The Twilight Watch (11 page)

'Coffee,' I decided.

'Andrei, bring us some coffee,' the boss commanded. 'And a
lemon.'

And he reached into the safe and produced a bottle of good
Georgian cognac.

The security man who had shown me into the boss's office was
a little disconcerted, but he didn't argue.

'Any questions?' the boss asked as he deftly sliced the lemon.
'Will you have some cognac, Anton? It's good, I promise!'

And I didn't even know what his name was . . . I liked the
former boss of security better. The way he'd treated me had been
sincere.

But the former security boss would never have given me the
information I was counting on getting now.

'I need to take a look at the personal files of all the residents,'
I said. And I added with a smile: 'In a building like this you must
keep a check on everyone, right?'

'Of course,' the boss agreed readily. 'Money's all very fine, but
there are some serious people intending to live here, and we
don't want any thugs or bandits . . .You want all the personal
files?'

'The lot,' I said. 'For everyone who's bought an apartment here,
regardless of whether they've moved in yet or not.'

'The files on the real owners or the people the apartments are
registered to?' he asked politely.

'The real owners.'

The boss nodded and reached into the safe again.

Ten minutes later I was sitting at his desk and leafing through
the files – all very neat and not too thick. Out of natural curiosity
I started with myself.

'Do you need me here any more?' the security boss asked.

'No, thanks.' I eyed the number of files. 'I'll need about an hour.'

The boss went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

And I got stuck into my reading.

Anton Gordoetsky, it emerged, was married to Svetlana
Gorodetskaya and had a two-year-old daughter, Nadezhda
Gorodetskaya. Anton Gorodetsky had a small business – a firm trading
in dairy products. Milk, kefir, cottage cheese and yoghurts . . .

I knew the firm. A standard Night Watch subsidiary that earned
money for us. There were about twenty of them around Moscow,
and their employees were perfectly ordinary human beings who
never suspected where the profits really went.

It was all pretty modest and simple, cute. Like the old promo
jingle for milk – 'On the meadow, on the meadow, who is grazing
on the meadow?' That's right, Others. Well, I couldn't really deal
in vodka, could I?

I put my file to one side and started on the other residents.

Naturally not all the information about the people was there,
it couldn't have been. After all, no private security service, even
in the most luxurious residential complex, is any match for the
KGB.

But I didn't need much. Basic information about their relatives.
In the first instance, their parents.

First I set aside those whose parents were alive and well and
put the files on people whose parents were dead in a different
pile.

I was particularly interested in anyone who had been raised in
a children's home – there were two of those – and anyone with
a stroke through the columns headed 'Father' or 'Mother'.

There were eight of those.

I laid these files out in front of me and started studying them
closely.

Immediately I weeded out one ex-orphanage boy who, to judge
from his file, had criminal connections. He had been out of the
country for the last year and, despite appeals from law enforcement
agencies, had no intention of coming back.

Then I sifted out two from incomplete families.

One of them turned out to be a weak Dark Magician known
to me from a trivial old case. The Dark Ones were bound to be
giving him the third degree already. If they hadn't come up with
anything, the guy was in the clear.

The other was a rather well-known variety artiste who, I knew
– again quite by chance – had been touring for the last three
months in the USA, Germany and Israel. Probably earning money
for the finishing work on his apartment.

That left seven. A good number. For the time being I could
focus on them.

I opened the files and began reading them closely. Two women,
five men . . . Which of them might be worth considering?

'Roman Lvovich Khlopov, forty-two, businessman . . .'The face
didn't arouse any associations. Maybe he was the one? Maybe . . .

'Andrei Ivanovich Komarenko, thirty-one, businessman . . .' Oh,
what a strong-willed face! And still fairly young . . .Was it him?
Possibly . . . No, impossible! I set the businessman Komarenko's
file aside. A man in his early thirties who donated serious money
like that to building churches and was distinguished by 'intense
religious feeling' wouldn't want to be transformed into an Other.

'Timur Borisovich Ravenbakh, sixty-one, businessman . . .'
Rather young-looking for his age. And if he met Timur Borisovich,
even the strong-willed youngster Andrei Ivanovich Komarenko
would have lowered his eyes. The face was familiar, either from
TV, or somewhere else . . .

I set the file aside. Then my hands started to sweat. A cold
tremor ran down my back.

No, it wasn't from TV, or rather, not only from TV, that I
remembered that face . . .

It couldn't be!

'It can't be!' I said, repeating my thought out loud. I poured
myself some cognac and tossed it down. I looked at Timur
Borisovich's face – a calm, intelligent, slightly eastern face.

