Classified Archive (Book 2)14,15

 

Classified Archive (Book 2)

Chapter 14: "The Warning"

The phone rang at seven in the morning. Elena had just stepped out of the shower and was drying her hair with a towel when her mobile screen lit up with an unknown number.

"Svetlova speaking," she answered, trying to sound alert despite her lack of sleep.

"Captain Svetlova," the voice on the other end was dry and official. "You are summoned to the Ministry of Internal Affairs. Today, nine hundred hours, office 714. Attendance is mandatory."

"Regarding what matter?" Elena asked, though she already suspected the answer.

"You will be informed on arrival."

The connection ended. Elena thoughtfully looked at the phone. A summons to the ministry boded nothing good. Especially now, when their investigation had progressed so far and touched the interests of influential people.

"Who called?" Andrei entered the room with two cups of coffee, offering one to his wife.

"I'm being summoned to the ministry," Elena gratefully accepted the cup. "It seems someone is very displeased with our progress."

"Markov?" Andrei suggested, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Possibly. Or someone even higher up," Elena thoughtfully sipped her coffee. "After what we found in Kornev's apartment, there's no doubt—this story goes straight to the top."

The previous evening they had carefully examined the materials Andrei and Anna had rescued from the historian's apartment. Photographs from 1967, the list of Project "Zarya-7" participants, Valentin Kornev's notes about strange activity in the Baikal region—everything pointed to an imminent return and that influential people were preparing for this event.

"What will you do?" asked Andrei.

"Go, of course," Elena shrugged. "Refusing would be foolish, it would only confirm their suspicions. But before that..." she stood and approached the bookshelf, "we need to secure our findings."

Elena pulled out the bottom drawer of the bookcase and pressed a hidden button. The bottom of the drawer lifted, revealing a small hiding place.

"Remember this spot?" she smiled at her husband.

"Of course," Andrei nodded. "You set it up after the corrupt judge case. You said we should always have a backup plan."

"And as you can see, not without reason," Elena placed a folder with key documents in the hiding place, including microfilms from Mikhail Kornev's archive and the soil sample from Zvezdny-45. "If something goes wrong, these materials must be preserved."

"Do you think it will come to that?" Andrei asked worriedly.

"I hope not," Elena closed the hiding place and turned to her husband. "But in our line of work, it's better to anticipate the worst. If I'm detained or... if something else happens, contact Gromov. He can be trusted, at least for now."

Andrei embraced his wife tightly: "Be careful. These people aren't used to losing."

"Neither am I," Elena kissed her husband. "Neither am I."

The Ministry of Internal Affairs greeted Elena with the usual bureaucratic bustle. Employees hurried through corridors, papers rustled, telephones rang. But there was something unsettling about how the guards at the entrance checked her documents with particular thoroughness, how some colleagues averted their eyes when meeting her.

Office 714 was located in the wing housing the ministry's highest officials. Elena knocked and, hearing an invitation, entered.

Behind a massive desk sat a silver-haired man in an impeccable suit, whose face seemed familiar from news reports—Deputy Minister Avdeev. Next to him were two others: a woman in a strict business suit with a tablet on her knees, and a middle-aged man whose attentive eyes revealed a professional habit of assessing potential threats.

"Captain Svetlova, please come in," Avdeev invited, indicating the chair opposite his desk. "Thank you for arriving on time."

"Official duty, Comrade Deputy Minister," Elena calmly replied as she sat down.

Avdeev smiled slightly: "It's precisely about official duty that I wanted to talk. Allow me to introduce Ms. Taranova from the Presidential Administration and Colonel Belyaev from the Security Service."

Elena nodded to the introduced individuals, internally tensing. The presence of a Presidential Administration employee meant her case had reached the highest level.

"Captain Svetlova," Avdeev began, "information has reached us that you are conducting some... unofficial investigation related to the historian Kornev."

"I am performing my official duties," Elena calmly replied. "I'm investigating the circumstances of citizen Kornev's death."

"Which has officially been recognized as natural," Colonel Belyaev remarked harshly. "A heart attack, confirmed by medical examination."

"During the investigation, circumstances have emerged that cast doubt on this conclusion," Elena countered. "Strange coincidences, threats Kornev received before his death, the kidnapping of his daughter and my husband..."

"Yes, we are aware of these... incidents," Taranova interjected, speaking for the first time. "And we're also aware that you've discovered certain documents relating to classified Soviet-era projects. In particular, to Project 'Zarya-7'."

Elena felt a chill down her spine. They knew. They even knew the specific name.

"Where did you get this information?" she asked directly.

