The Night Watch (22 page)

Two and a half hours later I tore my eyes away from the computer, massaged the back of my neck with my palms – it always cramps up when I sit there hunched over the terminal like that – and turned on the coffee machine.

Neither the boss, nor Ilya, nor Semyon could be the unhinged killer of Dark Ones. They all had alibis – and some of them were absolutely watertight. For instance, Semyon had managed to spend the entire night of one of the murders negotiating with the senior management of the Day Watch. Ilya had been on secondment in Sakhalin – they'd screwed things up so badly over there that they'd needed back-up from Moscow . . .

I was the only one left under suspicion.

It wasn't that I didn't trust Tolik, but I went through the data again anyway. It was all very clear. Not a single alibi.

The coffee was disgusting, sour, the filter couldn't have been changed for ages. I gulped down the hot swill, staring at the screen, then took out my mobile and dialled the boss's number.

'Yes, Anton.'

He always knew who was calling him.

'Boris Ignatievich, only one of the four can be suspected.'

'Which one?'

The boss's voice was dry and official. But somehow I suddenly got this picture of him sitting half-naked on a leather sofa, with a glass of champagne in one hand and Olga's hand in the other, holding the phone in place with his shoulder, or levitating it beside his ear . . .

'Tut-tut,' the boss rebuked me. 'You lousy clairvoyant. So who's under suspicion?'

'I am.'

'I see.'

'You knew it,' I said.

'Why do you say that?'

'There was no need to get me to process that dossier. You could have done it yourself. That means you wanted me to be convinced of the danger.'

'That could be,' the boss said with a sigh. 'What are you going to do, Anton?'

'Start packing my bag for jail.'

'Come round to my office. In ... er ... in ten minutes.'

'Okay.' I switched off my phone.

First I went to see how the programmers were doing. Tolik was still there with them, and they were hard at work.

The Watch didn't really have any need for these two worthless workers. Their security clearance was low, so we still had to do almost everything ourselves. But where else could we find work for two sorceresses as low-level as these two? If only they'd have agreed to live ordinary lives. . . but no, they wanted the 'romance' of working for the Watch ... So we'd invented jobs for them.

They mostly just whiled away the time, surfing the net and playing games, their favourites being various kinds of patience.

Tolik was at one of the spare PCs – we had plenty of hardware around the place. Yulia was sitting very close to him, twitching her mouse around on its mat.

'Is that what you call computer skills training?' I asked, gazing at the monsters hurtling round the screen.

'There's nothing better than computer games for improving skill with the mouse,' Tolik replied innocently.

'Well . . .' I couldn't think of any response.

It was a long time since I'd played video games. The same went for most other members of the Watch. Killing evil vermin in a cartoon became less interesting once you'd met it face to face. Unless, that is, you'd already lived a couple of hundred years and built up reserves of cynicism, like Olga . . .

'Tolik, I probably won't be back in today,' I said.

'Uhuh.' He nodded, without any sign of surprise. None of us has really strong powers of prevision, but we sense little things like that immediately.

'Galya, Lena, see you later,' I said to the girls. Galya twittered something polite, trying to look entirely absorbed in her work. Lena asked:

'Can I leave early today?'

'Of course.'

We don't lie to each other. If Lena asks, it means she really
needs to leave early. We don't He. But sometimes we might just leave something
unsaid . . .

The boss's desk was in a state of total confusion. Pens, pencils, sheets of paper, printouts of reports, dull, exhausted magic crystals.

But the crowning glory of this mess was a lit spirit lamp, with some white powder roasting over it in a crucible. The boss was stirring it thoughtfully with the tip of his expensive ink pen, obviously expecting this to produce some kind of effect. But the powder seemed to be doggedly ignoring both the heat and his stirring.

'Here.' I put the disk down in front of the boss.

'What are we going to do?' Boris Ignatievich asked without even looking up. He wasn't wearing a jacket, his shirt was crumpled and his tie had slid to one side.

I stole a glance at the sofa. Olga wasn't in the office, but there was an empty champagne bottle standing on the floor, with two glasses.

'I don't know. I haven't killed any Dark Ones. .. not these Dark Ones. You know that.'

'Sure, I know.'

'But I can't prove it.'

'By my reckoning we've got two or three days,' said the boss. 'Then the Day Watch will bring a formal charge against you.'

'It wouldn't take much to arrange a false alibi.'

'And would you agree to that?' Boris Ignatievich enquired.

