Maine
Twenty years ago
Clutching her pregnant belly, soaked in blood, a young woman stumbled into the emergency room as night fell outside the rural hospital. She could barely breathe as rolling waves of labor pains threw her body into spasms. It felt as though two giant hands were trying to rip her body apart. Everything felt heavy, and she couldn't move, couldn't even walk another step.
"Help! Please—help me . . ." She collapsed, her hands braced against the wall as two men in scrubs rushed toward her. Nurses? They had that efficient, pragmatic air about them. Sweat poured off her skin, dampening her bloodstained maternity dress. The instinctive need to push was so overpowering that she whimpered and dug her nails into the arm of the nearest man as he helped her stand.
"Save my baby," the woman pleaded. "Please . . . don't let anyone find me . . ." She relaxed in the hold of the strong nurse who was holding her upright. This place was safe—these people would help her.
If she could just hold on, stay alive a little longer, then it wouldn't matter that she'd hurt two men who'd tried to kill her. For a brief moment, she was safe, safe enough to do what she needed to.
She doubled over, the strength leaving her legs, and she again sagged against the nurse who was supporting her. The man shifted his arm to lift her onto the approaching gurney. Her fingers tangled in the soft blue of his scrubs as he deposited her onto the gurney, and she noticed the blue was now streaked with red from her clothing. He wheeled her out of the lobby and back toward the examination area.
"Ma'am, is this your blood?" one nurse asked as he cut the soaked dress off her body and began to examine her.
She squirmed on the gurney as another contraction hit her. "No. Not mine."
"What's your name?"
"Tatiana . . . Anderson." She collapsed back, momentarily unable to breathe. Only then did she realize her mistake. She never should have said her name, but everything was happening so fast, so painfully, that she couldn't think straight.
One of the nurses began to push the gurney back out of the exam room, telling her they were taking her to a delivery room.
"What happened, Tatiana?" someone asked her as she closed her eyes.
"They tried to kill me . . . I got away." How those men had found her, she would never know. She was supposed to be safe, supposed to be protected. This wasn't Russia—this was the United States. The Red Army shouldn't be able to touch her here, but somehow they had.
"Who tried to kill you?"
"Can't say . . . Not safe . . ." She'd already said too much. Her brain wasn't functioning right. She was tired, frightened, and desperate.
"All right, we're going to help you deliver the baby," a woman explained as a doctor came into the room and scrubbed up at a sink.
"Mrs. Anderson?" the doctor asked.
Tatiana nodded. She was so tired. She'd been on the run for weeks, and now the baby was coming. She couldn't keep running, not from this, and not from the men who wanted her and her child dead. She grabbed the doctor's sleeve.
"If they come for her, don't let them take her."
His brows rose in concern at her white—knuckled grip on his arm. "Who?"
But she couldn't answer him. She could only scream as another wave of pain hit her. Her child was here.
What felt like an eternity later, Tatiana fell back on the bed and listened with exhausted joy to the cries of her new baby.
"Mrs. Anderson, congratulations. You have a healthy baby girl." The doctor placed a tiny bundle in her arms.
Tatiana curled her fingers into the blanket under the baby's chin, pulling the cloth down to better see her child's face. She was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen. Looking upon her, so new and innocent to this world, it shattered Tatiana's heart.
"Doctor," she breathed, "you must take her away. She must be given up for adoption immediately."
"What? Why?" The doctor and the nurses simply stared at her.
"Please, it isn't safe. She must be as far away from me as she can be. Take her now. Do not put my name on her wrist. Do you understand?"
"Look, Mrs. Anderson, you really should speak to a counselor first before you make that kind of decision . . ."
"If you do not do it, she will be dead within a week. Do it!" Tatiana declared so forcefully that one of the nurses rushed to take the baby from her.
The child was carried away, and Tatiana let out a bone—weary sigh. That was when her body gave out and the bleeding started. She drifted away, her last thoughts on the future of her child, a child who held one of the world's greatest secrets within her DNA.
***
Two miles south of Lake Kardyvach, Russia
Sergei Razin watched his son with pride. The boy held a fencing sword at the ready. At only eight years old, he was already proficient in a dozen weapons, three years ahead in his schooling, and only two years away from entering the ranks of the White Army. With his dark hair and pale, clear blue eyes, the boy looked so much like his beloved mother that it made Sergei's heart swell with even more love than before.
"Attack!" the fencing master bellowed.
Sergei's son lunged forward and in a few moves disarmed the fencing master. The adult man's fencing foil clattered to the ground.
Sergei clapped his hands together and beamed at his son. The fencing instructor turned Sergei's way.
"He bests me every time, Sergei. I cannot teach him anything new. He passes his fencing course." The teacher collected his foil, and with an elegant flick of his blade, he saluted Sergei's son. The boy smiled, but his cheeks were stained with a blush at the praise. He was a good boy, a humble child, but smart and talented, the best son a man could ask for.
