwhile Gordon approached with his arms open and his mind free in front of the disapproving sights from the wall. He hugged Paul and softly pushed him to the red leather upholstered door next to his desk. 
“Excuse me for keeping you in the lobby, buddy. We’ve no much time, so let’s talk business: you know I never send planes and pull folks out of their work for no reason.”
“What a favor...”
“You joke... Not bad for now. We’d pass to our ‘Situational kennel’, everybody is already there.”
“What’s up? What is all these about?”
“You’ll be briefed on the course of events during the gathering.”   
Getting down by a small spiral staircase, the interlocutors directed to the Section B3 or, simply speaking, the Confidential Room. It was a special premise without windows to the external world, decorated with thick soundproofing panels on the walls, stylized under Pennsylvanian ash, a coffee machine, a paper shredder and a bathroom – practically everything required for maintaining of an atmosphere of a ‘smoke filled room’ – the classical attribute of the decision-making process in the U.S.A. The only window led to the control room with audio and video equipment and a console, providing technical support to the confidential talks. Another distinctive feature of the Section B3 was the deliberately accurate illumination: a separate lamp behind each of the sitting places wouldn’t have an effect on the general soft twilight and disturb the presents by an unnecessary sincerity: there's nothing to be done here, as the professional habits are second nature. 
Usually once a week, on Tuesdays, Gordon would conduct here the routine and even somewhat ritual meetings dedicated to the current affairs of the office. However today only five rigid armchairs were moved up to the big polished table of the walls’ tone: JG had come to a conclusion that the excessively soft chairs would make his employees sleepy. The three out of the five armchairs, standing at one side of the table, were already occupied. Along with 3 strangers at the table, Bullock and Jefferson also were in the room. They were sitting behind the trio, probably - behind their immediate bosses.
The operator, sitting at the console in the control room, was yawning and casting glances into the Situational room: he could hear nothing of the conversation and would hardly make anything out as well. The only person inside, who wasn’t taking part in a sluggish conversation, was Gordon’s Personal Assistant – a red freckled pal in round glasses. Sitting behind one of two free chairs, he was strenuously searching something in a leather folder.
              “Gentlemen, finally we all got together,” showing Paul one of the free chairs, Gordon flopped himself into the other.
Fidgeting a little on the seat, he put on the table a dark cardboard folder, immediately passed by the assistant and, feeling about in the inset pocket of his green-and-brown checkered jacket, fished out the leather case of his glasses.
“Well,” he told after knocking on the microphone and inspecting the gathering atop of his glasses, – firs of all I would officially emphasize the informal character of our get-together. Any decision adopted here, can’t be anyhow considered an official position, and the Government on behalf of the Departments embodied here by you, can’t be burdened by the responsibility for the failure of any our undertakings. At the same time, any information articulated in these walls falls under the regulations of the federal legislation, dealing with the access and usage of classified information. Secondly, as all of you know each other for a long time and the only ‘dark horse’ here is the gentleman I have just came in with, then let me introduce Colonel Paul Zetlyan. By virtue of the recent geopolitical changes and taking into consideration the fact that he’s already left any sort of operative activity, I’ve the right and the privilege to lift the veil of secrecy above his CV. So what do you think, Paul?”
“You’re in charge here, Jeremy. As for me, I’m not going to run for the Congress.”
“Be easy,” Gordon got a leaf of paper from the folder. “So, Colonel Zetlyan has started his career at Fort Campbell, Kentucky. When was it, Paul? I can’t find it here: these Archive guys are as stingy with information, as the Congress with budget assignments.”
A short laugh passed over the room: the joke got its appreciation.
“Late sixties.”
“It was? Well, let’s see what else we can get from these archival rats. So, the paper says, that you’ve raised up to the Squad “A” Commander grade in the ranks of Captain at Fort Braggs, Northern Carolina, and besides, the command had authorized you to head a Special Assignment Composite Team in case of a threat to the U.S. interests on the Central Asian seat of war. However, as the document goes on, soon Captain Zetlyan changed the department: probably, someone in Langley made the most of good times, - Gordon again glanced over the gold handle of his glasses, - and they traditionally mow what they had not sown. Further, Zetlyan combined the job with study at one of the East Coast prestigious educational institutions, where he received his bachelor degree in Linguistics. He got his Ph.D. two years after, in Political Science, and this time from a different university somewhere by the Great Lakes…, Loyola University, haven’t ever heard about such one. Later, by the end of the seventies, Zetlyan became a respectful expert in the Western and Central Asian issues. All these, along with the special training he had received at Fort Braggs, Northern Carolina, and then at the Office’s Special Training Centers, including ‘The Farm’, were the reason for his regular long-term assignments to Afghanistan in early eighties. There he founded a training center for commando and other non-conventional operations. He has taken part in military activities, and has organized and personally participated in tenths of actions. Paul was wounded twice, however – as we have the pleasure to witness personally – not fatally. From 1989 to 1992 he was giving a course of lectures and field trainings at Fort Bragg’s JFK Special Warfare School and practically at the same time was advising the Planning Center of the CIA Directorate of Operations. Then, alongside with the practical work, Zetlyan made a number of researches about the techniques of mountain operation, and the specificity of organization of armed struggle in the ethnically and religiously diversified societies of the Central Asia. …By the way, I had an opportunity to read one of those reports. In 1990 Paul Zetlyan received the rank of Special Forces’ Colonel, but soon he left the operative work to sign a four-year contract for teaching and advising some federal agencies…”
JG took off the glasses and wiped them with a slice of velvet he had in the case.
“Today it may look pretty odd, gentlemen, but we remember how the crash of Communism had caused such a foolish enthusiasm among some of our politicians that as a result the whole regional sectors of our job had lost their former strategic significance for them and our oxygen was cut off. I’m confident, that it was the disagreement with the official course that impelled Mr. Zetlyan to work with, so called ‘civil analytical centers’ which still kept on dealing with the Central Asia regional issues. Paul, correct me if I’m not right...”
“I’m not so dumb, Jeremy…”
“So, I’m right,” JG hemmed satisfied with the joke. “Now Paul advises Central Asian Region Analysis Fund and as soon as the contract with Uncle Sam expires – a matter of days – he’ll be nominated to a not less cushy job as mine at the Board.” 
A short laugh again passed over the room.
“That was practically all that I can tell about Paul. Yes, he has some government awards, including the Medal of Congress; he speaks five languages, is divorced and has a daughter... Did I miss anything?”
“Almost nothing. Well, maybe just the facts that I’ve my appendix out, I like to eat well and I’m still not aware why the hell you’ve dragged me here.”
“Well, you’re right, as always. Yes, due to the specificity of the job, Mr. Colonel’s true colors were deeply coded, and none in his closest circle, including his family, has any idea about his true activities. It was done, because the Office had all the reasons to worry for the life of the officer, who had caused a lot of troubles to the Russians in Afghanistan. According to the ‘legend’, Paul Zetlyan is an expert in regional languages, culture and history. In this capacity he has repeatedly participated in international symposiums, lectured in various universities and even published a set of scientific reports and op-ed articles. By the way, I’ve read few of them too… Well, Paul, enough of you. Now let me introduce the gentlemen present here. You know the rules, all of them are still ‘in office’, and so I’ll just mention their names. Well, clockwise: John is from the State Department bureau that deals with the U.S. Embassy stuffs abroad. Peter represents Pentagon, and the last in line is Roy from the Agency’s Directorate of Operations, but I don’t think, that you’ve ever met each other before.” 
The proxies of the mentioned offices had time to attentively examine Paul, so they slightly nodded their heads and then again buried themselves in the papers lying on the table. 
“You’ve already met with Bullock and Jefferson”, JG went on nodding to Paul’s fellow travelers.
They half-rose from their places:
“Sir...”
 “Not bad guys at all, they just cry out to be placed on the ‘Soldier of Fortune’ front page.”
The rookie was obviously in the wrong box, his ears were burning.
“Yeah, I’ve almost forgotten,” Jeremy quickly turned in his uncomfortable armchair, “this shy young man behind my back is my assistant Bryan.”
The man rose to nod to Paul and, as if in evidence of his chief’s words, timidly readjusted the round frame of the glasses on his freckled nose:
“Your humble servant, sir.” 
“So, gentlemen, we’ve gathered here to discuss one, but an urgent problem. I would even tell – a unique tangle of problems. We’ve already discussed it, but those were some preliminary conversations, and a lot of water has flowed under the bridge since. Paul, you have to listen to everything we’re going to mention here. We’ll proceed ahead one after another, and I’m passing the floor to John.”
              “Thanks, Jeremy. Sir, two days ago, it was May 5, the editor of one of the New York papers appealed with a request to clarify the fate of their journalists, namely – Alex O’Connell. On the night of April 28 this guy arrived to Yerevan, the capital of Armenia. The editor told us that the journalist was sent to Spitak Earthquake zone: you may remember December 1988ã. In due time the son and the grandson of President Bush had visited this location to meet with families of the victims. And so, Alex had to go to Spitak and Leninakan – these are the names of the two cities – to try to find any of the participants of the meetings and to write an article on that. You know, “Spitak: five years later” or alike. In the morning of April 30 our guy came to the U.S. Embassy in Yerevan, met the Ambassador and got a twenty minutes long general briefing on the situation in Armenia. According to the arrangement they had, the next day the journalist was expected to visit the Embassy to work out a trip rout, as well as to schedule meetings in the earthquake zone in cooperation with the press-attach;. The press-attach; had to arrange a set of meetings in Spitak and Leninakan. But the next morning the guy didn’t appear in the Embassy and gave no call to the editor either. Instead of it, on May 1 the paper got a phone call from a British film crew operator, who had casually met with Alex in the town of Lachin – half-way between Armenia and Nagorno Karabakh. There our guy asked the British to inform the Embassy and the newspaper of his whereabouts. According to the British, O’Connell was planning to visit Karabakh for a couple of day to prepare an article about the front zone. Apparently, only after he would return to Armenia to switch to the initial earthquake issue. That was the last news about him so far. On May 4 we tried to trace O’Connell through our Embassy in Armenia. An identical task was send to our Embassy in Azerbaijan. Despite of all our efforts we got no results. On May 5 the paper’s leadership contacted us to explain the grounds of the increased concerns for Alex's life. It appeared that he’s an offspring of Roger Archibald O’Connell – the Chairman of the Senate Committee on Appropriations. You probably know that O’Connell the Elder is one of the key Senate Democrats, and this guy is really capable of causing a lot of headache for the newspaper and the Foggy Bottom, especially, on the eve of the November polls.”
“I can guess the question you’d wish to ask, Paul. Go ahead. If you don’t, then I’ll ask and answer by myself,” – Jeremy leaned back in his armchair and crossed his hands on the belly. His face was practically invisible.
“You wonder why the Embassy didn’t provide transportation and security to a man, falling under the category of specially guarded persons. Notably, in a nation at war. Quite a reasonable question: according to the rules, the Embassy had to provide Alex O’Connell with such an ordinary thing, as a car or at least an attendant. Let’s call a spade ‘a spade’, Paul: it’s a damn washout, not another Playa Gir;n, certainly, but a deep blunder nevertheless,.”
“Maybe, Jeremy. But what if, for instance, the guy himself did noting to inform that one of his relatives – the father – is a high-ranking federal official…”
“No, he did,” – it was obvious that John was not happy to tell about the poor – putting it mildly – job of a colleague. “You’re right: usually we provide the given category with an escort or a car with driver. If the person wishes to travel per se, just as our journalist, we provide him or her with a portable radio beacon. Bryan…”
Gordon’s assistant whispered something into the intercom and the operator, sitting beyond the glass, began to press buttons. As a result, the big LCD screen placed perpendicularly to the table turned dark blue. Second later images of amulets, cheap plastic watches, key-rings and various knick-knacks appeared on it. 
John approached to the wall and picking up a long thin stick pointed at the amulet.
“This is an experimental device, and we plan to introduce it to all our embassies as soon as it passes the tests. As for now an experimental lot was shipped to our representations in the Commonwealth if the Independent States. The principle of the device operation is the following: a small radio beacon is built into an unpretentious and inexpensive item, which reduces to minimum the opportunity of its abduction. In the case of danger the owner, let’s say of this amulet, pushes the disguised button and the powerful transmitter starts to send frequent radio signals for several days. The signal contains a scrambled unchangeable code of the beacon and the address of a certain embassy. The signal is simultaneously located by several satellites, and then the signal information is sent to the corresponding embassy. And here, the round o’clock operating teams, equipped by small range detectors, search the certain area and then undertake rescue missions for getting the asses of our citizens out of trouble. Depending on circumstances, these steps can be carried out in close interaction with local law enforcement authorities, or at a pinch – in an independent mode. It’s a very expensive program: installation of the system on the global level will require active involvement of the resources of the existing satellites, as well as launching of new ones.”
John placed the pointer under the display and returned to his place.
“Though we don’t yet possess an operating experience of the new device, it’s possible to assume, that if Mr. O’Connell had taken the advantage of one of these gauges, then probably, today we would have things more clear. Unfortunately, the officer on duty who was responsible for the Global Positioning and Rescue System – as we call it – has turned to be below par as the guy wasn’t briefed at all: as later appeared, Alex had left the watch in the hotel room… Even more, trying to avoid the responsibility for poor work, the officer subsequently tried to keep to himself the fact that Alex fell under the mentioned category of the U.S. citizens.”   
“As you see, Paul, we’re on a thin ice. There’re plenty things for the State Department to take the rap for,” JG put a word. “Thanks, Johnny, we’ll return to you later. And now, if I’m not mistaken, the floor is Pete’s.”
“Thanks, Jeremy. In the morning of May 5 our Department received a letter from the State Department on the guy’s case. We immediately sent a request to the Ministries of Defense of the both post-Soviet republics, and contacted with the Command of the Karabakhi Defense Army. As it appeared, they had information about an American journalist who had arrived there during that week, between the last Sunday and this Monday, i.e. – between April 30 and May 1. Bryan …” 
The map of the Southern Caucasus appeared on the screen.
“Acting on our request the local authorities found out something and confirmed that he was here.” Pete aimed the pointer at a spot with the word “Stepanakert” put by. “This is the capital of Karabakh. Here he passed an accreditation and acquired the right to travel through the territory of the self-proclaimed republic. Then he moved there...”
The pointer smoothly moved downwards in the southern direction and, before reaching to the bluish serpent of a river, curved to the right and went to the east. The map was replaced by a large-scale space picture of the specified territory.
“According to the available data, he was here by May 3. Then his traces disappear. As you can see, gentlemen, this point is far enough from the seat of war and besides this zone wasn’t practically touched by the active combat. It means that the possibility of an accident – a mine explosion, etc. – drops to zero. The Karabakhi military have already begun active raids in this area. We’re aware that the guy was there, and so the ball is on their side. I guess that the leaders of the enclave are vitally interested in maintaining of a positive international image, so we can be sure, that these men now busting a gut to find and return the journalist back safe and sound. Our experts analyzed the situation and came to a point that theoretically an Azerbaijani commando group could make the way here and kidnap our journalist. This one is the optimal route for infiltration and return. We’ve passed the idea to the Karabakhi side, and it was quickly proved to be true. It turned out that not only Alex but several children, who were showing him the environs, were kidnapped too. Somewhere there a break-through to the Azerbaijani controlled zone was recorded. According to the Karabakhis, these could be the very men who had captured our citizen. Then we sent an inquiry to the Ministry of Defense of Azerbaijan. According to them, none was captured by their troops at the given section of the front-line. Anyway, they promised to start an investigation. Simultaneously the military attach; of our Embassy in Baku met some of our retired military, who are training the Azerbaijani army units on their own accord. Those men promised to use their personal contacts to find the traces; however we got no tangible outcomes. Finally, we decided to appeal to Langley for any intelligence data, be it satellite pictures or anything from the existing intelligence sources. I think that its time to listen to Roy. I’m sure, that he’ll provide us with comprehensive information from their perspective, though that’s not their style at all.” 
“Sorry, colleagues, but I’ve a feeling that except for my origin, I bear no relation to all the stuff, articulated here. I don’t certainly rush the things, Jeremy, but anyway..,” Paul smiled and pulled his shoulders. “You’re enjoying something we would call ‘progress review’ back to the Agency; I just go into the details of a preliminary analysis of the situation and so on. But I still can’t find the answer to the question “Why?””
“Trust me, sir, you can’t even imagine how close your ties with the event are,” Roy, the leftmost of the trio, bent to the microphone. “And on the contrary, your origin, curiously enough, takes the back seat in this case. But first of all I’d like to emphasize few aspects, mentioned here by my colleagues from the other departments. First, as soon as the alert about the disappearance of the journalist reached the State Department, they decided to put a tight constraint to the access of people to the very fact of the U.S. citizen disappearance. In addition to that, during the contacts with foreign individuals and structures all of us had to show the greatest skill and accuracy not to attract needless suspicions about O’Connell’s personality. I hope that my colleagues will back my idea that along with a certain domestic political discomfort, the problem of kidnapping of this exactly journalist is fraught with appreciable negative consequences in the U.S. foreign policy either. For now, we have now idea about the reason of capturing our guy. We’re also unaware about the claims of the kidnappers. And here some serious political elements are also present, and that was taken into consideration from the first minute. I think that John could brief us on it.” 
            “Yeah, certainly. I’m sure that we’re aware about the essence of the problem. According to the estimations of our experts, including the documentation provided by your office, Roy, we act on the premise that in 1921-23 the newly established Soviet Government included Nagorno Karabakh, historically an Armenian territory, within the structure of the Soviet Azerbaijan as autonomy. The problem of reunification of this territory with Armenia proper has been once again lifted in the end of 1987ã, in February 1988 and January 1989. The political problem was saddened by the massacre of Armenians in the Azerbaijani cities, including the capital – Baku. In the spring of 1990 attacks on the Soviet Army divisions begun both in Armenia and Azerbaijan. The sides started to strenuously arm, and soon the problem completely passed to a phase of armed confrontation. During the conflict some attempts of the settlement of the problem were undertaken. The attempt of the Iranian mediation come to the end with a failure in May 1992 after Armenians grasped Shoushi, the Azerbaijani advanced post in the heart of Karabakh. At the present stage intensive tripartite negotiations aimed at the achievement of a cease-fire along the Armenian-Azerbaijani line of confrontation are conducted under the Russian mediation. However, we’re not only out of these talks, but also, on a large scale, haven’t yet articulated any official position on the matter. In general, we can be accused of informal encouragement of the Karabakhi side: in the late eighties, during the first stages of the conflict the Voice of America has acted from pro-Karabakhi stand, which in due time had caused Moscow’s furiousness. In September 1989ã the House of Representatives voiced a declaration supporting the right of Nagorno Karabakh to secede from Azerbaijan. Anyway, some of the American retired high-ranking militaries participated in the creation of the Azerbaijan’s army. To be true, they were acting on their free will, anyway we could regularly receive a lot of interesting information... For sure, this is strictly off the record. The situation in general was considered at the State Department, we even had some expert estimations and recommendations, but anyway, the White House decided, that the problem is still ‘insufficiently mature’ for our intervention. In any case, the cease-fire agreement, if signed, would completely correspond to our strategic interests, as it would create basic preconditions for the promotion of our presence in the region. Experts predict that stability will create grounds for the economic access to the Caspian Sea resources, and to the Central Asia in a broader perspective.”
Roy rose from the chair and approaching to John, put the hand on his shoulder.
“Thanks, John. It was no coincidence that I mentioned our efforts to limit the circle of those, who could have access to the real situation with the vanished guy. The point is that given the background of the intensive negotiations, today, in our opinion, we can actually face an attempt to engage our country into this process. We’ve examined 3 possible scenarios of the guy’s factor utilization. Firstly, we don’t exclude the possibility that regardless of the position the political leaderships have adopted, some of the local commanders can have their leg over the harrows and continue military operations. The presence of our boy could provide such a fighter with an excellent opportunity for blackmailing both his own leaders and us. Secondly, we didn’t exclude the possibility of making a play with our boy during the political negotiations. While modeling the worst case scenario we’ve arrived to a conclusion, that, hypothetically, - I don’t wish to offend the feelings of the Colonel – the violent death of our citizen, as a matter of fact, could be favorable to any of the sides with a condition, that the corpse of the guy is found on the opposite side of the battlefield – a simple task, given the present situation on the LoC – the Line of Contact. It couldn’t only cause a devastating harm to the opponent’s image on the international stage, but would also call down our state’s ire, especially on the stage of the political process. Just imagine what kind of mess the broken-hearted Daddy-Senator can make. And for the third and last scenario we considered a situation, where the kidnapping of our man was carried out for a ransom or an exchange with someone captured by Karabakhis. In this case the motives are clear, but on the other hand, we could face the most unpredictable developments of the situation.”
Roy, who was strolling behind his colleagues, slowly approached Paul, who was occasionally glancing at the interlocutors and drawing something on a sheet of paper, tactfully offered by Bryan the Omnipresent. 
“By the moment we began investigate possible versions of the accident”, said Roy, “the information from operative and secret-service sources had arrived. It appeared that the guy together with a guide and 3 kids was kidnapped by a reconnaissance detachment, composed of Afghani mojaheds.”
Paul turned over the paper decorated with notes and oriental ornaments and put it aside.
“Yeah, Paul, we’re sure,” JG bent to the microphone. “Roy tells the truth. We know that the majority of those who survived out of 2,500 mojaheds, sent to Azerbaijan by our old friend Hekmatiar at the year-end of 1992, have already returned to Kabul by this March. According to our reconnaissance data, there must be no Afghans on the front line, but we’ve irrefutable facts that claim the contrary.” 
“Believe me, Colonel, that was a surprise. But today we’ve received some two Afghans’ radio contact interception, and as it follows from the conversation, one of them appeared to be the commander of the kidnappers. We could identify him.   
Roy turned to the screen flickering in twilight.



CHAPTER 8

By the end of the get-together it was already dark outside. The wind had driven clouds from the ocean, and the Potomac riverside became chilly and uncomfortable. The bright headlights of the passing by cars were snatching out the marble slabs of the massive main entrance above which, as everywhere in this part of Washington, D.C., the Star-Spangled Banner was fluttering.
Paul left through the main entrance. An aged Asian security officer dressed in the uniform of a known security agency wished him all the best and locked the door behind. Before Paul made few steps, the excess illumination was switched off: weekend was weekend. Stepping onto the pavement he realized that the long sitting had made his legs tingle, something he would always abhorred. Cautiously walking over the concrete rectangular tiles of the pavement, he sat into the Buick, which had brought him from the airport few hours ago.
            “So, how long are you here?” Paul asked the Afro-American driver, who was listening to a rap by radio and beating time on the leather of the wheel. There was as much as a pack of stubs on the roadway, just under the driver’s door.
“From the very beginning, sir, the moment we came here. I’ve got used to this style of work. We always have such drag outs on Saturdays: all clearheaded folks leave for outgoing, and we drive hotshots home. But,” the driver perked up and turned back, “it doesn’t apply to you, sir”.
“You must be telling the same tales to everyone, don’t you?” Paul laughed: he liked the talkative guy. 
“Not everyone, hard workers only.”
“And how did you make out that I’m the type you’ve mentioned?”
“You’ve left a big office through the main entrance, but none has seen you off or opened the car door in front of you. And the bag: you carry it by yourself, as I see.” 
Paul burst out laughing and stretched a small card to the driver.
“That’s the destination, but you’d better slow down at a place, where we can pick up a couple of sandwiches.” 
“Cool,” overlooking the card the driver pooped out.
Plodders usually don’t fly by private jets, however, they don’t live on hamburgers either.
Passing few blocks, the driver stopped the car by a snack-bar. Buying a coffee and two hamburgers for himself and a ham sandwich with for the driver, - the guy hesitated to ask for something – the retired colonel took the back seat of the car again and, burying into thoughts, began his plain meal. 
“No time for supper, sir?” The driver, making a valiantly overtaking of a fellow, couldn’t contain himself any longer.
              “Almost no chance to have anything else…”
“Don’t they have stewardesses on the private jets? I mean – don’t they serve any food at all?”
“I don’t know, I guess, no.”
“Pardon me, sir. That’s due to the job. Sometimes you’re silent as a fish all the day long, and there is nobody to have a talk with.”
“That’s okay”, Paul again returned to his thoughts. 
              Jafar Umar... During the briefing he was shown a photo of Jafar or ‘Jeff’ as he himself used to call the man. He must be thirty-five now. The short and stumpy inhabitant of a kishlak – a mountain village, bordering with Pakistan, had almost immediately attracted Paul’s attention. He knew about Jafar even before he had met him and the others in a mountain camp in the Southern Afghanistan. The American instructor sent by his government with the purpose of training the locals for guerrilla war, had received an impressive dossier about the first fifteen men, who were selected to become commanders of separate units in the future. The son of a rural merchant was the fifth on the list. He was younger than the majority of recruits of the first group; anyway he everyone would respect him. For Jafar everything had begun on a minefield he and his father had found themselves almost on the border with Pakistan, where they were heading for the next parcel of contraband. In those times the Russians, unable to fully control the south of the country and especially – the mountain paths serving as common routs for arms transfers, would frequently use the tactics of air strikes and dense mining. So, during an ordinary line crossing the guy stepped on a mine. His father, realizing that his son is endangered, burst out bewailing and running around. Jafar, however, maintained his composure and sent him to the nearest village for help. When the panic stricken merchant returned with a company of people few hours letter, his son was smoking. When Jafar noticed his father approaching he quickly threw the cigarette away: never again had his father seen him smoking, neither before and nor after. Jafar could hide his anxiety even when a skilled fighter was neutralizing the mine. And only finally, when the detonator was removed, he powerlessly fell onto the hands of his father. 
Later, when his family moved to Pakistan, the merchant’s smart son remained on the native land and become a diligent pupil at the guerrilla camp, where he laboriously learned English alongside with shooting and physical training. Within following eight months he could already fluently speak, and by the end of the year he could write – a tremendous achievement for a person who had never attended school.
Due to his native wit, diligence and working capacity Jafar became the American’s right hand, and imitating his teacher the Afghan even changed his dress preferences to black colors. Participating in actions against the Soviet and Afghani troops, Jafar acquired the reputation of a cool fighter, capable to endure long marches by abrupt mountain paths; to stay without food and water days long and to lay in ambush for hours without unveiling his presence by a single rustle. After one of the actions, when Paul was wounded by a splinter of an unguided missile launched by a Soviet helicopter, Jafar provided him medical care and almost 3 hours lugged him on his back to the nearest settlement.
The only thing that Jeff would initially disagree was the black paint, which Paul would use to smear his men’s faces with before the sorties. The young Pushto would agree that if painted a face was almost invisible at night and practically indiscernible under the daylight, but would add, however, that “putting paint on face – is a destiny of women, and, besides, it wouldn’t befit to a Moslem to alter the face created by the Supreme.” Paul found the way out, though a bit funny. Every time before the actions Jafar, just as any of Afghans, would read a short pray and, lifting up his hands to the sky, take them over his cheeks and connect under his chin. Once Paul smeared his hands with black paint and touched the palms of the Pushto right before the prayer. “Now you have two options: either you extend your hands in pray, or go to fight in an appearance unbecoming to a faithful Moslem.” The answer was not less repartee: “I’ll pray to Allah even at the price of losing my face.” 
So, Jafar was in Karabakh. Paul knew that with the help of the Pakistani intelligence Hekmatiar had placed more than 2,000 guerillas at the disposal of the Azerbaijani command. The leaders in Baku would dissociate themselves from the Afghani involvement in the combat on the Karabakhi front. However soon the Karabakhi side began to demonstrate the corpses of the Afghans in their frontline media coverage, and then recordings of interrogations of the POW-mojaheds appeared. According to the intelligence data given at the D.C. meeting, the basic contingent of the mojaheds came from the northern part of Afghanistan mainly populated by ethnic Tajiks, Khazareans and Uzbeks. By the moment Paul was ‘off the game’, Jafar had became a respected commander of an elite group of young Afghans, responsible for safety transfers of the military equipments and manpower from Pakistan. There was no data about the reason that took him and his men to Karabakh. Jafar was his follower, while the people of Karabakh were his fellow tribesmen. And that was a delicate situation to deal with. 
Meanwhile the Buick approached the terminal.
“No driving further, sir. You’ve got to have a little walk. But I could accompany you to the plane and carry your bag.” The cheerful driver turned in his seat.
“Where are you from, sonny?”
“Birmingham, Alabama.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Desert Storm”, the Advanced Reconnaissance Detachment.”   
“How much did you catch?”
“Officially we’re safe and sound: none would report lose at the very first hour of the action. I’m okay, but can’t sense the accelerator.”
“And how many cheerful guys you had back there?”
“I was the only exemplar. Now they lack of good cheer.”   
“Well, hard-worker, you can report to the bosses that the customer was happy with your job. Bye.”
Paul left the car and lifted the collar of his raincoat: it was drizzling outside. It’s a pleasure to face such a slush sitting before a fireplace and, washing down the stabs of nostalgia for good old times by wine, read thick monographs on history or, at least, scrutinize landscape photos in the National Geographic. But he had to fly to New York, and one and a half hour later he would be at the nearest Air Force base to take his seat aboard a Hercules troop carrier heading to Europe. JG would prefer to send him immediately, but learning about Paul’s family affair, turned kind: “That’s the Holy of Holies, buddy, the jet is at your disposal, I’ll instruct.”
“Your ID, sir. The plane is ready. I’ll show you the way.”
The terminal’s security officer returned the documents and nodded at the yellow-and-black metal door with a small window and an inscription ‘Authorized personnel and by permission only.’ “Let’s cut the corners,” he suggested, putting on his service cap with a polyethylene cup, protecting the dark blue cloth from the rain.
“So, Paul: destination – New York?” The chief pilot stretched his hand to drag him aboard. “Gordon called. The birdie must take off now: we were briefed about an atmospheric front coming and if we hesitate to break through in time, then I guaranty a good flatter: this baby isn’t a fighter at all.”
The pilot closed the door and passed to the cockpit where his partner was already clicking the toggle-switches. And soon “Tower, Tower, I’m board Ð458, asking for take off” was heard from the there. The rumble of jet engines amplified, and the plane taxied to the take-off position. After a short run the Gulf Stream abruptly soared up and flied towards the northeast.
That was Paul’s second boarding to the small plane during the past day. For some reason he thought that if such jets had stewardesses aboard, then probably, it would be very difficult for them to roll their carriages between the lines of the wide leather armchairs.   



CHAPTER 9

It was past midnight when someone suddenly opened the door, and a thickset bearded mojahed stepped into the cellar with a small electric lantern in his left hand. Illuminating the residents who had somehow accommodated themselves on the hay bedding, he approached to Alex. The mojahed curtly prodded the shoulder of the sleeping American by the barrel of the Kalashnikov he had in his right hand. Waking up from a pain in his collar bone and blinking from the eye-cutting light, Alex a bit hesitated to come to the senses and understand where he was and what was going on. The guerilla loudly ordered something in his tongue and made a “Stand up!” gesture, while the dazzled and still recovering American still couldn’t understand or make out anything. Then the Afghan threw the Kalashnikov over his shoulder and roughly grabbing Alex’s hand, signaled him to get up. The boys, woken by the noise, shrunk into a corner with scare on their faces. They understood that the American was being taken away.
“All right, all right, just keep your hands off, you, freedom-fighter,” the journalist had already got used to the state of a captive, realizing his own value for the jailers. Nevertheless, the late visit put Alex on his guard. He could guess that he would be taken to the Black, but couldn’t find the answer to the question “Why now?” However, he didn’t care about it. Turning to the children, he gestured them ‘OK’ . To his surprise the children relaxed into laughter at his gesture, something contrasting with their scared eyes shining under the light of the lantern. The Afghan shouted at the kids, so they shrunk into the corner again.
“Go ahead, Cerberus!” Alex led his hand over his unshaven cheeks and left the cellar. The thin goatee beard and the brown teeth of the escort didn’t cause in his mind anything even vaguely resembling of the Stockholm syndrome, and if not the sub-machine gun then Alex wouldn’t hesitate to give that guy a good kick.
Getting outside, the journalist straightened his shoulders and stretched himself with a pleasure: for the first time over the past ten hours he could stand upright without fear to hit the rusty nails, sticking out of the low ceiling boards. 
The mojahed, branded by Alex as ‘Cerberus’, was probably the Black’s adjutant. Seizing the American for the trousers, he pushed him to the stairs of the house. The veranda was illuminated, and while passing a flight of the creaking wooden stairs in his torn sneakers without laces, Alex managed to see his reflection in a pocket mirror attached to a wooden rack above the washstand. What he saw were his disheveled hair, the bristle-covered thin and pale face, and the red eyes. He gloomily smiled, while the mojahed pushed him forward once again.
Few more steps and the captive and his escort got onto the wide verandah lit by a kerosene lantern hanged from the ceiling. The American was surprised to find an earthen floor here. So, that was the reason why the steps here were practically inaudible for the prisoners underneath constantly showered with dust, coming from the ceiling cracks. 
Two close wooden doors led into the house and right between them was a wide low ottoman, covered with a rich woolen carpet, sharply contrasting with the appearance of the rural house. Besides the doors, there were 3 windows leading to the verandah from the rooms: two of them were on the left and one – to the right of the doors. The windows were covered with iron lattices made of thin diamond-shaped metal rods. From inside they were curtained by red curtains of dense fabric. In the left corner of the verandah Alex noticed a cast metal wood stove with L-shaped pipe extended to the court yard. There was a saucepan on the stove, and a tall thin Afghan was slowly, counter-clockwise stirring something in it. He had an armful of dry logs piled by on the floor. Besides the cook, there was one more person there. He was repairing his leather shoes, sitting on the ottoman with his feet lowered in a pelvis with hot water. The ‘cobbler’ glanced at the captive and silently pointed out he door to the illuminated room by the edge of his knife. Alex’s watch flashed on his dark hand. 
The ward knocked on the door and, getting the permission to get inside, passed the captives forward.
That was a small, oblong ten by fifteen feet room, arranged for ‘comfort’, but without taste and style. Apparently, the Afghans simply brought here everything they could lay their hands on. An old worm-eaten oak tree ottoman, covered by a striped rug and a hill of pads was accompanied by a little oval bentwood table painted in bronze. It had a light up old kerosene lantern and a box of matches on its matte surface. Probably the lantern was leaking, as the polished surface of the table was marked by two small iridescent stains. One of the corners – the right from the door – was occupied by an old walnut locker with hand carved shutters. It had no glasses left, while its shelves, covered by yellowish newspapers, were filled with ammunition and equipment. The middle of the room was occupied by a big square table covered with a gold fringed velvet cloth. A large square of a snow-white fabric, probably a former bed sheet, was placed atop of it for the parts of a disassembled Kalashnikov spread all over. A small metal tray with a glass of tea and a long comboloio beads made of small black strings rested by. Three chairs with straight backs covered by artificial brown leather and a stool were moved up to the table. The remote corner of the room was filled by a low modernist style leather armchair that had somehow found its way to this forgotten nook. The red painted boards of the floor were covered by a large red carpet almost of the room’s size. Two more carpets hang on the walls, and there was a tapestry behind the ottoman with a Persian style tale sketch on it: two deer drinking water from a streamlet, and behind a mounted bowman at full tilt rushing out from the open gates of an Oriental city decorated with minarets and domes.
“Come in!” the Black was standing by the table, diligently polishing a detail with a cloth. “Sit down. Hopefully soon you’ll again feel yourself a rightful person.” 
The escort also approached to the table and, taking one of the chairs, sat at the door, leaning his nape at the wall. 
“Are you going to set us free?” Alex sat down on the specified stool and crossed his hands. It was trying to seem calm, but his heart was madly palpitating.
The Afghan grinned and went on indifferently cleaning the metal.
“I wanted to make something good for you, for example – to slightly brighten up the burdens of your stay here, Alex. But, apparently, I’ve somehow overestimated your capacities to comprehend quickly. I’ve always thought that in the world you’re a part of, the freedom has practically never been an absolute value. In your ostensibly free society the rightful person isn’t the one who is free to go wherever he wants and do whatever he likes, but only those who’ve given up his freedom in exchange for job. The more I know about your civilization, the more difficult to prove to me the contrary… Actually, I just decided to grant you an opportunity to become a journalist for a while again. You could ask me for an interview for your newspaper.” 
“And what if I refuse?” Alex unsuccessfully leaned back on his stool and was within a hairbreadth of falling back. He was deeply disappointed.
“You won’t do that.” The Black put the detail aside and taking the barrel from the table looked through it at the light. “It’s not in your interests. Look, the hot news can become a leading article and your photo will appear on the first pages. You’ll receive what many of your colleagues can only dream of: public will recognize you in the streets; you’ll receive invitations to the prime-time talk shows. Imagine: “Tonight we host Alex O’Connell – the person, who really knows what it means – to be hold as a hostage at barbarians.” Come on, it’s a good and attractive prospect for a rookie-journalist like you.” 
“You’re scoffing at me.”
“I’m nor.” The Black reeled an oiled cloth on the ramrod and pushed it into the barrel. “Take your chance to justify your short-time professional inactivity. I’m not going to claim money for the exclusive interview and am even planning to give you some paper and a pen. Harry up, it’s your choice.”   
The prospect of return to the dark and damp cellar couldn’t seduce Alex, but he was far from being too compliant either. Then he recalled the kids jailed downstairs.
“Done, but I’ve a condition. Order your man to provide the kids with mattresses and blankets or alike. It’s damp and cold in the cellar at nights.”
“Bravo! I can see a true American: business acumen and pragmatism. I like you again. Consider it done.” 
The Afghan approached to the walnut locker and raking through the top shelf, returned with a pen and a few leaflets of notebook paper.
“I guess that’s enough. Yeah, put this under the paper,” He passed an old torn book in a solid cover. The half of its pages was off; most likely they were used to kindle the stove in the verandah. The cover was dark blue, with two lines of unfamiliar imprinted letters and the image of a large tree without leaves. The gilding had practically gone, and the letters couldn’t be figured out.
“Come on, I’m completely at your disposal,” Jafar rewound the ramrod cloth and returned to the barrel cleaning again.   
              Meanwhile, the American took the leaflets and turned the pen in his hands. He didn’t know how to start and channel the conversation. Discrepancy in thoughts and feelings is a poor adviser.
“Do you really need it? I mean, why do you want to answer my questions?”
“You mean that usually the people of my type seldom communicate with press and media and generally avoid any extra sensation around their names, do you?
Alex shrugged his shoulders.
“Maybe it’s true, you’re right. But I’m not a mercenary, I don’t fight for money and I’ve done nothing that should be kept secret. Moreover, as I see, I’ve made nothing reprehensible or contradicting to the laws of war.”
“Yes, but in fact the war is continuing and then, your command…”
“The war comes to the end, my friend, and soon there’ll be nothing left for us here. And as about my command, I – to a certain extent – am both the master and the boss. Besides, when you publish the interview, we Inshallah  won’t be here any longer. And hardly anyone reads papers in the land where we’re planning to be on by that time.”
“And how did you come here? Do you really mean that these people,” Alex nodded to the dozing escort, “have simply arrived here to die in a “somebody else’s” war?”
“I don’t think so. They’re here because of our beliefs, and as to the financial matters… While they’re here, their families will monthly receive a small sum which will help them to make the ends meet. It’s approximately as much, as you pay for a supper in an inexpensive restaurant. Well, and if Allah takes the breadwinner, then his family receives a lump-sum which isn’t enough to buy a more or less decent suit for you. So, would you call it a “war for money?” 
“I don’t know... You speak about the beliefs... What do they particularly consist of?”
“What makes the human to stretch a helping hand to others, to feed hungry and to give shelter to beggars, Mr. Journalist? We’re brought here by the call of duty. We observe the instructions of our religion which forbids leaving our brethren in trouble. The majority of those arrived here are far from the politics. They don’t care about the roots of the problem, about who was right, and who wasn’t. Business is business, and when it comes to war, then the problem gets easy solutions: either you kill, or they kill you. Excessive sentimentalism is inappropriate here. Do you remember the short man, who met us there, at night? His name was Ali. His men were sitting around the fire, you didn’t see them. And so, the next day practically all of them died. Ali was adjusting fire from the AMV, when a tank shell demolished its turret. After hours-long fight his people had to draw back across an open terrain, under a mortar fire. Though, you can hardly understand what I’m talking about…” 
“Why not? I’ve already been instructed about these kinds of things on the opposite side.”
“Well then. And when the lost positions were taken back, there were eight bodies there. All that remained from Ali was just a bloody mix: he was smeared over the turret.”
“What do you personally think of this war? You certainly know and understand many things that are inaccessible to the others...” 
“I’m a soldier, and not a politician. My job begins when politicians fall silent. When I came here the active operations were on their way. As far as I know, one of the European kings had ordered to engrave “Ultima ratio Regis ” on his cannons. Is that true?” 
“Yes, a French king did that.”
“So, to some extent, I’m an ‘ultima ratio’ too.”
“You’ve mentioned that the war is coming to the end. Are you happy with its outcomes?”
“A blunt question,” the Afghan grinned and looked through the barrel he had been intensively wiping by a clean duster. “Let me repeat again: I’m a soldier and not a politician. I’m fighting when there is a war. I’m not the one to start and, especially, to end wars. It’s rumored that the politicians have decided to stop the combat and find a peaceful resolution of the problem. That’s not my business; if they can solve the questions by means of negotiations, without shedding blood, let it be so. But many of our men don’t understand why the war should end now. I’ve my personal assessments on the matter, but hardly anyone cares about it. So let it remain a secret for your readers either.” 
“And what was the most striking thing in this war?”
The mojahed smiled. His answer surprised Alex:   
“Wood, a lot of wood, heaps of firewood everywhere. Here you can always find timber and make a good bonfire. Firewood is too expensive in Afghanistan. My family was considered an advantaged one back there, but we wouldn’t frequently afford ourselves to have wood fire in our stove. But here…”
He shook his head and sipped some chilled tea from the pear-shaped glass. 
“Well, and if joking apart…” Some metallic notes appeared in his voice. “That was a meeting with shuravis  - the men who were at war with us. To tell the truth, when they left Afghanistan, I could hardly believe that some day Allah will bring us together. But what happened was a great surprise: here I’m on the same side with those I had struggled against in Afghanistan. It shook me, imagine, a ‘mojahed’ and an ‘Afghan’, as they used to call themselves, in the same fox-hole. In due time it seemed to me that even dying I wouldn’t hesitate to lay wrapped in the same mould with them, but it turned out otherwise. Truly, Allah always gives us lessons of his wisdom.”
“Yeah, I didn’t expect to see all of you here either.” Alex thought. “And what are you going to do when you back home?”
“I don’t yet know. The options are too limited. During the last twenty years of war we’ve got there a whole generation of people, who can do nothing, but to shoot and blow up. In the days of Russians the government used to pay those who were eager to work, while those who wished to fight would receive money from the Americans. Everyone was busy: some would cultivate the land, and the others – blew up bridges. But as soon as the Russians left, we lost our significance for the Americans. And, as the result: now we face full devastation, splits and anarchy. And finally, all the folks have weapons but no means of subsistence.”
Alex could hardly keep himself from cite the “freedom as an absolute value”, but he knew that given his current status the excessive irony could lead to unfortunate results.
“And so, the fulfillment of the debt of honor to the brethren-in-faith is sort of a no-other-choice way in the current situation, isn’t it?”
“Why do you think so?” The Afghan caught the irony and putting the barrel aside, took a new part. “You can always became a personal guard of a fat drug dealer, or became a drag smuggler and make pretty good money for Afghanistan. There has always been a great demand of drugs on your streets.”
“Then, what about the religion and morality?”
The Black stopped cleaning the gun part and putting his hands into the pockets, started pacing out the free space of his room. The thick red carpet spread on the floor completely muffled his steps.
“I got a book several years ago. It said that during the old times the territory of Afghanistan was called Bactria. It was a rich land, and the other name it had was the Land of Thousand Cities. Arts and crafts were developing there, and the jewellery made by the Bactrian craftsmen had been highly valued in the markets of the Ancient world for centuries. Therefore the greatest commander of the ancient times – Iskander of Suleiman, you call him ‘Alexander the Great’, – decided to conquer my country. That’s what the book said. It was also written there that throughout the history Persians, Arabs, Turks, Mongols, English and, eventually, Russians had tried to capture Afghanistan.” 
He paused for a while and approached to his sleeping subordinate. Leaned back on his uncomfortable seat with his head thrown back to the wall, the man was peacefully snoring and occasionally stopping to whisper something.
“More than two thousand years lay between Alexander the Great and this guy. And you see what we’ve come up to. Look at him. His wife died together with the third child in childbirth, the others died one by one of chronic malnutrition, avitaminosis and illnesses, which the children of your world undergo as a slight malady. He was away at war at that times, and then he spent a month in delirium, as his right lung was drilled out by a bullet. He’s forty now. If he isn’t shot down in a war within the next ten – fifteen years, then his health problems will finish him and he’ll pass without leaving any trace on this planet. Nobody will mourn for him, and within a year or two his memory will totally vanish and none will even wonder why this person was actually born to this world. He clearly understands that, and what kind of moral guidelines he can have after all these?” 
“But, in fact, he’s here to fight and thus – can bring a tragedy to other families.”
It seemed that the Black didn’t hear him. Nevertheless, he answered in a minute.
“What? No, he can’t. His duty is to keep an eye on this house and to collect firewood for the stove. After the misfortune with his family I try to keep him far from actions. He would resist at first… If all is well, I’ll try to find a wife for him back home.”
Apparently he had finished cleaning the Kalashnikov and, getting back to the table, began to assemble it. After a moment of an absolute silence the clang of adjusted metal parts and the snoring of the sleeping man could be heard. A remote dog barking would occasionally interrupt the cacophony of the cicadas outside the building. Alex was looking through his notes when, finishing the adjustments, the Afghan quickly pulled the bolt, pushed the trigger and then lowered the safety-lock. The weapon responded with a crystal ring.
“AKS, the model of 1974, with 5,45 mm caliber. Back home we would usually use Chinese ÀÊÌs, they’re heavier and their caliber is larger – 7,62 mm.” The mojahed stroked the barrel of the weapon by a white cloth. “It had never jammed. Do you want to listen to its sound? The baby works as a Swiss watch.”
He repeated the bolt pulling operation with a visible pleasure, and the sub-machinegun again echoed with a crunch and a delicate ringing in ears. 
The view of a mature bearded man, gently stroking the lethal toy couldn’t cause any positive emotion in his interlocutor’s mind. Alex wasn’t a pacifist by nature, but the dark pharynx of the barrel breathed at him with a tomb cold, and he convulsed his shoulders as if it was chilly inside. He had already met with the similar tenderly attitude to lethal staffs.
             “Is it cold here?” The Afghan had misinterpreted the reflex motion. 
“Maybe… So we’ve finished, have we?” The journalist returned to the reality in which he still was a prisoner of this bearded person, who had spoken high matters a minute ago. “Where’s George now?” He thought. 
              “I see no reason to keep you here if you’ve nothing to ask.”
“You pretend to be a devout person, but while crossing the front line you gave me a drink… I wouldn’t like to insult you anyhow, but does not your religion forbid alcohol to its followers?” 
“The drink you’ve tried wasn’t made of grapevine fruits,” the mojahed grinned. “Okay, that’s just a small weakness which formally doesn’t contradict to the bases of the belief and thus helps to avoid stress, as you say.” 
“Okay then. Can I leave the notes?”
“Sure, but you’d better return the pen: in fact, in skilful hands it can become a fierce weapon.” The mojahed liked his joke, and quietly laughed.
Then, still laughing, he loudly cried out something. The peacefully sleeping warder immediately sprang to his feet and, shouldering his weapon, gazed around by his lackluster and half-awake eyes. Seconds passed before his sight brightened up, the consciousness returned to his shaggy head, and lowering the Kalashnikov the man guiltily dropped his eyes.
“He fell asleep at his post. During wartime this crime is punished by a shoot and he knows that. But he also knows that I won’t punish him.” The Afghan grinned, counting his beads.
Then he pointed his finder at the American and ordered something causing an undisguised surprise on the warder’s unshaved face. But the commander’s orders had been never discussed here, so the unpleasant guy of the tragic lot, the one that Alex still recently dreamed of giving a good kick to, silently left to carry out the order. However, he was happy that had easily got off with sleeping on duty.
Alex, left to his own resources, rose from the chair and stretched himself again. The black darkness behind the window was gradually becoming violet, and a rooster crowed somewhere in remote. Probably the house stood on the outskirts of a village, as only a part of a garden and a steep mountain flank could be seen from the window.
Few minutes later the warder returned to reported something to the commander. The Black nodded and ordered to take Alex back to the cellar.
“Okay, Mr. Journalist. I hope one day I’ll see in your paper everything I’ve told you here. You’re free in your judgments, but if you distort mine, then I’ll sue you for libel,” hemmed the Black, “and for now… you may go.” 
“Yes, thanks. And the last question: where did you learn English? Did you study anywhere?” Alex was in the doorway. 
“Back in Afghanistan I had a good teacher, a compatriot of yours. But he’s gone; he came across a mine. That’s all I can tell you.” 
“Thanks. And as we say, the very last question: what is your name?”
“Jafar. People call me Jafar Khan, but you can call me ‘Jeff’. That’s the way my teacher used to address me,” said the mojahed and folding his arms on his chest, turned to the window. The fingers of his right hand were quickly counting the comboloio.
The interview was over. The American returned to the cellar where the children, awaken for the second time, had already wrapped themselves up by a blanket and fall asleep on an old but intact woolen carpet laid atop of the hay. Khan had kept his word.



