The Secret of the Three Sovereigns (Miropolsky Dmitry). Dmitry Miropolsky: The Secret of the Three Sovereigns The Secret of the Three Sovereigns read online Komsomolskaya Pravda

Dmitry Miropolsky

The secret of the three sovereigns

He had no desire to rummage

In chronological dust

Genesis of the earth:

But the days of the past are jokes

From Romulus to the present day

He kept it in his memory.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

I myself was a speck of dust in the composition of the huge instruments with which Providence operated.

Prince Nikolai Borisovich Golitsyn

The less true a story is, the more enjoyable it is.

Sir Francis Bacon

I have no interest in anything unless it contains two kills per page.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft

1. Dirty detective

On the day of the number pi Major Odintsov was not going to kill anyone.

Strictly speaking, he had not been a major for a long time, he found out about an unusual date by accident and, moreover, he did not have such a habit - out of the blue to deprive people of life. But go ahead: in broad daylight, you laid down two people at once right in the center of St. Petersburg, and what to do now is a big question ...

On a dank black morning on March 14, Odintsov, as always, arrived at work at about half past seven. He got out of the car and noted with disapproval the icy mounds peeking out from under the snow here and there, like blots of hardened office glue.

“A C grade cleaning,” Odintsov said aloud; in the old bachelor habit he sometimes talked to himself. - Cleaning for three.

In the old park, red lanterns blurred the predawn darkness. Black trees scratched the sky with the spider legs of branches. Piercing gusts of wind knocked out a tear. Odintsov kicked the ice that had turned up, wrapped his jacket and moved towards the frozen bulk of the Mikhailovsky Castle. At the service entrance, he briefly shook hands with the guard, dropped the usual: “How are you?” - and heard the same traditional: "No incident."

Odintsov worked as deputy head of the security service of the museum located in the castle, and now he turned out to be in charge - the head had the flu at home.

However, the temporary increase did not break the usual routine. In the office, Odintsov changed a cozy jumper and jeans for a shirt with a tie and a dark gray suit, and laced high boots for shining shoes. Before eight, he still had time to consult the work journal in order to refresh his memory of the upcoming business ...

…and the day began. Briefing and divorce of the guards, the report of the night shift, fuss with documents, phone calls, a meeting ... Everything is as always, the usual routine.

Odintsov allowed himself his first cigarette only after dinner. Of course, he could smoke in the office - who would say a word? But order is order. If you want to ask others, ask yourself first. That's how he was taught. Therefore, Odintsov smoked on a common basis, where it should be.

The newspaper lay in the smoking room on the sofa - you see, one of the guards left it. Odintsov flipped through it briefly while his cigarette was smoldering. A flurry of advertising, old jokes, illiterate crossword puzzles, distorted rumors, boring horoscopes - a one-time mess for softened brains ...

... but one article nevertheless attracted the attention of Odintsov thanks to the illustration - Vitruvian Man Leonardo da Vinci: in the middle of the text in a large drawing, a shaggy muscular man, inscribed in a circle and a square at the same time, spread his arms to the sides. Odintsov skimmed through the first paragraph.

March 14 is the most unusual holiday in the world: it's International Pi Day! In Western countries, they write the month number first, and then the day, so the date looks like 3.14 - that is, like the first digits of an amazing number.

Further, the author informed Odintsov that the magic constant was known to the ancient Magi, who used it in the calculations of the Tower of Babel. The magi did not make such a big mistake, and yet the colossal structure collapsed. For ease of calculation, the number pi- the military is taken for three exactly! - Odintsov remembered the words of the teacher from the long cadet past. But the wise King Solomon, the newspaper continued, managed to calculate pi much more carefully - and built the Jerusalem Temple, which had no equal in centuries.

The article mentioned Einstein, who was lucky to be born on the Day of the pi, and Archimedes, who managed to determine the millionths of a constant. The ending sounded pathetic.

Today, more than five hundred billion digits of pi have been verified. Their combinations are not repeated - therefore, the number is a non-periodic fraction. Thus, pi is not just a chaotic sequence of numbers, but Chaos itself, written in numbers! This Chaos can be depicted graphically, and besides, there is an assumption that it is reasonable.

Odintsov carefully extinguished his cigarette butt, put it in the trash after the newspaper, and returned to his office. Much more exciting reading awaited him: the documentation for the new video surveillance system that was being installed in the castle.

A splash screen floated across the computer screen—a digital clock. The article said: pi- this is 3.14159, so the holiday in his honor comes on the third month of the fourteenth day at a minute to two o'clock in the afternoon. Reasonable Chaos, which is written in numbers ...

Nonsense, one word.

The clock on the screen saver showed exactly one hour and fifty-nine minutes when there was a knock on the door. “Without delay,” Odintsov, who appreciated punctuality, noted with satisfaction, and got up from the table. The meeting was scheduled for two.

Two men entered the office - one younger and taller, of an athletic appearance, the other older and more submissive, with the eyes of a spaniel. Both had a small black kippah attached to their hair at the top of their heads with a hairpin.

– Shalom! Nice to meet you gentleman. I am… Odintsov began, demonstrating quite decent English, but the stocky man interrupted him with a polite smile:

Hello, we speak Russian.

The Mikhailovsky Castle was preparing for a representative international conference. The level of participants assumed armed guards. Israeli colleagues came to Odintsov to settle the formalities.

The elder spoke and acted, the partner silently handed him the papers. Usual procedure. Only when Odintsov was about to sign the documents, the young man asked to use their pen with special ink.

“You understand,” he said apologetically.

Odintsov understood.

“The enemies are on the alert, and we are trying to keep up,” the older Israeli added. They're always up to something, and so are we. Security is sacred.

The young man got a leather pencil case from the attaché case and handed it to the elder. He opened the lid and put the pencil case on the table. Odintsov took out a vintage massive pen with a gold nib and turned it over in his fingers with pleasure.

- A solid thing, - he appreciated, signed several times where he was shown, and returned the pen to the pencil case.

After seeing off the guests, Odintsov again glanced at his watch - the time had come! and dialed a mobile number. “The subscriber is not available or is out of the coverage area of ​​the network,” the indifferent mechanical young lady informed him. A few more calls gave the same result.

“Varaksa,” Odintsov said reproachfully, looking at the receiver, “have you decided not to work at all now?”

Varaksa was an old friend of Odintsov, an enthusiastic fisherman and, in addition, a successful owner of a network of car service stations with a laconic name, consisting of only two numbers - 47. A couple of days ago, Varaksa went to Ladoga for smelt. And in the main workshop of the network "47" they repaired Odintsov's car, which caught an open hatch on a snowy street with a wheel.

Either the reproach worked, or the cunning Varaksa still received notifications of calls, but soon Odintsov received a call from the station with good news: the car was ready, you can pick it up.

I didn’t feel like crawling through traffic jams in the evening, and Odintsov decided to go to the workshop right now. Is he the boss, after all, or is he not the boss?! The main business is done, the service is working ... Odintsov gave some orders, returned the suit to the hanger, pulled on his jeans again, put his feet into high boots with thick ribbed soles - and hurried to leave.

