the center of the apron was a huge, eight-sided concrete slab. This was the lid of the missile silo. He could see the two parallel metal tracks that extended straight out from the lid along the length of the apron; these were the rails that the lid would ride along when an explosive charge sent it violently sliding away from the top of the silo, so that the 'sausage' inside could roar up into the sky and off on its arc of death.
Only, for this silo, number thirty-four, there was no explosive charge, no nuclear sausage inside.
But there were still the alarms and sensors on the apron-the ones Vasily had switched off. Or so he hoped.
He reached the apron. The only sound was his breathing and the rush of the wind.
He wanted to look at his watch, but resisted it as a waste of precious time. At the end of the apron, behind the silo lid, he saw a small dome, with a hatch in its center. This was the service well.
He went to the dome and brushed the snow away from the top of the hatch. There was a wheel set in the center.
Vasily hadn't told them about the wheel. Should he turn it clockwise? Or counterclockwise? He decided to rely on the universal thinking of engineers and moved his hands counterclockwise.
It didn't budge.
He tried again. Still, it wouldn't move.
Perhaps it should move the other way after all. He looked more closely at the wheel.
There was a tiny glint of metal just under the wheel: the thread of the large screw device that operated the hatch. He looked at the angle, tried to think: If it was sloping that way, wouldn't that mean…?
Over the wind, he thought he could hear his watch ticking. It was the loudest sound he'd ever heard.
Once more he grasped the wheel, tried to turn it, again counterclockwise. But his gloves wouldn't hold a grip.
Pulling his gloves off with his teeth, he grabbed the wheel in his bare hands. Instantly, he felt the frigid cold of the metal against his bare palms. Bracing his feet on either side of the dome, he twisted the wheel once again counterclockwise with all of his strength.
With a creak of protest, it moved, ever so slightly.
He stood, took a deep breath, and bent again over the wheel. This time it turned farther. A few more turns, and he heard a distinctive click from inside the mechanism. He lifted the hatch.
Still no alarms.
In the dim light, he could barely make out a ladder descending into the well. Leaving his gloves on the hatch, he backed down the ladder. The rungs were also of metal, so cold they burned his hands.
According to Nikolai, what he was looking for was a small alcove in the well, about halfway down. Had there been a missile in the silo, it would have been filled with electronic equipment. Now it should be empty-except for whatever Leverotov had placed inside.
That alcove was the X on Leverotov's tiny map. And inside that X was a secret buried here for nearly half a century, a secret people on two continents had been willing to kill to keep hidden.
Or maybe that X was empty. Maybe, in the nearly forty years since Leverotov had left the 'relics' for Nikolai, someone else had found Leverotov's treasure. Perhaps they'd removed it, thrown it away, hidden it somewhere else. Or perhaps Leverotov had never put anything there in the first place. Perhaps they'd misinterpreted Leverotov's symbols, completely misunderstood the message he'd left for Nikolai.
Benjamin shook off such thoughts, concentrated on climbing down the ladder. Finally, he heard the toe of his boot tap against something metal. He climbed down a few more rungs, peered at the wall.
There was a small metal plate set into the wall, rusted around the edges. It was loose. Benjamin pried at the edges with his fingertips. It came free-and then slipped from his hand and went clattering down into the darkness of the well, until he heard it clang against the bottom.
He held his breath, expecting shouts, alarms, something. But there was only the sound of the wind whistling over the top of the well.
He extracted a small flashlight from his parka pocket, shined its light into the alcove the plate had been covering.
The light reflected off something inside the alcove. About an arm's length away, there was a bright yellow plastic bundle.
Reaching through the rungs of the ladder, he groped toward the bundle. It was almost beyond his reach. Finally, his fingertips touched the plastic. He clawed at it until it moved a few inches toward him. He withdrew his hand, blew on his fingers to warm them. Then he reached in again, stretching his arm to its limit.
He had hold of the bundle.
He dragged it out of the alcove. There was something inside the bundle, something not heavy, but of a rectangular shape with sharp corners. He threw back one flap of the plastic, could see the cover of a flat metal box. On the cover, stenciled in black, was a name.
LEVEROTOV.
He threw the plastic back over the box, stuffed the bundle partially inside his jacket, and began to climb. The bulky package sticking partway out of his jacket made it difficult. Once, his hand slipped on the freezing metal rung, and he hung sideways for a moment, out over the dark abyss of the well. He swung his hand back to the ladder, continued climbing.
By the time he reached the top of the ladder, he was panting, his breath making explosive gray puffs in the air. He climbed awkwardly out of the well. Setting the bundle down, he lowered the hatch, spun the wheel.
His hands were freezing, almost completely numb.
He grabbed the gloves and started running toward the fence, the bundle tucked under one arm as he struggled to pull his gloves on with his teeth as he ran. The cold air was beginning to burn his throat, his eyes filling with tears and making it difficult to see.
By the time he reached the fence, the gloves were over his hands, and he was thankful he didn't have to touch the bare, cold metal with his fingers.
But what if the fence current was back on?
He shrugged off the thought. He'd know soon enough anyway.
Then he realized he had a problem: he could never climb the fence holding the bundle.
He backed up a few feet, tossed the bundle over the fence, then launched himself onto it and began to climb. The only sound now was the wind and the rattle of the fence as he clamored up it.
How much time? his mind thundered. How much time?!
He jumped from the top of the fence, fell, picked himself up and went over to the bundle. He bent down to pick it up, then stopped. Only two inches from the bundle a thin metal bar protruded above the light covering of snow. He realized it was probably the trip sensor for a mine.
He reached down and snatched the bundle up, carefully stepped around the mine sensor, and began running again. He felt the Makarov thumping against his side in the parka pocket, could hear his blood pounding in his ears. The tears in his eyes blinded him. He stumbled, went sprawling on the ground, the bundle clattering a few feet away.
He rose up, grabbed the bundle. All about his feet he could see the tiny, dull-gray tips of more mine sensors. And now he was disoriented. Which hill was the right one? Then he saw the faint outlines of the road that bordered the minefield.
He forced himself to run again, sprinting, lifting his feet in their clumsy boots, trying to make himself lighter, faster.
He fought the urge to jump toward the boundary of the road; he didn't have the strength, anyway. His feet were like lead, his chest was burning, the cold air making his throat tight, the wind seeming like a living thing that wanted to knock him down, blow him back toward the fence, back into the mines that must any second now become active.
And then he was across the road.
Benjamin fell to his knees, gasping for breath, the bundle clanging as it dropped from his hands. A light snow
