Arctic Storm Rising by Dale Brown (readera ebook reader .TXT) 📗

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 yourassociates 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 thecoming months. I can prescribe medication to alleviate some of the pain, but these medicines naturally have significant sideeffects. 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 conversationsare 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 orlater, 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 numbersover 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.”

Outside Moscow

Later That Evening

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

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 blownout.

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 acrossthe 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. Suddenlyterrified, Obolensky fumbled at the arms that gripped him. It was too late. A single quick, powerful twist snapped his neck—killinghim instantly.

The attacker, dressed in dark clothing and gloves, a face mask, and a hood, knelt briefly beside the corpse. He scooped upthe dead man’s cell phone from where it had fallen. Then, quickly and efficiently, he went through the doctor’s pockets, retrievinghis keys and wallet. Satisfied, he got back to his feet, opened the car door, switched off the headlights, and tapped a controlto 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. Witha little luck, he thought, it would be at least a couple of days before anyone investigated the abandoned car and found Obolensky’scorpse. 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 thescene one more time. It was vital to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything that would raise unnecessary questions orlead back to him. Beneath his mask, a slight, confident smile crossed his face. There was nothing. Just a