Chernobyl wastelands, August 2009

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The Russian president's perspex face shield steamed up as he let out an excited gasp inside his protective suit. He had only visited Chernobyl twice before, and then far from the fall out zone of the old, pulverized power plant. Both times he'd been surrounded by press, phtographers flashing, as he shook the hands of the victims of the nuclear disaster who were still alive twenty years on.

Today he was deep in the wasteland zone, accompanied by just three other men----hand picked----including the young intern Ivan, who had been present earlier that year when his leader had impatiently ripped open the letter addressed to the leader of the Soviet union, 2007.

He had received it late, but its contents still stopped him in his tracks. It had taken some months' careful manoeuvring to get to this desolate place without being tracked by either their own or the rest of the world's press.

Anything to do wig Chernobyl rarely passed unnoticed.

'This is it,' Said Gregory, as they arrived on the concrete bunkers lowest level. He bit a green button beside the thirty centimimetre thick iron door and to everyone's suprise, it worked.

'Hes been here for thirty two years?' Muttered the president. 'Just waiting for me?'

'In the depth if his best research,' smiled Gregory.

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