Codename Anastasia Novel (End) - Chapter 39

A faint hum was heard. A shadow swayed to the rhythm, flickering beyond his eyelids. Fingers were severed. Then, limbs and torso were split in half. The body, butchered like a fish, quickly lost its warmth. All the blood that had circulated through his body was drained, leaving only a bloodless chunk of flesh, as if washed with bleach. He felt no pain at all. His mind was still blank. Now I’m dying. Only that vague thought resided in his brain, which had run its course.

His limbs were frozen stiff. His body felt as if it were floating in a vacuum, or sinking into ten fathoms of water. A strong scent of alcohol brushed past his nose, and then came an abysmal darkness. Cold water rushed into every orifice of his body with a gurgling sound. There was a metallic, fishy smell.

In the darkness, jet-black snakeheads appeared. One, two, three… they kept swarming, their eyes gleaming. They circled, searching for the prey that had been thrown to them. Then, as one lunged, they all began to tear at the swollen white flesh in unison.

A black silhouette flickered in his hazy vision. But he couldn’t see a face or hear a voice. When he tried to get closer to see more clearly, it retreated just as much. A constant distance was maintained. The black figure spun around. Slowly at first, then so fast that he couldn’t follow its movements. His eyeballs felt like they were spinning. His breathing grew ragged. When the rotational force reached its peak, the black figure scattered like a fleeting bubble.

Don’t forget your promise to your father.

A ripple echoed from within the fading bubbles. It wasn’t a human voice. He quickly turned to where the sound had come from. But the black figure, once scattered, didn’t reappear. Had his breath truly stopped? Was that why he could see the souls of the dead and even hear their voices? Why hadn’t his consciousness evaporated, but remained?

As he drifted aimlessly, a sudden, massive bubble swiftly brushed past him. He quickly turned. The bubble, which had retreated, instantly formed into a single shape. It moved with a wilder, more brutal dynamism than what he had seen moments before.

It’s him. The moment he realized the figure’s identity, his body instinctively stumbled backward. The more he did, the more the figure swelled in size.

Don’t come.

A silent scream shook the space.

The next moment, the colossal figure lunged in an instant. His entire body was sucked into a dense pool of black ink. His breath hitched. The forgotten pain vividly resurrected. It felt as if all the joints and bones in his body were being minutely chopped. The skin, from which flesh had torn away, burned unbearably. The black figure, which had instantly devoured his body, soon shattered into white, letting out a cold scoff.

Foolish Taekjoo.

“…!”

His eyelids burst open. His hazy vision slowly cleared. Everything before his eyes was white. Has something gone wrong with his sight?

He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. Nothing changed. Still the white ceiling, the faint, unobtrusive sound of a humidifier, the familiar smell of disinfectant, and the sensation of hard bedding supporting his back. Putting together the information he had gathered, it seemed he was in a hospital.

He raised his hand. An IV needle was stuck in the back of his hand. Two bags of fluid were hanging. An oxygen tank had even been brought in as a precaution. He had clearly narrowly escaped death.

Where did the illusion end, and reality begin? His mind was waterlogged, unable to remember anything clearly. The lingering images in his brain were difficult to distinguish as real or not. The only thing he could be sure of was up until just before disembarking the trans-Siberian train. When he tried to trace back memories after that, his head throbbed as if it would split. He clutched his bandaged head and let out a low groan.

“Are you awake now?”

A strange voice suddenly intruded. Startled, he recoiled his upper body. His hand instinctively fumbled around his waist. But the gun that should have been there was gone.

Kwon Taekjoo, having identified the person, quickly lowered his guard. And no wonder, for the other person’s condition was also dire. A cast starting from his shoulder wrapped all the way down to his wrist. His head was unusually tilted due to a cast around his neck. His eyelids were swollen and black and blue, and his lips were dry and bruised. His head was bandaged, and adhesive bandages were stuck all over his torn forehead and cheeks. Judging by the crutches he was using, his leg seemed to be in bad shape too. It looked like he had at least twelve weeks of recovery ahead.

Yet, somehow, the face looked familiar. He wondered if it was a delusion, but the persistent sense of déjà vu wouldn’t leave him. Before long, the man’s identity came to mind. He couldn’t have failed to recognize him, but his wretched appearance had prevented immediate recognition.

It was Psikh Bogdanov. No, it was the man he had mistaken for him. The one who had pursued Kwon Taekjoo himself, disguised as a paramedic, on the day of the hotel terror attack. At the time, he had believed him to be Psikh Bogdanov without a doubt. He knew now that wasn’t true, but who on earth was this man? Considering that he had fired a bazooka without hesitation the moment he encountered Zhenya, he couldn’t be close with him at least.

“Who are you?”

“Asking rather quickly, aren’t you?”

“There was no time to ask.”

“Ah, you wouldn’t have had the time. You must have been busy running away, unable to recognize your own partner.”

“…Partner?”

Kwon Taekjoo’s brows furrowed. The man merely faced him with disapproval.