CHAPTER 10

The city appeared rapidly and unexpectedly. After flying all the way above the heavy lead haze, tirelessly pushed from the ocean by the wind, the jet abruptly dived into a gleam between the clouds and immediately found itself above the sea of yellowish electric light with rare inclusions of red, green and dark blue, reflecting in the oil-black waters of Hudson.   
Paul was sitting by the left board and watching the burning torch in the hand of the Statue of Liberty and the red blinking beacon lights of the Southern Manhattan skyscrapers slowly floating by when the music in the headphones ceased to pass the floor to a scratch, immediately followed with the hoarse voice of the chief pilot: 
“Fasten your belt, Paul, we’re landing. Lucky man; we’ll touch down at the JFK: due to the approaching storm La Guardia is dealing only with liners. I wonder what’s going on in JFK; the ‘windows’ are always packed there and the guys usually have a take-off and a landing once every five minutes in average. Well, okay, get ready we’ll be on site in couple of minutes. What would you like me to do: to call a taxi or just drop you on the nearest tower?”
“You’re joking”, thought Paul and rising from the armchair waived his hand to the cockpit, where the chief pilot had turned back to see the reaction of his sole passenger through the open door. 
“All right, be my guest. If you wish to take a bus – they depart every twenty minutes. Take my advice: while in bus, take care of pretty fellow travelers, rather then a place.” 
Paul smiled and waived his hand again.
“What, you’re going to take subway?” The pilot looked on his watch.  “My friend, you apparently run into troubles. Though..., it’s not too late, amigo…”
The hissing noise in headphones was nothing but the pilot’s laughter.
“You’re making up to me, Jim. Anyway, it’s pleasing.” Paul tried to out voice the buzz of the engines.
“Yes, sir.”
The hissing turned into a gurgle and the pilot turned back and winked at his partner. Paul also laughed and fastened the seat belt. He knew the saying that only temperate ones in aviation were the autopilots.
Minutes later the jet froze on the wet concrete runway of John F. Kennedy International Airport. Something really unimaginable was going on there: every minute an airliner would land to kill the time till the storm was over.
Saying goodbye to the pilots, Paul passed the customs and pushed through into a low shuttle, running between the airport and the nearest traffic interchange. If all went well he would take off for Europe one and a half hour later; and if the weather had spoiled anyone’s plans – that wasn’t Paul Zetlyan for sure. On the contrary, landing in JFK saved some superfluous minutes, and the subway trip would give him the time to pave the way for the talks with his daughter. Paul was more then sure that he was going to have a knotty conversation.
According to the ‘legend’ he had, his unexpected participation at a forthcoming conference in the Netherlands was a must to replace an expert who had suffered a traffic accident on the eve and was undergoing medical treatment at a hospital in Cincinnati. Along with the contribution to the scientific get-together Paul on site would consult a Western country, engaged in negotiations dealing with a large-scale economic project in the Central Asia. He had booklets with the conference information, biographies of the participants, panel discussions program, key theses of the basic lecturers and even New York-Amsterdam flight tickets, printed in one of the Office’s printing houses. According to the schedule, the trip would last eight days, but he would try to do something, rearrange the meetings and be in time for Dora’s birthday or, more exactly – her wedding. If the force-majeure interfered, and he lacked time to return, then Gnocchi will lead her to the church. But his consciousness wouldn’t reconcile with such a perspective and he would drive it into one of those dark corners anyone has enough of. 
However, today something else, and more precisely – irritation – was inevitably gushing from one of such corners, where the problems of personal relationships were accumulated for years. Being an outwardly and inwardly restrained individual, Paul now could hardly suspend the paroxysms of irritation, rolling in by low prickly waves. It looked as if someone had opened a bottle of fizz inside him, and small bubbles of gas were erupting up and constantly bursting, thus pouring over his internal world with small sharp sparks. Of course, the best way to overcome this mood wasn’t pushing the annoyance back to the sub-consciousness, but vice-versa: to let it acquire real shapes and materialize into objects, and then topple down everything by arguments. In the inmost recesses of the soul he knew that the roots of this discontent came from the dilemma of his life: the choice between the living a life for himself and doing the work for others, i.e. – between his family and the duty.
In the very beginning of his family life he didn’t unveil the truth to his spouse, then a convinced Antiwar Movement supporter. Then Paul thought that his job was just a mean to secure his family’s material welfare, but subsequently began to realize that the work, as a tempted mistress, was driving him away and away from the family and the family life. Thus, the ‘mistress’ had been whispering on his ear that, on a large scale, his overall objective was to provide safety to his own family, and the further he was from it, the greater was his sacrifice and the higher were his deeds for it. But all looked little differently from aside. Hardly Miriam could stand too long somewhat eccentric bents of the ‘expert’, which had entirely devoted his life to studying some far countries, writing scientific articles and participation in long-lasting conferences and seminars.
Soon Paul found himself faced with the choice of his further path: once returning home from a regular Southeast Asia ‘round-table’, he found his home empty. Miriam had left a letter for him; it said that in his absence their daughter had came down with pneumonia and it was very difficult for her to get through the problem alone; that she had tried to get him on the phone, but in vain; that she was sure that he wasn’t something to relay on and that she had decided to leave for New York were her parents lived. Paul didn’t follow her to NY: the job prevented him from going there. After few months Miriam found a suitable vacancy and soon began to produce kid radio programs for a known Manhattan company. The well-paid job endowed her with certain freedom, and two months later she moved to a new apartment in Queens. Paul didn’t know what kind of – if at all – private life she had in general. However, it looked as if she failed to build up family relations after him.
Almost twenty years had passed since.
Then the divorce wasn’t a blow for Paul. There were other women in his life and he was confident that a bit more effort and the ‘false-bottom-suitcase-problem’, as he used to call his life, would be solved. But each time the destiny would amend his plans. When the Vietnam Campaign finished captain Zetlyan was moved to CIA, where the operative work with immigrant groups from Central Asia had seriously and permanently deprived him from the chance to join his family. In turn, the revolution in Afghanistan and the followed Soviet invasion had caused the mobilization of the Afghani dimension in Langley. It was almost impossible to think of reunification of the family against the background of dangerous assignments half a year each, so Paul had finally came to a point that he would never manage to bring together his heart and mind. 
The end of the Afghani epopee had marked the 15th anniversary of Paul’s divorce. Almost during the same period Dora joined the New York University for Advertising and Marketing. From time to time, within the limits of the possible he would visit New York to see Miriam and Dora, but it was rather his duty as a father than the dictates of his heart. He had even suggested paying for the daughter’s education, but Miriam would proudly reject his offer. Then Paul would monthly transfer some money to the account he had opened for the daughter. His decision was to pass her the money when she decides to start her own family.
Still in the morning of the current day he was sure that within few days he would be able to bring about a fundamental improvement into his life and settle the old scores with the past. As a head of a civil analytical center he could completely legalize himself and slightly open the veil of secrecy above the last years, to inform his spouse and daughter what exactly stood between him and the family. There was no question of returning to the nonexistent family: he knew that the past couldn’t be restored, and had never cherished an illusion in that regard. He just dreamed of the day when he could explain them why he was far from the cot when Dora had double pneumonia; why he couldn’t hold her hands when she, moving slowly in her ridiculous white sandals, made her first steps on the slippery parquet of the dinning room; why he didn’t take her to school. He wasn’t a loser as his wife and even Dora could consider him to be, and his sole child’s Dad’s role was the limit of his unpretentious dreams. 
             The message about Dora’s marriage caused some discrepancy in his mind. His paternal egoism wouldn’t allow him to easily accept the news about a new other-then-Dad man in her life. But on the other hand, her marriage was suggesting him a chance – for the first time for the last years – to find a worthy place in her life. He and only he had the right to accompany her to church, and there, in line with the family tradition, he would give her the family treasure: the pomegranate shaped female finger-ring, with 3 garnet grains looking from its cracked gold rind. Miriam’s call made him move and he, as a true Dad, began active preparations to the forthcoming event. His financial affairs were right as rain and according to the preparations he made long time ago Dora would take possession of a sizable sum after her wedding. Besides he had agreed with his old chum over the arrangements of an exclusive party in New York where Gnocchi had good blood ties in the restaurant business. He was comfortable about the fact that newlyweds were planning to depart for their wedding trip immediately after the church ceremony: he was eager for a solemnity and was planning to celebrate the event with an appropriate pomp and circumstance. 
Trying to overcome the next wave of the rising irritation, Paul began walking along the platform. There were ten minutes till the arrival of the express platted with the white plane on the dark blue circle, and the majority of the passengers had placed themselves on the narrow wooden benches providing comfort reading of newspapers and magazines. A noisy group was loudly discussing something not far off: probably these were the freight terminal workers, returning home after the shift. 
So why did the job interfere right now, when he had a real chance to improve the situation? Willy-nilly, but Gordon had burst into his life at the most undesirable moment. Okay, getting that guy back was a great task, but why should he do that and, especially on the eve of his resignation, when, according to unwritten rules, the officers were debarred from operative tasks. For certain, Langley had people capable of successfully coping with what he must care of. But it’s too late. He must travel to Karabakh, where he would try to investigate the kidnapping incident. In the case of necessity he would get in contact with his former prot;g;s and would try to haggle for the guy. If they had got him for the purpose of exchange with an Afghan kept by Karabakhis, then Paul should come to a point with their opponents too. He would negotiate with the Karabakhis under his true name. For them the basic official ‘legend’ of his travel was the research of the Karabakh problem with an aim to prepare a Karabakh case-study report for some U.S. scientific and academic periodicals. The minor goal was the assistance to another journalist of the New York paper, who would be sent to Karabakh to make the coverage of his colleague’s liberation. He would meet the journalist in Stuttgart, and then fly to Yerevan via Paris. 
Rambling along the platform, Paul was already moving away from the group which was discussing the results of the recent baseball match, when a familiar melody forced him to turn back. For a moment he thought that someone from the noisy gathering switched on a portable tape-recorder. But they also turned to the opposite end of the platform, so he understood that the source of the melody was there. Moving there, he saw a long-haired young man in a dark blue homespun sweater, sitting on a cardboard box thrown on the concrete floor just by the remote of the 3 wide ladders leading to the platform. The guy was slowly pressing the keys of a Korg composer connected to a couple of shabby acoustic systems. He had a small cardboard box for change in front of him. A young romantic couple with bright backpacks stood by: embraced, they were waiting for an improvised concert. Paul was almost near the couple when a short mustached gentleman in a grey buttoned up raincoat, a cream hat and old-fashioned thick tortoiseshell framed spectacles came downstairs, walked towards the center of the platform but then, probably changing his mind, froze and put his leather suitcase nearby. Tenderly embracing a black pipe-shaped container – generally used to keep large-format engineering drawings – he suspiciously glanced at the musician. Meanwhile, his arrival encouraged the young man, and instead of mere touching upon the keys he passed to a true performance.
Paul Zetlyan had heard that piece of music somewhere before and he clearly recalled where and how it had happened. It was the autumn of 1969, when during one of his short-term holidays he could visit the City of Entertainments for a few days. On the second morning Paul with a cup of coffee in his hand had literally collided with a cheerful long-haired blonde in a Downtown Manhattan cafeteria. They got into a conversation and Paul so much liked Miriam – then a Soho Pacifist Movement branch activist – that even decided to accompany her to an antiwar demonstration in front of the U.S. Mission to the United Nations. There they were met by a small, but very noisy company of Miriam’s friends and fellow-fighters: smocking long-haired university youth in shabby jeans and homespun pullovers almost up to knee long. At first the short hairstyle and sports appearance of Miriam’s escort puzzled them a little, but as soon as they had learned that he was nothing else but a harmless ‘scientist’, they relaxed and Paul was solemnly reckoned to ‘the bellicose fellowship of peace fighters’. The situation had a pretty funny side: the elite forces officer in a noisy crowd of protesting youth was intensively pretending to break through the hand-in-hand police cordon, hardly standing the pressure of the crowd at the main entrance to the U.S. Mission. However, despite the tension, everything finished quite peacefully: the started downpour quickly scattered the participants of the demonstration all over the nearest pubs and public buildings. Hiding under the posters Paul, Miriam and few demonstrators reached the nearest subway station and diving inside the womb of the megalopolis, began to discuss the funny details of the action. And there, on the crowded platform of the New York subway he caught this melody. It was played on a violin by a gray-haired old man in a checkered green jacket and velveteen trousers. His thin fingers were quickly running about the strings of the cheap instrument, and his worn out grey cap with change and two dollar banknotes was placed before him atop of a scrap of a newspaper. 
Paul was struck by the precision that the sounds, born by the strings of the unpretentious violin, reflected his internal state. Catching his intent look, Miriam, who had been loudly and cheerfully speaking with the friends a second ago, suddenly got confused and asked him turning red: “What’s up?” And he invited her for a tango. A tango in the middle of the rush-time platform, packed with hordes of people, unable to make out the beauty of the others' moment behind the routine of their own problems.
The invitation to dance was unexpected, and Paul gave due to her courage – the merit he had liked very much in addition to her cheerfulness. She easily took the dare and soon the young couple begun to spin in a dance, entirely taken up with the whirl of the yet unspoken feelings. The performance was impressing: it seemed that even the scraps of papers and magazines, floating in the air, were rather picked up by the magic music of the old man than by the vortex of the passing trains.
The violinist stopped to play, and Paul and Miriam were returned to the reality by an unexpected squall of applauses and approving shouts: the Japanese tourists on their way to the UN building excursion wouldn’t remain indifferent to what they had just seen. While the subjects of the Chrysanthemum throne were approvingly rustling and clicking their Nikons, Paul threw a dollar into the man’s cap and grasping Miriam’s hand, plunged into the nearest car of the train. Taking that as a local tradition, sentimental Japanese vividly raxed for their wallets and prepared to dance, while the old man theatrically bowed to the couple holding the violin and the bow in his hands and then sent them an air kiss. Paul and Miriam laughed and waved him from the window of the departing train. They were cheerful and careless; they thought that that was their destiny – to be fellow-travelers in the train called ‘the life’.
Oops, but the life appeared to be more prosaic.
Paul smiled and looked around. The music was over, and the young man took a sip of hot cocoa from a big plastic glass passed by his girl-friend. She wore black trousers and practically similar dark blue handmade pullover. She was holding a hygienic napkin and a hamburger in a cardboard box. Her face was radiating tenderness. Catching the sight of her brown eyes, the musician embraced her and attracted to him.
Paul smiled again and looked at the short mustached gentleman with the hat on. The man misinterpreted Paul’s smile and setting straight his thick tortoiseshell glasses nodded:
“Did you also notice that he played out of tune?” His right hand was still gently pressing the black plastic pipe to his breast. “I’m for professionalism everywhere.” 
But his expectations weren’t justified this time.
“Pardon me, sir, but I don’t know much about music.” Paul shrugged his shoulders.
Many years ago he would wish to find out the names both of the composition and the author. He could do it now, but approaching to the young musician he just approvingly nodded and dropped twenty bucks into the cardboard.
The train had already arrived and its doors opened with hissing. 
             The musician said something with his mouth full; he obviously wouldn’t expect such a generosity. Meanwhile Paul thought that there were things which should remain secret for ever. At least – for him. The irritation passed, giving its place to a light strike of nostalgia which usually quickly clears away as the morning fog in a spring forest. He had more then an hour prior to the departure, and still there was the meeting with his daughter on the schedule.
Ten minutes later Paul got out in Queens, and walked to Miriam’s apartment. Throwing the bag over his shoulder, he headed to a small flower shop. The shop was closing and Paul hardly managed to persuade the young Spanish-speaking seller to wait a minute before he could pick out something. Paying the muttering seller, he left the shop with a small bouquet of white roses. Then he passed a brisk street and entered into a four-storied brownstone. 
“Who’s there?” As usually, Miriam slightly opened the chain-fixed door and then asked the ritual question. “You..? Come in.”
She was in a rose evening dress with a thin thread of pearls around her neck. Her head was inclined to her right shoulder, and she was pottering with her right earring.
 “Are you off?”
“No, I’m just in. Thanks for the flowers. Let me take this ring off and then I’ll take care of the bouquet. Get in, I’ll be right back.” 
“Is Dora home?” He passed to the dining room.
Setting the flowers into cranes decorated small porcelain vase placed on a low table, he took off his raincoat and placed it on the back of the nearest armchair. His bag was left in the hallway.
“She’s not.” Her voice came from the next room. “She has a presentation tonight. Her company arranges a reception to celebrate a new contract with Chinese.” 
Paul took the TV remote control and came up to the wide sofa covered with a soft buff woolen coverlet. There was a well-cared cat there, whose long ashy hair played under the luster light.
“How’re you doing, old pale Ferguson?” He took the cat in his arms and sitting on the sofa, put the pat on his knees. “Let’s see what we’ve in the world.”
While Paul was switching through the TV channels, Miriam put on black bridges and a blue blouse, then poured water into the vase and placed some cat food into Ferguson's nickel bowl. The last lazily, as if unwillingly, slipped from Paul’s knees and hobbled to the food.
“Would you like to drink something?” She asked when all the urgent affairs were finished.
“I don’t mind a Cappuccino.” Paul looked at the watch. “When will she return?” 
“I don’t know. She promised not to bee too late.” Miriam’s voice came from the kitchen. “Where did you stay at?”
“Nowhere, I’ve half an hour. I’m leaving for Europe.”
“And how long will it take?” She was in the doorway with a cup of coffee she was slowly mixing. A slightly visible shadow passed over her face.
“Some ten days.”
She put coffee on the table and left the room to return with an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes. She sat in front of her ex. Paul was watching a news release.
“It looks as if you’re planning to miss the ceremony.” She nervously tightened a cigarette into a long mahogany mouthpiece. “That would be a blow for her.”
“You know, some unforeseen circumstances…,” Paul switched off the TV and laid aside the remote control. 
“Stop it, Paul. You told me nothing in the morning… I don’t want to rake over old ashes, but as far as I remember, I myself have repeatedly heard these words. Is Dora going to pass through the same?”
“That’s a really heavy burden for me, Miriam. It was a surprise for me either, but I’ve no alternative.”
“I’m not in a mood to discuss it, Paul. Just think what you’re going to tell your daughter.”
“She’ll understand me. I’ll try to do the job quickly and return in time … I want to give Dora the money I’ve put by for her, so they could figure on them while planning the travel. But I don’t know, when I should tell her about it. And what if I’m not back in time?”
“Don’t even think today about talking money with her. It will hurt her feelings.” Miriam shook off the ashes from the cigarette and again leaned back in the armchair. “Another coffee?”
“No, thanks. Who is the guy, I mean – Dora’s choice?”
“He’s a nice young man of her age. I liked him. I hope you’ll like him too.”
“Hope so, I trust her taste. And what does the guy do?”
“He’s a journalist. He found a decent post here in New York.”
“Another journalist…,” escaped Paul’s lips.
“Problems with journalists? He’s an advisable individual, and I’d even say – a mature and independent personality, something uncommon for the majority of the youth of his age. So, I’m confident for Dora. Do you mind if I show you few of his articles? Your daughter regularly collects them.”
She put the cigarette on the ashtray and, bowing to the coffee table, began to search for something among the glossy magazines and newspapers heaped up on its bottom shelf. A long golden lock of her hair fall into the ashtray and was immediately removed by Paul. 
“Thanks.” She smiled by the tip of her lips and allocated the disobedient ringlet over the ear, decorated with an unpretentious ‘home-wear’ clip instead of the delicate “gala” pearl earrings. That was in her manner. 
“Here you are.” She passed him Friday edition of the New York Chronicle on the 8th page of which the title of the article – “Reforms and society: the features of the post-Soviet democracies in progress” – and the author’s name – Sam Green – were rounded by a poisonous-yellow marker.
That was a rather dull name.
“A very serious article,” Paul, slightly looked through the paper and put it on the table. “I’ve been at Frank Conti’s in the morning and we’ve talked about the party. I want to have a joyful and loud celebration. I don’t mind if the youth leave after the church ceremony, that’s up to them. As for me – I’ll celebrate the event at a full possible scale: life music, relatives, and friends. Frank will find a worthy place: he has good ties. If I’m late, please help him with the invitation cards. Yeah, and finally, if I’m not in time then he’ll accompany Dora in the church: I’ve called him. So, can I relay on you?” 
“It looks as if you’re leaving for a war and not a conference. I’ll arrange everything, but, please, don’t miss the event. Do it for Dora’s sake.”
Miriam killed her cigarette in the ashtray, pulled for another, but then changed her mind and pushed the pack aside. 
The brief silence was interrupted by a key, turning in the lock of the entrance door. Someone came in.
“Hey, is anybody home?”
That was Dora’s voice.
Seconds later she came in and throwing aside her handbag and a paper package with dropped out exotic fruits – obviously the gift of the Chinese partners to the presentation participants – threw her arms around the father’s neck.
Despite of the complicated relationships between the parents, the sense of emotional alienation from the father was something unknown to her. In her early childhood she had even used to think that a “true Daddy” was someone far, who wouldn’t visit every day but only if child behaved well. Paul would always arrange his appearances in her colorful world of fantastic characters as small celebrations and would always leave behind the confetti of joyful memoirs and whole tribes of new soft subjects of her Doll Kingdom. Later her perception of the father’s image changed, but far not for the worst. Feeling constant love and respect to mother, Dora at the same time subconsciously felt that the life had somehow unfairly deprived her father of care and family warmth. But she had never accused of it her mother even when had gained a better understanding of the entire spectrum of her mother’s relations with Paul. At the age, when everyone above twenty seems too old, Dora began to treat her turning grey and defenseless – as she thought – father with an especial gentleness. During one of his trips he had managed to get into a road incident, resulting in a small oblong scar on the right side of his breast, near his neck. According to Paul’s explanations that was “a piece of broken windshield.” From that day on all his lasting trips had turned something negative in her mind. It was difficult to figure out what exactly prevailed in her attitude to Paul. Was it a splash of compassion for the somewhat eccentric scientist – kind with people, but fully devoted to the science, or yet a tribute to the bright image he had been shaping in her memory since she was a kid. Probably, it was a synthesis of the both.
“Okay, okay.” Paul kissed daughter’s forehead and nestling his cheek to her hair, caressed her head. “Maybe lipstick can decorate a male, but that man would certainly be not your Dad. You’ve probably smeared me with it. Accept my congratulations!”
“Don’t rush the things, Dad. You’ll be the very first man to congratulate me there, in the church.”
“I’d wish to… but…”
“Dora, your father will do the utmost to be present at the celebrations.” Miriam was standing by and cautiously smiling. She would wish not to hurt daughter before the wedding, but was afraid, that Paul could say something wrong. 
“Come on…” Dora shrank back from the father. “How can you be off?”
“There’s no need to exaggerate the problem; I’ll quickly finish the job in Europe and return in time.”
“Another symposium, Dad? How could you leave your daughter during such a crucial moment in her life? It’s nothing, but…” It was obvious that she wasn’t ready to such a turn-up, and her chin traitorously trembled almost the way it would in her childhood. “It’s not fair.”
“Calm down, honey.” Miriam approached with a glass of water. “Do you really think that your Dad could leave you during such an important period of your life without any strong reasons to do that?”   
“Enough.” Dora got herself in hands and shook her head. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, and please don’t reassure me. If you have to fly there, do it. What I feel is my problem and I’m not going to damp your spirits.”
Shifting from one foot to the other, the trio of the adults could do nothing but to silently look at each other. They were thinking of different matters, but each of them was painfully and distinctly realizing the powerlessness against something invisible and insuperable, constantly pushing people asides and preventing them from being together.
“Dora, please, listen,” Paul got out the small red box. “When you were born, I dreamed of the day when I would put this ring on your finger. Your late grandmother, may she rest in peace, would wish of that day too. Of this day… This is a family relic; it’s more than a century old.”
He opened the box and stretched the garnet ring to her. The graceful jewelry seductively sparkled on the light.
“You do all these not to come back, do you?” There still were notes of grievance in her voice. “I can’t accept it now, Dad. If you want to pass me the gift, then please, find a more suitable occasion, place and – what is the most important – date for it. And for now, please hide it. Deal?”
A familiar artful spark flashed through her hardly appreciable tears. Just as in her childhood, when they were planning a schedule for his next visit.
Dora bent the father’s palm back.
Something jammed in Paul’s breast. He knew he could tell Gordon and the journalist together with his D.C. VIP Dad to go to hell. Here, facing his daughter, he realized fully, probably for the first time in his entire life, how vulnerable was the border between what he wanted and what he must and, at the same time, how deep was the gap between the choices. But, there was nothing to be done... Embracing the daughter once again, he caressed her head and bowed down to pick up his bag. 
“It’s time, baby. I’ve to move to the airport.”
The silence was unexpectedly broken by the phone, and following by eyes the playfulness that Dora demonstrated rushing to the handset, he understood that she had been waiting for a call all this time. He exchanged sights with Miriam. But, apparently, all were against Dora that evening. 
“Dad, someone wants to talk to you on the phone, it’s about the conference.”
“Hello.” He took the passed handset.
“Hi, Paul, that’s me…” Jeremy Gordon was on the other end of the line. “It’s a miracle I could catch you there. How’re you?”
Paul returned to the room for privacy. “Jeremy, you’re a ‘sweetheart’.”
That was an equivalent of something like ‘stinker’ on their professional slang. 
“Calm down, Paul.”
“I’m okay.”
No sound came from the other end of the line for a while.
“Then what’s up?”
“Guess. My daughter gets married. Soon.” 
“All right, don’t worry, man, you’ll be in time.” Paul grasped a sense of relief in JLG’s voice. “Some changes occurred in the plans. A car is waiting for you outside.” 
“You mean – anything off the schedule?”
“Nothing serious, just some technical problems. You’ll be briefed en rout to the airport.”
“Did they cancel the flight?”
“Yes, you’ll take a regular one. Bye.”
“I love you too.”
Paul returned to Dora and Miriam.
“That was my colleague. It turned out that due to some technical reasons we’ll take a different flight. A car is waiting for me outside... I promise to get something exclusive for you.”
While Paul was putting on his raincoat Dora returned with the paper bag.
“Take it. You’ll like it.”
“Thanks.” Paul looked into the bag with the odd fruits his daughter returned from the party with. “Is it eatable? Are you sure?”
“Definitely. The taste is rather unusual, but it’s okay. I’ll be waiting for you.” 
Paul took a bite of one of the yellowish-green fruits and waiving his hand to Dora and Miriam, ran downstairs.
Dora turned to the mother: “You didn’t feed him…, as always.”



CHAPTER 11

“Well, so what’s up? JG didn’t tell me anything intelligible.”
Paul was sitting on the front seat of a rushing car and speaking with the driver – a middle-aged blonde man in a black leather jacket and dark blue jeans. His name was Henry, and he was one of Gordon’s men.
“The boss ordered to inform you about the changes in the plan, Colonel. It was decided that instead of the New York Chronicle’s regional correspondent you’ll be accompanied by our officer, a technical backup pro. Some folks in D.C. say that we shouldn’t underestimate the possible complexities of the forthcoming task”.
“Hmm, the New York Chronicle…, in fact the future son-in-law also writes for them,” thought Paul. “Do you mean that your bosses are planning an exciting action?”
“No way, sir. Firstly, the decision was taken by someone tougher then even my boss, and, secondly, none has mentioned about adding any coercive methods into your plans. Your mission remains purely peaceful, and even diplomatic – to a certain extent. Your partner arranges technical and telecommunication backup of operations. There, in Karabakh, you’ll have a communication set and a secure channel to keep in touch with the front office through.” 
“It becomes more and more funny. That’s a ‘debrief-styled’ task: initially they submit the job in general terms, and then come the inevitable specifications of the constantly changing lead-ins… Who is the guy?”
“I’ve no idea. All I know is that the Office has agreed with the Chronicle about giving the guy a short-term legal accreditation in the paper, so he could accompany you as their correspondent. I bet that he doesn’t even know about it. You can find the envelope with the documents and tickets on the rack, right in front of you. His passport and the press budge are there. I guess, the name and the family name are authentic.”
“And where’s he now?”
“Probably he’s already at the airport”. Henry looked at his watch. “We’ll find him there.”
Paul opened the envelope and looked through the contents.
“You’ve already got the visas… under today’s date.” He twisted about his outworn passport, usually kept at the Office. “They look as real. Or maybe you, guys, print them?”
His interlocutor hesitated for a second.
“No…we don’t. As far as I known the State Department had tackled your visa problems even before your jet had headed for Boston.” 
Everything was done despite it was Sunday. Well. While Gordon was ardently persuading him to take part in the business, his people had already finished all the arrangements. 
Paul looked through the would-be partner’s passport – a not less shabby document than his own.
A thickset and, apparently, short person in his fifties with brown eyes and a poor shock of hair – judging by the color in due times the man was a burning brunette – was looking at him from the photo. The documents were right as nails, but the swarthy face of the future partner wasn’t corresponding with his name.
“Patrick Galebright. I don’t know that guy.” Paul shrugged his shoulders.  “Are you sure that that’s his real name?”
“Who knows?” Henry shrugged his shoulders back.
“According to the last visa, this guy has been collecting dust for a while,” Paul passed the open passport.
Holding the wheel by the left hand, the man took the document and adroitly leafed through it by his right.
“Yeah. I think they had swept away last of his hair together with the dust.” 
The pilot was right. Due to the poor navigation, caused by an Atlantic storm, the JFK International resembled Babylon. One could hardly believe that few millions of gallons of misrouted steam and cold air could introduce such turmoil in the minds and affairs of so many people. Thousands of eyes of all the colors and shades would continually and hopefully peer at the notice boards in every terminal, and thousands of ears would intently listen to the announcements about the continuing landings and the yet poor meteorology. The passengers who spoke neither English and nor Spanish, had to limit themselves to the scrupulous monitoring of the very intonation of the invisible announcers. It seemed that there weren’t the clouds in the sky that mattered, but the deliberately unruffled intonations of the invisible ladies of the radio cabins. Their voices would always be considered to be a more trustworthy information source, than the green creeping lines, demonstrating an inappropriate activity on a background of the dead plastic boards which would usually announce long-awaited departures. 
Numerous multilingual tokens based on the term ‘delay’ were the most widespread way that the people – be they crowded by the smoking urns or finishing the next in line mustard hotdog at the packed cafeterias – would express the emotions they were overwhelmed by. Noisy discussions on the imperfection of the modern air transportation together with the “unfairly high” ticket prices would be interrupted only when the nearest loudspeaker would to leak the next portion of still unfavorable information.
The solemn voice of the loudspeakers would magically act even in the Man's Rooms, where respectable gentlemen with rolled up sleeves equipped with Gillette safety razors – which had far surpassed the Damascus steel as the Globalization Era Man symbol – were thoroughly struggling with the invisible bristle on their well-cared cheeks. Even they would stiffen in the most inconceivable positions and shifting their critical gazes from their reflections in the mirror, listen to the latest news with an attention which perhaps only the Delphian Pythian could dare to be awarded in due times. However, the votaries of Mammon and Themis would quickly get out of the lethargic stupor and casting a glance at their stylish chronometers – a life-long habit or the second nature – calmly continue the daily ritual of struggle against the manifestations of Pan – the tradition which has outlived the Ancient Rome.
The plain spring water was the best sold commodity at the airport distribution network. Practically everywhere people faced lack of change – the numerous public telephones would devour them in huge amounts, thus allowing the passengers to exchange couple of words with their families and friends. Those who were damned with rush jobs and tough deadlines were really in a deep shit, so the people, lined up for the phones, would here and there witness tragicomic sketches known from the NYSE TV coverage. 
And only kids, as it looked, wouldn’t care at all about the things that had been making the adults to peer and listen attentively to everything, dealing with the routes of the air masses. Small brisk pods of the children, bunched due to the forced idleness, something adored by adults and absolutely intolerable for their children, were horsing around the rows of benches and the islets of suitcases with their respectful owners stuck atop. Probably, the adults themselves perfectly knew the charm of such cross-luggage races. Anyway, their languid hails were perceived by the kids not as attempts to preserve the shadow of the order in the beehive-buzzing waiting halls, but the envy to the tricks of their offsprings, not burdened by the etiquette conventionalities. However, some rare exceptions came across even among this multi-colored brotherhood of the baby disturbers of the public order. For example, few young talents – kept under the ‘vigilant’ supervision of mummies and grandmothers dozing in the armchairs by – were diligently examining comic books or coloring by felt-tip pens the albums with Walt Disney's immortal cartoon characters. But even they couldn’t resist temptation and would occasionally throw green sights at the noisy pods of the fellows, who had grown in families with more liberal foundations.
One of those mobile groupings had gathered around a short thickset man in black trousers and a green shirt. The man had somehow managed to squeeze himself into the extreme armchair, almost next to the photocell operated automatic doors repeatedly harassed by the children. Atop of the dark green leather jacket, placed over his knees, the man had a cardboard box exhaling the aroma of a ham and mushrooms pizza, which he had the pleasure to regale himself with a bit before. However now a good half of the Italian cuisine invention was irreversible cooling down and loosing its flavor in the box, pressed down by the wheels of a fatty toy Jumbo jet, which was handed over to the man simultaneously with the question: “Hey, sir, how does this thing fly?” The pod members met his shy offer “What abut some pizza?” by wrinkling their noses in disgust, so the man realized that getting rid of these young scamps wouldn’t be a piece of cake.
“Have you ever heard of aerodynamics?” Swallowing the rests of the meal he had been chewing, the ridiculous man put on an air of importance and looked at the faces of the at most six-seven year-old kids. 
Judging by their resolute faces, that was a sinister beginning. The man looked around: he still hoped to get some support from the parents. But, apparently, those weren’t inclined to interfere at all: the prospect to get away from the tiresome offsprings even for a while was something they would rather welcome. Meanwhile, from aside the picture looked idyllic: a kind gnome was going to tell fairy tales to small children.
“And how about turbulences? None? All right, have you ever flied a kite?”
“I have. Last summer my brother Jim and I were at the Uncle Roger’s in Tennessee. There we flied a kite that Mr. Lee, the owner of the greengrocery, had made for us. The kite was this much big, and there was a red dragon on it.” 
The little girl demonstrated the size of the kite by her hands: she was obviously very proud of the scope of knowledge she had on the matter.
“Anybody else? Lift your hands. No. And have you ever seen who how kites are flown? Almost everyone... And so, my friends, a jet, certainly not this one, but the one you’ve arrived here by…”
“Excuse me, mister, but my mum and I arrived here on a taxi. Taxi is a chequered yellow car,” specified his tiny interlocutor.
“Well, then the plane you’re going to depart by…”
He looked at the child: she in turn approvingly nodded by a hundred of dreadlocks.
“...Flies like, or almost like, a kite.”
The kids mistrustfully hemmed.
“You mean, someone tows it by a thread?” The girl, undoubtedly, was a worthy opponent in the sprung up intellectual dispute. 
“You don’t trust me? Then listen carefully. These things are called ‘wings’. Do you know what they’re meant for? Then you wouldn’t believe me… My God, what am I doing here…?”
By the time Paul and his company found Patrick Galebright, the children were pretty well informed not only about the location of ailerons and the yaw rudder function, but had even gained some awareness of aerobatics techniques. Later, already aboard, one of them – a curly six year-old boy – would knowingly ask a tall and slim stewardess: “Could you tell me, please, what is the attack angle of our liner, Madam?” She would get confused, while the boy’s father, following her forms with his eyes, would pull about son’s head and thoughtfully tell: “It’s rather uncommon to hook up ladies in your age, sonny. Though, well, could you repeat what you’ve told her?”
“Mr. Galebright, if I’m not wrong?”
 Patrick lifted his head and looked at the newcomers as if they were his saviours.
“That's me. Where the hell have you been,” he said in irritation, but then recalled something and added in a more reconciliatory, but out of place mode, “sir.”
“Were solving the problems with our own children,” Paul stretched his hand.
Then he did his best to persuade the young audience to release Galebright. He was unable buy them off by the Chinese fruits, so could do nothing but to leave Henry as a ‘hostage’. Meanwhile, the young generation demanded Mr. Freedman – that was Henry’s name – to tell them about helicopters. 
As soon as the problem was settled, Paul suggested his future partner to find a place where they could have a talk without attracting any excessive attention. 
“So, what’s up with the business? May I know the reasons for such argent changes of the plans?” Paul asked the fat man as soon as they got outside and stood under a metal canopy, pattered by large rain drops. The dump gusty wind had turned the place into something unattractive for casual witnesses.
“I couldn’t even imagine that we’ve a coming generation, whose eagerness to learn verges with such an extreme unceremoniousness.”
It seemed that he didn’t even get the question.
“In fact I couldn’t even enjoy my pizza... Though, you know, some of the questions are more than reasonable. Indeed, why don’t they provide air travelers with parachutes?”
“You didn’t answer my question.” Paul was sure that he had overestimated Gordon: apparently the mental capacity of the man, who had assigned this Shorty as his partner, was rather of flora, then fauna origin.
“Why do you nag at me?” The man unexpectedly blew up. “I’m fed up with all these dilettantish spy-games. I was at a damn pleasant pale party, just a step far from tasting an Andalusia lamb, and then an urgent phone call got me right here, to a chaos. “Okay,” I thought, “I’ll get something on the way.” The hell I will: here again everyone sticks to you with foolish requests. I know damn nothing about your plans, mister, but mine are knocked down once and for all... Yeah, by the way, could I see your ID?”
Now, alongside with the visible discontent, some backward suspiciousness and anxiety were read on his face.
Meanwhile Paul was trying to determine the family of plants he could rank Jeremy Gordon among.
“So …, Paul Zetlyan,” the man returned the passport. “You must be Colonel Zetlyan… I though that that must be an alias and not a family name… With all due respect for you, sir, just to avoid future misunderstandings..., I’d like to notify you at once that the specificity of my job is to protect your ass, but not, pardon if I’m too frank, to kiss it. So, please take it into consideration and act hence during our teamwork.” 
Patrick Galebright thrust his right hand to the flap of his jacket and pompously raked the interlocutor by a cold gaze of his brown eyes. However the cigarette, he had effective clicked by his left hand into the distant urn, diverged from the initial trajectory and, picked up by a gust, vulgarly jumped aside from the airport tinted glass to mutely die out on the wet asphalt.
“Let me apologize for certain tactlessness,” said Paul following the stub by his eyes, “but the job you’re assigned to do during the mission, Patrick …, if I might call you that way…”
“Feel free to call me ‘Pat’.” 
“…And so, dear Pat, the job you’re going to do during the mission has nothing to do with my ass. Even more, I’m afraid I’m going to disappoint you: take a look at this...”
Patrick picked up the stretched ID and looked it through.
“What the..,” he turned the plastic wrapped document and looked at the rear side. “What’s that?”
“Cabbage,” escaped Paul’s lips.
Certainly – a cabbage. He had no doubts. What else could multilayered Gordon resemble while hiding the stump of his soul behind the numerous screens of mystery and unpredictability? He didn’t even advise the poor guy of the role he had to play.
“Pardon?” Patrick was surprised as that wasn’t the answer he would expect to hear.
“That wasn’t to you, Pat.”
For the next twenty minutes Paul accurately presented his picturesque partner everything or practically everything he had learned during the D.C. meeting. He knew that despite of the external comicalness, Galebright was far not a casual person in this business, and that he was a trustworthy person. Indeed, in all that concerned the business, Pat quickly demonstrated his capacity to quickly comprehend and penetrate into the very essence of the problem. Paul figured out of the partner’s questions, which, at first glance, touched upon the less significant details. It seemed, that his interlocutor had changed even externally: with his left hand thrust into the jacket’s pocket and the right petting his smoothly shaved chin, Patrick less and less resembled the odd fellow, who had taken his unsuccessful party hard. Though it wasn’t common in their environment to question each other, nevertheless, the partners dug each other the ape,  and Patrick was first to assume, that the role of a journalist would allow to collect the necessary information without attraction superfluous attention. Really, an ordinary-looking short person with swarthy skin and Oriental features – Galebright could actually make someone local – would have an advantage while communicating with locals without causing any discomfort – a feeling which usually accompanies ordinary people while contacts with foreigners of a diverse appearance. The interlocutors converged in an opinion, that the engagement of the informational support officer could be motivated by a complex operative situation on the ground. 
According to the information Pat got on the way to the airport, all the necessary equipment would be ready in Yerevan: the Office had a network of so called Regional Logistic Centers, dealing with the delivery of the needed stuff practically to anywhere on the globe. Likewise they didn’t bother about additional clothes and articles of hygiene: Gordon would take care of it. All the appropriate data on the sizes and clothing preferences were also available in Langley, and according to the arrangement, the partners would receive the baggage on their arrival. And before that, as it befitted to respectable gentlemen, they should travel light. So, by now they had nothing to do but to wait for the flight which had been constantly postponed due to the complicated weather.
“I still see a dark corner in all these crap,” Patrick went on thoughtfully scratching his chin dimple, “why the hell the boy got into all these?”
“Hell knows. These guys are unpredictable. Very few people can compete with them on courage, and they’re always ahead when it comes to crazy tricks. Probably, he wanted to get some hot material from a conflict-zone, something like “What do the grassroots do when the tops are in talks”. They’ve a longing for hot stuff.” 
“That sounds well. Anyway, he could just submit an assignment request to his supervisor and in that case, for certain, all of us would be damn lucky to avoid additional pain in the ass. I can’t speak for you, but I’m fed up with these Roger Archibald Juniors and Alfred McEnroe Seconds. You never know, what kind of caper they’re going to cut taking refuge behind the wide, – excuse me my French – dorsum of their respectable daddies, who proudly push their pens in Washington or different sorts of Boards… Are you sure that we’re going to have a clean job without any clamor and crap? As for me, I can hardly believe that we’re going to enjoy a two-way comfortable journey and the boy will be handed over to us by your man as a true token of everlasting gratitude, and that we’ll get the guy safe and sound, and not, let’s say, in pieces.”
“I hope, but I can’t guarantee. I know the Afghans, they wouldn’t do anything for no reason, and judging by all – they’ve plans for O’Connell. If they find out who he’s the guy in reality, the outcomes can be very gloomy. Then we’ll get our share of the crap. By now there is a point I’m sure about: in a case of a coercive task one needs to pass appropriate polygraph procedures and needs to have a dense communication with a crowd of meticulous psychologists with their tiresome questions. As you see, ethnically I belong to the region, so any dusty work would require these tests to be passed through. Though, who knows…?”
“Let’s hope. I hate noisy affairs. I wish we can band together with your bandits and persuade them to release our boy in return of the job you’ve done in their land. Frankly speaking, I’m not an admirer of violence, though different things happen: sometimes you meet such thugs, that your fingers itch to dilute it with some blood.”
“Where did you pick up all these? I have an impression, that you were released from a federal prison in exchange of collaboration. Your lexicon smells Synge-Synge.”
“So what, did you really look forward to be escorted by an egg- headed Princeton professor of philology? When you daily job is scrutinizing of a certain type of folks, their behavior and mentality, the way they eat, sleep and speak, then sometimes you can involuntarily switch over to their slang. I call it a responsive-analogous intellection. Usually it bursts out in crisis situations. That’s you, who travels across Europe and casts mist before the eyes of long-manned society lions during your symposia and biannual get-togethers. Wait a little..,” Patrick stepped back and measured his interlocutor with a critical sight. “I can see your appearance at a high-life event: a soft black jacket, a snow-white shirt of natural Chinese silk. A tie..., no ties, you’ve replaced it with a red scarf. You’ve a same-red small-size handkerchief in your jacket's breast pocket. You wear trousers of the thinnest body color velveteen and black patent-leather shoes. Walking along the hall, you attentively welcome familiar ladies with a light graceful nod of your head, but thus you often run into thoughtfulness and significant silence. You’ve a rather pleasant smile, but it’s overburdened with too much condescension. I can bet that while speaking you screw up your eyes and direct your thoughtful look to the distant. The reputation of a man of sharp mind accompanies you; spouting aphorisms, you’re a fan of allegorical comparisons and so on. In a word – you behave as a true hundred percent peacock. What I’ve is a common folks: sometimes they ignore Shakespeare so passionately that I can only dream of working at an oceanarium and dealing exclusively with fishes… Okay, come on, man, don’t take it up. We’d better go back. It seems, that the weather is changing and the guy…, what was his name - Henry? Yeah, I feel pity for Henry. He has probably been damning us all the time we’re here or I’ll eat my boots.”
Paul and Patrick strolled back to the waiting hall to find Freedman languidly looking through a magazine and finishing the rests of the notorious pizza the fat man had left untouched. The kids were off. Perhaps in other circumstances Galebright wouldn’t hesitate to bawl someone out for such an encroachment, but this time his attention was caught by the visible change in the airport’s atmosphere. Here and there thin and flexible serpent-like lines to the registration desks appeared. Probably the people, smelling a change in the weather, got ready for the desired departure. Indeed, as it appeared, the running lines and the dynamics had already announced about a shift in meteorology, which had passed by Paul’s and Pat’s ears totally taken by the conversation.
“Get ready, gentlemen, you’re probably going to take off shortly. Thanks for the pizza,” Henry nodded to the fat man, “I’m indebted to you.”
“You’re welcome; let it be a gratitude for the good news. By the way, I didn’t know that it’s possible to make ham from anything else but pork.”
“I’m a Presbyterian,” smiled Henry.
It took about an hour before the wind rose had finally clarified its direction and, instead of the northwest pushed the atmospheric front together with a bunch of accompanying problems strictly to the west. Thereby, ‘the window of opportunities’ for the European flights was opened – something the people, tired of uncertainty and hours lasting waiting, had dream about.
Another half an hour passed before Paul and Patrick eventually got aboard. Here Patrick introduced himself to a stewardess as a known paper journalist and while he was greedily eating the sandwiches she had brought, Paul stretched on his armchair and quickly fell asleep under the Radio Blues music.



CHAPTER 12

Sleeping away all the flight over the Atlantic Ocean, Paul and Patrick stopped for several hours in Amsterdam and, killing the time before the Yerevan flight, decided to ramble around the city. Here they made a phone call to the U.S. Embassy in The Hague to find out that there was no news for them. After a meal in a small Pakistani restaurant near the Palace Square crowded with the annoying pigeons, Paul suggested walking around the Red Light District, but his partner, as a zealous Catholic, strictly refused visiting “the nest of debauch and fornication”, so the remaining time was wasted in a rather vapid way – the colleagues limited themselves to the mere contemplating of the Flemish art school masterpieces at the nearest fine art gallery.
Returning to the airport they learned that their luggage sent by the Washington flight had already arrived. However, soon it appeared that Pat’s size and other data file was certainly outdated, as the pullover which he tried on right in the waiting room, turned out to be small for him. Grumbling man tried to somehow moderate his righteous anger in the plane with two small bottles of Bordeaux served by a heedful stewardess, anyway, he couldn’t achieve the desirable mood and swallowing a monstrous dose of soporific, snored till the landing. 
Yerevan welcomed them with a warm spring morning.
A U.S. Embassy officer met them in the small waiting hall with a name tablet in his hands. However, there was a regrettable misprint in Patrick's surname, so the Shorty, who had yet to recover from the sleep, immediately noticed the error and rushed towards the young diplomat. 
“Mr. Zetlyan? My name is Tom Stampton. How was the trip?” Stretching his hand, the diplomat affably smiled.
“My name is Patrick Galebright, understood? Galebright, G-a-l-e-b-r-i-g-h-t, and not the word you’ve put on the damn tablet that you’re brandishing as a cheer-the-leader team girl during a parade. I can’t accept entrusting the promotion of the national interest to the folks with poor spelling knowledge. I’d better have a talk with your school principal, but before I’ll contact your immediate boss.” 
Patrick pulled out the plate from the hands of surprised Stampton and, folding it in two, forcefully squeezed into the nearest trashcan. 
Approaching, Paul shook the diplomat’s hand poised in midair: the astonished guy was following the manipulations of the impulsive fat man.
“Hello. I’m Paul Zetlyan. Please don’t take it up. The problem is that Mr. Galebright is out of mood due to the tiresome trip and, besides, his stomach is accustomed to something more refined than the goulash we were served aboard. I guess, he’ll calm down soon.”
“Pardon me, sir, I had no intention to outrage this gentleman…, probably someone mixed up the things at the Secretariat, I’ll check it out…” 
“Calm down, Stampton. What about our plans?”
“You’ve appointments arranged, and if you’re not too tired, we could head straight for the Embassy. And if you are,” he threw a wary glance at Patrick, “you’re your rooms are booked at a hotel, so you could see the Ambassador few hours later.” 
Still frowning, Patrick was nevertheless able to stretch his hand to the diplomat:
“Okay, man, take it easy. I wander what you’re going to look like in my age.”
The incident was settled, and while Tom cared about the baggage, Paul and Patrick got out to the street. Some ten cars and a minibus were parked in front of the terminal. The minibus was being loaded by bags of dense green fabric, probably – the diplomatic mail. A pod of grey sparrows appeared from the backyard and, making an abrupt turn above the Americans, landed on the sidewalk were an old man in a checkered cap was feeding their fellows with bread crumbs. The air was full of spring freshness, however the idyll of morning was spoiled with the jet engine rumble, coming from somewhere behind the building. 
“A pretty look,” Patrick looked at the main complex of the airport, “I must have seen it somewhere else, may be in a Star Wars movie. Have you ever been here?”
“Long ago; I was a kid then. My parents took me to a trip to the Land of Forefathers. That was my first and the last time.” 
“You must be overflown with a wave of nostalgia, your heart is madly beating, and iridescent pictures of your happy childhood are constantly passing before eyes…”
“You’re becoming unbearable, mister…, hey, what was it on the plate… - Galebright.”
The hint was as transparent as crystal.
“All right, enough. We’re quits. What are we going to do?”
“We’d better visit the Embassy. The job comes first, doesn’t it?”
“Sure, we’re not here to admire the sights; though you know, the view of the Biblical Mountain  is perfect.” 
Tom guided them to a Ford with diplomatic number plates, and took the driver’s place.
“The bags will be in the hotel by the moment you finish the meeting with the Ambassador. He’s already informed about your arrival. So, where shall we go?” 
“The Embassy,” said Paul.
He had vague memoirs that the airport was somewhere in the suburbs of Yerevan and then, many years ago they had driven almost all the way to the downtown along an avenue with high trees. However this time everything looked differently, and his thoughts returned to the assignment. 
It was clear, that the Embassy guy was far from the purpose of their arrival and the situation with the hostage. But the Ambassador, for certain, could be aware of the place of the journalist’s detainment and the demands of the kidnappers. Now a lot of things depended on the time factor: both the life of the hostage and Paul’s personal plans. The sooner this Gordian knot was undone the more time he would be granted for the way back. Indeed, it was one of those rare – if not the unique – cases, when his job and the private life were on the same side of barricades. And while Pat, who had fully got into the role of a journalist, was peacefully talking with the diplomat about the general situation in Armenia and different routine trifles; he once again mentally projected all the possible scenarios. Paul wouldn’t take part in the chat, but soon he could value his partner’s brains. Answering Pat’s ‘innocent’ questions, Stampton mentioned that for the last ten days the Embassy had been insistently recommending the American mass media to abstain from visiting Karabakh, conditioning its demand by “the uncertainty in the further developments on the Karabakhi fronts”. “The peace talks, conducted the Russian mediation, would raise hopes for prompt establishment of peace, however the attitudes on the ground towards such prospects were still unknown”, and “in order to prevent possible provocations” the American citizens were asked not to visit the place at all. “Thus, ostensibly, the moratorium on the information was equitable to the U.S. national interests as it would allow the American side to sustain the maximal neutrality in the undergoing negotiations.” Paul didn’t care about how fluent all this sounded on the diplomatic tongue. He just came to a point, that the State Department had been doing its best to limit the possibility of a leakage about the incident. And that, in turn, meant that there were no radical changes in the current state of affairs.
The meeting the Ambassador proved how premature his hope were.
A tall man with grey-touched hairs, wearing a white, red-stripped shirt and a red tie, was sitting at a massive table and, looking through papers by his insomnia inflamed eyes, marking something by a red marker. As soon as the visitors came in, he rose from the place and walked to them over a piled claret carpet. 
“Mr. Zetlyan,” the Ambassador stretched his hand to Patrick, “I’m glad to welcome you in the Land of your Fathers. Barev dzez .”
“Excuse me, sir. May I introduce Mr. Zetlyan,” Pat stepped aback and made almost a theatrical curtsey to Paul.
“Excellency, allow me in turn introduce Mr. Patrick Galebright,” said Paul, extending his hand to the Ambassador and stressing the sound “l” in his partner’s surname. 
“How do you do, gentlemen?”
It was obvious that the Ambassador was a bit puzzled, however, he was an old bird and, as one would expect from a skilled diplomat, quickly patterned his behavior on the situation and immediately passed to business.
“I hope you had a pleasant journey, though I’m not going to keep you here too long in any case. Please, take your seats. Would you like some coffee? Then, let me pass to the problem. I know that you’re aware about the basic facts, so we’ll proceed to the current situation. Last night we were an inch far from figuring out O’Connell’s hideout. My colleague in Baku informed me that, however, as soon as our man accompanied with the Azerbaijani MoD officials and retired U.S. militaries reached there it appeared that the kidnappers had used the location only for getting into radio contact, so we’re still unaware about the whereabouts of our citizen. The Azerbaijani Defense officials couldn’t get into radio contact with the Afghans. Anyway, the assumption that the mojaheds want to exchange our hostage for their man taken prisoner by the Karabakhis has proved to be true. We’ve got it from a Stepanakert source. After changing the radio communication point the kidnappers again got in contact with the Karabakhi side to repeat the demand for hostage exchange. Given the current situation, we would prefer not to go too far, as the involvement of the Azerbaijani leadership in the cease-fire talks places Baku in an extreme disadvantage in the eyes of the Afghans. That’s why it’s hardly possible that the mojaheds could be easily persuaded by the Azerbaijanis to release the hostages. On the other hand, any attempt of coercive liberation of the hostage by the Azerbaijanis can lead to unpredictable consequences. According to the reconnaissance data we have, the mojaheds who had abandoned Azerbaijan, were extremely disappointed with the results of the war, so an act of force against those still in Azerbaijan can be regarded as nothing but a mere treachery. So, gentlemen, we’ve a real deadlock on the Azerbaijani direction.”
“Pardon me, sir...”
“Go on, I’m at your command… By the way, do you mind if I smock? What about a cigar?”
“With a pleasure,” Pat attentively looked at a box of Cuban cigars. 
 “A friendly gift from the Italian Ambassador,” the diplomat anticipated the guest’s mute question concerning the sanctions on the Cuban merchandize right on time. Then he got a pipe out of the table, filled it with an American tobacco and letting out cloudlets of grey smoke, slowly strolled along his office.
“I’m at your command…”
“I have two questions, sir,” Paul went on, pattering with a finger on the table. “Firstly: do the kidnappers know whom they have got or they still consider him to be an ordinary reporter? And secondly: what about the Afghan, I mean the one taken prisoner by the Karabakhis? Have they really captured this person, and if yes, then why do they hesitate to exchange him?” 
“We don’t have direct or indirect data, proving that the mojaheds know the true price of the guy. On the other hand, I’m disturbed with the fact that they observe extreme caution and try to avoid contacts with the Azerbaijanis in every possible way. Probably, they stay in a stand-by mode and try to not give out their hideout until the right moment comes. The current confusion at the front allows them to successfully follow a plan only they know about. As for the second question – then the situation we’ve here is also extremely unfavorable: the Karabakhi side repeatedly states that they have no information whether the Afghan is really held prisoner on their side. They’ve been searching for him for few days, but still couldn’t pick up a scent. At the best, he’s kept privately and someone plans to exchange him for his own relative – a widespread practice in this conflict. And if worst comes to worst – then the Afghan could have been simply shot down. For the Karabakhis he’s nothing but a mercenary. Taking into consideration the complex of hatred generated throughout the years of war, it can be a quite possible, though definitely one of the worst scenarios.”
“With all the respect towards the patriotic sentiments of my friend,” Pat, letting out ringlets of smoke, nodded towards his partner without shifting his sight from the cigar’s tip, “…where is the guarantee that these Karabakhis do actually care about the returning of the captured Afghan?”
“You’re right, Mr. Galebright, and I get you. Let’s assume that the mojaheds hold not only our citizen, but other people as well – the children, kidnapped together with him. So the factor of these kids is enough to understand the motivation of the Karabakhi side. Well and we shouldn’t forget another important moment: our guy has disappeared on their territory, so they’re responsible for his destiny.” 
“What’s the level of contacts with the Karabakhi authorities on the problem?” Paul vainly fanned off the dense smoke, puffed by his partner. “Can we figure on their official assistance?”
“You know, their political and military leadership is now actively involved in the negotiating process, so we keep operative contacts mainly with their Chief of Army Staff. Here, in Yerevan, we work with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and the Ministry of Defense. I’d like to emphasize that due to some objective reasons for them O’Connell was and still remains an ordinary American citizen, a reporter of a known N.Y.C. paper. Though, I can’t 100 percent deny the possibility that in the chapter of accidents we’ll have to lay down all our cards. In any case,” the Ambassador stopped and sat down on the edge of the table, “we managed to reach a gentlemen's agreement about banning any information about the disappearance of our guy. The Karabakhis just as Azerbaijanis agreed to stop any leakage in their media, and we, in turn, restricted the access of our journalists. So you, Mr. Galebright, are the sole person, who will visit Karabakh in that status.”
“I’m flattered,” nodded Patrick, still continuing to examine the tip of the cigar, “and how about the journalists from other countries?” 
“We had no problems on the matter with Baku: Azerbaijan itself wouldn’t be happy with sensations about the Afghan mojahed involvement. But the Karabakhi side, on the contrary, took the request painfully. It’s clear: before the peace deal is signed they’ll actively try to fix a positive image in the eyes of the international community, so they gave a hostile restriction to the idea. Finally we agreed that Karabakhis will densely care of the foreign MM proxies to prevent them from any excessive contacts. All is well yet.  By now the only notable project, carried out in Karabakh within the last month, was handled by a British film crew. But it was before the incident”.
“Okay, then how are you going to explain to the locals the appearance of another journalist of the same N.Y.C. paper?” 
“I’m happy not to see you at my briefings, Mr. Galebright,” smiled diplomat, “it would be very interesting and difficult to deal with you. We’ll project your visit within the limits of some reserve plan. We’ll inform them that at the worst your detailed article about the problem will dot all “I's” and cross all “T's”, explaining to the American public everything as an annoying accident, rooting back to the notorious human factor. The Karabakhis wouldn’t wish to be sinned in a case of sad outcomes and therefore, they’ll do their bests to provide a full coverage of the incident. Anyway, I hope that we’re not going to face a journalistic investigation and then a Senate testimony for the American public opinion.”
Quiet hitherto Pat roused himself. According to the Ambassador in a worst case scenario Pat would be left holding the baby and explaining to all and sundry why the high-ranking Federal Daddy had lost his son in this forgotten place. The prospect would nearly strike the vital interests of a number of reputable offices, thus certainly containing a direct threat to a measured – until recently – life of Patrick Galebright. 
“I hope, that the problem won’t reach that far, and in any case the who-was-the-guilty task will drop on your Department’s agenda, sir,” Paul decided to calm a little his frowned and silently perambulating partner, but anyway didn’t hesitate to pin him up: “By the way, how about Alex's father? Is he informed about the incident, or he’ll learn it from TV coverage?”
It was said by a steady, quiet voice and consequently the Ambassador, who had no idea about the split hairs of relationships between his guests, smelled no trick. 
“Come on, if O’Connell the Senator knew about the incident he would have passed the case to the consideration of an ad hoc Senate Commission, thus setting against us everyone who’s able to hold a pen in hands.”   
“That’s not the right place for gloating, Paul,” Pat flopped back onto the chair and pulled for the extinct cigar he had parked on the edge of a crystal ashtray. “All right, let’s assume that all is clear about my mission. What about Mr. Zetlyan? What should it look like given the current realities?” 
There was nothing suspicious in his tone, look or gestures: the fat man spoke business: “I think, and my colleague will confirm, that we really find extremely important the opinion of the person who is going to be in a direct contact with us.”
“Yeah, I will,” said Paul and violating the strict rules of the protocol, leaned over the table to light his partner’s cigar. 
“It’s a very delicate question. To tell the truth, I don’t know about the limits of your powers, Colonel. I can assume that you’ve received comprehensive instructions back in Washington, and I guess that all the possible developments were initially foreseen in it. No mater what are the declared purposes of your visit to Karabakh, you’ll be treated as U.S. semi-official representatives authorized to make decisions on the ground. I’m already instructed to inform the Karabakhis about your visit and notify them that you’re in a position to conduct any negotiations with them, as well as, if required – with the kidnappers. The scope of the people you’re going to deal with and the style of your job – is something to be defined on site. Thus, gentlemen, I’m not authorized to decide the strategy of your actions.” 
“When can move to Karabakh, sir?”
“Tomorrow morning, I think. Our military attach; will arrange your transport with the Armenian MoD. As you see, I can’t provide you with a car with diplomatic number plates. What I suggest will help you to avoid superfluous delays on the road, as they’ve martial law operating in Karabakh.” 
“I’ve a request, Excellency, or even two of them. Firstly, can I make a phone call to the States and secondly, could you hang up your Karabakh call for a while? I think that given the current debrief, Mr. Zetlyan and I would rather need to ponder over few thing concerning our trip.”
“Okay, do the way you want. By the way, I’ve asked Tom to host you tonight at a place, where you can learn more about the features of the local cuisine. I’d wish to bear company, but, regrettably, can’t as am invited to a reception at one of the Embassies.”
The Ambassador was somehow puzzled by the first request, but probably assumed it not less reasonable than the second one, so stepping back to the table, he pushed the intercom button.
“Richard, Mr. Galebright needs to make a phone call.” 
And while Patrick, tapping with a pencil, was speaking over the phone in one of the empty offices, Paul opened a folder handed by the Ambassador to look through it. 
Shortly after Pat returned and joined the reading. Soon the partners wished “Goodbye” to the Ambassador and went outside.
“What happened this time? Why did you ask him to postpone the call to Karabakh?” asked Paul when they got to the landing in front of the main entrance.
Tom was still in the Embassy, so they had few additional minutes for a private talk.
“We need to discuss something. I can bet, that it would be better to go there as on private business.”
“Why should we?” Pat’s manifested gravity caused Paul’s smile.
“By doing that we’ll have a free hand and nobody will bear the responsibility in the case we’ve to improvise there. What I mean isn’t a spontaneous unauthorized activity.”
“God be thanked. If you want to shoulder the burdens by yourself, then you’re free to go there and reap the laurels alone.”
Patrick frowned: what a slow partner he had:
“In my understanding the legend could sound as the follow: though Chronicle stands close enough to the White House, however the concern about the destiny of the journalist still remain there, and moreover, they have a certain dissatisfaction with the promptitude the State Department demonstrates to release the guy. In the future it may cost an axe to the couple of the “Foggy Bottom” pen-pushers. And for now, the paper assigns a reporter with a thick notebook and a TV camera, whose appearance will automatically add an appropriate doze of pep and patriotism to our authorities. Alongside with the plan, the paper tries to find a person of – as you’ve mentioned – the regional decent, who is, on the top of all, an expert in the Afghan affairs. I mean: a pro in their languages, culture, customs and mentality and who can carry out the role of a negotiator. According to the legend, depending to the situation, we’re authorized to negotiate on behalf of the paper for the ransom, something our authorities never do. To some extent it might be a way out of the situation if the Karabakhis are eventually unable to find the gone Afghan. In such a state of affairs our status will provide us with a greater flexibility and efficiency in talks. Getting in contact with the mojaheds and initiating the money talks we can take, to some extent, the control over the situation, and the D.C. ‘know-it-alls’ will gain additional time for digging a way out. Let them bear anything they wish. Well, think about it. I guess, it sounds well.”
“Very interesting, but I know you for a whole day, so can read on your face that you keep something back. I’m all ears.”
The Shorty hesitated:
“I have an impression that they want to load us with more responsibility, than it’s acceptable…” Humming and hawing a bit more, he looked into Paul’s eyes and went on smiling: “Well. The matter is that in the forthcoming ball game you’d better play the second fiddle. Certainly, it’s not a less honorable job, but it will turn out that it’s not me, but you accompany, interpret and so on…”
“I hope, what in terms of asses it means that my function, as you’ve already mentioned, would be preserving your sciatic nerve and nothing else, is it?”
“You know…, to some extent – yes…”
“Damn you, Patrick … If you’re sure that it’s going to work – then you’re welcome.” 
Such a prospect couldn’t anyhow confuse Paul who was far from taking all these as a comic attempt of self-affirmation. However the picture outlined during the Washington get-together was changing very fast and that was something almost bothersome. He would more and more frequently think that his partaking in this venturesome undertaking had never been a big want. And if it could end up in a mere buyout, then why the hell they had torn him away from his own affairs? 
“Did anyone whisper the plan over the phone or it’s just one of your frequent flashes of inspiration?” He could already imagine himself opening doors in front the partner, who, meanwhile, looked far not happy with such a promising prospect: the fatty was thoughtfully smoking. 
“I’ve called home,” said Pat and suddenly added. “You know, man, let’s quickly finish this job and return home. You’re not a bad guy, but trust me, I’m old-fashioned and I prefer my wife’s company more. Even more, I don’t at all admire this St. Brendan  manner trips. Besides, I’ve just learned about my newborn grandson, so the gaining of some interdepartmental ambitions doesn’t attract me at all. If you’re for the suggested plan, then give me five, and if no, then go ahead with yours.”
He was serious, with his eyes full of determination.
“Congratulations, man: you’re married to a grandmother. Well, and now we’ve more than a fair occasion for the tonight party.”
The newborn boy, peacefully snuffling in a Fader plastic baby-buggy in a hospital somewhere “over the ocean” – as the popular national song puts it – would hardly ever know how positively his first independent step had effected the relations of those two, standing that clear May morning on the landing in front of the main entrance of the U.S. Embassy. Things they were speaking of seconds ago suddenly lost their importance and dissolved in the air as a cigarette smoke. Paul felt an inflow of almost fatherly sympathy to the impulsive small pale in the dark trousers and unseasonable leather jacket. With the visible difference in heights, weights and even the tempers, these two men became very much alike two halves of an apple.
Zetlyan strongly shook his partner’s hand and placing his hand on his shoulder, went to the parking where Tom Stampton, who had got out through the backdoor, had been waiting for them in his Ford.
That evening they enjoyed a nice party at a local cuisine restaurant. Here the Irish-American had a chance to accurately examine the menu and eventually choosing nothing suitable from the ‘cooked beef scull with bay leaf”, a “beef shins broth with garlic”, “beef liver stewed under tomato sauce”, “oxtail soup” and something else bovine, called up the waiter to ask about what had happened to the bull itself and why it had disappeared. Finally the waiter served them up with pork barbecue, a lamb leg with green pea and onion garnish. All these together with the specific local snacks and the red wine that Pat, in absence of whisky would often knock back, had brought him to a state of such euphoria that Paul had to explain the present that “that was his friend’s first visit to the historical Fatherland” and that his “mood was originating from the inflow of patriotic feelings, produced by the realization of the childhood dream.”
However, to the credit of the sparse local public it must be said that they knowingly responded to the situation and by the end of the party even tried to sing ancient Irish songs along with the strange “compatriot” and even accompany the performance with table knock staccato.



