Free Beloved Enemy by Eric Van Lustbader

continued. “How is Rolan? Has there been any change?”
    “I’m afraid not.” Dr. Karalian pursed his lips. “No change at all.”
    Annika felt a chill spear through her. “Then I think we must consider the other treatment.”
    Dr. Karalian peered at her dubiously. “It’s a radical step, Annika. The danger…”
    “Have you changed your recommendation?”
    “Of course not. No.”
    “Well, then…”
    Dr. Karalian’s hands worked a paper clip back and forth until it broke in half, the fidgeting a sure sign of his inner distress. “If you’ve made up your mind…”
    “I have.”
    Dr. Karalian produced a wan smile. “Very well. Of course. Rolan is your husband. I must be directed by your wishes.”
    *   *   *
    Iraj Namazi had no intention of abiding by Annika’s wish for him to remain in the car. Three minutes after she had disappeared inside, he stepped out of the car, trotted up onto the portico, and pushed open the front door. His curiosity had gotten the better of him. He was curious about everything related to Annika Dementieva, but he was also curious about this Dr. Karalian. Namazi had been allied with Dyadya Gourdjiev, an alliance that traced its circuitous route through two decades, starting when Namazi had become known to the outside world as the Syrian. In fact, it had been Gourdjiev, the chess player, who had seen Namazi’s long-range potential; the Syrian identity had been Gourdjiev’s brainchild. It had made so much sense to Namazi that he had adopted it at once.
    After spending ten or so minutes sitting in the clinic’s lobby after he announced himself, he was ushered into Dr. Karalian’s office.
    “Did Annika just leave?” Namazi asked.
    When Dr. Karalian made no reply, Namazi added, “I brought her here today.”
    “Annika left just a few moments ago.” Dr. Karalian, sitting behind his desk, looked up from reading a note which he now folded and slid back into a buff envelope. “How may I help you. Mr.…”
    “Cardozian,” the Syrian said, using one of the many identities he carried with him. He set his card on the desk but noted the doctor scarcely glanced at it. “Dyadya Gourdjiev and I were business partners. I was curious why I’d never heard of you.”
    Dr. Karalian smiled thinly. His teeth shone like pearls. “He and I were friends. He never mentioned you, either.”
    Deciding to take another tack, Namazi said, “I was in Rome when he died.”
    “I’m sorry to hear that.”
    “I saw him just after the accident. It was a terrible blow for all of us.”
    Dr. Karalian’s face was entirely expressionless. “I have no idea who ‘all of us’ refers to.”
    Namazi’s hesitation was slight. “All of us who did business with him.”
    “I see.” Dr. Karalian crossed his hands over his stomach. “His friends and family mourn him, as well.”
    Namazi was, for the moment, at a loss as to how to proceed. This man had been a friend of Gourdjiev’s; he must know Annika well. Namazi was very careful with anyone who had a connection to Annika. Now that the old man was gone, she was his sole link to the ongoing enterprise he and Gourdjiev had created. He could do nothing to anger her, or even to cause her to suspect that he wasn’t blindly besotted with her, as were most males she drew into her orbit. It wasn’t that Namazi didn’t find her sexually attractive, but he was in a phase of his life where he found males more alluring than females.
    Namazi gestured. “Do you mind if I take a seat?”
    “Not at all.” Those teeth again. “Would you care for tea?”
    “Thank you, no.” Namazi suspected he wouldn’t get tea even if he said yes. “What I was wondering was why Annika wanted to see you.”
    “What, precisely, is your relationship with Ms. Dementieva?”
    “You could say I’m acting as her protector.”
    Dr. Karalian took a moment to digest this. “She told me about Ill—about Dyadya Gourdjiev’s death. I was grateful that she told me in person. That