The Ogre took a first faltering step, then another. Arkady moved with him, preventing him from reeling, helpless, to the ground. It would have been much easier with someone on the other side as well, but they made progress. After more patient encouragement, Votyakov began to bend his knees and his gait became more assured. Arkady was able to relax his grip slightly, and concentrate more on navigation than on keeping the other man upright.
Votyakov turned his head in every direction as they walked, looking about slowly, like a curious drunkard.
“I remember this,” he announced.
“Of course you do.”
“It is so beautiful!”
“It certainly is. Come on, pick your feet up.”
“To see memories, to feel time’s passing…”
“Shut up and walk!”
Votyakov’s voice dropped to an inaudible whisper, a long string of spit swaying from his murmuring lips.
With a couple more minutes’ laboured shuffling they left the huts behind and moved into the clinic building’s shadow, where the going was easier, the snow less deep underfoot. Arkady was getting tired now, but he persevered, dragging his addled companion through shafts of light which fell like crepuscular rays from the second-storey windows. By the time they reached the corner where he had first seen the fleeing men, he was starting to feel light-headed, unused to such exertions in the thin mountain air. Still holding Votyakov’s arm, he leaned against the wall, waiting for his heart rate to return to normal, preparing for the last twenty metres to the building’s entrance.
Steam from the men’s breath mingled in the night air, rising to meet the gently falling snow. Now they were no longer moving, Arkady could once more make out the words Votyakov was muttering. As he listened, a shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with the cold. The Ogre was speaking English, with no trace of an accent.
“…reside once more among the quick! Fresh refuge, beyond the shadow’s reach…room enough to breathe and spread. That is all. To be incarnate…no, I shall not yield! I feel him stir—he would push us aside! No, nor you—this vitality is mine!
“…Quae haec gloria? Ex alto emergo…nimium! Attingere non possum…”
Arkady turned his head and stared at his companion. He already knew Votyakov could read English, so to hear him speak it was no great surprise—but Latin?
Without warning, Votyakov’s eyes rolled back and he pitched forwards, too suddenly for Arkady to do more than steer him onto his back as he landed. His descent dragged Arkady to the ground as well. He stumbled to avoid landing on the fallen giant, ending on his knees next to him, in the snow.
“God damn it!”
He shook Votyakov’s lapels in frustration, then released them, looking despairingly about for any source of help.
A moving shape caught his attention. Something indistinct, in the middle-distance, right on the periphery of the light radiating from the altitude clinic. A shadow, the size of a large dog, or a man on hands and knees, skulking between the falling snow and the deeper shadows beyond. Shielding his eyes with one hand, he struggled to his feet, trying to make out who, or what, it was. It was no good. The anomaly was gone, vanished back into the night, leaving him with only a faint impression of spastic, juddering locomotion, and a vague sense of transgression and threat.
A loud grunt from Votyakov distracted him. He looked down to see him smacking his lips, like a man waking from a hangover. His eyes were half open and he was looking up at Arkady. He grunted again, and raised his upper body off the ground. There was a wince, and one hand went to the back of his head, probing the wound there.
“Bastards! Cowards and bastards!”
“Wait, don’t try getting up,” said Arkady. “You’ve been hit on the head.”
“I know I’ve been hit on the head! The fucking traitors—where are they?”
“Wait, let me help you. We need to go inside.”
“I’m fine. It’s only a tap. Where are the snivelling fucking rats now? I’ll string the one that did it up by his balls!”
“You won’t,” spat Arkady, with feeling, as the Ogre rose to his feet. “They’ve gone! Taken one of the cars and gone down the mountain. If you want to string someone up, make it yourself!”
Votyakov’s eyes gleamed in the twilight. “The cowards will pay, I promise you that. When we get back to Moscow, I will take great pleasure in making them pay.”
“Oh, spare me your revenge fantasies, man,” said Arkady, turning his back and walking away. “I’m not interested. The damage is done.”
Votyakov snarled but said nothing; just fell in behind and followed him, obediently, to the door.
