And then suddenly the Alexander York gave a long, vibrating signal, which made the walls of Mark Tempe's cabin tremble. The man froze for a second, as if in indecision, but soon quickly came to his senses and mechanically looked at the paper that lay in front of him - a map of the Cambridge political prison. This place was his goal. His ex-wife, Harey Dunlop, was sitting there, in this terrible casemate, and he swore to free her for the sake of their common daughter, Molly Dunlop. The path to freedom was long and dangerous, but this map was supposed to help him in his noble cause.
Mark looked at the map and felt adrenaline fill his body. He saw again the imaginary picture of the harsh prison yard, where Harey walked among other prisoners, under guard, with her head down. This vision stood before his eyes and did not give him peace.
Trying not to waste a second, he quickly hid the map in his bag. Then, with the same speed and habitual determination, he began to put the revolvers there - fifteen of them in all. These revolvers were his insurance, his guarantee that there would be a force behind his every move if the plan did not go as he hoped. One by one, they disappeared under the towel, carefully covering them.
Having slammed the suitcase shut, Mark froze for a moment. Thoughts about what lay ahead were still ringing in his head, and the usual bustle was all around: the noise of passengers, laughter, the sounds of the sea. He exhaled and, without wasting any time, rose from his bunk. He quickly straightened his jacket, took the suitcase and headed for the door. Behind it he could hear the rustle of footsteps and the discussions of people who were also getting ready to leave.
When he opened the door, his face acquired an impassive expression. This expression had everything: determination, confidence, but also a deep pain that does not leave him despite his outward fortitude.
As he stepped out into the corridor, he quickly glanced around, expecting someone to appear who might interfere. The corridor was crowded with people. Passengers, bustling and talking, were gathering at the exits, preparing to disembark. The noise of footsteps, the clink of dishes, and hurried conversations could be heard. In this hectic movement, Mark struggled to get to the exit, feeling his heart beat in time with his accelerating pace.
Suddenly his gaze fell on a familiar figure. The bearded man, that strange companion, was there again. He was walking through the crowd, unhurriedly, as if he had not noticed that Mark had already given signs of his desire to be left alone. There was that strange, slightly stupid expression in his eyes again, as if he still did not fully understand that his presence was clearly not welcome.
Mark stopped, but barely kept himself from telling him to go to hell. Anger was boiling in his chest, from thoughts about this annoying guy. He was in no mood for more conversations or more offers of money. But here was the bearded man, getting closer and closer, and it seemed he wasn't even thinking about it.
"So, buddy," Mark said through clenched teeth when he came close enough, "want to get 'acquainted' again?"
The bearded man, not noticing a drop of displeasure in Mark's tone, shook his head with a smile:
"Not so fast, let's talk a little, I don't mind."
Mark only let out a strangled, barely audible sigh, trying not to show his irritation. He closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he were anywhere but here and with this man. But he had to restrain himself. After all, another scandal in this place could attract unnecessary attention, and he could not afford such a luxury.
"I told you," Mark continued, trying to make his voice as calm as possible, "I don't need your participation, especially if it's intrusive."
But the bearded man was no longer lagging behind. Together with Mark, he moved toward the gangway, making his way through the crowd of passengers. Mark's eyes were blazing with determination, but his face remained stony and imperturbable. His steps were quick, deliberate, as if he did not want to drag out this moment. The bearded man, like a shadow, walked alongside, slightly lagging behind, but still not allowing himself to disappear into the shadows.
Mark knew they would soon be on shore, and he tried to ignore the presence of this persistent companion. Too many questions, too much unnecessary conversation. He quickened his pace, almost bumping into one of the passengers. Suddenly, when they had already approached the gangway, the bearded man made another attempt to approach.
He extended his hand. His gaze was restless, even confused, as if he was missing some final point to complete their meeting.
Mark looked at his hand with irritation. He felt once again that disgust that appeared every time he reminded him of his existence. But there was nothing left to do but respond to his gesture. Mark's fingers tightened on the outstretched hand, but it was more an act of politeness than a sincere intention. He quickly shook his hand and, as if by inertia, without looking back, headed for the gangway.
Soon he was already standing on the ground, jumping off the last step, when he looked back. The bearded man was standing on the deck, not hurrying after him. He just stood there, silently, with some expression on his face, as if he didn't know what to do next. Mark, without thinking twice, turned around and stepped to the side, not looking back anymore, feeling how the empty space between them was getting wider and wider.
The bearded man did not follow him. He simply stood, watching him go, but did not move. And Mark, now standing on the solid ground of Cambridge, finally felt confident in every move he made. A strange feeling came over him - as if he were not just a man, but someone more - someone with determination and purpose. His black railway engineer's uniform, with his trousers impeccably tucked in and his tie neatly tied, made him look as if he had just been rushing to an important meeting or a meeting with high-ranking officials. But now this was his moment. He walked with his shoulders straightened, his steps becoming more and more confident, almost like a march.
He passed the street with its busy traffic, with its shops and cafes, with its smoke from the smoking air, but soon turned into a narrower alley, where the space became narrower and quieter, as if his steps echoed in this dead silence.
He did not notice how, in the depths of the crowd, disappearing around the corner, an elderly man appeared - a bald old man in a blue jacket, who stopped at the corner of the alley, as if deciding something. His white bowler hat was slightly slanted to one side, and the cane in his hand swung slightly like a pendulum. He looked strange: he was in no hurry, but he was not standing still either, as if he were listening to an internal monologue. His lips moved, and after a moment a barely audible melody burst from them - something absurd, cheerful, almost childish, like a memory of distant youth.
Mark, unaware of this, continued walking, his footsteps echoing in the alley. The old man suddenly perked up, adjusted his bowler hat, tossed his cane in his hand, catching it with a deft movement, and moved in single file after Mark, humming the same funny tune under his breath. At the same time, an enigmatic smile played on his face, as if he found something extremely funny in this situation. He kept his distance, not walking directly behind Mark, but as if slightly to the side, sometimes slowing down, like a man who does not want to be noticed, but does not intend to hide too carefully. Mark, carried away by his thoughts, did not pay the slightest attention to him, as if the old man were just part of the surrounding background.
