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Authors: Sergei Lukyanenko

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BOOK: The Twilight Watch
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The phone was new and still unfamiliar. It had some games in
it, a built-in disc player, a dictaphone and all sorts of other unnecessary
nonsense.

I rode down to the lobby in the cool silence of the lift. And
immediately caught sight of my new acquaintance from the night
before – only this time he was looking really odd . . .

Las, wearing brand new blue overalls with Assol written on the
back, was explaining something to a confused elderly man dressed
the same way.

'This isn't a broom you've got here, okay! There's a computer
in it, it tells you how dirty the tarmac is and the pressure of the
cleaning solution . . . Come on, I'll show you . . .'

My feet automatically carried me after them.

Out in the yard, in front of the entrance to the lobby, there
were two bright orange road-sweeping machines, with a tank of
water, round brushes and a little glass cabin for the driver. There
was something toy-like about the small vehicles, as if they'd come
straight from Sunshine Town, where the happy baby girls and boys
cheerfully clean their own miniature avenues.

Las clambered nimbly into one of the machines and the elderly
man thrust himself halfway in after him. He listened to something
Las said, nodded and set off towards the second cleaning unit.

'And if you're lazy, you'll spend the rest of your life as a junior
yard-keeper!' I heard Las say. His machine set off, twirling its
brushes merrily, turning circles on the tarmac surface. Before my
eyes a yard that was already clean acquired an entirely sterile
appearance.

Well, would you believe it!

So Las worked as a yard-keeper in the Assol complex, did he?

I tried to withdraw unobtrusively, so as not to embarrass him.
But he had already spotted me, and he drove closer, waving his
hand gleefully. The brushes started turning less vigorously.

'So you work here then?' I asked. I suddenly started having the
most fantastic ideas – Las didn't live in Assol at all, he'd simply
moved into an empty apartment for a while. There was no way
anyone with a huge residence like that would go cleaning the
yard!

'I earn a bit on the side,' Las explained calmly. 'It's good fun,
I'm telling you! Ride round the yard for an hour in the morning,
instead of your morning exercises, and they pay you wages for it.
And not bad wages either.'

I didn't say anything.

'Do you like going on the rides in the park?' Las asked me. 'All
those buggies, where you have to pay ten dollars for three minutes?
Well, here they pay
you
the money. To enjoy yourself. Or take
those computer games . . . sitting there, twitching that joystick
about . . .'

'It all depends on whether they make you paint the fence . . .'
I muttered.

'That's right,' Las agreed happily. 'But they don't make me do
that. I get the same sort of buzz cleaning up the yard as Leo Tolstoy
did from scything hay. Only no one has to wash it all again after
me – unlike the count, whose peasants used to finish the job for
him . . . I'm in their good books here, I get a regular bonus. So,
do you fancy riding around too? I could get you a job, if you
like. The professional yard-keepers just can't get the hang of this
technical equipment.'

'I'll think about it,' I said, examining the briskly spinning brushes,
the water spurting out of the nickel-plated nozzles, the gleaming
cabin. Back when we were kids, which of us didn't want to drive
a street-washing truck? Now, of course, after early childhood kids
start dreaming about working as a banker or a hit man . . .

'Okay, think it over, but I've got work to do,' Las said amiably.
And the machine set off round the yard, sweeping, washing and
sucking up dirt. I heard singing from the cabin:

The generation of yard-keepers and watchmen
Have lost each other in the vast expanse of winter . . .
They've all gone back home now.
In our time, when every third man is a hero,
They don't write articles,
They don't send telegrams . . .

Dumbfounded, I went back to the lobby. I found out from the
security guard where Assol's own post office was located and set
off. The post office was open: there were three young female
employees sitting behind the counter in the cosy little shop, and
the postbox where the letter had been sent was standing right there.

The glass eyes of video cameras glittered just below the ceiling.

We could certainly use some professional investigators. They
would have come up with this idea straight away.

