Dedication

Dedication

For my parents

Epigraph

Epigraph

This is a dubious text for the cause of Light.

—THE NIGHT WATCH

This is a dubious text for the cause of Darkness.

—THE DAY WATCH

Part One - Dubious Intent

Part One

Dubious Intent

Prologue

Prologue

SENIOR SERGEANT DMITRY PASTUKHOV WAS A GOOD POLIZEI.

Of course, for the purpose of enlightening drunks who got a bit above themselves he sometimes employed measures not actually prescribed by the regulations—a few good smacks in the teeth or well-aimed kicks, for instance. But only in cases where the dipso concerned was getting a bit too pushy about his rights, or refusing to proceed to the drunk tank. And Dima wouldn’t actually spurn a five-hundred note shaken out of some lunk from Ukraine or Central Asia who didn’t have a residence permit—after all, what with police pay being so low, the offenders might just as well pay him their fines directly. Nor did he raise any objections when he was poured a shot of cognac instead of a glass of water in eating joints on the territory under his purview.

After all, it was a demanding job. It was dangerous and difficult. And at first glance people hardly even seemed to notice it. There had to be some material incentives.

But, on the other hand, Dima had never beaten money out of prostitutes and pimps. On principle. Something in the way he’d been raised wouldn’t let him do it. Dima didn’t waste time dragging slightly tipsy citizens off to the sobering-up station while they still retained a glimmer of reason. And when he uncovered a real crime he launched himself into pursuit of the perpetrators like a shot. He always searched conscientiously for clues and submitted reports on instances of petty theft (that was, if the victims insisted on it, of course) and he made an effort to remember the faces of persons on the “wanted” list. He had several significant arrests under his belt, including a genuine murderer—a man who had first stabbed his wife’s lover (which was forgivable) and then his wife (which was understandable) and then, still brandishing the knife, had gone after the neighbor who had informed him about his wife’s infidelity. Outraged at such black ingratitude, the neighbor had locked himself in his apartment and called the police on 02. Arriving in response to the summons, Dima Pastukhov had first detained the murderer, who was pounding impotently on the iron door with his blood-smeared, puny little intellectual’s fists, and then struggled for a long time with his own desire to drag the whistle-blowing neighbor out onto the stairs and rearrange his face.