Mark walked with his back straight, looking firmly ahead. The alley led him to a spacious square, flooded with bright midday sun. The crowd was motley, carriages and cars moved in a chaotic rhythm, the sounds of footsteps and conversations merged into the general city noise. In the center of the square stood a fountain, its streams sparkled under the rays of light, adding a solemn atmosphere.
Mark crossed the square almost automatically. His attention lingered briefly on a stately building with columns that looked like a museum. Several visitors stood at the door, and a wide staircase led inside, framed by severe bas-reliefs.
The old man had been following him all this time, holding a cane in his hand, which lightly tapped on the paving stones. He moved slowly, as if joking with himself. When Mark had already approached the museum, the old man suddenly stopped, as if someone invisible had given him a command. He approached one of the columns, placed his palm on the cold stone and froze, watching Mark retreat.
A strange expression came over his face. It was something between surprise and childish admiration, as if he had never seen anyone so confidently walk their path. He continued to watch Mark's back until he disappeared into the alley behind the building. For a moment the old man frowned, as if thinking about something important, and then, smiling crookedly, he took off his white bowler hat and tapped its brim with his cane, humming the same absurd tune under his breath.
The old man continued to look in the direction where Mark had disappeared, as if trying to catch his eye in the crowd. But suddenly something in his back trembled, as if someone invisible had whispered in his ear. He froze. A strange feeling came over him, as if he were no longer alone. The old man turned around slowly, with some tension, like a schoolboy caught red-handed.
Mark stood right behind him, an arm's length away. His black railroad engineer's uniform emphasized his strict posture. Mark's face was imperturbable, but his eyes, like two sharp blades, looked straight into the old man's soul. The thin smile on his lips said, gotcha!
The old man froze. An expression that resembled a mixture of embarrassment and confusion flashed across his face. It seemed he wanted to say something, but the words were stuck in his throat. He only weakly spread his hands, as if trying to justify himself, but he himself understood that justifications were pointless.
Mark didn't say a word. His look, full of confidence and slight superiority, said more than any phrases. They stood there for several long seconds, like petrified figures in a silent theater.
The old man, realizing that he had been found out, with a sad and slightly guilty look brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his pot and, avoiding his direct gaze, muttered something barely audible. But Mark did not move from his place, but continued to look at the old man with cold calm and with eyes that burned with triumph. The fact is that everything went as he had planned. When Mark first noticed the old man in the alley, the latter followed him with such diligence as if he hoped not to be noticed. But Mark, a professor of tactics and a man accustomed to surviving in difficult situations, was not fooled by such tricks.
So he deliberately led his pursuer to a building with columns. It was an ideal place to maneuver: a wide square, open spaces, and the opportunity to get lost in the crowd. Pretending to disappear into the human stream, Mark in fact deftly walked around the building and returned to the columns, where he waited for the old man.
Now, standing behind him, Mark was enjoying the moment. This wasn't just a joke; he wanted to show that he was always one step ahead. His hands were relaxed, but his gaze was sharp as a dagger.
The old man, meanwhile, clearly did not understand how he had ended up in this situation. Mark saw surprise flash in his eyes, then slight fear, and finally embarrassment.
Mark remained silent, giving the old pursuer a chance to realize how ridiculous his attempts to remain unnoticed were. Then he smiled a small smile, keeping his gaze fixed on the old man, and with an almost theatrical air, slowly removed his railway engineer's cap and bowed slightly, as if mocking their silent exchange of glances. The gesture was at once mocking and subtle, as if he were giving the older man his due but also putting him in his place.
Without saying a word, Mark put his cap back on, turned around and calmly walked away, confidently moving across the square in the direction he had chosen in advance. His back was straight, and his steps were full of the confidence of a man who had nothing to hide.
The old man remained standing by the column, frozen in the pose of an observer. His face was a mixture of surprise and bewilderment, which made his appearance almost comical. His wide-open eyes, slightly open mouth and head tilted to the side looked as if he had suddenly lost the thread of his thoughts.
He continued to stand motionless, looking after Mark until he disappeared around the corner. Only then did the old man, as if waking up, quietly mutter something under his breath and with some awkwardness straighten his white bowler hat.
At this point, Mark approached a building with a luxurious sign that proclaimed in gold letters: "Violet Raven, Lion & Jackal Club Barber Shop". Its facade was elegantly decorated with ornate wrought iron elements, and through the wide windows one could see the exquisite interior. He looked up at the sign, and something like satisfaction flickered across his face - the place looked fashionable enough to suit his plans.
Bag in hand, step confident, Mark entered the door without hesitation. But instead of the expected light and luxury, he found himself in a small, cramped vestibule, illuminated only by the dim light of a few lamps hidden behind heavy red curtains. The dark wood of the walls and the scent of lavender created an atmosphere of privacy, but also a slight oppression.
He hadn't even taken a few steps when a portly doorman suddenly emerged from the corner. He was dressed in a formal livery, but his black, pomaded sideburns betrayed a man with higher ambitions. The doorman cast a sharp glance at Mark, as if he had immediately weighed him up and decided that this was no ordinary client.
"Allow me to check my bag into the cloakroom, sir," he said with a slight bow, extending his hand as if all order in the establishment depended on it.
Mark froze, almost taken by surprise. His hand tightened on the handle of his suitcase, and his gaze slid to the doorman's face. Anxiety began to grow inside him - after all, in this simple-looking suitcase lay fifteen revolvers and a map on which the fate of his mission depended.
But Mark's face remained impassive, as if he were holding nothing but a set of shaving accessories. He stood opposite the doorman, pondering what to do. He listened to every word the doorman said, every movement of his hands, as if they could predict his next move. The question was spinning in his head - should he hand over his suitcase or not? But finally, deciding that taking risks was his nature, he exhaled quietly and said:
"It's impossible. I can't hand over my suitcase."
The doorman didn't even seem to notice the change in Mark's voice. He continued to stand in the same place with an indifferent expression on his face, as if what he was doing was an integral part of his job and nothing in this life could shake him.
"Why?" he asked, naively and boredly, as if he was interested in the many similar situations that had happened during the day.
Mark looked at his face in silence. He was almost ready to lie, as he usually did to avoid unnecessary questions. But at that moment he couldn't do it. He remembered his life, all those endless maneuvers and dangerous games with which he often occupied himself. How in them, in these games with fate, he had always been one of the most cold-blooded, the most calculating. But at the same time, he never lost the feeling that he himself decided when and how to enter this complex and merciless wheel.
