Siberian Treasure

17

Marina turned just as the gun butt smashed through the glass of the sidelight.

The stairs in front of her beckoned, and she pounded up them as she heard more sounds of breaking glass and dull thuds against the metal of the door. When the door below flew open and crashed into the wall, she felt the whole house shake.

Dashing on light feet into the bathroom, she shut the door quietly and locked it. Not that it would hold for long, but long enough for her to get out the window and down the tree outside. He wouldn’t expect her to go upstairs. He’d expect her to try and run outside.

The only problem was the window in her bathroom was very small.

Marina hesitated only a moment, gauging the situation, then, standing on the toilet, she yanked the sliding window open. The heavy metal frame made a loud, sucking, rolling sound she hoped couldn’t be heard below. In the midst of her adrenalin rush, heart pounding in her ears, Marina paused for a half-second to listen. She heard nothing: nothing from below, nothing from upstairs.

Then the unmistakable thudding of heavy, fast feet on the stairs.

Galvanized back into action, she rammed her elbow into the flimsy screen so that it caved, then pushed it all the way out. She was right behind it; up onto the toilet tank and then, just like in Close Knocks, shimmying her body through the slim opening just as she heard the deep thud at the door behind her.

She wriggled with frantic movements, not the careful measured ones she’d used in the cave. And this time, it was the metal ridges of the windowsill that bit into her abdomen and thighs instead of rock. She grasped for the rough branch of the tree, clawing with her fingernails to drag herself closer as she heard the door splinter.

Marina kicked off from the toilet, leaping through the opening and taking hold of the branch as she was airborne, swinging free from the window just as the door slammed open. Her legs dangled before they crashed into the trunk of the tree, sending shudders through her body.

Frantic inside, but moving with measured actions, she ducked around the tree, launching herself from one branch to another, so that the trunk was between her and the window, and she climbed to a higher level.

Could bullets go all the way through a 24-inch tree trunk?

She clutched the uneven bark, her legs spread in a triangle between two branches, her arms tucked around another large one at shoulder height. There was silence except for the breeze tickling through the maple leaves that sheltered her. The man couldn’t fit through the window, so he’d have to go downstairs if he wanted to catch her. Unless he planned to shoot her.

She could either double back through the house and hide somewhere inside, or climb down and try to run away. Or stay in the tree.

A door slammed below. He’d come out the back door. Any moment now, he’d fire up into the leaves.

Marina shifted to look behind her. A few feet above, the branches of another tree clashed with her tree’s. She could climb to the next one, and then maybe to another, and onto the roof of the Tibbetts’ house.

Something from below whistled past her and the bullet pinged into the flesh of the tree.

Marina moved. She scrambled up the branches until she could hoist herself to the other tree, then, arms and legs wrapped around the branch, she scooted down the sloping branch toward the trunk.

When she moved, she could see down to the ground and the figure below in her fenced-in back yard. There would be no help from the neighbors, thanks to the privacy fence she’d had installed for Boris.

The intruder looked up into the greenery that surrounded her, and although Marina was sure he couldn’t spy her, her heart kicked up a notch when he raised the gun. His aim was far off; still toward the other tree, but she didn’t waste any further time. She moved, and made her way carefully to another tree, this one on the other side of the fence, in the Tibbetts’ yard. One more shift … and she landed flat-footed on the sandpaper-rough shingles.

Deep breaths.

He couldn’t get to her now. And he couldn’t know where she was. Yet.

Marina clawed her way along the slanted roof, using her toes and flat-palmed hands to go up and over the peak, onto the other side. The Tibbetts had an attached garage, and Marina slid down onto its roof, then flattened herself. Peeping over the top of the garage angle, she looked out at the silent street. How could it be so quiet and empty on a Friday night?

She watched and waited to see if he would reappear somewhere below. Once she was sure she was safe and wouldn’t be overheard, she’d call MacNeil and tell him to get his ass back here. This was not part of the deal.

Marina remained on the Tibbetts’ garage roof for an hour before she felt safe enough to find another tree to use as a ladder. Nevertheless, when she dropped to the soft, sound-deafening grass, she slid along the side of the brick cottage, pressing back against the solid wall for support and protection.

