He passed beneath a laborer securing gilt molding along the ceiling and then turned down a corridor still in the drywall phase. Based on his most recent briefing, there were only three workmen left—all cleared for top secret projects and all toiling outside the building’s nerve center. They knew nothing of the structure’s connection to Krupin or even where they were in Russia. And after being paid, they would have no reason to care.
The corridor evolved into something that felt more like a hospital than he would have liked, but the demands of hygiene had to be met. At its end, the plastic tent was gone, replaced with an elaborate glass surgical theater. Inside a number of masked and gowned medical personnel were huddled around an operating table. On it was a middle-aged woman whose extremities were strapped down and whose head was secured in a metal frame. She shifted her eyes desperately from one side to the other, but couldn’t otherwise move.
She was one of a number of people throughout Russia who had been identified as having health issues similar to Krupin’s. They’d been offered inclusion in fictitious medical trials sold as having a high probability of saving their lives. The reality was somewhat different. While they were indeed involved in critical medical studies, the goal was to subject them to experimental drugs and procedures too dangerous to test on Krupin. This particular participant had a brain tumor similar in size and position to the president’s.
One of the nurses spotted Sokolov through the glass and pointed him out to the man standing next to her. He was one of the top brain surgeons in the country, an arrogant little man of questionable politics and loyalties. At this point, he knew nothing of Krupin’s situation or presence at the facility. His only task was to attempt to remove as much of the tumor from this meaningless woman’s brain as possible. Potential dangers and benefits needed to be assessed and her recovery process had to be recorded in case it should become necessary for Krupin to submit to a similar procedure.
Judging by his gait as he rushed toward the glass doors leading from the theater, it wasn’t a role he was happy about.
“Are you in charge?” he said, coming to a stop less than a meter away and examining Sokolov’s uniform with open contempt.
“I am.”
“What is all this? I was taken from my house in the middle of the night and told there was an emergency. Then I was put on a plane and brought here. I’ve not been allowed to communicate with my family and I have patients in St. Petersburg who—”
“Then complete your assignment here,” Sokolov said, making an effort to ignore the lack of respect. The members of Russia’s intellectual class were becoming unbearably arrogant, believing with increasing certainty that the state existed to serve them and not the other way around.
“Compete my assignment here?” he said, pointing at the terrified subject on the other side of the glass. “You mean operate on that woman?”
“I do.”
“Then obviously you know nothing about brain tumors or surgery.”
“On the contrary. I understand that she has a malignant tumor that will be extremely difficult to remove surgically.”
“The chances of surgery significantly improving her prognosis are extremely low,” he said in an exasperated, pedantic tone. “The dangers of a surgical intervention by far outweigh any—”
“And yet, surgery is exactly what you’re going to do,” Sokolov said, cutting him off.
The surgeon just stared at him, looking a bit dazed. “I will not.”
Sokolov nodded, keeping his voice even. “Either you operate or I’ll tape your eyes open and make you watch me dismember your children.”
The man took a hesitant step back, trying to process what he’d just heard. And in that brief lull, Sokolov decided he’d had enough. He slapped the man across the face hard enough to leave him on all fours, staring down at the blood draining from his nose.
“I want to be very clear, Doctor. What I just said to you isn’t shorthand for some as yet undefined punishment. I will handcuff you to a chair in that operating theater, tape your eyes open, and make you watch while I use your instruments to cut your family apart. Am I understood?”
The physician didn’t answer, instead reached up to try to stop the flow of blood. Sokolov used a meticulously polished boot to shove him onto his back before stepping down on his throat. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Doctor.”
“Yes!” he choked out. “Yes, I understand.”
Sokolov started back down the corridor. “Then I look forward to reading your report on the procedure.”
? ? ?
Sokolov picked up his pace, noting that he was running almost two minutes behind schedule. While undoubtedly productive, his meeting with the brain surgeon had taken longer than anticipated.
He approached a split in the corridor and struggled to recall which led to Krupin’s private rooms. But then he saw the president standing in the middle of the hallway on the right.
“Sir! What are you doing out here? The area’s not secure yet.”
Krupin didn’t react, instead continuing to stare silently through the glass wall in front of him. On the other side was an infirmary filled with people secured to beds. Most were sedated but a few were undergoing experiments that precluded it. Those few stared back at them through the window, a mix of rage, confusion, and fear playing across their faces. Slightly more concerning was the obvious recognition, but in the end it mattered little. None would leave that place alive.
“Who are they?” Krupin said finally.
“Patients suffering from ailments similar to yours and a few healthy prisoners who’ll assist us with more general medical inquiries,” Sokolov responded. “The man in the back with the tattoos, for instance, is undergoing an aggressive experimental chemotherapy that may have the ability to attack your tumor. He’s about your age and like you quite powerful—still one of the most feared men in the Black Dolphin Prison. We’ll use him to help understand the side effects should it be deemed safe and effective enough to administer to you. We’ll use the information to adjust your schedule and duties.”
Again, Krupin didn’t respond, squinting into the glare coming off the glass. He seemed to be struggling to focus and, more concerning, to process what he’d just heard. Whether his confusion was physical or emotional was difficult to know. What was evident, though, was that the agelessness he’d always exuded was gone. He looked drained. Small.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to meet you when you arrived, sir. It—”
“I didn’t bring you back to be my welcoming committee.”
Sokolov put a hand on his old friend’s back and guided him down the hall. “Did everything go well? I imagine it was a taxing day.”
Krupin had spent the last twenty-four hours moving from one wilderness camp to another by helicopter. Attended by a film crew and makeup people, he’d been documented hunting, white water rafting, and using an open fire to cook the game he’d ostensibly killed. The photos and video would be parceled out to state media as his treatments were carried out—providing an excuse for his absence from the Kremlin and depicting him at his most robust.
The white walls and linoleum floors gave way to the red carpet and rich paneling that had been inadvisable in the medical area. Lighting was now provided by chandeliers, and paintings of pivotal moments in Russian history adorned the walls.
“You’ve accomplished a great deal in the days you’ve been back,” Krupin observed absently.
“I doubt you’ll be here long, but I wanted you to be comfortable,” Sokolov said, opening a door at the end of the corridor. The room it led to was just over ten meters square, consisting of a bedroom and living area furnished with Russian antiques.
The president’s personal doctor, Eduard Fedkin, was waiting by an immense leather chair with an IV cart set up at its side. The custom cocktail of poisons it contained would be the first phase in Krupin’s treatment.
“Are you ready, sir?” Fedkin said. “If so, please take off your suit jacket and we can get started.”
Krupin laid it carefully across a table and sat, finally meeting Sokolov’s eye as Fedkin tied a rubber band around his biceps. “What news of Azarov?”