'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.'
CHAPTER 2
AFTER 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.