Exoteric

by Philip Hemplow

  “Why are you doing this?” asked Sophia, putting up her hood and closing her eyes. “I mean, really why? I was thinking about it on the plane. I know why I’m here: my dad back is the only thing I’ve ever wanted, the one thing money can’t buy you—except now you’re telling me it can. What’s in it for you though?”

  “I just do what my boss tells me to do,” said Arkady, peering both ways as he pulled out of the parking space and steered towards the road. “He says do this, so this is what I do.”

  “Mmm. If your boss was God, you’d be an angel.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Just something my father used to tell me. If I wanted to do something he disapproved of with my friends, he’d say ‘if your friends were God, you’d be an angel.’”

  “I see. Well, let’s assume my boss isn’t God. Things are complicated enough as it is.”

  The teenager made an appreciative honking noise that wasn’t quite a laugh, and settled down to sleep. Within five minutes she was snoring softly. Arkady drove for half an hour, letting her drift into a deep slumber before pulling over and extracting her mobile phone from the pocket of her jeans. He had told her not to bring one, but it was inevitable she would. Shaking his head, he slipped it into a Faraday pouch and tucked it away in his coat before driving on.

  The temperature had dropped sharply since his first visit to Zubgorai, and he drove slowly, wary of black ice on the road. The doctors had been at the resort two days already, supervising the installation of their equipment. Votyakov the Ogre and the guards hired from Clandestine were due to arrive sometime that day, coming by road with supplies of food, fuel, communications gear, and weapons.

  The girl was bounced awake when he turned onto the rough, steep track which led through the forest, coming-to with typical adolescent reluctance. By the time her eyes opened fully they had reached the plateau. She sat up straighter and gazed, befuddled, at their surroundings. It was a clear day, the split peak of Zubgorai looming against an untextured, turquoise sky. Stubborn shreds of mist clung to the rock face like ships at anchor, sheltering from the southerly wind.

  “Oh, my.” She rubbed her eyes, though more with tiredness than disbelief. “Is this it? Is this the place?”

  “This is it,” confirmed Arkady.

  “Where are we?”

  “A long way from anywhere. I hope you brought something to read.”

  It looked as though Votyakov and his men had beaten them there. Two huge trucks were parked haphazardly by the front doors, next to two Land Rovers leased from Clandestine. A rat’s nest of orange cables ran from each vehicle to a post-mounted electrical outlet which would power the block heaters needed to prevent batteries and engines from freezing in the Siberian winter. The Rovers sat low on their suspension, weighed down by after-market armour plate concealed behind their body panels. Men were wheeling trolleys piled with boxes and equipment into the building, under the watchful eye of a man who could only be the Ogre.

  Arkady wasn’t sure he would have been able to place him if he didn’t know who to expect. Age had taken its toll, of course, but maybe there was something familiar about the shape of his shaven skull, the hunch of his spine. He stood by the parked cars with his hands in his pockets, shoulders drawn up high, chin tucked low, like a heron waiting for fish.

  He watched as Arkady slotted the SUV in amongst the Land Rovers. Sophia continued to stare, bleary-eyed, at the scenery, rummaging in her pockets and reaching behind her back to run her hands along the angle of her seat.

  “My phone—it must have fallen out. Did you pick it up?”

  “Yes,” said Arkady, plucking the keys from the ignition. “Phones are not allowed here. I did warn you.”

  “Oh, come on! I promise to leave it in flight mode—please?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t allow it. I’ll look after it for you.”

  “Oh, you’ll look after it, will you? Remind me: how much am I spending to fund this…thing? I should be allowed to have my phone if I want it.”

  Arkady turned to face her. “Be clear,” he said, his voice deadly quiet. “Your money affords you no special privileges here. You’re a spectator: a welcome spectator, but one who must observe the rules. The rules are to protect you, your father, and this project. No one is exempt. When I tell you something is non-negotiable, that is the way of it.”

  Sophia pursed her lips and was about to retort when he carried on. “I promise, if we’re successful, if we…wake up your father, you can have it back straight away.”

