Jim Dutton.
She’d checked this morning on the ExtraOil website: Dutton worked on the Yamal Field, just south of the Arctic Circle. And, wait for it, have a guess who owned ExtraOil?
Nikolay Sokolov. Oligarch-in-chief.
That was the circle. From her, through Alexei, to the professor, to Dutton. Back to Alexei. With Sokolov and his acolytes in the centre.
But it was better than that.
It had just come to her. She had it all now.
Alexei’s message was a code; OK so it was rubbish code designed by a four-year-old, but now it made sense. Below Nikolay Sokolov, Sam wrote down his name in Russian Cyrillic: Николай Sokolov.
Nikolay Sokolov, NS in English. But HS in Russian.
Or SH, if you write the Russian version backwards.
Alexei’s message’s read: ‘We need to talk about SH and his work down south’. If you’re a four-year-old wannabe spy and you write things back to front, the original translates to: ‘We need to talk about HS and his work up north’!
Up north. The Yamal oilfields. He’d composed the email the wrong way round to hide its meaning. And he used Sokolov’s Russian initials.
Genius?
Hardly…
The chain was now unbroken. Throw in two cold-blooded killers, Kuznetsov and Ergorov, and you have all the ingredients of something very knotty indeed.
And it was still early Saturday morning. Work was 48 hours away. Could she extend that to 72, or 120 if she threw a sickie? Could she get to the Yamal oilfield and back within four days?
‘Brrrrrr!’
‘Shit! What the…’ It was her doorbell. Her mind raced, her heartbeat easily keeping up. Who the blazes is this?
Trouble?
She used the tissue to dry her eyes and quickly made her way to the kitchen window. She looked down on the street below. Nothing. Well, there was a cat helping itself to an upturned bin, but nothing else.
‘Brrrrrr!’
Her heart still racing, she dashed across the room to her front door – beside the reinforced door, secured with triple locks, was a video entrance system. She took a deep breath and turned on the screen.
It was Rich, the ex-copper. Sam’s shoulders dropped in relief. She pressed the intercom.
‘Rich! What the bloomin’ hell are you doing here? It’s almost three in the morning.’
‘I’m a night owl. I saw that you were live on the organisation’s system and I knew that Op Michael hadn’t gone well. I thought you might like company?’ He put on a sheepish smile and raised a bottle of red wine to the camera.
Sam dithered. What bizarre question had Rich asked in the office the night before last? What was the make of car that had knocked her down? It was out of place. Almost searching for something he didn’t need to know. Or, he was just naturally inquisitive? Maybe a car freak?
She pressed the ‘Open’ button. A buzz and a click let him in.
Rich left just over an hour later. Sam hadn’t helped him finish the bottle, she was too buzzed up, and she was making plans for the weekend as they chatted. He seemed genuine and, after half an hour, she really warmed to his laconic style and self-deprecating humour. He showed a lot of interest in her past; kind questions, nothing searching, just gentle enquiries. Fifteen minutes later Sam realised that his visit was as much about his own loneliness as it was about checking on her morale. His story was that he’d lost his wife to cancer ten years ago, left the police and became a spy. Two tours later he’d not made many friends in Moscow and saw Sam as a kindred spirit. He didn’t flirt with her (he was definitely not her type – too much hair; probably all over his body if his neckline was anything to go by), but was friendly, relaxed and emanated trust.
Why wouldn’t you trust an ex-copper-cum-spy?
Sam told Rich every detail of the last four days. She wanted to share her excitement with somebody, and she really did need to brief someone just in case things went tits up (she didn’t want to keep bothering Frank). She finished off by telling him that as soon as he left, she would be packing a small bag and heading a long way north.
His response was odd.
‘Have you thought that Alexei’s death, the professor’s arrest, the attempt on your life and the failure of Op Michael may be connected?’
Sam thought for a second, but couldn’t make a connection.
‘Sorry Rich, I don’t see how.’
