Chapter 8.

07.apr.1992

 The window flashed by unkempt facades and parked cars, a significant part of which were trucks and vans, exclusively work vehicles - this was purely Soviet. By evening the weather had changed - cloudless and sunny during the day, it turned into what it was before - a gray cloud cover and drizzling rain. Such is the weight.

 Of course, the gray picture of a sloppy evening city was depressing, but these were trifles - what really got on his nerves was the umpteenth time playing "Don't Worry, Be Happy". Blankenberg did not think that this song could get on his nerves so much, but it turned out to be so.

 Behind the wheel of the Nissan minibus sat Funievich - the group leader, Blankenberg's immediate supervisor, who also arrived in the city in late March. Funievich was a local, or rather, a Russian. From Moscow. Blankenberg knew what the Komsomol was and what kind of characters were there, or rather, were there, but he did not expect to see such a vivid picture. Judging by his own, presumably truthful, words, he was from that wave of Soviet business that was made up of the well-known cooperators. According to Blankenberg's own classification, there were previous waves, which included all those once persecuted black marketeers and tsekhoviki. According to a more common definition, this wave was the first. Unlike the cooperators, who often experienced pressure from the newly formed criminal world, the business of Funievich and his partners existed on a slightly different plane. A joint venture, a joint venture, as it was called, organized by young scientists and simply promising personnel, began selling kerosene lamps abroad. The secret of success was that a small component of the burner was made either from niobium or even from rhenium, the world production of which was only slightly more than twenty tons. Judging by the fact that Funievich was here now, the business hadn't gone well. Perhaps someone more influential had simply taken it over.

 Funievich looked like a Soviet version of these yuppies. A candidate for a commercial... for mint candies, if in the West, and a successful stock exchange with successful brokers if here. Not only was his hair and glasses not enough, he also tried to fake an accent every now and then, explaining that he hadn't had time to switch over after his English lessons, which he was apparently listening to on his player.

 Blankenberg found it funny and at the same time embarrassing to realize that twenty years ago, when he was just taking his first steps in a new life, a person like Funievich would have undoubtedly been seen as a worthy example, a person who would definitely succeed and was already succeeding as he should. It wasn't about business, but about appearance and demeanor. Funievich, of course, did not know the details of Blankenberg's biography and respectfully addressed him as "sir" and "Mr. Blankenberg", initially trying to combine it into "Sir Blankenberg". I had to explain to him that he, Blankenberg, did not have a high English title. The car was approaching the square. It was difficult to say how the other five passengers felt about the musical inclinations of the boss, but they had already managed to discuss him more than once in conversations among themselves in a tactful, if ironic, manner. His mission was coming to an end - in the evening he had to leave the city on a business jet, which was supposed to bring a group of several loud preachers, called to arrange their specific concerts here. Funievich was preparing to part with this country, where after all the events, despite the unprecedented softening of the order, he could well be declared a state criminal. Having parked the car in the courtyard of a heavy Soviet administrative building, facing the square with its façade, the Komsomol broker, with his accent once again jumping out, invited his subordinates to go to the porch, from which splashes of drops falling from somewhere on the roof flew in all directions.

 Out of habit, having glanced up at the icicles, threatening no worse than daggers, Blankenberg, leading everyone else, entered the heavy door after the Funievichs. A short wandering along the corridors led to a spacious office, with its windows facing the square. In the middle of the room stood a huge table, made up of several, as if for spreading out a map on it, at least that was the idea that occurred to Blankenberg. In the far corner, a SONY TV, found somewhere, was working, placed on a stand as tall as a man.

 There were three people in the office – two men and a woman who greeted the newcomers standing and facing the door, as if expecting them.

- Good afternoon – Funiewicz said, clearly trying to pronounce it, and this time with a noticeable Russian accent, which, however, would not have been worth picking on if not for his efforts to impersonate an American one.

 The woman, and her name was rather unusual – Haldoris, Haldoris Landskikht, stepped aside, clearing the way and, one must assume, wanting to examine the newcomers.

 Blankenberg also knew the names of the other two – if Landskricht, as her file reported, was born and lived most of her life in Norway, then the other two were English. One was called Johnson, the other Gandlow. Johnson had a typically British face with a wide, as if previously stretched, mouth. He was fat and clumsy, and with his light hair complementing his light, pale skin and constantly showing teeth, it seemed as if he himself was made of some kind of light-colored rubber or plastic. It was a Rockwell shot.

 Gandlow looked completely different. With his bald forehead and emotionless expression, he could easily pass for a Russian. Or an American. Such a universal face, not bearing the imprint of the peculiarities of the sounds he pronounced or of his way of life in general. An experienced eye is always able to distinguish one's own from foreigners by these signs, often unconsciously, but sometimes it happens that a face, due to its peculiarities, does not bear this imprint. By the way, this could also be said about Blankenberg. He himself knew perfectly well that this applied to him too.

 Landskricht would stand out in a crowd of locals not so much with her face and black hair pulled back into a ponytail, but with her clothes. Not particularly typical for the streets of Europe, although refined and, as it seemed to Blankenberg, a little aggressive. Then he realized what was going on.

 Funievich began to introduce the arrivals. Blankenberg was promoted, which, it must be said, was expected in advance. The Russian, having done his part of the job, gave way to the American. The situation around became incomparably more comfortable in terms of freedom of action - the uncontrolled enclave had been successfully formed. In addition to the stupid preachers, called upon to further increase the chaos in the mass consciousness of the locals, the plane was supposed to bring normal equipment with which it would be possible to organize a full-fledged secure communication. Dragging this along at the very beginning would have been an unjustified risk.

 While the arrivals were sitting on two sofas standing by the windows, Landskricht managed to put a pile of some sheets of paper, which had immediately scattered, on the "map table", which turned out to be translucent film for the projector. Not wanting to waste time, the owners of the office moved on to the working part – communicating to those who arrived certain aspects of the current situation and the planned future actions.