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  “How many cadavers do you have preserved here?”

  The doctor frowned. “We prefer to call them ‘patients’, or ‘subscribers.’ We have almost a hundred people in our cryostats at the moment, full-body and ‘neuro’—that’s, ah, just the head,” he explained, in answer to Arkady’s raised eyebrow.

  “All of them legally dead?” persisted Arkady.

  “Yes, all quite dead, currently. We have also preserved a number of pets.”

  “And you have never tried to revive any of them.”

  “So far, no.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  Zapad pursed his lips and frowned. “Any number of things. The legal climate, ethical considerations, medical uncertainty…the obstacles are considerable, and unlikely to diminish until such time as our clients are viewed with more of an…archaeological perspective.”

  “What if I were to tell you that another institute was preparing to revive a frozen human being?”

  Zapad stared at him, brow furrowed. Before he answered, his lip began to curl into a cynical sneer.

  “Well, firstly, I would say they’re doing it wrong! We don’t ‘freeze’ our clients; we vitrify them. Everything we do is designed to prevent freezing. Ice crystal formation destroys cells. That is why we replace the body’s water with cryoprotectants.

  “I have not heard of any company making such a claim,” he continued, sounding slightly irritated, “and if they were reputable, I assure you I would have. Most, like Interval, are staffed by volunteers and enthusiasts, people who believe in what we do. They do not exist to make money. So, if anyone is saying that, I think you may safely conclude they are charlatans, simply after publicity.”

  “It’s not a company,” clarified Arkady, pleased his lie had disconcerted the doctor. “It’s a Chinese government agency.”

  He had initially thought about making their invented rivals American, but decided a secret Chinese programme was more believable. Zapad would know of all the major commercial and university researchers in America, and, post-glasnost, the USA did not induce quite the same degree of instinctive paranoia or jealousy it once had. Familiarity with the trappings of capitalism had instead begun to breed contempt for its spiritual home.

  “I tell you this in strictest confidence, but our information is that they intend to reanimate a test subject in the next few months. A world first, if they succeed—their Sputnik moment, their moon landing. My question for you is: could they succeed?”

  Zapad peered at him, trying to gauge whether he was telling the truth. Arkady prompted him with raised eyebrows, careful to maintain an expression of sincere curiosity. The doctor coughed and glanced down at his desk.

  “I’ve not heard any such thing,” he admitted. “I suppose it’s possible. China is the new Wild West in terms of research ethics. They may be willing to take such a risk. The theory is certainly well advanced. I, myself, have meticulously drafted and published resuscitation protocols which I continually update to account for new advances and experimental findings. However, we cannot say whether they would work, because no one has yet tried them. If the Chinese are intent on doing this…well, it surprises me. They have no real pedigree in this field.”

  There was bitterness in his voice. Arkady could tell he was contemplating his future as a footnote in books about a Chinese scientific breakthrough.

  “Russia has a long tradition of reanimatology research. I’m sure that even you, a layman, have seen footage of Brukhonenko’s successful grafting and revival of dogs’ heads, or Andreyev’s. You have perhaps read of Demikhov’s pioneering work on transplantation, and Kuliabko’s restoration-to-function of the hearts of dead infants. Those experiments were some eighty years ago now, but our discipline’s roots go back even further—all the way to Fedorov and the Cosmists, who considered it the supreme goal of all science. In their philosophy, the ‘common task’ of life was to find a means by which we might resurrect our forebears. Our facilities and methods may be modern, but we are part of a grand Russian tradition which pre-dates the Revolution.”

  Arkady nodded, satisfied his hook had caught the doctor.

  “I quite agree,” he said. “What is more, certain very-senior people also agree with you. If there are imminent landmark discoveries to be made in this field, we would prefer they be properly recognised as Russian. In short: we want to get there first.”

  Zapad’s eyes widened. “You want to attempt a reanimation?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the risk—the cost! You must understand, there are no guarantees of success!”

