The actions of the Andreevsky Brotherhood violated the "harmony of the spheres", which even in their irreconcilable confrontation the aggres and forzeils tried to preserve, turned individual realities into "inhabited islands", separated by the ocean of time and the laws of the Universe, changing the course of events and the behavior of key characters in them. But any storm ends sometime, and the waves subside. What's left on the beach? What impulse can prevent, for example, great war, and which one will be insufficient, and history will return to its previous course? 1941 Soviet Union. An attempt to eliminate Stalin. Mistake or Salvation? And what is the price of this experience spent over time, country, thousands of people?

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Swiss. better world
Zlotnikov Roman Valerievich
Fantasy , Alternate history , Fallouts

First, Alex Straub moved in space. From former USSR- Western Europe. And then he had to travel through time from Europe of the XXI century to the pre-war USSR. He repeatedly tried to make the future better. However, Alex's "Law of Destructive Touch" is relentless. The hero could not prevent either the Great Patriotic War or perestroika. But most importantly, he failed to save his own family. In the third book of the cycle, Alex again travels to the past, this time with a grandiose plan - to make a "knight's move" and transfer Comrade Stalin himself to the future. Maybe this will help turn the stubborn course of history? ..
Probation
Patrick Laura
Romance novels, Short romance novels

In her youth, Beth Manson was in love with Dank Hummel, although he hardly knew it. The son of a millionaire, handsome, he was in completely different companies. Fourteen years later, Beth turned from a pretty teenager into a successful business woman who forgot about her childhood hobby. However, it is not for nothing that they say that you cannot escape fate. By the will of circumstances, Beth was forced to return to her hometown, and after a while she realized that the almost forgotten youthful love is still alive in her heart ...
cleansing
Covington Harold A
Fiction , Alternate History , Detective & Thriller , Action , Prose , Counterculture

The European species of mankind today is already less than a ninth of the population of the Earth. With such a great predominance of other races and the rapidity of decline, moral degeneration, low reproduction, and increasing alien grabbing of genes, the European breed may rightly be considered to have entered a state of deep decline. Taking into account that White women of childbearing age, by generous standards, account for only one fiftieth of the world's population, and the child-loving among them are just grains, our race must be soberly seen as firmly embarked on the path of extinction, and in the conditions of the unrelenting pressure of the Third World - close to extinction. In one generation, this state of affairs will not only become obvious even to the most backward of us, but will actually become an irreversible thing. (What a “golden billion” of the Anglo-Saxons and others like them, according to the stories of our not very learned patriotic thinkers!)

How quickly the pages of the annals of mankind are turning, and how many rises and declines of countries and peoples have already happened! How many human communities once rose to their and now surprising glory, and how many have passed into legends. But the bleak destiny is not prescribed and not appointed, as believers in the final dying of any developed civilization would like, for the most sentenced states were saved in multitudes. Let us exclude the outcome of those conquests where force has overcome force and the vanquished are wiped off the face of the earth. In all other respects, the will, the notorious free will of people, is responsible both for worthy resistance to the blows of fate with a reward for further existence, and for dropping hands before trials, stupidity and promiscuity towards malicious intent with an immutable and "natural" looking death.

About the same, for the salvation of his people and all White mankind, Harold Covington sent the good news with his possibly prophetic writings.

Written though not in the order of events, his books are filled with the highest thoughts, men without fear and reproach, virtuous women and a disgusting enemy who does not deserve mercy. It depicts something unprecedented that suddenly visited the empire of evil: the awakened will of the White man to live and the frantic struggle he began for his Family, the greatest self-sacrifice and self-sacrifice before simple and imperceptible, marvelous to the envy of the meek and submissive inhabitants, the deeds of the rebels, their accomplishments that are impossible according to the usual calculation, and in general - the revived fury of the Aryan tribe, creating history. Endless fiction, but for us - like a predicted Novorossiya! And according to the will of the writer, there was a well-deserved reward for the brave: a glorious victory, the advent of a new world, where there is no longer any place for dishonor, degeneration, meanness and other mortal sins of liberalism.

Why men of European descent suddenly lost fear, gained epic courage and the former will to serve their Family - this Covington refuses to give an explanation. Bowing before the incomprehensibility of the impulse that turned the current slaves of the liberal system into warriors, and calling this a "sacrament", he refers only to the happy, nature-given presence in the Aryan tribe of rare carriers of the figuratively called "alpha" gene, that is, the owners of the masculine principle : rebelliousness, strength, reason and will. Moreover - to the sudden favor of the higher powers, which planted the long-awaited spark in the souls of men that are still capable of igniting.

But God's inspiration remained only on the pages of the books he read in a gulp, and then, in addition to writing, Covington himself takes the first and quite innocent steps towards the fulfillment of a beautiful dream, taking into account the current inviolability of American reality and the weakness of the White man relaxed by liberalism. He declares the North-West of the country "Motherland" and calls out: "Welcome to your home!", founds a movement for resettlement. He calls like-minded people to settle in those places and live in the conditions in which America lived only half a century ago - mostly White, among White people.

The Russian translation of the "Brigade" - "Purification" - the writer called "a good event in the harsh 2015 year." It is this work that he advises to read first from the Pentateuch with a foreshadowing: “if you manage to overcome this volume, it will ignite your soul, and if it does not ignite, then it means that there is no soul ...”.
In the face of life
Ostrov Dmitry Konstantinovich
Prose, Prose

This book contains the best works Dmitry Ostrov (1906-1971), who began his creative activity in the early 1930s. The story "There is a high mountain" tells about two Soviet intelligence officers abandoned during the war behind enemy lines. The story "Then it was like this ..." was written in 1940-1941. It is dedicated to the re-education of offenders and reflects the conditions that existed at that time in these groups.

