Chapter Fifty-Seven: Inspection

As the saying goes, every profession has its own expertise.

Anyone who’s seen Iron Man 2 knows that Ivan Vanko has his own ways of securing false identities—even a work pass for a racing event in America was within his reach. So for Ivan, this task was hardly a challenge; Zhong Shenxiu was certain he’d handle it with ease.

For now, Zhong Shenxiu wasn’t in any rush to hurry back to Queens. His “double” would be able to hold out a while longer.

Now, since he happened to be in Moscow, Zhong Shenxiu wanted to pay a visit to those heavily armed S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. Or rather, it would be the Crimson Baron who would make an appearance. If he could leave behind traces of the Crimson Baron in Moscow yet again, then wherever he pointed next, S.H.I.E.L.D. would inevitably turn their attention—just as he hoped.

During the coming struggle for the Space Stone, he could use this to divert pressure away from himself. Thus, the Crimson Baron’s existence was not only justified, but necessary.

——

After Zhong Shenxiu departed, Ivan Vanko, an old hand at such matters, did not foolishly rush to a bank to exchange money. He was well aware of his fugitive status. Though, with so many escapees, the prison might not yet have issued a full list of names or a wanted bulletin, caution was still the better part of survival.

Ivan wasn’t afraid of trouble. He went to the bank and withdrew his dollars in several batches from different ATMs, then traded the cash for rubles through an old acquaintance. Naturally, a little interest was expected. Only by offering a cut could he ensure such transactions proceeded smoothly—a lesson learned from years in the smuggling trade.

Besides, this acquaintance might be useful again. If his father’s illness was truly as the mysterious man had described—and if he really could cure it—then Ivan wouldn’t hesitate to do as instructed: secure three false identities and flee to America.

It wasn’t a matter of honesty or trustworthiness. On the contrary, Ivan often scoffed at such so-called virtues. But in that man’s eyes, Ivan had seen a genuine need for himself, and the man’s array of formidable abilities was worth following. Birds choose the best trees to nest in; Ivan knew that following such a mysterious powerhouse was far better than slipping back into the smuggling world.

He hadn’t paid much attention to his own age in recent years, but his declining physical strength told him one thing:

He was getting old...

Perhaps, left to himself, he would slowly fade into mediocrity, until he became nothing but dust. Yet Ivan’s pride would not let him refuse when an uncertain opportunity presented itself—where others might instinctively turn away, Ivan wanted to give it a try.

Accompanied by the clattering and occasional long whistle of the train, Ivan, lost in thought, brought his drunken father to the Semyonov Medical Affiliated Hospital in Moscow. As Russia’s largest medical research center, Semyonov’s affiliated hospital was likely to have the nation’s finest equipment—that was Ivan’s reasoning.

It was afternoon, and the hospital was not especially busy. By slipping the staff some extra cash, Ivan skipped the queue and went straight to the white-bearded internist. Otherwise, just booking an appointment and waiting in line could take days.

Ivan didn’t want to wait and couldn’t afford to. Once the various wanted notices were issued, he’d no longer have the freedom to move about so openly—at least not in Russia.

The white-bearded doctor clearly exercised regularly; beneath his slightly yellowed coat, his muscles rose in solid mounds, especially around the sleeves, where his arms threatened to burst free at any moment.

When Ivan handed over his father’s medical report, the doctor’s eyes widened involuntarily at the words “late-stage cirrhosis,” and the date marked nearly half a year prior.

“Where’s the patient? Where is he?” The doctor ran through countless possibilities in his mind, but first, he needed to assess the patient’s mental state.

“Father,” Ivan called toward the door. Anton Vanko shuffled in, grumbling, “I feel much better… Why come to the hospital? Wasting my drinking time…”

His presence made the doctor’s eyes light up. A late-stage cirrhosis patient for at least half a year—he’d expect a poor mental state, but Anton’s complexion was ruddy, and though his steps were unsteady, they were firm enough.

This didn’t look like a man who had been suffering from a near-terminal illness for six months!

“Any other discomforts recently?” The doctor quickly collected himself and began the standard line of questioning.

Anton waved him off indifferently. “I feel fine all over.” Then, turning to Ivan, he added, “Let’s go, Ivan?”

Ivan ignored his vodka-obsessed father. Following Zhong Shenxiu’s instructions, he addressed the doctor: “There’s no need for anything else. We just want a CT scan—portal venous phase angiography.”

The doctor glanced at Ivan, puzzled; he’d never encountered such a request before.

The diagnosis was already clear. Why weren’t they asking about treatment, but instead insisting on more tests? What was the point?

“I wouldn’t recommend another scan. His liver is already... well, not in good shape. If we inject contrast again, he might not be able to process it; it could accumulate in his body.”

Since the patient was present, the doctor put it as gently as possible.

“It’s fine,” Ivan insisted, his manner brooking no refusal. “We must have this scan today.”

“Very well, but you’ll have to sign a waiver.”

“All right.”

...

In 2008, a 64-slice spiral CT was a rare device, and the one at Semyonov was said to have been donated by Osborn Biotech in partnership with Siemens. Ordinary hospitals had never seen such advanced machinery.

Ivan brought his father for the scan. Afterward, he found a quiet spot, far from any cameras, and waited for the results.

About an hour later, Ivan received a stack of large films composed of 48 fine, cross-sectional images. He peered at them repeatedly, thinking blood vessels couldn’t be much different from circuit boards…

But he found himself utterly lost.

Scratching his head, Ivan decided he’d better consult a professional. So he returned to the burly doctor’s office. With few patients around, he walked straight in and handed over the films and report.

The doctor, unconcerned, glanced over them. After all, if you’d had late-stage cirrhosis for six months with no treatment, how could there possibly be any change…?

The films slipped from his hands and fell to the floor.

The doctor’s lips trembled slightly, and he stammered,

“The cirrhosis… is receding?! How can this be!”