13

July 6, 2007
The Mountains of Central Pennsylvania

The rush of water was coming closer, and Marina felt her adrenaline spike and a welcome wave of energy surge through her limbs.

Leveraging her toes, bent and aching inside her sturdy boots, she scooted backward. Knees, hipbones, elbows; shimmying, zigzagging, squirming through the narrow passageway, canting from side to side, half-rolling, grunting and groaning, she worked them back through the tunnel.

A fear that had never been with her before, a tense closeness from confinement, worked into her consciousness. Marina shook her head suddenly as if to throw it off, and her helmet banged against the side of the tunnel. She heard a pop! and everything went horribly black.

Not dark, not the darkness of the middle of the night, where, if you stared long enough, shadows began to form. No. This was true, ink-black nothingness.

No daylight, no illumination however faint, to allow her eyes to adjust to the light.

Just black. Like someone had wrapped her head to toe in black construction paper.

Cold swept over her. Pitch darkness, in a cave. Water rushing in.

She had to ignore the chill that came from the inside out. Marina took the chance and let go of one of Dennis’s hands. Gingerly, she pulled her own hand toward her body, barely able to bend her elbow in the narrow space to bring her arm back to her side where she needed to pull her extra light from her ride-side belt clip.

Maneuvering that move wasted precious seconds, and was nearly as difficult as bringing Strand through the tunnel. At last, she grasped the light, pulled it from her belt, and switched it on. With that in her hand, she could only hold onto one of Dennis’s hands now ….unless she continued to move in solid darkness.

Solid darkness. She could do that. There wasn’t anywhere to go but through the tunnel ….

Marina crabbed herself backward, craning half-around on her side, curling back to spear the light through the tunnel behind her, just to see where she was going to be navigating in the pitch dark ….and suddenly she saw it.

She’d forgotten!

The one part of Close Knocks that could save them!

Marina gauged the distance, feeling her breath slow. She could do it. She would do it.

And she had to; for that steaming sound of water pouring through the area was filling her ears. Getting louder. Soon it would fill this small tunnel, smashing them against the walls, slamming them into the low ceiling, carrying their bodies.

Clipping the waterproof flashlight, still lit, to her belt, she grasped Dennis’s other hand and reaching for her extra line, wrapped it around the only part of his body she could reach, his wrists; then tied it to her belt. At least she wouldn’t lose him in the rush of water. Then, with renewed strength and purpose, she began to move backward quickly and painfully. She had to get them a little further before the water came blasting in.

Six inches. Twelve. A yard.

And then the wash of water spewed around a curve in the tunnel, smashing suddenly onto the inert body in front of her, slamming into her face. She let it come. It picked her up, and she allowed it to, holding onto Dennis’s bound hands with one hand, and reaching out, grasping above her head, and — yes!

She caught it!

A heavy ledge, the only part of Close Knocks that actually branched off onto a second level. She caught it, grabbed the arm-like formation she’d targeted with her light only moments before, and pulled up above the rush of water.

Her weight was dragged by Dennis Strand, but Marina was able to use her feet on the bottom of the low tunnel to push herself half upright. As she came up, she wrapped an arm around Dennis’s waist and shoved him onto the ledge, only shoulder height from the ground.

But high enough, she thought — she hoped — to be safe from the swell of water in the narrow tunnel.

It was the only chance, and they’d only find out after waiting.

The water bubbled and swirled against her as she scrambled up after him, again using the force of her legs to launch up from the bottom of the tunnel. She barely made it onto the ledge; another few inches, and she would have missed it. At last, she collapsed on the narrow space at Strand’s feet, and gasped for breath as the water rose and fell and whorled below. Marina didn’t watch it; instead, she tried to see what condition Dennis was in.

The ceiling bumping against her helmet, she struggled closer to him. The ledge was long but narrow, and the ceiling low, and she had move alongside his limp body. It took some effort to tip him to the side, and then she lay next to him, pinching his nose and blowing into his mouth. Only two breaths, and he jerked, coughing. She tipped him to the side to let the water pour out.

