“You know what it is then.”
“Yes.”
Bergstrom opened his mouth to continue, but MacNeil beat him to it. “If this was found at the scene of the quakes, how can you horn in? It’s a Bureau investigation. They’re still pretty touchy about domestic investigations, and I can’t see Darrow bowing out of the way for us.”
“Homeland Security’s all over the Feds’ asses on this. Darrow’s resources are tight, and if we can continue to collaborate with HSA, the Feds and the NSA in cases like this, then we have a better leg to stand on when we ask for budget increases. The biggest argument is that there’s no indication whatsoever that it’s related to the quakes. So she doesn’t want to waste her team, but if I’m willing to provide free resources … well, she’s on it like frosting on a wedding cake.”
He looked at MacNeil with a sharp gaze to ensure that the weight of his next words was clear. “This is an assignment that is extremely important to me, Gabe, in a personal nature, and that’s why I’m placing you on it. Even though Sayed says you’re not quite ready to come back.”
In Gabe’s opinion, Dr. Sayed was too conservative; and besides, he was going crazy at home every day, with nothing to do but think about what a fool he’d been. His leg still hurt a little from the car wreck—but not nearly as much as his ego—but a little pain wasn’t going to stop him. He was ready to be back, and though he’d rather something a little more challenging, this would do. It might be interesting to see Helen again.
Or it might not.
Regardless, there was something else going on here than met the eye.
He looked at his director and waited for him to continue.
Bergstrom’s sharp, intelligent eyes were framed by thick glasses that sank deeply into the sides of his nose. Whenever he removed them, two dark red ovals decorated either side of the bridge of his nose and he rubbed them harshly.
He wasn’t rubbing the red marks today; instead, he watched Gabe steadily, as if to gauge his interest. He seemed more intense than usual; or maybe it was just that Gabe had been away for long enough to forget. He shifted his aching leg to a more comfortable position.
Apparently satisfied he had the appropriate level of attention from his officer, Bergstrom leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, one on a stack of files and one on the smooth mahogany, and steepled his fingers.
“The symbol is from an ancient tribe in Siberia that still exists and continues to live in the mountains of that region. The Skaladeskas, they’re called. In the early Seventies, there were some incidents with their only known external member, who had expatriated himself to England. He was ostensibly studying there at Oxford, and—I happened to be there as well. I got to know him as much as anyone else did; he had some crazy ideas that weren’t well-received—along the lines of using crystals for energy. And he was more than a bit fanatical about environmental policies—even back then. A real Rachel Carson kind of guy.”
“What kind of incidents?”
“Some research went missing out of an engineering lab dealing with nuclear physics, and a man by the name of Victor Alexander—formerly Viktor Aleksandrov—was believed to have taken it. However, it was never found and never proven he took it. In fact, another young scientist, who had disappeared during the same time period, was also accused. It was said she had been…close to Alexander. She was never found. Later, Alexander gained entrance to the US and is the only known member of this tribe who lives here in the States.
“As I’ve moved through the ranks here at the Agency, I’ve taken it upon myself to keep a sort of eye on him, and his people—because he was Russian and because of the Cold War, initially. And because I knew him when I was at Oxford. I just wanted to make certain nothing untoward were to happen.” He looked at Gabe through his glasses. “You know as well as I do that there are Aum Shinrikyos and Kuala Pohrs perking out there, acting like harmless cults, but waiting for their opportunity to make a violent political statement.”
Gabe had first-hand experience with the clan that had called themselves Kuala Pohr—a seemingly innocuous group who followed a belief system around a leader startlingly similar to David Koresh. That alone should have put the CIA and FBI on alert, but they ignored the group until they were forced otherwise by a subway bombing on Washington DC’s Metro system in late 2004. His uncle, a National Security Officer, had been killed during the attack and Colin’s peer, Manning Browne, had been caught with his pants down.
More often than not when he reflected on the Kuala Pohr incident, Gabe wondered just how Browne felt nowadays when he looked at himself in the mirror. Did the dead bodies of burned women and children haunt him? Did he review every decision he’d made—every command, every order—and wonder if he could have saved the lives of those thirty people if he’d been a little more diligent, a little more suspicious?
Gabe didn’t want to have to interrogate himself in the mirror, and neither did Colin.
“All has been quiet until now, this incident with the earthquakes. These flyers being found there may mean something, it may mean nothing. They could simply be the symbol of a gang—maybe someone saw it somewhere and chose to borrow it for that purpose. But it’s your job to find out—and do it quickly, and quietly, because I haven’t any authorization from The Powers That Be to use resources for this. I’m afraid this administration’s attention is focused more on threats from fundamental Muslims and narco-terrorists than indigenous tribes in Siberia.”