CHAPTER 13

If one really wanted to precisely imagine how the face and, what was more important, the inward of Patrick Galebright – a valorous knight of the Order of Cloak and Dagger, a man who had rendered great services to the Star-Spangled Banner’s intelligence community – were looking like the next morning, he or she would have to turn history back up to the battle-field of Waterloo. Rests of thoughts, scraps of sensations, bitterness in the mouth and an artillery cannonade in the head – all these had simultaneously overflowed the poor fat man together with the first beams of the sun, when Paul touched his shoulder and said: “Rise ye, Patrick, we’ve a long road ahead.”
Stretching himself on a crumpled fine blue coverlet he sat on the bed and began to fumble about by his feet in search of the boots he managed to pull down yesterday – right before the room twirled before his eyes and dived somewhere upwards. 
“Treason…, we were poisoned, Paul... Your fellow countrymen poured something to the damn wine. I guess I was clever enough not to leaked out anything excessive there…” Despite of the last night’s party, Patrick kept the good fellow and even tried to make jokes. “You see, I wouldn’t wish to have opened the veil of secrecy above Kennedy’s murder during such an improper moment...”   
“Everything is okay, Pat. You’ve just gained your personal experience of another local tradition or the Noah’s syndrome as it’s called sometimes. The primogenitor himself was caught by this wine somewhere here. But don’t worry, you fell short of Noah, and I behaved as it befits to Japheth, though Tom would sometimes make a real Ham. Probably, he hasn’t yet forgiven you for your airport trick.”
“And where is he?” Pat wiped his eyes by his right palm.
“In a reanimation, I guess” Paul spoke in a deliberately vigorous voice.   
However, though Napoleon lost the Waterloo battle, nevertheless, as reporters put it, he had time to make it really hot for the allies, and the face of the retired Colonel Paul Zetlyan looked accordingly. Though yesterday, while accustoming the colleague to hard drinking, he could somehow overcome the demon drink, anyway it was sort of a Pyrrhic victory and there was no option for a triumphal procession to Karabakh.
“Your face resembles my conscience, Paul.”
The fat man wearily rose from the bed and languidly marched to the bathroom. The shriek sounded from there was immediately followed with the choicest swearwords: there was no hot water in the system, so grunting for a while the shower splashed a stream of ice water onto the yet dozing American.   
However the cold shower was an opportunely experience, and while Pat was furiously snorting, Paul returned to his room to take a quick bath and pack his baggage. By 8 a.m., when an Embassy officer visited them, both gentleman have been sitting in soft, comfortable armchairs and drinking roasting black coffee from small cups.
Patrick fluently examined the technical equipment they received. Nothing special: a camcorder with its tripod and pair of small cases that media people would usually tote around with. Then he asked the visitor few questions and settling the routine formalities, signed the invoice. It seemed that the equipment supplier had been originally brought up in a pure Spartan spirit: after laconic phrases he refused to take a cup of coffee and got ready to leave. Patrick stopped him to put down some words on a paper and sealing the envelope, asked the guy to pass the message to the Ambassador.
“Yes, please, tell him that I ask not to disturb Tom..., what's-his-name, Stampton. Tell him that today he’s busy with an assignment I gave him,” concluded Patrick when the visitor was already in the doorway.
The man knowingly hemmed.
 “An assignment I asked him”…, not bad, Mr. Galebright, you’ve tasted blood.”
“Come on... Do you really want to leave the guy to the mercies of those oak- parquet-polishers?”
            Both of them had no might for a breakfast, so Paul made a call to the room service to order some edible for takeout. Then the partners looked through the baggage and getting the most necessary things packed began to wait. It was 845 when they received a phone call from the lobby: someone was waiting for them down there.
A thirty year-old man in a Soviet style field uniform Paul knew from Afghanistan, was waiting for them in the foyer. He walked towards the fellow travelers loaded by the road bags and equipment and offered his help. 
“Excuse me, gentlemen, who are Patrick?” asked the receptionist.
“Yeah?” Pat passed the bags to the serviceman, and keeping the camcorder in his hands, approached to the check-in counter.
“I don’t even know what to say, sir”, the receptionist was certainly aware of the subtleties of his job, “today, early in the morning two gentlemen came here. They introduced themselves as your friends and asked to pass you this together with their best wishes.”
The young man demonstrated a shabby cellophane bag with a white plastic canister inside. The canister’s neck was charily wrapped over with a cellophane scrap and then covered with the screw-cap. The scratched surface of the vessel was marked by small pinkish stains originating from under the cap.   
              “What’s that?” No need to say Patrick was surprised by the unexpected gift. 
“I’ve no idea, sir. They didn’t leave their business cards. According to the smell, your friends have got you a canister of home-made wine.”
Paul and Aram – that was the driver’s name – were placing the baggage into a beat-up UAZ marked with a red cross in white circle, when Patrick went out and put the wine in front of them. The interior of the plastic tank responded to the light impact against the asphalt by an appetizingly gurgle. 
“Our friends have provided us with wine, Paul. Can you imagine – we’ve already got friends here. A bit more and we’ll start families.”
            The car was packed with boxes – Aram was delivering medicines to one of the Karabakhi hospitals – so it was decided to place the equipment on the backseat and put the wine under feet.
Pat immediately chose the backseat: probably in a hope to arrange himself atop of the equipment for a nap. When everything and everyone were aboard, the engine puffed with an effort and the car, letting out clouds of grey smoke, slowly passed the first yards of the way to Karabakh.
Aram appeared to be a good-natured pale, eager to tell obscure jokes and different life-stories. Though it was a weekday, anyway the road was far from being crowded. The cars and the worn out public transport would overtake them while in the city, but after a suburban military check-post the situation changed drastically.
The driver was trying to make the most of the old vehicle, moving to the southeast along the faded asphalt. Desperately creaking and valiantly jumping over the gullies marking the formerly smooth highway, the old UAZ was literally shaking the rests of the slumber and yesterday drunkenness out of the passengers’ heads. Though Pat somehow managed to nestle down to avoid the outcomes of the shake-ups, anyway the permanent clang of the metal tools placed under the front seat was reducing the hope for any rest hole after hole.
Large and small settlements with the typical Khrushchev epoch buildings and sets of private households and small lots would appear on the both sides of the road. The adjoining rectangular scraps of the arable land were covered with gentle green sprouts of local cultures. And far ahead to the right were the both snowy tops of the Biblical Ararat Mountain. Its foot, which seemed so close, was hiding behind a grey smoke. The driver offered Patrick to stop and take “some panorama shots” of the peaks and the surroundings landscape, however, to his surprise, the initiative was responded with a polite refusal.
“I’ve passed this place with various cameramen many times, and still nobody could stand the lure to stop and work a little. You’re the first man to refuse it,” Aram turned to Patrick.
“We’ll do it on the way back,” translated Paul his partner’s words.
Soon the car turned to the left and began its slow ascent to the pass in the cooper-red mountains – the first out of the 3 on the way to Stepanakert.   
             “Until recently there was a ‘shooting range’ here and I had the honor to be one of the targets,” Aram smiled, pointing to the right where the valley rested against a chain of rocky hills overlooking to the road and smoothly passing into the mountain foot. “Their look-out stations are located parallel to the road, on the far hilltops. And in front of them, in the lowland, they’ve dislocated their cannons. We used to slip this part early in the morning or with the approach of twilight: then we would have more chances to escape alive. The distance is small, so they used to madly shell and fire point-blank. It was okay if you were descending from the pass, as you could move down even with stopped engine. But if you had to climb uphill and, moreover, if you had your engine knocking, then the trip would turn into a dice with death. You see these shell holes in the asphalt – these are the firing traces.” 
“Well and how does it look like?”
“Scary. You just drive and then suddenly see an explosion in about fifty meters ahead and soon a fountain of dust covers your car. That’s a signal that you’re fixed and given odds. The second shell usually doesn’t reach you. And the fun actually starts with the third one: they try to get you while you, as if on races, furiously shift between accelerating and braking. Shortly speaking – you try to mislead them.”
“You could handle that, as I see...”
“Not quite. Once it had blown up so close that the detonation wave tore out the windshield, the rear and the other windows, and the car, moving at the full throttle, was within a hairbreadth of overturn. There’s still a good mark on the bumper’s right side, and I had to change all the glasswork. I guess, the shell was cumulative, that’s why we survived. If it was a fragmental one, then the car would be torn into pieces.”
Aram thought that his passengers were unaware of the nuances, so he explained: “A cumulative shell explosion is directed to one point, while fragmental scatters in all directions.”
“Do cannons fire cumulative shells?”
 “Who knows? During the most of the ‘game’ you’re seized with excitement. You know that there’s someone with radio somewhere there: the guy adjusts the fire, but fails to hit and becomes nervous. As for you – you drive and think that you can’t even tremble, as the duel is observed by many witnesses both from your and the opposite sides. Certainly, after each of these fire practices those guys had to do a lot of paperwork to justify the waist of ammo.” 
“Did you have victims?”
“Sure, man. It’s war; people die here. We’ve got used to tell about it. Do you see the yellow car frame to the left of the road? The driver was hit by shell debris and the vehicle slipped there, to the ditch. As far as I know, he and two of his passengers perished and one more became handicapped. They were returning from a wedding-party, held in the neighboring region and eventually got into trouble. I had visited all the hospitals around duty-bound and am quite aware of the stories like that. There were heaps of crushed cars and tractors here, and we would pull them out at nights. There’re only a few rusty skeletons and a scorched bus left.”
“Do they fire now?”
The driver sworn and went on:
“Why not, they’re shooting now and then. We’ve won over one of the heights they were doing fire correction from, so their activity has dropped considerably. Besides, the rumors are spreading that their locals don’t want to fight with us and those who fire are mainly the men from their capital, they would come, muddle the water and leave, making an ass of the locals. Probably they’re sick and tired of paying off for those townsfolk’s tricks, so they’ve limited the ‘high society’s’ access to the front line. I don’t know whether it’s true or not, but one is clear – it’s far easier now.” 
Patrick spoke no Armenian, so he couldn’t join the dialog: he was trying to doze on the seat, thus giving the fellow compatriots a chance to chat about various road topics.
They were approaching the bus frame when Paul recalled his pale – a gunner, who had passed through the Korea and Vietnam Campaigns. The officer used to repeat that unlike infantry, the artillerymen would practically never get job-related stresses or complexes. “You deal with mapped targets and, quite often don’t even think that by crossing out the next destroyed target on the map, you, actually, cross out the lives of people,” he said once. Paul himself was closely familiar with this ‘shooting range’ tactics from his Afghanistan experience. However, there he was the hunter, and he used to deal mainly with military vehicle columns, and not civil cars.
He tried to imagine someone sitting on the top of the far hills and glassing the shabby Soviet off-road which was valiantly rounding the potholes. Then the man would estimate the distance to the car and its speed, the wind and the air temperature. After he would make some quick calculations in a notebook and give à radio command. The squad would load and lay the cannon, and some tens of pounds of indifferent steel would rush onto their car with an infernal roar and a terrible speed; onto dozing Pat, who had became a grandpa a day ago; onto the friendly Aram and him – Paul Zetlyan, who had still so many things to do. 
The car passed the dangerous part of the road without any adventures, but as soon as they reached the mountains, the water in the car’s cooling system begun to boil. Aram stopped the vehicle to open the cowl, so the passengers had nothing to do but to wait till the engine cooled down. Everything – the emerald vegetation on the background of the sunburned reddish rocks with variegated stones and the thick layer of yellow-orange sandy clay – was making the landscape very similar to Afghanistan, but with one essential difference – there were no intact roads back there. Suddenly Paul recalled the way the Russian trucks would overcome the abrupt Afghani passes. In order to prevent stopovers – something too dangerous because of the mojaheds’ activity – their truck columns would move with the cowls lifted at some sixty. That would direct additional streams of mountain air onto the engines. Due to the trick the drivers had to drive leaning out of the cabs, anyway the method had proved its effectiveness, so the military vehicles would practically never stop because of such malfunctions. Aram agreed to taste the old know-how and soon the UAZ moved ahead with the rapaciously elevated jaw, thus causing surprised sights of the rare drivers passing by the opposite line. 
An hour later the car went trough a picturesque valley, clamped between high rocky mountains marked with arable lands and accurate scraps of cultivated vineyards at their foots. Driving by small settlements located along the roadway, they entered into a narrow canyon with a running noisy spring, descending somewhere from high snowy peaks. The thick poplars grown along the banks were softly rustling with their fresh green leaves under the cool south breeze. Aram stopped the car and suggesting the passengers some refreshing, walked down to the water with a rubber bucket: he decided to change the water in the radiator.
It was almost 12 a.m. 
“If we keep on moving without adventures, it will take us some four-five hours drive to reach the place,” he said wiping his hands with a rag. “Within an hour we’ll reach the second pass, and there we can have our meal. The site is beautiful there, and the engine will have enough time to cool down.”   
Patrick walked along the edge of the asphalt and kneading his legs with a cigarette in his mouth. His partner sat down onto one of the low concrete stubs with tensed steel cables barriering the road.
“What’s the name of this place?” Patrick threw the cigarette and wearily stretched himself. 
“We call it ‘The Gorge of Groans’. Long ago there was a devastating earthquake here. Many people were buried under the ruins and the vicinities were filled with their voices for a long time. And still in the ancient times a trade rout was passing through the gorge by which the Oriental merchants were trading with the European countries. This was the very path the hordes of the Oriental conquerors were getting into the Ararat Valley. And, besides, the region was and is well-known for its outstanding red wines,” interpreted Paul. 
“Yeah.., wines… Let’s get out of here, gentlemen,” Pat took his place. “And what’s the place we’re going to is known for? Again wine?”
“Not only,” Aram took his place at the wheel and rubbing his hands, turned on the ignition, “they have been distilling mulberry vodka from time immemorial; their cognac is superb too, I declare. You’d better taste some.”
“And what do they distil the mulberry vodka from, maybe silkworms?” It was difficult to understand whether Pat was joking or simply muttering.
“No,” Aram grinned and turned back, “silkworms are used for making silk, and the vodka is distilled from mulberries. By the way, the Karabakhi silk had long ago earned a good reputation on the European markets.” 
“And what do they produce now that has a good reputation on the European markets? Antiques?”
“Your fellow-journalists assert that people there produce excellent warriors, but that ‘commodity’ isn’t a subject of export,” Aram winked at Paul. 
“It’s not a country but rather a free-of-charge-open-air museum, where the folk does nothing but works as guides and prides itself upon the history.”
“Would you like me to interpret that?” asked Paul.
“Why not?” There was defiance in Patrick's voice.
“Then you’ll have to hitchhike to Stepanakert. And judging by your local appearance, you’ve all the chances to be arrested for going AWOL from the battlefield.”
Patrick gloomy murmured something about his appearance and again placed himself atop the equipment. He and Paul weren’t allowed to talk serious matters in the presence of a third party; meanwhile a sedate high-society conversation wouldn’t start at all.
As the driver promised, one and a half hours later, after climbing an abrupt serpentine covered by short oak verdure and young pine-trees, the car finally braked at the top of a ridge – right before a high two-part monument, erected on the both sides of the road and symbolizing a gate to the next region of Armenia – Syunik.
Though it was May, the land was covered by spots of white porous snow, sprinkled with particles of dust. Filling the radiator with burning cold water, the fellow travelers, shivering from the wind, served their lunch right on the warm cowl. Aram proved to be an expert in preparation of local sandwiches made of cheese, greens and meat, which he would dexterously wrap in thin local bread. The fresh mountain air, crystal-clear water and healthy food cheered up the folk, so Aram’s shy proposition to taste the wine was welcomed with visible enthusiasm. However, Pat was on the point of asking about the maximum permissible concentration of alcohol in blood while driving, but changed his mind right in time. 
Further the road went downwards along a treeless plateau with stones and boulders, jutted out of the brownish ground. Few miles later the car stopped in front of another check-post, where a tall mustachioed officer studied the permit and saluting Paul, wished everyone happy journey.
The other notable point on their way was Goris – a cozy city with blocks, which, according to Aram, were planned by a German architect even before the Bolshevik Revolution of 1917. Here the driver unscrewed the metal canister from the backdoor attached spare wheel and poured the rests of the gas into the tank and then, shrugging his shoulders to hitchhikers – the local signal for ‘no room in the car’ – left the gorge. Driving up the hills, they left behind some tall freakish figures – the columns of eroded lime – and headed to the east, towards the dark green mountains.
Karabakh was some thirty miles away. 
The rest of the road to Lachin – another small town, stuck on a mountain slope between Armenia and the former Autonomous Region of Karabakh, the travelers passed practically without a word. Soon the traces of recent military operations became visible and the roadway worsened with every mile. While driving through a village, Pat’s attention was caught by the caves on the opposite slope of the gorge, hollowed by a mountain rivulet. The American was surprised to learn that some seventy years ago this cave conglomeration was densely populated and that the people had moved to the stone houses only with the establishment of the Bolsheviks’ rule. Until the siege of Lachin by the Karabakhis the settlement had repeatedly suffered Azerbaijani artillery attacks, forcing many to return to the caves.
“Holy Moses and all the Saints,” Pat shook his head, “did the mankind really need additional 5.000 years of civilization to return to these holes again? Poor kids...”
               Probably, the status of a grandfather had enriched him with specific ‘mature’ sentimentality, making him examine some life aspects mainly through the prism of the care for new generations.
Karabakh emerged somehow unexpectedly.
Crossing a rough mountain river, flowing along a gorge of low pine-trees, Aram pressed the hooter and declared: “Independent Artsakh welcomes the visitors”. Then he said that years ago Armenia and Karabakh had land frontier, but during the first decade of the Communist rule that territory was placed under the direct subjection of Baku, and soon they erected a town here and named it after a Cossack by name Lachin. The town presented itself with a shot signboard, dusty streets and white stone ruins, covered with soot and surrounded by small green gardens. The place looked deserted, and only few people occasionally came across – they were pulling small carriages, loaded with roofing tin, slate and other building materials. According to Aram, these were the inhabitants of the neighboring Armenian villages who were trying to find means to fix their houses, damaged during the war.
What Aram had proudly called ‘the Lifeline’ actually appeared to be a ruined wide path with pitiful shreds of asphalt and a thick layer of almost weightless yellow dust. Judging by the huge yellow cloud, spreading over the slope, some vehicles had just passed the road. Sensing the dust crunch on their teeth, the travelers had to lift the windscreens and soon the car turned into a stuffy stove. Getting further ahead, they saw crumpled cars and destroyed military vehicles on the both sides of the road – overgrown with faded nettle and covered by a thick layer of the omnipresent dust. Making the next in line bothering turn they faced a shot tank, a parked by military truck with high metal boards and a group of men in oiled military uniforms, who had been pottering about some metal stuffs spread over the road-side. Passing by, Aram beeped and waived his hand in greeting. Halting their business, the men peered at the car; meanwhile one of them quickly waved his hand signaling to stop. The driver braked, got out and returned in a minute.
“These men are from the Army Tow Command,” Aram explained, “now they’re dismantling the destroyed enemy tank for spare parts. They asked me to make a call to their commanders as soon as we’re in Stepanakert. You know, these guys have driven to the rear everything they could fix on site. Now they deal with engines and given the tempo they have, soon hardly anything idle, even the cases, would be left here. There’re really creasy folk among them, I mean those who have towed destroyed enemy tanks right from the battlefield, under heavy bombardment. However, generally these men are former tractor and bulldozer operators.” 
The closed windshields made breathing in the car almost impossible. Now, along with the car, which had passed before them, the air was filled with the dust drown up by the active traffic from the opposite direction. And the road, meanwhile, kept moving up and down rounding all the conceivable folds of the relief on its way to the east, along the southern slope of a mountain ridge.   
“Wait a little and we’ll arrive to the city,” the driver noticed the expression of discomfort on Paul’s face. Pat, in his turn, would more and more intensively hit the plastic bottle with spring water and wipe his bald head with a cotton handkerchief.
“The road is a real mess. Fellow-drivers joke, that it has more turns, than kilometers. One of them insists that it has 108 turns, though I personally have no enough patience to count them. Frankly speaking, I’ve tried to do it several times, but soon give up: true drivers are always strained here and have no time to burden their brains by empty things. When you drive to Karabakh – this part comes in the end, when passengers are generally exhausted by the trip. It’s a bit easier when you drive in the opposite direction: people pass the turns still fresh.”
“And how do you pass the way yourself?” Paul wiped his neck by a kerchief. The fabric immediately turned grey of sweat and dust.
“I got used to that. When I began shuttling along this path none would even think of such trifles – the roadway was exposed to shelling from the north and the south. So we got used to all that. Do you see the rock ahead?” 
“Yes,” Paul looked at the huge red-and-grey rock overhanging the gorge they were moving along for almost two hours.
“That’s Shoushi. It’s a stone’s throw from Stepanakert.” 
“My God, at last!” Pat said.
And probably driven by the merci towards his dog-tired passengers, Aram decided to start his next story to encourage them, and especially the odd reticent journalist on the backseat of his UAZ.
“I’ll tell you an amusing story, and you please interpret it,” he addressed to Paul. “There is a village called Karintak there – just below the rock of Shoushi. The village isn’t large: some 600 inhabitants. Before the liberation of Shoushi, the Azerbaijanis from the town above would roll down boulders and burning tires onto their roofs covered then mainly with roofing slate. As a result of those rockslides and fiery rains, the roofs were almost totally ruined. So, once the Karintak folk decided to send a delegation to the Man in charge in Stepanakert. And guess what for? You wouldn’t believe – for roofing iron, as the guys decided to stand new roofs. Imagine, the war was on, there was a great need of foodstuffs and ammo, the roads were blocked and these folk appeared with the demand of roofing iron. The Man in the capital had probably thought that that was a joke, but then somehow scraped up together some iron and sent it to Karintak. All the night long the knock of hammers would raise to Shoushi and the Azerbaijanis would probably think that the people below were building..., how can I say it..., the Trojan Horse, and then the next morning it appeared that the roofs were new, so the rockslides could no more cause the desirable effect. “Okay then,” decided those in the town, “if we can’t smock you out by stones and tires, than we’ll not allow you to work”. The things were heading to spring, so it was necessary to cultivate the orchards, gardens and so on. The Azerbaijanis assigned snipers to shoot at everything that would move below the rock, while those below couldn’t pay them back accordingly: the Azerbaijani snipers had dug in foxholes while the village was plainly visible for them. The villagers had no cannons or mortars, while their sub-machine guns were useless. But these villagers were very stubborn. They got together to think it over. They didn’t send anyone to Stepanakert this time, but just got out to the orchards and gardens with the nightfall and dug up everything, even the school flowerbeds and the geranium pots. The next morning those in Shoushi noticed that everything was accurately shoveled and dug allover. You know, originally they’re a bit lazy for such a job, but that night everything went all right.”
“Not a war, but a permanent exchange of courtesies,” Pat muttered, “couldn’t those above got down and simply finish with those who were below? If you take it as a sample of heroism, than it’s rather a Mahatma Gandhi-styled one.”
Paul had to fairly edit his partner’s remark.
“You’re right, when those in Shoushi got finally convinced that their efforts couldn’t lead to Karintak’s exodus, they sent 300 troops and few APCs under command of their Defense Minister. The peasants had a small self-defense unit – some thirty-forty militia members. They furiously defended the village and managed to stand until the help came. During two days of battle the inhabitants of Karintak lost sixteen defendesr perished, while every survivor was wounded at least thrice due to the dense fire. That’s the story.”
While the driver told the epopee of the settlement, the car had rounded the rocky plateau of Shoushi from the north and started descending by a serpentine to Stepanakert stretching below.
It was a small green city on a flat hilly slope. In the north Stepanakert rested against abrupt woody slopes of a mountain chain coming from east. Its southern suburbs went down up to a river, behind which another rocky ridge stretched to the east and stopped overhanging the plane some ten miles far. Somewhere there it was almost adjoined by the northern ridge, thus making a huge horseshoe, framing the picturesque hilly valley stretching to the north and the east from the city. From the west the city was enclosed by the Shoushi Rock, both ends of which were marked by deep gorges with running mountain springs. And here, on one of the Shoushi slope turns Aram decided to stop the car.
“If the path we’ve been rock-and-rolling by for the last two hours is referred as ‘the Lifeline’, then I can only guess what kind of life these people had,” getting out the car, Patrick carefully wagged his pelvis with a hope to stir up his numb waist and stimulate blood circulation in the joints. 
Paul wasn’t in the best condition either.
Aram approached to the roadside.
“This is Stepanakert,” he pointed his finger at the city below. “And that is Shoushi,” he nodded upward. “And here the place, where their positions were located,” he drew his finger right beneath his boots. “From here Stepanakert is in full view. You can get from here to the northwest suburb by a Kalashnikov, not to speak of machine guns, sniper rifles or something tougher. Sometimes they would fire hundreds of shells at the city per day, and the number of casualties among the peaceful population would reach dozens.”   
“So, sonny, you state that your people could take the upper city by a storm?” Now Paul was massaging his cervical vertebrae with the fingers of both hands. “I’m not a pro in strategy and tactics, but even I can see, that it’s hardly possible to climb up the rock even light. I’m sure that our readers, just as I, would very much like to learn how did you manage to do that? But, please, don’t tell me about the Trumpets of Jericho or that you had walked around the town and sang psalms for seven days. I’m certainly ready to believe in all that, but, you see, the majority in such a consumer society as ours perceives miracles as something close to Christmas price landslides at Wal-Mart’s, so they would hardly buy anything alike… Just in case you’re going to sell me something similar.”
               Probably Aram didn’t understand what kind of trumpets Pat was talking about, so he simply answered, that the town was attacked from four sides, and one of the assault groups had to climb up the steep rock.
Limbering up a bit more, the fellow travelers returned to their places and the car moved ahead again.
“What are the plans?” Paul asked the driver.
“I’ve an order to get you to the Army Staff, and then I’ll drive to a hospital to get a crew of surgeons back to Yerevan. So, soon I’ll say ‘Good-bye’ to you.”
Paul’s first impression in Stepanakert was that soon, right around the next turn the foliage of the high pines and cypresses on the streets would part and he would see azure sea, rhythmically rolling its waves over the white sand of the beach. But the first impression is usually deceptive. Slightly familiar from various mass media reports, the small city had deservedly gained the sad glory of a front-line settlement. The ruins, ashes, empty window holes, the patched and debris-spotted facades of private households and buildings – everything would clearly testify  that the inhabitants of the former regional capital of the Soviet Empire had went through many trials. The rare passers-by, dressed into military uniforms of all conceivable coloration, would make the picture of the war completed. With firearms in their hands and backpacks on their shoulders, they would hurry to enjoy their short leaves with families along the once beautiful streets, whose provincial rest would be often interrupted by the roar of the passing by military vehicles and trucks walking. But even given all the external unattractive view of the Stepanakert of the early May 1994, it had no alarms and especially despondencies in its air anymore. The atmosphere was completely different, and it seemed that even the green crones of the trees were trying to hide the ugly scars of the bombardments and shelling, and the cloudless dark blue chasm above was filled with peaceful chirping of short-tailed shearers, flitting in search of insects.
The Nagorno Karabakh Republic’s Defense Army Staff was located down the main street descending from the city Central Square, in the southern of two identical two-storied mansions separated by a tiny open area with a bust of a celebrity in the middle. One could wonder about the urbanization concept which had pushed the architect to erect two similar buildings within less then one hundred yards. Anyway in May 1994 the lower one – once a Soviet food processing industry – or something alike – office looked would resemble an anthill. It was obvious that some urgent issues were being worked at here: military men and vehicles would permanently arrive and depart, and judging by the dirt on the car wheels and boards – the distances were considerable. The main entrance of the Staff, which had its iron roof bristled up with high cores of radio antennas, was guarded by armed men. Besides, there was a mounted double-barreled antiaircraft machine gun barricaded with sand-bags on the top of a 9-stored building on the opposite side of the street.
Aram climbed up by the forward wheels on the sidewalk and living the car, headed to the front door. Halfway he was called by a man in a U.S. Army uniform.
“Take a look at that,” Patrick pushed the partner, “yet a couple of days ago these Pentagon rats swore that we don’t take part in this conflict.”
The tall middle-aged Nordic-looking man that Aram was talking with had the U.S. 76th Ranger Brigade’s chevrons and “Captain D. S. Forester” inscription on his breast badge.
“Come on, one can find such a garb everywhere.”
Soon Aram shook ‘Forester’s’ hand and entered into the Staff. Appearing some fifteen minutes later he found Paul strolling along the sidewalk, and Pat, smoking his cigarette leant against the UAZ. 
“Okay, my friends. I’ve just talked to the Chief of Staff’s adjutant. His boss was informed about your arrival beforehand, but he’s busy now and can’t receive you. For now he ordered one of his men to take care of you. He’ll be here soon, while I need to unload your belongings, as I’ve got to visit someone else.”
Soon “Captain Forester”, who really appeared to be a captain, but of the local forces – the Defense Army Military Intelligence, came up to them, and following the steady tradition, took Patrick for Paul Zetlyan. Addressing to the fat man in Armenian he got very surprised to learn that the American with a typical Nairian  appearance had nothing common with Armenians. Then he drove up another Soviet auto industry sample – a dusty Niva off-road where Aram placed the baggage of his former passengers. They wished “Goodbye” to the driver, and Pat, shattering the stereotypes about the Irish stinginess, even handed him over a Marlboro pack from the block he had acquired at the N.Y. airport. 
“We’re going to our home now,” Forester, as Paul had named the guy to himself, backed to the middle of the road and looking around, drove the car down the city. “We’ve a lot of free room there so the accommodation there would be better then at the hotel. You’ll have a rest and then a diner and after I’ll get you to the hospital to the man who knew your journalist. The Chief of Staff ordered to take you around to show you everything that can be of interest for you. I’m a bit aware about the state of affairs: you’re here to write an article about your guy, so feel free to contact me if you need. Let me warn in advance that we’re not planning to visit the crime scene: it’s late now and, besides, the roads are in awful condition. Don’t worry, we can do it tomorrow.” 
“And what about the missing Afghan, have you found him?” asked Paul. 
“We’re still looking for him,” Captain shook his head. “We're rushed off our feet with his search, but have got no traces yet. The Afghans insist that we must have captured him in the Southeast Sector, but we couldn’t find him neither among the alive, nor among the dead.”
“Is the captured guy a big shot? Would they put the chestnuts in the fire to free a small fry?”
“We have no precise information on the mater. But, apparently, the Afghan isn’t a very big shot. You see, their leaders usually don’t engage in actions. However, due to some reasons, the lost one is an important person for them, so we’ve to get him back.”   
“And when can we see the Colonel?” asked Pat from the backseat – the place he would occupy traditionally.
“If you want the straight tip, then – ask me another. If he has a window by the evening, then you can meet him even tonight. And if he hasn’t, then most likely it will drop on tomorrow, in the first halve of the day.”
Meanwhile, the Niva approached to a two-storied house with a small kitchen garden and an asphalted court yard almost totally hidden under a wooden lattice twined with vine shoots.
The ground floor of the house, build on a hill foot in the eastern end of the city, was occupied by the Captain’s parents. Couple of years ago they were pushed out by the Azerbaijani and Soviet troops from their native habitation in the Northern Karabakh and had to seek refuge at their son’s. The housefather was off, so the visitors were met by Forester’s mother – a brisk woman in her mid-sixties, with long gray hair arranged in a ring on her nape. She also took Pat for an Armenian. Anyway, she got very much delighted as soon as she learned that his name was Patrick. Responding to the partner’s mute question Paul explained that ‘Patrick’ in the local dialect is an equivalent for ‘church candle’. That, however, wouldn’t please the Irish: he obviously preferred the Latin interpretation of his name – ‘a nobleman’, or something like that. 
The woman led the guests to the paned porch of the first floor by a wide stone staircase. Besides the veranda door there were two more wooden doors here. On one of them was marked with a classic figure of the watering kid, while the slightly opened second door breathed warm steam onto Paul’s face.
“Here’s the bathroom. The water in the boiler is hot, so you can take a shower,” said the mistress.
She said that generally her son, daughter-in-law and their 3-year old daughter occupy the second floor, but today both bedrooms and the small hall were at the guests’ disposal. The old lady was about to leave when Paul, thanking her for the heedful attitude, asked to accept as a gift the canister with the wine they had left in the court yard. The mistress flatly refused to take it, and eventually Paul could persuade her to take the half.
“I’ll pour the remaining half into bottles and leave them on the little table at the hallway, otherwise the wine will turn sour in the canister” she said. 
“That was our wine…,” said Pat as soon as he learnt the matter of the dialog. 
“A local tradition,” cut short Paul.
After taking a shower – something very timely after the dusty and tiresome road – Paul got downstairs to the dinner table set by the old woman under the green canopy of the yards. The Captain was here; he was telling something to his tiny daughter, sitting on his knee and striving to get down to the ground to play with the yellow lumps – the small chickens escorted by a ceremonious broody. The kid’s ‘liberation’ arrived unexpectedly: as soon as the father noticed Paul, he released the child and moved to the guest.
“Dad is aware about your arrival,” he informed the noticeably freshened up American dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a light sport-style pullover, “I guess, he’ll be here by the time we’re back from the hospital. So and where is Mr. Galebright?”
“He’ll come in a minute. I think he checks up the equipment.” 
              Indeed, placing the camcorder and the contents of one of the cases on the table, Pat was fiddling with some wires and devices. Getting out the spare accumulators and trying to turn on the charger he was disappointed by the unavailability of power supply. All he had was to hope, that he could tackle the problem before the last accumulator was flat. Packing the camcorder into its slipcover and placing all the equipment he could need into the pockets of his professional waistcoat, he got down to the yard.
“I need to charge two of my accumulators,” Pat stopped at the staircase with an anxious face, “all I’ve now will die within ten minutes of work.”
“Don’t worry,” said Forester, “I’ve forgotten to warn you that we’ve electricity only in the mornings. But it’s okay, we’ll pass your batteries to the signallers at the Staff, they’ve got a generator there.”
Then the company had some fried potato, farm cheese and herb flat cakes – according to Forester it had almost seventeen various kinds of local herbs inside – and hit the road again. They were already in the car when the Captain’s mother pushed a small package with the flat cakes through the car window. 
“That’s for the wounded boy,” she explained.
“I see,” Pat nodded his head, “a local tradition.”
It was about 5 o’clock when Forester entered the Staff with the charger and the accumulators in his hands. Still back to the house Paul and Pat decided that before the meeting with the Colonel at the Staff they’d better abandon attempts to find operative information that the locals could had gathered about the hostages. The Captain might be aware about the Afghans’ radio interceptions, their basic and reserve radio frequencies, call signs and even the supposed locations of the prisoners. Anyway, the Americans decided not to rush things and wait for the first-hand information. And until that they would make journalists and cherish the hope, that the visit to the wounded Karabakhi would give them more data about the accident and the identity of the Afghans.
Forester returned with the old trick about a good and a bad news. The partners strained but then calmed down when it appeared that “the accumulators were charging, but the CS was still busy”. Instead, the Captain demonstrated an Alinco radio set – a grey thick box with flexible antenna with dark blue insulating tied around its socle.
“We’ll be in touch with the Colonel,” he explained to the Americans.
It was 530, when they reached the military hospital – a two-storied oblong building of a former rural school located within few miles to the east from the city. Just as the majority of the public buildings in Stepanakert itself, the school was coated into light brown stone tiles once delivered to Karabakh in huge quantities with the purpose to keep up with a pretentious Republic-wide architectural style.
After briefing about the history of the hospital, the Captain contacted by radio the Chief Medic of the hospital and asked to assign a guide for the visitors. Finally a young Medical-Corps Lieutenant met them in front of the main entrance door. He passed them white smocks and accompanied to the first floor, to the chambers with the recovering patients.
“His room number is 24, but he isn’t alone now,” warned the Lieutenant, “his Dad has arrived from Yerevan, so, you’d better wait a while.” 
The typical school corridor with set of doors facing the east was just-repaired, and with the personnel’s white uniforms and the patients’ dark blue pajamas, contrasting with the light grey walls and the new matching linoleum, the former schoolhouse would very much remind a common corridor-type medical institution. Meantime, the main and certainly the insuperable difference of this hospital from the similar institutions Paul had gone through duty-bound or due to imprudence was the tolerant routine. The visitors, so many in numbers that the personnel would never have enough smocks left for all, had occupied not only the benches, but even the sills of the wide open windows. They were strenuously smoking cigarettes with their native-patients whose majority had been prescribed strict bed rest by the medical science. Two of those who were able to sit but not move independently, were ridden around in wheelchairs by their relatives. Their appearances near the next group of the people would start a long ceremony of handshake and inquiries about the health, the lives and the destiny of the friends who had remained in the trenches.
A touching couple had been diligently pacing along the middle of the corridor: the young man with a bandaged hand and the leg amputated below the knee was slowly getting about on aluminum crutches; and she, meanwhile, was walking by his side cautiously holding a kerchief in her left hand. They were talking about something and time to time when he, leaning on the crutches, would move ahead his intact leg, she holding his back by her right hand, would threw her head back and trying to not get into his field of view, brash away tears by a fast gesture. 
Paul looked at all this and thought, that these visitors must had brought on their footwear such a huge number of microbes that hardly anyone could ensure at least the minimum required level of sanitary here. He couldn’t realize that none of those present would attach any importance to all that. The joy of a conversation with family members and relatives would frequently take the place of complex post surgical rehabilitation procedures; a cigarette would replace the oxygenous pillow, and the home-made vodka – antidepressants. Everyone here was sure that only human being could be the enemy for another human being, and if even some of them were fated to pass away of the wounds they had, none would allege their death to the mean tricks of pathogenic bacteria, but would rather attach their deaths to the long bill to be presented to the real and living opponent who once had the reputation of friend. 
Georges's chamber was in the southern end of the corridor, within several steps from the staircase; and while the officer went in to inform him about the journalists, the visitors stopped in the corridor to adjust the equipment. Forester learned about the window in the schedule and left to see one of his friends who had been recovering here after an operation. Meanwhile, the news about the foreigners had quickly traveled among the patients and their visitors. One of the patients, a bearded man in his forties, with his hand bandaged up to the shoulder and fixed by a slice of braided gauze put over his left shoulder, slowly approached to the Americans and pompously greeted them in Armenian. Getting no response from Pat, who was standing aback and pottering with the tripod, the dissatisfied soldier was about to clap on his shoulder when Paul outstripping him, explained that his colleague wasn’t of Armenian decent, but an American of Irish origin with no knowledge of Armenian at all.
“Huh, you’ve said “Irish”. I know, I’ve heard about them,” the patient inhaled the smoke of a flat cigarette and let out pungent clouds. “Do their men wear skirts, and the women – trousers?”
“Frankly speaking, these are Scotsmen who wear something vaguely resembling skirts, and not Irishmen. Ireland is an island near England, and males there wear trousers. And, besides, Mr. Galebright lives in New York City.”
“Well,” said the bearded man and addressed to Paul in Russian. “Rumors are spreading that the war will end soon. I’ve been here for a week already and the people say that an armistice was conducted during that time. Is it true?”
The discussion with the foreigners turned interesting for the others too, so as soon as the people heard ‘war’, they slowly surrounded the ‘journalists’, politely greeting them in Russian. It was interesting to see the manifestation of a local stereotype, which said that if a foreigner spoke no Armenian, then he or she was expected to know Russian. Probably that was an outcome of the Communist past. Anyway, neither Paul and nor Pat knew the mother tongue of Pushkin and Tolstoy, so soon the question was asked in Armenian and interpreted into English. 
“And what do you particularly mean?” probably Patrick would turn to a born orator every time the business would get close to obviously delicate matters. “Do you mean that they’ll stop waging war against you, or you do mean that the war will come to the end soon?”
He stuck upwards his right hand’s forefinger and attentively looked at the thoughtful faces of the audience.
“Certainly each of you had inwardly motivated his own participation in the war. And therefore, ask yourself: “How will the termination of operations affect our life?” It seems to me that the end of the war is still a long way off, and that your expectations from the armistice are far greater, than it can give you. Struggle with an opponent is concluded not by an armistice with him, but a compromise you must make with yourselves.”
“And what’s your movie is going to be about, the war?” A man disturbed the stepped silence during which each of the present was internally analyzing the words of the odd fat man. While Paul thought that along with the excess of carbohydrates the Irishman must be made of something more valuable.
“It’s about the destiny of a distinct individual,” Pat answered.
“Nice,” replied the wounded man, once again inhaling the smock of his acrid cigarette, “there many people with exclusive fate among us. Would you like me to show you a guy who lives with a splinter in his heart?”
“The destiny of any person is unique by itself,” evasively answered Pat, “but now we want to have a person who speaks English, who can tell about your war without interruption of interpreter. If there is any among you, just let us know.”
No candidacies were suggested, so the people, who had been seeking for answers themselves, one by one returned to their groups. Soon returned Forester started a conversation with one of them, so the epicenter of the discussions quickly moved to the Captain, thus unblocking the approaches to George's chamber. Almost at the same time the door to the Chamber 24 opened. A gray-haired sixty-years-old man was leaving the room, but then abruptly stopped in the doorway and addressing to someone inside, offensively shook his fist and sharply slamming the door, went away muttering under his breath. 
“What’s happened? What did he say?” asked Pat, who had jumped out of his skin.
“Something like: “If you decided to bury your leg, then I’ll bury alive the remaining.”
“Come on. That must be another local tradition, is it?”
George was occupying a small room with a wide hospital cot, a standard bedside-table for personal belongings and a couple of creaking chairs for visitors. Firstly his accommodation to this single isolated room had evoked his feelings of discomfort and insult: actually he had only leg fracture and no any other wounds or sores that would constitute a menace to others. However learning that the restriction of his communications with the others was set to screen the data about the missing American, he accepted the situation and began to inwardly prepare himself to the forthcoming foot surgery. According to the intricate curlicues in his medical report deciphered by a buddy-surgeon, he was expected to face an hours-lasting torture while the doctors would try to assemble the parts of his shattered foot. The wound wasn’t a threat to life, but if something was done wrong then the young man could remain not just a handicapped, but an absolute cripple with limited ability to move. With one hands amputated, that would simply shrink his chances of social reintegration not to a minimal, but a zero level. 
The carefully concealed anxiety about the future couldn’t escape from the father who had learned about the accident with his son two days ago and had arrived to Karabakh by the first car that came across. After talking for half an hour with son, he noticed that the melancholy in his eyes became even denser and tangible to an extent he could pierce it by the mouthpiece he had been twisting in hands all the time. A simple-minded straightforward person, who had spent his entire life at a lathe and who had a bad head for the cobwebs of human psychology, the father suddenly felt a lump in the throat. In a fit of the feelings he was invaded by, the man could generate nothing else but a rude threat he threw into the chamber just before slamming the door. The idea that his young son could remain a ‘human stump’ was intolerable, and the continuation of the heart-to-heart talk turned for him into sort of ‘onion cutting’. His rapid departure was initiated by the desire to protect his eyes: before switching on the lathe he would always put on protective goggles. He had no one here, so he just threw himself out to the street. 
“Hi, George, that’s for you. Very tasty, trust me. And now let’s talk business. We’re really very sorry for the incident you’ve passed through. My name is Patrick Galebright, and I’m working for the New York Chronicle.”
Pat was standing in front of the young man with a friendly smile on the face.
“This gentleman is Paul Zetlyan. As soon as Mr. Zetlyan learned about our situation, he kindly agreed to join me in this difficult travel. The fact is that I’m assigned by my bosses to film a documentary about the missing American journalist – Alex O’Connell, the man you had accompanied around up to his abduction. George, let me tell you from the very beginning that we’re here with the knowledge of your authorities, so you can freely share with us everything you know about that day.”
“So, Mr. Galebright, it smells money, isn’t it? You probably hope that the kidnapping story will improve your paper’s rating?”
George rose on his intact elbow; there was an undisguised irony in his voice. The young man was still under the impression of his father’s visit, when these importunate reporters appeared with a demand of understanding of their professional interests sold as an important mission.
“I’ve nothing you to tell you, gentlemen. I’ve already submitted a report to the military command and if you’re here on their permission, then why wouldn’t you take a notebook and a pen and flatly copy everything they’ve got. You wouldn’t even have to switch on your camcorder.”
It wasn’t easy to get in touch with the guy.
“You didn’t get us, son,” Pat took one of the chairs and offered the second to Paul. “The very fact of our presence and the inquiry about the destiny of our guy is a guarantee that none will cause harm to him and the others. Whoever the kidnappers are, they should know that he’s our guy and the several million of our readers do care about his fate. And the newspaper, off the record, is able to dress down anyone and anywhere.”
Then Paul interfered in Armenian:
“We need a particularly documented evidence of the incident, Gevorg. If we’ve the video of your story – the testimony of the only available witness of the kidnapping, then we, at least, can playback the tape on several TV channels thus preventing life violation of the captives. I’m an outsider in this affair, and can only imagine how important is all these for you. Trust me: our concern about the fate of the captives is sincere. On the way here Mr. Galebright hinted that the sooner he gets complete picture of the problem, the sooner he’ll propose the New York Chronicle bosses the idea of paying ransom. It's just between you and me, get it?” 
“What do you know about the captives?” asked George. 
“According to our information they’re alive. Still recently the kidnappers had got into radio contact from the vicinities of the front line in the Northeast Sector. Then they disappeared. Then again got in touch and repeated the condition: they’re ready to swap the captives for their fellow who, as they insist, was taken prisoner by your compatriots.” 
“And did they manage to find the Afghan?”
“Not yet.” 
“And what if he isn’t here or, let’s say, is died?”
The Americans exchanged glances.
“Try to guess it yourself,” said Paul.
“Well,” the wounded man hesitated a little, “switch on your device, but before, please lift the headboard so I can comfortably sit in the bed. What shell I begin with?”
“Tell us, what attracted your attention first of all?”
“I’m sure that the Afghans had noticed us long before we decided to visit the fortress. They had enough time to leave the ruins and to hide somewhere on the opposite slope to avoid the meeting with us. They had sighted noncombatants coming upwards and decided to lay an ambush. I’ve no doubt they needed those hostages. But that wasn’t just a matter of hostages, otherwise they could easily make an ambush somewhere on the road, passing by the east slope of the mountain, and kidnap passengers of the logistics trucks, plying between the front-line positions and the rear. In that case, even at the most adverse coincidence of circumstances, they would still have additional time to return safe and sound.”   
“So, you think that this group of Afghans was initially hunting for noncombatants, i.e. - civilians?”
“I do. I can find no other explanation for their behavior.”
“Then don’t you think that if that was their plan, they could turn to the right some 3 miles before reaching the fortress and get to the village located within 5 miles to the northeast?”   
“Maybe. It’s closer and easier, but at first glance. The problem is that there’re a Detached Mounted Battalion staff and logistics personnel dislocated in the village. I think it would be extremely dangerous for the Afghans to poke their noses into there.”
“Yes, that’s a reasonable judgment, George, and your understanding of the situation is perfect. What can you tell us about the kidnappers? Why are you so confident, that they were Afghans and not someone else?”
“Their clothes and footwear spoke of their Afghani origin. When you’re down on the ground and are writhing with pain, some details of the surrounding world is engraved in your memory. I’ve noticed their uncommon footwear – something alike the old men wear in our countryside. But these people wore them on bare feet – that was something I remember very clear. They had wide trousers and long – down to knees – garments on. The lasts were girded over by long wide belts, and atop they wore special vests.”
Catching the puzzled eyes of the Americans, George explained: “I speak about ammunition waistcoats. Usually there’re few modifications of them, but the commando groups basically prefer compact size vests. They have enough room for few Kalashnikov cartridges and two-three grenades. I don’t know the English term, but our wits had named them just as a lady underwear item…, you know, because of remote similarity to the equipment.”
“You’ve intrigued me, George. We’ll cut it out, so could you tell us what are you actually talking about, a bikini?”
“The top.”
“Perfect,” Pat nodded. “Please, go on.”
“Well,” George was confused by an unexpected turn of the conversation they had under the vigilant surveillance of the camera. Anyway, in his understanding all these fitted to the amorphous concept of the American way of life he had in his mind.      
“And, finally,” he said after a short pause, “the language. I’ve a little knowledge of the neighbors’ tongue and I can swear that the strangers spoke something different. Besides, it seemed to me, that one of them even addressed to Alex in English.”   
His visitors exchanged glances again.
             “Could you describe the person who spoke with Alex?”
“I saw him for couple of seconds, out of the corner of my eye. He must be some thirty-five – forty year-old, with growing grey hair and curly beard. Unlike the others, his shirts and the vest were black and, apparently, he was in charge there, as his orders were carried out immediately. That’s all I can tell about him. Given my condition, I could hardly keep up with what they spoke about, but once or twice I could catch some words and was surprised to find out that the strangers spoke English. At least, one of them. Along the guy in black I could fix another one. That was a tall forty-five – fifty year-old man with a fleshy nose, gray hair and an oval scar on his forehead. That could be a burn mark. The tall guy was the lieutenant of the man in black, I’d even say – his right hand. That’s all.”
“Well, and what happened to you after the Afghans took the captives away?” said Paul and turned to Patrick, who was analyzing the words of the witness with his hands combined on the breast. “I think we’d better stop the camera. What do you think, Mr. Galebright?”
“Yeah,” Pat had long been waiting for the signal to turn it off, “right in time, as the accumulator is almost flat.” 
“Probably they decided to leave me as a messenger. They understood that with my broken leg I could hardly rush to the village and raise alarm about the incident. Maybe they thought that I’d reach the nearest village not earlier than in a day. The tall man left Alex's ID and jacket by me.” 
“By the way, George, where’re the guy’s belongings?” cautiously inquired Patrick. “Probable, they could be useful.”
“I think they’re kept at the Commander of the battalion, dislocated along the adjacent sector of the LoC. Left alone, I buried Alex's things as was afraid to lose the ID and the notebook on the way. I was able to somehow fix the broken leg on a thick dry branch by shoestrings and then to wrap his jacket around my arm. It took me an hour and the unbearable pain would switch me off at least twice. Another hour passed till I could crawl to the footpath, starting on the opposite side of the fortress: it was no chance for me to return by the way we had climbed up there earlier that day, so the second road one was better. I had to get down to the road before midnight, when the trucks would usually return. Otherwise I’d have to creep to the nearest habitation all the night long. Frequently turning out and constantly screaming for help, I slowly moved ahead with the hope to come across with any living soul. I couldn’t get to the road before the midnight, but to my luck one of the returning vehicles had its tire exploded and went out of the schedule. I was told about all that later at the field hospital. The appeared truck was about to run over me: by then I was totally exhausted and my voice become hoarse. When they picked me up, I was in a dreamy state, and couldn’t tell about the incident. The driver and his company had no radio aboard so the rest of the way to the battalion headquarters I jogged in the body of the truck tearing along the bumpy night road as a crazy. When we arrived there, I was in delirium and had been constantly railing at someone. The medics gave me the first treatment and sent to the nearest hospital in the morning. So it was almost a day later, when I could tell the story about the capturing. The medics have assembled my foot, but apparently something went wrong and I got an inflammation. That’s why I’m here: to pass another surgery.”
“You have seen quite a lot, George,” said Paul.
“We had an opportunity to see one of your docs,” unscrupulously improvised Pat, “he has a rather odd name..., doesn’t matter, he admitted, that your problem isn’t a serious at all and that the operation will pass as a piece of cake. Anyway, let’s return to our guy, George. I hope you get me right. I’ve another off the record question: why the hell Alex appeared here, in fact, he was assigned to a completely different destination.”
“We wouldn’t touch upon it, and as far as I know, he had some personal motivation. He said he was planning to complete his task after returning to Armenia, and he wasn’t planning to stay here for too long. Alex said that it would be interesting to work on the background of the peace talks, but pointed that he had no time as a lot of things must be done back home.”
“And do you know what he was going to do here?” Pat insistently went on.
“He probably wished to do some sightseeing, to take some pictures and to discuss war and peace with some locals. Nothing special.”
“Got it, George,” nodded Pat, “That’s all. Poor Mr. O'Connell... He can't even imagine what happened to his son. Did Alex say that his parents weren’t happy with his trip, that his father has some health problems, and that he had left the hospital just days before his son’s trip?”
“No, I don’t think so. He wouldn’t tell me anything about his family or relatives.”      
“Okay,” said Pat. “Let’s see whether Mr. Zetlyan has any questions.”
“No. Well, unless I’d like to wish our friend hardy health and an easy operation. In our turn I promise that the next day after the operation you’ll receive two bottles of excellent home wine. I’m confident, that you’ll like it: it would be exactly what you need.” 
“Bottles of what?!” George could hardly constrain an attack of almost hysterical laughter. 
“Of wine... Our Yerevan friends gifted us a canister of an excellent home wine…”
The patient, who was in stupor yet a minute ago, loudly laughed. His voice attracted the doctor’s attention and leaving the Captain in the corridor, he came in to be saluted by the puzzled faces of the Americans. 
“We’ve probably stepped on a psychological mine he’s got in his consciousness,” Paul whispered to the partner.
“Come on, he simply went mad,” answered Pat and rose from the chair.
“Please, don’t take it up”, said the young man through the fits of laughter, “I just remembered something. Yes, and, please, don’t mention about the wine in the presence of the man who had left the room before you. He’s my Dad, and I’m afraid that he’ll not get you right.”   
“Easy man,” Pat was already in the doorway, “everything is okay. All you need is getting your strength back, George. We’ll send you something different.”
George burst out laughing and powerlessly waived his hand. 
“That must be the outcome of the stress he had,” Paul told the doctor in the corridor, “he cheered up as soon as I mentioned wine.”
To the surprise of the guest, the news plunged the doctor into shock.
“No way, wine is strictly prohibited to him. Please, don’t do that,” bustled about the doctor.
“What kind of whine story is it: another Noah’s syndrome or something a la O’Henry’s “Pimiyenta Pancakes” novella? In my opinion, your compatriots react inadequately even to the term ‘wine’,” maliciously noticed Pat while getting downstairs. 
“Yeah, O’Henry… there's no denying that you’ve fertile mind, Mr. Galebright. It appears that the senior O’Connell was recently discharged from hospital, and a doctor had whispered to you, that the operation is nothing but a joke… And here some more: I certainly appreciate that while speaking with the guy you’ve tried to make ‘the greatest sympathy’ on your face. But trust me, from aside it looked as if you had constipation.” 
However, the exchange of stinging remarks wouldn’t anymore cause irritation or any other negative sensations, and soon the interlocutors peacefully, just as too potatoes, jogged in the car on the way back to Stepanakert. No matter that the visit to the hospital was prompt and had a pretty funny ending: the partners, nevertheless, could make several important conclusions.
First, it was proved that the action was carried out by Jafar Umar personally, while one of his aids was Abu Salem Tahir or Salem The Heron, who got the nickname due to his long and bony legs. Jafar was a steady man, so they could assume that the captives were more or less in safety. Secondly, Umar’s personal participation in the risky affair proved that the Karabakhis in turn had captured a big shot, and it was a guarantee that the exchange of captives was a want for the both sides. In case the Afghan wasn’t found, Paul could imitate their wounded brother-in-arms, ostensibly placed into a hospital, to pass few encouraging words to the ‘brothers’. That would help to delay the negotiations, though – not eternally. But even in that case Paul, at least, would need to know the name of the missing Afghan. And, finally: Paul started thinking about a direct contact with the leader of the mojaheds. For that purpose, however, he would have to undertake a very exceptional step. Namely – he would have to 'resurrect’. 



