Or maybe she’d never open Skype again.
But she didn’t, she acknowledged, delete the new contacts that had been added to her account. Not yet.
It only took a minute to connect her camera to the laptop, then another few moments to print off the pictures she’d taken in the cave Matt Granger discovered.
But it wasn’t the photos she didn’t want Gabe to see. It was the package shoved away on the top of her bookshelf.
Marina was only five foot six, so she had to stand on a stool to reach the package—which was why she’d put it up there in the first place. Out of sight, out of reach, out of mind. Or so she’d intended.
The box was small and flat, roughly the size of a ream of paper, and constructed of balsam wood. Because of its contents, the container was heavier than its appearance would suggest, and she lifted it down carefully. Her name was hand-printed on the outside of the wrapping. Twine had originally tied the packaging closed, but she’d tucked it inside the box in a neat coil.
There was no return address, no postmark, no stamps. But the single other mark on the outside wrappings had clearly indicated the sender: it was stamped with the mark of the Skaladeskas.
For a moment, Marina’s thoughts took her back to the secret mountain hideaway in Siberia where she’d first met Lev, the frail patriarch who was also her grandfather.
She shook her head and pushed away the memory of her grandfather’s weary face, trying to ignore the little pang of curiosity and sympathy. He’d been kind to her and had even shown her affection, but he was a terrorist. A cold-blooded killer. Just as Roman, Varden, and the others were. She could have no soft thoughts for him.
But Lev knew her weakness. He and Roman both did. And here before her was the evidence.
She looked down at the package. It had been hand-delivered to her home, left on her porch one day while she was away. But that wasn’t nearly as unsettling to Marina as its contents, not to mention the message—both clear and implicit—that was inside.
Because of the marking on it, she’d had no concerns the box was an explosive—although in retrospect, perhaps she’d been a fool not to. But these men, these members of her family, didn’t want to harm her. No, they wanted her alive and well.
Her ear half cocked, listening for the running shower to be turned off, Marina removed the box’s lid and set it aside. Then she carefully pulled away the thick, soft cloth swaddling.
The top item was a piece of parchment, yellowed and worn. It was no larger than her hand, its ragged edges indicating it had been torn from some other specimen. With great care, she used a pair of forceps to gently lift it from its nest to set it on the desk. The paper seemed surprisingly sturdy, yet she wasn’t about to take any chances with a piece from a Byzantine codex.
The distinctive style of minuscule Greek script identified it as likely being from the early ninth century, and, based on the nomina sancta, it was probably a Christian text. She believed the work had been a religious writing due to the way the author had abbreviated sacred names by placing a line over the initial letters. The grapevine imagery around the fancy majuscule of the title also implied early Christian, for those writers had taken up the Byzantine tradition of using organic symbols. Adriatic medieval wasn’t Marina’s specialty by any stretch, but she’d be a fool not to have done the research to identify the text’s origins.
Yes, she certainly had done the research. And hated—and loved—every minute of it.
She didn’t have time to gaze at it now, and pulled her attention from the scrap of Byzantine writing. The second item in the box was wrapped individually in a soft, unfamiliar fabric. Stretchy and colorless, the fabric was woven from some natural fiber that had a shiny element similar to plastic—a type of fabric she’d only seen in Taymyria, where the Skaladeskas had lived.
Beneath its covering cocoon was the fragment of a thin sheet of sandstone, etched with a curling, curving text more familiar to Marina: a circular Tamil Vatteluthu script. Likely early fourth century, probably from Sri Lanka.
She didn’t know whether this particular piece had been selected because of her background in Pan-Asian studies or whether it was accidental. She suspected it was the former, for neither Roman nor Lev seemed the type to leave anything to chance. Either man would use any tool available to him.
Bribery. Blackmail. Abduction. Torture. Even death.
She shook her head, staring down at the pieces in wonder and disbelief.
