Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (10 page)

“The pool house actually has two levels,” Markus confided. “One below ground that connects to the main house via tunnel. You can see the tunnel’s glass ceiling there, in the pool floor.”

“It’s all quite impressive,” Joss said.

Markus guided them to the right where they came upon a vaulted ballroom, its mahogany floor empty of furniture, and then they finally came to a break in the wall of windows. Beyond an opening through which one could drive a bus, Vitaliy Ostrovsky sat at an umbrella-shaded table. He spotted Markus and stood, smiling wide, practically charging at Matt for a handshake.

Matt was surprised by Ostrovsky’s garb: brown loafers, slacks, argyle sweater vest over a cream polo.

Ostrovsky seized Matt’s gloved hand and squeezed it too hard. “Matthew, Matthew! I have been as eager like a little boy all morning! I am overjoyed you decided to come.” He released Matt’s hand and turned to Joss. “And you, Ms. Leland! Look at you.” He regarded her from head to toe, though sans any detectable creepiness, remarkably. More like a father appreciating his daughter’s prom dress. He set his hands on her shoulders and planted a light kiss on each cheek.

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Ostrovsky,” she said.

“Come, sit,” he said, turning and walking to the table.

Matt and Joss shared a look, Joss’s face expressing surprise and approval. This wasn’t the crude, ever-naked eccentric Matt had described on the first leg of their journey.

Just wait,
Matt thought, and followed Ostrovsky’s lead to the table, taking a seat across from him. Gilded plates lay adorned with grapes, cheeses, caviar, crackers, and what looked like cubed Spam.

“Please, help yourself to a tasty snack,” Ostrovsky said. “And tell Markus what you would like for drink. I recommend the Golden Shower. Delicious.”

Matt cleared his throat, shifted in his chair, and heard Joss inhale sharply at the beverage name, as well. Glancing casually around, he observed her nodding, with a polite smile and furrowed brow.

Ostrovsky misinterpreted their reserve and faces as mere curiosity. “You know what this is, Golden Shower?”

Matt put up a hand. “I’m sure it’s a wonderful drink.”

“Yes, of course! It is delicious, so I say—especially with this weather, my God … Vodka with citrus and ginger ale. Some sort of fruits muddled up in there—pineapple … orange pulps, maybe. But it is also when man pisses on woman, like for sex. I mean, it is possible other way, though I think mostly man on woman thing …” Ostrovsky mulled this, as if making a mental note to add the topic onto his list of research tasks, then quickly added, “But believe me, drink is scrumptious, truly! Nothing like urine, if you will have trust. Markus, bring three, please.”

Matt didn’t look again, but felt Joss’s stiff energy, heard her breathe slow and deep. She seemed the type to be amused rather than offended by this sort of thing, or at least he hoped this was the case.

Ostrovsky laced his fingers behind his head as he leaned back in the chair. “That is my first born, Veronika.” He nodded toward the riding ring in the distance. “Only ten, but highly skilled with the animals.” He smiled for a moment, gazing out, his thoughts a mile away. The girl stopped the horse and an adult on the ground took hold of the reins. Ostrovsky’s attention returned to his guests. “She was getting fat. Real Honey Boo Boo, you know? This is downside of spoiling. But now is okay because they find her something she want to do all day, and disgusting belly is shrinking.” Joss must’ve made a face at this because Ostrovsky’s eyes shot her way. “You don’t like this? You think I should let her get bloated and sweaty like American child?”

Joss flailed. “No, no … not at all. Exercise is wonderful.”

“Mr. Ostrovsky,” Matt intervened before he could go on. “How about we discuss your project? Your recent acquisitions.”

Markus returned with a servant holding a tray of three sparkling, electric-yellow drinks. The man set the glasses atop quark coasters on the table.

“You see? Like glass of iced piss!” Ostrovsky turned to Markus. “Bring the cases now.”

Markus returned a sharp nod and zipped away. While they waited, the sounds of small birds and a light breeze filled the silence.

Ostrovsky’s eyes alternated between Joss and Matt, studying them. He finally said to Joss, “You are assistant? Like
personal
assistant? For Matthew?”

“Yes,” Joss said, her expression pleasant yet absent of warmth, like Markus.

