Even if you love your job, the last day of vacation always makes you feel depressed. Just one week earlier I'd been roasting on a nice clean Spanish beach, eating paella (to be quite honest, Uzbek pilaf is better), drinking cold sangria in a little Chinese restaurant (how come the Chinese make the Spanish national drink better than the natives do?) and buying all sorts of rubbishy resort souvenirs in the little shops.

But now it was summer in Moscow again-not exactly hot, but stifling and oppressive-and it was that final day of vacation, when you can't get your head to relax anymore, but it flatly refuses to work.

Maybe that was why I felt glad when I got the call from Gesar.

"Good morning, Anton," the boss began, without introducing himself. "Welcome back. Did you know it was me?"

I'd been able to sense Gesar's calls for some time already. It was as if the trilling of the phone changed subtly, becoming more demanding and authoritative.

But I was in no rush to let the boss know that.

"Yes, Boris Ignatievich."

"Are you alone?"

An unnecessary question. I was certain Gesar knew perfectly well where Svetlana was just then.

"Yes. The girls are at the dacha."

"Good for them," the boss sighed at the other end of the line, and an entirely human note appeared in his voice. "Olga flew off on vacation this morning too… half the Watch staff are sunning themselves in southern climes… Think you could come around to the office right away?"