Chapter Eleven
Operation Cowslip (1986) Part IV
Captain Adrik Vasilevsky spent much of his time the next three days accommodating the inspector from Moscow. Apparently, after a very brisk tour of the facility, he found that he did not like what he saw, and after a full day of reassigning the staff in the laboratories and production, it was decided that he would be staying to facilitate significant changes to safety procedure.
In making his rounds, Vasilevsky could feel the tenseness radiating off of the men assigned at Arkangel, none more so than Colonel Ourumov, who had turned the most wondrous shade of green, a kind of dusky complexion of something that has spoiled. He had the look of a man who might lose his commission.
Vasilevsky, on the other hand, felt quite a lot better despite the extra workload. Today, as Alec Trevelyan prepared to ambush a man who was misspelling his own name in the snow, the young captain's step was light and airy, completely unaware that he would be dead in less than five minutes.
The metal door did not translate his neurotically gleeful mood through his drumming fingers. He was standing about two levels below the factory floor, in storage wing B, where he had personally cleaned out a closet space so Captain Ivanov could rest. Officer quarters were offered as space was in short supply, even Vasilevsky had offered his own, but the inspector demanded very little and had helped clear the area. He invited Vasilevsky to coffee after. He asked about the repaired cut on his eyelid and seemed to sense the truth behind the younger man's evasiveness. They spoke of home, too.
Vasilevsky went from the womb straight into the service. He attended the Timoshenko NBC Protection Military Academy, established in 1932 in response to the rising fascist tide and committed to the defense of the motherland through the use of chemical warfare. Ivanov was impressed but seemed much more interested in Vasilevsky's home life. And he listened more than he spoke, only interrupting to laugh knowingly, understandingly.
In civilian life, Vasilevsky had a home with a widowed mother, who he saw all too little these days. He certainly heard enough from her, an almost daily reminder to visit had made him the joke among some of his peers. He deliberately could not recall the nicknames, though he knew them all too well. In spite of the ribbing he took, he still felt that no better place was at home, where the warmth was genuine, the coffee rich, and company apposite.
After the third knock, Vasilevsky tried the door. It was locked. He called for the inspector by name. Then he went for the door keypad and typed in its preassigned code. The digital reader flashed red and whirred irritatingly, like a small animal whose tail you've just stepped on. Strange. The storage rooms all had the same four-digit code and did not rotate like the door locks guarding the laboratories upstairs.
Vasilevsky was reassigned to aid Ivanov in any way possible as his personal assistant. This meant avoiding Ourumov except for the daily briefings. It also meant being invited to discuss the regimen of the day at breakfast with Ivanov, instead of explaining away bruises in the infirmary. The work ahead was extensive, and Ivanov spoke as though he might become a semi-permanent resident. He had been issued codes for every restricted area on the base, but how had he changed them? And why? Did he think Vasilevsky would not respect his privacy?
He plugged in the code three more times before letting a small dose of frustration flush him. He so looked forward to the new morning routine. And he would not go back to the old way willingly, not for a while at least. He wanted hot coffee and polite conversation. He wanted Ivanov to shield him from the harm that surely awaited him if he reported to the Colonel instead.
He input Ourumov's master code and let himself in. It was the two steps he took inside that ultimately cost him. Had he stayed outside and waited just a few more seconds, he would have seen Lakov (they were on a first name basis when they were alone) turn the corner and approach. Lakov would have greeted him warmly, and strolled with him a while, and when the time came, he would have let the young blond-headed boy escape with the others. A boy who had yet truly begun to become sick with his experiences, who was still young enough to heal and forget. Lakov had enjoyed their chats, and although it would never be anything more than that, he did not believe, personally, that Captain Adrik Vasilevsky to be a bad person, and he believed, personally, that he did not need to die. And then the poor boy took two steps too many.
The light switch was next to the door, but Adrik fumbled twice before getting the light on. It was a bare room (its occupants, stacked uniformly to the ceiling, usually needed no comfort) with a small cot pressed against one side. There was a pitcher of untouched fresh water and a cup arranged on a tray that sat, almost portrait-esque on a crate that served as a minute bedside table. On the cot there was a form, but Adrik never looked at it. If he had examined closer, he would have found that it was a hazard suit, laid out like clothes for work. He was more concerned with the row of explosive charges that had been neatly arranged along the floor at the far wall. They were no bigger than two fists pressed together. Lakov's suitcase bag, which he had insisted on carrying himself into his new lodgings, lay discarded.
While Double-O Six slowly worked his way through the vents of Arkangel, Captain Vasilevsky inhaled sharply. Then his head snapped forward.