Beloved Enemy (8 page)

“Good afternoon, Ms. Dementieva,” the receptionist said with a smile. “I’ll ring Dr. Karalian and tell him you’re here.”

Several moments later, Dr. Karalian appeared, an olive-skinned man of Armenian lineage who, with his black, spade-like beard and thick, curving eyebrows, looked like a traditional depiction of the devil. However, the moment he opened his mouth and spoke, his innate intelligence and gentle charm dispelled this image completely.

He stepped forward, embracing her hand with both of his. “Annika, how good to see you again! I only wish we knew you were coming. I would have prepared.”

The smile she returned was tinged with both fondness and regret.

“And how is Illyusha? I miss our chess matches.”

“You’re the only one who ever called my grandfather Illyusha.”

Dr. Karalian’s smile flickered uncertainly. “What do you mean ‘called’?”

Annika pushed stray wisps of hair off the side of her face. “I’m sorry, doctor. My grandfather is dead.”

The effect on Dr. Karalian was extraordinary. He rocked back on his heels, as if she had struck him a physical blow, and his face grew white. “Oh, but, my dear, I am so sorry.” He stepped forward to embrace her. “Illyusha was such an extraordinary man. As you know, I considered him a good friend as well as an important benefactor to this clinic. What a loss. Truly incalculable.”

Annika waited some moments for the doctor to gather himself. “Are you all right?”

Dr. Karalian cleared his throat of emotion. Even so, his voice was slow in returning to normal. “Would you be so kind as to accompany me to my office.”

Without another word being exchanged, she followed him out of the lobby down the central corridor, smelling of antiseptic, then along a somewhat narrower corridor to their left, at the end of which was Dr. Karalian’s office. It was the doctor’s habit to invite her to tea at the end of her visits, when they would spend a companionable hour or so absorbing her take on the latest world events, which he obviously valued.

Dr. Karalian’s office was warm, intimate, full of personal items and trinkets from patients he had treated, as well as mementoes from his childhood in Armenia and travels as a young man throughout North Africa. The space had the appearance of a study in his home. Only the daunting phalanx of thick tomes on psychiatric and physical medicine that filled the shelves on the wall behind his desk gave evidence that this was a professional rather than a private room.

At his sweeping gesture, Annika sat in an armchair upholstered in a Turkish-patterned fabric while he settled himself behind his desk. To her right, a window looked out on the sun-slashed preserve and the rugged base of the mountain. To her left was an elaborate chess set, resting on a small, round marquetry table.

“Tell me,” he said. “How are you doing?”

“As well as can be expected.”

“If I may ask, how did Illyusha pass?’

“A hit-and-run. In Rome.”

“How awful, but…” Dr. Karalian rocked back in his chair, his fingertips steepled.

Annika’s finely tuned antennae gave an internal shiver. “But what?”

Dr. Karalian sat forward abruptly. “Well, it’s just that Illyusha was always such a careful man. It’s difficult for me to believe that he’d be the victim of a hit-and-run.”

Of course he was correct. Knowing she had to end this line of speculation, Annika said quickly, “Have you ever been to Rome, doctor?”

“I can’t say I have, no.”

“Then you have no idea of the traffic there, nor the speeds the drivers reach even in the center of the city.”

Dr. Karalian’s gaze turned inward. “So. All things must pass.” He gestured to his right. “I will miss him. He was a formidable opponent. I’ve never encountered a mind like his. We’re all the poorer for his passing.” He sighed deeply. “You know, when he came here, we played chess, certainly, but we spoke of my wife and children. He was very fond of them.”

Annika captured Karalian’s doleful gaze, brought it back to the present. “Did he ever talk about Rolan?”

“Naturally. He loved that boy. He often said he had been the best thing to ever happen to you.”

“And the worst.”

Dr. Karalian gave a grave nod. “As fate would have it.”

She nodded. “Would you like me to leave you alone?”

“Thank you, but no.” He smiled in that wistful way people have when they recall happier times.

Out of respect, Annika waited some time before she continued. “How is Rolan? Has there been any change?”

“I’m afraid not.” Dr. Karalian pursed his lips. “No change at all.”

Annika felt a chill spear through her. “Then I think we must consider the other treatment.”