In the narrow space, she counted his faint pulse, and the labored breathing after his coughing told her he was holding on ….but for how much longer? The rescue operation had been going on for hours, it was well past midnight … and he’d been in the bottom of that winze for at least five before.

Marina shined her light to the right, into the area that branched off from her ledge. Did she dare try to follow that course if the water continued to rise?

It was brushing the top of her ledge, spilling water over her feet, lapping at them like a tease.

She watched it, watched it, terror numbing her more than the chill … staring in the pool of golden light as the cold black liquid splashed over, surging over her shoes, ebbing back, and surging again.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t pooling over the top any more.

Marina looked again. It did look lower.

And it seemed to be moving slower.

She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and then opened them again. Yes. It was lower.

It was lower. She’d done it.

As she watched, the water slowly receded. Minute by minute, centimeter by centimeter, it ebbed back, slowed, sank.

Now it was just a matter of time until someone came in after them.

* * *

It was later, three hours after the water in the tunnel began to recede, that Marina helped ease Dennis Strand through the last narrow passage into the main cavern of the old mine to cheers and applause.

She was freezing, exhausted, filthy, and screamingly sore.

But she’d never been more exhilarated.

Darin McCarty, an EMT who had remained in the main cavern waiting for the injured man, helped to lower Strand’s body onto a full litter. The lines of concern in McCarty’s face etched deep, and Marina quashed a pang of regret. She’d done what she had to do to get Strand out. At least he was alive.

Bruce pushed his way through the crowd and slung an arm around her shoulder, crushing her against him. Their helmets clunked like two dull marbles. “Thank God,” he muttered near her ear. “Thank God.”

At that moment, flush with adrenaline, exhausted beyond measure, Marina wanted nothing more than to sink fully into his embrace, to sag against him and let it all go. She wanted to respond to the bald need in his eyes, to see what he would taste like. She wanted comfort. She wanted someone.

Drawing a deep breath, she pulled back, because if she didn’t….. “God, I need a shower — no, a hot bath,” she said with a laugh, looking away from Bruce and smiling at McCarty and the others. “With a glass of wine. And something to eat.”

And then, bed. Alone.

Unfortunately.

“Marina Alexander?”

An unfamiliar voice dragged her attention from the rescue team and she turned to see two men standing near the mouth of the cave.

They weren’t rescue workers, or EMTs, or even journalists. The pair looked cold and out of place in their dark suits and thin leather shoes, standing close to a heater running on a generator, and holding matching BlackBerrys.

“They’ve been here for hours,” Bruce murmured. “Wouldn’t tell us who they were or what they wanted. Just waited for you. Darin said they looked like Men In Black.”

“No sunglasses.” Feeling curiosity, apprehension, and some kind of dread, she kept her expression cool as she turned toward them.

One of the men looked about sixty. He wore glasses and his top-thinning hair brushed neatly over his scalp. Even from a distance, she noticed the sharpness in his eyes, and the air of authority emanating from him. He was handsome for his age, but his belly puckered out beneath the open buttons of his suit coat, giving him a gentle pear shape.

He was above average height, but his shoulders slumped in toward his chest, making him appear less imposing than the average man of over six feet. Shorter, and slighter than the tall, sturdy man next to him, he gave her the impression of an easy-going, fatherly persona. Except for those penetrating eyes.

The other man, younger by perhaps half his age, and closer to Marina’s own thirty-two, had short-cropped dark hair going prematurely grey. His body was tall and rangy, like a soccer player. His good-looking face was just as serious as his colleague’s, but unrelieved by even the slightest hint of good humor. In fact, he looked outright annoyed.

Flipping open her chin strap, Marina sighed with relief as her jaw released. It was like taking out a tight ponytail, or removing a well-anchored hairpin: you didn’t notice how painful it was until you removed it.

