Gray knew the man was joking, but that worry did lurk at the back of his mind. Still, even with the pressure of the wedding, Seichan had seemed more settled over the past months. There was a new calmness to her. It was not necessarily a sense of peace—that was not Seichan—but more the impression of an inner resolve, a centering that had escaped her until now.
He knew a large part of that had to do with Sigma regaining its footing. The group had identified and eliminated the bomber of the Smithsonian Castle. The remainder of Valya’s organization was systematically being picked apart and snuffed out. Likewise, the events in Russia, especially on the polar ice cap, had been acknowledged by those in the upper echelons in D.C. Through Sigma’s efforts, a global war had been avoided. Since then, all talk of dissolving the group had faded.
Still, Gray knew Seichan’s calmness was not solely due to the firming of Sigma’s standing in D.C. With the fall of Valya and her organization, Seichan was less shadowed and haunted. Gray and Seichan had talks about this, usually in bed, in the dark, where it was easier to bare one’s heart. Her past with the Guild had scarred her deeply. It was never going away, but by finally burning away the last vestiges of theGuild, those lingering shadows left behind, represented by Valya and her group, Seichan now felt freer, able to heal that old wound.
Maybe not fully, but enough.
Painter crossed to Gray, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t know if you want to hear this now. I got news from Russia about an hour ago.”
Gray frowned, worried, but happy for any distraction. “What is it?”
“Archpriest Sychkin hung himself in his gulag cell. His body was found this morning.”
Gray nodded, not surprised, only disappointed. The bastard deserved to suffer longer, but the world was better off without him drawing air. Gray suspected that Sychkin’s activation of the failsafe device, calling hellfire upon Hyperborea, had nothing to do with preserving Russia’s position in the Arctic, and was all about ending his own suffering—and taking down as many people with him as possible.
Dying alone in his cell?
Gray could live with that, especially knowing the lingering effects of that selfish act. He had seen photos of the blast’s aftermath. The residual heat of the explosion and the radioactive glow continued to keep the ice melted for miles around the site. The peaks had been shattered or damaged, marking the grave of those ancient people.
Still, Jason’s recordings of what had been found below were being studied by academics around the globe. Likewise, there was renewed interest in the unusual genetics of bowhead whales, and their ties to longevity. As to thesarkophágosspecies, it was not likely any plants survived, but for now, no one would get any closer to look, not until it all cooled down.
Gray inquired when that might be. “Any further word about the radiation levels up there?”
Painter sighed. “It’ll remain hot for years. And the environmental effects will last even longer. Still, the act has forced the Russians to throttle back their ambitions in the north. After the NOAA satellite recorded and broadcast what had happened, the Russians have been more cooperative, maybe begrudgingly so. Still, that accommodating attitude has extended to another site.”
Gray looked at Painter. “Where?”
“The Golden Library—or at least what remains of it. Russia has opened its doors to researchers around the globe, including those from the Vatican. Likely it’s their attempt at regaining a measure of goodwill.”
“Has Father Bailey had a chance to revisit the site?”
Painter lowered his eyes. “Not yet. And I’m not sure he’ll ever want to. Lots of ghosts there. Plus, his rehab continues. He’s having a hard time of it.”
“Understood.” Gray tried to change the subject. “I heard that Captain Turov has been named as the new admiral of Russia’s Northern Fleet.”
“He has. Nothing like being cheered as a national hero after he saved all those lives aboard theIvan Lyakhov. The world all watched that daring rescue. While a few of his superiors might have resented some of his choices and actions, none dared challenge the surge of public opinion. Especially for a country that needs to make amends to the world.”
“What happened to his boss, the former commander of the Northern Fleet?”
“Glazkov?” Painter shrugged, showing a slight smile. “He’s vanished, but I don’t believe it was of his own volition.”
Gray nodded.
Good riddance.
“On better news,” Painter said, “thePolar Kingis again plying the seas. As I understand it, they are being greeted at every port with raucous celebrations for their efforts. And not a single member of the old crew chose to abandon the icebreaker.”
Gray was happy to hear it.
“Two minutes,” Monk warned them all, tapping at his wrist.
Painter headed for the door. “Which means I’m needed elsewhere.”
Once the director was gone, Gray took a deep breath. Monk’s countdown reminded him of Byron ticking down the time left to them on thePolar King. Only this time hopefully it wouldn’t end in a nuclear explosion.
He pictured his last sight of Hyperborea, burning under the polar sun. He recalled a discussion he’d had with Sister Anna back in the Golden Library. It concerned Catherine the Great’s decision to keep the lost archive hidden, along with the secret it held: the location of Hyperborea. According to Anna, the Russian empress must have believed that her world wasn’t ready for the wonders and horrors of Hyperborea. All of Catherine’s puzzles and hoops were aimed toward one goal—as a test to prove some future generation waswiseenough andcautiousenough to receive such knowledge.
Gray shook his head.