  Votyakov was approaching the car, stalking across the open ground with his long, dark coat flapping about him. Arkady laid hold of the door handle.

  “You see this man coming towards us? I want you to avoid him. Avoid speaking to him, and keep out of his way as much as you can. Wait here.”

  He opened the door before she could ask why, and the vehicle’s warm fug was instantly displaced by the icy mountain wind, rushing in like water through an airlock.

  Votyakov stopped ten feet away, as if wanting to reassure Arkady he posed no threat.

  “Good morning, Colonel Andreyushkin. It’s good that you arrived safely.”

  The Ogre’s voice rasped like boots on a scraper. He bared his teeth when he spoke, thin, bloodless lips drawn back in a parody of a smile. His eyes, dark and impassive as knots in wood, looked out from beneath a jutting brow. They flickered briefly to Sophia, in the car, before fixing themselves on Arkady once more.

  “Votyakov.” Arkady nodded in acknowledgement and went to meet him. “You made good time getting here.”

  “Yes.” He nodded in the direction of the men still unloading boxes from the other vehicles. “They drove through the night. Mr Zolin was very clear about the importance of your work here. I will not be responsible for delaying you.”

  Arkady extended his hand and Votyakov shook it. The Ogre’s grip was strong and, up close, it was hard not to feel intimidated by him. While Arkady had spent most of two decades behind a desk, softening and growing weak, Votyakov had stayed out in the cold, doing God-alone knew what. He remained lean and hungry, with the un-sculpted musculature of a man used to work, not working-out. His face was gaunt, skin stretched tight over bones which looked sharp enough to tear it, his hollow cheeks rimed with snowy white stubble. He wore no gloves, despite the cold, and Arkady could see neat crescents of dirt under his fingernails.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” said Arkady, nodding vigorously to hide the lie. “Zolin says good things about you. The men: how much have they been told?”

  “Nothing. They know who will give them orders, which is all they need to know. When not on duty they will sleep in one of those huts, out of the way. You won’t even know they’re here.”

  “The huts?” Arkady was dubious. “It gets very cold here. Are you sure?”

  The Ogre bared his teeth again, in a chilling, rictus grin. “It will be good for them. They have been too long out of the army, working as bodyguards and bully-boys. They will mewl, but they are being well paid. A little discomfort will stiffen their sinews and blunt their curiosity.”

  Arkady suppressed a shiver. “Very well,” he allowed. “I will leave their disposition to you. Did all the items we were expecting arrive?”

  He heard a car door open behind him, and knew from the direction of Votyakov’s gaze that Sophia had grown tired of waiting for him.

  “Did all the items we were expecting arrive?” he repeated, keen to deflect Votyakov’s attention from the girl.

  “Yes,” replied Votyakov. He turned his long skull back in Arkady’s direction. “The…additional cargo…from Interval was the first thing we unloaded: lights, cleaning things, some computers…your doctor-man is fussing over it all now, inside.”

  “And the arrangements for the test material?”

  “Coming tomorrow, from Novosibirsk. I will fly there tonight and drive it straight here.”

  “Good.”

  “I have a letter for you, from Mr Zolin.”

&nbs
p; He produced a slim envelope from inside his coat. Arkady took it and stuffed it into his pocket. He would wait until he was alone before opening it.

  “Thank you. I’d better go and see to my team. If you need me, I’ll be in the clinic. Come, Sophia.” This last to the girl, who had sidled closer, drawing the Ogre’s attention again. She visibly bridled at being ordered around, but held her tongue and followed him.

  “Who was that?” she wanted to know, as soon as they were out of the Ogre’s earshot. “Is that your boss?”

  “No. I’m his boss,” replied Arkady, privately wondering how true that was. “I want you to stay away from him and his men. Do you understand? They are not nice people, especially to girls like you.”

  “What do you mean, ‘girls like me’?”

  “I mean ‘girls’—like you. Keep your distance. If any of them harass you, tell me at once. You’re not in London now. Your money and your friends are a long way away, so just do as I tell you—please.”