“Tammy,” she called over her shoulder as she walked toward the two men, who’d simultaneously shoved their cell phones into matching belt-cases. “I’ll need you and Ken to manage the de-rigging — tomorrow, when the water has subsided all the way; I’m sure we’ve lost some of the equipment, but a good portion of it should still be at the top of the winze.”

Satisfied that everything was as under control as possible — McCarty had Strand on the way to the hospital and Bruce was debriefing with the rest of the rescue team — Marina turned to her uninvited guests. “I’m Marina Alexander.”

“We gathered that.” The younger man spoke dryly, and she noticed that the bottom half of his trousers were soaked. Probably from standing too close to the mine entrance during the pounding rain.

He gave her what was probably supposed to be a disarming smile, but it had an edge to it that told her his patience was about at its limit.

So was hers. After all, she was the one who was bruised, sweaty, dirty, and physically and emotionally exhausted. She was the one who’d been crawling through a cave for ten hours.

She was the one who’d almost died.

“Gabe MacNeil and Colin Bergstrom,” the older man said, gesturing to himself as Bergstrom. “CIA.”

The other guy, MacNeil, flipped open a battered leather case to show the glint of a badge. She looked down at it, her helmet tipping awkwardly because she’d released the chin strap.

CIA. An officer in the Directorate of Operations, whatever that was.

Dad?

Absurd for that to be her first thought.

Talk about out of the blue. A non sequitir. And a place she didn’t want to go even if it was the topic of conversation.

It couldn’t be about Dad. Why would it?

The Lam Pao Archive, then. She relaxed a bit. That, she could handle.

Whatever it was, she wasn’t in any mood to be hassled. “Am I under arrest?” That, at least, was pertinent to the situation.

“No, Dr. Alexander, you aren’t—“

“Good.” Suddenly, her limbs felt like lead. She needed food and a shower. In whatever order they came. “Then it can wait until I’ve cleaned up. I’m out of here.”

“Shouldn’t you get checked out first?” Bergstrom asked.

She felt the crusted mud crack above her eyebrows. “At the hospital? I’m fine. Nothing wrong with me a hot shower and a glass of cabernet won’t cure. You’re welcome to follow me back to State College to find a hotel, but I’m not going anywhere else until I clean up. I’ll drive my own car. Wouldn’t want to get your government-issued vehicles all dusty with bat dung.”

Bergstrom laughed like a dog barked. At least one of them had a sense of humor.

He’d probably been playing Minesweeper on his BlackBerry while MacNeil worked. Then she remembered his eyes, behind those thick glasses. No, probably not. He was the kind of guy who only looked harmless. “We appreciate that, since we spend an awful lot of time in them. Blood’s not a problem, but we really like to stay away from bat-dung. We’ll follow you back to your hotel, then.”

“You want to tell me what this is about before we get there? I thought it only happened in movies where the spooks played their hand close to the vest, with cryptic comments and vague explanations.” She was too tired to spar for much longer, but damned if she was going to let them noodle around without at least a token fight.

Gabe MacNeil was obviously resigned to playing bad spook to Bergstrom’s good spook, because his reply was short and snapping: “The Skaladeskas.”

The Skaladeskas?

Damn. This was about Dad.

* * *

Marina’s hot shower would have been heavenly if Bergstrom and MacNeil hadn’t been hovering just outside the bathroom door. Talk about intense.

“Could you order up some food for me? And a glass of red wine?” she called loudly. There weren’t too many hotels in State College that offered the amenities of room service, but the CIA had managed to find one.

And since Marina had gone directly from the airport to the mine over twelve hours ago, she hadn’t given lodging any thought at all; she’d figured she’d crash wherever Bruce was staying.

Which was why she was showering in Colin Bergstrom’s hotel room.

She heard the door open and she peeked around the opaque, heavy-duty standard hotel shower curtain to see the CIA team peering into the room. “What? You’re going to interview me while I’m showering? Can’t you give me five minutes?”

“It’s a matter of efficiency,” MacNeil replied, but she saw the glint of humor in his eyes. Despite his initial annoyance, he was beginning to enjoy this. She had half a mind to invite him to join her — for efficiency’s sake. From the looks of the way his suit fit, and the breadth of his shoulders, it wouldn’t be a hardship at all.

