So it was no surprise when the Doctor showed up at Document Control office the next day and put a request through for copies of the past year’s medical purchases. The document, duly signed and meticulously formatted was made in the name of the Doctor’s hiring organization. Kolya smiled and politely returned the request form, stating all forms had to be signed by the person submitting the request for document release. Either the Doctor could make the request in his own name, or the director of his medical clinic would have to come in personally and make the requisition request.
The Doctor thanked him and suddenly remembered Frantisek back in the clinic needed immediate care.
Frantisek Musil had been a well logger at the Noyabrsk oil operations since well before the collapse of the Soviet Union, an event about which he didn’t give the proverbial flying fornication about. The son of Czechoslovak parents, he was now a naturalized Russian and didn’t know nor much care if his heritage came from the current Czech or Slovak components of the two newly independent nations or whether the New Russia was capitalist, communist or pugilist. As long as his job kept him handsomely paid, he was content to be ignorant of anything that didn’t involve hydrocarbons, pipelines or ethanol. Women and football were his next level of concerns. His health never had been. He’d always been as strong as a horse. His nickname was the “missile,” because he could set up and interpret oil borehole loggings faster than anyone else on site, a fact made all the more important now that they were short staffed. Frantisek wasn’t the first one working in Noyabrsk to suddenly come down ill.
During oil well loggings, a tool is lowered on the end of a wireline into a wellhole to measure the properties of a rock formation. As the toolstring travels along the wellbore, it gathers information about the surrounding formations. A typical log will have information about the density, porosity, permeability, lithology, hydrocarbon presence, and water saturation. Cesium 137 is the main chemical used in oil well logging.
It hadn’t felt like much to start: some coughing and a lot of phlegm, chest pain, shortness of breathy, red and irritated eyes, sensitive skin, and an iffy tummy. All things he put down to getting older, working too hard or drinking too much. Soon, however, the phlegm became spotted red with blood and he was short of breath and felt a burning sensation when he exerted himself. That was when he had ended up in Doctor Bandar’s clinic. Prussian Blue, the Doctor had him on a course of. That and a number of other treatments: antibiotics, intestinal purges, a bland diet, teetotalling. All temporary, the Doctor had reassured him. He’d soon be up and drinking and whoring and drilling like his old self.
The memorial service for Frantisek Musil took place in the main Camp Auditorium. Everyone not on shift was there, as well as a large portion of the civilian population of Noyabrsk. That’s what they called anyone who didn’t work for the oil company: “civilians.” Magda was there, along with several of her “employees,” who’d been frequent service providers to poor Frantisek. He’d expired overnight in the Clinic, having choked to death on his own blood in his lungs. Kolya and Snow had been given leave to shut down Document Control for a few hours to attend. The eulogy was delivered by Porfiry Makahonic, or Pig as everyone there knew him. Everyone agreed it was a rousing success. Not a dry eye was left after Pig extolled the many (until now, unknown) virtues of Frantisek the Well Logger, known as “Musil the Missile” to all and one. His contributions to the orphanage, work with the widows’ organization and volunteer work with the Veterans’ Club were as unknown to all present as Pig’s real name. They would even been have unknown to the Missile himself had he been able to hear them. In honour of The Missile’s uncompromising charity, the company, Pig announced, was awarding a double pension to his heirs (he had none, but no one there knew that either) and a scholarship to the technical institute in Frantisek’s name. One thing you could never accuse Pig of was not knowing how to put the “fun” in “funeral.”
“That fucker!” swore Pig not an hour after delivering The Missile’s eulogy. “Selfish cunt had to go and die. Why couldn’t he just get sick and toddle off in the distance like the others? No fuss, no questions, just take his money and enjoy what was left of his life.”
“That’s over half a dozen,” said Doctor Bandar worriedly. “We can’t keep hiding this. Sooner or later someone is going to notice and ask questions.”
“Nah,” dismissed Pig. “We got most of those out before they died. They won’t be tied back to here. From now on, anyone else comes in with symptoms, we send them off to the Crimea for a rest cure in the sanatoria. That’ll deflect attention even more.”