*
Sophia and Galina Yelagin were waiting in the reception area, talking in low voices and looking anxious. They pelted Arkady with questions as soon as he opened the door. He waved a weary hand to still their chatter and jerked a thumb over his shoulder, towards Votyakov.
“Take a look at him, please, Doctor. He’s been hit on the head.”
“I’m fine,” growled Votyakov. “I don’t need a doctor.”
“Shut up. She’s going to check your head and disinfect it—unfortunately, only on the outside. We’ve already got one invalid to worry about. We don’t need another. Doctor, look him over, please. I think he’ll need stitches, and he might have a concussion. He was rambling like a crazy man out there.”
“What are you talking about? I wasn’t—”
“Enough! Sit down and let her do her job! Doctor—please?”
Votyakov glowered at him, but did as he was told, sinking into a seat without taking his eyes off Arkady. Arkady didn’t care. They had bigger problems now, than the Ogre’s wounded pride. Such as the fact their security detail had absconded, and were presumably on their way to Moscow, where they could tell anyone and everyone about what was happening on the Zubgorai.
Galina stooped over Votyakov and inspected his wound with her pen light, then shone it in his eyes and made him track her fingers. Arkady watched her work while he pulled off his gloves and unbuttoned his coat.
“This clearly isn’t a bullet wound, so what was all the shooting about?” asked the surgeon, standing up straight again.
“Ask him,” said Arkady, shrugging off the coat and draping it over his arm. “I saw nothing—just our security guards taking one of the cars and driving off into the night.”
“What? They’ve gone? We’re alone up here?” Sophia stared at him, wide-eyed.
“Please don’t be alarmed. We’re perfectly safe, I assure you.”
“But who was shooting?”
“I would like to know that, too.”
The three of them stared at Votyakov, who met their expectant eyes with a sullen glare. Leaning over, he spat a wad of mucus into the waste paper bin next to his chair, then looked up again.
“They were firing into the night. When I found them, they were running away, babbling about seeing someone walking around, talking a lot of nonsense. I told them their job was to hold their ground, not run like frightened schoolgirls, and that’s when one of them hit me from behind. Craven, ill-disciplined worms, the lot of them!”
“So, is there someone else out there?” Sophia looked scared now.
“I saw no one,” sneered Votyakov. “The weak-minded fools imagined it. Perhaps they saw a bear.”
“A bear?”
“The doors are all locked, anyway,” pointed out Arkady, keen to avoid panicking the civilians. “If there is a bear, or anything else, it will stay outside. There is no cause for alarm. We are perfectly safe here.”
The shadow he’d seen had been no bear though. It had looked more like a man, but the way it moved…perhaps the guards’ wild firing had hit someone, some wandering vagrant, and left them injured. Despite the possibility, he felt no inclination to go back outside and check.
“Well, you’ll be fine,” concluded Galina, putting away her pen light. I’ll put in a few stitches, and you should rest until morning, but I don’t think
there’s any lasting damage.”
“I don’t need to rest,” grumbled Votyakov, getting to his feet. “I feel fine.”
“You’ll do what the doctor says,” Arkady told him, his temper flaring. “We’ve had enough bullshit for one evening. Go to the clinic and wait for her to come and stitch you up. Go!”
Votyakov shook his head, but retreated as ordered, looking sullen. Arkady closed his eyes and sighed as the door swung closed behind him. He’d had enough of the Ogre’s theatrics.
“What if there really is someone out there?” asked Sophia. “What if we’re in trouble?”
Arkady did his best to give her a reassuring smile. “He saw no one out there, and neither did I,” he said. “No one can get in. I will stay up tonight, just in case—since we have no security guards now—but there is nothing to worry about.”
As he said it, the lights began to flicker and he heard the girl’s breathing quicken—but after dimming for a few seconds they resumed shining as before.
“You see?” he said. “We’re fine.”
*
Zapad had taken to sleeping on a couch in the clinic hub, outside the calorimeter, with the intercom turned on so any activity from his patient would rouse him. He was snoring peacefully when Arkady checked on him, just after midnight. The others had also turned in, all of them somewhat subdued. Arkady felt that way, too, more keenly aware of their isolation than ever now their numbers had halved.