From the untidy whitish sky, the usual March cocktail for St. Petersburg was pouring: either snow with rain, or rain with snow. Odintsov had to pull a brush out of the trunk and clean the car: for the time of repair, he borrowed a Volvo SUV from the compassionate Varaksa. He was now ironing the icy shores of Ladoga on a mighty Land Rover, which had been carefully conjured in the workshop "47".

Odintsov was finishing waving his brush when he saw Munin. A clumsy, round-shouldered guy slowly wandered from the castle in his direction. He pressed a cloth bag to his stomach, hanging over his shoulder on a long belt, carefully looked at his feet - and yet he slipped.

Hello science! shouted Odintsov.

Munin lifted the edge of his hood with chilled fingers. Wet snow immediately covered the glasses of large glasses.

Dmitry Miropolsky

The secret of the three sovereigns

He had no desire to rummage

In chronological dust

Genesis of the earth:

But the days of the past are jokes

From Romulus to the present day

He kept it in his memory.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

I myself was a speck of dust in the composition of the huge instruments with which Providence operated.

Prince Nikolai Borisovich Golitsyn

The less true a story is, the more enjoyable it is.

Sir Francis Bacon

I have no interest in anything unless it contains two kills per page.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft

1. Dirty detective

On the day of the number pi Major Odintsov was not going to kill anyone.

Strictly speaking, he had not been a major for a long time, he found out about an unusual date by accident and, moreover, he did not have such a habit - out of the blue to deprive people of life. But go ahead: in broad daylight, you laid down two people at once right in the center of St. Petersburg, and what to do now is a big question ...

On a dank black morning on March 14, Odintsov, as always, arrived at work at about half past seven. He got out of the car and noted with disapproval the icy mounds peeking out from under the snow here and there, like blots of hardened office glue.

“A C grade cleaning,” Odintsov said aloud; in the old bachelor habit he sometimes talked to himself. - Cleaning for three.

In the old park, red lanterns blurred the predawn darkness. Black trees scratched the sky with the spider legs of branches. Piercing gusts of wind knocked out a tear. Odintsov kicked the ice that had turned up, wrapped his jacket and moved towards the frozen bulk of the Mikhailovsky Castle. At the service entrance, he briefly shook hands with the guard, dropped the usual: “How are you?” - and heard the same traditional: "No incident."

Odintsov worked as deputy head of the security service of the museum located in the castle, and now he turned out to be in charge - the head had the flu at home.

However, the temporary increase did not break the usual routine. In the office, Odintsov changed a cozy jumper and jeans for a shirt with a tie and a dark gray suit, and laced high boots for shining shoes. Before eight, he still had time to consult the work journal in order to refresh his memory of the upcoming business ...

…and the day began. Briefing and divorce of the guards, the report of the night shift, fuss with documents, phone calls, a meeting ... Everything is as always, the usual routine.

Odintsov allowed himself his first cigarette only after dinner. Of course, he could smoke in the office - who would say a word? But order is order. If you want to ask others, ask yourself first. That's how he was taught. Therefore, Odintsov smoked on a common basis, where it should be.

The newspaper lay in the smoking room on the sofa - you see, one of the guards left it. Odintsov flipped through it briefly while his cigarette was smoldering. A flurry of advertising, old jokes, illiterate crossword puzzles, distorted rumors, boring horoscopes - a one-time mess for softened brains ...

... but one article nevertheless attracted the attention of Odintsov thanks to the illustration - Vitruvian Man Leonardo da Vinci: in the middle of the text in a large drawing, a shaggy muscular man, inscribed in a circle and a square at the same time, spread his arms to the sides. Odintsov skimmed through the first paragraph.

March 14 is the most unusual holiday in the world: it's International Pi Day! In Western countries, they write the month number first, and then the day, so the date looks like 3.14 - that is, like the first digits of an amazing number.

Further, the author informed Odintsov that the magic constant was known to the ancient Magi, who used it in the calculations of the Tower of Babel. The magi did not make such a big mistake, and yet the colossal structure collapsed. For ease of calculation, the number pi- the military is taken for three exactly! - Odintsov remembered the words of the teacher from the long cadet past. But the wise King Solomon, the newspaper continued, managed to calculate pi much more carefully - and built the Jerusalem Temple, which had no equal in centuries.

The article mentioned Einstein, who was lucky to be born on the Day of the pi, and Archimedes, who managed to determine the millionths of a constant. The ending sounded pathetic.

Today, more than five hundred billion digits of pi have been verified. Their combinations are not repeated - therefore, the number is a non-periodic fraction. Thus, pi is not just a chaotic sequence of numbers, but Chaos itself, written in numbers! This Chaos can be depicted graphically, and besides, there is an assumption that it is reasonable.

Odintsov carefully extinguished his cigarette butt, put it in the trash after the newspaper, and returned to his office. Much more exciting reading awaited him: the documentation for the new video surveillance system that was being installed in the castle.

A splash screen floated across the computer screen—a digital clock. The article said: pi- this is 3.14159, so the holiday in his honor comes on the third month of the fourteenth day at a minute to two o'clock in the afternoon. Reasonable Chaos, which is written in numbers ...

Nonsense, one word.

The clock on the screen saver showed exactly one hour and fifty-nine minutes when there was a knock on the door. “Without delay,” Odintsov, who appreciated punctuality, noted with satisfaction, and got up from the table. The meeting was scheduled for two.

Two men entered the office - one younger and taller, of an athletic appearance, the other older and more submissive, with the eyes of a spaniel. Both had a small black kippah attached to their hair at the top of their heads with a hairpin.

– Shalom! Nice to meet you gentleman. I am… Odintsov began, demonstrating quite decent English, but the stocky man interrupted him with a polite smile:

Hello, we speak Russian.

The Mikhailovsky Castle was preparing for a representative international conference. The level of participants assumed armed guards. Israeli colleagues came to Odintsov to settle the formalities.

The elder spoke and acted, the partner silently handed him the papers. Usual procedure. Only when Odintsov was about to sign the documents, the young man asked to use their pen with special ink.

“You understand,” he said apologetically.

Odintsov understood.

“The enemies are on the alert, and we are trying to keep up,” the older Israeli added. They're always up to something, and so are we. Security is sacred.

The young man got a leather pencil case from the attaché case and handed it to the elder. He opened the lid and put the pencil case on the table. Odintsov took out a vintage massive pen with a gold nib and turned it over in his fingers with pleasure.

- A solid thing, - he appreciated, signed several times where he was shown, and returned the pen to the pencil case.

After seeing off the guests, Odintsov again glanced at his watch - the time had come! and dialed a mobile number. “The subscriber is not available or is out of the coverage area of ​​the network,” the indifferent mechanical young lady informed him. A few more calls gave the same result.

“Varaksa,” Odintsov said reproachfully, looking at the receiver, “have you decided not to work at all now?”

Varaksa was an old friend of Odintsov, an enthusiastic fisherman and, in addition, a successful owner of a network of car service stations with a laconic name, consisting of only two numbers - 47. A couple of days ago, Varaksa went to Ladoga for smelt. And in the main workshop of the network "47" they repaired Odintsov's car, which caught an open hatch on a snowy street with a wheel.

