The shards of the old thermos scattered across the wet pebbles with a ringing clatter. Hot thyme tea mixed with glass splinters instantly soaked into the sand.
Boris Akimovich slowly lowered his gaze. That thermos, with its worn engraving, had been Anna’s last gift to him. She had ordered it a year before she passed away.
“Get lost, old man. We own this place now!” the brute declared insolently, looming heavily over the pensioner’s folding chair.
He reeked of acrid smoke, mint chewing gum, and, for some reason, engine oil. A couple of meters away, right on the coastal grass, stood a black tinted SUV with no license plates. The engine rumbled dully, and low bass from someone else’s music thudded through the half-open window.
Boris Akimovich did not even flinch. He calmly looked at the crushed thermos, then raised his faded eyes to the uninvited guest.
“This spot hasn’t been bought, young man. I’ll finish sitting through the morning bite and then I’ll leave.”
The brute twisted his lips. He suddenly swung his arm and shoved the old man hard. Boris Akimovich’s cap flew off his gray head, his cheek instantly reddened, and an unpleasant rushing noise filled his ears. The chair rocked, but Boris Akimovich kept his balance. He simply raised his hand and carefully straightened the collar of his storm jacket.
“You don’t seem to understand, fossil,” hissed the second man as he climbed out of the car. He was a wiry guy in an expensive tracksuit that was clearly the wrong size for him. He cracked sunflower seeds, spitting the shells straight into the water. “You’ve got exactly one minute to disappear, or you’re going to have serious problems.”
The third man did not even look in their direction. He stood right at the water’s edge, took a rangefinder from his pocket, and carefully studied the opposite bank. There, beyond the wide stretch of river, the rooftops of an elite settlement could be seen among the pines. No fishing rods. No barbecue grills. Only a cold, calculating inspection of the terrain.
The pensioner silently stood up. He did not threaten them with government agencies. He did not try to shame the thugs. In forty years of service in the criminal investigation department, he had firmly learned one rule: never scare off the prey too early.
He bent down, picked up his fishing rod, and carefully gathered the surviving pieces of the thermos into a bag. At the same time, he mechanically fixed every detail in his memory.
The first one: about one meter ninety tall, damaged cartilage on the left ear, knuckles visibly battered. Quick to use his hands, driven by emotion.
The second: twitchy, shifting eyes, a gold chain around his neck as thick as a finger, left leg dragging slightly when he walked.
The third: the most cautious. He had not said a word. Dressed inconspicuously, jacket zipped up to the throat, handled the rangefinder professionally, hands steady. The brains of the operation.
“Come on, move it!” the wiry one shouted after him as the old man turned toward the forest path.
Boris Akimovich walked without looking back. Dry branches cracked damply beneath his rubber boots. Inside him there was no ordinary hurt over the insult. Inside him, an old professional grip was awakening — the very same one that had once made him the best operative in the region.
He reached his village house half an hour later. The wooden gate creaked. The yard smelled of dampness and freshly sawed firewood. Boris Akimovich entered the summer kitchen, pulled off his boots, and sat down at the table. He poured himself cold water from a carafe and took two large gulps.
Then he took an old push-button phone from his pocket. He remembered the numbers by heart.
“Speaking,” a deep voice answered on the line.
“Hello, Pasha. Am I interrupting?”
“Boris Akimovich!” The voice immediately warmed. Pavel had been his last trainee, and now he headed the department in the neighboring district. “You never interrupt me. Did something happen? Your voice sounds… official.”
“Official, Pasha. Very official. Have there been any break-ins lately at waterfront dachas in your district? Elite ones, with good fences on the road side.”
On the other end of the line, Boris Akimovich could hear Pavel stop typing on his computer keyboard.
“There have. Three houses in a month. Safes, valuables, paintings. They work clean. Security at the entrance doesn’t see anyone, and the cameras on the fences somehow go blind. We’ve shaken down every local suspect — nothing. How do you know?”
“Because they don’t come through the main entrance, Pasha. They leave by water.”
Boris Akimovich closed his eyes, reconstructing the scene on the riverbank in his memory.
“Today three men showed up on the Old Spit. In a black Japanese SUV, body wrapped in matte film. They clearly hadn’t come to relax. One of them was measuring the distance to the cottages. They were looking for a place to launch a boat. The spit there is shallow; you can drive right up to the water. From there to the settlement with a good motor — seven minutes at most. They throw a camouflage net over the boat, move across the dark water, and no one notices a thing.”
“Right…” Pavel drawled. Paper rustled. “Do you have descriptions?”
“Write this down. The first is tall, left ear damaged. The second is wiry, limps on his left leg, wears a thick gold chain. The third is in a plain gray jacket, a professional, works with optics. The vehicle makes a distinctive creak from the left rear strut when it starts moving.”
“Got it. Do you think they’ll move tonight?”
“The water is calm today, and the moon is hidden behind clouds. Perfect timing for them. And Pasha… they’re arrogant. They think they can do anything. Men like that always make mistakes.”
“Understood, Boris Akimovich. I’m setting up hidden posts in the reeds.”
Until late into the night, Boris Akimovich sat on the veranda. He did not turn on the light. He simply watched the wind sway the crown of the old apple tree he and Anna had planted together.
People often make the same mistake: they judge a person by appearance. They see a worn jacket, gray hair, folding chairs, and decide there is nobody in front of them. They have no idea that some pensioners can arrange a trip to places not so close to home without even raising their voice.
The phone vibrated only at half past three in the morning.
“We got them,” Pavel’s voice was hoarse, but incredibly pleased. “Took them right on the water as they were landing on your bank with stuffed bags. Enough property there to buy a decent apartment in the capital.”
“Did they resist?” the pensioner asked calmly.
“Not really. We boxed them in from three sides. The tall one did twitch at first, but the boys quickly explained the rules of behavior to him. Now they’re sitting in the station, looking miserable. Their mastermind immediately started giving testimony. He understood there was no point denying anything.”
Boris Akimovich smirked.
“I see. So you’ll close the case.”
“Boris Akimovich… there’s one thing. When I was processing that tall one, I told him who gave us the tip.”
“Why?”
“I couldn’t help myself. I told him, ‘Valera, next time you decide to mouth off to some old man by the river, first ask whether he’s the one who put half the local gangs behind bars back in the nineties.’”
“And how did he take it?”
“He froze right away. Now he’s sitting there, unable to say a word, staring at one spot. He understood, basically, that he created his own problems. With one single stunt.”
“All right, Pasha. Go do your work. You’ll have enough paperwork to last until the weekend now.”
“Thank you. I’ll drop by sometime and bring something strong!”
“Bring tea. I gave up the strong stuff long ago.”
The morning turned out clear and windless. Boris Akimovich leisurely packed his backpack, took a spare fishing rod, and stepped out through the gate. The path to the river was familiar to him down to every stone.
There was no one on the Old Spit. Only deep tire tracks in the wet sand remained as a reminder of yesterday’s visitors. And, when he looked more closely, the pensioner noticed a small shiny shard in the grass.
He picked it up, turned it between his knotty fingers, and tossed it into the water. The surface closed over it with a quiet splash.
Boris Akimovich unfolded his chair, baited the hook, and made an accurate cast. The float settled softly onto the smooth surface of the river.
Justice always finds its way. The main thing is to know how to wait, avoid unnecessary movements, and possess a phenomenal memory.
And former investigators never have problems with memory.
