“No, you’re not. I’m not stupid. I know how the world works. Everyone here wants something out of this that’s more important to them than he is.”
Arkady was saved from having to respond by the ‘whoosh’ of the calorimeter door. Zapad emerged, looking exhilarated.
“I am very optimistic,” he announced through chattering teeth. “He looks almost as good as when he was first suspended. His state of preservation is truly impressive. A vindication for the Zapad method!”
“You see what I mean?” muttered Sophia, moving away from them both.
The doctor struggled to control his shivering enough to unzip his suit. “He will probably lose his hair when he thaws, but it should grow back. Possibly his left hand, also. Do we know if he was left- or right-side dominant?”
“Wait, he’s going to lose a hand?” Sophia rounded on the doctor, and Arkady could tell she was glad to have a target for her anxiety and stress. “Is that what you’re saying? That he’s going to lose a hand?”
Zapad shrugged, a gesture which also freed his shoulders from the quilted suit. “It is fifty-fifty. I would like Galina’s opinion on it. We probably will not know until we have brought him to room temperature—possibly not until we have re-established circulation. I promise you, we will save it if we can.”
Sophia stared at him for a few seconds, then turned without a word and stamped off down the corridor. The men watched her go.
“Oh dear,” fretted Zapad. “I hope I did the right thing by telling her. I really think it’s best to be honest about these things.”
“She’ll be fine,” Arkady assured him. “She’s young; she takes out her anxieties on others. Don’t worry about it.”
“I thought she would be relieved. His state of preservation really is—”
“I know, he’s ‘remarkable.’ She’ll be happy once you manage to bring him round, Doctor. So will I.”
The two men began taking off the rest of their gear, Arkady glad to be rid of the suit’s oppressive mustiness. “I will go and check on her, and see if I can raise Votyakov,” he said, pulling off the chunky, insulated socks, “find out when they will be back. There is nothing to stop us operating on Molchanov now, correct?”
“Well, he is still much colder than the room. He should be allowed to reach equilibrium. The longer we can leave him the better. Perhaps I will turn the temperature up a few degrees for a little while, to encourage that. Once his tissue is at a stable temperature, the donor heart has been successfully vitrified, and the pacemaker has been implanted in it, the operation can take place.”
“Good. I hope the others have been as successful. Why don’t you get some rest now, Doctor? You might not get a chance later.”
“Yes, yes.” The doctor dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “That is sensible, of course. I would just like to take some thermographic images first, for the experimental record, and perhaps extract a small sample of vitrification medium for microscopic analysis. Oh, and I must move the hoist back, of course, and write up my observations—and then I will have a sleep.”
“Fine. Up to you. Find me if you need to.”
Arkady left him to his conjectures and experiments, and went in search of Sophia.
The BGAN satellite receiver they had brought with them was set up at the resort’s reception desk. About the size of a laptop, it provided an internet connection which was reasonably fast, if subject to latency problems, and allowed telephone calls to be made on Inmarsat’s network. Arkady didn’t entirely trust it—Inmarsat was a British company, after all—but it was unlikely to be actively intercepted. Stopping at the desk, he plugged his phone into the terminal and dialled Votyakov’s number.
There was a delay while the call was routed through the satellite network, a few moments of crackling, and then ringing. Votyakov answered almost immediately.
“Yes?”
“It’s me. What’s your status? Give me an update.”
“We have arrived. Everything is in order. I had to spend a little money to avoid a paper trail and get them to stop wasting time and operate, but they are preparing for surgery now. Your Dr ‘Y’ will attend the operation as an observer. Our helicopter is standing by. They tell me the donor, technically, is already dead, yet they have maintained his respiration for weeks with their machines. His heart is forced to beat, and air is forced into his lungs, to sustain the parts that can be re-used. He is dead, but does not decay.”
“I know,” said Arkady, disturbed by the tone of admiring wonder in the Ogre’s voice, his apparent fascination with this new form of death. “Just get it done and bring it back here as fast as you can. Call me before you leave.”