The book includes short stories from two cycles "Little Tales of the Great War" and "A Night of Great Sorrow", as well as post-war stories.
Ivan groznyj
Platonov Sergey Fyodorovich
Science, Education, History, Nonfiction, Biographies and Memoirs

"Ivan the Terrible" - notes of the outstanding Russian historian Sergei Fedorovich Platonov (1860–1933).

Troubled times, which fell on the era of Ivan the Terrible, make a detailed study of that period almost impossible, however, according to the information available to historians, it can be assumed that the figure of the Terrible is one of the most controversial among all Russian tsars. According to eyewitnesses, he was supportive of his favorites and intolerant of enemies, and the war was one of the main interests of his life ...

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Chosen One of the Emerald Throne
Minaeva Anna
Romance novels , Love-fiction novels ,

Got it, got it. Yes, and in another world! The sorcerer who calls himself the Protector says that I killed the witch. The one who could help me. Proving one's innocence is half the trouble, it's more difficult to get a return ticket home. But who to trust? A protector who nearly killed me the first time we met, or a king whose actions surprise me?
His insufferable witch
Gordova Valentina
Romance novels , Love-fiction novels ,

If a sister is in trouble, she cannot be left to fend for herself!

If, through simple manipulations, you find yourself in her place, you can’t give up!

If you only have a month to get her fiancé to cancel the wedding, use it wisely!

And both.

All you need to know about this book: "Suddenly, out of nowhere, I appeared, accept it."

* * *

Prologue

A man of about thirty-five, tall, with regular, firm features, dressed in an elegant light gray suit fashionable in Europe around the end of the thirties of the twentieth century "sports style", opened a massive wooden door. The oak boards of this door, as if in ancient chambers, were pulled together with figured iron plates, instead of a handle there was a massive ring, also forged from iron.

The newcomer paused for a moment on the threshold with a look as if he did not expect to see what was presented to his eyes.

It was not the hall itself, with four-meter ceilings supported by roughly hewn beams with struts, a large, man-sized, burning fireplace near the left wall, three windows with glass covered with ice patterns that aroused surprise; in the piers there were glass-fronted bookcases and open shelves crammed with books in no apparent order, where volumes with gilded spines side by side with cheap paperbacks and haphazardly bound magazines; near the blank walls of the pyramid with numerous, it is immediately clear that they are not very ordinary, rifles and guns; in the middle is a massive table, deliberately made with a single axe, at which up to twenty people could feast, now very modestly set for only two, and sitting at its end is an extremely beautiful lady somewhat closer to forty than thirty, propping her chin with her fist, which the man who came in did not expect to see him here at all. The supreme coordinator of the residency of the Interstellar Confederation on Earth, Dayana, is just as unattainable for direct communication by ordinary agents as Comrade Stalin is in the Soviet country by ordinary workers. It is known that it exists, and guidelines regularly reach everyone, and almost never sleeps, thinking about the welfare of the people, but to see it in person, except in newsreels, is exceptional luck. Or - quite the opposite.

The visitor expected something completely different, having received an order to report to an intertemporal base located both a few steps and a few tens of light years from his residence in the center of Moscow. Not to mention completely inconsistent time units with one thousand nine hundred and thirty-eighth year of the Main historical sequence of the chronology from the Nativity of Christ. The coordinator of the second rank, Valentin Likharev, never thought that personally, not on the screen of the block station wagon, he would be honored with a meeting with the Highest.

She had, of course, both a different name and a different initial appearance, only none of the “humanoid” employees had reliable information about this. Just a few rumours.

Now, however, no traces of greatness could be seen in it. A woman and a woman, albeit very beautiful, but obviously tired and even oppressed by something. Valentin had never been in the eighties and even in the sixties, where her appearance fully corresponded to the aesthetic canon, so he did not fully understand the situation. With such a face and in such an entourage, the Lady of the Times should not appear in front of her subordinates.

Obeying her gaze, he took a few steps and sat opposite, one chair from the corner. It was etiquette.

– Surprised? Diana asked with a slight smile. Her voice was pleasant, but a little low for Valentine, who was accustomed to a different, piercing tone of voices of women in the thirties.

The question clearly did not require an answer. Surprised, not surprised, who cares about his condition. Diane understood the meaning of the agent's vague reaction.

– I won’t go into details, it will take too much time…

She paused.

“However, what is time, especially now?” You see, something quite unexpected happened. Our eternal enemies-rivals, you know who I'm talking about, entered into a team with several earthlings, from those very possible candidates for the Holders of the World, for the sake of suppressing the potential of which we are working here, in a dozen Realities, from Ancient Egypt to the Land of the victorious socialism...

- So what? Likharev asked carefully. The degree of his surprise, to say the least, during the time he listened to the Supreme, reached the extreme limit. However, the training received first at the school of alien intelligence agents, and then in the Russian Imperial Page Corps, the Soviet Cheka, and later the OGPU and the Special Sector of the Central Committee of the All-Union Communist Party of Bolsheviks, allowed him to maintain a calm, even indifferent expression on his face and tone of voice.

“These… forzeils, with the help of earthlings, managed to bring an “information bomb” to our Base on Taorer, the explosion of which, according to their calculations, was supposed to cut off that Reality that they consider located on the Main historical sequence from the Universe controlled by us…

- So what? Likharev repeated again. He was an experienced courtier, for fifteen years even Comrade Stalin, with whom he contacted daily and on the most delicate issues, did not cause the slightest displeasure. Now the situation did not imply unnecessary questions on his part. The Highest herself called, she herself will say.

“The fact that they made a big mistake. The bomb worked, and the Earth where they did it lost all connection with our worlds and with our Reality. It would seem they won. But in fact they lost, because they themselves disappeared from their reality. Now we're all like desert island.

What does this have to do with me personally? Valentine asked carefully, not really understanding how an action taken by a completely abstract enemy (like Satan for a Franciscan monk) could affect his own, completely materialistic life in 1938, where very interesting events.