"That's irrelevant," Avdeev dismissed. "What matters is that you've intruded into an area affecting matters of state security. Matters of extraordinary importance, Captain."

"So important that they justify the murder of civilians?" Elena leaned forward. "Kornev, Severov, possibly others?"

"We do not confirm any murders," Taranova coldly replied. "And we strongly recommend that you refrain from such accusations without proof."

"I have proof," Elena said firmly. "And it's in a safe place."

The men exchanged glances, and Taranova made some note on her tablet.

"Captain Svetlova," Avdeev folded his hands on the table, "you have established yourself as a competent and dedicated officer. Your achievements in solving several complex cases, including the Klimov case, are highly valued by leadership. That's precisely why we're having this conversation in such a... informal manner."

Elena silently waited for him to continue.

"We ask you," continued the Deputy Minister, emphasizing the word "ask," "to stop this investigation. Close the Kornev case and forget everything you've learned about Project 'Zarya-7'. This is a matter of national security."

"I need to know the reason," Elena replied. "If it truly concerns national security, I have the right to understand exactly what my investigation threatens."

"You have no such right," Belyaev sharply interjected. "There is information access to which is strictly limited even for officers of your rank."

"Colonel," Avdeev gently rebuked him, then turned to Elena: "Captain, understand, there are things that go beyond the scope of an ordinary police investigation. The events of 1967 have significance today, perhaps even greater than they did then. And circumstances require... a delicate approach."

"A delicate approach?" Elena didn't hide her irony. "Is that what surveillance, intimidation, and possible murders are called now?"

"Nobody is talking about crimes," Taranova intervened. "This is about the strategic interests of the state. About issues affecting national and, possibly, global security."

Elena looked carefully at each of those present: "You know about the return, don't you? About 'their' promised return after fifty years, as Velichko predicted?"

Deathly silence fell in the office. Belyaev abruptly straightened, Taranova froze, and something resembling surprise flashed across Avdeev's face—he clearly hadn't expected Elena to know so much.

"You have exceeded all permissible boundaries, Captain," Belyaev finally broke the silence. "The mere mention of that name in our conversation already warrants charges of disclosing state secrets."

"Elena Viktorovna," Avdeev suddenly switched to a more personal tone, "believe me, we understand your pursuit of truth. It's a quality we value in our employees. But in this case, we ask you to demonstrate... state thinking. Some secrets must remain secrets, for the common good."

"Whose common good?" Elena asked. "The people who have the right to know the truth? Or those who have concealed this truth for decades for the sake of their own power?"

"That's a philosophical question, Captain," Taranova coldly remarked. "We don't have time for philosophy. There is a specific proposal: you stop the investigation, hand over all materials to us, and we, in turn, guarantee you not only the absence of negative consequences but also certain... career prospects."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then," Belyaev said harshly, "we will be forced to act differently. With the full rigor of the law. Starting with suspension from duty for exceeding authority and ending with more serious charges. Possibly even treason."

"Is that a threat?" Elena calmly asked.

"It's a warning," Avdeev replied. "And believe me, Captain, it's prompted not by malice, but by sincere concern for the country's welfare. And, not least, for your own welfare."

"I need time to consider your... proposal," Elena said after a brief pause.

"Of course," Avdeev nodded. "You have twenty-four hours. Tomorrow at this same time, we expect your answer. And we hope it will be reasonable."

Elena stood up: "If that's all, I'd like to leave."

"Yes," Avdeev also rose. "But remember, Captain: we are watching your actions very closely. It's in your interest not to take any drastic steps in the next twenty-four hours."

Nodding goodbye, Elena left the office. Her heart was pounding, but outwardly she maintained complete composure. Only in the elevator, making sure she was alone, did Elena allow herself to take a deep breath, trying to calm her nerves.

They knew everything. Velichko's name, "Zarya-7," the return—nothing had remained secret. And they were clearly prepared to go to great lengths to protect this information.

When Elena returned home, the first thing she noticed was that the door was slightly ajar. She distinctly remembered closing it that morning. Carefully drawing her pistol, Elena quietly entered the apartment.

Inside was chaos. Books thrown from shelves, furniture moved, drawers upturned, belongings scattered across the floor. A methodical, professional search.

Elena quickly checked all the rooms, confirming that the uninvited guests had already left, then called Andrei.

"They searched the apartment," she said as soon as her husband answered. "Where are you?"

"At the university, giving a lecture," Andrei replied anxiously. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I wasn't home. Looks like they were searching for case materials. Check the hiding place."