“But –” began the doctor.
“But nothing,” said Pig definitively. “Just do it. Order more Prussian Blue. I’ll try and get some lined coveralls to cut down on the emissions. But anyone who gets affected is leaving Camp.”
“But--”
“But I agree. We have to start covering our asses better. Maybe even cut and run if it comes down to that, pull out, take the money and run. Don’t worry. I’m not going down with the ship. Do what I say and you won’t either.”
“Prussian blue is a crystal lattice that exchanges potassium for cesium at the surface of the crystal. When given orally, it binds cesium that is secreted in the gut before it can be reabsorbed. Data suggest that in humans, Prussian blue can reduce cesium's half-life by approximately 43% and reduce total body burdens. Prussian blue is well tolerated at a dosage of 3 g/day with appropriate monitoring of serum potassium levels and observing for signs of constipation.”
--Wikipedia
“You call Bandar a Doctor?”
“He’s got the degree, hasn’t he?”
“That’s like calling shit a toilet ornament.”
“All I’m saying is that if you were injured, it’d be better to have the Doctor treat you than be pissed on by a dog.”
They were in the Mess Hall bullshitting again, The Oracle, a couple of roughnecks from the rigs, a toolpusher and some bored canteen staff.
“We call him Doc, but Dopey or Grumpy would be more suitable,” bitched one. “The world will end before the Doc runs out of things to whine about.”
“What have you got against the Doc?”
“I’m Russian. I got something against everybody.”
“He’s no dope,” said another. “I’ll bet he could buy and sell everyone at this table.”
“You bet,” mocked the toolpusher. “You haven’t paid off on a losing bet all year. Who’d be stupid enough to take it?”
“Why’d they call him Dopey anyhow? The dwarf.”
“Because he was the only one without a beard,” answered The Oracle. The others – all Russian – nodded sagely. It was an old Russian belief that all wise men had a beard.
“That’s probably one of the few things Disney every got right. Beards play an important part in spreading ideas and winning minds; Marx, Lenin, Castro; they all had beards. Look at Khomeini in Iran. You think he could have overthrown the Shah if he was shaved? No beardless man has ever been a prophet.”
“Did you know,” The Oracle continued, “that the Soviet Union once banned Mickey Mouse ‘cause he had been living with Minnie for over fifty years and had never shown any inclination to marry her?”
“I thought the Bolsheviks came into power preaching free love?”
“That was only until someone got a look at Krupskaya,” joked a roughneck.
“Krupskaya?”
“Lenin’s wife,” answered The Oracle. “Look at Marx. I like Marx. I'm sure that he and Jenny made mad monkey love. You can feel it when you read his stuff. The pace of his prose and the humour. Screw Krupskaya all the time, on the other hand, and you end up writing crap. Like Lenin. And trying to prevent anyone else from enjoying a good bonk, too. Just ‘cause he didn’t want to touch Krupskaya, his own wife.”
“The Doctor,” someone said. “He’s the Eighth Dwarf.”
“Come again?”
“The Eighth Dwarf.”
“Nope, there’s o
nly seven, dipstick,” said The Oracle. “Dopey, Grumpy, Doc, Happy, Bashful, Sneezy, and Sleepy. Seven.”
“Yeah, well, the Doc, he’s the eighth: Greedy.”
“How do you do that?”
“What? Blow milk out of my nose?”
“No, remember their names. All seven. Just like that.”
“Easy, it’s a mnemonic. Two S’s, two D’s, and three emotions.”
“Huh?”
“Two S’s: Sleepy and Sneezy; two D’s: Dopey and Doc; and three emotions: Happy, Bashful, and Grumpy.”
“Come quick!” yelled the ancient Camp security guard, running into the canteen, his equally creaky Alsatian limping along behind him. “Call Pig! Someone broke into Document Control. Kolya – the Old Bolshevik. He’s been hurt.”
