That made me wince. The wrong choice. The boy-Prophet was nothing like a romantic young hero, but the song was reproaching me for something.
What the hell was this? Why couldn’t these Kazakhs imitate Russian kitsch pop and sing songs about beautiful girls, expensive resorts and glittering cars, instead of propagating this decadent romanticism! I turned off the computer and walked out of the office.
My feet took me to the basement floors of their own accord. The door of one of the rooms was open and I glanced inside. The two ‘old-timers’, Jermenson and Glyba, were sitting there, sipping calmly on glasses of cognac. Mark Emmanuilovich was snacking on non-kosher smoked eel, while Glyba, a member of the old Soviet school, was using ‘nikolashka’ – a sliced lemon, sprinkled with coffee and sugar. There was a sign of the new times, however – the coffee wasn’t instant, but natural, and Glyba was crumbling the beans over the lemon with his strong fingers.
They were sitting with their backs to me, but that was no hindrance to them.
‘Come on in, Anton!’ Jermenson called amiably.
‘You’ll have a glass of cognac,’ Glyba told me no less sociably. Told me, not asked.
Without speaking, I joined them at the table and took a glass. To my surprise, the cognac wasn’t French, but Moldavian – a pot-bellied bottle with a label that said Surprise.
‘To the victory of the forces of good,’ said Jermenson, taking a sip from his glass.
‘Over the forces of reason,’ Glyba continued.
I downed my glass in one and immediately regretted it. The cognac turned out to be surprisingly good. In fact, you could say it was excellent.
‘Where do you get this?’ I asked.
‘You have to know the right place,’ Glyba laughed. ‘See, Emmanuilich? I told you Anton was a rational person.’
‘That’s just it, he’s a real person, human …’ Jermenson said gruffly. He took a long leather case from his jacket pocket and held it out to me. ‘How about a cigar, young man? I highly recommend it. None of that sacrilege with a lemon, the only thing that goes with a good cognac is a genuine cigar.’
The Great Ones seemed perfectly placid and relaxed. Not at all as if they were preparing for a skirmish with the Tiger. But in that case what were they doing in the office?
‘Has Gesar already told you?’ I asked.
‘About the Tiger?’ Jermenson responded. ‘Yes, of course. I ought to be ashamed of myself. I’ve heard about this kind of thing before … It was a very long time ago, though.’
‘And?’ I asked abruptly.
‘We’re going to sit here until the morning, gabbing the way that old men do,’ Jermenson said, shrugging. ‘If he comes … well, then we’ll take a look. We’re not going to fight, just take a look … There’s no charge for looking.’
‘You’re going to watch the Tiger kill the boy?’
‘In a case like this, leaving is even more cowardly,’ Jermenson replied coolly. ‘Why don’t you tell us what he prophesied to you at the airport? Word for word. Maybe Gesar’s wrong? Maybe the boy has already uttered his prophecy?’
‘But then why would the Tiger bother to carry on chasing him?’ Glyba responded. ‘No, you tell us, Anton. We’re genuinely interested.’
‘ “You are Anton Gorodetsky, a Higher Light Magician. You are Nadka’s father. Because of you … all of us …” ’ I shrugged and spread my hands. ‘Is that any good as a prophecy?’
‘No,’ said Glyba, shaking his head. ‘Djoru’s right: it was a harbinger, induced by stress.’
‘But there is something interesting about it!’ said Jermenson, raising his finger. ‘Right?’
‘Right,’ said Glyba, splashing more cognac out into the glasses. ‘First, the prophecy will be addressed to one particular person. It’s linked to Anton. Perhaps because he’s the one the boy met?’
‘Or because Anton saved him …’ Jermenson said, with a nod. ‘And it’s important that he said “Nadka’s father”. Our little friend doesn’t look like one of those children who address all little girls in that familiar fashion. That means …’
‘That means the prophecy is linked to Nadya as well, and the boy-Prophet has to become friends with her.’
‘And it concerns all Others – “all of us” is in there for a reason. But the clinching role will be played by Anton.’ It looked as if this wasn’t the first time that Jermenson and Glyba had brain-stormed together.
‘It’s very interesting, it really is!’ said Glyba, beaming. ‘I’d like to hear it. I hope Djoru will be able to explain to the boy how to prophesy.’
‘Djoru might have managed it,’ said Gesar, walking into the room, ‘but I haven’t.’
He sat down with us (now that was strange – I thought there were only three chairs at the table before then) and took a glass. (Well, there definitely wasn’t a fourth glass on the table before, let alone a full one!) He looked at me, cleared his throat, took a sip of cognac and said: ‘The ball keeps going wide of the goalpost. The lad is an Other, the lad really is a Prophet. Only we were mistaken. He’s not a Higher Other, only first or second rank.’
‘That’s not crucial for a Prophet,’ said Glyba. ‘He’ll utter his prophecies less often, that’s all.’
‘This isn’t just a matter of initiation,’ Gesar went on. ‘Or of understanding the technical details. I’ve explained all that, he’s a bright boy. But there has to be the right state of mind. The readiness to prophesy. And that’s harder to induce. All my fiddling and fussing got me nowhere – his head’s lost somewhere up in the clouds …’
‘Probably remembering his mother,’ Glyba said sympathetically. ‘I ended up in the Watch as a child too, I missed my family terribly …’
‘Boris Ignatievich, can I have a word with him?’ I asked.
‘Give it a try,’ Gesar agreed willingly. ‘I don’t think it will help, but try it. Only don’t drag it out – it’s almost midnight already, the kid can hardly keep his eyes open …’
His look as he watched me go was sympathetic and approving, but without any real enthusiasm.
Innokentii Tolkov, ten and a half years old, Prophet of the first level of Power, was not sleeping yet. He was sitting on the floor beside the heap of toys provided out of the Night Watch’s largesse and twirling a toy telephone in his hands. When I appeared, he became embarrassed and put the phone back into the multicoloured heap – it was a toy for tiny tots: a few large buttons with numbers that played some kind of jolly Chinese tune when you pressed them, and a button for recording any phrase that you wanted. Nadya had had a ‘telephone’ like that too, when she was three years old.
I suddenly felt really worried.
‘Hi, Kesha,’ I said, sitting down on the floor beside him.
‘Good evening, Uncle Anton,’ said Kesha.
‘Well, you’ve got a real treasure hoard here,’ I said awkwardly, dragging a toy helicopter out of the heap. ‘My Nadya wanted to play with one of these …’