“Did you recognize me, Dmitry?” I asked. There was no point in putting a truth spell on him—he was being quite honest with me.
“Well, at first I just realized that you were one of those . . .” The policeman waved his hand vaguely through the air. “And then I recognized you, yes . . .”
“How did you realize?”
Pastukhov looked at me in amazement. “Why . . . I recognize your kind at a glance.”
“How?”
It suddenly dawned on him. “What, is that so unusual?” he asked, obviously pondering something.
“More than unusual,” I said, deciding not to hide anything from him. “Usually it’s only Others like ourselves who can see us. They recognize us from the aura.”
“An aura—that’s like a kind of glow round the head, right?” asked Pastukhov, wrinkling up his forehead. “I thought all kinds of psychos saw it. And villains.”
“Not just round the head, and not just psychos and villains. But what do you see?”
“Why, I recognize you from your eyes! Ever since the first time we met,” Pastukhov said abruptly. “You’ve got eyes like a guard dog’s.”
If I hadn’t just scanned his aura, I would have felt certain that I was dealing with some strange kind of weak Other who perceived auras in a highly original way. After all, the aura is strongest round the head and the eyes radiate the brightest glow on the face, so maybe that was how he spotted Others?
But no, he wasn’t an Other, he was a human being . . .
“That’s curious,” I admitted. “Like a dog’s eyes, you say?”
“No offense intended,” Pastukhov said, shrugging. He was gradually recovering his wits.
“None taken. I’m very fond of dogs.”
“And then there are the Others, with eyes like a wolf’s,” said Pastukhov.
I nodded. It was clear enough. That was how he saw Dark Ones.
“Please, go on.”
“This morning you walked past,” said Pastukhov. “Well . . . I got the shakes, of course. Like a fool, I thought you’d remember me too, like I did you. But then, why would you? You probably play tricks like that with people every day.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not allowed. That was a critical situation. And I . . . I was young and inexperienced. I just did the first thing that came into my head. Go on.”
Pastukhov wiped the sweat off his forehead and shrugged. “Then a wolf walked past . . . well . . . that’s nothing unusual. I see dogs and wolves at the airport every day. And then this other one came out . . . that was when I really freaked.”
“Another ‘wolf’?” I asked.
“No . . .” Pastukhov hesitated and started shuffling his feet. “I’ve never come across any like him before. To myself I called him a ‘tiger.’ That look in his eyes—as if he could gobble up anyone he wanted on the spot . . . And I . . . somehow I thought he’d see right through me, realize I could see who he was and kill me on the spot. That very second. So I decided to beat it. I told my partner I had stomach cramps and I was going to the toilet. I thought, what could happen to Bisat? He can’t see your kind! But as I was walking away I saw Bisat . . . stopping that tiger!”
“Can you describe him? The tiger?”
Pastukhov shook his head.
“I only saw him from a distance. Male, middle-aged, average height, dark hair . . .”
“I really hate people who fit that description,” I said, frowning. “How could you make out the look in his eyes from so far away?”
“I can see the eyes from any distance,” Pastukhov replied seriously. “I don’t know why.”
“Nationality?”
Dmitry thought about that. “Standard, probably. Native European Russian.”
“So not from the Caucasus, or Asia or Scandinavia . . .”
“No, and not black, either.”
“Anything else?”
Pastukhov closed his eyes and frowned. He was making a genuine effort. “He didn’t have any luggage. When he was standing beside Bisat, I noticed his hands were empty. He probably wouldn’t have flown in like that, would he?”
“Thank you, that’s interesting,” I said. Of course, the luggage could actually have been invisible. I once lugged an invisible suitcase onto a plane to avoid the excess-baggage charge . . .
The policeman sighed and said: “Probably I should have gone back, only my stomach really did cramp up. It was so bad, I was afraid I wouldn’t reach the toilet in time, even at a run—” He broke off and then went on: “And I didn’t make it. But you probably know that already.”
“Yes,” I said, and nodded.
“I shat myself,” Pastukhov said miserably. “Well, if it had been some kind of digestive trouble, dysentery—anyone can get that, right? But this came straight out of the blue. Anyway, I cleaned myself up as best I could, and then called in to the duty office—I took a change of trousers from an old uniform there. The duty sergeant was roaring with laughter, naturally—by evening everyone will know about it . . . Then I came back to my post.”
“And then?” I was much more interested in this than in Pastukhov’s health problems and concern about his good name.
“Well, nothing—or that’s how it seemed at first. Bisat just stood there, smiling. I asked him what happened with the guy he stopped. Bisat just waved his hand and said: ‘Everything’s in order, there was no point in detaining him.’ Well, I thought, the danger’s over . . . And then Bisat suddenly takes off his tunic and tears the shoulder straps off, really careful like! And he tears off his badge! Then he takes out his documents. And his pistol and his walkie-talkie . . . And he hands it all to me! I ask what’s wrong with him. And he answers: ‘None of this makes any sense, there’s no need for the job I do.’ And he walks off to the train! I shouted after him, but he just waved and carried on anyway! He’s probably home by now.”
“I heard that he went to the duty office himself,” I remarked.
