Votyakov cocked his head and squinted at him. The cherry of his cigarette flared to amber as the wind tugged at it, snatching away sparks.
“The point, Colonel, is that we may have difficulty bringing in the donor organ. I’m told that from the time they switch off the life support machines, we have only a few hours to get it here before it is useless. If the helicopter carrying it can’t get here, or can’t land…” He shrugged and left the sentence unfinished.
“If necessary, we’ll wait until the weather clears,” declared Arkady with a shrug of his own.
“That could be weeks! This is Siberia. It’s winter. There are more bad days here than good.”
Arkady hated to admit it, but the Ogre had a point. He remembered the footage of Maslok on the morning news. He was making his move already. A delay of weeks could mean they were too late to stop him, even assuming the experiment worked.
“I’ll talk to Zapad,” he said. “See how long it will take to…defrost the recipient. If he can be ready for the operation tomorrow, we’ll bring the heart in then, before the worst of the weather arrives. It means you and Dr Yelagin will need to get up there today and stand by for instructions. Once the host starts thawing, there’s no turning back and no room for error.”
“Of course.”
Votyakov took a last drag on his cigarette, then turned and flicked the burning butt over the cliff edge. They both watched as the updraft caught and carried it, tumbling, into the distance.
“There is another thing I should mention,” said Votyakov quietly. “An alternative way to accomplish your mission.”
He gave Arkady a sidelong glance. Arkady curled his lip. How much, exactly, did the Ogre know about his mission? What brief had Zolin actually given him? Arkady could well believe that Votyakov was there to act as Zolin’s failsafe. It was exactly the kind of thing the Section Head would do. Not because he didn’t trust his deputy; he just preferred not having to.
Votyakov was still looking at him, waiting to be invited to introduce his idea. Arkady kept him waiting, letting each second that passed act as a reminder of who was in charge. Only once he was sure the hunchback had got the message did he prompt him.
“Oh, yes? And what way is that? I would hate to overlook an obvious alternative.”
The Ogre smirked, seeing through his affected insouciance. “Well,” he said, “I was talking to Dr Zapad about the operation. He said more than he probably should—we’ll need to keep an eye on that twitching tongue of his—but he mentioned the risk of tissue rejection. Are you familiar with that condition? It’s very common in transplant patients, apparently.”
“Yes, I know what tissue rejection is,” snapped Arkady, losing all patience. “What of it?”
“Of course, there are drugs to keep it under control,” continued Votyakov, as if he hadn’t been interrupted, “but they come with risks of their own. It would be better to reduce the risk of it happening at all, but…while are such things as artificial hearts, the doctor says they aren’t good enough yet.”
Arkady stared at him, wondering what he was driving at. The Ogre was toying with him. Suddenly he felt afraid, intimidated by the other man’s height and strength, and the dark, mocking sadism in his eyes.
“So? What’s your point? Leave treatment decisions to the medics. That’s not our department. Zapad knows what he’s doing.” Where’s he going with this?
“One way to minimise the risk of rejection is to take organs from a host whose genes are similar to those of the patient—or so I’m told. I’m no expert.” The Ogre grinned, relishing the moment. “Ideally, a sibling—but, of course, old Molchanov didn’t have any brothers or sisters, did he?”
“What are you—oh!” Arkady was unable to contain a gasp as he realised what the Ogre was proposing. He took an involuntary step back, raising his hands and shaking his head. “No! Absolutely not!”
“Offspring are less satisfactory—fifty percent of her genes will be from her mother’s side—but it would still mean less chance of rejection, less chemotherapy…”
There was that grin again, fiendish and cruel, white-bristled lips drawn back from nicotine-stained teeth, eyes which had mirrored a thousand screaming faces. Arkady could hear blood pound like hoofbeats in his ear as his anger fought his fear. Anger won. He stepped forward and thrust his face up towards the Ogre’s.
“I said no! It’s an idiotic suggestion.”
