Arctic Storm Rising

Four

Set in a quiet side street in the heart of Moscow’s Meshchansky District, the Bekhterev Private Clinic occupied a five-story glass-and-concrete office building. Its namesake, Vladimir Bekhterev, born in 1857, was known chiefly as one of Russia’s most famous neurologists, a rival of Ivan Pavlov, and also for his probable murder on the orders of Josef Stalin. Asked to examine the dictator in 1927, Bekhterev had privately warned colleagues that Stalin was a paranoiac. He died suddenly and mysteriously the following day. After the fall of the Soviet Union, Russia’s new rulers reinstated him in the pantheon of national medical heroes. The Bekhterev Clinic had been sponsored by profit-seeking investors as part of that rehabilitation process. And now its cadre of highly trained doctors and neurosurgeons provided discreet and expensive medical services to Russia’s government and business elites.

One of those specialists, Dr. Viktor Obolensky, had his office on the clinic’s fourth floor. Delicate watercolors on its dark-paneled walls, the doctor’s elegant oak desk, comfortable leather chairs, and richly colored Oriental rugs created an aura of luxury that was a far cry from the dingy, run-down atmosphere of state-run medical offices and hospitals. His usual patients, men and women of influence and wealth, valued the difference.

Right now, Colonel Alexei Petrov didn’t give a damn about his surroundings. His whole attention was focused on the MRI images Obolensky had just shown to him to explain his diagnosis. Slowly, he looked up from the blue-tinted pictures to focus on the neurologist. “There is no possibility of a mistake?”

Apologetically, Obolensky shrugged his shoulders. He wore an expensive, immaculately tailored Italian suit under his regulation white coat. “I’m afraid not, Mr. Kuznetsov. The indications are unmistakable.”

Petrov took the blow in silence. The name Kuznetsov, the Russian equivalent of Smith, was the pseudonym he used for his visits to the clinic. He was also paying cash for these tests and consultations, since the last thing he wanted was a paper trail his Air Force superiors might be able to follow. Now, more than ever, he was glad that he’d taken precautions. “And the prognosis?” he asked at last, not sure if he really wanted an answer.

“Not good,” the doctor admitted bluntly. “A combination of radiation treatment and chemotherapy might slow the progression. At least to a degree. But the location and size of this malignancy make surgery… inadvisable.” The corners of his mouth turned down. “I wish I could give you better news. Unfortunately, this is not a case where there is even the slightest margin of doubt.”

Petrov took a short, sharp breath. “I see.” For a brief moment, darkness seemed to veil his vision. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And the likely time frame?” he asked, noticing with a trace of cynicism that he’d chosen a deliberately distanced, almost clinically sterile way to phrase his question. No doubt that was common for people in his position.

Again, Obolensky shrugged. “My best estimate would be anywhere from six months to a year. Perhaps eighteen months at the outside.” He nodded at the sheaf of MRI images still clutched in his patient’s hands. “The precise progression of tumors of this kind varies widely from individual to individual. Regular scans would let us track its growth more closely, of course.”

And fatten your pocketbook, too, Petrov thought bitterly.

The neurologist looked somber. “If you have any serious responsibilities in your work, it would probably be best to let your associates and your employer know the situation as soon as possible.”

“In case I drop dead suddenly?” Petrov felt his mouth twist into a thin, wry smile.

Obolensky shook his head. “That is unlikely. But the frequency and severity of your headaches is likely to increase over the coming months. I can prescribe medication to alleviate some of the pain, but these medicines naturally have significant side effects. As time goes on, it may become more and more difficult for you to concentrate. Or to handle complex, difficult problems.”

“I see.”

“If you prefer, I can brief the necessary people for you,” the neurologist said hesitantly. “These kinds of conversations are often painful. Sometimes a relatively disinterested, scientific approach is best.”

Petrov smiled thinly again. “That would require me to waive my right to doctor-patient confidentiality, would it not?”

“Yes, it would,” Obolensky admitted. He steepled his hands. “I fully understood your desire for privacy early on, Mr. Kuznetsov.” His tone left little doubt that he knew the name was phony. “But you can see that the situation has changed. Sooner or later, those for whom you work will realize you aren’t well.”

