She shuddered.
“The next day Olga died. And I found a note on my pillow. There was only one word written there: ‘Silence’.”
Viktor understood now why this woman was so afraid. And understood the courage this conversation cost her.
“And my daughter?” he asked. “What is he doing to her?”
Zoya lowered her eyes.
“The same thing. Only slower. Anya resisted longer than the others. The first six months she was a real fighter. Yelled at him, threatened to leave. Called relatives. Arkady even liked it; I heard him telling his friend he loves a challenge.”
“She called me,” Viktor said hollowly. “In the first months. I thought she was just having a difficult adjustment period.”
“And then he took her phone. Said she gets too nervous from talking to relatives. That she needs peace. She believed. She always believed him because he knew how to say the right words.”
Zoya started crying.
“He showed her a newspaper with your obituary. I saw it myself. She sobbed for three days, didn’t eat, didn’t drink. And he comforted her, held her in his arms. Said now he was her only family. That he would never leave her.”
“Where did he get the obituary?”
“Printed it himself. He has people who can make any document. Passports, certificates, newspaper pages—anything. Anya didn’t check; she was too crushed.”
Viktor leaned against the wall, feeling the ground slip from under his feet. His daughter believed he was dead for a year and a half. For a year and a half, she had no one who could help.
“What is he giving her?” he asked, gathering the remains of his self-control. “What drugs?”
“I don’t know the names. But I know he adds white powder to her food and gives her injections every evening before bed. Says they are vitamins. But I see what’s happening to her. She forgets people, even me. Her hands shake, especially in the mornings. Walks unsteadily, like she’s drunk. And constantly wants to sleep, but when she falls asleep, she screams from nightmares.”
Viktor listened and mentally made a list. Hallucinations, tremors, loss of coordination, confusion. Classic signs of neuroleptic poisoning combined with something else. Possibly scopolamine or something from that group.
“I need to get to her,” he said. “Tonight. Can you get me into the house?”
Zoya stepped back, and fear flared in her eyes.
“That’s impossible. Security, cameras. If he finds out…”
“He won’t find out.” Viktor stepped toward her. “You said you go out for groceries every evening. That means you know when the guards change. Know where the camera blind spots are. Know how to pass unnoticed.”
Zoya was silent, and he saw fear and conscience fighting within her.
“Listen to me.” He took her by the shoulders. “I am a doctor. A military surgeon with thirty years of experience. I can help my daughter, I can flush the drugs out of her system. But for that, I need to get to her. You are the only person who can arrange that.”
“He’ll kill me,” Zoya whispered. “If he finds out, he’ll kill me.”
“If you do nothing, he will kill Anya. Just like he killed Olga. Can you live with that? Can you watch another woman die in that house again?”
Zoya closed her eyes. Tears flowed down her cheeks.
“Tonight at two a.m.,” she said finally. “The guards change at that time. Five minutes when the grounds are unwatched. The back door you entered through yesterday—I’ll leave it unlocked. Anya’s room is on the second floor. Third door to the right of the stairs.”
“Thank you.” Viktor released her shoulders.
“Are you saving her life? Or dooming us both to death?” Zoya wiped her tears and took a phone out of her bag. “Here is my number. If something goes wrong, don’t come. I’ll let you know.”
She dictated the number and left as quietly as she appeared, dissolving into the darkness between the pavilions. Viktor was left alone in the yard, among empty crates and the smell of rotting vegetables. He looked at his watch. Nine-thirty. More than four hours left until two a.m. Time to prepare.
He returned to the hotel and laid out the contents of the medical kit on the bed. Syringes, ampoules, bandages, a bottle of saline, a pack of activated charcoal. And, most importantly, two antidotes he always carried by habit, left over from the military hospital times. The first was for barbiturate poisoning. The second—for anticholinergics, the very group of drugs scopolamine belonged to. If his assumptions were correct, one of these antidotes would help Anya come to her senses, at least for a while.
Viktor checked the expiration dates, checked the integrity of the ampoules, prepared everything that might be needed. Then he sat by the window and waited.
At a quarter to two, he called a taxi and asked to be dropped off three blocks from the mansion. He walked the rest of the way, keeping to the shadows of trees and fences. The night was moonless, and darkness hid him better than any camouflage. The back door of the mansion turned out to be open, just as Zoya promised. Viktor slipped inside and froze, listening. Silence. Only the hum of the refrigerator somewhere in the kitchen and the distant snoring of a guard in the room by the main entrance.
He moved along the familiar servants’ corridor, trying not to creak the floorboards. On the second floor, it was darker, but his eyes had already adjusted to the gloom. Third door to the right of the stairs, he recalled. The door was unlocked. Viktor pushed it and entered.
The room turned out to be large and almost empty. A bed by the wall, a nightstand, a curtained window. And Anya, lying on the bed in an unnatural pose, as if she had been thrown there and forgotten.
Viktor approached and knelt beside the bed. In the dark, his daughter’s face seemed waxy, lifeless. He felt for a pulse on her neck—weak but steady. Then he took a small flashlight from his bag and turned it on, covering the light with his palm. Anya’s pupils were dilated, barely reacting to light. Marks from numerous injections, old and new, on her arms. Skin pale, dry, lips cracked…
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