Kamensky official for special assignments 2. Read online "official for special assignments"

Yuri Kamensky, Vera Kamenskaya

Officer for Special Assignments

Unaccounted for factor

Out of the frying pan into the fire

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

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

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

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

A flock of laughing students hurried to the glass cafe, giving him appraising and mischievous glances as they ran. A pensioner in professorial glasses followed sedately, leading a red-haired dachshund with a gray-haired muzzle on a leash. From the balcony, a black dog greeted her with a booming bass, thumping with his tail on the bars that protected his freedom - you see, old acquaintances. Grandma, hurrying to the bus that was pulling up to the stop, awkwardly touched it with a shopping bag, and then she herself was almost knocked down by a skateboarder who flew by with a torpedo.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lie down, young man,” said a calm male voice.

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

“Doctor with an ambulance,” a thought surfaced. - It was still not enough to rattle in the Sklif. Fuck them: nothing seems to be broken. They’ll keep them for a week, and then I’ll rake things with a shovel. And where did the horse come from?

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

- Looks like a stranger...

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

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

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

- I wouldn't die...

"Hell, don't wait."

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

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

Again this one, with a beard.

“It’s bad for me to lie down,” Stas muttered. - No time.

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

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

Instead of asphalt - paving stones. One car has passed through Strastnoye all the time - the same retro as everything around. There are different chaises, cabs ... and even then not too many, in comparison, of course, with the flow of cars that he saw about five to ten minutes ago. And the last straw - a tall policeman, heading towards them. Stas did not even doubt that it was a real policeman. Three gombochkas on a cord - a policeman of the highest salary or a non-commissioned officer.

It is only in bad reading that the hero, finding himself in an incomprehensible place, pinches himself for a long time on all parts of the body, trying to wake up. If a person is not drunk and in his mind, one asks, why the extra gestures? And so it is clear that this is reality, not a dream. Behave according to the situation, then you will figure out how you ended up here. When there is time. If it will be.

What happened, gentlemen? - The policeman politely put his fingers to the visor.

“Well, this is…” the driver hesitated.

“Mr. policeman,” a lady in a coat stepped forward, “this gentleman a foreigner was knocked down by the horse of this cab driver.

She looks victorious, her nose up - an excellent student, "surrendering" naughty classmates to the teacher. Well, wait, you bastard...

- What makes you think that I am a foreigner? Stas shrugged. – For your information, I am a hereditary Muscovite.

“Well, you are dressed like that,” the lady hesitated. "I'm sorry, of course...

The policeman, who turned to the cab driver, froze and again turned his gaze to Stas.

- Indeed, sir, you are dressed, I beg your pardon, more than strange.

With the light hand of the "soviet" writers, the appearance of the policeman of tsarist Russia was formed as a stereotype of Gogol's Derzhimorda - a kind of healthy bull, moreover, he was necessarily boorish and not a fool to load his fist in the snout. And now Stas looked at the non-commissioned officer with interest. Well, except perhaps a healthy one, of course: a height of one hundred and ninety, that's for sure. Cast shoulders, not an ounce of excess weight, hands (they say a lot about the level of training) like a good fighter - a wide wrist, a strong palm, dry and strong fingers.

The rest, as they say, is exactly the opposite. He carries himself like a professional - confidently, but without rudeness. The eye is tenacious, like a good opera. When he glanced at Stas with a quick glance, it seemed to him, a sinful deed, that he spotted the barrel under his jacket. Although, in theory, it should not ...

- Be kind, Mr. Muscovite, show me your passport. And you carry your documents - this is already a cabman.

He sighed and dutifully trudged to the cab.

- I don’t have a passport with me, - Stas answered calmly, feverishly thinking whether to present an official ID. "Xiva" is valid until 1995. It is difficult to predict the policeman's reaction to such a document. Not a damn thing, of course, is not clear, but the fact that he somehow failed in time is a sad fact. "Occam's Razor" does not fail - nothing else could explain what was happening.

“Well, what are you…” The policeman shook his head reproachfully. Don't you know, sir...

He looked questioningly at Stas.

- Sizov Stanislav Yurievich.

- ... Mr. Sizov, that when carrying weapons, you must have a passport with you? This is a pistol under your jacket, am I not mistaken?

While he was uttering this tirade, Stas had already pumped over the option - what should he do in this stupid situation.

- Mister policeman, I have a service certificate. But I'm afraid if I present it, the situation will become even more confused.

- And what do you suggest?

It was evident from the eyes of the policeman that he, too, was pumping through possible options.

"I'm asking you to escort me to the police station...

Well, I've already seen so many storytellers here ... - the bailiff chuckled, - one more, one less ....