“What were you doing in there?” Pig asked Old Kolya. “You were supposed to be gone long ago. Your shift ended at six.”
“Fine, thank you,” complained Kolya, rubbing his bruised head. “A little sore. How good of you to ask.”
“What?” demanded Pig.
“Fuck you.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I almost get killed from a whack on the head and you’re complaining I’m working free overtime. So fuck you.”
“How is your head?” Pig asked grudgingly.
“Hard. Thank God. Who does not exist, of course. Stupid superstitious expression.”
“What did you see?” Pig asked anxiously. Being anyone’s inferior was unthinkable to Pig, so God could not possible exist.
“Some shadows moving around inside as I was leaving the canteen. Flitting past the window. I thought maybe the window was left open and documents were blowing around. So I got my keys out and went in.”
“No. I meant did you see who it was?”
“He caught me from behind. Nothing. Maybe his shoes when I was lying on the floor bleeding to death. But I don’t remember. I was probably too busy calculating my overtime.”
Pig looked relieved, not disappointed. If he understood Kolya’s indignant sarcasm, he chose now to show it.
“But I caught him a good one,” Kolya continued.
“What do you mean?”
“I whacked him,” Kolya said, satisfied.
“What?” Now, Pig was horrified.
“I caught him with the edge of a ruler sitting on my desk. He’ll be feeling it. Look.” Kolya held the straight edge up. There was blood all along the edge.
Pig shook his head sadly. Probably pissed about damaging office equipment, Kolya thought.
“I need to get to the Clinic.”
“What?”
“The Clinic. I need to see the Doctor.”
“Why can he do? He’s a doctor, not a police man. Leave the man alone.”
“To bandage me up. Give me something for the pain. Idiot. You’d think you were the one who got hit on the head, not me.”
“Right. Wait here. I’ll go get him.”
“My head got hurt, not my legs. Let go of my arm. I can walk there on my own.”
But the Clinic was shut when Kolya and Pig arrived there and the Doctor was not answering his phone, even though he was supposed to be on twenty-four hour call. Even his trailer was empty, dark, an offence, since the Camp was never allowed to be without an attending physician on site.
A disciplinary note was put in Doctor Bandar’s file and he was put on probation for a month because he was not available to treat Kolya after the attack. It was doubled when he was caught trying to lie his way out of it. He’d had to attend another emergency, he’d lied at first. Out of camp. In Noyabrsk. When no such person could be found, he changed his story and admitted he’d passed out drunk in town and the first lie was told to try and cover his tracks. Throughout the disciplinary hearing, he looked contrite, his doctor’s tunic buttoned all the way up his throat, long sleeves covering his arms. Pig pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, sighed and told him he was very disappointed with him. The Doctor bit his tongue and took his dressing down like a man. Or a conspirator at least. Pig seemed satisfied with the results. No more was said about steps trying to find Kolya’s attacker.
“I think I know how to find him,” Kolya said.
“Who?” Snow asked.
“The intruder. The mudak. The bastard who conked me on the head. You’re not saying anything,” Kolya complained.
“No, I’m not,” confirmed Snow. “I’m sorry you got hit on the head. But you know what? It’s finished. Give it up. Just let it go.”
“You don’t care,” Kolya accused. “What did you do when Pig came in to our office and tried to cheat those documents out of us. Nothing! That’s what you did.”
“What was I supposed to do?”
“How about getting angry? Yelling at the guy? Threatening to expose him?”
“I wasn’t angry.”
“I know. That’s the problem. You should have been. You’ve got to learn to let yourself feel. Is there anything you care about?” demanded Kolya. “Anything that would get your ass off your cot and the vodka bottle from between your lips?”
“Not Pig’s movie choices, that’s for sure. Seriously?” asked Snow bluntly. “No, there’s nothing I care about. I couldn’t give a shit. Look, my goals are simple: to be left alone, to let me make enough money to retire in the Canadian wilderness far away from everyone; enough to keep me in booze and antidepressants; enough for a good movie or book every now and then. So just leave it -- and me -- alone. Alright? They pay me to file their paper so I do it. What happens to it afterwards? I don’t give a shit.”
