Deep Past

by Eugene Linden

  Rob spread his hands. “I really don’t know. It sounded like he was OK, but I’m sure he’s scared shitless.”

  “Why take Sauat?”

  “Apparently, word of your find got to the president. He wants the bones. My guess is that he figured he couldn’t snatch any of your staff or mine, so he took a Kazakh as a hostage.”

  Sergei seemingly had returned to his usual, problem-solving self. “Does he want the bones, or does he want them to be given to a museum or ministry?”

  Rob’s eyes widened. He’d missed something. “You’re right, Sergei. My contact said that he wanted the bones. He already knew that they would be coming to the museum through Tabiliev.”

  Claire watched this exchange, confused. “Why does this make a difference?”

  Sergei turned to her. “It makes all the difference, and it could be very good news!”

  Claire was even more mystified.

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s simple—we give him the bones!”

  By now, Claire knew not to rise to Sergei’s provocative remarks. “Great idea, Sergei! Why didn’t I think of that?” she said.

  “I’m saying give him some of the remaining bones from the original discovery, not all the bones. By taking Sauat—an expendable Kazakh—he’s telling us that he doesn’t want this all over the Western press. If he wants them for himself, he’s less likely to throw a lot of red tape to keep your research from going forward. Moreover, those bones are fully documented, and we have the new bones from the lip—plus whatever else there might be in the bluff.”

  Claire realized Sergei wasn’t done. “There’s more, right?”

  “Of course. Given what Rob said about setting a precedent on ransom, I think the approach should be that Transteppe has decided to make a direct gift of the great discovery to the president—with the hope that the bones don’t show up the next week on eBay!” Sergei looked at both of them expectantly, but neither laughed. Disappointed, he continued, “And at the same time, Transteppe should solicit the president’s office’s help in locating an intern who has been a valuable intermediary between the paleontological team and their Kazakh counterparts.”

  Claire shook her head. Machiavelli had nothing on the young Russian geologist. Again she wondered why she always was attracted to men with baggage. “Makes sense to me—although we seem to be handing out priceless bones like party favors.” She had another thought. “How do you know so much about this?”

  Sergei’s bitter look returned. “Such scenarios are an unfortunate fact of life if you are Russian.”

  Rob looked uneasy. “Could work—but it’s anything but simple.” He paused. “Who hands the bones to the president? Usually that would involve the CEO or chairman of the board, and if he wanted them for himself rather than the national museum, it could leave Transteppe open to being charged with racketeering under RICO, or a violation of the Foreign Corrupt Practices Act.”

  That brought Claire up short. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Coming from Russia, I never would have thought of that,” said Sergei. “But now that you mention it, I think it best that bones be turned over informally, rather than in a big ceremony. If the president wants the bones, he’d probably prefer that it be done quietly.”

  Claire nodded. “And I wouldn’t worry about the bribery issue. If we give him the bones now, before any analysis has been peer reviewed and published, they really have no value that can be determined …”

  Sergei looked at Claire admiringly. “Are you sure you don’t have some Russian blood?”

  Rob had heard enough. “OK, OK, I’m not sure I’d want to argue that in court, but you’re right, we are a mining company, not an archaeological expedition, and if the president asks for the bones, we can’t very well refuse him. I’ll get the wheels turning—we want to do this real quiet and real quick.”

  As Sergei and Claire walked back to the warehouse, he turned to her and said, “I’m sure we’ll get Sauat back, but there’s one more thing, Claire.”

  Claire, lost in thought, barely heard him. “What’s that?”

  “If the president wants the bones for himself, that means that you did the right thing when we moved the bones in the first place. Think about that and feel good. You were right.”

  Warmth flooded through her, and she put a hand on Sergei’s strong shoulder, something she’d wanted to do for a long time, and hugged him before they both realized it was a bad idea.

  After they broke off the hug, Claire smiled and asked him, “By the way, Sergei, how’d you get those strong shoulders?”

