Rimanoa

I don't know, I haven't heard, I don't understand

4:23 p.m. Aug. 19.

Interrogation number 3.

"Mr. Cordarro, I hope you've finally realized that you have no way out." "There's always a way out."

"Of course. But you have a special position." "Oh, really?"

"Yes, Mr. Faust (apparently some information they had on me just that day)." "Faust who else?"

"No need for pretense. We know exactly who you are."

"Of course, I've already told you that I'm a private entrepreneur with…" "Criminal Cases."

"No."

"You used to kill people the organization called you, now in most cases, you pick your own targets…"

"Bullshit."

"You also manage particularly complex operations…"

"You haven't had enough. You've gone from kidnapping to slander. Who are you people anyway? (I finally waited for a moment when I could ask such a question without compromising my role as the impeccable Mr. Cordarro)"

"Law Enforcement Agencies." "Which ones?"

"That's what you'll find out after you answer our questions."

"I've been taken for a complete idiot lately. I know my rights pretty well." "Okay, Faust…"

"My name is Mr. Cordarro."

"Hehe, okay, so be it. Mr. Cordarro, you have no rights here." "I'm sick of listening to this nonsense."

"Understand, Mr. Cordarro, soon your entire mafia will be tied up like a rabbit, and only those who help us will be alive or free (now it's clear that it's the organization, not me personally). Everyone will be killed: your great boss, and all his entourage, and even that elusive Rimanoa of yours — everyone, only you will be able to remain unharmed (I started lying again, besides me, probably a few other people like Giovani Gambino (someone like me) are already being processed).

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't be stubborn, Mr. Cordarro, we chose you because you have an extensive information base, besides there are rumors about you that you want to retire (always bullshit, no one has ever started such rumors, unless some dead enemy of mine). So, you have a great opportunity to do it — to retire alive, not dead."

"How many times do I have to tell you again that I have nothing to do with crime." "You can run around that song all you want, it's useless. Get him in the cell."

Self-activity in detention

7:25 a.m. Aug. 19.

Interrogation number 4.

"Will you cooperate with us, Mr. Cordarro?"

"I am a good citizen. I have always cooperated with…" "You're at it again…"

I moved closer to him and whispered so that neither the receivers nor the ears behind the glass on the wall could hear anything (again, the well-known rule: "Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law," although they obviously had no intention of trying me, it was just a broken habit): "You know I won't talk in front of bugs, so take me to the open countryside".

"All right, Mr. Cordarro, we'll think about it. Take him away."

They thought very carefully and put me back in the Very Important Persons transportation car with the grated windows.

"Now, Mr. Cordarro, it's time to talk," — began the scruffy investigator in the open as I was surrounded at a distance of about twenty meters by about thirty men (half SWAT, half costumed agents) armed with a wide variety of weapons ranging from Beretta 92Fs to RPG-22 Fly.

The terrain was really open: these bastards had made sure that if I tried to escape, I would be visible for several kilometers; by nature you could tell that this was the French Côte d'Azur (another proof that it was Interpol, because their center is in Lyon, still the same France).

I whispered into the investigator's face again, "Listen, you boar, this kind of terrain is no good!"

"Which one do you want?

"I want the forest, not this desert of yours." "You're out of line, Mr. Cordarro."

"Said. All conversations only in the woods!" — As soon as I finished that sentence, all thirty men mentally split into two groups and started shooting at each other. I had the impression that the special forces knew who to shoot at, but the agents didn't.

I grabbed the investigator, threw him to the ground, found a Manurin (a six-shot revolver of 9-caliber French manufacture) under his jacket and, already lying on the ground, poked it at the detective.

Above me there were rumbling explosions, a bunch of gunshots, muffled mate in different languages (mostly in French), but after a minute of such outrage there was silence, and along the field it was heard: "Get up, Faust".

A drug dream

1:40 p.m. Aug. 19

"I don't say this often, but you've done a really good job," — led toward the end of my conversation with Emanuel Revidon, our criminal records manager for the city of Montpelier.

I praised him for a reason, but for my release. After my call to Richard, a special group was sent to Spain and then France to develop and execute escapes. When they found out my location (a secret place of incarceration near the town of Lodève, 60 kilometers from Montpellier), as well as the very open place where I asked for an interpol officer, they came up with a daring escape plan.