Elena approached the bookshelf and pulled out the bottom drawer. The hiding place mechanism was untouched—either they hadn't found it, or hadn't had time to break it open. But when she activated the hidden button and opened the secret compartment, her heart sank—the folder with documents was gone.

"The documents are missing," she said quietly into the phone. "They found the hiding place."

"How is that possible?" disbelief was evident in Andrei's voice. "No one knew about it except us."

"Someone very professional," Elena grimly replied. "Or they had precise information." She paused as a sudden thought struck her: "Andrei, where did you hide the sample?"

"In the place we agreed upon," he cautiously answered. "In the hiding place in the university laboratory. Under the floorboard in the corner, next to the chemical cabinet."

"Good," Elena exhaled with relief. "So they didn't find the main thing. Don't return home. We'll meet at the safe house in two hours. And warn Anna to be careful."

After ending the call, Elena once more surveyed the ransacked apartment. The search had been thorough but surprisingly neat—nothing broken, just moved and overturned. Professional work.

Elena approached the bookshelf and checked the hiding place again. Something bothered her. The mechanism was intact, the camouflaged button undamaged. How could they have found and opened the hiding place without leaving traces of forced entry?

Then it dawned on her. She smiled at her own foresight and knelt down, carefully examining the drawer bottom. A small, almost imperceptible gap between panels revealed the presence of another, deeper hiding place. Elena pressed four points at the corners of the drawer in a specific sequence—the mechanism worked, and a second compartment opened.

There, in a waterproof bag, lay the real documents—those very photographs from Kornev's apartment, the list of "Zarya-7" project participants, microfilms, the soil sample from Zvezdny-45. Everything was in place.

"Thought I was that naive?" Elena whispered, smiling. "You picked the wrong person."

She never trusted all her eggs to one basket. The first hiding place was obvious to those who knew what to look for. The real documents were always kept deeper, in a secret known only to her.

Elena quickly packed the important materials into a bag and looked around, thinking what else might be needed. A foreign passport, a spare credit card, some cash—all went into the same bag. The situation was clearly escalating, and she needed to be prepared for any turn of events.

Before leaving, she called Andrei again:

"I have the documents," she said. "The real ones. What they found was bait—copies not containing the most important information."

"Brilliant," admiration was evident in her husband's voice. "I always said you're the best investigator in the department."

"Let's skip the flattery," Elena smiled. "We'll meet as agreed. And be very careful—they've clearly moved to active measures."

Ending the conversation, she took one more look around the apartment. Then resolutely walked out and firmly closed the door. She had a feeling she wouldn't be returning here anytime soon.

Outside, Elena immediately noticed a black car with tinted windows parked across the street. The surveillance was so obvious it seemed almost insulting. Or was this part of their strategy—to show she was being watched, to make her nervous?

Elena had no intention of playing by their rules. She calmly walked in the direction opposite from the metro, as if taking a stroll. The black car started and slowly drove parallel to her route.

At the intersection, when the light turned green, Elena suddenly darted across the road, merging into the crowd of pedestrians. Then she quickly ducked into a passageway, then another, jumped over a low fence, and emerged on an adjacent street where she immediately caught a taxi.

"Gorky Park," she told the driver. "And please, try to hurry."

The car pulled away. Elena looked back—there was no sign of surveillance. At least for now. But she understood this was only the beginning. Those behind all this weren't accustomed to losing. And they definitely weren't going to give up just because one police captain turned out to be a bit smarter than they expected.

Leaning back in her seat, Elena mentally weighed her options. She had less than twenty-four hours to decide what to do next. Follow orders and stop the investigation? Or continue searching for the truth, despite the threats and danger?

Deep down, she already knew the answer. Ever since she had heard the story of "Zarya-7" and the contact with "Object X," ever since she saw the fear in Kornev's eyes and the determination in Severov's, her choice had been made.

The truth must be revealed. Whatever it might be.

Chapter 15: "The Last of the Group"

The safe house greeted Elena with silence and semi-darkness. Andrei hadn't arrived yet, giving her time to analyze the situation. She spread the surviving documents on the table, trying to assemble a complete picture from the scattered pieces of information.

The list of "Zarya-7" project participants drew her special attention. Fifteen names—scientists, military personnel, engineers. People who had witnessed an event that could have changed the course of history, but instead was buried under the label "classified."

Elena began methodically checking each name, using her official access to databases—while it still worked. The results were disheartening: ten people had officially died during the Soviet era, mostly from "heart attacks" and "accidents." Three had died in the 1990s, during the country's collapse when many archives were destroyed or relocated. One was listed as missing since 1973.