Curving around the corner, she looked toward the street, alternately thankful and regretful that Dr. and Dr. Tibbetts were on an archeological dig in Peru instead of being here to see her slink through their cotoneasters and azaleas.

Digging her cell phone out of her jeans pocket, she dialed MacNeil’s number. When she’d programmed it in at his insistence the day before, she had no idea she’d ever have to use it.

“Gabe, it’s Marina,” she said as soon as he answered. From the sounds in the background, he was probably sitting outside at one of the bars on Main Street. “Someone just tried to break in my house. I’m guessing it has to do with this mess you’ve dragged me into, so I suggest you get me out of it and on my way to Myanmar.”

“Where are you now?”

She told him. “The guy’s gone, I think, but I’m going to cut through a few back yards and I’ll meet you two blocks away. I’m not going back to the house.” She gave him specific directions and hung up.

Fifteen minutes later, MacNeil pulled up at their meeting place, and as Marina yanked the car door open, she noticed he already had a weapon in his hand.

“You seen anyone?” he asked as she slammed the door. He was peering into the darkening street as if looking for the intruder.

“No. I’m sure he’s gone … but I didn’t want to take any chances. You’ve got that.” She eyed the gun.

“You could have one if you want.”

“No thanks. I’m going to be on my way and out of this mess before I could learn how to load it.”

“Well, obviously you’re unhurt and escaped unscathed. What happened?” He was talking to her, but looking around as he continued to crawl the Taurus down the street, turning the corner back onto her road.

Marina told him and had the satisfaction of seeing approval on his face when she described her escape route. Maybe now he’d stop looking at her like she was a bimbo. And she wasn’t even blonde.

“Did you get a good look at the guy? Anything familiar about him?”

“Nothing discriminating that would help identify him. He was about forty, I’d say, dark hair, olive complexion, nice face … no facial hair — average height — like I said, nothing discriminating. I’m sure I could give enough info to an artist for them to do a mockup. I could pick him out in a lineup, or from a photo, probably, but I was moving pretty quickly.”

“Out the bathroom window and through the trees like Tarzan. Good thing you listened to your instincts and slammed the door on him right away, or it would have been a different story.”

“The question is — was he trying to kill me or kidnap me? Or … was he looking for something?”

“That is the question.” MacNeil pulled the car into the driveway of Marina’s home, his gun at the ready and his eyes dark and sharp. “Stay here. I’ll go check things out.”

Marina hesitated for a moment, but decided that prudence was the best choice at this point. She wasn’t armed, she didn’t know how to shoot a gun, and there was no sense in being one of those silly females who ignore the suggestion of the cop to stay put when it made sense to stay put. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t just saved her own skin and needed to prove something. Nor was she Buffy Summers or Helen Ripley. Not by a long shot.

She did lock the doors, however, and slide over to the driver’s side of the car, where MacNeil had left the keys, just in case they — or she — needed to make a fast getaway.

He returned a few moments later and gestured for her to get out of the car. With trepidation for what kind of condition her little house might be in, Marina followed him up the walk and into the foyer, which was littered with glass. Other than that, a quick perusal of the house showed no other major damage. Clearly, the man wasn’t looking for anything other than Marina; or if he had been, he didn’t take the time to do a thorough search.

Marina felt the presence of the invasion like a pervading smell. She was more than ready to get on that plane and leave this mess behind.

The only place where things looked out of order was her office, and that was where Marina found a small card printed with an odd-looking symbol. It was lying on her chair, and it wasn’t hers. “Gabe.”

“This is what you have on your foot?” he asked, taking the card. The symbol was printed on one side, like a business card.

“Yes. My father has one too.”

“Do you know what it stands for — what it means? Did your father ever tell you?”

“Yes, he had one too. On his ankle. It represents something central to the people — their culture revolves around the worship of the entire earth as a whole being, a goddess. Gaia. It’s an image that represents her and her favor.” At least, that was how she remembered what Dad had told her.

“Earth worshippers?”

“Their view is that every natural being on this earth is part of one living, breathing thing: Gaia, or Mother Earth. Every tree, every animal, even every rock. The concept actually was promoted by a group of scientists in the Seventies. Have you ever heard of the Gaia Hypothesis?”

