Rimanoa

That's some bullshit

Aug 21, 11:57 AM.

To get to America was not so easy: first to get out of Germany (they put me in a secret compartment of a long-haul truck — at the very end of the luggage compartment of the truck is mounted camouflaged room), and then a multi-hour flight across the Atlantic. In Boston, I was met by a man whom I had asked to come in advance to "keep me company". His name was Lonje Amoramente (nicknamed "Lightning" because his movements were lightning fast during the operation).

Quite a young guy — about twenty-five years old, but how it works.

For him, work is a means of making money for a living, so he evaluated it objectively, and in our business it's always good to be able to look from the outside not blindly.

I'm glad to deal with him, because I used to be the same, but now my "roof" is completely off — I've killed too many people, seen too many corpses: I'm sick of everything.

So the guy knew how to kill, kill fast and without pleasure, and what else do you need for a "clean" crime. He's fast-moving, reactive, quick on his feet, quick on his feet, not much of a wordsmith. "No hot phrases. The thing is that some people before killing someone like to show off and say something like "Allah akhbar", "Bunchos Muchos" or, finally, "Die, you bastard!!!". Amoramente's in great control, which is why he's never been caught by the cops. I would like my son to be like him, but unfortunately, my son in his twenties is worse than "Sukhar", "Faust" and "The Executioner" combined.

"Lightning drove a black Jeep Cherokee he bought four years ago.

After fifty minutes of driving, we arrived at Westside Street, at house 15. And what did I see there?

A crumbling brick building that probably hasn't been lived in for a hundred years. It was a rather long structure (about 150 meters along the street), two stories high. The former plaster was lying near the wall, the bricks of which were coming together and falling out (while we were looking at all this with our mouths open, five sun-dried pieces of sand "managed to disappear" from the wall). In the middle of the wall there was an entrance (without doors, of course).

I got out of the car and headed for the entrance. Longe followed me.

When I reached the door, I slipped my hand under my cloak and clutched the Glock with slightly sweaty fingers so as not to be taken by surprise, then stepped inside.

I have already told you what the building was like from the outside, but what was inside was not only obscene, but even impossible to talk about. Some kind of urine was always flowing from the walls, and there were toilets everywhere (just imagine: the whole building was a piece of shit!).

Nevertheless, after forty seconds of running exploration, nothing was found in the house. This is supposed to be where Joseph Gutgold lives, isn't it?!

Now I'm doubting that there is such a person. So, no client, no victim. Just a courier who handed over the money in Prague and was shot dead by Norman near Barcelona.

It's too dubious, and it's right before the hunt for Koza Nostra. Maybe it has something to do with this?

Well, let's say. In that case, what evidence do we have? A hidden camera at the Hello Bar. What would it be doing in an ordinary establishment? So it's a setup: they are especially prepared to wait for me in the eatery where I made the appointment. The courier enters, of course, their employee, pours money on the counter and thereby provokes me to active actions against the fat man with a shotgun. The hypothesis looks pretty good…

Let's put it another way. I wouldn't have an SMG Thunderbolt tucked under my armpit. Consequently, I wouldn't have been able to get away with a shotgun attack. What would they do then… Most likely, they just wanted to keep the money (even Interpol could use an extra million dollars), and kick me out of the bar and send me to the party. This is where it gets confusing. After all, the situation looks implausible: what if I came back and shot them all to hell? No, they probably knew about my surprise with the spare gun. In that case, I take my hat off to the highly skilled work of Interpol. Or maybe there's more than just Interpol involved. Doesn't Koza Nostra have enough enemies? Don't I have enough enemies? Plenty. Including the living and the dead. It raises questions again.

Interpol is too strong an organization to be on the strings of anyone. Even if someone anonymously informed them that, for example, Koza-Nostre was involved in some terrorist act or murder, why should they believe them, let alone open a hunt.

It is also possible that Interpol itself offered to cooperate with a syndicate. But what kind of a syndicate is it that has enough information and power to help the flicks, and in addition to that to break all the unwritten rules of the mafia and go to work together, thereby incurring the wrath and fury of all criminal organizations without exception.

The stumbling block is that Interpol is not strong enough to take on this case on its own and with such success, and there is no possibility of alliance with anyone.

Here one very interesting thought flashed in my head: "Interpol cannot work with such a scale in the U.S., with which it worked in Europe (Americans do not allow on their territory to quietly fight not their organization), namely in Washington, where there were cameras everywhere, where, now it is obvious, the FBI was waiting for us. And the FBI belongs to the USA. From this fact the following is deduced: Interpol was cooperating with the FBI. And I don't think that's all. Americans like to stick their noses where they don't belong, and here they are just invited. Why not use foreign intelligence and poke around overseas?

My cell phone rang. "Hello."

"It's Richard, we found a guy who might know something about your case." "What other guy?"

"Robert Brown…"

"What the hell is this nonsense?" "Anyway, Brosman did his best and…" "Stop fooling around…"

"Just listen to me already!"

"Okay, talk…" — a little grudgingly, I allowed Heart to speak.

"So. Brosman found out that Albert Cave doesn't exist, and that there's a Robert Brown in his place…"

I almost laughed into the tube at the words "in his place".

"So what now? Do I go and bilk the money out of Brown instead of Cave?"

"Well… I don't know Oh, and by the way, Pierce will be waiting for you personally at

the Hilton Hotel in #413 in five hours." "What's that for?"

"I don't know exactly, but rumor has it the Boss ordered him to help you." "I see, bye," — a little taken aback by the last phrase of the interlocutor.

The Lionheart call confused the hell out of me. Some Bobby in New York knows something about my case… And Brosman found out it on behalf of the Boss And now

he'll be waiting for me at the hotel What can I think? But anyway, Pierce's credibility

is as good as mine, and he's worth listening to and going to this town.