Either the reproach worked, or the cunning Varaksa still received notifications of calls, but soon Odintsov received a call from the station with good news: the car was ready, you can pick it up.

I didn’t feel like crawling through traffic jams in the evening, and Odintsov decided to go to the workshop right now. Is he the boss, after all, or is he not the boss?! The main business is done, the service is working ... Odintsov gave some orders, returned the suit to the hanger, pulled on his jeans again, put his feet into high boots with thick ribbed soles - and hurried to leave.

From the untidy whitish sky, the usual March cocktail for St. Petersburg was pouring: either snow with rain, or rain with snow. Odintsov had to pull a brush out of the trunk and clean the car: for the time of repair, he borrowed a Volvo SUV from the compassionate Varaksa. He was now ironing the icy shores of Ladoga on a mighty Land Rover, which had been carefully conjured in the workshop "47".

Odintsov was finishing waving his brush when he saw Munin. A clumsy, round-shouldered guy slowly wandered from the castle in his direction. He pressed a cloth bag to his stomach, hanging over his shoulder on a long belt, carefully looked at his feet - and yet he slipped.

Hello science! shouted Odintsov.

Munin lifted the edge of his hood with chilled fingers. Wet snow immediately covered the glasses of large glasses.

The book by Dmitry Miropolsky "The Secret of the Three Sovereigns" became a bestseller even before it was published in print. The Komsomolskaya Pravda website published chapters from the work, thanks to which it quickly became famous. The author of the novel successfully combined several literary genres. There are real historical facts here: those that are known to many, and those that are known to a few. Here you can also see a detective line, even a thriller and some fantasy.

The writer has long been studying history in general and the history of the city of St. Petersburg, which is reflected in his book. Dmitry Miropolsky brings to the attention of readers three important representatives of the authorities of the Russian state - this is Tsar Ivan IV the Terrible, Emperors Peter I and his great-grandson Pavel. The events of the book take place in the 16th-18th centuries, respectively, with the time of their reign.

It all starts with a chance acquaintance between a historian and a former secret service officer, but it was this meeting that led to many of the events described in the book. The life of the three rulers of Russia turned out to be interconnected. If you analyze a lot of facts, you can see something in common, a secret that many tried to find out, getting very close, but could not solve it.

In the novel, the tsar and emperors appear in a slightly different light than is customary to think about them, based on the data of history textbooks. Ivan the Terrible is not a tyrant who senselessly kills people, but a highly educated person who was able to unite the Russian lands. After reading new facts about the sovereigns of Russia, you can get answers to your questions, change your mind, understand the actions of the rulers, and not condemn them.

The plot makes unimaginable turns, captures and does not let go until the very end. However, it is recommended to read the book in doses in order to have time to realize everything stated. The novel also highlights contemporary issues, the ending will give the desired clue and be very unexpected.

The work was published in 2017 by the Komsomolskaya Pravda publishing house. On our site you can download the book "The Secret of the Three Sovereigns" in fb2, rtf, epub, pdf, txt format or read online. The rating of the book is 3.2 out of 5. Here, before reading, you can also refer to the reviews of readers who are already familiar with the book and find out their opinion. In the online store of our partner you can buy and read the book in paper form.

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Dmitry Miropolsky
The secret of the three sovereigns

He had no desire to rummage

In chronological dust

Genesis of the earth:

But the days of the past are jokes

From Romulus to the present day

He kept it in his memory.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

I myself was a speck of dust in the composition of the huge instruments with which Providence operated.

Prince Nikolai Borisovich Golitsyn

The less true a story is, the more enjoyable it is.

Sir Francis Bacon

I have no interest in anything unless it contains two kills per page.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft

1. Dirty detective

On the day of the number pi Major Odintsov was not going to kill anyone.

Strictly speaking, he had not been a major for a long time, he found out about an unusual date by accident and, moreover, he did not have such a habit - out of the blue to deprive people of life. But go ahead: in broad daylight, you laid down two people at once right in the center of St. Petersburg, and what to do now is a big question ...

On a dank black morning on March 14, Odintsov, as always, arrived at work at about half past seven. He got out of the car and noted with disapproval the icy mounds peeking out from under the snow here and there, like blots of hardened office glue.

“A C grade cleaning,” Odintsov said aloud; in the old bachelor habit he sometimes talked to himself. - Cleaning for three.

In the old park, red lanterns blurred the predawn darkness. Black trees scratched the sky with the spider legs of branches. Piercing gusts of wind knocked out a tear. Odintsov kicked the ice that had turned up, wrapped his jacket and moved towards the frozen bulk of the Mikhailovsky Castle. At the service entrance, he briefly shook hands with the guard, dropped the usual: “How are you?” - and heard the same traditional: "No incident."

Odintsov worked as deputy head of the security service of the museum located in the castle, and now he turned out to be in charge - the head had the flu at home.

However, the temporary increase did not break the usual routine. In the office, Odintsov changed a cozy jumper and jeans for a shirt with a tie and a dark gray suit, and laced high boots for shining shoes. Before eight, he still had time to consult the work journal in order to refresh his memory of the upcoming business ...

…and the day began. Briefing and divorce of the guards, the report of the night shift, fuss with documents, phone calls, a meeting ... Everything is as always, the usual routine.

Odintsov allowed himself his first cigarette only after dinner. Of course, he could smoke in the office - who would say a word? But order is order. If you want to ask others, ask yourself first. That's how he was taught. Therefore, Odintsov smoked on a common basis, where it should be.

The newspaper lay in the smoking room on the sofa - you see, one of the guards left it. Odintsov flipped through it briefly while his cigarette was smoldering. A flurry of advertising, old jokes, illiterate crossword puzzles, distorted rumors, boring horoscopes - a one-time mess for softened brains ...

... but one article nevertheless attracted the attention of Odintsov thanks to the illustration - Vitruvian Man Leonardo da Vinci: in the middle of the text in a large drawing, a shaggy muscular man, inscribed in a circle and a square at the same time, spread his arms to the sides. Odintsov skimmed through the first paragraph.

March 14 is the most unusual holiday in the world: it's International Pi Day! In Western countries, they write the month number first, and then the day, so the date looks like 3.14 - that is, like the first digits of an amazing number.

Further, the author informed Odintsov that the magic constant was known to the ancient Magi, who used it in the calculations of the Tower of Babel. The magi did not make such a big mistake, and yet the colossal structure collapsed. For ease of calculation, the number pi- the military is taken for three exactly! - Odintsov remembered the words of the teacher from the long cadet past. But the wise King Solomon, the newspaper continued, managed to calculate pi much more carefully - and built the Jerusalem Temple, which had no equal in centuries.

The article mentioned Einstein, who was lucky to be born on the Day of the pi, and Archimedes, who managed to determine the millionths of a constant. The ending sounded pathetic.

Today, more than five hundred billion digits of pi have been verified. Their combinations are not repeated - therefore, the number is a non-periodic fraction. Thus, pi is not just a chaotic sequence of numbers, but Chaos itself, written in numbers! This Chaos can be depicted graphically, and besides, there is an assumption that it is reasonable.

Odintsov carefully extinguished his cigarette butt, put it in the trash after the newspaper, and returned to his office. Much more exciting reading awaited him: the documentation for the new video surveillance system that was being installed in the castle.