The light in the calorimeter chamber was still on, and he could see Molchanov stirring restlessly on the bed, rolling his jaw and flexing his fingers. He had made repeated efforts to grab hold of the two doctors during the evening, leading them to restrain his limbs with loose, Velcro straps. He seemed peaceful enough now though, with no one else around.
Arkady finished his tour of the building, then settled into a chair in the reception area with his coat across his lap. He wasn’t willing to completely discount the shape he’d seen moving in the snow as a trick of the mind, but as the hours passed it was becoming easier to believe that was the case. There was no point in going outside to look for footprints or blood trails: fresh snow would have already covered them up. Tomorrow, he would go and check the huts for any signs of intrusion though. Or Votyakov could go. It was his mess, after all.
He recalled Votyakov’s Latin outburst in the snow, and wondered at it again. Either he was a man of hidden depths, or that had been inexplicably out of character. Perhaps it was just some medical jargon he’d picked up from Zapad. At times, fully half the doctor’s conversation seemed to consist of Latin nomenclatures.
That seemed plausible, but wasn’t convincing; not after hearing Molchanov’s polyglot ravings, too. It was as if some strange contagion was spreading through the place, some kind of cabin fever afflicting them all. It felt as though they were being swept along by events, with every obstacle they negotiated only taking them further from where they needed to be.
Closing his eyes, he tried to ignore such thoughts—and others which bubbled in the dark.
*
He was woken before dawn by the bleating ring of Votyakov’s satphone on the reception desk, next to the BGAN receiver. He jerked awake, disorientated, wondering why he was in the lobby, unfamiliar voices retreating to the darkness as he came round.
Sleeping in a seat had aggravated his sciatica, and his first attempt to rise was abandoned with a stifled yelp and hiss of pain. Cursing under his breath, he rolled over and tried it backwards instead, pushing himself up as far as he could with his arms before slowly straightening his back. For a few seconds, he stood and swayed, waiting for his blood pressure to catch up. Still the phone rang.
He stumbled across the lobby, favouring his good leg, and paused with his hand on the phone, collecting his thoughts. No one other than Zolin should have their number, and if Zolin was ringing at that time of day it could only be for something important. Arkady licked his teeth, trying to stimulate saliva production and relieve his dry mouth, then picked up the handset and pushed ‘answer.’
“Hello.”
The line crackled, the signal degraded by adverse weather outside. After the customary satellite delay, he heard a woman’s voice coming through, high-pitched and hesitant.
“H-hello? I would like to talk to Arkady, please—to Arkady Andreyushkin, if that’s possible.”
“You are. It’s me. Is that…you?”
“Arkady? Oh, thank God! Arkady, it’s Valentina—Valentina Zolin. Oh, Arkady, they’ve taken Vsevka! They came and took him away!”
“What?”
He came fully awake in an instant, the news as effective as an ice water plunge. Zolin, taken? It could only mean he’d been arrested by Maslok or his allies. Did that mean the would-be President knew what they were doing? Would his men be heading for the Zubgorai, too?
“Just now! They came and woke us up, and took him away! He said last week that if this happened I was to drive to a public telephone and call you on this number. Oh, Arkady, what should we do? What are they going to do to him?”
“It will be fine, Valentina. Try not to worry,” Arkady heard himself issuing the platitudes, but his mind was racing ahead. If Maslok was consolidating his position, he was probably gathering information on any old foes who might present a threat. He might have found out that Sophia Molchanov was back in the country, and if so, would have tracked her flight to Altai. From there, the trail must have gone cold though, and unless Zolin had slipped up, there should be nothing to tie her to their department. Perhaps they were questioning him about something else entirely. There was no knowing how many irons Zolin had in the fire.
“What are you going to do? Will you call them? He didn’t take his blood pressure medication with him, and I don’t know where they’ve taken him. Should I call his lawyer, do you think? It’s impossible for them to believe he’s done anything wrong. You know that, Arkady. Won’t you tell them?”
