Colleen Gleason

by Siberian Treasure

  “You are awake.” His voice, smooth, carried a breath of an accent that she couldn’t place; it wasn’t American, yet he spoke English perfectly. “I can remove this now.”

  Listing to one side, he bent down next to her bed. Junie became aware of the soft rumbling sound only when it stopped. Then the man reached over and gently plucked the curving plastic from her nose. His face was illuminated for one instant.

  “Who are you?” Junie was surprised that her voice came out easily.

  “The only person who could help you. And now you will recover completely.” He wrapped the long, slim plastic cord around his wrist and tucked it into his pocket; bent to lift a small machine.

  “I don’t remember what happened—the oil spill.” Suddenly, she remembered, and the impossibility of it shocked her anew. “It … disappeared.”

  “It did indeed. You happened upon the scene too soon after the cure was applied. I am sorry for that; but you will recover completely now.”

  “But … how? And who are you?”

  But he did not answer; instead, he turned and slipped out the door.

  -15-

  July 7, 2007

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  Hamid al-Jubeir normally preferred to keep his investigations civilized. He didn’t stoop to the fright tactics of some of his peers by threatening bodily harm, or worse, to people he believed could assist him in his work as an inducement for their cooperation.

  But the assistant to Israt Medivir challenged Hamid’s lofty ideals.

  The man was dumb as a roach, ready to slip with his fogged brain into a dark corner at the earliest opportunity. Hamid had had him into his office twice since discovering Medivir’s oil-infested body. And each time, he was certain that the man, Konal, had something to hide.

  And perhaps something to share.

  Finally, frustrated beyond courtesy, Hamid gave up all pretense of civility and rounded on the slender man.

  “I do not care if you took riyals from the dead man’s pocket, or if you stole his business secrets! You must have something more you can tell me about your master’s visitor.”

  Konal’s eyes popped in his stolid face. Hamid realized he’d struck the nerve he’d been hoping for, and he lowered his voice into one that hinted of menace. “If you do not recall what it is I know you are hiding, I will set my colleagues of the muhabarith on you to find out where and how you came into a sudden fortune.”

  The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed in a long slender throat the color of mahogany. “I have already told you what the man looked like. Your artist drew a picture that looked very like him.”

  “Yes … and there is more. Did he … .” Hamid’s voice trailed off as a thought struck him, then lifted. “He did not give his name, nor did he have an appointment. Did he perhaps have any identification on him? Or provide a calling card of some type?”

  The wary look disappeared from Konal’s face. “A card. He did have a card.”

  “And what happened to that card? What did it say on it?”

  “I did not think anything of it, for it had no writing on it. Just a symbol. An odd symbol that I had not ever seen before.”

  At last. “What did it look like? Can you draw it? Where is the card?”

  “I may still have it.”

  Hamid resisted the urge to throttle the man in front of him. The Qu’ran made it clear that violence was not a solution. Still. “Where might it be if you still had it?” He forced his voice to be slow and low and calm, and tried not to think that nearly a week had passed since he’d found Medivir’s body, and that this balid had sat on important information through two other interviews.

  Thank Allah that Hamid knew people, and knew when something was missing, and knew when to push.

  To his complete astonishment, Konal reached into his thobe and pulled out a flat black billfold, opened it, and thumbed out a card.

  A business card.

  It was blank on one side and on the other, just as Konal had described, was a black symbol. Nothing else.

  Hamid had never seen anything like it before.

  But he was certain that somewhere in the world, someone had. Where one murder happened, another followed … and may just as likely have been after a previous one.

  He snatched the card from Konal and called for his assistant to take the absurd, thieving man from his office. Before he strangled him.

  And then he got on his computer and started emailing every contact he had in every law enforcement precinct around the world.

  Someone would know something about that symbol.

  -16-

  July 7, 2007

  Ann Arbor, Michigan

  “Bergstrom isn’t one to make idle threats, but he’s also not one to make any threats at all if he doesn’t need to,” Gabe MacNeil said to Marina as he eased the government-issue Taurus down Main Street, Ann Arbor, where she lived. He’d never been to the university town himself, but had heard enough about it, and was enough of a Big Ten fan, to want to take a spin past Michigan Stadium. The Big House. It almost made it worth having to bring her home, if only temporarily.

  “Idle threat or not, he made it. He’s eliminated any voluntary help I might have provided now or in the future. I’m not going to be going out of my way for Colin Bergstrom.”

  Marina’s short, messy hair tossed in the breeze of the open window. She flattened it with the palm of her hand, smashing it down, apparently heedless of any formal style. Despite her black expression, she was a great package: with her pointed chin and wide, sensual mouth, round, apple-sized breasts and long, slender legs. Her features had a trace of the exotic, with almond-shaped eyes, high, slicing cheekbones, and faintly olive skin. More than once, he’d found his thoughts wandering to that shower she’d taken in the hotel room, and he had to catch himself and refocus—which pissed him the hell off. Even when he was on a case with Rebecca Ives, he’d been more focused.