'Of course not. Can I ask one question?'

'Yes.'

'Where does this information come from? The photos and videos?'

The boss paused for a moment.

'I thought that would be it. You've seen my dossier, Anton. Was it any less intrusive?'

'No, I suppose not. That's why I'm asking. Why do you allow information like that to be gathered?'

'I can't forbid it. Monitoring is carried out by the Inquisition.'

I just managed to bite back the stupid question: 'But does it really exist?' My face probably said it for me anyway.

The boss carried on looking at me for a moment or two as if he was expecting further questions and then went on:

'Let's get to the point, Anton. From this moment on you must never be left alone. Maybe you can go to the lavatory on your own, but at all other times you must have two or three witnesses with you. If we're lucky, there could be another killing.'

'If I'm really being set up, the killing won't happen until I'm left without an alibi.'

'And we'll make sure you are left without one,' the boss said, laughing. 'What kind of old fool do you take me for?'

I nodded, still not sure, still not fully understanding.

'Olga . . .'

The door in the wall – the one I'd always assumed led into a closet – opened and Olga came in, smiling as she straightened her hair. Her jeans and blouse sat tight on her body, the way they only do after a hot shower. Behind her I caught a glimpse of an immense bathroom with a jacuzzi and a panoramic window right across one wall – it must have been one-way glass.

'Olya, can you handle this?' the boss asked, obviously referring to something they'd already talked about.

'On my own? No.'

'I didn't mean that.'

'Oh sure, of course I can.'

'Stand back to back,' the boss ordered.

I didn't feel like arguing, but I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I knew something really serious was about to happen.

'And both of you open yourselves to me,' Boris Ignatievich demanded.

I closed my eyes and relaxed. Olga's back was hot and damp, even through her blouse. A strange sensation, standing there touching a woman who's just been making love . . . but not with you.

No, I wasn't the slightest bit in love with her. Maybe because I remembered her in her non-human form, maybe because we'd become friends and partners so quickly. Maybe because of the centuries that separated her birth from mine: what did a young body mean, when you could see the dust of the centuries in the other person's eyes? We'd become friends, and nothing more.

But standing next to a woman whose body still remembers someone else's touch, pressing yourself against her – that's a strange feeling . . .

'Right, let's begin . . .' said the boss, perhaps a bit sharply. And then he uttered some words I didn't understand, in some ancient language that hadn't been used for thousands of years.

Flying.

It really was like flying. As if the ground had slipped away from under my feet and I'd become weightless. An orgasm in free fall, LSD mainlined into the bloodstream, electrodes in the subcortical pleasure centres . . .

I was swept away by a wild, unadulterated joy that came out of nowhere, and the world dimmed and blurred. I would have fallen, but the power from the boss's raised hands held Olga and me up on invisible strings, making us arch over and press ourselves against each other.

And then the strings got tangled.

'I'm sorry, Anton,' said Boris Ignatievich, 'but we didn't have any time for hesitation or explanations.'

I didn't answer. I was dumbfounded, sitting there on the floor and staring at my hands, at those slim fingers with the two silver rings, at my legs – those long, shapely legs still damp after my shower, in jeans that were clinging too tight, at the blue and white trainers on my small feet.

'It's not for long,' the boss said.

'What the—' I almost swore, jerking forward and trying to get to my feet, but the sound of my voice made me cut it short. A low, vibrant, soft woman's voice.

'Calm down, Anton.' The young man standing beside me reached out his hand and helped me up.

If not for that, I'd probably have fallen over. My centre of balance had completely changed. I was shorter, and the world looked quite different.

'Olga?' I asked, looking at what used to be my face. My partner, now the inhabitant of my body, nodded. Totally confused, I gazed into her . . . into my face and saw I hadn't shaved properly that morning. And there was a little, angry red pimple on my forehead that would have done credit to any teenage slob going through puberty.

'Calm down, Anton. It's the first time I've ever changed sex too.'

Somehow I believed her. Despite her great age, Olga might never have found herself in this particular ticklish situation before.

'Have you got your bearings now?' the boss asked.

I looked myself over again, first raising my hands to my face and then looking at my reflection in the glass doors of the shelves.

'Let's go,' said Olga, tugging at my arm. 'Just one moment, Boris. . .' Her movements were as uncertain as mine. Perhaps she was even less steady. 'Light and Dark, how do you men walk?' she suddenly exclaimed.