And only one name remained active—Professor Leonid Pavlovich Zotov, that very "Medic" from the list, mentioned in the records from Zvezdny-45.

"Found something?" Andrei entered silently, startling Elena.

"Possibly," she pointed to the laptop screen. "Zotov, one of the key project participants. According to documents, he supervised medical observation of Velichko and study of the sample. And, most interestingly, he's still alive."

"Where is he now?" Andrei leaned in, examining the information on screen.

"The 'Pine Forest' retirement home near St. Petersburg," Elena answered. "He was admitted there five years ago. Before that, according to records, he continued working as a consultant in some research center within the Ministry of Defense system."

"Do you think he'll agree to talk?"

"I don't know," Elena admitted honestly. "But he might be our last chance to understand what really happened in 1967 and what's expected now. After the recording we found in Zvezdny, it's clear he knew about the return and understood its significance."

Elena thoughtfully tapped her fingers on the table.

"I need to go to St. Petersburg. Today. If Zotov truly knows something important, Markov and his people might try to prevent our meeting."

"I'll go with you," Andrei immediately declared.

"No," Elena was adamant. "You need to stay here with Anna. Someone must continue working with the sample. And if something happens to me... you'll know what to do next."

She didn't finish, but both understood what she meant—if she were detained or if she met with an "accident," someone needed to preserve the information and continue the search for truth.

"I don't like this," Andrei frowned. "But I understand the logic. When do you leave?"

"There's a train to Petersburg in two hours. I'll reach the retirement home tomorrow morning."

Elena began gathering the essentials. Time was short, and the risk grew with each passing hour.

The "Pine Forest" retirement home fully lived up to its name—a neat four-story building surrounded by tall pines, situated on the shore of a small lake twenty kilometers from St. Petersburg. The place was quiet and secluded—a perfect refuge for those who wanted to spend their final years away from urban bustle. Or for those whom others wanted to keep away from prying eyes.

Elena stepped out of the taxi and surveyed the grounds. A high fence, surveillance cameras, a guard at the gate—for an ordinary retirement home, the security was surprisingly serious.

"Hello," she approached the guard post. "I need to meet with one of your residents, Professor Zotov, Leonid Pavlovich."

The guard, a sturdy middle-aged man with military bearing, gave her an appraising look.

"Visits by appointment only. And with administration approval."

"I'm his niece," Elena lied easily. "I came specially from Moscow to visit. Is there some way we can arrange this?"

"Contact the administration," the guard nodded toward the main building. "First floor, director's office. If you're not on the list of approved visitors, approval will be required."

Elena nodded and headed toward the building, mentally reviewing her options. If Zotov was indeed under surveillance, a simple visit wouldn't suffice.

In the administrative wing reigned an atmosphere typical for such institutions—sterile cleanliness, subdued voices, the smell of disinfectant. The director's office was at the end of the corridor, its door ajar.

"May I?" Elena knocked and peered inside.

Behind the desk sat a stout man of about fifty, balding with a tired look. Seeing the visitor, he set aside his papers and put on a professional smile.

"How can I help you?"

"My name is Elena Korneva," she introduced herself, deciding to use Anna's surname as a precaution. "I've come to visit my uncle, Leonid Pavlovich Zotov. He's your resident."

The director's smile instantly faded.

"I'm afraid that's impossible. Professor Zotov is under a special care regime. Visits are strictly limited to immediate family by prior arrangement with his curator."

"But I am immediate family," Elena insisted. "His niece. I can show my documents."

"In that case, you should contact the professor's curator," the director was clearly nervous. "I'm not authorized to decide this matter independently."

"And who is his curator?"

"That information is... confidential," the director averted his eyes. "But I can forward your request. Leave your contact details."

Elena realized that the official route wouldn't get her a meeting. Whoever this mysterious "curator" was, it was evidently someone connected to those trying to shut down the investigation.

"All right, I'll leave my phone number," she wrote on a slip of paper the number of a disposable SIM card, purchased specifically for this trip. "I hope the answer won't keep me waiting long."

Leaving the office, Elena was in no hurry to exit the retirement home. Instead, she headed toward the residential wings, pretending to simply be exploring the grounds. She needed to find another way to meet with Zotov.

In the dining hall, which she entered as if by mistake, Elena noticed a nurse sorting pills into containers labeled with patients' names. A plan instantly formed.

"Excuse me," she approached the nurse, "I'm from the new volunteer group. I was supposed to join the team today, but I seem to have gotten lost."

The nurse, a young woman of about twenty-five, looked up in surprise.

"Volunteers? I wasn't told about any new volunteers today."