  “That is understood. There are always risks which must be taken to secure progress. The programme will be limited and covert. Officially, it will be a project of the Federal Space Program, studying the practical use of suspended animation for future manned space exploration. I am sure that whatever actions we commit to taking will be carried out with more…finesse…than may be expected from the Chinese.”

  “You—you do not intend to use one of Interval’s clients for this. That is quite out of the question. We have contracts, a duty-of-care—”

  “The test subject must be Molchanov. I believe his remnants reside with you at present.”

  “Molchanov? Zoltan Molchanov? Yes, he was one of our first customers. You would need the consent of his next-of-kin though.”

  “You can leave the consent to me. I will make all necessary arrangements. In the meantime, I will need you to write out a detailed experimental procedure. Can you do that?”

  “Wait—you are going too fast!” Zapad looked flustered. “You mean to revive Zoltan Molchanov, in secret, in the next few months—just to see if it can be done?”

  “If you are successful, you will make history, Doctor. You will be seen as a true pioneer.”

  “And if I am not, I will be deemed a monster!”

  “Your patient is already dead, Doctor. If you are unsuccessful, there will be no deterioration in his condition.”

  “Perhaps not, but it will not be possible to re-preserve him. We will have expended his sole chance of revival—at least until such time as Fedorov’s quantum rodstvo can be discovered and controlled.”

  “He knew there was a risk of that when he was preserved,” pointed out Arkady. “Better that someone take that risk than his body be left locked in a basement forevermore. I think, if you were to ask him, he would take the chance of coming back now, while his daughter still lives, over some hypothetical future opportunity. I think he would take the chance of being the first man since Jesus of Nazareth to be raised from death. Don’t you?”

  Zapad chewed his lip and looked doubtful, but Arkady wasn’t worried. He had done enough for one day. The seed was planted, and Zapad’s ego would do the rest. He would find some way to justify it to himself.

  “All I need you to do for now is draw up a plan and a list of requirements. What equipment you would need, what facilities, what personnel—leave nothing out. Can you do that?”

  Zapad was still staring at the desk, seemingly weighing the prospect of Chinese necromantic hegemony. Arkady asked him again.

  “I can,” he snapped, “of course. But I will not be held liable if anything goes wrong. I do not think Molchanov is a suitable subject for this. I will recommend another patient.”

  “It is Molchanov or no one,” retorted Arkady. “That is not a matter for negotiation.”

  “Don’t be ludicrous! It is a matter for medical judgement—a clinical decision,” objected Zapad, with an aggrieved sniff. “I cannot participate in this experiment without full autonomy in medical matters.”

  “And you shall have it, Doctor,” promised Arkady. “However, the choice of candidate has been made, and is irrevocable.”

  Zapad narrowed his eyes. “Why Molchanov? Who is behind that decision? What is really going on here? You turn up, talking about secret Chinese cryonics programmes—”

  “If you are successful,” interrupted Arkady, talking over him, “and we announce our success
to the world, people—some people—will assume we are lying, that we are frauds, that you are a fraud. But Molchanov was killed in public view. Anyone who wishes can watch footage of his death on the Internet. There is no doubt he is dead, and he is famous enough, and recognisable enough, that there will be no doubt if he lives again. That is why it must be Molchanov. The decision has been taken. It is up to you and me to find a way to make that happen.”

  “And you? What is your role in all this? Why is the FSB involved in this at all?”

  “I am responsible for security,” replied Arkady, smoothing his lapels. “I protect the project, and I protect you. I maintain secrecy. I ensure the money is available, and I relay instructions from more senior people who cannot be associated with this project until it has proven an unqualified success. I am the only person you talk to about this.”

  He waited until Zapad nodded. With the doctor’s acquiescence, the tension in the room fell away, and Arkady made his tone more conciliatory.

  “Good. Now, how long do you need for methodology? When can I have your list of requirements?”

  Zapad shrugged. “Give me your email address. I will send it you in a few days.”

