I must be a bastard, right?'

Our fragile truce wasn't exactly over, but it had reverted to the normal state of cold war. Kostya sat there fuming, and I sat there cursing myself for jumping to conclusions. They didn't issue licences for children under the age of twelve, and Kostya wasn't such a fool as to hunt without a licence.

But it had just slipped out . . .

'You've got a little daughter,' Kostya said, suddenly catching on. 'The same age, right?'

'Younger,' I replied. 'And prettier.'

'Obviously, your own are always prettier,' Kostya laughed. 'All right, Gorodetsky. I understand. Let's forget it. And thanks for the lead.'

'That's okay,' I said. 'Maybe those security men didn't see anything after all. They'd been drinking vodka or smoking dope . . .'

'We'll check it out,' Kostya said cheerfully. 'We'll check everything out.'

He rubbed the back of his head with his open hand and stood up.

'Time to go?' I asked.

'It's getting to me,' Kostya answered, squinting upwards. 'I'm disappearing.'

And he did just that, disappeared, after first averting the eyes of everyone there. There was just a dim shadow left hanging in the air for a second.

'Show-off,' I said and turned back over on to my stomach.

To be honest, I was feeling hot too. But I decided on principle not to leave with a Dark One.

I still had a few things to think through before I went to the Assol security office.

Witiezslav had done a really good job. When I turned up the head of security broke into a broad, friendly smile.

'Oh, look who's come to see us!' he declared, shoving some papers off to one side. 'Tea, coffee?'

'Coffee,' I decided.

'Andrei, bring us some coffee,' the boss commanded. 'And a lemon.'

And he reached into the safe and produced a bottle of good Georgian cognac.

The security man who had shown me into the boss's office was a little disconcerted, but he didn't argue.

'Any questions?' the boss asked as he deftly sliced the lemon. 'Will you have some cognac, Anton? It's good, I promise!'

And I didn't even know what his name was . . . I liked the former boss of security better. The way he'd treated me had been sincere.

But the former security boss would never have given me the information I was counting on getting now.

'I need to take a look at the personal files of all the residents,' I said. And I added with a smile: 'In a building like this you must keep a check on everyone, right?'

'Of course,' the boss agreed readily. 'Money's all very fine, but there are some serious people intending to live here, and we don't want any thugs or bandits . . .You want all the personal files?'

'The lot,' I said. 'For everyone who's bought an apartment here, regardless of whether they've moved in yet or not.'

'The files on the real owners or the people the apartments are registered to?' he asked politely.

'The real owners.'

The boss nodded and reached into the safe again.

Ten minutes later I was sitting at his desk and leafing through the files – all very neat and not too thick. Out of natural curiosity I started with myself.

'Do you need me here any more?' the security boss asked.

'No, thanks.' I eyed the number of files. 'I'll need about an hour.'

The boss went out, closing the door quietly behind him.

And I got stuck into my reading.

Anton Gordoetsky, it emerged, was married to Svetlana Gorodetskaya and had a two-year-old daughter, Nadezhda Gorodetskaya. Anton Gorodetsky had a small business – a firm trading in dairy products. Milk, kefir, cottage cheese and yoghurts . . .

I knew the firm. A standard Night Watch subsidiary that earned money for us. There were about twenty of them around Moscow, and their employees were perfectly ordinary human beings who never suspected where the profits really went.

It was all pretty modest and simple, cute. Like the old promo jingle for milk – 'On the meadow, on the meadow, who is grazing on the meadow?' That's right, Others. Well, I couldn't really deal in vodka, could I?

I put my file to one side and started on the other residents.

Naturally not all the information about the people was there, it couldn't have been. After all, no private security service, even in the most luxurious residential complex, is any match for the KGB.

But I didn't need much. Basic information about their relatives. In the first instance, their parents.

First I set aside those whose parents were alive and well and put the files on people whose parents were dead