Rimanoa

Remember everything

10:54 p.m. July 21.

I was sitting in the most goddamn shithole called Zdrasti bar on Legerova Street in Prague, waiting for the courier, who was already fourteen minutes late.

The owner of the place, a bald and fat man in his fifties, was fulfilling my order, that is, "organizing" the beer by filling a large glass mug with it. He did it in such a way that I could drink to my heart's content before the foam settled down, because the splashes from the powerful jet of yellow liquid flew in all directions, including my cunning "wolf" face. If this face were twenty-five years younger, the bartender's brains would be dripping off the counter, but experience says one thing: "The fewer dead people, the fewer problems.

"Here you go…" — he blurted out as the 'wolf' soared to seventh heaven with happiness over the free booze.

"Thank you," I interjected to finish the sentence and get the pourer back on track with his usual customers, whose representative was third from my right, but followed up with, "Don't mind that mark. — He got out from behind his seat a little and showed me a massive scratch on the outside of the counter. — There's a lot of drunks hanging around…"

The spokesman retorted: "You're the one who's drunk! Just a little drink with the guys last night… And, in general… You're drunk yourself!"

"Sit still. He had a drink with the guys … Yeah … You and your guys …"

"Come here, ssssu —" — the drunk interrupted him, grabbing a plastic club that used to be a chair leg and climbing over the counter.

"Stay where you are," the old bartender "dug out" a shotgun from somewhere below and pointed it at the "stormtrooper".

The "diplomat" stood like a stumbling block. My hand slightly opened the floor of my cloak — behind it in a black leather holster hung a Glock 26 (a compact Austrian-made 9- caliber pistol) with a small silencer attached, capable of turning an elephant's roar into a light "Tuh".

"Sit back down… Or you won't get any more drinks" — the fat man turned around, pointing his muzzle at me — "See… What kind of morons do you have to deal with, and you say…" — His speech was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening — the delivery man was moving it.

He came inside with a large aluminum briefcase, as if he'd been kicked in the ass. Although he was wearing what I said he was wearing (gray suit, hat with brim, sandals), he still looked like a liaison, thanks to his sly face.

The courier came to the counter, ordered a "screwdriver" (another flaw, I asked them to order something stronger and then drink it, but after a cocktail of vodka + orange juice

this guy would have fallen down and stopped seeing anything further than his nose, and you still have to distinguish between Godzilla and Cindy Crawford during the "handoff").

"Here's the money," he began, throwing the 'trunk' on the counter and swinging it open to its fullest extent. The two 'outsiders' stared at the contents, even the shotgunner opened his eyes. Either those who sent this clown didn't know he was like this, or they were all like this, but either way it was a disrespect to work with them.

"This is all for me? — I had to impersonate a passing tourist, speaking in a French accent

— Olia-la-la!"

"You asked for so much…" — I had hoped that he could at least move his brain a little and would realize that it was necessary to close the case immediately, solemnly announce that it was a joke and the money wasn't real, laugh out loud and leave, realizing that something was wrong, but nothing like that.

"Great joke! Ha! Ha! Ha!" — I was still hoping he'd be smart, but then the bartender intervened, "Hehehe! Come on… Mother of all… Hands up!"

For such occasions I had made a special mechanism, which worked when I raised my arms strongly, then I fired MSP "Groza" (a small-sized special pistol made in Russia), attached to my right armpit, so that I just had to aim better.

I raised my hands. The gun went off. A small 7.62 caliber hole appeared in my raincoat. The bartender went down, the liaison and the rep froze in place.

Thank God there was no one else in the bar, so I "put" all the muscles in my right arm into the drunkenness, grabbed my briefcase, nodded menacingly to the clown, and left the premises.

Next, my path went to M Pavlova, at the intersection of Legerova and Jecna streets.

(brackets closed).

…I pulled out my laptop and started poking at buttons.

A few moments later connected to "Brosman" (the boss personally blessed us to work together after my release): "Hello, Jürgen, it's Ralf (password open)."

The answer is, "What's wrong?"

"Uncle Rudolph wanted me to tell you that everything is fine. We bought a TV." "We should have been rocking out at the Prague Fall, not at the Vienna Conference flapping our ears (password closed)."

"Freedom is a sweet word, especially for "Pegasus" (in the open, even on the Internet, it is not recommended to have a conversation)"

"Well, Bodyguard will honor her, too." "Papers with him?"

"Yes, take it."

The information "flew" to my computer. I found a little about myself there: the very sent photo (as it turned out it was not one photo, but the whole movie, where I get money from the courier in the bar "Zdrasti", filmed obviously from the ceiling), other intimate photos (1st — as it turned out the whole mansion in Washington was covered with hidden cameras, and 2nd — the hotel "Indala Garden" in Barcelona, where I set fire to Jack's body in a bathtub), other intimate photos (1st — as it turned out the whole mansion in Washington was covered with hidden cameras, and 2nd — the hotel "Indala Garden" in Barcelona, where I set fire to Jack's body.Washington was covered with hidden cameras, and the 2nd — hotel "Indala Garden" in Barcelona, where I set Jack's body on fire in the bathtub), and of course the record of my "clean" interrogations.

That's it. There's more.

All in all, using the findings, especially, of course, in the mansion, you can more than give me the death penalty.

My cell phone rang. "Hello."

"It's Richard. The red lantern is lit in Munich, France is left." "Okay, bye."

This proposal meant that all documents on the Cosa Nostra case in Germany were now destroyed, only the Interpol headquarters in Lyon remained.