Siberian Treasure (Page 22)

“Dead? How?”

“The local authorities have started the investigation, but since you’re handling the earthquake case, I believe you should be called in on it as well.” He rattled off the address of the home in Baltimore.

“Do they know anything?” Helen asked as she rummaged for a pen to jot down the information. “Can you give that addy to me again?” The pen didn’t work; and Helen cursed her distaste for technology. A PDA stylus never ran out of ink. “One more time, please,” she said, finally getting a pen that worked.

He obliged, then continued. “She was found dead on the floor in her home and the autopsy was performed early this morning. The local authorities didn’t realize they had to notify us until the results came in; then I guess they figured out that you might need to know since you’re on a related case.” Sarcasm wove through his words.

“Well?”

“Best as they can tell, it was some kind of poison; but they haven’t been able to identify it. But here’s the weirdest thing. After, or as part of her death, she was injected with a chemical.”

“What?” Helen frowned, her brows knitting together in a way that did not bode well for keeping her forehead wrinkle-free.

“They found a chemical composition in her veins. She was injected with one of her own poisonous chemicals.”

-21-

July 8, 2007

Siberia

Lev was too old to feel such biting anger. It wearied him, depressed him.

He already felt his age in the deepest marrow of his bones, in the brooding aches and pains that accompanied every breath. The slightest movement of his fingers, or the basic act of blinking his eyes—eyes clouded so that he could hardly see from them anyway—caused ripples of discomfort. The lashes that should have protected his vision had long since fallen out, so the dust and particles in the air gritted his dry eyeballs, grinding into them as he blinked.

He was eighty-nine years old. Perhaps it was to be expected.

He was more than ready to die, but the fury of betrayal simmered deep inside, fueling his ebbing energy.

Roman might be his son, but Lev was still Gaia’s Chosen. And Roman still answered to him.

Lev’s life had been long, full of purpose, and successful, by his measure. He had few regrets; some, true, but they were few. Yes, they were painful, but they were few. He hadn’t many things to finish before he left this world, and returned to the ground, from which he’d come. What did the Christian Bible say? “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust … .”

He ached for that moment of dust even while he knew his time separate from the Earth was not finished, and would not be until Roman was fully prepared to lead.

Or if not him, then Varden.

There was no hope for Viktor.

There was no other hope, for the line of the Aleksandrovs had ended with Lev’s twin sons.

The pages of an ancient tome crinkled under his hands while the soft pads of his fingers brushed over sacred words. He turned his attention back to the faded, angular scratchings of archaic Greek.

“As Gaia lives, She breathes. As She breathes, She creates life: in every living creature, in every struggling plant, in every solid rock as One in Her.”

He’d read those words many times over his life; and his father before him, and his father before him. They’d never meant more to him than they did now.

The time had come.

Yesterday, he’d ventured out of the compound for the first time in months, now that the fierce winter had subsided, and his joints did not ache so much. He needed to visit and draw in the clean air. To breathe of Gaia and calm the ache of anger.

Air. Blessed air.

Grass. Sky. Trees.

Gaia … she was beautiful.

The crisp air bit at his face. He stood, breathed deeply, and was filled with the beauty of the moment. Grey-green grass straggled about, tufting in clumps amid the stony ground. Four pines marked the edge of the steppe there on the edge of the mountain.

Four pines: one for each of Gaia’s elements. Mineral, animal, vegetable, water. The four elements that melded and meshed and threaded together to create the Earth herself: a living, breathing One.

From here, Lev had seen the greenish outlines of smaller mountains; hills, really; studded with more pines, and other trees; and the far grey sharpness of true mountains, jutting in the distance. Below the steppe, the dark grey waters of the river below, tussling Roman’s small boat against its moorings. And far to the northeast, where the river dumped into the fog-frosted steel blue waters of Kara Sea. His world.

A world that became more threatened each day.

The air dirtied. The glaciers melting because of holes in the atmosphere. The earth stuffed with chemicals and unnatural waste. The trees sliced from their roots, and grasses and brush and earth torn up and tossed about.

He had not seen it himself, not in person. He’d never ventured beyond the mountains as his sons had; he’d never wanted to or needed to. But the images, film footage—those he’d seen. The rape of the land, the natural resources scraped and mined and sucked from Earth. Devastation. Waste. Death.