Dr. Karalian peered at her dubiously. “It’s a radical step, Annika. The danger…”

“Have you changed your recommendation?”

“Of course not. No.”

“Well, then…”

Dr. Karalian’s hands worked a paper clip back and forth until it broke in half, the fidgeting a sure sign of his inner distress. “If you’ve made up your mind…”

“I have.”

Dr. Karalian produced a wan smile. “Very well. Of course. Rolan is your husband. I must be directed by your wishes.”

*   *   *

Iraj Namazi had no intention of abiding by Annika’s wish for him to remain in the car. Three minutes after she had disappeared inside, he stepped out of the car, trotted up onto the portico, and pushed open the front door. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. He was curious about everything related to Annika Dementieva, but he was also curious about this Dr. Karalian. Namazi had been allied with Dyadya Gourdjiev, an alliance that traced its circuitous route through two decades, starting when Namazi had become known to the outside world as the Syrian. In fact, it had been Gourdjiev, the chess player, who had seen Namazi’s long-range potential; the Syrian identity had been Gourdjiev’s brainchild. It had made so much sense to Namazi that he had adopted it at once.

After spending ten or so minutes sitting in the clinic’s lobby after he announced himself, he was ushered into Dr. Karalian’s office.

“Did Annika just leave?” Namazi asked.

When Dr. Karalian made no reply, Namazi added, “I brought her here today.”

“Annika left just a few moments ago.” Dr. Karalian, sitting behind his desk, looked up from reading a note which he now folded and slid back into a buff envelope. “How may I help you. Mr.…”

“Cardozian,” the Syrian said, using one of the many identities he carried with him. He set his card on the desk but noted the doctor scarcely glanced at it. “Dyadya Gourdjiev and I were business partners. I was curious why I’d never heard of you.”

Dr. Karalian smiled thinly. His teeth shone like pearls. “He and I were friends. He never mentioned you, either.”

Deciding to take another tack, Namazi said, “I was in Rome when he died.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“I saw him just after the accident. It was a terrible blow for all of us.”

Dr. Karalian’s face was entirely expressionless. “I have no idea who ‘all of us’ refers to.”

Namazi’s hesitation was slight. “All of us who did business with him.”

“I see.” Dr. Karalian crossed his hands over his stomach. “His friends and family mourn him, as well.”

Namazi was, for the moment, at a loss as to how to proceed. This man had been a friend of Gourdjiev’s; he must know Annika well. Namazi was very careful with anyone who had a connection to Annika. Now that the old man was gone, she was his sole link to the ongoing enterprise he and Gourdjiev had created. He could do nothing to anger her, or even to cause her to suspect that he wasn’t blindly besotted with her, as were most males she drew into her orbit. It wasn’t that Namazi didn’t find her sexually attractive, but he was in a phase of his life where he found males more alluring than females.

Namazi gestured. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”

“Not at all.” Those teeth again. “Would you care for tea?”

“Thank you, no.” Namazi suspected he wouldn’t get tea even if he said yes. “What I was wondering was why Annika wanted to see you.”

“What, precisely, is your relationship with Ms. Dementieva?”

“You could say I’m acting as her protector.”

Dr. Karalian took a moment to digest this. “She told me about Ill—about Dyadya Gourdjiev’s death. I was grateful that she told me in person. That was exceptionally kind of her.”

“Annika is exceptionally kind.” Namazi cleared his throat. “So there was no other reason?”

Dr. Karalian cocked his head. “No other reason for what?”

“Her visit.”

“I can’t imagine why else she would visit the clinic.”

“Then where is she?”

“There is a small garden I tend. It was started by her grandfather many years ago. She often visits it, perhaps to meditate. She doesn’t ask me to come with her and I don’t ask.”

“Where is it, this garden?”

“On the other side of the building. It’s off limits to outsiders. I’m sure you under—”

“I have no interest in gardens.” Namazi slapped his thighs and rose. “All right, doctor. I’ll be off now.”

Dr. Karalian was sunk deep in his chair. “Good day, Mr. Cardozian.”

At the doorway, Namazi turned for a moment. “Until next time.”

Dr. Karalian seemed to start out of his trance. “There will be a next time?” But his visitor had already vanished.

