There was a sign around the man’s neck. Cardboard and twine. On
the sign was scrawled in thick black letters: Zdravstvutye syn. The camera
zoomed in on the message for several seconds, then went blank.
“Is that all?”
Butler nodded.“Just the man, and the sign. That’s it.”
“Zdravstvutye syn,” muttered Artemis, his accent flawless. Since his
father’s disappearance, he had been teaching himself the language.
“Should I translate for you?” asked Butler, also a Russian speaker.
His accent, however, was not quite so sophisticated.
He had picked it up during a five-year stint with an espionage unit in
the late eighties.
“No, I know what it means,” replied his young employer.
“Zdravstvutye syn: Hello, son.”

-The Arctic Incident, Chapter 3