CHAPTER 14

A small caravan – a grey donkey with large saddlebags of shabby tarpaulin and flung over old saddle, 5 grey rams with thistle enmeshed into their fleece, two goats and a dog – was slowly moving down along a narrow mountain footpath. It was passing along the western slope of a rocky area, covered by rare bushes and spots of green grass, waiving under the gusts of the June wind. Sometimes the prompt goats would stay by the bushes longer then it was allowed to catch some juicy branches, and a sharp guttural hail would each time force them to jump back. The drover – a tall man in a felt cap, was dressed in an ordinary wide trousers and a long shirt of grayish homespun wool. Atop of the shirt he had a warm camel-hair black vest – a garment that would usually indicate the affluence of the owner. His left arm, which he would constantly hold behind his back, was wrapped around by the leash of the donkey mincing behind the master. In his right hand the man held a long cornel staff. And even his brown army boots, dust-covered and run-down at the toes, wouldn’t break the ordinary image of an average inhabitant of the local mountain villages – kishlaks. On the contrary, the boots would just prove that the owner had traveled much along the stony mountain footpaths.
The number of the animals in the caravan was too small for a detached observer to take the lonely traveler for a shepherd returning from the highland pastures to the nearest settlement located within few miles from the pass. Judging by the saddlebags, he might be one of those petty traders who would usually make the round of kishlaks and trade farm products for Chinese and Pakistani contraband.
When the caravan reached a small ground among grayish mossy boulders, the man shouted an order to the dog, and the last almost immediately sat across the footpath. The trader approached to the edge of the ground which had a good view of the narrow green valley below. A large settlement planted by tall poplars and rare fruit trees, was starting at the southern end of the almost rectangular valley and stretching along the both sides of a small river here and there hidden behind cane thickets. It was less than a mile distance by air to the single-storied adobe shacks covered with flat cane roofs and same adobe douval-fences, mounted along the 3, almost parallel streets.
Almost immediately the man returned to the peacefully grazing donkey and picking out a rolled up mat, got back to the edge. Here he looked at his watch and spreading out the mat, turned towards the kishlak, which was right to the west from him. Then he took long prayer-beads from the vest pocket and kneeling down, began to tell his beads, extending his hands forward and bowing to the ground at the same time. 
The devotion of this strange trader could be a good example for very many residents of this war-worn country. Meanwhile, instead of internal contemplation and the search for harmony, the eyes of the ‘believer’ were full of concealed alarm and intense waiting. Permanently bowing to the ground, the man would keep his eyes glued on the kishlak for fifteen minutes: he was waiting for a signal. Eventually, when something triply sparkled on the sun in one of the nearest courtyards, the man slowly rose from his knees, rolled up the mat and placed it to its place. Then, instead, he got out a small radio transmitter and adjusted to an appropriate frequency. The signal he had fixed a minute ago visually, was repeated in the form of 3 snaps with the same interval.
 “At last,” whispered Shaheen and whistled to the dog.
The trained animal rose and wagging its tail, slowly moved ahead carefully sniffing around the dust of the path. The man again reeled up the cord around his arm and drove his small flock by waving the staff.
It was 6 p.m.
That day he had woken up at about 8 o’clock in the mornings. The sunlight had already got through the holes in the old blanket – the ‘door’ into a small oblong cave somewhere in high mountains, when getting in Jafar straight away ruined the idyll of the fresh mountain morning.
“Get up, Shaheen, you’ve got a cipher message,” he said handing over a small leaf of paper with scribbled figures and letters. “I don’t know what it means, but judging by the persistence they’ve been airing it, the things smell fishy.” 
“How do the sentries do?” Shaheen asked the traditional question he would repeat every morning.
“All is clear, nothing new. Abu has returned at the daybreak. He said the shuravis have already stopped combing the kishlaks and moved the vehicles back to the base.”
“All right, tell the people not to relax. Probably these guys have already mapped the targets,” said Shaheen, reading the paper.
Usually, after each of the large-scale checks, the shuravi aircrafts would take air to mine paths the mojaheds generally used. The attack planes would dump few containers with anti-infantry mines above the specified locations. Known for the habit to name the deadly weapon by pet names, Russians had branded the toys ‘petals’. Breaking apart in the air, the container would scatter thousands of crafty surprises – less then a golf ball in diameter – for miles around, thus turning even the most secret footpaths into impassable ones. Despite of the modest sizes, a ‘petal’, skillfully camouflaged to look as an ordinary rock, was able to deprive a careless traveler of foot. But apparently this time the Russians hadn’t sent their attack planes. And that could mean only one thing: they were planning to bring their special troops into the play. The men in shapeless bluish garments with attached odd bands streaming in the slightest breeze, would suddenly appear at sunset and finishing their black job – disappear as Shaitan before the first beams of the rising sun.
“Tell the people not to relax or break masking. Switch to the reserve radio frequency; don’t go into air without special need. And yes, Jeff,” added Shaheen, “could you straighten out that damn blanket.”   
The bright morning light literally rushed into the small natural cave – once a refuge for the shepherds, who used to spent summers on the alpine pastures. Shaheen, who had slept with the clothes on almost for seven days, got out of his tarpaulin sleeping bag and taking the boots for the heels, strenuously shook them out: the area was teemed with scorpions and different disgusting spiders, so he would repeat this ritual daily.
Putting the boots on, he got outside and gently stroked about the head of a tall thin hound with a narrow muzzle and long shining hair, which appeared by his boots with its tail joyfully wagging. Then Shaheen spoke with one of his men who had equipped a machinegun position among the boulders within some twenty yards from the cave entrance. Probably the matter was about the masking, as the thin forty year-old man left the machinegun and dragging himself down the slope, began to cut down bush branches by a wide knife with a disproportionately narrow handle. The knife would certainly mismatch the mission as it would often slip out of the Afghan’s hand and clank at the stones. Probably the man in the grey scarf quaintly wrapped around his head, was just very tired.
However, everyone was tired.
It had been the seventh day that Shaheen and a dozen of his men had been hiding among these reddish rocks, jutting out the smooth round slopes covered with emerald grass. It seemed that the shuravis had just conducted their monthly large-scale action to squeeze the enemies of the regime from their constant dispositions. Military actions in the mountains were accompanied with weapon searches and mojahed revealing around the villages where the military trucks and vehicles had gone under fire. Generally, the purges would quickly start and last hardly more than two-three days. Otherwise the factor of surprise would be lost and the hunt for the guerrillas would end in vain.
However this time the Russian Command had probably decided to thoroughly shake the dushmans . Simultaneously encircling several villages by APC’s, tanks and large infantry forces, the opponent began to comb the vicinities so accurately that the commander of the insurgents could do noting but to urgently withdraw his group higher into the mountains. Skirmish with the advanced groups of the Russians was out of the question: getting into a firing the mojaheds would give themselves away and became an easy target for the camouflaged Crocodile gun ships patrolling above the cordon area. Dividing the fighters into small units, Shaheen accommodated with one of them in the caves controlling the paths to the Pakistani border – the rout that the main forces were withdrawn by. Here, within some thirty miles to the border, right at the joint of two huge mountain chains, the rugged country itself would deprive the Soviets of their advantage in manpower and materiel. Fortifying a position far from populated locations and roads, the mojaheds hoped to wait till the storm was over, meantime keeping the opponent in field of view. And now, after six nights, the shuravis had eventually begun to draw off their main forces.
“Are you sure that Abu didn’t mix up anything? It could be tractors or other machines,” he asked Jafar who had placed himself on a boulder, aback to the warm beams of the July sun.
“He says that that was a column of track-type vehicles and ten trucks with infantry leaving Saleh before dawn. The information was confirmed by the shepherds.”            
“And where’s he now?”
“He’s sleeping in the ‘Common’. Shall I wake him up?” 
Shaheen planned to invite Abu and question him about the details, but remembered about the cipher and putting aside the field-glass, unfolded the scrap. Getting through the clumsy line of letters and figures – fifteen signs in total, he took out his lighter and burnt the paper. 
“Leave the Twins at the positions, and tell the rest to gather in the common cave. Hurry up,” he told to his lieutenant after a minute.
“Anything serious?” Jafar got alerted.
“I don’t yet know; hurry up, time is pushing.”
Jafar left to carry out the order, while Shaheen again placed the field-glass aside and, taking his pistol out of the holster, pulled the safety lock down and placed the weapon into the vest’s inset pocket. 
Soon the men appeared one by one. Leaving two experienced fighters on watch, Jafar invited the others, and so there were eight men standing by the canvas blanket curtaining the entrance into the cave Jafar had called ‘Common’. The ninth – Abu – was sleeping inside. When the commander pointed at the entry, they pushed aside the tarpaulin door and silently walked in. The careless machine gunner was the last in the procession.
Judging by the size, the common cave had once served as the main sheep shelter. It had a good French cognac bottle shape – the narrow short neck would sharply extend into an oval space with a low arch – large enough to contain several dozens of sheep. Here and there were the unpretentious Afghans’ extempore beds, covered with sheep skins, meanwhile their owners had already settled down on the cartridge boxes placed around the extinct hearth. Two more wooden boxes were broken onto chips and gathered by the hearth made of fire-blackened stones. There was a metal probe right above them, hammered into the smoked calcareous arch and furnished with two wire hooks. The lower had a kettle hanged on, and the upper was meant for the pendent lamp whose shivering flame was adding mystical shades to the unexpected gathering. 
Leaving the hound at the entrance, Shaheen stepped in and sat with his back to the light. The bearded man with smoked faces invincible even for the pure spring water, vainly peered at the commander’s face hidden by the gloom of the cave. Given the hunting, cared out by the shuravis in the kishlaks below, the urgent gathering could be of ill omen, so everyone was clouded with strained silence.
Sitting on a sheep skin, the leader silently examined the mojaheds for a while. Despite of the stern view and ill fame, all of them actually were ordinary peasants, habitual to mattock and spade more, then the Kalashnikovs they would never part with. The outlook of these people wouldn’t fall outside the limits of their mountains, so they had extremely vague concept about the achievements of the mankind. As for them, the colors of the life were the black and white; and the return to the gone centuries-old lifestyle once inherited from the ancestors, was something beyond their wildest dreams. Their past looked like an irrevocably broken porcelain vase, when the splinters of the bright memoirs in sum couldn’t replace the whole vessel anymore. And only in one field they would know no limits and recognize no borders – in their spitefulness and hatred towards those, who had bereaved them of the choice. These feelings had dried up their souls and bodies even more than hashish, to which they would stealthily address to escape the reality at least for a moment. Shaheen had tried to wean them from this bad habit, but soon abandoned his attempts. The danger, burdens and deprivations to which he had repeatedly been exposed together with these man, had set a whole web of invisible bonds among them. He knew that each of them had his own special story and a personal reason to follow the chosen path – full of dangers and lack of visible prospects for the future. And today, perhaps for the first time through all the last years, he had to call all these into question. The first letter of the cipher for him stated ‘the highest degree of danger’, and the following two figures warned that he had a turncoat within his closest circle. 
He hoped he was a good judge of human characters, a man who knew one thing or two about these people, many of whom owed him their lives. So, he couldn’t doubt about the devotion of those, who had repeatedly taken and sometimes even dragged him out of dangers. But the sheet of paper with the clumsy strokes told something different, and now his obliging mind, used to resist feelings and sentiments, had been looking through all the could-have-taken-place-variants of the recruitment of his men by means of threatening the lives of their families. In this case, Shaheen as a human being could understand the motivation of the one blackmailed, as in fact practically every present, except on him, had own families or blood relatives and friends in the villages where they would regularly visit at nights. So, now he could be more or less sure that he was kept under surveillance and even aimed at. He wouldn’t lay down his cards, as he could thus provoke the man of the Russian’s to stake his all. Meanwhile, he couldn’t leave everything as it was: the message was ordering him to immediately leave the scene and return to Pakistan along the ‘emergency exit’. So, he had to overcome that dilemma.
“Brothers, I’ve gathered you here to inform, that I’ve received a radio message today. It says that our men have safely reached the border, and now all of them are secure.”
There was no reason to keep the fact of the arrived message in secret.  Certainly someone was already aware about it. 
A sigh of relief escaped the presents, but that wasn’t enough to relieve the tension anyway.
“That’s not all,” went on Shaheen, lighting a cigarette and allowing the lighter’s flame to illuminate his bearded face, “judging by all, the shuravis are going to send here the Special Force and if they find us…, you can imagine the outcomes... So, what do you suggest to do?”
The bearded men silently observed the trajectory of the red ‘glowworm’, attached to the tip of their leader’s cigarette. 
“I guess now, when our comrades have reached the safe heaven, we, instead of waiting for the shuravis as an old lion for jackals, would better get out of here”, Jafar broke the silence, “we don’t have to fasten ourselves to this place, Shaheen. The border is within two night march distance.” 
Some of the mojaheds, mainly the youth, approvingly nodded. 
“Well. And what will you tell, Abu?” Shaheen asked the oldest and the most experienced of the subordinates, known as ‘Father’  for his age and the pathological devotion to morals and exhortations.
Squatted Abu, still sleepy after the night walk, was slowly stroking his beard by his right hand, and quickly counting his comboloio by the left. There was something monumental even in his manner of sitting, and from aside it looked as if he was in a company of learned ulema  rather then at a military consultation. 
“If the shuravis have decided to drop here their special commands then the leaving of this position could be a very dumb thing to do. From here and up to Khours in the east, we’ve no equipped positions and food stocks as here. Here we can stand even an air strike, while during our retreat they can shoot us down as easy as partridges. So, if we’re fated to accept the battle here, that’s the will of Allah. As for me – the abandoning of the positions now is extremely imprudent.”
“Well. Anybody else? The situation is complicated, and I’m ready to listen to each of you.”
The glowing tip of the cigarette rose to the highest point of its trajectory, and then brightly inflamed and again promptly dived downwards, to the boot heel Shaheen used to shake the ashes at. 
Nobody took the floor. Shaheen had long ago found that the collective decision-making mechanism would practically always stall in the Orient. Nobody dared to add something to the opinions stated by the two most influential men from the commander’s milieu. 
“I do appreciate your kindness, brothers. But your silence makes me tell something that everyone knows, but nobody dares to articulate.”
The commander extinguished the cigarette and threw the stub into the hearth. Given the local traditions, this act could hardly be named correct as the fireplace here had always symbolized home and family, but the wartime rules would require not to leave behind excessive traces. 
“You probably guess, that all this tightened puttering about that the shuravis make, has only one purpose and that is – to get me. Dead or alive.”
The people bent their heads, while Abu lifted the tip of his beard to carefully examine it in the light. 
“I know that my presence among you, like it or not, threatens your lives. If the Russians knew my location, then you’ll certainly loose your lives just for being by me.”
Maybe speaking in low monotonous voice Shaheen was deliberately dramatizing the situation in the eyes of these illiterate people. But, actually, the entire grotesque had quite a pragmatic purpose: to provoke some involuntary movement or a gesture giving out the insides of the people. It was difficult to judge what actually was happening in their souls. The tired people kept sitting with downcast eyes: they thought that Shaheen was simply repeating the thoughts written large on their faces. 
“A man of wisdom said that the best way out of an awkward situation is the one that allows you to get out with honor,” thoughtfully mentioned Abu, still fiddling with his beard.
“And I’d add ‘without lossless’,” suggested Shaheen. “I have a plan which allows us to leave this position with honor and without losses.”
He emphasized the last word.
The mojaheds quickly cast up their eyes and dropped them again. A split second was enough to catch the sparkle of hope in their eyes, which flashed as a patch of sunlight on broken glass. He could hardly throw up the people as practically all of them, except for the frank Abu, were sure that the further stay in the cave was senseless and dangerous. 
“That’s me, who should leave,” Shaheen lit up another cigarette and getting out of the shadow, sat closer to the extinct fire. 
His words were a great surprise, and whisper went over the cave.
“If I’m to choose between avoidance of losses and honor, then I choose the last. Allah is the witness that we shouldn’t sit by when your life is in danger. I’ll go with you,” said Abu imperturbably examining his beard.
“Me too,” the young and impulsive Jafar pulled the bolt of his weapon and again set it on the lock.
The bolt clanged and the cartridge deafly fell onto the paddled floor. 
“I do appreciate your support but when I say ‘leave’, I mean a withdrawal to a reserve position and not an act of self-sacrifice. Abu and Jafar, people need you here. We can’t just leave this place; it will be a blow for the people in the valleys. Listen, after twenty minutes I’ll get out of here alone and will go to the border. Forty minutes later Jafar will take the radio and moving away at a safe distance from the cave, will get in contact with our people in Pakistan. He’ll report the following: “The bird took off after the sun”. Probably that will put the shuravis off the scent, and they’ll set the ambush on the Snake’s Path. With the approach of twilight you‘ll be divided into two groups and move to the west, to the winter quarters. Abu and Jafar remain in charge, you mast constantly have the radios with you, and I’ll get the third one with me. You’ll go to the headquarters with light baggage: just the items of the first necessity, the generator and a third of the ammunition. That must be enough. Hide the rest at the former location. Don’t go on the air without need: you can be easily located. If all is well, then we’ll meet in a month. And now, everybody except Abu and Jafar may return to their affairs. We’ll talk with both of you in the small cave.”
“People are very tired, and their nerves can go phut,” said Shaheen as soon as Jafar and Abu sat in front of him in the small cave. “Fear makes people uncontrolled and they make impulsive steps, so in order to prevent extra efforts, don’t dismiss people to kishlaks within coming three or four weeks. Remember, that the shuravis are carefully scanning the frequencies, so be extremely cautious with the radios. Don’t leave them unattended and always keep them with you. Communicate with each other and the others by messengers. You can assign the Twins for this duty; they’re experienced and you can trust them.” 
“Did you invite us here to tell that?” Abu let his beard alone and looked straight in his eyes. “It seems to me, that you’re holding something back, Shaheen.” 
“It’s not the time to speculate upon it, but I guess that a month later we’ll have a heart-to-heart talk. For now, observe all the preventive measures.”
A bit later, when Shaheen left the cave accompanied by his interlocutors, he, instead of habitual black clothes was dressed into wide grey trousers and a homespun wool shirt. He was carrying old saddlebags made of Soviet style tent tarpaulin. Still talking about something, the trio approached to the third cave, located under wide overhanging stone eaves, at the southern edge of the ground. Here, in the shepherd shelter of the past the mojaheds used to keep two donkeys, a pair of goats and a dozen of sheep. A big dog lying by the bags of oats, lifted its head to bellow once, but then calmed down and returned to its lair covering its muzzle with paw.
Jafar threw a sacking saddle over one of the donkeys.
“How many of them are you going to take with you?” He pointed at the sheep, crowded at a feeding rack with rests of oats.
“Slaughter four of them and distribute the meat among the people: you’ll have a difficult march, so the animals would be a real burden. The cans and the other provision we have stored at the winter headquarters will cover the demand for a month. Then you can appeal to Rasul,” ordered Shaheen, placing the bags over the donkey’s saddle.
“Then, please, take these goats. Allah is the witness that the milk they give is much lesser than the problems they cause. And besides, these creatures look like the Shaitan himself,” Jafar spitted and getting into the sheep fold, drove the animals out of the cave. 
“Here, take it,” Abu took off his black woolen vast and the belt, “you’ll look as a real Pushto.”
“Thank you,” Shaheen hugged both of his subordinates and picking the cornel cudgel placed by the cave entrance, moved the donkey out. Bone – the thin, long-haired Afghani hound rushed to the master, bobbing in a buck fever for a walk.
Soon the small caravan moved off. Following a mountain footpath for a mile, they went down and approached a rough mountain stream where, Shaheen watered the animals and filled his flask. Some 300 yards downstream the footpath would turn to the east and bypassing a rocky ledge, take him out of the field of vision of the observers’ still keeping their eyes on him. That cool summer morning he couldn’t assume that that was his last meeting with those mountains and that he would never return there again.   
Slowly leading the caravan down a hardly appreciable stony path passing along the stream, Shaheen again mentally got through all the probable variants of the situation. Dividing the men into two groups, leaving the radios under the personal control of the most devoted fighters and forbidding the leaves to the villages, he actually deprived the potential traitor of any chance to keep the contacts with the external world. Ideally, it could work for a while if there wasn’t something else. “And what if the ‘mole’ is one of the…,” Shaheen again pushed the thought to a corner of his mind.   
Passing a mile, he stopped by a big bush decorated with fine yellow florets with specific smell. Here he sat down on a stone, and lighting a cigarette, looked around.
The cool mountain wind was rustling in the bushes and bending the thin blades of the grass. Few more weeks would pass, and the unbearable summer heat would cover the vicinities with yellowness. And only there, high in the mountains, where the cool grey clouds stumble over the tops to leave behind silver dewdrops, everything would remain as it was.
Putting out the cigarette and burying it by the boot in the dust, he rose and whistled to the hound. The trained pet got the dispersed small cattle together and bending down its nose to the dust slowly went forward. The goats and sheep followed it. Rounding the boulders driven from the peaks by mud torrents and passing the rock hollow – locals would call it ‘the Dervish’s cave’, – the caravan took the path leading directly to Saleh – the very lair of the ‘Beast’.    
Almost eight hours passed before Shaheen could overcome the pass and reached the vicinities of the valley. The venture with the sheep and goats that as the mythical Sisyphus he had to ‘roll’ in front of himself up and down the rocky steeps could look a bit senseless. But only at first sight. In the country torn apart by the struggle of incompatible ideologies and almost the thirty-years-long fratricidal bloodsheds, the skin-deep idleness had a time-proved rigorous logic behind. The matter was not only the fact that such drovers would usually create contacts on the both sides of the border and often gain additional money as the Democratic Republic of Afghanistan Intelligence agents – something that would practically always grant them a go-ahead in the case they run across the shuravis. The reason could be more prosaic and less human – the landmines. The faithful dog that Shaheen had used to feed near explosives for almost a year had already stopped the caravan for several times and waited whining and actively wagging its tail till the master’s approach. Earning yet another slice of fried lamb fat, the dog would patiently stay until the dangerous item was defused, and then mince ahead again with a hope to find one more valuable godsend. Meanwhile the small livestock was prepared for far more tragic lot: in the case the scent did a bad turn to Bone and it missed the next trap, they would sweep the traps, thus enlarging the long list of the torn apart victims daily assigned to the altar of the bloodthirsty idol of this war. 
“At last,” whispered Shaheen, getting the signal.
Now he could start his dangerous descent to the valley.
And though he had a high-ranking intelligence officer’s ID in the saddlebag and even outwardly could easily make one of those privileged smugglers, his heart was heavy. Who knew, perhaps at that very moment somewhere in the rocks there was a colleague on shop – a cool beardless hunter with a sniper rifle, who had been following his actions through the scope. Whipping the sheep on and shouting at the goats, Shaheen couldn’t shook off the obsession that his life could depend rather on the mood then the self-restraint of a man who for whom he could be nothing more, but a moving target.
Half an hour later Shaheen forded the small river, and followed with the suspicious eyes of the peasants working in the field, proceeded to the kishlak. Reaching the outskirts he, as it befitted to a respectable person, deferentially greeted the old men sitting on cane mats under a high poplar with chopped off branches. 
“Who’s in charge here, in your kishlak? I need to see the head, fathers,” asked Shaheen when the wishes of peace to each other were already stated.
“Allah is the head here, and all over the world. But he’s in the heavens and it’s rather soon for you to see him, son,” the oldest man leaded his hands over his beard and went on sedately running his fingers over the cornel stone comboloio so common for the region. 
As soon as he pronounced ‘Allah’ the others also repeated the gesture.
“And who is in charge on your land and who looks after the village, father?”  Shaheen was still playing a wanderer.
“Shaitan does. He’s the master here already for a decade,” said the man with perfect calm and emotionally spitted over his shoulder, “and who are you, son? Did you come with peace? You speak as a local, but I can’t recall your face.”
“I’m here with peace. But it’s no use to speak disrespectfully about the earthen authorities to the first comer. Who knows whom are you going to come across with next time?”
“I have nothing to loose, and besides it’s time to throw myself at the feet of the Supreme,” the stubborn old man continued. “And if you wish to see the Beardless, then go right by this street, along the aryk . And when you see a double-trunk old mulberry tree overhanging the wall, know that you’ve arrived. Proceed with peace.”
The straightforwardness of the old man was rather imposing, but in fact these were only words. Brandishing the stick to keep off the local dogs striving to grapple with Bone, Shaheen went along the tank rummaged street, followed with mistrustful eyes of the children, pottering in the street dust and their alerted mothers hiding their faces behind the local headscarves - hijabs. Long ago the war had accustomed the people to keep away from strangers, and the recent spot-check had only aggravated the feeling. 
Reaching the house of the new, i.e. - the Communist authority representative, Shaheen knocked at the tin coated wooden gate. A dog growl in the courtyard was followed with the clang of a metal chain. Soon someone hailed the pet and opened the small rectangular window in the gate. The ‘trader’ introduced himself as an officer, carrying out a confidential task of the Afghani Army Joint Staff and demonstrated his ID. Probably, the mentioning of the important instances located somewhere in far Kabul – a place where the local boss to say the truth had never been – together with the square seal had turned the green light, so the man nicknamed ‘Beardless’, asked to wait a little and rushed to shorten the dogs chain. Soon the gate was opened and Shaheen, accompanied by the spiteful yelping of the master's dog, drove his animals into the spacious courtyard.
In spite of the expectations the Beardless – a very insulting nickname for the Oriental mentality – appeared to be a thin bearded man in his thirties. Apparently, his European tuft had caused a barefaced irritation among the conservative old men, prone to the firmness of the centuries-old foundations and resisting when it came to avow the representative of the authorities a rightful man. 
While Shaheen was scrutinizing the man he had heard of long time before, the last called his children and ordered his wife to get some tea. Two boys – seven and ten year-old – appeared at the first summons of their father and modestly standing by, began to furtively examine the guest.    
            “Drive the cattle to the backyard and give it some hay,” ordered the father.
            “Wait a little.”
The guest took off the saddlebags to search for something in them. Soon he got a bright candy bag and a can of Indian tea – contraband of a great value not only here, but even in Pakistan.
“That’s for you, kids,” Shaheen offered the bag to the children.
Joy flashed and quickly went out in their eyes: they warily looked at their father. The last smiled:
“Take it and don’t forget to fraternally share the sweets with Gulnara and Jamal.”
“And why don’t they come, do they feel shy before the guest or maybe the father?” Shaheen passed the tea can to the host, “and this is for you.”
The Afghan put his right hand to heart and bowing a bit as a demonstration of appreciation for the gift, went on:
“No. They’re the children of my late brother. They’ve became orphans recently, so I took them to my family. They’re still shy because don’t feel at home yet.”
The saddened man followed the children with his eyes and then turning to the guest, invited him to a low wooden stage covered with a plain patterned mat and placed under the mulberry. Soon the hostess appeared with a copper tray crammed with an old teapot, earthen drinking bowls and two plates with dried fruits and mulberry treacle – the local substitute for sugar.
“Would the dear guest mind to have supper with us?”
“No, thanks,” Shaheen pressed his hand to heart and slightly bowed to the hostess, “please don't trouble over me, sister, I’m in a great hurry.” 
“And so, how can I help you?” asked the host when remaining in private the interlocutors took a sip of the burning drink. His eyes were full of vigilance.
 “I need to get to our army headquarters to the south from Kandahar as soon as it possible.” 
“It’s far from here; you need a car to go there.”
“Honourable comrade, this is the very reason why I decided to turn to you – the representative of the authorities.”
The owner scratched his tuft.
             “I see the risk of causing difficulties for you. But everyone who have seen me, thought that I was an ordinary trader, so you are the only man to know that I’m an officer,” said Shaheen. 
It was obvious that Beardless felt relieved:
“You see, it’s not secure here… Many people don’t yet understand that the new rule can change their lives to the best…”
“Don’t worry, my friend,” interrupted Shaheen, who had himself ordered in due times not to harm the Beardless; “moreover, fully understanding that my request deals with certain financial difficulties, I’m ready to compensate the all the expenses.”
Really, only a man graduated from a big city university – a dream that Beardless had to abandon long ago – could speak so smoothly.
“No, no way. I can’t take your money,” he said, adding some tea to the drinking bowls.
“Don’t worry, my chiefs foresee these types of expenses beforehand and besides, it doesn’t become to an officer to travel at the expense of a poor kishlak, which, for certain, had suffered the war.”
It seemed that the head of the village was completely disarmed by the last argument of the guest. 
“Well,” he hesitated a little, “we have a car, which could take you to the location, and the driver is a devoted man. But the matter is that I’ll need the car back by the tomorrow noon…”
“I see no problem, comrade. The time mentioned is enough to reach Kabul.”
The host called the elder son and sent him somewhere.
The interlocutors had time to drain another bowl of tea before a dull sound of a car engine was heard.
“He’s here,” said Beardless when the car stopped, and then the sound of opened door came. “That’s our UAZ; it was written off an army detachment in the neighboring vilayatt  and given to us few years ago. Rasul, our driver, has assembled it piecemeal, but don’t worry, it will get you. And here is the driver himself.”
A young man in his early thirties, dressed as a common local peasant and with palms blackened from discharged machine oil, came into the court yard with an air of importance and proceeded to the wooden stage. His quiet and a bit sluggish manners were filled with self-respect, but far not bragging or vainglory. Simply here, in this lost place, where even the reading and writing skills were the lot of the select few, Rasul given his young age, had managed to scramble upon the dizzy height: he was a mechanic, i.e. – an irreplaceable figure.
Getting to the company, he greeted the host and only then turned to the guest. The drivers face momentarily changed, but he could control himself and wish him peace. 
The host, however, noticed nothing.
“Rasul, our guest needs to be at the Army South Command Headquarters before the nightfall. Once you’ve mentioned that we need to get some spare parts, so, go ahead and try to find what you need at the same time.”
“Well,” he nodded, “let me make ready the car and clear of the rest of my work. I was repairing it when your son called me here.”
The driver demonstrated his hands.
“Yes, one more request,” added Shaheen, “I have few sheep with me which need to be settled somewhere. I think that it wouldn’t be right to leave them here: we’d better prevent any rumour that a dealer has left his cattle at the official’s. I need to leave them for a month, and then I’ll take them or will send one of my men. Could our respectful driver shelter them? It won’t attract much attention, and I’ll ready to cover the expenses.” 
Rasul inquiringly looked at Beardless, who made a helpless gesture, though inwardly had completely accepted the reasoning of the unexpected visitor: “Where did the guy study at?”
“All right,” he decided finally, “let Rasul get ready the car, while my children will drive the rams.”
After sending the driver and instructing the kids Beardless felt happy for his deeds. He was filled with pride for his ability to resolve the delicate situation in a diplomatic matter. Rubbing his hands, he suggested the visitor continuing tea party until everything was ready for his departure. Soon the hostess brought another teapot and, after talking about neutral themes in the slanting beams of the sun, Beardless led the guest to the driver’s house.
“Remember: all I’ve said should be kept in strict confidence. If anyone asks about me, tell that I’m a friend of your late brother,” Shaheen said after all.
Getting into the yard he walked to a tar paper covered adobe hut – Rasul’s workshop, where he used to spend the most of his time.
“How are you doing, Russell?”
Standing in the middle of the hut, Shaheen embraced the driver for shoulders. He had a habit to rename people in the English manner.
“You keep surprising me, Shaheen. I couldn’t expect to see you here, moreover, as a guest of that... Today when I saw the signal at the agreed hour, I thought that that must be the messenger, and as usual expected the visitors after the nightfall. I didn’t assume that was you. Meanwhile, you visited the Beardless… What’s up? And what does the sheep-and-goat masquerade mean? Do you really intend to go somewhere?”
“Don’t rush the things. I’ve to cross the border to the south from here.”
“What happened? Is everybody all right up there?”
“Yes, they do well. Probably few weeks later they’ll see you for supplies. But I’ve to disappear for a while. Can you take me to the crossroad to Kandahar?”
“Come on!? Do you really want to go to Zorb – to the shuravi garrison, the patrols and the road block-posts? They’ll find you immediately.” 
“It’s a must. You know, from there I can reach the pass within 5-six hours.  How long is the way to Zorb?”
“Given these roads that’s going to be 3 hours drive, it would be faster on a horseback…,” the driver reflected seriously. “All right, I need to fetch some gas. Do you mind staying here or you prefer to accompany me?”
“No, I’d better keep a low profile: though probably I’m already the hottest local news.”
Remaining alone, Shaheen looked over gears and old engines heaped in the earthen floor in disorder – one could only wander how Rasul could drag here all these? Then he approached to a small built-in mirror, covered by clay at the edges. He picked up scissors from the shelf and put his frizzy beard in order. It took him few minutes work in front of the mirror to become satisfied with his appearance. Then Shaheen, who wouldn’t resemble the commander of the guerrillas anymore, opened the saddlebags and got out a pack of Afghani cash, some dollars, the radio, a Soviet army backpack and a complete set of Afghani officer regimentals. Of course, it was rather unsafe to travel down the mountains with all that property, as hardly anyone would go for a secret mission packed with a uniform and an intelligence service ID, but he had no other choice. He placed the uniform and the belongings into the backpack, got out the pistol and checking out the cartridge clip, returned the weapon into the inset pocket and shoved two additional clips into the belt. Now he was ready, so finally could sit down on a low wooden stool and wait for Rasul. Till the last moment everything had went as planned. But soon the mechanic appeared with a bad news.
“We’ve got a problem, Shaheen,” he threw rushing into the hut and emotionally kicked one of the old engines. “The beardless dog suspects something. Couple of minutes ago this rascal stopped me on my way from the garage and ordered to warn about you his old friend – the chief of Zorb’s police – as soon as we arrive there.”   
“It becomes interesting. What shall we do? Can we somehow avoid the meeting with that ‘arm of the law’?”
“No way,” Rasul shook his head. “The guy would never budge from his place. I park the car at his yard every time I’m in Zorb on business. That’s the order Beardless has established and it’s much safer, by the way. So, I can’t avoid the meeting, otherwise dropping under the suspicion of Beardless I’ll give him a reason to nose out everything.” 
“And so, what shell we do? Note, I can’t give up the trip.”
“Could you drive there by yourself?” there was a reasonable anxiety in his voice.
Shaheen couldn’t endanger Rasul – the man, who was a key figure for the supply of the guerrillas.   
“Well, but how’re you going to explain that?”
“I’ll tell him that the guest has decided to leave me here and drive by himself at the last minute. He knows that I’m attached to the car very much so I wouldn’t refuse to go voluntarily.”
“Take care of my dog.”
A bit later Shaheen got out of the court yard and leaving Saleh behind, drove to the east, towards the sun, which would gradually sink over the rocky tops. Slowly moving ahead along the road – a pure havoc made by tank trucks – he didn’t yet know that few hours later he would owe them his life. For now he hoped that Jafar had radio contact with the others, thus initiating the ‘bird hunting’, and that the shuravi groups had already laid ambushes on the Snake track and the Eastern Pass. All of them were so far from him. 
Shaheen didn’t worry about the road, as in the twilight it would usually become almost deserted: the Russians would avoid night driving. Paul thought that reaching the crossroads, he would be out of danger as in reality the vicinities of Zorb had always been a ‘dead zone’, where usually no total raids and area combing were held. Halfway to there, he would get into the range of a Pakistani colleague’s radio and would receive operative data about the recent shuravi activities within thirty miles. And even as the last resort, if the Russian smelling out about his whereabouts had sent a flying squad, he would always have enough time limits to disappear in the mountains.   
After an hour driving by the bumpy road spotted by ‘cocoa’ pools that had formed on the ways of the streamlets crossing over the roadbed, Shaheen stopped the car. The small red bulb, which had been occasionally winking at him since he departed from Saleh, now was illuminating the control panel with soft ruby light.
It was getting dark outside. Leaving the seat, Shaheen unscrewed the metal canister attached at the rear door and cast away the driver’s seat. He would always admire the flight of the Soviet engineers’ thinking, which went as far as placing the two out of 3 gas tanks of the military car right under the front seats. From one side it was comfortable: in darkness it was possible to fill the car right under the light of the cabin bulb, without departing far from the driver's seat. But on the other hand – the driver had to do his daily job sitting on a powder keg.
Some ten minutes later Shaheen switched on his radio and talked with his liaison and half an hour later a tall thin man hiding in the roadside bushes with an alpinist backpack and a Kalashnikov, got aboard of the braked car. The Pakistani ISI secret service officer shook Shaheen’s hand and took the front seat. He was hardly above thirty. He had alpinist equipment, night-vision goggles and other stuff they could need for passing the border at a reserve point to the north from Zorb.
All was well, but soon the downpour changed the situation. After several miles the ruined road, swelled up by the water streams, flowing down the mountain slopes, became practically impassable, and the old jalopy off-road began to frequently stick in the clay slush scattering over muddy clods from under all the four slipping wheels. Soon the UAZ plunged its front wheels into the next puddle and passing few more yards hopelessly roared. Taking aback, Shaheen tried to overcome the edge of the gullies at the full possible speed, but in vain. Skidding for a minute – enough to get steam going out of the tires – he realized that the vehicle had stuck badly. He sworn and turning on the light, looked around. A rocky ledge hung above the road, was seen ahead through diagonal streams of rain drops, while the destination point was still some 5 miles to the south. The narrow shallow gorge on his right looked as a black shapeless spot in approaching nightfall, and on his left, just 5-six yards away was a slanting clay slope knifed over by bulldozers and spotted with jutted shale bedrocks hardly visible in the dim light of the small electric bulb. Looking around, Shaheen asked his company to take the driver’s seat, while attaching the bayonet to the Kalashnikov and getting a lantern into the teeth he jumped out.
Using the weapon as a breakage and illuminating the place by the lantern, Shaheen picked few plates off the friable rock and slipped them down to the roadway. The Pakistani, meanwhile, was trying to get the car out of the clay trap. 
“Leave it,” shouted Shaheen after the next unsuccessful attempt, “Wait a little, and we’ll pull this trashcan out.”
Soon the stones were placed under the wheels and Shaheen, rising up under the illumination of the headlights, waived his hand: “Go ahead.” The off-road strained, drove over the stones, but the left front wheel almost at once slipped off the smooth stone and again began to spatter the slush. Shaheen lifted his hand and bowing ahead, fixed the stone. Still discontent with the work done, he forcefully rested the butt against the plate and signaled again. The Pakistani, who was tensely peering ahead, noticed the gesture and pushed the accelerator down.
What happened then would haunt Shaheen in his nightmares. Literally the next second after the engine was started, a loud explosion covered the windscreen with a cobweb of small cracks, and a high jet of bright infernal flame getting from under the driver immediately turned the Pakistani into a big candle. The picture was really awful: a burning alive man, dashing about in the fatal trap.
Few seconds passed before deafened and dazzled Shaheen was able to understand that the blast had flung him away from the car leaving him half-sunken in a mud puddle. Instinctively palpating himself, he stopped: he was soaking wet, so only pain could tell him whether he was wounded or not. A bit later the headlights went out. Fumbling about, he found the Pakistani’s Kalashnikov and turned on the torch. Despite of the danger – the car could blow up again, - he approached to the baggage space and casting away the burning canvas by the bayonet, tried to rescue the equipment. Unfortunately the flames were licking at his things, but the backpack of the Pakistani guide still looked intact. Hooking it by the bayonet, Shaheen cast the last look at the burning UAZ, and began to descend to the gorge by touch. Downpour would wash away his traces and if within the next ten-fifteen minutes someone was brought here by the sound of the explosion, then he would certainly face a gloomy picture: a burning car and a driver in the pugilistic attitude. 
Indeed, getting down for some fifty-sixty yards by the green slope and cautiously moving along the road, the man soon noticed jumping headlights of a car. Judging by the sound it was an approaching UAZ. Another quarter passed until the off-road, hoping over the potholes and slipping it the mud, disappeared in the opposite direction. Probably the soldiers of the advanced posts heard the blast and saw the gleams of the flame, so a patrol was send to check up what was wrong. But one was strange: usually Russians would cautiously send few squads with APC escort to the night sorties like that, while this time just a lone jeep drove out to the site of the incident and quickly returned back. That was something atypical.
And only after, sitting in a plaited bamboo armchair and examining the shabby external edges of the rubber boot soles of his good buddy on the shop sprawled in a similar armchair on the opposite side of the table and smoking a fragrant cigar with gusto, Shaheen would find the answers to the questions he had. An ancient desktop fan – a part of the heritage the new owner had received with the remaining furniture of a second-floor-located angular cabinet of a Karachi trade office – would make the next turn, and driving a cloudlet of cigar smoke towards Paul, would blow a sheet of paper with a scheme off the table.
“Well, and what do you think about all these?” The friend would ask, letting out ringlets of smoke. 
“Very funny,” Shaheen would reply, returning the paper to the table.
“Very genial,” the boss of the office would instructively raise his forefinger, “a tiny charge is fastened under the seat and is connected by a wire to a bit altered speedometer sensor. As soon as the car covers the needed number of miles, the charge snaps into action and inflicts a perceptible, though not a fatal wound on the driver. The man, for certain, loses his consciousness and becomes prisoner right on the site, still tepid and wet of his own blood. Anyone, who get a penetrating wound in the range of calves, even if still in consciousness, is usually paralyzed and unable to escape.”
“A rough work, isn’t it?” Shaheen himself would light a cigar and pull to a thick faceted glass with the rests of Johnny Walker and ice.
“No, my friend, I’d even call it ‘a wit’. None will even doubt a treachery. Many saw the man leaving the Point A. And again many would see him practically reaching the point B. And suddenly: boom, the car is out of order, and the poor driver drops into the hands of the Russians. Many folks blow up nowadays: a landmine, a grenade or an unexploded ordinance. The mishap can be easily written off for an ill-fate, a concurrence and crap like that. I bet ten bucks that none would even guess that the shit was planned beforehand. I’m even sure, that the driver himself would hardly figure out what happened and would think about running over a mine. Another whisky?”
“No, thanks. It’s hot. So, you push ahead the intention version?”
“Not a shadow of doubt. Our smart guys here have conducted a small investigation, and it appears that your counterparts have neglected some force majeure circumstances as well as the power of the charge. Apparently, the author of the trap was a sharp-witted mechanic and a poor blaster at the same time: the boy just went too far with TNT. Besides, his calculations did a bad turn. According to his plans you should have passed the rout without slipping and detours, and if it weren’t for the rain, you would explode near the post.” 
“Why should they do that? If they knew about my plans to pass by then they could make an ambush and get me somewhere on the road.”
“It appears that your friend Rasul had no options to immediately rat the Russians about your voyage. He had to leave after you to get within the reach of their radio. He set the trap just in case, and then sent a coded message to his bosses.” 
“Did you intercept it?”
“Yes, but before we could make out the code, the bad things had happened. And by the time our people reached the scene, the Russians had already evacuated the corpse and pushed the car down into the gorge. Practically nothing was left from it: the charge was too powerful.” 
“I think that the problem is not the charge, but the binding. Rasul couldn’t foresee that I’ll throw back the front seat to fill in the gas. Probably thus I displaced the charge, and the blast wave, instead of running in parallel to the floor and wounding the legs of the driver, cumulated downwards and detonated the gas tank. You may know that generally sappers generate guided waves using steel screens slightly bigger in size than the charge itself. The guy must have equipped similar. Alas, but I smelled nothing strange while adding gasoline.”
“Maybe the charge was hidden in the seat. All right, be thankful that the surprise hadn’t turn with the screen towards the floor and – what’s more important – you weren’t on the seat, otherwise everything would escape the blast, except for your self-esteem,” happy with the joke, the friend would laugh and change the position of his shoes: now the right one would be placed atop. 
“That was a sick joke, as always. You’ve forgotten that I survived at the cost of the Pakistani’s life and if it wasn’t for him, then you would now sit here and drying the sweat off your face, pad out ink for long and dull official reports to the bosses to explain the reason of my untimely bereavement. What did you do with Russell?”
“Calm down, man. Russell disappeared. By the way…, about the Pakistani guy that saved you. Some high-ranking folk have decided that he’ll embody you till the Doomsday. So, the hot shots have already solved the task of your untimely passing away. Officially 3 days ago the person known as “Shaheen” has exploded on an anti-tank mine within few miles to an out-of-the-way provincial hole called… Zorb. To your health,” the host would draw himself up and stretch his faceted glass with rests of ice floating in it.
“You didn’t answer my question about Russell's rescue and the destiny of my man…”
“Listen; there’s a group of high ranking people, who’re in charge for everything. You perfectly know that. And I’ll tell one more thing: tough guys in D.C. are engaged into serious talks with Moscow on this hole, and it’s quite possible, that soon the Russians will evacuate Afghanistan. Can you catch what does it mean? It’s a damn victory. We’re on the eve of what we could only dream of just couple of years ago. And thus, there’s no more need to wind the shuravis up. That’s finish, buddy, the ‘jihad’ is over, and that’s a good occasion to drink. We leave the country to return in a new quality,” he would rise and begin to measure the hand-made carpet by his rubber soles.
The many-voiced rumble of the big oriental city pining of the surplus of heat and lack of fresh air, would reach into the room through the opened window.
“Okay, we’ll chat about it later, and now I’ve got to finish the report. May I have this paper?” Shaheen would point at the scheme of the charge, pressed down by an earthen worm-eaten-apple-shaped ashtray.
The host would nod and put his hand onto the friends shoulder: 
“I do understand you, Paul… We’ll talk later, any time you wish.”
Paul would leave the room, and the light door, picked up by a stream of the draft, would soundly slam behind him. For some reason it would seem to him, that there, in the square fifteen by fifteen feet room with high ceiling, he somehow prosy and dully left everything he had sacrificed much for in his life. Back in the high mountains he could only dream of the end of the campaign. But here behind the door, for the first time he would sense his left hand growing numb and echoing with heaviness in his breast. 
Minutes later his pragmatic and thus – cheerful colleague would get to the corridor with bored face and wiping his neck by a large colorful handkerchief, would casually notice, that one of the two tacks fixing the tablet on his door, had dropped out leaving his surname hang down. 
“Hey, Joyce,” he would shout to nowhere, “Where did you learn to nail this way? My God, look what a contingent they send here…, move it, man, find the nails and fix that damn plate. You’ve 5 minutes left. If you’re not in time, you’ll lose a week salary. Ready…, go!”
The door would slam again, and the tablet would swing a while and stand-still waiting for Joyce. “Jeremy Lee Gordon, Sales Manager” would be engraved on its smooth brass surface.



CHAPTER 15

On the way back Forester drove to the Army Staff to return with the accumulators and the off-color news that the Colonel was still off. 
              “It seems to me, that Mr. Colonel heads not the Defense Army Staff but the local branch of the Salvation Army. I do understand that these guys are very busy with their small victorious war – such an attention is praise-worthy. Anyway, couldn’t they grant us few minutes to shake hands and demonstrate the craftsmanship of our dentists?” Pat muttered.   
“I guess that the Colonel has nothing to suggest us. Or the news is so unfavorable, that he decided to protect your vulnerable soul.”
Judging by the number of the cars parked near the building, something really important was happening there. The Captain spoke no English, but he immediately caught the intonation and the moods of the guests.
“The war is about to stop, gentlemen. The conflict lasts for 5 years, and the peace isn’t far away,” he turned to Pat.
“That’s okay, Captain. We understand.”
“So, my friends, we’d better go home. I bet Dad is already waiting for you. He’s of the old stamp and has his own life philosophy. To tell the truth, I often argue with him, but trust me – he’s a very interesting person to talk with.” 
A tall blue-eyed old man with combed back sparse gray hair topped by a faded “I love New York” baseball cap, was sitting at the head of the table that the guest had had their dinner at. The man had an old dark blue Crimplene jacket with rounded lapels and patch pockets, put over his shoulders. His exclusive look sharply contrasted with his sun burnt face expressing tranquility and self-respect. 
As soon as he saw the people getting out of the son’s car, he rose from his place and walked to greet them halfway.
“Nice to see you here,” he said, holding by his left the sliding jacket and shaking hands with Patrick and Paul. “Let’s go the table. I was waiting for you.” 
The old man seated the guests to his right and cast a scowling glance at the radio that his son, sitting to his left, had placed on the table to get through the frequencies. However, soon Forester stopped it and reaching for the wine jug to pour the foaming ruby drink into high glasses.
His father approvingly nodded and getting the glass into his right hand easily lugged shoulders, thus dumping the jacket on the back of his chair. Then with a relevant solemnity he proposed a toast “for the safe arrival of the guests”, wishing them “good luck with all the plans they had done such long, wearisome and dangerous trip for”. Taking a gulp of wine, the host passed his hand over the table, offering them to try “what the God had sent”.
 “It goes against my principles to complain of the life, but I’d wish I could receive you 5 or six years ago in my house,” he told, hooking a piece of farm cheese by fork. “There you could taste a true cuisine. What we’ve here in the city is something different,” said the old man after few minutes of silence, occasionally interrupted by the knock of the forks.
“Anything wrong, Dad?” There was no resentment in the Captain’s voice.
It seemed that the gastronomy had always been a hot topic here, under the grapevine canopy, so the son perfectly knew where the father tending to. 
“I don’t want to anyhow insult my daughter-in-law and my wife but even the ordinary verdure is tasteless here, so what else you can expect from the dishes the verdure is added to…”
“You certainly know it better, sir, but in my opinion everything is very tasty. I’d even tell that you can’t easily find such food in New York. Trust me, I’m a real pro in all that,” Patrick, who had diplomatically interfered into the conversation, clapped at his protruding belly.
“Look here,” gently nodding to the son for another cup of wine, the old man picked up a boiled potato sprinkled with finely cut green to grind it into parts on his plate, “the entire world calls it ‘potato’. And as for me, then until I was eighteen year-old I couldn’t even wonder that there can be potato with skin other then red, and with white and not pink core. I came across with the ‘regular’ potato at the Ukrainian Front during the World War II. At first I refused to eat it, I thought it was rotten, but we had no other meal, so I had to try. “It’s okay,” I thought then, but anyway it was something uncommon. And now, my granddaughter hasn’t even seen the red potato. In fact, formerly we had red grain and red apples too. Just imagine: you cut an apple, and it appears to be red not only from outside, but inside as well. Have you seen one?”
“I don’t think so…, I prefer grapefruits,” Pat shrugged his shoulders and looked at Paul, “they’re also red inside.”
His colleague shrugged his shoulders too.
“Forget it,” the old man raised the glass with wine. “The life is like a museum: the search for the new is the destiny of the youth, while the curators are always nominated from the old… All right, I’ve no idea about the purpose of your visit, but I hope that it will contribute to the settlement of our problems, even a little. Though, who knows…? I want to drink to you and I pray to the God to help you in all your kind undertakings.”
They drank. The Captain’s wife brought a big soup plate with stewed beef, and the relative silence fall on the table once again.
“May I propose a toast, sir?”
Paul looked at the old man who was dexterously operating with a penknife and a fork.
“Go ahead if the glasses are full,” he waived the fork to the son and returned to his plate.
“Patrick and I are for the first time here in Karabakh, and even those four hours we’ve spent here were enough to discover the terrible consequences of the war. We’ve visited the hospital, talked to wounded people and had an interview with one of them. I know that your family has also has passed through all the difficulties and trials: you’ve lost your home, the tombs of your ancestors… Just as my family, forced to escape from Turkey in due time... And, therefore, I propose a toast for peace and I hope, that your tiny granddaughter who was so lovely playing with chickens today, will live in a world free of wars and upheavals.”
They drank again.
“Thanks for the kind words,” the old man said returning the glass to the table, “I’ve no right to complain about my lot. Yes, I’ve lost the past of my family, but the Lord has saved its future. Many were stroke by a worse fate. And concerning the peace..., that’s a task for the new generation, and may be – for yours as well.”
“What do you mean?” Patrick asked.
“If even we’ve peace today, tomorrow our neighbors will tender their oil to your country in exchange for our lives. If you reject the deal, the oil will be tendered to other. It has always worked. Oil is something very important in the present-day-world.” 
“Come on, Dad, our guests aren’t politicians, they’re journalists and are here for a documentary. You’d better tell them about your meeting with the Americans on Elba.”
“Why do you mention Elba?” The father discontentedly waved his hand.
“You’d better tell us about your village and your exodus. It must be rather painful and unpleasant, but the story could become a part of the film about the destiny of the people, who have survived the war,” offered Pat.
“You don’t have to film it, and besides, there’s no much to tell about. The Soviet Army came first and then the Azerbaijani Special Police Force – OMON appeared. We were pushed to the center of the village, where they checked up our passports and then shipped us to Stepanakert by buses. Leaving the village I saw a tank razing to the ground our church. There were a lot of former ‘brothers’ by the roadside. They would damn and throw stones at us. There were some exceptions, just few, very few people. The Army  discharged us here, in Stepanakert and said: “Did you demand Karabakh? Here you are”. That’s all.”
“Enmity can’t last forever. Maybe some day you’ll return home and peacefully co-exist with your neighbors,” assumed Pat after a minute silence.
“I don’t know... If there were a bit more of those, who silently stood by the roadside - then I’d probably cherish the hope. But what I saw makes me think that there’s no way back.” 
“And who shot at the church, were it OMON or the Soviet Army troops?” Paul asked.
“What a difference does it make? In my opinion, those were ourselves who destroyed it some 5-six years before by arranging a collective-farm shed in it. One shouldn’t deluge sacred places with manure – it’s something to be always followed by the punishment of the Heavens.”
Then the silence was interrupted by the forks knocking at the plates. 
“I can imagine how difficult it was to abandon your home and to leave behind everything you’d gained by years of work. Neither insurance, nor compensation...” Pat thought aloud and reached out for the wine decanter. Evidently he had just started to like it, while Paul interpreted his words to the old man.
“Life is like a meal: it’s easy to loose it when it becomes insipid. Maybe you’ll not understand me, but what I recall with grief out of all the belongings I’ve left there, is my mongrel. It was he and I used to keep him on a lead by the gate. He was still a blind puppy when the river brought him: most likely his former master had decided to sink the brood. I brought up the doggy. And then, the dumb animal felt that we were to leave: it would whine for two days along and wouldn’t even touch food. When we were getting out the yard for the last time, the dog strove to break the lead as he didn’t want us to leave him there alone. Anyway, I decided to leave the dog there, on the lead: otherwise the OMON would shoot it down. That was a good pat.”
The old man smiled for a second, and then his face calmed again.
“Everything I’ve told you here isn’t for the ears of my fellow-countrymen. It’s not a good thing to tell all these in the presence of those, who have lost their dears,” the old man said and rose on his feet. “And now I’d wish to propose a toast for those who didn’t return home.”
Everybody followed him and rose with the glasses in their hands.
“But before, I’ll tell you one parable which, if you want, may become a part of your film about the people who survived war,” said the man and went on solemnly: 
“Once upon a time, there was a young man. One day the country he lived in was attacked by the enemy. The young man fought in the war and fall on the battlefield. When he found himself in the best of the worlds, he saw his father who had died long ago. The son was delighted to see his father, but the last began to cry as he had meat his son much earlier than he should. The son told him about the war and how he was perished in the fight.
“You’re here for a just causing,” calmed down the father and took him to a beautiful garden with a lot of strangers sitting at a long set table.
“They’re your ancestors, son,” said the father and offered his son a vacant place, “You’ve deserved to sit with them at this table.”   
“Take your sit, son,” said the gray-haired old man, presiding at the table, “it’s not that important how you lived, as your struggle and death have won you the right to taste the meal of this table. We have everything here, but the wine, and as you’re the youngest among us, you’ll be our cupbearer and supply us with the wine from the spring.”
“Is it possible?” The young man got surprised.
“Yes, it is,” answered the old man and ordered the young man’s father to show the spring.
And indeed, there was a wine spring in the shady corner of the garden, right under the high platan trees. The young man scooped the wine into the silver jug he had and returned to the table. That was a long feast, so he would repeatedly walk to the spring. And once he returned with the jug empty and said to the father that the spring had dried up, and there was no more wine in it.”
“Woe unto us,” said the father down in the mouth, “as the wine of our table is the human memory, and so, there is nobody left to pray for our souls.”
“’…And so,” the old man solemnly continued, lifting higher his glass, “I hope there’s no war anymore and the vacant seats at the table remain unoccupied, and I wish that the wine of the people sitting at the table – I mean those, who didn’t return from the wars – never runs out.”
They drunk and sat down. Forester hesitated for a second and drained the glass. 
“A pretty nice parable, and again… with wine,” Patrick murmured thoughtfully.
Probably, he deliberated that his family had nothing to brag about and that practically all of his ancestors were furniture makers and even earlier - carpenters, so could hardly have done anything significant in the military field. Well, unless they had fought with that turkey-cock Oliver Cromwell who had sold his soul and had drowned Ireland in the sea of blood. Who knew it? Yes, he had no idea about whom he could meet on the lawn when it came to him to stroll to the wine spring, but instead he could swear on the full collection of Edgar Hoover’s speeches that the table and the benches would be a really bang-up job. Smiling to the idea, Patrick finished his digression to the past and wishing to take Forester out of the deep and gloomy thoughts, addressed to him:
“My friend, perhaps my question will seem a bit tactless, but may earn the reason you care surname ‘Forester’ on your plate?” 
The Captain smiled.
“You’re not the first man to ask me that. I’ve graduated from a Soviet Forest College before the war and then had worked here as a forest warden for a couple of years. As a warden I’ve searched every nook and cranny of the local woods. I know all the tracks, caves and springs. It was a merit during the war, so they assigned me to the Intelligence.  They’ve even given me a special call sign: ‘Forester’. And couple of years ago I’ve accompanied an American-Armenian, who wanted to photograph an unapproachable fortress located on a high steep rock to the north from here. Then it was dangerous, as there were actions carried out in its proximities. En route we talked and I suggested visiting the fortress itself. He agreed, and I took him there by secret tracks. The photos turned out to be very good, and as gratitude he sent me this uniform. Then I was a Lieutenant, so I put it on only after I got the rank of captain.”
“It’s logical,” said Patrick, clinking the glasses with Forester and draining the wine, “if all ends well I’ll send you colonel’s uniform.”
And in the end the companions, in full accordance with the local tradition, lifted the last toast for parents, and then the hostess brought a big copper samovar, so the routine conversation were accompanied with several cups of tea with honey.
The wind was delivering the cool woods’ mixed with the tart smell of the local grass, covering the sun-warmed lava within some fifty yards from the house. Forester’s father got up from the diner table and went to sleep: he was an aged man after all. Paul - tired after the long and impressive day, was about to fell asleep, when Forester switched on his radio and speaking with someone in the Karabakhi dialect, stood up to inform the guests that they got some news.
“What’s up?” Pat, worn out by the wine yet a minute ago, now was alarmed: “Something wrong with our guy?”
“No,” said Forester, “The Chief of Staff is back and is waiting for you. And still – the most important – our men have got the Afghan. Alive.”