He had heard from Director Lim that a partner had been arbitrarily assigned. The partner would naturally approach him, considering public attention, and that photos would be sent at an appropriate time. The next day, two images were sent. One was a photo of Zhenya, and the other was a photo of the man in front of him. Zhenya had conveniently approached him, making him wrongly believe he was his colleague. He also played the part well enough, and had helped him on his first day in the country, so he hadn’t suspected much.

How could things have gotten so tangled that such a misidentification could occur? It was a disastrous harmony born from the headquarters’ mistake of sending the wrong crucial photo while forcing an unwanted partner on him, combined with the timing of encountering Zhenya right then.

However, there was still a perplexing point.

“Why didn’t you reveal your identity sooner?”

“Did I have the leisure to reveal it? If you think I did, tell me, how exactly was I supposed to approach you when you were glued to that Bogdanov bastard? I waited for you to be alone and approached you, and you ran off as if you’d seen a ghost. I tried to move to a quiet place to explain, and almost ended up dead right then and there. Have you already forgotten how you beat me until I passed out, even when I tried to stop you in the water?”

He openly mocked him. His resentment toward Kwon Taekjoo was palpable. And why wouldn’t it be? The man’s terrible condition was all because of Kwon Taekjoo himself. He was so embarrassed, he couldn’t raise his head, wondering what on earth he had done.

“It might sound like an excuse now, but I also had my own circumstances… Ha, it really sounds like an excuse. I’m sorry for not recognizing you. I genuinely apologize for that.”

“You admit it so readily, it almost feels like you’re mocking me. This is all the reward for being on the brink of death for days?”

“I also nearly died several times because I mistook my colleague. If that’s not enough comfort, you can hit me a few times right now.”

He suddenly offered his left cheek. He wasn’t just saying it. He was willing to meekly take a beating if the man wanted it. The man clenched his fist, as if enraged. But he soon loosened his hand. He even chided him with an exasperated tone.

“I’d love to, but I’ll let it slide. In that state, what would be the point?”

The man clicked his tongue disapprovingly. Was he so pathetic as to evoke pity from someone who was practically half-dead? Kwon Taekjoo only then raised his hand to feel his face and body. That alone allowed him to fully gauge his condition. His head was bandaged, just like the man’s, and adhesive bandages were plastered all over his forehead, cheekbones, cheeks, earlobes, neck, and collarbone area. Just a slight shift of his body caused a severe ache below his waist.

And what about his fingers? Tracing back his memory, Kwon Taekjoo suddenly spread his hand. His ring finger, where he had felt intense pain, was bandaged. As expected, that’s what happened.

“My finger…”

“They said it was fractured.”

Yes, right then… huh?

He stopped nodding and stared blankly at the man.

“…What?”

“Are your ears messed up too? It’s broken. Is this your first time getting a finger cast?”

“It wasn’t severed?”

“Is there some reason it absolutely had to be severed? You’ve watched too many mafia movies.”

He shook his head with a bewildered expression. Before losing consciousness, he had received a strong impact on the first joint of his ring finger. He had clearly heard the click of the cigar cutter. He was certain his finger would be severed, but it was merely a fracture. Moreover, all his other fingers, except the ring finger, were perfectly fine. Unable to believe it, he repeatedly flipped his hand over.

“But Morgan’s body had all ten fingers cut off, didn’t it?”

“It did. But you’re alive. He’s dead. So you don’t need to be disappointed that all your fingers are still attached.”

He was puzzled. He had thought Zhenya would deal with him the same way he had dealt with Morgan. How on earth was he alive?

“How did I get here?”

“They said you were found abandoned near the Alkhon Island riverbank. The Bogdanov family happened to be moving there, and our agents, who were trailing them, found you. The doctor said if it had been a little later, your heart would have stopped.”

Of course. Zhenya hadn’t saved him. He simply hadn’t cared whether Kwon Taekjoo lived or died. Perhaps he had been playing a trick, letting him desperately cling to life if he was lucky enough to be rescued.

No, was that it? He recalled the injection he had received before losing consciousness. Feeling his neck, he found an adhesive bandage there too. If what he had received then was truly ‘Polonium-210’, he wouldn’t have been able to open his eyes.

“I was injected with Polonium-210?”

“Who told you that?”

“Zhenya clearly…!”

“Zhenya, that lunatic? Yevgeny Vissarionovich Bogdanov. Your dear partner, I mean.”

He deliberately twisted the word “partner” into a taunt. “Zhenya, Zhenya…” he repeated the name several times.

“How can you call someone like that by a nickname? Even his own kin wouldn’t address him that way.”

He clicked his tongue with a disgusted expression. A nickname, indeed. He was about to retort but then clamped his mouth shut. Something vaguely came to mind. From the very beginning, he had introduced himself as Zhenya. Of course, he hadn’t thought it was his real name. It wasn’t a common Russian name. So he had assumed it was a pseudonym he used regularly. As someone whose main business was arms dealing, he probably habitually concealed his identity. In some ways, he felt a sense of camaraderie, that they were similar.

