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It had been Elena's older sister, Natasha, who had given birth to them, dying in labor.
You know the policy at the Warren, Nicolas pressed as the limousine set off down the road. Birth records are sealed.
It had been a guideline from the start at the Warren. Familial lines for the most part were kept secret. Children knew their immediate brothers and sisters, to discourage inappropriate fraternization, but that was all. Breeding was dictated and controlled by the geneticists.
But Nicolas had been no ordinary offspring. As the son of the founder, an entire history had been fabricated for him, starting in Yekaterinburg, where his mother had given birth to him at a local hospital, using the false surname Solokov. His mother would have used the name Romanov, but that might have been too obvious.
From the very start, he had been groomed for a special destiny. As such, he was granted certain privileges.
I checked the fertilization clinic's records one day, he said. I was curious if I had any children. It was then that I discovered that Sasha and Pyotr were my own. But I was forbidden from saying anything.
He reached a hand to her knee, but his palm hovered, fearful of touching her.
In fact, it was because of the production of such talented children that my mother encouraged our union. In an attempt to repeat such a fortunate genetic cross.
Elena would not turn his way. A part of him enjoyed her coldness, this control.
He wanted to touch her, but she had not yet given him permission.
Please, milaya moya, forgive me.
She ignored him.
Sighing, he stared ahead.
Through the privacy glass, Nicolas spotted the rise of Chernobyl. A tall ventilation tower, ringed by maintenance scaffolding, climbed high into the sky.
It rose from a jumble of cement buildings. Crammed against one side stood a massive blocky crypt of black steel and concrete. It looked damp, as if sweating. It was not a mystery why the structure was called the Sarcophagus. It looked like a black tomb, and at its heart lay the ruins of reactor number four.
Nicolas had seen pictures of the inside, a blasted landscape of scorched cement and twisted steel. In one room, there was a clock, charred and half melted, that forever marked the time of the explosion. Within the Sarcophagus, over two hundred tons of uranium and plutonium remained buried within the ruins, most of it in the form of solidified lava, formed from the radioactive fusion of molten fuel, concrete, and two thousand tons of combustibles. Pieces of the exploded core could be found everywhere, some embedded in the outer walls. In the lowest levels of the facility, seeping rainwater and fuel dust collected into a radioactive soup.
Was it any wonder that a new solution was necessary?
Off to the left was that answer.
It went by many names: the Shelter, the Arc of Life, the New Sarcophagus. The hanger-shaped arch rose thirty-seven stories into the air. Weighing over twenty thousand tons, it stretched over a quarter kilometer wide and half again as long. It was so cavernous inside that engineers feared it might form clouds and actually rain within the structure. On the underside of the arch, robotic trolley cranes waited to dismantle the old Sarcophagus piece by piece, operated by technicians safely outside the Shelter.
But things were already on the move.
The entire arch rested on greased steel tracks and was even now being slowly hauled along the rails, pulled by a pair of massive hydraulic jacks. It was the largest movable structure ever built by man. And by eleven o'clock this morning, the Shelter would be pulled over the old Sarcophagus and sealed up against the neighboring concrete building, totally covering the old crypt, and thus closing forever an ugly bit of Russian history and heralding a new start.
It was fitting that such an event would mark the begi
The limousine headed toward the stands that lined the south side of the old
Sarcophagus. The seats were already filling with the invited VIPs. Speeches had begun on the stage that fronted the stadium seating, leading up to the official joint U. S-Russian statements, picked to coincide with the final seal of
Chernobyl. The entire series of events was timed to the clockwork pull of the giant arch.
As was Nicolas's plan.
A moment of fear flickered through him. Not unlike when he stood on the news podium as an assassin lined up for a fatal shot. Only the risk this morning was a thousandfold worse.
Fingers closed around his hand as it rested on the seat. He turned and found
Elena's hand upon his. She stared out the window, still angry, letting him know this was not over. Her fingernails curled and pressed hard into his palm, a promise that he would be punished later.
He leaned back as she dug deeper.
The pain helped focus him.
Ahead, the arch closed slowly upon Chernobyl.
He knew what was to come.
And he certainly deserved to be punished.
10:04 A. M.
Gray paced the cell when he heard something thud heavily against the door.
Kowalski scrambled up, and Luca straightened from where he was leaning against the wall.
What the hell now? Kowalski muttered.
The scrape of a metal bar sounded, and the door pulled open.
A figure stepped over the booted legs of a guard on the floor.
Hurry, the man said and waved his ivory-handled cane. We have to get out of here.
Gray stared in disbelief.
It was Dr. Hayden Masterson.
Confused, Gray remained frozen in place, caught between wanting to slug the man and shake his hand.
Masterson read his shocked expression. Commander, I work for MI6.
British intelligence?
He nodded with an exasperated sigh. Explanations will have to wait. We have to go. Now.
Masterson headed down the hall, dragging them in tow. Gray stopped long enough to collect the guard's sidearm, a Russian pistol called a Grach or Rook. The man had been knocked out, his nose broken. It seemed Masterson's cane was more than show.
Gray caught up to Masterson. Suspicion rang in his voice. You? You're an operative with MI6?
Kowalski mumbled behind him, Not exactly James Bond, is he?
Masterson continued to hobble along, but he glanced over to Gray. Retired MI6 actually. He shrugged. If you call this retirement.
Gray remained guarded, but he could think of no upside for this man freeing them from the cell.
Masterson continued in a wheezing rush. I was recruited after I graduated from
Oxford and stationed in India during the Soviet occupation of Afghanistan. I retired ten years ago, then stumbled into this mess when someone offered me good money to spy on Archibald. It didn't take long to learn the Russians were behind it. So I contacted MI6 and let them know. It was designated low priority. No one considered Archibald's work a threat to global security. To tell the truth, I didn't either. Not until he was kidnapped and ended up dead in D. C. I tried to light a fire under MI6, but who listens to an old man these days? I couldn't wait. Call it old instinct. I knew something bloody large was afoot. So I'm afraid, after losing Archibald, I had to use all of you to force an introduction.
Use us, Kowalski said. They killed Abe.
Masterson winced. I tried to stop them, but our friend was too quick with that whip-sword of his. He shook his head sadly. Maybe this is a younger man's game after all.
But wait! Kowalski stumbled with a sudden realization. You were going to shoot me!
Gray dismissed his concern. Masterson was putting on an act.
A nod. I had to be convincing.
You damn well convinced me!
And it was lucky I was so successful. Masterson turned to Gray. The bloody bastard is pla