Operation: Siberia

- 5 -

It was obvious to Banks that the stocky Russian needed the scientists’ approval; it had been obvious as soon as he’d seen the Lear Jet in Lossiemouth, and took note of the spread of food and drink on offer.

Sugar works better than vinegar.

Waterston was, however, so far at least, proving immune to the bribery, and Banks’ estimation of the English scientist had gone up several notches. But something had to give before the tension spilled over into action, and Volkov himself broke the strained silence. He waved his men away and went to stand beside Waterston, leaning in close to speak.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Yes, there are indeed things yet to see, things that will explain everything. Will you come? Your curiosity can be assuaged within minutes. I have nothing to hide.”

“That is yet to be seen,” Waterston muttered in reply, but the scientists allowed themselves to once again be led away. Banks’ squad followed, with the Russian workers at the rear, but the tension had not dissipated completely, and he had a much more watchful team around him as they circled the great aviary. Finally, they arrived at a spot where a double doorway led to another concrete and glass building at the back of the facility.

This time, Volkov used the keypad, six numbers with no associated tones, but the doors slid open with a hiss in response, revealing a gleaming, white-tiled corridor beyond.

“I told you I have nothing to hide,” he said as he motioned the group forward into the corridor. “Come and see where the magic happens. Welcome to my labs.”

As they walked along the sterile white corridor, a double door twenty yards inside opened at their approach, triggered by a motion detector switch. Beyond that was yet another dome, a single high structure containing what appeared to Banks’ untutored eye to be a state-of-the-art modern laboratory. Several large cages ran around the outside walls, while the center of the area was a mixture of computers, monitors, printers, refrigeration units, and high, banked systems of glassware and chrome containing a variety of liquids that he could only guess at. For as much as he knew of the working of this place, it might as well be magic.

Volkov, Waterston, and the other two Englishmen were already deep in the esoterica of a scientific discussion that Banks lost the thread of within seconds. Wiggins was at his side, also listening.

“I don’t know what the fuck Reverse Transcriptase is, but it sounds painful,” the Glaswegian said after a while.

Hynd answered.

“It’s an enzyme used to generate DNA from an RNA template,” he said laconically, and smiled. “What, you didnae pay attention in O’ Level Biology?”

“The only thing I was paying attention to in class was the teacher’s tits,” Wiggins replied, and leered, then his eyes went wide as he looked over Hynd’s shoulder to one of the cages against the outside wall of the dome.

“Holy fuck, would you look at the size of that.”

Banks turned to look.

At first, he thought it was some kind of German Shepherd, then his sense of scale kicked in again. It was indeed canine, but this was a wolf, sitting inside a large cage on its haunches, its steely blue gaze fixed directly on Banks and Wiggins. It was as gray along the flanks as the lion they’d seen early, but shaggier, and almost white in places. It was difficult to gauge its size while it was sitting, but given the size of the head—and its teeth—it would stand around four feet high when upright. The power and strength of the lion had impressed him—but this was different again. What he felt now was the same kind of weak-kneed terror that came just before a firefight. He faced it the same way he would in combat—he looked it in the eye and went to meet it.

The wolf’s stare never wavered as Banks walked over to the cage. It was only as he got closer that he saw the beast was not alone. A straw bed dominated the rear of the cage, and on that laid three more wolves, none as large as the big male. It only took a second to confirm that one was a large female, almost all ghost white, and with her, two nearly full-grown cubs with shorter, darker coats and markings.

The big male’s stare never left Banks’ face, and Banks knew that if the cage was not present, he would face the full cold fury of an attack.

I think I’d rather face the lion.

Wiggins whispered at his side.

“Who’s a good boy then?”

Banks took another step forward, and the big male growled with a rumble that Banks felt in his belly, as if he’d stood close to a big bass speaker.

“Careful, Captain,” Volkov said, coming across the room toward them, “our big boy is most protective of his family.”

Waterston was at the Russian’s side, and only took a quick look in the cage before turning to Volkov.

“See, that’s exactly what I was talking about. Dire wolves did not grow that large.”

Banks guessed this was the continuation of a private conversation the men were having. It wasn’t private now. The whole lab fell quiet, as if waiting for the Russian’s response.

All he did was wave a hand toward the large cage.

“They do now,” he said, and walked away. Banks noted that his workers—his bodyguards—were not with him. The three Russians stood at the far end of the dome, where it butted up against a hillside beyond the glass. There was a large door at that end, which looked like it went out directly into a courtyard, and the hill just yards beyond that.

“What’s through there?” Banks asked, nodding towards where the men stood.

“Storage,” Volkov replied.

The Russian men’s tension around the back doorway and Volkov’s sudden attack of terseness after his previous volubility told Banks much about the situation he hadn’t known previously.

They’re hiding something.

And whatever it is, they’re afraid of it.

The day wore on. The three British scientists were determined to understand every single facet of the workings of the laboratory. Volkov wheeled in a succession of scientists—half a dozen white-coated men and women who looked to Banks’ eye to be too fresh-faced, too young, for the work. None of them spoke English, and Volkov managed all the translation himself, all too obviously giving everything the positive spin he wished to put on proceedings.

Banks and his squad stayed near the wolf cage—the big male still sat, unmoving, staring at them. The three Russians were also still in the same spot they’d been since they arrived, over at the rear doorway.

Wiggins was talking softly, and edging closer to the wolf’s cage.

“Good boy, there’s a good lad.”

“It’s not a fucking poodle,” Hynd said. “It’ll have your hand off if you get too close.”

As if to punctuate the point, the wolf smiled, showing the full scale of its perfect teeth.

“Wiggo,” Banks said, twice before the private paid attention. “We’re going to be here for a while. Go and see if those Russian lads fancy a Scottish smoke. Take Cally with you, and see if you can find out what’s on the other side of those doors they’re watching so carefully. Take your time, and act casual; we don’t want to spook them.”

“They look plenty spooked already,” McCally replied.

The two men walked away, heading around the perimeter of the dome, stopping to look in cages, chatting as naturally as if they were out for a walk on the street. Banks turned away—he didn’t want to be seen watching them. He trusted McCally at least to do the right thing, and even if Wiggins couldn’t keep his mouth shut for two minutes at a time, his natural charm and good humor was enough to win most people over eventually.

The big wolf’s eyes seemed to follow Banks wherever he moved, although the beast itself didn’t shift from its position. Banks sensed a keen intelligence at work behind that stare, and not for the first time was thankful of the cage between them.

“So, what do you think, Cap?” Hynd said. “Is everything up front and kosher here or what?”

Banks shook his head.

“Watch Waterston. Watch those Russian men over at the door. Volkov has the brass neck to try to pull off his ‘nothing to see here, move along now’ spiel, but Waterston isn’t buying it. And neither am I.”

The third scientist—Banks was embarrassed that he still didn’t know the man’s name—had come over to look at the wolf, and overheard.

“And you would be right to be skeptical,” the man said. It was the first words Banks had heard from him on the trip, and he was surprised to hear a strong West Country accent. “There’s something well dodgy going on here. The boss is trying to put his finger on it. Trust me, once the prof gets the bit between his teeth, he won’t let go. Strap in, lads. I’ve got a feeling this is going to be a bumpy ride.”