He looked back at the doorman. Mark's eyes spoke louder than his words now. His voice was firm and calm, but there was a threat in his words, hidden behind an uneasy undertone of truth.
"There are weapons and ammunition in the bag. I can't leave them unattended."
The answer flew out of him like a bullet - unexpectedly, quickly, leaving no room for further questions. Because Mark had always known: dangerous games with fate were his strong point. He could have not said it, he could have hidden it, but at some point he decided not to retreat. In the end, if everything led to a dead end - then it was his own fault. But he was not used to retreating in such games. Only sometimes, for rare reasons, and he did not always have the desire to play them.
The doorman, not expecting such a revelation, paused for only a moment, and then returned to his usual carefree expression. Mark, holding the suitcase tightly in his hands, stepped into the barber shop. The dark, red-curtained space smelled of expensive perfumes and the aromas of cozy hair care products. The doorman, not showing that anything was bothering him, remained standing at the door until Mark disappeared from his field of vision.
However, before the doorman could return to his usual thoughts, the door opened again. And on the threshold was the same old man, in a blue jacket and with a white bowler hat. The doorman turned around, but instead of doing his job, he suddenly assumed the pose of a philosopher and pursed his lips, as if he was about to begin a discourse on the eternal themes of existence.
"And people live like dogs, and they are wealthy..." he said in a strange tone. "That's what life is like, you know, jokes are made, jokes..."
The old man, hearing these words, stopped halfway, as if his name had been shouted. He turned around, raising his eyebrows.
"What?" he asked again, frowning.
The Swiss, apparently not immediately realizing that the old man was asking him a question, smiled and looked at him with the impenetrable air of a good-natured old sage.
"Well, yes, that's it." He narrowed his eyes, "People have meager incomes, but they keep joking, joking. They expect something, but they don't even know what. It's like a joke, you know... but who knows what's really a joke and what... in life," he said, as if leading the old man to some philosophical conclusion.
The old man narrowed his eyes, grinned and answered with barely noticeable sarcasm:
"Who knows, sir, what's the joke in this life..." and, as if the words were stuck in the air, he did not finish the sentence.
Instead, he waved away the doorman's empty talk with a slight movement and turned, heading for the barber shop. The doorman remained standing with his mouth open, but the old man no longer paid attention to him. As soon as the old man walked through the door, a barely audible whisper escaped his lips:
"And what's not..."
The dark tone in his voice overshadowed the ironic manner that preceded this phrase. It was said as if he himself had put an end to some important, but long-unfinished thought. By this time, Mark was already sitting in a chair in front of the mirror, feeling the soft blanket covering his shoulders. The barber, a serious man with a moustache, in a white jacket, leaned over him, carefully pulling the fabric, as if preparing for an important process.
"Shave me," Mark said, glancing at his watch. "But please, hurry up. I don't have much time."
There was an undercurrent of tension in his voice, and even in this setting, surrounded by the calm of the barbershop, Mark couldn't shake the feeling that time was not giving him a break. A few minutes to rest, and he would be on the move again, again with that map and those revolvers, again in search of that truth he was trying to unravel.
The barber nodded silently, took the razor in his hands, and began to smoothly move it along his chin, looking intently at his face. Everything was as usual, but the feeling of anxiety did not leave Mark.
Meanwhile, the old man who had followed him into the room stood at the threshold, as if he didn't know what to do. He was stamping his feet, occasionally glancing back at Mark, who was absorbed in the process. The old man seemed to be waiting for something-perhaps the end of the procedure, or some sign that Mark would finally come out.
His gaze never left the seated man, as if his presence was part of some complex game he did not want to miss. With each passing moment, the tension in the air grew stronger, and the strange feeling that the old man might be a participant in some hidden story became more and more noticeable.
Mark, ignoring this observer, remained seated, and ten minutes later he was shaved. The barber carefully removed the veil from him, and despite all his concentration and professionalism, Mark felt his face release the last vestiges of tension, dissolving in a slight relief. He stood up, cast aside his slight anxiety, and, as if by inertia, smiled - his smile was warm and friendly, the same as Jacob Singer's, who knew how to build his image in such a way as to please everyone.
"Thank you," Mark said briefly, nodding to the hairdresser and getting out of the chair. His face was reflected in the mirror, and he was pleased with the result - everything was done at the proper level.
He walked towards the door, but when he reached the threshold, he suddenly encountered an obstacle. An old man stood at the exit, the same man who had been chasing him before. Now he blocked the way, as if he was waiting for him. Mark slowed down, his consciousness instantly gathering. He did not know what the old man was pursuing, but his intuition told him that this meeting was not accidental.
The old man, upon seeing him, smiled incredibly vilely, which made Mark shudder. The smile was so disgusting that even professional restraint could not ignore it. The disgusting tone with which the old man spoke was not just irritating - it was something sinister.
"Paul Buher, a retired mid-level officer," the old man introduced himself quickly , as if he knew that Mark didn't care who he really was.
Mark, as if he had fallen into a pre-arranged trap, instantly got his bearings. He knew that it was important not to get confused now, but to act proactively. Swallowing hard, he clenched his teeth, and with a slight, almost noticeable smile, he answered:
"Angus Parvis, railway engineer."
These words were spoken with such certainty that Paul Buher froze for a moment, and his face became thoughtful, as if he had suddenly remembered something long forgotten. He tilted his head slightly, narrowed his eyes, and said, thinking out loud:
"Parvis, Parvis... hmm, a familiar name, I assure you."
Mark felt his tense nerves become even more tense. He knew the old man was hiding something, but he didn't know what it was. Buher looked up, and curiosity flashed in his eyes. As if checking something, he asked with frank interest:
"Have you ever been to a town called Toronto? A shitty little town, like ours," he said, referring to Cambridge.
Mark felt something tighten in his chest. Another unexpected question, another attempt to hook him. He thought for a moment about how to answer, and, hiding his concern by making himself look as upset as possible, he answered:
"Toronto..." he said, looking somewhere over the old man's head. "Allow me to disappoint you," he immediately continued, "but no, I haven't been there."