Gabe took the photo again and stared at it, giving himself the opportunity to consider the situation. Bergstrom was being deliberately vague. No dates or reports or photos, or any of the other collateral he usually received when put on an operation. Perhaps there wasn’t anything to give.
But Gabe knew better.
He’d worked for Bergstrom for eight years; he knew he was holding something back.
He’d said it was personal.
“If it’s not officially approved, then what kind of resources can I count on?”
“You’ll have whatever you need. I’ll see to it.”
Gabe placed the photograph on the desk and looked at his boss. “What else is there, Colin? What aren’t you telling me?”
“There’s nothing else I can tell you at this time, Gabe.”
His words were carefully chosen. Not a lie. Not an admission that Gabe was right. Nearly an acknowledgement, in fact. Seriousness, and something bordering on desperation, held in his unwavering gaze as he stared back at Gabe.
It was almost as if he were asking him for a favor. Pleading silently, but proudly.
He’d never met anyone he’d respected more than Colin Bergstrom. If the man needed him, he’d do it. “All right. So I need to find Victor Alexander.”
Bergstrom’s lips twitched into a half-smile as he handed him a folded yellow paper. “He’s already found. You just need to bring him to me. Him, or his daughter Marina.”
-11-
July 6, 2007
The Mountains of Central Pennsylvania
Marina watched as Dennis Strand’s prone body hung suspended in the cavern of the twenty-foot shaft. The trick was to keep him from brushing against the side of the walls; if the hole had been wide enough, Marina would have been lifted along with him to keep that from happening. But as it was, she could only watch from below as he rose, legs hanging uselessly, bent at the knees.
Her radio beeped and she snatched it from the clip at her waist. “Ready?” came Bruce’s voice.
“Ready.” Marina moved gingerly against one of the walls, splashing in about ten centimeters of cold water as the rope for her own lift tumbled down. She clipped it to her belt and slipped her foot in the noose, then stood straight and slender. Two sharp tugs on the rope to signal that she was ready, and she braced herself.
Slowly, just as they’d done with Strand, they lifted her from the deep, dank winze. By the time she reached the top, the other half of the team had begun to move Dennis Strand across the chamber toward the tunnels t
hat would take them out.
“Good job, Marina,” Bruce clamped her shoulder. “Perfect set-up, and—“
A sound that sent prickles over the back of Marina’s neck stopped his words. As one person, she and Bruce dashed over to the vertical shaft from which she’d just arisen and looked down. Their lights mingled together, down into the blackness, to illuminate a swell of water swirling inside. A helluva lot more water than Marina had been splashing around in.
“Jesus Christ,” Bruce breathed. “It’s coming fast.”
Marina spun away from the shaft. “Go! Now! Fast!” she screamed after the team that had already started through the tunnel that led to the larger passages, and then to the exterior chamber. “Leave him and get out of here!”
She turned and ran into Bruce. It was as if he read her mind. “You’re not doing it alone,” he said. “I’m with you.”
“You’ve got two daughters and a wife. Get your ass out of here. I’ll get him out.” She shoved him toward the tunnel and followed behind.
They had thirty minutes, maybe forty-five if they were lucky. She resisted the urge to dash back over and check to see how fast the water was rising; refused to think about how quickly it could fill that shaft and rush in to fill the tunnels they had to negotiate to get out.
Tunnels they had to crawl through.
Tunnels they might, if they were lucky, only have to swim through.
Bruce hesitated for a moment as Marina bent over the stretcher to rearrange Strand’s limbs. She didn’t look up at her colleague because she didn’t want to see the look on his face. Though he’d tried to hide it, he was in love with her. She’d known it for some time. It happened, she supposed, when you worked in life and death situations with another person you admired. Or, at least, for some people.
Even if she cared about Bruce the same way he obviously did for her, she would never act on it, or even allow him to acknowledge it. And the last thing she wanted, or needed, was to have him do something stupid like risk his life for hers, and not make it out of here. He had daughters, and wife that she knew he loved.
Swiftly, aware that the water was bubbling up rapidly in the tunnel, she buckled Strand’s legs and arms so that they wouldn’t catch on the walls of the tunnel and made him a more compact burden. His tall shadow loomed over her as he shouted to the others to make their way out. As she finished the last buckle, she said, “Bruce, go. I will not have Anna and Olivia and Maria’s grief on my conscience.”
She stood and he grabbed one end of the stretcher, leaving her to pick up the other. “I’ll help you get to the Close, at least,” he said. This part of the tunnel was tall enough to run through, although he, with his above-average height, needed to bow his head.
Marina could fit easily at this stage, and with the two of them carrying the stretcher, they’d make it much more quickly. But after this, she’d drag Dennis Strand’s stretcher by herself if she had to. She wasn’t going to leave the man behind.