He also knew that ‘Psikh Bogdanov’ had an infamous reputation. Yet, he had forgotten the fact that Psikh had a real name of his own. And that ‘Zhenya’ was the diminutive for ‘Yevgeny’. While learning Russian, he had also been educated on its ethnic composition, history, society, and culture. But he hadn’t paid much attention to nicknames. At that time, he hadn’t known he would come to Russia, or that he would call a Russian by a nickname.

What was he thinking, casually giving him his nickname? And when Kwon Taekjoo called him by that nickname without suspicion? How much fun must he have had watching the idiot who blindly believed him to be his colleague, even though he had openly given him a hint to doubt his identity? How much must he have chuckled watching the fool who climbed walls backward to complete a mission, cycled in winter Siberia, and crawled through dusty ventilation shafts?

Zhenya’s devilish smile flickered. His teeth ground together. His clenched fist trembled violently.

“DAMN IIIIIIIIIT!”

His condensed rage exploded. The man watching him flinched. Kwon Taekjoo raged, utterly inflamed. His head bandage was half undone, and the stand for the dangling IV fluid finally toppled over. Even the pillow and blanket on the bed slid to the floor. Not yet appeased, he continued to pant for a long time.

“Calm down. You didn’t even get a P of the Polonium-210 you’re worried about. It was just a strong anesthetic. Though it was potent enough that you wouldn’t have woken up from most impacts.”

The man tried to dissuade Kwon Taekjoo, feigning a look of alarm. Kwon Taekjoo lowered his head and regulated his rapid breathing. His fallen bangs covered his eyes, so his expression was unreadable. After a long moment, he finally spoke, abruptly asking, “What kind of person is he?”

“What?”

“Yevgeny, that bastard… what kind of person is he, exactly?”

He sharply raised his head. His already sharp eyes were honed even more keenly. The man shrugged and said, “FSB, you’ve heard of it, right?” Kwon Taekjoo nodded in response. The ‘FSB’ was Russia’s Federal Security Service. Its predecessor was the infamous ‘KGB’ from the Soviet era, known for the saying, ‘Once you go in, you don’t come out alive.’ They could investigate various organizations without a warrant, deploy spies abroad, or establish front companies to gather necessary information. They even enjoyed the privilege of not being monitored by other agencies. Officially, they performed counterintelligence and counter-terrorism missions like the NIS, but unofficially, rumors abounded of them kidnapping and assassinating principal enemies.

He was part of that ‘FSB’? It was a premature, yet almost certain, premonition. If Zhenya belonged to that organization, then strictly speaking, he was a civil servant, just as he had claimed. Though he doubted the national prestige of a country that entrusted such a lunatic with public duties.

Kwon Taekjoo’s expression grew increasingly sullen. The man continued his explanation, unconcerned.

“There are two special forces units under the FSB: Spetsgrupa Alfa and Vympel. Among them, Spetsgrupa Alfa, commonly known as Alfa, is said to be composed of the highest elite agents. Most of their forces are stationed in Moscow. Although it’s a unit, it’s an independent group with its own investigative powers. They are made up of five units, and each unit consists of 150 to 250 members. The important thing is what comes next. One of those five units has only one member.”

The fact that elite agents numbering in the hundreds were gathered together was proof that the tasks they handled were tough and complex. But there was someone who handled the work that so many personnel should have divided, all by himself?

No way. Just as he harbored an ominous suspicion, the man hammered the point home.

“That’s him.”

He let out a hollow laugh. Was that even possible? The man wouldn’t be babbling nonsense just to tease Kwon Taekjoo. Moreover, he’d have to be that capable to be called ‘Psikh Bogdanov’ by everyone. But still, it was too far out of bounds of common sense.

Did the Russian government or the ‘FSB’ really tolerate such personnel deployment? The man dispelled Kwon Taekjoo’s doubt with a simple question.

“Would you want to team up with him?”

Of course not. He had disliked Zhenya from the beginning. If the damned headquarters hadn’t sent the wrong photo, he would never have encountered him. Even if he had unintentionally run into him, he would have thoroughly followed his instincts and avoided him. He couldn’t recall a single comfortable night’s sleep while staying with him.

“There’s a reason he’s called ‘the nuclear.’ They say his hands fly first if anything bothers him even a little? So what kind of idiot would stick with him? They say he’ll even mess up his own allies if things go sideways.”

“And then he’d claim self-defense, I bet.”

Kwon Taekjoo interjected with a familiar tone. The man gestured, “Exactly.”

Now he understood a little. Why Zhenya had saved him, or rather, Sakamoto Hiro, on the day he entered the country disguised as Sakamoto Hiro. And why he had met him again at the hotel luncheon with the Russian representatives. At that time, he had been on the phone with someone.

‘…No. I came, but it seems like it’s going to be really boring.’

His tone had sounded like he was making excuses. Perhaps he had been tempering a frantic counterpart. The Gazprom executive he had seen while going to the restroom was fumbling with his phone, looking flustered. Had he said that the representative for the luncheon had not shown up?

‘Let’s be clear. As for cleanup, what happened last time was enough.’

Zhenya had said that too.