“Of course.”
Arkady terminated the call, but left his phone plugged into the BGAN. He checked his watch. The operation to carve open the donor and retrieve his heart would take some time, and the flight back from Krasnoyarsk would last perhaps three hours. Through the resort’s glass doors, he could see pine trees nodding, forced to bow their heads before a stiffening wind. The sky looked septic, thick, black clouds piling up against the mountains in advance of the storm front. He hoped the helicopter would make it.
He remained standing by the desk for several minutes, analysing his thoughts and feelings. Everything was going well, he told himself. Everything was on schedule. Why, then, could he not shake off a growing sense of apprehension and unease? It was true, the Ogre unnerved him—he trusted neither the man’s character nor his motives—but there was more to it than that. At some point, he realised, his fears had mutated. Before, he had worried their mission was doomed to failure. Now, there was only creeping dismay at the thought they might succeed.
*
He was standing outside when the first hailstones spattered the patio, hurtling down from a black and brooding sky. Tiny comets ricocheted off his coat and hat, rattling against the resort’s roof in their thousands. The noise swelled by the second, becoming a constant, battering blast-beat.
It was tempting to go back inside, where it was warm and dry. Behind him, in the restaurant, Sophia was still picking disinterestedly at her food. Zapad had wolfed his, then headed straight back to the clinic. He hadn’t slept, as he said he would, but Arkady didn’t doubt his state of nervous excitement would sustain him through the night.
He checked his watch. It was nearly 7 p.m. He decided to wait outside a while longer.
Every light in the Zubgorai centre was turned on, every pair of curtains drawn back, the resort glowing like a jewel in the darkness. Arkady hoped the extra illumination would help the helicopter locate its destination and correctly gauge the plateau’s height. It ought to be visible for miles, even through the squall. He had already thought, a couple of times, that he could hear rotor blades in the distance, and worried they were lost nearby, searching for their landing zone—but both times the impression had faded.
If they didn’t arrive soon, it would be too late. In the distance, to the east, flashes of lightning lit up the clouds like artillery fire. The storm front was still fifty miles or more off, too far away for thunder to be audible, but every passing minute brought it closer. Arkady had seen radar images of the giant storm system on the television news, and knew it was not something through which he would wish to fly.
Was that a light, flickering, off in the darkness in front of him? Arkady shielded his eyes and squinted into the gale. There had been something there—something red. There it was again. He tried to focus his hearing, filtering out wind and hail until he could discern shrieking gas turbines and the metronomic chop of rotor blades. The light reappeared, flanked by two others, and moments later the helicopter thundered into view, bearing down like an avenging angel.
It swept overhead, passing above the complex in a cacophony of whirling blades, banking abruptly and flaring to a halt near the middle of the plateau. Arkady jogged around the corner of the building to go and meet it. Ahead of him he could see the two Clandestine operatives who weren’t aboard the chopper s
printing full-pelt towards it, the beams of their torches swiping this way and that as they ran. He slowed his own pace to a brisk walk, not wanting to turn an ankle in the dark, nor appear too relieved at Votyakov’s arrival.
Still hovering, the helicopter turned towards him, aiming its nose into the wind. Arkady recognised it as a Kasatka, a civilian model adapted for Arctic operations, its rain-slicked, polymer airframe glossy as sealskin in the light.
The downwash from its rotors kicked up flurries of snow as it descended, but it didn’t extend its landing gear, the pilot instead holding it a few feet from the surface. As Arkady drew near, the passenger door slid open and Votyakov and his men jumped down. The Ogre turned to help Galina Yelagin, who pointedly refused his assistance. She looked angry, but the sound of the aircraft’s engine drowned out anything that was said.
Arkady stopped walking and waited for them to come to him. Votyakov’s men carried a large plastic chest between them, staggering slightly under its weight. It had a large, red cross stamped on the side, and presumably contained the donor organ. Galina and Votyakov walked behind them, bickering with each other if body language and facial expressions were anything to go by.
