Operation: Bull Terrier

“Hi, how’s it going?”

It is a form of greeting that doesn’t actually require you to answer how things are going. In the old days, people simply said “Hello!” out of politeness, not because they genuinely wished for your health. “How’s it going?” can be ignored, or you can answer just as briefly with another “How’s it going?” and perhaps add a “Thanks.” English speakers ask “How are you?” and get “Good. How are you?” in return. Shimmy and I were well-acquainted, so there was no need to inquire about health or trade meaningless phrases.

“Oh, it’s you! What are you here for?”

“A message from the Boss.”

“Let’s see what surprise he’s cooked up for us, what the assignment is. Did he tell you that I’m the senior in this group?”

“I don’t remember such a conversation, but you would know best.”

“He also asked me to tell you to pay attention to the advertisement circled in red pencil.”

“There’s some phone number listed there.”

“Yes, exactly. This is the number you must not call under any circumstances.”

“Then why have the ad at all if we can’t call? Can you explain?”

“To avoid exposing ourselves ahead of time.”

“Hmm… ‘Assistant required for a second-hand bookstore… Ancient manuscripts…’ What kind of assistant? What manuscripts? What nonsense!”

“You have to be able to read between the lines: an assistant is required to fight the forces of evil on a global scale. Isn’t it clear? Something needs to be procured and stolen from there. Apparently, something important.”

“And then? What then? This shop is a warehouse for particularly valuable ancient manuscripts. They don’t hire people off the street. Are there recommendations?”

“But of course. Here… The Boss has already prepared them. Seal, signature. We’re going right now.”

This Shimmy was getting on my nerves with his insolence. I realized this at first glance. From the first meeting. A brazen face.

“Let’s go, genius! The main thing is to prepare your credentials, and don’t worry about me.”

It was a nondescript two-story building that could hardly even be called a house, located on a lost and rather grim little street where you wouldn’t encounter a single pedestrian in the evening; if you were gutted there, no one would notice. Chipped stone steps at the entrance, cracks overgrown with withered grass—and, surprisingly, a huge brass plate, polished to a shine, with flourishes on it: “Antiques.” Just below, in small letters, it was added: “Everything for the People.” A heavy, massive door with a shop bell went “ding-ding.” However, no one intended to come out at our “ding-ding.” We had to knock with the iron “horseshoe” hanging nearby, which supposedly scares away evil, and intrude without an invitation. The foyer floor was covered with a luxurious Persian rug, clearly not machine-made. Beautiful Chinese vases in the corners, a crystal chandelier, and a huge Victorian-style mirror—ancient, exquisite, and therefore expensive—completed the interior. On the walls were engravings, likely from the 18th century.

And then there was the owner, wearing a silk robe with dragons like a seasoned mobster and a crimson-coloured fez with a tassel on his head. Tucked into his belt was a Yemeni jambiya dagger with a curved blade, the kind every self-respecting man wears. I wasn't surprised; a man has the right to walk around his own house after work in a dressing gown with a dagger, doesn't he?

The owner appeared from a subtle curtained door and politely inquired: “How may I serve you?” Since I was the senior, I began.

“We’re here about the advertisement.”

“And why exactly did my advertisement interest you?”

“We work with antiques; we buy and sell. But more than that, we love to dig into them, to collect all sorts of trinkets. We would consider it an honour to work with you.”

"I don't need partners, but I do need an assistant. I fired a young man the other day. He's from a good family, a decent worker, but I caught him reading an ancient manuscript in an office with a sign on the door: 'Entry to this section is prohibited.' I have cameras everywhere. I caught the scoundrel.”

“You don’t say… How shameful. So, you don’t allow the use of books?”

“For the staff—absolutely not. Books cost money. And an ancient manuscript is the easiest thing to soil.”

“And aren't you afraid of, to put it mildly, thieves from the street?”

“And what do I have my dogs for, my sweet little bull terriers? I only need to give a sign, to whistle… I have three of them.”

“Thank you. By the way, show me your recommendations, young man. I hope you are not a lover of reading, not a bibliophile?”

“Here are my recommendations, if you please. My name is Shimmy. I worked in the archives of the Academy of Sciences. I have a degree. A philologist by education.”

“That is commendable, young man. Well then, your recommendations are excellent. Your duties will not be burdensome: stand behind the counter, receive visitors, and record visitors in the logbook. However, the public is specific. I will pay weekly, by check. I prefer not to deal with cash robbers, the tax inspectorate…”

“And the working day?”

“Officially, eight hours. But I must warn you. Sometimes people come to us in the evenings and at night. Your shift is the night shift, and I will pay extra for that. No being late. No, being rude. No eating at the workplace. No reading manuscripts. No selling books or taking them out of the house. Anyone who wants to get a closer look at a manuscript can sit at a table and chair. But making excerpts and notes in notebooks is also forbidden. You must monitor this. New visitors are required to sign a non-disclosure agreement. Next: you are forbidden from going down into the basement and generally visiting other rooms in the house that are not related to your official duties. Remember: ‘Entrance to this section is forbidden.’ Is that clear to you?”

“More than clear. Everything suits me, and I’m ready to start tomorrow.”

“Wonderful. I won't keep you any longer. See you.”

We said goodbye to the owner. A bit eccentric, it's true, but try to find a righteous man these days. We’d pull off our delicate mission quickly—and adieu. It’s not good, of course, to steal and deceive, but for the sake of a righteous cause and a quick result, what won't you do?

