Pushing Brilliance

by Tim Tigner

  Feeling Katya relax beside me, I realized that I’d never seen her with friends before. I kicked myself for not thinking to suggest something like this earlier, given all she’d been through in the past couple of days. Katya was holding up as well as most professionals, so I had to work to keep in mind that she was a civilian swept up in circumstance.

  “What questions did you have for me?” Saba asked, pouring the rich red.

  “I just learned that you were participating in Colin's clinical trial. I want to learn more about it.”

  Saba exchanged a glance with Max again like they were an old married couple. “I didn’t know Brillyanc was Colin's. I’m sorry, this is a bit awkward given the circumstances and all. What are you trying to find out?”

  “We’re investigating Colin's death, and as part of that we want to learn everything we can about Brillyanc. We didn’t even know the drug’s name until an hour ago.”

  “I thought he died in a boating accident,” Saba said, his voice suddenly slow, deliberate, and tense. “Carbon monoxide poisoning.”

  “That’s right. We don’t think Brillyanc killed him. No need for you to worry about that. But the carbon monoxide poisoning wasn’t accidental, so we’re looking for motives.”

  Max said, “I heard they’d arrested Colin's brother for that.” He turned to me, connecting the dots.

  “It wasn’t me. But to prove that I need to find out who it really was. Right now, our only evidence points to the company where my brother and father worked. We know next to nothing about it. So when we learned that you were part of the Vitalis trial, we came right over. Will you please tell us what you know about Vitalis and Brillyanc?”

  “Of course. We both will. Max was in the trial too.”

  Chapter 38

  Priceless

  OUR FIRST BREAK, I thought, as Max confirmed that he’d also been in the clinical trial. If I was remembering correctly, Katya had said Max was getting his PhD in biochemistry.

  Katya brought her hand to her chest. “I saw your name, but there must be ten thousand Max Ivanov’s in Moscow, so I read right over it. When I hit Mamaladze however…”

  “Please start with the basics,” I said, eager to dive in. “Other than the intriguing name, we don’t know anything about the drug.”

  Saba set down his wine glass, and began. “They told us it was a ‘metabolic enhancement product.’ Those were the words they used. When we pressed them for details, they told us we’d notice improvements in the way we felt. They refused to get more specific because of the placebo effect, and because individual metabolisms vary greatly.”

  Katya and I nodded along, not wanting to disrupt the flow.

  “Of course, our primary concern was side effects. But they told us there weren’t any related to the product itself, just those related to the delivery, to being hooked up to an IV for six hours.”

  “And that was all little stuff,” Max added. “Like redness and swelling around the puncture site, headache, and nausea. The typical panoply of minor maladies you find on most medications if you read the fine print.”

  “But Max, being Max, ran his own tests. He did blood work on both of us before and during the trial.”

  “What did you test?” I asked Max.

  “I tested the typical annual-physical parameters: a complete blood count and chemistry panel, fibrinogen, hemoglobin, hormones, and PSA. None of them changed significantly for either of us. If anything, they trended slightly better.”

  “What did change was our mental clarity,” Saba continued, lifting his refilled wine glass as if in a toast to the medical gods. “It’s been every student’s dream. I started breezing through my research, digesting everything I read on the first pass. I actually began stopping by Dr. Abramov’s office to discuss Annals of Mathematics articles with him. Just for fun. Can you imagine that, Katya? Well actually I’m sure you can, you were always his darling. But can you imagine me doing that?”

  “You were always your own harshest critic, Saba. Are you sure it isn’t the placebo effect? Perhaps brought on by the name?”

  “If it is, it’s the best placebo effect ever. My dissertation is done. I wrapped it up last week, a full half-year ahead of schedule.” In reaction to Katya’s surprised expression, he added, “I know I didn’t mention it the last time I saw you. Things were going so unbelievably well, I was afraid to jinx it.”