It was then that the irony of the situation struck me and I started laughing. They'd hidden me, the target of the Dark Side's plot, in a woman's body. In the body of the boss's lover, who was as old as St Basil's Cathedral!

Olga pushed me into the bathroom – I couldn't help feeling quite pleased I was so strong – and bent me down over the jacuzzi. Then she squirted a jet of cold water straight in my face from the showerhead she'd left lying ready on the soft-pink ceramic surface.

I snorted and twisted free of her grip, suppressing the urge to smack her – or was it me, really? – across the face. The motor reflexes of this other body seemed to be waking up.

'I'm not hysterical,' I said. 'It really is funny.'

'Are you sure?' Olga screwed up her eyes, looking hard at me. Was that really my expression when I was trying to look benevolent and doubtful at the same time?

'Absolutely.'

'Then take a look at yourself.'

I went across to the mirror, which was on the same massive scale as everything else in this secret bathroom, and looked at myself.

It was weird. As I looked at my new shape, I began to feel entirely calm. The shock would probably have been worse if I'd been in another man's body. But this was okay, it just felt like the beginning of a fancy-dress party.

'Are you influencing me at all?' I asked. 'You or the boss?'

'No.'

'I must have pretty strong nerves then.'

'You've smudged your lipstick,' Olga commented. She laughed. 'Do you know how to put lipstick on?'

'Are you crazy? Of course not.'

'I'll teach you. It's not that hard.'

A
FTER
I
LEFT
the office I hesitated for a moment, fighting the temptation to go back in.

I could reject the boss's plan at any moment. I only had to go back in and say a few words, and Olga and I would be returned to our own bodies. But in half an hour of conversation I'd learnt enough for me to accept that this was the only way to handle this provocation by the Dark Ones.

After all, it doesn't really make much sense to refuse life-saving treatment because the injections hurt.

I had the keys to Olga's apartment in her handbag, together with money and her credit card in a little wallet, make-up, a handkerchief, a box of Tic-Tacs, a comb, a layer of various small items scattered on the bottom, a mirror, a tiny mobile phone . . .

But the empty pockets of the jeans made me feel like I must have lost something. I rummaged in them for a second or two, trying to find at least a forgotten coin, but was soon convinced that Olga carried everything in her bag, the way most women do.

You might have thought I'd just lost things that were rather more important than the contents of my pockets. But it was a detail that irritated me, so I transferred a few banknotes from the handbag to my pocket and that made me feel a bit more confident.

It was a shame Olga didn't carry a walkman, though.

'Hi,' said Garik, coming towards me. 'Is the boss free?'

'He's . . . he's with Anton . . .' I replied.

'What's happened, Olya?' Garik asked, looking at me closely. I don't know what it was he'd sensed: a different intonation, hesitant movement, a changed aura. But if a field operative that neither Olga nor I had ever spent much time with could sense the difference, I wasn't doing too well.

And then Garik gave me a timid, uncertain smile. That was entirely unexpected: I'd never noticed Garik trying to flirt with the Watch's female employees. He even has trouble getting to know normal women, he's so unlucky in love.

'Nothing. We had a bit of an argument.' I turned away without saying goodbye and walked to the staircase.

That was my cover story for the Night Watch – in the highly unlikely event that we had one of the other side's agents among us. As far as I know, that's something that's only happened once or twice in the entire history of the Watch, but you can never tell. . . Might as well let everyone think Boris Ignatievich had fallen out with his old girlfriend.

There was a plausible reason, a good one. A hundred years of imprisonment in his office, without any chance to assume human form, partial rehabilitation, but with the loss of most of her magical powers. That was more than enough reason to take offence . . . And at least the story relieved me of the need to play the part of the boss's girlfriend, which would have been going just too far.

I walked down to the third floor, thinking things through as I went. I had to admit that Olga had made things as easy for me as she could. She'd put on jeans today, instead of her usual matching skirt and jacket or dress, and trainers instead of high heels. Even the light perfume she'd used wasn't overpowering.

I knew what I was supposed to do now, I knew how I was supposed to behave. But even so, it was still hard. Hard to turn into the modest, quiet side corridor instead of going toward the door.

And into the past.

They say hospitals have their own unforgettable smell. And of course they do. It would be strange if the mixture of bleach and pain, sterilising unit and wounds, standard-issue sheets and tasteless food didn't have some kind of smell.

But where do schools and colleges get their smell from?