“No.”

Marina closed her laptop as she explained, shoving it into its case, coiling the power cord to follow. “A scientific theory based on that concept that the earth is one living organism — that it’s actually alive. And every part of it contributes, or detracts, from its health as a whole. The theory touts that Gaia, the earth, will correct itself as a bio-entity if it gets thrown out of balance; if something begins to skew its homeostasis.”

“I can see why I haven’t heard of that theory. It sounds like someone would have been laughed off the podium if they’d presented that theory at a lecture.”

“Actually, there is some scientific evidence that supports the hypothesis. For example, the fact that plankton in the ocean has the ability to affect the temperature of the earth by producing clouds. When it’s sunny, the plankton grow faster, producing the chemicals that create clouds — which, in turn, help block the heat from the sun … thus lowering the temperature. In other words, the organism is correcting extremes by itself.”

“You sound more like a scientist than a historian,” MacNeil commented, but she noticed he looked thoughtful. “So … do the Skaladeskas actually worship the earth? Like a religion?”

“I’d say, from what I remember — and this is from years ago, you have to understand — that it was more of a respectful relationship, rather than a worship. But, again, my memory is fuzzy because my father … after I was about nine or ten, we didn’t talk much about it.” Because he always had his face in the bottle.

MacNeil tucked the card into his inner jacket pocket. “Do you have your things together? I’d like to get up north to L’Anse tonight. The sooner you can look over your father’s house, the warmer the trail of his disappearance will be.”

“Yes. But I want Boris to come too.”

“All right. I won’t argue with that. Is he trained as an attack dog?”

“Boris is just over a year old, and I’ve begun Schutzhund training for him — a combination of tracking, obedience and protection-“

“I’m familiar with Schutzhund,” he interrupted. “He’s just a year old?”

“Yes, he’s still young, but he’s doing very well.”

“And you’re working on rescue training as well?” He slung up her suitcase and she grabbed up her duffel and laptop case.

Marina locked her door, although what good that would do she wasn’t sure. “I’ll need to get someone over here to fix this,” she commented, gesturing to the smashed sidelight. “And, to answer your question, yes the rescue training is just an expansion of the tracking in Schutzhund. Boris is going to be very good at it.”

They walked down the sidewalk and stowed her luggage in the trunk.

Marina looked at her house, shaded by the trees that had saved her life earlier that day, and felt a sudden sense of loss.

As if something brutal had changed.

Being in the company of an elite team of CIA officers had its benefits when traveling, Marina learned. Of course, they could also put a damper on travel plans as well; but since she was cooperating for the time, it wasn’t an issue.

A Cessna Skyplane transported herself, Bergstrom, MacNeil, and Boris to the airport just outside Marquette, Michigan, late Friday night. And early the next morning, they reassembled from outside their hotel rooms to climb into the large and comfortable Explorer, in deference to Boris.

His tongue hanging to his collar, shaking and surging with excitement, Boris steamed up the windows as he looked outside from the cargo area in the back. Slender in the flanks, but wide across the shoulders, he was a perfect specimen of the German-bred German Shepherd.

In fact, his parents had been born and raised in Germany, and brought to the US where Marina had picked from their first litter on this side of the Atlantic Ocean. She’d continued the tradition by teaching him his commands in both German and English, with an emphasis on the former.

He had the saddle-like markings on his back of a true Shepherd, and his coloring was black, tan, and a shiny copper color — brighter than Marina’s own dark auburn swag. And with his gleaming brown eyes and dark swatches of black over their lids that looked like eyebrows, he had a humanly, expressive face.

“At Dad’s house, I’ll be looking for anything that might give an indication of where he’s been taken … or anything that appears to be out of the ordinary. Not a small task, considering that I haven’t been there for over seven years.” She had to speak loudly, because the two men were in the front, and she was near Boris.

MacNeil, who Bergstrom had asked to drive so he could work, wheeled the SUV onto the curved, paved road. It would take them forty miles into the little town of L’Anse, ten miles south of where Victor’s cabin was built onto the east shore of Keewenaw Bay. “Why is that? Too busy?”

