I was disguised by Gesar himself, immediately after speaking to Svetlana. The conversation was brief, but painful. We didn't quarrel. She was just very upset.
And in the second place, you need a cover story. The simplest way to provide a cover story is by magical means – people you don't know will gladly believe you're their brother, their son-in-law's father or the army buddy they drank home brew with when they went absent without leave. But a magical cover story will leave traces that any reasonably powerful Other can spot.
So there was no magic involved in my cover story. Gesar handed me the keys to an apartment in the Assol complex – a hundred and fifty square metres of floor space on the eighth floor. It was registered in my name and had been bought six months earlier. When I opened my eyes wide at that, Gesar explained that the documents had been signed that morning, but backdated. For big money. And the apartment would have to be handed back afterwards.
I got the keys to a BMW just to add substance to my story. It wasn't a new car, or the most luxurious model, but then my apartment was a small one.
Then a tailor came into the office, a mournful little old Jewish man, a seventh-grade Other. He took my measurements, promised the suit would be ready by the evening, when, he assured us, 'this boy will start to look like a man'. Gesar was extremely polite to the tailor, opening the door for him and seeing him out into the reception. As he said goodbye, he asked timidly how his 'little coat' was coming on. The tailor told him there was no need to worry. A coat worthy of the Most Lucent Gesar would be ready before the cold weather set in.
After hearing that, I wasn't as delighted as I had been at first with the decision that I could keep my suit. The tailor clearly didn't make genuine, top-quality garments in half a day.
Gesar himself provided me with ties. He even taught me a particularly fashionable knot. Then he gave me a wad of banknotes and the address of a shop and ordered me to buy everything else to match, including underwear, handkerchiefs and socks. I was offered the services of Ignat as a consultant, one of our magicians who would have been called an incubus in the Day Watch. Or a succubus – he didn't really care much either way.
The expedition to the boutiques – where Ignat felt right at home – was amusing. But the visit to the hairdresser's, or rather the 'Beauty Salon', left me completely wrecked. Two women and a young man who tried to make out he was gay, although he wasn't, took turns inspecting me. They sighed and made uncomplimentary remarks about my hairdresser. If their wishes had come true, the hairdresser would have been condemned to shearing mangy sheep for the rest of his life. And, for some reason, in Tajikistan. This was clearly the most terrible curse for hairdressers. I even decided that after my mission I'd drop into the second-class hairdresser's where I'd been getting my hair cut for the last year, just to make sure they hadn't left an Inferno vortex hanging over the man's head.
The collective wisdom of the beauty specialists was that my only hope of salvation was a short comb-cut, to make me look like one of those small-time hoods who fleece traders at the market. In consolation they told me that the forecast was for a hot summer and I'd feel more comfortable with short hair.
After the haircut, which took more than an hour, I was subjected to a manicure and a pedicure. When Ignat was satisfied, he took me to a dentist, who removed the scale from my teeth with a special fitting on his drill and advised me to have the procedure repeated every six months. Afterwards my teeth felt somehow naked, and it was unpleasant to touch them with my tongue. I couldn't think of what to say in reply to Ignat's ambivalent comment: 'Anton, you look good enough to fall in love with!' and just mumbled something incomprehensible. All the way back to the office I served as a defenceless target for his unsubtle wit.
The suit was waiting for me. And the tailor too, muttering discontentedly that sewing a suit without a second fitting was like getting married on impulse.
I don't know. If every marriage made on impulse was as successful as that suit, divorce rates would be reduced to zero.
Gesar spoke to the tailor about his coat again. They had a long, heated argument about the buttons, until the Most Lucent Magician finally capitulated. I stood by the window, looking out at the evening street and the small blinking light of the alarm system in 'my' car.
I hoped no one would steal it . . . I couldn't set up any magical defences to frighten away petty thieves. That would give me away more surely than the parachute trailing behind the Russian spy Stirlitz in the old joke.
That night I was due to sleep in the new apartment. And I had to pretend it wasn't the first time I'd been there. At least there was no one waiting for me back at home. No wife or daughter or dog or cat . . . I didn't even have fish in an aquarium. And it was a good job I didn't.
'Do you understand your mission, Gorodetsky?' Gesar asked. The tailor had left while I was daydreaming at the window. My new suit was amazingly comfortable. Despite the new haircut, I didn't feel like a thug who terrorised market traders, but someone a bit more serious. Maybe a collector of protection money from small shops.