  Of course, they had been sleeping together at that point.

  Irritation with himself came out in his response. “You won’t help Bergstrom even if it’s regarding a threat to our national security? That’s big of you.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I? The CIA’s got me for eighteen hours, and I’ll do what I can during that time, clearly under duress.” She returned her attention to the pedestrian-clogged street. Friday night on Main Street. It was hot in Ann Arbor, and it showed in the tank tops and short skirts clinging to the college kids that had stayed on for the summer.

  Antipathy burned off Marina in the same way the sun beat down on the tall, awning-less buildings. It was too bad, because, as annoyed as he might be with the way Bergstrom had set this whole thing up, Gabe also recognized that the man didn’t make mistakes. His instinct was usually dead-on. Obviously, this operation was important enough to him to go out on a limb with not only a civilian, but also with Gabe, while working around the Agency’s protocols. Gabe trusted and respected his director. He didn’t always agree with him and his methods, but he trusted him.

  “Why are you so sure my father’s in danger?”

  He’d never said that Alexander was in danger. Instead, he turned her question back around. “What do you think? You know more about the Skaladeskas than any of us—which isn’t saying much, because we know very little. If he left them against their will years ago, why would they want him back? Are they such a close-knit group that they insist that no one venture to the outside? And if they do—are there consequences?”

  Of course, the guy could be dead somewhere too, which would put a whole ‘nother spin on this situation.

  The reality was, the Agency crowded too many other issues on its plate to be concerned about a tiny little tribe in the snowy mountains of Siberia. He and Bergstrom and their intelligence reports about Taymyria would never make it into the daily briefing for the President; in fact, their data was barely reviewed. If it didn’t have anything to do with al Qaeda, nuclear weapons, or drug trafficking, they were pretty much left alone.


  That was good and bad. Good because Colin and Gabe would have little interference. Bad because they had fewer resources. Which was, of course, one of the reasons Bergstrom wanted a free ride with Marina Alexander. She could help, and she would be a cheap resource. Free.

  One thing was sure: unlike Manning Browne, whose team had been taken unawares before the Kuala Pohr incident, Gabe was not about to be caught picking up the soap in the case of the Skaladeskas.

  He didn’t care if he came across as hyper-vigilant or overly suspicious. He wasn’t going to have the deaths of innocent people on his conscience.

  “So why would the Skaladeskas want your father back?” he asked again.

  Marina shrugged. Despite her long legs, she had a small frame that made her appear delicate. Though from what he’d learned from his background check, she was anything but. The woman flew planes, explored caves, traveled to unsafe regions of Asia and parts of the Middle East to see first-hand the art treasures she taught about, and was training a rescue dog. She’d even made a trip down the Amazon in a little skiff for the pure adventure of it. And in her free time, volunteered for cave rescues.

  No wonder she thought she was in charge.

  “Until this morning, I believed that my father and I were the last of the Skaladeskas, that the line would end with me. I had no idea any others existed at all any more, so I don’t have any idea what to think. I tend to wonder if your team hasn’t jumped to conclusions that these people have taken my father. Maybe he just took a vacation.”

  Gabe turned down the tree-lined street she indicated. He could already feel that it was cooler here. The houses were brick, the street curved, and the sidewalks were well-kept there under the shade of tall oaks and maples. Saabs, Volvos and BMWs of various ages and condition sat in many drives, and more than half of the houses sported mailboxes or garage doors with the big M for Michigan on them.

  As he pulled into the driveway of her home, his attention focused on the tidy brick Cape Cod, the lush green lot, the well-tended flower gardens. When did she have time to do that, if she was always running off on rescue missions? “You ever fire a gun?”

  “A gun? No, I’m generally trying to save lives, not take them. Why?”

  “Just curious. You might have to some day.”

  “I doubt that very much.”

  He followed her up the brick walkway lined by some frilly pink flowers, listening for the rapturous barks of the dog he knew she had. When he heard nothing but the distant sound of cars, and the shift of wind, his instincts went on alert. “Wait a sec.”

  “What is it? You think there’s a bomb waiting on the other side for us? It must be difficult living a life of suspicion.”

  “I don’t hear Boris,” he replied. She had no idea what they might be dealing with, and he hoped she was able to keep herself out of it.

  “He’s not here. He’s with my neighbor.” She turned back to inserting the key into the lock and Gabe didn’t try to stop her.

  Inside, her home was stuffy from being closed up. He found it casually neat; not pristine, House-Beautiful-neat, but organized and cluttered in a charming way. There were stacks of catalogs on a square coffee table and a haphazard row of shoes and boots lining the floor in the foyer. Lived in. Not so different from his own condo, with his paints and canvases tucked into the same corner as the kitchen stuff his mother kept buying for him. He still had no idea what to do with the lemon zester.

