And fatten your pocketbook, too, Petrov thought bitterly.

The neurologist looked somber. “If you have any serious responsibilities in your work, it would probably be best to let your associates and your employer know the situation as soon as possible.”

“In case I drop dead suddenly?” Petrov felt his mouth twist into a thin, wry smile.

Obolensky shook his head. “That is unlikely. But the frequency and severity of your headaches is likely to increase over the coming months. I can prescribe medication to alleviate some of the pain, but these medicines naturally have significant side effects. As time goes on, it may become more and more difficult for you to concentrate. Or to handle complex, difficult problems.”

“I see.”

“If you prefer, I can brief the necessary people for you,” the neurologist said hesitantly. “These kinds of conversations are often painful. Sometimes a relatively disinterested, scientific approach is best.”

Petrov smiled thinly again. “That would require me to waive my right to doctor-patient confidentiality, would it not?”

“Yes, it would,” Obolensky admitted. He steepled his hands. “I fully understood your desire for privacy early on, Mr. Kuznetsov.” His tone left little doubt that he knew the name was phony. “But you can see that the situation has changed. Sooner or later, those for whom you work will realize you aren’t well.”

And the doctor was concerned that they would blame him for helping hide the bad news, Petrov realized. For all Obolensky knew right now, his patient was a high-level financial director or senior government executive—someone whose illness-induced mistakes could cost billions of rubles or cause a terrible political scandal. None of the promises of patient confidentiality made by the Bekhterev Private Clinic would protect it in such a case. All of which gave Obolensky every reason to start digging to find out Petrov’s real identity if he refused to cooperate.

Understandable or not, Petrov thought coldly, that was something he simply could not risk. “I take your point,” he said at last. “Look, it’s already Friday. What if I put together a list of names and numbers over this weekend? I should be able to get it to you by Monday morning.”

Relieved, Obolensky sat back. “Thank you. I appreciate your confidence. And you can rely on my discretion.”

Petrov smiled more genuinely this time. “Oh, of that, I have absolutely no doubt, Doctor.”

Outside Moscow

Later That Evening

Humming softly along with the Korean pop music wafting from his Lexus luxury sedan’s premium sound system, Dr. Viktor Obolensky turned off the main thoroughfare and onto a narrow private road that led to his country dacha. He was looking forward to a couple of days away from his office and importunate patients. As a medical specialty, neurology paid exceedingly well, but all too often it meant dealing with desperate people who wanted to see him as a miracle worker—as someone who could save them from a tragic fate otherwise decreed by genetics or by some random cosmic ray that had sleeted through their brains and condemned them to death.