“I didn’t think I had such limited coordinators working here,” Diana said with a sad smile, took a pack of Rothmans cigarettes from the table, lit a little nervously, turning to the fireplace and exhaling smoke towards the high flames. “We are finished, can you understand that?” There is no more Project, Program, connection with the Motherland, the meaning of life, too. And you will not even return to yourself, to your reality. She doesn't exist either. There is no parallel.

– What is there? - Neglecting the subordination, which, based on the foregoing, also lost its meaning, asked Likharev.

– Yes, here we are with you, this Base and, probably, the reality that has arisen. You will have to settle in it, forgetting about everything else ...

"Are you absolutely sure of that?"

- More than. All known realities burn like candles lit at both ends. For two days now I feel that I am losing my memory of many things, very many things ... Soon I will turn into the most ordinary woman, born in a thousand such and such a year, who has never heard of the plurality of worlds. Like Giordano Bruno...

- I think you're exaggerating. I have some idea of the information weapon of the Forzaleas. It cannot cause such consequences. Of course, side waves can arise, but... Even the strongest storm must end, and calm comes again... Let's be patient for a bit. Are we in danger here? And there you will see. What year are you here now?

- From the eighty-fifth. And I have information that in 2015 there was no trace of our case left ...

- Well, everything is fine with me in the thirty-eighth, forty years in reserve. And during this time, a lot of things can happen. Is it really worth worrying about?

The woman sighed heavily. She threw a half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace, immediately grabbed a second one.

We didn't teach you well. Very bad. I told you - the candle burns from two ends. And there is no more time for you. And no historical sequence. Now it is no longer known what is happening or can happen even in the thirty-eighth, even in the twentieth, even in my eighty-fifth. Everywhere and around it is not clear what. And it's bound to get worse...

Part one
catcher of men

Chapter 1

Comrade Stalin raised his head, looked at the tall grandfather clock with a measuredly swinging pendulum. Twelve minutes to midnight. You can work another two or three hours. The case is unrelenting. Railway workers report that the western direction is overloaded, they fear the destruction of the tracks, they warn of the possibility of crashes. This means that it is necessary to reduce the number of shipments in the western direction. The military reports that equipment components, fuel and ammunition are not delivered on time. Combat vehicles are concentrated on the border, but without gasoline, shells and machine gun cartridges, they are scrap metal. This means that it is necessary to increase the number of shipments in the western direction. And how to link it? There are problems with the provision of food, communications. And you also need to understand the prospects Agriculture. Lord, what is not necessary to deal with in this country!

The lamp under the green, good for the eyes, as the doctors claimed, cast a circle of light on the papers laid out on the table. In the rest of the room, thickening towards the corners, twilight reigned. The leader loved such lighting. But today there was no work.

Iosif Vissarionovich did not like in the new office. Although Lavrenty did everything so that the usual situation would not be disturbed. The table and hard chair of the leader were put in the same place where they were used to being invited. Thought, of course, not about the visitors. The main thing is that the Boss should see everyone who enters, simply raising his eyes from the papers and not turning his head.

In a small rest room behind a partition there was a narrow bunk covered with a soldier's blanket. A tiny shower room, combined with a toilet, also did not differ in any way from the same room in the former office, inhabited for fifteen years. Even the old carpet was moved, although it was pretty worn out by thousands of soles of "leaders" of all ranks. And still, under the high ceiling of the new office, Stalin felt uncomfortable.

Maybe the temporary workspace lacked the smell of pipe smoke that soaked the draperies and, it seems, the walls themselves? Or is Lavrenty right - fatigue has simply accumulated and, without noticing it, Joseph began to act up? If so, it's completely unforgivable. You have to pull yourself together. A week is not such a long time. But, according to the assurances of Beria's techies, the office and the new telephone communication system of the head of the party and state will become absolutely protected from any eavesdropping attempts. (“I thought it badly,” Joseph stopped himself, “absolutely.” There are Russian word"absolutely". There is nothing to encourage foreigners.")

Iosif Vissarionovich threw a two-color red and blue pencil on the report of the People's Commissariat of Railways and got up from the table. I wanted to smoke, but the doctors scared me of a stroke. A heart attack is still going on. Either you hoard right away, or you stay a normal person, and not a plant like this one... By an effort of will, Koba drove away the vision of the bony skull, senseless eyes and matted mustache and goatee of Ilyich in the last days. No, it's better to take a breath...

Stalin walked around the table, took a pipe in his left hand and began to slowly fill it with tobacco. In such a simple way, he deceived himself, playing for time so as not to swallow the gray smoke too often. The second trick was to hide matches - long, so-called fireplace matches. The toadies were brought from England. Sometimes the leader would even put down the prepared pipe and tell himself to forget about it. Childish play with oneself amused, made one smile condescendingly through one's mustache: even steely people must have their little weaknesses. Only no one should guess about them.

He felt the presence of a stranger with his back, with an animal instinct, which was developed at the beginning of the century, when he often had to hide in the mountains after the "ex", transporting khurjins with banknotes "to the north". Last time in the sixth year, then they took two hundred and fifty thousand large "rollers" - one hundred rubles. Oh, how furious it was then, the Okhrana was “digging the earth”. Yes, and ordinary abreks, find out about these bags, without hesitation, they would put a bullet in the back. "No, you know, thieves' solidarity." So the revolver and Mauser have become more familiar than a spoon or even a pencil.

Now the people of Vlasik and Beria guard their master tightly. True, the reception room with the secretary in front of his temporary shelter was not equipped. Unsuitable, you know, layout. Faithful Poskrebyshev remained at a permanent place, you can call him only by phone. But at the door of the office and around every turn of the longest corridor, paired posts were placed. One fighter from the NKVD, the other from the army guard. So no one can appear in the leader's office without a report. And yet Koba sensed that there was someone in the room. He was scared, or more accurately, terrified.