"Strange," Elena feigned confusion. "The director of the 'Old Age with Joy' charity told me everything was arranged. We're supposed to help with reading books, walks, just chatting with the residents."

"Ah, that foundation," understanding flickered in the nurse's eyes. "They do occasionally send volunteers. But usually we're notified in advance."

"Perhaps there was some mix-up?" Elena suggested. "I feel very awkward that I've come all the way from the city, and now I don't know what to do."

The nurse hesitated, but kindness prevailed.

"Well, since you're here, you can help. I need to distribute lunch to those who don't come to the dining hall. And afterward, if you like, you can read to them."

"With pleasure," Elena smiled. "What should I call you?"

"Natasha," the nurse introduced herself. "And you?"

"Elena."

"Follow me, Elena. I'll give you a coat and show you what to do."

The plan was working. Fifteen minutes later, Elena was pushing a cart with trays down the third-floor corridor, following Natasha's directions.

"Room 312—Mrs. Ivanova, multiple sclerosis. 314—Mr. Petrov, post-stroke, barely speaks. 316—Professor Zotov, mid-stage dementia, occasionally lucid, but mostly lives in his own world."

Elena tensed upon hearing Zotov's name.

"I heard he has a special visiting regime?"

"Yes, strange story," Natasha nodded. "We have several VIP-status patients, but the professor is a special case. No one is allowed to see him except doctors and special staff. Even relatives are restricted. They say he worked on some classified projects, and the state continues to care for him."

"How touching," Elena remarked dryly. "Doesn't he complain about such isolation?"

"He rarely realizes where he is," Natasha shrugged. "At his age and with his diagnosis, that's normal. Though sometimes there are glimpses—then he can talk for hours about his research, about space programs. In such moments he's surprisingly lucid, though he tells absolutely fantastic things."

"For example?" Elena asked casually.

"About contacts with aliens, secret government programs," Natasha smiled with slight regret. "Typical fantasies for people of his generation. Space, the Cold War, secret experiments. Sometimes it's even fascinating to listen."

They approached room 316. Natasha knocked and, without waiting for an answer, opened the door.

"Leonid Pavlovich, lunch!" she announced loudly. "And with you today is Elena, our new volunteer. She'll help you eat and read a book if you'd like."

In the modestly but tastefully furnished room, a thin old man with a shock of gray hair and a sharp, keen gaze sat by the window. For a man his age—he must have been over ninety—he looked surprisingly vigorous.

"Read a book?" he repeated, studying Elena. "No need to coddle me, I haven't lost my mind yet... at least, not completely," he smirked.

"I'll leave you for a while," said Natasha, placing the tray on the bedside table. "Need to distribute the rest of the lunches. Will you manage, Elena?"

"Of course," she nodded. "Go ahead, I'll take care of the professor."

When the nurse left, Elena closed the door tightly and turned to Zotov. The old man observed her with undisguised interest.

"You're not a volunteer," he said immediately. "Too purposeful a gaze. And too tense. Who are you really?"

"My name is Elena Svetlova," she decided not to waste time on pretenses. "I'm investigating the circumstances of historian Valentin Kornev's death, who was studying the 'Zarya-7' project. And I very much need your help, Professor."

Zotov froze, his gaze becoming vacant.

"I don't know any Kornev," he mumbled. "Or any 'Zarya-7'. You're mistaken."

Elena noticed the sudden change. Just now the old man had been sharp and collected, but now he seemed to have fallen into the dementia the nurse had mentioned.

"Leonid Pavlovich," she leaned toward him, "I know you worked with the sample obtained from 'Object X'. I was in Zvezdny-45, saw your laboratory, heard your recordings. And I know about the return."

The last words seemed to serve as a key. Zotov blinked, and his gaze became clear again.

"You were in Zvezdny?" he asked quietly. "So you found the hiding place?"

"Yes," Elena confirmed. "I found that and much more. We know about Velichko, about the contact in space, about the prediction. And that the return should happen this year."

Zotov looked at her for a long time, as if evaluating. Then he slowly rose from his chair, went to the door, and checked that it was securely closed.

"There might be microphones here," he whispered. "They regularly check the room, but I've learned to find them. Found the last one two days ago," he pointed to the waste bin. "Drowned it in the toilet. But they might have installed new ones."

Elena looked around the room. If there was surveillance equipment, it wasn't obvious.

"We can speak quietly," she suggested. "We don't have much time."

Zotov nodded and returned to his chair.

"Ask away," his voice was barely audible. "But be aware: I've forgotten much. Age takes its toll, and... they gave me drugs. Erased my memory. Not everything, but a lot."