The grin became a sneer. “Perhaps you allow yourself to become too close to the girl, Colonel. I’ve seen you. She’s too young for you, you know. The mission—”
“I know my mission!” hissed Arkady. “And I know yours, you damned fool! Do you think I let her come here for no reason? We need her! If this works, if he wakes up, whom else do you think he’ll talk to? Who else can get the information we need from him?”
“Oh, he’ll talk.”
Arkady rolled his eyes, his moment of intimidated fear forgotten. “Really? You think you can coerce information from a frightened, confused man, whose last memory was being shot; who has no idea where he is or how he got there; a man who probably has brain damage, or blood poisoning, or both, who’s just come round from major surgery, and who’s been dead for more than a decade? You’ll forgive me for harbouring doubts!”
It was Votyakov’s turn to be annoyed. “If he dies—”
Arkady cut him off again. “If he dies after he’s given us his passwords, then our mission is a success. If he lives to a ripe old age but we don’t get them until it’s too late, we’ll have failed—so fucking well leave the girl alone!”
Votyakov looked as though he was going to retort, but thought better of it. He scowled and slumped back against the railing with a curt nod, seeming to diminish in size and stature, the hunch in his shoulder somehow more pronounced.
“Fine! It was a suggestion—just a suggestion.”
“Oh, it’s been noted,” Arkady assured him, narrowing his eyes. “Just know that if anything happens to that girl, you’ll be held personally responsible. You’re replaceable; she isn’t. Now, go and see to…whatever you need to do. Check the helicopter’s being kept on standby. Check the donor’s still ticking. Brief your men—whatever. I’ll talk to the doctors. And this”—he raised a warning finger as the Ogre turned to go—“this topic does not come up again. Is that clear?”
Votyakov glared at him with real contempt, but closed his eyes and bowed his head in mute acknowledgement before stomping back across the patio, and inside.
Arkady closed his eyes, and took a minute to let his temper settle.
You’re too old to be making enemies now, Ana’s voice admonished him.
He snorted. Oh, so what? He’s not the first. He shouldn’t have questioned me. I’m in charge here.
You need a haircut, she added, as the wind blew strands of it away from his scalp.
An ominous creaking noise echoed down the cliff face, low and ominous, like the grinding of fractured bones. He turned around. It was coming from the fat nugget of grey ice at the top of the frozen cataract. A light shower of powdered snow shivered down as its weight shifted. Arkady stood and watched, wondering if it would break away and go tumbling down the mountain—but it didn’t. The reverberations died away as it found a new equilibrium, and that was the end of it.
He turned, re-crossed the frozen patio, and went back inside, stamping his feet to shake the snow from his boots. Without taking his coat off, he went upstairs to his room, where his suitcase was stowed on the top shelf of the wardrobe. Lifting it out and dropping it on the bed, he rummaged through it until he found the small box which had forced him to flash his FSB card at the airport. In it, cradled in grey foam, were a compact, snub-nosed PSM pistol and two eight-round magazines. Extracting them, he slotted one of the magazines into the gun and dropped it into the right-hand pocket of his coat. The spare mag went into his left.
He turned from side to side, checking his reflection in the mirror. The PSM was slim, just two centimetres wide, and cr
eated no noticeable bulge. It didn’t have much stopping power—certainly not compared to the Lebedev he’d glimpsed protruding from Votyakov’s inside breast pocket—but Arkady would take discretion over destruction any day. If it ever came to a fight, he told himself, he’d just have to remember to shoot the Ogre in the head.
*
He found Zapad and his stepsister cleaning up after the previous night’s surgery. The drug addict’s body had been removed, carted out to the makeshift morgue among the huts by Votyakov’s goons. A faint, coppery odour lingered on the air, slowly succumbing to the dense stench of sterilising fluid.
Dr Yelagin was reassembling the surgical robot, sliding freshly-autoclaved blades and tools into their receivers. Zapad was vigorously mopping the floor. They both looked round as the door slid open and Arkady stepped inside.
“A little warmer in here today, Colonel,” panted Zapad, sounding cheerful, resuming his swabbing. “Warmer…and cleaner! With luck, the real operation will be rather less messy than this one was. Vitrification mixture is much easier to wipe up than blood!”
