Deep Past

by Eugene Linden

  “Which means?”

  “Which means that they want to at least have some appearance of legitimacy—minimal violence, no revenge killings, respect for foreign property …” Hayden waved around the room. “I think their druthers would be to simply have us shift the direct deposit from Astana to their bank account in Petropavl. Then the Russians can try to take control the way they usually do—de facto expropriation through trumped-up tax evasion, etcetera but that brings me to the bad news …”

  “OK, I’m ready.” Though Claire wasn’t at all.

  “Astana can’t let this go. Apart from the insult to an ego the size of Jupiter, the president simply can’t keep this country together if he loses the jobs and potential income this place represents.”

  “So he’ll fight to keep it.”

  “Yep, and this breakaway regime can’t make it without Transteppe, either. So this is going to be the center of the battle.”

  Claire had never been in a war zone, and despite her brave words earlier, she didn’t want to find out. She remembered the white-capped man and told Hayden about him. She also mentioned the janitor who had morphed into a menacing bodyguard.

  Listening, Rob got on the radio. After a hurried conversation, he turned to Hayden. “There’s a mob gathering, and they seem to be heading toward the runway. You’ve got to take off—now! Islamic radicals don’t give a hoot about what either side wants.”

  Hayden looked at Rob levelly. “I’ll take off as soon as Claire and the others are in the air.”

  Rob clenched his fists in frustration.

  Claire was alarmed but kept her voice even. “Heading where?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? You look at a map, and Kazakhstan is surrounded by a bunch of Stans. Rob?”

  Rob picked up his radio. “Any progress?”

  “Think so. If the transport heads due south—right now—there’s no credible way either side could shoot down the plane under false flag.”

  “Are we sure they care whether their footprints are covered?”

  Claire was alarmed. “What’s this false flag?”

  “Oh,” said Rob calmly, “it’s when one side perpetrates some heinous crime, like shooting down a civilian plane, and then plants evidence blaming the other side. It’s all the rage for dirt bag regimes.”

  Hayden was looking at Claire. “I’m going to take the helicopter to Astana to get to my plane. Maybe you should come with me.”

  Claire stood frozen for a moment. Then she turned to Hayden. “I can’t leave my team …” She paused as an idea formed. “But can you take the array with you? It doesn’t weigh much more than I do with a bag. We should split up the objects … in case something happens …”

  “I understand.” Hayden turned to Rob. “Have them take the array from the transport and move it to my helicopter—”

  Claire interrupted, “It’s marked ‘Samples for Further Analysis,’ box number three.”

  Rob nodded and picked up his radio. After giving instructions, he called another of his team. He listened and then signed off. “OK, confirmed. Best they can come up with is head south, refuel in Tashkent and then head for Abu Dhabi. Our law firm there will expedite transfers of cargo and passengers.”

  “What about all this?” Claire waved a hand at the concession.

  “Our hope is that both sides realize that damaging the infrastructure would be self-defeating. So we think the fight will be outside the concession, though the rebels are probably going to try to use it as a garrison. We’re trying to get word to the Russians through Primorskichem that this would be a bad idea.”

  They were interrupted by one of Rob’s men wearing desert fatigues. He pointed to the phone. Rob picked up the receiver, listened for a bit, and then said, “Hold on.” He pointed to the phone next to Hayden. “You’d better hear this.” When Hayden picked up, Rob said, “OK, Mr. Hayden is on. Repeat what you just told me.”

  Claire was growing increasingly alarmed as Rob and Hayden exchanged glances as they listened. Finally, Rob spoke. “OK, who’s the contact?” He listened a few seconds more and jotted some notes on a pad.