“If we’d been able to talk to you six hours ago, we would have. We haven’t a lot of time for delays,” Bergstrom told her. Despite words that could have been harsh or accusing, he exuded a friendly, almost chagrined attitude — as if he reluctantly respected her making her point, like a parent who had lost a logical argument with a very young child.

“The short-term discomfort of you two gentlemen was nothing compared to the condition of the man at the bottom of a winze, and I was the one who devised the rescue plan. So I had to be there to execute it. I’ll be out in five.” Marina ducked back into her shower.

There was something about Bergstrom that she connected with, and she realized he was a man she would like. Respect. Unlike her father.

And she didn’t give a rip if they wanted to stand outside her door as long as she could stay under that hot pulsing water as long as she wanted to. And they had food waiting when she got out.

“Execute, and also risk your own life in an against-the- odds situation? Above and beyond the call of duty, Dr. Alexander. I am exceedingly impressed and deeply touched by your commitment.” Bergstrom’s voice carried through the cracked door, over the hum of the shower.

“It’s not in my nature to walk away from someone who needs my help.”

“I’m sure your accommodating nature would include assisting the CIA.” MacNeil’s deep voice filled the room. She noticed he had the flavor of the south in his tones; an anomaly in an otherwise sharp, solid persona. “I hope you like your steak medium rare.”

“That’ll do,” she replied, letting the water pound on the back of her shoulders. “And, to answer your question, it might. Depends what the CIA wants. I’m scheduled to fly to Myanmar on Saturday evening — that’s tomorrow!” It was indeed Friday morning. “How did you get them to make steak first thing in the morning?” she asked suspiciously, pitching her voice over the noise of the rushing water.

“It was on the breakfast menu. Steak and eggs. But the wine was a bit of a problem.”

“When was the last time you spoke with your father?” That was Bergstrom.

The change of topic might have been meant to disarm her, but Marina didn’t care. This whole situation was bizarre.

“I have a feeling you already know the answer to that,” she replied carefully, smoothly, soaping her hair. It would take at least two wash-rinse-repeats to get all the sweat and dirt caked up there, even though she’d worn her helmet, and by now she was resigned to the fact that they weren’t going to allow her to shower in peace. “But I’ll tell you anyway — about three weeks ago, I spoke with my father by phone. It was Father’s Day.” And she’d made her dutiful call to wish him felicitations, speaking with him for all of three minutes, twenty seconds. She knew because the time flashed on her cell phone for fifteen seconds after the call ended.

“And you haven’t had contact with him since?” That was MacNeil again. His voice was a bit louder now, and when she looked up over the shower curtain, she saw that the door had opened a bit more.

“I didn’t say that.” She looked out to clarify. “I had an email from him about a week after that.” Of course, the email was a generic announcement about an article that was to appear in a professional journal, but Marina didn’t feel the need to supply that detail.

“So are you going to tell me what’s going on, or keep asking me questions where you already know the answers?”

“We’re trying to locate your father; he’s disappeared. Do you know where he is?” Bergstrom’s voice came out like a flat slap.

He had intoned his announcement like a death knell and for the first time, Marina felt nervous. Something odd was going on. Something she knew she wanted to stay far away from.

“Why?” she asked. Should she care? She should. She didn’t want to. “How do you know? Even I know the CIA can’t spy on Americans on American soil.”

“Special Task Team G can, because we’re part of the Counterterrorism Unit,” MacNeil interjected smoothly. “But that’s beside the point.”

“Do you know where he is?” Bergstrom asked again.

“I have no idea.”

“He’s not been at his home in Northern Michigan for over two weeks.”

Was all this because Dad was a former Russian? From well before the Cold War? That didn’t make any sense. “He could be anywhere. Traveling anywhere. When he’s not teaching a class at Tech, he travels quite a bit around the country.” As far as she knew, anyway. She didn’t really keep track.

