Sanskrit Cipher: A Marina Alexander Adventure

by C. M. Gleason

  “I don’t know. I’m wondering if I might have to go to Ladakh so I can see her in her habitat. Do you want to see her?” He mainly asked because he simply couldn’t wait to show someone else the gorgeousness of this delicate and petite Apis bee—and also so he would have an excuse to look at her again. In honor of Tina, Patty, and Jill, he knew he had to notify the authorities first before locking himself away in a lab, or—better yet—heading to Ladakh to see the sweetie live and in person. And then he could take his time with the beauty.

  “Sure. I should take a picture for the report anyway,” she said.

  “There are a few other items in the box as well—which, if you notice, was mailed from Paris to someone here in Chicago over a hundred years ago,” Eli said, carefully setting the container on the table.

  “With the bee in it?” Darrow lifted her brow once more. “A hundred years ago?”

  “Yes. As far as I can tell, anyway. There are a few other things in the box that might explain why.” He’d barely looked at them because he only had eyes for the lovely little Apis.

  With reverence and care, he opened the shipping box and flipped up the lid of the smaller, more decorative container. It looked like a vintage French cigar or cigarette box.

  From that box, he removed the small drinking glass he’d borrowed from his hotel room. It contained—protected—the wadded-up mass of cotton and tissue he’d used to wrap up what he’d begun to think of as the Apis patricia. Carefully he unrolled the packet until he revealed the specimen and let her tumble onto the pad of white paper—the better to show off her colors and the delicate formation of her wings.

  To his delight, Darrow took a really good look at the beauty, turning the paper around so she could view A. patricia from all angles, even carefully lifting it to bring it closer to her eyes.

  “It’s small. But look at the colors!” Darrow lifted her eyes to meet Eli’s. “The stripes are like a Montana rose-gold.”

  “I know,” he said, delighted that she’d noticed the unusual coloring. “Chocolate mocha and rose-gold. I don’t know of any other Apis bee that has that pinkish-magenta-gold coloring. And yes, she’s small for an Apis—which isn’t surprising if she comes from northern India or Nepal. It’s colder there, and they have limited resources.”

  “You keep calling it a she…how can you tell it’s female? Don’t bees just have one queen?” Darrow scrutinized him with her dark hazel eyes.

  Eli’s cheeks heated a little. “Oh, all insects are ‘she’ to me, just naturally—like all ships are female?—until or unless I determine their sex. And although there’s only one queen per hive, all of the worker bees are female. The males—the drones—just sit around eating and waiting to get laid. And then they die.”

  “Well, at least they die happy—presumably.” Darrow set the bee back onto her nest of cotton wadding after giving the insect far less attention than she warranted. “What else is in the box? And what did you say about it coming from India or Nepal? Why would a bee be inside a box shipped from Paris a hundred years ago?”

  “From what I’ve been able to gather—without actually looking at Patty’s notes—my doctoral student came upon this same novel Apis species in Ladakh. She was pretty excited about it and mentioned its unusual coloring in the note to me about changing her thesis. I believe—because there’s simply no way there are two different Apis bees, especially with that coloring, that are causing all of this havoc and…and espionage, sneaking around and killing people—I believe it has to be the same bee.”

  “But I don’t understand how it could have become trapped in this box from Paris.”

  “She wasn’t alive when she was packed up and sent overseas. Look—there’s a pin and the small block of wood on which she was mounted, so that indicates she must have been put in the box purposely. I can only surmise that this particular specimen somehow made its way from India or Nepal to Paris, where this Nicolas Notovitch packaged it up with the other things in that box and shipped them here to someone named Alexina Donovan—and I suspect that Jill Fetzer obtained it through some family connection.”

  Darrow nodded. “All right. What else is in the box that can help explain why people are—apparently—willing to kill for this bee?” She lifted her gaze suddenly. “For a dead bee. Why do they care about a bee that’s been dead for a century? This is bizarre.”