Slowly, silently stepping with soft ichigs, Iosif Vissarionovich walked around the table, trying not to turn his face to the intruder. Let him think that Comrade Stalin felt nothing. Fear was replaced by cruel excitement. Do they think Comrade Stalin has lost his militant skills? Do they consider Comrade Stalin an armchair inmate? Koba did not raise his head, but continued to push tobacco into the mouth of his pipe. He sat sideways on an armchair, rummaged around the table, as if looking for matches. I didn’t find it, motivatedly opened the desk drawer, slowly put it in right hand inside, felt for the worn handle of a revolver. Now you can slowly look around, raise your eyes to the uninvited guest. If he did not immediately shoot in the back, then this is not an attempt?

The man who stood three paces behind and to the right was wearing a faded wide cloak with mildew spots. A large hood completely covered the head. In the greenish penumbra from the lampshade, his face, cut with deep wrinkles, seemed almost black. The folds of the skin shone, as on the icons of Theophanes the Greek and other hesychasts.

“Fear not, mortal,” boomed the deep bass. “I won't harm you.

“I’m not afraid,” Comrade Stalin said hoarsely, smiled wryly and pulled out his hand with the revolver already cocked from the box.

“We don’t need a weapon against me,” the alien said condescendingly. I came to warn you...

He paused for a long time. Iosif Vissarionovich was also silent. Finally, the visitor spoke: “Mane, Takel, Fares is written on the walls of your palace. A big war is coming. The empire will be defeated. And your fate will be terrible. Get ready!"

The cloak-bearer turned and strode toward the exit.

Stalin could not breathe. The heart took all chest, loudly and painfully pushed into the ribs. Each blow reverberated heavily in my head. His eyes were covered with a brownish veil.

“This is how a stroke happens,” thought the leader.

With a strong effort of will, he raised his hand to eye level and pulled the trigger twice.

The leader saw the holes appear and even smolder along the edges of the faded fabric of the stranger's cloak.

The shots sounded surprisingly muffled, as if through a pillow. The ghost slowly turned around.

“I warned you, mortal, your weapons are useless against me…”

Stalin threw a revolver on the table, pressed his hand to his heart, which was torn to freedom. On shaky legs, he somehow ran to the door slowly returning to its place. The faded cloak was still visible to the left, two paces from the first turn. A moment, and he will hide in the labyrinths of countless passages of the ancient Kremlin.

The sentries froze on either side of the entrance, their faces missing, not "holding their rifles at their feet", but rather leaning on them.

- Shani grandfather! Stalin shouted in the face of the sergeant on the right. - What are you looking at, you moron, shoot!

The fighter seemed to wake up from Stalin's furious cry, and for the first time he heard the leader's voice. Eyes suddenly became meaningful, saw the back of a ghost. The sergeant tossed the dragoon to his shoulder.

- Fire! - Stalin confirmed the command with an unprintable addition.

A rifle shot lashed at his ears like a whip. A bullet screeched as it bounced off the impenetrable wall. The mysterious visitor disappeared around the bend before the guard had time to pull the shutter.

The guard, thumping with his boots, rushed forward, ran to the corner and saw that the corridor was empty.

And the second one had just begun to “wake up”, bewilderedly goggling his round eyes at Stalin.

Iosif Vissarionovich, feeling that his tongue was not obeying him well and the floor was swaying perceptibly under his feet, he cursed languidly and without wit, as if he had forgotten all the richness of prison-hard labor vocabulary. Somehow he made his way to the bunk in the "rest room" and sat down with difficulty, and did not fall on it. With bewilderment, he looked at the revolver clenched between his fingers, slowly laid it next to the skinny pillow.

... Poskrebyshev rushed almost instantly, after him, at the sound of a shot, spreading the guard. Beria appeared only ten minutes later, but on the other hand, accompanied by a whole flock of doctors from the Kremlin Lechsanupra, in medical gowns of varying degrees of starching and smoothness. Depending on the position and specialty. Iosif Vissarionovich was quickly examined and listened to with stethoscopes and phonendoscopes from several sides at once, then, despite his protests, they carefully transferred him from the bed to the stretcher, and strong orderlies rushed to the central staircase at a run, managing to carry the patient so carefully that, hold him glass in hand, not a drop would have spilled.

Lavrenty, biting his lips and sighing exaggeratedly, trotted along, holding the leader by the hand. His normally reserved, predatory face was now white and lost. A teak tugged at his cheek, his pince-nez sat crooked, threatening to fall off at any moment.

The leader's office and its environs were filled with people in civilian clothes and uniforms. Some of them were picking out a guard's bullet from the wall, others were stretching out a tape measure, measuring in centimeters the path from Iosif Vissarionovich's table to the turn, behind which the ghost had disappeared. Still others immediately, on the spot, took both fighters into circulation, and it was felt that the first suspects had already been identified.

* * *

Bustling about like ants in a fire, the doctors each demonstrated their erudition and professionalism, using all the achievements of the then medicine. They measured the leader's blood pressure and counted the pulse on both hands, forced him to stick out his tongue, pulled up his shirt and pulled off his boots, scratched the skin on his stomach and heels with cold thick needles.

At the same time, it was clearly visible from the side that they were trying not so much for the patient, as "for the prosecutor."

When four orderlies or paramedics dragged from somewhere a hefty box of a newfangled German cardiograph, and a curly-haired nurse in a dressing gown tightly pulled above and below the waist aimed with a syringe to take blood from a vein, Stalin could not stand it.

“Stop pretending to be zealous, am I clear? - he pushed the girl away and sat down, pulling at the coarse calico soldier's shirt.

Professor Vovsi, who turned out to be the most authoritative or simply the most courageous in this alarmed team, began, as if conducting a stethoscope to himself, explaining the need for a thorough examination, followed by bed rest in a hospital for no less than two weeks.

