J.F. Kirwan - 88° North

Sakuro took a few steps over to an armchair and sat down like an old man.

‘We watched the emergency teams go in, working in total darkness, their dosimeters and Geiger counters going crazy. Did you know they had to hook up car batteries just so they could activate the controls and displays, to tell them what was going on inside?’ He didn’t look at her or wait for a reply.

‘We had to get the reactor under some kind of control, in the most atrocious conditions. Floodwater everywhere. Every little thing, even the most basic task, was made extremely difficult and hazardous. I had to report every hour, on the hour, back to Tokyo. I was not there for the victims. I was there to keep the workers standing so they could go in, deeper and deeper, until we could stabilise the core and prevent secondary explosions.’ His head tilted back. ‘I worked with a small team of engineers. My “core” team.’ He tried to smile, but was clearly out of practice. ‘Most are ill now. There is nothing I can do. But we got the reactor under control. They got it under control. The Prime Minister thanked me personally.’ The way he said it, it was a curse.

He coughed, and it caught in his throat and became deeper, more violent. His eyes watered. He took a silk handkerchief out of his pocket and raised it to his mouth until the episode ended. He glanced at it for a few seconds before folding it and putting it back in his pocket.

‘Towards the end, I became aware the workers had a nickname for me. Doctor Death.’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘Before Fukushima I spent twenty-five years battling cancer for my patients. More often than not I lost. But I always fought for them, until the very end.’ He paused, his eyes studying the ceiling. ‘After Fukushima, I could no longer practise, could no longer look my patients in the eye. And so I switched to research. The government gave me a generous grant, to keep my mouth shut. There was no need. I had little desire to speak about it.’ He dug out his cigarette case again, looked around, then perhaps decided not to pollute someone else’s home. He laid his head back again.

Nadia got up, poured a cup of water, and walked over to him. He sat back up, for the first time his features shifting, perhaps surprised. He took the cup.

‘So, I am your last engineer,’ Nadia said. ‘You have drugs to keep me going, to keep me working even while my body is disintegrating on the inside.’

He pulled himself up so he was sitting on the edge of the chair, and his face suddenly became animated, no longer Dr Death.

‘Yes, Nadia. And no. I want to offer you something. Something I have not told your … colleague.’

She flared. ‘Don’t you dare say you can cure me. I know how bad my condition is, and I’ve accepted it. If you want one last guinea pig to ease your conscience, try yourself.’ She was guessing, but the scant energy in his face deserted him.

‘You forget, I am – was – an oncologist. I am accustomed to the storms of emotions of my patients—’

She stood up fast, standing over him. Her hands balled into fists. ‘I am not your fucking patient!’ She reckoned the Chef and Jin Fe could hear her. She didn’t care. ‘Just give me the drugs to help me get the job done.’

He rose from the chair, but slowly, calmly. He was tall, and towered over her. ‘I will. But first you will listen to what I have to say, because soon everything will be silent for you.’

Not what she’d been expecting. ‘Your bedside manner’s a little unconventional.’ She sat down. The pain in her shoulder started up, as if someone had inserted a corkscrew into the bullet wound, and kept twisting it.

‘Most cancers start inside the body,’ he said. ‘Something goes wrong, a few cells get the wrong message, and start producing malignant cells that the immune system cannot clean out. Your situation is different, as it was for my engineers. You have been attacked from the outside.’

‘The net result is the same,’ she said. ‘Corrupted cells reproduce, immune system can’t cope, too much damage.’

‘The situation is different for the immune system, and science has made tremendous advances in immunotherapy for particular types of cancer. But it all depends on genes. The engineers didn’t have the right gene make-up, and it was too late for them by the time I perfected the technique. But you, Nadia—’

She held up her hand to make him stop. The Colonel had told her before she’d left. A radical therapy that might work, because she had a particular gene. But he’d also said they’d have to start before symptom onset, and she was way past that point now. She thought of Jake. If he was still alive … But right now she was focused. She needed to free Jake and take Salamander down. For Katya, for her father, for Bransk, for Jones, and countless others she’d never known. But mainly because Salamander was still plotting something. He was smart, always one step ahead. She knew he would probably take her down with him. That was the best outcome she could realistically hope for. And she could only take him down if she had no future, otherwise there would be a sliver of hope holding her back, making her blink at the crucial moment. She folded her arms.

‘I’ve listened to you, as you asked. The answer is no. It’s final. Just do what the Chef asked you to do, give me something to keep me going, and nothing more.’

Sakuro nodded. He took out the cigarette case, lit another one, opened a briefcase full of medical equipment, and began pulling on rubber gloves.

The Chef entered a few minutes later. ‘Are we good? Can you keep her going?’

Sakuro answered, facing Nadia. ‘We start now. It will be painful. I do not think that will be a problem for you.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, though she wasn’t sure why.

Nadia awoke to find it was 4.30 p.m., according to the clock fashioned inside a toy landscape, Star Wars, maybe. She was in a bed just big enough for her, in a child’s room. The late afternoon sun streamed in through ineffectual flower-pattern curtains. Sakuro’s procedure had indeed been painful, but she felt alert, all traces of nausea banished. She’d been sweating profusely – the sheets were soaked – a side-effect of the milky green concoction he’d pumped into her veins, using a syringe fit for a horse. In fact, she had no idea what he’d actually injected her with – whether it was something to keep her going, or something to try and begin a cure. Maybe both. As long as it did the former.

Never one to laze in bed with her thoughts, she took a cold shower using the handheld water spray while squatting in the half-bath, flinching when the water doused the still-raw wound in her shoulder. She dried off and found new clothes. Normal ones, this time. Feeling marginally better, she joined the Chef and Jin Fe in the lounge. Sakuro had left. When she saw what they were watching on the news, her good mood evaporated.

The network channels showed stills from the video – her fist connecting with Hanbury’s chin, her standing with the gun pointing at his head, Hanbury lying on the floor in a pool of thickening blood. The last had been taken later; there was yellow-and-black crime scene tape within the frame. Some of the other channels, including a Russian one, showed the doctored video. It caught Nadia’s harsh expression as she punched Hanbury, and then shot him. Impressive editing. Ninety-nine out of a hundred viewers would judge her a cold-blooded murdering bitch. A high-ranking Chinese official stated that she was armed and dangerous, public enemy number one. On BBC World a British official talked about this atrocious act, how no stone would be left unturned …

She slumped in the chair where Sakuro had been hours before. She felt like a pawn who’d just been flicked off the chessboard by a grandmaster. But Jake was still in play, for some reason she couldn’t fathom. Which meant she had to crawl back onto the board. She caught the Chef’s eye.