  Sergei actually blushed, then shrugged. “Geologists do a lot of scrambling and climbing.”

  “Not windsurfing, then?”

  “What’s windsurfing?”

  37

  Two days later, Claire was working on uncovering the last of the objects when she got a call from security. A man named Tegev Aliyev was at the gatehouse asking for her. He was accompanied by his son. Claire almost dropped her tools in excitement. She turned to Sergei, who was already tossing her the keys to her van.

  After signing them in, she brought Tegev and Sauat back to the warehouse. Tegev marveled at the scale of the buildings. Sauat, who looked none the worse for wear, wanted to see the bones and equipment, but Claire first wanted to hear about his ordeal. She led them to a small office where they could talk in private.

  The young man said that two men had come for him, both wearing the uniform of the presidential guard. They came in silently, quickly bound his hands, gagged him, and took his phone. One of the men was rough, but he heard the other tell him to back off—that Sauat was just a boy. They had told Sauat that they were taking him somewhere where he would be safe, though they never said from what. He was kept in a house in a remote area that he did not recognize. There were books and he was allowed to walk around outdoors, but there were eyes on him all the time. After a few days, he was driven back, given back his phone, and let off just outside the camp. He said his uncle Tamerlan had taken credit for his being released.

  Tegev snorted. “If Tamerlan had such power, why was Sauat taken in the first place?” He turned to Claire and asked, not in an unfriendly way, “Why do you think he was taken?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just so glad this ended happily.”

  Tegev looked at Claire just long enough to convey that he knew that she was holding back. Then Sauat interrupted. “Is it all right if I see what you are doing here?” His eyes were glowing in anticipation.

  “You bet, Sauat! I’ve got just the guide for you.”

  ¬

  Claire asked Katie to show Sauat around. Sauat grinned when he saw her. Not cool, this one, Claire thought with affection as she noticed Sauat’s reaction to Katie.

  Claire asked Tegev to stay behind so that the two of them could talk. They walked outside into the baking heat and found some shade under the overhanging roof of the warehouse.

  “Tegev, first of all, I’m so sorry if my work had anything to do with why Sauat was taken. Second, I really don’t have the full picture of why he was taken, but I can say that these bones are important and that it’s probably not safe for Sauat to be connected to them.”

  Tegev sighed and gave her a long look. “That is what I told Sauat when I picked him up at your old camp. I also know that you were involved in getting him released …

  “No, no, no …” Tegev said as Claire shook her head. “You don’t have to say anything. Sauat is very bright young man, yes?” This time Claire nodded. “And he told me that this is the most exciting thing he has ever done—Kazakhstan offers plenty of excitement, but it’s usually the kind you would be wise to run away from. So he begs to continue to work with you—here.” Tegev gestured toward the high fence, topped with concertina wire and festooned with security cameras. “He will be safe here, yes.”

  “What about Tamerlan?”

  Tegev was stone-faced. “Tamerlan is my brother and my problem. I will deal with him.” />
  Claire sighed. “OK, so long as you recognize the risks … I could use help coordinating with the Kazakh scientists and Dr. Tabiliev.”

  38

  Sergei was organizing a work plan when his computer pinged indicating an incoming email. He didn’t recognize the sender’s email address, but the subject line sent a pang through him. It simply read, in Russian, “Your checkered ex-mate.” It was a variation of the affectionate sign-off he had used with Ludmilla in happier days.

  He considered deleting it without reading it, but curious as to why Ludmilla would write after all these years, he opened it, scarcely breathing, and began reading.

  If you are reading this, it means you did not immediately throw this email in the trash, which I’m grateful for, even though that is what I deserve. I can never apologize sufficiently for the cowardice, stupidity, and narcissism that characterized my leaving you, but know that I have paid for my sins every day since in ways no amount of luxury or security could balance.