  Hayden turned to Claire. “Looks like things are ratcheting up. I don’t have time to go into all the details, but the headline is that the US will not allow Russia to extend control over a major mine—somehow they knew it was a phosphate source—and they’ve gotten the Kazakh president to ask for logistical help. The US is sending two teams, accompanied by Special Forces, up from Uzbekistan … and God knows how the Russians are going to react to that …” Hayden looked uncharacteristically distracted. “The teams won’t get here until tomorrow. If the separatists get wind of this, they’re going to try and grab this place—like right now!” He looked her directly in the eye. “You’ve got to get cracking,” he said, signaling that the meeting was over.

  51

  There was no time for extended goodbyes as Claire’s team joined a ragtag group of expatriates filing on to the Boeing Globemaster transport sitting on the runway. Rob’s security forces had flanked the group on either side as they made their way to the plane. Claire craned her neck but could not see the agitated crowd that had gathered earlier. Once they got to the plane, the crew grabbed their bags as they shuffled up the ramp in the back. Claire broke away to give Rob and Sergei a hug. Sergei seemed calm, but he hugged her a little longer than necessary, and when she pulled away, she was startled to see that there were tears in his eyes.

  “Are you going to be OK?” she asked, reluctant to move away.

  “I’ll be fine,” said Sergei. “This is my job …”

  “I’ll be back,” she said with an intensity that surprised her.

  Hayden’s pilot beckoned him to his helicopter, which was beginning to rev up. Claire looked back and saw a vehicle was accelerating toward the runway. It was headed off by a truck. The crew frantically warned the group to hurry up. As Claire reached the top of the ramp, she saw Hayden boarding the chopper.

  Adjusting to the dimmer light, Claire looked toward the front of the vast fuselage. The center was reserved for cargo. Rudimentary seats were arrayed along both sides of the fuselage. Claire, Katie, and Francisco were guided toward the front, where there were two rows of more traditional airline seats. They passed an assortment of expatriate engineers, managers, technicians, and heavy-equipment operators already strapped into seats. All stared curiously as they passed. Katie elicited particular attention. A burly, heavily tattooed roughneck wearing a T-shirt patted the seat next to him. Katie nixed this with a quick “naughty boy” wag of her finger, a judiciously softened rejection given the words on the front of his T-shirt: “Guns Don’t Kill People” on one line, and then, “I Do,” on the line below.

  They passed Karil, who was standing sentry next to the two boxes holding the yam-like stone and the cranium. He gave Claire a thumbs-up, indicating that the boxes had been continuously in his sight and then ran toward the rear to exit the plane before the ramp was pulled up.

  Benoit was already strapped in when the team got to their seats. The big plane started accelerating even before they had fastened their belts. There were no windows, but there were pop-up screens that came with each seat, tuned to an exterior camera. Claire looked and on the far edge of the screen, she saw Hayden’s helicopter taking off. As it gained altitude, she saw a man—it was the janitor!—pointing something balanced on his shoulder at the aircraft. There was a glint as something flashed toward the helicopter. A huge fireball erupted, and an instant later the transport plane was rocked by turbulence. Claire screamed, “No!” and started to move from her seat. Katie grabbed her arm to hold her back and then reached around her shoulders and gave her a fierce hug, feeling the shudders of Claire’s uncontrollable sobs.

  RUSHMERE

  52

  Claire stood at the back of the huge crowd that had assembled at Hayden’s graceful, Pacific Lodge–style mansion on Vancouver Island. That she was there was something of a miracle, as she’d been sleep-walking since th
e escape from Transteppe. Katie had assumed the role of aide-de-camp and nurse, dealing with logistics and trying to get Claire to eat. Earlier, Helen, one of Hayden’s two grown daughters (he also had a son), had come up to Claire and said that her father had been truly energized by her discovery. She said that the children had asked a number of people from various parts of his life to say a few words at the service. Claire looked anguished. “I don’t think I could get words out,” she said, and then seeing the daughter’s disappointed expression, she added, “Your father was the most truly good man I ever met.”

  Now it was Helen’s turn to break down. She embraced Claire in a silent hug.

  Don’t hug me, Claire thought, I’m the reason your father’s dead.