It couldn't be.

I opened the file and started reading. Born in Tashkent. Father
. . . unknown. Mother . . . died at the very end of the war, when
little Timur was not even five. Raised in a children's home.
Graduated from a junior technical college and then a construction
institute. Made his career through Komsomol connections.
Somehow managed to avoid joining the Party. Founded one of
the first construction co-operatives in the USSR, which actually
did far more business trading in imported paving stones and
plumbing fixtures than constructing buildings. Moved to Moscow
. . . founded a firm . . . engaged in politics . . . was never . . . never
a member of . . . was never employed as . . . a wife, a divorce, a
second wife . . .

I'd found the human client.

And the most terrible thing about it was that I'd found the
renegade Other at the same time.

The discovery was so unexpected, it felt as if the universe had
collapsed around me.

'How could you!' I said reproachfully. 'How could you . . . boss
. . .'

Because if you made Timur Borisovich ten or fifteen years
younger, he would have been a dead ringer for Gesar, or Boris
Ignatievich as he was known to the world, who sixty years ago
had lived in that region . . .Tashkent, Samarkand and other parts
of Central Asia . . .

What astonished me most of all was not my boss's transgression.
Gesar a criminal? The idea was so incredible, it didn't even
provoke any response.

I was shaken by how easily the boss had been caught out.

So sixty-one years earlier a child had been born to Gesar in
distant Uzbekistan. Then Gesar had been offered a job in Moscow.
But the child's mother, an ordinary human being, had died in the
turmoil of war. And the little human being, whose father was a
Great Magician, had ended up in a children's home . . .

All sorts of things happen. Gesar might not even have known
that Timur existed. Or he could have known, but for some reason
or other not have played any part in his life. But then the old
man had felt a tug at his heartstrings, and he'd met with his son,
who was already old, and he'd made a rash promise . . .

And that was certainly amazing!

Gesar had been intriguing for hundreds, thousands of years.
Every single word he spoke was carefully weighed. And then he
pulled a stunt like this?

Incredible.

But a fact.

You didn't have to be an expert in physiognomy to recognise
Timur Borisovich and Boris Ignatievich as close relatives. Even if
I kept quiet, the Dark Ones would make the same discovery. Or
the Inquisition would. They'd put the screws on the elderly businessman
. . . But why bother with the screws? We weren't vicious
racketeers. We were Others. Witiezslav would look into his eyes,
or Zabulon would click his fingers, and Timur Borisovich would
spill the whole story as if he were at confession.

And what would happen to Gesar?

I thought about it. Well, if he admitted that he did send the
letter . . . then there hadn't been any evil intent on his part . . .
and in general he had the right to reveal himself to a human being.

I spent a little while running through the points of the Treaty
in my mind, the amendments and refinements, the precedents and
exceptions, the references and footnotes . . .

The result was pretty amusing.

Gesar would be punished, but not very severely. The maximum
penalty would be an official rebuke from the European Office of
the Night Watch. And something menacing, but almost meaningless,
from the Inquisition. Gesar wouldn't even lose his job.

Only . . .

I imagined what merriment there would be in the Day Watch.
How Zabulon would smile. How sincerely Dark Ones would start
to enquire after Gesar's family affairs and send greetings to his
little human son.

Of course, after living the number of years that Gesar had, anyone
would grow a thick skin, and learn how to shrug off ridicule.

But I wouldn't have liked to be in his place right then.

And our guys wouldn't go easy on the irony either. No, no one
would actually reproach Gesar for committing a blunder. Or
badmouth him behind his back.

But there would be smirks. And bemused head-shaking. And
whispers – 'the Great One's getting old after all, getting old . . .'

I didn't have any puppyish adoration or wide-eyed admiration
left for Gesar. Our views differed on so many things. And there
were some things I still couldn't forgive him for . . .

But to pull a stupid stunt like this!

'What on earth were you thinking of, Great One?' I said. I put
all the files back in the open safe and poured myself another glass
of cognac.

Could I help Gesar?

How?

Get to Timur Borisovich first?

And then what? Cast a spell of silence on him? They'd remove
it, someone would be found who could.

What if I forced the businessman to leave Russia? To go on the
run, as if all the city's criminal groups and law enforcement agencies
were after him?

It would serve him right. Let him spend the rest of his life
hunting seals or knocking coconuts off palm trees! So he wanted
to be the Emperor of the Sea . . .

I picked up the phone and entered the number of our office's
exchange, dialled the additional digits, and was put straight through
to the IT lab.

'Yes?' it was Tolik's voice.

