Sixth Watch (21 page)

“I see,” I said. “Have you got the tickets?”

“Yes. Are you going to curse and swear at Gesar?”

“No.”

“Then good night.”

I put the phone in my pocket and nodded to Egor.

“You've convinced me, we'll go right now. Here in Paris, do you usually phone for a taxi, or stop one in the street?”

I WALKED INTO GESAR'S OFFICE AT TEN THE NEXT MORNING.
We had flown in from Paris that morning, and then I had taken Egor to the Economic Achievements Exhibition district, where his mother still lived. Only then did I go home and grab barely two hours' sleep.

There was something heroic about it.

As there was in the impervious, restrained expression on my face.

“Good morning, boss,” I said. “Egor has come to Moscow, he's staying with his mother. He's prepared to take part in our operations if necessary.”

“Good,” said Gesar, studying my face curiously. “Well done, both of you. I'm glad.”

“Can I go?” I asked.

“Hmm,” Gesar said. “Is that all? No questions, arguments, or accusations?”

“No,” I said. “Can I go?”

“Wait,” said Gesar. “Sit down.”

I obediently sat facing him.

“Anton, you have every right to be indignant,” said Gesar. “But let me explain at the very start—there wasn't even any magic involved! Just psychology. An understanding of the motives that guide people and Others. Only you could have persuaded Egor to come to Moscow and agree to a suicide mission, and then only if you sincerely tried to talk him out of it.”

“Boss, I understand.”

“And so I—” Gesar broke off and frowned. “You really do understand? And you're not accusing me of anything? And you agree that we need Egor?”

“I feel really, really bad about it,” I said. “We ruined the guy's life when he was still a child. But the stakes are too high. Neither his life, nor mine, nor yours is of any importance here.”

Gesar said nothing for a moment, twirling a fountain pen in his fingers. For some reason he switched on the laptop on his desk—and immediately slammed the lid shut.

“So I'll be going then?” I asked. “Or is there some new information?”

“There is,” Gesar said. “I won't keep you in the dark any longer. I'm sorry. I didn't notice that you really had grown up.”

“Apology accepted,” I said.

“Also, I'm not entirely sure that we do need a Mirror. The analysts set the odds at thirty percent for a Mirror, twenty for the shapeshifters, and fifty for something that we don't know yet. Don't get upset for the boy too soon, there might not be anything for him to do here after all.”

“Thank you for that,” I replied sincerely.

“Last, Olga's having some problems with our bloodsuckers,” said Gesar. “Go and see her, she wanted to discuss it with you.”

The text message caught me right outside the door of Olga's office. I took out my phone and glanced at it. I didn't recognize the number.

“The Grandmothers spent all night thrashing things out. No agreement. The next coven is tomorrow night. Yulia Tarasovna.”

What the hell was this? The world was hurtling toward its end, and these old witches couldn't even choose themselves a new Great Grandmother! At least temporarily—there was a good chance that none of the Sixth Watch would survive the encounter with the Two-in-One in any case.

Oh no, they were going to gather again and again and argue about which of them was the oldest, most malign, and most repulsive!

I put the phone away and walked into Olga's office. The Great One was standing at the window, blowing cigarette smoke through a small open pane. It was drawn out into the frosty air in a vigorous stream of gray.

“That's bad for you and it's forbidden by government decree,” I said.

Olga gave me a sour look.

“Have you been to Paris?” she asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“I envy you. I once spent an absolutely wonderful year there . . .”

“I got five hours, but that wasn't too bad either,” I agreed. “What's happening with the vampires?”

“What's happening with the witches?”

“They're discussing. They'll gather again tonight.”

“As for the vampires . . . Everything's complicated with the vampires. The problem is that the Master of Masters was killed.”

“So it was Lilith!” I exclaimed.

“No, Anton. You may be surprised, but it wasn't her at all. None of the vampires even knew anything about your Lilith. You ask Zabulon who she really was after all.”

“Why me?”

“Zabulon's fond of you,” Olga said without a trace of a smile. “No, the Master of Masters was only a three-hundred-year-old Polish Jew.”