“Roman told you that, I suppose?” Pastukhov asked me. “I asked him to say that, when I took the things in. After all, it’s one thing if a man just dumps everything in the street, but it’s a different matter if he hands it in at the duty office. Maybe he’ll change his mind and come back. In any case, he’s in for a whole heap of trouble—although they’ll probably run him through the funny farm and discharge him on health grounds . . .”
“Do you really think he’ll come back?” I asked.
Pastukhov shook his head.
“No, I don’t. It’s the tiger. He did something to him. Maybe he ordered him to do it—the way you ordered me to get drunk that time . . . Or maybe something else. Bisat won’t come back.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “You seem like a good man to me. I’m sorry about what happened that other time.”
Pastukhov hesitated, then went ahead and asked anyway: “So what’s going to happen to me now? Will you order me to forget everything?”
I looked at him thoughtfully. I didn’t want to use even the very simplest of spells on Pastukhov. He was a rather strange man, but a good one.
“Do you swear on your word of honor not to tell anyone anything about our conversation?” I asked. “Or to mention us at all?”
“What kind of fool do you take me for?” the policeman asked indignantly. “Who’d ever believe me? I won’t tell anyone!”
“Then just one last question. When you’re alone and there’s no one else there, do you pick your nose with your finger?”
Pastukhov opened his mouth and closed it again, blushed unexpectedly, and said: “Well . . . if I need to . . . occasionally.”
“I’ll drop round to see you sometime—we’ll need to chat again,” I said. “But don’t you worry about it. It’s just a little heart-to-heart talk, that’s all.”
“Aha . . .” Pastukhov said awkwardly. “Thanks . . .”
“Don’t you want to ask me any questions?”
Pastukhov shook his head slowly. “I do. But I won’t. The less you know, the sounder
you sleep.”
I was already walking back to Las when he called to me: “Will you help Bisat?”
“What makes you think I’ll help him?” I asked.
“Well . . .” The policeman faltered, and then suddenly smiled: “Because a dog is a man’s best friend. Right?”
I wagged my finger at him and walked on to join Las.
“He picks his nose too,” I said acidly. “Did you note down the details of the polizei who left his post? Call the information section, we need his address urgently. No, you drive and I’ll call while we’re on our way out.”
Chapter 3
POLICE OFFICER BISAT ISKENDEROV LIVED NOT FAR FROM THE airport, in Kurkino. A good district, one that many even considered elite. But Iskenderov lived in a municipal apartment, so he wasn’t going to be one of those prosperous policemen who spend all their life pounding the beat but somehow manage to live in luxury accommodation and drive to work in an executive-class Mercedes.
While we were on our way to this policeman who had resigned from the service so suddenly and in such an unusual manner, I told Las about my conversation with Pastukhov.
“Dogs, are we?” Las said thoughtfully. “That’s pushing it a bit . . . But listen, why did you just talk to him? If you’d used Plato, he’d have been delighted to tell you everything. Or just got inside his head—you can do that . . .”
I detected a hint of envy in those last words. Las was a weak Other, with no chance of improving his level. Some spells would always be beyond his reach.
“Las, have you often met people who can see Others?” I asked instead of answering.
“No.”
“Me neither. I’ve never even heard of such a thing. It seems like he developed this ability after his encounter with me. In that case, there’s a chance it could be a consequence of the spell I put on him.”
“And you’re afraid that a new spell will take away his ability . . .” Las said, with a nod. “I get it. Well, you’re the Higher One, it’s for you to decide.”
“It’s for Gesar to decide,” I said. “But I don’t want to hurry things. Pastukhov won’t tell anyone. And if he does, he’ll end up in an asylum.”
“And that ‘tiger’?”
“What about the tiger?”
“Who do you think he is? A Higher Magician?”
“Pastukhov didn’t call me a tiger . . .”
“Logical . . . But who is he, then? An Inquisitor?”
“No,” I said regretfully. “I don’t think so. Inquisitors remain Light Ones or Dark Ones—whichever they were before.”
“But their aura turns gray.”
I sighed, wondering if I ought to reveal the real facts.
“Actually it doesn’t. Their aura is just covered over with gray. A powerful magician can look through the disguise—underneath it’s the same as it was before. Either Light or Dark. They don’t change their essential nature.”
“So that’s the way of it,” said Las, raising one eyebrow. “So why couldn’t it be an Inquisitor, then?”
“An Other with a gray, obscure aura—a tiger? Just doesn’t tally, does it? Bearing in mind how precisely Pastukhov characterized us.”
“Then who is he?” asked Las, bemused.
“Gesar can decide that one too,” I replied. “He’s got a big brain in his head. He’s lived in this world for a long time. Let him think about it.”
“Yes, that’s the right approach, definitely!” Las said approvingly. “Listen, I was just thinking . . . this polizei lied to his partner about wanting to go to the can . . .”
“Right . . .” I agreed, nodding. We’d just driven into the yard of a tall building, and Las was looking for a parking place.
“He lied about it first. And then he really did mess himself.”
“Out of fright,” I concluded.
“All the same, it’s an unusual coincidence.”