Arkady smiled politely. “Very good. How soon will you be ready to operate again?”
“How soon? Hmm, well, this room will need to be cooled again, and we can’t operate without the patient. Molchanov must thaw to the same temperature. And, of course, we will need the donated organ.”
“Indeed. So, how soon?”
Zapad rested on his mop and considered the question.
“Well, the preoperative thaw, from minus 146 to minus 40 should only take a matter of hours, once the patient is removed from the cryostat. In fact, the faster the better—otherwise we face the risk of devitrification. The surgery itself can be performed in a leisurely manner, but will certainly take an hour or two. The final thaw, to room temperature, must be performed gradually and will take at least a day. My protocol calls for numerous annealing intervals before the glycerol is flushed and transfusion of blood begins.”
“But the patient could be ready for surgery tomorrow,” persisted Arkady.
“In theory, I suppose, were it to become necessary. We would need to extract him from the cryostat today though, and as soon as possible. Why? Is there a problem?”
The doctor looked suddenly apprehensive, afraid his project was under threat. Arkady did his best to reassure him.
“No problem, as such. Just some bad weather, which means our schedule must be accelerated. I would like Dr Yelagin to travel with Mr Votyakov today, to be sure we retrieve the donor heart before the storm arrives. After tonight, it may be some time before we can land a helicopter here, and if the donor expires in the meantime we would undoubtedly have difficulty finding another.”
Zapad looked at his sister, who shrugged. “Fine by me,” she said. “Let’s get it over and done with. The donor is on life support, yes?”
“I’m told he’s brain dead. He has a living will which allows mechanical ventilation to be discontinued once we are ready to claim his donor parts, which include the heart.”
“Are there surgical facilities where he is?”
“Yes, you should have everything you need. He is at a medical centre in Krasnoyarsk. You will travel there by commercial plane and return by helicopter. Votyakov has all the details.”
“I will need some time to vitrify the donor organ before we operate,” pointed out Zapad. “A couple of hours, at least. Otherwise, it will freeze and the ice will damage it.
“Well, you will have to work fast,” said Arkady. “Everyone will have to work fast. From this point, any mistakes or delays will be irrecoverable.”
“It’s hardly our fault we’re working in a health spa instead of a hospital,” said Galina, tugging the disposable vinyl gloves off her fingers and crossing the room to the rubbish bin. “Or that I have a robot instead of a surgical team, and must operate in Antarctic, sub-zero, deep-frozen damned conditions, on a patient with antifreeze for blood!” She stamped on the bin’s pedal unnecessarily hard, flinging the gloves inside and turning to fix Arkady with an imperious stare.
“I’m not insinuating anything,” Arkady assured her, avoiding the invitation to acknowledge the covert nature of their activities. “Merely making a plea for coordination of all our efforts. I know we all have Mr Molchanov’s best interests at heart.”
Neither doctor replied to that. They were probably reluctant to perform a Hippocratic evaluation of their own motives, thought Arkady. He took the opportunity to close the discussion.
“So, if Dr Yelagin can be ready to leave in an hour, I will instruct Mr Votyakov to be ready for her. Once they are on their way, Dr Zapad, we can see about getting your patient out of that.”
He pointed past them, to where the monolithic cryostat dominated its corner of the room, temperature and voltage readouts glowing emerald green. They turned their heads, following his finger to where all three of them were reflected, pale and distorted, in the cylinder’s polished surface.
*
Sophia Molchanov demanded to be present for the unsealing of her father’s frozen sarcophagus, and Arkady didn’t suppose he could blame her. He raised some perfunctory, half-hearted objections, but quickly relented. It was agreed she could be there, provided she remained outside the calorimeter itself. She would still be able to view proceedings through the observation window, and could see more detailed images—if she could stomach them—in the output from Zapad’s multiple video cameras.
