AGY Genetics

"...Adrian Gawronowicz, general manager of AGY Genetics, who is considered the only person capable of standing up to the competition and emerging victorious in the battle with the so-called Moralists' Club—a coalition of representatives of various groups opposing advanced experiments conducted in the genetics sector. First question: are you, as a private person, a supporter of human cloning?"

A somewhat excited talk show host, with a large, fixed smile, perpetuated by heavy makeup, turned toward her interlocutor. A quick camera zoom in on the interviewee's face betrayed neither emotion nor surprise at the somewhat idiotic question.

"I don't consider cloning reprehensible, especially if it can bring any tangible benefits to society, or perhaps even to humanity..."

Another camera pan—like in a good action movie—closed in on the face of the presenter, whose bad habit was to jump into her interlocutors' opinions

. "Yesterday's announcement about the patenting of technology for cloning small pets caused a real storm from cloning opponents. Their main argument was that cloning animals is very close to cloning humans. What's your take on this?

The red button with a partial circle and a vertical line drawn above it worked correctly. The silence that fell in the room after the set was turned off was downright blissful. Yes... this is a substitute for interactive television - one button and such a big change! Just the brief beep of a clock reminding you of its existence, even at three in the morning.

He thought about the good investment of buying a small house on the outskirts of town. Silence that allows you to rest... especially when certain things explain themselves...

...complete silence, occasionally interrupted only by the rustle of branches. There's an eerie atmosphere to cemeteries. They're full of mysticism and unfounded, superstitious fear. But they don't get up; at least this one here was already lying under the granite slab." Only the inscriptions on the tombstone were fresh, especially when compared to those on the neighboring ones.

How macabrely amusing it was that one case finds its conclusion in this gloomy place of eternal slumber, while at the same time a completely new mystery begins a dozen or so meters away, with an inscription on another tombstone.

Looking from a distance, one might get the unpleasant impression that the man walking down the center of the alley was one of the buried and resurrected. The matte black coat didn't inspire confidence in this setting, nor in any other, for that matter. Nevertheless, this time he was alone. He knew he was alone: ​​he'd checked it thoroughly on the way here—you can't afford to take away the solution before the very end. The rat race continues. Even in this grim profession.

He approached the gravestone, with a new riddle carved into the granite slab. The faded letters contained two laconic dates, the name of the buried. No lofty quote, no photo. No answer.

The short ring of his phone informed him of the delivery of a message as laconic as the headstone: time, street, sender signed with a single-letter initial.

He still had two hours. He sat down and stared vacantly at the scratch on the headstone, searching his mind for a solution.

A dark and dirty street. The time also matched the message. He was alone on the street, but several vagrants lying under the fire escape leading to the half-demolished house were watching him with interest. Most of the lamps were broken, providing good shelter from the eyes of others. A green limousine appeared at the corner of the littered street. She quickly drove up, stopped sedately, and the front doors opened, from which a six-foot-tall bodyguard emerged with exceptional agility. He glanced around the dark alleys, as if he could see something in them. He opened the back door.

"We need a ride to clear up a few details," a shrill voice came from the dark interior of the car.

He wasn't disappointed by the green limousine's interior—it suited Heavy so terribly. Dark green also dominated the interior, which didn't make the space any warmer or more inviting.

"As you know from the letter I sent you, the task is trivially simple, but since I demand discretion inversely proportional to its triviality, I entrust it to you. Do you feel honored?" Heavy's flow of words always evoked the persistent impression of a complex riddle. Especially the part his words passed like a shallow end was always the quintessence of the riddle.

"Will you tell me where the catch is, or will I find out myself, too late, like last time?" The memory of the chase through the city was still fresh in my mind, especially the one pole they couldn't avoid. Good thing you can drive without a rear bumper. Without taillights, rear window, and some sheet metal, for that matter.

"I don't see any catch, except maybe that the place is... difficult to access, but that probably won't be a major obstacle for you?" He couldn't, in his shrill voice, deny himself the satisfaction of stepping on a toe...

"Where should I deliver the photos? I'll find out now?" "...but there are people who don't have toes in this place.

