Imprint of Heart. Illumination withВ love

Elena Speranskaya

A detective story tells about a successful career for a woman who can overcome difficulties in life. The author delves into the psychology of love relationships and experiences of her friend through poetic insight. The mechanisms of disorientation are launched due to the criminal activities of individual elements, which are successfully investigated by the city police, where the main heroine lives and works.

Imprint of Heart

Illumination withВ love

Elena Speranskaya

This book is dedicated toВ Ivan, Mary and their son Semen.

“… on days when you do not fight for peace, you are helping the war.”

В В В В N. Grieg

IВ am the man who looked for peace and found

My own eyes barbed.

IВ am the man who groped for words and found

An arrow inВ my hand.

IВ am the builder whose firm walls surround

AВ slipping land.

When IВ grow sick orВ mad

Mock me not nor chainВ me:

When IВ reach for theВ wind

Cast me not down:

Though my face is aВ burntВ book

And aВ wasted town.

    “War poet”, Sidney Keyes

    (1922 – 1943)

© Elena Speranskaya, 2018

ISBNВ 978-5-4490-9492-6

Created with Ridero smart publishing system

Prologue

The monotonous sound of the wheels announced the appearance of a column with the wounded and killed. The paratrooper rose on his elbows and fell. He was found when all the marines were loaded into covered cars and sent to a hospital in the territory adjacent to Iran. Two Red Cross nurses from the French Legion – one of African descent, the other from the Transcaucasian regions, speaking in a mixture of Anglo German dialect – tried to drag the body on stretchers. On the way, they came upon a mine.

The mine ofВ the time ofВ war inВ Dagestan exploded, leaving three corpses lying on the ground: two young women and aВ guy, presumably ofВ the same age, that is, reached ofВ the adulthood that arrived toВ this remote country from the Chechen aul, where he served along with his other comrades from Russia. The three ofВ them were crowned byВ death. They are nobody and nothing.

The body ofВ the guy, torn toВ pieces, with turned insides, the paratroopers carefully wrapped inВ aВ cape-tent, put inВ aВ barely survived, dust-covered armored car ofВ self-propelled gun and drove toВ the nearest point where all the wounded and killed were together.

They were transferred toВ the boards that had appeared from near the point, and all the attendants lit cigarettes stuffed with tobacco, causing aВ gag vomit reflex among the Kurds children standing next toВ them.

The tall boy, Ramil, dirty appearance stayed at the curb and accidentally pushed his bare-foot a cord – a silver color metal chain with a jetton – a token of appreciation and the number of the paratrooper killed during the explosion. Having rummaged in the dust, he found more scraps of scarves and letters, blood-soaked female nurses. Ramil collected all the contents, except the tattered fabric, including a token, and, hanging it himself on his neck, fled into the village. His family ate up the remains of dinner, consisting of dried bread and drinking water from mugs.

“When we solved the Afghan question, we forgot to put an end to this area,” recalled the major, the battalion commander in the fight against terrorism, barely remembering the Russian words. His age did not tell anyone anything. He tensed and spit out the remnants of a viscous makhorka stuck in his yellow teeth. “May he rest in peace.”

Getting accustomed, everyone recognized in this short man a helicopter pilot of landing troops, a pensioner and a professional warrior. All those killed on the same day were taken to the port, where they loaded it on a submarine with the letter “K” at first and taken to an open ocean. The submarine met the cargo with the least losses for itself, having arranged final send-offs to the heroes.

The whole structure ofВ the unit lined up on deck. Wreaths ofВ foreign countries, twined with black, mourning ribbons, swam through t