And Stas told. Calmly, slowly, in order. When he named his year of birth, both raised their eyebrows slightly. After the episode with the jeep and the driver who replaced it, the duty officer nodded to Semyonov at the door, and he went out without uttering a sound. Returning about ten minutes later, he placed a thickly written form on the duty officer's desk.

The driver fully confirms that this gentleman appeared out of nowhere right in the middle of the street.

He waved his hand. It was clear even without words - what the hell does a cab driver need?

Well, what are you supposed to do? - the duty officer rubbed his cheek, - Decisively, I am lost ....

Can you tell me, - broke the pause of the operas, - what date is it today? And what year?

Okay, mister bailiff, I went to the post. History, of course, is interesting, but lack of time.

Go, go, Semyonov. And in fact...

Farewell, Mr. Sizov. Hope to see you again. I really want to ask you something. If you don't mind, of course.

I don’t mind, - Stas sighed, - where will I go now ....

When the door closed behind the policeman, he suddenly slapped his forehead.

Wait, mister bailiff... you have, after all, Koshko Arkady Frantsevich is in command?

State Councilor Koshko is the head of our police. So, his name has been preserved in the annals of history?

It has been preserved, - Stas nodded, - but is it true that any person from the street can get to see him?

Stas. Stanislav Sizov. Detective.

And, colleague ..., - Koshko, opening the certificate, carefully studied it, - detective, hmm ... what a strange position, the right word ....

What's strange here? - shrugged operas, - Although, yes ... operas-fell-soaked. This is how they make fun of us ... they joke, in a sense.

It's funny, - the detective laughed, - fell wet. The Russian people know how to twist something like that ....

Before, in fact, we were called inspectors of the criminal investigation department.

Well, it sounds much more noble, - the state adviser nodded approvingly, - otherwise, it fell-soaked ... bad taste. In what year did you see the light, Mr. Sizov?

In the sixties, - Stas answered and, having already answered, he realized that the seasoned detective simply "spoke his teeth", - in nineteen sixty.

And your pistol was made, exactly, in the year you were born,” Koshko said thoughtfully, “right for you, Herbert Wells. And what, the time machine is invented? No, according to your testimony.

Yuri and Vera Kamensky

Officer for Special Assignments

Part I. Unaccounted for

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You see, alien.

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

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

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

Wouldn't die.

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

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

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

Again this one, with a beard.

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

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

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

Instead of asphalt - paving stones. On Strastnoye, for all the time, one car drove - the same retro as everything around. Different, there, phaetons, spans, yes, and even then, not too many. In comparison, of course, with the flow of cars that he saw no further than five to ten minutes ago. And the last straw - a tall policeman, heading, precisely, to them. The fact that it was a real policeman, Stas did not even doubt. Three gombochkas on a cord - a policeman of the highest salary or a non-commissioned officer.

It is only in bad reading that the hero, finding himself in an incomprehensible place, pinches himself for a long time on all parts of the body, trying to wake up. If a person is not drunk and in his mind, the question is - why the extra gestures? And so, after all, it is clear that this is reality, not a dream. Behave accordingly to the situation, then you will figure out how you ended up here. When there is time. If it will be.

What happened, gentlemen? - the policeman politely put his fingers to the visor.

Duc, this. - The cabman hesitated.

Mr. Policeman, - a lady in a coat stepped forward, - this Mr. Foreigner was knocked down by the horse of this cab driver.

He looks victorious, nose up - neither give nor take, an excellent student, "surrendering" to the teacher of naughty classmates. Well, wait, you bastard.

What makes you think that I am a foreigner? - Stas shrugged his shoulders, - For your information, I am a hereditary Muscovite.

Well, you are dressed like that, - the lady hesitated, - I apologize, of course.

The policeman, who turned to the cab driver, froze and again turned his gaze to Stas.

Indeed, sir, you are dressed, I beg your pardon, more than strange.

Somehow, with light hand"Soviet" writers, the image of the city of tsarist Russia was formed into the stereotype of Gogol's Derzhimorda - a kind of healthy bull, and, of course, boorish and not a fool to charge in the snout with his fist. And now Stas looked at the non-commissioned officer with interest. Well, except that healthy, of course: the growth of one hundred and ninety, that's for sure. Cast shoulders, not an ounce of excess weight, hands (namely, they say a lot about the level of training) like a good fighter - a wide wrist, a strong palm, dry and strong fingers.

Kindly, Mr. Muscovite, show me your passport. And you carry your documents - this is already a cab driver.

He sighed and obediently trudged to the cab.

I don’t have a passport with me, - Stas calmly answered, feverishly thinking - is it worth showing a service certificate.

