There was a ‘dog’ walking out through the doors of the departure lounge. A middle-aged man who didn’t look frightening at all – quite cultured, in fact. Pastukhov was used to seeing people like this, but this one wasn’t simply a ‘dog’, he was the ‘dog’ … from the Exhibition of Economic Achievements district, from way back in the distant past. Only he didn’t look drunk now, more as if he had a bit of a hangover.
Pastukhov turned away and started slowly groping for the lighter on the ground. The man with watchdog’s eyes walked past without taking the slightest notice of him.
‘A drop too much yesterday?’ Bisat asked sympathetically.
‘Who?’ muttered Pastukhov. ‘Ah … no, it’s just that the lighter’s slippery …’
‘Your hands are shaking and you’ve turned as white as a sheet,’ his partner remarked.
Pastukhov finally gave him a light, checked out of the corner of his eye that the man was walking away towards the car park, took out a cigarette and lit up himself – without waiting for Bisat’s lighter.
‘You’re acting kind of funny …’ said Bisat.
‘Yes, I was drinking yesterday,’ Pastukhov muttered. He looked at the terminal building again.
This time there was a ‘wolf’ coming out of it. With a self-confident, predatory gaze and determined stride. Pastukhov turned away.
‘You should eat khash the morning after,’ Bisat admonished him. ‘But only the right khash – ours. That Armenian khash is poison!’
‘Ah, come on, they’re absolutely identical,’ Pastukhov replied in his usual manner.
Bisat spat disdainfully and shook his head.
‘They may look the same. But in essence they’re completely different!’
‘They might be different in essence, but in reality they’re absolutely identical!’ Dima replied, watching the ‘wolf’, who had walked past and was also going towards the car park.
Bisat took offence and stopped talking.
Pastukhov finished off his cigarette in a few quick drags and looked at the door of the terminal again.
His first thought was angry, even resentfuclass="underline" Are they holding some kind of grand get-together in there today?’
And then the fear hit him.
The individual who had walked out of the doors when they slid open and was now standing there, gazing round thoughtfully, wasn’t a ‘dog’. But he wasn’t a ‘wolf’, either. He was someone else. A third kind.
A kind that ate wolves for breakfast and dogs for lunch. And left the tastiest parts for supper.
The classification that immediately occurred to Pastukhov was ‘tiger’. He said: ‘I’ve got stomach cramps … I’m off to the can.’
‘Go on, I’ll have a smoke,’ replied his partner, still offended.
To have asked Bisat to go to the toilet with him would have been strange. There wasn’t any time to explain anything or invent anything. Pastukhov turned round and walked away quickly, leaving Iskenderov in the path of the ‘tiger’. ‘He won’t do anything to him … He’ll just walk straight past, that’s all …’ Pastukhov reassured himself.
Pastukhov only looked round as he was already walking into the departure hall.
Just in time to see Bisat salute casually and stop the ‘tiger’. Of course, his partner couldn’t spot them – there wasn’t any incident in his past like the one Pastukhov had experienced. But this time even he had sensed something – with that policeman’s intuition that sometimes helped you pull an entirely unremarkable-looking man out of a crowd and discover that he had a rod stashed in a secret holster or a knife in his pocket.
Pastukhov suddenly realised that his stomach cramps were genuine now. And he sprinted into the airport’s safe, noisy interior, full of people and suitcases.
Since he was a good polizei, he felt very ashamed. But he felt even more afraid.
CHAPTER 1
‘GORODETSKY WILL REPORT on the situation regarding this morning’s incident,’ said Gesar, without looking up from his papers.
I stood up. Caught Semyon’s glance of sympathy. Started talking.
‘Two hours ago I saw Mr Warnes off on the flight to New York. After our colleague had checked in and was buying vodka in the duty-free …’
‘You mean you went through passport control with him, Gorodetsky?’ Gesar enquired, again without raising his eyes.
‘Well, yes.’
‘What for?’
‘To make sure that he was all right …’ I cleared my throat. ‘Well, and to buy something for myself in the duty-free …’
‘What, exactly?’
‘A couple of bottles of whisky.’
‘What kind?’ Gesar looked up from the desk.
‘Scotch. Single malt. Glenlivet twelve-year-old and Glenmorangie eighteen-year-old … but that was for a present, I personally think drinking eighteen-year-old whisky is rather flashy …’
‘What the hell!’ barked Gesar. ‘Of all the petty selfish indulgences …’
‘Pardon me, Boris Ignatievich,’ I said, ‘but Mr Warnes drinks like a fish. And he prefers decent single malts, not White Horse. My bar’s completely empty. Tomorrow some other guest will arrive and you’ll assign me to look after him. But I can’t buy alcohol in the fancy “A-Z of Taste” supermarkets on my salary.’
‘Go on,’ Gesar said in an icy voice.
‘After that I sat down in the bar to drink a mug of beer.’
‘How long have you been drinking beer in the mornings, Gorodetsky?’
‘Four days now. Since Warnes arrived.’
Semyon giggled. Gesar half-rose to his feet and glanced round everyone sitting at the table – ten Others, all at least Third-Level or, as the veterans said, ‘third-rank’.
‘We’ll discuss the specifics of entertaining visitors later. So, you were drinking beer for your hangover. Then what happened?’
‘A woman came in with a child. A fat little boy about ten years old, bawling and howling. He was begging his mother not to get on the plane, said it was going to crash. Well … naturally, I scanned his aura. The kid turned out to be an uninitiated Other, High-Level, at least First or Second. From all the indications – a clairvoyant. Possibly even a Prophet.’
A light stir ran round the room.
‘Why such bold conclusions?’ asked Gesar.
‘The colour. The intensity. The glimmering …’ I strained slightly and broadcast what I had seen into space. Naturally, I didn’t create any real image, but the mind will always oblige and find some point in mid-air for a picture.
‘Possibly,’ Gesar said, with a nod. ‘But even so, a Prophet …’
‘As a rule, a clairvoyant doesn’t have the ability to foretell his own future. But the boy was frightened of his own death. That’s an argument in favour of a Prophet …’ Olga said in a quiet voice.
Gesar nodded reluctantly.
‘I enquired if we had the right to a first- or second-level intervention – to save the entire plane. Unfortunately, we didn’t have that right. Then I personally took the right to a fifth-level and removed the boy and his mother from the flight.’
‘Reasonable,’ said Gesar, apparently a bit calmer now. ‘Reasonable. Is the boy being monitored?’
I shrugged.
Semyon cleared his throat delicately. ‘We’re working on it, Boris Ignatievich.’
Gesar nodded and looked at me again: ‘Is there anything else?’
I hesitated. ‘He made another prediction. To me personally.’