"Who gave you drugs?"

"Markov's people," the old man shook his head. "When they placed me here. For the first two years, I was practically a vegetable. Then they stopped—decided I was no longer dangerous, that no one would believe a 'senile old man'. And they were right," he laughed bitterly. "Who would believe my stories about alien contact and return?"

"I would," Elena said seriously. "And not just me. Tell me what really happened in 1967. And what should happen now."

Zotov gazed out the window for a long time, where a lake was visible beyond the pines.

"We weren't ready," he finally said. "Neither for the contact, nor for the information Velichko received. It wasn't just an exchange of greetings, like in science fiction films. It was... a transmission of knowledge. An enormous volume of information, encoded in such a way that the human brain couldn't fully decipher it. Velichko received only partial access, and even that nearly destroyed his psyche."

"What exactly did he receive?" Elena asked. "What kind of information?"

"Everything," Zotov answered simply. "Technologies we couldn't even imagine. Knowledge about the structure of the Universe, about other civilizations, about Earth's past and future. But most importantly—a warning."

"About what?"

"About the choice humanity must make," Zotov leaned forward. "They showed two paths. In one, we continue to develop technologies without corresponding spiritual and social development. We create increasingly destructive weapons, deplete resources, widen the gap between rich and poor. And ultimately destroy ourselves—not necessarily in nuclear war, but in a series of catastrophes that make the planet uninhabitable."

He took a breath and continued:

"In the second path, we find balance. We use technology not for destruction, but for creation. We build a society based on cooperation, not competition. And as a result, we reach the stars—not as conquerors, but as explorers."

"And they gave us fifty years for this choice?" Elena clarified.

"Yes," Zotov nodded. "Fifty years to determine our path. And then—the return. Or, possibly, a meeting. To evaluate our choice and... help. Or allow us to reap the consequences."

"But why was this information classified?" Elena frowned. "If it concerned the fate of all humanity..."

"Power," the old man said bitterly. "It all comes down to power. The path they showed—the path to harmonious development—would require abandoning many structures that give power to elites. Abandoning the arms race, the concentration of resources in the hands of the few, the manipulation of mass consciousness. Markov and those behind him decided it was easier to hide the information than to change the world order."

"And they killed those who could reveal the truth?"

"Not always killed," Zotov shook his head. "Sometimes it was enough to intimidate, force into silence, discredit. I was 'lucky'—I was too valuable as a scientist, knew too much about the sample. They isolated me but kept me alive so I could continue research."

"And Velichko?" Elena asked. "What happened to him?"

Zotov's face contorted with pain.

"Poor Igor..." the old man paused. "They kept him in isolation until his death. Studied him, interrogated him, tried to extract all the information he had received. They didn't understand that his brain had been altered, that conventional interrogation methods were useless. The information was encoded at the level of neural connections. It could only be extracted under specific conditions, using special triggers."

"And these triggers were connected to the sample?" Elena guessed.

"Exactly," Zotov nodded. "The sample wasn't just a piece of alien material. It was a key, an interface for accessing information. When we activated it in a certain way, Velichko would enter a special state and could 'transmit' portions of the received knowledge. We recorded everything, analyzed it, tried to understand."

"And what did you understand?"

"Enough to be frightened," the old man smiled bitterly. "Enough to realize: we're on the wrong path. And not enough to change anything."

Zotov suddenly grabbed Elena's hand. His fingers were dry and hot.

"The sample," he whispered. "Do you have the sample?"

"Yes," she nodded. "At least part of it."

"That's good," relief flickered in the old man's eyes. "Because the return is already beginning. I can feel it. Even here, in isolation. Something is changing in the air, in the light, in the very fabric of reality. They are returning, as promised. And they will seek the sample—their 'beacon'."

"What will happen when they find it?"

"It depends on who controls the meeting," Zotov looked out the window again. "Markov Junior is preparing. I've heard staff conversations. He's mobilizing resources, sending an expedition to Baikal, to the very place where the return should happen. Wants to meet 'them' on his terms. Use the contact to obtain technologies that will give his country military advantage."

"But that contradicts the very idea of contact!" Elena exclaimed.

"Of course," Zotov nodded. "But Markov and his people don't understand what they're dealing with. They think in old categories—power, control, domination. But this is different. 'They' aren't going to provide technologies in exchange for political concessions. They offer a choice, a path of development. And if we choose wrongly..."

The old man didn't finish the sentence, but Elena understood the unspoken: if humanity continues down the path of self-destruction, 'they' won't intervene. They'll let us reap the consequences of our decisions.