“A Jewish vampire?” I exclaimed in amazement. “Well, he certainly violated all the Talmudic prohibitions.”

“I can't argue with that. Anyway, he was a genuinely powerful vampire, with only one weakness—alcoholism.” Olga sent the cigarette butt flying out the window with a flick of her fingers, closed the small pane, and sat down at the desk.

I sat facing her.

“But that's nonsense! Strong spirits burn them.”

“Strong spirits. He made do with the blood of extremely drunk people. That was partly what killed him.”

“He got drunk and fell under a train?” I asked

“Worse. He quarreled with the head of the Warsaw Day Watch. With whom he had always been on friendly terms. It ended in a duel.”

“Uh-oh,” I said.

“The vampire lost, although he did have a chance. Higher One against Higher One, the magician is usually more powerful, only the vampire was more experienced. But he lost, I believe because he was drunk. He was caught by the Gray Prayer.”

“Why didn't I hear about it?”

“Because it was in 1981. They fell out over politics, by the way—the head of the Dark Ones was a staunch communist and a supporter of Jaruzelski, while the vampire—”

“Olga, stop!” I said, raising my hands. “I'm not interested in the political views of vampires thirty years ago. Why haven't the vampires had a Master of Masters since then?”

“Well, because the new Master of Masters acquires the position by killing the previous one. And if the previous one died at the hands of someone who is not a vampire, then at least twelve Masters must fight for the title of the new Master of Masters—and only one must be left. From the technical point of view, they're already dead, of course, Anton. But they still want to live. Sooner or later one idiot can be found to challenge the Master of Masters. But so far they haven't been able to find twelve morons willing to launch into mortal combat. And they might not find them for another hundred years. The post has no real benefits, except that it's flattering to hold it. But the problems involved are overwhelming.”

“Matka Boska, jak mógł Wampir-żyd zginąć od ‘Szarego Nabożeństwa' Ciemnego komunisty? Jak w ogóle u ich w głowach to godziło się?”
I exclaimed.

Olga squinted at me quizzically.

“What's this, Anton, did you hang a ‘Petrov' on yourself yesterday?”

“Well, yes,” I said, embarrassed. “I don't know French, but to make it easier to get on with people . . . How did you know?”

“You just protested indignantly in Polish.” Olga chuckled. “The Petrov crams the fifteen most widely used languages into your head, not just one. What a surprise, I never thought Polish was one of them.”

“But anyway, what the hell was he thinking of?” I asked, slamming my fist down on the desk. “The Master of Masters—a Jew! That's an oxymoron! A Jew would not drink blood!”

“He wasn't religious,” Olga said with a smile.

“And the head of the Dark Ones—a communist? How did he fit all this together with his scientific atheism?”

“He explained the abilities of Others exclusively from the materialist point of view. Anton, stop getting indignant. It's already happened, and a long time ago. The vampires weren't particularly keen to choose a new Master of Masters. And they don't want to now. They're convening another High Lodge in three days, but I wouldn't hold out any great hopes.”

“Olga, why is it like this?” I asked. “The Watches have no overall leadership at all, only on the regional level. The shape-shifters have no leaders in principle. The vampires and witches apparently do . . . But in fact they don't, because the leaders are dead, and everyone only seems to be glad about it.”

“Because we're solitaries, Anton,” Olga replied. “We're not even wolves, they live in packs.”

“Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish!” I said, sweeping my hand through the air. “Do you know what Egor told me yesterday? I warn him not to come. I offer to initiate him, so that he won't become a Mirror. And he says: ‘Can any normal person have a choice in that situation?'”

“Well, he's a human being,” said Olga. “A living, agonized soul. With ideals and delusions. But they are Others. Vampires. The Undead. And there's another thing you're forgetting, Anton. The vampires, as we now realize, believe that they were the very first Others. It was the vampires who concluded the agreement with the Two-in-One. So maybe they're not too happy to do battle with him?”

“No one loves the bloodsuckers,” I said with a nod.

“You're behind the times,” said Olga. “They ran a very powerful PR campaign that took in almost all the countries in the world. Show young girls a genuine vampire, and they'll squeal and make a dash for him, offering up their necks.”