His voice was even, but there was a slight wariness in his eyes. He tried not to show how important this answer was to him, but he still felt that the matter was not entirely simple. Buher, without taking his eyes off him, continued to interrogate, his voice became a little more insistent, but not rude:
"And in Vancouver?" he asked with a mysterious ellipsis.
Mark felt his patience begin to wear thin. His gaze turned cold, but his face maintained a mask of politeness, as if he were still playing the game. He could hardly contain his contempt for this old spy, who seemed so persistent and stubborn that he did not want to back down.
With feigned cheerfulness, hiding his irritation, Mark answered:
"No way," his voice sounded almost too confident, as if he was ready to continue this endless series of absurd questions ad infinitum.
He kept his eyes on Buher, trying not to show the slightest confusion. His answer was clear and devoid of doubt, but inside him, like a quiet alarm, the last reserve was running out. His interlocutor, in response to this laconic question, whispered something unintelligible under his breath, which did not resemble words, but rather a stream of thoughts that defied logic. At the same time, his eyes narrowed, and he froze, as if trying to solve a puzzle that did not give in. His gaze remained more and more insistent, but at that moment something unexpected interrupted their little dueling conversation.
Suddenly, there was a loud sound - someone outside threw a stone at the glass door of the barber shop. The shards clinked, and the glass began to shatter with a crack. Everyone inside, including Mark and Buher, instantly turned around. The loud sound hung in the air, and for a second everything froze.
Buher looked stunned. He froze in place, his face paled, and his eyes widened in surprise and shock. He clearly hadn't expected this turn of events, and his previous self-confidence had evaporated like smoke.
Mark, standing behind the old man, couldn't help but notice how his face changed, how from a man who was used to being in control of the situation, he turned into a confused old man, deprived of any confidence. But Mark immediately understood that he had to be on guard. This moment could be decisive.
Outside, anxious voices began to be heard in the crowd that had witnessed the incident. Someone was shouting something incomprehensible, someone was cursing, and others were talking restlessly. Echoes of this noise, along with the sound of footsteps, could be heard through the broken glass. The panic in the streets was beginning to gain momentum, and Mark felt the atmosphere of tension increase.
The doorman and the hairdresser came up to them, both standing next to the door and silently looking at the broken glass, at Mark and Buher. Their faces were tense, but their eyes were empty and expressionless, like those of people for whom incidents like this are a daily occurrence. It was as if some strange, closed game was being played with their silence all this time.
And finally, Buher broke the silence.
"I suppose it was a mistake," he said as if he were saying something mundane. "Instead of the Ivolginsky's windows, it flew in to you."
With these words, he exchanged a careful glance with the hairdresser, as if he wanted to make it clear that his phrase had nothing to do with them and that he knew that this stone was intended for their competitors, those same Ivolginsky, but for some reason it was thrown at the door of their hairdresser's.
After Buher had spoken, Mark remained silent, watching the proceedings intently. The doorman and the barber were staring at him, and the tension in the air was felt like a heavy, invisible dam. At that moment, Mark suddenly decided to break the silence.
He turned to Buher and, looking him straight in the eyes, asked:
"So who got it from?"
His voice was calm, but deep down there was some heavy, hidden mockery. He was not expecting an answer to this question so much as the reaction of those around him.
The silence lasted for several seconds until it was finally broken by the doorman, who had been standing silently to the side, watching the events unfold. His voice sounded scared, as if he had just realized something terrible.
"From the Union of the American People," he said, almost stuttering.
At this his face turned pale and confusion flashed in his eyes, as if he was sure that such words could immediately cause trouble. The doorman's answer even made Buher tense up a little. He suddenly changed his expression, and a nasty, barely restrained smile played on his lips. As if he knew exactly what he had to say at that moment, he straightened up and said in a mocking tone:
"You are wrong, sir," he said, drawing out his words. "The Union of the American People does not throw stones. No, these impotents are only good at throwing rotten tomatoes."
After uttering his caustic words about rotten tomatoes, Buher seemed to feel some deep satisfaction. He straightened his shoulders slightly, as if he had given himself a legitimate explanation for what might look like a victory in this intellectual duel.
And so, with an almost triumphant expression, he continued:
"But the Union of Gabriel the Archangel throws stones," he said, as if revealing an important truth. "As the Bible says, he who is without sin will throw the first stone," he smiled slightly, as if hinting that his words contained some divine morality that he felt was lacking in those who threw tomatoes. "But the Union of the American People, you know, doesn't throw stones. They don't have balls, that's why."
His gaze darted to the doorman, who seemed unsure how to react, and then returned to Mark, studying his face with obvious curiosity.
Finally, Mark, unable to bear the silence and tension, lingered his gaze on Buher for a second and decided to leave the lobby. He was tired of everything that was happening, and the seemingly empty stage on which each of the participants played their part only further aggravated his irritation. He walked down the street, not paying much attention to the people around him, but suddenly his gaze stopped.
A scene unfolded before him, as if it had escaped from some theater of the absurd. A crowd of young people, dressed with exquisite aristocratic taste, with dignity, but, as it seemed to Mark, even with some contempt, were pushing a fat man, a gray-haired man in an expensive suit, out of the nearest store. Their faces were tense, and their eyes showed self-confidence, as if they were at the head of some important event that was about to happen. The fat man, clutching some kind of box in his hands, was clearly puzzled by what was happening, but did not resist.
While these young aristocrats continued their actions, a girl ran out from behind one of them. She was young, with luxurious red hair, dressed in an elegant dress, but her face expressed annoyance. She tried to get inside the store, but the doors closed right in front of her nose. The girl stared at the closed door with disappointment, her fingers nervously clenched the handle, but she had no choice but to retreat. Mark watched this, almost unaware of what was happening around him. It was so ordinary and even mundane - like a scene from a movie he had experienced many times, that Mark did not even understand why he stopped.
And suddenly a thought flashed through his mind - the fat man was surely the girl's father. His gaze was fixed on the stage, but the thought that she was his daughter gave the whole thing some significance. However, to his surprise, not a single word escaped his lips. He stood and watched, absorbed in the strange hubbub of the crowd and showing neither sympathy nor interest.