CHAPTER 16
 
Despite of the quantity of the consumed wine, Forester drove the car with a sure hand, dashingly rounding shells holes. In other situation Patrick wouldn’t fail to mention that the driving style made him sick, however this time he and Paul kept silence all the ten minutes drive between the under-grapevine-feast and the Staff: the wait for the d;nouement had left no want to speak and, especially, to make any suppositions. It seemed that the evening cool, rushing in by the playful breeze through the lowered forward door glasses of the Niva, quickly aired out the alcoholic spirits, and the friends appeared before the sentries with almost sober, though a bit tired look. Here the Captain whispered few words to the chief of the guards, and soon the visitors were led to the first floor. The officers here were informed about the visit, so passing the reception, the Americans escorted by Forester, entered into the office of the Chief of the Army Staff. 
A rather weighty tall man in his fifties was speaking by phone, occasionally stroking his right hand over his gray hair cropped close in army manner. As soon as the visitors came in, he got up from the desk and still speaking by phone, invited them to sit down on an old, claret upholstered sofa to the left of the desk. Probably he had an urgent talk with the other end of the wire, so the visitors, leaved for a while to their own devices, had time to look around. 
The rectangular room with 3-foot-high oak panels on the walls, high ceiling and a heavy crystal luster made up a typical sample of a Soviet office – an exclusive synthesis of bashful Puritan forms with arrogant imperial contents. The wide dark desk with cupboards on its flanks was decorated with a reading lamp and a perpendicularly attached square little table with a couple of chairs with straight backs. Practically all the center of the room was occupied with a long conference table. It had a common attribute of the Soviet bureaucracy on it: a substantial decanter made of blue smoky glass, surrounded with 3 high faceted glasses placed upside down on a round glass tray. A heavy crystal ashtray was on duty by. The whole wall in front of the desk was occupied by a large and high bookcase with many glass doors covered from inside with wide strips of yellowed Whatman paper. Probably, with an aim to hide the contents from unduly curious looks. The windows and the narrow door to the balcony – almost hidden under the thick velvet curtains – were on the northern side of the room. To make the picture complete, it was a must to have the portrait of the founder of the gone Soviet Empire inside, and the Empire itself – outside. Probably the former master of the office – definitely an ardent communist devoted to the precepts of Vladimir Ilyich Lenin and the last Congress of the Central Committee of the CPSU – had tried to provoke in the minds of the ordinary co-citizens a definite analogy to Stalin's Kremlin office, a step that within the light of the local realities should leave an indelible impression on the visitors of a food-processing-secondary-recycling-industry office. Could he assume that the new occupier of the place would replace the portrait of the world’s proletariat leader by a large military map, that the Ficus with its wooden barrel would cede its corner to a metal lockbox, and that the stronghold of the Soviet foundations would turn into the headquarters of the ‘extremists and separatists’, who had challenged the very basics of the “Evil Empire”? 
“Pardon me, gentlemen, I’ve been busy all the day long,” the Colonel approached to the Americans for a hand shake. “You don’t have to tell who is Paul and who is Patrick. I’ve already got the intelligence report”. 
His English was tolerable, but he had a strong Russian accent.
“I’ve just spoke with the chief of the hospital, we’ve found your Afghan at,” he said, offering the guests to take seat at the conference table. “Tea or coffee, what would you like?”
“No, thanks,” replied Patrick, “To tell the truth, the Captain has provided us with all we needed except for the good news – something we expect you to tell us, sir.”
“Bravo, Captain,” the CS addressed to Forester, “You’re free now. We’ve a lot of work to do tomorrow. And please, before leaving, tell the guys to give us some tea”. 
The Captain left and the interlocutors took their seats at the table.
“That was a really interesting story we had with that Afghan. We’ve been seeking for him all over the land, while he had peacefully spent weeks in one of our hospitals. He was an APC driver and was taken prisoner after we had knocked his vehicle out of action in the Southern Sector. The other members of his crew died, while he got a set of burns and was out of consciousness almost all the time. Before he came back to consciousness and could speak, our people thought he was an Azerbaijani.”
“When did he start speaking?” asked Paul.
“Few hours ago. We’ve already informed your Yerevan Ambassador about the fact. I myself was on the site to see the mojahed. His health condition is stable.”
“The mercy of your docs causes nothing but admiration, Colonel,” blabbed Patrick.
The Karabakhi, however, wasn’t offended.
“Yeah? The war will finish soon, and hundreds of my men are taken prisoner or missing. I don’t know the terms that the politicians are going to agree upon, but as for me – any POW is a chance to return one of mine. We can trade the Afghan for your guy even tomorrow, but I’ve a precondition.”
“And so…?”
“The children kidnapped together with the journalist. We’ll return the Afghan in exchange for the journalist and the children.”
“I get and even share your position, sir,” Pat said, “but we need to lay down the terms before the Afghans and follow their reaction.”
“They need that guy and I don’t think that they’re going to bargain.”
The unexpected turn in the American liberation affair was essentially facilitating the task. Though the happy end of the delicate situation was still far away, nevertheless Paul again thought that the Washington fuss was inevitably acquiring the features of a pleasant, but tiresome tourist trip. As a known one had said: “The Mountain has brought forth a mouse.” If Alex's daddy only knew, how much the tour had cost to the taxpayers then the Congress would certainly lose one of its outstanding figures. Paul recalled Dora’s offended face, her tears. Yeah, Gordon was s cattle, at least. 
“Did you warn the Afghans that their guy is here?” Paul asked.
“Yes, almost immediately. We’ve even granted them an opportunity to exchange few words with their fellow.”
“May I smoke in here,” Pat leaned back on his uncomfortable chair, “So who’s that damn mojahed and why the hell all this crap is happening for his sake?”
“A really interesting question,” the Colonel smiled. “He identified himself as Mammad. An ethnic Tadjik, as he said. Their field commanders don’t usually fight in APCs, so he’s one of the ordinary mojaheds who are here to fight against us, as it was agreed by the contract of our neighbors and their field commander Hekmatiar. The popularity of our Mammad is somehow connected to his former, ‘home’ services rendered to the man in black – the organizer of the sortie. I know that you’ve met the wounded guide, who had accompanied the journalist.” 
Paul, however, knew no ethnic Tadjik named Mammad.
“He’s going to have a foot surgery,” Pat decided to take the initiative, “He’s a good guy and I hope that they’ll keep it intact.”
The door flew open, and the Colonel’s aid came in with tea and the news, that a Gregory was waiting in the reception.
“My God, I’ve almost forgotten,” the CS led his hand over the hair and turned to the guests, “I’ve an appointment with an old friend of mine. His name is Gregory, and he, to a certain extent, is your colleague: he works for our Government and is aware about your problem duty-bound. Do you mind his participation in our conversation?”
“You decide, sir, we’re guests.”
Gregory appeared to be a dense short person in his early forties. The man had a box of chocolate candy with him.
“So what, you going to retire soon, aren’t you?” Gregory addressed to the Colonel in Russian as soon as he passed the doorway.
Nodding to the foreigners, he embraced the CS and took the nearest chair. Placing the chocolate in front of himself he competently looked over the table and discontentedly passing the tea glasses asked a bit surprised:
“Tea?”
“Do you mind some?” 
“No way!” He waved his hands; his gestures were full of especial energy, so inherent to short people.
“Don’t even think about paying off by tea; get the cognac here… Gentlemen,” he turned to English, “I don’t know what you’re talking here about, but am confident, that a shot of good cognac would do no harm to your business.”
While the Chief of Staff went to get the cognac, Gregory opened the candy box and moved it to the Americans: “Help yourself.” Then he turned back to his old friend and asked: “Would you ever make a renovation here?”
Soon an almost full bottle of Armenian cognac was placed on the middle of the table, and the conversation resumed its normal course. The host introduced the visitor with the Americans and then briefed him about the hostage situation. 
“Got it,” said the last. “Are you planning to film a documentary about Karabakh?”
“Maybe. Most likely it will be a story about our hostage.”
“When are you going to conduct the exchange?” Gregory turned to the CS, “I wish I could see the journalist, but I’ve to leave for Yerevan by 10 o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“We can do that even tomorrow, but there’s a small difficulty our guests are still unaware of. The problem is that the Afghans were simultaneously searching for Mammad on the both sides of the front line and have contacted with other mojahed groups. As far as I know, the prospect of an armistice caused some cleavage among the Afghans. The radical wing has an extremely negative mood towards the end of the war or the ‘jihad’ as they put it. They demand that the Azerbaijanis should torpedo the talks and begin a large-scale offence along the entire LoC. The moderate wing – by the way, the Black is one of them – is disappointed with the results of the war and tends to leave Azerbaijan. We know that during the past 5-six days the emissaries of the both sides have made several attempts to arrange a meeting. And that’s why I’m concerned: we expect that the cease-fire agreement will be signed within days and the exchange of captives can become an excellent opportunity for a provocation on the Line of Contact. The radicals can spring a surprise for us.”
“Do the Azerbaijanis know that the Afghan has appeared?” asked Paul.
“Yes, they do. But they’ve became hostages of their own policy, so their ability to leverage the situation is extremely limited. I know the psychology of the Afghans. Trust me: as soon as the truce is established their attitude towards the Azerbaijanis will become even worse than towards us. Given all these, I can hardly expect a secure exchange of captives. The procedure is indeed a handy chance to ignite a provocation. Anyway, we’ll choose an appropriate location and I’m already thinking about it.”
Another turn in the situation: till this moment everything went too well. The thoughts about Dora faded into background again. However, what happened then became even a greater surprise for Paul.
“Let me reveal a small secret, gentlemen,” said Pat, “but firstly I must warn that the information is strictly confidential, and whatever I say should remain here.”
Paul strained himself: Patrick was about to plunge into an adventure.
“I guess you understand that sending us here, my bosses – I mean the New York Chronicle – were guided not by the goal to get an article about the accident, but rather the idea to guarantee a safe return of our journalist.” 
“Certainly,” smiled the CS, “given the current situation, it would be very naive to assume that your paper decided to settle the problem by a crushing editorial.” 
“The reason that lies behind Mr. Zetlyan’s presence here is on the surface: he’s an expert, who knows languages and is familiar with the Afghan customs and habits. Besides, he’s your compatriot, so he can render invaluable services in the talks. And as for me – your humble servant..., then let’s say, before joining the paper I used to work as an expert for a security agency employed by NASA in Houston.”
Patrick meaningfully looked at those present. Did this ‘fat tail’ really think that a simple mentioning of such a sonorous name would come as a bombshell in this out-of-the-way? If yes, then he had no idea of Paul’s compatriots at all. 
“Come on?” hitherto silent Gregory got delighted. “Did you accompany Neil Armstrong during his visit to Yerevan in 1973? You should remember me; I was interpreting during his meeting at the Armenian Academy of Sciences. He appeared to be a good guy.”
“No,” assured Patrick, “I’ve served at the headquarters and Cape Canaveral. I used to be a technical team officer, and we were in charge for the security of the command center and the launcher. That means that I had a special training, which included the skills to operate special technical equipment. That’s why I’m confident that we can organize a secure exchange operation, even on the background of the difficulties you’ve mentioned. Let me take care of it.”
Silence fell in the room. The self-confident statement of the fat man was full of outright adventurism.
“And why did you change the office and join the press?”
That was Gregory.
“I resigned from the job after Challenger.”
Paul didn’t know what to think; he couldn’t deny the possibility that Patrick was telling the truth. Who knew who this guy actually was? Paul worried about the Colonel’s position: a journalist rushed into his Staff, told various stories and advised the old soldier to organize a safe exchange of hostages on the front line where hardly anyone can be controlled. Given his colleagues face – a true manifestation of pacifism – his arrogant declarations could sound at least comically. If that was his next improvisation, then, in the case of failure, some people in Washington would scalp Patrick and probably him as well. That was something Paul was really sure.
Maybe Patrick himself understood, that his words couldn’t inspire any special trust around the table, however it didn’t confuse him, and he staked his all: 
“I see your skepticism, my friends. But I can assure you, that acting on my request my bosses had acquired several useful devices which will considerably facilitate our job. I mean, we can visually supervise the state of affairs in the area adjoining to the exchange. It will give us an upper hand while conducting the procedure. So, if we track with each other, then it will be much easier to clinch the deal than it seems now.” 
Patrick was quiet, his voice radiated confidence, and his keen eyes were peering in the Colonel’s face.
The CS burst out laughing and offered some cognac which he personally poured into small crystal glasses.
“You didn’t disappoint me, Patrick,” he said after sipping some alcohol. “When your Embassy officers contacted us to inform about a journalist with large powers I got very surprised at the fact that the rescue mission was commended to a columnist. Now I see that the choice was based more on rational reasons than the ability to write good commentaries about bad things. To your health, sir.”
“The first option doesn’t exclude the second, Colonel. To you,” Pat also took a gulp of the drink. 
“Well, as we’ve learned much about each other, then we can pass to the business. But first, let me ask a bit delicate question. If it’s beyond your powers, then fill free to pass it. Why do you demonstrate such an enhanced attention towards your journalist? Your authorities usually try to avoid direct contacts with us, but now it’s almost the time to install a hotline between us. And, besides, they’ve sent such a competent expert like you, Patrick. So what’s the reason?”
Was there any irony in the words of the Karabakhi colonel?
“You see, the problem is that Alex comes from the family of a high-ranking Washington official, so extra sensation about the guy can cost somebody his head. That’s why the number of people informed about the fact is strictly limited in the States. In addition to a scandal in the U.S., the leakage can have irreversible consequences for the destiny of the hostage. I was sincere with you, sir, and I hope that the information will remain strictly confidential. At least until the moment we receive the guy.”
“Do you take us lightly, Patrick? Anyway, thank you for frankness. Okay, let’s move on. What do you expect want to hear from us and what can we do for you?”
“Well, let’s pass to business. Did you talk with the Afghans about the barter? What’s the format?”
“We’ve an appointment about the day – by tomorrow noon, but haven’t yet pointed a certain spot. And we spoke no format. Besides, we suppose that ‘one per four’ formula will do.”
“What you think, Paul, will they agree with such a layout?”
“I think they will, Pat. Within the context of jihad we belong to the ‘House of war’, and any agreement with us is void of binding force, anyway I guess that given the current circumstances they wouldn’t bargain and would hardly try to swindle us. The stakes are too high for them either. Besides, for the Afghans the ‘one per four’ formula belittles the significance of the American, and accordingly the chances to have him back grow. They would certainly prick up their ears, if you, Colonel, request only the American, thus leaving the kids in captivity.” 
“Well. Did the Afghans set any preconditions?” continued Pat.
“Nothing special, just asked to take care of their man and to feed him in accordance with the Sharia laws.”
“How do you perform exchange procedures?”
“Usually we do the job on open territory, equally distanced from the positions of the sides, and with equal participants from the both sides. The procedure is coordinated on the ground by field commanders. Some of them know each other for a long time: in such kind of deals the factor of personal trust is very important. Choosing a location we generally give preference to the places where highways perpendicularly cross the LoC: it’s easier to drive there and there’s no risk to come over a landmine.”
“How many such places are available now?”
“Five or six. Let me show them on the map.”
Everybody, except for Gregory, approached to the military map. As a civilian, the last had no interest in such details and therefore, sprawling on the sofa Gregory was leisurely enjoying his favorite cognac.
“What’s the maximal distance between the positions here?”
“It varies depending on the terrain. In average - some 500-900 meters. It makes approximately 550-990 yards.”
“Not bad. Theoretically, the operational radius of my equipment can cover a twice surpassing distance. And what about the discipline among the Azerbaijani forces of the given sector? Are they efficiently controlled by their commanders?”
“I think they’re. But we must remember that many of them can consider an unfair luxury the exchange of a single wounded Afghan for four hostages.”
“You’re right. In this case we’d better find a place with the widest strip of no- man’s-land between the sides.”
“So we’ll limit ourselves to these two sectors: in the north and the south. Here and here.”
“Well. I’m sure that your intelligence has intercepted the locations were the Afghans have turn their radios on to suggest the exchange.” 
“Last time the message came from this point of the Northern Sector. It’s within fifteen miles from our nearest positions. By the way, recently we had an alike operation there. So, it’s approximately twenty miles from them to the exchange location you have chosen, and taking into considerations the roads – it’s almost twenty-five miles. This is a lateral road, it’s about five miles far from the LoC and it joins the highway in this point. All in all, their approach to the exchange location will require no more than an hour drive.”
“Perfect. And now, could you show the dispositions of the radical wing mojaheds?” 
“So, do you want to reveal all our secrets?” the Colonel laughed and returned to the table for his cognac. “By the way, Gregory managed to grab a good chocolate. Why are you silent?”
“Just like a muse I’m silent while the guns like you speak.” 
“Come on, buddy, pigeons have already built nests in the guns like us,” the CS turned to the guests, who were still examining the map. “Someone has calculated that each second few million layers of spirit molecules evaporate from the surface of an alcohol drink. I suggest draining the glasses in a more prosy way.”
Accepting the offer, the guests picked up their glasses and returned to the map, where the Colonel was marking the possible locations of the Afghans. There was not less than forty miles to the planned exchange site from there. 
“I see,” went on Pat, “to make the picture complete I’d ask for an elevation that would allow me to set up the equipment to monitor the vicinities.”
“It’s not a problem. Approximately here, to the northwest we can find what you need. The position was repeatedly bombarded in past, but now it’s exactly what you need. Anything else?”
“Could I ask for a paper and a pencil?” 
“Here you are,” the SC picked up the requested stuff out of the table, “please, take my place. Don’t worry: the fact that you had occupied – even for a short while – the chair of the Chief of the Karabakhi Army Staff will be remain here. As well as everything we had touched upon in this room.”
Patrick hemmed and, sitting at the desk of the ‘extremist’, quickly outlined the scheme of the operation.
“In my opinion, the exchange can be done according to the following script,” started Pat, “by 10 a.m. we’ll be by the LoC and start arrangements in this point. I’ll need less then fifteen minutes for that. Meanwhile, your valorous scouts will take positions within 500-600 yards to the left of the highway and to the north from our location and will immediately inform you about any movement on the opposite side. We’ll need four men to carry the wounded Afghan. As far as I know, he’s not in a mood to walk, so we must transport him on a stretcher, must we? Then, we need two more men to transport four bulletproof army vests, as we’d better have additional security measures. I hope you’ve got the equipment, have you? And now, let’s talk about the sequence of steps. Your men with the stretcher will come to this point, leave the Afghan on the ground and move back for yards; meanwhile the guys with the vest will stay there. Six Afghans will convoy Alex to the stretcher, take the wounded man and, leaving Alex and one of their men, walk back; the fifth Afghan will carry the vests. Your man will put the remaining vest on Alex and accompany him to the initial point and then further to your rear. Then the Afghans will put the vests on the children and accompany them to the point of exchange. Here your soldiers will get the kids and return back with them. The same will be done by the remaining Afghan. I’m sure, that the last two could be the field commanders of the sides involved.”
“Let’s assume,” the Colonel moved hid hand over his hair, “let’s assume that all these looks like the known task about the goat, the wolf and the cabbage one should get to the opposite bank in a boat. I wouldn’t like to be accused of avarice, but what's going to happen with our stretcher?”
“You'll sacrifice it, Colonel.”
“Any other sacrifices, Patrick?”
             "I don't know. Though.., I think that our dear professor of linguistics would rather have to sweat a little.”
“So what I’m going to face with this time, Patrick?” asked Paul, gloomily tracing the flight of the partner’s thought.
“I wonder if you could be on the starting position to supervise the situation from there. You speak Armenian and Pushto, and so you’re the very person to coordinate the actions. Equipped with a portable radio set, you could monitor the dialogs of the Afghans. Thus, simultaneously you would be in a permanent contact with us. As soon as Alex approaches to the starting position you could take him further to the rear. Don’t worry, professor, I’ll brief you about everything you’ll need to do.”
Well, it was enough. But Patrick apparently had decided to go further, as thinking a while he turned to the CS still studying the map.
“I guess that for the sustainable safety of our academician we’d better rob him in something more suitable to the moment than Newton’s Cloak. What do you think, Colonel?”
“I can’t guarantee anything fashionable, but an appropriate armor wouldn’t be a problem.”
“Are you going to dress me into a military uniform?” 
“Not a bad idea, Paul. That’s a great advice and we’ll follow it,” Pat rubbed his hands, “and finally: it’s not a Mameluke attire but a uniform of your brave fellow tribesmen. Thus you’ll have a chance – though a short one – to feel yourself a real freedom fighter. As any civilian, later you can be proud of your military experience, Paul. I hope, Colonel, that you get all these jokes.” 
Paul could only wish to pay back to this Shorty, so a painful search of an appropriate language reflected on his face. 
“Don’t worry, Mr. Zetlyan. We’ll provide you with a U.S. style uniform. I’m sure, that it will suit you.”
It was obvious that the CS and Pat had perfectly banded together. Paul looked at Gregory. That last hopelessly waived his hand:
“You’d better admit that, Paul. Do you really going to resist to the two greatest offices in the human history: NASA and the Karabakh Army Staff... My God, what am I doing here?”
Probably this Gregory was a local embodiment of such a phenomenon, as Pat.
“Well,” said the CS once again returning to the table and adding cognac into the glasses, “at first sight everything is okay, but everything rests against your magical equipment that we can judge about by nothing else but your enthusiasm, Patrick.”
“I see,” he replied victoriously landing down onto his chair, “what I mean is an integrated system, which allows conducting visual, audio and radio monitoring of limited areas. It consists of camcorder, directional microphones and a radio direction-finder integrated with a portable computer. Well and, certainly, it provides protected radio communication.”
“And again, certainly, all the stuff was purchased during a sale-out in a mall, somewhere in between haberdashery and stationery?” The Colonel smiled. 
“I get what you mean. Unfortunately, there in the States you can find anything you wish if you have money, and if you can’t purchase something for money, than you can buy it for really good money.”
That was one of Patrick’s on days, so he let his hair down to pin up the partner again.
“However, the financial side doesn’t anyhow concern your compatriot. I must tell you that as soon as he learned about the problem, he immediately agreed to accompany me for free.” 
“Colonel, I had no idea about the person I had to accompany and already regret, that hadn’t insure my health. However, I’m not a vindictive person, and, besides, our friend had became a grandfather recently so, it seems that the event has irreversibly changed his mentality.” 
“Congratulations,” the Colonel raised a toast for the occasion. 
“And now,” placing the glass back onto the table he said seriously, “let’s sum up. We’re to do some important things tomorrow morning. Firstly, we must make a reconnaissance few hours prior to the exchange. I’ll dispose my men, including snipers, at the appropriate positions. Then we’ll assign one of our intelligence officers to conduct the action from our side: the officer has passed through hell and high water. Secondly, we’ll brief the Afghans and the local Azerbaijani commander about the place and the time of the procedure. Before that I’ll order to imitate activity in the area of the recent exchange in the Northern Sector: few flashed cars will make the radicals to think, that we’re going to trade out our men at the old position. It will distract their attention and even if they intercept our talks with the Black’s group, we’ll have thirty-forty  minutes left to finish the procedure.” 
“Are you sure, that the radicals are aware about the forthcoming barter?”
“More than sure, gentlemen.”
“As we’re a team, then please let me to voice some considerations,” suggested Paul, “I guess that it would be a rather good idea to urge in advance our Embassy in Yerevan to contact the Azerbaijanis and demand security guarantees from their side. So the diplomatic pressure could be useful. And secondly, I’m ready to advice your officer assigned to bargain with the Afghans about the details of the forthcoming affair. I could offer him my services.” 
“You’re right, and I see no problem concerning the first idea. It’s hardly possible to proceed without that, but at the same time they won’t give us firm guarantees we could count on. And concerning the second offer,” grinned the CS, “you do already advise that man, i.e. – me. Let me open a Punchinello secret. In due time I’ve done some fighting in Afghanistan; I’ve served with the Transportation Forces – there were such ones in the Soviet Army. I was assigned to organize secure trucking between Tajikistan and the garrisons on the Afghani territory. That was an important job. And besides, before the assignment my colleagues and I had intensively learned their basic language – Dari. So, my friends, my initial contact with the Afghans took place long before the Karabakhi war. Moreover, today, after years had elapsed I can state that that were your politicians who had initiated the ‘jihad’, thus letting the genie out of the bottle. So today we encounter the outcomes of the job done by your politicians and instructors.”
“Do you mean the situation with our guy?”
“No, I mean a much broader scope of problems.”
“I don’t agree with you, Colonel,” smiled Paul, “Most likely you’ll disagree with me, but to a certain extent these Afghans just pay back in your own coin for all they had suffered during the Soviet occupation of their homeland. But unlike the Soviet troops then, there’re few of them here. While generally, you rather deal with the communistic heritage, and not the plots of few hundreds of the Afghani mojaheds. Would you deny that those who fight you are mainly the same former Soviet Army troops and colonels, just as you?”
             “Everything isn’t so plain, Paul. Our neighbors have been trying for years to label this conflict a religious war to call under their banners different types of Chechen, Arab and other guerillas, let alone the Afghans. Your ally Turkey has also actively assisted Baku by providing it with mercenaries, equipment and even NATO armaments. According to intelligence data the Turks have sent here more than a 100 military experts and even a dozen of retired generals. You might know that even few U.S. retired generals train Azerbaijani recruits in special camps near Baku. As you see, we haven’t come across any generals, but instead I can demonstrate some NATO armament trophies.” 
“We’re getting in an interesting debate, Colonel. You probably hint at our stand on the Karabakh problem? If you do, then, to keep in line with the impartiality we’d better consider some facts. It was Stalin’s Moscow and not the U.S., who transferred Karabakh to Azerbaijan with a dash of the pen. However, the people in Yerevan paid back with a huge monument of Stalin just on the site where, as far as I know, the Monument of Mother-Armenia was subsequently erected. Later, when you asked for reunification with Armenia, it was not the White House, but the Kremlin who pressured you. Let’s admit that the American Congress was the first body to recognize the right of Karabakh to self-determination, while the Department of State was even planning to appoint Edward Jerejian – an ethnic Armenian – the U.S. Ambassador to Moscow with a goal to somehow influence the Russians to stop the lawlessness of the Baku authorities. And you see, the Kremlin refused to grant him the agr;ment. Okay, that’s politics, so we may have a day-long discussion on the matter, so taking into consideration your job I would suggest addressing to more evident examples. You must remember what the Soviet Army has done here? Personally I can understand you: you’ve spent all your life in its ranks and all those actions were unacceptable for you either. You can insist that all the crimes were committed by the bribed military. Let’s admit it. But then let me also state that the decision to withdraw the Soviet troops and, consequently, the directive to grant Azerbaijan the huge amount of arms and ammo came from the top levels of the Moscow politics. The Kremlin allowed the pogroms, sanctioned the deportation of your settlements, armed your neighbors, and finally, withdrawing its troops left you t;te-;-t;te with those thirsting to eradicate you.”
“You know the prehistory of the conflict, Paul, and I’m not the one to justify the crimes committed here by the Kremlin politicoes. But in fact, all these became possible during the reign of those you Americans would praise for the removal of the nuclear ‘threat’ and abolition of the Warsaw Pact. These men have pushed the country to the verge of chaos, corruption and other things we had to pass through. Your arguments about the U.S. positive stand sound credibly, but let's get back deeply to the root of the problem. As you may know, according to the August 10, 1920 Sevres Pact your country was authorized to take the mandate over exsanguinated Armenia. In those days a gleam of hope for salvation appeared in my nation, which had gone through the horrors of the Genocide. Your President W. Wilson became the embodiment of that hope. And what was the outcome? The United States together with the civilized Europe turned their backs on Armenians – their sole allies in the Caucasus. We were left single-handed against the Turks, Azerbaijanis and the Bolsheviks. The alliance with you cost us a 3-front war, thousands of casualties and the loss of what had remained from Armenia. Given that desperate deadlock, only the Sovietization could save what we still had. I can’t say for your people, but the mandate over Armenia was your first serious test in the Old World, the first challenge within the historical mission that your politicians so eagerly speculate about. However, you refused to take the dare, thus shaking my peoples’ trust in your country and the entire civilized world.”
“History is a double-edged weapon, Colonel, and many things here depend on standpoints. Before the historical period you’ve mentioned, the Czarism was also among the allies of the Armenians. Its emissaries were promising a close fall of the Turkish yoke. But the Czar didn’t show due eagerness to prevent the annihilation of our nation. My family had paid for their trust in the Russians. You’ve mentioned the Sovietization and the fact that the Bolsheviks have saved the remains of Armenia. It’s true. But can you deny that tens of thousands of deported men and women – deprived of homeland, family, property and any prospects for future – were saved from death mainly thanks to the American missions and organizations? I can admit your stand towards America: though we’ve the same ethnic origin, anyway we’ve grown up in two different worlds. But let's put everything aside and just cast a look on our fellow tribesmen who were welcomed by America. Their first generation got there without a single penny to bless someone with; their children grew up in prosperity, while the grandsons have achieved everything that diligence and dedication can earn. You can probably reply that you had the same story in the Soviet Union. That's all right by me, but there, in the States, nobody would put us into echelons and send to Alaska just because we’re Armenians and we’ve national self-consciousness…”
“Take a look at this discussion, Patrick,” hitherto silent Gregory wiped his glasses and placing them back to the tip of his nose, bent to Patrick, who had been silently observing the unfolding battle of intellects, “it’s a typical manifestation of our national mentality. So, in the red corner we’ve a representative of academic circles, an expert in tongues and nations I’ve an extremely vague concept of. And the blue corner is occupied with a gifted serviceman, who, I’ll even dare to say, has achieved a lot on the field of restoration of the historical justice. Nevertheless, now both of them behave as average gapers who kill time while in wait for a belated bus. Indeed, neither the difference of the ideologies, nor the academic environment and military drilling can efface what is hiding somewhere on the genetic level. I’ve been expecting a debate on global matters, so the tightened discussion of your affair began to disturb me. But now everything fell on its places.” 
“A brief conversation on patriotic topics will do well,” yawned Pat, “we, the Irish, generally do it after a couple of good mugs of Guinness. You rather prefer two cups of cognac. I see nothing extraordinary here.”
“Do you mind getting out to the balcony and take a breath of fresh air. We could speak there.”
That was a timely idea, and Patrick followed the advice. Gregory appeared with the glasses and the bottle which he placed on the wide metal handrail.
The quiet city was shrouded in the night cool. A bird somewhere in dense tree foliage was almost evenly counting the seconds: too-too-too. 
“These guys are too absorbed in their chat so they would hardly notice our absence,” Gregory lit up a cigarette. “Indeed, there’s nothing strange in all that, just two adults sitting in a shelled and bombed city late at night and discussing the policy of superpowers, thus neglecting all the down-to-earth realities which start right behind the windows of this office.”
“And what else starts here except on this pleasant evening, my friend?”
“The truth, which states, that empires come and go, while the problems remain there. The war is almost finished, so we’d better look forward instead of glancing back.”
“That’s what the politicians are paid for, let them tackle the task.”
“If you mean the conflict, then I don’t think that politicians are able to solve it in the nearest future. And as of the ‘Wilson & Stalin’ pondering – that’s a really senseless piece of fun: all we need is to build a state and achieve its recognition.”
“With all my respect, Gregory, it seems that your hopes for recognition don’t fit to the political realities.”
“What do you mean?”
“Even if we put aside the political peripetia – trust me, there are enough of them – then such an act will require from the international society something more tangible than just a plain political declaration. Today you demand independence, while tomorrow in the face of the difficulties you’ll request development money. And if as a state, you aren’t able to deal with a set of routine problems, then my friend, you’ll have all the prospects to become another headache for us. State isn’t just a hymn, a coat of arms and things like that, but the responsibility. You won’t allow anyone to drive a car without driving license. When it comes to driving, you easily admit the reasons of mistrust, but when we speak of the inability of a state to care about its people – you hesitate. I’m not a racist, vice versa, but look how many independent African states have proclaimed the care for the hundreds of million people to be their top value, while the world still puzzles over feeding them all.” 
“Paul is right: we do belong to different worlds. Your pragmatism is based on the principle that in any circumstance you put on a pedestal the material side, while we’ve been persistently taught to materialize the ideas. If you’re so skeptical about our right for independence, then please note that our right for statehood is based on a much more solid and reasonable grounds than your excise marks venture, which led to the sinking of the tea-ships and the War for Independence.”
Probably Pat’s didactical manner had touched Gregory on the raw so the last decided to make an appropriate passage into the American history.
“That’s not a serious stand,” hemmed Pat, “you compare oranges with apples. The U.S.A. is the first democratic state in the newest history, and it has demonstrated the viability of a completely new concept of statehood – based on freedom and democracy. I can assure you, that our Founding Fathers were guided by much higher values, than a banal rejection of the British. So, do you really see anything comparable?” 
“No, we don’t, otherwise as first step we would have to introduce slavery, then abandon it and finally, heroically overcome its outcomes in suburban Stepanakert for more then a century. You did achieve a lot, but now your declarations about the free and democratic society sound well only from the UN tribune, while within few blocks they’re nothing worthy but a paper to pack sandwiches in. Thus, you don’t leave us a chance and following your judgment, all we have is to throw ourselves upon the mercy of those who didn’t even conceal the aim to cut our throats. If so, what would you advice us to do?”
“I guess, you should return to Azerbaijan, try to find common grounds with your neighbors and build a new society based on the values of democracy and mutual respect. The world is changing, and your neighbors are changing accordingly. Sooner or later, you’ll live together, and these are the realities which start outside of this office and which you can never neglect.”
“Your stand isn’t something brand new, and I’ve repeatedly collided with such a position. And I always ask the same question: “Would you dare to demand from anyone in your country, for example, from our friend Alex O’Connell, to renounce the American citizenship and to appeal for other?” I’m sure that your media would name such an attempt ‘a brazen violation of fundamental human rights’; they’ll sue you and oblige to compensate the moral damage, thus making a plucked pigeon. But here you easily suggest that to a whole nation who has experienced the enmity of its neighbors. I don’t mean that we see no way for contacts with them. But I’m skeptical about your vision of our future and, besides, I don’t share your optimism about the mentality shift among our neighbors. They’ve already ‘been’ true communists, but never became, tomorrow they’ll demonstrate their eagerness for democracy, but will hardly ever reach there.” 
“The globe is changing, Gregory. Time will pass and all the negative things your region is full with will be left behind. Now in your perception this clash curtains everything, and that’s why the people here can’t see anything beyond the borders of this forgotten region. You should know that on the background of the global transformations your conflict is nothing more but a local squabble which pushes your peoples back to the Middle Ages. Do you really think that the civilized world can understand those who prefer to languish in poverty when it’s possible to abandon the enmity and hatred for welfare and prosperity? You and your neighbors should come to a reasonable compromise; otherwise all of you will remain on the backyards of the civilization.”
“You may think globally, Patrick, meanwhile you’ve to act locally, so you’ve to consider all the local realities. In due time the Bolsheviks also demanded great sacrifice in the name of the Communism’s victory over the Muslim East. In exchange they suggested us ‘the international fraternity of people and economic prosperity’, just like you. If someone again claims a sacrifice for the sake of a better future, then I want to ask: “Why the hell do we need a future which takes more now than gives afterwards?””
“Come on, you speak about the gone and bankrupt policy of a disappeared country, whereas the U.S.A. is a nation founded on a different system of values. We assign primary importance to individual and his or her rights, but not the social Utopias. And when we speak about the New World, we mean the evolutionary establishment of the primacy of these rights on the global level. That’s our vision of the future, and we see our historical mission in bringing it closer. The history has proved the righteousness of our path, while the proofs are the well-being and prosperity we’ve achieved. We wish the same to all the others.”
“I’ve no doubts about your sincerity, Patrick, but what you’ve told me reflects an imperial way of thinking. Your understanding of the future World Order is a product of your political culture and traditions. It can be understandable and acceptable in the countries where the societies and the elites are based on similar values, while in the remaining world you’re going to face the dilemma of planting or, if you like – the distribution of your values. And coming back to our neighbors, let me insist that in their case it’s rather soon to count on the overcoming of the enmity and respect for human rights. Even more, I doubt that you can explain the charm of compromise to those who initially neglect compromise as a philosophy of conflict resolution. And here, as I think, the most interesting starts: as soon as you realize the impossibility to broker a compromise, then in the name of your oil and other interests you’ll take off the gloves and start pushing until someone fully sharing your optimism appears among us. And then a piece of paper will come, and your politicians will swing it and announce that they’ve ‘brought peace for the entire region’. Something alike has happened in the past, and the story can repeat. But there is a but”. 
“And so?”
Leaning at the handrail, Patrick was letting out rings of smoke and mentally imagining a soft feather-bed: deadly tired, he was about to fall asleep.
“Everything may change as soon as you face what we’ve already collided with.” 
“And what are you particularly talking about?”
“I mean the same mojaheds; one day they can appear in America and launch a war on your own territory.”
“From the political perspective this step would be nothing but a mere nonsense, and from the military – a suicide. I see nothing rational it,” Pat shrugged his shoulders. “What would that give them?”
Gregory laughed and scratched his chin.
“You can challenge my arguments, but never mind. Whatever your think-tanks say, the people of the Orient revere justice, idolize law and fear of force. Any power, able to make the trinity of these components the basis of its policy, will gain here an unlimited authority. But if it neglects the justice and cares exclusively about its own interests, simultaneously raising them into the ranks of law and backing all these with force, then this stare will certainly become the Number 1 enemy here. Listen to my advice: even in daily life you shouldn’t do anything against the justice to please someone, as even that someone would rather turn to your enemy, and not a friend. Don’t get surprised, as in your understanding the friendship with you can enrich that someone with certain benefits, while from his perspective such friendship touches on disgrace, and he’ll not miss the chance to demonstrate his real attitude towards you. Justice is a supreme value, even if it brings to the limitation of interests. Are you really ready to adhere closely to the justice even if it costs you too much? All the powers had confronted with the same dilemma in their attempts to rearrange the world. Look how miserably behaved that Stavropol tractor driver Gorbachev – the man you praise to the skies. He preferred a deal with Baku to our supplications for justice. As the result – he lost us, but didn’t win Azerbaijan’s favor instead. Probably, he hoped that in exchange of the political support to Baku and the reprisals against us the Azerbaijanis will forever remain true followers of Lenin. Nothing of the kind! Today they’re going to sue him. So, my dear Patrick, your friend Gorbi has left the scene, but the chance to trigger a backflash is still there. As a saying goes: ‘Welcome to commit the same mistake!’”
“As I see,” Pat laughed, “both of us have the same bus-delay-problem. We somehow managed to slip into the bog of global politics though I’ve as much Armenian blood as Chinese. Your philosophical reflections are quite original; I liked the idea about Gorbachev. But that was – let me repeat it – another example of the region-limited mentality. It deserves recalling that Gorbachev has removed the nuclear threat – something vitally important for the entire mankind. You easily neglect such a ‘trifle’ like some tens of thousand nuclear warheads, but at the same time are ready to tear him apart for a couple of tanks which ‘the tractor operator’ – as you’ve mentioned – has transferred to your neighbors... No, my dear friend, that’s not us, but you’re deep in various problems. And, secondly, what does it mean – ‘justice’? Do you mean that we must immediately recognize your state, otherwise we and our ‘empire’ will collide from the scene of the history?”
“Everything is as simple as a piece of cake,” Gregory shrugged his shoulders and added cognac into the glasses, “as soon as you get into the deal with the devil and start pushing on us, everyone will comprehend that all you need here – just as in the Middle East – is nothing, but the oil. And then you’ll get a very tight rivalry. Your rights on the hydrocarbon will be challenged, and very soon you’ll be presented a very long list of demands. To make your politicians more flexible, they’ll be blackmailed with ‘inevitable disappointment in your democratic ideals’. And finally the conflict of interests will lead you to war. It would be declared on you by those, who used to be your own lieutenants.”
“And what is your worst case scenario based on, Gregory?”
Patrick sipped the drink and lit up another cigarette: to tell the truth, he was already irritated by the satire and the apocalyptical notes in the words of Gregory – probably the local incarnation of Kissinger. However, somewhere deep inside there was sympathy to this low thickset guy, who was leaning his elbows at the handrail and occasionally glancing at him through his thick glasses. Actually he was Pat’s mirror reflection. A reflection, adjusted for the local realities that Gregory himself would repeatedly mention. 
“So, what’s all that about? Do you really make sort of academic researches or just sell the desirable for the reality? Tell me, I can understand.”
“It’s a plain comparison of the historic facts. All the greatest civilizations which had predetermined the progress of the mankind for centuries ahead, had fallen not under the offences of more developed enemies, but rather less civilized allies, who would willingly take the money and execute fine assignments but hesitate to adopt the rules of play. Let’s assume that your case is something exclusive: though you haven’t enriched the world with epic heroes; anyway you’ve endowed the mankind with chewing gum, jeans, fast food and Mickey Mouse instead. To a certain extent it gains you an indisputable advantage over Rome and Byzantium, but you’ll hardly stand longer than they did. Read what Edward Gibbon says.”
This guy was definitely mocking, though – easily and even friendly. Anyway Patrick would rather abstain from a dispute, as all he wanted was rest.
“Okay, I’ll look through,” he said scratching his two-day bristle, “to tell the truth, I’m bit tired after the road jolting… Anyway, it was a pleasure to listen to your interesting judgments, and certainly, I’m very grateful for the touching care of our historical role. And as you’ve warned us about the danger, then allow me to pay you back. What you’ve told was interesting due to some reasons, and I can even mention a couple of guys in Washington, D.C. who would fully share your assessments with a probable exception for Gorbachev assessments. But all this have nothing to do with your own problems. You speak about justice on a state and ethnic level, but bypass the fact that justice as a value frames the foundation of the developed societies and countries. Within the foreign policy tongue the word ‘justice’ is a fine, but rather an amorphous term, and that’s a token of various speculations. Meanwhile, it’s far much easier and harder when it comes to the internal politics of a country: either you have justice in your land or you haven’t. Remember it before demanding recognition and fair attitude. There was a Spartan tradition: they would repeatedly beat the cradle with a newborn boy at a wall. That wasn’t a pedagogic way of acting, I shall tell you, but the survivors were more prepared for the life. My editor didn’t authorize me to discuss this type of issues, but know: if you strive for independence, then be ready to be beaten at the walls. Your propaganda may name it anyway it wants: the wall of indifference, injustice, etc. That’s not so essential, and the important thing is that if after the beating you still have the vigor to demand your rights – then bravo to you. But if you change your mind and beg for mercy, none is going to fiddle away his time for you. You won’t drink cognac from a cracked glass. That was a sample from my personal history, dear Gregory. To you and yours.”
“All I could figure out is that we’d better stoke up a lot of aspirin. Anyway, it sounds more encouraging, than all these high-flown pacifism,” Gregory smiled and shook Pat’s hand, “it was a real pleasure to talk to you, man. It becomes rather chilly here, let’s get in.” 
They drained the glasses and returned to the smoked room.
Fortunately, the global topics had been exhausted here too, and the interlocutors were peacefully talking about their genealogies. It appeared that the CS was coming from an old Karabakhi family whose descendants had served in the Tsar army with good faith and fidelity and had repeatedly reached high ranks and even general regalia. After the Sovietization of Karabakh the Shoushi branch of the family which could somehow survive the Armenian slaughter of March 20, 1920, now faced a lot of additional difficulties. They were deprived of the rests of property, but could avoid the subsequent reprisals only by miracle. Escaping from the delations and persecutions of the mid-thirties, they moved from Karabakh to the Northern Caucasus where his father – a doctor by profession – was lucky to get a job in a regional hospital. When the World War II begun, he was mobilized and sent to serve in a field hospital, but few months later called back and assigned to the position of the Surgeon General of one of the army medical institutions allocated by the Supreme Command in the former sanatoriums and resorts of the Southern Russia. And here in 1941 was born the boy who would subsequently become the Chief of the Karabakh Army Staff. His childhood passed in a military environment, which along with the family traditions would later predetermine the choice of a life path. In his eighteen he joined a Military College in Rostov, where, by the way, he learnt English. Then he served in the Soviet’s Far East, Central Asia and Afghanistan. The Karabakh war found him somewhere in the vicinities of Moscow, where after the termination of the Afghan campaign he had been waiting for his retirement from the position of Mounted Division Deputy Commander. He came to Karabakh as a volunteer in the end of 1990 and only recently learned to speak more or less tolerable Karabakhi Armenian dialect. His wife and the younger daughter came with him to Stepanakert to survive the war. His older daughter was married in Moscow.
On the background of the Colonel’s restrained story Paul’s narration looked more colorful. His grandfather was born in Smyrna, on the western coast of the Ottoman Turkey where Zetlyan family had a Trading house supplying fruits to as far as Europe. According to the family tradition, his great-grandfather had started the business from a single pomegranate. He was thirteen year-old, when passing the quay with a pomegranate in his hand – an efficiency award from his tanner-daddy, he came across with few ceremoniously walking Europeans who had just descended to the coast from a moored yacht. The boy was speeding to the house of the black-eyed beauty – Paul’s future great-grandmother – with the goal to win her favor with the peel cracked juicy fruit. The rookie-tanner was about to round the next couple and plunge into the well-known street, when a low gentleman in a cream suit, a felt hat and twisted thin mustache, suddenly barred his way by a bamboo cane topped with a silver lion-shaped knob. The boy lifted his eyes to meet the eyes of his destiny. Then he couldn’t even know that the low woman in her twenty-five, dressed in a white, lace decorated dress unable to hide her pregnancy anymore, smiled to him with the very smile the ancients used to ascribe to the goddess of chance. The woman’s eyes were turned to the boy’s palm. Meanwhile the gentleman, pulling his short moustaches, pointed the cane at the pomegranate and shoved his hand into his pocket for small change. Paul’s great-grandfather was a clever kid who had already heard somewhere that pregnant women had longing for sour; however he had his own plans for the pomegranate. He shook his head and was about to hide his hand behind his back, when something forced him to reconsider the plans: he saw Maro’s father on the opposite side of the street – a rich trader, known in the city for his habit to bargain with Greek fishermen who would place their evening catch onto the quay. Sedately touching the amber prayer beads, the trader turned the dear corner, thus burying the boy’s hope to meet with the darling. The boy’s spirits fell and he stretched the pomegranate to the lady and refusing to take the fee turned to home. Meanwhile the woman, who had probably taken the boy’s despair for a generosity gesture, motherly put her arms around his shoulders. Then she passed her umbrella to the husband and digging for a while in her straw handbag almost forcibly put a small gold coin into the boy’s palm. The gentleman’s short moustaches thus sadly shuddered – something the great-grandfather would subsequently remember with laughter.
The native wit allowed the boy to quickly take his cue from the event, and the next morning he appeared on the quay with a small carriage full of ripe pomegranates – his offer to the rich Europeans traveling by sea from the Old World to the Holy Land. Fatigued by cruise, the foreigners would willingly buy up everything able to interrupt the nasty smack caused by the ship tossing. Owing to diligence, the boy could expand the business in a couple of years, and few more later, when his capital gave him the right to marry Maro, he presented her a graceful gold pomegranate-shaped ringlet with 3 kernels looking out the cracked peel – the very one meant for the trader’s daughter that crucial evening. He took the event as a foresight and ordered the jeweler to decorate the ring with the Cross, and four Armenian letters on its sides:  “À.À.” and “Z.Z.”, which meant “The Lord’s Palm, Zetlyan, Smyrna” in Armenian. Subsequently his son – Paul’s grandfather – expanded the trade to Europe and, alongside with exotic fruits, began to deliver the pomegranate wine – a drink hitherto unknown for the grapevine connoisseurs. Becoming an influential merchant, he would never forget his father’s precepts and would generously give alms to beggars and help the families of pregnant women. The Genocide of 1915 found him in France, but, apparently, his deeds went ahead of him: his neighbors protected his family from the thugs and arranged its departure from the city on an Italian trade vessel. Then his family had moved from Europe to the U.S.A. a year prior to the Nazi occupation of France. They settled in the Northern California where both the climate and the landscape reminded of their native land. Paul was born by the end of the World War II and became the third son in the family. Though he was named after his legendary great-grandfather, he, unlike the brothers, preferred science to the family business. Anyway he remained the favorite of the family and his mother, shortly before her passing gave him the family relic – the grand-grandmothers ringlet.   
The Colonel was sitting with thoughtful face. It was obvious that the pomegranate story left an indelible impression on him. Probably he was thinking about the resemblance of the fate of the Armenians of Turkey to the relentless lot of those forced to leave the familiar spots some seventy years later. The past of their families had indeed precisely followed the formula, according to which they fellow tribesmen would everywhere and always became the victims of shocks and disturbances. In this regard the Young Turks closely approximated to the Bolshevik Commissars: people were killed, plundered and expelled from family hearths. And maybe he was imagining the sun-warmed granite pavestone of the quay and a swarthy barefooted boy with a pomegranate in his hand, looking forward for the meeting with his Maro and far from believing that a time would come when all this idyll of the green seaside city would be put to fire, sword and destructions. The soot of the fires would cover the white walls, the tile roofs would fall, and the fishing boats would serve to take the people to the middle of the bay and drown them in the sea.   
Paul suddenly realized that instead of leaving the family relic in N.Y. or even Yerevan, he, for some reason, brought it with him to Karabakh in the inset pocket of his raincoat. He recollected Dora and her wedding. Tomorrow they would get the guy and he would have enough time to organize an open-air. Why not? Why should Gnocchi make arrangements for a restaurant if it was possible to throw a good party on a picturesque lawn with a pond and even swans? Looking at thoughtful Patrick he decided to invite the fat man to the party, get him and Gordon bamboozled as the dickens, and then feed both of them to the bloodthirsty swans.
Meanwhile, Patrick was counting up the amount of the alcohol he had consumed during the past two days. The statistics were unfavorable for his liver, so he arrived to a conclusion that it was the right time to put an end to the sentimental discussions about the lower middle class history and to go to bed.
Probably his local ‘variation’ was fully sharing this idea.   
“The gentlemen must be tired, and they certainly need some rest,” Gregory broke the silence, “and, besides, Colonel, they’re our guests and not the hostages.”
“Yes, you’re right,” the CS was still under the impression of the discussion, “just a minute.”
He called his aide and ordered to get the guests to their host.
“Good night, gentlemen,” he told them at parting, “you really need to have some rest, while we had soaked ourselves in the past totally forgetting that tomorrow we’ve a lot of things to do.”
Gregory shook hands with the Americans, but didn’t leave as he had something to discuss with his friend. 
“What a tale you’ve sold to the Colonel?” Paul asked the partner in the car violating all the rules.
“We’ve got to do the job quickly. As soon as the parties sign a peace accord, a big trade for the captured, hostages and the missing will start with involvement of international structures and mediators. Azerbaijanis will certainly request our hostages for a centralized exchange, and no matter what they sell now to our Embassy, actually they would hardly care about a wounded Afghan. And if the guys from the Red Cross engage into the business, then the next day muckrakers will write the genealogy of our boy back to Abraham.”
Trying not to make noise and wake up the hosts, the Americans got upstairs to their floor, where in the light of a kerosene lamp they cast lots to distribute the beds. Then Patrick opened the window, took of a small antenna and switching on the computer, checked the messages. 
“We’ve got nothing serious. They bosses inform, that they’ve warned the Embassy in Baku.”
The bed went to Patrick, so Paul lied on the sofa as and bending hands behind his head, asked the partner:
“I’ve a question, but please tell me the truth.”
“Go on,” answered Patrick, making himself comfortable on the king-size. 
“Well, and who was the owner of the private company you’ve worked for in Houston?” 
“Uncle Sam was, who else?” Patrick turned aside and soon fell asleep.



CHAPTER 17

Paul woke up at around 8 a.m. Despite of the late morning hour the room was dark, so he thought that it was about six. Generally speaking, such a late time was a deviation from the usual schedule: probably it was the outcome of the last day and the jetlag weariness. As usually, waking up in a new place he couldn’t immediately comprehend where he was, so he examined the light-blue ceiling of the room. Then Pat’s dissatisfied muttering returned him to the reality.
“Get up, Colonel,” he was packing his gimmicks into the black synthetic road bags, “our glorious Captain expects us for breakfast within fifteen minutes. I wouldn’t mind fried bacon with eggs, a crackling roll and a glass of orange juice. The English aren’t angels at all, but hardly anyone in the world has invented anything worth, than their breakfast.”
“What’s up? Why the rush?” Paul gave a stretch.
              The sofa was soft, but short and while Patrick had ‘rolled in luxury’, he had to spent all the night long with his knees bent. And, in addition, his shoulder ached. 
“What a rush are you talking about, my friend? Everything goes according to the schedule. But this foolish weather can deliver us serious troubles.”
Through the narrow cracks of the yellow-shot curtains Paul saw the cloudy sky resting at the green top of the nearest hill. It wasn’t raining; anyway the lead color of the clouds wouldn’t foretell anything good.
“Thank God that we have no fog,” Paul pulled his trousers on and passed to the bathroom. “Have you contacted Gordon?”
“Yeah. Our Ambassador to Baku has met with the right people, and they promised to provide security from the opposite side. But your opponents have two preconditions: they don’t want to publicize the situation among their own people and secondly, they’ve obliged us to keep the information about the mojaheds in secret. Therefore, only a limited number of people on the opposite side will know about the forthcoming exchange. The Ambassador promised that their conditions would be satisfied.”
“So, they worry that their troops can shoot down our scribbler and then write off everything to a gushed impulse of patriotism? What else?”
“A bad news: we can’t receive the satellite pictures of the terrain.”
“Are you serious?” Paul was standing in the doorway with a tooth-brush in his hand. “Another surprise? Nobody in Washington found time to whisper to me that we’re going to put in action the Strategic Defensive Initiative.”
“Your mordancy is out of point. You should have realized from the very beginning that I’m here not to brighten up your travel. Come on, help me to push this damn tripod into the bag. Well. And so, Colonel, romanticism is over, and it’s the right time to place the fighters like you into the Natural History Museum exposition. And now a small secret: our mission has assumed such serious dimensions that it was planned to broadcast the show on the air, and a dozen of egghead guys guided by an unselfish move were even going to cling to the screens to secure ours asses from the geostationary orbit. Do you catch the scope? But given the current weather, it appears that we’ll work blindly. Certainly the folks in your shop could invite a couple of sorcerers from your super secret Black Magic Department. There are rumors spreading that you’ve gone as far as such nonsense. I can imagine a bonfire in the middle of the Situational room and the wild howls of the staff shamans conjuring the Great Spirit to grant us success.” 
“Don’t dramatize the situation. Probably your bosses have brought forward the satellite idea with an aim to secure themselves in the case your improvisation turns out a proper mess. I can understand them. I bet that you’ve got a whole cinematographic archive there. By the way, are you going to demonstrate all these to the CS?” Paul asked poking his brush into the equipment spread out on the table. “He’s clever enough to track its origin. So, don’t disappoint him, Pat, show him the “U.S. Government Property” inscriptions. Yes, and finally, don’t forget to detail your yesterday tricks in your report.”   
“Okay, you’d better finish your struggle against caries: we’ve 5 minutes left”. 
Forester was waiting for the guests in the court yard, at the table set for breakfast. Taking a shot of burning mulberry vodka on empty stomach the partners quickly tasted some sour cream, greens, homemade cheese and began to load the bags into the white Niva. 
It would take an hour to their first destination – a small town, located within few miles from the front line. There they had an appointment at the Defense Army Local Headquarters. The broken asphalt damaged by heavy tracks and explosions, was dodging along the southern foothills stretching to the northeast from Stepanakert. Ruins of settlements, burned down tanks and other Soviet-type machinery would often come across to them. After fifteen minutes of driving, a wide and flat plain reaching out for hundred miles up to the eastern coast of the Caspian Sea opened to the right from them.
The Defense Army Local Headquarters were located in the eastern suburb of a small town, in a U-shaped shabby building of the former school. Its windows were covered with thick green polyethylene film, and the only relic of the former magnificence was the low pedestal erected in the middle of the court yard. Most likely, in due times it had served for the idol of the world proletariat’s leader or something more prosaic and suitable to the environment. And now, instead of rushing kids the court yard was occupied by few worn-out vehicles and the remainder of the winter firewood – the long thick log, serving as a bench under the windows of the left wing of the building. Somewhere not far, probably behind the corner, a small power generator was working.
Forester entrusted the visitors to the local military and promised to arrive to the exchange site with the Chief of the Army Staff. The local Commander, a large man in his forties with magnificent moustaches and short haircut, offered the visitors a special tea brewed of local herbs.
“You must be very glad that the war will end soon, aren’t you, Commander?” The question Pat asked after shaking the stretched hand was rather out of place. “I can understand you.”
“May be others, but me,” answered the officer almost with a challenge in his voice. 
“What a militarist”, thought Patrick and returned to his bags.
Maybe he was right. And maybe not, as his interlocutor had been waiting for the order to advance for two months, daily observing with the aided eye his home and the courtyard where he had to bury his mother killed by a splinter in the winter of 1991. So, given all these, the end of war would threaten to leave her in an eternal captivity. Who knew?
While Patrick was pottering with the accumulators, Paul decided to chat a bit with the Commander, while the last took him to the distant corner of the room and nodding towards Pat, cautiously asked:
“Is he a military expert?”
His eyes were full of mistrust. 
“He’s a highest class professional.” 
“Is he?” the Karabakhi scratched his nape: probably he missed the hidden irony. “You know, his shapes inspire no trust.” 
It turned out that the CS had ordered to the Commander to acquaint Patrick with the terrain, to accurately follow his instructions and, if requested – to provide him with all available assistance. The Commander thought that was a too big honor to a foreigner, to tell the truth.
Patrick had to charge the accumulators, so the Commander personally accompanied the VIP guest to the signalers’, located somewhere in the building. Paul was left to himself, so he decided to have a walk in the yard. 
Passing by the corridor, he looked out through the only open intact window with the glasses. In spite of the early time there were some people gathered in front of the building: mainly women and few men in military uniforms with bristle on their cheeks. The log was occupied by a picturesque elderly couple. The old woman in a black dress and a dark kerchief was leaning against the wall. She had a folded variegated scarf on her knees. Her husband – an old man, in a smart dark-green Stalin-style service jacket, still fashionable among the senior generation of the locals, was sitting by. His chin was resting on the handle of a self-made cornel walking stick, gripped on the breasts level by his knotty calloused hands. The picture was crowned with the same Stalin-style green peaked cap placed next to him. With every opening of the Headquarters’ door, the hope would replace the intense expectation, hiding on the wrinkled faces. 
Paul recalled his grandfather – father’s father. The gray-haired old man, found of drawing invisible scratches on the hot Californian asphalt with the tip of his walking stick, had never distinguished himself by sociability. By the end of his life he had retired from the business and would usually prefer to spend days sitting on the bench in the front yard of the house with a pictorial view of the ocean.
“Poghos,” once in a warm April evening he called up small Paul, who was playing ball on the lawn in front of the house, “come here, boy. Do you see this sea?”
Through the high crones of the poplars, growing in the coastal park below Paul could make out the crimson solar disk slowly disappearing behind the horizon and leaving a narrow pinkish path on the rough surface of the ocean.
“Yes, I see it.”
“So, you must know that it doesn’t look the same everywhere.”
“And where does it look differently?” asked the boy, surprised by the garrulity – a merit so uncommon for the Grandpa.
“Where I was born,” answered old man smiling.
“And what does it look like over there, where you were born?”
The old man frowned, thought for a while and pointed his walking stick at the house.
“Go to sleep, kid. It’s late.”
He never learnt good English.
He died with a smile on his face: probably the death was able to realize something impossible for the life – to take him over there, where the sea looked differently. 
             “These are the relatives of the children.”
Paul turned back. That was the Commander speaking.
“The relatives of the kidnapped children,” he said, “they know about the exchange, and are waiting for the kids.”
The Commander walked out to the yard where the people immediately crowded around him.
The old woman couldn’t stand up from the log – most likely she got her legs numb. Her husband passed her his cap and slowly moved to the crowd.
After observing the conversation for a while Paul went to find the fat man and soon noticed him through an open door sitting on a wooden stool with a radio in his hand: he was gesticulating something to two young signalers. Those, apparently, were smart guys: they were nodding their heads and trying to explain something to the ridiculous American.
“You’re right in time, Paul,” said Pat raising his hand, “I’ve reprogrammed these two portable radio transmitters of your brave compatriots. Now tell them what they should do...”
Paul did his best to diligently translate the fat man’s instructions.
Then he returned the radios, opened the notebook, changed some options and conducted a short training.
“Good boys,” the American backslapped the ‘students’, “tell them, Paul: you, guys, must explain all these to the people who will take part in the procedure. Yeah, and tell them, if these guys someday look for a good job, then they can count on my recommendations and friends.” 
The soldiers timidly smiled: they comprehended that the foreigner is pleased with their smart, however their young brains weren’t yet familiar with the term ‘a good job.’
While Pat was reprogramming the second radio, the Commander came in with a stumpy officer, who had a plastic bag with a U.S. Army uniform for Paul. Indeed, the CS liked to play practical jokes. 
“His name is Kamo, he’s a former Soviet intelligence officer, a major, and he has passed through the war in Afghanistan and even fairly speaks their language. He’ll conduct the procedure from our side, so now we’ll leave him to brief his man how to act within the integrated radio network. I’ve an order to show you the terrain. The CS will drop in by 11 a.m.” 
“I hate, when handshaking smoothly passes into a bare violence,” muttered Pat rubbing his hand while climbing into the Commander’s UAZ to join Paul. 
The travel to the front-line took less than twenty minutes. From afar it seemed that to the north and north-east the wide hilly plain was resting against high mountains, while to the south and south-east its green rim was scraping the low dark clouds of the horizon. And only when the car stopped, Paul could discern the edge of the canyon which, according to the map, was sharply projecting above the bed of a small but tumultuous mountain spring – it must be said that he hadn’t waste the time in front of the CS’s map. Meanwhile, the Commander drove the car to a bottom land hidden from the opposite side by a small hill with a dug-in command post. Several bearded soldiers met them on the trampled patch in front of the dugout and helped to unload the equipment. According to them, the tactical situation had been relatively quiet since the morning, and the opposite party hadn’t demonstrate any special activity, and only the sounds of distance-muffled single shots would sometime interrupt the idyll.
Paul had to change his clothes, so he was guided into the shelter secured by the clay hill-slope. It was a small ten by five feet space with two erected wooden pillars holding log-made thick planking, illuminated by the dim light of a smoked kerosene lamp hanged from the ceiling. There were mice vigorously poking somewhere among the logs, and their racing routes were clearly marked with silvery trickles of dust and small clods of clay, crumbled on the rammed earthen floor. The both sides from the entrance were occupied with two-storied army beds, with their beams decorated with grapes of faded army backpacks and Kalashnikov sub-machine guns. Even in the weak light of the lamp he could see that the beds were occupied. But as nobody reacted to the appearance of the unbidden guest, Paul realized that these men must be the night wards.
While putting on the U.S. Army uniform he suddenly realized that he had never took part in an action dressed in this new type of garment. Though he had to play a civilian, he tucked in the trouser legs into the high shoes and toughly laced them up. He pulled the cap over his eyes and was about to get outside, but then stopped to tuck the tunic into the trousers. That was a violation of the drill regulations, but the ‘Professor of Linguistics’ – as he was named by Pat, could be unaware of such nuances.
Paul’s ‘entrance’ caused cheers of the military, including the Commander who grinned and turned up the ends of his moustache. The bearded men dressed into the camouflages of almost all the armies of the world, kindly smiled and raised their thumbs – the local equivalent for “okay”.   
“Wow, look, what we’ve got here – a real American colonel,” Pat cast a deliberately estimating look at Paul and standing at attention, ceremoniously saluted.
The audience appreciated the joke and echoed with a loud laughter, while one of them even shouted out a command, and everyone, including the local military boss, stood at attention trying to remain serious.
“At ease, gentlemen!” Paul kept up with the fun and nodded in all the directions until he met Pat’s eyes and said: “Stop clowning around.” 
The footpath leading to the observation point was sheltered from the enemy by a low grass covered embankment. Rounding two tanks and an APC, the local chief officer, the Americans and two soldiers bent down to pass the insecure part and enter into the trench, climbing up the elevation topped with three rocky boulders. The boulders had chipped smeared with soot seating deep in the shelling cracks.
“Last winter we had a large-caliber machine gun here, it would stop the advance of their infantry on our left flank,” the Commander leaned against the foot of a stone to move his handkerchief over his neck, “during one of the action they pushed us back and shelled this position from a tank. I had two men here. One of them managed to crawl away, while the second – eighteen year-old boy – was killed. When his cartridges ran out, he tried to adjust our artillery fire by his radio, but the third shell splinter swiped half of his skull away. Before the war he used to live in that house.”
Half-rising, the Commander pointed at the long village below, which occupied the both banks of the river. The nearest house with the rests of red tiles of roof was a mile away. The right bank of the river was narrower then the left and it had the canyon slope jutting out above it. There was another village down the river, while further to the east, where the mountain ridge was smoothly joining the plain, they could make out one more settlement. That one was larger then the others and it was linked with the vicinities of the hill with the serpent of asphalt passing the field within 400 yards from the edge of the canyon.
“There’s a small cleft right between the two stones here, we’ve deepened it and now there’s enough room for two or three persons to stand in full-lengths,” continued the chief of the local Karabakhi forces. “You can easily observe the road from there, but I wouldn’t recommend show-up anyway.”
It was about 10 a.m. The low clouds continued their slow advance from the east, finally burying Pat’s hope for clear sky.  “What shall we start with?” he asked Paul, who was scrutinizing the vicinities in field glasses.
“I’m fixing the advanced posts, observation positions and possible locations of the snipers of the opposite side. They could promise anything to our Baku Ambassador, while on this particular land we’ve to deal not with promises, but people. It would be useful to have the schedule of the watch change within a mile.” 
While he and the commander were carefully scrutinizing the Azerbaijani positions, a messenger appeared to inform that Kamo and his team had arrived to the dugout shelter.
The commander left two of his men at Pat’s disposal and went down. 
“And now let’s see the equipment in business,” said the fat man when he and Paul remained alone: the soldiers didn’t speak the language of these strange foreigners, so they peacefully dozed at the western side of the boulders.
“Nothing special,” Pat clapped on a bag placed in the entrenchment, “it’s sort of a CCVS – computer connected video surveillance camera. Its lens gives the panoramic picture of terrain, and given the 100-fold digital increase system we can make out even a pimple on a nose within a mile range. We can identify moving objects in the standard and the low motion screening modes. In all cases, we obtain necessary data about the shapes, the speed and the trajectory of moving objects. We can also switch to the infra-red mode at nights, and then the effective range will drop considerably. Besides, we can use the mobile thermal sensors. That’s just for info; I don’t think that we’re going to operate them today.” 
“It’s slow.” Paul shook his head. 
“You take it too lightly. This baby has a reputation of a perspective product.” 
“It must be there, at the Cape Canaveral. And whom did you use this device against - Fidel Castro's divers?”
“Add the Russians and don’t forget about the… damn alligators,” Pat sworn, “there were thousands of these creatures there, and they can steal up to you better, then any of your special forces.” 
Paul burst out laughing.
“And how could Houston dare to refuse the honor to host such an inimitable security officer as you? Your individuality would do them credit.”
“I was dismissed after shooting down one of these knaves... It was trying to gnaw out a fiber-optic cable.”
The answer of the fat man provoked Paul’s Homeric laughter, and soldiers surprisingly glanced into the cleft. 
“A crocodile hunter?” Tears welled up in Paul’s eyes, “So, all your cock-and-bull stories, you’ve tried to feed us by yesterday, were true? And how about the butterflies; you could have some sophisticated devices, simulating female squeak? Or we’d better inflict locusts on these mojaheds?” 
Pat smiled too.
“Okay man, that’s enough. You must have seen the baby in business. She’s still undergoing some improvements, and pretty soon they will start producing an army variant: the picture will be projected on a small helmet screen, right before the left eye.”
 “Well, what else can this cigar box do?” Paul loudly blew his nose.
It was a special pleasure to pin up the Shorty in his own manner.
“We can shape up the mathematical model of the controllable terrain, make distance bindings by the built-in laser rangefinder and provide few closed radio channels. Besides, the system includes a set of small range radio direction-finders, a radio frequency noise installation system and two directive effect microphones. But we can’t use them, as the river rustles too loudly, and we can't place the microphones in a close proximity with these Afghans. I think that’s enough.” 
“You’ve already mentioned a list of advantages, so all you may farther need in it’s a microwave and a built-in toilet,” said Paul, warningly lifting his hand. “Okay, okay, let’s talk trade. How much time you need to install all these and how can I help you?”   
“I need less than fifteen minutes. These two guys will assist me and I’ll talk with you later, when I have the camera ready.” 
Pat aimed the lens at the road and photographed all the space adjoining to the probable exchange site. After learning the spots, which were identified by the computer as color anomalies, he spent few more minutes processing the information and creating a schematic plan of the area with hollows and the elevations marked into different colors and tones.
Observing the mentioned manipulations, Paul advised the colleague to move the green cross a bit southwestward from the asphalt. It would slightly shift the exchange point from the Karabakhi positions, but meantime – limit the visual access of the uninvited guests to the zone of direct contact. Now the exchange would take place a little below the road embankment and any potential ill-wisher from the northern side would have to get on the road and rise at full length to witness the procedure.
“I hope, there no mines there. Can you control the entire area?”
“From this location its scope can provide about 250 yards range, and if you need more then I’ll move the objective manually. But thus, each time a significant part of area will fell beyond the scope control.” 
“Okay. We’ll assign an observer and a sniper so that they can completely control the approaches to the edge of the canyon within up to 800 yards in the south direction. For this purpose the observer must be there, on the opposite side of the canyon, some 450 foots above the river,” Paul pointed his finger at the top of the rounded bushy mountain, towering above the river, “while the sniper must take positions on our hill, yards below the slope, among those bushes. His arch of fire is the edge of the canyon and the asphalt road.” 
Patrick inserted the specified positions into the scheme and designated them with Latin letters.
“The situation is even more complex on the southern side,” Paul thoughtfully scratched his chin. 
“You’d better shave. By the way, I could offer a built-in electric razor.”
Paul, however, missed his colleague’s retort.
“…a ten to fifteen degrees steep slope, an open space, an abandoned building, two high trees, and all these in the middle of a dry vineyard with its southern and southeast parts out of view. I’m sure that there must be drainage ditches left; they should run into the main channel. And here we’ve got a bend within some hundred yards from the exchange point.”
“I wish we had the satellite images. Then everything would be okay.” 
“Maybe. We need two observers on the southern direction. One of them will stay in that point while the second should be placed further in the rear, on the slope of that hill. A common binocular is useless here, so we need a binocular periscope for him. And now concerning the sniper... The relief doesn’t allow controlling all the terrain even if we assign few more men for that purpose.... We shall discuss the problem with the locals, later. Now let’s pass to the exchange point.”
Pat drew a red circle in the center of the exchange area, then added two orange lines within fifty yards from it – that where the initial positions for those who would carry the stretcher with the Afghan from the Karabakhi side and those, who would bring the hostages from the opposite side. Within 200 yards to the east and west from the circle Pat drew two yellow lines, thus designating the starting sites for the entire operation. The cars would stop within another 200 yards distance from the yellow lines. 
“You’ll stand here. By the moment our guy crosses the circle and moves towards the orange line, you’ll take your constitutional to receive him halfway. Your historical meeting will take place approximately here. You can even clap him on the shoulder. I promise to keep the photo. Then you can initiate a high society conversation on neutral themes; let’s say the weather or horse races. Whatever, don’t forget to move to here, I mean the rear,” Pat was shifting the short nail of his index finger over the monitor, “however, even overwhelmed with an impulse of joy and deep paternal feelings to the guy, you must strictly keep in mind that here’s the most dangerous piece – open to the fire from the bend of the channel and lacking control from our side. I think that we’ll have to abandon the idea to place a sniper for this direction.” 
“What else?”
“Give me your sunglasses. What a style, summer of 1975?”
Patrick got out a tie-string, used to keep the glasses hanged on neck.
“I think you’re aware about the toy. There’s a radio in the length fixing letch, right around your neck, and the microphone turns on from your voice. A tiny loudspeaker fastened on the side of your sunglasses, exactly above your ear. If it doesn’t suit, you can adjust it.”
“What a stupid toy! An ordinary radio will do the job.”
“Don’t exaggerate my modest capacities. I’ll keep you in touch through a secure channel, so can unostentatiously supervise the event. Don’t worry, as I promise to inform you about all the movements. If needed, I can redirect your instructions to the right men.” 
“Well, all is clear: you smoothly place the responsibility for your improvisations onto my shoulders, aren’t you?”
“You won’t feel any regret about that, trust me. Don’t forget that I’m just your modest armor-bearer, Milord. Yeah, and the last: we’d better place the direction finders to catch any radio within a mile range. So, to make my life easy, we’d better ask your compatriots to temporally vow radio silence.”
“What a beauty... Anything else? I would be surprised, if you’ve limited your fantasy to such poor tricks.”
“And now the most important – my pride,” Patrick solemnly clapped on the display, “here I’ve got a program which scans the air for any of the keywords: ‘hostage’, ‘exchange’, ‘captured’, ‘shoot’… It does it in Azerbaijani and Pushto simultaneously. Don’t ask me about its origin. And so, my baby permanently records several soundtracks forty-five seconds each and erase them, if the keywords aren’t found. In the case it fishes anything worthy – she’ll playback the audio in the decreasing order.”
“Now you're making sense, man. That’s a really useful option. And how much did the Chronicle pay for this combine?”
“At this particular moment the device costs a great scandal in the Senate. By the way, I’m still unaware of your political predilections. Are you a Democrat or, maybe a true GOPster? In the case you’re on the Elephant’s side I have to make you swear... Hey, look, someone below is signaling to us. I think, it’s Kamo,” Pat rimmed his wrist, “he should remember that we’ve already greeted each other.”
The fat man was undoubtedly in a good mood.
Paul beckoned the assigned soldiers to instruct about the installation of the direction finders – T-shaped devices, resting on flat plastic basis with a thin wire bobbin and a small rotor inside. And soon the soldiers slowly crawled downhill in opposite directions to place the toys in the specified places. Pat adjusted the equipment and satisfied with the done work, whistled twice. Leaving the soldiers to creep back, Paul descended to the scouts, gathered by the command post.
“We’re ready,” said Kamo, nodding to the group of his men gathered around the truck.
Loaded with Kalashnikovs, SVD sniper rifles and ammo, his men were silently smoking and examining the stranger. The bullet-proof vests were heaped in front of the dugout.
“Patrick said that he needed to brief the officers and the scouts. His devices are ready, and he’s waiting for the participants of the operation.” 
“Let’s do it quickly. The Chief of Staff ordered us to finish the arrangements within forty minutes,” said the Commander and headed to the height first.
              Reaching the destination, Kamo arranged his team in a semicircle on the western side of the top and proceeded to Pat to get into the details of the plan and the positions allocated for observing and sniping. As soon as the Commander learnt about the capacities of the equipment, he changed his opinion about the fat man and the doubts about the skills of the American disappeared immediately. The Commander willingly approved the plan and promised that his men would do their best. Soon all of them went to the soldiers.
Leaning back to a stone, Patrick enthusiastically began the instruction which would more resemble an army chaplain sermon in front of a decisive battle:
“My brave friends, I know that many of you have passed through hell and high water, have come across with death, destructions and other negative things. War is full of trials and challenges, which unfold the qualities that an individual would hardly ever demonstrate in routine, daily life...”
The intricate speech of the fat foreigner in jeans and a green sports jumper was taken by the scouts as one of those rare entertainments one could meet in the field.
“...I mean the bravery, courage, readiness for self-sacrifice, and, certainly, the ability to constrain appetite and readiness to do with the toilets of extreme transparency...” 
Laughter passed through the audience after the translation: the man was gaining sympathies. Pat knew what he was doing.
“But today let me appeal to other merits which you’ve undoubtedly developed not less, than those I’ve already mentioned. What we need today is vigilance, accuracy and composure. Within less than an hour we’ll exchange the Afghan with the hostages – your three boys and our journalist. I see that all – be it the children, their parents, and, certainly, you – suffer just because of an American journalist, who couldn’t stay at home. And again, I see that because of him, right at the very end of the war, maybe just few hours before the peace is established, you’re to risk your lives, which the Lord Almighty has saved in all the peripetia you’ve passed through the past years...”
Pat made an effective pause and ran his eyes over the faces of the scouts.
“So, consequently, as soon as we get him back, I promise to kick this worthless scribbler’s ass.” 
Everyone laughed: the contact was established.
“But until it happens,” went on Pat, “we’ve to sweat a little. You might know that the current exchange isn’t an ordinary procedure you might have conducted many times before. The problem is that there must be few bad guys sitting now somewhere on the opposite side and puzzling over how to do a bad turn to us. If we allow them to cheat us, and if they appear to be cleverer then us – the outcome will be sad: we can lose our relatives. Now I’ll ask Kamo to divide you into groups. We need five strong guys to carry the stretcher and the vests, a sniper and three observers – sharp-sighted and able to work with radio.”
              Evidently, Kamo had solved the division of labor problem in advance, as after a smooth reshuffle everyone took his place.
“So, I address to the observers first. I hope you’ve already been instructed about the sequence of actions while working with the programmed radios. Well. All you have to do is an hour of eyes’ work and a few seconds of brains’. Don’t mix the task. Your immediate superior will specify your permanent supervision sectors. If you notice anything – don’t hesitate to report it by radio and keep on scrutinizing the area. We fully rely on your experience, friends. And now, take your positions and be ready for our signal. As soon as you have it, you should start working in the specified mode. And if you see anything before that – be prompt to report.”
Kamo took the observers aside, told them few words and sent them to the positions. 
“Well,” said Patrick following them with his eyes, “now it’s the sniper’s turn. Son, you’ll be provided with a headphone and a microphone. Keep them switched, it will allow you to do you job without distracting to anything else. I hope that everything passes smoothly and we don’t need your services. But if we do – then you’re our last resort and hope that the hostages will remain intact. We’ve placed the exchange point in a manner that the potential opponent will need time to approach the firing position, and then he’ll need few more seconds to take aim. This amount of time must be enough to take him on the sight and report about the situation. You must overcome the temptation to hit a good target, and always remember: “Don’t shoot without the command!” And now go, we’ll stay in contact with you.”
The sniper checked his rifle once again and, reloading it, moved to the position. “I’ve nothing to tell you, Kamo,” Patrick wiped his forehead and sat down next to the Commander, “you know, what to do. I’m sure that you’ll handle the job.”
The Karabakhi hemmed and lit a cigarette: he had already briefed the rest of his team. The Commander looked at his watch: it was about 11 a.m., which meant, that within fifteen minutes he had to contact the Black and inform him about the precise place and time of the exchange.
While Pat and the Commander were making out the minefields and the opposite side’s guard changing schedule, the scouts, led by their chief, got downwards where everybody was waiting for the CS. Soon Paul joined them with the Commander, who had probably done a couple of miles on the route. 
              “Can you hear me?” sounded Paul’s earphones. “Tell me something, I’m checking the gear.”
“I’ve got good audibility, check out the direction finder.”
“It works. Charlies are silent.”
“Old kind times’ nostalgia, man? Is the frequency really secure?”
“Nobody hears us, including your conscience.”
“Then listen carefully: you must warn the locals that your Miracle Baby can’t be operated during thunder-storms.”
“So, what?”
“You still have a time to kneel and pray to God for a better weather. Otherwise you’ll have two choices: either you’re grilled by lightning, or Alex's daddy roasts you on the chair. Make your choice,” laughed Paul, “Over.”
“Thanks for care...,” Paul’s earphones cracked, “instead of kidding you’d better arrange something for lunch. Just for your own information: generally on Wednesdays I have tuna salad which I wash down mainly with a cup of MacCoffee.”
“What dung, man,” Paul left the trench and passed the open terrain, “though, you know – tastes differ. Well, let me try to send you something more suitable to the case. Have you ever tried Soviet Spam? Over.”
“Does it contain anything else but pure cholesterol? Over.”
“You’d better order a send-out pizza. Over.”
“Jester.”
Paul passed Pat’s request to the Commander. The last smiled and called up one of his soldiers – a young man with magnificent curly head – to whisper something into his ear. The guy obviously liked the forthcoming task: disappearing for a minute he returned with a small tray craned with a greasy can of stewed meat, an aluminum fork, a chunk of bread and a big faceted glass of vodka. With a white wafer towel over his right hand picturesquely bent and pressed to his breast, the guy could hardly hide the smile on his face covered with a stagy courteousness.
“Good boy; he used to be a waiter before the war” laughed the Commander. “Your Patrick is a real godsend for my guys. They had no such a fun for a long time.”
The ‘waiter’ calmly nodded.
“Tell the customer,” the Commander kept the same playful tone, “that all these are on the house.”
The guy, accompanied with the laughter of his friends, ceremonially walked to fulfill the order.
“I was informed that we keep up with the schedule,” said the chief of the locals, when he and Paul sat on a dry log, “the CS is on his way and will be here in minutes. He had already contacted with the Afghans, so they’ll drop in within forty – forty-five  minutes. The car with our Afghan is coming too. So, my friend, we’ve got a window for meal.”
The solder were gathered around a long stage made of planed planks mounted on artillery shell boxes. One of the Karabakhis, notably the cook, signaled to the interlocutors. 
“Hey, what the hell did you do with the can, Paul?” The earphones indignantly cracked. “This canned meat masquerade must be your brainchild.”
“No, that was the Commander’s idea,” nodding to the Karabakhi, Paul pointed at the earphones and then the hilltop, “he asked to inform you that all that is on the house.”
“I’m dazzled by his courtesy and attention. But that must be you, who’ve lynched the can and dragged it through the mud. All it needs now are few feathers from your tail. Over.”
“Relax, that’s grease. The Russians used to spread it over caned food to preserve it. Don’t be surprised if it appears that the veal was slaughtered in 1964. Enjoy, as a bottle of that old wine would coast you at least few hundreds.” 
“Stop that bullshit. You’ve spoiled my appetite, and besides your friends on the opposite side are moving. Listen.”
“Everything is okay,” said Paul after hearing the record, “they’ve just received the order to get ready to the procedure and to move all the unnecessary witnesses back to the rear. What else? Switch me to the observers and snipers. Attention: the opposite side is preparing for the exchange.”
“So,” asked the Commander, “show time?”
“Yeah, getting ready,” Paul nodded to the east. “By the way, Pat liked your meal.”
The man smiled and went to instruct his subjects by his wire telephone line.
             The CS’s car and the Medic Service's minibus appeared practically simultaneously. The Colonel, accompanied with three men – one of them was old buddy Forester – got out from the UAZ and approached to the soldier. The men rose from their meal, but he asked them to sit down and continue the repast.
“Where’s your commander?” He looked around.
Then, noticing Paul he slowly moved toward him.
“You look like a true fighter. Your friend was right – military dressing suits you. Well and where’re we now?” 
While Paul was informing him about the preparations, Patrick joined in by radio to report about the movements on the opposite side. Judging by the last intercept, the other side was going to meet the car with the hostages. Soon, after finishing the detour of the nearest outposts, Kamo and the Commander joined the CS and Paul.
“Your Patrick isn’t bad in all these,” said the Colonel, “I’ve practically nothing to add. Though..., in the case of danger the sniper should make his first two shot by tracer cartridges. And let Kamo get a smoke bomb with him. ‘Ad omnes casus’ – just in case, as the Romans used to say.”
The CS and the Commander went to the observation post, while Paul informed the team about the Colonel’s decision.
The earphones replied angrily:
“Does he plan to make fire correction? The snipers could do the job with the ordinary ammunition. And what if the opposite side shells back?”
“…And misses some 100 feet up the hill… Your fears aren’t groundless at all. But don’t forget, that we’re only guests here.”   
“You’re a beauty… Everything is quiet, over.”
However, there was reason in Pat’s words. Paul joined Kamo, sitting on an empty shell box. The Karabakhi was examining his pistol.
“Do you really need a smoke bomb? The smoke can make an excellent reference point even for a blind.”
“It depends on where you throw it,” answered Kamo and loading the pistol, stepped to the car with the Afghan.
The stretcher could be seen partially through the minibus’ slightly opened rear doors. The wounded man was motionlessly laying on his right side. Half of his face and the palms were bandaged, and the once white surface of the dressing was marked by yellow-red spots of blood. 
             Getting closer to him so the Afghan could see him through the singed lashes of his half-closed eyelids, Kamo asked him in Pushto:
“So, Najibulla , you war is over, isn’t it?”
The mojahed murmured something back.
“If you ever decide to appear here again, then just take a look at yourself in a mirror,” said Kamo in Armenian emotionally kicking the tire. “Listen, as soon as I meet you here again, I’ll slaughter you like a ram,” added he in Pushto.
             The wounded didn’t answer.
“Take a look at his eyes,” Kamo said, “he looks as an intimidated wolf.”
“And I thought that the men of your job usually abstain from expressing hatred toward enemy, moreover – a captured one.” 
Kamo stepped back from the car and sat down on the grass.
“I’ve old scores with them, still from the Afghan war. You can’t even imagine what they used to do with our tank and APC crews. Once they mined the road we used to drive our vehicles to the rear repair shops. When the blast crushed the forepart of the APC, the driver died immediately. There was no ammo in the APC, so the rest of the crew – two officers, unlucky to take the first passing vehicle on their way to home for vacation – had to creep out from the top hatch. One of them was seriously wounded in his head, and both of them were contused. They were beaten and interrogated by the mojaheds. As soon as the attackers learned that one of them was a Muslim, they ordered him to shoot down his colleague and thus join the ‘warriors of jihad’. The officer refused to do it. Then they decapitated the wounded man, and then burnt the Muslim officer alive. We learned the details of their murder after few months, when we managed to capture one of the participants of the punishment. These two officers were my friends since the military college.” 
“Were they Armenians?”
“No, the wounded one was a Russian, his name was Sasha, he was from Voronezh, and the second’s name was Samir,” grinned Kamo, “he was from Quba – a region of Azerbaijan, and we used to call him ‘the Quban’; in Russian it sounds almost like ‘the Cuban’. It’s to the northeast from here. Strange things happen...”
“Did you have any other Azerbaijani friends?”
“I did.” 
“Have you met them during this war?”
“No, I haven’t yet.”
Paul kept silence for a while.
“May I ask another question, but fill free not to answer if…”
“Go ahead,” Kamo was drawing small triangles on the trampled path.
“What would you do if you saw your friend in the scope sight?” Paul also took a chip in his hands.
“I would shoot his hand or, even better, his leg off,” answered the Karabakhi without any hesitation.
“I can’t call it a merciful act…”
“I can,” Kamo went on imperturbably, “as with a shattered bone he would certainly go to hospital, stay there for months and eventually get his honorable resignation. After that he could hardly do anything harmful to us... I assume, that he might become handicapped. But thus, quite possibly, I would have saved him from a less discriminating bullet then mine.”
Thinking for a while he shrugged his shoulders and added:
“Yes, perhaps that’s everything I could do in the field for a friend, appeared on the other side.”
“A rigorous logic,” Paul replied thoughtfully.
“The risk is really huge, so the main task is not to miss the mark,” nodded Kamo. “That’s why in such cases you’d better aim at feet and shoot only on a dead certainty.”
Probably he misinterpreted the American’s remark.   
“Beg your pardon, I had no intention to interrupt your creative discussion,” even the headphones couldn’t hide Pat’s sarcasm, “you were so lovely chattering in your mother tongue, that I would wish not to litter the air with information about such trifles, as the exchange of our guy. Judging by your sighs and the pathetic tone, you must have discussed women, haven’t you? Paul, the Colonel is here, he says you’d better walk to our guy without vest, if you don’t mind.”
“What happened? Problems with the model?”
“No, sir, the idea is to make the things easier for you. Over.”
“That sounds reasonably. Anything else? Over.”
“You may congratulate me: the CS appreciated my plan. Over.”
“Fill free to refer to the fact in your C.V. Over.”
“Thanks for the inspiration. By the way, Professor, according to the Colonel, the opposite side has warned its troops about the exchange of the captured people for a very important person taken prisoner by the Armenians. Can you imagine the upset if they learn the truth?”
“Get back to the job, Pat; now you resemble a teen radio DJ. Over.”
However, Paul perfectly knew that the colleague’s fussy chatter was caused by the intense expectation. 
“...The Afghans are approaching. The Colonel made some shifts in the plan: Kamo will get to the mojaheds and talk about the procedure. Then all goes in line with the former plan. Remember, your starting point is the large bush. Push out together with the stretcher. Over.”
“Got it, and am moving ahead. Over and out.”
“And the last, Paul. You don’t have to stick your neck out. Someone may take you for someone else.”
The hint was clear.
“You’re right. Tell me know if anything goes wrong. Let me hear everything as soon as Kamo meats the Afghan commander and starts the talks. Then I want to have their further radio contacts. That of the Afghan’s is most welcomed.”
“Consider it done. Good luck.”
Meanwhile Kamo got the last instructions from the Colonel and switched off the radio. Then and took out a piece of a white bed sheet and waving it to Paul, climbed up the hill. Few minutes later he got down by the opposite slope and stepped on the asphalt which was making turn on the approaches to east side of the hill and extending along it. A shabby green UAZ minibus parked on the road far ahead, within approximately 600 yards to the east from the Karabakhi positions. And then a small figure in black got out and moved to Kamo.
Paul couldn’t see all these. Leant to the car, he was waiting for a signal, neighbored with the four soldiers, assigned to carry the stretcher with the wounded Afghan. The fifth one – a tall brawny fellow in his thirty – thirty-five – was there to transport the vests. One could read bewilderment on his sun burnt face. 
“According to the observers everything is okay. Our friend is negotiating,” cracked the earphones after a pause.
Kamo was reporting that the Afghans had no objections about the place of the exchange, but demanded revision of the procedure. Their commander’s argument was the lack of manpower to perform the multi-step exchange combination. Besides, he didn’t get the bulletproof vest idea.
“Okay,” said the Colonel after a short pause, “tell him, that we need the vests just in case, as we’re afraid of provocations from his compatriots. Pass him our conditions: we want the journalist first. Let them take the wounded into the rear and then bring the children. Warn him, that they’ll be on our sights until we’ve the kids. And let him warn his bandits not to act fool. If he accepts the condition, we’ll start the procedure. But before, I want to see the children.”
The Afghan agreed to the conditions and called up one of his man.  The last quickly returned to the car and soon the children were taken out of it.
Paul was eager to see his old friend, though given the current situation the term ‘friend’ would hardly suit for the man, negotiating from the opposite side. Jafar must have changed a lot, and besides, his age…
“He asks to clarify what exactly our fears of provocation are caused by,” Kamo’s voice was heard again. “This guy looks alerted. He must be afraid of something.”
“Damn,” the CS swore, “tell this clever head, that his former comrades-in-arms are aware about the exchange, and he has some twenty minutes left before they arrive. If he wants his man back, he’d better move his ass. This isn’t the place and time for useless discussions.”
“We’ve problems, Paul? Our friend Colonel seems to be nervous. Over,” asked Patrick.
“Don’t worry, everything is okay. What do you have? Over.”
“Kamo and the Afghan are at the exchange point. The bad guy gave a sign, and they’re unloading the journalist.., he looks alive. He can walk. The CS gave the sign, so, you may go. Over.”
“Did the Afghan speak with his men by radio? Over.”
“No, he’d signaled the orders. Over.”
The gentle hill-slope covered with rare vegetation and small ball-shaped prickly bushes, was left behind. Here, at the top, he felt the gusty breath of the warm wind. The wavy plain, that Paul had examined an hour before from the builders-marked position, was lying ahead. Indeed, hardly anyone could find a more dangerous place for a machinegun nest. He waited until the stretcher team reached him and slowly accompanied them down to the road.
As he expected, the field commanders were within some 300 yards away, standing a bit lower then the asphalt. Further on the asphalt he made out the minibus with the people standing around.
“What do the observers signal, Pat?”
“Everything is okay. The Afghans have returned the children into the car, our guy is outside, and they take him to Kamo. The guy looks well.”
By that time Paul had reached the large bush – his starting position on the way to the hostage. The others came by and placed the stretcher on the ground. The robust guy come the last. He dumped the vests on the asphalt and sitting atop, lit up a roll-up and spat the tobacco crumbs on the asphalt. Paul turned back to the captured Afghan and their eyes met for a second, making the mojahed powerlessly lean back on his bed and moan. He was certainly jolted in the stretcher and now his burns must have been causing him an intolerable pain. Paul felt pity and turned away to look at Kamo. He did it just in time, as the Karabakhi waved the white cloth.
“Here you must descend from the road and walk in parallel to it. Don’t step far aside, it can be dangerous. Stop within sixty meters from Kamo and follow his instructions. Well and you,” Paul confidentially clapped at the large guy’s shoulder, “will accompany them but only with one of these things. You’ll get there the remaining as soon as the Afghans get the kids. Got it?”
The guy shrugged his powerful shoulders and, putting the vest over his shoulder, followed the stretcher striding through the dusty grass. Soon the procession reached the destination. A group of five men were approaching to them from the east. One of them looked different even from afar. 
              “So, Paul, a bit more and we’ll have our guy. Over,” Pat’s voice sounded in the earphones. 
             “Do we have news from the observers?”
“Don’t worry, professor. The people report that everything is all right. There’s nothing interesting for us on the air. Over.” 
“Don’t relax, Patrick. According to my calculations the ‘guests’ can appear within forthcoming fifteen minutes.” 
“Keep your fingers crossed.”
Standing on the road Paul could see the meeting of the groups. Coming by their commander the Karabakhis, following his signal, put the stretcher on the ground and stepped aside. The man in black bent over the wounded Afghan, then his mojaheds came and raising the stretcher from the land, slowly moved to the car.
“We’ve got the guy, Paul. Move ahead. Over,” said Pat. He was obviously trying to be calm, but the nervousness of his voice couldn’t escape his partner’s ears.
“What’s up?”
“We’ve got a company, Paul. The CS got a message that a car with military had approached to an Azerbaijani check-post within a mile to the south-east. They’ve demonstrated their IDs and asked for permission to get to the LoC. The commander of the post contacted his bosses and they ordered to block anyone who would try to get to the frontline. The strangers returned to their car and immediately left the scene. Over.”   
“How could you miss such a data? When was it?” 
“Five or six minutes ago. The report was sent by the field telephone and then brought here on a paper... There were no keywords in the conversation; otherwise we’d have it in time.”
Damn, the ‘bad guys’ were ahead of the schedule. Five minutes. It was enough to drive few hundred yards aside and to try to get to the exchange point from the south. He could only hope that the strangers just wished to admire the beautiful landscape. 
“Are you here, Paul?”
“Yes, I am. We need to strengthen our control over the right flank. Let the Colonel warn Kamo, and keep him in touch. Those with him should better sit down: they’ve carried the stretcher and thus could be tired. That won’t raise doubts. I’m moving out. Over.”
He smelled the bitterish odor of the field flowers covering the once cultivated field. Some 200 yards ahead the big guy, following Kamo’s order, dressed the journalist into the bulletproof vest and, holding him at the elbow, leaded to the rear. With each step Paul would discover more and more details in the appearance of Alex O’Connell – the young offspring of the terrible daddy; the journalist and the yellow-beaked nestling that many people had to leave everything for and, risking their lives, get his ass out of the trouble. Wearing dirty and shabby clothes and worn-out sneakers without laces – his boots became a trophy for one of the mojaheds – he would often turn back and then again dejectedly walk by his escort. He wasn’t happy to fill himself a change in another's war.
Getting closer, Paul sent the big man to his burden, and holding the journalist’s elbow, put his right hand onto his shoulder. Alex didn’t react at all. His eyes were full of weariness.
“Listen to me, son. I’m here to get you out of the trouble. Answer to my questions quickly and follow my instructions even faster. Clear?”
“Yes, sir,” nodded Alex, licking his cracked lips: he needed water.
According to the young man the hostages were safe and sound, and their prison conditions were tolerable. Paul’s doubts came true: the kidnappers had no idea what a man had fallen into their hands. 
“Well, man,” Paul closed the tiny microphone in his palm. “You must understand that you’ve caused a lot of noise among certain circles, but your parents and relatives don’t yet know about all these. The locals don’t know who your father is, but guess, that he’s a high ranking official. If asked, you may limit yourself to it. I can understand that you’ve suffered a lot, anyway, as soon as the Karabakhis finish with their questions, you must forget about the incident. Back to the States you’ll sign a paper about nondisclosure provided by a corresponding agency. If you need medical treatment or psychoanalyst they’ll take care of it. Do you get me?”
Alex wanted to tell something, but changed his mind and just nodded.
“And who’re you?”
“Call me Paul. My partner’s name is Patrick; he has stoically stood the hardships of our mission for the past three days. Now he’s on the top of that hill together with the local command members. They provide security for the exchange. You can wave your hand to them.”
“They’re very courteous. And what will be the children’s fate?” Alex cast a glance at the hill mentioned by this strange man. “He must be the one from the corresponding office,” he thought.
             “We’ll get them soon.”
“How’s our guy? He’s hardly moving. Over,” cracked in the earphones. 
“He’s all right, but a bit tired,” Paul demonstrated the earphones to Alex. “Can you tell me anything new? Over.”
“Everything is quiet. And now attention: you getting out to the uncontrolled part. I’m not pleased to say it, but we practically see nothing beyond the border of the channel.”
“Switch me to the all.” Paul turned to the journalist. “Okay, sonny, we’ve got to pass another hundred steps to finish the job.” 
Suddenly he realized that he hadn’t had such an emotion for a long time. The well-known light fever in the knees collided with the warm wave of adrenaline, attaching sort of special, imperceptible sharpness and nervousness to his motions. It seemed that the heart had changed its habitual place and moved towards his solar plexus, and its every palpitation would resound by a measured knock in his nape. Somewhere at the instinctive level he would prefer to bend down and order the former prisoner to hurry up. But he didn’t want to tell Alex about the potential danger: the guy had suffered a lot and nobody knew, how he would behave himself and, how it would generally affect him. Out of the two, he was the only one to realize how unusual was their midday walk that Pat had promised to record for the future generations. Paul imagined the man of nasty manners and kind heart sitting in front of his buttons and peering into the screen till blackout guided with the hope to outstrip the finger placed on the cool trigger. Maybe Pat himself had realized the naivety of his idea with the electronic equipment.
“Keep on moving,” Paul slightly pushed the young man, who had difficulty to walk in the unlaced footwear.
Alex would stop several times to hook the fallen shoe by foot. Paul had two strips of cloth in the pocket, enough to fix the shoes to the boy’s feet and thus to solve the walking problems. But even the short time required for this simple operation, now seemed an inadmissible luxury.
The young man stopped again and balancing on one leg, tried to pick up the slept out sneaker, when Paul’s earphones suddenly exploded with the fat man’s sharp hail:
“To your seven!...”
Paul almost mechanically threw his right foot over the left and gradually sinking on it, began to turn around his axis to the side specified by Pat. Performing the trick they used to call ‘the spring’ back at the Farm, he immediately toppled Alex down by his left elbow. The loud clap of the shot came when the taken aback journalist had already lost balance and, instinctively throwing out his hands, kissed the ground. Continuing to turn around, Paul mechanically tossed his right hand towards the shot direction, and leaning all his weight upon the fallen Alex, pressed him by the left elbow. His right leg was bent in the knee – just as the instruction required. Straightening it, he could make a sharp rush which could save him from the second shot. However, now the situation was different. He had no pistol in his right hand, and besides he had no right to jump aside as he was the live shield to cover the journalist. However the second shot never followed, and the dark silhouette which had flashed few hundred yards away on the background of the green field, wasn’t there anymore...
“Don’t shoot,” whispered Paul and then almost shouted, “Don’t shoot!” 
The earphones murmured something in reply. Everything happened so quickly, that the people at the observation post had no time to recover themselves after the incident. 
Silence fell. Looking around, Paul noticed that his left elbow was stained with blood, while Alex was unnaturally twitching and wheezing. Leaning aside, he turned the young man and cautiously felt his breast.
“I can’t breathe,” whispered Alex spitting out dust and motes. “We were shot at, did we?”
He was pale, but safe: the bullet had just torn his collar and only scratched his neck slightly above the part protected by the vest. Paul breathed a sigh of relief.
“Nothing serious, son, don’t get up,” he removed the vest from the journalist, examined the wound and turning to the hill, demonstrated his thumb. “Patrick, what’s going on there, what do Kamo and his men do?”
“Thank God, the boy is okay..,” exhaled Patrick, getting out of stupor, “after the fire Kamo rushed to the Afghan commander and put pistol against his forehead. Our friend Colonel has three times ordered something by radio, probably: “Don’t be fool.”
“Anything else?”
“The sniper is gone. Kamo released the Afghan, and the last is making bounds to his men. They’ve placed the stretcher on the ground and settled around the car with their arms at the ready.”
             “And the kids, what happened to them?”
“I don’t know.., they’re in the car and we’d better put their return on ice for a while... You were prompt to save the guy.”
“Thank God.”
Paul wearily set back. His shoulder was aching.
Judging by all, the enemy rifleman had planned to provoke the retaliatory fire on the Afghans and the wounded. The irony was that now the captivity was the safest place for the children. Now Paul and his friend could only hope that Jafar, feeling himself indebted, would return the children as soon as he could.
Soon Kamo appeared with his men. He came to the journalist and, noticing the spreading bloody stain on his back, asked Paul: “What’s up?” 
“A scratch,” the American rose to his feet and looked back. “It’s a pity that we couldn’t return the children.”
“We’ll do something..., later,” the scout said, “lift the boy up, we’d better not show up around; the shot has certainly alarmed everyone on the other side.”
The Karabakhis were in a really nasty mood. Kamo ordered his men to pick up the vests, and the soldiers plodded to perform the order. While Kamo and Paul were supporting the journalist who couldn’t cope with the knee shivering, the big guy came to them and easily lifting the former hostage, almost run to the rear. Soon Alex’s shoes, which, as a matter of fact, had saved his life, dropped down to lie lonely in the dust. 
“Hurry up, Paul; we see an activity on the opposite side. We get down,” said Pat.
Strolling by, Kamo picked out a flat flask, unscrewed the cap and passed to Paul for a sip. Clear as day – that was the military stimulant.
“You’d better offered it to the guy,” he said returning the flask.
“This slop isn’t for his guts,” Kamo made few gulps. 
“…You’ve done all you could.”
“I know. You either.”
The vicinities of the dugouts were crowded with men. The Karabakhis seated Alex on a sleeping bag spread over a canvas cape. The guy’s torso was naked, while one of the Karabakhis, probably the medic, was fiddling with the wound with a cotton wool and a vial of iodine in his hands. The officers were also here, around the improvised table. Patrick, who had been discussing something with the CS still a moment ago, went towards his colleague.
“The guy is okay; just a bit nervous. He had twice begged pardon for the kids. He blames himself for their captivity. I’ve given him antidepressant and antitetanic injections. Tomorrow he’ll be ready for handing over to his daddy.” 
Paul dropped himself down onto a shell box. He wasn’t in mood at all.
“Your equipment needs further improvement,” he squeezed out.
His interlocutor was silent. 
Meanwhile the Colonel ordered to get the cars ready:
“Paul comes with me, and let Alex and Patrick take the minibus.”
Then it appeared that Pat had left the equipment on the top of the hill, so asking for ten additional minutes, he minced upwards.
“Colonel and I will catch up with you on the way,” he threw to Paul.
Paul shrugged his shoulders and got into the minibus – to Alex and the soldiers. 
Pat appeared to be right: somewhere on the approaches to the town CS’s UAZ overtook the shabby minibus, and drove into the Headquarters’ courtyard with crowded relatives of the children. With the eyes full of hope, they immediately surrounded the car by a dense ring, but soon the gloomy faces of the military made them instinctively run to the approached minibus. While Paul was taking out the journalist, the most impatient rushed to examine the interior of the car. A low groan spread among the gathered. Some people began to pull Alex’s sleeves, shoving pictures into his face and asking him about the fate of the hostages. 
“The kids…, what happened to them?” A woman loudly bewailed, striking herself on the knees.
The others joined her and soon the atmosphere deteriorated.
“Calm down, they’re safe and sound. The problem is that we couldn’t return them now. Someone shot at one of the hostages,” the CS pointed at Alex, “so, we had to stop the procedure not to endanger the lives of the children. And now, please, step back and allow us to take him to the Headquarters. We’ll interview him about everything he knows. It will help us to rescue the children.” 
The people still unable to recover themselves, reluctantly parted, while appearing by Patrick helped Paul to get the journalist to the main entrance. After making few steps, the young man stopped to tell something. The CS looked at Paul and called everyone to silence.
Everyone calmed. The barefooted American in dusty clothes and a torn pullover leaned at Paul’s shoulder and slowly started, picking his words.
“Dear... parents, friends. I guess what you feel now... Believe me, your children are well. They must be well. We’re kept all the time in the same vault...”
A woman in crowd sobbed.
“...We were kindly treated, fed and sometimes even taken to fresh air. Everybody is intact and nobody is wounded. I can hardly pronounce their names, but you can be proud of them, of all the three... These Afghans are pretty civilized people..,” said he and immediately corrected himself, “if I could say such a thing about kidnappers. I understand, that everything had happened because I...”
Patrick quickly picked him up and led to the door. People stood silent for few seconds and then again surrounded the CS.
The old black dressed woman that Paul had seen here in the morning was still sitting on her place. However this time she was quietly bewailing. The old man standing by was vainly trying to calm her.
When the procession with the former hostage passed by, she once again struck her knees and, rocking, asked the husband:
“I don’t trust them: how they could free this man if they were unable to get our child back?” 
“Don’t speak silly things, Shahen’s daughter. You should know the rules of this world: for certain this American’s father is an important person. And look at our kid: no father, no mother,” the old man hopelessly shook his head and sat down near his wife.
Almost reaching the door, Paul turned back to cast a look at the old couple. 
It took time before the CS managed to soothe the relatives. He promised to do his best to return the children and asked everybody to go home. But the crowd refused to leave until the solution of the problem and asked him to accommodate them somewhere around, so he had to settle this problem as well. By the time the CS entered the office of the local commander, Alex was already dozing on an iron bed placed in the corner and accurately laid by a grey woolen blanket. Sitting behind the desk and slowly sipping green tea from a white enameled mug, Paul was talking with his partner. The last was smoking a cigarette at the opened window in company with a local officer. 
“So, how do you do, gentlemen?” the CS wearily took the closest chair and placed his peak-cap on the desk. “Is the guy sleeping?”
“A common reaction after stress,” Pat threw out the stub. “What are the plans, sir?”
“First of all, let the guy tell everything he knows. Then, on the way to Stepanakert you’ll take him to the hospital, you’ve already been. Let Alex pass medical examination, just in case... Yes, we’ve a chopper flight tomorrow afternoon, so I’ll try to send you by air.”
“Isn’t it dangerous?”
“No more,” the Karabakhi grinned.
“And how are you going to get the children back, sir?” 
“I don’t yet know,” the man shrugged his shoulders, “by the way, Paul, you was pretty fast.”
“My legs sunk under me,” answered Paul.
“That was right in time..,” the CS understandingly nodded and addressed to the officer, silently observing the conversation. “Get ready to put down something.” 
The man took few sheets of paper out of his tablet and sat by the edge of the desk.
“Wake him up.”
Opening his eyelids, Alex hesitated to understand where he was, and what did these military sitting opposite want. Then he made an attempt to smile and interrogatively looked at Paul.
“The Colonel should be informed about everything you’ve seen. Any detail can save kids’ lives,” he said. 
The ex-hostage told everything he had passed through: the fortress incident, the rout of the kidnappers and the front-line infiltration. While telling about their custody in the cellar, he mentioned the interview and the carpet story.
“Bravo, good boy,” the CS clapped him on the shoulder.
A grimace of pain distorted the journalist’s face: the military had forgotten, that the guy, though lightly, but nevertheless was hit buy a sniper’s bullet.
“Damn, I’ve absolutely forgotten,” the CS rapidly jerked away his hand as if the sharp pain piercing the journalist’s back burnt his own palm.
Overcoming the soreness, Alex took out the folded sheets of paper from his pocket.
“Here is the outline of the interview,” he unfolded the paper spotted with fine handwriting.
“We’ll certainly pass the text to the Colonel, but later,” suggested Paul. “Yes, I hope you understand, that neither the interview and nor any other information about the kidnapping, the custody and the exchange should be available for the public?”
Alex nodded.
Then he told that in the morning they were taken from the cellar, given a piece of soap to wash. They were fed better then usually; shortly after they were left sitting on the ground before the vault and kept waiting for about an hour. Then the Afghans’ commander told that they would be taken to an exchange and warned that the captured should precisely carry out all the orders and must be clever enough not to do foolish things. Alex then worried about the children who couldn’t understand the Black and even tried to interpret the Afghan’s instruction by gestures. But in spite of the young age the children were prompt to understand that they would be exchanged and replied to the news by joyful whisper. It was almost noon when the Afghans drove the familiar car into the yard. The hostages were blindfolded, placed in the car and taken to the exchange.
The CS asked to describe the settlement where they were kept and asked, whether there were other hostages too. According to Alex, the camp was pitched in a small settlement located on a slope of a flat, woody mountain, topped with a rock; and besides, there was a mountain ridge five miles away, declining further to the south. The gross vegetation wouldn’t allow him to make out the neighboring houses, but as a dog barking would occasionally reach them, he had assumed, that there were other people in village too. But he was unaware whether there were other hostages among them. 
The CS passed him a paper and asked to draw the plan of the village and the scheme of the house. Then he asked to describe the kidnappers and inquired about the details of the front-line crossing.
“Would you like me to read my records?” Alex asked after all.
“You don’t need to do that, son,” the Chief of the Karabakhi Army Staff rose from his place and approached to the wall map, “firstly, I don’t think, that the Black – as you’ve named him – was too frank with you, and secondly, we’ve already learned practically everything, we need. The rocky mountain you’ve mentioned, should have two tops, am I right?”
“I think, yes.”
“Well, get ready for a trip. The car is waiting for you.” 
The old buddy Forester with the dirt-covered steel steed was waiting for them in the deserted court yard. He helped to load the baggage and took the driver’s place.
“Where’re we heading to? Home?”
“No, first of all we’ll visit the hospital. The Colonel has ordered the medics to examine our guy. By the way, Alex,” Paul turned back to the journalist sitting on the rear seat, “there, in the hospital you can see your friend George.”
Alex, who had passed through a lot of difficulties during the past few days, only now remembered about the one-armed guide – another person, who had got in trouble because of him.
“My God, I’ve forgotten... What’s up with him? I hope he’s all right?”
“Nothing serious,” said Paul, who wouldn’t trust the extra straightforward manners of his impulsive colleague, “falling from the wall he slightly damaged his foot. The guy is going to have a small surgery on his ankle joint or something like that. We’ve already seen him. Don’t worry, he holds his own.”
George, however, wasn’t in hospital: due to the complexity of the planned operation the doctors had decided to send him to Yerevan by helicopter which had already left with him and few other patients in the morning.   
The examination didn’t last too long: Alex was okay. All he needed was a good bath and rest, so soon Forester turned the car to Stepanakert.
“Don’t worry, we’ll try to visit your friend in Yerevan,” promised Pat to the journalist sleepily rolling on the rear seat.