A splash screen floated across the computer screen—a digital clock. The article said: pi- this is 3.14159, so the holiday in his honor comes on the third month of the fourteenth day at a minute to two o'clock in the afternoon. Reasonable Chaos, which is written in numbers ...

Nonsense, one word.

The clock on the screen saver showed exactly one hour and fifty-nine minutes when there was a knock on the door. “Without delay,” Odintsov, who appreciated punctuality, noted with satisfaction, and got up from the table. The meeting was scheduled for two.

Two men entered the office - one younger and taller, of an athletic appearance, the other older and more submissive, with the eyes of a spaniel. Both had a small black kippah attached to their hair at the top of their heads with a hairpin.

– Shalom! Nice to meet you gentleman. I am… Odintsov began, demonstrating quite decent English, but the stocky man interrupted him with a polite smile:

Hello, we speak Russian.

The Mikhailovsky Castle was preparing for a representative international conference. The level of participants assumed armed guards. Israeli colleagues came to Odintsov to settle the formalities.

The elder spoke and acted, the partner silently handed him the papers. Usual procedure. Only when Odintsov was about to sign the documents, the young man asked to use their pen with special ink.

“You understand,” he said apologetically.

Odintsov understood.

“The enemies are on the alert, and we are trying to keep up,” the older Israeli added. They're always up to something, and so are we. Security is sacred.

The young man got a leather pencil case from the attaché case and handed it to the elder. He opened the lid and put the pencil case on the table. Odintsov took out a vintage massive pen with a gold nib and turned it over in his fingers with pleasure.

- A solid thing, - he appreciated, signed several times where he was shown, and returned the pen to the pencil case.

After seeing off the guests, Odintsov again glanced at his watch - the time had come! and dialed a mobile number. “The subscriber is not available or is out of the coverage area of ​​the network,” the indifferent mechanical young lady informed him. A few more calls gave the same result.

“Varaksa,” Odintsov said reproachfully, looking at the receiver, “have you decided not to work at all now?”

Varaksa was an old friend of Odintsov, an enthusiastic fisherman and, in addition, a successful owner of a network of car service stations with a laconic name, consisting of only two numbers - 47. A couple of days ago, Varaksa went to Ladoga for smelt. And in the main workshop of the network "47" they repaired Odintsov's car, which caught an open hatch on a snowy street with a wheel.

Either the reproach worked, or the cunning Varaksa still received notifications of calls, but soon Odintsov received a call from the station with good news: the car was ready, you can pick it up.

I didn’t feel like crawling through traffic jams in the evening, and Odintsov decided to go to the workshop right now. Is he the boss, after all, or is he not the boss?! The main business is done, the service is working ... Odintsov gave some orders, returned the suit to the hanger, pulled on his jeans again, put his feet into high boots with thick ribbed soles - and hurried to leave.

From the untidy whitish sky, the usual March cocktail for St. Petersburg was pouring: either snow with rain, or rain with snow. Odintsov had to pull a brush out of the trunk and clean the car: for the time of repair, he borrowed a Volvo SUV from the compassionate Varaksa. He was now ironing the icy shores of Ladoga on a mighty Land Rover, which had been carefully conjured in the workshop "47".

Odintsov was finishing waving his brush when he saw Munin. A clumsy, round-shouldered guy slowly wandered from the castle in his direction. He pressed a cloth bag to his stomach, hanging over his shoulder on a long belt, carefully looked at his feet - and yet he slipped.

Hello science! shouted Odintsov.

Munin lifted the edge of his hood with chilled fingers. Wet snow immediately covered the glasses of large glasses.

- I'm here! Odintsov waved his hand, and Munin saw him. - I can toss.

“Hello,” Munin said, approaching the car. - I'd like to get to the subway, if you don't mind.

- To the subway of course. Where do you need it anyway?

They were on the way.

The young historian worked in the scientific part of the museum. Munin's acquaintance with Odintsov was recent and casual: they dined once or twice at the same table in the staff canteen, exchanged a few phrases, and now greeted each other when they met. But for the withdrawn Munin, even this looked like an achievement.

He liked Odintsov. Firstly, because he not only asked questions on the case, but also knew how to listen. Secondly, because it was not felt in his behavior watchman condescension, usual for guards. Thirdly - why hide the sin? - the frail bespectacled Munin hopelessly dreamed of being just as self-confident, stately and broad-shouldered; learn to wear a suit and not look away in conversation ... Odintsov's colorful image was completed by a gray tuft in a neat hairstyle and a half-gray left eyebrow.

In the car, Munin happily settled into the heated leather of the front seat. Odintsov taxied to the Fontanka, and they drove along the embankment along the castle.

How are things on the intellectual front? Odintsov asked. - Prolonged fights with opponents? Trench war?

“That's enough, we've sat too long in the trenches,” Munin answered in tone and patted the bag lying on his knees with his palm. - There has been a breakthrough.

A scientist, wow... Odintsov figured: the boy had recently graduated from the university, he probably did not serve in the army - that is, he was twenty-five years old at the most. At fifty-odd, Odintsov could have had a son of that age. Only hardly short-sighted - and certainly an athlete, not a dead man.

- Breaks-s-s? - Odintsov raised a half-gray eyebrow and nodded at the bag. – Violation of the protected perimeter? Did you steal some rarity?

“What are you, what are you,” Munin played along again, “stealing is a sin! Everything is here, dear.

Tsar Ivan IV the Terrible.

Emperor Peter the Great.

Emperor Paul.

He flipped open the flap of his bag and pulled out a thick, heavy folder with a red cover. It was obvious that he couldn't wait to brag.

“It’s like Pushkin: “The longed-for moment has come: my long-term work is over,” the historian recited and, looking at the folder with love, weighed it in his hands. – I can’t tell yet, I don’t have the right. Although you are a person far from science, you can. You after all to nobody?.. In general, it turns out that at least three Russian tsars were engaged in one and the same.

“In my opinion, all the tsars were engaged in approximately the same thing,” said Odintsov, “isn't it?

Munin grimaced in annoyance.

- I didn't mean to say that. I managed to discover and document that Ivan the Fourth, Peter the Great and Pavel acted according to a single scheme. As if they were solving the same problem. Each in his own time and each in his own circumstances, but still ... Moreover, not only the task was a common one, but also ways of solving it. The feeling is that they acted according to the instructions, which say: do this, this and that. Do you understand?

“No,” Odintsov admitted easily.

- No wonder. Even I didn’t understand at first,” Munin said.

Odintsov looked at him with irony because of this. even, but the historian did not notice the look and continued:

- In general, no one understood and paid no attention! You are correct in saying that all the kings were engaged in approximately the same thing. And these three, too, but only up to a certain point. And then all of a sudden they started doing the same things. Paradoxical and inexplicable.

“Maybe they are paradoxical for you,” suggested Odintsov, “but for contemporaries, nothing special.

- That's just it, that contemporaries doubted whether the sovereign was in his mind! - Munin got excited and sat sideways, turning to Odintsov. – Ivan, and Peter, and Pavel scared even those closest to them. At first, they seemed to behave as usual, and then - click! - and as if some other program was turned on, incomprehensible and therefore especially terrible. That is why these three were feared and hated like no one else.

