After spending the day with Natasha at Blokhin National Medical Research Center, Tatiana Plecas was preparing for bed when there was a knock on her hotel room door. Peering through the peephole, she spotted two men in the hallway, each wearing a suit beneath a heavy black overcoat.
“Who is it?” she asked without opening the door.
The closest man held a badge up to the peephole. “FSB,” was the muffled response. “We need to talk, Mrs. Plecas.”
Tatiana considered, just for a moment, not opening the door. The FSB, the successor to the KGB for domestic issues, was feared among the populace. Although some limits had been placed on the FSB’s powers, the service had been controlled by KGB veterans and their disciples since its inception and had often been used as a weapon against dissidents, with the definition changing as the Kremlin saw fit. However, she decided that refusing to open the door would not turn out well.
She let the two men into the room. The first man, Nicholai Meknikov, introduced himself and his partner, Pyotr Sobakin, as Sobakin’s eyes perused the hotel room furnishings.
“We have a few questions,” Meknikov said. There was a small table and chair against the wall. “Please, have a seat.”
Tatiana eased nervously into the chair as directed, facing Meknikov, who sat on the corner of the nearby bed. He pulled a smartphone from his suit jacket pocket and scrolled through notes as Sobakin wandered around the room, examining Tatiana’s belongings. She thought about objecting, but said nothing.
Meknikov looked up from his notes. “I’m sorry to hear about your daughter’s cancer, Tatiana. But I understand her new treatment holds promise.”
“She’s responding well,” Tatiana replied, wondering why the FSB would be interested in Natasha.
“I understand the new drug is expensive. Do you happen to know the price?”
Tatiana recalled the meeting with Dr. Vasiliev at the hospital, and how distraught she’d been after learning how expensive the treatment was.
“Three hundred million rubles,” she replied, concluding Meknikov already knew the answer: he took no notes.
“How did you obtain the money?”
“My husband has a friend, someone he served with on his first submarine. He’s an executive in the oil and gas industry.”
This time, Meknikov entered a comment into his smartphone. “What is your friend’s name?”
“My husband didn’t say.”
There was a slight pause before Meknikov asked his next question, using a slightly accusatorial tone. “Your husband managed to obtain three hundred million rubles from a friend, and you didn’t ask who he is?”
“It was very rushed. Aleksandr left only a few minutes later to return to Gadzhiyevo to take his submarine on its first deployment. He is the commanding officer of Kazan,” she added proudly.
“That is a very prestigious assignment.” Meknikov smiled warmly, then asked his next question. “What else did your husband say about this friend?”
Tatiana searched her memory, but recalled no other details. “I’ve told you all I know.”
Meknikov wrote another note, then looked up. “About your husband’s deployment. I assume he has deployed many times during your marriage, yes?”
Tatiana nodded.
“Did you notice anything unusual this time? Did he behave any differently, meet with anyone new, or do anything out of the ordinary?”
It was a difficult question to answer, since her husband had been dealing with Natasha’s illness. He had traveled to many hospitals searching for the best care, and had pleaded Natasha’s case to anyone who might have the means to help.
“He spoke to many doctors, friends we had lost touch with, and all of our relatives, some of whom he had never met. But anything new was related to our daughter’s illness, either arranging for her admittance to Blokhin Medical Center or obtaining the money for her treatment.”
“Of course,” Meknikov replied, adding another note. “We will contact you again at eight in the morning. By then, please make a list of everyone your husband spoke to concerning your daughter’s treatment.”
Meknikov glanced at Sobakin, who stood nearby, apparently finished poking around.
“Was there anything else unusual?” Meknikov asked. “Anything that caught your attention or seemed odd?”
Nothing occurred to her at first, but then she remembered her anniversary card. A card she had been directed to open early.
Tatiana shrugged. “He gave me an anniversary card I’m supposed to open one week early. When I asked why, he said there were preparations I need to make.”
“Is the card here?”
Tatiana retrieved the card from her purse. She was about to hand it to Meknikov, then asked, “May I read it first?”
Meknikov nodded.
She opened the envelope, but instead of a card, inside was a handwritten letter.
As she read the letter, her hands began trembling, then tears formed in her eyes. When she finished, she handed the letter to Meknikov, then buried her face in her hands.