As soon as the disembarked passengers were at a safe distance, the Kasatka pilot adjusted blade pitch. The helicopter slid forward a few metres, then roared upwards and away from them. It turned north, following the terrain downhill, and was soon lost to their sight behind the trees.
“He is going straight to Gorno-Altaysk,” called Votyakov as he closed the last ten metres between them, “to refuel and wait out this infernal weather. We arrived just in time, eh? Shall we go inside?”
Arkady growled his assent, looking from the Ogre to the doctor, trying to read the situation between them. “Yes. Go in. Everything went well?”
He addressed the question to Galina, but the Ogre answered before she could open her mouth.
“Everything went fine. The donor is dead now—properly dead. The medical centre took his liver, kidneys, eyes…we have his heart. Everyone is happy.”
“And you, Doctor? Any concerns on your part?”
Galina glared at him. “Just know this,” she muttered. “I’m going nowhere with that man again, ever. Clear?”
She pushed past him and went inside without waiting for a response, calling for Votyakov’s men to follow her with the box. Arkady was left alone with the Ogre in the reception area. As soon as the others were out of earshot, he rounded on him.
“What happened? Why is she pissed off? What did you do?”
Votyakov widened his eyes in an expression of mock shock. “Me? I did nothing. She is just tired and hysterical. I don’t think she enjoyed the helicopter ride.”
His sly smile suggested otherwise. Arkady raised a warning finger. “That had best be true. We need her. If I find out—”
“Relax, Colonel. She will be fine.”
“Enough! I’m talking now! Stay away from my people and let them do their jobs! I need them focussed. I need them calm. I don’t need you goading them, so leave them in peace!”
The Ogre’s smile became a glower. “I said ‘she’ll be fine.’ Your people have got more important things to worry about, like making good use of the heart I just flew eight hundred miles to retrieve. You’re welcome, by the way.”
Arkady looked him in the eye a few seconds longer, then turned and followed the others towards the clinic. “There’s food in the restaurant,” he said over his shoulder. “Eat it, or throw it away.”
“I’ve taken care of my responsibilities, Colonel,” Votyakov called after him. “Now it’s time for you to start taking care of yours.”
*
He found Galina at the calorimeter chamber’s window with Sophia, looking at Molchanov’s body. Her stepbrother had scuttled off into the physiotherapy room with the fresh heart, where he was presumably dousing it in cryoprotectants and vitrification medium, making it ready for implantation.
The two women were exchanging murmurs of conversation, looking almost conspiratorial. Arkady waited politely out of earshot for them to finish.
“I’m telling Sophia we will not amputate her father’s hand now,” said Galina, raising her voice for his benefit. “We will wait until after, once he has blood in his veins again. Otherwise there will be no vascularization. It would do more harm than good. If necessary, we will remove it after.”
Arkady nodded, but said nothing.
“He looks well,” continued the doctor, walking towards him. “For a dead man. How long has he been out of his tank?”
“Since a couple of hours after you left. When will you operate?”
“Ah, that is Roman’s decision. When the heart is ready. When the thermograph shows he is no longer an icicle. Sorry, my dear!”
The apology was directed to Sophia, still standing by the window, who pursed her lips and nodded in response. The doctor continued. “My bedside manner was never exquisite. The advantage of being a surgeon is that most of the time your patients can’t hear you. Anyway, I must have a shower and a drink. I smell like a camel.”
“Doctor, you can’t—”
“Oh relax, you silly spy! One drink—I will not become incapable. You spend all day with that lumbering villain and see if you could do without some vodka!”
Arkady held open the door leading out of the medical clinic, and gestured with his eyes until she walked past him. Once they were both in the corridor and the door had closed, he caught her by the arm.
“You’ve already been drinking! I can smell it on you! How many have you had?”