Not all subjects are taught on the Watch's own premises. Some are easier to teach in the morgue, at night – we have our contacts there. Some are taught out in the field, some abroad. During my training, I spent time in Haiti, Angola, the USA and Spain.

But there are still some lectures that can only be given in the Watch's own building, securely sealed off from its foundations to its roof by magic and protective spells. Thirty years ago, when the Watch first moved into this building, they set up three small rooms, each for fifteen trainees. I still don't know what most influenced that decision – the optimism of my colleagues or the fact that the space was available. Even when I was in training – and that was a very good year – one room was enough for all of us, and even then it was always half-empty.

Right now the Watch was training four Others. And Svetlana was the only one we could be certain would join us and not prefer an ordinary human life.

It was deserted here, deserted and quiet. I walked slowly along the corridor, glancing into the empty teaching rooms, which would have been the envy of even the best-equipped and most prosperous university. A laptop on every desk, a huge TV projector in each room, shelves of books . . . If only a historian could have seen those books.

But historians never would see them.

Some of the books contained too much truth. Others contained too many lies. Humans couldn't be allowed to read them, for the sake of their peace of mind. Let them carry on living with the history they were used to.

The corridor terminated in a huge mirror that covered the entire end wall. When I casually glanced into it I saw a beautiful young woman swaying her hips as she strode along the corridor.

I staggered and almost fell: Olga had done everything possible to make things easy for me, but even she couldn't change her own centre of gravity. As long as I forgot the way I looked, everything was more or less normal, the motor reflexes took over. But the moment I saw myself from the outside, things slipped out of sync. Even my breathing changed, and the air felt different as it entered my lungs.

I walked up to the last door, a glass one, and peered through it cautiously.

The class was just finishing.

Today they'd been studying everyday magic, I knew that the moment I saw Polina Vasilievna standing by the demonstration stand. She's one of the oldest members of the Watch – to look at, that is, not by her actual age. She'd been discovered and initiated when she was already sixty-three. Who could have guessed that an old woman who earned her living by telling fortunes with cards during those wild years after the war actually possessed genuine powers? Quite considerable powers too, although only in a narrow field.

'And now, if you need to smarten up your clothes in a hurry, you can do it in a moment. Only don't forget to check first how much strength you have. Otherwise the result might be embarrassing.'

'And when the clock strikes twelve, your carriage will turn into a pumpkin,' the young guy sitting beside Svetlana said loudly. I didn't know him, this was only his second or third day of training, but already I didn't like him.

'Precisely,' Polina exclaimed delightedly, even though she heard the same witticism from every group of trainees. 'Fairy tales lie just as much as statistics do, but sometimes you can find truth in them.'

She took a neatly ironed tuxedo off the desk. It was dapper and elegant, a little old-fashioned. James Bond must have worn one like it.

'When will it turn back to rags again?' Svetlana asked in a practical tone.

'In two hours,' Polina told her briskly. She put the jacket on a hanger and hung it on the stand. 'I didn't put much into it.'

'And what's the longest you can keep it looking good?'

'About twenty-four hours.'

Svetlana nodded and suddenly looked in my direction – she'd sensed my presence. She smiled and waved. Now everyone had noticed me.

'Please come in,' said Polina, bowing her head. 'This is a great honour for us.'

Yes, she knew something about Olga that I didn't. All of us knew no more than one part of the truth about her; probably only the boss knew everything.

I went in, trying desperately to make my walk a little less provocative. It did no good. The young guy sitting next to Svetlana, and the fifteen-year-old youth who'd been stuck in the preliminary class for six months, and the tall, skinny Korean, who could have been thirty or forty – they all watched me.

With very definite interest. The atmosphere of mystery that surrounded Olga, all the rumours, and above all the fact that she was the boss's lover from way back – all provoked a distinctly noticeable response from the male section of the Watch.

'Hello,' I said. 'I hope I'm not interrupting?'

I was trying so hard to get my phrasing right, I forgot to control my tone, and my banal question came out sounding languidly mysterious, addressed to every single person there. The spotty-faced kid couldn't take his eyes off me, the young guy swallowed, and only the Korean maintained some semblance of composure.

'Olga, did you have an announcement for the students?' Polina asked.

'I need to have a word with Sveta.'

'Then class dismissed,' she declared. 'Olga, please do call in some time during class. My lectures are no substitute for your experience.'

'Certainly,' I promised generously. 'In three or four days.'