CHAPTER 18

The first sun beams of the May 12 morning found Paul and Pat on the open verandah, peacefully discussing the past day events.
In the afternoon of the previous day they somehow assisted the guy to have a wash in the bathroom kindly prepared by the hostess by their arrival. Alex wasn’t happy to have the procedure in the presence of others, anyway Pat strictly warned him that the wound should be kept dry, so the journalist had to reluctantly reconcile. Changing his clothes and putting on the sports suit offered by the old lady from her son’s stocks, he tasted some chicken broth, knocked back a glass of wine and fell asleep again. Waking up at about 9 p.m. he was fed with a plate of rice soup and took the advantage of Paul’s offer to make a short tour around the vicinities, but got tired quickly. 
“The youth looks a bit spineless,” Patrick had noted then.
He almost forced Alex to take a somnolent and sent him to sleep on the king-size, then he richly helped himself with local-style barbecue and loading up with wine, experienced an impulse of rushed altruism, thus magnanimously agreeing to take the sofa and letting Paul to suffer on a camp bed – something less convenient at first sight, but long enough for him to lay at full-growth. Given Pat’s makeup, the charity he had demonstrated was beyond the courtesy.
Paul was first to wake up that morning. He went out to veranda to breath fresh air filled with the dewed earth. It was very early and, judging by the silence on the ground floor, the Karabakhis were still sleeping. Leaning over the white painted metal handrail, he was thinking about the past events when the door slowly opened to let the tousled Pat out. He had a lit cigarette in his right hand, while his left was assiduously smoothing the rests of his hear.
“Unable to switch off, Colonel?”
“As always before a trip. Any news?”
“The Embassy reports that “everyone is delighted with your job”. Gordon promises you a full set of surprises. By the way, they’ve confirmed the permit to move back to Yerevan by air,” Patrick had a Giaconda-like smile on his lips. 
“We had to have a sort of a thank-you dinner with the CS,” Paul didn’t hear him, “we must give due to the Karabakhis, they’ve done all they could.”
“Come on, lad, he was busy all the evening long. And, besides, how could we organize a dinner...? The guy is sleeping, but we’d better get ready the baggage: who knows when that air clunker arrives. And please, shave your beard off, or you soon will make a real home guard, just as your friends.”
              It was about eight in the mornings when finishing with the bristle on their faces, the partners started packing their bags. Soon Alex woke up too. Still a day before Forester promised to return the belongings that the journalist had left in Metz. But they didn’t arrive yet, so Alex had to use Pat’s razor. Cutting his face by the new blade and cautiously washing his neck zone by cold water, the young man appeared before the critical glances of his guardians. 
“I’m at your disposal, gentlemen.”
“How’s your neck? Does it hurt?” 
“Everything is all right.
“At-a-boy!  Though yesterday you were on the edge to go to pieces...”
Paul shook his head:
“Enough! Sit down, Alex. We’ve something to ask you.” 
The trio took the chairs around the table.
“Why did you come here, son?”
“I had personal reasons to do so, Paul.”
“What we survived was a hairbreadth escape from the irreparable, son. A bit more and all the way back we would have to accompany not an alive and promising young man, but...”
“And that’s why, sir, I’m not intended to speculate about the reasons of my appearance here. I understand that it has caused many problems to other people. Anything else?”
“I like him, Paul, I really do, man. I’ve never met with your Dad personally, anyway I’m sure that he must be very proud of you.”
Forester’s appearance interrupted the conversation. The Captain had a good news and, in addition, Alex's backpack in his hands.
“It’s good that you’re awake. The helicopter will be here within an hour and something. The meteorologists missed as always, and weather turned better before the time it should. We’ve an hour for packing and the breakfast. And this,” he stretched the backpack to Alex, “is yours. It was delivered to the Staff last night, so I received it only in the morning.”
“I knew, I knew it,” Patrick, pleased with himself, rose and rubbing his hands, went to his bags, “I’m practically ready.”
Alex thanked the Captain and went to the bathroom to change his clothes. And while Patrick was murmuring something in the other room, Forester, remaining alone with Paul, gave him a small weighty package.
“It’s from the CS.” 
“What’s in there?”
“I don’t know. He said it might be of interest for you.”
“Thanks.”
There were some folded sheets of paper, a small bundle and a notebook in the package.
“Is it urgent? Does he expect any prompt answer?”
“I don’t think so,” Forester shrugged his shoulders, “he just asked me to pass it to you and I’ve no other instructions on the matter. I think these must be Alex’s.”
“I’ll take a look at these after,” decided Paul, pushing the envelope into his bag’s pocket. “Do you have any news about the children?”
“Nothing consolatory. Our men have intercepted negotiations between the Afghans. It appeared that the rogues demand the hostages. Otherwise they threaten to find and kill the wounded Afghan. This news isn’t for your guy.” 
“We’ve contacted our Yerevan Embassy yesterday to ask them to push on the diplomatic channels to liberate the children. They promised to help.”
Paul recalled the old couple. 
Forester’s family was gathered in the courtyard, around the farewell breakfast table, and even the tiny girl was squirming on the grandfather’s knees, trying to reach the mulberry vodka decanter by the fork she had in her small hand. When the guests took their places, the old man passed the child to his daughter-in-law and with the manner so characteristic to him, suggested a toast to Alex’s liberation and to the prompt return of those still in the captivity. The matter was sensitive, so the silence fell on the yard. Rising the glass for the second time, the old man wished the guests bon voyage and invited with their families to be his guests as soon as the peace was established.
They parted as old friends. The Americans warmly thanked the hosts for hearty welcome. Even Pat, who was generally indifferent to sentiments, kissed mistress’s hand, thus inexpressibly confusing her. The old woman motherly embraced Alex and gave him a bag with home meal. When she wiped the eye water by the edge of her apron, her husband gloomy said:
“Why are you crying, woman? Well, the life has mauled the guy a bit, so what? He’s a man, and the men are bourn to overcome problems.”
Alex and Pat occupied the rear seat of the car, while Paul approached to the old man to shake hands with him.
“I hope that the guests are leaving happy with everything…”
“Everything was all right, father.” 
When the Niva moved from the court yard through the opened dark blue gate shutters, the mistress splashed a mug of water after it.
“That must be another local tradition,” Pat turned on his seat.
“Thus they wish us bon voyage.”
Taking the same road to the hospital they turned to the left halfway and passing few hundreds yards along an acacias alley, drove on the runway of the local airport.
Forester parked the car by the airport building. A small single-storied construction hidden among trees was resting by its facade at a low metal fencing, practically imperceptible on the background of the high grass and young trees with spread out crones. There were a Medical Service minibus and a truck with covered top in the parking area. A little far, on the runway, there was a stocky air defense armored vehicle with its four coax barrels aimed to the sky. There were no people around. Only the sound of the approaching car had moved a young soldier with the Kalashnikov over his shoulder out of the building. Anyway, as soon as he noticed Forester, he waived his hand and returned into the open door.
“We can wait inside,” offered the Captain, turning to the passengers, “there’re camp beds inside, so it would be more comfortable for Alex there.”
 “Thanks, I’d prefer to stay here.” 
“It’s up to you. I’ll be back soon: I’ve got to see my pals.”
“What an interesting place: they know each other and have friends everywhere. Even we have,” Pat leaned back on his place. “I can even doze a little.”
Paul got out of the car: the colleague’s reply reminded him about the parcel sent by their new friend-Colonel. Picking it out of the bag, he looked around for privacy. He didn’t want to enter into the building, so passing along the asphalted platform and turning to the fences, sat on a makeshift bench – a bus seat with its legs half-sunk into the ground. Spreading out his legs, Paul opened the envelope and plunged into reading. Five minutes later he put the letter aside to lean back on the bench. Its shaky legs traitorously squeaked. Then Paul stood up and shoving the contents of the package into his jacket’s pocket, headed to the Niva.
With his legs placed above the folded back of the forward seat, Patrick was peacefully discussing something with the young man, when Paul, silently approaching from the driver’s side, pushed away the driver's seat and catching his colleague by the collar, jerkily dragged him out of the vehicle.
“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Pat was dumbfounded. “What’s going on?”
Ignoring the questions, Paul turned to shocked Alex:
“Stay here, pal. We need to talk.” 
              After few more steps he put the colleague on foots. Pat sharply moved his shoulder and putting strait his leather jacket, said through clenched teeth:
“You go too far.”
“There’s no need to shout, Mr. Galebright. Now we’ll walk aside and you’ll explain everything you’ve ventured. Maybe then I’ll forgive you. Maybe. But I promise to kick Gordon’s ass as soon as I’m back to the States.”
“No,” Patrick almost ran to the bench rubbing his hands, “that’s me, who is going to kick asses. It’s a damn long time that my fingers itch to put an end to his shady business. He must finish the rest of his outstanding career trading balloons at Christmas fairs. That very person was begging me by phone “to render a tiny service” and “to assist a good man”. And what for I had to drop everything and come to this hole? For a blockheaded fire-eater, who, instead of demonstrating gratitude, drags me by collar as if I’m a kitten?”
He sharply stopped and turned to Paul.
“So why did you freeze as an idol? Where’re your injured pride and the thirst to unveil the truth? Come on, move it.” 
Alex was amazed with the speed that the parameters of the situation – of which he involuntary became a witness – were changing. Now the initiative completely passed to the fat man who was impulsively waving his hands and almost running to the fences simultaneously trying to din something into his colleague’s brains. The young man couldn’t get what they were talking about, but judging by the changes, there should be something really important at stake. 
             “What shell we start with?” Patrick dropped himself on the bench and crossed his legs. “Come on, ask me?”
“You knew that the Karabakhi Chief of Staff is the “Fox” – the man, who had been hunting for me in Afghanistan for years.”
“Practically any child here knows that the CS and the ‘Fox’ is the same person. Less then two days ago you had an opportunity to lovely chatter and tell each other different stories about your family trees. Nevertheless, you didn’t even try to find out who actually was that guy.” 
“You and Gordon knew, what our ways have crossed in Afghanistan, did you? Read it!” He passed a sheet of paper to Pat. 
“Stop! What do you mean?” Pat pushed the paper aside. “Do you really think, what your friend Jeremy decided to send you here like a lamb to a slaughter with a hope that in exchange for your life the Colonel will return this greenhorn with a ‘Bread and Butter’ letter into the bargain? And I, according to you, am such a cretin, who decided to bring my own peepers to here just to enjoy the scene how the Colonel personally removes the scalp from your clever brains? Whom do you take me for?”
“I was used by both of you. Like a puppet.”
“Stop again! Let’s define once and forever, Colonel Zetlyan. I don’t like the wording “both of you” at all. You talked with your friend about the trip, you discussed the details with him, and please don’t lay your own fault at my door.”
“Read and you’ll see.”
“If you insist.”
Pat lit up a cigarette and sitting back, started reading with jeer in his voice: “Probably this letter doesn’t totally feet to what’s called the ‘Code of a Gentleman’, but, please, understand me correctly. Least of all I’d wish to insult your vanity: that war has passed, and I consider the present situation exclusively within the context of our last discussion. I don’t want to be categorical, but it’s your country that fostered those who’re now the enemies of our nation. Tomorrow these enemies can become the enemies of your country two. I’m personally a witness that you – the Americans, do already collide with the results of your own politics.”
“So what?” Patrick put the letter aside. “That’s another manifestation of your pathological propensity to argue on global topics.” 
“Go on reading, the third paragraph.” 
“Your visit to me was a delicate and perfectly reckoned psychological step. I applaud the author of the idea and I don’t even exclude, that your bosses have undertaken the plan without even informing you about all the minutest details of the forthcoming mission. In any case, the computation was irreproachable. Indeed, I couldn’t refuse your request for help even if it had required much more efforts.” Pat looked at the partner. “You know, it’s really very touching. I’d even add: it’s poignant. So, what?”
“Can’t you understand? I’ve got an impression that Gordon has specially sent me here to bow before the person whom I had always considered to be my personal enemy during that war. It appears that he has simply exploited me just to get Alex back.”
“You’re not right, my friend, and I can prove it,” Patrick shook his head, “he didn’t even think about setting you up. I bet that few minutes later you’ll even adore him and sing the praises of him. But before I want to know how our friend Colonel managed to identify you. You, as far as I know, have never met each other before.” 
“You can find it here,” Paul offered another sheet, “read in the beginning.”
             “As soon as I got the reconnaissance data about the route of the weapon caravan, I sent there a helicopter. The pilots had found the caravan and opened destruction fire. Then, receiving the exact coordinates, I was there with my men within half an hour. What we saw were destroyed armaments and torn remains of humans and animals. After scanning the area my boys reported that at least two mojaheds could escape. In the bushes behind the footpath turn my scouts founded blood stained clothes, a bandage package, an empty Pakistani first-aid kit and a backpack with equipment. The traces witnessed that one of the Afghans was wounded and that he was being transported by the other. The escapees could have gone too far, and I was about to send a pursuit team when one of the scouts asked me to step aside. “Commander,” he said, “look at this, I found it there.” He had a small cracked-pomegranate-shaped medallion in his palm. “So, what?” I asked him. He turned the medallion to show me the Christian Cross and four Armenian letters. Judging by the black twisted string, the medallion was on someone’s neck yet minutes ago. I remember the eyes of that scout. After wrestling with myself inside, I ordered to withdraw due to the approaching night. Days after, analyzing the event, I came to the point that had almost collided with one of my fellow tribesmen-adventurers, forced by their political sympathies and antipathies to attend all the existing ‘hot spots’ with an aim to join anyone fighting against the USSR. We, Armenians, had such individuals among us. Only later I could realize what kind of ‘fish’ had escaped my net. A year after I lost my Armenian scout in an action; subsequently he was followed with many other boys from my team. And every time sending home the next zinc coffin, I would press this medallion in my hand. A thought would always eat me: if I had ordered to find that mojahed that very day, then many young men, whose faces I still keep strong in my mind, would be alive. And once I put aside a pistol cartridge and sworn, that sometime this bullet would find the person I’d once missed. Many things in the world have changed since; however, I carry out my oath and send you what is yours.”
             Patrick shook his head again.
“Not a bad piece, my friend. According to the style, our friend is throwing down the gauntlet, and I, as far as I can guess, am going to became your second,” alongside with the routine cynicism there was some puzzlement in his voice. “In general, both of you must saddle horses and start fighting windmills... And where are the souvenirs?”
Paul passed him the small paper pack with a pistol cartridge and a pomegranate-shaped gold medallion. 
Pat twizzled the cartridge in hands.
“Listen, Mr. Zetlyan, if the ‘Code of Officer’ calls for your immediate ritual suicide by the cartridge you’ve got, then we must wait for Forester: the guy must have the pistol of the required caliber. And if we put aside all the parquet romanticism, then everything is as clear as daylight: years ago our friend Colonel gave in to an influx of nationalist sentiments and violated his Field Manual, and now, in addition – is breaking his oath to shoot you down. If you consider this note to be the pinnacle of chivalry, then I consider the transfer of ammunition as a first water Pharisaism. To be clear, given your resent trick, I wouldn’t mind if the CS just shoot you down himself.” 
“Your joke is out of place. That’s not saying you much, but we’ve really been the deadliest enemies. Imagine: I didn’t even know that he was an Armenian... However, it isn’t that important, as many of my men fell because of that person. The helicopter attack had left a scar on my shoulder, and I could hardly escape with my whole skin. And, besides, that was Jafar, who got me out. It’s... humiliating. The war cost me everything: health, family and now, eventually – self-esteem. I’m in moral dung now. Look: my friend used me as a puppet, while my enemy did his best for me to get Alex back from the hands of my people... My own people...”
“Easy, man, be easy with your judgments,” Pat mysteriously smiled, as the developments were causing an undisguised pleasure to him, “probably the CS has really left an indelible impression on you, anyway, your complaints about Gordon are groundless. I’ve noticed that you’re greedy for various epic parables. Let me tell you one. I don’t remember where I’ve picked it from, but it really fits to the situation.” 
Paul hanged his head: another cock-and-bull story by the fat man.
“Once upon a time there was a small bird. When the cold winter came, the bird decided to fly to the sun to get the warmth of its beams. It flied high into the sky, but it appeared that there was even colder there. The bird shivered and fell down on the earth. Meanwhile a passing by cow, let’s say, totally packed the bird into its manure. This substance warmed up the birdie, which started joyfully chirping. A passing by cat heard the chirping, approached to the shit and stretched out its paw. The bird thought that that must be a friend who wanted to get it out of the dung, and grasped the paw. But the cat pulled the bird out and ate it. The morals, my dear friend, are the following: not everyone who shits on you is your enemy, and not everyone who pulls you out of the shit is your friend.”
“Well, and what does it mean? I can certainly compensate your jacket, but don’t even ask me to thank you for your plan... It’s beyond my powers. And if you think that this 'dung' warms me, then you’d better give your hand and gobble me alive. Then, probably, I’ll be grateful to you.”
Pat moved his hand over the rests of his hair. An internal struggle reflected on his face.
“All right,” he struck his fist at his palm, “remember, you ask me to do that, Paul. But before, let’s clarify an essential detail which you didn’t even notice. Frankly, the most attention-grabbing for me in all this soap opera was the following sentence of our friend: “Your professionalism is impressive: thanks to you this boy was born anew and he can indeed call you his second father.” Now I’ll explain: even given the obvious propensity of our CS to such kind of rhetorical formulations, the mentioned passage isn’t a mere device of the epistolary genre. I bet that the ‘Fox’ has passed you something else.”
“He did; but it doesn’t belong to me,” Paul rummaged in his pocket and passed Alex's notebook.
“Very well,” Pat rubbed his palms, “I knew it. Did you look it through?”
“Why should I?” Paul shrugged his shoulders. “What‘s can these notes say?”
“I’m not surprised,” Pat looked through the small notebook covered in leather binding, “you’d make an excellent butler. Look here.”
Picking up few photos out of a small pocket, he read the reverse-side inscriptions and triumphantly passed one to Paul.
 “And so…”
“Dora?” Paul was dumbfounded.
“Good boy”, Patrick was scoffing. “And now, let’s read the reverse side: ‘Dora Zetlyan’, the brackets are open, ‘still’, the brackets are closed, and below – ‘the would-be Mrs. Alexander Samuel O’Connell’. By the way, it’s a different handwriting. Further comes ‘Let it be’, and it’s written by the same hand, as ‘Dora Zetlyan’. Actually, we see here an element of a love correspondence written specially for such an intellectual as you. Now I want to warn you in advance that my jacket cost me 200 bucks, and if you dare to touch its collar again, then I’ll sue you in the nearest court.”
Paul, however, quickly headed to the car.
“Hey, what’re you doing? Don’t touch the guy!”
A minute later Paul returned to sit by his colleague who was peacefully smoking and looking afar at the green barrow towering behind the airport fencing.
“Sam Green,” Paul broke the silence.
“Who is that?”
“Damn, if I knew... it’s a pseudonym: Alex signs his articles as ‘Sam Green’. ‘Sam’ is his second name, and ‘Green’ is his mother’s maiden name. He took it because of his dad’s excessive popularity”.
“Thank God Almighty, it comes home to you. Now you know whom we’ve liberated from the hands of your Afghani brothers-in-arm and why our friend Colonel tactfully hinted the ‘paternity’. So now you see why I called your meeting ‘a historical’ one. By the way, does he know,” Patrick nodded to the car, “that you’re a family?”
“No. And now,” Paul sharply turned to his interlocutor, “I want to know everything, all the details.”   
“With a great pleasure,” Patrick started another cigarette and swallowed up the smoke with relish and undisguised pleasure. “Listen. Alex’s case went to Gordon casually, well, almost casually. The question is that the Azerbaijanis had repeatedly explored the grounds in Washington D.C. concerning the possibility of the American participation in the development of their oil resources – something that would provoke an immediate interest of our politicians within their task of reorientation of that nation to the West. JG and his office got a task to confidentially carry out ‘good offices’ between Washington and Baku ruling circles until a more suitable moment, until the issue could be included into the official agenda in the both capitals. As a quid pro quo deal he got a promise that in the future his agency would be officially and profitably employed to lobby the Caspian oil projects on the Capitol Hill. And so, within half a year your friend managed to establish good personal ties with Baku circles, and this, together with his former D.C. contacts had made him an important figure in a broad variety of questions concerning our ties with Baku establishments – both official and the shadow. When our bosses addressed Gordon with Alex's case, he got into the details and almost immediately decided to involve you. He cooked up a bit ‘soapy’, but a brilliant plan, thus assigning you the triumphal part: you would get an opportunity to settle the problem, and a chance to appear before the family as a true hero. Oh my, what a hero! Okay. First of all, Jeremy had to settle the matter with corresponding instances to fix the only variant of the hostage release operation suiting exclusively to you. Meanwhile, there were few other variants on the table as well. For instance: to send few tough pros to assault the Afghans’ den, to try to ransom the guy or, as the last resort – to press on the Azerbaijanis badly to make them do the entire dirty job. All the variants were risky, but JLG’s suggestion was a mere adventure: to find the Afghan at first, and then to exchange him with our guy. In the case it wasn’t possible you would pass the front-line and influence the Afghans to return the journalist. Further the technology could vary depending on the circumstances: either the Afghans would pass him to our people on that side, or they would have to return all the hostages to Karabakhis in exchange for the captured Azerbaijanis. The strong point of this plan was the fact that the Afghans really knew you and could meet your request halfway. But the plan had few blind sides either. The first – as you’ve also noticed – was our CS, or more true – your relationships. Hardly anyone could guarantee that he would do what we needed as soon as he identified you. By the way, your psychological estimations were correct: that was the very way Jeremy presented Colonel’s possible motivation to cooperate with us. The second problem was that if even the bosses hypothetically agreed to your participation in the operation, then the factor of your personal.., let’s say – family ties with the journalist, was initially banning your participation in this affaire. That what the rules require. But our pushful man managed to persuade the instances insisting that you’re totally unaware about Alex, which would reduce the operation to the level of a regular task for you. As the result, he could convince the leadership that given the current situation in Azerbaijan, the only right way was to send you, though till the last moment there was a risk that you could make something out, thus putting an end to all the efforts. That’s why your decision to fly to New York was about to drive him to a heart attack. I hope you understand the limits of the risks he’s taken. Gordon’s main trump card was the following: if you couldn’t free the guy, then nobody could do that. He didn’t deny the possibility that at a certain stage – let’s say – in extremis, I’d have to lay down my cards. In that case you would be free to select the means to liberate our citizen. Even at the cost of your life. … And you ask me, whether I know about the ‘Code of Officer’? Let’s continue the tale... No matter how brilliant your friend’s ruse looked, it couldn’t dispel all the doubts of his opponents, so consequently the idea of the Washington get-together was pushed ahead. You had probably wondered about the origin of that foolish undertaking. Actually, the entire masquerade with the representatives of the tough federal offices was arranged by your friend as a ‘Cinderella presentation’. Only after the direct contact with you the instances could authorize your assignment within Gordon’s plan. You couldn’t certainly know that, but the pilots had been waiting for the order to fly back to Boston until the very last minute. And if you had failed the ‘exam’, then getting a ‘news’ about a drastic change in the situation and signing a nondisclosure paper, Paul Zetlyan would return home, to his favorite cat.”
“Dog.”
“I don’t care, I prefer small fishes. And so, by the moment you were flying to New York, JG had managed to persuade practically all and everybody.”
“Practically? What do you mean?”
“I mean everybody except for the last instance – a very important person from the Operations’ Directorate. Your friend had to call him personally and almost bag twenty minutes. Finally, after making vigorous efforts he got the approval, but at the cost of a precondition, that instead of a real journalist Paul Zetlyan would be accompanied by one of their best men – a pro in settlement of these kinds of delicate affairs.” 
“So, you must be one of those best pros? They’d almost shoot us down.”
The breathtaking changes of the situation together with Pat’s monotonous story had turned everything upside down, but Paul, who hadn’t yet recovered from all he was fed with, couldn’t, however, miss the final passage of the story. It seemed that throughout the entire trip the only constant was his attitude to the Shorty – leaned back on the bench and smoking the third in line cigarette. Still smiling, Paul turned to the partner and peacefully clapped him on the shoulder.
“Okay, take it easy. Hardly anyone could get a better pro, than you. No kidding this time.”
“Stop it!” Pat frowned. “Everything is as easy as pie: I had no appropriate man for the assignment. It’s not so easy to find an apt guy to entrust such a job. So I had to leave everything to accompany you. If it wasn’t useful for you, then at least it had attached some air of gravity to this adventure. Yeah, and don’t stare like a stuck pig. According to the rules of subordination even such a brave colonel as you should address me extremely respectfully, should say ‘yes, sir’, ‘exactly, sir’, while a feeling of excitement – I would even expect a light trembling – should never abandon you while talking to me. Guess why I’ve doomed myself to the role of an idiot forced to put up with your tricks? You may think I do it for the business? No, I just owe to your friend Gordon. And this man has done everything for you. So, you may think that I’ve ‘gobbled you up’. And as for now – give me the notebook, I’ll pass it to our boy.”   
Patrick stood up and condescendingly clapping on the partner’s shoulder, slowly went to the car. Forester wasn’t back yet, while Alex was trying to doze inside the Niva.
“Is everything all right, sir?” He asked Pat, who took the front seat.
“The chopper is late,” the fat man raised his watch.
“I mean...”
“You mean the ploy of Mr.., our friend Paul? Don’t take it up, buddy,” broadly smiled Patrick and waived his hand, “he’s unlucky at cards. Last night he squandered half of his month salary while you were sleeping. Besides, he has been tired for the last few days, so his nerves aren’t okay. But generally speaking, he’s not a bad lad. Believe me, he has just fully repented and even plaintively asked me with tears in his eyes to forgive him.”
“He asked me about the name I use to sign my articles. I think he needs it for the report. … You know, I want to somehow express my gratitude to him; in fact, he has saved my life.”
“You know what?” Pat quickly turned on his place, “You’d better invite him to your wedding party.”
“How do you know about my wedding?” The young man was surprised.
“That’s a part of our job, son. By the way, have your notes back. You don’t need to thank me.”
“Thanks for the advice. I thought, you’re not allowed to visit such events.”
“Calm down,” laughed Pat, “none can forbid Paul to be present at your wedding. Trust me.”
Happy with the hint, he pointed upwards his index finger framed with a thin black strip of yesterday's dirt under his nail, whose mournful appearance forced him to lower his hand and lean back on the seat.
It took not less than a quarter of hour before a small orange point appeared between the clouds, spreading around a low measured buzzing. The approach of the long-awaited helicopter put life into the deserted airport: people appeared from nowhere to drive away the vehicles, while the military begun to bustle about. The ‘flying tractor’ made few circles above the runway and eventually landed, razing pillars of dust and sweeping empty cigarette packs and faded grass off the asphalt. Sitting in the car with closed doors and lifted window glasses, Patrick saw Forester holding his cap by hand and trying to outvoice the rotors while speaking with a man in a dark blue Air Force uniform. Soon the roar turned into a measured rotor- blade-whistle and the big orange air vehicle spotted with black stains around its exhaust pipes, calmed, letting an ill-matched crowd of journalists in bright neon jackets out of its iron belly. While the press vigorously smashed into the approached minibus, the military unloaded cardboard boxes, bales of newspapers and some bags from the helicopter. As soon as the task was completed, the doors of the airport were opened to let out a medical stretcher with a man, half-covered with a grey woolen blanket. A tall medic dressed in a white smock was walking by with a dropper held high in his right hand. Apparently the follower of Hippocrates was telling jokes, thus making the rolling stretcher shudder from the patient’s laughter. Soon the wounded was placed inside the helicopter, but before, one of the pilots looked askew at him and snatching out the cigarette from his hand, crushed it by the heel of his boot. 
Forester gesticulated from afar to inform the Americans that the helicopter would fly back within a quarter of an hour.
“Thank God,” Pat left the car and went to the partner thoughtfully sitting on the bench.
“Get ready, we’re taking off. According to the movements of our Captain, it will happen soon.”
“I’ll return few days latter,” a dry blade of grass in Paul’s hand was slowly scratching the surface of the asphalt, “I’ve a business here.”
“What kind of business are you talking about, Paul?” The occurrence was so unexpected, that Pat dropped himself on the bench. “We’ve got the scribbler, pardon, Alex; your daughter’s wedding is appointed for the next week; and the life is damn fine. So, what else do you want?”   
“I’ve a small debt to pay up.”
“What’s up, man? “De opresso liber” ? We bear no responsibility for these children, so let the locals take care of them. You know that the kids are kept in bearable conditions and most likely soon the problem will be settled, and they’ll return to their families. We bear no responsibility for the incident, and besides, you’ve done a lot to save your fellow tribesmen from scandals...” 
“That’s personal.”
“I can’t understand you, Paul. You’re here not by your heart’s call, but rather with a certain assignment, so you must carry out orders. If you were a trout cultivator somewhere on Rhode Island, then you’ll be free to gallop around these mountains and even nominate yourself for a loud call signal – Falcon Eye, Light-Footed Deer and so on. But you serve Uncle Sam.”   
“That’s my decision, and please, don’t try to dissuade me from it,” Paul had a hill of small pebbles in front of him.
“Look at you... Are you really planning to ask the Afghans to return the kids? And you want to do it because of the damn letter? Do you realize, what are you about to undertake? Think about Jeremy. He has done so much for you, he vouched for you with his head and now you’re going to get into a pretty mess which can cost him everything.”
“Pass him my gratitude. I can cope with the job within couple of days and return to celebrate the party in New York. By the way, you and Gordon are the most welcomed guests of honor.”   
“Okay, then I can throw rank at you. Put aside all that stupid initiatives and get aboard to fly to Yerevan. That’s an order.”
“With all due respect for you, sir,” some barefaced irony appeared in Paul’s voice, “you haven’t yet demonstrated any document authorizing you to give me orders.”
There were thirty-nine pebbles collected – just as much as the Afghani fighters he still could remember by name. 
“Doesn’t matter, you’re still in the service, so you can’t violate the rules and regulations.”
To tell the truth, Pat hardly hoped that these words would anyhow influence the situation. 
“My contract with Uncle Sam has expired about two hours ago, DC time, so even from the formal perspective – I’m an ordinary civilian and am free to do anything I want.”
Patrick hopelessly gave up and desperately smoking his cigarette started strolling along the cracked asphalt.
“I think, you’re getting deep into an adventure, and I can do nothing to help you. You can act only on your own... Well and what if you’re taken prisoner or something else happens to you?” 
The news that one of the Americans decided to stay in Karabakh surprised Forester who had got a clear command from his boss to take the guests to the airport and send them to Yerevan by the helicopter. The Captain knew that these foreigners were really very important persons, and while Alex was assisting frustrated Patrick with moving the baggage to the helicopter, he went to the building to inform the CS by phone about the unforeseen shift in the plans.
Meanwhile Paul opened his bag to select all he could need. All he put aside was a modest pile of clothes and two small bags with personal belongings. He was packing the staffs into a small black backpack, when Alex approached him.
“Paul, are you really going to miss this helicopter?” 
              “Yes, I am.”
“Patrick said you’ve some business here.” Alex hesitated a little. “... I want to thank you; you know, for the day before yesterday... I mean, you’ve saved my life.” 
Probably in full compliance with Hollywood traditions, Paul should modestly drop down his eyes, and then, timidly looking around, maidenly squeeze out something like “That’s my job” or, taking a drag of cigar and pulling his hat over his eyes, casually tell in a hoarse voice: “What’re ya talkin'bout, boy. Ah! Have almost forgotten…”
But Paul acted somehow too prosy.   
“Well, Alex,” he said rummaging in the backpack, “consider, that I did it for myself.”
“I can only wonder about your answer, sir,” the young man was trying to find an appropriate wording, “maybe it’s against the rules of your job, but I want to invite you to my wedding party. My would-be spouse, our families and me personally, – we all owe you a lot, and be sure that we’ll be very happy to welcome you as our dearest guest. My father could talk to your bosses...”   
Paul burst out laughing. He imagined Jeremy Lee Gordon’s proud smile – the smile of the father of this chess combination, which was too fantastic to be real. The baby-faced D.C. intriguer managed to twirl the plot so professionally, that eventually Paul’s future son-in-law invited him to Dora’s wedding. Given the brains he had, JG could make additionally money writing scenarios for off-Broadway soap operas.
“You can’t even imagine, how much you owe to me, sonny,” hardly constraining his laughter, Paul carefully clapped on Alex’s shoulder, “you can’t even imagine.”
Stepping aback, he cast a critical father-in-law glance at the interlocutor. 
“You look to be a good guy, Alex. The young men with heedful and courageous hearts like you are not common nowadays. Your fianc;e can really be proud of you. Don’t be shy. You and I could avoid the worst, and now you’re like a son for me. Thanks for the invitation.”
Still smiling and shaking his head, Paul turned to the helicopter, where Pat was arranging his bags, when all of a sudden he remembered Dora’s eyes, and an idea flashed in his mind. He stopped and opened the bag.
“Listen, Alex, I have a special gift for your bride. But, if I miss the party – a man supposes…, then just put on it on her finger yourself. Promise, that you’ll do it. You’ll get the point later.”
“If we going to play, let’s play seriously.” Thought Paul, and happy with the idea, looked at confused Alex, who was twisting the ring in his hands. The young man didn’t know what to do.
“I can’t accept it, sir...”
“Don’t worry, it’s certainly a beautiful, but not a burdensome gesture and I bet that your lady will like it. All right, let’s go. Patrick is gesticulating as a destroyer signaller.” 
Approaching to the helicopter, Paul took Patrick aside.
“Don’t tell him who I’m, and, please, don’t mention my family name in his presence.”
“Be my guest,” muttered the fat man. Anyway he strongly shook his colleague’s hand. “Take care. I have to immediately inform the Office about your initiative as soon as I’m in Yerevan...  If I tell them the truth, then they’ll deprive you of the pension... Anyway, let’s hope that none will oppose to you desire to get better acquainted with the land of your ancestors. You have three days. Talk to the locals. If you fail to keep the deadline, then the rock-and-roll will begin. Don’t let us down. You know how to use it.”
He put a plastic watch into Paul’s palm. 
“Thank you, sir.” 
Soon the passengers occupied their seats and the large four-blade rotor slowly whirled. Pat sat by the door and tried to open the nearest porthole, but in vain. Then he demonstrated three fingers to Paul and even cried out something. And again in vain – the pilots turned on the turbine, thus sinking the sing of the rotor blades in a terrible turbine roar, immediately echoed by the fine shiver of the machine. The risen dust forced the seen off team – a dozen of man - quickly disappear in the parked cars. Closing the doors and the windows, they watched how the helicopter jumped up several times, heavily flied up and heeling over the right side, quickly gained height. 
“So, where shell we go?” Looking at the small orange point, slowly disappearing in the gleam between the low clouds, Forester drummed on the steering-wheel. “I called to the Staff to inform the Colonel about your decision to stay, but he was off. Anyway, I have good news: the Azerbaijanis have signed the cease-fire agreement.”
“The war is over, is it?”
“I’m not sure. We had such state of affairs in the past, but they wouldn’t last for long. Whatever, let’s be on our guard not to give in to provocations. The guys on that side are fond of these kinds of tricks. So, where shall we go, Paul?”
Probably only an up-the-stream swimming fish could feel the same. The truce, able to grant the long-awaited peace to the hundreds of thousand of people on the both sides of the front-line, could threaten – if not totally disorder – the plans of a one, separate individual. No, certainly, all this was very good, but hypothetically the establishment of the armistice meant, that the sides involved should avoid, at least at a certain stage, any sort of incidents which could bring to resumption of the military activities. The idea with infiltration lost its former outlines and the dangerous walk was gradually turning into a more complicated venture, able to initiate at least a loud scandal in the case of failure. Radically changing the situation, the long-awaited event was leaving no time for the realization of the plan.
“I must see Kamo.” 