" Fat's smile vanished.

"You know the address. Stop the car!"

Getting out on another dark street, he felt relief. At least he no longer had to share air with Heavy. He felt a sense of doom, as he always did when someone abandoned him on this street; and Heavy, in his opinion, loved such theatrical alightings on forgotten city streets. The green limousine disappeared at the intersection. All that remained was to get back to his car. He decided to walk. The conversation took him only half a kilometer as the crow flies from his car.

He was very curious about the mystery that awaited him in the suburban mansion. Because of the fee he had agreed on long ago, few people approached him for help. Heavy's assignment was all the more puzzling and questionable. On top of all this, he had left him very little time to prepare, and even less additional information. Fortunately, it was only 10 p.m.

He turned onto a side street between old, neglected apartment buildings. A few trash cans and sleeping bums didn't add any charm or romance to the place. Besides, the entire district wasn't exactly a place for strolls.

On the other hand, if the Fat One was so concerned about discretion, he'd come to the right place. However, what the man with the squeaky voice had revealed to him, what he then assigned him, was essentially a task for a first-time photographer with a 400 lens and a tripod, so...

"Get out of the money, you bastard!" a drunken voice from behind him snapped him out of his thoughts. It's not good to be so lost in thought that you don't pay attention to the (un)sleeping people here and there.

He turned slowly, surveying his surroundings, and looked into the drunken eyes. Then he examined the chipped knife.

"And how much money do you want?" he sometimes couldn't resist sarcasm.

"Give it all! Not this one here! Now." The drunk wasn't exactly steady on his feet, but the knife certainly gave him plenty of courage.

Now he wondered whether to continue teasing the bum. He looked back into his dull eyes. He wasn't in a hurry today. He should be there in an hour, and he still had a good few minutes to walk to his car. A quick movement of his hand disoriented the drunk, and his other hand knocked the knife away, which, after a short flight, struck the wall of the apartment building. The disoriented attacker took a few steps back and comically fell on his butt in the middle of a puddle. He turned away from the man sitting in the puddle and calmly walked further down the alley. The lack of any sounds assured him that the attacker was still sitting in the puddle. He smiled.

The car was as he'd left it, although the warning light on the dash warned him of a break-in attempt. It was a good thing in neighborhoods like this no one calls the police when they get a solid kick from a car door handle. He turned the key, waited a moment for the engine to rev up, and then calmly drove away.

The exit from the run-down neighborhood led directly onto the outer highway that circled the entire city, along with several smaller satellite towns. He quickly gained speed to 120 mph and sped along the highway, which was deserted at this hour, to the southern part of the ring. He turned on the radio and scanned several stations until he found one that wasn't broadcasting music from an empty studio. Heavy's goofy expression, a response to the keyword "hook," haunted him.

"News:?" he turned the radio up a bit. At least one station was still broadcasting live news. "This morning, AGY Genetics publicly announced that it was the first in the world to file a patent application for a method for making a complete genetic copy of pets. According to a company spokesman, the machine built on this basis will allow for the free cloning of our pets." The reaction to the company's press conference was harsh words from both Moralists and church representatives. Adrian Gawronowicz, general manager of AGY Genetics, has committed to appearing on a late-night talk show, where a response to the attacks on AGY is expected. Further news: the Afghan crisis is escalating again, the US president has pledged to send additional forces to the conflict zones and promised this time to completely suppress Taliban resistance. This decision was met, once again, with criticism, the main slogan being "No to another Vietnam!" The White House press secretary...?

He turned the radio volume down. Down to zero. Some people won't learn, but on the other hand, he admired the determination of both sides. The road sign announcing the upcoming exit to the southern highway reminded him of the task ahead of him tonight.

