Kuznetsky had been sternly admonished to bring no disfavor upon his people at this time of international attention. Such concerns as higher-than-acceptable levels of lead and other more-virulent contaminants in the soil, food and water were not to be made matters of public knowledge. Whether or not he had the most impressive of academic and scientific credentials of any man of his generation in such matters, his opinions were not to be allowed to create panic and unrest.
So, as the games of the Olympiad played out in a venue at least one man knew had the potential to threaten the health and lives of countless millions, no warning of any sort was given.
Entombed in a subterranean prison, the location of which was known to but a select few, Kuznetsky could only press his shaking hands to the fogged glass of his prison and try to assuage the ache in his heart as he prayed for the souls of those unwitting visitors to this poisoned land.
This story was written for the weekly Five Sentence Fiction photo and word prompt: ache.