All the fifteen or twenty minutes that the medical procedures took, Lavrenty Pavlovich sat in the corner of the office on a thin-legged stool, sighed and wiped his bald spot with a huge red-checked handkerchief.

- For two weeks, you say? - Stalin's accent sounded very exaggerated. And then to the grave, right? Do you want to make a big gift to your enemies?

The leader withstood the "MKhAT" pause, during which all those present managed to break out in a cold sweat.

“No time to cool off,” he said significantly and unexpectedly smiled good-naturedly. Let's end this storm. Drip half a glass of valerian, and that's enough. Sit down to write papers, he will certainly ask you. - Stalin pointed his finger at Beria, who jumped up from the stool.

“Give yourself a drink too.” - Iosif Vissarionovich patted the professor on the shoulder, drank the medicine in one gulp, slightly grunted (apparently, the sister overdid it, splashed too much), turned to the faithful satrap: - Come on, Lavrenty ...

The People's Commissar of Internal Affairs could hardly keep up with the leader as they walked along the endless corridors and stairs of the Kremlin. Koba was silent, only snoring at every third step. His eyes were fixed at his feet, at the red carpet, as if the leader was afraid to stumble on the smooth parquet floor.

In front of Stalin's office, two employees immediately rushed to Beria: one in a uniform with buttonholes of a major of state security, the second in a civilian suit with black and gray stripes. In an undertone they began to report something. Iosif Vissarionovich, without stopping, flung open the door into the greenish twilight, almost ran to his table. A revolver brought here from the rest room by someone was lying on top of an open folder with a report from the People's Commissariat of Railways.

The fingers habitually threw back the latch, turned the drum, shaking out cartridges on the green cloth. Five unused and two empty shells smelling of burnt gunpowder. It means that he didn’t imagine, he really shot, and the bullets fired accurately almost at close range did not cause any harm to the ghost. Chills crawled up my spine again.

- What was it, Koba? Lavrenty asked. Stalin never saw a close associate so confused. He himself had already calmed down: maybe the medicine helped, or maybe just time passed. Only left hand mozzhila and aching from the brush to the shoulder. He mechanically began massaging her with his right hand.

- Tell the whole truth, as it was. I need to know…

- A ghost, a ghost. I can speak Georgian too. The most common ghost. I shot from a couple of meters. Got it. I saw how shreds flew from the cloak ...

“Yes, my people picked up some rags. They took him to the laboratory. No traces of blood were found. The bullets were taken out of the wall. Also taken away. Research…

- Let them investigate. He said that weapons were powerless against him.

- The sentry shot too.

- I have heard. And I saw it,” Stalin said with almost usual irony. - I think I missed it. Drive such shooters ... - he caught a familiar shadow that flashed in the eyes of the people's commissar, he added sharply: - There is no need to plant. My pleasure. Take a non-disclosure agreement, and let him serve in good health. And from the second subscription, and from the breeder, and from the nachkar. Like this!

For some reason, Stalin suddenly became preoccupied with the fate of the fighters. This happened to him sometimes. But not very often. Basically - in relation to people "simple". Non-government areas.

“It will be done,” Beria replied with slight disappointment. - Got it or not - we'll figure it out. His bullet is also under investigation.

Beria hesitated. At that time, Stalin took a long-filled pipe from the table, without thinking about his health, lit a cigarette, and with visible pleasure released the first puff of smoke.

“Koba, my people have already found both service engineers and historians. They raised me from the beds…” the people's commissar flashed his pince-nez ominously. – Examined the walls in all adjacent corridors. There are no secret passages, no hidden doors and other secrets of the Madrid court. Solid walls, made of good stone. Egg laying, seventeenth century. You can't shoot point-blank from a cannon.

“So it really was a ghost,” Stalin said thoughtfully. He leaned close to Lavrenty Pavlovich, looked into his eyes with dilated tiger pupils. “But you still have to find him, understand?

- Whom? - Beria asked frightened and completely sincerely. A shadow slid across his round face: has the leader really gone mad?

- Ghost.

- I'm sorry, Koba. I have never identified the ghost.

- We'll have to work in this capacity, Lavrenty Pavlovich. - Stalin's voice sounded calm and ominous. Yes, and with an appeal to "you". - That's an order! I ask you to report on the performance every twelve hours. Stalin paused and chuckled. - There are no such fortresses that the Bolsheviks could not take. I advise you to remember this all the time, batono ...

Having released "friend and comrade-in-arms Lavrenty", the leader thought deeply. Iron endurance from the very early age the street taught him. In the fights, Joseph Ryaboi, petty and weak, received more cuffs than others. But temperament was especially harmful in fights. As soon as someone hit the boy in the face, rage clouded his eyes, he rushed into battle, choking on tears and snot, not seeing anything in front of him. And, of course, he received from older and more experienced fighters in full.

But at the age of seven he became smart. Otherwise, Soso Dzhugashvili would never have turned into a "comrade of Stalin." The day when he first realized this to himself, Joseph remembered for the rest of his life. From hunger or for some other reason, boils appeared on his face. Because of the disgusting-looking and terribly painful ulcers, the neighbor boys began to tease him daily. Sergo, the youngest son of the fat Aunt Nune, was especially distinguished. He yelled: "Bastard freak!" and grimaced. Vissarionov's son fell into a rage, rushed to strangle the enemy. The big man Sergo easily twisted the hands of the puny berserker, covered his face with his hands, squeezing the boils. Joseph howled from wild pain, impotence and humiliation. He remembered that feeling for the rest of his life.