- Wait. Ivan the Fourth is Ivan the Terrible, isn't it?

Munin nodded.

- Well, then there are no questions why they were afraid and hated. He is a rare bloodsucker. Did you kill your own son? Killed. And he executed people indiscriminately right and left ...

- Ivan was not a bloodsucker! Munin was outraged. - And he did not kill his son, and executed only those with whom it was impossible otherwise. You are repeating gossip that is four hundred years old! They began to compose during the life of Ivan Vasilyevich. And textbooks still lie, and no one knows the truth!

- And you, it turns out, know? Odintsov looked slyly at Munin again.

Turning for a conversation at the snow-covered Summer Garden, they crossed the bridge over the Fontanka, gleaming with gold railings; we passed the terracotta block with white veins of the Panteleymonovskaya church - a monument to the first naval victory of Peter the Great - and drove to Liteiny Prospekt.

Munin has already calmed down.

“You see,” he said, “there are, as it were, two truths. This is normal in any science, and especially in history. There is truth for the common people. For you, sorry, and for them.

The historian waved his hand towards the passers-by outside the car window, and Odintsov clarified:

- For the masses? For the people?

- For the people. And I mean the truth for specialists who know the subject more deeply and comprehensively. What you know about Ivan the Terrible is a primitive scheme that is crudely put together, easy to remember and easy to use. But we historians...

– You just now said that no one knows the truth except you. Now it turns out that all historians know it. Contradiction, however!

- There is no contradiction. Any of my colleagues, if he is really a professional and, moreover, unbiased, with documents in his hands, will explain to you in five minutes why Ivan the Terrible is not a bloodsucker. Unlike ordinary people, who immediately receive a ready-made scheme, we are supposed to collect facts, then check them for reliability, and only then add one to the other. The problem is that a scientist usually seeks to confirm or disprove some hypothesis - his own or his predecessors. Therefore, it interprets events with a given result, and the picture is biased.

Odintsov looked at Munin with interest:

- How do you differ from others in this case?

“Because I set a fundamentally different task,” the historian said proudly and adjusted his glasses that had fallen off on his nose. I didn't try to prove or disprove anything. It didn’t matter to me whether Ivan the Terrible was a fiend or a saint. In the same way, Peter the Great could be an agent of Europe or a patriot of Russia, and Pavel could be a crazy martinet or a titan of the spirit who was ahead of his time. I knew about them the same as others. I just noticed that the actions of Ivan Vasilievich, Peter Alekseevich and Pavel Petrovich are very different from the actions of other sovereigns, but they are very similar to each other.

Munin stroked the folder.

“The actions of each person,” he said, “is his own business. Is there anything that pops into someone's head? But when strange and, moreover, the same actions are committed by the leaders of the country, who live at different times, and even if they do it not by force, but deliberately - then excuse me. This cannot be an accident. Obviously, there is some pattern, there is a system!

“And this system you…” began Odintsov, and Munin picked it up:

- ... and I tried to describe this system. Just add and compare historical facts without proving or refuting anything.

The car crossed Liteiny Prospekt, circled around the watercolor Easter cake of the Transfiguration Cathedral along the fence made of captured cannon barrels, and soon turned onto Kirochnaya Street.

- Thank you. Stop here somewhere, please,” Munin asked.

Transfiguration Cathedral.

Everything was busy along the curb, but a parked car blinked a little ahead with the left turn signal. Odintsov slowed down after her; turned on the emergency gang, blocking the lane and allowing the driver to leave, and then deftly dived into the vacant seat.

- What does it mean? he asked, glancing at the cover of the folder, on top of which was a large yellow label with the inscription: Urbi et Orbi.

Munin became embarrassed and began stuffing the folder into his bag.

- Urbi et orbi? Yes so...

- But what about it? Odintsov did not lag behind.

“It means “to the city and the world” in Latin. Ovid… the poet was so ancient Roman… Ovid wrote that other peoples on earth were given borders, while the Romans had the same length of the city and the world. In general, such an appeal is ancient Roman - to everyone and everyone. Urbi et orbi.

Munin finished with the folder; said goodbye, got out of the car, put on his hood and wandered towards the pedestrian crossing.

Odintsov looked after the historian. From Munin's story, he did not really understand what kind of discovery he had made and what the breakthrough was. Long-dead kings, repeating each other's illogical acts... Who cares about them now?

On the other hand, it's good that the kid is interested. The eyes are on fire! It’s not easy to pack such a thick folder - you see, really serious work. But now he is addressing all progressive humanity, the entire Universe. Urbi et Orbi, is not exchanged for trifles. And rightly so - at his age ... Oh, youth!

Odintsov dialed Varaksa's number on his mobile and put his hand in his pocket for cigarettes. It was not possible to get through again, and there was no smoke with him: he probably left a pack in his jacket when he hastily changed clothes before leaving work.

“It’s a mess,” Odintsov scolded himself, turned off the engine and got out of the car. Familiar places, the center of St. Petersburg; and just nearby, I remember, there was a good tobacco shop.

Odintsov crossed the street. Ahead, near the arch, he saw Munin, who was talking on a mobile phone, and was already preparing to joke - they say, we began to meet more often, and this pleases. But then two strong fellows in gray jackets appeared next to the historian, took him by the elbows and literally carried him into the gateway.

“It’s interesting the girls are dancing,” Odintsov frowned, “four in a row ...

He turned after him. In the cramped courtyard-well, one of the men was pulling a bag off Munin's shoulder. The historian clung to his belt and shouted in a broken voice:

- What do you need? What do you need?

Odintsov slowly walked towards them.

- Guys, any problems? - he asked.

“No problem,” said the second burly man. - Come on, come on, it's all right.

“I don’t think everything is all right,” objected Odintsov. - Handbag, I see, someone else's. It's not good to take someone else's. In vain you started it. Oh god, it's useless. Let's do something a little better...

“You should go, man,” the second said again, released Munin and stepped towards him.

These two weren't street punks. “But not the police either,” Odintsov thought: they did not show any certificates, although they acted very harmoniously. The way the talkative burly man moved also betrayed a professional. And yet Odintsov managed to lull his vigilance - with simple chatter, a relaxed gait and, of course, with his hands in his pockets. Hands in pockets are usually the most soothing. You just need to be able to take them out instantly.

Odintsov knew how.

A strike with an open palm in a street fight is more effective than a fist: the affected area is larger, you won’t miss. A lightning-fast slap in the face, especially heavy in the opposite direction, was a complete surprise for the burly man. Dealing with ordinary hooligans, Odintsov would have been satisfied with the shock of a slap in the face. But here he did not take risks and knocked out the attacker with several powerful blows.

The knockout was so quick and devastating that the man who took the bag also made a mistake. Munin, dumbfounded, could have served as a cover, but the burly man pushed him away, as if getting ready for battle, and suddenly thrust his hand into the bosom of his gray jacket.

Odintsov did not stop and was right in front of the man when he pulled out a pistol: neither time nor distance was enough to point the weapon at Odintsov and pull the trigger ...