'Move into Assol. Meet with my neighbours. Look for any signs of the renegade Other and his potential client. When I find them, report back. In dealings with the other investigators behave civilly, exchange information, be co-operative.'
Gesar stood beside me at the window. He nodded.
'All correct, Anton, all correct . . . Only you've missed out the most important thing.'
'Oh yes?'
'You mustn't cling to any theories. Not even the most likely ones . . . especially the most likely ones! The Other might be a vampire or a werewolf . . . or he might not.'
I nodded.
'He might be a Dark One,' said Gesar. 'Or he might turn out to be a Light One.'
I didn't say anything. I'd been thinking the same thing.
'And most important of all,' Gesar added, 'remember – "He intends to turn this human being into an Other" could be a bluff.'
'And maybe not?' I asked. 'Gesar, is it really possible to turn a human being into an Other?'
'Do you honestly think I would have hidden something like that?' Gesar replied. 'So many Others with broken lives, so many fine people condemned to live only their short, human lives . . . Nothing of the kind has ever happened before. But there's a first time for everything.'
'Then I'll assume it is possible,' I said.
'I can't give you any amulets,' Gesar advised me. 'You understand why. And you'd better not use magic. The only thing that is permissible is to look through the Twilight. But if the need arises, we'll be there quickly. Just call.'
He paused and then added:
'I'm not expecting any violent confrontations. But you must be prepared for them.'
I'd never parked in an underground car park before. It was just as well that there weren't many cars, the concrete ramps were flooded with bright light and the security man sitting there watching the monitors politely pointed out where my parking spaces were.
Apparently it was assumed that I had at least two cars.
After parking, I took my bag out of the boot, set the car alarm and walked towards the exit. The security man was amazed, and he asked me if the lifts were out of order. I had to wrinkle up my forehead, wave my hand around and say I hadn't been there for about a year.
The security man asked which floor I lived on, and in which block. Then he showed me the way to the lift.
Surrounded by chrome, mirrors and conditioned air, I rode up to the eighth floor. I actually felt rather insulted that I lived so low down. I hadn't been expecting the penthouse exactly, but even so.
On the landing – if you can a hall with thirty square metres of floor space a landing – I wandered from one door to another for a while. The fairy tale had come to an abrupt end. One door was completely missing, and behind the blank aperture there was a gigantic, dark, empty room – concrete walls, a concrete floor, no internal divisions. I could hear the faint sound of water dripping.
It took me a long time to
choose between the three doors that were in place – none of these had numbers. Eventually I found a number someone had scratched on one door with a sharp object, and the remains of some figures in chalk on another. It looked like my door was the third one. The most unprepossessing of them all. It would have been just like Gesar to put me in the apartment that didn't even have a door, but then the cover story would have been shot to pieces.
I took out a bunch of keys and opened the door fairly easily. I looked for a light switch and found an entire array of them.
I started switching them on one at a time.
Once the apartment was flooded with light I closed the door behind me and looked around thoughtfully.
Maybe there was something to this after all. Maybe.
The previous owner of the apartment . . . okay, okay, according to the cover story, that was me. Anyway, when I started the finishing work, I'd obviously been full of truly Napoleonic plans. How else could I explain the custom-made patterned parquet, the oak window frames, the Daikin air conditioners and other distinctive features of a truly sumptuous residence?
But after that I must have run out of money. Because the immense studio apartment – with no internal dividing walls – was untouched, virginal. In the corner where the kitchen was supposed to be there was a lopsided old Brest gas cooker, which could well have been used for cooking semolina in the days of my infancy. Nestling on its burners, as if to say 'Do not use!', was a basic microwave oven. But then there was a luxurious extractor hood hanging above the appalling cooker. Huddling pitifully alongside it were two stools and a low serving table.
From sheer force of habit I took my shoes off and walked over into the kitchen corner. There was no refrigerator and no furniture, but there was a big cardboard box standing on the floor, full of supplies – bottles of mineral water and vodka, cans of food, packets of dry soup, boxes of crispbreads. Thanks, Gesar. If only you'd thought of getting me a saucepan as well . . .
From the 'kitchen' I walked towards the bathroom. Apparently I'd been clever enough not to display the toilet and the jacuzzi for everyone to see . . .
