14
THE INGRAHAM INSTITUTE
Stalingrad rose from the banks of the Volga as a sequence of stacked, boxy white buildings that belched smoke into the sunset. It possessed none of Moscow’s stately, historic charm, was instead all modern clean lines, a palette of grays and creams befitting the steppe country.
They disembarked from the ship with their rucksacks, bellies rumbling, and found a troop transport truck waiting to take them to “the facility.” Dreams of hot dinner and a bath were dashed as they loaded into the canvas-covered back and settled in for a ride. Through the open back of the truck, Sasha watched the white buildings grow smaller and smaller. Another truck followed them; he’d glimpsed Katya’s flapping braids as she climbed into the back, and he couldn’t decide if he was pleased that she was going the same place they were or not; he didn’t want to have any more arguments with Nikita.
“I thought we were going to Stalingrad,” Sasha said to Philippe, and felt Pyotr nodding beside him. The faces around him were tight with anger, even Ivan’s, but none of them had voiced the question so far. Sometimes, being the newcomer had the perk of allowing you to look like an idiot.
“The place we’re going doesn’t technically exist,” Philippe said, jostling back and forth between Ivan and Feliks, clutching at his hat. “It’s a facility best suited for our procedure.”
It was private, he meant. After nearly a half hour of bouncing around in the back of the truck, they’d only glimpsed flat plain patchy with melting snow, and the stocky trees of scrub forest. It wasn’t the taiga of home, but a regular wood filled with pine, and birch, the first green buds visible if you squinted.
He glanced over a few times toward Nikita, seeking out his leader’s take on all of this, but the captain had his head tipped back against the canvas, eyes shut. Seemingly asleep.
Finally, the truck lurched over a deep rut – everyone made a sound of protest – and then the landscape through the open back changed: trucks parked along the side of the road; driveways branching off the main route to the left and right, deep muddy tracks filled with melted snow. Over the rumbling diesel engine, Sasha thought he heard shouts. And then the truck stopped. The driver said something muffled. Then came the unmistakable rattle of a gate sliding back.
“We’ve arrived, then,” Philippe said happily.
~*~
Oddly enough, it was the lack of industrial smoke that set the fine hairs on the back of Nikita’s neck dancing. He’d grown so used to the scents of ash, and unwashed bodies, and rotting garbage that the clean notes of fresh spring air and wet mud unsettled him. If he’d learned anything in his twenty-seven years, it was that life stank. Literally. He didn’t trust the lack of shit and piss and misery here.
The building was gray-white concrete, three stories and flat-roofed. Nondescript save the faded red stars painted on the doors. Barracks had been hastily erected behind it, long low wooden buildings with corrugated metal roofs that looked stolen from elsewhere and patched together. A guard station stood at the gates, and two tall surveillance towers at the north and south ends of the compound. The yard was nothing but mud and slop; it sucked at his boots with every step.
“I don’t like this place,” he muttered to Kolya beside him.
Kolya snorted, but said, “It doesn’t smell right.”
“Exactly.”
Passengers were unloading from the second truck: a handful of fresh-faced Red Army soldiers from Stalingrad coming to join the others here…and the dark-haired girl from the ship. Katya, Sasha had said her name was.
Nikita was bothered that he remembered that detail.
As if she sensed his gaze, her head lifted and her gaze locked with his. Brown eyes, wide and deep. Measuring, and unflinching.
He felt a sudden, spasmodic tightening in his gut and looked away, scowling. He hadn’t troubled himself with that sensation in a long time. The last thing he needed was to get bogged down by it here.
“What?” Kolya asked.
“Nothing.”
A wavering stalk of a boy in uniform led them to the double, red-starred doors, and another just inside opened the portal for them. The ground floor appeared, upon first sight, to be a combination mess hall and rec center for the troops; high, factory ceilings soared overhead, catching voices and echoing them back at obscene volumes. The far wall didn’t reach the ceiling, and several doors led to what must be offices.
A man waited for them. Clean-cut, in white shirt and tie, brown slacks and a white laboratory coat over it. Nikita’s first thought was that he had a distinctly western look about him, and then he opened his mouth and greeted them in clumsy, American-accented Russian.
“Welcome, comrades,” he said, his smile stiff and nervous. “Welcome to the Ingraham Institute.”
“You’re American,” Nikita said, surprised.
“Oh, um…yeah…”
Philippe stepped up beside the man and clapped him on the shoulder. “Gentlemen, meet Dr. Charles Ingraham. A leading biologist in America.”