“I’ll tell them,” he promised. “I’m sure they just want to talk to him. Valentina, it’s very important you don’t tell anyone you’ve spoken to me. Do you understand? Very important.”
“Oh yes, I know that,” came the dismissive reply. “Of course, he told me the same thing. He also said you’d know what to do. He’s an old man, Arkady. He needs your help. Those men who came and took him away, they can’t have been more than thirty! So rude and ill-mannered! I don’t know what the Bureau teaches them these days…”
“I’ll do whatever I can, Valentina. First though, you should contact Georg. Tell him to talk to the Minister. Don’t mention my name. Do that this morning. Do you understand?”
“Talk to Georg—at the Ministry? Yes, I can do that. I know his wife. I’ll call on them this morning. Thank you, Arkady! He will be all right, won’t he? I mean, they won’t…do anything to him, will they?”
“He’ll be absolutely fine,” said Arkady, as soothingly as he could. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. The Minister will be able to help. But you mustn’t mention my name; that’s very important.”
“Yes, very well, you don’t need to keep saying it!”
“You know I’d be there if I could, Valentina. Right now, though, he needs me to keep doing what I’m doing. That will help him more than anything else. Otherwise, I’d come straight away. Please understand.”
“Yes, well, I suppose I know better than to ask why. He would never let you down, Arkady, you know that. I’m sure you don’t want to abandon him, either.”
“We won’t abandon him. He’ll be home soon, you’ll see.”
Her heavy sigh became a burst of static in his ear. “It is time for him to retire, Arkady,” she said. “Time he handed over to someone younger. It takes a toll on him. I see it every day.”
“It takes a toll on all of us,” Arkady assured her with a sigh of his own. “But you should go home and try not to worry. Talk to Georg first thing, and he’ll be back at home with you soon enough. You’ll see.”
“Yes. Well, I’m sorry to disturb
you at this time of night. He said I shouldn’t call this number more than once, so I suppose you’ll have to contact me with any news…”
Arkady agreed he would, and offered what additional comfort he could before they exchanged strained farewells and ended the call. He stayed by the reception desk, staring at his own ghostly reflection in the darkened windows, thinking through what she had told him.
It was unlikely that whoever was running Maslok’s snatch squad would have placed Valentina Zolin under surveillance, but it was not impossible. If so, they would trace the call she had made, no matter what precautions she had taken. He flipped the bulky satphone over and removed its batteries, then unplugged the BGAN receiver for good measure.
There was nothing else he could do now, except try again to get the information they needed from Molchanov, and hope the cloned hard drive Zolin had hidden in Moscow was still safe. Even if it was, and he succeeded in decrypting it, he had doubts its contents could stop Maslok now. He respected his mentor, and would follow his orders, but this was no longer the world in which they’d fought the Cold War. Zolin’s strategies belonged to a time when facts had been adequate, and logic decisive. Those things seemed less applicable now, in an age of demagogues and hybrid warfare. Valentina was right: it was time they both retired.
I’ve been telling you that for years!
Oh—you’re back.
I’m your wife, silly man! I’ll always be here when you need me.
Then perhaps you can tell me what I should do now.
…You should run…
*
The others began coming downstairs soon after, the women rubbing their eyes and grumbling about bad dreams and poor sleep. Votyakov was still bridling and spoiling for a fight, snapping at Galina Yelagin when she tried to inspect his stitches. Even Zapad, roused from his couch, seemed uncomfortable and withdrawn, running fingers through his hair and muttering to himself while he sipped coffee and scribbled in a journal.
No one seemed inclined to prepare breakfast, all of them foraging individually for bread and fruit from the kitchen. Arkady put off talking to Votyakov as long as he could, but knew he would eventually have to tell him about Zolin. Delaying would only serve to undermine his authority, and award the Ogre a fresh grievance to boot. After antagonising everyone in the restaurant, the hunchback withdrew to the terrace to smoke and pace. Reluctantly, Arkady followed him into the glaciated morning air.
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