Even the CIA wouldn’t be able to understand all of the nuances of her relationship with Dad. Marina sure as hell didn’t. And she preferred not to try.

“Let’s just say that we’re not close. I talk to him occasionally on the phone — Father’s Day was the last time I spoke with him, as I mentioned to you. I didn’t have any reason to visit and he traveled so much, he rarely had time to visit me.” Time to change the subject. “So how’d you get into the CIA? I suppose you were a big James Bond fan.”

“Oh, yeah. All those women walking out of oceans in bikinis. That did it for me.”

“So was it Barbara Bach or Ursula Andress who clinched it for you?” Marina asked as the pine trees flew by on either side of the road.

State Highway 43 from Marquette to L’Anse was two-laned, curved then straight in long stretches, and cut through the deep Hiawatha State Forest. No one ever traveled the speed limit of 65, except for the semi-trucks that the locals deplored getting behind, and MacNeil seemed to be just as comfortable managing the SUV along the road as a local would. His wrist rested casually on the top of the steering wheel, and the corner of his mouth quirked with humor.

“Neither, actually. I graduated with a degree in art — It was those nude models in Drawing 102 that got me hooked on art classes. After I graduated, I started with the Agency in the Disguise and Documents Division, making fake passports and other documents, and designing disguises for our officers and agents.” He looked into the rearview mirror and his easy grin disappeared. “Hang tight.”

The Explorer leapt forward. MacNeil kept his eyes focused on the view behind him, his mouth a tense line. “I think we’ve got company.”

Marina craned her neck to look around as Bergstrom shifted in the front seat. She saw the flash of cold, black metal in his hand, then turned her attention to the large rear window. A black Cherokee raced along behind them on the two-lane, S-curved road.

MacNeil slowed the Explorer and made a quick turn down an even narrower County Road that headed off into a thickly-forested area. The black SUV screeched around behind them, barreling in their wake on the tree-canopied road.

“Sonofabitch.” MacNeil’s knee disappeared as he jammed his foot onto the accelerator. The SUV cranked up faster, bumping along the road and jolting Boris to the floor. He whined, and tried to pull to his feet, but the racing truck kept him off balance.

Marina tightened her seatbelt and stared into the side view mirror as the Cherokee roared closer behind them. The asphalt road curved wickedly, and, covered with towering trees whose branches reached across it, was more like a tunnel than a road. The early morning sun was fairly blotted out, leaving a cold, dark, eeriness surrounding them.

“Hang on.” Gabe’s voice spat, tense, like the fingers Marina had clutching the door handle. “I’m going to try something.”

She listened to him, bracing herself, and was glad she did … but sorry for poor Boris, who was slammed against the side of the cargo area as MacNeil wheeled the truck around a sharp bend, then swerved around off the road so the truck careened to one side, up onto two tires, then slammed back down to the ground as he finished a 180º turn. Marina realized for the first time how top-heavy SUVs were. It was a miracle that they hadn’t crashed to the ground.

The truck blazing behind them came along the black-topped road, pealing and spitting rocks under its wheels. Marina caught sight of the driver’s intense face as they blared past, then registered the stopped vehicle.

While Gabe accelerated, sending the Explorer leaping back onto the road in the same direction they’d come from, the other vehicle careened backward, in reverse, as the driver spun the wheel. Marina watched behind them in fascination as the pursuing Cherokee rose up on one side just as they had, hung balanced in the air for a moment, then crashed to its side.

“They’re over!” Bergstrom said in a calm voice. “Let’s go.”

To Marina’s shock, MacNeil slammed on the brakes and jammed the SUV into neutral. “Stay here with Boris,” he snapped, and suddenly had a weapon in his hand. He didn’t need to tell her to lock the doors, or to move to the driver’s seat.

The two men vaulted from the vehicle and dashed toward the fallen truck as Marina watched out the rear window. Her heart jammed in her chest, and the pathetic whines of Boris, who had struggled to his feet, set her nerves on edge.

“Boris, platz,” she told the dog, the only command that made sense and meant “everything’s all right.” She wanted to be able to hear gunshots if there were any. But once Boris settled down into his supine pose, there was nothing to hear.