I opened the door and looked round the bathroom. Not bad, ten or twelve square metres. Nice-looking turquoise tiles. A futuristic-looking shower cubicle – it was frightening to think how much it would have cost and what fancy bits of technology it was stuffed with.
But there wasn't a jacuzzi. There wasn't any kind of bath at all – just the blocked-off water pipes sticking up in the corner. And in addition . . .
I looked frantically round the bathroom and confirmed my terrible suspicion.
There was no toilet there either!
Just the exit pipe to the drains blocked off with a wooden plug.
Great, thanks, Gesar!
Stop, no need to panic. They didn't put just one bathroom in apartments like these. There had to be another one – for guests, for children, for servants . . .
I darted back out into the studio space and found another door in the corner, right beside the entrance. My premonition had not deceived me – it was the bathroom for guests. There wasn't supposed to be a bath here, and the shower was simpler.
But instead of a toilet, there was just another plugged pipe.
Disaster.
Now I was really screwed!
Of course, I knew the genuine professionals didn't take any notice of such petty details. If James Bond ever went to the bathroom, it was only to eavesdrop on someone else's conversation or waste the villain hiding in the flush tank.
But I had to live here!
For a few seconds I was on the point of calling Gesar and demanding a plumber. And then I imagined what his reply would be.
For some reason in my imagination Gesar smiled. Then he heaved a sigh and gave the order – after which someone like the head plumber of all Moscow came and fitted the toilet in person. And Gesar smiled again and shook his head.
Magicians of his level didn't make mistakes in the detail. Their mistakes were cities in flames, bloody wars and the impeachment of presidents. But not overlooked sanitary conveniences.
If there was no toilet in my apartment, then that was the way it was meant to be.
I explored my living space once again. I found a rolled-up mattress and a pack of bed linen with a cheerful design. I laid out the mattress and unpacked the things from my bag. I changed into my jeans and the T-shirt with the optimistic message about clinical death – I couldn't wear a tie in my own home, could I? I took out my laptop . . . Oh yes, was I supposed to get onto the internet via my mobile phone?
I had to make yet another search of the apartment. I found a mains connection in the wall of the large bathroom on the 'studio' room side. I decided that couldn't be accidental and glanced into the bathroom. I was right – there was another mains socket beside the non-existent toilet.
I'd had some odd ideas when I was working on this place . . .
The power was on. That was good at least, but it wasn't the reason I'd come here.
I opened the windows to dispel the oppressive silence. The warm evening air came rushing into the room. On the far side of the river, lights were twinkling in the windows of the buildings – the ordinary, human buildings. But the silence was just as intense. No wonder, it was after midnight.
I took out my minidisc player, rummaged through my discs and chose The White Guard, a group that was never going to top the charts on MTV or fill sports stadiums. I stuck the earphones in my ears and stretched out on the mattress.
When this battle is over,
If you survive until the dawn,
You'll realise the scent of victory
Is as bitter as the smoke of defeat.
And you're alone on the cold battlefield,
With no enemies from now on,
But the sky presses down on your shoulders,
What can you do in this empty desert?
But you will wait
For what time
Will bring,
You will wait . . .
And honey will taste more bitter than salt,
Your tears more bitter than the wormwood in the steppes,
And I know of no pain worse than this,
To be alive among so many who are sleeping.
But you will wait
For what time
Will bring,
You will wait . . .
Catching myself trying to sing along out of tune with the quiet female voice, I tugged out the earphones and switched the player off. No. I hadn't come here to lounge around doing nothing.
What would James Bond have done in my place? Immediately found the mysterious renegade Other, his human client and the author of the provocative letters.
And what was I going to do?
I was going to look for what I needed desperately. If it really came to it, there had to be toilet facilities downstairs, at the security point.
Somewhere outside the window – it seemed very close – a bass guitar began growling ponderously. I jumped to my feet, but couldn't see anyone in the apartment.
'Hi there, you mob' said a voice outside the windows. I leaned out over the windowsill and surveyed the wall of the Assol building. I spotted some windows open two floors up – that was where those unusually arranged, aggressive chords on the bass guitar were coming from.
I haven't squeezed my guts out for a long time,
It's a long time since I've squeezed out my guts,
And just recently I happened to notice