The Last Oracle (47 page)

She must have collected it from the floor.

This is why she had come.

To say good-bye and to offer him a way to escape with her.

He nestled into her and kissed her cold lips one last time.
“Ty moyo solnyshko…”

She was indeed his sun.

Holding her, he raised the gun to his lips.

And took his escape.

19

September 7, 11:00 A.M.
Southern Ural Mountains

With a rifle over his shoulder, Monk climbed the last switchback of the road. Ahead, the mining complex clustered in front of a granite cliff face. The metal outbuildings and old powerhouse had all oxidized. Roofs and gutters dripped icicles of rust, windows were broken or shuttered, and corroded equipment lay where they’d been dropped decades ago: shovels, picks, wheelbarrows.

Off by the cliffs rose tall mounds of old mine tailings and waste rock dumps. Amid the stone piles rose the tower of a tipple, with its loading booms, hoists, and various chutes used to tip ore ears and unload them into trucks.

As Monk limped on his hastily bandaged leg, he wondered how he knew so much about a mining operation. Had his family been involved—

His head suddenly jangled through a series of flashbulb-popping images:
an older man in coveralls, coated in coal dust…the same man in a coffin…a woman crying…

An electrical stab of pain ended the flickering bits of memory.

Wincing, he led the children and Marta through a maze of conveyor belts, ore car tracks, and dump chutes toward their goal. A pair of rails led to a gaping opening in a cliff face. It was the main entrance to the mine.

As they crossed, Monk looked over his shoulder.

Lake Karachay spread below. Monk estimated it was two miles across
the width here, and three times as long. He searched the forested mountains on the far side, looking for any evidence of where they’d started this journey.

“We must hurry,” Konstantin reminded him.

Monk nodded. The older boy walked between the two younger children. Marta trailed. He led them toward the opening.

As he neared, he discovered a problem. A large wooden barrier, constructed of stacked and mortared wooden logs, blocked the mine shaft from floor to roof.

From the condition of the complex outside, it looked as if no one had been here in ages. But Monk spotted a pile of cigarette butts and empty vodka bottles at the foot of the barrier. Fresh boot prints covered the sandy floor. The mine below was not as abandoned as it appeared. Someone had been taking a break here recently.

Monk glanced behind him. There were no parked trucks or recent tire tracks crossing the complex, so whoever had been lounging here had left by another means. Konstantin had already described that means.

An underground train crossed under the lake from Mine Complex 337 below to Chelyabinsk 88. Whoever labored in the mines must ordinarily exit out the other side.

Monk prayed they would not be expecting visitors at their back door.

He crossed to the rectangle of riveted steel set into the barrier.

“What do we do?” Monk asked. “Knock?”

Konstantin frowned and crossed to the door. He lifted the latch and pushed. The door swung open, unlocked.

Monk fumbled his rifle around and pointed it through the door. “Warn a guy before you do that!” he whispered.

“No one comes here,” Konstantin said. “Too dangerous. So no need for keys. Only sealed to keep bears and wolves away.”

“And the stray tiger,” Monk mumbled.

Konstantin dropped his pack, opened it, and fished out their flashlight. He passed it to Monk, who shouldered his rifle.

Ducking through the door in the main tunnel, Monk pointed his flashlight. Massive wooden beams shored up the passageway as it slanted
into the mountain. A set of steel tracks headed into the darkness, extending beyond the reach of the flashlight’s glow. Closer at hand, a pair of ore cars rested on the tracks near the barrier.

Down the way, Monk noted shadowy branching tunnels. He suspected the mountain was honeycombed with shafts and tunnels. No wonder the current miners occasionally wandered up out of the Stygian darkness for a little light, even if it was in the shadow of a poisonous lake.

Monk asked for directions as they headed out. “So where to?”

Konstantin kept silent.

Monk turned to him.

The boy shrugged. “I do not know. All I know is
down.
”

Monk sighed. Well, that was a
direction.

Flashlight in hand, he descended into the darkness.

Savina noted all the smiling faces. Excited chatter spread among the older children, while the younger ones scurried around, trying to dispense nervous energy. They were in direct contrast to the very youngest among them, those under five and too immature for their implants. Those few remained quiet and detached, demonstrating varying levels of untreated autism: sitting silently, staring vacantly, plagued by repetitive gestures.

Four teachers sought to organize their sixty or so charges.

“Stay in your groups!”

The train waited beyond the open blast doors at the back of Chelyabinsk 88. It would be transporting the children for a short pleasure ride. The young ones were occasionally allowed such a luxury, but today the train was on a one-way trip. It would not be returning, coming to a dead stop at the heart of Operation Saturn.

Behind Savina’s shoulders, the old Soviet-era industrial apartments stared down at the children with hollow eyes. The teachers also had the same haunted look despite their bright words.

“Did all of you take your medicine?” a matronly woman called out.

The medicine was a sedative combined with a radiosensitive compound. While excited now, in another hour the children would be drifting
into a disassociated slumber. It would ease any anxiety when the charges blew at the far end of the tunnel and initiated Operation Saturn. The first dump of lake water through the heart of the tunnel and its subsequent blast of radiation would transform the radiosensitive compound in the children’s bloodstream into a deadly nerve toxin, killing them instantly.

The group had considered simply euthanizing the children via lethal injection, but such an intimate act of killing strained even the most professional detachment. Plus afterward, all the small limp bodies would have had to been hauled, loaded, and transported to the heart of Operation Saturn. The plan was for the radiation, blasting for weeks as the lake drained, to burn the bodies and denature the DNA beyond examination—that is, if anyone ever dared approach the bodies. The radiation levels in the tunnel would defy penetration for decades.

