Rules of Vengeance

69

In London, sunrise came two minutes earlier, at 5:40 Greenwich Mean Time. In room 619 of the intensive care floor of St. Catharine’s Hospital, the first shaft of light dodged the drawn curtains and fell squarely upon the brow of the sleeping patient. He was a hard-looking man, with tousled black hair, a Roman nose, and a dense stubble darkening his hollow cheeks. In repose he maintained a formidable presence, a coiled animal-like tension that gave the impression that at any moment he might leap from the bed and attack. Everyone on the floor knew of the man and his reputation. They were right to be frightened.

But the patient did not move. Even as the minutes passed and the sunlight grew brighter and slanted across his eyes, he did not stir. For almost ninety-six hours, Russian Interior Minister Igor Ivanov had lain in a coma. Though he bore no visible wounds, the examining neurologists all agreed that he had suffered a terrible trauma caused by the concussive wave of the bomb blast that had killed a number of his countrymen. By now the patient’s vital signs had returned to normal. His blood pressure measured an admirable 120 over 70. His heart rate was an athlete’s 58 beats per minute. His bloodwork showed his cholesterol to be below average and his testosterone to be far above it. The same physicians concurred that it was the patient’s excellent level of fitness that had allowed him to survive such a heinous injury in the first place and kept him alive ever since.

A nurse entered the room and began her daily ministrations. She drew the curtains, lifted the patient’s head and plumped his pillow, then checked his urine bag and made sure that his catheter was properly in place. As usual, she lingered on this last task a second or two longer than was necessary. She was a devout Catholic girl, and though she had worked in the hospital for over a year now, she had rarely seen such a gifted endowment. She smiled, ashamed of herself, but only a little.

It was then that the frighteningly powerful hand grasped her arm and she cried out meekly.

“Next time,” said Igor Ivanov, his voice remarkably strong despite the hours of sleep, “please knock before you enter. And if you want to have a look, just ask.”

The nurse covered her mouth and fled the room.

Ivanov set his head on the pillow and closed his eyes. The mild exertion had left him with a headache and surprisingly fatigued. Still, he could already feel strength returning to his limbs. In a few hours he would be bristling with impatience. He decided that by six o’clock that evening, he would be on a plane to Moscow.

The doctors were wrong about what had kept him alive and prevented him from drifting ever after in a coma’s eternal netherworld. It was not his fitness. It was anger.

Igor Ivanov knew well and good who had done this to him.

And he wanted payback.