Olga could make good on my promises. I had to take the hits for her carefully cultivated sex appeal.

Svetlana and I walked towards the door. I could feel three pairs of greedy eyes drilling into my back – well, not exactly my back.

I knew that Olga and Svetlana had become close. I'd known since that night when Olga and I had explained to her the truth about the world and the Others, the Light Ones and the Dark Ones, about the Watches and the Twilight, since that dawn when she had held our hands and walked through the closed door into the field headquarters of the Night Watch. Sure, Svetlana and I were closely linked. Destiny held us together in its firm grip, but only for the time being. Svetlana and Olga were just friends – it wasn't destiny that had brought them together. They were free.

'Olya, I have to wait for Anton,' said Svetlana, taking hold of my hand. It wasn't the gesture of a younger sister clutching her elder sister's hand, looking for support and reassurance. It was the gesture of an equal. And if Olga allowed Svetlana to behave as her equal, then she really did have a great future ahead of her.

'Don't bother, Sveta,' I said.

Again there was something not quite right in the phrase or the tone. Svetlana gave me a puzzled look, and it was exactly like Garik's.

'I'll explain everything,' I said. 'But not right here. At your place.'

The new defences at her apartment were the best there were – the Watch had invested too much energy in its new member to lose her now. The boss hadn't even argued about whether I could confide in Svetlana, he'd only insisted on one thing – it had to happen at her place.

'All right.' The surprise was still there in Svetlana's eyes, but she nodded in agreement. 'Are you sure it's not worth waiting for Anton?'

'Absolutely,' I said, quite sincerely. 'Shall we take a car?'

'Aren't you driving today?'

Idiot!

I'd forgotten that Olga's favourite mode of transport was the sports car the boss had given her as a present.

'That's what I meant – shall we drive?' I asked, realising I must seem rather foolish.

Svetlana nodded. That puzzled look in her eyes was getting stronger.

At least I knew how to drive. I'd never been tempted by the dubious pleasure of owning a car in a megalopolis with lousy roads, but our training had included all sorts of things. Some things had been taught the ordinary way, some had been beaten into our heads by magic. I'd been taught how to drive like an ordinary human, but if I suddenly happened to find myself in the cabin of a helicopter or a plane, then reflex responses I couldn't even remember in an ordinary state would kick in. At least, in theory they ought to kick in.

I found the car keys in the handbag. The orange sports car, with its top down, was standing in the parking lot in front of the building, under the watchful eye of the security guards.

'Will you drive?' asked Svetlana.

I nodded without saying anything, then got into the driving seat and started the engine. I remembered that Olga always took off like a bullet, but I didn't know how to do that.

'Olga, there's something wrong with you,' said Svetlana, finally deciding to say what was on her mind. I nodded as I drove out on to Leningrad Prospect.

'Sveta, we'll talk when we get to your place.'

I'm no racing driver. We were driving for a long time, a lot longer than we ought to have been. But Svetlana didn't ask any more questions, she just sat there, leaning back in her seat and looking straight ahead. Maybe she was meditating, or maybe she was trying to look through the Twilight. Several times in the traffic jams, men tried to flirt with us from their cars – always the most expensive ones. At first I just found it annoying. Then it started to seem funny. By the end I wasn't reacting to it any longer, just like Svetlana.

'Olya, why did you make me come away? Why didn't you want me to wait for Anton?' Svetlana suddenly asked.

I shrugged. I was sorely tempted to answer: 'Because he's sitting right here beside you.' The chances were pretty small that we were being observed. The car was protected by spells too, I could sense some of them, and some of them went beyond the level of my powers.

But I restrained myself.

Svetlana hadn't done the course on information security yet, it comes three months into the training. I think it would make good sense to put it in earlier, but a specific programme has to be designed for each individual Other, and that takes time.

Once Svetlana had been through that ordeal, she'd know when to keep quiet and when to speak. They just start feeding you information, strictly measured, in a specific sequence. Some of what you hear is true, and some of it's false. They tell you some of it quite freely and openly, and some of it under a terrible oath of secrecy. And some of it you find out 'accidentally', by eavesdropping or spying.

And then everything you've learned starts to ferment inside you, making you feel pain and fear, pushing and straining so hard to break out you think your heart's going to burst, demanding some immediate, irrational reaction. In the lectures they tell you all sorts of nonsense you don't really need to know to live as an Other, while the most important training and testing is taking place in your soul.