That night, Kolya was back in Document Control alone. He’d eaten, made sure everyone in the canteen heard he was headed back to his room, then snuck in the office and hunkered down behind the front counter with his pillow, a mattress, and a ring of kielbasa to keep him company.
Like all Soviet citizens, Kolya had been brought up to not only believe but viscerally feel the following: (1) the USSR was a unique nation. Lenin created a utopian society, the first in human history to not only promise but deliver social justice, work, security, and prosperity for all (2) it was only due to the inspired leadership of the Communist Party that the USSR accomplished this (3) so threatened by this were the other nations that the USSR has had to fight two world wars to defend itself against capitalistic attacks (4) final victory was certain; history was on its side due to the internal contradictions of capitalism (5) history was made by material forces at work in the world. Neither God nor providence affected the affairs of man.
God. Piffle. Superstitious nonsense, as far as Kolya was concerned. Communism had no room for religion because it was the religion. It had a vision of utopia, a code of behaviour for reaching the promised land, a supreme authority, even a supposed date for redemption, just like the Jehovah Witnesses. Bad enough that people opiated themselves with religion; worse, in Kolya’s opinion, was that when men stopped believing in God, it wasn't that they then believed in nothing, it was that they started to believe in everything. Sure, Brezhnev and Gorbachev might have led the Soviet people like rabbits down a blind alley. That didn’t mean the country hadn’t been going the right direction, just that nincompoops like Yeltsin didn’t have a fucking compass. Listening to Yeltsin reminded him of guys like Rush Limbaugh, who somehow got away with advocating virginity and motherhood at the same time. Yeltsin's plans made just as much sense.
The bastards could steal his country and ridicule the purity of his ideology, but he’d be damned if they made a mockery of what was left of his life. Document control only meant something if the security and integrity of the documents could be guaranteed. He broke a piece off the garlic sausage and settled in for the night. They might be able to take his ideals; they weren’t going to take his precious bits of paper.
“You told me you had things under control.”
Post-Communist Russia had come to be dominated by three dominant groups: the band of oligarchs favoured by Yeltsin who came to control the vast wealth created
from privatized state businesses, technocrats who ran certain key branches of the Russian government, and the siloviki, former security officers who now ran Russia. The term literally means “people of force,” a blanket term to describe the network of former and current state-security officers with personal ties to the Soviet-era KGB and its successor agencies. Virtually all key positions in present-day Russia were now controlled by these three, bringing Russia to “managed” democracy and state capitalism.
Gorbachev had come into power thinking he’d be able to cleanse and purify the Communist system from within. Instead, he became like Martin Luther and ended up changing the Soviet Union entirely, creating a completely different entity. The Soviet Union went from superpower to basket case overnight. People lost their life’s savings not once, but several times in the course of just a few years, lurching from the ideology of Lenin to Mussolini in a decade, each group in-between looting and abandoning the country in the process.
Pig had ridden to his current position as Camp Boss on the coat tails of Yeltsin’s now-disgraced oligarchs. The siloviki who Putin brought in to replace them running the country came to a tacit agreement with them: they could keep their stolen riches so long as the oligarchs passed on some of the money and stayed out of politics. Any of the oligarchs who resisted -- Berezhovsky, Khodorovsky, – were either arrested or forced out of the country, including Pig’s former sponsor in Noyabrsk.
Not all siloviki were created equal. There were platinum-grade siloviki like Sergei Bogdanchikov, president of state-owned oil giant Rosneft, then there were the tin pot-grade level ones like Bykov, whom Pig was meeting now. Bykov made his living off the scraps left behind in the bottom of the trough.
“These are not Nenet deer herders,” Bykov continued. “We can’t buy them off with a few free tools or scare them away by conducting military exercises nearby.” The oil company had actually done that in order to gain access to their traditional native lands.
Pig: A Thriller Page 13