Exoteric

by Philip Hemplow

  Snow had finally stopped falling. The valley was smothered in it, the trees, the road, the frozen river, all lost beneath a brilliant white carpet that made it almost impossible to judge distance, or tell where the ground stopped and the sky began. The featureless, achromatic brightness of the panorama made Arkady’s eyes water and ache until he turned back to Votyakov and the shadow of the Zubgorai.

  “How’s your head?” he asked, taking a step towards the other man, stopping outside arm’s reach.

  Votyakov gave him a withering look. “It’s fine. You don’t need to keep asking about—”

  “Zolin’s been arrested.”

  The interruption was well-timed. Votyakov couldn’t keep the shock and surprise from spreading across his face. His eyes widened and his mouth fell open, the cigarette dangling, forgotten, from his lower lip. It lasted only a moment, and then the mask came back down.

  “What? What did you say?”

  “Arrested, yes. They came for him in the night. I need you to tell me if anyone else knows our location right now. Is there anyone, apart from Zolin, who knows where we are?”

  Votyakov narrowed his eyes. “No. There is no one—just Zolin. Where have they taken him?”

  “What about Clandestine?” persisted Arkady. “Does anyone there know where we were going?”

  “Well…only the deserters, of course. They know now, but before we left, no—there was nobody else. Where have they taken Zolin?”

  “I don’t know. Did Clandestine know they were working for Zolin, or do they only know about you?”

  “They met only me. I hired them. So far as they know, no one else is involved. If he tells them—”

  “Shut up and let me think.”

  Would word get back to Maslok’s faction, courtesy of the truant Clandestine men? There was no way to know for sure, but there seemed no real reason to assume it would. The ex-forces gangsters who ran that operation ought to be unaware of Maslok’s potential interest in the Zubgorai mission. They had been paid, and even if the fact Zolin was being interrogated somehow became public knowledge, it would mean nothing to them.

  That still left Zolin though. Arkady knew he wouldn’t break unless they coerced him, but there were plenty of ways they could do that. Without knowing what they suspected him of, it was impossible to guess how far they might go.

  “Everyone breaks eventually,” said Votyakov, as if reading Arkady’s thoughts.

  “They wouldn’t dare,” replied Arkady. “He’s a Section Director. They don’t have enough on him to risk using your methods. He’ll be interviewed, and threatened, probably, but they won’t touch him. They can’t.”

  Votyakov shrugged and took a final drag on his cigarette. “It is comforting to know his authority remains undiminished,” he said, smoke trailing between his lips with every syllable. “And good you can be so sure what is happening in Moscow while we are all the way down here.” He turned away and flicked the spent butt over the railing.

  “Things have changed since your day, Votyakov,” snapped Arkady. “We don’t just start pulling out fingernails at the drop of a hat anymore.”

  “Oh, good!” said Votyakov, widening his eyes in mockery. “You should be sure to tell them times have changed.” He started walking back towards the restaurant’s patio door. “When they arrest us, you be sure to tell them that.”

  *

  It was a shock to see Molchanov sitting up in bed, and it took a few seconds for Arkady to realise that, in fact, it was the bed that had been adjusted: raised to bring his upper body almost vertical.

  “We thought we would sit him up to try him on real food,” explained Zapad, when he asked about it. “He keeps trying to talk instead of chewing though, and his gag reflex seems unreliable. It was, perhaps, ambitious.”

  “He’s sweating,” pointed out Arkady, peering at the patient through the calorimeter’s window.

  “Yes. He’s an active fellow this morning. His EEG is quite extraordinary. I confess, I’ve no idea what to make of it. He is slightly febrile, but I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. Probably a mild infection; possibly a side effect from his anti-rejection meds. I’m keeping a close eye on him.”

  “He does seem much more lively,” said Arkady, looking on doubtfully as Molchanov raved and cackled to himself. The oligarch’s head turned this way and that, his hands clawing at the air as he laughed. His eyes, too, were brighter and more expressive than they had hitherto been—but expressive in a manic, unreadable way, which Arkady found disturbing.

