Уильям Мейкл - Operation - Siberia

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.”

The inspection of the lab took up most of the day, with only a short break for coffee and sandwiches to break the monotony. Waterston and Volkov sparred verbally with each other all the way through, and the wolf watched Banks and his team with its unblinking blue stare. At least Wiggins and the Russians seemed to be getting on, judging by the laughter that echoed around the dome from the far end by the doorway, and Banks was looking forward to whatever report McCally and the private would bring him later.

But first, he had to endure an evening with the scientists. The whole squad was invited to join Volkov and his team for dinner, but Banks left McCally and Wiggins with their new friends, and the two men seemed more than happy with the arrangement. Hynd was less pleased.

“Come on, John. Let me go with the lads. You don’t need me.”

Banks laughed.

“And leave me on my lonesome with that lot? There’s no fear of that. You’re with me. And we’re staying dry. Chin up… it’s going to be a long night.”

Just as the day in the lab had appeared interminable, so too did the speeches and counter speeches that had to be endured before they even got to eat anything. Banks and Hynd had been relegated to the second table. While the English scientists were feted like royalty and Volkov lorded over the main table, the Scotsmen sat with four of the young Russian scientists, none of whom spoke a word of English or were inclined to try. Banks tried to catch snatches of the conversation between Volkov and Waterston, but although he could see that it was heated, almost argumentative, he could not get the gist of it. He began to regret his order to keep the night a dry one, for a few tall glasses of vodka would have eased the boredom.

He watched, almost envious, as the two younger English scientists shifted large quantities of the free booze; both of them excused themselves early, and the young Russians took the opportunity to take their leave at the same time. Hynd and Banks sat alone at their table, watching the argument between Volkov and Waterston grow ever more heated as the vodka started speaking for both of them. It looked like it might even come to blows, and Banks was considering getting up to separate them when McCally and Wiggins arrived in the doorway.

Both men looked the worse for drink—not as drunk as the two at the top table, but not too far off it. Wiggins wore a broad grin, but McCally looked serious, and waved for Banks to join them at the door.

“I told you this was a dry night,” Banks said.

“Sorry, sir,” McCally replied. “But it was the only way to get the Russians to talk to us.”

“Lovely vodka they have here, sir,” Wiggins said, slurring every word. McCally patted the private on the shoulder.

“Let me talk, Wiggo. You just concentrate on standing up straight.”

The corporal turned back to Banks and Hynd.

“We need to talk, sir. In private. There’s more going on here than you know.”

“I’d already guessed as much,” Banks replied. He turned to Hynd.

“Look after Wiggo. Get some coffee in him, strong and black. We need to be on our toes, not on our backs, drunk in bed. And don’t let the boffins start fighting. We’re on a protect and serve mission here. It’s time we started.”

Banks led McCally back to his suite, and made them both a cup of strong black coffee before settling at the breakfast bar to listen to the corporal’s story. It didn’t take long for Banks fears to be confirmed.

“Your wee Russian pal has been fucking things up here for years,” McCally said. His Highland accent came through stronger than usual, testament to the effects of the booze, but he was taking to the coffee well enough, and was certainly more sober than Wiggins had been.

“Tell me everything,” Banks said.

“You were right about them being worried,” McCally said. “Those three Russians were as spooked as a nun in a whorehouse. But they took to our fags easily, and Wiggo gave them some patter to butter them up, so we were all pals fast enough. And once they took us out the back to their wee shed and broke out the vodka, their tongues loosened. Their English is no’ that great, then again, neither is mine, so we muddled through fine.

“And the stories they can tell you… folk have died here, sir. A lot of folk. Yon big lion is responsible for a lot of them; they had it outside in an enclosure for a while, but it learned how to take down the fences and got into the deer, so they sent a squad of men in to fetch it out. Butchery was the word the Russians used a lot—and they weren’t just talking about the deaths of animals. Since then, they’ve kept the big cat inside, but they have to watch it closely.”