Her brow creased with indignation. “What? I had one quick nip to warm me up after riding in that damned helicopter. It is nothing. Don’t lecture—”
“You didn’t even pause to take off your coat!” hissed Arkady, grabbing her sleeve and holding it up as proof. “Just made a beeline for the liquor, is that it? Well, pull yourself together! I don’t need you drunk, hands shaking all over the place. What did Votyakov do, anyway? What happened?”
The surgeon yanked her arm away and licked her lips. “Nothing! Mind your own business. He just―”
“What?”
“He spent the whole day trying to get inside my head, talking about surgery, and addiction, and other stuff he doesn’t understand. You don’t see what he’s like when you’re not around!”
“Oh, I know what he’s like.”
“Well then, why don’t you get rid of him? He’s a pervert! He likes to make people uncomfortable. He likes to make people suffer.”
“I know exactly what he is, and I’m sorry for sending you with him—I am. What has he done? Did he…interfere with you?”
She stared at him and shook her head. “No. What? No, he didn’t ‘interfere’ with me! He made allegations, about things he doesn’t understand. It’s none of your business.”
“Everything that happens here is my business! Tell me what he said.”
The surgeon looked around, avoiding eye contact. Arkady stepped to his right, positioning himself so she couldn’t get away except by bolting back into the clinic.
“He said Surnin, the patient—the man who died on my operating table before they fired me—he said I killed him deliberately. He says I murdered him.”
“What?” Arkady stared at her. He was ready to dismiss it as another of the Ogre’s mind games, but the hunted look in her eyes gave him pause. “Well, did you? Did you kill him on purpose?” He pointed down the corridor, towards the reception area. “Is he right?”
“No! I don’t know! It’s complicated. It’s just…complicated!” She raised her hand to her forehead, hiding her eyes as if his stare was dazzling her. “I knew him, all right? When I saw him on the table, I recognised him. He was a bad man, someone I knew from the past…but I didn’t want to kill him! It made it hard to concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing, that’s all. I became distracted and made some mistakes—stupid, amateurish mistakes. The anaesthetist complained to the hospital board, and when they checke
d my prescription records at the pharmacy, they found I’d been taking away morphine. That was it. That was the end of my career.”
“I see.”
“I’m not a maniac! He’s a maniac!” She pointed in the same direction Arkady had done, the one they seemed to have assigned to Votyakov. “You don’t need to worry about me. I don’t kill my patients; not if I can help it. Operating on Surnin was…it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. I thought I could block it all out, but I was wrong. The morphine was another mistake, but I’ve learned my lesson. I’ve been through hell and come out the other side, and now your man is trying to drag me back in. Well, I won’t go! I’m not a murderer; I’m a surgeon, and I’m good at my job. So, stop lecturing me and let me prove it!”
Arkady sighed. He hated confessions, even when they were ones he was actively soliciting. The sudden gush of justifications and excuses when the wall of denial crumbled never failed to leave him in despair at the haphazard messiness of life. Nothing was ever simple; nothing was ever clean.
“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” he said. “I have to trust you, so I will. I’ll talk to the Og—to Votyakov. In the meantime, you stay sober and concentrate on your patient—on that girl’s father.”
He nodded towards the clinic. Through the round windows in the double doors they could see Sophia, still standing outside the calorimeter with her forehead resting on the glass.
Galina sighed too, and rubbed her face with both hands. “Fine. No alcohol. I will go without. It’s nothing to me. I presume you don’t object to my taking a shower, though.”
Arkady sighed. “A shower is fine. A sleep is fine; have a short sleep. You’ll feel better for it.”
“Oh, the caring FSB—always looking out for our interests. Is it time now for good citizens to go to bed?”
She raised her fist in a defiant dulya, thumb jammed between her fingers, and marched away. Arkady blinked, taken aback at the sudden transition from penitent addict to sarcastic professional.
The air in the corridor shivered as a peal of thunder echoed down the valley, a low, menacing rumble, like sunken wrecks shifting on a turning tide. The storm was nearly upon them now, the air suddenly redolent with ozone, and Arkady fought to shake an inexplicable conviction that their presence was drawing it to the Zubgorai.
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