  “Indeed, he’s most animated,” agreed Zapad. “Unfortunately though, he is still not making much sense. I wonder, er…now the snow has stopped falling, I wonder if it is perhaps time we recalled the helicopter and transferred him elsewhere. I think perhaps we have reached the limits of what I can do for him. A neurological specialist may have more success. Besides, is it not time to reveal our achievements to the world? We have opened an entirely new frontier in resuscitation and thanatology, but we cannot hope to explore it alone!”

  The doctor cleared his throat and fidgeted, waiting for Arkady’s response.

  Arkady played for time. “You are unable to recommend further treatment yourself?”

  “Well, I feel a second opinion—and a third, and fourth, quite honestly—could provide helpful perspectives at this stage. There are diagnostic imaging techniques for which we do not have the equipment, and post-transplant care can quickly become complicated. Besides, I—I need a rest. Fatigue takes its toll, and I worry my judgement may become impaired…this place…I have not been sleeping well…”

  He took off his spectacles, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose for a few seconds, before sliding them back on and blinking expectantly at Arkady.

  It was obvious he was telling the truth. Arkady hadn’t realised just how tired the medic had become, but his skin was almost as pale as Molchanov’s now, with grey half-moons beneath his eyes.

  “Thank you for your honesty,” said Arkady. “I will take it under consideration, but an evacuation will take some time to organise: a couple of days at least. In the meantime, why don’t you go and get some rest? I will stay with him for a while.”

  Zapad sighed.

  “Very well. It’s just…there are Hippocratic considerations, also. It is incumbent on us to see he receives the care he needs. I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do indeed. Leave it with me. I will make the necessary arrangements.”

  Zapad nodded, seemingly relieved. Privately, Arkady reasoned that if Molchanov had not relinquished the codes they needed within a couple of days, it would be too late for them to do much good anyway. If Zolin succumbed to pressure, the Zubgorai could already be swarming with Maslok’s men by then. Given how ruthlessly the Minister of Defence had been dispatched, he doubted any of them would be heard from again if they were found in the company of a resurrected and talkative Molchanov. Time was running out.

  He waited for the doctor to take his leave, then entered the calorimeter. Molchanov stopped chattering and stared at him, with the intrigued expression of a kitten watching a fly. His head turned, tracking Arkady as he dragged a chair across the floor and sat down by the bed.

  “Good morning,” said Arkady with a courteous nod. “How are you feeling today?”

  Molchanov’s eyes widened and his attention wandered. For a few moments, he seemed to be listening to something Arkady couldn’t hear.

  “I don’t know him—I don’t know him—we don’t know him—we don’t know who you are,” he blurted at last, his gaze drifting back to Arkady’s face. “I can—I can—we can—we feel your warmth. Full skull—skull full—vacuum…”

  “Thank you,” replied Arkady, furrowing his brow. “I’m not sure I understand your meaning. Can you tell me your name?”

  Molchanov arched his neck, pressing his head back against the pillow until Arkady heard joints crack. “We have been too long in the dark,” he moaned. “Too long in the dark, yes, too long in the
dark, at the mercy of madness where nothing is known! Names become thoughts, thoughts become truth—ah, but which names become truth? What truths are forgotten, which memories are but thoughts? Entropy increases, and madness is the only measure of time. Ah, but who can reckon it?”

  “Your mouth is dry,” interrupted Arkady, hoping to stem the flood of nonsense. “Would you like some water?”

  Molchanov’s head lolled forwards now, chin against his breastbone. “Another comes. With each hour, more, drawn to warmth, to geometry, to light. The shadow will find us—the shadow—the gateway that devours—the eater of man! It will find these oases! It will claim us anew!”

