was no refrigerator and no furniture, but there was a big cardboard box standing on the floor, full of supplies – bottles of mineral water and vodka, cans of food, packets of dry soup, boxes of crispbreads. Thanks, Gesar. If only you'd thought of getting me a saucepan as well . . .

From the 'kitchen' I walked towards the bathroom. Apparently I'd been clever enough not to display the toilet and the jacuzzi for everyone to see . . .

I opened the door and looked round the bathroom. Not bad, ten or twelve square metres. Nice-looking turquoise tiles. A futuristic-looking shower cubicle – it was frightening to think how much it would have cost and what fancy bits of technology it was stuffed with.

But there wasn't a jacuzzi. There wasn't any kind of bath at all – just the blocked-off water pipes sticking up in the corner. And in addition . . .

I looked frantically round the bathroom and confirmed my terrible suspicion.

There was no toilet there either!

Just the exit pipe to the drains blocked off with a wooden plug.

Great, thanks, Gesar!

Stop, no need to panic. They didn't put just one bathroom in apartments like these. There had to be another one – for guests, for children, for servants . . .

I darted back out into the studio space and found another door in the corner, right beside the entrance. My premonition had not deceived me – it was the bathroom for guests. There wasn't supposed to be a bath here, and the shower was simpler.

But instead of a toilet, there was just another plugged pipe.

Disaster.

Now I was really screwed!

Of course, I knew the genuine professionals didn't take any notice of such petty details. If James Bond ever went to the bathroom, it was only to eavesdrop on someone else's conversation or waste the villain hiding in the flush tank.

But I had to live here!

For a few seconds I was on the point of calling Gesar and demanding a plumber. And then I imagined what his reply would be.

For some reason in my imagination Gesar smiled. Then he heaved a sigh and gave the order – after which someone like the head plumber of all Moscow came and fitted the toilet in person. And Gesar smiled again and shook his head.

Magicians of his level didn't make mistakes in the detail. Their mistakes were cities in flames, bloody wars and the impeachment of presidents. But not overlooked sanitary conveniences.

If there was no toilet in my apartment, then that was the way it was meant to be.

I explored my living space once again. I found a rolled-up mattress and a pack of bed linen with a cheerful design. I laid out the mattress and unpacked the things from my bag. I changed into my jeans and the T-shirt with the optimistic message about clinical death – I couldn't wear a tie in my own home, could I? I took out my laptop . . . Oh yes, was I supposed to get onto the internet via my mobile phone?

I had to make yet another search of the apartment. I found a mains connection in the wall of the large bathroom on the 'studio' room side. I decided that couldn't be accidental and glanced into the bathroom. I was right – there was another mains socket beside the non-existent toilet.

I'd had some odd ideas when I was working on this place . . .

The power was on. That was good at least, but it wasn't the reason I'd come here.

I opened the windows to dispel the oppressive silence. The warm evening air came rushing into the room. On the far side of the river, lights were twinkling in the windows of the buildings – the ordinary, human buildings. But the silence was just as intense. No wonder, it was after midnight.

I took out my minidisc player, rummaged through my discs and chose The White Guard, a group that was never going to top the charts on MTV or fill sports stadiums. I stuck the earphones in my ears and stretched out on the mattress.

When this battle is over,

If you survive until the dawn,

You'll realise the scent of victory

Is as bitter as the smoke of defeat.

And you're alone on the cold battlefield,

With no enemies from now on,

But the sky presses down on your shoulders,

What can you do in this empty desert?

But you will wait

For what time

Will bring,

You will wait . . .

And honey will taste more bitter than salt,

Your tears more bitter than the