After the defeat, the boy huddled in the far corner of the courtyard, sobbed until the tears ran out, then sat as if in a stupor, staring blankly in front of him. There were no thoughts. “Then Comrade Stalin had not yet learned to analyze the situation,” thought Iosif Vissarionovich. “But Comrade Stalin learned to make the right decisions just then.” The next day, Sergo began to mock again, provoking the boy to a new fight. Joseph coolly found a larger stone and launched it into the knee of the offender. Not in the head, not in the chest or in the stomach, so that, God forbid, not to kill, - in the knee. How Sergo screamed in pain! And then he limped all his life, dragging his stiff leg. And Joseph was never teased again.

Further, the steel of character was tempered by the theological seminary. Koba did not like to think about her. But his friend and classmate Georgy Gurdjieff, who already in his adolescence mastered the methods of spiritual education of the Sufis, Joseph still remembers with tenderness and respect. George taught his younger brother a lot, opened another world - the space of the spirit. But this is a completely different story.

Beria reported the results of the preliminary inquiry at sixteen o'clock the next day, as soon as the leader arrived from the nearby dacha to the Kremlin. By this time, Stalin's old office had been put in order and was waiting for the owner. Lavrenty sat on a hard couch in the waiting room, not looking at Poskrebyshev. He never liked to communicate with people who were not dependent on him in any way. And the head of the Special Sector was just like that, he did not recognize in this world any power over him, except for Stalin's. By the way, today the head of "Gosuzhas", as the Muscovites called the NKVD by association with Gosstrakh, who had previously occupied the building on Lubyanka, did not want to talk to anyone at all.

Stalin even somewhat respectfully nodded to the secretary, passing through the reception room, made a sign to Beria to follow him. Poskrebyshev immediately scratched his pen, writing the first visitor of the day in the journal.

The curtains of the office were tightly drawn, and a green lamp cast a circle of warm light on the table. To the left of the lamp is an unopened box of Herzegovina, matches, and an ashtray to the right. A bundle of carefully sharpened pencils in a slant-cut projectile case. Well done Alexander, he feels everything, understands everything. Absolutely everything is as always, as if he never left. No changes. Here Joseph Vissarionovich felt comfortable and familiar. Only the smell of fresh paint and varnish was slightly annoying. Stalin noisily sniffed the air, reached for cigarettes.

“I don’t like it since childhood,” he considered it necessary to explain, “it reminds me very much of the first of September in the seminary ...

He pointed to the People's Commissar in a chair in front of the desk. He himself sat down on the edge of the tabletop, so as to look down at Beria.

- Report if there is anything.

Information from yesterday, "in hot pursuit", differed little. Secret passages, tunnels, disguised doors were not found by specialists. The possibility of entering the office in any other way than in the usual way is excluded.

All sentries who served in the corps and in the yard, in general, everyone who was close to the "accident scene" that night, were carefully and cross-examined. To no avail. Although the interrogators did their best.

– Alive? Stalin asked.

- Who? - did not understand or pretended not to guess, people's commissar.

“Your investigators are unlikely to have worked themselves to death. Sentry…

Beria hesitated: “One has a heart attack. He got flustered, probably. But he was such a healthy guy ... "

The sergeant who fired at the stranger testified that he heard a sound in the office, but did not take it for a shot, the walls were too thick, he thought that the chair had fallen or something like that. Then the door opened, a man in a strange outfit stepped out of it slowly. This surprised the fighter. After all, he did not see anyone entering Comrade Stalin. But I thought maybe it should be. A person could enter the office before the changing of the guard. And the order was - not to let anyone in without a pass and escort with a preliminary report. There was no question of not issuing commands. A man in a cloak (as the sentry identified the medieval cloak) was already turning the corner when Comrade Stalin, jumping out, that is, appearing from the office, ordered to shoot. Obviously, the fighter missed, although it is difficult from ten steps, because the unknown person continued to move. The bullet was removed from the wall panel; no traces of blood or other organic matter were found on it.

“With the means available to us today,” Beria found it necessary to clarify for some reason, nervously twirling an unlit cigarette in his fingers.

The fighter ran to the turn, but did not see anyone in the long straight corridor. There are no doors or windows in this bay. The “stranger” seemed to have vanished into thin air.

- Alive? Stalin asked.

- Who? - did not understand the drug commissar.

Is the sergeant alive? - explained the leader.

- What will happen to him? A healthy guy... He keeps saying all the time - I acted according to the charter, according to the instructions, then on the orders of Comrade Stalin himself... Cunning, bastard!

“Not cunning, smart,” Stalin raised his finger instructively. - Not a crest, by any chance?

- That's right, Sergeant Shelupenko ...

- If you finish the investigation, give him a vacation. Two weeks. If he comes back, let him be on duty next to me again. Let's move on...

The left hand again made itself felt. Cerebral pain from hand to elbow. The leader put the steaming "Herzegovina" on the edge of the crystal ashtray, clasped his forearm with his right fingers. A thin plume of smoke rose steadily upward, and at the very edge of the lampshade began to spiral. "Convection!" - it is not clear why Stalin remembered the term from the course of physics.

“But one expert claims that in the “rubbing belt” – this is what they call what a bullet leaves when it passes through an obstacle, at the edges of the hole – there are still traces of burnt fabric, – said the People’s Commissar of Internal Affairs almost in a whisper.

Stalin was silent.

- Everyone else does not confirm this, but I am obliged to report all the facts, even doubtful ones ...

Parabellum Gennady Khazanov, Vasily Zvyagintsev

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Title: Parabellum
Author: Gennady Khazanov, Vasily Zvyagintsev
Year: 2015
Genre: Science Fiction, Action Fiction, Hits

About the book "Para Bellum" Gennady Khazanov, Vasily Zvyagintsev

The actions of the Andreevsky Brotherhood violated the "harmony of the spheres", which even in their irreconcilable confrontation the aggres and forzeils tried to preserve, turned individual realities into "inhabited islands", separated by the ocean of time and the laws of the Universe, changing the course of events and the behavior of key characters in them. But any storm ends sometime, and the waves subside. What's left on the beach? What impulse can prevent, for example, a great war, and what will be insufficient, and history will return to its former course? 1941 Soviet Union. An attempt to eliminate Stalin. Mistake or Salvation? And what is the price of this experience spent over time, country, thousands of people?