  Eli shook his head. “I don’t have the answer to that—yet. But once I get a chance to fully examine her, I might have a better idea.”

  “While I’m fully aware of the problems with honeybees in our country, and elsewhere around the world, that they’re dying out for no apparent reason—”

  “Well, there are reasons. Most honeybee species have been brought over here from Europe and are what we call managed colonies—basically, honeybee farms. Often they’re mobile—the colonies are moved from place to place depending on season and crop to do the pollinating. We do know some things about what causes CCD—er, colony collapse disorder—which is when all the bees in a colony are dead except the queen and some immature bees, so therefore it can’t function and dies out. There’s no single cause of CCD, but in recent years we have seen a decrease in incidents. But more concerning to me is that there’s been a nearly fifty percent decrease in the habitat of bumblebees here in North America, which means even bees in the wild—those who are native here—are having a difficult time existing.” As Helen’s eyes were beginning to look a little hazy, he decided to stop there, though of course he could have gone on for hours.

  She gave him a weak smile. “My point is: in light of the problems with hive collapse and the rest of it—the endangerment of bees and so on…could that be a reason someone wants this particular bee? Some ecoterror—” She stopped suddenly, sharply, and their eyes met.

  “Ecoterrorist,” Eli finished for her.

  Neither of them needed to say what they were both clearly thinking, since it had been the Skaladeskas—the most dangerous of all ecoterrorists—that had brought them together on the cuprobeus beetle threat.

  She released a long, slow breath. “It’s all speculation at this point—at least until you finish your examination and assessment of the bee. You said you need a lab?”

  He nodded. “I was going to ask Jill Fetzer to get me into a lab here at U of C, but under the circumstances…” He grimaced.

  “I can get you into a lab here,” she said. “But it might not be set up for what you need. We don’t generally dissect or examine bugs—insects, I mean.” Her lips twitched in a smile; clearly she remembered their previous conversations.

  “I appreciate that, but I think I’m going to see if Dr. Alexander can get me access to an entomology lab in Ann Arbor. She’s on staff at Michigan, as you probably remember. She might be able to help with other things as well.”

  Darrow nodded, but her expression was grim. She understood exactly what he wasn’t saying for the benefit of the recording she was making—and to her credit, she didn’t push him to verbalize the fact that Marina was a direct connection to the Skaladeskas.

  If they were somehow involved, she’d either know or be able to find out more.

  “All right. What else is in here?” Agent Darrow turned her attention to Jill Fetzer’s box. When she looked in the package and saw the smaller box inside it, her eyes grew wide. “Oh my God…is this an original Mucha cigarette box?”

  Eli looked up from gazing in adoration on his new entomological love. “Whatever it is, it sounds important.”

  “Not important so much as beautiful—and probably worth a tidy sum of money. It’s in perfect condition. Look at those colors.”

  While Eli couldn’t deny that the image printed on the box was lovely—a woman dressed in flowing clothing, with all of its sinuous curves and feminine and floral details—his attention kept returning to the patricia.

  Darrow carefully removed one item after the other from inside the cigarette box: a thick sheaf of papers, tied together with an old string. A small clay pot tha
t appeared to have been sealed a long time ago. And a single sheet of paper that was the cover letter.

  “I don’t read French,” said Eli, gesturing to the latter. “So I didn’t get very far with that.”

  “I do,” replied Darrow as she scrutinized the enclosure. “But this is old and very difficult to read. Still, I can make out a few words here and there… Mind if I make a copy of this—all of this?”

  “Sure,” Eli replied.

  The special agent picked up the phone on the table and called for an admin to make the copies. Then she turned her attention to the petite clay pot.

  It was about the size of a small jar of fancy, expensive French mustard—maybe six or eight ounces. It was formed from clay in an unpainted dung color. The top of the pot had a crude handle made from a small chopstick-thick stick about two inches long. It had been stuck through two nubs of clay. Darrow pulled gingerly on the handle, but it didn’t open the jar.

