The manufacturing plant rises up on the horizon a quarter-mile before we reach it. It’s a monstrously large facility, concentric rings of glazed white buildings and corrugated iron operating with ruthless efficiency. Kirill drives past the generator turbine. We can hear the massive engine cranking long after we’ve passed it.
Rolf Sunderland is standing outside the entrance of the main plant building as we park and get out, just in front of a row of gleaming windows with tinted glass. Two men stand at his back, one in a suit and the other wearing a lab coat.
“Mr. Oryolov, we’re delighted to host you at Sunderland Plant.” He grins broadly and spreads his hands wide. “Would you like a tour? Mr. Hadassy here will gladly show you around. He’s the—” “Mr. Sunderland, do I strike you as the type