Here, they were far from the destruction. Near the top of the world, in the barren, cold mountains of Siberia, the destruction of the rest of the world did not touch them. Lev had believed they were far enough away that it would never touch them.

But he was wrong.

They were all One, all part of Gaia. What one animal, rock, plant, stream did in one corner of the Earth affected her throughout, just as one lesion on Lev’s body or one scar on his skin could cause infection that would stream through his own blood, poisoning the whole. Or as one cancerous cell grew, it would weaken him throughout. If one fed oneself vile fare, it permeated the body and polluted it. Weakened it. Eventually, destroyed it.

So it was with Gaia.

The lesions, the cancer, the poison … it was growing everywhere within her.

And she could no longer fight it herself. Powerful she was; but she could not battle it alone.

And that was why he had not been called back to her yet, melted back into her dust.

Now, his fingers spasmed over the aged book in front of him. The delicate pages had long been protected; at first by a glass case. And then, more recently, by flimsy, clear coating over each page to keep away the dust and the oils of his fingers, but also allowed for his studies to continue.

Just as he closed the heavy cloth cover, a faint whirring sound came from the door and it slid open to reveal his son. Lev drew in a deep breath to clear his mind, shake off the heavy mantle of grief that weighted him more often each day.

He was still Gaia’s Chosen, and he would not disappoint her. He would be strong.

“I thought perhaps I’d find you here, Father,” Roman told him as he strode into the room. Despite the fact that he was alone, he approached Lev and sank into a brief bow at his slippered feet.

“Have you anything new to report?” Lev gestured to a chair opposite his, and Roman settled into it. Now he would see.

Roman was a handsome man, and in many ways, Lev could not be prouder of him. His head, clean-shaven by choice rather than chance, was a perfect oval, and his scalp, smooth and unmarked. Dark, neat brows, a mixture of grey, black and brown, framed intelligent eyes that reminded Lev sweetly of his Irina. At age sixty, Roman still had a remarkably unlined face with a solid square chin. He stood much taller than his father; topping him by half a meter, and carried an abundance of confidence and charm that he used to his advantage at all times.

Now, settled in his chair, he looked around the room for a moment as if needing to choose his words. Lev wondered how much it would cost Roman to tell him what he already knew.

And whether he would be brave enough to do so.

As the silence simmered, Lev declined the urge to follow his son’s attention as it scored the chamber littered with books and scrolls borrowed from the Sacred. Several chairs, used only when other Shamans were present during study or their spiritual journeys clustered one corner of the room. The walls were the same smooth plaster-like material as the other buildings in their settlement, but instead of the blinding white of the hallways that led from Segment to Segment, the walls in this room had a soft yellow-gold tone, sloping gently from floor to ceiling. Inset lights provided illumination over two large tables, made from slabs of pine and the gently crossing antlers of the Great Elk. Crystals of various shapes, sizes, and characteristic were piled in the center of the table closest to Lev. And in the corner were the three ceremonial drums.

Lev waited until Roman spoke.

“The test phase has been completed to our satisfaction. We continue preparations for Phase Two, and have identified the three targets. They will be in the city of Detroit.”

“Three?” Lev pulled himself upright in his chair, ignoring the creak of his right elbow.

“We believe three will produce the optimal effect. There are the three major automobile manufacturers.”

“Did we not determine that two would have the appropriate strength and decrease the potential destruction?”

“I believe it must be three targets, Father,” Roman replied. “One can be considered nothing but a coincidence; two will not prove our seriousness. Three is a sacred number and will display the level of our commitment. One for each of the three elements affected by those targets: air, earth, and water.”

Lev reached for the oval-shaped carnelian stone next to him. He knew his place in the world. And he had made certain that his sons knew their places as well. Indeed, one of them had put his own dreams and desires aside to meet the demands of his father.

And one of them had not.

“You make a weak argument, Roman, for the third target. I do not approve of it, but I will commune with Gaia, and meditate whether we should proceed with your plans. I will be journeying to the Upper World tomorrow; that will be soon enough.” His last journey; not a physical one; but the trance brought about by the traditional, fast-paced rhythm of the drums, had dragged much from him. But he knew his duty; and his son would too. As Lev smoothed the scarlet stone over his right elbow, he watched Roman as he struggled to subdue the rash, angry response he wanted, but feared, to make. It was almost as if he was chewing on his tongue.