I bought a postcard of a young chick jumping up and down
in the tray of an incubator with the printed message 'I miss my
family!' Not very amusing, but in any case I couldn't remember
the mailing address of the village where my family was on holiday,
so, with a mischievous smile, I sent the postcard to Gesar at home
– I did know his address.

I chatted to the girls for a while – working in such an elite
residential complex, they had to be polite, but on top of that they
were bored – then left the post office and went to the security
department on the first floor.

If I'd been able to use my abilities as an Other, I would have
simply implanted in the security guards' minds the idea that they
liked me – then I'd have been given access to all the video recordings.
But I couldn't reveal who I was. And so I decided to employ
the most universal motive for liking anyone – money.

Out of the money I'd been given I put together a hundred
dollars in roubles– well, no one could expect more than that, could
they? I entered the duty office, and there was a young guy in a formal suit,
looking bored.

'Good day!' I greeted him, smiling radiantly.

The security man's expression indicated complete solidarity with
my opinion concerning the quality of the day. I cast a quick sideways
glance at the monitors in front of him – they showed images
from at least ten television cameras. And he had to be able to call up
a repeat run of any particular moment. If the images were saved to
a hard disk (where else could they be saved?), then a recording from
three days earlier might not have been transferred to the archive yet.

'I have a problem,' I said. 'Yesterday I received a rather amusing
letter . . .' – I winked at him – 'from some girl. She lives here too,
as far as I can tell.'

'A threatening letter?' the security man asked, pricking up his ears.

'No, no!' I protested. 'On the contrary . . . But my mysterious
stranger is trying to remain incognito. Could I take a look to see
who posted letters at the post office three days ago?'

The security man started thinking about it.

And then I spoiled everything. I put the money on the desk
and said with a smile:

'I'd be very grateful to you . . .'

The young guy instantly turned to stone. I think he pressed
something with his foot.

And ten seconds later two of his colleagues appeared, both extremely
polite – which looked pretty funny, given their impressive dimensions
– and insistently invited me to come in and see their boss.

There is after all a difference, and a serious one, between dealing
with state officials and a private security firm.

It would have been interesting to see if they would have taken
me to their boss by force. After all, they weren't the militia. But
I thought it best not to aggravate the situation any further and
did as my suited escorts asked.

 

The head of security looked at me reproachfully. He was already
advanced in years and had clearly come from the agencies of state
security.

'What were you thinking of, Mr Gorodetsky,' he said, holding
up my pass to the Assol grounds, 'behaving as if you were in a
state institution – if you'll pardon the expression?'

I got the impression that what he really wanted to do was snap
my pass in two, call the guards and order them to throw me out
of the elite complex.

I felt like saying I was sorry and I wouldn't do it again. Especially
since I really was feeling ashamed.

Only that was the desire of the Light Magician Anton
Gorodetsky, not of Mr A. Gorodetsky, the owner of a small firm
trading in milk products.

'What exactly is the problem?' I asked. 'If it's not possible to do
as I requested, they should have said so.'

'And what was the money for?' the head of security queried.

'What money?' I asked in surprise. 'Ah . . .your colleague thought
I was offering him money?'

The head of security smiled.

'Absolutely not!' I said firmly. 'I wanted to get my handkerchief
out of my pocket. My hay fever's really killing me today. And there
was a load of small change in there, so I put it on the desk . . .
but I didn't even get time to blow my nose.'

I think I overdid it a bit.

The stony-faced boss held out my pass and said very politely:

'The incident is closed. I'm sure you understand, Mr Gorodetsky,
that private individuals are not permitted to view our security
recordings.'

I sensed that what had stung the boss most was the phrase about
'small change'. Of course, he wasn't exactly poor, working in a
place like that. But he wasn't so flush that he could call a hundred
dollars small change.

I sighed and lowered my head.

'Forgive me for being so stupid. I really did try to offer some
. . . remuneration. I've been running from one bureaucrat to another
all this week, registering the firm . . . it was an automatic reflex.'