  Since the escape, the scene where Hayden had said he wouldn’t board his helicopter until Claire and the team were on the plane had replayed in Claire’s mind in an endless loop. For this reason alone, the funeral was torture, even though the setting was benign. His family plot was at the top of a broad lawn running down to the water, backed by towering Douglas firs. His grave was set beside a stone commemorating Alicia Tellstrom Hayden, who, from the dates, Claire assumed had been his wife.

  Were it not for the circumstances of his death, Claire would have appreciated the testimonials, which documented a lifetime of generosity, courage, and gracious gestures. The last speaker was Helen, who spoke movingly of Hayden as a father. At the end of her remarks, she looked at Claire at the back of the crowd. “One thing I know is that Dad died happy. In the past few months, he had gotten involved in an archaeological venture. He never told us what it was, but his excitement was palpable. It gave him a new lease on life after the death of our mother. Speaking for the family, we hope that work will see the light of day.”

  A number of people turned to see where Helen was looking. This brought a whole new level of agony for Claire. Given that her last array had gone down with the helicopter and the other bones were in the hands of dictators and a petty bureaucrat, it was very much open to question whether the discovery would ever be published.

  Claire couldn’t face the reception and left for the hotel, asking Katie to fend off any questions about what they were working on. The next day, on the flight back to Boston, Katie decided it was time to shift her role from nursemaid to drill sergeant. She turned to Claire. “You heard Helen at the funeral. If we’re going to honor Hayden’s memory, you’ve got to pull yourself together.”

  Claire bridled. “Honor his memory? Do you know who you’re talking to? I’m the woman who got him killed.”

  Katie was having none of it. “That talk stops right here—you were just one of dozens of passengers. It’s not as though Hayden would have done anything different if you weren’t on that plane.”

  Katie’s reference brought back the memory of Hayden’s death. In the fog of shame and grief into which she descended afterward, she’d forgotten something important about that moment. The janitor! Someone who worked at Transteppe had deliberately killed Hayden. The why was important, but more urgent was the fact that he might still be there. Rob needed to know that; Sergei needed to know that.

  53

  The first thing she did upon landing was call Rob. She told him about the janitor who’d pointed the thing on his shoulder at Hayden’s helicopter.

  “Others reported the same thing.”

  “Have you found him?”

  “No, he’s disappeared, but we’ve got the rocket launcher. It’s a Stinger, American made, but popular in the Chechen war, which explains how it got in the hands of extremists, but not how it got here.”

  “Why did they kill him?” Claire choked up at the memory, and the words came out haltingly.

  Rob had a developing theory on this, but he did not want to alarm Claire. The obvious answer was that the helicopter was a target of opportunity for crazed extremists, but Hayden had told Rob about his conversation with Bezanov, and Rob realized that eliminating Hayden might smooth the way for a distressed sale to Primorskichem by one of the external partners, particularly since Transteppe was now in a war zone. It was awfully convenient that the extremists rose up at that exact moment and that the one notable act of violence was to take out Hayden’s helicopter.

  “That’s what we’re trying to piece together. We don’t know if Mr. Hayden was targeted or just a target of opportunity,” said Rob. “It’s chaos here.”

  “Is Sergei involved in figuring this out? He’s so smart, and he may have seen something.”

  “No, and I don’t want him to be. Sergei’s got his hands full between shifting sensitive docs off-site and intermediating with the Russians.” What Rob didn’t mention was that he feared that if he shared his suspicions with Sergei, it might change Sergei’s demeanor during negotiations in ways that might put him in mortal danger. He had not told Sergei about the role of the janitor.

  Hearing this, Claire said, “Still, I’m worried that Sergei’s in danger … and you, too, Rob,” she added.

  Rob laughed. “Don’t worry about us. Almost all the local staff have been evacuated, and we’ve got American Special Forces guarding the concession. We’re probably safer here than in the States.”