'Tolik, run a check on someone for me. Quick.'

'Tell me the name and I'll run it,' Tolik answered, unsurprised
at my request.

I listed everything I'd found out about Timur Borisovich.

'Ha! So what else do you need apart from that?' Tolya asked.
'Which side he sleeps on, or the last time he visited the dentist?'

'Where he is right now,' I said dourly.

Tolik laughed, but I heard the brisk rattle of a keyboard at the
other end of the line.

'He has a mobile phone,' I said just in case.

'Don't teach your grandmother . . . He has two mobiles . . .
And they're both . . . they're . . . Right, just a moment, I'll superimpose
the map . . .'

I waited.

'At the Assol residential complex. And not even the CIA could
tell you more precisely than that, the positioning isn't accurate
enough.'

'I owe you a bottle,' I said, and hung up. Jumped to my feet.
But then . . . what was the rush? I was sitting in front of the observation
services monitor, wasn't I?

I didn't have to search for long.

Timur Borisovich was just getting into the lift, followed by a
couple of men with stony faces. Two bodyguards. Or a bodyguard
and a driver who doubled up as a second bodyguard.

I switched off the monitor and dashed out into the corridor
just in time to bump into the head of security.

'Got what you wanted?' he asked, beaming.

'Uhuh,' I said, nodding on the run.

'Need any help?' he shouted after me eagerly.

I just shook my head.

T
HE LIFT SEEMED
to take an unbearably long time creeping up
to the twentieth floor. I managed to think up and reject several
plans on the way. It was the bodyguards who complicated the
whole business.

I'd have to improvise. And if necessary, breach my disguise a little.

I rang the doorbell for ages, peering into the electronic eye of
the 'spy-hole'. Eventually something clicked and a voice from the
concealed intercom said:

'Yes?'

'You're flooding me out!' I blurted, trying to sound as agitated
as possible. 'The frescoes on my ceiling have run! The water's
swilling about in the grand pianos!'

Where the hell did I get those frescoes and pianos?

'What grand pianos?' the voice asked suspiciously.

How was I supposed to know what kinds of grand pianos
there are? Black and expensive. Or white and even more expensive
. . .

'Viennese pianos! With curvy legs!' I blurted out.

'Not the ones in the bushes then?' the voice asked me with
blunt irony.

I looked down at my feet. That damned multiple point lighting
. . . there weren't even any proper shadows!

I reached my hand out towards the door and just caught a faint
glimpse of a shadow on the pinkish wood bound with armour-plate
steel.

And I pulled the shadow towards me.

My hand plunged into the Twilight, and I followed.

The world was transformed, becoming colourless and grey. A
dense silence descended, only disturbed by the buzzing of the
electronic innards of the 'spy-hole' and the intercom.

I was in the Twilight, that strange world to which only the
Others know the way. The world from which our Power is drawn.

I could see the pale shadows of the wary bodyguards through
the door, their auras flickering an alarmed crimson colour above
their heads. And now I could have reached out with my thoughts,
given the order – and they would have opened the door for
me.

But I preferred to walk straight through the door.

The security guards were genuinely alarmed – one of them had
a pistol in his hand, the other was reaching incredibly slowly for
his holster.

I touched the security guards, running my thumb across their
solid foreheads. Sleep, sleep, sleep . . .You are very tired. You have
to lie down and sleep right now. Sleep for at least an hour. Sleep
very soundly. And have pleasant dreams.

One guard went limp immediately, the other resisted for a fraction
of a second. I'd have to check him later to see if he was an
Other, you could never tell . . .

Then I emerged from the Twilight. The world acquired colour
and sped up. I heard music coming from somewhere.

The two guards were slumping like stuffed sacks onto the
expensive Persian rug spread out just inside the door.

I managed to catch both of them at once and lay them down
fairly gently.

And then I set off towards the sound of a violin playing in a
minor key.

Now this apartment had been done up in real style. Everything
gleamed and shone, everything had been carefully considered so
that it harmonised with the whole. It must have taken a top designer
to do all this. The owner hadn't hammered a single nail into any
of these walls. He'd probably never even expressed any desire to
do so . . . just muttered in approval or dissatisfaction as he looked
through the colour sketches, and jabbed his finger at a few of the
pictures – then forgotten about the apartment for six months.

It turned out that Timur Borisovich had come to the Assol
building to relax for a while in the jacuzzi. And a genuine Jacuzzi
at that, not a hydro-massage bath from some other less famous
firm. Only his face, so painfully reminiscent of Gesar's, protruded
above the frothing surface of the water. An expensive suit was
carelessly thrown across the back of a chair – the bathroom was
big enough for chairs, a coffee table, a spacious sauna and this
jacuzzi, which was like a small swimming pool.