"What should I do?" she asked. "How can I prevent what Markov is planning?"

"You must reach the return site before him," Zotov said firmly. "With the sample. And activate it according to the correct pattern."

"What pattern?"

Zotov stood and approached a small secretary desk in the corner of the room. From a hidden drawer, he retrieved a folded sheet of paper.

"I drew this from memory," he said, handing the sheet to Elena. "This is the activation scheme. A sequence of specific influences on the sample that unlocks its full potential. We used it for sessions with Velichko. If you follow it precisely, the sample will serve not just as a beacon, but as a conduit—through it, 'they' can establish direct contact."

Elena unfolded the sheet. On it was drawn a complex diagram, similar to what she had seen in Severov's documents—concentric circles with connecting lines forming an unusual pattern.

"It's the same pattern that's carved into the stone," Zotov explained. "The stone on Cape Rytyi, at Baikal. They left it thousands of years ago, during their first visit. If you place the sample on the stone and activate it according to this scheme, something will happen... something we can't predict. Perhaps direct contact. Perhaps information transfer. Or something completely different, beyond our understanding."

"And if Markov gets there first?"

"Then he'll try to use the sample as bait or as a weapon," Zotov said grimly. "And the result could be catastrophic. Not necessarily for 'them'—they're probably invulnerable to our technologies. But for us."

Footsteps were heard outside the door. Zotov quickly squeezed Elena's hand.

"They're coming. Hide the scheme and leave. Find Vershinin—he also worked on the project but wasn't in the main group. He's not in the official lists, but he knows a lot. Lives in Kazan, teaches at the university."

"What's his full name?" Elena quickly asked.

"Vershinin Dmitry Sergeevich. Astrophysicist," Zotov spoke rapidly, almost in a whisper. "Tell him the Medic remembers the North Star. He'll understand and help you."

The door opened, and a stern woman in a white coat entered the room, followed by two men in suits who clearly didn't belong to the retirement home staff.

"What's going on here?" the woman asked coldly. "You're not one of our regular volunteers. How did you get in here?"

"I invited her," Zotov unexpectedly said in a completely different tone—the trembling voice of someone suffering from senile dementia. "Such a nice girl, reminds me of my granddaughter. We were talking about space and stars."

"The professor needs rest," the woman said, not taking her eyes off Elena. "And you'll have to explain how you ended up in a restricted section without authorization."

Elena instantly adopted the role of an embarrassed volunteer:

"I'm so sorry! Nurse Natasha allowed me to help with lunch distribution. I'm from the 'Old Age with Joy' foundation, we regularly visit such institutions. The professor seemed so lonely, we just got to talking..."

One of the men stepped forward:

"Your documents."

"Of course," Elena produced a passport in the name of Elena Korneva, which she had prudently prepared for this trip.

The man carefully examined the document, then passed it to his colleague, who photographed the passport with his phone.

"We'll verify your identity and connection with the stated foundation," said the first man. "In the meantime, you'll have to come with us."

"But I haven't done anything wrong!" Elena protested. "I just kept an elderly person company."

"You are in a special regime ward without proper clearance," the woman in the white coat cut her off. "This is a serious violation of our institution's rules."

Elena cast a final glance at Zotov. The old man sat with a vacant expression, as if in a stupor, but in his eyes she noticed a gleam—he was conscious and continuing to play the role of a patient suffering from dementia.

"I'm sorry to have disturbed you, Professor," she said, rising. "I hope you enjoy your lunch."

"Who are you?" Zotov suddenly mumbled, looking at her with feigned confusion. "I don't know you. Where's my daughter? Why doesn't she come?"

His acting was so convincing that even Elena momentarily doubted whether he might actually be experiencing a genuine bout of dementia.

"Come along," the man took her by the elbow. "Without any fuss, please."

They led her out of the room and down the corridor toward the administrative wing. Elena frantically considered how to extricate herself from this situation. The main thing was that the sample activation scheme was safely hidden in a secret pocket of her jacket.

In the director's office, another person was already waiting for them—a tall man with military bearing and a keen gaze.

"Captain Svetlova," he said without surprise. "We expected you might appear here."

Elena tensed internally but gave no sign of being recognized.

"I'm sorry, you're mistaking me for someone else. My name is Korneva."

"No need to continue this charade," the man approached closer. "You were identified by the facial recognition system upon entering the grounds. Elena Viktorovna Svetlova, police captain, investigating the death of historian Kornev. Despite direct orders to cease this investigation."

"If you know who I am, then you understand that detaining a police officer in the line of duty is a serious crime," Elena coldly replied, dropping the pretense.

