Exoteric

by Philip Hemplow

  “I’m glad he’s dead,” announced Sophia, reloading the toaster and turning to face them. “He probably gave the order to have my father shot. Now Daddy is alive again, and he isn’t.” She gave them a wan smile. “That seems like a fair exchange.”

  Arkady pursed his lips, and turned his attention back to the television. There was nothing to be gained by telling her the president hadn’t been involved in her father’s death. If that’s what she chose to believe, and it gave her some satisfaction, so be it. He had bigger problems to deal with now.

  The news broadcast cut abruptly to live footage from the scene of the missile strike. Explosions were rippling through the naval base as armoured vehicles charged down the road towards its gates. A pair of Night Hunter helicopters hovered over the grey water, their rotor washes throwing up spray, autocannons chuntering as they stippled the dock’s concrete buildings with 30mm shells. Dust and shrapnel bloomed long seconds before echoes of detonation reached the cameraman’s microphone. The view swayed, becoming grainy as the operator zoomed in, a red logo flashing in the corner of the screen to confirm the images were arriving in real-time.

  “I hope they don’t hit any reactor waste,” commented Arkady, as smoke grenades began to pop around the base entrance.

  “It doesn’t look like they’re hitting anything,” replied the Ogre, gesturing towards the screen with his coffee cup. “No one is shooting back.”

  “Probably running for their lives,” drawled Galina with a humanitarian’s disdain for the business of war. “I’m going to drag Roman away from his patient for half an hour—force him to eat something and shower.”

  “I’ll come,” said Sophia immediately. “I want to say good morning to him. To Daddy, I mean—not Dr Zapad.”

  The two men waited in silence until the women had left the canteen.

  “Maslok is behind it, of course,” said Votyakov softly, as the first APCs trundled behind distant buildings and disappeared from the camera’s view. “He should be arriving there any moment, to ‘take charge’ of the operation.”

  “Killing the president and hijacking his public appearance? The man’s audacious, you’ve got to give him that.”

  “The eyes of the world are on Zapadnaya Litsa now. No doubt he will appear, hands on hips, ready to be seen making tough military decisions…the Defence Minister will already have been killed, of course.”

  “Of course. The base commander, too.”

  “And anyone else who might contradict the lies.”

  “In the matter of his coronation, at least, our man follows in the great Russian tradition.”

  Votyakov turned to face him, squaring his shoulders as much as his hunch allowed. “You’d better have more to offer than sarcasm, Agent. Your…thing with Molchanov: it had better work, and work fast. By the time Maslok lands back in Moscow they’ll be begging him to take the presidency.”

  It seemed they were no longer competing to see who could be most insouciant. “I suggest you stick to your job, Votyakov,” replied Arkady, pouring out coffee and refusing to show annoyance. “Leave me to do mine. Why not go and give your men a hand shovelling snow?”

  The Ogre’s lips peeled back, exposing his teeth in an ugly, simian smirk. Before he could retort though, the satellite phone in his pocket began buzzing. He drew it out without taking his eyes off Arkady, answering it with only the briefest glance at the screen.

  “Yes? Yes, he’s here. Now? Yes, sir. It’s Mr Zolin,” he said, passing the device to Arkady.

  Arkady took it and walked away from the Ogre, waiting until he was by the window to put it to his ear.

  “This is Andreyushkin.”

  “Arkady! I assume you’re watching the news.”

  “I’ve seen it, yes. I take it the President’s confirmed dead.”

  “There seems little room for doubt. You saw the state of his car. No one walked away from that. It is chaos here. Maslok’s people are already telephoning everyone, forcing them to bend the knee. We need Molchanov’s proof, Arkady. How close are you to getting it?”

  Arkady did his best to keep the exasperation from his voice. “It’s not that simple!” he hissed, aware of Votyakov lurking by the television, listening. “This was always a longshot, you knew that!”

  “Even so, you have had success. Zapad’s methods have worked.”

  “So far, yes!” He forced himself to calm down. “Molchanov’s alive—we think, biologically at least—but he’s not conscious. He’s in some kind of coma. There’s no guarantee he’ll recover from it. I can’t question an unconscious man.”

