“Homeland Security’s all over the Feds’ asses on this. Darrow’s resources are tight, and if we can continue to collaborate with HSA, the Feds and the NSA in cases like this, then we have a better leg to stand on when we ask for budget increases. The biggest argument is that there’s no indication whatsoever that it’s related to the quakes. So she doesn’t want to waste her team, but if I’m willing to provide free resources … well, she’s on it like frosting on a wedding cake.”
He looked at MacNeil with a sharp gaze to ensure that the weight of his next words was clear. “This is an assignment that is extremely important to me, Gabe, in a personal nature, and that’s why I’m placing you on it. Even though Sayed says you’re not quite ready to come back.”
In Gabe’s opinion, Dr. Sayed was too conservative; and besides, he was going crazy at home every day, with nothing to do but think about what a fool he’d been. His leg still hurt a little from the car wreck — but not nearly as much as his ego — but a little pain wasn’t going to stop him. He was ready to be back, and though he’d rather something a little more challenging, this would do. It might be interesting to see Helen again.
Or it might not.
Regardless, there was something else going on here than met the eye.
He looked at his director and waited for him to continue.
Bergstrom’s sharp, intelligent eyes were framed by thick glasses that sank deeply into the sides of his nose. Whenever he removed them, two dark red ovals decorated either side of the bridge of his nose and he rubbed them harshly.
He wasn’t rubbing the red marks today; instead, he watched Gabe steadily, as if to gauge his interest. He seemed more intense than usual; or maybe it was just that Gabe had been away for long enough to forget. He shifted his aching leg to a more comfortable position.
Apparently satisfied he had the appropriate level of attention from his officer, Bergstrom leaned forward and rested his elbows on the desk, one on a stack of files and one on the smooth mahogany, and steepled his fingers.
“The symbol is from an ancient tribe in Siberia that still exists and continues to live in the mountains of that region. The Skaladeskas, they’re called. In the early Seventies, there were some incidents with their only known external member, who had expatriated himself to England. He was ostensibly studying there at Oxford, and — I happened to be there as well. I got to know him as much as anyone else did; he had some crazy ideas that weren’t well-received — along the lines of using crystals for energy. And he was more than a bit fanatical about environmental policies — even back then. A real Rachel Carson kind of guy.”
“What kind of incidents?”
“Some research went missing out of an engineering lab dealing with nuclear physics, and a man by the name of Victor Alexander — formerly Viktor Aleksandrov — was believed to have taken it. However, it was never found and never proven he took it. In fact, another young scientist, who had disappeared during the same time period, was also accused. It was said she had been…close to Alexander. She was never found. Later, Alexander gained entrance to the US and is the only known member of this tribe who lives here in the States.
“As I’ve moved through the ranks here at the Agency, I’ve taken it upon myself to keep a sort of eye on him, and his people — because he was Russian and because of the Cold War, initially. And because I knew him when I was at Oxford. I just wanted to make certain nothing untoward were to happen.” He looked at Gabe through his glasses. “You know as well as I do that there are Aum Shinrikyos and Kuala Pohrs perking out there, acting like harmless cults, but waiting for their opportunity to make a violent political statement.”
Gabe had first-hand experience with the clan that had called themselves Kuala Pohr—a seemingly innocuous group who followed a belief system around a leader startlingly similar to David Koresh. That alone should have put the CIA and FBI on alert, but they ignored the group until they were forced otherwise by a subway bombing on Washington DC’s Metro system in late 2004. His uncle, a National Security Officer, had been killed during the attack and Colin’s peer, Manning Browne, had been caught with his pants down.
More often than not when he reflected on the Kuala Pohr incident, Gabe wondered just how Browne felt nowadays when he looked at himself in the mirror. Did the dead bodies of burned women and children haunt him? Did he review every decision he’d made — every command, every order — and wonder if he could have saved the lives of those thirty people if he’d been a little more diligent, a little more suspicious?
Gabe didn’t want to have to interrogate himself in the mirror, and neither did Colin.
“All has been quiet until now, this incident with the earthquakes. These flyers being found there may mean something, it may mean nothing. They could simply be the symbol of a gang — maybe someone saw it somewhere and chose to borrow it for that purpose. But it’s your job to find out — and do it quickly, and quietly, because I haven’t any authorization from The Powers That Be to use resources for this. I’m afraid this administration’s attention is focused more on threats from fundamental Muslims and narco-terrorists than indigenous tribes in Siberia.”
Gabe took the photo again and stared at it, giving himself the opportunity to consider the situation. Bergstrom was being deliberately vague. No dates or reports or photos, or any of the other collateral he usually received when put on an operation. Perhaps there wasn’t anything to give.
But Gabe knew better.
He’d worked for Bergstrom for eight years; he knew he was holding something back.
He’d said it was personal.
“If it’s not officially approved, then what kind of resources can I count on?”
“You’ll have whatever you need. I’ll see to it.”
Gabe placed the photograph on the desk and looked at his boss. “What else is there, Colin? What aren’t you telling me?”
“There’s nothing else I can tell you at this time, Gabe.”
His words were carefully chosen. Not a lie. Not an admission that Gabe was right. Nearly an acknowledgement, in fact. Seriousness, and something bordering on desperation, held in his unwavering gaze as he stared back at Gabe.
It was almost as if he were asking him for a favor. Pleading silently, but proudly.
He’d never met anyone he’d respected more than Colin Bergstrom. If the man needed him, he’d do it. “All right. So I need to find Victor Alexander.”
Bergstrom’s lips twitched into a half-smile as he handed him a folded yellow paper. “He’s already found. You just need to bring him to me. Him, or his daughter Marina.”
11
Marina watched as Dennis Strand’s prone body hung suspended in the cavern of the twenty-foot shaft. The trick was to keep him from brushing against the side of the walls; if the hole had been wide enough, Marina would have been lifted along with him to keep that from happening. But as it was, she could only watch from below as he rose, legs hanging uselessly, bent at the knees.
Her radio beeped and she snatched it from the clip at her waist. “Ready?” came Bruce’s voice.
“Ready.” Marina moved gingerly against one of the walls, splashing in about ten centimeters of cold water as the rope for her own lift tumbled down. She clipped it to her belt and slipped her foot in the noose, then stood straight and slender. Two sharp tugs on the rope to signal that she was ready, and she braced herself.