“And what does this involve?” He always struggled with Vs, pronouncing it
een-WOLW
.

Joss hesitated, either unclear on what he’d said, or unsure how to answer.

Matt knew where Ostrovsky was going. “Strictly professional,” he said, hoping to end it there, and then glanced back through the hangar-sized opening in search of Markus.

This only encouraged Ostrovsky. “Because those lips! Matthew! How long can you go without knowing-”

“Please,” Matt interrupted, “Ms. Leland is only recently hired, and I insist we-”

Joss leaned forward, crossed her arms on the table before her, and cut Matthew off. “I have yet to get him drunk enough, Vitaliy, but don’t you worry. He’ll know soon enough.”

Ostrovsky’s eyes bugged out. His face, mouth agape, turned comically from Matt to Joss, and back. He laughed heartily, pounding the table. “Holy shit, this one! … Matthew!” He shook his head, leaned back in his chair, and lifted his glass in toast. “Za tvoyo zdorovye!”

The pair picked up their drinks and returned the toast. Matt knew his face had flushed, and his leg had begun shaking. He pressed his heel against the ground to stop it.

Markus reappeared from the house with two metal cases, one stacked on the other, and a shoulder bag. He placed the cases on the table side by side, and rested an index finger on the one closer to Ostrovsky. “A,” he said as he touched the first case, “and B.” He opened the leather bag, extracting a can of compressed air, and a box of disposable gloves.

“Good,” Ostrovsky said. “You can go.” He pulled on a pair of the gloves, slid the “A” box in front of him, twisted and released a latch, then swung the top open.

Matt and Joss’s necks extended in unison to glimpse the contents. Ostrovsky’s hands disappeared inside, then—gingerly, eyes slowly widening—his hands emerged with a prismatic length of red granite pressed lengthwise between. He glanced up at his audience, satiated by their fascination. He maneuvered the artifact onto one palm, freeing his other hand to fetch a square of thick cloth from inside the box. As if it were some ultra-delicate glass piece, Ostrovsky set the relic down on the cloth and pulled his hands away, finally able to breathe.

Eyebrows high on his head, goofy smile, and constant nod, Ostrovsky said, “Anh? The
Taria
… Are you ready?”

Matt’s hands remained folded before him on the table. “What does that mean? ‘Taria.’ Where was it found?”

Ostrovsky snorted, “You don’t know what this means? I thought you know everything.”

“Off the top of my head, I can think of twelve different definitions. ‘Strength’ in Romanian, ‘wait’ in Maori, ‘stripe’ in Portuguese, ‘mushy’ in Arabic … There’s also Basque, Spanish, Maltese-”

“Yes, yes, Einstein,” Ostrovsky said with a flutter of fingers. “This could be Greek, Egyptian … some dialect, who knows? You do
your
thing now. Why ask me?”

Matt continued, “So it was found in Greece or Egypt?”

“Could be Latin,” Ostrovsky demurred.

“May I ask who called it that?”

A vein swelled in Ostrovsky’s forehead. “Are you going to touch it or not?”

“No,” Matt said flatly. “Not here, and not until my questions are answered. As I’m sure you’re aware, the vulnerabilities caused by my ability require me to set certain conditions. And I make no exceptions to these rules.”

Ostrovsky, bewildered, looked to Joss for help. “What is this?” He glared at Matt. “Why come here? I know you don’t trust me, despite our assurance. You call goddamn embassy in Kiev, tell them you’re coming to see me, as if you disappear they know where to look! Come on!” He leaned forward, elbows on table, pleading. “This is deal between comrades, Matthew. You don’t make me
feel
this. Why you bring this one here, if not to safeguard you while you do the thing?”

“You
really
don’t want to tell me where you got it,” Matt said calmly. He wanted to hear Ostrovsky say eBay—not to humiliate him, but to bring him down to Matt’s level, or at least a bit closer to it. “I can only assume you’re ashamed, as you clearly have no concerns about legality. Half the pieces we passed in your hall were either looted, smuggled out of their source countries, or flat-out stolen from an existing collection, and yet there they are, proudly displayed. What could be so embarrassing? I’ll know as soon as I read it, anyway.”

