Sibley's Secret

by Frank Perry

building.

  Later that afternoon, Kiki had assembled everything she felt was important in a suitcase she’s found in her dad’s closet. She was preparing to yell for Chad when he walked in. She smiled, “Well, I don’t think we need to spend any more time here. Dad led a simple life. I can handle most of the paper work back home.”

  “You mean we can leave today?”

  “Should be able to leave tomorrow. I figure one more day here getting things arranged through the funeral home and finding a local attorney. We could probably leave tomorrow afternoon, but I think we’ll plan to fly back the morning after.”

  Chad carried the suitcase to the rental car and asked if he could drive to their motel. Kiki was glad to be a passenger and was able to use the time calling back to the office. Even though there were only two officers in Tranquility, one at the moment, they did have an assistant. Sherry March had been the dispatcher and animal officer for over thirty years. She knew all the long-term residents by first names. “Hi, Sherry. Anything going on?”

  “Hi, Kiki. Nope, Wilson went out to Mrs. Pierce’s house to help get her cat out of the garage rafters, but that’s about it.” Wilson Pease was the other police officer back home. He was a retired Air Force officer who’d moved to Tranquility three years earlier and just wanted a non-stressful job to fill his time. He took the deputy position when Kiki was promoted. He was much older, but was perfectly happy to be her subordinate. He had had some MP training in the military, but wasn’t really trained as a law enforcement officer.

  Chad smiled, listening to the dialogue. Nothing ever happened in Tranquility. “So, how are Sherry and Wilson surviving without you?”

  She grinned, “You know, one crisis after another.”

  Empty

  The small submarine surfaced after more than three hours on the bottom. It gyrated on the surface until the crew could attach a cable and lift it aboard, into its cradle. The process took several minutes and Ivan began feeling the effects of motion sickness before the hatch was opened aboard the mother ship. Once through the hatch, he was exhausted, sweating and frustrated beyond words. Speaking to no one particularly, he mumbled, “It’s hard enough picking inch-by-inch through the filth, but the water gets so murky after a few minutes that we could be within inches and not know it. The train should be huge, but I didn’t see any hint of it.”

  Men secured the sub to its perch and helped him down the ladder, but they didn’t say much. They all knew the mission was failing. Walking across the deck toward the open doorway, he gestured half-heartedly to his best friend. Nikolai Yazov had operated the display panels in the ship’s galley during the entire dive and was just as frustrated, but he didn’t want to amplify Ivan’s remarks and further demoralize the crew. “Tomorrow’s another day, Ivan. Tonight we rest and let the mud settle once more. Then, tomorrow we will see.”

  Nikolai put his hand on the back of his old friend and they walked together inside for some drink and relaxation. A few vodka bottles would change their mood. Ivan shook his head, “Maybe we should do another side-scan look to see if we should be looking elsewhere.”

  Nikolai shook his head as both men progressed with heads tilted forward, “No, my friend, we have no more time. We are out of money and out of patience from our sponsors. Tomorrow is our last dive.”

  This wasn’t the first salvage operation funded to search for gold from the legendary train: at least three prior expeditions had failed after spending millions of rubles from private donations, with Russian Government participation. The search for “Kolchak’s gold” was an obsession with many, but few had the financial means to pursue it. Lake Baikal was the deepest lake in Siberia, which only added to the theory that a train had collapsed through the ice which remains untouched today. Nothing of great value is ever easy to earn. This was, however, the first fully privately-funded attempt and the investors were expecting success based on the information presented by the exploration team, principally Nikolai Yazov, based on re-examination of prior data collected during earlier attempts. There could never be one hundred percent certainty of success, but Yazov had purposely understated the possibility of failure. Some of the investors were business men of the new Russian model, operating on the borders of legality, which was now cause for concern. They might accept the loss, but they might also extract a human price in compensation.