‘Well maybe someone’s ahead of you. Someone who’s keeping track of what you’re up to – undermining it all.’
‘What, like a mole?’
‘It’s just a thought. Seems to me you’ve followed every procedure to the letter and yet you’ve been tripped at every turn. Coincidence?’
Sam didn’t believe in coincidences.
Could this be all about me?
Chapter 5
40km north of Arbat Village, Eastern Urals, Russia
Sabine cradled her coffee in both hands. Steam rose from the mug as if it were a cooling tower of a power station. It was cold; temperatures had dropped dramatically in the past three days. The surgery in Arbat’s sister village was a two-room affair. A small, cramped waiting room, and a treatment room which was just about large enough to fit Sabine, Dimitri and a patient. Originally there was a desk and two chairs, but she asked the local mayor to replace the desk with a bed – she would treat her patients, sitting beside them. The mayor had done his best: an old, stained mattress on top of a smithy’s workbench. Thankfully they had clean sheets, which the mayor’s wife replaced daily. Everyone was doing their bit, but it seemed that the mayor and his wife were at the centre of getting things done.
Qu'ils soient bénis. Bless them.
In the corner of the small room was a sink, but the water that eventually emerged after much pipe clanking, smelt foul. And looked just as revolting. While Sabine was seeing patients yesterday morning, Dimitri had been to the local town and bought a hundred litres of bottled water. When they needed boiled water, they used a primus stove.
For the lavatory, Sabine used a one metre square, wooden privy in the back garden of the house next door. Pulling a chain consisted of throwing in a scoop of lime, which sat in a grey bucket next to the wooden seat. She washed her hands back in the surgery with carbolic soap and recently boiled water.
There was no heating. That wasn’t strictly true. There was a fireplace in the waiting room, but it was boarded up. She survived by wearing plenty of clothes and drinking countless cups of instant coffee. This morning, a woman she had seen yesterday complaining of a rash all over her back, had brought in a pair of woollen fingerless gloves. The wool was black and oily, but they did the trick. At least now she could hold a pen even if the ink would probably congeal before it touched the paper. The locals all appeared much hardier and got away without layering up. But Sabine was clear that, even with thermals and a softie, she couldn’t do this indefinitely – not without the mayor jacking up some electricity and plugging in a bar heater.
It was her second day. To get here, she and Dimitri left Arbat just as the sun lifted its head above the Siberian Plain. It took them an hour and a half to travel the 40 kilometres to the village, the road twisting and bending, dropping east off the lower Urals, then turning north, before heading back into the hills. The direct route would have been quicker – on a mule. Yesterday they’d finished at 7pm and had eventually got back to Arbat just before 9pm. It had taken Sabine two hours to type up her notes onto the Cloud. She had seen 30 patients, all with a similar mix of ailments to the 82 who were registered in her village. Thankfully, after the death of the young Peter, and the pregnant woman and her deformed son, she’d not lost another patient. And, of the group she had treated here so far, none of them seemed particularly poorly. Still, most of them had a combination of ailments that were unusual for the area and time of year: rashes, lethargy, stomach upsets, dizziness and, most surprising of all for one old woman – hair loss.
She’d now had all of Arbat’s blood, stool and water resu
lts back from the hospital, including a more detailed analysis of the water supply. There was nothing that she could point to that would disproportionately affect such a small population. The water, which came from local springs, was safe to drink. The PH was average, metallic elements and salts were consistent with the local chalk and clay, and sulphates, nitrates and fluorides all seemed normal. Only chlorine levels were higher than you’d get out of a Western tap, but that was because the local administrators put chlorine in the village’s storage tanks.
In short, she was no further forward and didn’t know what to do next to try and rationalise symptoms against causes. And she was tired. Dog tired. The sort of tired that makes your hospital colleagues insist you go home for fear of making a mistake. But Sabine didn’t have ‘colleagues’ as such, she only had the lovely, hard-working Dimitri. She looked across at him over the brim of her mug. He was sitting uncomfortably on a small wooden chair, squashed between the door and the makeshift bed. He was clearly as tired as she was. The back of his head was resting against the peeling plasterwork, his mouth open and his eyes closed. Since lunch, the rhythm of his manly snore had been the soundtrack to any gaps between patients.