  Max set his wine glass down. “My results were similar. I’ll be finishing my dissertation months ahead of schedule as well, and my advisor has been a lot more complimentary than he was before I started.”

  “How long have you been taking it?” I asked.

  “Eighteen months. It’s been fantastic. Frankly, I’m worried about what’s going to happen now that we’re off it. One more dose and I’d have been set, dissertation done and defended.”

  Katya gave Max a discerning glance. “Given your expertise and the lab equipment at your disposal, why don’t you whip yourself up a batch, now that the free supply has ended? Is it tough to make?”

  “I have no idea. They were very secretive about the formulation. The ingredients weren’t written on the IV bags. Believe me, I checked. I also stole a look in their refrigerator one day when nobody was watching, but there were no spare bags. In retrospect, I wish I’d siphoned off some of my IV to analyze. But I didn’t know the trial was going to be ending when it did, and I didn’t want to risk jeopardizing my continued participation.”

  “What tests did they run on you?” I asked.

  “During each session they gave us an IQ test. They also took blood and urine samples. Last week when we went in, we did the test and gave the samples, but we didn’t get the infusion. They told us that was it.”

  “Did they ever share the results?”

  “No.”

  “And do you feel it wearing off?”

  “Definitely. Frankly, I’m nervous about it.”

  “Would you pay to keep taking it, if that were an option?”

  “Sure.”

  “How much?”

  Max grew a wistful smile. “I’d pay anything.”

  Chapter 39

  BOLO

  THE BUOYANCY brought about by an hour’s reprieve with old friends and a bottle of wine evaporated as we exited Saba’s building.

  A police car was waiting.

  Two militia officers sat smoking inside, their attention on the next entrance over. I put my arm around Katya’s shoulder and casually guided her in the opposite direction while slouching to take a couple of inches off my height.

  She leaned in and whispered. “That’s the entryway to my old apartment they’re watching.”

  “I assumed as much.”

  “Do you think they were looking for me?”

  “Have you ever seen the police hanging around like that before?”

  “No.”

  “Then yes, I think they were looking for you.”

  “But why? I haven’t done anything.”

  Me either, I thought. But look at me now. “Apparently we’ve upset powerful people just by surviving, and I’m not inclined to placate them.”

  “Why are the police suddenly involved?”

  “I’m guessing that when we tripped the facial recognition system at GasEx, we spooked them, whoever they are. Apparently they decided to go beyond their own goon squad.”

  Katya gave me a dubious look. “What would they tell the police? How could they get them looking for us?”

  “If it’s a powerful person making the request through someone high up in the force, they could feed us into the system as persons of interest. That could generate a priority BOLO, a Be-On-Look-Out dispatch, without requiring specifics as to why. The beat cops would just be ordered to bring us in for questioning. Then they’d have us.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We keep out of sight and hope we figure this thing out quickly, because Moscow’s no longer safe.” Katya’s lower lip quivered, so I hastened to add, “On the good news front,
we know the investigation is heading in the right direction, and we know they’re not tracking our van.”

  We drove into the setting sun without speaking, lost in our own thoughts, trying to cope with a situation that had started badly and was spiraling downward. I noted that Katya was now mimicking my vigilance, constantly but subtly scanning the windows and mirrors for black suits, white vans, and police cars.

  It took us thirty minutes to reach Dr. Tarasova’s address. Her five-story apartment was an old, undesirable style of apartment building built back in the 1960’s throughout the Soviet Union under Nikita Khrushchev’s reign. I drove past it and parked in a shadow a couple of hundred meters further up the side road. “We have to assume they’ll be watching the place. I’d have a man posted either within sight of Tarasova’s door, or within the apartment itself. So we should assume both.”

  “Okay, what’s our next move?”

