cigarette onto the metal floor of the train car, its embers melting a nebula into the frost. “All this is to
say that if you’re looking for Nephilim in western Siberia, I know how to find them. I have files on
every creature that has passed through here in the last fifty years.”
“You have an enormous field to cover,” Bruno said, marveling at her ability to manage such a large
operation.
“I’ve heard about the methods you have in Paris. They are nothing like the way we do things here.
Eno was special. I can’t afford to expend that kind of effort on all the creatures. Most of the time my
concern is getting them to the prison. Once they’re there, I’m out of the picture. I can’t imagine
spending time in the panopticon itself.”
“Panopticon?”
“The prison is modeled on Jeremy Bentham’s panopticon,” Yana said. “It has the classic circular
structure of the original, which allows the guards to monitor each angelic creature. That said, the
prison has, out of necessity, been adapted to meet our particular needs.”
Bruno tried to imagine such a place, its purpose and size. He felt a sense of professional jealousy
rising at the thought of the number of angels that were kept there. “Can you get me inside?”
“We certainly can’t just show up,” Yana said. “This prison is the biggest, and most strongly
guarded, angelological holding area ever built. It is also located in Chelyabinsk, a nuclear waste area
that has the distinction of being the most polluted patch of land on the planet. Russian angelologists
and the military are on every inch of the grounds. Although I’m on the payroll, and have limited
access to the prison, my clearance has been invalid since the beginning of perestroika. To access the
interior circles of the prison, you’d have to get help from someone else.”
Bruno studied her, trying to gauge whether her ignorance was genuine. “Merlin Godwin is at this
prison?” he asked. It was a long shot, he knew, but since Godwin was the one person from Angela’s
film who remained unaccounted for, he needed to give it a try.
“Of course,” Yana said. “He’s been the director of the Siberia Project for more than twenty years.”
Bruno considered his options: He could keep everything that he’d seen in Angela Valko’s film and
everything he’d learned in the Hermitage a secret. Or he could trust Yana and ask for her help. “Have
you heard of something called the Angelopolis?”
Yana’s face froze and drained of color. “Where did you hear that word?”
“It’s something more than just a legend, I see,” Bruno said, his curiosity rising.
“Quite a bit more than that,” she said, taking a deep breath to steady herself before speaking. “The
Angelopolis is a mystery for all of us who haven’t been given security clearance to the interior realms
of the prison. It is the subject of much gossip—that the prison is the site of a massive experiment, that
it is a sort of sci-fi genetics laboratory, that Godwin is cloning lower angelic life-forms to be used as
servants for the Nephilim. There is no way to know for certain what is going on inside. As I said,
security around the perimeter is intense, and that’s putting it lightly. I’ve been working here for two
decades, and I’ve never even made it past the first checkpoint.” Yana lit another cigarette as she
considered her thoughts. “What do you know about it?”
“Not much,” Bruno admitted. “I know that Dr. Merlin Godwin was working with the Grigoris at
some point, and may still be, but that’s about as far as it goes.”
“Have you looked up his profile?” Yana asked
“No, unfortunately, I haven’t,” Bruno replied.
Yana rolled her eyes, as if to say that there was no point in going any further without doing what
every angel hunter knew to be the first step.
“Honestly,” Bruno said, feeling his skin burn. “I haven’t had the chance.”
Yana pulled a laptop from her backpack and opened it on the floor in the corridor.
“Our network isn’t as high-tech as the one you have, I’m sure, but I have access to it. If there’s
anything here about Godwin, we’ll know.”
Bruno watched as Yana logged into the Russian society’s network and began searching through an
angelological database that seemed to spit out everything from enemy profiles to security events to
society personnel.
Yana played around for a few minutes. Then, after a flurry of typing, a profile for Merlin Branwell
Godwin appeared on the screen, as clear and concise as Eno’s profile had been on his smartphone.