Siberian Treasure

Siberian Treasure Page 17

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?”