Treasures. These pieces were treasures. Not just to her as a scholar, but for all of humanity—for she knew they were from the lost library of Ivan the Terrible. And, if Gabe was correct, and that library, which her family had been charged by the czar himself to protect, was still intact somewhere, there were many more left to be studied. Her heart pounded and she became nauseated with hope and fear at the thought of what it could mean to have those pieces at her disposal.
But it wasn’t these artifacts that had prompted her to reopen the Pandora’s box of temptation. It was the third piece, lying flat on the bottom, nestled in a soft woolen wrap.
Pulling the cloth away, she exposed a fragment of stone. Her heart tripped as she looked at the writings painted into the rock: elongated, rust-colored shapes. Faded after centuries—possibly millennia—but still visible.
She didn’t even have to look at the photos she’d just printed to know the images from Matt Granger’s cave were similar to the ones on the stone. Similar enough that her heart began to race faster and her palms grew damp.
But she picked up the photo and rested it next to the stone, just to be certain.
Very nearly identical.
Her heart pounding, she stared for a moment. There must be closer study, but her suspicions were enough to give her an adrenaline rush. For the drawings painted on the stone Lev had sent her were likely from the Mediterranean in the Bronze Age, possibly Phoenician…and the ones she’d found in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan would seem to be from the same people. If she was correct, this discovery could confirm what some outlying archeologists believed: that the tons of copper missing from Northern Michigan had been taken by Europeans. This could prove the Europeans had been in Northern Michigan during the time the copper disappeared—as far back as the Bronze Age.
The only question was where. Where had all those tons of mined copper gone? There was no trace of it in Europe. Not enough, at least.
Boris gave a sharp bark and Marina jolted. The water was no longer running upstairs and she quickly but carefully replaced the items in the balsam wood box.
She’d just finished shoving it onto the top of the bookshelf when she heard Gabe thudding down the stairs.
“Ready to go?” he said, poking his head in the office as she powered off her laptop.
Sliding it into its case, she glanced up. “I need about fifteen minutes. Tasha will be here in about five to get Boris—can you turn him over to her while I wash up and grab some things? She knows where everything is.”
Gabe nodded, his attention sliding over her appreciatively. “You are the most low-maintenance woman I’ve ever met.”
She grinned cheekily as she slipped past him into the hall. “I don’t think you had that same opinion the first time you tried to interrogate me.”
“Well, now, that’s true,” he replied in his West Virginia drawl. “As I recall, you demanded a hot shower, steak, eggs—and a glass of wine. At five o’clock in the morning.”
“I’d had a long night.” Marina dashed upstairs, his rumbly chuckle following her.
True to her word, in fifteen minutes she’d showered, stuffed a few necessities back into her duffel bag, and bounded down the stairs. Her phone dinged with a text from her mechanic at Ann Arbor Municipal. “Plane’s fueled up and ready.”
“I assumed we’d drive. It’s only four hours by highway.”
“And only one by air. Afraid to fly with me again?” The one and only time she’d flown Gabe had been a hectic, erratic flight in an effort to escape from two ab
ductors intent on getting her to the Skaladeskas.
His only response was to roll his eyes. “Let’s go. Once you get us up in the air I’ll call Helen and get an update.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t already received one,” Marina replied as they walked out to the car.
He glanced at her, his expression studiously blank. “I think she assumed I—uh—didn’t want to be disturbed. Unless it was urgent.”
“That was considerate of her.” Marina hid a smile.
But they were on their way to the local airport when Gabe’s phone rang. “Helen,” he said. “I was just about to call you. Any news?”
He wasn’t on the phone long, but he didn’t do much talking either. Clearly there was news, and Helen was giving it to him.