  “I’m going to ask you to stay here in the van and keep an eye on Tarasova’s entrance while I scope out the twin neighboring building and figure out which apartment is number 32.” I put in my earbuds and called Katya’s iPhone. She donned her own set and answered by saying, “Don’t bother. Hers is the second window from the right end on the top floor.” She pointed. “The kitchen ventilation window’s open and the lights in the main room are on.”

  “How do you know that one’s hers?”

  “The five-story Khrushchyovkas are all the same. I had a friend who lived in 32. I’m sure it’s freezing in the winter and the roof leaks into the kitchen.”

  “What’s the floorplan?”

  “It’s an efficiency. There’s a kitchen, bath, entry hall, main room, closet, and balcony.”

  “Not a lot of places to hide.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “Won’t 32 be on the third floor?”

  “No, they’re numbered sequentially. What’s all this about? What’s your plan?”

  “I’m going in through the window.”

  Katya’s face wouldn’t have looked more skeptical if I’d told her I could fly. “How? It’s on the fifth floor.”

  “Climbing to the window will be a snap. It’s getting through it undetected that has me concerned. I’ll have to play that part by ear. Same plan as before. You keep an eye on things from down here.”

  “But someone will see you.”

  “Not if I’m fast and time it right.”

  “What will you do if someone starts yelling?”

  “I’ll go over the roof and be down the back side before anyone can react. Don’t worry about it. As long as you’re keeping a watch out from below, I’ll be able to focus on a quick ascent and quiet entry. Agreed?”

  “Okay. You really think you can climb the building? Without falling?”

  “Most residential buildings are as easy to climb as ladders. They have all kinds of pinch points, edges, and ledges. All reasonably spaced and regularly repeated. These walls are concrete panel rather than brick, which would make it a challenge if there weren’t windows and balconies everywhere, but there are. And this one even has a drainpipe, which may as well be an elevator.”

  Katya didn’t look convinced. “We’re talking about five stories. That’s probably sixty feet. One heck of a tree.”

  “See my shoes?” I crossed my left leg over my right to put my approach shoe on display. “They’re designed for climbing. The tread is gummy, the support excellent, and they fit like a glove. With them, I’ll stick to that wall like a spider.” This wasn’t quite true, of course. But to comfort her I was going for attitude rather than accuracy. “To answer your other question, the best way to avoid attention while doing something surreptitious in public is to act like you’re someone in charge.”

  “And how do you plan to do that?”

  “It will be a combination of what I do and don’t do. I’ll avoid cautious movements and furtive glances since they arouse suspicion — triggering alarms built into our DNA. My goal will be to avoid detection altogether, so as not to generate any reaction at all, but even if I get stuck walking past an audience that can’t miss me, all I’ll have to do is keep my head up and shoulders back like an authority figure. That posturing triggers the submissive sectors in most people’s minds, and usually lets one slip under the radar without a second glance.” I nodded, subliminally reinforcing the veracity of what I’d said. “Time to go.”

  Chapter 40

  Monkey Business

  I GOT OUT of the van, but waited to cross the road until a couple of people walking dogs had rounded the corner. With the sun down, the air had taken on a chill, but it was dry. Good climbing weather.

  I made my way to Tarasova’s building with my head down and hands in my pockets, like a local resident on his way home. I didn’t have chalk for my palms, but they wouldn’t be sweating, and with a drainpipe to climb, it really didn’t matter. “Am I clear?” I asked, speaking into the mike.

  Katya came right back like a pro. “There’s a couple on a bench about twenty meters ahead of you, but they’re looking at each other. And across the street there are numerous open curtains, but I don’t see anyone actually standing at their window looking out.”

  “Good enough. Here goes.” The concrete panels were about nine feet tall, so there wasn’t much to grip. The surface itself, while ostensibly smooth, was plenty rough for smearing, the raw face-to-face friction move that would give my feet purchase. As for the ten-centimeter drainpipe, it was built fifty years ago by the Soviet war machine. Designed to withstand the never-ending strains of a brutal climate and communal living, it wasn’t going anywhere. I put a hooked hand around each side at head level, and pulled back until my arms were straight and my back was engaged. Then I brought my feet up onto the wall one at a time, and began to ascend like a hungry monkey scaling a coconut palm.