He didn't interfere, didn't ask, didn't try to figure out why his daughter didn't follow her father, why everything that was happening seemed so ordinary to him. There wasn't even a desire to change or do anything. He stood there, and everything around him reminded him of some incomprehensible ritual that he couldn't explain.
The crowd continued to move towards the nearest exit, and Mark continued to stand there as an observer, dispassionately absorbing the picture of what was happening, not daring to intervene. Suddenly, the air was pierced by a girl's scream:
"Police, bring the police here!"
With these words, she seemed to have lost her head and rushed after the crowd that was pushing her father out as if he did not exist, just an object for their game. Her voice was full of despair, but her actions were decisive. She did not try to stop this chaos - she looked for someone who could intervene.
The fat man, who was obviously not at all interested in the reactions of those around him, was pushed aside and stopped by an old hooligan sitting on one of the benches. This man was dressed in a smart checkered jacket, with a bowler hat on his head, and his moustache gave him the appearance of an old hooligan, despite his refined appearance. The moustachioed man, noticing the gray-haired fat man approaching him, addressed him sarcastically and with contempt:
"Well, mister teacher, don't you remember how my dad cried when you threw me out of class, huh?" and at the same time he strangely butted his head in the air.
The grin on his face was sinister, as if he was enjoying his power over this man, whom he obviously considered an old enemy. However, the fat man remained silent. He only shook his head, unable to find the words to answer.
Mark, feeling that all this was a drama unfolding before his eyes, continued to stand and watch. Silently, as always, he absorbed every moment, every look, every word. But his attention was drawn not so much to the scene as to the approaching figure of the girl.
She made her way through the crowd, step by step, her face twisted with determination, and Mark could see her eyes sparkling not only with rage, but with the same desperation he had seen in her gestures as she rushed to seek justice. It was the moment when she seemed to finally decide that she was not going to let this outrage continue. She, unlike her silent father, was willing to fight for him, even if it meant throwing herself into the flames.
Mark had already taken a few steps forward, intending to intervene in what was happening, when suddenly he felt someone's hand firmly grab his wrist. He turned around - it was Buher, holding him with a force unexpected for his age.
"You shouldn't interfere, sir," he said in an icy and almost threatening tone, bringing his lips so close to Mark's ear that his words sounded like a peremptory order. "You'd better not move."
Mark froze, surprised by this interference. He tried to break free, but the old man's hands were like iron. His gaze fell again on the stage in front of him, where the crowd continued to mock the poor fat man. Inarticulate cries came from the crowd, among which stood out angry cries that sounded like predatory threats.
"Kiss my boot - and they will forgive, they will forgive you!" came a voice full of contempt, and it seemed to be addressed not to anyone, but to this poor man, whom the crowd was mercilessly surrounding.
These words echoed in Mark's head like a heavy stone, which became more and more impossible with each passing moment. Meanwhile, the fat man's daughter, with fury in her eyes, tried to break through the people, her face distorted by agony:
"What are you doing, people! How can you?!"
Her cry was full of pain and despair, but no one responded. The crowd's homer absorbed her words as if they had no power. Buher, remaining behind Mark, only remained silent, carefully watching what was happening. A slight, but barely noticeable smile flickered across his face, as if everything that was happening had no meaning for him, only a drama playing out before his eyes.
Mark felt helpless, his desire to intervene, to protect the girl and her father, was stronger than ever. But then, feeling Buher's hand on his wrist again, he realized that he was facing something more than a simple fight against injustice. He did not know what to do, how to be.
"Look, sir, look how natural processes occur!" Buher whispered, not giving Mark any chance to act.
Mark felt his patience at its limit. He abruptly pulled his hand out of Buher's grip, who tried to hold him back, but was too slow. Mark was already standing next to the moustached youth, before whom the fat man was kneeling, defending his life with a dignity that he clearly lacked before.
Mark, ignoring Buher's worried expression, remained calm, his voice remaining even, as if he were giving a lecture at a conference.
"Are you the immediate leader of the Union of Gabriel the Archangel?" he asked, turning his attention to the young man whose face clearly betrayed danger.
The young man narrowed his eyes with a grin, as if trying to figure out who he was dealing with. The answer was full of aggression.
"What do you need? What do you need?" he asked, as if he didn't understand what Mark wanted from him.
Mark did not fall for this provocative tone. He said politely but firmly:
"I'll explain, but first you need to apologize to this lady," he nodded towards the girl who stood to the side, her face filled with shame and despair. "You behaved inappropriately towards her father."
The young man paused for a second, looking at the girl, but his smirk did not disappear. He was obviously confident of his impunity, and his self-esteem was so high that Mark's words did not affect him. However, his instinctive curiosity told him that perhaps he should at least pretend to have heard the remark.
"Wha-at?!" he replied, wrinkling his forehead.
Mark looked at him in response, not angry, and with a cold determination in his eyes, he turned towards the girl and waved his hand, allowing her to come to them. The crowd seemed to freeze, giving her way. The girl did not hesitate, went up to her father and, carefully supporting him, took him by the elbow. Together they walked away, going deeper into the street. For a moment everyone around was silent, as if an important moment had occurred. Mark looked at their retreating figures, and then turned back to the young man.
"As I said," he said, not raising his voice, but there was a firmness in his words. "You need to apologize and make amends."
The crowd watching the event seemed to stir.
"Hit him, Damien!" a voice from the crowd, invisible but sure of its rightness, growled with passion and the tone of a flirtatious instigator.
And, as if on cue, the gentleman in the grey suit standing nearby, who had remained on the sidelines until then, silently extended his hand to the young man. A metal weapon flashed in his fingers - brass knuckles.
Damien, the moustachioed youth, looked at Mark with a look that was both wary and mocking. He was already preparing for a conflict, something like excitement appeared in his eyes. Putting on the brass knuckles, he suddenly changed his expression, as if he had been holding back hysterical laughter all this time. His lips twisted into an unnatural grin, and his eyes shone with some kind of evil amusement. With an unexpectedly high voice that sounded almost caricatured, he asked:
"Any other wishes, huh?"
The crowd burst into laughter, some hissed, others supported their words with hoots. Everyone watched what was happening with undisguised interest.
"Show that impudent bespectacled man his place!" someone suddenly shouted from the crowd, hinting at the pince-nez that Mark was wearing.