  Neither Yazov nor Khakimov had slept well since the expedition began. At this point, they were financially stretched beyond their means for payroll at the end of the month and equipment bills were now beyond their resources to pay. This was now a “must-win, defeat-is-no-option” point in the expedition. Tomorrow would be their last dive.

  Background

  Arthur (Evan) Evanoff was a professor at Boston University specializing in early twentieth-century Soviet history. His grandparents had moved to Philadelphia during the Russian revolution and had claimed some distant morganatic linage to the Romanov monarchy. He had no notion of the relationship, but did feel a connection to their past. He was on sabbatical doing research at the State Historical Museum in Moscow, focusing on original documents from the revolutionary period. The western history of this tumultuous era has tended to be written divisively and corrupted over the years by Soviet edict more than actual event records. History is always written after the fact, and Soviet Russian history is particularly contrived. Evan was planning to spend most of a year sifting through original correspondence, diaries, proclamations and town records in an attempt to write a thesis on actual events from the points of view expressed by different people, as they really happened during this period. He was raised to read and speak Russian and could often pass for a native. One of the most flamboyant characters of the period was Admiral Kolchak. Although thousands of pieces had been written about the Admiral, few accurate accounts survived, and history tends to reflect the view of the Leninists and Stalinists.

  Evan had been visiting the archives daily for more than a week, almost always alone in the stacks dealing with the Bolsheviks. This morning, he went to the archivist with a request for information about the period in early October 1919, when Kolchak announced his resignation, and passed control of his remaining White Army to G. M. Semyonov, which proved to be disastrous. Handing the microfiche to him, she greeted, “Good morning Dr. Evanoff. I have the material you requested last night. It has been busy this morning with requests for this material.”

  He was surprised. “Thank you, Dasia, should I expect company today?”

  She smiled, “Most certainly sir, see for yourself.” She gestured toward the film readers located at the far end of the first row of bookshelves where a young woman was sitting. When he glanced back at Dasia, she had an impish grin. Ever since he had started his research, the older woman had been inquisitive about the American researcher. He was forty-one but looked younger. He stayed in good physical shape, using the facilities at the university, even riding his bicycle to class. He’d run two Boston Marathons. At five-ten, one-hundred-fifty pounds, Evan had thick black curly hair and a handsome rugged appearance. Dasia assumed he wasn’t gay and would occasionally try to interest him scholarly Russian women using the library.

  He assumed this would be another one of her attempts to play cupid, but this time appeared to be different. He could only see the back of the woman seated where he usually sat, preferring to have the writing table on his right side. She had straight flowing brown hair with mahogany highlights that glimmered in the vague indoor light of the museum. Even from behind, he could see her perfectly formed figure. She looked interesting, sitting with erect posture in a dark blue dress that accentuated her light complexion. This was a girl who took care of herself, avoiding direct sunlight.

  Walking over, he gestured at the only other microfiche station to the woman’s left. “Ahem. Excuse me. May I sit next to you?” She didn’t have to answer; he was just extending a courtesy. But he waited for her to reply.

  She looked up
as though perturbed by the interruption, revealing her finely sculptured face, with captivating green eyes. She said only, “By all means,” then looked away quickly, totally consumed reading a hand-written document on the screen.

  Evan loaded the film reel and waited for the machine to warm up. He felt awkward sitting next to the pretty woman, which was unusual since he was often surrounded by young coeds. She was probably in her early thirties, which didn’t seem to qualify as a coed any longer, and, based on her careful note taking, she was engaged in her work. He guessed she was an excellent researcher, and possibly involved in broadcast news. That assumption was based more on demeanor and looks than anything else. He found himself starting to whistle nervously for no reason and quickly stopped. He was actually feeling shy, unusual for someone who could lecture to hundreds of people. There was something about the proximity to this girl that affected him.

  They sat side-by-side for almost an hour and he found himself thinking of something to start a dialogue when she stopped working, unloaded her material from the reader, and walked away. He was about to feel sorry for himself when she returned, saying, “I understand you are an American?