turn a human being into an Other!

That meant the impossible was possible. The means existed. Not known to many, but they did exist . . .

I suddenly felt uneasy.

The traitor was one of our oldest and most knowledgeable magicians. Not necessarily a magician beyond classification, not necessarily someone who held a really important position. But an old hand with access to the greatest secrets . . .

For some reason I immediately thought of Semyon.

Semyon, the Light Magician who sometimes knew things that required the seal of the Avenging Fire to be applied to his body, to prevent him talking about them.

'I'm well into my second century . . .'

Maybe.

He knew a lot of things.

Who else did?

There was a whole bunch of old, experienced magicians who didn't work in the Watch. Just got on with living in Moscow, watched TV, drank beer, went to football matches.

I didn't know them, that was the problem. Those wise old birds who had quit working didn't want to get involved in the endless war between the Watches.

And who could I turn to for Advice? Who could I expound my terrifying conjectures to? Gesar? Olga? Potentially they were on the suspect list themselves.

No, I didn't believe they could have blundered. After the rough deal she'd had from life, Olga – not to mention the arch-cunning Gesar – would never make a gaffe like that, they wouldn't make impossible promises to a human being. And Semyon couldn't do it either. Semyon was wise, in the primordial, folk meaning of the word. I couldn't believe he would slip up like this . . .

That meant it was another of our senior colleagues who had blundered.

And anyway, how would I look putting forward an accusation like that? 'I think the guilty party is one of us. A Light One. Most likely Semyon. Or Olga. Or even you, Gesar . . .'

How could I carry on going to work after that? How would I be able to look my colleagues in the face?

No, I couldn't come out with suspicions like that. I had to know for sure.

Somehow it felt awkward to call the waitress over. I walked to the counter and asked her to make me a fresh cup of coffee. Then I leaned against the railings and looked down.

Below me I spotted my acquaintance from the night before. The guitarist, collector of amusing T-shirts and happy owner of a large English toilet, was standing beside a small open pool full of live lobsters. Las's face reflected the intense workings of his thought. Finally he laughed and pushed his trolley towards the checkout.

I pricked up my ears.

Las unhurriedly set out his modest purchases on the moving belt, with a bottle of Czech absinthe towering over everything else. As he was paying, he said:

'You know, that pool of lobsters you have over there . . .'

The girl at the checkout smiled, every element of her posture confirming that there was a pool and there were live lobsters paddling in it, and a couple of arthropods would go remarkably well with absinthe, kefir and frozen pelmeni.

'Well,' Las continued imperturbably, 'I just saw one lobster climb on another's back, crawl out onto the edge and hide under those fridges over there.'

The girl started blinking rapidly. A minute later two security men and a sturdy female cleaner appeared at the checkout. After listening to the terrible tale of the escape, they rushed over to the fridges.

Las finished paying, glancing back into the hall every now and then.

The pursuit of the non-existent lobster was in full swing. The cleaner was poking her mop under the fridges, with the security men bustling around her. I heard one of them say:

'Drive it this way, towards me! I can almost see it already!'

Las moved towards the exit with a quiet smile on his face.

'Go easy with that poking. You'll dent its shell – it'll be damaged goods,' one of the security men warned.

Trying to wipe a smile unworthy of a Light Magician off my face, I took my coffee from the waitress. No, that guy wouldn't have cut letters out of newspapers with nail scissors. That would have been far too tedious.

My phone rang.

'Hi, Sveta,' I said.

'How are things going, Anton?'

Her voice sounded a bit less alarmed this time.

'I'm having a coffee. I've had a chat with my colleagues. From the competing firms.'

'Aha,' said Svetlana. 'Well done. Anton, do you need my help at all?'

'But you . . . you're not on the staff,' I said, perplexed.

'I don't