And the doctor was concerned that they would blame him for helping hide the bad news, Petrov realized. For all Obolensky knew right now, his patient was a high-level financial director or senior government executive — someone whose illness-induced mistakes could cost billions of rubles or cause a terrible political scandal. None of the promises of patient confidentiality made by the Bekhterev Private Clinic would protect it in such a case. All of which gave Obolensky every reason to start digging to find out Petrov’s real identity if he refused to cooperate.

Understandable or not, Petrov thought coldly, that was something he simply could not risk. “I take your point,” he said at last. “Look, it’s already Friday. What if I put together a list of names and numbers over this weekend? I should be able to get it to you by Monday morning.”

Relieved, Obolensky sat back. “Thank you. I appreciate your confidence. And you can rely on my discretion.”

Petrov smiled more genuinely this time. “Oh, of that, I have absolutely no doubt, Doctor.”

Humming softly along with the Korean pop music wafting from his Lexus luxury sedan’s premium sound system, Dr. Viktor Obolensky turned off the main thoroughfare and onto a narrow private road that led to his country dacha. He was looking forward to a couple of days away from his office and importunate patients. As a medical specialty, neurology paid exceedingly well, but all too often it meant dealing with desperate people who wanted to see him as a miracle worker — as someone who could save them from a tragic fate otherwise decreed by genetics or by some random cosmic ray that had sleeted through their brains and condemned them to death.

This far outside the city, he had no close neighbors, and the woods lining both sides of the road were already pitch-dark. Glowing a spectral white in his high beams, row after row of slender birch trees appeared briefly and then vanished in the blackness.

Abruptly, there was a muffled bang from his right front tire. The steering wheel jolted under his hands and then tugged hard to the right.

“Sukin syn!” Obolensky muttered, wrestling the car back straight and braking to a stop. “Son of a bitch!” One of his tires had just blown out.

Still grumbling under his breath, he switched off the ignition — leaving the headlights on — and climbed out onto the graveled road. It was too dark to make out anything outside the arc of the sedan’s beams. With a sigh, he pulled out his cell phone and activated the flashlight. Using it to light his way, he moved around the front of the Lexus and leaned over to inspect the damaged tire.

And then the world flashed bright red as a terrible blow smashed into the back of Obolensky’s head. Blood spattered across the sedan’s shiny, polished side panels.

Dazed, he dropped to his knees. His right hand fluttered upward, weakly feeling for the site of the injury.

His attacker brutally slapped that away and caught him in a tight hold, dragging his head hard back into an armpit. Suddenly terrified, Obolensky fumbled at the arms that gripped him. It was too late. A single quick, powerful twist snapped his neck — killing him instantly.

The attacker, dressed in dark clothing and gloves, a face mask, and a hood, knelt briefly beside the corpse. He scooped up the dead man’s cell phone from where it had fallen. Then, quickly and efficiently, he went through the doctor’s pockets, retrieving his keys and wallet. Satisfied, he got back to his feet, opened the car door, switched off the headlights, and tapped a control to pop the Lexus’s trunk.

It required only a couple of minutes’ more work for him to manhandle the body over to the trunk and stuff it inside. With a little luck, he thought, it would be at least a couple of days before anyone investigated the abandoned car and found Obolensky’s corpse. And with a bit more luck, it would look enough like a robbery gone wrong to satisfy the local police.

Sweating slightly despite the cool night air, Colonel Alexei Petrov used the dead man’s cell phone flashlight to survey the scene one more time. It was vital to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything that would raise unnecessary questions or lead back to him. Beneath his mask, a slight, confident smile crossed his face. There was nothing. Just a few scuffed footprints around the front of the sedan and faint smears of dried blood that would match that of the victim, not him.

Finished, Petrov turned away and headed back through the darkened forest to where he’d parked his nondescript rental car. Part of him regretted killing Obolensky. But he knew the act had been necessary. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with the project he had undertaken. That was true now more than ever. Dmitri Grishin, the oligarch who was backing his plan, believed he was primarily motivated by money. This was not the time to disabuse him of that notion.