These words spurred Damien on even more. With a furious expression on his face, he raised his arm, preparing to strike. There was so much fury and confidence in his movement that it seemed like the blow could be powerful. He knew that everyone would be watching.
But Mark, unfazed by the laughter or threats, acted with astonishing speed. As Damien's hand shot up, Mark, leaning slightly to the side, deftly intercepted it, instantly catching the wrist. Without effort, as if not noticing the resistance, he easily lowered Damien to the ground.
The crowd suddenly fell silent, with only a few people letting out an "Ah!" in surprise. Damien, staring at the ground, was so stunned that he didn't immediately realize what had happened. He found himself on his knees, his breath out of his system, and the knuckles hanging helplessly in his hand, still clasped around his fingers.
Mark stood over him, neither happy nor angry. His gaze was calm, as if nothing special had happened. He glanced at the crowd, but almost immediately returned to Damien, who, unable to rise, was just trying to catch his breath with difficulty.
"I can't stand brass knuckles, so don't hold it against me!" Mark said into the silence that followed.
Suddenly he felt someone trip him. Before he could react, he lost his balance and fell to his knees with a thud, his pince-nez flying off his nose and shattering on the pavement with a clang. He found himself right in front of Damien's feet, his face expressing more bewilderment than anger.
Mark blinked, trying to collect his thoughts, his eyes seemed weak and tear-stained, and his gaze was absentminded. He stood up quietly, feeling the pain of the fall slowly recede, and suddenly, out of nowhere, a man appeared in front of him.
The man was dressed in a stark white suit and a white cap, and his moustache was neatly trimmed. Everything about his appearance was so perfect that the light itself seemed to reflect off him, making him look almost unreal. He stood with a slight but tangible superiority, as if he was in no hurry, but knew exactly where and what to do. There was a hidden power in his presence, such that Mark couldn't help but feel a growing sense of unease.
Mark felt a strange heaviness in his body, as if all his strength had gone. But suddenly, at some point, looking at the man in white, he felt something stir in his soul. Unconsciously, almost mechanically, he raised his hand and pointed at him, unable to hide the surprise that was reflected in his eyes.
"You?" he said in a tone that could have sounded like a question, or perhaps like a revelation.
The man in white chuckled, his eyes calm, slightly mocking, but Mark realized that it was not enough. He himself was on the verge of understanding something important, and when the man said nothing, he lowered his hand.
"So it was you..." he whispered, as if to himself.
The man didn't say a word in response, but his gaze became a little more steadfast, and then he smoothly raised his hand and, making a slight movement with his finger, gestured for Mark to follow him.
Mark blinked in confusion, as if he still didn't realize what was happening, but at some point, feeling a strange urge, he began to move after this mysterious man. He walked through the crowd, not paying attention to the people who surrounded him. Each of his movements seemed detached, everything that was happening seemed insignificant and unimportant. The crowd parted, as if it itself did not want to interfere with them.
They walked slowly, as if they were in no hurry to get anywhere. Their path was straight, but there was no goal in it, as if they were moving not along a street, but through time that stretched into nowhere. Mark followed him, and although his steps were slow and heavy, he could not bring himself to stop. He seemed to be in captivity to the one who walked ahead, his hands crossed behind his back. Suddenly, slowly, as if apologetically, he broke the silence:
"Sorry, sir, I didn't see you in the crowd."
Mark felt his voice as something independent of him, as if it was not just an appeal, but some invisible connection that could not be broken. The man continued, but now his words were filled with an almost friendly tone:
"We will reimburse you for the pince-nez, at the expense of the Union."
The crowd that followed them couldn't help but laugh. It was light, almost ironic, and Mark noticed how his own reaction to this laughter, this noise, somehow dissolved. Everything was like a fog, and it seemed that every step, every sound that reached his ears was predictable, inevitable.
The man suddenly, as if changing his intonation, said, again with the same calm, but now light tone of praise:
"What a brave man you are, it's nice to see such new faces in the city!"
Mark was silent, not understanding what was happening, but feeling his mind absorbing these words. He did not feel the strength to answer, could not utter a single word. This meeting, this man - everything that was happening now seemed somehow imperceptible, almost invisible. There was something about this man that, like a magnet, attracted his attention, forcing him to follow him without asking questions.
He did not understand what would happen next, and did not want to understand it. Because in his mind, as if under pressure, his own feelings and this strange calm that emanated from the man were mixed. It seemed that this man was in control not only of the situation, but also of him, Mark, and his feelings, like a skilled conductor of an orchestra.
The man, noticing Mark's silence, smiled and, unexpectedly for himself, put his hand on his shoulder. This gesture was not so much friendly as commanding, as if he could control everything that was happening around him with one movement.
"And we forgive your insolence," he said in a tone as if he himself was deciding what to forgive and what not, "and Damien, I think, won't be offended if he doesn't die."
The crowd's reaction to the man's last words was instantaneous, as if the clot of consciousness of all its participants was just waiting for the right moment to burst forth. An uneasy laughter filled the air, mixing with the unclean sounds of the street like a rotten sea. People, as if under hypnosis, began to chant, tearing the silence to pieces:
"Don't die, Damien!" the most mischievous of them cried. "Don't make your friends cry!"
"Don't die, don't die!" the whole crowd suddenly began to sing in unison, and in their voices these words sounded like a wild roar, deep and powerful, in which animal instinct and insane joy were intertwined.
Everyone around them repeated it, as if it were not just a chant, but a magic spell that subjugated all their actions. The melody, broken into an unusual rhythmic wave, lashed the air like rain, but not cold - like a hot, stuffy rain that washes away only the external, without touching the essence. It sounded strange, as if it were both cheerful and threatening at the same time, like a challenge, but also like submission.
The crowd didn't just follow this frantic song, they became part of it. As they chanted these words, they seemed to become its performers, its actors, who had lost all sense of proportion. There was no condemnation or mockery in their voices, but rather a kind of obsessive worship.
And then, when everyone had already gotten into the rhythm, louder with each second, more threatening with each repetition, this strange chorus moved to a new level. And then a cry rang out from the crowd again, almost on the verge of madness:
"Or else you'll go to heaven!"