"Xiva" is valid until 1995. It is difficult to predict the policeman's reaction to such a document. Not a damn thing, of course, is not clear, but the fact that he somehow failed in time is a sad fact. "Occam's Razor" does not fail - nothing else could explain what was happening.

Well, what are you doing, - the policeman shook his head reproachfully, - don't you know, sir.

He looked questioningly at Stas.

Sizov Stanislav Yurievich.

- ... Mr. Sizov, that when carrying a weapon, you must have a passport with you? This is a pistol under your jacket, am I not mistaken?

While he was uttering this tirade, Stas had already pumped over the option - what should he do in this stupid situation.

Mister policeman, I have a service certificate. But I'm afraid if I present it, the situation will become even more confused.

And what do you suggest?

It was evident from the eyes of the policeman that he, too, was pumping through possible options.

I ask you to accompany me to the police headquarters. It's right next to it, if I'm not mistaken? I have no complaints about Mr. But I would write down his data, just in case. In case you doubt my story.

Hm, - the non-commissioned officer chuckled, - infrequently, I must say, I myself am invited to go to the administration. Usually the opposite happens. There is no need to remember the driver, because he will take us. Isn't that right, Artyom Yefimitch?

Duc, we are forever, - the driver beamed, in which, after the words of Stas, it was clear that a stone had fallen from his soul, - please!

Will you let me go ahead? Stas kindly asked the law enforcement officer.

He preferred not to wait for the invitation of the non-commissioned officer. No brainer that he will not set his back.

Do me a favor," he chuckled slightly.

“Not a detention, but, directly, some kind of social event,” thought Stas, sitting down on a soft seat, “zirlich-manirlich.”

The policeman, holding his sword, sat down opposite, the driver whistled and, under the clatter of forged hooves, the cab deftly turned into Bolshoy Gnezdnikovsky.

“Here, the hard one brought it,” flashed through my head, “and what will they tell their parents? Missing in action.?

Or maybe he will be thrown back at one time, he, out of the corner of his ear, heard or read something like that, and, what is most ridiculous, such cases were recorded precisely in the royal gendarmerie, and even a couple abroad, it seems, in England.

As expected by an experienced opera, the cab did not stop at the main porch. At a sign from the town driver, the driver pulled the horses to an inconspicuous entrance.

All the best to you, your degree, - he wished in the back of Stas.

They walked down a long corridor, up a ladder, down another corridor, then down again. Yes, really ... The appearance of a government institution is the same and indestructible at all times - the same neat signs on the doors, the same smells.

Here, - the policeman pointed to a heavy door made of dark wood.

Entering, Stas immediately realized that he was brought to the duty unit. If he gets to any state, the duty room cannot be confused with anything. The same smells, the same sounds, at the counter - don't go to the grandmother - on duty. And do not care that the form on it is not gray, and the stars between the two gaps are not one, but two. One look thrown at them, as soon as they stepped through the threshold, said everything. Obeying the policeman's gesture, Stas sat down on a wooden bench next to the barrier. Mentally chuckled, noticing behind a stack of papers, on the nightstand, a copper teapot.

Who did you bring, Semyonov? - having risen, the duty officer looked at Stas with curiosity.

I looked, of course, mainly at the clothes.

An incomprehensible case, mister bailiff, - the policeman said with restraint.

Uh-huh, - he grunted, - I have a complete "dog lover" of these cases, - write a report and go to the post. The turn will come, I'll figure it out.

Excuse me, mister bailiff, - Semyonov said firmly, - the case is really extraordinary. Mr. Sizov, show us your ID, now is the time. And your pistol, please.

Stas, who was pretty sweaty in a leather jacket, flashed it with a “lightning” and, taking out a red “crust”, handed it to Semyonov. He, without taking his eyes off him, handed over the document to the bailiff. Then, with a smooth movement, the operator unfastened the “RAM” and, slowly stretching out his native PMM with two fingers, handed it to the policeman. He looked at the gun in surprise.

And I thought that I know all the weapons, - he looked puzzled at the duty officer, - have you ever seen such a thing?

Is that Belgian? - asked the bailiff, taking the weapon from Semyonov.

Russian, - Stas smiled wryly.

No matter how he calculated his position, it still turned out badly. The outcome ranged from "bad" to "complete f ... dats". Which was not fun, of course.

Where do we have this? he heard and raised his head.

The bailiff on duty, revealing his official ID, stared at him like that goat at a poster.

Ministry of Internal es-es-es-er. And the print is weird.

Indeed, until August 8, 1995, - Semyonov read and looked at Stas, - yes, sir, you were right in inviting me here. Well, I do hope you can explain it somehow.