He disconnected the call just as Marina pulled into the airport parking lot. “They thought the Skala died from an injury that appeared to be a knife wound, but that isn’t the case. He had some sort of violent rash that bubbled up all over his skin—lumpy red boils, she said—that turned out to be the impetus for the cause of death. Sudden cardiac arrest, made his whole body shut down. Because the Skalas are a recognized terrorist group, the concern is the inflammation was from some sort of biological or chemical agent meant for an attack that’s gone wrong. Either way, they want you under protective custody, so to speak, and us in Chicago ASAP. They’re searching for the vehicle he was driving—he had a rental agreement in his pocket under the name Sazma Marcko—in hopes of finding something helpful in a sweep.”
“Then let’s get in the air,” Marina said, leading the way to her P210.
FIFTEEN
An unknown location
Roman walked briskly into the chamber. He nodded at its occupants as he made his way to the far end of the conference table, where a crystal orb glowed softly. The ten people seated at the elongated triangular table were members of the Naslegi, the advisory council of the Skaladeskas. But it was Hedron’s eyes Roman felt most heavily on him. The other man’s gaze was weighty and filled with antipathy.
In a blatant show of disregard, Roman smiled coolly at his wife’s brother. Then, as was appropriate, he turned his attention to the glowing sphere positioned at the apex of the triangular table. He bowed to it, making the familiar gesture with his right fingers: the first two, brushing down briefly between his brows then off the bridge of his nose in a reverent salute.
Gaia, Holy One, I am committed to Your life.
The Sphere of Gaia was large and heavy enough that a man could cup it in his two palms, but would be unable to close his fingers around it. And if he did hold it so, the heat that emanated from the orb would be evident. The smooth crystal glowed and swirled as if alive, its color constantly morphing from azure to aqua to cerulean to emerald. The sphere sat on a clear glass column that enthroned it at chest height, giving it the illusion of hovering in midair.
“Well? What have you to report, SamaRoman?” Hedron demanded.
Such a demand and in such tones was not only a breech of conduct, but a clear disregard for authority from a council member, no matter how high-ranking. There was a bit of shuffling around the table, and a barely audible gasp of surprise from an unidentified member of the Naslegi. Probably Clarista.
Roman scanned the chamber, unwilling to allow his rival—for of course that was how Hedron saw himself—to unsettle him. As if Hedron, who hadn’t a drop of Romanovna or Aleksandrov blood in his veins, could ever aspire to be sama. Roman recognized a variety of emotions in the gazes of his comrades: shock and affront, curiosity, and, in a couple, the subtle layer of challenge. He took his time to scan the table, looking each person in the eye and noting who was with him and who was questionable.
As long as Lev lived, as long as the blood of the Aleksandrovs persisted, Roman had nothing to fear. There was only one true variable in the equation, and he had already begun to take the steps necessary to change that variability to certainty.
In that one goal, at least, his determination and Lev’s were fully aligned.
“Thank you, Hedron, for your patience,” Roman said when he finished his deliberate scan of the table’s occupants. His voice was easy, dripping with the same sweetness as the honey he slathered over a slice of toast for breakfast. “Not being familiar of the way things work in the Out-World surely makes one feel out of touch, and out of control.” He made no effort to hide the pity or condescension in his smile. Along with the lack of a Skaladeska bloodline, Hedron’s biggest liability was his ignorance of what truly went on beyond the cloistering walls of their compound.
Roman, who’d gone to Oxford University and spent nearly two decades of his younger years living Out-World, easily wielded the power of his knowledge of the rest of civilization. It was he—with support from Nora and Rue Varden—who’d arranged for the hidden compounds in several locales throughout the world to be available to his tribe. The Skaladeska evacuation from Siberia more than four years ago had been smooth and efficient, thanks to their foresight and planning.
However, what Hedron lacked for in genetics and knowledge, he made up for in ambition and conniving. And since one of his sons had been apprehended by the Canadian authorities during a botched attempt to abduct Mariska Alexander, then conveniently died in prison before the Americans could get hold of him, Hedron had been even more subversive and belligerent. It was as if he believed his son’s failure reflected upon him.