  “I don’t want to break it,” she said, lifting the pot to eye level. She turned it around in her hands, examining it from all sides. “It’s sealed pretty tightly—with wax or maybe some sort of adhesive. But it looks really old. Much older than 1897. And there’s marking engraved on it—I think it might be writing rather than decorative markings.”

  “Agreed. That’s why I wanted to contact Dr. Alexander. She’s an historian with an expertise in epigraphy—old texts,” he said. “Kill two birds with one stone, if you will.”

  Darrow nodded, then lifted the pot near her ear and shook it gently. “Nothing moving inside; no rattling.” She sniffed the clay. “It smells old and earthy.” Then she looked at Eli. “You’ll let me know what Dr. Alexander says.”

  He nodded. “Of course. I’m not a fan of nearly being killed, you know.” Then he frowned. “From a law enforcement perspective, do you think there’s any chance there are two different people—entities—after this bee?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking?”

  “Clearly the man who broke into my hotel room intended to kill me. And Jill Fetzer is dead—I can’t get the police report details to find out how, but you can,” he said slyly. “What if she was killed by an injection of sufentanil? That would be the same MO as the guy who tried to off me. But—”

  “But last night, the man who assaulted you on campus at UIUC only incapacitated you for a few minutes,” she said, nodding.

  “He could easily have stuck me with a syringe and I wouldn’t be sitting here now,” he said, still disgusted by his own stupidity—literally walking into the man.

  “Well, there are definitely two different people involved. The timing and the distance between you and Jill Fetzer makes that clear.”

  “Right,” he said. “And one attack was lethal and one wasn’t. Which could imply two different, I don’t know, parties involved.”

  “Or simply that one of the team members prefers deadly force while the other does not.”

  “True. I’d rather it only be one party rather than two that I have to watch my back on,” Eli said with a wry laugh.

  There was a knock on the door, and the admin came in with the copies. He gave Eli a casual, lingering glance. “Can I get you some coffee, Dr. Sanchez?”

  Eli smiled back, but not too warmly. “No thanks. I’ve been living on caffeine for thirty-six hours now. Maybe some water, though?”

  The admin disappeared to comply, and Eli looked back at Darrow. “Well? What now?”

  “I’m looking at this letter. The gist of it seems to be that the sender—Nicolas Notovitch—wants Alexina Donovan to keep and protect his notes. He uses the word prueve…which means evidence.”

  “Evidence…of what?”

  Darrow was shuffling through the thick sheaf of papers, which had been unfastened for copying. “It’s all in French. It looks like a— Wait. There are photographs too. Some of these are photographs of written pages. Not French, but some other…” She picked up the little clay pot. “Yes, see, Dr. Sanchez—it’s the same writing as on here. I think it might be Sanskrit.”

  “Sanskrit.” Eli nodded. “They’ve certainly been writing in Sanskrit in India and elsewhere in the East for centuries. And that’s where Patty was.”

  He stood. “Now I really want to get a good look at this. I’m taking it to Dr. Alexander—and the pot, too.”

  Darrow stood, and for a moment he thought she was going to try to keep him from taking the box and its contents with him. He picked it up and held it firmly. Law enforcement or not, it wasn’t evidence of any crime that anyone could prove—yet—and he wasn’t about to lose possession. She had her copies of the paperwork.

  Darrow must have read the intent in his expression, and that, as well as their shared history, had her standing down—so to speak. “Very well. I’m not sure I should allow you to keep the box, but I don’t really have a valid reason for retaining it. At this time. And presumably you’ll report back to me anything of interest?”

  “I will. And I’d sure as hell like to know what you find out about Jill Fetzer’s death.”

  Darrow seemed to understand the quid pro quo, but she gave him a cool look nonetheless. “On a need-to-know basis, Dr. Sanchez.”

  “Well, I think I need to know if someone’s still trying to kill me,” he said just as coolly. “Goodbye, Agent Darrow. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

  He left the room just as the admin arrived with his water. “Thanks,” Eli said, accepting the plastic bottle even as he felt the ever-present pang of guilt over the sheer non-ecological atrocity of paying for plastic-encased water.