CHAPTER 19

Ants are remarkable phenomena. These tiny brown creatures – deprived of ambitions and unaware of the terms 'weariness' and 'laziness' – were trickling along the invisible footpaths only they knew about. Here, from the height of their world, the banal grass looked as impassable jungles, while the dry last year's blades covering the small lawns of yellow stony ground, seemed to be true bamboo thickets screening the sky by their spread out rosettes topped on thin, shaky stalks. Quickly moving their paws up and down, the ants were skillfully overcoming the impenetrable blockages of motes they would repeatedly met on their ways. Demonstrating rather enviable persistence than unnecessary vanity, they were guided by the instincts to their planned targets, thus remaining alien to everything beyond the scope of their two-dimensional world, where the struggle for life was a mere routine far from ardent political substantiations and lacking in the aura of heroism.
However, given all the visibility of the idyll, not everything was quiet on the bushy slope populated by the small hard workers. Though, unlike the hilly plain over the crest, this place had never been disturbed by the cannonade and the lightning of explosions, anyway, one could catch the breath of the war even here. That was a smooth, hardly audible breathing of a bent down man, hidden among the low bushes by his camouflaged clothes and attached branches.
Paul had been motionlessly laying on the ground for a damn long time trying not to give up his presence. Meanwhile, the head of the man in a green helmet would appear every fifteen minutes within fifty yards up the slope, where the emerald contour of the hilltop was outlined with a light brown curb of a recently dug entrenchment. Reaching to the final point of his route, the sentry would bent over the breastwork and cursory examine the vicinities, then slowly turn back and readjusting the sling of his Kalashnikov, silently walk away in the opposite direction. Probably in other circumstances the falling dusk would make him more concerned about the state of affairs on the approaches to his foxhole, however now, when the front-line was calm for almost two days, the human nature did its part pushing the thoughts of the sentry far from the slope descending to the river. 
As soon as the helmet disappeared behind the breastwork, Paul applied a tiny telescope to his eyes and again mentally passed the planned route. Some fifty yards ahead the trench was stopping above the southern rocky wall of the canyon. The abrupt descent to the river and its narrow right bank were inapt for outposts, so the Azerbaijani defense trench-line was dug on the other side of the river, starting almost from the bank. The light brown serpent of the entrenchments was crossing the bottle-shaped valley at its narrowest part and setting against the asphalt road, which ran in parallel to the river. The distance to it was hardly more than 400 yards by air. The second line was passing by the suburbs of an abandoned village, beginning few hundred yards down the stream. Some 500 yards further through a break between the charred roofs he could see a narrow bridge over the river right by the place where turning to the left, the river flew within the equal distance from the canyon walls, which were gradually descending to the east. The southern – Paul’s - slope could be well overlooked from the riverside, so he had to wait until the nightfall to unnoticeably pass between the positions. The darkness would allow him to cross the line, and then he would proceed down to the river and the bridge to leave behind the right bank. Then he had to walk to the crossroads curtained by the canyon’s northern wall bend. Indeed, he had a really well-grounded reason to stay a bit longer by the map at the CS’s office.
Pushing his face into the grass and rubbing the numb shoulder, the man dozed. Suddenly the image of the old Asian gardener from the special military college somehow appeared before his eyes. Nobody knew the real name of the old man branded in the ‘society’ as ‘Charlie’. Low and gray-haired, Charlie was the modesty itself and would never feel offended when the passing by first-year cadets, or the “cows” as they were addressed there, would precisely saluted him and asked the traditional “How’re ya doin, Charlie, sir?” Hardly anyone could say about the roots of this tradition, however, the ‘Charlie greeting ritual’ had became an integral part of the life of the future fighters just as the reveille, morning exercises and dinner. And each time in answer to the greeting the small man in dark blue uniform would smile and mutter something, finely nodding his head. He was sort of a local attraction: in the closed world of the institution full of strict rules and restrictions for the rookies, he was an embodiment of something civil that was left there, behind the protected perimeter.
It was a sunny afternoon, when young Paul was passing the park with a schoolfellow. In spite of the week-end, the old man was on his working place. Coming abreast with Charlie, the ‘cows’ interrupted the heated discussion and saluted him according to the rules. The old man nodded back and returned to the job – gathering of dry branches and other stuff into small piles of litter. Measuring out their paces for a second, the interlocutors resumed their argument. The subsequent years had erased the subject of the discussion – probably something very important at the moment – from his memory. In the heat of dispute they couldn’t ‘mark’ the courier who had been standing in the courtyard of the Command Office for a whole minute waving his hands and shouting out the name of Paul’s buddy.
“Stay here, and we’ll go on later, Paul”, said the boy heading to the courier and added after making few steps, “I stake ten bucks that you’ll lose. And you? Think of it.”
“All right, don’t be late,” Paul waved his hand and looked around: he needed something to do till the return of his self-confident friend. There was nothing more suitable around, so he went to Charlie who had fully dedicated himself to the park affairs. 
“So, what are you doing here, Charlie?”
The question was asked in a manner that generally requires no answer.
“Self-improvement,” said the old man straightening his back for a second and again returning to the work.
“What, what did you say?”
“Improving my inner world.”
“You must be kidding,” Paul burst out laughing. “Is it possible to pursue that goal raking dung and dry branches? You must be trying to improve your gardener skills to take part in an important competition.”
“Joking apart,” answered the old man, “the job allows me to understand many things in this world.”
That was too much: comprehension of the heights of the universe and the depths of the existence with a broom in hand.
“Stop it, Charlie. I can understand you: you must be thinking that you do deserve something more than the life in a closed military object and the low-paid physical labor…”
The old man quietly laughed and leaning the broom at a tree, crossed his hands on the breast. That wasn’t the meek gardener, everyone used to see.
“You’re a young man, and you still have a lot of things to do. But don’t waste your time, think of your education. Now you’re weak, and few words are still able to turn your inner world upside down.” 
What a humble old man! Probably the surplus humility he had was pushing him into a trouble.
“Take it easy and let me explain everything.” There was no irony or malice in Charlie’s smile. “Your civilization is based on the idea of self-sacrifice. The One, whom you call God, has come to this world to clear the sins from the Augean stables of your souls. Formally, you accept him, but do underestimate His act of purification, and don’t understand the sacral sense of the phenomenon. And here, that your attitude to everything related to that act comes from. It’s paradoxical, but in your understanding those who make dirt – aren’t dirtied, while those who clean the dirt and preventing your collapse down to the fauna – are. In fact, the last occupy the lowest position in your society. And as for me – I’m trying to follow the once specified rout, but I’m small and poor in spirit so that is why I just clean the park and the paths you follow. So, as you see, everything is very simple.”
The gardener appeared to be a philosopher. That was all he needed! A bit more and the man would start quoting clever ideas and teaching morals. Paul grinned, and his interlocutor noticed that.
“You forget, where we are, Charlie. The way of warriors is the force, and not the tales about morals. Leave it to the weak.”
Who knows, probably the morals itself – just as the old man – should have a puny, wrinkled and, in addition, extremely outdated appearance.
“Are you sure?”
The old man was lovely smiling, however it gave Paul a pain in the neck anyway.
Then Charlie shook his hand and made a step to the tree. Stretching his right hand, he grasped the broom’s handle and slowly lifted it the way that the trembling garden tool hovered above the ground, parallel to it. Then the old man smoothly lowered the handle to the ground and immediately returned to the previous position. The handle, polished by years, plaintively crackled, and a wide crack ran along the wooden haft.
“Can you do that?”
Paul was shocked: a man should really have strength to perform such a trick. He gave negative answer.
“Human beings are predictable, and the past 2,000 years haven’t changed their nature. A digestible idea must be plentifully flavored with miracles just as fried potato with ketchup. If I told you that I had broken the broom by the strength of my mind you would stand agape and catch all my words. Well and if I tell that the haft broke, because I had filed it by two thirds, then everything I’ve said a minute ago will be forgotten and thrown away as something needless, will it?”
“Generally speaking – yes, it will.”
Charlie again burst out laughing.
“You’re trapped again, my young friend. In that case you should respect me even more: in fact, to file the broom handle beforehand I should have foreseen that today in the morning you and your friend would pass by; that you would have a dispute; that he would be called to the bosses and finally, that you would stay here and speak with me... So, do you see that you still have to learn a lot of things?”
Only after, when one fine day Charlie suddenly disappeared, the rumors spread over the college that the ordinary-looking old man had a murky criminal past, and that he was kept there within the bounds of Witness Protection Program. Now, decades later, Paul, flattening himself against the ground and looking at the trenches, was thinking that the old Asian was a happy guy, because all he needed to pay up the old scores were the broom and the care for trees. And as for him – the return to the internal equilibrium required creeping to the initial point of his life Odyssey on his own belly.
St-o-o-o-p! What a strange florid syllable and mutually exclusive concepts? Certainly that was the fat man’s – Pat’s. Soaring in the pinkish fog of memoirs, he had absolutely forgotten about his high-ranking colleague whose distinctive feature – his exclusively arrowy tongue – was sharply contrasting with his rounded shapes. That strange guy had really left an indelible impression which was leaping into his mind by the notes of cynicism, arising in his brain like beads in the water with a bathing kid. Paul was about to burst out laughing – something totally improvident given the gravity of the moment.
“Where’s now this fat man? Most likely he must be fidgeting in a plane armchair, and anticipating the meal, must be feeding Alex with his tales about the caimans and Fidel's combat divers. Pat must be very happy: he got the journalist and soon he’ll be home. Yes, home.”
Paul drove away the annoying ideas and listened to the sounds. While he was straying around the back streets of his internal world, it finally became dark, and now he had to rely on his ears rather than his eyes. Placing the peep sight into the pocket, he half-rose and peered to the place where the line of the hill contrasted on the background of the black sky as a thin, hardly palpable strip. Before the nightfall he could closely study practically every inch of the route to the Azerbaijani positions on the both sides of the river. The most important was to reach the line: then he would be more or less sure that the remaining road to the bridge would have no dangerous surprises that the military would stuff the junctions of their flank positions.
Everything was okay in the truncheon: the recently replaced sentry had left the edge to walk in the opposite direction: the dark spot of his helmet was rocking above the earthen embankment. The man didn’t assume that in same time a black shadow separated from the bush thickets and silently floated along the slope. Leaning his right fist at the ground and quickly pawing the ground by the knee-bent legs, Paul was constantly keeping his eyes on the trench. He was confident, that none from the lower entrenchments would notice the movement on the slope. Meanwhile he could be heard by those who were stationed in the upper one.
First of all Paul had to make a hundred yards long spurt – some 250 fine steps. That was the number of the steps ahead he had to make by his right foot, placed in front of the left making a ‘Ò’-shape. He had a foot and something long metal probe freely hanging above the ground from the finger of his extended left hand. This simple device was designed to fix the trip-wire mines: the invisible wire would stop the smooth advance of the probe, thus signaling about the affinity of a fatal trap. In his right hand Paul had a notched blue steel blade knife – a weapon, more suiting to a mushroom picker, than a saboteur.
Quietly moving ahead towards the saving shadow of the rocky ledge, Paul had almost passed the half of the way, when a sudden dry click boomingly penetrated the night darkness and echoed in his ears. Usually this type of crunch is generated by a dry branch appeared under the boot at the most improper moment. That could be the best scenario. And the worst would start when the detonator of the frog-mine snapped into action and the mine jumped half a yard upwards to explode into thousands of splinters. Paul pressed himself against the ground. He immediately figured out that no explosion would follow, but the ‘shooting’ crash, strengthened manifold by his imagination, could draw the sentry’s attention. His heart was throbbing. It was strange, but the feeling permeated him now, called up his childhood memoirs of their nighttime raids into the neighbor's garden, when the night cool impregnated with the delicate aroma of danger would give a unique piquancy even to the ordinary-looking apples already tasted out by Californian worms. This time there was no much piquancy in the air, but instead the atmosphere was overfilled with the sense of danger.
Several intense minutes passed before he finally calmed down. Nothing happened: probably the Lady Luck had not only fastened the eyes, but had also providently stopped up the ears of the sentries. Paul rose and went ahead. Soon he literally crossed the front line and found himself in the rear of the Azerbaijani positions. So now the respectable professor of linguistics, that Paul used to be some two minutes ago, had at once turned into a saboteur, who had crept into the opponent’s rear with a goal to spite and do much harm. Now it would be almost impossible to convince anyone that he had appeared there accidentally and that he had just lost the way while searching for late Paleolithic rock drawings.
Stop it! Tilting back on a rock, Paul shook his head. The unseen presence of the partner was becoming more and more bothering. It was amazing, how quickly a fifty year-old adult man with a steady mentality and a solid life experience could adopt the habits of a person he knew for less than couple of days.
Paul bent the metal probe and fixed the wire ring with a cord – now it wouldn’t clank.
On the other hand, who knows, probably that was the formula he had lacked throughout all his life – a healthy doze of skepticism and cynicism – just as much as he needed to make sober judgments and to take the life correctly. Paul hemmed: “And what if all that was the truth?”
After placing the probe into the backpack he checked his boot laces and got ready to walk downwards. The river, invisible in the night haze, was rustling on his left, promptly rushing to the east, towards the wide flat valley. Sometimes a lonely orange glowworm of a lit up cigarette – the only option of the sentries’ to kill the long hours of duty – would appear in the entrenchments below. And how did these people managed to light cigarettes the way that he couldn’t catch the flame even from his elevation? The second line seemed to be more deserted, though, probably, there were non-smoking positions set there. The village also looked abandoned: except for the automobile headlights flashed in the night, nothing would interrupt the peace of the scorched ruins. The bridge was intact, and it was the most important thing, otherwise he would have to ford the waist-high cold stream and continue his way champing by the boots and leaving wet traces behind. He hoped that the Azerbaijanis hadn’t tightly blocked the bridge, something quite expectable given the importance of the object. 
Everything was far much easier on the right hand: further to the east the green and bushy slope was spotted by juts with silvery edges, precisely standing out against the background of the dark sky. It meant that he had to hurry: a bit more and the moon would reach its zenith and illuminate the vicinities brightly enough to unmask the activity on the slope. Avoiding the superfluous noise, Paul practically groped his way through boulders and thorns. From his Afghanistan experience he knew that the fine livestock would usually lay their footpaths to the ponds through the places like that, but here in the darkness, after several years of war one could hardly notice any path. Soon the noise of the river strengthened and the cool together with the mix of dampness and fumes breathed into his face. Getting down, Paul finally crawled over a low stone fence to appear in a small garden with a gloomy two-storied house ruins towering in the middle of it. Hiding in the wall shadow, Paul removed the branches he had attached to his dress and knotted them into a broom. He was about to stand up, when bright automobile headlights cut the night and, passing over the crones of the garden trees, made him to bend down. It seemed that, the car was moving to the bridge. That caused a shift in his planes. Without leaving the shadow, Paul bypassed the ruined building and began to grope his way to the gate. The splinters of slate – wavy sheets of the asbestos still used here for roofing – were unpleasantly crackling under his boots. He had studied the area adjoining to the bridge before: the house was standing on its own, right at the beginning of a narrow quarter clamped between the river and the walls of the canyon, stretching for several hundred yards downstream. The bridge was dressed in asphalt, which was abruptly ending almost right by the building, while the rest of the way was a dirt road with a well-beaten track, sticking out stones and pools of rain water. He couldn’t see the houses located on the both sides of the road, but for certain there were same scorched ruins behind the high stone fences hiding the gross vine and the luxuriant crones of the garden trees. “It might be a very beautiful place before the war,” thought Paul, covered by the shadow of the gate shutter while taking out the sight. Meanwhile the car – a Niva, common for this region – came up to the bridge and stopped by. Powerful headlights illuminated a part of the road, the corner of a kitchen garden and a thin pole of the swing gate, blocking the road. A bit to the right, just by the passage to the bridge, there was a tin covered sentry box with a shivering gleam of a kerosene lamp inside. There were two persons in front of it: one of them – a man in his forties – was standing at attention with his head pulled into his shoulders. The other guy – younger and shorter, who, apparently, was superior by rank – was shouting something and briskly swinging his hands, thus casting shapeless moving shadows over the wall of the canyon.
Paul was trying to listen to the conversation, but the river noise wouldn’t allow him to make out anything. Only once he caught a word, more true – a rough curse. However, everything was clear even without words: the poor fellow was caught sleeping while on duty or, at least, he wasn’t prompt to demonstrate a due pep. As the result – the ‘big boss’ was not only forced to spend additional seconds of his life waiting for the gate opening, but had to explain the heavy burden of the committed crime to the aged soldier. Yes, burning his fingers on the job, this private would demonstrate special zeal while performing his duties henceforth. Such a metamorphosis could contain certain complications for Paul, who still had to pass to the opposite bank.
Nobody knew how long the execution would continue, if not the light switched inside the car. A man, sitting at the steering wheel, put his head out and told something demonstrating his watch. After another minute of bossing about, the guy angrily stamped his foot and hopelessly waiving his hands, dived into the car. The soldier, caught red-handed, rushed to lift the bar. The Niva moved ahead, to Paul, who immediately hided under the gate’s shutter. The bright light illuminated the court yard and the smallest cracks on the white wall of the house. Within yards to the gate the car made a left turn and went down the street, illuminating the lifted road dust by its red sidelights. Soon the reddish points disappeared behind a turn, and a bit later two large formless spots of light draw a huge arch on the opposite side of the canyon and, slipping to the right, laid two yellowish footpaths to the stars – the Niva was climbing up to the plateau.
After waiting a while, Paul opened his watch’s cap: it was around 1 a.m. Soon the moon would look out from out the edge; it meant that he had to hurry up. He obliquely passed the street and, nestling at the garden wall, moved forward. However, hardly anyone could notice him on the right side of the road, as the bridge guard’s box was placed behind the garden corner, under the canopy of the walnut. He didn’t have to think of the noise either: even the most sensitive ear could hardly catch his light tread in the roar of the river breaking its waves over the large grey boulders. All he was afraid of was another late car with uninvited visitors, so in this respect his interests were completely coinciding with the expectations of the sentry. It appeared that leaving his metal shelter the private was thoughtfully smoking sitting on the flat rock polished by water. Paul couldn’t see his face: the man was sitting with his back to the road. In the weak light of the kerosene lamp eradiating the soldier through a narrow end window of the sentry box, he could see two stuck out strips of muscles on his thin neck and the tips of the tousled gray hairs looking out from under the worn edge of the army winter cap. Every time lifting his hand with a cigarette, the man would give a pinkish shade to his knotty fingers blackened on the war. He was so absorbed in the thoughts that Paul could steal up to him practically face-to-face. A bit more, and he could touch the dry grass blade, stuck to the shabby collar of the pea jacket the soldier had on his shoulders.
That was the specific charm of the scout’s job: to creep closely to the opponent, catch his breath and thus remain invisible for his eyes and inaccessible for his intuition. During such minutes Paul would think that he was holding opponent’s soul in his palm, making him feel vague, inexplicable anxiety, fear of darkness and the uncertainty of night. The right to execute and pardon, the sense of impunity and the freedom to decide the destiny of another human, who wasn’t even aware about the hand lifted behind his back, would cause an inflow of adrenaline and excitement. But, all this had passed long ago. Here, on the bridge, Paul witnessed the shuddering shoulders of a man convulsively taking drag at the cigarette. The picture was certainly casting more prosy ideas: there was an adult sitting on a stone in front of him, a man deeply insulted by a boorish behavior of another man who was entitled by the life to boss him around. Paul thought that this soldier, lamenting in the dark – the man, trusted by his parents and the members of his large family – now was feeling himself even worse than a defenseless woman deprived of the right and opportunity to oppose anything to the roughness and arrogance of the snotnose officer. Paul imagined something like a photo: a big family gathered on the verandah of a one-storied country house. Maybe that were their eyes, looking with hope and reproach that this Azerbaijani – seizing his forehead by right hand and convulsively compressing the stub by the fingers of his right – was trying to avoid. Who knows, maybe in other circumstances Paul wouldn’t stint himself in pity to this guy, but now to his surprise he could feel nothing, or more true – a vacuum in his heart. Maybe that had forced him to come closer to the sentry to try to understand his own inside. And again nothing, emptiness. Analyzing his alter ego he realized the roots of the feeling – through all the time here he was accompanied by the smell coming from the opposite side of the street. The scorched walls were looking extremely inappropriate to cast compassion to someone else, except for their former inhabitants. As Pat had mentioned: “Neither insurances, nor indemnifications...”
Suddenly everything became extremely clear, but thus again appeared the danger of materialization of the importunate Irish-American, who could arise from the quotation just as a gin from a bottle. Slowly moving backwards Paul, still keeping his eyes on the sentry, passed the bridge. Making the last steps on its surface, he bent down to the handrail and threw the branch he had in the hand into the river. The roar of the river absorbed the quiet splash. In the morning when the sun would find the shabby bunch pushed ashore down the stream, the passing by patrolman would shake his head: again a bungler rookie had dropped the new broom into the water. 



CHAPTER 20
 
It was almost 4 a.m., when Paul reached the destination point. For the past few hours he managed to cover the fifteen miles lying between the infiltration point and the cellar with the hostages. Cutting the corners, he had several times left the main road to make his way to the north by dirt roads and hardly palpable tracks, crossing woody areas with rare settlements and abandoned fields occupied with high weed. In the silvery moonlight these deserted and destroyed settlements looked as assemblages of shapeless white stains, contrasting on the background of rich flora of the gardens once deprived of human care.
The village, located at the foot of the Twin-top Mountain, was looking almost identical to those he had seen on the way. According to Alex, there were other inhabitants in the community besides the Afghans. However, at first sight practically all the forty or so houses spread up the northern slope of a superficial gorge, looked as abandoned. Though, judging by all, the war had spared their appearance.
Lying on the grass with his feet lifted up and leaned to a tree, Paul recovered his breath and rising, obliquely walked to the two-storied house located in the eastern part of the village. He had to cross the timbered slope and get to the lop-sided wooden fencing surrounding the household: the garden, the farm yard with a lean-to, the house and the small court yard with an unreasonably wide metal gate. He would see all these a bit later, and now his reference point was the flickering light of a small fire, seen through the garden vegetation: that was the bonfire of the guard, who had to perform his duties all the night long. Getting closer, Paul nodded: through time he had been observing the house – a quarter of hour is a considerable term – the whirlwind of the small sparkles had never risen above the fire. It said that the sentry hadn’t added any wood to the fire:  probably the weariness had switched off the kids’ guard and he must be nestling down somewhere by. So Paul concluded that the discipline among the Afghans was far from the perfect, as they had lost the sense of danger. However, Paul decided to not lose his vigilance: in due time he had instructed the Afghans how to set traps for uninvited visitors. He was right: soon he came across with a thin wire stretched between the bushes and adhered to the starting loop of an alarm rocket. It became obvious that along with the Afghans there were some other people living in the village as well: the ‘toys’ that the mojaheds have placed along the perimeter of their camp were noisy, but not fatal – i.e. unable to spoil the relations with the new ‘locals’, who could casually appear where they shouldn’t. Coming closer to the fencing, he made out a wide surface pit hardly appreciable in the moonlight: that was a foxhole covering the slope with the hardly noticeable paths coming to the house from the northeast. The pit was connected with the house by a well-disguised canal, providing secure creeping to the fire position from the garden, which was right behind the hedge combined from blackberry bushes and half-dug bundles of a prickly shrubbery. The location of the base was indeed well-chosen: the complex of the buildings, towered above the approaches to the village, was controlling the only road, connecting this forgotten place with the external world. Getting into the canal and nestling his cheek into the ground, Paul crept to the house. He had to dive under the fencing and emerge on the other side, in the garden. It was certainly not the cleanest, but unequivocally the most silent way of infiltration, as his former colleagues must had heavily decorated the fencing with self-designed signal system made of wire, cans and something else, mentioned for alarming in the middle of night. 
As he guessed, the guard was sleeping tight, with his back leant against the wall between the cellar door and the wooden staircase perpendicularly ascending to an open verandah. The stack of dry fire wood piled up – as the local tradition required – under the stairs, was shielding the Afghans body and face, and only the soles of his worn boots colored into mystical crimson tones by the dying out fire, could be seen from out the set of the first steps. The measured snore of the sleeping man would change into whistling and quiet mutter, and his boots would thus convulsively twitch and again powerlessly droop by each other.
“Who’s he?” Paul left the shadow to approach to the sleeping man.
What he saw were a shaggy profile of the stranger, an awry turban and the gleams of the flame on a fixed bayonet. 
“It’s very bad, when a person doesn’t care of his own beard, and, especially – such an outstanding one,” whispered Paul, carefully taking out the weapon from the hands of the sleeping Afghan. “Sorry, bud, I need your turban.”
Putting the weapon aside, Paul pushed his hand under the Afghan’s head and slowly pulled it. The man shuddered and was about to open his eyes when the edge of Paul’s another palm bitingly struck at his neck, thus again returning him to the arms of Morpheus. Tying the mojahed with his own belt and gagging him with a fair piece of the ragged turban, the uninvited night visitor dragged the motionless body round the corner and hided it in the bushes. Then he returned to the cellar door to find the lock. What he found instead was a piece of wire passed through a hole in the bolt and reeled around a big-size nail hammered into the doorframe. Paul bent to the door slits and strained his ears. It seemed that the children were peacefully sleeping without any idea about the dramatic events developing behind the thin gate of their prison.
He recovered his breath and rubbed the shoulder. The task was almost completed: a bit later he could take the children and disappear in night. But he hesitated as something was pulling him upstairs, to the sleeping Afghans – almost his brothers in the past, though, given his status – junior ones. That probably was the nostalgia for the good old days. Whatever it was, Paul climbed up the wall and pulling up, wriggled to the verandah through the damaged wooden handrail. The verandah was empty, but there was a weak kerosene lamp light coming through the curtain of the left window. It signaled the location of the common barrack, as Jafar would never sleep with the light on. Paul tied the padlock rings of Jafar’s door shutters with a piece of wire. “Now it’s more secure,” he thought getting to the other and cautiously pushing it. The door silently opened, and the heavy smell of barracks struck into his face. The first thing he saw in the light of the trembling flame was a straight line of backpacks and bags, placed under the wall. It went without saying that the Afghans were going to leave, and it could happen even the next morning. 
Paul looked around. Usually unpretentious and unassuming sons of the Hindu Kush foothills had accommodated themselves with an unprecedented comfort: there were five headboards-to-the-wall beds placed in the large rectangular room, just opposite to the entrance. One more bed was standing by the left wall of the barrack, and there was some baggage wrapped in variegated blankets and fixed by cord on it. They even had an old broad sofa by the window. It was accompanied with a low and wide table, uncommon for the region. “Where did they get it from?” Then he realized that the Afghans had just shortened the legs of an ordinary kitchen table, which served as a prop for the kerosene lamp, placed in the middle of a tin plate with its edges turned atop.
Though the comfort and the established cease-fire had dulled the vigilance of these men, they nevertheless kept their weapons by, within a stretched hand distance. There, in Afghanistan, Paul would order them to roll the gun slings around their left palms before sleeping. It was long ago, and it was other war.
It was difficult to recognize anyone among the slipping guerrillas, covered practically with head. However, Paul wouldn’t even pretend. He cautiously collected all the weaponry and spread it over the sofa. Then he unpacked some bags to have some cord to perform the basic task. After picked out a cloth and moistening it with the liquid from a small vial, approached to the nearest bed.   



CHAPTER 21

Sergeant Ted Reynolds had been serving with the New York Police Department for a damn long time. Not enough, however, to peacefully retire and become a member of the Retired Sergeants Charity Organization and to ceremoniously ramble in the Central Park during the work hours. No, unfortunately not. Old Ted had a long since earned a reputation of an exemplary good cop, and that’s why he would be repeatedly saddled with the crucial mission of the greenhorn schooling and putting them on their own legs so they could join the Good Guys on the streets of the 17th Precinct in Midtown Manhattan, N.Y. The cultivation of the young growth and its acquaintance with the nuances of the law enforcement trade had always been an undoubtedly noble and grateful task. But on the other hand ‘the Kindergarten’ as the toil with the trainees was branded, would demand plenty of time and efforts and, in spite of the fact that Ted indeed was a kind person, even he would get overflowed with an aggravated feeling of injustice each time when the next ‘nestling’ would appear in the doorway of his office with an assignment sealed by the marshal’s wide signature.
In due time, when the First-class private Reynolds having served three years with the Military Police in a U.S. military base in Germany decided to replace his army cot with the native Penates and to join the N.Y.P.D., none would lisp with beginners here. It was the sunset of the noisy sixties, when the Black Panthers were setting up their branches in Brooklyn and Harlem, and the ‘King of the rock’n’roll’ had just released his famous song about the boy from the Chicago ghetto. Indeed, in those years, unlike now, it was really very difficult for the people with dark skin to work in police. There was nothing wrong with the colleagues-on-shop, quite the contrary – some big bananas from the Department of the Municipal Police and, as then it was circulating – the governor himself – did their best to encourage the increase of Afro-American officers in the police in every possible way, which should become a precise illustration of equality and fair representation of the citizens. No, the problems were created by those, who couldn’t anyhow reconcile to the idea that the dark skin and polite white-tooth smile weren’t an evidence of weakness or lawlessness of the owner, but of his ability to execute real authority supported with a weighty truncheon and a revolver in the belt holster. However, the manifestations of this type of intolerance in the Imperial State were struggled with an exclusive zeal: intolerance was traditionally unpopular here. Nevertheless, you don’t always need to see a skunk when you can smell him. 
The life proved that the calculations of the politicians and police bosses were correct and psychologically verified – the increase in number of the Afro-American policemen on the city streets was welcomed by the overwhelming majority of the one and half million strong Afro-American community of the megalopolis. Some were happy that the ‘brothers’ would call to order the whites, while for the others these officers were symbolizing the crash of discrimination and intolerance, once spread by people in white loose overalls with a sonorous, like a rifle bolt clang, name – Ku Klux Klan.
Ted stopped to catch his breath and wipe his forehead. “I can get it. But how can anyone explain me the new politics of the hotshots from the Police Department?”
As the majority of the respectable citizens, putting the family cosiness above the career growth, the gallant sergeant would also have a habit to analyze the ordinary routine burdens of the job through the thick prism of global problems. Certainly, the incident was rather mean to push him out of the saddle, however passing through the labyrinth of thoughts and memoirs, he nevertheless had came to a point that quite frequently the mood appears to be the most perishable product. He could agree that the 17th had always had a reputation of a quiet place – the last loss the N.Y.P.D. had suffered here was in 1943. As for Ted, it didn’t at all mean that peace and harmony were flourishing around and that was the very time to hire pretty girls, as if instead of patrolling the streets they had to defile in a spring collection by an eccentric couturier. 
“All right, all right, wait a little, I’m on the way,” Ted released the radio button on and speeded up his steps.
From the childhood Ted’s inside was against any kind of segregation and human rights infringements as well as any, including gender, qualifications. If it was about the work of the police, then he personally wouldn’t allow his Deborah to patrol the streets during the night time, though he was ready to sacrifice his own life to make sure that other women are allowed to do it. With a one obligatory precondition – if they were professionally ready for that kind of a job.
“Sir, the situation is worsening,” an excited female voice appeared in his radio, “we’ve people crowded here. If you hesitate, then soon we’ll get a whole traffic jam at the entrance of the Tunnel.”
That’s all he wanted! Fifty steps ago Ted had already came to a conclusion that that little girl was unable to do anything except for call registration and pan-pushing in the office. A formal verdict had been materialized by itself: “inability to demonstrate flexibility and pattern the line of actions in crisis situations.”
However, actually everything was much easier and prosier. Some twenty minutes had passed since Sergeant Reynolds left Trainee Mary Pressel at the corner of the 2nd Avenue and the 34th Street. Unlike the common pointsmen or pointswomen stationed on the block corners, she had to patrol up to the crossing of the 34th with the Lexington Avenue – all in all some 300 yards. In rush hours the quantity of people in the streets would multiply and, according to the Sergeant’s plan, the casually dressed young lady would have to ‘to swim for a while’ in the rough stream of the white collars. Accompanying her through the most part of the rout and asking the pointsmen about the state of affairs, Ted had stopped at the corner of the 3rd Avenue. 
“Catch the spirit of the packed streets, Ms. Pressel,” crossing his hands on the breast he leant at a cast iron basis of a street lamp. “I don’t mean the smog, but rather the original atmosphere of Manhattan. Remember, that during this part of the day out of all the five senses an individual is guided exclusively by hunger, and every inhabitant of our City – conducted by the call of his stomach and the painful quest for harmony between the culinary predilections and the family budget – is a potentially vulnerable target for different types of criminals and rascals. Nobody is secured from their dexterous and fast hands furnished with a pair of nimble legs, and even the most important top-manager here may turn into a Cinderella of the financial world as soon as the clock strikes 1 p.m. Your task is to monitor the situation and prevent the possible crimes. So you’ll learn how our guys work. As you have no identification badge, you should use your radio to inform me or the nearest police officer about a crime. I’ve to visit someone at the 35th and will be back in half an hour. Do you have any questions, Ms. Pressel?”
“No, sir!”
Ted had waived his hand and marched up the street. During his police carrier he had came to a conclusion that the best way to establish communication is humor, and the best method to keep good mood – a tasty meal. Nodding to the police officers he passed few blocks and turned to a public catering institution, whose name – if mentioned – could be qualified as political advertising according to the New York laws. Therefore let’s limit ourselves to a partial reference to the menu – the place was popular for its ‘Texan veal smoked ribs’ – a simple dish, which used to brighten the shepherds’ severe routine to the southwest from Mississippi. Nevertheless, the mentioned information for some especially zealous lawyers from the milieu of the Gentleman from Massachusetts, i.e. – Roger Archibald – would be more than enough to state a masked political advertising of the incumbent President of the U.S.A.   
Meanwhile, Ted, who had taken seat at a table in expectation of the order, had to sharply reconsider his plans for the next half an hour: the peaceful hitherto crackling of his radio was interrupted with the poorly concealed excitement in the voice of Trainee Pressel:
“Sir, I’m at the corner of the 2nd Avenue and the 34th Street, near the Church of Saint...”
“Saint Vardan.”   
“Yes, an odd name... We’ve an emergency situation here, a woman needs medical aid.”
“So what’s the problem? Call an ambulance,” Ted had nodded to the waiter in hairy trousers and a cowboy shirt, who had stopped by with a tray in his hands. “Put it here, sonny.”
“It’s not so easy to do it...,” radio had said.
“Who else is there? Sam? Sam who? Pass him the radio. What’s going on over there, why’s the panic?”
“I report an incident, Sarge. Young female, some twenty – twenty-five year-old. She suddenly felt bad and her friend instead of calling an ambulance tried to drive to the Medical Center on his own. Getting to the traffic area he almost immediately collided with another vehicle. No victims, but the cars got clinched by their bumpers and blocked the traffic.”
“What’s up with the girl? What have you got there, baby delivery or heart problems?”
“Neither the first, nor the second, sir. She has no symptoms of alcoholic or narcotic intoxication either. Her guy swears that she has no health problems, however he himself has lost his self-control and probably I’d better call one more ambulance.” 
“Damn. I’m close. Leave our girl with the young woman, and try to sort out the jam. I hope that you’ve called for a wrecker?”
So he had to renounce his idea with the dinner and to go to settle the situation with an empty stomach. Though... Sergeant had ceremoniously put on his angular peak-cap and saluted to his reflection in the window: in the matters dealing with the points of honor of the 17th Precinct – the one in charge for the UN headquarters and the Governor’s office – Ted had never accepted any compromise.
And so, after straying in memoirs and passing a third of mile, Sergeant Reynolds quickly appeared on the site and immediately took the bull by the horns. Within ten minutes everything became shipshape: the ambulance took the young lady, the wreckers evacuated the cars, and the mob dispersed. The unlucky guy, who had cooked up the bustle got a notice of appointment to the Transport tribunal, and hailing a taxi, dashed away to the hospital – to his lady.   
After ten more minutes Sergeant Reynolds and Trainee Pressel were sitting in the above-mentioned Texan caf; and, in anticipation of a whole heap of tasty ribs, analyzing – though a bit languidly – the incident from the perspective of ‘the sequence of actions a policeman/policewoman should have undertaken in similar situations’. Ted – usually strict and exacting with his subordinates – was all right again and now instead of irritation his heart was filled with something more like paternal feelings. The view of the frightened and excited trainee, puzzled by the very first incident had moved to pity and so he even decided to dine her. Perhaps in other time Mary would embarrassedly refuse the invitation or, at least, ask for something less caloric, but not now. At first she was constrained by the feeling of fault, but then, catching the favour of the dreadful boss, she relaxed. Appearance of the waiter allowed Ted to stop the citing of the boring circulars and regulations.
“I think that we had enough theory,” he said, sniffing to the dish, “what you have to do is to consolidate the theory during the practical fieldwork, in real situations. And the last, Mary: I hope that the next time you’ll be as coolly, as our Sam and not that guy…, O’Connell. What a familiar name; that should be the name of my geography mistress.”
The sergeant dug his teeth into the juicy meat: he was deliberately ruthless both with meal and the public disturbers, and the aphorism “One patrols the way he/she eats” was his brainchild. 
Mary, however, didn’t hurry to follow him. The young woman thoughtfully looked out of the window, atop of the hurrying passers-by. She had a light smile on her lips.
“What’s wrong, Trainee Pressel?” Ted put aside a fifteen inches long rib and wiped his lips with a wide napkin. “Is anything wrong?”
“I spoke with that gentleman – O’Connell. And can you imagine, sir,” she told, holding up her chin by her hand and pensively rolling up her blue eyes treated with dark eyeliner, “he officially offered her his hand and heart there in the church, and then put a ring on her finger. And she lost her consciousness... Because of the senses she was invaded by...”
The meat that Ted Reynolds was chewing went the wrong way. 
“I swear, sir. I’ve heard such stories...”
“You may remain silent,” Ted warningly lifted his right hand, while pushing to her the dish exhaling the exciting aromas of fire, austral night, prairie and many other things which could hardly harmonize with this sketch in the middle of the stone jungles.



CHAPTER 22

A lot of time passed before Paul eventually went downstairs and stopped in front of the door to the cellar. He had a lantern in his hand and an additional backpack with the trophies that could be useful while making the way to the opposite side of the front-line. He harkened to the sounds coming from inside. It was quiet in the cellar, but the noise in the house had woken the children, and shrinking into a corner, they were waiting for further developments. Paul untwisted the wire and pushed the door. It sunk into the darkness with a creak, letting out the smell of hay and dampness. 
“Are you here, kids?” He asked and then realized that the Armenian dialect he spoke was unfamiliar for the captives.
Bending down, he got inside and closed the door behind. The children were in the distant corner. An armful of hay with and an old green blanket over it made up the kids bed. There was another blanket thrown over the kid’s knees. Probably the carpets that Alex had mentioned before were already packed and placed among the baggage made ready for departure.   
“Don’t worry,” Paul waved his right hand to demonstrate that he was unarmed, “I’m here to rescue you.”
Screwing up their eyes from the sharp light, the children were looking in wide-eyed astonishment at the dark silhouette appeared in their prison.
“Get ready, we’re leaving,” Paul switched to the literary Armenian known to the boys. “We’ve few hours left.”
The kids were okay, but their equipment leaved much to be desired: the shoes they had on were worn-out, while the laces were off. Their clothes weren’t in a better shape: two of the boys were dressed too lightly for the night walk. Paul opened the trophy backpack, took out a hank of soft wire and cut it into six pieces. While two of the children were lacing up their footwear by the wire, he asked the third one to hold the lantern. Then he spread out the blankets and cut each onto three parts, placing aside three more or less intact pieces. After, he split the remaining parts into long narrow strips. Finishing with that Paul returned to the large intact parts of the blankets and hacked out some ten inches wide circles in the middle of the each. What he made looked like a poncho-cape – common clothing among the natives of the Central and Southern America. Preparing the first cape, he lifted his eyes to notice, that finishing lacing their footwear the children were silently observing his actions. He took the lantern from the ‘senior’ – as he had already named the eldest to himself, thus giving him the opportunity to make up for the lost time, while the lantern passed to the youngest who suggested his offices to the unexpected visitor. Finishing his manipulations with the blankets, Paul approached to the squatted boy to check up his footwear.
“Well,” Paul nodded and taking the narrow strips of the fabric, dexterously wrapped it right over the boy’s shoes. Those became thick and shapeless.
“Can you walk? Jump,” he said.
The child made some steps and jumped up.
“Good,” the boy showed his thumb.
Those were the first words in the mother tongue which Paul had heard for the passed day. Quickly wrapping the feet of the remaining two hostages, he dressed them all into the ponchos and girdled with the remaining strips. The kids looked funny, but now they were ready for the march.
“Now, please attention: we don’t have much time, and we’ve a long way ahead. We must move silently, without making any noise. Don’t talk and don’t rustle. I’ll go in advance of everybody, you and then you‘ll follow me, and you’ll close the file,” Paul painted at the elder boy. “We’ll hold the cord to keep together in the darkness. Did I make myself clear?”
“Did you kill them?” The youngest kid pointed his finger upwards and went on without waiting for the answer. “And what if they pursue and catch us?”
There were mistrust and fear in the child’s voice. 
“Calm down, if you follow my instructions than nobody will catch you. Let’s go.”
Paul went out and threw more firewood on the fire. The children paused by the exit.
“Don’t be afraid, follow me.”   
Soon the odd file left the cellar and, passing through the gate got down to the road. To a detached onlooker it could seem strange that the group, instead of immediately diving into the saving thickets of the young elms, made a long walk along the eastern roadside and took a wide footpath to dissolve in the night only a mile or so later. 




CHAPTER 23

It had been difficult to deal with children since the earliest times anywhere in the world. Even in the advanced centers of the postindustrial society, overfilled with the last achievements of technology and entangled with all the conceivable kinds of services and infrastructures, their irrational – as for the pragmatists-parents – behavior is capable to finish adults to sensation of their powerlessness verging on paranoia. With the exclusion of the plowmen on the fields of pedagogy and few other exception, the overwhelming majority of the advanced minds of the mankind – prompt to challenge the very bases of the universe and to encroach upon the gnosiological cognition of the mysteries of the life and death – in practice appear to be shameful profanes in such seemingly simple field as child care. Many adults, able to handle governing of countries, supervision of transnational corporations and command of armies just with a wet finger, quite often present a sorry spectacle when it comes to a nappy replacement or a lullaby performance for the young offsprings who totally ignore the conventional wisdom and who are physiologically unable to stand the redundant rationalism of their parents. Who knows, probably somewhere here lays the greatest secret of the undying profitability of the ;lite colleges and universities, where the prominent families of the planet had for centuries delivered the ‘raw material’ driven with a hope to get back a faceted ‘diamond’ that should occupy a worthy place in the frame of the family regalia and millions. 
             Everything was even worth here – at that time of night, in the middle of a forest, on an unfriendly territory. Fortunately, nappies weren’t even mentioned, but the problems had put themselves on the map almost within half an hour after the beginning of the night exodus. Paul, who had very little child care experience, was surprised to find out that they were afraid of darkness, slow in walking and prompt to get tired. Still, that was more or less tolerable: it appeared that they needed drinking water and even had to do a number one.
When the frequent complaints of the kids smoothly grew into a constant moaning, he decided to arrange a halt. According to his unfavorable calculations, after an hour of walking they were slightly more than three miles away from the village. Despite of the full moon, it was very difficult to get through the dark forest, and Paul, trying to avoid any casual witnesses, had to keep the lantern off. Now they were in a wide woody glen crossed by a shallow, fast stream from the west to the east. The escapees had to get to a ford, and then climb up the timbered slope. According to the map, there was less than ten miles of rugged topography from there up to the nearest Karabakhi positions in the southeast. That wasn’t certainly the most ideal track back, but they had no chance to return by the road as in the morning Abu’s man would probably raise ballyhoo, block all the ways and comb the vicinities. 
“Well, gentlemen,” after a short deliberation Paul strained his knowledge of pedagogy and addressed to the children, who were whispering on a canvas cape laid over the grass, “first of all I ask for attention and silence. I speak, and you listen. I ask questions, and you answer them. Ready?”
The response was positive.
“And so, you must know that I’m a very tough soldier.” Paul emphasized the word ‘tough’. “I’m assigned by your parents to get you out. I have alone overpowered the Afghans; you’re free now, and we’re to make a hard journey back. Trust me, and we’ll return to our homes. Do you trust me?”
“I do”, said one and repeated the second boy.
“I don’t,” declared the third one, judging by the voice – the youngest.
“Why?”
“My parents are gone. They couldn’t have sent you.”
Paul recollected the old couple he had met near the Local Command. So, the kid must be their grandson.
“Anything else?”
“Yes,” said another boy, probably the eldest, screwing up his courage, “we’ve heard you speaking with the mojahed and he even laughed. If you’re here to rescue us, then you should kill the enemies and not to talk with them. You didn’t shoot him down, we heard no shots.”
“Well,” Paul was tapping the clasp knife at his palm. “Anything else?”
He couldn’t see the faces of the children, but could assume that they had guarded looks: the events of the last days had taught them not to trust anyone. And then he dared to resort to the greatest cunning – to tell them the truth. Certainly, in other circumstances his trick would look a bit strange: revelations on serious ‘adult’ matters with kids. But now he felt, that here, in the crude dark wood, under the canopy of rustling trees and the indifferently flickering stars, and quite probably in the entire remaining universe, he had none more kin. He clearly realized that the life had suddenly entrusted the destiny of the frightened and torn off trio with a tragic past and unknown future to him – to a man, who had no his own son. 
“Yes,” he said addressing to the critically tuned audience, “you’re right. First of all, let me talk to the youngest of you. I know that your grandfather and grandmother care for you. They’re good, but old people. Your grandmother has health problems with her legs, so it’s difficult for her to walk and, sonny, you certainly assist her in everything. Is it true?”
“That’s right,” answered the child.
“Well, I even know your grandmother’s father name,” Paul made a pause, “his name is Shahen, and your grandfather sometimes calls your grandmother “Shahen’s daughter”, does he?”
“He does,” the child was crushed.
“Now let me unveil a great secret, but before I tell it, you must promise that you’ll keep it secret. Deal?”
“Okay,” the children were intrigued.
“You should know that actually I’m the instructor of these mojaheds. I’ve taught them everything they know. It was long ago, they wouldn’t shoot at women and children in those times. I couldn’t even imagine that once they would appear here and fight against you.., I mean – against us.”
“Are you Rambo?”
That was the youngest. An undisguised mistrust was felt in his voice.
“No, I’m not,” laughed Paul, “I’m real, I’m here with you and I’ll teach you everything you need.” 
“And what about shooting? Will you teach us how to shoot?” And again that was the tiniest.
“You don’t need to shoot – the war is already over.”
“And who won it? We did?” 
“Certainly.”
The children noticeably cheered up.
“Stop rustling. We still have to get out of here,” said the elder children, whose age required more ‘mature’ attitude to the situation. “What should we do?”
“You must become soldiers. Not ordinary ones, but scouts. Then we can outwit everyone and escape from the pursuers. Now draw up a line, frontward to me. No, that’s not your place. From now on you must discontinue addressing each other by your names. I’ll name you as soldier: your code name is ‘Alpha’, you’re ‘Bravo’, and your name, kid, will be ‘Charlie’. Understood? Let everyone pronounce his code name, and stop laughing. Well, you may call me ‘Sir’.
“What does it mean – ‘sir’?”
Charlie didn’t hesitate.
“That’s me, Charlie. From this very minute I’ll treat you as scouts,” Paul was strolling in front of the low and rare line of his small army.
‘The March of Adolescents’. Once, in ancient times, before the crusaders, unarmed children were sent to conquer the Sacred Land, but the sad fate of captives and slaves overtook them. Today was the turn of these children. They had to make their own crusade or the exodus to the land, promised to their parents. They had to escape the sad fate of the predecessors, and they had to pass under the pursuit’s nose. They had to move by air, without leaving traces.
“Now everyone must check the condition of his footwear and report. Alfa will speak first. Okay.  Bravo? Charlie. I hope, that you’ve already got that these bandages hide your traces. This is the first rule of scouts: you should feel yourselves as weightless as balloons and shouldn’t leave traces not only on the ground, but also on the grass, bushes or the trees you’ll hold on. We’ll move in a column while it’s dark. I’ll go in advance, and then comes Charlie, Bravo and only then Alpha. Each of you must remember that human is the most terrible beast in forest. There are no other animals around, so don’t be afraid. Let’s go ahead: scouts have a ten minutes rest once everyone forty minutes. We’ll walk till the dawn. Do you have any questions?”
“Is anyone already chasing us?” Alpha asked. 
“Not yet, but they certainly will few hours later. Anybody else?”
“When are we going to have our meal?” Hitherto silent Bravo spoke confusingly.
“When the morning comes.” 
Fifteen minutes later the escapees got to the stream. Stepping into the water barefooted, Paul by turn transferred the children to the opposite bank. Then he put his shoes on and filled the trophy flasks with water, and after, getting downstream, by touch cut out a knotty six feet long oak staff. Keeping it in parallel to the ground, he placed the children in a chessboard order on the both sides of the staff and conducted a short training:   
“You probably think that this is an ordinary stick. No. This is a special gadget for facilitating the travel in dark night woods. Holding it you’ll know the right direction to go to. You can always count on it if you slip or get your foot caught in something. Understood?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the boys one after another. 
“If you don’t know what ‘team’ is, then this staff will allow you to understand it...”
“It’s a group of football players,” uttered Charlie and added, “sir.”
“Charlie, scouts never speak without an appropriate order. Team is like fingers. When they’re together, they form a strong fist and an iron grip. You must become a team, and you must be able to understand each other without a word. And now, attention: if I sharply pull the staff forward, and then move it back like this, then everybody must stop. If I only pull it forward and then lower its end to the ground, then you must bend down quickly and if possible – lay down on the ground with your faces forward. Shall we try?” 
Repeating the practical lesson for several times, Paul explained to the children how to put the cloths-wrapped feet while climbing a slope. The kids were quick on the draw, so after passing about 200 yards, the team began its slow, but confident ascent up the wide footpath twisting over the timbered slant. Here the instructor and his pupils once again practically tested the acquirements. The tries passed without a hitch.
It was about 5 a.m. when the group reached the ridge crest looking as a rough wall made of a set of adjoined cones covered with beech trees. To the east of the ridge the wavy edge of the relief made of low mountain tops and rocky massifs, was precisely standing out against the background of the narrow strip of the morning sky, where the ink mist was gradually diluting with the pre-dawn beams of the still invisible star. In the west, the peaks were still covered with a dense haze and only the two-headed top of the large mountain would appear as a dark spot on the background of the brightening sky.
The weariness was getting its way: the new generation was more and more often stumbling and less and less willingly standing up after the next halt. Needless to say that the physical and moral state of the young fugitives was far from the harmony with the awakening nature: the delightful mix of the morning freshness, the crude smell of the ground and musty foliage flavored with the delicate aroma of the young grass were sensed in the air. Soon the birds would lunch their pre-dawn concert, and with the first beams of the sun the two-dimensional world where gloomy shades prevailed, would turn into an empire of emerald greens yet untouched by the heat.
Paul decided to make a halt and while children wearily dropped themselves down in the middle of small a glade, he climbed on the top of a high tree. The haze was covering the Afghans’ house, and only the campfire in the yard was still smouldering in the distance as a tiny restless dot, and everything looked as if all was well with the mojaheds. Paul could only hope that his former companions had no guests till 10 o’clock in the morning. Holding the peep sight in his teeth, he moved to the opposite side of the crone to define their further route.
There was another dell to the south: it was five miles wide and about seven in length. Fenced with two horseshoe-shaped ridges whose smooth crest lines were severally crossed over by volcanic lava rocks, the area wasn’t the best place for habitation. From the west to the southeast it was crossed by another streamlet, and besides, a little upwards a yellowish strip of a wide alley cut in parallel to the channel could be made out in the pre-dawn twilight. According to the CS’s map, the road was linking the settlements he had passed with a saw mill and a farm located some ten miles up the stream. It was less then a mile to the stream bed still hiding in the darkness, and the group had to cover it before it was already light. Could they pass it unnoticed later? Nobody knew. The problem was the sandy slope facing to the southeast, which they had to walk down by: it had no saving wood and instead was covered with low silvery bushes, probably – sea-buckthorn. Paul put the sight into his pocket and breaking an armful of branches, returned to the boys.
The rest lasted less than promised ten minutes, so the children had no enough time to recover their breath. As he had assumed, the news about the forthcoming quick march wasn’t welcomed enthusiastically. Even Alpha was silent. But there was no other choice and everybody knew that.
“Now we’ll have another practical. As scouts, you must be ready to cross open spaces quickly and imperceptibly. I’ll disguise you, and you’ll try to move from bush to bush without attracting attention. Your task is to pass the spring. We’ll be in safety there, and I promise both breakfast and rest. Entire forty minutes. I do promise.”
Paul stuck green branches behind the kids’ belts the way that their faces were almost covered with the leaves. The show was really amusing: instead of small bushes, the boys looked like toppled-over brooms with human hands sticking by sides. However, the young scout did their best, and the section was easily passed. Jumping over the streamlet and crossing the ride – wide enough for trucks – the young soldiers, vigilantly supervised by their instructor, got deep into the wood. Marching few more hundred yards the young team got ‘Stop’ command and immediately made itself comfortable under an old oak surrounded by dense blackberry thickets. Laying the canvas cape, Paul served on it practically the third of their modest provisions: a can of stewed meat, some bread and an onion. The boys refused to taste the onion, but their strict instructor insisted and ordered them to end it up. “Soldiers used to eat this vegetable even 2,000 years ago, it drives away slumber and heartens,” declared Paul, limiting his breakfast to a piece of bread.
He had always liked to watch kids eating. Leaning aback to the tree and observing the boys quickly filling up their stamina, he recalled his and then small Dora’s undercover visits to Confectioners’ where they would together finish off a considerable amount of her favorite vanilla tarts. Each of those baskets covered with coconut chips, in addition had a beautiful glaze mushroom atop. The father and the daughter would first of all pick all the mushrooms and pile them in a separate plate. Ending up with the tarts, they would turn to the mushrooms, habitually washing them down with a glass of sugar-free cocoa. They used to call it ‘dessert’. It had been repeating till the day when Dora smeared with cream her pinky silk blouse – her uncle’s gift from Europe.  Conducting an ‘investigation’, Miriam banned the ‘confectionery orgies’ – her term. Eventually, Paul would take the child to shooting galleries where Dora became a good shot. 
Meanwhile, the boys had finished their breakfast and, in accordance with the instructions learnt, were cutting off the turf and digging a small dust heap for the can, crumb and peel. Keeping an eye on them, he again mentally returned to the realities of the morning forest. According to his calculations the sweep would start within forthcoming four hours. He hoped he could find a hideout somewhere by the front lines within the remaining time. There were some seven miles between their current location and the Karabakh positions. Taking into consideration the fact that there must be many patrols and idly gadding about Azerbaijani soldier by the LoC area, a secure starting position was far not enough: he had to imperceptibly get there and wait till the nightfall. If he couldn’t do that within the nearest hours, then the Afghans could rock the entire line up. 
The boys coped with the task and occupied the canvas again. Charlie was breathing heavily in his sleep: the onion didn’t make sense. The other two were examining the crones and quietly exchanging words. 
“What’s up, soldiers?” Paul sat down on the grass.
“When the mojaheds were convoying us, we could pass a long way without rest and water. We had many halts now, but anyway we’re very tired.”
“You’re right. Then you knew, that you had no other choice, and that nobody was going to fuss over you. Therefore you had gathered all the will you had.”
“And where are you from, sir? Are you from abroad?
“I’m. I’m from the United States.”
“Just as Alex is?”
“Exactly.”
“It’s a pity that you didn’t take the guns of those Afghans. We would have Kalashnikovs and wouldn’t be afraid of anyone.”
“We need to do the job without shooting. If we shoot a bullet, then the Azerbaijanis will say that the cease-fire is violated and your homes will again be bombed.” 
“If the war is over, then why the Afghans haven’t just released us?”
That was Bravo. He was lying on his left side with his head propped up by his elbow.
“Actually they wished to release you during the exchange. They released Alex and were going to set you free too, but other Afghans wouldn’t let them.”
“Well, and then why are we hiding from them?”
              “We’re hiding not from them, but those Afghans, who had arranged shooting during the exchange.”
“So, do you mean that there are good Afghans and bad Afghans?” Bravo spitted.
“Spitting is an ugly thing to do, son, and concerning the Afghans…, you can meet good and bad people everywhere, among all the nations.”
“And even among the Azerbaijanis?” Bravo had a huge doze of sarcasm in his voice. 
“Yes, even among them. Once you’ll see it by yourself.” 
“No,” Bravo shook his head and picked a grass blade, “they’re malicious.”
“The good Azerbaijanis were saving the lives of their Armenian neighbors in Sumgait and Baku. Haven’t you heard such stories?”
“I have. But you say that we must hide. From everyone, including the Azerbaijanis. And if these good Azerbaijanis see us, will they shoot at us? And if they arrest us, will they let us free? No, they will return us into the cellar. And if these Afghans are good men too, then why do they fight with us?” Bravo wouldn’t calm down.
“When we were passing the night forest, everything around us looked black: the trees, the road, the bushes, the grass, and even the water. But when the sun rose it became clear that every object has its own color. Don’t be prompt to judge anything immediately. Try to make out, investigate and understand before. Scouts shouldn’t make hasty conclusions and judge something in a hurry. Do you promise?”
“We’ll try, sir, but, please, don’t tell Charlie that the Azerbaijanis are good,” asked Alpha.   
“Okay,” promised Paul, “we’ll refer to the matter a bit later. Alpha, you’re in charge now. Take care of the youth, keep them here. I’ll be back soon.”
Taking off the backpacks and placing them under the tree, he patted Bravo’s head and, still under the impression of the conversation, walked up the hill. He thought that the war had generated a whole system of coordinates and values in the kids’ heads, and years, if not decades, should pass to change them. And why only the kids? What about Paul himself? Even he had difficulties while trying to comprehend the reality...