“Why is he here?” Ivan asked, beating Nikita to the punch.
Nikita made a token, “That’s rude,” comment, but bit back a smile.
“Oh. Well.” Ingraham blushed. “I wouldn’t say that I was a leading biologist. My field is actually very small–”
“Nonsense, don’t be modest,” Philippe said. “You’re brilliant. Gentlemen,” he said, turning his smile to Nikita and company. “Dr. Ingraham is conducting ground-breaking research in America and he volunteered to help with your project as part of the Lend Lease Program. Isn’t that generous of him?”
No one commented.
Dr. Ingraham blushed harder. “It’s good to meet you all.” His gaze landed on Sasha and his eyes brightened. “Are you–” He started to extend a shaking hand.
“Yes, this is Sasha, our volunteer,” Philippe said.
Sasha’s smile was thin as he accepted the doctor’s shake. His voice flat. “Hello.”
Slowly, this entire ordeal was sanding down the boy’s bright, curious corners and turning him as dull and suspicious as the rest of them.
“Let’s show them the lab,” Philippe said.
Ingraham led them to an iron stairwell that went down two levels into a subbasement. Cold, and damp, but clean. Voices murmured behind half-closed doors.
Nikita heard an inhuman whimper and pulled up short. “What’s that?”
“It’s–” Ingraham started to explain, but Philippe cut him off.
“All in good time, captain.”
“One of my test subjects,” Ingraham added, quietly, ducking his head. He pressed the lever of a heavy steel door and pushed it open. “This is the lab we’ve set up for the procedure.”
It was a vast space, low-ceilinged, but deep, the caged bulbs overhead unable to reach into the farthest corners. In the center of the room waited two gleaming steel tables…the kind with drains at the foot of each. There was another drain in the concrete of the floor, freshly-scrubbed. One wall held metal shelves loaded with boxes and bottles and canisters. Another wall was glass from the waist-up: a viewing window, and on the other side, chairs arranged in a viewing room.
“There’s going to be an audience?” Nikita asked, rounding on the doctor. He’d known from the onset that this was to be some sort of medical procedure, yes, aided by the old man’s magic and God knew what else. But the idea of an audience of doctors taking notes on clipboards struck him as obscene. Sasha didn’t deserve that.
He didn’t deserve any of this.
“No, of course not,” Dr. Ingraham scrambled to assure him. “Only you – if you’d like – and a small contingency of guards.”
To ensure they went through with it. Christ.
“I’ll be here,” he said, staring the doctor down.
Ingraham gulped. “G-good.”
Nikita glanced at Sasha and found him standing beside one of the tables, touching its edge with a fingertip, pale brows knit together. He’d tucked his hat into his belt, and his hair was a greasy mess. Under his coat, the frayed neckline of his sweater seemed twice as sad against the cold, industrial backdrop of the lab. So out of place.
“What are you a doctor of?” Ivan demanded of Ingraham, and Nikita left them to it, walking across the room and sidling up to Sasha. He acknowledged Nikita’s presence with a slight tilt of his head, but didn’t speak.
“Sasha,” Nikita started, and Sasha interrupted him.
“Where would you be,” he said quietly, “if you didn’t have to be here right now? Where would you go?” He glanced up, a glimpse of blue through the screen of his lashes. Asking. Resigned, but wanting to know.
Nikita worked his jaw a moment before an answer came, and then it wasn’t a good one. “I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.” He’d been consumed with the idea of avenging the royal family his entire life; he’d never allowed himself thoughts of a life of his own, a wife, children.
Sasha’s smile was faint, and lopsided. His finger moved back and forth, leaving a streaky mark on the table. “I always thought I might like to travel the world. See all the cities I read about in my history books.” He sighed. “Guess that doesn’t matter now, does it?”
“No,” Nikita said, throat tight. “I guess it doesn’t.”
“I don’t want to die,” Sasha whispered.
“You won’t.”
“I might. And that doesn’t matter either.”
Not to Russia it didn’t, no. Not to the world. And what good was it if it mattered to Nikita? He was just one man leading a dying, doomed revolution. He’d forgotten how to be a person a long time ago, and relearning now, in the midst of war, was the most painful experience of his life.
If Sasha died tomorrow…after Dima…
Well, he didn’t suspect his commanders would have any use for him after he gutted Monsieur Philippe like a fish.