It's not a question to explain, - he chuckled, deciding to spit on everything and go, as they say, "all-in", - can you believe my words?

Well, I've already seen so many storytellers here, - the bailiff chuckled, - one more, one less ..

The driver fully confirms that this gentleman appeared out of nowhere right in the middle of the street.

He waved his hand. It was clear even without words - what the hell does a cab driver need?

Well, what are you supposed to do? - the duty officer rubbed his cheek, - Decisively, I am lost ..

Can you tell me, - broke the pause of the operas, - what date is it today? And what year?

Okay, mister bailiff, I went to the post. History, of course, is interesting, but lack of time.

Go, go, Semyonov. And indeed.

Farewell, Mr. Sizov. Hope to see you again. I really want to ask you something. If you don't mind, of course.

I don’t mind, - Stas sighed, - where will I go now ..

When the door closed behind the policeman, he suddenly slapped his forehead.

Wait, mister bailiff, you, after all, Koshko Arkady Frantsevich is in command?

State Councilor Koshko is the head of our police. So, his name has been preserved in the annals of history?

It has been preserved, - Stas nodded, - but is it true that any person from the street can get to see him?

True, he nodded.

I need to tell him something important. As you can imagine, I know a lot.

I understand, - the bailiff became serious, - if you, Mr. Sizov, are not a hoaxer, you can be of great use. Now you are being led. Korenev!

A tall young man, dressed like a dandy, stepped out of an adjoining room.

“Chop off my head if this is not an opera,” Stas thought, catching a quick, studying look.

Korenev Vladimir Ivanovich, detective, - the duty officer introduced him, - and this is Mr. Sizov Stanislav Yuryevich, our colleague. Vladimir Ivanovich, escort Mr. Sizov to Arkady Frantsevich. I'll alert him on the phone.

They again set off on their journey down the long corridors. This time they didn't go long. Kornev several times imperceptibly, as it seemed to him, threw curious glances at Stas's clothes, but did not speak.

Finally, they stopped in front of a door that had a metal sign with the word "Reception" on it. Opening it, the detective let the opera go forward. The police officer seated at the table stood up politely as they appeared.

Are you Mr. Sizov? Arkady Frantsevich is waiting for you.

Chapter 2

Well, just like in the movies. The portrait of Tsar Nicholas on the wall, heavy velvet curtains and the furnishings appropriate to the time - a complete entourage. From behind a massive table, a tall, broad-shouldered man with a lush mustache, exactly like in the portrait in the book, rose to meet him.

Hello, Arkady Frantsevich.

Please, sit down, - Russian Sherlock Holmes gestured at the leather armchair, - how would you like to be called? Thank you, Vladimir Ivanovich, you can be free.

The young detective, placing his pistol and ID in front of his head, inaudibly disappeared through the door.

Stas. Stanislav Sizov. Detective.

And, colleague., - Koshko, having opened the certificate, carefully studied it, - the detective, hmm ... what a strange position, the right word ..

What's strange here? - shrugged operas, - Although, yes. Oper-fell-wet. This is how they make fun of us, joke, in a sense.

It's funny, - the detective laughed, - fell wet. The Russian people know how to twist something like that ..

Before, in fact, we were called inspectors of the criminal investigation department.

Well, it sounds much more noble, - the state adviser nodded approvingly, - otherwise, it fell, wet, bad taste. In what year did you see the light, Mr. Sizov?

In the sixties, - Stas answered and, having already answered, he realized that the seasoned detective simply “spoke his teeth”, - in nineteen hundred and sixty.

And your pistol was made, exactly, in the year you were born,” Koshko said thoughtfully, “right for you, Herbert Wells. And what, the time machine is invented? No, according to your testimony.

No, it hasn't been invented yet.

I got what you mean. You know, what I like about this whole incident is, well, this is its utter absurdity.

Well, yes, - Stas nodded, - it was possible to invent something more useful.

That's it, - the famous detective nodded, - it's more useful, you rightly deigned to notice. This story does not promise you anything but a headache.

That's it, - muttered the opera.

Arkady Frantsevich rubbed his forehead.

Speaking mercantilely, for you this adventure is like smoking a hare, but, here, for me, as a detective, well, like a gift from above. You, I dare to hope, did well in the gymnasium on the history of the Fatherland?

I was in time, - Stas nodded with a wry smile, remembering the textbook "History of the USSR". - and, most importantly, he himself then read the history of our book. For you, of course, I am a valuable source of information, the goat understands.

Koshko, of course, noted the sarcasm that sounded in the interlocutor's answer, but did not react to it in any way, only an eyebrow, slightly noticeably, rose.