....and in the next moment, the burly man screamed, drowning out the crunch of his wrist. Having unscrewed the pistol in the enemy’s hand, Odintsov turned the short barrel under his ribs and clenched his fist, pressing the trigger with someone else’s fingers - one, two, three ...

No shots were heard. The pistol only clanged dully, throwing out the shells. The burly man bulged his eyes, let out a long whistle, and began to sag on the snow.

Odintsov untangled the weapon from the dying man's twisted fingers and turned around. The first fighter with a folded jaw, lying on his back, moved his hand and tried to reach for the belt holster, which peeked out from under the pulled up jacket.

“Well, you quickly came to your senses,” Odintsov said with surprise and some annoyance.

There was no choice. He approached the man lying and shot him in the forehead. The gun clanged again.

The historian stood in the same place, plugging his fingers into his ears and shaking his head from side to side. The ill-fated bag lay at his feet.

“Nothing, nothing,” Odintsov muttered under his breath. - I didn’t go deaf and didn’t get off. Wait a minute, I'm quick...

Under Munin's wandering gaze, he pulled on gloves and cleaned everything out of the pockets of the dead: wallets, spare clips for pistols, cigarettes, chewing gum ... He threw mobile phones into a snowdrift, spent cartridges and weapons stuffed into the pockets of his jacket; the rest, without looking at it, he put it into Munin's bag. The dexterity with which Odintsov acted betrayed considerable experience.

Having quickly finished the job, he threw the bag over his shoulder, slapped Munin on the back, bringing him to his senses; he caught the glasses that had slipped off under the historian's long nose, put them back on, firmly grabbed the guy by the sleeve above the elbow and commanded:

- And now - run!

He had no desire to rummage

In chronological dust

Genesis of the earth:

But the days of the past are jokes

From Romulus to the present day

He kept it in his memory.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

I myself was a speck of dust in the composition of the huge instruments with which Providence operated.

Prince Nikolai Borisovich Golitsyn

The less true a story is, the more enjoyable it is.

Sir Francis Bacon

I have no interest in anything unless it contains two kills per page.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft

1. Dirty detective

On the day of the number pi Major Odintsov was not going to kill anyone.

Strictly speaking, he had not been a major for a long time, he found out about an unusual date by accident and, moreover, he did not have such a habit - out of the blue to deprive people of life. But go ahead: in broad daylight, you laid down two people at once right in the center of St. Petersburg, and what to do now is a big question ...

On a dank black morning on March 14, Odintsov, as always, arrived at work at about half past seven. He got out of the car and noted with disapproval the icy mounds peeking out from under the snow here and there, like blots of hardened office glue.

“A C grade cleaning,” Odintsov said aloud; in the old bachelor habit he sometimes talked to himself. - Cleaning for three.

In the old park, red lanterns blurred the predawn darkness. Black trees scratched the sky with the spider legs of branches. Piercing gusts of wind knocked out a tear. Odintsov kicked the ice that had turned up, wrapped his jacket and moved towards the frozen bulk of the Mikhailovsky Castle. At the service entrance, he briefly shook hands with the guard, dropped the usual: “How are you?” - and heard the same traditional: "No incident."

Odintsov worked as deputy head of the security service of the museum located in the castle, and now he turned out to be in charge - the head had the flu at home.

However, the temporary increase did not break the usual routine. In the office, Odintsov changed a cozy jumper and jeans for a shirt with a tie and a dark gray suit, and laced high boots for shining shoes. Before eight, he still had time to consult the work journal in order to refresh his memory of the upcoming business ...

…and the day began. Briefing and divorce of the guards, the report of the night shift, fuss with documents, phone calls, a meeting ... Everything is as always, the usual routine.

Odintsov allowed himself his first cigarette only after dinner. Of course, he could smoke in the office - who would say a word? But order is order. If you want to ask others, ask yourself first. That's how he was taught. Therefore, Odintsov smoked on a common basis, where it should be.

The newspaper lay in the smoking room on the sofa - you see, one of the guards left it. Odintsov flipped through it briefly while his cigarette was smoldering. A flurry of advertising, old jokes, illiterate crossword puzzles, distorted rumors, boring horoscopes - a one-time mess for softened brains ...

... but one article nevertheless attracted the attention of Odintsov thanks to the illustration - Vitruvian Man Leonardo da Vinci: in the middle of the text in a large drawing, a shaggy muscular man, inscribed in a circle and a square at the same time, spread his arms to the sides. Odintsov skimmed through the first paragraph.

March 14 is the most unusual holiday in the world: it's International Pi Day! In Western countries, they write the month number first, and then the day, so the date looks like 3.14 - that is, like the first digits of an amazing number.

Further, the author informed Odintsov that the magic constant was known to the ancient Magi, who used it in the calculations of the Tower of Babel. The magi did not make such a big mistake, and yet the colossal structure collapsed. For ease of calculation, the number pi- the military is taken for three exactly! - Odintsov remembered the words of the teacher from the long cadet past. But the wise King Solomon, the newspaper continued, managed to calculate pi much more carefully - and built the Jerusalem Temple, which had no equal in centuries.

The article mentioned Einstein, who was lucky to be born on the Day of the pi, and Archimedes, who managed to determine the millionths of a constant. The ending sounded pathetic.

Today, more than five hundred billion digits of pi have been verified. Their combinations are not repeated - therefore, the number is a non-periodic fraction. Thus, pi is not just a chaotic sequence of numbers, but Chaos itself, written in numbers! This Chaos can be depicted graphically, and besides, there is an assumption that it is reasonable.

Odintsov carefully extinguished his cigarette butt, put it in the trash after the newspaper, and returned to his office. Much more exciting reading awaited him: the documentation for the new video surveillance system that was being installed in the castle.

A splash screen floated across the computer screen—a digital clock. The article said: pi- this is 3.14159, so the holiday in his honor comes on the third month of the fourteenth day at a minute to two o'clock in the afternoon. Reasonable Chaos, which is written in numbers ...

Nonsense, one word.

The clock on the screen saver showed exactly one hour and fifty-nine minutes when there was a knock on the door. “Without delay,” Odintsov, who appreciated punctuality, noted with satisfaction, and got up from the table. The meeting was scheduled for two.

Two men entered the office - one younger and taller, of an athletic appearance, the other older and more submissive, with the eyes of a spaniel. Both had a small black kippah attached to their hair at the top of their heads with a hairpin.

– Shalom! Nice to meet you gentleman. I am… Odintsov began, demonstrating quite decent English, but the stocky man interrupted him with a polite smile:

Hello, we speak Russian.

The Mikhailovsky Castle was preparing for a representative international conference. The level of participants assumed armed guards. Israeli colleagues came to Odintsov to settle the formalities.

The elder spoke and acted, the partner silently handed him the papers. Usual procedure. Only when Odintsov was about to sign the documents, the young man asked to use their pen with special ink.

“You understand,” he said apologetically.

Odintsov understood.

“The enemies are on the alert, and we are trying to keep up,” the older Israeli added. They're always up to something, and so are we. Security is sacred.

The young man got a leather pencil case from the attaché case and handed it to the elder. He opened the lid and put the pencil case on the table. Odintsov took out a vintage massive pen with a gold nib and turned it over in his fingers with pleasure.