A hundred meters into the tunnel they reached Close Knocks. It wasn’t called Close Knocks for nothing. It was tight and twisty and the only way one could fit through it was to duck-walk the first thirty feet, then crawl and twist through the rest.
Marina and Bruce dragged Strand’s stretcher through the tunnel as quickly as they could. The rest of the team was far ahead of them; reluctant though they’d been, they’d followed her instructions and run as far as they could. Now she could hear them as they made their way through the Close. The water sound was getting closer, and Marina knew it would be much sooner than later before it came surging through the tunnels.
“Go,” she told Bruce, shoving him with as much force as she could toward the narrow entrance. Since he was well over six feet by at least three inches, and muscular enough to carry that height, her prod was about as ineffectual as it would have been against an elephant. “Please, Bruce. Go. I’m right behind you. This was my rescue plan, and I’m not taking you down with it. You know how hard it is to get through here, and how fast the water’s coming.”
They couldn’t push the stretcher between them through the narrow tunnels, for if something happened and the stretcher became wedged, the one behind wouldn’t be able to crawl through.
He looked down at her, and for a moment, she thought he was going to say something they’d both regret. “Bruce, go on,” she said quietly. “You have to go. I’ll do this.”
At last he turned away, stooping to crawl through the tunnel, leaving her alone with Strand. Fear rose inside her, just like, she imagined, the water was bubbling and swirling in that pit behind. She could hear the sound of pouring, echoing through the cave, and knew that it was only a matter of time.
Water. Her hands grew icy in her gloves, unrelated to the chill and dampness of the cave. She was well beyond that now. Air and land … .they held no fear for her. But water clogging her nostrils, blanketing her like some smooth, heavy cloak, tangling her limbs … .
Marina had to shake her head, hard, to pull herself from her reverie. A near-drowning when she was ten had given her a healthy respect for lakes and seas. She’d tried to conquer that fear; to take hold of it and manage it by learning to scuba dive; but in raw situations like this, all of her forced training disintegrated.
Bruce was gone. He’d heeded her warning and moved ahead, and at least she’d not die with his two daughters on her conscience.
Die?
Marina moved toward the tunnel of Close Knocks. Where had that morbidity come from? She wanted to get the hell out of there, and get to Myanmar.
The thought of actually getting her hands on the Archive gave her a slam of adrenaline. Poring over the dusky brown papers, the fading ink. She focused on that, on discovering something new, something that had been lost for centuries. Strength flushed through her, and she made a massive effort, dragging, tugging, shimmying that stretcher with Dennis Strand still buckled on, his legs and arms crossed over his trunk to make him as short as possible.
She made it through the “easy” part of Close Knocks, and felt her breath going short and her gasps for air covering any sound of rising water behind her. But she knew it was there; only a matter of time.
She thought she heard her name once, far ahead, but she didn’t respond. No need to have someone come back for them.
Marina pulled the stretcher into the narrowest part of the Knocks and maneuvered it through the passage she had traversed four times already that day. As she moved through, backwards, feet first, so that she could pull Dennis behind her, she heard a low noise … .it sounded like steam, hissing from a whistling tea pot.
Good God. It wasn’t steam. It was water.
And it was coming up fast.
Terror zipped through her, red and numbing.
She was trapped, nowhere to go, nowhere but into Close Knocks. Further in, tighter and smaller, but she knew she could get Dennis around those corners if she had enough time.
If she only had time, a way to slow that water.
She moved three feet, three excruciating feet.
Another two more.
Then she came to a curve, a hairpin bend, and felt the stream of sweat trickle down the side of her face as she strained to tip the inert body to the side, along the wall, and pull it through and around. Like getting a sofa up a narrow two-flight staircase that turned … but much more precarious. And impossible. She tugged and shimmied and jerked at her burden, aware that the greater the movement, the worse it could be for Strand…but it would be even worse if she couldn’t get him out. The stretcher wedged; it was too wide to get around the corner.
It was stuck.
Smothering a shout of frustration and fear, acutely aware of the rush of water in the distance, Marina realized what she had to do. Frantically, in the closeness of the tunnel, she flipped and pulled and tugged until she freed Dennis Strand from his moorings on the stretcher.
She was going to endanger his injuries further by pulling him through, but she had to take the chance—or he wouldn’t h
ave any chance at all.
And neither would she.
She inched them three more feet.
It was a little easier now that she didn’t have to contend with the board. She pulled and twisted, and felt him groan against her once, in pain, and she gritted her teeth and kept moving, feet first, belly-crawling; backward, backward, scooting, scooting, pulling, pulling … .She focused on the rhythm, because that was all she had.
The sound was loud now, she could feel the shift in the close air and her heart rammed in her throat. Her knees screamed in pain and her back ached.
How much further?
Too far. Much too far.
-12-
July 6, 2007
Colleen Gleason Page 6
