“Captain Plecas, Tatiana, I know how difficult this last year has been for you, and I want to assure you that we are doing everything possible for your daughter. Unfortunately, Natasha’s cancer hasn’t responded to any of the treatments. Unless you’ve come up with the necessary fee to pay for the experimental drug we discussed during your last visit, there is nothing more we can do.”
Plecas recalled the details from their last meeting. There was a new drug that had been successful in initial testing. However, it was difficult to manufacture and the limited doses were extremely expensive — three hundred million rubles. Tatiana’s jaw had dropped upon hearing the amount, equivalent to almost five million U.S. dollars.
“There must be something you can do,” Plecas said. “Some way to obtain this drug.”
“We’ve already tried all avenues, explaining the unique situation — your daughter being an only child and your prestigious assignment — but the sticking point is the fee. We cannot get it reduced and the government won’t cover the cost.”
“Who do I need to talk to,” Plecas said firmly.
“There is no one,” Vasiliev said. “The drug comes directly from the company and they are not receptive to requests for reduced costs. They can manufacture only four doses a month at this point and are not willing to sell it for less than it takes to manufacture. As you can expect, the demand is high and there are enough patients, or their families, who can afford to pay.”
Plecas turned to Tatiana, who had tears in her eyes. Three hundred million rubles was more than he’d make in ten lifetimes. Even the combined resources of their extended family would amount to only a tiny fraction. Vasiliev’s decision to inform them there was a drug that might save their daughter’s life, only to learn they could not afford it, bordered on cruelty.
“I’m sorry,” Vasiliev said. “We will do everything possible to keep Natasha comfortable during the final stage of her disease.”
Tatiana burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. Plecas caressed her back as he stared at the doctors, his mind going in several directions at once, searching for a solution. Unfortunately, Vasiliev was right. They couldn’t afford the drug.
Vasiliev stood. “If there is anything I can do in the meantime, please let me know.”
The doctors filed silently toward the door, avoiding eye contact with Plecas and Tatiana, leaving the Russian captain and his wife alone in the conference room. They sat together for a long while before mustering the strength to leave.
They stepped from the medical center lobby into the brisk night air, a light snow falling as they walked to their hotel a few blocks away. Neither Plecas nor his wife spoke during the short journey, both lost in their own thoughts. Upon reaching the hotel, Tatiana numbly led the way to the seventh floor.
Their room at Hotel Bogorodskoe was small, containing only a single bed, beside which rested the suitcase Plecas had dropped off in the lobby earlier today, and a small window looking out into the city. As the door closed behind them, he took Tatiana in his arms.
She looked up at him. “There must be something we can do. Some way to pay for the drug.”
Plecas shook his head. “We don’t have the money, and none of our friends or relatives do either.”
“The government should help,” Tatiana replied. “They should intervene and force the company to provide the drug.”
“The government doesn’t care about people like us.”
She looked up at him. “You have devoted your life to the Rodina and what has she provided in return? The government pays you crumbs and abandons you when you need its help the most.”
He couldn’t argue against her assessment.
“There must be someone,” she said. “Someone you know who can make the company provide the drug.”
Plecas was a captain first rank, the equivalent of an American Navy captain, in command of Russia’s most technologically advanced submarine. Despite the responsibility, he was still a small fish in the pond, not yet an admiral. Still, he had managed to get Natasha admitted to Blokhin National Medical Research Center.
“I have done what I can. Natasha is being cared for at the premier cancer center in the country, and her doctors are the best in Russia.”
Tatiana pulled back from his embrace. “It is not enough! She is going to die!”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Get the authorization for the drug!”
“There is nothing more I can do.”
Tatiana’s features transformed from anguish into rage. “Then you are a failure as a father! It’s your responsibility to protect our daughter. To ensure no harm comes to her.” Her eyes turned cold and hard. “You are not a father. You are not even a man!”
Plecas searched for the right words to defuse the situation. Tatiana was distraught and lashing out, and he tried hard to not let her words hurt.
When he didn’t respond, Tatiana pounded a fist into his chest. “Save her!”
“There is nothing more I can do,” he repeated.
“You lie! You must know someone with the right contacts or with enough money for the drug!”
Plecas shook his head.
Her anger transitioned into fury, and she pounded his chest with her fists as she screamed at him, her face turning flush with emotion. Plecas wrapped his arms around his wife and pulled her tightly against his chest so she could no longer hit him, although she kept trying. After a moment, her struggles subsided and her fury faded to anguish. Tears began to flow and sobs escaped between deep, shuddering breaths. As he held Tatiana close, her face resting on his chest, he felt the warmth of her tears soaking into his uniform.
Tatiana’s crying gradually subsided and her body relaxed. He released her and she pulled back slowly; her eyes were vacant and her body listless. She was physically and emotionally spent. He lifted her into his arms and laid her gently on the bed. After removing her shoes, he covered her with an extra blanket from the closet and kissed her forehead. By the time he tucked her in, her eyes were closed. Her breathing slowed and she soon fell asleep.
Plecas sat beside her, staring out the small window as his thoughts drifted into the past — to the day Natasha was born and how proud he’d been; to her sitting on his lap as a toddler playing games; to her running across the pier into his arms upon returning from deployment.
Eventually, his thoughts turned to the future—Kazan’s upcoming deployment, and the one potential solution remaining.
He pulled his cell phone from his uniform pocket, looked up the desired number, and called.
The American answered.
“I am willing to discuss your request,” Plecas said.
6
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
In a seventh-floor conference room, Christine O’Connor was joined by Deputy Director Monroe Bryant, Deputy Director for Operations PJ Rolow, and several other deputy directors and staff. The primary topic of this morning’s meeting was the status of the hunt for Lonnie Mixell.
Tracey McFarland, the agency’s deputy director for analysis, began with the headline item. “We have a lead on Mixell. The FBI has been analyzing video feeds from the major New York City transportation hubs, and facial recognition programs got a match at one of the JFK airport gates. Mixell boarded an Emirates Airlines flight to Dubai three hours after he assassinated the ambassador, traveling under an alias: Mark Alperi.”
“Have we located him in Dubai?” Christine asked.
“Not yet. We’re running about two days behind Mixell, so he could have already left the city. We’ll do what we can, but we don’t have many officers on the ground and have limited access to surveillance video in the city. We’re moving assets into Dubai and pulsing our contacts there, plus we’re monitoring the transportation hubs. Hopefully, something will turn up.”