“He’s not. We can’t find him. Would your mother know?”

“No. They’ve been divorced for more than fifteen years, and it wasn’t amicable. She’s remarried.”

Marina buried her head under the full force of water, letting it fill her ears and drown them out. This wasn’t something she wanted to be involved in. Her life was a lot easier, smoother without Victor Alexander playing any kind of role.

But here she was, trapped in a hotel room with a couple of CIA officers. And they expected her to tell them about her dad.

“You said you wanted my help. What is it you need?” Her voice remained cool, but had a sharper edge than before. They were the CIA, sure, but they needed her or they wouldn’t have waited six hours in a flooding, 40º cave to talk to her.

Although … she was planning to fly to the Far East tomorrow. There was always the chance if she didn’t cooperate they could make it difficult for her to get out of the country.

Dammit. Damn Dad! Even when she had nothing to do with him, he creeped into her business.

The sooner she answered their questions, the sooner she could return home to her regularly-scheduled life. She was going to have to be polite and brush these guys off quickly and permanently. Without pissing them off. “I thought you wanted to speak with me about the Skaladeskas,” she said, turning off the water. “You can shut the door now.”

She heard the dull thud as the door closed. While she was toweling off, Bergstrom pitched his voice so she could hear it through the door. “Yes, the Skaladeskas. Tell us what you know about them, please, Dr. Alexander … and then we’ll try to answer some of your questions — as well as we’re able, and when I don’t have to shout. Some of what we know is confidential.”

As if she’d forced him to raise his voice loud enough to be heard in the next room. Marina had never been interviewed by the CIA before, but for some reason, she was pretty certain they didn’t usually go about doing so in such an unusual way.

She stepped out of the bathroom. “The Skaladeska people were a small tribe in Taymyria — northeastern Siberia. My father was with the Skaladeskas until he came to the U.S. to study. He met my mother and they married.”

“The U.S.?” MacNeil asked from his stance at the window. “Did he spend any time in England?”

“Not that I’m aware of. What else do you want to know?”

“Are you familiar with any of their culture or language? Did your father teach you any of it?”

“Language … well, a little. I don’t know if I would remember any of it, it was so long ago.” Before Dad started drinking, and turned into a pathetic, foggy-minded, weak man she hardly knew. “I don’t have any reason to use it. I know a bit about their culture … and I have their symbol — the one they used to identify themselves — tattooed on the heel of my foot. My father had it done when I was a baby.” She’d never gotten a clear answer from him as to why he’d marked her body that way — long ago she’d concluded he must have been drunk — but she was glad he hadn’t chosen to put it somewhere visible, like her arm or ankle.

Bergstrom had practically bolted from his seat and now hung, suspended halfway between sitting and standing, by hands braced on either arm of the chair. “You have the marking of the Skaladeskas on you?” His voice quivered with some suppressed energy — not exactly enthusiastic excitement, but something more intense and solid. It was as if his brain had clicked into gear, and now the whirring inside what must be a brilliant mind, for why else would such an unexceptional man be running a team of intelligence officers, raced at top speed.

“Yes. But it doesn’t mean anything — the tribe died out decades ago. My father and two other children were the only survivors; and those other two died shortly after they were rescued from an avalanche in the mountains. Their village had been destroyed. My father is the only one left.”

She read their faces. Dammit again. “There’s more to this than I know, isn’t there?”

It was Bergstrom who spoke. “The tribe is alive and well, Dr. Alexander. As far as we have been able to glean, they may still live in a remote region of Taymyria, deep in the mountains. Or somewhere else, just as remote. One thing is sure: the tribe never died out. Your father escaped — defected — from them thirty-one years ago when he left to study abroad in Oxford, England.”

Dad lied to her. It should bother her; it would probably bother most people. But it didn’t. She’d stopped caring about his lies, as well as his promises, long ago. About when she was sixteen and he’d promised to quit drinking and buy her a little Mercury Capri if she got straight As. She got the straight As and the Capri, but kept the lush for a father. “So what does this mean?”

