Better a star on the epaulet than a hole in the skull.
I told Semyonych: fifty thousand places are booked, the organizers’ names are alike, it’s one group. Let’s call around and count. We don’t need a protection racket, we need a nice clean case: a star on the epaulet beats mammon. We only wanted to clarify the numbers. They swept us aside like sleepy sentries.
Two hundred rooms times three, a tenner each. Six grand a day, pleasant. If we find a mother lode, I’m first. I won’t trade cash for stars. While sitting in a cell on water, I thought only of chicken.
I ate slowly, dipping the meat in salt and watching the detainee. “Write me the truth. If I like it, I’ll leave you the bones.” They wrote furiously, each shifting blame onto the other. Delicate work.
Fifty thousand military-age men around Moscow. The Romans would call it ten legions, the Mongols five tumens, staff officers an army corps. And the most awkward question: call Kadyrov and ask directly, or pretend nothing is happening until the pattern completes itself?
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