And the memory of me survived?

And by the way he asked it, Stas realized that the question was not idle.

“And you,” he grinned to himself, “nothing human is alien.”

They remember you, - he nodded, - they put you as an example to us. They call you the Russian Sherlock Holmes.

Nice to hear, of course. But I really talked to you, I beg your pardon.

He picked up the phone.

Sergey Ivanovich, please, order a dinner for two persons in the restaurant. No, over here. Thank you.

Well, here, - Koshko smiled, - now we will have dinner, what God sent, and then, don’t blame me, you will tell me about your past, and I will listen about our future, I apologize for the pun.

The State Councilor carefully blotted his mustache with a crisp napkin. The adjutant brought in a tray covered with a napkin, on which stood a covered teapot, a silver sugar bowl, and two tea glasses in glass holders.

Thank you, Sergey Ivanovich.

Nodding, the officer silently disappeared through the door.

Tea, I suppose, has not stopped drinking in Russia? - Koshko asked, filling the glasses with a drink as dark as tar.

They didn’t stop, - Stas nodded, sipping from a glass, - this, however, is rarely possible to drink. Hurry, racing. More sachets.

Silk, like the Chinese, or what?

Paper ones, - the operas sighed heavily.

Paper? - the detective was surprised, - Well, this is your will, mauvais ton the purest water. How can you?

God be with him, with tea, - Stas shook his head decisively, - there is a matter that cannot be delayed. Four days later, in Kyiv, student Dmitry Bogrov will kill Pyotr Arkadievich Stolypin with a shot from a revolver.

Do you remember the details? - Koshko immediately crept up, as before the jump.

The king with the whole court will be in Kyiv. Naturally, the prime minister will also be there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 3

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

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

- Where would you like, gentlemen?

Stas looked back at Arkady Frantsevich - he former life I have never been to Kyiv.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Well, he who is warned is armed.

- What?! What do you want to say?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- Uncle Vasya! - called the Dragonfly-Vika.

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

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

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

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

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

- Hello, who is in charge of this room?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

– Open.

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

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

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

- Where would you like to stay?

- In the Hermitage.

- For what purpose did you come to the city?

- Commercial affairs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 4

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

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

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

- Excuse me, can you extend the cigarette?

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

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

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

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

"Intuition, Watson.".

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- I'm listening.

Koshko sighed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- I ask you to.

“I have the honor,” Koshko got up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arkady Frantsevich grunted, but did not object.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Please,” he nodded.

- Duty sighting or for a specific task?

- Under specific.

- If you please, name the conditions, - the non-commissioned officer said matter-of-factly, - everything, in at its best, let's do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Check the targets,” Kalashnikov commanded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Memories of the Russian service Alfred Keyserling

"OFFICIAL FOR SPECIAL REQUESTS" (AFTERWORD OF THE EDITOR)

"OFFICIAL FOR SPECIAL ASSIGNMENTS"

(EPALEWORD BY THE EDITOR)

“As an official for special assignments, I am constantly on the road”

A. Keyserling.

“I have lived a turbulent life, full of sorrow and joy, success and failure. My carefree childhood was spent in my parents' house in Stannyun, a large Lithuanian estate of my father, in Mitava and in various German schools, then there were years of study in Dorpat, and after university - service in St. Petersburg, in the Ministry of Finance. By a happy coincidence, back in 1886 - I was then 25 years old - the Amur Governor-General Baron Andrei Nikolayevich Korf called me to his place in Khabarovsk, which was on far east Siberia, to the position of an official for special assignments ... ”- this is how Alfred Keyserling began“ his section ”in“ The Book of Keyserlings ”- a publication of family chronicles published in Berlin in 1944 (Das Buch der Keyserlinge. An der Grenze zweier Welten. Berlin: Suhrkamp Verlag, 1944). His memoirs supplemented and continued the previously published book “Count Alfred Keyserling tells…” (Graf Alfred Keyserling erz?hlt… Kaunas-Leipzig: Ostverlag der Buch-hand-lung Pribacis, 1937). Only today, at the beginning of the new century, the memories of the Courland nobleman, who gave several decades of his turbulent life to fulfill the duties of an official of the Russian Empire, set out in these two books, are accessible to the Russian reader.