  “I’ll be in touch,” said Helen.

  Though he knew there was no requirement for her to do so, he believed her when she said she would.

  Now…off to Ann Arbor. And Marina.

  Twenty-Eight

  Cleveland, Ohio

  July 10

  Sandy just couldn’t wrap her head around it all. Those poor guys.

  It sounded like from what she’d heard that whatever caused those rigs to crash had been weird—as if the bottom fell out of them and everything just sort of collapsed while going sixty-five miles an hour on the highway.

  But for three of them to have the same things happen… No matter what Fil Strung said, Sandy couldn’t shake the feeling that it had something to do with that weird cleaner guy.

  After all, it was that very same day the trucks crashed. And no one had ordered in anyone to clean or spray down the trucks. Who would’ve done that?

  She wanted to push Fil over that, but he looked so tired and stressed that she just couldn’t add to that unhappy light in his eyes. He was a good guy—if a little narrow-minded and a tad sexist—and she knew he really cared about the safety of everyone working there.

  So instead of pushing him, she decided to do a little poking around instead.

  “Hey, Jim,” she said, walking up to the docks supervisor. He wore the same shell-shocked expression as Fil Strung had. “Did you send anyone out to hose down the tractors yesterday? Out in the yard?”

  “Hose ’em down? No,” he replied, holding a McDonald’s hot cup. “What’d’you mean?”

  “Some guy was out there spraying down Randy Ritter’s rig, and he was bitching about it,” Sandy replied. “Just before he left.”

  “I didn’t see anyone out there.” He shrugged and grimaced like his stomach hurt. “Can’t even believe it. Just can’t believe it.” He shook his head.

  “I know. It’s awful.” Sandy wandered off, looking for someone else to talk to about the cleaning guy. She was pretty sure she’d seen him, whoever he was—but she hadn’t paid much attention until Fil started complaining about him leaving the canister out.

  The canister.

  He’d thrown it in the garbage, hadn’t he? She spun on her heel and rushed over to the trash can she’d seen him pitch it into late yesterday.

  There it was, still inside there. She heaved a sigh of relief, then bent over to fish it out of the depths of the garbage.

  I
t was a simple opaque white canister made from plastic, with a black sprayer hose attached. There was no label on the canister, and she realized too late that if there were any fingerprints on it (wow, she was really starting to think like the team on CSI—albeit a little too late), she’d probably smudged them when she dragged it out. Or Fil had when he picked it up and threw it away.

  Still, at least she had the canister. It just didn’t make sense that someone no one knew about was out there washing down the trucks. Sandy just knew in her gut that that guy and this canister had something to do with whatever happened yesterday…but now she wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  She hefted the canister—it wasn’t heavy and was nearly empty, but something sloshed around inside. Should she tell Fil about it, press him to do something? Or should she just give it to one of the investigators?

  No, she couldn’t do that. Fil would be really pissed if she went around him. He was a nice guy, but that just wouldn’t be cool, and she couldn’t blame him. It might put him in a bad light with the investigators and the big bosses.

  What should she do? Sandy fumbled with the spray hose and wondered if she should just spray it somewhere to see what happened…after all, if it was just water or cleaner, like he said, it would be harmless. But if it wasn’t, then she could say, “Look at this!” and have a good reason to do so.

  But what if it was hazardous? She couldn’t just go around spraying shit on things—but didn’t Fil say he’d sprayed himself yesterday? Accidentally? And he didn’t seem to have a rash or any problems today.

  She frowned, undecided, and kept looking at the canister, rolling it around in her hands (remembering again, belatedly, that she was probably destroying any fingerprints. Crap!). That was when she noticed the mark on the bottom of it. It looked like someone had drawn a sort of symbol on the bottom in black marker. It wasn’t a name…maybe it was a company logo or something. But it didn’t look familiar to her.