“What? I told you what she needs.” He arches an eyebrow and gestures at Nadia as though she were an appliance on a game show. “And come on, you can see she’s very healthy, no?”
Maggie crosses her arms. “I’ll need to examine her. Alone.”
“But Nadia doesn’t even speak English.” Then Oleg stops and raises his hands in mock surrender. “Fine.” He barks some more Russian at Nadia. Nadia nods and scurries away. “I’ll show you your operating theater. Then you can” — he makes quote marks with his fingers — “‘examine’ Nadia — alone — before my physician arrives. Okay?”
Maggie is about to accept, but Oleg sees no need to wait. He is already on the move. She follows him into a corridor with tile flooring. Their footsteps echo. When they reach the end, Oleg opens a door and steps aside.
“Your operating theater,” he says with a deep bow.
She enters, blinks, looks again.
Oleg is enjoying her reaction. “I trust you find it satisfactory?”
Maggie swallows and manages to say, “It seems fine.”
“Oh, it seems more than ‘fine,’” Oleg replies. “It is an exact reproduction of the operating room you used at Johns Hopkins. Our people measured yours, took videos and pictures, asked your former staff for details. You’ll find every instrument and machine in the exact places, though, not to boast, our equipment is more up-to-date.”
He isn’t exaggerating. It feels as though she were back in Baltimore. She wants to ask about the how and why, because she had just agreed to take this job, what, thirteen, fourteen hours ago?
How had Oleg built this so fast?
Answer: He couldn’t have.
Had he already known — or at least, assumed — that she’d agree to come? That seems more likely. Dr. Barlow came down from New York City to Johns Hopkins for the award ceremony. He had to have known by then, at the very least, that he would be asking Maggie to go to Russia to do this surgery. Taking it a step further, it seems unlikely that Barlow didn’t first consider Maggie for this surgery at least a few days before he came to campus. It probably took some time and thought on his part. Backing up even further for a moment: Ivan Brovski — or maybe Oleg Ragoravich himself — would have approached Barlow. Maybe they offered the job to Barlow first, but Barlow wouldn’t need the money. Or maybe Barlow didn’t want to go at his age or with his reputation. Whatever. They would have then discussed with Barlow who would be a good candidate for the job. Somewhere along the way, it would occur to Barlow that the perfect person — someone who desperately needed money, who would be discreet, who had the necessary skills, who would not worry about career repercussions — would be Maggie McCabe.
And continuing to follow this road, someone like Oleg Ragoravich or Ivan Brovski wouldn’t just accept Barlow’s recommendation without doing due diligence. They’d run a thorough background check. They’d have learned about her schooling, her surgical expertise, her finances, her malpractice suit, her work with WorldCures, her now-tattered (though once-pristine) reputation.
All of that, even with the power and money behind Oleg Ragoravich, would take time.
Time enough to build an operating room.
And if she had said no? Well, so what? The operating room would be at the ready for the next potential doctor. They could then quickly redesign, if need be, to suit the next candidate. Who knows? Perhaps Maggie wasn’t their first choice. Perhaps this wasn’t the first time they’d done surgeries out of Oleg’s compound. Perhaps this room was originally bigger or smaller or the anesthesia cart was placed on the left instead of the right or was painted cool blue instead of the muted green Maggie preferred.
Or perhaps they knew she would say yes.
It all feels very surreal.
There are three men in the operating room. They all come toward her.
“Your two nurses per your request,” Oleg says. “And your anesthesiologist.”
Oleg’s watch buzzes. He squints at the screen and frowns. “I must leave you now. Nadia should be in the other room waiting for you by now. Then my doctor will be here. I’m sure you’ll then need to rest before tonight’s ball.”
“Ball?”
“Yes. A massive one, here at the palace. Five hundred people. I expect you to be there.”
“I thought you were a...” She stops.
“Private?” Oleg finished for her.
She was going to say “recluse” but close enough. “Yes.”
“I am. Very.”
She doesn’t ask the obvious “Then why a ball?” follow-up because it’s already unspoken and he’s choosing not to reply. She instead stays in her lane: “As your physician, I want to warn you that if you want to have surgery tomorrow—”
“I know, I know.” He holds up his hand. “‘Nil per os’ — Latin for ‘nothing by mouth.’ So nothing to eat or drink after midnight.” His watch buzzes again. Oleg heads toward the door. “We can talk more tonight at the ball. But now? I promised you could examine Nadia alone. She is waiting for you in the room across the hall.”
Chapter Six
Nadia stands in the corner of what looks to Maggie like a spare office. She wears a plush white terry cloth bathrobe that seems to be swallowing her whole and makes her look even more petite. Her jet-black hair is wet. Her skin glistens.
Maggie smiles at her. Nadia is expressionless.
Speaking very slowly, Maggie says, “Let me see if one of the nurses can translate for us.”
“No.”
Maggie watches as Nadia crosses in front of her and closes the door.
“I speak English,” Nadia says. “I just don’t want them to know.”
“Oh.”
There is no examination table. Maggie had debated bringing her into the operating room for a full exam, but it seems more important to do a private consultation — just talk to her alone — than do a physical yet.
“Is it okay if I call you Nadia?” Maggie asks.
“Yes, of course.”
They both take a seat. Maggie isn’t sure how to begin. She wants to say, “My God, you’re gorgeous, don’t do this to yourself,” but that would be wrong and unfair and judgmental. But none of that lets Maggie off the hook as a physician and, well, a woman. There could be disturbing issues around this procedure involving consent, coercion, and power dynamics.
“How old are you, Nadia?”
“Twenty-four.”
“Do you understand what Oleg has hired me to do?”
“Augmentation mammoplasty,” Nadia says. Maggie tries to place her accent. There may be Russian or Eastern European, but she also hears something else. “In short, a boob job.”
“Are you okay with doing this procedure?”
“Yes.”
“I should go through the risks—”
“No need. I know them.”
Maggie nods slowly, leans forward. “Anything you discuss with me is between us. I will keep it in the strictest of confidences. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“You can trust me, Nadia.”
For the first time, Nadia smiles — and it’s radiant. “I do already, Doctor. You’re the only one who knows I speak English.”
“Thank you for that.” Maggie shifts a little more toward her. “I need to make sure you’re okay, Nadia.”
Nadia says nothing.
“If someone is pressuring you to have this surgery—”
Nadia laughs. “You can’t be serious.”
“—I can refuse to do the surgery.”
“Then Oleg would bring in someone else.”
Maggie lowers her voice. “If you don’t want to stay—”
“Who says I don’t want to stay?”
“—I can get you out.”
Nadia looks almost amused. “Do you really believe that, Doctor McCabe?”