Siberian Treasure

8

Marina Alexander stumbled through her front door, arms laden and aching. She was exhausted, dirty, and sore, but the trip had been a success.

Her team of dogs and their handlers had located and helped pull five live finds from the earthquake in Terre Haute. On the fifth day after the quake, when they were forced to shift the search and rescue effort into a search and find operation, only one person out of two hundred had remained unaccounted for.

Marina dropped her duffel, backpack, and cooler on the floor and bent to accept Boris’s ecstatic kisses. His tail beat wildly against the wall in the narrow entry-way, and though he was too well-trained to jump up on her, the German Shepherd’s wriggling dance made it clear it was only with the greatest of efforts that he curbed his enthusiasm.

“Settle down, Boris,” she laughed as he finally succeeded in upsetting her balance, dumping her butt-first onto the tiled foyer. “You’re going to rip your stitches!” He would have accompanied her on the search and rescue operation if he hadn’t been recovering from minor surgery.

Marina pulled back to her feet and, grabbing the stack of mail that consisted of at least five catalogs, jabbed a finger onto the blinking light on her answering machine. Probably a solicitor. Everyone important knew to use her cell number, because she never knew when she might be called to a rescue.

She’d left for Terre Haute on Saturday morning, less than twenty-four hours after the quake had struck, demolishing the AvaChem plant. She had arrived on-site by early afternoon. From then on, it had been four days of climbing, clambering, shifting, and stumbling through the ruins of the plant, searching for anyone who might be alive. Her own technique was hampered by the absence of Boris, but she’d worked with another canine whose handler had been injured on the first day. Now, home at last, early Thursday morning, all she wanted was a hot bath, a glass of wine, and something substantial to eat … then sleep, on a real mattress.

Oh, please, sleep!

“Marina, this is Manjiri Prikash speaking.” The cultured, feminine voice blared through the answering machine, grabbing Marina’s attention from her half-baked perusal of the latest Pottery Barn catalog. Manjiri was a colleague who lived and worked in various locations of India, Pakistan, and Myanmar, and while they regularly communicated by email and instant messaging, they rarely spoke on the telephone. “I hope you are well, and I am sorry to call you on your home telephone, but I have some difficult news. The Royal Cambodian Government has issued a statement that the Lam Pao Archive must be returned to them by the 15^th of July. This means we have less than two weeks to examine the manuscript and validate its historical accuracy before it is gone.”

“Ten days!” No way. Not now. She was teaching the summer half-term in two weeks. Blasted governments and their politics. This could only be a reaction to the little tussle between the University of Chicago and Yangon last year.

She and Manjiri had expected to have at least six months before Cambodia started making a fuss about wanting the ancient Buddhist manuscript — the one that had been missing for two centuries, the one that Marina and Manjiri had helped Myanmar archaeologists locate — back in their control.

Ten days to finalize the greatest achievement of her career? In the best of circumstances, it would take a month of study to complete the project.

And now she would have, at the most, barely a week.

Forgetting her exhaustion, she dropped the catalog and snatched up the phone, dialing the familiar number of her favorite airline. She’d just have to get herself to Mandalay as soon as possible and finish what she could.

Damn.

Just as she was making her selection—“For international travel, press three”—her cell phone rang. Marina tucked the landline phone between her ear and shoulder and grabbed the small one with the tinny ring.

“This is Marina.”

“It’s Bruce. Marina, we need you over here in PA. We’ve got a missing caver in the Allegheny North Coal Mine. Can you come?”

“I thought they closed it to cavers last summer,” she said, dropping the landline phone onto its cradle and launching to her feet. She could call the airline later … once she figured out how long this rescue was going to take. Adrenaline rushed through her as she grabbed up her still-packed gear and started for the door. She’d call Dawn later to come and take care of Boris.

“They did. But somehow these two guys got in here, and one of them’s been missing for five hours. How soon can you get up here?”

“Yep. Already on my way out the door — I just got back from that quake site in Indiana and still have my gear packed up. Boris can’t come, though. He’s still recovering.”

“Aw, shit, Marina, I didn’t know you were down there, though I should have expected it. But it’s a nine-hour drive over here—”

“And a ninety-minute flight in my P210 from Ann Arbor to State College. I’ll be there by lunch if all goes well.”

“Marina, you must be exhausted—”

“Maybe ….but at least I’m not lost or injured in some cold, dark cave. I’ll be there, Bruce, don’t you worry.”