  “You know, you aren’t the first man to play at being my father. They’re never any good at it.”

  “Well…in a few days, hopefully nobody will have to play at that anymore. Until then, you need to do as I say.”

  She was quiet for a moment, either weighing his words or deciding whether to goad him further. In the end, she decided not to.

  “Okay,” she agreed. “You’re the boss.”

  She was humouring him, but he let it pass. Holding the door, he ushered her into the altitude clinic.

  *

  It took Arkady an effort of will to drag his eyes away from the gleaming, steel tank and focus on what Zapad was saying. Even then, he remained aware of it, tugging at his attention from the corner of the calorimeter room.

  “…biggest unknown is the biochemical aspect. I anticipate a degree of toxic damage—I think that’s inevitable—but the status of specific circulating proteins, neurotransmitters, lipids, and the like, is really impossible to predict. I would hope any immediate crisis will resolve as homeostasis is re-established, but we should be prepared for dialysis and extended life support.”

  Galina Yelagin was there, too, leaning against the operating table in the centre of the room. She looked pensive, as did Sophia. The twenty-year-old seemed to be ignoring Zapad entirely. Arkady watched her reach out a hand to touch the cryostat, fingers tracing her deformed reflection, breath fogging the polished metal.

  “Ah, yes, our storage system: really little more than a basic hard-shell, hard-vacuum Dewar flask. Interval’s proprietary model is state-of-the-art, though I say so myself. The liquid nitrogen reservoir is in the bottom, and a magnetic fan circulates the super-cooled vapour throughout, to prevent thermal stratification of the gases. Cooled to 146 degrees below zero, so the tissues remain preserved just above the glass transition temperature of my vitrification medium. The protocol I’ve devised reduces the danger of stress fractures to an absolute minimum, and we’ll build an annealing cycle into the thaw. Any damage should therefore occur only at the microscopic level.”

  “He’s in here? Right now?” murmured Sophia.

  “Ah…yes. Yes, he is. Just him at the moment. Normally there would be up to five full-body patients per unit, and a number of neuros, but we transferred him to this ‘stat a week ago so he would be travelling alone. This one is steel, rather than fibreglass, so it’s rather more durable—better suited to transportation.”

  “It feels strange, to be so near him again after all this time.”

  She spread her arms and hugged the cryostat, pressing her cheek to the sleek metal. Zapad and Arkady looked at their feet, uncomfortable with the theatrics. Eventually she lifted her face from the tank, leaving a smudge of lipstick and a single tear beading its surface. She turned and smiled at them: a sad, apologetic little smile that signalled the end of the performance.

  Zapad coughed, embarrassed, and began talking again.

  “Of course, he’s stored head-first: upside down. That way, if there’s a leak and the nitrogen starts to escape, his brain will stay frozen the longest, even if his body thaws.”

  “I think you can spare us some of the clinical details,” cautioned Arkady, with a concerned glance at the girl. “Perhaps you should just tell us what the next step is.”

  “Yes! Right…sorry.” The doctor apologised, clicking his heels together like a guardsman. “Next, we must conduct a dry-run so Galina can become comfortable with the telesurgery tools, and to make sure the equipment all functions at the planned operating temperature. Your man—Mr Votyakov, is it?—he assures me that arrangements for a test cadaver are all in place.”

  “So I believe. And you are ready?”

  “We will be, once we have unpacked and tested the rest of the equipment.”

  Arkady nodded and addressed Galina Yelagin, who was still leant against the table, brooding. “And you, Doctor? Do you have everything you need?”

  She slowly turned her head, weary, tawny eyes regarding him from beneath drooping lids.

  “Everything but a drink,” she said, pushing herself upright. “Excuse me, please.”

  She edged past them out of the room, presumably in search of liquor.

  “She’ll be all right,” Zapad assured them once the door had closed. “It is just nerves. Once the patient is on the table, all will be well with her. You’ll see.”

  “I hope so, Doctor,” said Arkady, watching through the observation window as she shuffled down the corridor, hands in pockets, head bowed. “I really do.”