He drove the last kilometer with the lights off. He turned the car around and turned off the engine. Getting out, he turned off all the lights and warning lights, making sure the car wouldn't give away its presence with any flashing warning signs. He opened the trunk and took out a small suitcase and his night vision goggles. He closed the trunk, placed the suitcase on top, and opened it. He checked, one by one, that all the lens elements were in order, and that the camera itself was working. He put the spare rolls of film into the suitcase's pocket. He closed it and headed toward the glow of light that was visible in the distance, behind one of the hills. He walked slowly and carefully, using his remaining time wisely. He wouldn't be taking the photos for another two hours. This was the most unusual aspect of the entire assignment, but he no longer allowed himself to brood and lose focus—he'd had enough time from the city to think. He paused for a moment to adjust his holster. The silencer on his pistol was a bit too large for his needs; The losses (including his own pistol) during recent adventures had been marked by such details, and Martyna, despite his persistent pleas, hadn't yet managed to fulfill his order. It was good that at least the car was fully functional. He briefly put on his night vision goggles to look around from the top of the hill, searching for any not-so-well-hidden alarm systems. Gruby described the entire system in a letter, but used numerous question marks around each description. He probably didn't know some of it, and hid others just for fun. He called such unnecessary risk a challenge. One day, one of these challenges would kill him. There were no visible security measures, but few properties—even well-protected ones—had their first perimeter within 300 meters of the fence. He decided to take a slightly detour to the position he'd chosen on the map. He wasn't sure if the location he'd chosen, based on the map, which was nevertheless accurate, would actually prove to be so in practice. The sounds of loud music, noticeably muffled by the distance and the nearby forest, came from the property, half a kilometer away. From the next low hill, a flat, rising clearing stretched out all the way to the house. He moved at a snail's pace, scanning the area every few meters with his night vision goggles, searching for any alarms. After half an hour, he finally reached his chosen spot. It turned out to be even better than he expected: the overgrown hill at the top allowed for excellent observation of the entire rear of the property, while the bare slope made any surprise approach difficult. He calmly set up a small tripod, driving its legs six inches into the ground, attached a telephoto lens to the camera, and screwed the lens to the tripod.

"Upper middle window. 2 a.m. to 2:20 a.m. You'll know when to take pictures—just take a long film...?" Damn Fatso can never stop giving specifics.

1:30 a.m.—still a long time...

The sight of the estate, and now the party he could spy on through his lens, didn't surprise him much. The large company logo above the entrance to the terrace surrounding the pool, fantastic reflections of the water forming on the wall of the two-story building, several couples chatting or in the later stages of dating, someone in the pool, swimming fully clothed... The first few photos captured several faces he recognized from newspapers. It always amused him how people's inner selves came out at such events. Miller, Artur. The head of the magazine "Business - Floor - Bank," married with two children. Here: a "liberated" state, after a heavy dose of stimulants, in a state of closer acquaintance with a certain young woman. He smiled at the thought of the money he could gain from blackmail alone.

Inside, it was just as interesting, especially in closer detail. A table laden with food, not only alcohol but also colored powders... "natural medicine." According to a statement from one of the politicians caught in possession of a few "colors." The small dance floor on the right side of the house sparkled in streams of colored lights and reflections from the equally colorful jewelry of some of the ladies... and "ladies."

The upper floor remained dark, which seemed downright strange at this stage of the party. The mystery was solved a moment later when one of the lights on the left side of the house—until then as dark as the upstairs—brightened with a pleasant orange light, revealing a very interested couple. A closer zoom revealed the identities of both individuals.

A brief crack at the bottom of the hill distracted him from the camera. Slowly and quietly, he drew his gun and cocked it. He didn't activate his night vision goggles so as not to reveal his movements. He examined the slope carefully. Something was slowly approaching him in a zigzag pattern from below. After a moment, the thing accelerated toward him, revealing white fangs. He fired twice just above the jaw. The dog didn't even howl as the first bullet shattered its nostrils, ripping off a large portion of its muzzle. The second bullet entered the animal's brain, instantly cutting off both its suffering and any further sounds. He slowly slid down to the Rottweiler's corpse, his gun still at the ready. He made sure the animal was dead, then grabbed it by its hind legs and dragged it down to a small ditch, not even bothering to conceal it more carefully. So this was the exterior perimeter of the house... He knew that now another dog, smelling the blood of its predecessor, might arrive, as might the guard, searching for the missing dog. He glanced at his watch. It was seven minutes to two a.m. He quickly returned to his post. This time, he no longer watched the party below, for in his absence, the upstairs had come alive with a faint light, coming from the middle window.

