— His chart says no children. Why?
— Just asking, — Pavel answered evasively and went to his office.
He picked up Igor Belov’s medical chart and began to study it carefully. 45 years old, blood type A-positive, no chronic diseases, no allergies. Everything was standard. Blood tests, urine tests, EKG—all within the normal range. An ultrasound showed gallstones about one and a half centimeters in size, a classic case for a laparoscopic cholecystectomy. No red flags. Pavel closed the chart and leaned back in his chair.
— This is some kind of nonsense, — he muttered.
But something still bothered him. At half-past ten, Pavel entered the pre-op room, where Belov was already being prepared for surgery. Igor lay on a gurney in a hospital gown, with Victoria standing beside him in an expensive pantsuit, holding his hand. She looked worried but tried to hide it behind a forced smile.
— Doctor Romanov! — Belov addressed him in a loud voice. — I hope you’re in good shape? I don’t want to be cut open by a surgeon with a hangover.
He laughed at his own joke, but Victoria nervously squeezed his fingers.
— Rest assured, Igor Andreevich. Everything will go well, — Pavel replied evenly.
He came closer and looked at Victoria. Up close, she was even more beautiful: dark hair gathered in an elegant bun, chiseled features. But her brown eyes held such sorrow that Pavel couldn’t help but hold her gaze.
— Don’t worry, everything will be fine, — he said, this time to her.
Victoria nodded, but tears glistened on her eyelashes.
— Thank you, doctor. I trust you.
At that moment, a man of about forty entered the pre-op room, wearing an expensive suit, with a shaved head and a heavy gaze.
— Igor, how are you? — he asked, approaching the gurney.
— Everything’s fine, Vitya. The doctor says it’s a simple operation. I’ll be home in three days, — Belov answered.
Pavel looked at the newcomer:
— Are you the patient’s brother?
— Yes, Viktor Belov. I’d like to stay with my brother until the surgery, if possible.
— Unfortunately, that’s not possible. But you can wait in the lobby, — Pavel said politely but firmly.
Viktor was about to argue, but Igor waved his hand:
— Go on, Vitya. Everything will be fine.
Viktor nodded, cast a strange look at Victoria, and left. Pavel noted to himself that there was clearly some tension between Belov’s wife and brother.
Ten minutes later, Belov was wheeled into the operating room. Pavel went into the scrub room and began to prepare. He washed his hands thoroughly according to protocol, put on a sterile gown, gloves, cap, and mask. Alina and two other nurses, Katya and Olga, both young and professional, were also getting ready. The anesthesiologist, Sergey Petrovich, an experienced doctor in his fifties, had already taken his place at the head of the operating table.
Pavel entered the operating room, where Belov lay on the table, already drowsy from premedication.
— Everything is ready, Pavel Viktorovich, — Alina reported.
Pavel approached the instrument table and suddenly remembered Zara’s words: “Check the rich man’s tests again before the anesthesia. In front of all the assistants.” He froze in place. His heart was beating faster than usual.
— Sergey Petrovich, — he addressed the anesthesiologist. — Let’s check the patient’s data one more time before administering the anesthesia.
The anesthesiologist looked at him in surprise over his mask:
— We’ve already checked everything twice. Is something wrong?
— I just want to be sure. It’s procedure, — Pavel said, trying to keep his voice calm. — Alina, bring Belov’s chart and the latest blood tests. Let’s verify the data.
Alina exchanged a glance with Sergey Petrovich, but nodded and left. A minute later, she returned with a folder. Pavel opened the chart right there in the operating room, in front of everyone.
— Igor Andreevich Belov, 45 years old. Blood type A-positive, — he began to read aloud.
Sergey Petrovich nodded:
— Correct, everything matches.
Pavel flipped further. The blood test, done three days ago.
— Everything is normal.
But then his eyes fell on a note from the lab technician at the bottom of the page, written in small handwriting: “Repeat analysis from 10/22. See insert.”
October 22nd—that was yesterday. Pavel frowned.
— Alina, it says here there was a repeat analysis. Where is it?
— What repeat analysis? — Alina was confused. — There’s only one analysis in the chart.
— There’s a note from the lab tech. Bring all the documents from the lab for Belov. Right now.
There was such a demanding tone in Pavel’s voice that the girl flinched and ran out of the operating room. Sergey Petrovich shifted nervously from foot to foot.
— Pavel, we’re wasting time. The patient is ready for anesthesia.
— Wait, — Pavel threw back curtly.
The tension in the operating room was so thick you could cut it with a knife. The nurses stood silently, not understanding what was happening. Two minutes later, which felt like an eternity, Alina returned, holding a piece of paper.
— Here, I found it. It was some additional blood draw that the patient himself ordered last night. The results were only ready this morning, and they were filed in the archival folder, not the main chart.
Pavel took the paper and began to read. What he saw made his blood run cold. Blood type—AB-negative. Rh factor—negative. Another line: genetic DNA analysis, unscheduled, result positive for a marker of a rare genetic disease, requires consultation with a geneticist.
Pavel slowly raised his eyes.
— Sergey Petrovich, we have a problem. A very serious one.
— What happened? — the anesthesiologist came over and looked at the paper. After reading it, he turned pale. — This… This is a completely different analysis. The blood type doesn’t match the chart.
— Exactly, — Pavel said quietly. — And that means either there’s a mistake in the chart, or these tests aren’t his. Or…
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