Through the window Sabine caught a glimpse of someone heading for the surgery.
‘Dimitri.’ Sabine spoke gently.
She sipped some more of her coffee.
‘Dimitri!’ Louder this time.
But clearly not loud enough.
Sabine stood and stretched, her hands to the ceiling, her back arched. She’d go and meet the patient herself.
She took the three short steps necessary to reach the door. She gently nudged Dimitri’s shoulder. He came to quickly, his eyes damp with sleep. Still dazed, he cleaned his teeth with his tongue and moved his fingers as if he were playing the piano. It was a real effort to break from his sleep.
‘Sorry. I must have fallen asleep.’
‘Don’t worry, Dimitri. There’s a new patient, I think. I’ll go and usher them in.’
‘No, no!’ Dimitri sounded affronted. ‘It’s my job.’ He made an effort to stand; Sabine put her hand back on his shoulder, keeping him still.
‘I’ll go. Make me another coffee, please. I’ve just finished the last one.’ She smiled at him, missing his return smile as she slipped into the waiting room.
It was the mayor. He was mid-height and size, probably in his 50s. He wore a heavy green woollen jacket, a black roll neck, jeans and cowboy boots; sensible, utilitarian semi-official clothes. He walked over to Sabine and shook her hand. She noticed for the first time that he dragged his left leg.
‘Hello doctor!’
Sabine knew that was the extent of the mayor’s English.
‘Hello Mr Mayor. Business or consultation?’ Sabine knew that he wouldn’t have understood what she had said. She raised both hands, holding the conversation.
‘Dimitri. Here please.’
The door to the consultation room was still ajar. Dimitri stuck his head around and saw straight away that his interpreting skills were needed. He was at Sabine’s side in a flash.
The mayor started the conversation in Russian.
‘I have found a generator. My wife’s brother is working on it now. It should be ready for tomorrow morning. Also, my cousin is bringing an electric heater this evening from his cowshed. I’m hoping we can have heating in your room tomorrow.’ He spoke quickly, drawing images with his hands and smiling as he did.
Dimitri translated. Sabine’s smile was as big as a crescent moon. These people are so generous and efficient.
She reached for the mayor’s hand and shook it vigorously.
‘Thank you, Mr Mayor, thank you.’
There was no need for translation. Still smiling, he nodded in return.
‘It’s the least we can do.’
Dimitri translated. A short embarrassing moment followed when no one had anything to say.
The mayor broke the silence. ‘Well, I will return tomorrow!’
And with that, he backed off a few steps and turned for the door. As he did, he wavered a bit, almost a stagger; he had to catch himself by placing a hand on a wall.
‘Are you okay, Mr Mayor?’ Sabine knew straight away that something wasn’t quite right. Dimitri translated immediately, his own voice carrying an air of concern.
The mayor looked over his shoulder toward Sabine, pain etched deep in the laughter lines emanating from the corner of his eyes.
‘I’m fine. It’s nothing.’ He shook his head, but his stance and grimace told a different story.
Sabine didn’t need a translation.
‘Come into my room, Mr Mayor.’ It was an uncompromising order from Sabine. Dimitri’s interpretation was much longer than her statement. He’d obviously elaborated to make sure the mayor knew that Sabine wasn’t taking prisoners.
She held the mayor’s elbow and escorted him into the treatment room.
‘Without Dimitri. Please.’ The mayor gently waved at Dimitri, figuratively pushing him away.
Sabine understood what he had said.
‘I can’t examine you without having a conversation.’
Dimitri translated.
‘No Dimitri. Please.’
Sabine took a deep breath and forced it out through pursed lips.
‘Please leave us, Dimitri. Take a seat on the bed, Mr Mayor.’ She gestured with her hands. The mayor did as he was told.