Marina watched out the window, itching to know what was happening. The last she’d seen of MacNeil and Bergstrom, they’d slipped into some brush, melding with the shadows of the deep forest. It was silent and dark and cool.

Boris, who was too well-trained to do anything but obey, had lain down, but his head still cocked up and his ears snapped to attention. He sensed something happening, but remained in his position, quivering with interest.

Marina itched to open the door and peer out of the truck, but she knew it would be a foolhardy move. She was unarmed and had no idea where MacNeil and Bergstrom were, and what they were doing. Still, the feeling of being helpless, and waiting, did not appeal to her. It was not in her nature to sit and do nothing.

Then a huge rolling boom erupted from the upended vehicle and made it impossible for her to sit.

Marina wrenched the key in the ignition, grinding the engine, and slammed the truck into reverse. Whipping the wheel around, she floored the accelerator and blasted toward the billowing inky smoke. The stench told her it was a gas fire. The tipped Cherokee had somehow ignited.

Her only thought was to find MacNeil and Bergstrom, praying that what she would find was not charred remains. Only a few meters from where she’d been parked, around the corner, was the tipped, blackened truck with flames shooting everywhere and the fogging smoke turning the already-dark road into a hot, smothering mess.

Marina threw the truck door open and called for Boris. He bounded out in her tracks as she dashed toward the choking smoke, calling for her companions.

As she drew in a deep breath to yell again, the nasty black air clogged her lungs, sending her into coughing spasms. Still, she ran around to the other side of the burning vehicle, staggering in the smoke and tripping over roots and bushes as she searched for Bergstrom and MacNeil. There was no sign of any humans in the area, and Marina was beginning to fear they’d all gone up in smoke when Boris gave a sharp yip.

“Fass!” Marina commanded, knowing that the bark was one of recognition and releasing Boris to go find them.

He dashed off through the woods and Marina started to follow, picking her way through the brush.

Suddenly, something dropped to the ground behind her with a heavy thud. Before she could whirl, strong arms grabbed her, clapping over her mouth and wrenching her arms up behind her back. Marina barely registered that her assailant had taken a page from her book and used the trees above as an escape route; then she was yanked toward the SUV which sat, key in the ignition, motor running, just as she’d left it.

Knowing that MacNeil and/or Bergstrom had to be nearby, since Boris had recognized them, Marina struggled with every bit of energy she had. Once she was in the truck, she’d be cooked.

Feigning a trip, she lurched to one side to throw her attacker off-balance and simultaneously hooked a foot around his leg behind her. With a smooth movement, she wrenched and turned and extricated herself from his grip. As he fell, he pulled her with him, and they tumbled to the rough ground, smashing into a sturdy bush.

Now they were face to face, and Marina got a close look at him as he whipped her around, slamming her back onto the ground under his considerable weight. It was not the same man who’d invaded her home, and in the midst of their tussle, Marina felt a stab of renewed anger that there was yet another man who wished her harm.

He had her wrists and slammed them to the ground, then twisted expertly so that she rolled to the side and he had her hands imprisoned at the base of her waist.

Marina heard Boris before he leaped, bounding through the brush, and felt his weight as he landed on the back of her assailant. The man shrieked and released her immediately, turning to attempt to fend off the dog, which had turned from a docile, happy pooch to a feral, red-eyed, snarling mass of anger.

As she scrambled to her feet, Marina heard the shouts from MacNeil and Bergstrom as they crashed back through the underbrush. “Boris, aus!” She commanded him to release the man while readying a heavy stick in her grip … just in case he tried to dash away.

“Marina!” MacNeil limped up, then stomped to a halt between her and her attacker. He brandished his weapon, but one look at Boris crouching and snarling over the bloodied assailant, and his stance relaxed. “Well, I guess you’ve got everything under control.” His glance brushed over her, certainly noticing the leaves and twigs that clung to her clothing and hair, and the scratches along the side of her face, but he made no further comment.

Bergstrom, who was obviously not as used to being on field operations, arrived in MacNeil’s wake, and pulled a pair of handcuffs from the glove compartment of the Explorer. He started toward the dog and his prey, but stopped when Boris whipped his face up to glare at him. Just one corner of his lip lifted, but that was enough.