No doubt about it, genes are a remarkable thing. Gesar's son
couldn't become an Other, but in his human life he enjoyed every
possible boon.

I walked in, got my bearings in those wide, open spaces and
approached the bath. Timur Borisovich looked at me and frowned.
But he didn't make any sudden movements.

'Your bodyguards are sleeping,' I said. 'I assume you have an
alarm button or a pistol somewhere within easy reach. Don't try
to use it, it won't help.'

'There's no alarm button here,' Timur Borisovich growled, and
his voice sounded like Gesar's. 'I'm not paranoid . . . So you must
be an Other?'

Right. Apparently it was full and frank confession time.

I laughed.

'Yes, I am. I'm glad no long explanations will be required.'

Timur Borisovich snorted. He asked:

'Do I have to get out? Or can we talk like this?'

'This is fine,' I said generously. 'Do you mind?'

The Great Magician's offspring nodded, and I pulled up a chair
and sat down, heartlessly creasing his expensive suit.

'Do you understand why I'm here?'

'You don't look anything like a vampire,' said Timur Borisovich.
'Probably a magician? A Light Magician?'

I nodded.

'You've come to initiate me,' Timur Borisovich decided. 'Was
it too much trouble to phone first?'

Oh, calamity . . . He didn't understand a thing after all.

'Who promised you would be initiated?' I asked sharply.

Timur Borisovich frowned. He muttered:

'I see . . . here we go again. What did you come here for?'

'I'm investigating the unsanctioned dissemination of secret information,'
I said.

'But you're an Other? Not from state security?' Timur Borisovich
asked anxiously.

'Unfortunately for you, I'm not from state security. Tell me
absolutely honestly who promised you would be initiated, and
when.'

'You'll sense it if I lie,' Timur Borisovich said simply.

'Of course.'

'Oh Lord, all I wanted was just to spend a couple of hours in
peace!' Timur Borisovich exclaimed in a pained voice. 'Problems
here, conflicts there . . . and when I climb into the bath, in comes
a serious young man looking for answers!'

I waited. I didn't bother to point out that I wasn't simply a man.

'A week ago, I had a meeting with . . .'Timur Borisovich hesitated,
'. . . a meeting, in rather strange circumstances . . . with a
certain gentleman . . .'

'What did he look like?' I asked. 'No need to describe him, just
picture him to yourself.'

A gleam of curiosity appeared in Timur Borisovich's eyes. He
looked at me hard.

'What?' I exclaimed, bewildered.

I had good reason to be . . .

If I could trust the mental image that had appeared in the businessman's
mind (and why not?), then the person who had come
to talk to him was the now little known but once famous movie
actor Oleg Strizhenov.

'Oleg Strizhenov.' Timur Borisovich snorted. 'Still young and
handsome. I thought there was something badly wrong with my
head. But he said it was just a disguise . . .'

So that was it. Gesar had had enough wits to disguise himself.
Well then . . . that improved our chances.

Feeling a bit more cheerful, I said;

'Go on. Then what happened?'

'That were-creature,' said Timur Borisovich, inadvertently
confusing our terminology, 'gave me a lot of help with a certain
matter. I'd got involved in a bad business . . . entirely by chance.
If I hadn't been told a few things, I wouldn't be lying here now.'

'So you were helped.'

'Helped big time,' Timur Borisovich said with a nod. 'So naturally
I got curious. Another time we had a real heart-to-heart.
Remembered old Tashkent and talked about the old films . . .
And then this phoney Strizhenov told me about the Others,
and said he was a relative of mine. So he'd be happy to do
anything at all for me. Free and for gratis, no return favours
required.'

'So?' I asked, urging him on.

'Well, I'm not an idiot,' Timur Borisovich said with a shrug.
'You don't ask golden fishes for three wishes, you ask for unlimited
power. Or at the very least for a pool full of golden fishes. I
asked him to make me an Other, like him. Then this "Strizhenov"
started getting edgy and hopping about like he was on a red-hot
skillet. Said it couldn't be done. But I could tell he was lying. It
can be done! So I asked him to make a real effort to turn me
into an Other . . .'

He was telling the truth. Every single word. But he wasn't quite
telling me the whole story.

'It
is
impossible to make you into an Other,' I explained. 'You're
an ordinary human being. I'm sorry, but there's no way you'll ever
be an Other.'

Timur Borisovich snorted again.