In one work, the reader is offered an autobiography, memoirs, ethnographic notes, a historical source (materials for literary portraits of Russian statesmen and the history of Russian hard labor), fragments of a documentary detective story. Facts contained in the memoirs of Count Keyserling, entertaining descriptions, strong characters and unexpected plot twists would be enough to create a fascinating historical novel. The protagonists of the narrative, in addition to the "extras" - convicts, Amur Cossacks, Buryat horse breeders, Mongolian lamas, Siberian "foreigners", etc., are real historical figures, statesmen who influenced not only the fate of Alfred Keyserling, but also the fate of Russia: the heir to the throne, and then Emperor Nicholas II, ex-Minister Bulygin, Minister Maklakov and future Prime Minister Lvov, Governor-General Korf and Governor Adlerberg, Prince of Oldenburg ... This is only those whose intervention had a direct, positive or negative, impact on the life of the author. In addition to them, Keyserling mentions in passing or recalls in more detail many famous people with whom fate brought him together - the philanthropist Sibiryakov, the orientalist Ukhtomsky, Admiral Alekseev, the publisher Boris Suvorin, not to mention those more modest heroes of the story who are designated by the author only by their first names, surnames or nicknames (“convict Orlov”, “cook Rupert” , “Agasfer”, “Persian”), or - due to some secrets that the count did not consider possible to open, but rather because of a weakened memory or the seemingly insignificance of their names - are hidden under the initials L., S., N ., N.N., or are designated by position, nationality or social status - “Buryat student”, “Khutukhta”, “adjutant”, “young prisoner prince” ...

In addition to the heroes of this "autobiographical novel", the circumstances in which they - the heroes - have to act attract attention. The "scenery" of most of the book is the Amur penal servitude of the late 80s - early 90s. 19th century The genre of prison stories in Russian literature is not new (beginning with Dostoevsky's "Notes from the House of the Dead", Korolenko's stories and the now little-known "In the World of the Outcast" by L. Melshin), and even a single Transbaikal penal servitude can be considered sufficiently documented (primarily thanks to the book "Siberia and exile" by the American George Kennan, who visited these places in 1885-1886). Dostoevsky was an eyewitness, but he wrote about hard labor of an earlier period; Kennan was primarily interested in political prisoners; Chekhov visited Sakhalin in 1890, but he had completely different tasks and was forbidden to communicate with the political. In relation to Chekhov, Keyserling is an eyewitness from the inside, not a metropolitan correspondent with limited instructions (Chekhov himself wrote that in the eyes of security officers, “I have no right to come close to hard labor and a colony, since I am not a member of public service”), but a person for whom hard labor is part of work and everyday life; unlike Dostoevsky, Keyserling is an observer from the outside, for he turned out to be in hard labor not a prisoner, but, in his words (albeit somewhat exaggerated), "the authorized manager of the prison department." And it is all the more paradoxical to read that part of the memoirs, where the old count recalls his own short imprisonment in Peter and Paul Fortress and admires the expediency of the prison system there (in the Bolshevik prison in Siberia, comparisons with past experience are already powerless).

This part of the book - "Conclusion in the Peter and Paul Fortress" - is the only one where the author not only reproduces the events, but also tries (albeit very restrainedly and succinctly) to restore his impressions, emotions, hallucinations. This page of life is fresh in Keyserling's memory even twenty years later, and it is not surprising that a detailed account of these several weeks in solitary confinement is brighter, more emotional and more detailed than, for example, memories of the subsequent years of the World War. This is a real spy detective, which, by the way, is based on a typical semiotic error, defined as deciphering a message based on an incorrect code. However, if Keyserling had known the word “semiotics”, then methodological problems at that moment would have interested him least of all ...

When characterizing Alfred Keyserling as a memoirist, one must remember the significant chronological gap between the facts described, their assessment and their recording. As follows from the cited Foreword by Otto von Grunewaldt, the record of memoirs is like that of the Amur penal servitude inspected by Keyserling in the 80s. 19th century and the trip through Transbaikalia of the heir to the throne Nikolai Alexandrovich (future Emperor Nicholas II) in 1891, and about the revolution and post-revolutionary events - was made only in 1935; thus the gap is between 15 and 40+ years. The memory of the count, who at the time of writing his memoirs was already over seventy, can only be envied! In addition, the recording was made by the same von Grunewaldt, who “handled the pen quite well” and, obviously, subjected the story of his already poorly sighted relative to some literary processing (however, he managed to avoid “romanization”). Nevertheless, the content and style of presentation make it possible to form an impression about the author and the main character.