  *

  Arkady finally laid the book aside, admitting defeat. It was one of Ana’s that she had pestered him to read—Pelevin’s Omon Ra—but he was too distracted for reading. She had been a voracious reader, seldom without a book to hand, but Arkady had always preferred films. Books, Russian ones at least, had a tendency to lead him to uncomfortable self-reflection. Films were more forgiving. He stayed on the bed, massaging his aching thigh, replaying the day in his mind and worrying about the one to come.

  He had read Zolin’s letter on the toilet, tearing it up and flushing it once he’d memorised the contents. It had been succinct, by Zolin’s standards, the handwriting a hurried scrawl.

  A: If you are reading this, you have become reacquainted with the Ogre of Lefortovo. He still looks alarming, I know, but can be trusted to follow my orders. He has been told of your immediate objectives, and of possible antagonists—a necessity, if he’s to help preserve the project’s security—but has been instructed to let you work without interference. I have made arrangements for the organ donor and a test cadaver. Perform your preliminary tests quickly—the donor is not expected to survive much longer, and hearts are hard to come by. Once he expires there will be only a few hours in which to transport the organ and for your people to install it in its new host. You must be ready to operate at short notice, as soon as possible.

  M. continues to marshal his followers, and we may not have as much time as we thought. The corridors are full of whispers, and the British and Americans are talking to everyone. Minkov, Batishchev, and Ivchenko have all been offered lecture tours in America, which take them out of the country for the next several weeks. I, too, have been ordered to accompany an inspection of the bureau in Donbass next week, and the Prime Minister will be attending the Eurasian EU summit. An audit of our files has been announced, to tie my hands as much as possible, and questions have been asked about your whereabouts. You should be prepared for awkwardness on your return.

  Work hard, work fast, and get us something. Other avenues of opposition are closing. If your attempt should fail, inform me immediately, but only once every possibility has been exhausted. If you succeed, and he is strong enough, get him out of the country as fast as you can.

  Make history, old friend.

  Z

  The afternoon had been spent in preparation. Holes had to be drilled through the calorimeter’s walls so cables for the robotics and cameras could be run through, then sealant applied around them. One of the old sanat
orium huts had been designated as a mortuary, which meant fitting new padlocks to the door and ensuring there was no way for scavenging animals to find their way inside.

  Arkady had cooked, improvising a crude risotto from the scant ingredients available, while the others, Sophia aside, attended to odd jobs and tidying. Galina Yelagin had come in while he was slicing onions. She’d been carrying a tumbler of vodka and ice, and already looked as glassy-eyed as the onions were making him.

  “You cook,” she’d observed, leaning against the worktop.

  “I cook,” Arkady had agreed.

  “How fortunate…for your wife. I noticed the ring. I imagine she’s appreciative.”

  “She was.”

  He’d turned his back on her to rummage through the small box of herbs and spices that travelled with him, plucking out a small box of saffron and sprinkling a generous pinch of it into a bowl.

  “Ah. I see.”

  Ice cubes clinked as she raised the glass again to her lips, challenging him to say something about her drinking so she could retort. He hadn’t done so: just poured hot water onto the saffron, watching carotene bleed from the tumbling strands as he stirred it. He hadn’t wanted to talk about Ana. Not to a drunk.

  “That man out there,” she’d continued, having failed to provoke a reaction. “The tall one. He is a colleague of yours?”

  She meant Votyakov—he knew she meant Votyakov—but he’d asked her to clarify anyway.

  “Yes,” she’d slurred, “the one who grins like the devil himself. You work with him often?”

  “I’ve never worked with him, personally,” Arkady said. “I know of him.”

  “I don’t like the way he looks at me.”

  “Nobody here will harm you, I guarantee you that.”

  “Ha!”

  Arkady had left a giant sauté pan, found in one of the cupboards, heating on the stove. The butter he flicked into it turned instantly to sizzling foam. Galina had kept on talking, raising her voice while he scraped onion onto the fat and began to stir.