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Kat's voice whispered faintly from the phone. What did he say?
I don't think he understood what
Did he say chella-bins?
No, jelly beans!
Kowalski nodded, satisfied. Gray mentally shook his head. He could not believe he was having this conversation.
A confusing bit of chatter followed as Painter, Kat, and Malcolm discussed some matter. Gray didn't follow all of it. He heard Kat say something about the number eighty-eight drawn in blood.
Malcolm's voice spoke louder, excited, directed at both Gray and Kat. Could what you both have heard been the word Chelyabinsk?
Chelyabinsk? Gray asked aloud.
Kowalski perked up.
Gray rolled his eyes. That might be it.
Kat agreed.
Malcolm spoke quickly, a sure sign the pathologist was excited. I've come across that name. During all the tumult here, I hadn't had a chance to contemplate its significance.
What? Painter pressed.
Dr. Polk's body. The radiation signature from samples in his lungs matched the specific isotope content of the uranium and plutonium used at Chernobyl. But as you know, subsequent tests clouded this assessment. It wasn't as clear as I'd initially thought. It was more like his body had been polluted by a mix of radioactive sources, though the strongest still appeared to be the fuel source at Chernobyl.
Where are you going with all this? Kat asked.
I based my findings on the International Atomic Energy Agency's database of hot
zones. But one region of the world is so polluted by radioactivity that it's impossible to define one signature to it. That region is Chelyabinsk, in central
Russia. The Soviet Union hid the heart of its uranium mining and plutonium production in the Ural Mountains there. For five decades, the region was off-limits to everyone. Only in the last couple of years has the restriction been lifted. He paused for emphasis. It was in Chelyabinsk that the fuel for
Chernobyl was mined and stored.
Gray sat straighter. And you think it was there that Dr. Polk was poisoned not at the reactor, but where its fuel was produced. In Chelyabinsk.
I believe so. Even the number eighty-eight. The Soviets built underground mining cities in the Ural Mountains and named them after the local postal codes.
Chelyabinsk forty, Chelyabinsk seventy-five.
And Chelyabinsk 88.
Gray's heart pounded harder again. He now knew where they had to go. Even had the postal code.
Painter understood, too. I'll alert British intelligence. Let them know you'll be going on a little detour. They should be able to get you to the Ural
Mountains in a little over an hour.
Gray prayed they still had enough time.
Millions will die.
As the limousine reached the second checkpoint and was waved through by a bored-looking guard, Painter continued. But, Commander, in such a short time, I can't get you any ground support out there.
Gray spoke as the limousine sailed out of the Exclusion Zone and into the open country. I think we've got that covered.
To either side of the road, older-model trucks had parked in low ditches or pulled into turnouts. A good dozen of them. Men sat in the open beds and crowded the cabs.
In the front seat, Luca leaned over to Rosauro and spoke in a rush. She slowed the limousine, and Luca straightened and waved an arm out the passenger window.
The signal was plain to read.
Follow us.
As the limousine continued, the trucks pulled out and trailed after them. Like
Director Crowe, Luca Hearn had sounded his own alarm, using the phones back at the hotel after they'd initially failed to raise central command.
Gray recalled the man's words in describing the Romani: We are everywhere. Luca was proven right as his clarion call was answered.
Behind the limousine, a Gypsy army gathered.
11:38 A. M.
Southern Ural Mountains
The farther Monk descended into the mine, the more he became convinced the place was deserted. He heard no echo of voices or thrum of distant machinery. And while this eased his mind that they'd not be discovered, it was also disconcerting. With the silence, it was as if the place were holding its breath.
Monk headed down a steeply slanted access tu
And though the place seemed deserted now, Monk had found plenty of evidence of past activity: fresh tailings dumped into shafts, shiny new gear leaning on walls, even an abandoned ice chest half filled with water and floating cans of beer.
Konstantin trailed with his sister, while Pyotr remained glued to Monk's hip.
The child's eyes were huge upon the dark passages. Monk felt the fever of his terror as Pyotr clutched to him. It wasn't the cramped spaces that scared him, but the darkness. Monk had occasionally clicked the lamp off to search for any telltale evidence of light.
At those moments, Pyotr would wrap tight to him.
Marta also closed upon the boy, protective, but even the chimpanzee trembled in those moments of pitch darkness, as if she shared Pyotr's terror.
Monk reached the bottom of the chute. It dumped into another long passageway with a railway track and an idle conveyor belt. As he searched for boot prints, he noted a slight graying to the darkness at the end of the tu
Darkness dropped over them like a shroud. But at the far end of the passage, a faint glow was evident.
Konstantin moved next to Monk.
No more light, Monk whispered and passed the boy the darkened flashlight. If he was wrong about the place being deserted, he didn't want to a
Monk swung up the rifle he had confiscated from the dead Russian sniper.
Quietly now, he warned.
Monk edged down the tu
He also became aware of a growing odor, a mix of oil, grease, and diesel smoke.
But as they reached the bend, Monk's keen nose detected another scent under the industrial smells. It was fetid, organic, foul.
Cautiously rounding the turn, Monk discovered the passage ended in a central cavern, blasted out of the rock. It was only a hundredth the size of Chelyabinsk
88, but it still rose three stories high and stretched half the size of a football field.
Most of the floor was covered in parked equipment and piles of construction material: coiled conduit, stacks of wooden beams, a half-dismantled column of scaffolding, piles of rock. Off to one side rose a tall drill rig, mounted on the back of a truck. The place looked as if it had been hurriedly evacuated.
There was no order to it, like someone packing a moving van in a hurry, just dumping things haphazardly.
At least they'd left the lights on.
Several sodium lamps glowed at the opposite side of the room.
Careful, Monk said. He motioned the children to hang back, to be ready to bolt and hide among the debris if necessary.
Monk crept forward, staying low, rifle ready at his shoulder. He zigzagged across the space, holding his breath, cautious of his footing. Reaching the far side, he discovered a tall set of steel blast doors, sealed and reflecting the lamplight. They looked newer than the mine works. To the right stood a small shack, about the size of a tollbooth. Through its open door, Monk spotted a few dark monitors, a keyboard, and rows of switches.