The security boss gave me a searching look. He seemed to have
softened just a bit.

'It's my fault,' I admitted. 'I was just overwhelmed by curiosity.
Would you believe I couldn't sleep half the night, I kept trying
to guess . . .'

'I can see you didn't sleep,' the boss said, looking at me. And
he couldn't resist asking – after all, human curiosity is ubiquitous,
'What is it you're so interested in?'

'My wife and daughter are at the dacha right now,' I said. 'I'm
knocking myself out, trying to get the work on the apartment
finished . . . and suddenly I get this letter. Anonymous. In a woman's
handwriting. And the letter . . . well, how can I put it . . . it's a
kilo of flirting and half a kilo of promises. A beautiful stranger is
dreaming of getting to know you, it says, but she doesn't dare take
the first step. If I'm observant enough to realise who the letter's
from – then all I have to do is approach her . . .'

A glint of amusement appeared in his eyes.

'And your wife's at the dacha?' he asked.

'Yes, she is,' I said with a nod. 'Don't get the wrong idea . . .
I've no ambitious plans. I'd just like to find out who this stranger
is.'

'Do you have the letter with you?' the boss asked.

'I threw it away immediately,' I said. 'If my wife ever set eyes
on it, I'd never be able to prove that nothing happened . . .'

'When was it sent?'

'Three days ago. From our post office.'

The boss thought for a moment.

'The letters there are collected once a day, in the evening,' I
said. 'I don't think too many people go in there . . . only about
five or six a day. If I could just have a look . . .'

The boss shook his head and smiled.

'Yes, I understand in principle it's not allowed . . .' I said sadly.
'Can't you at least take a look, eh? Maybe there wasn't a single
woman there that day, and it's my neighbour's idea of a joke. He's
like that . . . the jolly type.'

'From the tenth floor, you mean?' the boss asked, frowning.

I nodded:

'You take a look . . . just tell me if there was a woman there
or not.'

'This letter is compromising for you, isn't it?' the boss said.

'To some extent,' I admitted. 'As far as my wife is concerned.'

'Well, then you have grounds for viewing the recording,' the
boss decided.

'Thank you very much!' I exclaimed. 'Really, thank you!'

'You see how simple everything is?' said the boss, slowly pressing
a key on his computer keyboard. 'And you go getting the money
out . . . what Soviet sort of way is that to behave? Just a moment . . .'

I couldn't restrain myself, I got up and stood behind his shoulder.
The boss didn't object. He was pretty excited – evidently there
wasn't much work for him to do in the grounds of Assol.

The image of the post office appeared on the screen, first from
one corner – an excellent view of what the counter girls were
doing. Then from another corner – a view of the entrance and
the postbox.

'Monday. Eight in the morning,' the boss said triumphantly. 'And
now what? Are we going to sit and watch the screen for twelve
hours?'

'Oh, of course,' I said, pretending to be disappointed. 'I never
thought of that.'

'We press a key . . . no, this one here . . . And now what do we
have?'

The image started flickering rapidly.

'What?' I asked, as if I'd never designed the same kind of system
for our office.

'Movement search,' the boss declared.

We had our first taker at nine-thirty in the morning. Some
oriental-looking worker came into the post office and posted a
whole bundle of letters.

'Not your female stranger?' the boss quipped sarcastically. And
then he explained. 'That's one of the men building the second
block. They're always sending letters to Tashkent . . .'

I nodded.

The second visitor came in at quarter past one; I didn't know
him. A very respectable-looking gent, with a bodyguard walking
behind him.

The gentleman didn't post any letters. I didn't understand why
he went in at all – maybe he was eyeing up the girls, or studying
the layout at Assol.

And the third one was . . . Las!

'Oh!' the boss exclaimed. 'Now that's your neighbour, the jester,
isn't it? The one who sings songs at night.'

I was obviously a very poor detective . . .

'That's him . . .' I whispered. 'But would he really . . .'

BOOK: The Twilight Watch
6.52Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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