She had also wanted, with what Arkady took to be a twenty-year-old’s flair for the dramatic and sentimental, to play music throughout the procedure: some breathy collection of modern ballads by an alienated, British chanteuse. To Arkady, lacking in spirituality though he was, the idea seemed faintly sacrilegious. But, given what they intended to do with the man’s remains, that hardly seemed like a reasonable objection. It was Zapad who dissuaded her in the end, enthusing about her instinct for ritual while pointing out it would interfere with the recording and scientific documentation of their exploits. Reluctantly, she had accepted his argument.
The ceiling of the calorimeter room was too low to allow Molchanov to be pulled clear of his super-cooled vat. It was a small room, too, and airtight, so asphyxia was a potential problem when dealing with volumes of evaporating liquid nitrogen. It was therefore necessary for the opening to take place in the gymnasium down the hall, which rose through two storeys of the building to accommodate ropes, parallel bars, and a climbing wall, and which had all the space they would need.
Fortunately, the porter’s trolley on which the hulking cryostat sat was motorised, allowing it to be moved without effort by one man. Zapad guided it down the corridor and through the gym’s double doors, while Arkady struggled along after him, fighting the awkward rear-wheel steering of the hoist they would be using to lift Molchanov’s body. Behind them could be heard the low howl of the industrial refrigeration units, already in action, driving the temperature in the calorimeter to freezing and below. It was a shame they couldn’t just bash a hole through the wall, thought Arkady as he grappled with the oversteering hoist. The temperature outside had already dropped to twenty below zero as winter belatedly tightened its grip on the plateau.
The gymnasium echoed to their voices and the squeak of their shoes on its lacquered floor. Dirty, white light filtered through the ice and snow crusting the skylight windows, but was absorbed by shadow before it could pass the rafters. The air smelled of polish and dust, and shifting draughts buffeted stray skeins of grime and tangled hair about the floor. Sophia ran her finger along a bank of switches by the door, and eight pairs of fluorescent tube lights ticked and blinked to life.
Dozens of tarpaulin-draped items, placed there for storage by the plateau’s owners, were scattered like shipwrecks about the room. The area nearest the door, though, was filled with pieces of scientific and exercise equipment left there by Votyakov’s men. There were treadmills and recumbent bikes they had dragged from the calorimeter to make room for Zapad’s gear, and various pieces of diagnostic an
d therapeutic machinery that weren’t immediately needed. Arkady recognised a portable x-ray machine, a deflated hyperbaric tent, and a defibrillator, but couldn’t begin to guess at the purpose of some of the other items.
“How much did all this stuff cost?” he wondered aloud, as he pushed the x-ray machine to one side to grant Zapad passage.
“It wasn’t cheap,” admitted Zapad, steering the motorised trolley around him. “Most of it is refurbished, of course, but a few items are new. Miss Molchanov was happy for me to buy anything I thought we might need, and she extended us more than enough credit to cover the expense. Better to have it all and not need it than the reverse.”
Arkady hoped she would also cover the cost of whatever damage the weight of the colossal cryostat might be doing to the gym’s floor. He brought the towering, gibbet-like hoist to a halt in the middle of the room, and Zapad steered the cryostat into place next to it, like a rocket approaching its launch gantry.
He stood back while the doctor performed a final reorientation of the hoist, applied its brakes, raised its crane arm, and locked it into operating position. Fully extended, it was more than twice the height of a man, dangling with straps, its arm poised over the cryostat, adjustable legs splayed either side of the hulking cylinder.
A hospital trolley waited nearby, ready to convey the patient down the corridor to the calorimeter. On it were piles of cold-weather clothing, brought from Interval with the other gear. Also at hand was a small, aluminium stepladder. Everything but a tin opener, thought Arkady.
“We might as well get suited up now,” said Zapad. “Except for the coats, at least—we don’t want to boil. You’ll be in the calorimeter for longer, this time. You’ll be glad of the protection.”
He passed Arkady a fleece and a baggy, quilted jumpsuit, then began taking off his shoes.
“Just tie the top half around your waist for now,” he suggested. “Otherwise you’ll get far too warm in here. It will save time later, though. Don’t forget the boots!”
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