  “I’ll pour you some water,” said Arkady, pulling the bedside trolley towards him and busying himself with carafe and glass. It was hopeless. Even the most mundane enquiries produced only a torrent of lunacy. If the password he needed emerged amongst it all, how would he even recognise it? Even if Molchanov spelled it out for him, what were the chances it would be correct?

  He raised Molchanov’s chin from his chest with one finger, and held the glass to his lips. The oligarch made no attempt to sip, and water spilled from the sides of his mouth, dripping down his bare torso. Arkady felt sure some of it had dribbled down his throat too, and decided to count that a success.

  “You keep saying ‘we’ and ‘us,’” he commented, setting the glass back down. “Your name is Zoltan Molchanov. Do you remember that name?”

  “We and us, we and us—your name is not here, or does not know it. There are too many now. The shadow will find us, will take us! Life is an asylum, to keep the beast at bay! We must have new sanctuaries. This one burns with the remnants of a hundred; there can be no more!”

  “Are you saying—”

  “To escape the void—to taste reason, knowing solitude and blackness await—mercy or tragedy? No oblivion! No relief! No end!”

  “Look, I need you to pay attention. Are you listening to me? Will you listen?”

  Molchanov’s head turned towards him again, and the malevolence of his gaze turned Arkady’s exasperation to unease.

  “Your life is but the writhing of a skewered worm,” hissed the revenant, raising a finger towards him. “You were born between the teeth of the world! Die, fool, that we who have already suffered may fill you!”

  He tilted his head and grinned, exposing both rows of perfect, white teeth, his face creasing in a rictus of malice and hunger. Unnerved and confused, Arkady stood up and slowly backed away. He needed time—yes, time to think. Sophia had been right all along. It wasn’t her father they had brought back. It was something else.

  *

  He was tempted to just take one of the remaining vehicles and head for Moscow, but knew he could not—not while there were civilians still on-site. Mastering his anxiety, he went to the restaurant, where Zapad dozed with an arm across his eyes while the others bickered and watched television.

  “Attention, please,” he announced, picking up the remote and muting the news programme they were watching. “You too, Dr Zapad, if you’re awake. Thank you. From now on I don’t want anyone to be alone in that room with the patient. Observing through the window is fine, but no one goes in there unaccompanied. And I want some way to lock that door. I don’t want him wandering about the place. Can that be done?”

  “The door can be locked, yes—but why?” asked Galina, folding her arms. “He is not a criminal. We are not gaolers. We must respect his rights.”

  “Dead men don’t have rights,” snapped Arkady. “He’s mentally ill—psychotic—he could be dangerous.”

  “Oh, and is that your expert psychiatric opinion, FSB Agent Andreyushkin? Well then, I suppose we shouldn’t question it.”

  “You know, don’t you?” said Sophia, staring at him. “You know he isn’t my father. I told you something had gone wrong!”

  “I don’t know anything. I mean, I’m not satisfied that he—your father, the man in there—is in his right mind. I am responsible for security, and—”

  “I am responsible for security,” barked Votyakov, rising to his feet. “Unless we have swapped jobs.”

  “Given the current disposition of our security team, I’d keep quiet about that if I were you,” advised Arkady, not bothering to look at him. “Dr Zapad, I want the patient confined to his room, and, let me repeat, no one goes in there unaccompanied. I hope I’ve made myself clear.”

  He turned on his heel and left by the nearest exit, knowing the more he said the weaker he would appear. Now it was just the four of them on the plateau—and Molchanov—the only authority he had over them was that which he projected. He was only in charge so long as he acted like he was in charge. Best not to give them the opportunity to question it.

  *

  Ana consoled him as best she could, bustling about in the corner of his eye, rearranging the contents of his suitcase. She recounted trips they’d taken together in the past, people they had met, things he didn’t even realise he remembered.

  “This isn’t helping,” he groaned at last. “How am I supposed to decide what to do with you in my ear, going on about Bulgarian apparatchiks and Danish waiters?”