“Boris, hier,” Marina commanded, and the Shepherd immediately trotted to her side, leaving Bergstrom free to restrain the assailant. She crouched to lather affection and praise on her dog, realizing yet again the value in having him with her.

Bergstrom recognized it as well, and, moments later, commented as he slid into the passenger’s seat. “One of them got away, but thanks to Boris, we’ve got one — and you’re still in one piece. Good call on bringing him along.”

Marina throbbed all along her left side, where she’d thudded to the ground, the soft side of her abdomen landing squarely over a protruding tree root. She was going to have black and blue all along there; worse than the time she’d become twisted in a tight passageway in a remote cave in North Carolina and had had to be pulled out. “Boris will get a special treat tonight.”

“We’ll drop our friend here off at the local police station, and then continue our way to your father’s home in Pointe Abbeye. He may be able to wring some information out of him before we return.”

Marina rather doubted that, but she kept her opinion to herself. “How did they know we were coming along here?” she asked, more interested in preventing another attack. Two in less than twenty-four hours, thanks to her father and the CIA.

“Logic, I suppose. When you foiled your visitor’s attempts to kidnap you yesterday, they probably figured our next move would be a return to the scene of the other crime. Yesterday. They’re pretty blasted determined. You’ve already been attacked twice — in less than twenty-four hours.”

“Yes, I’m quite aware of that. I’d like to thank you once again for dragging me into this.”

At that, Bergstrom turned to look back at her. “You’re wrong. If it weren’t for us, Dr. Alexander, you’d have no idea what was going on and you’d probably have opened the door to that guy yesterday.”

“I have better instincts than that. I do know one thing. If it weren’t for the CIA, I’d still be in Ann Arbor packing for my trip.” She settled back in her seat, folding her arms over her middle. Took a deep breath. She’d be on a plane to Mandalay in less than twelve hours. “And why are you so sure they were after kidnapping me and not plugging me with a bullet?”

“Rubber bullets.” MacNeil glanced at her in the rearview mirro. “I checked out the ones outside your house. They weren’t meant to kill you; just slow you down a little.”

“I feel so much better now.”

Marina felt the tension that had gathered in the back of her shoulders and neck and wished for the hundredth time she’d already been on her way to the Far East before the CIA found her.

Was even Myanmar far enough away?

She was being shot at, assaulted, and she was going to have to visit Dad’s house and search through everything. She’d done such a good job of moving on, dealing with having a non-father in her life, and now she was going to have to immerse herself in those banned emotions. Her stomach hurt.

The sooner she got it over, the better.

Another fifteen minutes, and they were on their way back on track to Victor Alexander’s small log cabin nestled deep in the woods, on a bluff overlooking Lake Superior. When the truck eased to a halt at the end of the curving drive, Marina hesitated before stepping down from the running board.

The hair at the back of her neck prickled, and she felt her pulse kick up. Either she was inexplicably nervous about what secrets she might find inside her father’s home … or her instincts were at work, warning her to be cautious — or, perhaps, to turn tail and run.

Of course, that wasn’t an option, so Marina called for Boris to come, and watched the dog as he dropped to the ground at her feet. Instantly, Boris came to attention, his ears straight up — not pointed forward, which was a good sign — and his tail raised but still.

MacNeil watched in open curiosity, obviously respectful of the dog’s non-human instincts. He slid the gun from the back of his waistband and met Marina’s eyes, giving her the wordless signal to let the canine assess the situation.

It was a damn good thing they hesitated, for Boris suddenly froze and his ears snapped forward, then laid back flat and he whined, ramming his nose into his mistress’s leg, then dashing toward the open door of the SUV.

“Get in the truck!” Marina yelled, a split second before Boris moved. She vaulted herself back into the vehicle in Boris’s wake. Bergstrom hadn’t climbed out, and MacNeil was already moving. Their doors slammed shut in perfect unison.

Fast with the keys, MacNeil had the engine turning over before he’d even settled in his seat, but he didn’t have enough time to even shift the truck into gear before the little log cabin exploded into a rolling inferno.