  “No! No emails, no telephone calls, nothing on your computer. Write it on paper, with a pen, and I will come back to collect it.”

  “Is that really necessary?”

  “Doctor, I will allow you autonomy over therapeutic decisions. In return, you must accept my judgement regarding project security. Please do not question it. Electronic records are a liability. I will arrange for secure computing once we commence work.”

  “What if I need to contact you? What if I have questions?”

  “They will have to wait. I will be out of the country now for several days. I will visit you again upon my return.”

  Arkady stood up and extended his hand to Zapad.

  “Be prepared, Doctor. Once we are ready to begin, things will move very quickly. Make whatever arrangements you need to, but expect to be relocated at short notice. We will talk again at the weekend.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing, Colonel,” replied Zapad, shaking his hand. “I hope you have thought through the ramifications. I would not like a mob of angry peasants to descend upon us, wielding pitchforks.”

  “Pitchforks, we can handle,” Arkady assured him, turning to go. “It isn’t peasants you should worry about.”

  *

  London sprawled, a vast and intricate circuit board, pulsing with currents of traffic and trade. The city was rigged for Christmas, its streets strung with lights in the shape of pagan holly, Christian angels, and fat, capitalist Santas.

  Arkady sipped the paper cup of mulled wine he’d bought from a riverside stall, and savoured the view from the South Bank. It was twenty-five years since he’d last been to Britain. Much had changed. The power, then, had resided in old buildings, behind Gothic Revival limestone walls and white, Georgian stucco. Now it lived behind walls of glass, in gimmicky skyscrapers that had turned the city’s horizon into a bar chart. Everything had been bought, landmarks gladly changing their names for the gratification of corporate sponsors. Public bicycles carried the logos of banks. Even the iconic black cabs were plastered with advertisements now, all dignity discarded in the race to the bottom.

  His last visit, in the eighties, had been a mission to blackmail a clerk in the Ministry of Defence. Blackmail had always been a potent weapon against those natural hypocrites, the English. He’d been trailed everywhere by agents from MI5. This time, he had dusted off a cover identity, and taken basic precautions since getting off the plane, but had seen no one. Either they didn’t care about a senescent deputy director on compassionate leave, or their operatives were a lot better at blending in than they used to be. Perhaps they were satisfied just to watch him through the closed-circuit TV cameras which sprouted like warts from every ledge and cornice.

  He recalled the British agents he’d engaged with in the past. Gentleman sadists, to a man, impeccably and expensively schooled, with the cold, cruel eyes of boys taken too soon from their mothers. Had that changed, too, he wondered, in this brave new world? He almost wanted to be apprehended and interrogated, just for the sense of continuity with the past it would engender. It would, in a perverse way, be good to know he was still capable of arousing suspicion.

  Light drizzle was falling, barely more than a mist, water droplets collecting on the brim of his hat. A party boat was slinking past mid-stream, shrieks of laughter and a pulse of bassline emitted as it crept towards the neon-lit arches of Blackfriars Bridge. Across the river, the floodlit dome of St Paul’s looked oddly Orthodox and out-of-place. Away to its right rose thickets of construction cranes, fewer now than there would have been a few years ago; a symptom of plummeting investment.

  And there they were, at last: Sophia Molchanov and her friends, emerging from the brightly-lit front door of Tate Modern. Arkady had considered following them inside, trying to get his quarry alone in the gallery, but had decided against it. The quiet, echoing turbine hall seemed an indiscreet place for the conversation they needed to have. He had to meet her somewhere public though, away from her father’s friends. There were too many among London’s émigré community who would happily trade information to Moscow, and many who would be keen to ingratiate themselves with the ascendant Maslok. It was better he kept away from them.

  He had followed her since she’d left the palatial Kensington property in which she lived with the family of her father’s lawyer. Her student friends had been waiting for her outside. There were four of them—five, with her—two boys and three girls, none of them older than twenty-one. They moved in constantly-changing formation, jockeying for position and swapping places as they talked. One or other of them was always challenging the rest with observations they thought insightful or amusing, in a perpetual game of verbal one-upmanship.