I didn’t say anything. There was a grain of good sense in what Las had said. When there are strange things going on all around, every coincidence should be considered very carefully.
“Let’s go,” I said, climbing out of the car. “We’ll have a word with this Bisat—and then we’ll do some thinking.”
More out of habit than in the expectation of seeing anything unusual, in the entrance hall I shifted into the Twilight. The policeman lived on the first floor—public-service accommodation isn’t often allocated on the prestigious upper floors. There was nothing unusual on the ground floor here. Blue moss, the parasite of the Twilight, covered all the walls in an even layer, flourishing especially thickly in the corner beside the radiator and in front of the door of the elevator. It was all predictable: young couples kiss beside the radiator before the girl straightens out her clothes and runs back home to mum and dad . . . or to her husband and children. And people swear in front of the elevator doors when they discover that the elevator’s broken and they have to walk up to the twelfth floor, or they rejoice quietly in anticipation of getting back home . . . I cast fire in all directions with habitual gestures, incinerating the parasite. It can’t be exterminated completely, of course, but for any Other this is the same as wiping his feet when he walks into someone’s home.
The first floor gave me something to think about, though. The blue moss was everywhere except around one door, from which it seemed to have crept away. And quite recently too, only a few hours ago. Fine blue threads were slowly retracting into the dense blue carpet—the same way an amoeba shrinks back when it runs into a grain of salt.
“He lives here,” I said, coming back to reality.
“Did you see something?” Las asked.
“No, nothing really.”
I rang the bell.
Almost half a minute went by before the door opened. Without any questions being asked and also, it seemed to me, without even the glance through the peephole that is an obligatory ritual for anyone who lives in Moscow.
The woman in the doorway was short and plump. A Muscovite’s image of “a typical middle-aged eastern type of woman”—obviously a beauty when she was young but not so lovely now, with a really calm-looking face, as if she was very self-absorbed.
“Hello,” I said, edging forward slightly. “We’re from the department. Is Bisat at home?”
“The department” is a very handy little phrase. Somehow no one ever asks which particular department it is that you’re from. The woman didn’t bother to check either.
“Come in,” she said, moving aside. “He’s in the bedroom . . .”
We seemed to be expected. Well, it wasn’t us, but they were expecting someone.
As I walked in, I glanced at her aura. Nothing special, of course. A human being.
The flat had three rooms, but it was small, and the hallway was really narrow and cramped. Loud rock music—something unfamiliar—was pouring out through the sitting-room door.
I was a player and I could have challenged
The inventor of cards at his game.
My luck always in, I followed my star,
It would never fail me, I would go far,
But disaster struck all the same . . .
This precious life crushes the weak like moths,
You have to choose which you trust the most—
The Holy Bible or a trusty Colt!
Las pricked up his ears—he adored little-known rock bands—then shook his head regretfully and clicked his tongue.
Without speaking, the woman gave me slippers, choosing one of the larger pairs out of a drove of them loitering around the door. Las didn’t bother to take his shoes off—and she didn’t react to that either.
Strange. Such simple habits are usually the most stable of all. She should either have asked both of us to change our shoes or not bothered to offer me any slippers, in keeping with the fashionable European traditions that are so slow to take hold in Moscow, with its wet climate and its mud.
There was a skinny kid on the sofa in the sitting room, with a laptop on his knees. From the lapto
p a wire snaked across the floor to a pair of speakers. The young lad looked at us and turned down the volume of the speakers, but he didn’t even say hello, which was really strange for an eastern boy. I scanned his aura too. Human.
“This way . . .”
We followed the woman through to the bedroom. She opened the door to let us go on in and, without speaking, closed it behind us, staying out in the hallway.
Oh, something bad was going on around here . . .
Bisat Iskenderov was lying on the made-up bed in just his shorts and singlet, watching the TV hanging on the wall facing the bed. Everything in the place was in average Moscow style, with almost no national character at all, absolutely no personal touch: furniture from IKEA, a carpet at the head of the bed (I thought they didn’t hang them up like that any longer, that the tradition had died out with the old, stagnant Brezhnev days), a women’s magazine on one of the night tables, an anthology of detective stories on the other. A bedroom like that could have been in any Russian town or city. The man lying on the bed could have been Ivan the manager or Rinat the builder.
I don’t like flats that don’t bear the stamp of their owner.
“Hello, Bisat,” I said. “We’re from the department. What happened to you? Are you ill?”
Bisat looked at me and shifted his gaze back to the screen. It was showing a popular program—a young female doctor with kind eyes was telling people about periproctitis. “And now we’ll ask someone wearing a T-shirt or a shirt without a collar to come up onstage from the audience . . .”
“Hello,” Bisat replied. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”
“But you abandoned your watch . . .” I said.
And I looked at him through the Twilight.
At first I thought there must be something wrong with me.
Then I realized it wasn’t me. But that wasn’t reassuring at all.
“Las, take a peek at his aura . . .” I said quietly.
Las wrinkled up his forehead and answered: “I can’t seem to see it . . .”
“That’s because it isn’t there,” I confirmed.
Bisat waited patiently while we talked. Then he answered: “I abandoned the watch because there was no point in staying on duty.”