His voice was harsh, almost raspy, as if he had an entire army behind him, ready for battle. And as soon as the words were spoken, the chanting died away, leaving only silence, as if everything that had happened before had been a momentary flash, and now there was nothing.
And when that chant became unbearably loud, when it filled the air all the way to the sky, it became absolutely clear that this crowd was not just waiting for his reaction, but actually worshiping him. They were not laughing at him, but revering him. It was like some kind of twisted ritual in which Damien was like a sacrificial lamb - but not only a lamb. He was the center of this mad world, and this was their moment of worship. For that moment, they all stopped, everything was for him, for him.
It seemed that Damien was more than just a man to them. He was already something more than just this stupid boy with brass knuckles. It was madness. They weren't just repeating his name, they weren't just waiting for his words, they were giving him their inner world, and there was something truly terrifying about that.
Mark felt his gaze sliding over this schizophrenic scene, trying to find meaning but finding none. Everything seemed so real that it seemed reality itself was beginning to warp and lose its outlines.
Meanwhile, the man again crossed his arms behind his back and, as if not noticing what had happened, said in a surprisingly hospitable tone:
"And if so, welcome to our God-convenient union," he said with such sincerity that even the most callous heart would not have been able to resist and would have immediately accepted his offer.
Mark was silent, as if frozen in his own thoughts. The man in white, continuing to walk next to him, seemed unperturbed, almost solemn. He leaned slightly toward Mark, as if he wanted to confide an important secret to him, and said with a slight hint of self-satisfaction in his voice:
"We have more than enough strength..."
But he didn't have time to finish. The man's voice was drowned out by a rude shout. It was Damien, who was being dragged by two comrades with difficulty in their arms, his face distorted with pain, but his lips stretched into a disgusting grin.
"...but he lacks intelligence!" he suddenly barked loudly, as if specifically to make sure that everyone heard his joke.
This stupid but unexpected joke caused a burst of laughter in the crowd. People laughed as if it was the funniest thing they had heard all day. The laughter spread like a wave, echoing in the alleys and rising above the noise of the city. Mark, however, continued to walk forward, without making a sound. His face remained as calm as if all this did not concern him at all. It was as if he had switched off from the general merriment, observing the scene around him with the eyes of an outsider, not having the slightest desire to interfere.
The man must have sensed that Mark would not be convinced by words alone, and decided to resort to something that he thought would work. His face suddenly lit up with an expression of feigned confidence, and he made a sweeping gesture toward Damien and his friends, who were cackling loudly like a flock of magpies, and said:
"You see! The guys are smart!" the man said, in a tone that was a strange combination of goodwill and irritation. "A real team! They learn, so to speak, by doing."
Mark slowly raised his eyes, and there was nothing in his gaze but a cold, almost icy contempt. He did not deign to answer this ridiculous argument, only glanced briefly at Damien, who, supported by his comrades, showed by his whole appearance that he himself could hardly stand on his feet, and his friends looked even more ridiculous in their zeal to encourage him.
This gesture could not escape notice. Even several people in the crowd stopped laughing, as if they sensed how humiliating the man's words sounded to any reasonable person.
Mark looked down at his feet again. He didn't want to look at this crowd, and without his pince-nez he had to walk carefully. Every step was now like a test of endurance. If he stumbled now, the crowd would laugh even louder, and in this situation he saw no point in giving them such a reason.
The man, as if only now realizing how unfortunate his words about "smart guys" had sounded, hastened to smooth things over. His voice changed its tone from cheerful to softer, almost apologetic:
"You know, sir, we have many strong people, but there is a real shortage of smart and brave people in our city.
These words seemed to pierce the armor of Mark's silence. He suddenly stopped, as if the stop was not only physical but also internal. A shadow of some deep, unutterable thought flashed in his eyes.
"Yes," he said shortly, still looking down.
Then he raised his head and looked the man straight in the eyes, his face expressing a mixture of determination and fatigue.
"Yes, there really is a shortage of brave people in the States," Mark said slowly, as if he was checking each word. "However, please excuse me, sir, but you and I cannot live together in the same city."
The man, who had clearly not expected such words, listened with genuine attention. His gaze became more focused, but a gentle smile still played on his face. He did not interrupt, as if he understood that Mark was perhaps speaking not only to him, but also to himself. Mark, meeting his gaze, continued with the same calm, in which, however, a firm determination slipped through:
"Yes, there are few brave and noble people in America," he said, as if reinforcing what he had said earlier. "But, you see, sir..."
He looked away for a moment, as if checking to make sure he was saying everything correctly, and then looked straight at his interlocutor again.
"We'll have to disband your Union."
The words sounded so simple and casual that for a moment no one around understood their meaning. But a second later, Damien, still hanging on the shoulders of his friends, suddenly burst into laughter as if he had heard the best joke of his life. His friends immediately picked up on it, filling the street with rough laughter. Mark did not react in any way, only clenched his fists a little tighter, continuing to look straight ahead.
The man, at first smiling slightly with the corner of his mouth, then changed his expression to a thoughtful one, as if he sensed something was wrong. He slowly put his hands on his hips, tilted his head slightly forward and said with a slight impudence in his voice:
"And who would dare to do this?"
Mark looked at him as if the question was pointless. Then he answered briefly and firmly:
"I."
Damien laughed again, louder than before. His friends followed him. One of them, gasping with laughter, almost dropped Damien, who waved his arms to stay on his feet.
Even the man, who had seemed the embodiment of strict restraint and inner peace, suddenly lifted the corners of his lips slightly, a barely noticeable smile playing on his face. His gaze became a little more lively, and his expression, previously imperturbable, now acquired a slight mockery. He glanced around the crowd, assessing it, and, as if not particularly interested, threw in Mark's direction:
"Alone?!"
In response, Mark straightened up, his body seeming to tense up, sensing the moment. He let the pause take its place, letting the tension hang in the air. Then, not trying to create an effect, but as if simply summing up the obvious, he spoke with icy certainty, as if this answer were not a reaction but part of reality itself:
"I'll start alone," he said, emphasizing the first word, as if the very fact of his solitude gave the challenge special significance, as if it emphasized that this was not weakness, but a choice.
The words were unexpectedly quiet, but for some reason the crowd immediately fell silent. The laughter died down as if it had been turned off. The man narrowed his eyes, peering closely into Mark's face, as if trying to solve a riddle that hadn't seemed worth paying attention to before.