  Each of them, that is, except Sophia Molchanov. She was quiet and less obtrusive, always at the centre of the pack. The others, particularly the boys, seemed keener to impress her than anyone else, showing off until eventually she favoured them with a wan smile. Her clothing was more conservative than theirs—though given the childish ostentation on display, that was hardly remarkable—and she seemed able to resist the typical oligarchic inclination to excess, wearing no jewelry beyond a pair of plain, gold hoops in her ears. Her make-up, too, was restrained, and when he looked at her, Arkady could still see traces of that little, wool-stockinged girl, crying on the ice.

  “Soph!” cried one of the boys excitedly. “Soph! What do you think: an app that triggers a flashmob as soon as it detects enough users in one place? Everyone’s phone suddenly goes off and starts playing the same song, and they have to dance to it?”

  The boy shook his hips and waved his arms around in a giddy, exaggeratedly-comedic dance. Despite the cold, his jacket was open to reveal a screen-printed Osama Bin Laden tee-shirt, juxtaposed, presumably in irony, with his ‘Make America Great Again’ baseball cap.

  “Come off it, nobody uses apps anymore,” said the girl walking at Sophia Molchanov’s side. “And flashmobs? What is this, 2010?” She smirked, and slipped her arm through Molchanov’s. “We need to go left,” she said to the émigré. “I want to show you that poster I was telling you about while we’re here.”

  “I thought we were going to that medieval pub,” complained a girl with ‘slutbot’ written down her lapel in rhinestones.

  “Sure!” the first girl instantly agreed. “Why don’t you all go to the pub, and me and Soph can meet you there later?”

  The group stalled and fell to bickering, all of them talking at once except Sophia. Arkady decided it was time to make his move. He dropped his empty cup into a bin, struggling not to smile as he felt the old, familiar thrill fieldwork always brought. The frisson of excitement, the sense of being at the centre of things: even on the most distasteful ops, he had always savoured those moments.

  “Excuse me,” he said, taking off his hat as h
e approached them. “Miss Molchanov, might I have a word?”

  He spoke slowly, aware that his English was rusty and had never been good. He could understand it well enough, and was okay repeating sentences he had rehearsed, but he struggled to improvise or hold complex conversations. With luck, Sophia Molchanov would remember her Russian and they could move on to speaking that instead.

  For now, though, she replied in English, sounding apprehensive. “Yes? What is it? Do I know you?”

  “No, Miss Molchanov, I regret you do not. I must speak to you though—about your father.”

  Her friends had fallen silent, but they turned to her now and whispered excitedly, offering unsolicited advice.

  “Don’t trust this guy!”

  “It’s a scam! I’ve read about this kind of thing! It happens all the time!”

  “Do you want me to get rid of him for you? I did capoeira in my first year, so…”

  “Seems like a creep!”

  Arkady ignored them and kept his eyes on Sophia, who stared back. Her face was apprehensive—fearful, even—and he realised he was looking at a girl still scared by a world that had snatched her father away, casting her adrift without warning. He smiled as reassuringly as he could, and let his shoulders sag.

  “We should talk in private,” he suggested in Russian. “Perhaps we could take a walk. I will explain everything.”

  “I don’t remember you,” said the girl. “Were you a friend of my father’s? How did you know him?” She spoke Russian with an English accent now, he noticed, all long vowels and soft terminal consonants. Well, it was only to be expected. She had spent more than half her life abroad.

  “I did not know him in person,” Arkady clarified, “though I know his situation, and yours, very well. Please, walk with me a while. I will not cause trouble for you.”

  “Hey, not all of us speak Russian, you know! So rude! What’s going on, Soph? What’s he saying?”

  Sophia Molchanov glanced at her friends and pursed her lips.