“It’s possible — in fact, probable — that he has knowledge of confidential information; some of which is not outdated.” Bergstrom spoke simply and firmly. “We have recent data that indicates the Skaladeskas could be a potential threat to this country and others. And if indeed they have taken your father back, his knowledge could put our nation at risk. We need to locate him and bring him back.”
At last: the meat of the matter. “You want me to help you find him.” No effing way.
They nodded together: MacNeil, with his short, quick affirmation, and Bergstrom with a more vigorous, energetic bobbing. “Yes, Dr. Alexander — because other than your father, you appear to be the only other expert on the Skaladeskas here in the Western world — and perhaps anywhere outside of Taymyria. We want you to join our team — to find your father, and to find out everything we can about the Skaladeskas.”
“No.”
“You know of other experts who could assist us?” Bergstrom’s congenial smile told her he purposely misunderstood.
“I’m not going to help you find my father.” Marina was no longer hungry. They couldn’t be serious about trying to recruit her. Sydney Bristow she was not. “I’m not joining your team. That’s ridiculous. I’m not a spy. I’m a historian.”
“And a caver, a pilot, a rescue worker, and an expert on human subcultures. And you bear the mark of the Skaladeskas. You don’t need to be a spy, Dr. Alexander. But we need you.” Bergstrom remained calm, settled, soothing. Assuming he would have his way.
“I’ll tell you what I know about the Skalas — which isn’t all that much, thanks to Dad. And I’ll be available from Myanmar — by phone or email — if you want me to answer questions about my father, if you feel that will help. But I’m not getting any more involved than that, in any aspect of this so-called investigation.” She had to keep every bit of it at arms’ length — physically and emotionally. Anything related to her father.
“Why not?”
“Because I like my life the way it is. I have a great job, I have my rescue work where I help save lives — not so different from what you do, I guess, but on a smaller, more personal scale — and I don’t have any desire to disrupt or change or compromise it. Plus, I’m about to complete the coup of my career. I don’t have the time or the desire to stray from that project. Whatever you think you can get from me, I’m sure you can get somewhere else.”
She stood. “I’m ready to end this meeting now. I’m tired, and sore, and I helped drag a bloody, broken man out of a cave this morning. I’m finding a bed and going to sleep. And tomorrow I’m leaving for Myanmar. I’m not going to do anything that will jeopardize that opportunity.”
14
Junie Peters woke in darkness.
At least, it appeared to be dark until her eyes adjusted to the faint light and she realized she was in a hospital room. The telly mounted on the wall in front of her, near the ceiling, and the tubes attached to her wrist were the first indications. Something protruded from her nostrils, too; she reached up to touch it gingerly and found a small plastic curl attached to a long tube that fell away into the nothing next to her narrow bed.
The faint bong from the other side of the wall sounded like the subtle cue for a nurse or physician to attend to a patient’s call. The crack of her door allowed the low light to come in; the windows were shaded, but even so, it was clear it was night.
Junie frowned, trying to recall how she’d come to be there. She blinked, trying to shake off the weariness and the fog that surrounded her.
And just as memory flirted with the edge of her mind, a shadow in the corner of the room moved.
She would have screamed only because the sudden movement startled her, but the face that came close was appallingly handsome and even in the grey light shone with concern. Relief.
“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
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.