  “Do whatever it takes, Arkady. Time is of the essence. Maslok is up in Murmansk. God knows what he’s going to say to the news cameras, but the ONF are already calling for him to be appointed president. The Party won’t be far behind. Nor the public, for that matter; not once he’s finished strutting about in front of those fireworks. Once he consolidates his position we won’t be able to do anything, even if Molchanov does have what we need.”

  “I will talk to Zapad—encourage him to do everything he can.”

  “See that he does. I must go. These satellite calls cost a fortune, and this phone booth is freezing! If anything happens to me—Arkady, if anything happens to me I have moved the hard drive with Molchanov’s encrypted files for safe keeping. There is a copy at the old drop we used with the Kazakh commissioner. You remember it?”

  Arkady stared out at the hypnotic, constantly-shifting patterns of falling snow. He remembered their old dead-letter drop, behind a ceiling tile in the men’s restroom of a Moscow library, and said as much. Zolin seemed satisfied.

  “Good. Before I go, pass me back to that devil Votyakov. You are coping with him, yes? He has his ways, but he knows how to follow orders.”

  “Yes, there is no problem there,” said Arkady, eyeing the Ogre from across the room. “I will hand you over to him now. Be careful, Boss. Keep your head down.”

  Zolin muttered something inaudible, adding brightly, “Russia shall prevail!” Arkady waited to see whether he had finished. There was only silence. Crossing the room, he handed the phone back to Votyakov with a curt “he wants to talk to you.”

  Votyakov took the phone and immediately left the restaurant with it, putting it to his ear as the door closed behind him.

  *

  “There are things I want to try: a combination of levodopa, zolpidem, and amantadine, in the first instance, followed by transcranial direct current stimulation. Whether it will work or not, I cannot say. We are in uncharted waters, drawing the map as we go.”

  “But, today—you will commence the treatment today?”

  “There is no medical reason to postpone.”

  “Good!”

  Arkady was relieved. He had anticipated a volley of opposition from the doctor—scientific argument, ethical pleading, invocations of the great Fedorov—but Zapad seemed as keen as Zolin to progress.

  “We have learned all we can from his current condition, with the equipment at our disposal, and the Common Task is but half-addressed. If the coma persists, we may have to transfer him to a dedicated facility. It might still be possible to reach him using fMRI or invasive deep brain stimulation. We must not abandon him now.”

  “Come on, less talking, more eating,” ordered Galina, setting a glass of indeterminate fruit juice by her stepbrother’s plate. Zapad obediently moved a forkful of pickled mushroom from the plate to his mouth, and began to chew.

  “You understand, we must do it for the girl,” said Arkady. He felt a stab of annoyance at his apparent need to justify it to himself, even though the medic had already agreed. Galina muttered something cynical, which he didn’t catch.

  “Absolutely—for the girl,” agreed Zapad, around his food. “We will start this afternoon.”

  “Not until you’ve had some sleep,” objected Galina. “You’re in no fit state to be making decisions. Eat that, then go and rest for a few hours. I’ll stay with your patient.”

  Zapad was too t
ired to object, allowing himself to be shooed off to bed as soon as his plate was clear. Arkady and Galina were left alone in the restaurant, looking at one another across the table. He saw her eyes drawn to the muted television set on the wall behind him, where footage of Maslok declaring a day of national mourning for the men he’d had killed was doubtless still being replayed. He’d seen it enough times already, and preferred to stare past her to the snowflakes shimmering beyond the windows.

  “What would you do if we wanted to leave?” asked Galina suddenly. “Roman and me. Would you stop us?”

  Arkady frowned. Uncomfortable with the question, he played for time. “Why? Do you want to?”

  “That’s a question, not an answer. Would you stop us?”

  “No. No, I’d try to persuade you to stay. There is a patient here now. Somebody needs to look after him.”

  “He might be better in a proper hospital, with nursing staff and specialists. What about your man, the hunchback? Would he try to stop us?”

  “Votyakov? No. Not without orders to. The question does not arise though. It is impossible to leave in this weather. The cars would not even reach the road in this snow. Why do you talk about leaving? Is something making you unhappy?”