Thus, Roman wasn’t foolish enough to wholly dismiss the man’s determination to unseat him. Which was why the most important part of his current initiative was focused on the one element unknown even to the Naslegi: to bring the Heir of Gaia back to the fold.
“Proceed, then, Roman,” said his rival. Pale eyes flashed belligerently. “We’ve waited long enough for your update.”
Thus the seesaw of power shifted: demand and belligerence tipping against control and knowledge.
Roman inclined his head. “As you of the Naslegi are aware, we have a two-pronged approach for our current initiative. The first strategy is one that has been in the works for years, and its commencement was disrupted by our evacuation to this location several years ago. As of today, I’m pleased to report the third candidate for what we’ve termed our ‘Amazon Roulette’ has been apprehended and advised of her position. Ms. Cora Allegan, who is guilty of injecting an unforgivable amount of chemical poison into the earth, will be released into the arms of Gaia within the next twenty-four hours. Nora is tracking her and will report on her status as needed. It will be up to Gaia and Ms. Allegan’s own abilities as to whether she survives.”
“Have we reports on the others? The other two?” asked Ballio. He was one of Roman’s allies on the board.
“Of course. Mr. Eustace Pernweiler and, more recently, Mr. Lo Ing-wen have both succumbed to their demise in the game of survival. Apparently Gaia saw no reason to protect them, and their chance at the roulette table of nature turned up to be a loss.” Roman shook his head sadly. “Perhaps if they’d been more tolerant and sympathetic toward our earth, She would have better protected them.”
“I ask yet again, Roman, the question you seem unwilling to answer: how do these events assist our overall initiative—to gain the attention of the Out-World?” Hedron’s question was a barely civil demand. “Sending CEOs and corporate gurus into the jungle to see if they survive is hardly a stunning blow to the ways of the Out-World.”
“As always, brother, your assessment of the situation is both simplistic and shortsighted,” Roman replied.
There were low murmurs of assent and support, and Roman smothered a complacent smile. More often than not, Hedron’s challenges backfired on him when he came across as shortsighted and narrow-minded.
Roman continued his explanation. “Of course the roulette initiative isn’t meant to be a stunning blow to the Out-World at all, but more of a niggling, irritating, yet powerful reminder that we do exist, and that we will protect Gaia at any cost. We have, after all, been nearly silent for the last five years during
our relocation and realignment. They’ve forgotten about us. But it’s time to remind the Out-World who we are and what we mean to do as we prepare to launch the more powerful second prong—which will be executed on the first of October. Only eight days from now. That initiative will send a violent and far-reaching message that cannot be ignored. And, finally, Hedron, I must remind you…just as Gaia herself metamorphoses in small ways that eventually culminate in a large effect, so do we. One cannot always charge in with proverbial guns blazing and earth-shattering events.”
Once again he scanned the occupants of the chamber in an emphasis of his words. He understood the desire to create havoc that would turn the Out-World’s collective face firmly to them, to have the full attention of the murderers of Gaia. And it would happen, in due time. When he was assured they were fully prepared.
“In regards to the second, more—shall we say, flashy—prong of our initiative,” Roman continued, “I have little to report at this time. We expect word from Bellhane, Marcko, and Fridkov shortly on their progress with the Cuprobeus project.If all has gone well, we can engage in this more flashy, attention-getting event—one that even my friend Hedron will appreciate.” His smile was benign, for the rest of them were unaware of the third element of the initiative. “I am quite—”
Roman looked up as the chamber door opened. He frowned when Vera, one of the women who worked in the lab with Nora, peered around the opening. What was she doing here? No one would dare interrupt a meeting of the Naslegi except Lev. Hiding his surprise, Roman nodded for her to enter.
Vera’s eyes were wide and her face set as she entered the chamber, walking briskly to where he stood at the head of the table. She handed him a small piece of paper with Nora’s writing scrawled on it.
He glanced down at it, reading the words. His world shifted and a dark shadow swept over his vision.
Amazon Roulette Page 13