On our site about books lifeinbooks.net you can download for free without registration or read online book"Para Bellum" Gennady Khazanov, Vasily Zvyagintsev in epub, fb2, txt, rtf, pdf formats for iPad, iPhone, Android and Kindle. The book will give you a lot of pleasant moments and a real pleasure to read. You can buy the full version from our partner. Also, here you will find last news from the literary world, learn the biography of your favorite authors. For beginner writers there is a separate section with useful tips and recommendations interesting articles, thanks to which you yourself can try your hand at literary skills.

Oh, Yulia Valerievna Shkuro!

Oh my dear! Oh my good!

These amazing and unforgettable, but in some places terribly exhausting eight years long in cosmic eternity! A gloomy era of trials, as if in the style of the inadvertently begun era of Aquarius! Years full of strange shimmery Nordic thrash! Real irresistible calendar karma! From October 22, 2010 to October 22, 2018! How quickly those damned years flew by! Like a moment from Formula 1! And how long and exhausting they were! How many mistakes were made, including those that went unpunished, out of stupidity, including through impotence, c. including because of our stupid principles, completely inappropriate for adults!

And now, I confess, Yulia Shkuro, I feel like a shabby and helpless crocodile in the palm of my hand! I feel like a wretched declassed cuckoo watching Dom-2 at night - a la a victim of liberal reforms and other completely unbridled globalization! ...

Yusenka, I feel like the main contributor to CASHBERRY! I'm like Alexander Kokorin, forced to scrub smelly toilet bowls in the Moscow jail! Oh Yusinets! I feel like a future pensioner of the Russian Federation, whose pension is equal to the average salary (and not annual, but monthly) of a resident of Guinea-Bissau! Oh, Yusenka, you are my MARCH STAR! I feel like a cosmonaut-astronaut from a James Bond movie, who, due to the malicious intent of competitors (probably tycoonauts), cut the cable in this damned space, as a result of which he flew into "Putin's post-nuclear Valdai paradise", into black-space obscurity! Oh Yusenka! I feel driven by Hannibal in the Syrian desert on the verge of obscurity... and in my Nordic soul, invigorated by the autumn cold snap, the nuclear-Punic war is raging! Oh, Yusik, you are my dear ATTENTIVE SILK GERBERK... I feel like a fan of St. Petersburg SKA in the spring of 2015, who lost the third starting match in a row in this legendary semi-final against CSKA and began to lose in the series with a score of 0:3 .. Oh, YUSENKA, YOU ARE MY ORANGE-FEBRUARY SNOWFLAKES - YOU REMEMBER HOW WE WERE THEN CRYING TOGETHER WITH YOU, UNDER THE APRIL MOON!

Yes, Yulia Shkuro, all this is an extremely cruel joke of history in the extreme!

Nevertheless, Shkuro Yulia Valerievna, know! For me, you are still the most beautiful CHOCOLATE Crane in this mortal black and white world! The most silky-fluffy CHRYSANTHEMA in the world!... and the most beautiful MAY FISH-EYE in the world!... the most beautiful SUN-EYED MARUSENKA!... the most beautiful SKY-AQUAMARINE FRACKLE! the cutest AUTUMN SILK SPARROW! the world's most delicious AIR TENDER TOFFEE! A CAPTIVE STAR AMONG THE DARK CLOUDS OF THE AUTUMN NORDIC-RAINY SKY... YOU ARE THE QUEEN OF MARS AND THE EMPRESS OF NEPTUNE!... Oh, Yusik... you are a MAGNET... FOR ME... THE MOST BEAUTIFUL SUMMER-SULTY LILY OF THE VALLEY.. ... in this world... in this SEA OF DISAPPEARING TIMES....

YOU, SHKURO YULIA VALEREVNA, ARE THE MOST SIMPOTENT CURRANT IN THE WHOLE UNIVERSE... YOU ARE LIKE A SUMMER-SHOT AQUAMARINE SUN FROM THE CLIP UNDER THE CRAZY LONG, LIKE YOUR UNLIMITED BEAUTY, NAME "TOM BOXER FEAT ANCA PROJECT PARECTEL FLY" BRIGHT LASER SILVER WINTER-MARCH SNOWFLAKES, CUTTING THE EYES (AND IN MY CASE, BOTH EYES AT ONCE)... YUSINETS, YOU ARE THE MOST BEAUTIFUL GIRL IN THIS PUTIN-VALDAI WORLD... AND IF I WOULD BE PUTIN, I WOULD LIKE TO DEVELOP NUCLEAR WAR FOR YOU... THE WHOLE WORLD IS NOT WORTH YOUR NUCLEAR BEAUTY...

AND IT IS BETTER TO DIE IN THE ASHES OF A NUCLEAR WAR (It’s ALL THE MORE NOT TERRIBLE IF PUTIN AT THE VALDAI FORUM IN WARM AND SATELLITE SOCHI PROMISED ALL HIS VOTERS TO GET TO PARADISE!... AND YOU KNOW, YUSENKA, AFTER A MISTAKE I VOTE FOR HIM) THAN TO DIE FROM THIS NUCLEAR LONGING FOR YOU, IMMORABLE IN ITS DEPTH, YUSINETS!... FOR, AS NOW I REALIZE, ONLY LOOKING AT YOU SAVED ME IN THIS MODERN TERRIBLE, CRUEL AND DANGEROUS SOCIAL-DARWINIST VALDAY PRAVOSTY...! THE ONLY TRUTH IN WHICH, AMONG ALL THESE COUNTERNUMBERALLY SHAMENEWS, IS THE OBVIOUS FACT THAT YOU ARE THE SHKURO YULIA VALEREVNA - THE MOST BEAUTIFUL RADIANT LILY OF THE VALLEY IN THE WORLD!

