Moscow (CNN) -- Divers have completed their search of a Russian cruise ship that sank last weekend with the loss of many lives, the Emergency Situations Ministry told CNN Friday. The official death toll has reached 114 -- including 66 women, 28 children and 20 men, the ministry said. The bodies of 15 people are still missing. There were 208 people on the "Bulgaria" at the time of the accident Sunday, of whom 79 were rescued. Divers have checked all the boat's compartments, the ministry said, and are now looking for more bodies around the boat as well downstream on the Volga River, where they could have been carried by the current. The area where search efforts continue has been enlarged to 200 kilometers (125 miles) from the scene, Russian Transport Minister Igor Levitin said at a briefing Friday. Preparations are under way for the cruise ship to be raised from the river bottom in the coming days. Two large boat cranes, one from Moscow and another one from Volgograd, which will be used for the lifting, are on the way to the accident site. "We have asked the Emergency Situations Ministry to keep 23 divers at the scene to continue the search for bodies even during the lifting operation," Levitin said. Specialist military divers were brought in mid-week to aid in the search efforts. Four people face criminal charges over the sinking of the ship, which Russian media have called the most devastating river accident in the country's history. 

How many people can be accounted for after the search of the ship?


He continued to lie in place, still breathing heavily. I tried to keep myself calm. Then, with a sigh, he said, "I have need of a certain stone that I once possessed. It would allow me to leave this bed, despite my current illness. My problem is that it was not made in this realm, but by a human, and only a human may handle it. The herb vendor will tell you where you can find it. If you would fetch me this stone, I would tell you what I can." "Of course we will fetch you the stone," Nepthys assured him. "You have our thanks." Outside, the thing at the herb cart nodded when we mentioned the stone. He told Nepthys the name of a woman who lived on a certain street, and we set off. When we reached the street, I expected some sort of temple, or a row of antiquaries, or at least a sleazy, black-market relics merchant. Instead, it looked like we were in the red-light district: women who probably wanted more than our money eyed us from the alleys. Nepthys didn't need to warn me not to speak to them. He took us to the door of a building like a short pagoda that had a sign hanging over it showing a face with hands uplifted, like a saint under G d's light, and handcuffed. Inside, the entrance room was hung with bright silks and scattered with velvet cushions. Sails of obscene orange and a green that insulted springtime hung draped across reds that might have been sensual elsewhere but here were only offensive. A large woman, similarly decorated, quickly drifted up to us. "Good evening, gentlemen," she said. "May I invite you to have a cup of tea?" "No, thank you," said Nepthys, "we regret that we cannot take up your kind offer. Are you the proprietor of this shop?" "Yes," answered the woman. "I am Madame Entera, at your service. 

Who can tell me where to find the stone?


One look at Fred Rooney, and you just know he's the good guy. A trace of childish innocence in his face gives the lanky Bethlehem lawyer a Jimmy Stewart-like quality of quiet trust. In black jeans and button-down shirt, he's a kind of folk hero in the south Bethlehem melting pot where he's crafted a law practice catering to working-class families - mostly Latino - in the shadow of the hulkish remnants of Bethlehem Steel. A two-hour drive away, at City University of New York Law School in Queens, Rooney spends several days a week helping upstart lawyers develop storefront practices that, like his, provide legal representation to folks who can't afford a $250-an-hour legal counselor. Kristin Booth Glen, the law school's dean, took one look at Rooney and knew he was the right person to head the innovative Community Legal Resources Network. ''Fred's so low-key, he's Midwestern in effect,'' says Glen, a former New York Supreme Court judge. ''He captivates people, he inspires loyalty.'' For bringing legal representation to the poor and a host of other social causes, including finding medical care for seriously ill children in Latin America, the Moravian College Alumni Association has chosen Rooney for its prestigious Haupert Humanitarian Award. The award, given to only a select few alumni, will be presented at 7:30 tonight at a reception on Moravian's Priscilla Payne Hurd campus. Moravian, where he was an undergraduate in the early 1970s, inspired Rooney's deep sense of social justice. The son of a Bethlehem Steel executive in New York, he came to the Bethlehem campus from an affluent upbringing on Long Island. The young Rooney might have set his sights on Washington, D.C., like his uncle, former U.S. Rep. Fred Rooney of Bethlehem. After all, politics run in the Rooney family. His brother, state Rep. T.J. Rooney of Bethlehem, is a power in the state Legislature and the Democratic Party. But on a trip to Colombia when he was a junior at Moravian, the child of privilege saw human suffering, malnutrition and poverty the likes of which he had never imagined. ''I couldn't understand why we live this way and they live that way,'' Rooney recalled. ''It's been the guiding light of my life ever since.'' After graduating in CUNY Law School's first class in 1986, he took a job with Lehigh Valley Legal Services. 


How would one describe Fred's demeanor?