  It felt great.

  I never feel better than when I’m climbing. There’s something about the combination of mortal risk, physical exertion, and discernible progress that stimulates my brainstem like nothing else. And the greater the risk, the tougher the climb, and higher the ascent, the better I feel.

  I wear approach shoes wherever I go because I’m always eager for a fix. I don’t go around climbing telephone poles, but I feel better knowing the option is there. And sometimes kittens get stuck.

  It took me about fifteen seconds to get my head level with the bottom of Tarasova’s kitchen window, which was about two meters off to my left. As a climber I knew that my ‘ape index’ was 1.05, meaning that my arm-span was five percent greater than my height, or about six-foot-six. If my two-meter estimate was accurate, my reach would come up short.

  “Anybody notice me?”

  “Not that I can tell. You climb like a chimpanzee.”

  “Nicest thing you ever said to me.”

  I leaned as far as I could to my left, but was still a couple of inches shy of the windowsill. Rather than leaping for it, I repositioned my feet so that my right foot was pressing against the pipe from the left side, and then extended both my left arm and leg. To Katya, it would look as if I splatted against the wall in the midst of a jumping jack, but it did the trick. My left fingers found two knuckles’ worth of purchase amidst the city grime and pigeon crap.

  I released my right.

  A shuffle and chin-up later I was looking into Tarasova’s kitchen window. Fortunately, no one was looking back. “Katya, I want you to hang up on me and call Tarasova’s home number. If someone answers, find some reason to keep him talking and distracted. Otherwise, let it ring for a few minutes.”

  “Okay. Be careful.”

  I positioned myself so that I was peeking through a corner of the window that was partially concealed by a potted plant. From there I could see through the kitchen and into the better-lit hallway beyond, without risk of detection by the casual glance of a resident. Of course, this only applied to people inside the apartment. From the outside, I was totally exposed.

  The apartment’s phone began to ring.


  It kept ringing.

  On the fifth ring I made my move. I pulled myself up and onto the exterior windowsill, which was only about an inch wide. From there, I reached through the small ventilation window in the top right corner, and then used the curtain to snag the latch handle and unlock the larger window.

  With Scar’s Glock in my hand, I pushed the window open on the eighth ring. Apparently the Tarasovs opened it on a regular basis, because the mechanism was smooth and the windowsill was clear of clutter. Either that, or karma was on my side.

  Climbers learn to become a part of the rock they’re climbing. It’s a feeling, a mindset, a flow. They shut off all other senses and feel the rock, living from its perspective, moving in harmony with its surroundings. Serene, secure, and silent. I slipped into that mindset as I eased through the window, onto the sink, and down to the floor. Quiet as a summer breeze. Then I reengaged with the rest of the world.

  The phone was still ringing.

  I used a ring to cross the kitchen floor and tiny hall. On the next, I peered into the main room, the living room/bedroom combo. It contained a convertible couch, television, wardrobe, and display cabinet, but no pulse.

  I exhaled. That left me the balcony, closet, and bath to clear. I could see the entire top half of the enclosed balcony from where I stood. It looked empty, but would be a good place to hide. I glided across the floor and peered through the glass. Nothing but boxes and cross-country skis.

  The closet’s contents also proved to be inanimate.

  On my way to the bathroom, I stopped by the front door and looked out the peephole. No one appeared to be on the landing, but that didn’t mean a black suit wasn’t waiting behind a door or in the stairwell — locked, loaded, and listening.

  Two silent steps took me to the bathroom door. Light shown through the crack at the bottom. I listened for a full minute before opening it from a crouched position, the Glock raised and ready.

  Mr. Tarasov stared back at me. He was in the shower, hanging by his neck.