“As I said earlier, your father has disappeared. Because of some recent events, we believe that the Skaladeskas have — er — retrieved him and taken him back to Taymyria. He could be in danger.”

“As I asked earlier,” she said, purposely echoing his statement, “what is the CIA’s interest in him? You obviously didn’t travel all the way here to tell me you believe he’s disappeared and been forcibly returned to Siberia.”

MacNeil took up the tale. “During the time your father studied in England, some important research data was taken from a nuclear physics lab at Oxford, and he was suspect. It was never proven that he’d taken the information, nor was it ever found … but due to the sensitivity of the Cold War, and the fact that he was originally from Russia … well, the CIA has merely kept an eye on him and his whereabouts for the last several decades.”

“So, what, you think he has some thirty-year-old data he’s going to use — to do what?” They must think she was born yesterday. And where was the food?

That question, at least, was answered by a knock at the door. Marina hurried to answer it and welcomed in the room service waiter with such alacrity that he nearly forgot to have her sign the bill. She signed Bergstrom’s name and gave the man a 25 % tip.

MacNeil pulled away from the window to join her as she began selecting her meal and piling it on her plate. Steak, pineapple, toast, fried potatoes with cheese, and a few tomato slices. She had to give him credit for good taste in food. “You going to eat all that?” he asked.

“Yes.” She slanted him a smile. “I’m starving.” Then she turned back to Bergstrom. “It would seem that you have more pressing matters than to keep such close tabs on a former Russian geologist. There are radical Islamic fundamentalists calling for a jihad against the US, along with nuclear weapons testing in Asia, and a whole lot of other threats to be investigated. So what’s really going on?” she asked.

“It’s possible — in fact, probable — that he has knowledge of confidential information; some of which is not outdated.” Bergstrom spoke simply and firmly. “We have recent data that indicates the Skaladeskas could be a potential threat to this country and others. And if indeed they have taken your father back, his knowledge could put our nation at risk. We need to locate him and bring him back.”

At last: the meat of the matter. “You want me to help you find him.” No effing way.

They nodded together: MacNeil, with his short, quick affirmation, and Bergstrom with a more vigorous, energetic bobbing. “Yes, Dr. Alexander — because other than your father, you appear to be the only other expert on the Skaladeskas here in the Western world — and perhaps anywhere outside of Taymyria. We want you to join our team — to find your father, and to find out everything we can about the Skaladeskas.”

“No.”

“You know of other experts who could assist us?” Bergstrom’s congenial smile told her he purposely misunderstood.

“I’m not going to help you find my father.” Marina was no longer hungry. They couldn’t be serious about trying to recruit her. Sydney Bristow she was not. “I’m not joining your team. That’s ridiculous. I’m not a spy. I’m a historian.”

“And a caver, a pilot, a rescue worker, and an expert on human subcultures. And you bear the mark of the Skaladeskas. You don’t need to be a spy, Dr. Alexander. But we need you.” Bergstrom remained calm, settled, soothing. Assuming he would have his way.

“I’ll tell you what I know about the Skalas — which isn’t all that much, thanks to Dad. And I’ll be available from Myanmar — by phone or email — if you want me to answer questions about my father, if you feel that will help. But I’m not getting any more involved than that, in any aspect of this so-called investigation.” She had to keep every bit of it at arms’ length — physically and emotionally. Anything related to her father.

“Why not?”

“Because I like my life the way it is. I have a great job, I have my rescue work where I help save lives — not so different from what you do, I guess, but on a smaller, more personal scale — and I don’t have any desire to disrupt or change or compromise it. Plus, I’m about to complete the coup of my career. I don’t have the time or the desire to stray from that project. Whatever you think you can get from me, I’m sure you can get somewhere else.”

She stood. “I’m ready to end this meeting now. I’m tired, and sore, and I helped drag a bloody, broken man out of a cave this morning. I’m finding a bed and going to sleep. And tomorrow I’m leaving for Myanmar. I’m not going to do anything that will jeopardize that opportunity.”

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