  For long moments, she didn’t answer. Eventually her gaze dropped from the television screen and she met his eye.

  “You don’t feel it?”

  “Feel what?”

  “I don’t know…the atmosphere here—it is uneasy. Do you not sense it? I am afraid for Roman. The things we are doing here…I do not think any good can come from them. And I do not trust you.”

  She’s no fool.

  “I assure you, I mean you and your stepbrother no harm.”

  He expected her to scoff, or at least arch a cynical eyebrow, but she did nothing: just kept staring into his eyes. “Why should I believe you?” she said at last.

  Tell her you have finally found your conscience, darling, suggested Ana’s voice in his head.

  “You aren’t helping,” snapped Arkady, accidentally responding out loud.

  “Excuse me?”

  Did you even iron that shirt? Those creases can’t be comfortable.

  “I mean, I can’t help it—if you don’t trust me—I can only give you my word.”

  Galina stared at him, puzzled and suspicious. He did his best to maintain a neutral expression. To his relief, Ana stayed silent, and the surgeon dropped the subject.

  “I’d better go and check on the patient,” she sighed, glancing at her watch. “I did promise Roman. Besides, it is time to turn him again, otherwise he will develop pressure sores. You can do the washing up.” She got up and walked to the door, then paused. “You know, if it gets too much, there are drugs that can help,” she added.

  By the time he realised what she was telling him, she had gone. He was alone in the canteen, watching the shadows of falling snowflakes dapple the tables around him.

  “Are you happy now?” he asked out loud, searching his mind for Ana’s hiding place.

  She, too, was gone.

  *

  The temperature plummeted as the day went on, winter shaking the Zubgorai in its jaws. At minus twenty-five degrees, the blizzard persisted. Falling flakes met swirling powder, whipped from the plateau by a rising wind, all of it churning in a maelstrom about the resort.

  Even Votyakov was forced to relent and allow his Clandestine henchmen into the new building. They huddled in the cafeteria, looking tired and miserable, pathetically grateful for the hot food and drink Arkady was serving up.

  The clinic, that afternoon, had seen Molchanov extubated before drugs and electric currents were administered in an attempt to provoke some sign of consciousness. Sophia had become inconsolable at the failure to produce any immediate result, but Zapad assured anyone who would listen that it would likely take time—then hedged and equivocated when asked how long. She had refused to move from her father’s side ever since, and sat holding his hand, talking to him in a continuous low mutter, hoping the sound of her voice would draw him back. Perhaps it would, admitted Zapad. At the very least, it couldn’t hurt.

  Beyond the obvious fact that he was comatose, the doctors declared themselves pleased with the patient’s progress. With no ischaemia evident, Galina no longer felt that his hand would require amputation. Revascularisation was well under way, she said, and its colour had improved. Zapad was pleased with whatever his analyses of the patient’s blood and other fluids were telling him, and spoke now of immunoglobulin counts and anti-rejection therapy.

  The news, both domestic and international, continued to dissect the assassination in Murmansk. With the initial chaos now over, the story’s raw material was fed into a well-established cycle of outside broadcasts, reaction, opinion, and polling; breaking it down, rendering it digestible. So far, there had been no suggestion that the missile attack had been launched by anyone other than the mutineers. Maslok’s allies, old and very new, were on every channel, praising the way he had supposedly taken charge in the moment of crisis, as footage of him embracing the Defence Minister’s widow played behind their heads. Arkady began to doubt that even Molchanov’s revelations would be enough to derail Maslok’s accession.

  Come eight o’clock that evening, Arkady was in his room, flicking mechanically from one news station to the next. Fatigue and boredom conspired to put him into a state bordering on fugue, almost as catatonic as the man in the clinic downstairs. Sick of hearing strangers’ reactions to current events, he was imagining Ana’s, listening to her continual commentary as the broadcaster served up snippets of insight like a short-order cook.

  I don’t like his tie—far too brash! Do you remember, darling, you bought one like that once, and I made you take it back to the shop. I’m surprised they allow him to wear it on television. He looks a bit like the actor from that film you like…oh, now, what was it called…

  Ballad of a Soldier?

