Pavel Romanov left the operating room at half-past six in the evening, pulled the mask from his face, and allowed himself to exhale. Another life saved, another successful day to add to his reputation.
At thirty-three, he was already considered one of the best surgeons in the capital—a specialist to whom patients came from all over the country and even from abroad. His golden hands, as his colleagues said, could literally pull a person back from the brink of death. But now, Pavel felt only fatigue and a strange anxiety that had been haunting him all day.
“Belov’s surgery is tomorrow,” he reminded himself as he headed down to the staff exit.
Igor Belov, the forty-five-year-old owner of a jewelry store chain, a man with money and connections, had made an appointment with him three months ago. It was a planned operation, nothing complicated: removal of gallstones. A routine matter; Pavel had performed hundreds of such surgeries. But why, then, did this vague feeling not let go?
He stepped outside, where the October dusk was already gathering, and saw her. A Gypsy woman was standing right by the exit, leaning against the hospital wall, and in her arms slept an infant wrapped in a bright blanket. The woman was young, no more than thirty, with long black hair that cascaded over her shoulders and large, dark eyes that were now looking directly at Pavel. She wore a colorful, ankle-length skirt and a dark shawl, despite the warm weather for October.
— Doctor Romanov, — she called out softly, and her voice sent a chill down Pavel’s spine.
He stopped, though he usually tried to avoid street fortune-tellers.
— Yes, I’m listening, — he replied reservedly.
The Gypsy woman stepped toward him, and the infant in her arms stirred slightly without waking.
— I am Zara. I need to talk to you about tomorrow’s operation. About the rich man you’re going to cut open.
Pavel felt his muscles tense.
— How do you know about my patients? That’s confidential medical information.
— I know many things, Doctor. And you’d better listen to me before it’s too late. Igor Belov is not who he claims to be.
— I’m sorry, but I don’t believe in fortune-telling, — Pavel began, but Zara interrupted him, leaning closer.
— Check the rich man’s tests again before the anesthesia. Check them with witnesses, in front of all the assistants. What you will see will change everything.
Pavel wanted to object, but something in her eyes made him fall silent. There was no madness or deceit in those eyes, only a kind of heavy certainty, as if she were a messenger of death.
— Why should I believe you? — he asked more quietly.
— Because this infant in my arms is his daughter. The one he doesn’t know about. And because if you don’t check the tests, he won’t be the only one who dies tomorrow.
Pavel stood and watched as the Gypsy woman turned and walked away, rocking the sleeping child. Her bright skirt flashed around the corner, and she dissolved into the evening shadows like a ghost. The doctor took out his phone, intending to call hospital security, but changed his mind. What would he say? That some Gypsy woman was telling him about a patient? They would laugh at him. And yet, as he walked back to his car, he couldn’t get her words out of his head: “Check the tests again.”
“But why? All of Belov’s tests were fine, otherwise the surgery wouldn’t have been scheduled,” he thought.
Pavel opened the door of his black BMW and got behind the wheel, but didn’t start the engine right away. He sat in the darkness of the car and pondered. Igor Belov. He had only seen him twice: at the initial consultation and at the pre-operative examination. A tall, heavyset man with well-groomed hands and a scornful smirk, who spoke to the medical staff as if they were his servants. At his side was always his wife Victoria—a twenty-nine-year-old beauty with expressive eyes and full lips, who remained silent while her husband spoke. A typical scene with wealthy people in a private clinic. Nothing special.
But now this encounter with the Gypsy woman cast a shadow over the coming day. Pavel started the car and drove home. On the way, he caught himself several times wanting to turn around and go back to the hospital to really check Belov’s documents again. But each time, he pushed the thought away. He was a doctor, not a detective. His job was to operate, not to uncover secrets in his patients’ lives.
An empty apartment awaited him at home: since his divorce a year ago, Pavel hadn’t started a new relationship, immersing himself entirely in his work. He heated up dinner, ate without an appetite, and went to bed early, but sleep wouldn’t come. Zara’s words spun in his head: “He won’t be the only one who dies tomorrow.” What was that supposed to mean? A threat? A warning? Or just the ramblings of a mentally unwell woman? But why, then, did he believe her?
The morning began with a message from Alina Sokolova, his assistant and the best operating room nurse in the clinic. The twenty-five-year-old red-haired girl with freckles and perpetually smiling green eyes wrote: “Doctor, Belov is already in his room. He’s in a fighting mood, his wife is with him. Another man came, says he’s his brother.”
Pavel frowned. Belov hadn’t mentioned a brother, though it wasn’t his business. He got dressed, drank a strong coffee, and drove to the clinic. The whole way, thoughts of yesterday’s meeting gave him no peace.
“Alright,” he finally decided. “I’ll check the tests in front of the assistants. Just to calm myself down. Zara is probably wrong, but at least I’ll know for sure.”
At the clinic, he was met by Alina, already changed into her green surgical scrubs.
— Good morning, Pavel Viktorovich. Belov is in room 315, the anesthesiologist has already spoken with him. The surgery is in an hour.
— Good. Alina, do you happen to know if Belov has any children?
Alina thought for a moment:
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