Alfred Keyserling, throughout almost his entire narrative, tries to remain exclusively an observer, and an objective observer at that. Of course, the chronological distance from the events described made this task easier, but he, being a witness of both personal tragedies and historical turning points, tries to avoid emotional outbursts, categorical assessments and global generalizations, but describes his subjective reaction. However, his reaction is rather restrained - it often seems that the count considers it necessary to simply express the feelings appropriate to the moment. He remains an almost impassive witness, an aloof observer, and even about political events delicately expresses only private opinions. Yes, these political events, in the assessment of which historians have broken so many copies, are of interest to him only to the extent that they influenced his own life. It is difficult even to draw up a political portrait of Keyserling - he is a monarchist, strictly observing court subordination, but giving an account of the weakness of Nicholas II (as opposed to a respectful assessment Alexander III); by no means a revolutionary, although he pays tribute to political prisoners; not a reactionary, not a "patriot" (or rather, being a German by blood, he turns out to be more attached to Siberia than to European Russia) - he is simply an official who fixes his observations. “Communication with the ‘politicals’ in Siberia taught me that personal decency and honesty do not depend on political convictions. I was guided by the rule: a zemstvo official must be a decent person and honestly fulfill his duties in the service of the zemstvo, he has no need to engage in politics. it ordinary person who lived in turbulent times and, by the nature of his service, found himself in unusual circumstances, striving to fulfill his official duties(characterizing himself, he notes only his "ability to understand complex cases and quickly execute them"). He is an "official for special assignments." It seems that this position, with which his track record began, left an imprint on the entire later life, and the qualities and skills acquired in the service under Baron Korf later determined the actions, attitudes and assessments of Keyserling.

The uniqueness of their time, their own destiny, the opportunity to become a witness to unique events, the value of meetings with interesting people well understood by the author of the memoirs. But at the same time, he himself tries, as far as possible within the framework of the memoir genre, to remain aloof: he is only a witness, the heroes are different. It is hardly conscious author's position rather, it is a consequence of natural modesty, noble education and court school (partly, perhaps, literary style). It is difficult to reproach him for familiarity - not “we are with Baron Korf”, but respectfully “Baron Korf and I”. Describing Mr. Moetus, he credits him with "a thorough acquaintance with these territories, acquired in our long joint trips", but he never calls himself an expert in local history. Talking about his stay in Germany, he does not talk about his relationship with the local elite, but only writes that he is familiar with several families related to the highest East Prussian society (but before that he mentions that these families are his brother and cousins). Yes, and the main result of many years of stay in Transbaikalia, in Keyserling's assessment, is not exemplary job duties, not colorful impressions of Buryatia, Mongolia, Sakhalin, not a circle of acquaintances, not recommendations from superiors and not the favor of the emperor, but above all - the acquired life experience: “There I learned to stand on my own feet."

True, another thing is being in the Zemstvo service. Here the author speaks directly about his merits for the good of the Zemstvo, acquaintances in higher circles, about envy, about enemies. For him personally, this service, these successes are more important. But successes seem to be a natural result of previous activities: Keyserling, both in the Zemstvo service and subsequently at work in Zemgora, remains an “official for special assignments” - he receives a task or takes on the type of activity offered to him, and interest in these tasks or new activities is developed in the process execution; his inherent honesty, prudence, practicality and obvious entrepreneurial streak allow him to adapt to the circumstances and exemplarily fulfill his obligations, whether it be rescuing documents from the besieged Port Arthur, building a holiday village near St. Petersburg, organizing food supplies from Siberia on the instructions of the Prince of Oldenburg, the creation of a "foreign labor commune" in a Bolshevik concentration camp or the cultivation of tomatoes near Novgorod.

Meanwhile, the author writes not only about correcting other people's mistakes (this, according to him, began the service of an "official for special assignments"), but does not hesitate to talk about his own mistakes - in those cases when these mistakes influenced others people (“Subsequently, this decision of mine turned out to be a mistake, which I bitterly regretted”). He tries to be objective in relation to everyone: if official authority allows, he restores prisoner families and transfers convicts to " homework”, uses his house as an infirmary for the dying arrested prince, rightly relies on the prisoner’s word and political guarantees, but at the same time does not stop at the need to use corporal punishment. It proceeds from the fact that every person - from an official to a convict - must clearly fulfill his duties, and at the same time is ready to respect their rights. Evidence of this is the case with the coachman Orlov: "I did not want to force Orlov, I (...) knew that I should let him go his own way." Similarly, the count monitors the observance of the rights of the indigenous peoples of Siberia and the fulfillment of government obligations in relation to them.

These chapters of the book, devoted to meetings with the peoples of Transbaikalia, the Ussuri Territory, the Amur Region, Mongolia, receptions at the Chinese mandarin, a trip to the Khutukhta in Urga, are a valuable ethnographic source. Alfred Keyserling understands that a clash with civilization - at least in the face of artels who rob and drive the natives from their territories, corrupt police officials and Orthodox missionaries who fight Lamaism without bothering to penetrate into its essence - is detrimental to the natives. True, for him this is primarily a failure to comply with the guarantees given by the government and a violation of job descriptions, but he tries to impartially, carefully and accurately record the features of their life, clothing, household, food, rituals, realizing that all these original features will inevitably smooth out and disappear. It is characteristic that at the same time the government official took the point of view of an ethnographer or anthropologist - to look at an alien culture from the inside, again becoming a witness and realizing the value of his observations: life. Everything that I saw and experienced then is already a thing of the past ... ".

