“I asked. A quarter of an hour ago. Help was refused.”

“Then it’s up to us,” Jermenson declared cheerfully. “A very curious experience altogether . . . wouldn’t you say so, Ali?”

“For sure,” said Alisher, and shook the hand with the bracelet. His body was enveloped in a white glow. He shook his hand again and the glow faded away.

“Yes indeed,” said Jermenson, beaming. “I thought there was nothing left that could surprise me, but this Tiger really is a new experience in my life.”

And at that very moment there was a loud crash above us. Rumbling and powerful—as if something had exploded. The magicians raised their heads and listened.

“Semyon,” said Gesar. “I told him not to interfere . . . It’s a pity we don’t employ corporal punishment in the Watch.”

“We could introduce it,” Jermenson said brightly.

“He’s not overdoing it,” said Alisher. “But the guys don’t want to surrender the office without a fight. Even if it is only symbolic . . .”

Gesar looked at me.

“Anton, your task is simple. After the Tiger comes down the stairs and appears at that end of the corridor, we’ll have from three to five minutes. You can do something—to ease your conscience. A spell or two, only try not to nettle him . . . And then grab your daughter and leave. She knows how to open a portal.”

“I can do that too,” I said without any real conviction.

“Good. Then leave. And don’t even try to take the young lad with you. No pointless heroics. You’ve still got a long life ahead of you.”

“All right,” I said, nodding, disgusted to realize that I really meant it.

“We’ll do everything we can to try to delay him, and then leave,” said Gesar, either just for me or for all three of us. “A few minutes might be some kind of help . . .”

A piercing whistling sound started up overhead, as if steam under high pressure was escaping from a small aperture. What were they doing up there? Or was that the Tiger?

“A beautiful scene,” Jermenson said unexpectedly. “And very positive . . . international . . . A Tibetan, a Kazakh, and two Jews trying to save a little Russian boy . . .”

“I’m Uzbek,” Alisher remarked.

“I’m not Jewish,” I commented.

“With a surname like Gorodetsky?” Jermenson asked dubiously.

“It’s an ancient Russian name! From the name of the town on the Volga where my ancestors used to live.”

“That makes it even more beautiful,” Jermenson decided. “A Tibetan, an Uzbek, a Russian, and a Jew . . .”

“It sounds like the beginning of a joke,” Alisher muttered.

Gesar gazed at Jermenson and asked: “You mean to tell me you’re a Jew, Mark?”

“Mock on, mock on,” Jermenson growled.