  No. More recent than that…a colour film…

  Oh: Solaris.

  That’s the one!

  But you never watched Solaris.

  Didn’t I? I’m sure I did.

  No.

  Oh. Well, I didn’t enjoy the book much anyway.

  You’re very talkative tonight.

  I suppose I am. I like it when it’s just the two of us, don’t you?

  “I do.”

  A series of urgent shouts from downstairs interrupted his reverie. Arkady picked up the remote control, hunting for the button to mute the newscaster’s warbling. He heard running feet and more shouting, the man on the screen now miming along in his garish tie. It was Sophia’s voice, but he couldn’t make out her words.

  “I have to go,” he announced to the empty room. He waited to see if Ana would respond, but she was already fled, somewhere deep inside him.

  Votyakov’s men were standing around at the foot of the stairs, looking disquieted and uncertain. One of them saluted Arkady as he descended. Arkady shook his head and the man let his hand drop back to his side.

  “What’s all the shouting about?”

  “No idea,” said one of the men, sounding huffy. “The Ogre sent—”

  “—Mr Votyakov sent us out here,” one of his colleagues hurriedly interrupted, speaking over him. “The girl came running in shouting something about eyes. We were sent out here. The others went down there.” He pointed towards the corridor that led to the clinic.

  Arkady brushed past them and made haste for the medical hub. The doctors and Sophia were in the calorimeter chamber, clustered around Molchanov’s bed. Votyakov was outside, looking in through the window. He turned and smiled as Arkady approached.

  “Progress, I think. Your man just opened his eyes.”

  “Really?” Arkady stopped and stared through the glass. He couldn’t see Molchanov’s head; it was screened from view by Sophia sitting next to him, seemingly stroking his hair. Zapad was leant over him too, rattling off notes into his voice recorder, while Galina scrutinised the ECG readout.


  “Yes.” Votyakov sauntered towards the door Arkady had just entered through, pausing as he passed to add: “Perhaps now he will open his mouth too, eh?”

  Arkady ignored him and pushed the button which opened the calorimeter door. Zapad’s excited monologue met him as he entered.

  “…over one hundred and twenty, and rising. No indication of aortic dissection. We are initiating intravenous nicardipine, one milligram per hour, and re-checking BUN and creatinine using the express analyser. However, this is precautionary, my own feeling being that the observed hypertension and HRV are likely to prove psychogenic in origin. The EEG reflects the patient’s conscious status, with nu-complex signals replaced by widespread electrical activity and major activation of the right prefrontal cortex.”

  Arkady watched as the doctor waved his hand in front of Molchanov’s shocked, white eyes. “The patient’s expression is fixed and staring. Pronounced pupillary dilation—voluntary movements of the larynx appear to reflect attempts at vocalisation. We may, in fact, be about to hear the first words ever spoken by a trans-mortem pioneer of the Zapad protocol!”

  With trembling hands, he held the recorder close to Molchanov’s mouth. Arkady watched Molchanov’s jaws work, but only a strangled gasp emerged.

  “Welcome back, Mr Molchanov,” prompted Zapad, the hand which held the voice recorder still hovering.

  “Can you hear us, Daddy?” Tears rolled down Sophia’s face, and her voice was beseeching. “It’s me—Sophia!”

  Molchanov’s eyes seemed suddenly to focus on them. He looked from one to the other, his face contorting in fear and alarm. His mouth and eyes opened wider, as wide as they could—and he began to scream.

  *

  Arkady gestured with the bottle and Galina nodded, sliding her glass towards him. He poured vodka for both of them, and slid hers back to her.

  The alcohol did little to blunt the memory of Molchanov’s keening screams. It had been a hellish, inhuman noise. He’d heard nothing like it since Chechnya. The man had shrieked unceasingly for ten minutes, despite escalating doses of morphine, until Zapad finally administered a tranquiliser which closed his eyes and reduced his output to feeble groaning. Sophia had required a sedative, too, becoming completely hysterical in her distress. Galina had dosed her with something potent and escorted her to bed.