"Move away!" came a loud shout, causing the crowd to shudder. People began to stir, clearing a passage, and a gendarme in a white tunic made his way to Mark and the man. He was accompanied by two fellow soldiers: one, a strong build, with a tense face, and the other, younger, with a barely noticeable grin.
The man standing in front of Mark instantly changed. The mockery and subtle irony disappeared, leaving only a serene calm on his face. He crossed his arms over his chest, again assuming a pose that seemed to give him away as an innocent observer. Only his eyes betrayed his inner wariness.
Only Mark, as if not noticing the changes around him, remained outwardly unchanged: his calmness looked natural, as if he knew in advance that everything would go exactly this way.
"Are there any witnesses?" asked the gendarme with an impressive air, looking around the crowd.
"Would you like to tell the police anything about what happened?" added the second, young gendarme, with a barely perceptible hint of mockery in his voice.
The man in the white suit, without changing his posture for a moment, bowed his head slightly and with a politeness that would have seemed sincere to anyone else, said:
"I didn't have the honor of seeing anything."
His voice was even, almost regretful, and the gendarme gave him an impressive, assessing look. They stared at each other for a moment, as if competing in an invisible battle of glances. The man remained unperturbed, but there was a subtle superiority in his eyes that the gendarme seemed unable to penetrate. After a few tense seconds, the gendarme seemed to give in, shaking his head slightly and turning his gaze to Mark.
"And you, sir," he addressed her, his voice sounding softer, but still demanding.
"Have you seen anything, young man?" said a young comrade standing next to him.
It is worth explaining why the gendarme addressed Mark as a "young man." Although Mark Tempe was forty, his appearance, thanks to fortunate heredity, made those around him perceive him as much younger. Thin, fit, with a smooth, almost youthful face, he looked like a student who had recently graduated from college. This striking discrepancy often caused Mark himself to smile slightly within, but at this moment he was completely serious.
Having measured the gendarmes with a calm and indifferent look, he finally answered briefly and laconically:
"I didn't see anything," he said in an even, dispassionate voice, as if answering the most ordinary question.
Having said these words, Mark froze for a moment, as if admiring the picture before him: the street, the crowd, the man in the white suit, calling out to him with his gaze, and the gloomy sky hanging over this whole theater of the absurd. He looked into the distance, as if the city, with all its streets and gray houses, had become a gigantic stage, where he was just a tired hero, who had learned his lines but had lost all interest in them.
A slight smile flickered across his face, either ironic or sad, like an actor whose final bow would no longer elicit applause. Mark carefully put on his cap, as if completing his image. The crowd held its breath, as if everyone realized that this strange performance was coming to an end.
And then Damien's ragged, breaking voice rang out:
"Do you even realize who you just talked to , huh?! Jordan Thurlow! Jordan Thurlow himself invited you to our union, good sir!"
Damien's scream caused another wave of laughter to break out in the crowd.
"Oh, yes, good sir," one of his friends picked up with an insolent grin. "Before you stood Thurlow, do you hear, you bespectacled nonentity! The great Thurlow! And you didn't even realize with whom you had the honor of conversing!"
"Idiot!" the other one roared, choking with evil laughter. "People like you don't stay here long, do you understand?!"
Mark didn't seem to even hear the screams. His steps were slow but sure, as if he moved to a rhythm that only he himself set. But the man in the white suit - Jordan Thurlow, head of the Union of Gabriel the Archangel - was not about to let the moment pass. His tone became friendly, but there was a cold undertone to it:
"Yes, you are brave, mister Parvis," Jordan nodded slightly, as if confirming some thought to himself. His tone was even, almost friendly, but the hidden threat was felt even in the intonations. "But tell me, as a smart person: are you sure you understand what you are getting into?"
Mark didn't change his stride or his expression. He had already had to deal with the fact that his name became known in places where, it would seem, no one expected him. He had long since ceased to be surprised by this. A slight weariness from the predictability of such moments slipped into his gaze when he briefly lingered his gaze on the paving stones under his feet, but this did not slow his step.
The crowd watching this scene tensed. It seemed that the leader's words were important, even decisive. Jordan, waiting until complete silence fell, added with subtle mockery:
"Oh, yes, Paul Buher. He was kind enough to warn us of your visit. He told us that a certain mister Angus Purvis, a remarkable man, had come to our town. A conscientious old man, isn't he? To your surprise, he's very fond of sharing interesting information."
Mark stopped. Not because the name was spoken, but because he heard another performance in Jordan's voice. His calm remained unshakable. He slowly raised his head and glanced at the crowd - indifferent, transparent, as if there were no people in front of him, but only the familiar curtain of the mise-en-scène.
"Surprised, mister Parvis?" Jordan asked, coming a little closer, with a slight smile, as if he had decided to finally establish his position.
Mark finally raised his head. There was a cold light in his eyes that seemed to penetrate his interlocutor's ostentatious cordiality.
"So you're Jordan Thurlow," he said slowly, as if tasting the name. Then he nodded briefly, as if thinking out loud. "I suppose I should apologize for not finding anything remarkable about your name."
The words struck the crowd like a thunderclap. Damien, still supported by his buddies under the arms, burst into laughter, almost falling over.
"Do you even understand who you said that to?!" he croaked, shouting out a name: "The most important royalist in Cambridge!"
"Has this Parvis from Titan flown to us, back to our sinful Earth?" someone shouted, apparently referring to Saturn's satellite.
This phrase caused another burst of laughter, but Jordan, with his arms crossed behind his back, did not take his eyes off Mark. He, on the contrary, remained absolutely calm, even when he stopped again and quietly, with detachment, added:
"Yes, I'm sure."
"Sure about what?" Jordan asked, almost mockingly.
Mark just looked at him coldly, then looked away, as if he didn't see Jordan in front of him, nor the crowd, which seemed to be holding its breath, watching him move step by step towards the nearest alley. Neither the angry shouts nor the contemptuous laughter could shake his progress. He passed through them like a shadow through a night street, not paying attention to the irritated cries and the fact that their sources were left far behind.
His departure was like a final act: without loud words, without scenes, but with that quiet confidence that comes only to those who know their role is played.