  From his research, Gabe got the impression Marina moved around and in and out so quickly and so often that she didn’t spend what would be a waste of time to her arranging and moving things, and the soft clutter of her home bore that out. The interior was not well-lit unless the lamps were on, due to the thick green trees that hugged the house, but once she flipped on the switches, a soft glow filled the room, illuminating what looked like an original movie poster for The Man Who Knew Too Much.

  Catalogs from Pottery Barn, Hammacher Schlemmer, Anthropologie, Sundance—but no Victoria’s Secret—and a whole slew of other places he’d never heard of were piled on the center table, next to a group of crystals: amethyst, ruby, an opaque green one that could be jade. A New-Ager … .

  He reached to pick up the palm-sized amethyst crystal.

  “Good choice,” Marina said, eyeing him as she placed a stack of mail on a credenza.

  “What do you mean? It matches my eyes?” Strangely enough, the crystal actually felt warm to the touch.

  “Mmm … no. Hold on to it long enough, and it will help take the edge off your impatience … maybe ease your anger a little, too.” She surprised him with the first sign of a sense of humor as she bent to drop three more catalogs on the table with a loud thwack.

  “What’s this one for, then?” He picked up the small blood-colored one that sat next to it.

  “Ruby? That’s for impotence. Among other things.”

  Gabe chuckled. He didn’t know if she was saying that to needle him, or because it was true, but either way, he appreciated her wry tone. “I didn’t peg you for the kind of person who believes in crystal healing.”

  “I take aspirin for a headache, or I hold my amethyst. Either one works for me. There are a lot of natural healing methods that have been passed down through the ages. If they work, I use the ones from the earth. No side-effects.”

  Time to get back to business. “I’d like to check through all the rooms, if that’s all right with you.”

  “Knock yourself out, MacNeil. I’m heading upstairs first. If you want to follow me, you can lug that up.” Marina pointed to a hefty suitcase—the one he’d carried for her before.

  She might not be thrilled about his presence, but she was an opportunist. That was one quality she and Bergstrom both shared. He grabbed the handle and followed her up the stairs, equally opportunistic as he checked out her tight rear and toned legs.

  “That was one of the benefits I gave up when I got divorced,” she was saying as he stepped from the top stair directly into her attic-like bedroom. “Someone to help me drag my luggage through the airports. Not that I can’t manage it myself, of course,” she continued, gesturing for him to put the suitcase on the bed, “but if help’s to be had, it’s welcome.”

  He knew about her divorce, of course. Nearly three years ago, from an engineering professor at the University of Michigan named James Zelder. They’d been married for three years; no children. He’d since remarried and had a three-year-old child with his new wife—likely a contributing factor to their marriage breaking up.

  Gabe tossed the case onto her sapphire, topaz, and ruby colored bed, a design reminiscent of traditional Islamic art, and noted another movie poster—this one for To Catch a Thief. Hitchcock fan. And more crystals—small ice-colored ones, three of them of different shapes—on the table next to her bed.

  He scanned the room, walked into the adjoining bath area, looking and sensing and listening. It smelled like something pleasant in here, not like cleaning supplies. And not too many bottles lined up on the counter.

  Nothing felt out of place in the upstairs, so he decided to finish scoping the rest of the property.

  Marina watched as he disappeared down the stairs, leaving her alone for the first time in twenty-four hours. And it would be another day or two before she was really left alone. Hell.

  She was furious that Colin Bergstrom had made such a threat.

  And even angrier that she’d had no choice but to succumb to it.

  She had no choice. The CIA could easily stop her from leaving the country, and despite Bergstrom’s power play, Marina believed him when he agreed she could leave tomorrow evening as planned if she gave them her full assistance until then. He’d had to fly back to Langley from Pennsylvania, but he would be meeting them at the airport the next morning.

  She closed her eyes. She might as well stop stewing about it because there was nothing she could do. She had to play along with the Good Old Boys. Not something unfamiliar to her; after all, she was in academia.

  Mari
na relaxed, tipping onto her side and resting her head on a pillow.

  Good grief, she was tired! And sore. She was actually looking forward to her flight to Myanmar. She’d be able to relax a bit. Catch up on some sleep.

  Twenty-four hours and she’d be on her way. Twenty-four hours of playing along with the spooks. She could do that.

  She just had to get through this little glitch first. Get Gabe MacNeil and his boss off her back.

  Get Dad out of her mind.

  But first, she was going to travel with the CIA spooks up to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula to her father’s house west of Marquette … just, as Bergstrom had put it, for one day, for her to look around and see if there might be any clue to Dad’s whereabouts. As if she would recognize anything out of the ordinary anyway. The last time she’d been to his house was … seven years ago?