  I only found out about how to reach you because Andrei (yes, Andrei is my husband, though that is one mistake I’m now correcting) let slip that you were at Transteppe. I’m not arrogant enough to ask for forgiveness, nor do I deserve it, but I want you to know that I will never forgive myself for turning away from the one chance at true fulfillment I have had in my life.

  I also want to warn you. Nothing good comes of any association with Andrei, more often awful things, and I would hate to have you suffer any more pain because of Andrei’s cruel and vengeful nature. He must have some leverage on you, but please be on guard!

  Lastly, I hope you have found someone worthy of you. If it means anything, the two years we had were the happiest of my life.

  Sergei closed the email and spent long minutes thinking. Several times he reopened the email and hit reply only to close it again. The tide of mixed feelings that swept over him almost had a palpable physical presence, as though the air was being squeezed out of his chest. He thought he had successfully put Ludmilla out of his thoughts, but deep down he knew that he could never completely suppress memories of the one time in his life he had enjoyed something approaching domestic bliss. Then he reopened the email one more time, hit reply, and began typing.

  Ludmilla,

  Clearly you are hurting deeply, and I will not pile on more hurt. To some degree I brought Andrei’s revenge on myself because of my own cockiness and blindness to the rules of the world beyond chess. I was also blind to danger because of my infatuation with you, an infatuation that turned into love and then despair when you left me. I appreciate the warning, but know that I’m as interested in protecting myself as anyone.

  Sergei stopped there. He meant to say much more, but he simply couldn’t. The wash of emotion was too powerful, and he couldn’t reduce it to mere words.

  He hit send. For a moment he felt deep sadness for all the pointless hurt of life and the knowledge that the brief flirtations with infinity that we grasped for when we were young can never be recaptured.

  39

  By this point, the team that Claire had put together consisted of herself, Sergei—when he was available—Katie, Francisco, a Kazakh paleobotanist named Kiril Usenov, a fetching young technician, Kamila Valikhinova, who was an expert in tomography and other imaging technologies, and, of course, Sauat. Kiril hit it off with Sergei, and the two would often argue about chess. Sauat eavesdropped and told Claire that Sergei knew an enormous amount about the game.

  The team had very little interaction with the Transteppe staff. Ripley, the site manager, had put out the word that the paleontological workspace was off-limits—an injunction put out to protect Katie and Kamila, both of whom caused heads to swivel in their comings and goings. Some of Sergei’s geological staff peered in from time to time but were politely but firmly rebuffed. Claire’s concerns were twofold. First there was the integrity of the process, which they meticulously documented, and then there was the worry about treasure hunters. Claire was convinced that the longer they could keep up the impression that what they were doing was vague and boring, the easier life was going to be.

  With Sauat safe and sound, Claire felt she could breathe again. And with the president presumably preoccupied with his newly expropriated bones, Claire even started humming as she worked. After bidding goodbye to Tegev and installing Sauat in his new room, she went back to her own quarters. She went over to her phone, which she had rigged to a couple of tiny speakers, and found what she wanted, an R&B mix she had put together years ago when she would unwind by dancing by herself. She had discovered R&B from the sixties at a professor’s wedding and loved it. This mix was a bunch of classics recorded long before she was born: “Hully Gully” by the Olympics, “Please Mr. Postman” from the Marvelettes, “Tossin’ and Turnin’,” “Twist and Shout,” “I Need Your Lovin’,” “Locomotion,” and “In the Midnight Hour.” With the music on loud, Claire stripped off her dusty work shirt and shorts, went to the refrigerator and poured a generous portion of vodka into a water glass, dropped in a couple of ice cubes, and topped it with orange juice. She took a long swig and let herself go. She was far too young to know the actual steps to any of the songs, but the rhythms were primordial.

  She had gotten a good buzz when she heard a knock at the door. She dashed to the peephole. It was Katie, who had a mischievous look on her face. “I love that music! Can I come in?”

  “I was just unwinding …” Claire didn’t think it was a good idea to let Katie in, but she had no choice.