  54

  In the ensuing weeks, Claire, cheered on by Katie, began to think about finishing the letter formally announcing the discovery. When she asked Katie how they could present the find without the array, Katie gave her a buck-up speech. “You’ve still got the cranium and the jadeite. We play it as it lies. That’s what fighters do.”

  “OK, I’ll try.”

  Katie gave Claire’s hand a squeeze. “I’ll be right there, too!”

  Back at Rushmere, Claire discovered that William Friedl, expansively generous with Hayden’s money, had set her up on the first floor of the spanking-new behavioral science complex, the gift of an alumnus who had made obscene billions shorting derivatives in 2008. Claire had no particular instinct for making her office homey. She had a functional wooden desk, now covered with papers and notes, a rolling chair, a couple of other chairs for visitors, and a bookshelf against the far wall.

  The campus itself basked in the full glory of a New England summer. Most of the undergraduates were on vacation, though high school students were trooping through for college visits, and there was a constant stream of scholars arriving for conferences. She could see the perpetual Frisbee game on the common as well as students reading in the shade of a row of sycamores against the quiet, reassuring hum of the June heat.

  The charm of Rushmere, however, could only be enjoyed if one turned a deaf ear to events beyond the campus. Claire had only been gone from the States for a few months, but, as she came out of her daze following Hayden’s death, she was struck by the degree to which the country was becoming disheveled. In the faculty dining hall, she overheard colleagues speculating about which departments might be shut down next as grant money dried up and students dropped out, often citing financial stress in an economy that perpetually seemed on the brink of recession. That morning, listening to NPR, she heard a long report on the fires, floods, and droughts accompanying the extreme weather that gripped much of the country. It was almost biblical.

  Still, Rushmere was a world away from Kazakhstan. Claire had been receiving carefully worded updates from Sergei and Rob. Though thousands of miles apart, they were, in a sense, huddling the way families do after the death of a loved one. With the arrival of the American advisers, the breakaway putsch had devolved into a simmering stalemate that so far had spared the concession. The Kazakh military had bivouacked between Petropavl and Transteppe. Evidently, the president had decided that he could live with the defection of the city so long as the seized territory did not include the concession, and so far the rebels had not tested his resolve on that issue, though that might happen at any moment. Work at Transteppe was paralyzed and everyone remained on high alert. As the news filtered in, Claire was relieved that she and the team had gotten out when they did, though she still hated leaving Sergei behind.

&n
bsp; She had terrors of a different kind facing her in the US. Keerbrock was coming to see the cranium and talk. She had gone over this meeting countless times in her head but still dreaded his arrival.

  And now, here he was. Claire watched him walk up to the entrance of the building accompanied by Friedl and the head of the geophysics lab, who was clearly excited to have the great man’s ear. Trailing along were a couple of star-struck grad students. She couldn’t tell from Keerbrock’s expression whether he was interested or completely bored. He had to be seventy-five, but the years had not diminished his intimidating aura—at least in Claire’s eyes. The group stopped at the door to her building. Keerbrock said something to Friedl, shook the geophysicist’s hand in a perfunctory brush-off, and then walked in alone. A moment later the intercom on her phone buzzed, and a few seconds later there was a knock on her door.

  When she opened it, Keerbrock just stood there for a few seconds. He looked at Claire. He wasn’t hostile, more noncommittal. Still, Claire had the feeling she had failed some test. “Well, you’ve been busy since we last met,” he finally said. He remembered! In no hurry at all, the tall scientist looked around her office. He walked over to her bookshelf and picked up an article lying on top of a pile, “Evolution and Environmental Change in Early Human Prehistory” by Richard Potts, tapped it a couple of times and then put it down. Without turning around, he said, “Why don’t you fill me in, and then let’s take a look at what you’ve found.”

  Nervous as she was, Claire knew that the only chance she had was for Keerbrock to see the cranium and her virtual presentation of the array before they talked. “Actually, why don’t we take a look before we talk.”