“Did you notice the huge jade ring with hieroglyphs on his ring finger?”

“You bet. Didn't it seem to you that he’s a retired museum thief?”

We found a nearby joint with the resounding name “Lou’s,” where they served cold hot dogs. But I was very hungry; what can you do? I had to swallow everything, including my own pride. Attachment to everything good and to good food, Buddha teaches, is one of the causes of human suffering. To find peace and tranquillity, we must detach ourselves from our cravings. Simple, right?

By eight in the evening, I was there. The owner was already glancing impatiently at his watch, but I wasn't a minute late.

“Start, young man, I congratulate you on your first working day, or rather, night. May God help you.”

I thanked him politely and looked around. The “workplace” was a small office desk with a logbook, a telephone, and a messy pile of various trifles left by the owner. The main decoration of the office was the shelving. Huge, giant shelves numbered vertically and horizontally, propping up the ceiling—half-empty shelves. Manuscripts and codices lay scattered here and there. Nearby stood an ordinary stepladder with retractable steps. For me, with my cat-like agility, climbing the shelves was not a problem.

Around two o'clock, the first visitor appeared. A lady of uncertain age, with a colourful shawl on her head and glasses with thick lenses.

“Do you work here, young man?” she inquired first thing, without saying hello.

“At your service, madam. Your documents?”

“Oh, what formalities… I’m your regular reader.”

“The state stands on rules and discipline,” I replied in kind. “Be so kind.”

“You should work in the Inquisition, young man, not in antiques. Here you go.”

“What would you like, madam? How can I serve you?”

“Please find me Dickens’ The Old Curiosity Shop, the 1841 edition.”

“One moment. Please take a seat.”

Dickens… Under the letter “D.” Third shelf, fifth rack from the top. Aha, I see it. I quickly descended the ladder so that the lady wouldn't have time to steal anything.

“Dickens, as requested. Just don't take it out of the reading room, and don't make notes.”

Accuracy is the politeness of kings, the saying goes. I absolutely accurately conveyed the requirements to the visitor, as I wasn't sure that no one was secretly watching me.

Darkness… I don’t need to stand behind her back to know what she’s doing. Cats have a third eye for this. The lady is interested in stories about witches; I’ll make a note of that.

No sooner had the door closed behind her than a new reader arrived. This was a lanky gentleman in a poncho. He also needed a book about witches in the middle of the night—the Malleus Maleficarum, the 1486 original edition! This led to the conclusion that ‘Antiques’ was not just an antique book salon, but a meeting place for a community unknown to me. What if a conspiracy was ripening right here under my nose?

At that moment, the ringing of a bell interrupted my train of thought. It was the Boss.

“How’s it going?”

Neither hello nor goodbye. Straight to business.

“Fine, thanks. I wish the same to you.”

“It’s very important that you don't get kicked out on your very first day. Do you understand me? When you receive instructions—proceed to execution immediately.”

And he hung up.

And at exactly four in the morning, a sharp ring woke me up.

“‘Antiques.’ I’m listening.”

“Here are my instructions for you. You need to sneak into the dark room and find an ancient folio there. Its title is ‘The World History of Witches’; they are all listed there from the birth of Christ. Can you do it?”

“On which shelf?”

“Not on a shelf, you blockhead, but in the dark room, which is guarded by three vicious dogs. Be bold!.. Act, son!”

If the boss called me “son,” things were bad. I quickly hung a sign on the door saying “We are closing in ten minutes,” and stepped into the unknown. Three bull terriers were already waiting for me.

“Hey, brothers. How are you doing here? Not bored? I come in peace. Can you listen to me? I have two pieces of news for you, bad and good.”

“Don't you try to talk our ears off. Tell us what business you have with us.”

“The owner is going to fire you. He said he was promised a robot shepherd on batteries from the Emirates. He also said that he can’t keep up with the food for you troglodytes.”

“What, he really said that? What a bad man, he decided to throw us out on the street. And this for our loyalty!”

“Guys, that’s what I’m saying. You help me—I’ll help you. Do you want me to provide you with a decent pension? A luxurious separate kennel, pizza delivered to your home. A cash allowance into your bank account.”

“And what are the guarantees?”

“A limited liability company guarantees it. Do you agree?”

“I want to retire soon. Agree, big brother. What needs to be done?”

“A certain folio needs to be found. It’s hidden in your dark room. Thick, heavy, embossed cover. The folio is most likely hidden in a safe. Do you have a safe?”

“There it is, the giant standing in the corner. Но the key stays around the master's neck. He never takes it off, even in his sleep. And he keeps that dagger under his pillow.”

“So, calm down, don't panic. What are our options?”

“Option one. Kill the owner and take the key.”

“Easy to say. We don't need crime.”

“Then poison him, why not?”

“That’s it, guys, I’ve got to run. Sprinkle some poison for him; you do have rat poison, don't you? Good luck, doggies.”

Everything went like clockwork. I have the key. I open the safe while the owner is resting in the toilet. The folio is indeed heavy.

“Do you have the book?”

The Boss, who else would be calling?

“Everything is in order, Boss. Only, please, don't forget the doggies. I promised them pizza.”

“Don’t worry. You just deliver that folio to me as soon as possible. And disappear for a while, like a Cheshire Cat. However, hurry up; the police seem to be coming already—I can hear the sirens wailing. And I still have to get to London for the Christie's auction.”

“Understood, Boss. I’m disappearing…”