“Ah, come on, they’re absolutely identical,” Pastukhov replied in his usual manner.

Bisat spat disdainfully and shook his head.

“They may look the same. But in essence they’re completely different!”

“They might be different in essence, but in reality they’re absolutely identical!” Dima replied, watching the “wolf,” who had walked past and was also going towards the car park.

Bisat took offense and stopped talking.

Pastukhov finished off his cigarette in a few quick drags and looked at the door of the terminal again.

His first thought was angry, even resentful: Are they holding some kind of grand get-together in there today?

And then the fear hit him.

The individual who had walked out of the doors when they slid open and was now standing there, gazing round thoughtfully, wasn’t a “dog.” But he wasn’t a “wolf,” either. He was someone else. A third kind.

A kind that ate wolves for breakfast and dogs for lunch. And left the tastiest parts for supper.

The classification that immediately occurred to Pastukhov was “tiger.” He said: “I’ve got stomach cramps . . . I’m off to the can.”

“Go on, I’ll have a smoke,” replied his partner, still offended.

To have asked Bisat to go to the toilet with him would have been strange. There wasn’t any time to explain anything or invent anything. Pastukhov turned round and walked away quickly, leaving Iskenderov in the path of the “tiger.” “He won’t do anything to him . . . He’ll just walk straight past, that’s all . . .” Pastukhov reassured himself.

Pastukhov only looked round as he was already walking into the departure hall.

Just in time to see Bisat salute casually and stop the “tiger.” Of course, his partner couldn’t spot them—there wasn’t any incident in his past like the one Pastukhov had experienced. But this time even he had sensed something—with that policeman’s intuition that sometimes helped you pull an entirely unremarkable-looking man out of a crowd and discover that he had a rod stashed in a secret holster or a knife in his pocket.

Pastukhov suddenly realized that his stomach cramps were genuine now. And he sprinted into the airport’s safe, noisy interior, full of people and suitcases.

Since he was a good polizei, he felt very ashamed. But he felt even more afraid.

Chapter 1

Chapter 1

“GORODETSKY WILL REPORT ON THE SITUATION REGARDING this morning’s incident,” said Gesar, without looking up from his papers.

I stood up. Caught Semyon’s glance of sympathy. Started talking.

“Two hours ago I saw Mr. Warnes off on the flight to New York. After our colleague had checked in and was buying vodka in the duty-free . . .”

“You mean you went through passport control with him, Gorodetsky?” Gesar inquired, again without raising his eyes.

“Well, yes.”

“What for?”

“To make sure that he was all right . . .” I cleared my throat. “Well, and to buy something for myself in the duty-free . . .”

“What, exactly?”