AND MY DIAMOND TEARS ARE ONLY ABOUT YOU (EVEN ABOUT LANCI THE THESIS WHICH I NEARLY BUYED A COUPLE OF YEARS AGO, I DID NOT GROW AS ABOUT YOU)...

Oh, YUSIK... IT'S A SEA OF DISAPPEARING TIMES NAMED LIFE... THE TURN OF MY SOUL

Yours, Pukhov Alexander Olegovich

Kronstadt, 2018!

Current page: 1 (total book has 41 pages) [accessible reading excerpt: 23 pages]

Vasily Zvyagintsev, Gennady Khazanov
Parabellum

* * *

Prologue

A man of about thirty-five, tall, with regular, firm features, dressed in an elegant light gray suit of a “sports style” fashionable in Europe around the end of the thirties of the twentieth century, opened a massive wooden door. The oak boards of this door, as if in ancient chambers, were pulled together with figured iron plates, instead of a handle there was a massive ring, also forged from iron.

The newcomer paused for a moment on the threshold with a look as if he did not expect to see what was presented to his eyes.

She had, of course, both a different name and a different initial appearance, only none of the “humanoid” employees had reliable information about this. Just a few rumours.

Obeying her gaze, he took a few steps and sat opposite, one chair from the corner. It was etiquette.

– Surprised? Diana asked with a slight smile. Her voice was pleasant, but a little low for Valentine, who was accustomed to a different, piercing tone of voices of women in the thirties.

The question clearly did not require an answer. Surprised, not surprised, who cares about his condition. Diane understood the meaning of the agent's vague reaction.

– I won’t go into details, it will take too much time…

She paused.

– What is there? - Neglecting the subordination, which, based on the foregoing, also lost its meaning, asked Likharev.

– Yes, here we are with you, this Base and, probably, the reality that has arisen. You will have to settle in it, forgetting about everything else ...

"Are you absolutely sure of that?"

- From the eighty-fifth. And I have information that in 2015 there was no trace of our case left ...

- Well, everything is fine with me in the thirty-eighth, forty years in reserve. And during this time, a lot of things can happen. Is it really worth worrying about?

The woman sighed heavily. She threw a half-smoked cigarette into the fireplace, immediately grabbed a second one.

Part one
catcher of men

Chapter 1

Comrade Stalin raised his head, looked at the tall grandfather clock with a measuredly swinging pendulum. Twelve minutes to midnight. You can work another two or three hours. The case is unrelenting. Railway workers report that the western direction is overloaded, they fear the destruction of the tracks, they warn of the possibility of crashes. This means that it is necessary to reduce the number of shipments in the western direction. The military reports that equipment components, fuel and ammunition are not delivered on time. Combat vehicles are concentrated on the border, but without gasoline, shells and machine gun cartridges, they are scrap metal. This means that it is necessary to increase the number of shipments in the western direction. And how to link it? There are problems with the provision of food, communications. And it is also necessary to deal with the prospects of agriculture. Lord, what is not necessary to deal with in this country!

Maybe the temporary workspace lacked the smell of pipe smoke that soaked the draperies and, it seems, the walls themselves? Or is Lavrenty right - fatigue has simply accumulated and, without noticing it, Joseph began to act up? If so, it's completely unforgivable. You have to pull yourself together. A week is not such a long time. But, according to the assurances of Beria's techies, the office and the new telephone communication system of the head of the party and state will become absolutely protected from any eavesdropping attempts. (“I didn’t think that well,” Joseph stopped himself, “absolutely.” There is, after all, the Russian word for “perfectly.” There is nothing to encourage foreigners.”)

Iosif Vissarionovich threw a two-color red and blue pencil on the report of the People's Commissariat of Railways and got up from the table. I wanted to smoke, but the doctors scared me of a stroke. A heart attack is still going on. Either you hoard right away, or you remain a normal person, and not a plant, like this one ... By an effort of will, Koba drove away the vision of a bony skull, senseless eyes and Ilyich's matted mustache and goatee in the last days. No, it's better to take a breath...

He felt the presence of a stranger with his back, with an animal instinct, which was developed at the beginning of the century, when he often had to hide in the mountains after the "ex", transporting khurjins with banknotes "to the north". The last time was in the sixth year, then they took two hundred and fifty thousand large "rollers" - one hundred rubles. Oh, how furious it was then, the Okhrana was “digging the earth”. Yes, and ordinary abreks, find out about these bags, without hesitation, they would put a bullet in the back. "No, you know, thieves' solidarity." So the revolver and Mauser have become more familiar than a spoon or even a pencil.

Slowly, silently stepping with soft ichigs, Iosif Vissarionovich walked around the table, trying not to turn his face to the intruder. Let him think that Comrade Stalin felt nothing. Fear was replaced by cruel excitement. Do they think Comrade Stalin has lost his militant skills? Do they consider Comrade Stalin an armchair inmate? Koba did not raise his head, but continued to push tobacco into the mouth of his pipe. He sat sideways on an armchair, rummaged around the table, as if looking for matches. He did not find it, motivatedly opened the drawer, slowly put his right hand inside, felt for the worn handle of the revolver. Now you can slowly look around, raise your eyes to the uninvited guest. If he did not immediately shoot in the back, then this is not an attempt?

“Fear not, mortal,” boomed the deep bass. “I won't harm you.

“I’m not afraid,” Comrade Stalin said hoarsely, smiled wryly and pulled out his hand with the revolver already cocked from the box.

“We don’t need a weapon against me,” the alien said condescendingly. I came to warn you...

The cloak-bearer turned and strode toward the exit.

Stalin could not breathe. The heart occupied the entire chest, loudly and painfully pushed into the ribs. Each blow reverberated heavily in my head. His eyes were covered with a brownish veil.