‘So, tell me what you can.’
The mayor, speaking at a pace which made any understanding impossible, backed up the jumble of Russian sounds by using his hands.
He had pain, ‘down below’.
Sabine didn’t reply; she didn’t want to waste effort on potentially misunderstood, or misinterpreted words. She reached for his leather belt and started to remove his trousers. He helped her drop them, and his pants, down to his ankles. She then grabbed his legs, lifting and turning them so that he lay on the bed.
She examined him.
It took her twenty minutes.
Nothing was said between them.
As she took off her disposable rubber gloves, placing them in the bin, Sabine sighed quietly. It was not good news. It was also perplexing.
She motioned for the mayor to get dressed and then called Dimitri back in. The mayor didn’t protest. He could probably tell from Sabine’s face that there was difficult news coming.
Dimitri stood reverently by the door.
‘Mr Mayor. You have two lumps in your scrotum.’ Sabine let Dimitri translate.
‘And your prostate is enlarged. How do you find going for a wee?’
There was a further pause as Dimitri translated.
‘It’s difficult. I need to go all the time and when I do it’s uncomfortable.’
‘And sex?’
Dimitri obliged. He coughed an embarrassing cough as he finished.
The mayor wiggled on the bed; his legs, which didn’t reach the ground, flapping about. He looked sheepishly at Dimitri and shook his head.
Sabine gave them all a few seconds.
‘I need to take some bloods. And you must get to the hospital as soon as you can.’ Dimitri translated. ‘They will take a biopsy of the lumps in your testes and they will need to take an ultrasound or an x-ray of your prostate. They’ll probably want to do some other tests.’ Again, Dimitri translated, but Sabine let the pause hang before giving her provisional verdict.
‘I think it’s possible that you have cancer. To have symptoms of both testicular and prostate cancer is very unusual. But we will need to see what the hospital discovers. Do you have any other pain?’
After Dimitri’s translation the mayor said, ‘I have back pain, here.’ He pointed to the area of his kidneys. ‘It comes and goes.’
Sabine sighed inwardly.
‘How long have you had a lump in your testes?’
‘Not long. I know to check – my uncle was a doctor. The lumps have only been there for a few weeks. And much of the pain is very recent.’
�
�Is there any history of cancer in your family?’
‘No, mostly heart trouble.’
Sabine knew where this was all heading. It was unusual for symptoms to raise themselves this quickly; possibly in three separate locations. But she wouldn’t know anything for sure until the hospital had done their work. But the prognosis was not good. And, whatever the mayor had, it was moving very quickly.
There was another pause after Dimitri had translated. Sabine met the mayor’s eyes. She saw dampness. She couldn’t stop herself from responding. She swallowed deeply and held back tears. This was a man who was clearly the centre of the village. Who made things happen. It was possible that his symptoms meant nothing; but that was very unlikely. It was also possible that his cells had a propensity to turn cancerous, but with no family history, that was also unlikely.
Or, and this really worried Sabine, the environmental factors that were causing the spate of illnesses in these two villages had the ability to destroy a man’s life in this way. And, likely, leave a huge hole in the village hierarchy and administration.
C’est de la merde.
It was shit. It was all shit.
Departure Desks, Miami International Airport, Florida, USA
‘I’m going to be fine, Daddy, I really am.’
Holly Mickelson understood her father’s concern. She really did. She was heading to the US Consulate in Istanbul, the most western of all of Turkey’s cities, for a six-month internship before taking her place at Princeton to study political sciences. In preparation, over the past three months she’d read an awful lot about Turkey. Since the failed coup, the country was a basket case. The current president was using the recent assault on the government to crack down on all his enemies and expand his powerbase. It was an only partially-concealed plan to cement his authority on the country, reduce the military’s influence and reinforce Islamic law.
So, even though her father was a Florida congressman and a very well-read Democrat, she almost certainly knew more about the political and environmental situation in Turkey than he did.
The Innocence of Trust Page 9