"No one is detaining you," the man smiled an unpleasant smile. "We simply want to help you avoid a mistake. And, possibly, save your career. Or even your life."

"Is that a threat?"

"A warning," he gestured toward a chair. "Please, sit down. Allow me to introduce myself—Colonel Vetrov, Security Service of the Ministry of Defense."

Elena slowly lowered herself into the chair, assessing the situation. Two men in suits stood by the door, clearly blocking the exit. The woman in the white coat had disappeared somewhere, and the retirement home director sat at his desk with the look of a man who would prefer to be anywhere but here.

"What do you want?" Elena asked directly.

"The same as you—to protect the country's interests," Vetrov replied. "You're interfering in a very delicate operation, Captain. An operation that has been planned for decades and is now in a critical phase."

"An operation to conceal contact with an extraterrestrial civilization?" Elena decided to go all-in. "Or to manipulate the return that should happen this year?"

Vetrov didn't even flinch:

"You've learned far more than you should have. This confirms the necessity of our intervention. Tell me," he leaned closer, "do you really believe this fantastic story? Contact in space, warnings from the future, alien return?"

"I believe facts," Elena firmly replied. "And the facts say that Project 'Zarya-7' existed, that cosmonaut Velichko made contact with an unidentified object, and that many participants in this project died under suspicious circumstances. Including, possibly, Valentin Kornev."

"Facts can be interpreted differently," Vetrov shrugged. "In 1967, there was an accident on an experimental spacecraft. Exposure to unknown cosmic radiation caused the cosmonaut to experience hallucinations and psychosis. Subsequent deaths of project participants are explained by various natural causes. And Kornev... was too carried away by his conspiracy theory. So much so that his heart couldn't take it."

"And you expect me to believe such an explanation?"

"I'm not interested in what you personally believe, Captain," Vetrov coldly replied. "I'm interested in you ceasing to interfere in state matters. You received an official warning in Moscow. Now you're receiving the final one. Next time, we'll be forced to take measures."

"What measures exactly?" Elena looked directly into the colonel's eyes. "Arrange a 'heart attack' for me, like Kornev? Or an 'accident,' like many 'Zarya-7' participants?"

"You watch too many spy movies, Captain," Vetrov smirked. "These are different times with different methods. We'll start with something simpler—administrative investigation, suspension from duty, possibly criminal charges for exceeding authority. If necessary—psychiatric evaluation. Are you sure that spreading theories about contacts with aliens will help your reputation?"

Elena understood these weren't empty threats. The system knew how to grind down those who stood against it.

"What do you want?" she asked directly.

"Return to Moscow," Vetrov replied. "Forget about Zotov, about 'Zarya-7,' about the return. Close the Kornev case as a natural death. And, most importantly, hand over the sample you found."

"What sample?" Elena feigned incomprehension.

"Don't play games, Captain," Vetrov frowned. "We know that you and your... colleagues discovered a fragment of material associated with 'Object X'. This material is state property and must be returned."

Elena mentally reviewed her options. Outright refusal could lead to her immediate detention. Feigned agreement would give her time to escape from here and warn Andrei and Anna.

"I need to think," she finally said.

"Of course," Vetrov nodded. "You have until tomorrow morning. My team will escort you to the city and help with hotel accommodations. And in the morning, we expect your positive answer."

"And if it's negative?"

"Then you'll leave us not many options, Captain. And, believe me, that's not in your interest."

Vetrov signaled to the two men standing by the door.

"Escort Captain Svetlova to the city. Provide a room at the 'Baltic' and... comfort during the night."

"Comfort" clearly meant surveillance and, possibly, restricted movement. But this was better than direct detention.

"Very well," Elena stood. "I'll consider your proposal, Colonel."

"A reasonable decision," Vetrov nodded. "And remember: we act in the country's interests. What we're dealing with goes far beyond the scope of an ordinary investigation. Some secrets must remain secrets. For the common good."

Elena silently left the office, accompanied by the two agents. The situation was becoming more complicated, but she had obtained what she came for—information from Zotov and, most importantly, the sample activation scheme. Now the main task was to escape surveillance and reach Kazan to find Vershinin.

And then—to Baikal, to the site of the return. There, perhaps, the fate would be decided not only of her investigation but of a future of much greater scale.

An SUV with tinted windows was waiting for them at the main entrance. The guard opened the rear door, and Elena sat inside, squeezed between the two agents. As the car pulled away, she cast a final glance at the "Pine Forest" retirement home and the window on the third floor where, perhaps, Zotov was watching her leave.

The old man had passed the baton. Now the responsibility rested on her shoulders.