So in the end, the current plan was deemed efficient, minimally cruel, and offered the children one last bit of joy and frivolity.

Still, Savina stood with her arms behind her back. Her hands were clenched together in a white-knuckled grip, necessary to keep from grabbing children and pulling them from the train.

But she had saved ten.

She had to console herself with this reality.

The ten best.

They remained in the apartment building behind her, where the control station for Operation Saturn was located. Once done here, the ten Omega subjects would be transported to the new facility in Moscow. It was time for the project to climb out of the darkness and into the sun.

It would be her legacy.

But such a rise had a cost.

Bright laughter and merry calls trailed behind the last of the children. They argued over who would get to ride in the open ore cars and who would be in the front or rear cabs. Only a few older voices wondered why they were going without any of the adults, but even these sounded more excited than concerned.

With the last of the children loaded, the train hissed, hydraulic brakes sighed, and with a snap of electricity, it rolled off down the tunnel. Laugh
ter and shouts trailed back to them. A moment later the blast doors slowly sealed over the end of the tunnel, cutting off their happy voices.

The four teachers headed away. No one spoke to anyone. They barely made contact. Except for a thick-waisted matron in an ankle-length apron. As she passed, she lifted a consoling hand toward Savina, then thought better of it and lowered it again.

“You didn’t have to come,” the woman mumbled.

Savina turned away without a word, not trusting her voice.

Yes…Yes, I did.

11:16 A.M.
Pripyat, Ukraine

Gray sat in the back of the limousine. Up front, Rosauro drove, with Luca in the passenger seat. They rocketed past the first checkpoint on their flight out of the city. The Chernobyl Exclusion Zone stretched in a thirty-kilometer radius out from the reactor complex. It had two checkpoints, one at the ten-kilometer mark and one at the thirty.

Gray wanted to be outside that second gate before anyone realized something was amiss at the reactor. It would not take long for the dead bodies to be discovered and for the place to be locked down.

Earlier, as Gray and Kowalski had fled overland back to Pripyat from the site of the ceremony, he had called Rosauro on the walkie-talkie that Masterson had supplied him. She had reported an inability to reach Sigma command. He had instructed her to keep trying. By the time Gray arrived at the hotel, lines of communication with Washington had reopened. Rosauro had commandeered one of the limousines. She had also stolen the driver’s mobile phone.

Gray clutched the phone now, awaiting a call from Director Crowe. Painter had his hands full over in Washington, but at least Mapplethorpe was out of commission and Sasha was safe.

Gray shared the back of the limousine with Elizabeth and Kowalski. His partner sat bare-chested as Elizabeth treated the gunshot wound to his shoulder.

“Quit wiggling!”

“Well, it goddamn hurts.”

“It’s just iodine.”

“Sooo, it still stings like a son of a—”

The woman’s scowl silenced any further expletive.

Gray had to give the man credit. Kowalski had saved his life at the hangar by dropping that half-ton steel hook. Though Elena might have done the deed, it had been Kowalski’s sharp eyes that had noted the threat and saved him.

Still, they weren’t out of danger yet.

Gray turned and stared out at the roll of passing hills, dotted with copses of birches. His heart continued to pound. His mind spun through a hundred different scenarios. As they raced away from Chernobyl, he knew they should be heading
somewhere.

Nicolas’s last words plagued him:
You’ve not won…millions will still die.

What did he mean? Gray knew it had not been an idle threat. Something else was scheduled to happen. Even the name of Nicolas’s plan—Operation Uranus—had bothered Gray before. The name was taken from an old Soviet victory during World War II against the Germans. But the victory was not won by the single operation alone. It was accomplished via a perfectly executed tandem of strategies.
Two
operations:
Uranus
followed by
Saturn.

As Gray fled the hangar, Nicolas had hinted as much. Another operation was set to commence, but where and in what form?

The phone finally rang.

Gray flipped it open and pressed it to his ear. “Director Crowe?”

“How are you doing out there?” Painter asked.

“As well as can be expected.”

“I’ve got transportation arranged for you. There’s a private airstrip a few miles outside the Exclusion Zone, used to accommodate the ceremony’s VIP guests. British intelligence has offered the use of one of their jets. They’re apparently trying to save face for not listening close enough to Professor Masterson, one of their own former agents. By the way, I’ve gone
ahead and sounded the alarm. Word is spreading like wildfire through intelligence channels about the aborted attack at Chernobyl. For safety’s sake, evacuations are already under way, but so far you’re ahead of that chaos.”

“Very good.” Gray could not discount that the director’s firm voice had helped take the edge off his anxiety. He wasn’t alone in this.

“You’ve certainly had a busy day, Commander.”

“As have you…but I don’t think it’s over.”

“How do you mean?”

Gray related what the Russian senator had said and about his own misgivings.

“Hold on,” Painter said. “I’ve got Kat Bryant and Malcolm Jennings here. I’m putting you on speaker.”

Gray continued, explaining his fears of a second operation, something aimed at a larger number of casualties.

Kowalski also listened as Elizabeth packed a bandage over his wound. “Tell them about the jelly beans,” he called over.

Gray frowned at him. Back at the hangar, Elena had attempted to warn Kowalski about something before she’d departed to Nicolas’s side, but the man had clearly misunderstood, losing something in the translation.

“You know,” Kowalski pressed. “The eighty-eight jelly beans.”

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.”