*   *   *

Annika found Rolan in the conservatory. He was seated in a steel wheelchair with a light cotton throw over his wrists and lap. He was quite still, seemingly staring through the large windows at the mountain. Blue shadows crept up his lower half as the sun crawled slowly toward the horizon.

Apart from the two of them, the conservatory, though large, was deserted, as was always the case when Rolan was brought there. Annika had to pass between two burly orderlies as she stepped into the room.

For a moment, she paused to stare out at the mountain, a great shelf of rock into which the Sümela Monastery had been carved and then built. It was here that Rolan had taken her on their honeymoon. At first, she had been somewhat taken aback, having in her mind Paris or Venice—or even Capri. Somewhere quintessentially romantic. But that was before she had been introduced to the lush valley and the magnificent ruins that overlooked it.

In her mind’s eye, she saw them walking through the ruined structure, overarched by the monstrous cavern hewn out of the living rock. Standing in those ancient roofless rooms, they had looked out onto the sun-splashed valley, lush with pines, streams, and stony hillocks.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Rolan had said, taking her hand.

And she had to admit that he was right. At that moment, it was the most romantic spot on earth.

Now he sat, immobile in his wheelchair. While she stared at their shared past, what was he looking at? What did he see when he looked at that mountain? Did he remember their time together? Would he remember her at all? Sometimes he did, and she was heartened, but then would come those visits when his stare passed right through her as if she didn’t exist, as if she had never existed. Those were the moments when her heart seemed to freeze in her chest and hot tears sprang into her eyes, when her emotions, long held in check, bubbled up, forcing her out of herself. She became a spectator at the disaster of her own life, in this way telling herself that it was a dream, that soon enough she would fly away and never have to see him again.

But, of course, that never happened, and, at length, she returned to herself, to the crushing weight of her past and what it meant to her now and in the future.

“Rolan.”

She pulled up a chair, sat next to him, laid her hand upon his wrist through the cotton throw. She felt it, and slowly, heart beating hard in her chest, she peeled back the throw, as if it were a layer of skin the clinic had sewn onto him. His wrists were manacled to the armrests of the wheelchair.

“Oh, Rolan.”

He did not turn to her, gave no sign that he had heard her. She could see the furrow the ball bearing had made as it had scored along the side of his head, a scar that no amount of plastic surgery could hide. There were other wounds in his torso, long healed now, but compared to the one in his head they were of no consequence. No one—not even Dr. Karalian—knew precisely how much damage the head wound had caused, but it was an irrefutable fact that he was now given to unexpected bouts of manic anger. He had injured a patient and two orderlies before Dr. Karalian had started him on a new drug regimen. Even so, whenever he was wheeled out of his locked room, he was manacled to his wheelchair.

When she settled the throw back over him, Rolan said, “Don’t.”

Annika froze. His voice was thick and rough, as if his vocal cords had been damaged, too, in the assault in Syria that had almost killed him. Rolan had been caught up in a terrorist attack, an innocent bystander who became collateral damage.

“I’ll fold it away,” Annika said, a bit breathlessly. It wasn’t often that Rolan spoke, even less often that he actually responded to word or action.

“My grandmother used to cover me when I was ill.”

As Annika had been raised by her grandfather, Rolan had been raised by his grandmother, after his parents were killed on a flight back to St. Petersburg from Moscow. This similarity was one of the ties that had immediately bound them. Over time, there were others.

“I’m not ill,” Rolan said.

“It’s good to hear your voice,” Annika said after a moment’s hesitation.

“You think I’m ill.” Rolan continued to stare out at the mountain. “You shouldn’t believe everything Karalian tells you.”

Annika’s brows knitted. “Don’t you like Dr. Karalian?”

“I don’t like anyone,” Rolan said. “Except you.” When he said this, he turned his head, his sky-blue eyes impaling her.

“Rolan, I—”

“Get me out of here.”

Annika stared at him.

“You have the power to do it, I know you do.”

She could see him straining at his manacles.

“Don’t. Rolan, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’m already hurt.” His body began to shake, his face turning red with a sudden rush of blood. “The only way I’ll get better is to GET. THE. FUCK. OUT. OF. HERE!”

“I don’t think it’s wise to—”