  “Oh, you tiger! I’m sure I’m very sorry to be boring you! Of course, if you’ve more important things to do than talk to your wife…”

  “You know it’s not that…we should just leave, shouldn’t we? There’s nothing more to be done here. Sophia has money. She can get us out of the country. Zapad can exhibit his patient in Switzerland, if he wants. I can defect—if anyone will have me.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. Vsevolod and Valentina would never forgive us if you defected. What is this stain on your tie?”

  “Mustard, I think. It happened in London. Why are you so obsessed with ties?”

  “That won’t come out, you know—you’ll have to buy another one. Such a nice tie, too. I bought you that. It matches your eyes…”

  “I miss you. I don’t know what to do without you.”

  “That’s sweet, darling, but you never needed me to tell you what to do. Follow your conscience, and I’m sure everything will be fine.”

  “Is that thing downstairs telling the truth? Is it dark there? Is it lonely? Are you suffering?”

  “Silly man! How do you expect me to tell you that? I’m just in your imagination, remember? I’m not really here!”

  He was jerked from his reverie by a shout of “Agent,” and a thunder of footsteps from the corridor. There was barely time for him to raise his head from the pillow before the door was shoved open, slamming against the wall hard enough to crack the plaster.

  It was Galina Yelagin, wild-eyed and out of breath. One of her hands gripped the door jamb, as if she was a cartoon character arresting her slide out of frame. The other pointed straight at Arkady.

  “Get up!” she gasped. “Your man has gone mad! Talk to him, sort him out—deal with him!”

  “What?” Arkady forced himself into a sitting position and reached for his coat.

  “Votyakov—he’s got a gun! He’s taken the others hostage! Will you get up, or what?”

  Arkady staggered to his feet. She was already running back down the corridor, but paused at the head of the stairs so he could catch up.

  “Get a move on, for fuck’s sake! He’s gone completely mad! He’s threatening to shoot the girl. He said he’d shoot me, too, if I go in there.”

  Her voice quavered as she bounded down the stairs. Arkady chased after her, but sciatic pain struck him like an axe to the leg, worse than he had ever felt before. White stars exploded in his vision and he stumbled, grabbing at the bannister and all-but falling down the last ten steps. He yelped and swore, then swore again as he attempted to steady himself.

  “I can’t wait for you!” yelled Galina over her shoulder as she dashed ahead of him down the corridor to the clinic. “He’s got my brother!”

  Gritting his teeth, Arkady forced himself to limp after her, dragging his coat behind him. It was only pain. He’d endured wors
e. Twenty-five metres to the clinic; he could tolerate anything for twenty-five metres. Was the pistol still in his coat pocket? It was. He might need it, if what Galina said was true. He could hear her, yelling at someone beyond the doors that were fifteen metres away—ten now—he forced himself to go faster, pushing a hand against the wall with every other step.

  Blundering through the clinic’s swing doors, he found the surgeon hammering on the calorimeter’s observation window, shouting threats at someone on the other side. Wincing at both the noise and the fiery pain in his thigh, he hopped and shambled towards her until he could see what was going on.

  The Ogre was standing by Molchanov’s bed, his broad, misshapen back to the window. Over his bicep, Arkady could see the top of Sophia Molchanov’s head. Votyakov was restraining her with an arm across her throat, his other hand holding a gun to her head. Zapad stood on the other side of the room, hands outstretched and placatory, frozen in place.

  The bed was between them, surrounded by its attendant trolleys and equipment. Its occupant’s eyes were fixed on Votyakov, watching his every move with expectant interest. Molchanov was smiling and seemed completely relaxed, the calmest person in the room.

  Even though he couldn’t see his face or hear him, he could tell by the movements of Votyakov’s head that he was talking. Galina was still hammering on the window, shouting. Arkady grabbed her wrist to make her stop.

  “Stop it! He’s not listening. Turn the intercom on. Let me talk to him.”

  She stared at him as if he was speaking a foreign language, but did as she was told, disappearing around the corner of the chamber to where the controls for the intercom, cameras, and other equipment were located.