- A solid thing, - he appreciated, signed several times where he was shown, and returned the pen to the pencil case.

After seeing off the guests, Odintsov again glanced at his watch - the time had come! and dialed a mobile number. “The subscriber is not available or is out of the coverage area of ​​the network,” the indifferent mechanical young lady informed him. A few more calls gave the same result.

“Varaksa,” Odintsov said reproachfully, looking at the receiver, “have you decided not to work at all now?”

Varaksa was an old friend of Odintsov, an enthusiastic fisherman and, in addition, a successful owner of a network of car service stations with a laconic name, consisting of only two numbers - 47. A couple of days ago, Varaksa went to Ladoga for smelt. And in the main workshop of the network "47" they repaired Odintsov's car, which caught an open hatch on a snowy street with a wheel.

Either the reproach worked, or the cunning Varaksa still received notifications of calls, but soon Odintsov received a call from the station with good news: the car was ready, you can pick it up.

I didn’t feel like crawling through traffic jams in the evening, and Odintsov decided to go to the workshop right now. Is he the boss, after all, or is he not the boss?! The main business is done, the service is working ... Odintsov gave some orders, returned the suit to the hanger, pulled on his jeans again, put his feet into high boots with thick ribbed soles - and hurried to leave.

From the untidy whitish sky, the usual March cocktail for St. Petersburg was pouring: either snow with rain, or rain with snow. Odintsov had to pull a brush out of the trunk and clean the car: for the time of repair, he borrowed a Volvo SUV from the compassionate Varaksa. He was now ironing the icy shores of Ladoga on a mighty Land Rover, which had been carefully conjured in the workshop "47".

Odintsov was finishing waving his brush when he saw Munin. A clumsy, round-shouldered guy slowly wandered from the castle in his direction. He pressed a cloth bag to his stomach, hanging over his shoulder on a long belt, carefully looked at his feet - and yet he slipped.

Hello science! shouted Odintsov.

Munin lifted the edge of his hood with chilled fingers. Wet snow immediately covered the glasses of large glasses.

- I'm here! Odintsov waved his hand, and Munin saw him. - I can toss.

“Hello,” Munin said, approaching the car. - I'd like to get to the subway, if you don't mind.

- To the subway of course. Where do you need it anyway?

They were on the way.

The young historian worked in the scientific part of the museum. Munin's acquaintance with Odintsov was recent and casual: they dined once or twice at the same table in the staff canteen, exchanged a few phrases, and now greeted each other when they met. But for the withdrawn Munin, even this looked like an achievement.

He liked Odintsov. Firstly, because he not only asked questions on the case, but also knew how to listen. Secondly, because it was not felt in his behavior watchman condescension, usual for guards. Thirdly - why hide the sin? - the frail bespectacled Munin hopelessly dreamed of being just as self-confident, stately and broad-shouldered; learn to wear a suit and not look away in conversation ... Odintsov's colorful image was completed by a gray tuft in a neat hairstyle and a half-gray left eyebrow.

In the car, Munin happily settled into the heated leather of the front seat. Odintsov taxied to the Fontanka, and they drove along the embankment along the castle.

How are things on the intellectual front? Odintsov asked. - Prolonged fights with opponents? Trench war?

“That's enough, we've sat too long in the trenches,” Munin answered in tone and patted the bag lying on his knees with his palm. - There has been a breakthrough.

A scientist, wow... Odintsov figured: the boy had recently graduated from the university, he probably did not serve in the army - that is, he was twenty-five years old at the most. At fifty-odd, Odintsov could have had a son of that age. Only hardly short-sighted - and certainly an athlete, not a dead man.

- Breaks-s-s? - Odintsov raised a half-gray eyebrow and nodded at the bag. – Violation of the protected perimeter? Did you steal some rarity?

“What are you, what are you,” Munin played along again, “stealing is a sin! Everything is here, dear.

Tsar Ivan IV the Terrible.

Emperor Peter the Great.

Emperor Paul.

He flipped open the flap of his bag and pulled out a thick, heavy folder with a red cover. It was obvious that he couldn't wait to brag.

“It’s like Pushkin: “The longed-for moment has come: my long-term work is over,” the historian recited and, looking at the folder with love, weighed it in his hands. – I can’t tell yet, I don’t have the right. Although you are a person far from science, you can. You after all to nobody?.. In general, it turns out that at least three Russian tsars were engaged in one and the same.

“In my opinion, all the tsars were engaged in approximately the same thing,” said Odintsov, “isn't it?

Munin grimaced in annoyance.

- I didn't mean to say that. I managed to discover and document that Ivan the Fourth, Peter the Great and Pavel acted according to a single scheme. As if they were solving the same problem. Each in his own time and each in his own circumstances, but still ... Moreover, not only the task was a common one, but also ways of solving it. The feeling is that they acted according to the instructions, which say: do this, this and that. Do you understand?

“No,” Odintsov admitted easily.

- No wonder. Even I didn’t understand at first,” Munin said.

Odintsov looked at him with irony because of this. even, but the historian did not notice the look and continued:

- In general, no one understood and paid no attention! You are correct in saying that all the kings were engaged in approximately the same thing. And these three, too, but only up to a certain point. And then all of a sudden they started doing the same things. Paradoxical and inexplicable.

“Maybe they are paradoxical for you,” suggested Odintsov, “but for contemporaries, nothing special.

- That's just it, that contemporaries doubted whether the sovereign was in his mind! - Munin got excited and sat sideways, turning to Odintsov. – Ivan, and Peter, and Pavel scared even those closest to them. At first, they seemed to behave as usual, and then - click! - and as if some other program was turned on, incomprehensible and therefore especially terrible. That is why these three were feared and hated like no one else.

- Wait. Ivan the Fourth is Ivan the Terrible, isn't it?

Munin nodded.

- Well, then there are no questions why they were afraid and hated. He is a rare bloodsucker. Did you kill your own son? Killed. And he executed people indiscriminately right and left ...

- Ivan was not a bloodsucker! Munin was outraged. - And he did not kill his son, and executed only those with whom it was impossible otherwise. You are repeating gossip that is four hundred years old! They began to compose during the life of Ivan Vasilyevich. And textbooks still lie, and no one knows the truth!

- And you, it turns out, know? Odintsov looked slyly at Munin again.

Turning for a conversation at the snow-covered Summer Garden, they crossed the bridge over the Fontanka, gleaming with gold railings; we passed the terracotta block with white veins of the Panteleymonovskaya church - a monument to the first naval victory of Peter the Great - and drove to Liteiny Prospekt.

Munin has already calmed down.

“You see,” he said, “there are, as it were, two truths. This is normal in any science, and especially in history. There is truth for the common people. For you, sorry, and for them.

The historian waved his hand towards the passers-by outside the car window, and Odintsov clarified:

- For the masses? For the people?

- For the people. And I mean the truth for specialists who know the subject more deeply and comprehensively. What you know about Ivan the Terrible is a primitive scheme that is crudely put together, easy to remember and easy to use. But we historians...

– You just now said that no one knows the truth except you. Now it turns out that all historians know it. Contradiction, however!