“I was talking to a young girl here quite recently—she wasn't over the moon about vampires.”

“But it was a woman who sucked her.” Olga chuckled. “If it had been a handsome young guy who could carry her in his arms for hours, things might have turned out differently.”

She turned serious.

“I don't need any help yet, Anton. The vampires are huddled up in their nest in Manhattan.”

“In New York?”

“Where else?” Olga asked in surprise. “It's their holy of holies! Their Mecca! Their Jerusalem! There are more of them per capita there than anywhere else. That's where the oldest lodges, clubs, and salons are. Both legal and illegal establishments. Now they're going to thrash things out and decide what's to their greatest advantage.”

“And drink blood.”

“Yes, of course.” Olga sighed. “And what's more, since the gathering of the Masters was to some extent initiated by us, I'm almost certain that they've been given additional licenses.”

I didn't say anything to that.

“Life is a dirty business,” said Olga. “And life after death is absolutely vile. Go home, Anton, and go to bed. You look terrible.”

“The witches will be making a decision tonight too,” I said. “But I could rummage through the archive in the meantime . . .”

“Anton, you're working in a team,” said Olga. “Calm down. Don't try to be everywhere. You got Egor here—well done! Now rest, at least until the evening. Everyone's thinking. Everyone's reading documents. Everyone's questioning the very oldest Others. You've earned a rest.”

I stood up and nodded.

“All right. I won't even try to argue. But pay special attention to that vampiress who wrote me a message with the initials of the people she bit. She managed to drive the Two-in-One away, didn't she?”

“She's being looked at, have no doubt about it,” Olga said with a frown. “Every line's being followed up. But right now your line leads to bed.”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

I could really have opened up a portal from the Watch office. Or from the courtyard. But I got into Zabulon's car, drove around the corner, and parked outside a “farmhouse products” and imported alcohol shop. It was a paid parking zone, but I decided the Great Dark One's wallet could stand the strain.

In the shop I bought a bottle of wine (it wasn't the best of wine, but I didn't feel like looking for a good wine shop), four pounds of genuinely good beef, milk, butter, tvorog, eggs and sausage, a couple of pounds of apples, some fresh bread, a few assorted olives, and some hot peppers stuffed with cheese.

Then I walked out of the shop, took out my phone and hid it in the glove compartment of the car, and slipped into a deserted alley. I closed my eyes, pictured the place I needed to go to, pronounced the words required, and leaned forward into the portal that opened up in front of me.

“Daddy!” Nadya squealed joyfully. “Hoorah! Dad's come!”

“And he's brought presents,” I said, opening my eyes. Nadya immediately hung on my neck. “Hey, I'm wet and cold! Wait a moment!”

“I missed you,” my daughter replied. “I don't want to wait for anything.”

The portal to the refuge had been set up by Nadya. She had assured us there was no way it could possibly be traced.

But I'd been determined not to abuse it.

I hugged my daughter. A moment later Svetlana came over.

“I was worried you would never bother to visit us,” she said reproachfully.

“Olga sent me home and ordered me to catch up on my sleep. I decided that home is where you are.”

“That's the right decision,” my wife agreed, hugging us both.

“You'll knock over the bags!” I exclaimed.

“Put the bags in the kitchen!” Svetlana commanded. Nadya pouted resentfully and carried them into the “kitchen,” that is, into the alcove behind the curtain.

“Bread, milk, meat,” I said proudly.

“Did you bring any vegetables?” Svetlana asked briskly.

“Vegetables?” I echoed, disconcerted.

“Well, yes. Those things that grow in the ground, I put them in the soup. Carrots, onions, potatoes . . .”

“I didn't think about vegetables,” I confessed. “But I got four pounds of good meat. I can grill steaks! And two pounds of apples.”

“At least one tomato?” Svetlana asked.

“And I did get sausage, butter, eggs . . .”

“Basically, you remembered to get everything that contains cholesterol,” Svetlana said with a smile. “You could at least have gotten tomatoes! And salad!”

“Who needs salad?” I exclaimed indignantly. “Why do you keep talking about food? Aren't you interested in the news?”