Keyserling falls in love with Siberia (however, it should be borne in mind that the author interprets the concept of "Siberia" very narrowly - for him, at least in the first part, this is primarily Transbaikalia, and the history of the annexation of Siberia was limited to Yermak's campaign). He is confident that the accession of this richest region to Russia, the intensification of its development and integration into the Russian economy lead to negative consequences and that Siberia, which has both natural wealth and human resources, and original tradition land use, which has also developed its own, different from Eurocentric, geopolitical guidelines, it would be much better to develop independently. What is good for European Russia is disastrous for Siberia, and this is especially true of Bolshevism. Not accepting the Bolshevik revolution, Keyserling “emigrates” to Siberia, which has already become his native, he is inspired by the possibility of separating Siberia from Soviet Russia, but further developments lead to the deepest disappointment, family tragedies, loss of property (including archives, diaries, photographic documents), endless flight ... And only after a decade and a half, succumbing to persuasion, Alfred Keyserling decides to entrust the “chronicle of special assignments” to paper and, secluded with his brother-in-law in Estonian Haapsalu, remember and dictate.

Keyserling's book is a historical source that is still practically unknown in the author's homeland, and in this capacity it needs its own meticulous researcher who will appreciate the importance and uniqueness of the memoirs of the "official for special assignments" and take the trouble to compare them with other documents, check the facts , compose detailed comments, restore in a number of cases the sequence of events and biographies of the “minor” characters mentioned, establish the identities of anonymous “adjutants”, “Buryat students”, N., C ... For now, the very “return of Keyserling” to Russia, to the Russian reader is important for which, in fact, these memoirs were written.

In this edition, the reader is offered both books of the memoir heritage of A.G. Keyserling - Parts I-IV (as well as " Final word”) are taken from the book “Count Alfred Keyserling tells ...”, their continuation Parts V-VI and the chapter “Gold mines of the Kwantung region”, placed in order to restore the sequence of events in Part III of this edition, are from the “Book of Keyserlings”. When preparing such an edition, it was necessary to constantly keep in mind that the translation and the first publication of a historical source in a number of cases have the rights of the original, and its modification and distortion are tantamount to unauthorized "co-authorship". The editorial work was reduced to minor reductions due to repetitions (mention of the same events in different places of the text), enlargement of the excessively fractional initial rubrication due to the merging of unreasonably small paragraphs (in these cases, as a rule, “double” chapter titles are given), or vice versa , mechanical isolation of independent chronological and semantic parts, which make it easier to navigate in the text (for example, the single part in the German version “On Siberian hard labor” in this edition is divided into three: “On Amur hard labor”, “Accompanying the Tsarevich” and “Transbaikalia and Siberia” ). All abbreviations, changes in composition and headings of the author's text are made without prejudice to the content.

It is clear that personal archives, documents and photographs relating to the Russian service of Count Keyserling were lost during the period civil war. For this reason, the illustrations placed in the book are of a compensatory nature: in particular, photographs from the archives of the State central museum modern history Russia, Museum-Reserve "Tsarskoye Selo", documents of the Russian State Historical Archive. The Appendix contains a genealogical excursus "Counts of Keyserlings", comments and indexes. Although meetings with some boy Oseyka or convict N.N. the author of memoirs often pays much more attention than to the casually mentioned princes, governors or comrades of ministers, the publishers decided not to refuse the traditional name index for publishing memoirs.

The translation of the book into Russian was made according to the German edition by N. Fedorova and provided by K. Eckstein, the great-grandson of Count A. Keyserling, whose deepest interest in the return to Russia of the heritage of his ancestor made this publication possible.

It is necessary to note the great help of Yu. Berestneva, A. Bychkova, I. Izelya and M. Ivanova in the search and selection of illustrative and reference materials and in the preparation of the text. The authors of the comments express their gratitude to the Deputy Head of the Department State Archive RF I.S. Tikhonov, director Museum of Local Lore Pushkin N.A. Davydova and employees of M.A. Moschennikova and N.A. Kornilova, head Sector of Arts of Central Asia State Museum East T.V. Sergeeva, employees of the Tsarskoye Selo State Museum-Reserve T.Z. Zharkova and V. Plaude, employees of the Russian State Historical Archive.

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