The thing is that Interpol suspects are guarded by agents with personal weapons and a local special forces unit coming from a regular police station. The SWAT car was blown up on the way to the open countryside and replaced by their own, Sicilian, armed to the teeth, so I was guarded by their own colleagues, who had no trouble shooting the agents. We ended up with a backward-looking investigator in captivity, asking me his idiotic questions.

His name was Jose Fantin. 37 years old. Married, two children: 10 and 17 years old. Graduated from Toulouse Law School in 1986. He joined the criminal police. A few years later, for the excellent performance of his work, he was promoted to inspector and transferred to the French Interpol with the position of senior investigator for special cases. Finally, in 2002, he was captured by the Italian Cosa Nostra.

Interrogation #1.

Now it was my time for interrogation. Fantin was literally chained to a chair in front of a table with "interrogation" devices in a tiny room of a one-story house on the outskirts of Montpellier. I sat at the table, and Revidon, eager for work, stood beside the interrogator.

"Well, sit down, you'll be my guest. — My voice sounded cold and unhurried, — So, what's your name?"

"I will answer only in the presence of my lawyer," the interrogator simply mocked us, and Emanuel couldn't bear it: several blows flew into the interpol officer's nose area, which made the blood flow, and the tidiness turned into disheveledness.

"Yes, come on, Mr. Fanten. Understand, no one is coming. You'd better tell me, who did you take besides me?"

"Get me a lawyer first…," the lawman changed his speech to individual interjections from the aggression of Emanuel, who looked something like a dead Norman, beating everyone left and right.

After the battle, I continued my speech by taking a surgical scalpel from the table and waving it around: "All kidding aside. You realize what we're going to do to you if you sit there like this, waiting for a lawyer… No? Okay, you don't want to do it the easy way… Give him scopotolomine (a narcotic drug that makes the subject overly sociable, outspoken and complacent).

After administering the substance and after some time had passed, the investigator rambled, "Oooooh, and you know, I'm going to Hawaii with my wife in early September."

"Uh, what's your name?"

"José Fantin. Well, there, and there…" "What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a special investigator…" "Very good."

"I want a third child. You know, I have two girls and I want a boy…" "What's your latest case?"

"Yeah, what's all this about work?! I'm sick of it! Enough! Stop working! I'm sick of it!" I got up from the chair, walked over to the victim and tapped him on the head: "I don't get it. What did you inject him with?"

Revidon looked a little puzzled, "Scopotolomine, as you said…" "Scopotolomine I saw him at the beginning, and at the end it was already amphetamine."

"I don't understand anything…"

"All right. When he wakes up, give him a mad cherry: let him rave until he gets out what we need."

"Where are you going?" "I'll be back soon."

I went to get a new outfit — the old one had blown up.

So, a cell phone, a Glock 26 again, four magazines for it, two fragmentation defensive grenades, a self-destruct bag, and a laptop (in all the

more or less large settlements we have so-called "arsenals", the size of which is determined by the size and degree of importance of the city (I was lucky to still have a Glock there), as for a cell phone and a laptop, they can, of course, be purchased legally).

5:25 p.m. Aug. 19.

"So, did you get out?" — I asked Emanuel, returning from replenishing weapons and equipment.

"He's a son of a bitch. — growled the listener of the ramblings," Talking about his wife, his kids, even how he went to school. Anything. Just not about work. Dog!" — he snapped and got into a fight with the half-dead investigator.

"Stop, it won't help." "No!!! It will help!!!!"

I pulled out a Glock, twisted the silencer off of it and fired it at the ceiling, "Calm down!"

The Frenchman calmed down.

"When you bring him to his senses, tell me. I'll be in the next room."

I stepped out of the room and settled into another to get some respite from all the out-of- control people surrounding me.

"Hello?" — came a steady and calm voice. "It's Faust. We need help."

"Where?"

"Montpellier, you know the place." "Target."

"Interpol's silent agent." "When?"

"Now."

"I'll be there at 8:00 p.m. your time. That's it."

Philip Ravani was on his way to see us. — is the best psychologist I've ever known. Skilled in hypnotizing, neuro-linguistic programming, zombification, suggestion, and everything else imaginable in the field of psychology. There were even rumors about him that his first hypnotic session was with his mother, to whom he gave her the task of doing something personal and very important for him at night while sleeping. What exactly it was is hard to imagine. He was chosen not because he was a master of his craft, but because he knew French.