As they fled from the screams, Monk kept a watch behind him.
Expecting at any moment to see a pair of tigers loping after them.
Distracted, he ran into Kiska, who had stopped. Tangled, he toppled to his knees, dropping the boy to the ground.
Konstantin had also halted at his sister's side, frozen in place with Marta. It seemed they had more to fear than just the hunters behind them.
Beyond the pair, a massive brown bear rose up from the riverbank. It had to weigh six hundred pounds, damp from the river and plainly tense from the caterwauling of the flares. Black eyes stared back at their party. It rose up on its hind limbs, stretching eight feet tall, bristling, growling, baring yellow teeth.
The Russian grizzly.
The symbol of Mother Russia.
With a roar, it fell and charged straight at them.
6:03 A. M.
Washington, D. C.
The old man woke into brightness. It stung his eyes and pounded into his skull.
He groaned and turned his head away. Nausea spilled burning gorge up into his throat. He choked it back down with a gasp.
He blinked away the glare and found himself strapped to a bed. Though a sheet covered him, he knew he was naked. The room was stark white, clinical, sterile.
No windows. A single door with a small barred window. Closed.
A figure sat in a chair beside the bed, in a suit, the jacket hung on the seat back, sleeves rolled up. His legs were crossed, his hands folded primly on his lap.
He leaned forward. Good morning, Yuri.
Trent McBride smiled down at him without a trace of warmth.
Yuri glanced down to his chest, remembering being shot by a tranquilizer dart.
He searched around, still confused, dazed.
You've been given a counterstimulant, McBride said. Must have you alert, since we have much to discuss.
Kak ya , he choked out, his tongue pasty and thick.
McBride sighed, reached to a bedside table where a glass with a straw rested, and offered Yuri a sip.
He did not refuse. The lukewarm liquid burned like the finest vodka. It pushed back the shadows at the edges of his thoughts and washed the paste from his tongue.
Trent, what are you doing? Yuri tugged at the straps that bound down his arms.
Filling in the blanks. McBride pressed an intercom button at the head of the bed. As I mentioned, you've not been forthcoming with all the details of your research at Chelyabinsk 88. We must correct that oversight.
How do you mean? Yuri tried to sound innocent, but he failed miserably as his voice shook. He wished he were a stronger man.
Hmm, Trent said. He leaned forward and stripped the sheet covering Yuri. I suppose we might as well get the ugly part over with so we can speak like true colleagues.
Yuri stared down at his naked body. His pale skin was dotted by tiny suction cups, each the size of a dime, topped by a pea-size knot of electronics sprouting a thread-thin antenna. They lined his legs from toe to groin, his arms from fingertip to shoulder. His chest was a chessboard grid of the sticky cups.
Before he could question what they were, the door to the room opened and a slender figure entered. Yuri had to struggle a moment to remember his name, though he had just met the man. Dr. James Chen. They had used the researcher's office for the meeting at Walter Reed.
The door clamped shut, soundproofed.
Chen crossed to them. He carried a laptop open in his arms. We're all calibrated.
As the man settled into a seat and rested his laptop on the bedside table, Yuri caught a glimpse of the computer screen before it was swung away. It had a stylized figure of an outstretched man dotted with small glowing circles.
Electroacupuncture, McBride said and waved a hand over the array of suction cups. Microelectrodes inserted into acupuncture points along the prime meridians. I don't purport to understand it fully. This is Dr. Chen's line of expertise. He's made remarkable progress using this technique to alleviate pain, allowing battlefield surgery without general anesthesia. Brilliant work and why he became a Jason. I then recruited him to our joint investigation because of his innovative use of microelectrodes. Microelectrodes like you used with your own test subjects.
McBride tweaked one of the antennas with a finger. Yuri felt a stinging stab.
We've learned that what can be used to deaden pain in the right circumstances, can also be used to amplify it.
Trent don't , Yuri begged.
McBride ignored him, turned to Chen, and pointed to one of the cups near his knee, then to a second one near his groin.
The researcher lifted a stylus and drew a line on the computer screen.
Yuri's leg blistered with fiery pain. A scream burst from his throat. It was as if someone had dug a scalpel from knee to groin, cutting down to the bone. Then it ended just as quickly.
Gasping, Yuri searched down. He expected to see blood flowing, flesh smoking.
But there was only pale skin.
McBride waved again across the field of tiny cups. We can do the same across any of these points. In any pattern. We can flay you alive without harming a hair. A virtual operation with all the pain.
Wh-why?
McBride stared down at him again. While his face was mild, his eyes were fierce.
I will have answers, yes? Let's start with what you've been keeping secret about the children.
I don't
McBride turned to Chen.
No! Yuri shouted out.
McBride leaned back to him. Then let's not play games. We've been able to replicate your augments without any difficulty. The schematics that your team provided were very thorough and precise. But in the end, not all that innovative. Merely a sophisticated TMS device. We attempted to duplicate your results, using a pair of autistic savant children in Canada. Our experiments were well, let's just say disappointing.
Yuri inwardly cringed. So the Americans were closer than even Savina had suspected. They'd already come to recognize how unique the situation was at
Chelyabinsk 88.
So, McBride asked again, what have you been keeping secret from us?
Yuri hesitated too long. A fiery slash cut across his chest. His muscles spasmed, his back arched from the bed. He screamed so loudly that no sound came out.
As the pain cut off, Yuri trembled and quaked with aftershocks. He tasted blood on his tongue. Still he dared not wait. What did it matter if the Americans found out? It was already too late.
DNA, he gasped out. It's their DNA.
McBride hovered closer. How do you mean?
Yuri swallowed, gulping for air. The secret lies in the subjects' genetics. We only discovered this ourselves twelve years ago.
Yuri explained in fits and starts, questioned repeatedly by McBride. He related the discovery in 1959 of a cluster of exceptional savant talent, a group of
Gypsy children. A genetic line that ran through the history of the Gypsies. The chovihanis. The clans kept this line secret and attempted to preserve it through inbreeding, resulting in genetic aberrations. He told how the Russians had stolen this genetic heritage for study, for incorporation into their own research into parapsychology.
But it was nothing mystical, Yuri explained. The children were merely savants though savants of a prodigious level. We tried to heighten their ability first through breeding, then through bioengineering. But over the years, as genetic testing grew more refined, we were able to pinpoint what made the children unique.