- There is no contradiction. Any of my colleagues, if he is really a professional and, moreover, unbiased, with documents in his hands, will explain to you in five minutes why Ivan the Terrible is not a bloodsucker. Unlike ordinary people, who immediately receive a ready-made scheme, we are supposed to collect facts, then check them for reliability, and only then add one to the other. The problem is that a scientist usually seeks to confirm or disprove some hypothesis - his own or his predecessors. Therefore, it interprets events with a given result, and the picture is biased.

Odintsov looked at Munin with interest:

- How do you differ from others in this case?

“Because I set a fundamentally different task,” the historian said proudly and adjusted his glasses that had fallen off on his nose. I didn't try to prove or disprove anything. It didn’t matter to me whether Ivan the Terrible was a fiend or a saint. In the same way, Peter the Great could be an agent of Europe or a patriot of Russia, and Pavel could be a crazy martinet or a titan of the spirit who was ahead of his time. I knew about them the same as others. I just noticed that the actions of Ivan Vasilievich, Peter Alekseevich and Pavel Petrovich are very different from the actions of other sovereigns, but they are very similar to each other.

Munin stroked the folder.

“The actions of each person,” he said, “is his own business. Is there anything that pops into someone's head? But when strange and, moreover, the same actions are committed by the leaders of the country, who live at different times, and even if they do it not by force, but deliberately - then excuse me. This cannot be an accident. Obviously, there is some pattern, there is a system!

“And this system you…” began Odintsov, and Munin picked it up:

- ... and I tried to describe this system. Just add and compare historical facts without proving or refuting anything.

The car crossed Liteiny Prospekt, circled around the watercolor Easter cake of the Transfiguration Cathedral along the fence made of captured cannon barrels, and soon turned onto Kirochnaya Street.

- Thank you. Stop here somewhere, please,” Munin asked.

Transfiguration Cathedral.

Everything was busy along the curb, but a parked car blinked a little ahead with the left turn signal. Odintsov slowed down after her; turned on the emergency gang, blocking the lane and allowing the driver to leave, and then deftly dived into the vacant seat.

- What does it mean? he asked, glancing at the cover of the folder, on top of which was a large yellow label with the inscription: Urbi et Orbi.

Munin became embarrassed and began stuffing the folder into his bag.

- Urbi et orbi? Yes so...

- But what about it? Odintsov did not lag behind.

“It means “to the city and the world” in Latin. Ovid… the poet was so ancient Roman… Ovid wrote that other peoples on earth were given borders, while the Romans had the same length of the city and the world. In general, such an appeal is ancient Roman - to everyone and everyone. Urbi et orbi.

Munin finished with the folder; said goodbye, got out of the car, put on his hood and wandered towards the pedestrian crossing.

Odintsov looked after the historian. From Munin's story, he did not really understand what kind of discovery he had made and what the breakthrough was. Long-dead kings, repeating each other's illogical acts... Who cares about them now?

On the other hand, it's good that the kid is interested. The eyes are on fire! It’s not easy to pack such a thick folder - you see, really serious work. But now he is addressing all progressive humanity, the entire Universe. Urbi et Orbi, is not exchanged for trifles. And rightly so - at his age ... Oh, youth!

Odintsov dialed Varaksa's number on his mobile and put his hand in his pocket for cigarettes. It was not possible to get through again, and there was no smoke with him: he probably left a pack in his jacket when he hastily changed clothes before leaving work.

“It’s a mess,” Odintsov scolded himself, turned off the engine and got out of the car. Familiar places, the center of St. Petersburg; and just nearby, I remember, there was a good tobacco shop.

Odintsov crossed the street. Ahead, near the arch, he saw Munin, who was talking on a mobile phone, and was already preparing to joke - they say, we began to meet more often, and this pleases. But then two strong fellows in gray jackets appeared next to the historian, took him by the elbows and literally carried him into the gateway.

“It’s interesting the girls are dancing,” Odintsov frowned, “four in a row ...

He turned after him. In the cramped courtyard-well, one of the men was pulling a bag off Munin's shoulder. The historian clung to his belt and shouted in a broken voice:

- What do you need? What do you need?

Odintsov slowly walked towards them.

- Guys, any problems? - he asked.

“No problem,” said the second burly man. - Come on, come on, it's all right.

“I don’t think everything is all right,” objected Odintsov. - Handbag, I see, someone else's. It's not good to take someone else's. In vain you started it. Oh god, it's useless. Let's do something a little better...

“You should go, man,” the second said again, released Munin and stepped towards him.

These two weren't street punks. “But not the police either,” Odintsov thought: they did not show any certificates, although they acted very harmoniously. The way the talkative burly man moved also betrayed a professional. And yet Odintsov managed to lull his vigilance - with simple chatter, a relaxed gait and, of course, with his hands in his pockets. Hands in pockets are usually the most soothing. You just need to be able to take them out instantly.

Odintsov knew how.

A strike with an open palm in a street fight is more effective than a fist: the affected area is larger, you won’t miss. A lightning-fast slap in the face, especially heavy in the opposite direction, was a complete surprise for the burly man. Dealing with ordinary hooligans, Odintsov would have been satisfied with the shock of a slap in the face. But here he did not take risks and knocked out the attacker with several powerful blows.

The knockout was so quick and devastating that the man who took the bag also made a mistake. Munin, dumbfounded, could have served as a cover, but the burly man pushed him away, as if getting ready for battle, and suddenly thrust his hand into the bosom of his gray jacket.

Odintsov did not stop and was right in front of the man when he pulled out a pistol: neither time nor distance was enough to point the weapon at Odintsov and pull the trigger ...

....and in the next moment, the burly man screamed, drowning out the crunch of his wrist. Having unscrewed the pistol in the enemy’s hand, Odintsov turned the short barrel under his ribs and clenched his fist, pressing the trigger with someone else’s fingers - one, two, three ...

No shots were heard. The pistol only clanged dully, throwing out the shells. The burly man bulged his eyes, let out a long whistle, and began to sag on the snow.

Odintsov untangled the weapon from the dying man's twisted fingers and turned around. The first fighter with a folded jaw, lying on his back, moved his hand and tried to reach for the belt holster, which peeked out from under the pulled up jacket.

“Well, you quickly came to your senses,” Odintsov said with surprise and some annoyance.

There was no choice. He approached the man lying and shot him in the forehead. The gun clanged again.

The historian stood in the same place, plugging his fingers into his ears and shaking his head from side to side. The ill-fated bag lay at his feet.

“Nothing, nothing,” Odintsov muttered under his breath. - I didn’t go deaf and didn’t get off. Wait a minute, I'm quick...

Under Munin's wandering gaze, he pulled on gloves and cleaned everything out of the pockets of the dead: wallets, spare clips for pistols, cigarettes, chewing gum ... He threw mobile phones into a snowdrift, spent cartridges and weapons stuffed into the pockets of his jacket; the rest, without looking at it, he put it into Munin's bag. The dexterity with which Odintsov acted betrayed considerable experience.

Having quickly finished the job, he threw the bag over his shoulder, slapped Munin on the back, bringing him to his senses; he caught the glasses that had slipped off under the historian's long nose, put them back on, firmly grabbed the guy by the sleeve above the elbow and commanded:

- And now - run!