CHAPTER 24

“Hey, Jafar,” placing the kerosene lamp on the table, Paul came closer to the ottoman with the sleeping Afghan, “come on, wake up.”
He had already erased the ‘war paint’ from his face and was anticipating the reaction of his grown up prot;g; to his unexpected ‘resurrection’. But the guy didn’t even stir. It was strange: probably his best pupil had finally lost all his skills. Paul stretched his foot to hook the Kalashnikov leant at the ottoman and drop it on the armchair. Heavily flopping at the soft back of the armchair, the weapon jumped aside and fell on the carpet. A booming knock and the distinctive clang were heard: the metal fastening of the belt hit the trunk of the weapon.
That was another pair of shoes: the sound of the dropped weapon had a sobering effect on the slipping man.
“Who’re you?”
Noticing a dark silhouette, the dozing Afghan instinctively extended his hand to the ottoman’s headboard.
“Ko ba ko on-merassa, adam ba adam merassa”: Mountain never meet each other, but people do. So, did you decide to give your old friend the cut direct, Jeff?”
Only one used to call Jafar that way. Paul stepped back, and the soft light of the lamp illuminated his face.
“Shaheen!?”
For a second the Afghan’s face shined with surprise and joy, but then they were replaced with the expression of superstitious horror. The scared man rushed back and covering his head with the blanket began to lamely read prays in Arabic.
Paul burst out laughing. Certainly, that would be a dumb thing to expect something else here and now, but he could hardly suppose such a tragicomic behavior from Jafar, who had always been far from religiousness. Probably the years passed had changed the man. Sitting down on the edge of the ottoman, Paul pulled the coverlet from the Afghan.
“Come on, Jeff, calm down. That’s really me and Shaitan has nothing to do with it.”
Few minutes passed before the Afghan commander could calm down. Still heavily breathing he sat down on his couch and pointed his finger at a glass of water, placed in the locker. Paul shook his head and passed the water.
“But how?” The man placed the empty glass on the table. His hands were deceitfully shivering.
“Well and what do you think? That wasn’t me,” Paul moved a chair to the ottoman, put it with the backrest ahead and saddled it the way he used to do playing Cowboys with brothers decades ago.
“I was sure, that you was killed,” Jafar passed his sleeve over his face, “the car had exploded on a landmine and burned into ashes near Zorb.”
“Yes,” smiled Paul, “you’re right. But I wasn’t in the car. A Pakistani died in it. He was providing secure withdrawal for me. Only three men knew about him.” 
Jafar was slowly coming into consciousness. Everything was simple and clear. He suddenly checked himself:
“We’ve mourned over you. Why didn’t you let us know..?”
“I had no permission... I was discharged,” Paul shrugged his shoulders, “you know how it happens...” 
The silence fell down: both were analyzing the event.
“Glory to Allah, you’re alive,” Jeff looked up and touched his beard by his palms, and then rummaged about in his trousers pocket to pick out a long comboloio. “But how did you appear here? Did you fight here? On which side?”
“No, I didn’t fight. I don’t belong to the set for a long time and have just dedicated myself to science. They’ve recollected me as soon as you’ve got the journalist. I’m here because of him.” 
“I can’t believe that you’re really alive,” the mojahed grinned. “I’ve released the journalist, but you’re here anyway. Why, Shaheen? Are you back again?”
“It’s a piece of cake, my dear Jafar. The children you’ve captured are my fellow tribesmen.”
“What kind of children are you talking about, man? You’ve just said ‘the journalist’...”
“No, I mean the kids you keep in the cellar.” 
“Yeah? I thought that you’re an American. Have you been there?” The Afghan pointed his finger down to the floor. The word ‘cellar’ returned him to the reality.
“The ward is okay, he’s having a good sleep. As well as the others,” Paul anticipated the questions of his former pupil. “That’s the best way for all of us.”
“So, you’ve got to get the kids, have you? Is it what your order is requiring?” 
“No, that’s my own initiative.” 
“If I get you right,” Jafar stretched his left leg, bent the other in the knee and, leaning over it by his elbow, began to count his beads hanging down to the canvas bed sheet, “you’ve came here in night, took down all my soldiers and you could even escape with the children, but then, nevertheless, decided to ask for my permission. You probably hope that I’m going to give you the boys. Am I right?”
Now he wasn’t Paul’s favorite pupil anymore, but the Afghan’s commander.
“Something alike.” 
Silence fell. Placing his elbows on the high back of the chair and resting his chin at his fists, Paul was examining the swarthy face of his prot;g;. The years, which had passed since their last meeting and had turned the world upside down, had affected Jafar too. He had wrinkles on his face and his temples had turned white – all these were appreciable even in the avaricious light of the lamp. But the most noticeable change was his glance. It seemed that Jafar’s eyes were covered with a thin, hardly appreciable film, hiding his inner world from the curious eyes. The silence was tightening, and some imperceptible web shrouded the air of this small room located at the suburb of the abandoned village. Paul had read somewhere in his past life, that even the hardest war can’t break a true friendship, but common circumstances can. 
“And why didn’t you violate the order then? Didn’t you consider us to be your brothers? In fact you could inform us about the situation,” Jafar was slowly counting the amber beads.
He looked quiet.
“I couldn’t. We hoped that the Russians would buy my death, calm down and stop pushing on your heels. We had no guarantee that the truth about my destiny wouldn’t leak to the Russians. The note you got me that day said that we had a turncoat among us. The explosion was his brainchild...” 
“So what had actually happened then? Had the shuravis mined the car, or all these was arranged to pull you out and cover your traces?”
“The explosion was arranged by the bad guy.”
“Does it mean that this entire encryption story and your leave weren’t just a show?”
“I swear,” Paul knew that his interlocutor had all the reasons not to trust him.
“I see,” Jafar sadly smiled, “after your departure your people from Pakistan had almost immediately cut the supplies, and then all the contacts with us. I can get their motivation to keep us unaware about your destiny – they didn’t want to disclose your story. But in fact, they hadn’t even informed us about the spy. You’re the first man to tell me about this. So, who was the traitor?” 
            “Russell.”
Jafar burst out laughing with all his heart. Leaning back to the wall and lifting up his chin, he didn’t anymore resemble the fatally frightened man he was few minutes ago. The loud laughter which had disturbed the night silence and the monotonous crash of cicadas, had sounded somehow inappropriately, and Paul thought, that it could be the outcome of the heavy stress Jeff had just passed through. Calming down a little the Afghan again sat on the ottoman, but couldn’t constrain himself and slipping down by the wall, buried his face into the pillow and hammered on the woolen blanket. He looked quite different from the constrained soldier his American instructor had got used to see. 
“Don’t take it up, Shaheen.”
Wiping his eyes by the sleeves, Jafar cast an attentive glance at Paul’s face.
“This glance is usually meant for those who had just received an unfavorable diagnosis,” sparkled in Paul’s head. 
Jafar’s mood noticeably improved. He comfortably sat on his bed and again took his beads.
“What happened then? I mean after I was off,” Paul glanced at the window.
It was still dark outside. 
             “Just as you had demanded our men were divided into two groups and moved to the winter hut in the afternoon. To secure the old men transporting the provision, ammunition and the generator, the youth and I took the External path. Everything passed tip-top, just the way it was planned and that very night we managed to meet Abu. Rasul appeared in the morning with the news that shuravis had blown you up and that their command was going to demolish all the abandoned huts in the region. The news about your death had a terrible impact: ‘Shaheen’ meant much for us. Abu took the message harder then anyone else. He was about to shoot Rasul down.”
Jafar rose and went to the locker. 
“The old slyboots appears to be right. “Why did you leave him and why didn’t you follow him? You knew about the trap!” He was shouting with a pistol in his hand,” copying Abu, the mojahed theatrically swung his cigarette pack as a pistol. “I managed to pull out the mechanic from his claws by miracle. So, now it appears that I shouldn’t have done it?”
He returned to his place and offered Paul a cigarette.
“I don’t smoke, for almost four years. And you, as I see, didn’t lose time in vain. You’ve learnt a lot and probably have even succeeded in many spheres...”
“I’ve always been a compliment fan,” Jafar made a large puff and blew the smog at the tip of the burning cigarette, “and now I don’t mind to indulge myself with good tobacco. By the way, I became a tobacco addict right after yours ‘tragic death’.”
His smile was full of sarcasm.
“What happened then?” Still in the yard, Paul had internally prepared himself to the fact that his unexpected return could be fraught with unpredictable and painful consequences. 
“We had a dispute. It was difficult to trust Russell, as his story about the burned UAZ and the planned strike could hardly inspire particular trust. Look: he had abandoned you, you blew up, and then he appeared to ask us to evacuate the cave. I don’t know why, but I thought that I’d better withdraw my men. Abu was against, and that was our first quarrel. I don’t know, I must had a brainstorm or something, but I was confident that he told the truth. That was a long argument. Finally, I got Rasul with me and moved to the border. The majority of our people followed us. Anyway, despite of the deterioration of our relations, I didn’t want to leave the old man in danger, and on the half way decided to send three of my men to the winter quarters. Just in case. The next morning one of them returned with the message that the aviation had demolished the winter quarters to the ground. The entrance to the cave was filled up by a bomb explosion, so the people were buried alive. They were exhumed, but it was too late. Their nails and fingers were torn up to bones: the people had tried to dig a way out; they had been scratching stones in the pitch darkness for hours. There we lost the Twins and Abu’s nephew. You must remember him: almost a teen, a short guy with broken nose. Abu was lucky to survive the strike. He was observing the path from the Hanging Rock when the attack plane appeared. The blast threw him back, on the stones where he got off with shoulder displacement.
“And what about Rasul? What happened to him?”
“I had released him before the Paks  asked about his destiny. After the air strike he came up and said: “You see I was right. Anyway I’d better go; otherwise my presence here may cause problems for you. Abu is an influential figure; he comes from a noble family.” He left and only then the people demonstrated interest about his fate. They did it without even bothering themselves to tell us the truth. I didn’t carry about the situation of those days: we had lost our colleagues; we were partitioned and resembled a herd which had lost its shepherd... Soon the Paks ceased to send us ammo caravans. We would receive some money and some provisions, but soon these supplies were also cut off.”
“So it looks as if Rasul had expiated his treachery by rescuing your lives?”
“Even treachery can sometimes become the supreme display of rationalism,” Jafar grinned. “When I subsequently saw Abu I realized once again that he was still backing his own version of the incident with you. He considered the alarm lifted by Rasul, to be an attempt to neutralize the suspicions, and asked me to give him the mechanic... Abu had always respected you. I had to warn him that Rasul had become a brother to me so Abu must kill me first. That had finally spoiled our relations.” 
“I can understand. What you’ve just learnt requires reassessment of some things. If you can’t change your attitude to a man you take as your savior, don’t change it. But the facts are stubborn things, and you have to take them into account.”
Jafar burst out laughing again, but not so eccentrically.
“Realities … You‘ve been a father for me... But, even now, after your testimony against Rasul, I don’t consider him to be a traitor. If he had really got into a deal with the shuravis, then let Allah be his judge and not me. Rasul has saved my life; he has saved the lives of my people. Your people, Shaheen,” the Afghan again cast a strange look at his former commander.
“The war is over, Jeff. Many things aren’t so important now,” Paul gave a stretch and looked on his watch, “you’re alive and healthy, and that matters. The bad thing is your presence here: that’s not your war.”
“The life of those who follow Allah’s path is unpredictable for a human being,” Jafar rose from his place to pace up and down the carpet with his arms folded behind. “One of my men was taken prisoner. I decided to take hostages for an exchange. Glory to the Prophet, we succeeded in performing our plan. We had a people exchange, but then appeared one of my fellow tribesmen, who had decided to pay off his old scores. The attempt to cause a cross-firing failed, we’re all alive and happy, even the children. But now we’ve a new character on the stage – a man, who wants to free the children.”
“Don’t take it up,” Paul stood up from the chair, “let’s say, you’ve the right to feel hurt for the past...” 
“Don’t take offence, Shaheen,” Jafar laughed and again sat on the edge of the ottoman, “but the business isn’t over yet. I’m glad to see you alive. It’s very good. But you’re here for the prisoners. That’s an intervention into my realities. Probably you’re right, and this war isn’t mine. But it’s not yours either. You say that these kids are your fellow tribesmen. Maybe. But please don’t deceive yourself, if you’ve really cared of these people you would be here from the beginning of the fight. But you wouldn’t, as you had no order. And if you had an order to kill those you call your fellow tribesmen? So what, did you really come here to see that I’m still ready to implicitly carry out your orders? Am I right?”
“And that’s why I’ve knocked down all your man?” Paul smiled.
“Your ‘resurrection’ changes a lot of things, Shaheen. I see that you want to play a fare game. But I can’t give you the prisoners anyway. I’ve promised to handle them to others.”
“And whom?”
“I’ll transfer the hostages in exchange for the guarantees for my wounded man. The man will come here to take the children in the morning, on 10 a.m.”. 
Paul smiled.
“Shaheen, I’m in charge here, and I’m not going to put at risk the lives of my people once again. They have had enough of these during the war, and I’d prefer not to endangered them after,” Jafar shrugged his shoulders. “I tell that because the wounded man we got back for your American journalist was Rasul. Well, and the man who was trying to ignite a skirmish was one of Abu’s lieutenants. These are the realities you speak about.” 



CHAPTER 25

The linked up crones of beeches and oaks were barring the way of the rising sun light, and only here and there the thin beams, piercing the twilight of the wood, were marking the thick and springing forest litter by bright yellow spots. There was no underbrush here – the old giants with powerful roots and sprawling crones would block the saving sun for the young sapling, and there were only few islets of young trees and dense bush thickets around – right where the death of an old resident granted the young a chance to survive. Everything was flooded with dampness: the air, the foliage, the grass, the tree trunks and, especially, the mossy round boulders – the remnants of the last glacial age. These stones were deceitfully slippery, so the escapees had to get around them thus multiplying the possibility to step on à dry branch, making it boomingly shoot under the feet.
Passing about a mile through the waking forest, Paul got to a glade where his attention was immediately attracted by a rag of a faded fabric hanging on a blackberry bush and sharply standing out by its deathly pale color on the background of the green riot. Looking around, he slowly approached to the bush. There was a torn out bag with a heap of moldy rags, fallen out of it on the ground. The pity view of the remnants of kids’ warm clothes must be the result of fine rodents’ attack on the old wool. The sad picture was supplemented with fragments of yellowed polythene, few rusty cans and a small pillow with the rests of felted cotton wool. That was an evidence of the past years’ exodus of the habitants of the neighboring villages: while getting by they had probably stopped here for a halt, and then passed with a decision not to burden themselves with a superfluous cargo.
Paul stuck the heap of clothes by a twig and it rested against something solid and heavy. Another small effort and the shapeless mass of rags released a thick book in a clasped artificial leather cover, torn apart and decorated with damp cardboard, looking out from the holes. He hooked up the fastener, and it revealed. A thick reddish slug ceremoniously slipped from black-and-white photos covered by thin plastic film.
The book appeared to be a family album. Squatting down, Paul turned over humidity affected pages to look through the dropped out photos. Despite of the aggressive environment, they were in a tolerable condition. There was no system in it: probably the owners were collecting the photos in a hurry. There was a picture with an old couple on a bench. Bowing their heads to each other, a man and his wife were sitting on a background of a drawn mountain landscape. The woman’s hands were resting over an embroidered apron; her dark headdress was hiding her forehead and chin. The thin man with uncovered gray-haired head and the tips of moustaches twirled upwards had a plaited leather lash in his hand – true evidence that he had a horse. The edges of the picture had turned yellow while the imagery of the people was almost brown. Paul turned the photo over. “To the sons as a remembrance of the parents, 1936ã”, said the backside inscription. There were seven suit-dressed men on another photo: the men were sitting in two lines in front of a two-storied building, probably a rural school. Their faces were serious and concentrated and they had medals on the lapels of their jackets. There was a newspaper clipping in the pocket behind the photo: the same scene, but the images of the men were less precise, and the text has almost washed away, as water had always been ruthless to the thin newsprint. This folded scrap of paper could certainly be a subject of special pride of a family. Smiling kids - creeping on an ottoman, sitting on the knees of their happy parents or saddling wooden dowels; a lady with a grandiose coiffure and a six-seven year-old girl on her knees was sitting on the background of a white Roman style stairs decorated with high cypresses on its both sides; a school class with girls’ hair fluttering in the wind; a morning performance in a kindergarten – the paper-pasted moments of the life were laying on the grass right before him. But most of all his attention was attracted by a black-and-white photo with a cheerful party on an open verandah with a beautiful view to a garden.
It was hardly possible to figure out the occasion of the fun which had gathered tens of smiling men and women around the table. One face got imprinted in his memory more than the others: the camera had photographed how a man in his forties, sitting aback to the photographer, was turning to the objective lens. He had a high faceted wine glass in his right hand extended to the viewers – it seemed that the man was trying to reach and clink his glass with the lens. His left palm was laying on the edge of the table covered with a light, fringe-decorated cloth. The man was smiling. But a fatal melancholy could be seen somewhere in the corners of his eyes. Paul snatched his hand away: it seemed to him, that he was looking into the eyes of a phantom. Getting goose skin Paul realized what he had noticed in that eyes – a presentiment called “Never”. This man would never again sit down at that table, and the company would never again get together on that verandah. If even the war had been merciful to these men and women, it would hardly take care about their microcosm and the epoch in which they had felt themselves to be the masters of the life, of their lives.
Paul saw the photographed scene reviving: the loud noise of the cheerful feast rushed into his ears; another second and the raised glass reached the lens, causing a blast of laughter. The man rose from his chair and happy with the trick placed his hand onto the photographer’s shoulder, inviting him to take a seat next to him and try some wine. They clinked the glasses and drunk ‘to the life’. The cheerful life they were living. And after, bending over the handrail consequently broken by the Afghans, the man would light a cigarette and shaking off the ashes into the blossoming garden, would try to find the reason why, all of a sudden, his soul became so sad. All this would happen there, in the photo – in the world existing by inertia. And here, in the real world – in the cool morning wood – all that had already gone. The refugees had passed by in a hurry, leaving behind the small – three by five inches – windows into the history. One could see the past world in them; one could just look into those windows, but could never go through to return back. 
Paul knelt down and digging a small hollow by the knife blade, placed there the album and covered it with earth: handful after handful. 
Soon the slope became more abrupt, so he picked up a fitting staff and went ahead leaning on it. Soon he came across a den sited under a tall dry beech. The entry could be hardly noticeable from under the hanging interlaced roots plenteously roofed with brown compressed litter. Probably not only humans but animals also had become refugees in the passed war, and for certain the owner of this hole should be huddling now somewhere in the northeast, far from the reach of the passed infernal shelling.
Paul had almost reached the top, when the sun disappeared behind low clouds and a drizzling nasty rain started. Climbing up an old knotty oak, he pulled out the peep sight. From here – the top of the horseshoe-shaped ridge framing the woody dell he had just passed through – to the nearest Karabakhi positions in the south, there were no more than five miles left. Further to the south the rocky ridge was turning into a wavy plateau, spotted by many dells, smoothly declining towards the southeast to meet one of the wide gorges, cutting through the north of Karabakh. The area was more then fitting to the plan: along with several ravines, the forthcoming front line transition was considerably facilitated by the presence of three low, cone-shaped hills, located between the Karabakhi entrenchments and Paul’s current position. The low hill slopes were covered with dense thickets, while the foots were cleared of bushes and planted with apple-trees in orderly lines. Now the unattended trees had practically dried up, and the garden could be looked through well.
One of these hills could host an Azerbaijani artillery observation position, as according to Paul’s calculations, their main forces in this sector were dislocated to the west and the east. Soon his forecasts were confirmed: he noticed some activity on the slope of the most distant and low hill. At first he saw one man, and then another two appeared. A minute later few more Azerbaijani soldiers went out of the thicket and getting down to the garden, sat down on the grass. Arrival of a numerous company was threatening to upset Paul’s strategy; anyway he could nothing but to patiently observe the further developments.
Within the next quarter of hour ten more men left the thickets to join those sitting among the dry trees. The arrival of a green UAZ and two trucks forced everybody to rise and line up. The group was enforced by some sixty soldiers from the trucks. The third truck arrived with an adjusted trailer. It was a covered vehicle, which brought twenty men. Soon one the third of them separated from the group and went aside. Observing the strange maneuvers Paul guessed that probably one of the commanders had decided to conduct some field maneuvers to run his men. But when all the mass of the soldiers made up a long chain and moved to the northeast – to the second hill, Paul’s inside grew cold. A surmise alarmed his mind: what they did was not a tactical training, but a combing operation! 
“Damn!” Paul looked on his watch, carefully broke some branches and got down from the tree. “Damn!”
It was 745. He sat down to attach the branches to the soles of his boots with his hands shivering of haste. All that time he had been hopping that the escape of the hostages wouldn’t be unveiled till 10 o'clock. Still few minutes ago he thought that he had a lot of time to get to convenient positions. The worst thing was the fact that he had no idea how the unforeseen had happened. Paul was sure that the Afghans were well tied up. Maybe the visitors had arrived before the appointed time and set the alarm on. Yes, but how did they appear on his way, and how did the soldiers guess their route? Paul stopped: what if he had decided not to chat with Jafar, but to immediately head to the front-line? In that case he and the kids would straightly fell in the hands of these soldiers.
The American quickly ran to the glade where he had left the children. If the soldiers kept the temp then they would quickly finish combing the hills and reach the top of the ridge within half an hour. And what if some trucks had reached the dell and the soldiers, moving up the hill, had found the boys? He stopped. “Damn, he could tune up the radio to the Afghans’ waive. By doing that he could learn about the alarm and the plans of the persecutors. On the approaches to the glade he switched to prompt step, thus trying not to rustle. Soon he could see the kids between the trees. They were sitting under the tree, covered with the cape. After scanning the area Paul jumped out to the glade.
“Get ready for a march,” said Paul, rummaging in the backpack for the radio, “we can’t stay here anymore.”
“Sir,” Alpha was depressed, “we’ve destroyed the radio.”
“But how?” That was a blow and Paul sat down onto the grass, “how could you break it?” 
“We’ve switched it and then began to take it away from each other... Here’s it,” said Bravo.
The boy was holding the radio: the antenna was hanging on a narrow plastic strip. There was fear in his yes: he was waiting for an inevitable punishment. Paul turned the toggle-switch, but unsuccessfully: probably the sensitive system had fused due to the damaged transmitter.
“Okay,” he threw the unnecessary device into the backpack, “we must immediately leave this place. We’ll speak later”.
“Where’re we going?”
“Ahead, up the hill.”
The idea could seem dangerous, but they had no choice. The soldiers wouldn’t go to villages. Paul was confident about it, as the trucks hadn’t moved off, but stood there waiting. It could mean that the persecutors weren’t planning to go deep into the wood because, according to his calculations, another group of search was approaching to them from the opposite directions.
The pace set by Paul while climbing up the slope was beyond the kids’ forces, and they got quickly exhausted. So the ‘teacher’ placed Charlie on his shoulders and, taking the hands of the remaining two, marched ahead through the rear underbrush. Soon he replaced rested Charlie with Bravo. Alfa refused to take his turn, so smallest boy was again placed between the backpacks on Paul’s back. The way to the den took slightly more then forty minutes. According to the calculations, the soldiers must have reached the top of the ridge and were about to descent into the dell.
Paul examined the hideout. Here and there the walls of the den, dug under the roots of the old tree, had crumbled covering with clay the heap of rotten branches scattered on the ground. Now the hole was small for a bear, but it still had sufficient room for an adult and 3 children. The problem was the camouflaging. If he had more time, Paul would hide the entrance under dry branches and other forest litter, but now time was pushing. Ordering the boys to get inside, he passed them the backpacks and climbed uphill with the knife in hand. The rain had amplified, and big cold drops were penetrating under his collar – something he would hate since his early childhood. Anyway, now the downpour was right in time. Soon he approached to a big, prickly blackberry bush, almost two and a half yards across. Bowing down, Paul wriggled under the offensive prickly branches, which immediately pierced into his shoulders. Getting to the foot of the bush, he raked the ground with the knife blade until the roots appeared. Then he cut them off and strewed over with dry leaves. The slope was almost deprived of grass and a minute later there were no traces of the large bush left on its former place. “If it rains heavier, then the stream of dirt would quickly wash away the traces,” thought Paul, wrapping the basis of the bush with a piece of cotton and lifting the branches up not to smear the top of the plant by earth.
He was right: the hedge plant became a good wrapper for the entrance. Paul climbed inside and pulling the roots of the bush into the den, closed the way out. Now only rare sun beams and raindrops could fall into the dark but dry dark hideout. Through the measured drizzle the American could catch the faltering breath of the children who were still recovering after the quick march and getting more and more strained in the wait for the further developments. “They don’t have dogs and that’s inspires,” thought Paul, carefully shaping out a narrow observation aperture between the branches. Finishing the job, he turned to the children.
“Soldiers are coming in this direction. Can you imagine,” he deliberately chuckled, “they try to find us. But they don’t even guess what kind of guys they have got mixed up with. They don’t know that we’re smarter and better trained. I’m sure that you’re not afraid of them.” 
“Certainly we’re not,” said Charlie and cautiously added, “You’re not mad at us for the radio, are you?”
Paul burst out laughing: the childish mentality deserved nothing but admiration.
Tensely listening to the noise of the raindrops, Paul mentally returned to his recent dialogue with Jafar.



CHAPTER 26

Paul was indeed shocked to find out whom and from whom he had, in fact saved, during the hostage exchange. All of a sudden his return to the initial point of the vital misadventures turned from an adventurous stroll into a flight of a mosquito through a thin web of painful memoirs and relations were he himself was willy-nilly becoming a subject.
He recalled the stretcher with the wounded man, the blood spots on the bandage and the horror in the eyes that he had caught for a second. “The wounded Afghan is groaning over the pain,” – that was his conclusion just few days ago. No, the man was groaning due to his crossing with a dark page of his past, with a breathing evidence of his weakness and treachery.
For a second Paul thought that Jafar was tricking him: the drawn picture was improbable. But the eyes imprinted into his memory explained and put everything into places. Then Paul had regretted the scorched Afghan. Could he forgive Rasul now? He didn’t know. Was it possible to forgive the treachery of a person who was poorer in spirit?
Did JG know all that? Paul recalled Gordon’s happy physiognomy and got goose skin again: could that stout, cheerful rascal with the innocent face of a ‘Green Peace’ activist be behind that ball of concurrences? That would be too much. Drumming at the back of the chair by his fingers, Paul was feverishly thinking, when the images and the scraps of ideas flashing in his brain, sunk in the well of his subconsciousness to open the way for a slow and dreadful rise of a bright, multisided, sparkling and thorny thought that he himself was to blame for all and everything. Indeed, if he had informed the people about Rasul’s treason then the last wouldn’t be taken as a hostage in the future, and subsequently Alex wouldn’t be kidnapped for the exchange and Paul himself wouldn’t be invited to Washington and then sent here. Everything was as simple as ABC: if leaving Jeremy Lee Gordon's office five years ago he had found a messenger to pass a short note to Jafar, then now, quite probably, he would be sitting in a wicker chair at Beckon Hill and pulling his hand over Bone’s head, ceremoniously looking through the papers in a languid wait for the honorable posting. 
“Rasul moved to the north, to Maksoud. He changed his name there and served as a mechanic. Here I happened upon him,” went on Jafar, observing the reaction of the interlocutor with a visible pleasure. “Russell appeared here by his own will, with a goal to take part in the jihad: probably he was praying for the forgiveness of his sins.” 
“I’m leaving with the kids. I hope, you get it,” Paul coped with his thoughts and smiled indifferently again. 
“So, you want to endanger Rasul’s life, do you?”
“I don’t need Rasul any more. When you see him next time, tell him that I forgive him.”
“By taking the kids you’re endangering his life and my reputation…” 
“Don’t worry about the reputation, and leave the destiny of the mechanic to Allah,” Paul recalled his visit to the one-armed and, probably, already one-legged George, “let the Supreme be the judge of that person. Have you got paper and a pen here?”
Jafar approached to the locker and returned with a piece of paper and a pen.
“What do you write?” The Afghan couldn’t make out fine handwriting of the interlocutor. 
“And what do you think?”
“If you write a note to Abu then think about his reaction. He has been honoring your name for so many years... He will be shocked as soon as he learns the truth… He will lose his trust in you, and the Americans in general...”
Paul smiled.
“Eh, Jafar, Jafar,” he swung his head, “you’ve been fooling the death for such a long time that the slyness became a part of yourself. Do you really think that I’m going to buy your delirium about the image of my country and so on? I put down tomorrow date on the note, and, besides, Abu knows my handwriting. Don’t worry; I’m not going to expose you to ridicule. Though, you’ll certainly look as a fool.”
He rolled the note into a thin tubule and pushed it into the Kalashnikov’s barrel. Jafar followed his actions with surprise.
Finishing with the message, Paul rose before him.
“And now listen to me, Jeff. Return home and take the note to the specified address. There you’ll find a person who owes me much. He’ll solve all your problems. Follow his advises and remember that you need to finish with wars. It’s my order or request – name it the way you want. I hope that for the old time's sake you’ll not disobey me. I’ll find you later. Then you can present a claim, but for now you should forgive me...”
“Forgive for what?” 
“Now you’ll see.”
Paul obliquely struck at the Afghans carotid the palm of his right hand, while his left fist tore up the eyebrow above his left eye. The off-guard Jafar’s legs gave away and he fell down, overturning the table. Amazement slowly dimmed in his dark eyes: he tended to say something, but couldn’t speak anymore. Paul picked up his former pupil, tied his hands and legs and closed his mouth with a piece of cloth. Soon the lifeless body of the gallant commander of the Afghans was packed as a bale of cotton and placed on the ottoman in the baby pose.   
Who said that the rendezvous with the past should be painful only for one side? Making the semblance of fight, Paul threw down the chairs. “Jeff is lucky not to have Pat here: for a greater cogency the fat man would certainly recommend kicking the guy for a while,” thought Paul, taking the Afghan’s backpack and looking around for anything that could be useful on the way back. 
Few minutes later he came downstairs and stood in front of the cellar with a lantern in his hand.




CHAPTER 27

The soldiers appeared within a quarter of hour. Their voices suddenly came through the noise of the rain and then Paul, who was about to doze, noticed two men dressed in green loose overalls slowly walking downhill. Almost immediately he heard voices near the entrance into the den. It was so close, that moving back Paul clasped the children into his arms and whispered into their ears:
“Quiet, boys, don’t be afraid.” 
The children were abruptly breathing. Their hearts were boomingly beating and Paul was afraid, that their fragile mentality wouldn’t stand the test and they would give out their presence. But everything ended well.
For certain the alarm was given by Abu, who had probably outstripped the schedule and arrived for the hostages before the planned time. If he knew who had freed the children, he would never raise such a noise and send the Azerbaijanis to pursue them. So it could mean, that Jafar didn’t tell him the truth. It was predictable, because in that case Rasul’s life wouldn’t worth a bean. Paul realized that his best student had made his choice. Life is life. “Goodbye, Jafar.”
Some ten minutes passed before Paul removed the bush and, ordering the children to stay inside, left to examine the vicinities. The soldiers were far below. Their voices weren’t audible, but, climbing up to a tree, he saw two of them crossing the dell. Everything was quiet up the slope, so he decided to move ahead.
As he had assumed, they could easily escape from the hunt. He was more concerned by the perspective to be chased by the mojaheds. If they were hot on the trail of the escapees, then they would follow them up to the end, no matter if someone else had already brushed the area before.
“They’re looking for us down the slope. That means that we can leave before they understand that we’ve outwitted them. I’ll go in front of Bravo, and then comes Charlie and, eventually, Alpha. Keep your eyes on me. As soon as I lift my tight fist upwards – you stop. The unclenched palm means that everyone must drop flat. If I clench it again – everyone stands up and waits for the order to move ahead. This order will be demonstrated by thumb. I’ll show it this way, got it? The distance between me and you must be ten steps.” 
The group moved again. Reaching the top of the ridge, Paul lifted his fist and leaving the boys in bushes, again climbed up a tree to look around. The first things he saw were the trucks standing at the northern side of the distant hill and a large tent pitched by. The thin grey smoke whirling above the stuck out pipe meant that the kitchen crew was cooking the meal. Within few yards four of their fellow-soldiers were dawdling with another tent. The Karabakhi positions were hidden behind the grayish veil of the downpour, noisily dropping on the leaves. There was no chance to go pass there over the hills – that would be a mad thing to do – so Paul decided to take the children to the east, towards the main highways. That was a risky undertaking, though hardly anyone could assume, that leaving the saving woods the escapees would dare to appear within the immediate proximity of the brisk roads. “We’ll take the path along the top, and pattern our farther plans according to the circumstances,” thought Paul calling up the boys.
After passing few hundred yards, Paul noticed the military UAZ he had seen before. It was standing behind the mountain jut topped with low elms. Covered with a thick layer of dirt, the off-road car had stopped in the place where the road from the apple-tree garden was turning to the east to join another one passing parallel to the forest, just within an extended hand distance from the bushes and branchy trees overhanging the ground road. Paul lifted his fist and unclenched the palm, and the children dropped on the wet soil.
It appeared that, the Azerbaijani commander’s car had tightly stuck in the mud. From above the American could see how a low and dense soldier, swearing and loudly abusing someone, was dragging an armful of green branches from the wood. Falling down the burden on the roadside, he began to push the branches under the forward wheels. Finishing with that, the guy climbed onto the footstep, started the engine and tried to drive out, but in vain. After the third attempt he jumped out and, standing knee-deep in the mud, hastily slapped the door and tried to fiercely kick the wheel. Then, calming down a little, he made few steps towards the hills and loudly called someone by name. That was also a vain thing to do – the tents were too far. So the driver returned to the car, picked up the bayonet from the road and sadly walked to the woods. Everything was clear: the commander’s car was standing near the tents while the driver, looking forward for the dinner, was languidly exchanging words with the cooks, when he was contacted by the radio and ordered to drive to a specified location to pick up the bosses. The rookie, still unaware of the vicinities, had underestimated the puddle and got totally stuck in it thus balancing on the edge of incurring the big man’s displeasure. And eventually, the guy had no radio to call for help.
Paul and the boys could continue their march, but probably the destiny itself had decided to facilitate their task. Paul cast a critical look on the children: tired and soaking wet, they were restlessly waiting for further orders. He called them up and whispered something into their ears. They joyfully nodded. Then, bending down, he made few dashes down the slope and came across with the soldier near the car, where the driver was about to unbent his tired back after dropping down the next armful of the branches. Catching the quiet hail, the guy sharply turned back and stiffened with astonishment.
“Teslim et ,” said Paul in Turkish, “ve sa; kalacaksin .”
Few seconds passed before the driver got realized that the man standing in front of him – probably one of those they had been patrolling for since the morning – was unarmed. He grinned and shook his head, showing that he didn’t perceive the threat seriously. 
“Sen teslim et ,” answered the driver and began to knead his fingers and shake his head.
That was a menacing warm-up of a fighter. Probably for the Azerbaijani this fugitive looked too weak to whip with such a robust guy as he. It wasn’t without a reason that he was assigned to drive the boss’s car.
However, the hail from behind had quickly stopped the tightened demonstration of muscles. Turning back, the unlucky driver saw a ten – twelve year-old boy aiming at him his own Kalashnikov he had left in the baggage compartment of the stuck car. There were two more boys standing by.
“Thank you, Alpha. You’ve saved my life,” smiled Paul, “I hope you know how to handle this thing?”
“Yes, sir,” said Alpha, wiping by his right shoulder a rain drop rolling down his face, “I’ve fired Kalashnikov many times.”
The weapon was quivering in his hands.
“Well,” Paul sat right on the wet grass and pointed at the dumbfounded driver, “and what shall we do with him?”
“We expected to see you beating him,” Bravo’s voice was heard, “but Alpha didn’t wait...” 
“I’ll shoot him down, sir,” calmly said Alpha and again cleaned his cheek by the shoulder, “but first of all we’d better move him leftward not to strike you and the car.”
“The war is over, Alpha,” Paul looked at the driver, who began to show the signs of anxiety, “leave him alive, let him live.”
“No, let Alfa shoot him down,” Bravo spoke again, “they’ve killed Và.., Charlie’s parents. Don’t stop Alfa.”
“What do you think, Charlie?”
The situation was acquiring a special sensitivity, and none of the boys remembered about the rain, weariness or danger.
“They’ve killed my parents,” Charlie began speaking, “we were in a carriage, on the way to my grandfather’s village. We had almost reached it, when my father sent me forward to tell the grandfather to open the gate. I ran forward...”
“You don’t have to continue, Charlie.”
“He had reached the street were we were playing. It was right near to his grandfather’s gate. But then suddenly shelling began. They,” Alpha glowered at the driver, “fired cannon at the village. We fell down on the ground. It was terrible. When everything was over, we all ran to the carriage. It was broken, there were blood and parts of clothes everywhere, and, finally, everything was powdered with white dust. We were told that that was flour. The donkey had lost its back leg. It was still alive: twitching in the dust, it was trying to rise. Charlie said that his father, mother and sister were in the carriage. The sister was very small; she couldn’t even walk and was always held in the parent’s arms.”
Trying to look strong, Charlie furtively wiped his nose by the torn out elbow. Nobody knew whether he was crying or not: the big indifferent raindrops were smashing at the face of the small soldier. Meanwhile the ‘arrested’ Azerbaijani demonstratively sat on the grass with his back to Alpha. The boy looked at Paul with surprise.
“Well, and what are you waiting for?” Paul shrugged his shoulders.
“For the next thunder peal,” grinned Alpha, “I don’t want his friends to hear the shot.” 
The ‘teacher’ grew cold inside.
“Promise me that you’ll not do it until I tell you the history of this Azerbaijani soldier.”
“Do you know it?”
Alpha was still shouldering the weapon.
“He was born some eighteen-nineteen years ago in a mountain village. Probably he was the first child in the family, maybe the third or the only child – that’s not so important. The important thing is that his parents, and quit possibly both his grandfather and the grandmother were waiting for his birth with impatience. They didn’t know, that the child is a boy, but had certainly hoped for it. When he was born, many relatives got gather, organized a celebration and congratulated each other. But the most delighted was the kid’s father, who hoped that the boy would become the successor of the family traditions. Everyday, returning home from work he would come up to the cradle, look at the sleeping kid and whisper something to him. Maybe about teaching the boy everything he knew as soon as the kid grew up. He very much hoped that there would be peace in the world, that his son would receive education, find a better job and create better living conditions that he had. The father didn’t think that the time would come when his fellow tribesmen would start a war and drive away their neighbors, when his son would be taken to army and sent to the front line. That man and his wife were very much afraid for their son, as they didn’t know that he would become a mere driver for a big boss. As soon as they got the news that all, their son had to do was driving, they became very happy. They became even happier when they learned that the war was over. And now, at the present moment they don’t even guess what a lot is falling upon them. Few more minutes and they’ll lose their son. All their hopes and dreams will disappear, they’ll look for the son, they’ll cry, pray, but hardly anyone can ever help them. However.., perhaps, except for you, Alpha.” 
“They’ve killed Charlie’s parents,” Alpha’s voice trembled.
“I don’t thing that he was involved in all that. He’s just a driver.”
“I didn’t kill anyone,” said the driver in Armenian and rising from the grass, turned to Charlie, “Accept my condolences.”
              Everybody was surprised, and only silent Charlie slowly pushed Kalashnikov’s barrel aside and turning back, moved the sleeve of his old school jacket over his face.
“He lies. He tells all these because he’s scared that I can smash his head away,” Alpha grinned and aimed the weapon at the Azerbaijani soldier again. 
“Are you sure?” The driver shook his head – probably the guy had a mania to shake his head, “you didn’t even push down the safety lock and reload the gun.”
The boy reddened. The hostage was right: the boy could equally well threaten him with a mop. The position of the small metal lever was radically changing the state of affairs and the status of the participants of the episode. 
“Do you still wish to shoot him down?” Paul inquired dully.
“No,” angrily threw Alpha and lowered the weapon, “I thought that you’ll teach us to be strong.”
“Only a strong man can overcome the lure to smash someone’s head away, especially, when there’s no need to do this. Let me congratulate you, my friend, as you’ve gained your first victory.” 
Getting closer, he took the weapon from the boy.
“I don’t ask you to forgive them. That’s not me who teaches you that. I wish each of you to respect the laws of war as true soldier. The man standing in front of us is unarmed, he demonstrated no resistance, and we’ve no right to kill him,” said Paul and removed the cartridge from the sub-machine gun.
“We’re unarmed too, but the soldiers pursue us with firearms. Why don’t they respect those laws?” 
“Because we’re stronger,” Paul pulled back the bolt and caught the dropping cartridge. “They can’t catch us.” 
Winking to the kids, he pushed the cartridge into the flash eliminator and cautiously crimped the bullet aside.
“All right, sonny,” he addressed to the ‘hostage’, “according to the laws of war, that we respect very much, you must answer our questions.” 
The driver stood mute. The unexpected adventure that had came like a bolt from the blue due to the stuck car, had deafened him the way he couldn’t even think of any resistance or escape. Anyway, he knew that his life wasn’t endangered anymore, so his appearance said that he was too far from answering any question.   
“Well then,” grinned Paul, “tell me, were have you learnt our language.”
“I was born in Armenia, in Amassia. I had a wrestling trainer n Leninakan… They’ll get you anyway...”
“Is that all you want to tell us? Is it?” 
Paul rapidly returned the cartridge into the cartridge chamber and sharply pushed the bolt. The last stopped halfway, without reaching the last point of its trajectory: the deformed round got stuck in the cartridge chamber and the weapon jammed. That was what he needed. Holding on the butt and the barrel of the weapon, Paul suddenly threw it to the driver. Concentrating his sight on the flying object and instinctively throwing out his hands forward, the boy didn’t immediately understood how a heavy fist whistling between the magazine case and the pistol grip of the dropping Kalashnikov cut his nose. Stiffen with astonishment, he had no time to plainly understand anything when the second fist ruthlessly stroke him somewhere into the solar plexus, thus making the reticent soldier to convulsively fall into the dirt pool.
“Everybody, get into the car.”
Paul dragged the driver to the roadside and threw the sub-machine gun by. Returning back, he pushed the heap of branches to the forward wheels and took the driver’s seat.
There was a folded Soviet style military uniform in a polyethylene bag on the backseat. Probably the owner had changed it to a more suitable field wear before joining the hunt. Paul unfolded the clothing. The big boss appeared to be a major. Judging by the size, the man must be a bit shorter. There were no documents in his pockets. Doesn’t matter, it would do if he stayed in car. He put on the major’s jacket right in the car and turned towards the children. 
“How do I look?”
They shrugged their shoulders: the kids were still shocked by the unexpected scene of the execution.
Paul started the engine, turned on the differential gear and smoothly pressed on the accelerator. To his joy, the off-road got out of the pool over the piled branches almost without going into a skid.   
“And now, gentlemen, I ask your attention,” Paul straightened out the car and looked back towards the woods. “We go to the front line. If all is well, we’ll cross it soon. We’ve bad news as well: there could be check-posts on the road. We must pass them without making much noise. Stay quiet and try to keep a low profile. Alpha, get back to the baggage compartment and try to find a groundsheet or a large cloth. You’ll lie down on the floor and cover yourselves with it. I’ll place the backpacks on top. Got it? Now the problem #2: crossing the line... It’s a dangerous, but a possible adventure. You must precisely follow my instructions. When we get closer to the line, Bravo will move forward and sit down on the floor with his back forward. His hand will be near the door handle. Alpha, your door is the right one; Charlie, yours is the left rear door. Each of you’ll sit by your door with back forward and wait for the signal. I’ll tell the rest on site. Do you have any questions?” 
“You hit the Azerbaijani,” stated Bravo.
“You’re right. Alpha left him alive, and I also decided to do something good for that guy.”
“You beat him up,” the child was surprised, “is it a way to do good?”
“He’s a soldier,” smiled Paul, valiantly rounding pools and hummocks, “if we had just left him there, then he would need to explain the incident to his commanders. As a soldier, he had no right to let us go, he should have stopped us, even at the cost of his life. But he didn’t do that. So, they can imprison him or even shoot him down. But now, they’ll find him blood-stained, with the gun in his hands. They’ll think that the soldier tried to stop us but in vain, he fought with us, tried to shoot, but the weapon jammed. So, it turns out that Alpha left him alive, while I saved him from jail and troubles with the bosses. And they, you can trust me, will be very dissatisfied as soon as they find out that someone has stolen their car.”
“We did it,” said Charlie proudly, “and what does ‘jammed’ mean?”
“It means that weapon can’t shoot, son,” Paul stretched his hand over the back of the seat and patted on the child’s hair. “You know what, Charlie? I have a gift for you. I’ll pass it to you as soon as we pass the line. But before, you must promise me, that you’ll keep a good heart.”
“What kind of gift is it?” 
“Let it be a secret for a while.”
 Valiantly bouncing on the country road the UAZ climbed onto chapped asphalt and leaving behind three miles of woody hills, again made a turn to another cart road going to the south, to the Karabakhi positions. Paul from afar noticed a makeshift swing bar – few tank tracks counterbalancing an almost ideally direct log. A small, slap-dashed sentry box stood beside. From distance it was difficult to understand why the black-and-white painted log was blocking the passage in that point and only driving by he saw the line of tents and a couple of canvas covered tanks hidden in a wide ravine stretching perpendicularly to the road and practically indiscernible from aside. 
“Keep silence,” he turned back to straighten the oiled rug the trio had covered themselves with. 
Catching the sound of a working engine, the sleepy sentry took off like a shot from a gun and readjusting the rifle sling took his position near the counterbalance. Approaching to him, Paul lowered his window and putting out his shoulder, pointed his index finger forward, towards the front line. It should calm the soldier, who was certainly burdened with the heavy duty to warn the local hot shots about the unexpected arrivals of unpredictable top bosses. The UAZ with the local unit plates heading to the line could become a serious headache for those on the positions, while his superiors could keep on sleeping. As Paul had predicted, the effectively demonstrated major’s shoulder strap left an appropriate impression on the sentry, who didn’t hesitate to untie the bar’s end. Paul severely inspected the soldier and demonstratively stopping his eyes on his footwear, discontentedly shook his head – right as a big boss was supposed to do. Catching his sight, the gut immediately turned pale and standing at attention under the rain, wished happy journey to “Yolda; Maior”  by his trembling voice. Paul severely nodded and slowly, as if half-heartedly, drove off.
Following the car with his eyes, the sentry rushed into the booth, put on his broken boots, and wrapping the trophy lather sandals into a piece of a cloth, pushed them into a crack between the ground and the back corner – just to keep his nose clean: what if that staff pen pusher returned and started an investigation. Sitting on an empty box and lighting a cigarette, he thought, that he was lucky to escape problems and that soon his partner would change him on the duty.
He could hardly make two puffs when a terror-stricken officer jumped out from the ravine and rushed to him, buttoning his tunic on the run. The soldier had to throw the cigarette out. Standing at attention, he tried to crush the smoking tip of the cigarette by his heel. But unfortunately he couldn’t do it accurately and just entirely pressed the precious tobacco into the dirt. Meanwhile the run up boss grabbed his shirt front and, still choking with the fast run and excitement, gasped out: 
“The number plate.., did you remember the number plate?” 
In the meantime, making a turn and passing few hundred yards, Paul gave the ‘all clear signal’. Just as with the den case, he worried that the boys couldn’t sustain the stress and would give themselves out. However, despite of tender age, the boys had a good self-control and iron nerves, so something would certainly come of them. 
“Alpha,” looking into the rear-view mirror, Paul stretched back his blue steel jackknife, “you must get to the baggage compartment and cut out the back window from the tent, it’s totally covered with dirt, and I see nothing behind. Be careful not to harm you, and leave the knife to yourself, it’s a gift. Move it.”
While the boy was completing the task, Paul drove the car along the wavy edge of a gorge, to a lofty hill with rocky top towering above the positions of the both sides. Passing by disguised cannons located below the road and hidden from the opposite side by the dense wood, the UAZ reached the road furcation at the foot of the hill. The main Azerbaijani positions in charge for the strategic road, which was perpendicularly crossing the rocky gorge, were located somewhere behind the hill. Reaching the furcation Paul turned to the gorge, and taking a look around, stopped the vehicle under the sprawling crone of a big beech. Here he took out the peep sight, stood on the car’s footstep and leaning his elbows on the canvas top, started examining the last and most crucial part of the road hardly distinguishable behind the thick rain veil. There, in front of him, were the Karabakhi positions, right within two miles by air. The road to them was smoothly descending by a straight line to a small mountain cocoa-colored river, whose zigzag bed was dividing the gorge on two unequal parts. The ford must be located practically end-to-end to the opposite, Karabakhi slope. It was hidden by the sprawling crones of old walnut trees and dense bushes. Further the way was obliquely crossing an open space and climbing up the woody slope. This part of the way – from the ford and up to the edge of the canyon was the most dangerous. In ordinary circumstances a good driver could dash the remaining miles within at most ten minutes. But it couldn’t be done now. Paul was more than sure that the Azerbaijanis had observers and fire positions on the hill. If they suspected that something was wrong, they could subject the UAZ to a storm fire almost within a minute. He could only hope that the rain had pushed everyone into dugouts and shelters, and the way of the escapees was free. 
His meditations were interrupted with a sudden child's hail:
“Sir, look there, behind...!”
The black crossline of the peep sight drove a curve over the gorge slopes and rested against the hood of another UAZ, rapidly rushing to Paul. He took aback and was about to drop the device: the UAZ and a military truck with open top were right within some 300 yards far. Jumping into the car, Paul threw the peep sight to Bravo and sunk the accelerator pedal.
“That’s for you, Bravo. You’re a good boy; you’ve noticed them right in time... And now lay down on the floor. Alpha, take care of Charlie, lay him down and please, don’t put out. We’re breaking through.”
Roaring by the engine and leaping on the road, the car with the escapees rushed to the saving ford. The persecutors weren’t shooting yet. Did they really hope to catch the escapees alive? 
“In the case of shooting you must bow down and take care of your heads...”
Before Paul had time to finish the sentence, a column of black smoke rose within fifty yards ahead, in thickets on the right side of the road. The terrible thunder drowned his words, while the blast wave pushed the car and tilted it to the left. Instinctively covering the face with his arm, Paul, nevertheless, had time to sharply turn the wheel to the left and brake. Flying chips, branches and ground covered the windshield with a fine grid of cracks. When the dirt fell down the escapees saw the deformed and brushless windshield wipers plaintively scratching the air and the falling raindrops slowly flawing down along the cracked surface, leaving behind long dirty stains. Everything lasted less then few seconds. Pushing out the windshield by his elbow, Paul started the engine again and laughed:
“Look, they’re so afraid of us that even decided to fire cannons. Now, quickly lower the door windows.” 
Children, who had already survived something similar before, were sobbing. However, there was nothing to be afraid yet: the first shot was just a warning. If the Azerbaijanis even shoot over their heads for the second time, then the third one could really have sad consequences. When Paul saw the persecutors in the rear-view mirror, he moved to the middle of the road and pressed the accelerator again. It was becoming too dangerous to keep the children in the UAZ: if the artillery wouldn’t bring down fire on the vehicle before the ford then they would certainly succeed to do it on the open terrain. He had a goal to return the kids safe and sound, but now it turned out that he had brought them under bombardment, thus subjecting them to inevitable death.   
“Listen up, soldiers,” Paul tried to outvoice the growl of the engine, rushing into the cabin through the broken windshield. “Bravo, move to the front seat. Alpha, you should sit down by the right door. Charlie, yours is the left one. On my signal you must immediately open the doors, jump out of the car, roll aside and lie down. Okay? I can’t stop for too long, so you must do everything correctly. As soon as I drive away, you must go into the river and move along its left bank, remember – the left one. Look, you must reach that place. There you can cross the stream and act according to the circumstances. Alfa, you’re in charge for the operation. Boys, you must obey to his commands. Understood?”
“Are you leaving us, sir?”
That was Alpha’s voice.
The second explosion flapped up a high column of dirt and smoke within forty yards, right on the car’s rout. The UAZ was shaken again, but this time the driver didn’t brake, so the off-road flew over the smoking mine crater at full throttle. 
“A mortar”, blinked in Paul’s head.
“That’s an order, Alpha. We’ve no other choice.” 
Paul felt how a crying child convulsively seized his shoulder. It was Charlie.
“Charlie, son, I had almost forgotten,” said Paul, rubbing his unshaved cheek at the kid’s hand. Clapping over his pockets, he took the pomegranate-shaped medallion from his neck and put it into the boy’s palm.
“Remember: you must reach there. I’ll meet you on the other side.”
Getting into the islet of the saving green at full speed, the car stridently braked, and Paul shouted to the boys: “Move it!”
Then he heard the clangs of the opened doors.
By his lateral sight Paul fixed how philosopher Bravo, dressed in a torn poncho, cast the last glance at him and then, resolutely pushing the door with his leg, sighed and jumped off onto the road flashing under his feet. 
Suddenly Paul realized that he lacked vigor to look at the boys. He bowed his head to the wheel and closed his eyes.
He didn’t see, how early grown-up Alpha, tensely blinking his eyes and instinctively covering the face with the blood-scratched palms, fearlessly rushed to a rain pool and, lifting a fountain of yellow splashes, plunged into the brown swill. How small Charlie, keeping in mind his instructions, rolled aside with an unchildish and concentrated face, and, keeping Paul’s gift lifted above the dirt, crawled away to the muddy river.
Passing the river, the car rested with its front wheel at a large stone and then stopped, blinking twice with the red bulb on the control panel. The deafening silence covered the vicinities. Lifting his head, Paul looked around. The pressing feeling of melancholy and loneliness seized his heart in their iron ticks and passing over his wet back with goose skin, echoed by leady weight in his tired knees. In a fraction of a second he thought that he could leave the car and reach the ford before the persecutors, that before the Azeri  artillery could start bringing down the fire on the bank he would have enough time to come up with the boys, that there was his daughter Dora somewhere over there, that... 
The car moved ahead and went up the open slope. Paul remained alone with the road, ruined by tanks and swelled up by the water streams, flowing down the mountain. On his right through the downpour veil he could see the wide gorge, and on his left, just few yards away from the car, was the oblique slope, knifed over by bulldozers and spotted with the roots of non-existing trees looking out from the brown earth cutoff. 



Epilogue

A tall gray-haired man in his sixties was silently strolling in front of a granite colonnade which was crowning the front entrance of a memorial cemetery. During the past ten minutes he could already appreciate the gentle sense of style, which had allowed the author of the construction to attain the requested solemnity without a shadow of the tested trick of arrogant mediocrities – grandiosity. 
The man had a modest bouquet of yellow tulips in the hands, folded behind his back. Thoughtfully strolling over the pavement with his confident gait, he looked at his old good watch and smoothly, on heels, turned towards the next group of visitors. The kids with small Star-Spangled Banners cheerfully poured out of a sightseeing bus with D.C. plates. They reminded him of his grandson. He smiled and, looking around, went on measuring the space between the gate and the parking. A minute later a yellow cab with a high, roof-long ‘cap’ and an incalculable quantity of eights on the driver's door, stopped by.
“What a good idea,” thought the man, observing the episode, “hardly anyone can forget such a telephone number. But first of all you must remember how many eights the number has.”
A fifty year-old lady in a strict snuff-colored pantsuit got out of the car. She also had a small bouquet in her hands. Paying off, she nodded to the driver and looked around.
“Is it she?”
Hesitating a while, the man decided to come closer to her. Noticing him, the woman also made few steps to meet him halfway. The thin spike heels of her black varnished shoes briskly knocked on the basalt pavement. 
“Colonel?”
Regardless of an interrogative intonation in her voice, she confidently stretched her hand. “I apologize for keeping you waiting, sir. I guess you had an opportunity to get acquainted with our traffic jams.”
“Everything is all right, madam,” the man gallantly nodded and shook her hand, “I have one and a halve hour before the plane takes off. And besides, I didn’t lose the chance to enjoy the beauty of what you call ‘Indian summer’.” 
“So, shell we go?” She didn’t wait for the answer and stepped ahead. “It’s not far, just a five minutes walk.”
Hilly grassy plots with rare trees dressed in all the shades of yellow and red; ideally well-groomed lawn and identical lines of similar tombstones: everything here spoke of equality and rest. The silence was interrupted by warm impulses of the autumn wind and quiet twitter of birds. Most likely the main excursion routes were bypassing the place, so there were very few visitors here. Near one of trees an aged custodian was dexterously and silently gathering the dead leaves with an old but reliable tool – an antiquated rake.
“You can express everything in a telephone call, but gratitude,” said the woman, “the gratitude for everything you’ve done for us... and Paul. I was very happy to receive your call. Unfortunately, Dora and Alex couldn’t come from Boston. They’ve moved to Paul’s apartment soon after the wedding. Both of them asked to pass their sincere thanks.” 
“What for?” He was surprised.
“In fact, that were you, Colonel, to negotiate with the opposite side; you organized the sending..,” she tried to pick up a suitable wording, “of the remains to here. And then – the medal.” 
“I had no problems arranging that. They returned Paul with military honors, in a closed coffin with officers in parade uniform carrying it. And concerning the transportation.., you know the story: an American-Armenian from New York arranged the entire job.”
The man and the woman were going by never-ending lines of white stones.
“And how did they place him here?” 
“We didn’t expect that too. After Paul’s tragic pass we were informed about his profession and signed non-disclosure papers. Then Mr. Gordon met us to inform that he was Paul’s friend and to ask if he could arrange a place for Paul in this cemetery. That gentleman said that Paul’s another friend – Mr. Galebright – had initiated a special commission which conducted a duplicative investigation of the factual background of Paul’s actions and determined, that he had actually remained true to his oath. His name was included into a ‘Book of Glory’. To tell the truth, I was surprised to find out that the liberation of children is so highly appreciated nowadays. You see, I run a radio program for kids... I’d even thought that probably Senator O’Connell – Alex’s father – was involved into the case...”
“Not only the children that matter. While rescuing their lives, he didn’t make an attempt on others life. That’s a valor. Even our opponents appreciate that.” 
They had already approached to the looked-for tombstone, one of the seven, standing in a separate group within few yards from the nearest line. There was an inscription under the engraved Cross: “Paul Zetlyan; Colonel; 23.09.43 – 18.05.94.”
The man and the woman laid the bouquets on the grave. Then he put his right hand on the stone and picking out two small packages, poured out their contents on the grave.
“That’s earth,” he told to the woman, silently observing his actions, “It was very difficult to convince your custom officers that that’s just earth. A handful from Karabakh and another one is from Smyrna, Turkey. A friend of mine brought it from there upon my request. Paul’s ancestors used to live there.” 
A brief silence ensued.
“And how all that happened? You know what I mean...”
“That was a tragic accident. We knew about the pursuit and that Paul was planning to break through the line with the boys. They were within a mile from us when the Azeri artillery fired on the car. We warned them, that that was a violation of the armistice, and that we would be compelled to undertake adequate steps. Maybe it worked, maybe – not, however they ceased the fire after the second shot. Meanwhile, Paul landed the children in a safe place and ordering them to withdraw, drove to an open place. He wanted to draw off the Azerbaijanis’ attention from the kids, but run over a mine... I’m really sorry.” 
“You were his friend, were you?’” She was still looking at the stone.
“Once I had weighty reasons to wish death to your spouse,” he smiled, “but generally we’ve always been fellow tribesmen by origin, colleagues by the job and brothers by the principles, even in the days, when the life had scattered us to the different sides of barricades.”   
             He looked on the watch.
“Excuse me, madam, but it’s time for me to leave. I’m not sure whether the retired colonel will again be invited to a seminar in Canada, but I promise that as soon as I am around next time, I’ll give you a call. Good bye.”
“Good bye, sir.”
The man waived his hand in the air and slowly went towards the gate, but passing few yards, returned back and got something out of the raincoat pocket.
“I was with an inch of forgetting about it. That’s for you.”
He stretched a dog tag-looking metal plate with unfamiliar letters engraved on it.
“An old man asked me to pass it to you: the youngest kid is his grandson. He didn’t know that you were... It’s in Armenian; the translation is on the opposite side. I hope that I could translate everything correctly.” 
The Colonel left.
Turning the plate, the lady read the inscription.
The warm October sun cheerfully sparkling on the polished metal, struck into her eyes. Lowering the hand with the tag, she looked around. She was left alone with the stone and the metal decorated by a sentence, stamped by the old, but still strong hand of the aged blacksmith: 

“And the widows of those who didn’t return from the war shouldn’t
 Mourn too much, as the best fate befell to those who didn’t return. ”

P.S.

The small bird of prey was gracefully soaring in the sky, barely moving its wide wings. The heavenly abyss was ideally clean, and not a single cloudlet would interrupt its dazzling blue. The freshness from the skies was colliding with the air waves, warmed under the May sun and impregnated with the tart aroma of the heated rocks, thus creating invisible whirlpools everywhere around. The symphony of deafening silence was spreading pacification and rest.
There were people far below. They were ascending by a thin yellowish footpath which was hardly appreciable on the background of the violent green of the grass and the bushes. The avant-garde of the procession almost reached the platform in front of the northwest wall of the once terrible citadel. A trio of boys was in front of the chain: very few adults could keep up with their quick and tireless walk on these steep mountain paths. There was a young family further down the slope. The young woman would constantly pull ahead and then wait for her husband who had placed their tiny son atop of his shoulders. Another man was following them by a slow but confident gait. The left sleeve of his shirt was stuck over his belt, and he was leaning on a cane he had in his right hand.
Reaching the platform, the woman stopped by a heap of stones and the boys who had sat down around. Soon her husband reached there too. Taking the kid off his shoulders he turned downwards and waived his hand to the one-armed man. And the last, sitting down on the grass within few yards below the footpath, pointed his cane upwards – at the bird. He was not audible from above; however, it looked as he was telling something. The small ridiculous boy was sitting on his father’s arms and amazingly looking at the trio of the prankish children making faces to him. Thus he almost forgot about his daddy who was vainly trying to attract the kid’s attention to the soaring bird he was pointing with his finger at. The smiling spouse was standing to the left of him and holding the boy’s back in her arms.



P.P.S.

Diving downwards, the bird made an abrupt pique, flowed above a small grove and planning over a nettle-covered fortress yard, landed on the ruins of an ancient church. Taking seat on a crude yellow stone, jutting out of the masonry, the hawk  caught the eyes of a gray-haired Old Man sitting at the head of a long table with many men in long white attires sitting around it. And the bird saw, how the trees disappeared from the walls, the granite pavement showed through the green grass, and the fallen stones returned to their places reviving the former terrestrial glory of the church and the fortress. And then, as if with a wave of an invisible hand, the men in white attires turned to the Old Man. Everyone, but the one sitting right at the end of the table and looking there, where behind the high wall an excited question “Where’re you, Paul?” asked with a female voice was met with a naughty laughter of her hiding son and then followed with the voice of the kid’s father recounting the familiar story: “... and the Khan said...” 

       
THE END


Stepanakert-Yerevan-Stepanakert
June 2001-August 2005ãã.

Translation and editing is completed in October 2009.


ENDNOTES

  1. A common way in Islam to address Mohammed.
  2. A fictitious name.
  3. The American gesture for “OK” is an equivalent for a foul expression in Karabakhi tradition.
  4. (Arabic) “If the God permits.”
  5. (Latin) “The Last Argument of the King”.
  6. Shura is a Pushtu equivalent of “Soviet” (a council). Shuravi was the term given to the Soviet (Russian) soldiers in Afghanistan.
  7. Pat means Ararat.
  8. (Armenian) “Hello”. Literally: “May I wish a kind sun to you.”
  9. An Irish Saint, known for his trips.
  10.(Armenian) Another term for ‘Armenian’, originates from the Mesopotamian name ‘Nairi’– ‘The Land of Rivers’, given to Armenia.
  11. (Farsi) – “Enemies”, the term the Soviet troops would use to call the Afghan mojaheds.
  12. (Arabic) – Abu.
  13. (Arabic) – Muslim theologians.
  14. Irrigation ditch or channel in Central Asia.
  15. The term for territorial-administrative unit in Afghanistan.
  16. The name of the last pro-Soviet Afghani leader.
  17. (Latin): “To liberate those oppressed” - the official motto of the Green Berets.
  18. Pakistanis.
  19. Surrender.
  20. And you’ll live.
  21. You surrender.
  22. ‘Comrade Major’ (Azeri).
  23. This is a paraphrase from the Old Testament. To my shame I could never again find the right citation (Auth.).
  24. ‘Shaheen’ means ‘hawk’ in Farsi.