alternative organisation of Others? An organisation of 'wild Others' had been crushed that spring in St Petersburg, hadn't it? But crushed with great difficulty. A bad example was infectious, someone might have been tempted. And the worst thing was that even a Light One could have been tempted. To create a new Night Watch. A Super-Watch. Wipe out the Dark Ones completely, break the Inquisition and lure some of the Light Ones over to his side . . .

If that was the way things were, it was bad, very bad. The Dark Ones wouldn't surrender without a fight. The modern world was bristling with weapons of mass destruction and nuclear power stations, and a strike at them could wipe out the entire planet. The time was long over when a violent solution could lead to victory. Perhaps that time had never even existed . . .

'The pointer,' said Edgar. 'Look!'

My compass had stopped pretending to be a fan. The pointer spun more slowly, then froze, quivered – and began turning slowly to indicate a direction.

'Yes!' Kostya exclaimed, leaping out of his chair. 'It worked!'

And for just a split second I saw again the vampire-boy who had still not tasted human blood and was certain he would never have to pay a price for his Power . . .

'Let's move, gentlemen.' Edgar jumped to his feet. He looked at the pointer, followed its direction and stared hard at the wall. 'To the trains!' he said, sounding very determined.

CHAPTER 3

IT'S A COMMON sight at a railway station – a group of people dashing along the platform, trying to work out where their train's leaving from, if it hasn't already left. For some reason the role of these late passengers is almost always played by female shuttle-traders loaded down with Chinese striped-canvas bags or, in contrast, cultured males whose only burden is a Samsonite briefcase.

We belonged to an exotic subspecies of the second category – we had no baggage at all. Our overall appearance was pretty strange, but it inspired respect.

On the platform the pointer started spinning again – we were already close to the book.

'He's trying to get away,' Zabulon declared grandly. 'All right . . . now let's see which trains are leaving . . .'

The Dark One's gaze clouded over – he was forecasting the future, looking to see which train would leave the platform first.

I looked up at the information board hanging in the air behind us. And said:

'The Moscow–Almaty train is about to leave. In five minutes, from platform two.'

Zabulon returned from his prophetic travels and announced:

'The train to Kazakhstan leaves from platform two. In five minutes.'

He looked very pleased with himself.

Kostya snickered quietly, and Gesar looked up ostentatiously at the information board and nodded.

'Yes, you're right, Zabulon . . . And the next one's not for half an hour.'

'We'll stop the train and comb all the carriages,' Edgar suggested quickly. 'Right?'

'Will your subordinates be able to find the Other?' Gesar asked. 'If he's disguised? If he's a magician beyond classification?'

Edgar wilted. He shook his head.

'That's the point,' Gesar said with a nod. 'The Fuaran was in the station. It was right here, and we couldn't find the book or the criminal. What makes you think it will be any easier on the train?'

'If he's on the train,' said Zabulon, 'the easiest thing to do is destroy the train. No more problem.'

There was silence.

Gesar shook his head.

'I know, I know, it's not an ideal solution,' Zabulon acknowledged.' Even I don't like the idea of a thousand lives simply wasted . . . But what other choice do we have?'

'What do you suggest, Great One?' asked Edgar.

'If,' said Zabulon, emphasising the word, 'the Fuaran really is on the train, we have to wait for the moment when the train reaches an unpopulated area. The Kazakh steppes would be perfect. Then . . . we would follow the plans that the Inquisition has for such situations.'

Edgar gave a nervous jerk of his head and, as always happened when he was agitated, started speaking with a slight Baltic accent.

'That is not a good solution, Great One. And I myself cannot approve it – the sanction of the tribunal is required.'

Zabulon shrugged, his entire manner indicating that all he could do was make suggestions.

'In any case, we have to be certain that the book is on the train,' said Gesar. 'I suggest . . .' he looked at me and gave a barely perceptible nod. 'I suggest that Anton from the Night