The appearance of the head of AGY Genetics wasn't much of a surprise. An equally "big" surprise was the young woman and her unambiguous intentions. A hundredth of a second of darkness, the soft click of a shutter, the brief hiss of film advancement. A close-up of the woman's face. Another photo. Her face seemed familiar. It was a shame there wasn't more time to remember, to associate the face with the place and name... Mr. Adrian Gawronowicz's big smile, perfect for a photo.

Another crack from behind forced him to focus for a moment on what was happening around him. The flapping of a small bird's wings calmed him and allowed him to look at the camera again. The situation hadn't changed much. The figures in the middle window "armed" themselves with glasses of champagne. Snap. A photo for the family album, "where did it come from?"... Somewhere to the left, he heard a crack, easily recognizable to a trained ear. A muffled shot from a sniper rifle.

He began taking more photos at a much faster pace, precisely from the moment the upstairs window and Gawronowicz's head shattered almost simultaneously. The next events unfolded very quickly: a woman's scream, security guards rushing in. It was clear they were professionals – their first moves were directed towards the still-screaming woman, laying her on the ground as they ran, then covering the window.

He began to think quickly. The situation from the camera's close-up would soon develop to a considerable distance from the house. He heard the shot. Which meant the sniper himself must have been quite close, no more than a hundred meters away. He glanced at the lens again. The upper middle windows were covered, the side windows were not. Downstairs, the party continued uninterrupted! One last photo, and it was time for a quick evacuation down the hill.

The trip to his car took much less time than the other way. Before approaching it, he took the opportunity to quickly check if anyone was waiting for him. He couldn't call such a thorough check, but it was better than running blindly. He packed the suitcase with the camera into the trunk. He took out the film on the way.

Driving fast, without headlights, practically until the highway approach, allowed him to avoid detection. Moments after he entered the highway, a car sped past him. He glanced at the speedometer. 180. He didn't even recognize the brand.

Half an hour later, he was waiting for a copy of the film at Michał's, who was not at all pleased to be getting out of bed at this hour. His grumbling was quickly cut short by higher-denomination bills. And the photos themselves were tempting to enlarge.

"Where did you get such photos? "

"You weren't supposed to ask...

" "Enlarge them?" Michał's eyes lit up

. "No need. Not even prints. Delete the scans from the machine too. Just in case; with emphasis on the last word." Now the glint in his eyes faded.

"Okay, okay... don't panic!" A gesture of raised hands, a frown on his face.

"Give me the toys. I'm in a hurry." He held out his hand for the rolls.

"How was the photoshoot? Were the models good?" even in such a situation, Gruby tried to be humorous. It was a pity that his shrill laughter was interrupted by a coughing fit.

"You'll end up like him soon. Either from the bullet or from that cough.

" "I see you're wishing me well, as always?" Now Gruby's expression became even less pleasant, though on the other hand, it's amazing what faces a person can make. "Give me the pictures."

The greedy hand quickly pocketed the purchase. It seemed an inappropriate place for such a large-scale photo.

"That hook was interesting. It's tempting to ask...

" "The hook is waiting for you at home.

" "?

"On the second program at 2:30?" Gruby's shrill laughter now turned into a cackle. "You can get out."

At that same moment, a security guard opened the door of the green limousine. The gust of cold air was a welcome relief after leaving the room he shared with Gruby. Nevertheless, the hook he had placed in his hand was drawing him towards the house.

After a 10-minute, over-the-top drive to the outskirts of town, he was home. After a quick shower, he lay in bed with the TV remote in his hand. The gray button with the number 2 drawn above it worked properly. After a brief flash, the aggressively made-up face of the host appeared. The program's logo was adorned with the bright inscription "live!"... ?

.... To you! In today's program, I'll have the pleasure of speaking with Adrian Gawronowicz, general manager of AGY Genetics...?