  “Well, that’s just what I need,” Katie said. Twirling to the music as she stripped off her own T-shirt and shorts, she began to dance. Before Claire could say anything, Katie joined her. “Let’s try a line dance.” She gave Claire a faux meaningful look. “We can look at it as a team-building exercise.”

  Katie radiated confidence and artless sensuality. Had she ever tried the wanton moves she was doing now in public, a riot would have ensued.

  OK, thought Claire, team building it is, and she went with the flow while trying to keep up with Katie as the twenty-something led the two of them through various moves, each one more provocative than the last.

  After the song ended, Katie pointed toward the vodka bottle and raised her eyebrows in a question. Claire poured a drink for her and another for herself. Katie toasted Claire and took a sip. “I was just wondering,” Katie laughed, “how much Sergei would have paid to have a video of that.”

  Claire turned that thought over in her head. Sergei was a complicated guy, but he was still a guy, and at one level all men were one-celled organisms.

  “OK, I’m going to ask,” said Claire. “Any of the crew have any appeal? And I’m including Rob and Hayden—even Tamerlan.”

  Hearing this last name, Katie laughed. “All of them, ’cept poor Tamerlan. But it’s not going to happen.”

  That was the right answer, but Claire wondered why. Everyone knew that romances among colleagues on digs could be terribly destructive—she thought of Tony and Abigail, though that one was more comical than distracting—but every research project Claire had been involved in had been rife with romance. Indeed, some of those, including a good number she would like to forget, had involved Claire.

  “Oh, is there a Mr. Katie waiting in the States?”

  Katie laughed again. “Not that I remember … it’s what I said before. I’m trying to reorient my life … and my reputation. I haven’t even kissed a guy in a year! Try to have a little innocent fun, next thing you know, you’re persona au gratin!”

  Claire laughed. With Katie out of the equation, she couldn’t imagine any other possible combinations among the crew. “So no births, deaths, or marriages. That’s good to hear.”

  “Nope, pure as a Vatican conclave—maybe that’s not such a good analogy these days.” Katie took another sip of her drink. She looked at Claire conspiratorially. The girl was sex incarnate, Claire thought, and then she wondered whether that phrase was redundant. Her chain of thought was interrupted when Katie continu
ed, “Sergei certainly seems to snap to attention when you come into the room.”

  Claire blushed deeply and changed the subject. “What do you think of Rob?”

  “Dreamboat! He’s someone I’d want in my foxhole—in the military sense of the phrase. He seems total WYSIWYG—but nobody’s that straight-arrow.”

  Claire figured that Katie had a solid database to draw on in making that opinion. “Hayden?”

  “All we can do is hope that he’s what he seems to be.”

  Katie stood up and started putting her clothes back on. “Thanks for this,” she said. “I needed it, or maybe I would have done something stupid.” As she headed out the door, she turned around. “Kiril—very cute guy, by the way—thinks that the curling stone looks just like a root vegetable—an elephant yam.”

  Claire was stunned. “A yam?”

  “Yup. Is that important?”

  “I’ll say. For one thing, it’s impossible. When will you have it uncovered?”

  “Couple of days at most.”

  Claire looked at Katie. “I don’t want to get ahead of ourselves, but I’d suggest you give yourself a crash course on elephant yams. If that’s what your object turns out to be, everybody’s going to want a piece of it.”

  40

  After Katie left, Claire poured herself another vodka and went to take a shower. She was pleasantly flooded with endorphins. After dressing in shorts and a T-shirt, she took another sip of her drink. Perhaps it was relief over the safe recovery of Sauat, or the odd sensuality of her dance with Katie, but for the first time in many months, Claire felt physically moved. These musings were interrupted by a knock on her door. Her quarters seemed to be turning into a happening place. Before answering, she cued up Rimsky-Korsakov’s “Polovtsian Dances” on her machine.

  She opened the door a crack and saw Sergei. He looked troubled and unsure of himself. He saw her bathrobe and looked down, saying, “We need to talk, but maybe now’s not the time?”