'It's . . . well, if you like, it's in the genes,' I explained. 'Timur
Borisovich, did you realise that your contact was caught in a trap?
That he had formulated his proposal wrongly, and as a result he
was obliged to do something for you that's impossible?'

The self-confident businessman had nothing to say to that.

'You did,' I said. 'I can see that you did. And you still went on
demanding?'

'I told you – it can be done!' said Timur Borisovich, raising his
voice. 'I can feel it! I can tell when someone's lying just as well
as you can! And I didn't make any threats, I only asked!'

'It was probably your father who came to see you,' I said. 'Do
you realise that?'

Timur Borisovich froze in his seething jacuzzi.

'He wanted to help you all right,' I said. 'But he can't do this.
And your demand is literally killing him. Do you understand that?'

Timur Borisovich shook his head.

'The promise he gave was too vague,' I said. 'You took him at
his word, and if he fails to carry out his promise, then he'll die.
Do you understand?'

'Is that one of your rules?'

'It's a corollary of power,' I said curtly. 'For the Light Ones.'

'Where was he all that time, my dad?' Timur Borisovich asked
with genuine sorrow in his voice. 'I suppose he must still be young?
Why did he come to me when my grandchildren are already
married?'

'Believe me, he couldn't have come sooner,' I replied. 'Most
likely he didn't even know about you. It just happened that way.
But now you're killing him. Your own father.'

Timur Borisovich was silent.

But I was exultant. This businessman lounging in his jacuzzi
wasn't a hardened scoundrel. He'd grown up in the East, and the
word 'father' meant a lot to him.

No matter what.

'Tell him that I withdraw my . . . request,' Timur Borisovich
muttered. 'If he doesn't want to . . . then to hell with him . . . He
could simply have come and told me everything honestly. He
didn't need to send his staff.'

'Are you sure I'm one of his staff?'

'Yes. I don't know who my dad is. But he's some big wheel in
those Watches of yours.'

I'd done it! I'd removed the sword of Damocles that had been
hanging over Gesar's head!

Maybe that was why he'd sent me to Assol? Because he knew
I could do it.

'Timur Borisovich, one more request,' I went on, striking while
the iron was hot. 'You have to disappear for a while, get out of
town. Certain facts have become known . . . there are Others on
your trail, apart from me. Including Dark Ones. They'll make
trouble for you, and . . . for your father.'

Timur Borisovich jerked himself upright in his bath.

'What else are you going to order me to do?'

'I could order you,' I explained, 'just as easily as your bodyguards.
And you'd go dashing to the airport without your trousers.
But I'm asking you, Timur Borisovich. You've already done one
good thing by agreeing to withdraw your demand. Take the next
step. Please.'

'Do you realise what kind of ideas people get about businessmen
who take off without warning to God knows where?'

'I can imagine.'

Timur Borisovich grunted and suddenly looked older somehow.
I felt ashamed. But I carried on waiting.

'I'd like to talk . . . to him.'

'I think that'll be okay,' I agreed. 'But first you have to disappear.'

'Turn around,' Timur Borisovich muttered.

I turned around obediently. Because I believed I wouldn't get
a heavy nickel-plated soap-dish across the back of my head.

And that entirely groundless trust saved me.

Because I glanced at the wall through the Twilight – to make
sure the bodyguards were still sleeping peacefully by the door. And
I saw a fleeting shadow, moving far too quickly for a human being.

And what's more, the shadow was moving through the wall.
Not walking normally, like a magician, but gliding like a vampire.

By the time Kostya was in the bathroom, I'd already set my
face into the calm, mocking expression appropriate for a Light
watchman who's got the better of a Dark One.

'You!' said Kostya. In the Twilight his body gave off a light
vapour. Vampires generally look different in the Twilight world,
but Kostya still looked a lot like a human being. Amazing for a
Higher Vampire.

'Of course,' I said. My words seemed to sink into wet cotton
wool. 'What are you doing here?'

Kostya hesitated, but he answered honestly:

'I sensed you using power. So I knew you must have found
something . . . Someone.'

He turned his gaze on Timur Borisovich and asked:

'Is this the blackmailer?'

There was no point in lying now. Or in trying to hide the businessman
either.

'Yes,' I said. 'I've got him to withdraw his demands.'

'How?'

'I lied, told him it was his own father who promised to turn
him into an Other. And now his father's in serious trouble . . . He
felt ashamed and withdrew his demands.'

Kostya frowned.

'I'm planning to send him as far as possible out of harm's way,'
I lied, inspired. 'He can settle down somewhere in the Dominican
Republic.'