Ostrovsky smirked with pursed lips and sipped his drink. He sighed and finally said, “eBay. Markus get for me on eBay.”

Matt smirked, feigning amused surprise. “Seriously?”

“Serious,” Ostrovsky said, and gave him a
calm down
gesture. “Woman in Athens. She say it was in family for generations, pass down since before they move from home … Egypt.
She
call it Taria.” He rotated his head an inch and called out, “Markus.”

Markus appeared a few seconds later. “Yes, sir.”

Ostrovsky gestured for Matt and Joss to drink their now-sweaty beverages, and both complied. “Markus went to pick up the Taria from seller.”

“How much did you get it for?” Joss asked, but then caught Matt’s face. “Sorry. Just curious.”

Markus answered, “By their previous living standards, the family was very well compensated. And the seller had only asked for the equivalent of one thousand dollars.”

“Tell them the story,” Ostrovsky said, and focused on his fields.

Markus put his hands behind his back. “Very well. The family lived in a rather impoverished neighborhood. The seller, a widow in her early forties, thought little of the artifact, but was fearful of her mother finding out it was being sold. We met in a neighboring apartment building where she brought the item—which she called
The Taria
—loose in a purse with other items … keys and such. As you can see, the inscriptions in the middle of each long side are worn down, some of them rendered illegible. This is due to a family tradition involving the object. Typically mother to daughter, a song is taught to the next generation. One line of the song per side, and the surfaces are rubbed with a thumb while singing.”

“Did she sing it for you?” Matt asked.

“Yes, by my request.” Markus replied. “She and her young daughter sang it quietly as I recorded. There’s a bit of background noise, but it’s fairly clear if you’d like me to retrieve it.”

“No, that’s okay for now,” Matt said. “Was the song in Greek, though?”

“I don’t believe so,” Markus said. “The woman doesn’t know what any of the words mean. She says they’re just sounds, a tune, like singing along to a song in a language you don’t speak, even to her elderly mother who taught it to her. The meaning is presumed to have been lost many generations ago, but the ritual remained. Sing the song, rub the stone, turn to the next side, so on. Like a …” Matt saw for the first time Markus searching for an English word. “… A lucky thing.”

“Superstition,” Matt said as he settled back in his chair, pondering.

Ostrovsky, impatient, threw up his arms. “Okay, enough? You will look at thing now?”

“No,” Matt said. “I’m sorry, but it’s just like I said. Not here. Let me take it to a hotel in Belgorod for a couple days.”

“Impossible,” Ostrovsky said, shaking his head and sliding the cloth back to his side of the table. “They will not leave my property.”

“Okay,” Matt sighed, and eyed the second box. “The second one you mentioned. Is it from the same woman?”

“No,” Markus replied as Ostrovsky returned the Taria to its case. “And it might be of particular interest to you, Matthew. Sir, may I?” Ostrovsky nodded dismissively, and Markus put on a fresh pair of gloves.

Beneath the table, Matt pinched one of his gloves between his knees and slowly slid his hand out. In the corner of his eye he caught a subtle head movement from Joss as she noticed what he was doing. Wisely, she immediately returned her attention to Markus as he opened the second box.

“And why would it be of particular interest?” Matt said as Markus dipped his hands into the container.

“Because …” Markus began, and brought the second artifact into view. It was the exact same shape—a triangular prism of apparently identical dimensions to the first—but in such pristine condition that it could be mistaken for a recently created fake.

Matt frowned. “A reproduction isn’t going to help me learn the history of the authentic one.”

Ostrovsky laughed.

Markus spread a new cloth on the table and gently set down the object. “It’s no reproduction, Matthew,” he assured. “It’s absolutely genuine, and possibly a superior sample as it pertains to your talent. You see, Taria B has not been touched by human skin in nearly two thousand years. Since being recovered, it has only been handled with gloves or other barriers. You will find no—
imprints
, is it?—from modern-day persons. As to its remarkable preservation, this is due to the airtight encasement in which it’s survived, untouched and unseen, shielded from light and all manner of wear, since the third century.”

Matt and Joss leaned forward, heads floating around the object like snakes. The inscriptions were absolutely pristine, and, once more, were not what he’d expected.

Matt opened his mouth to ask another question, but Markus interrupted. “Don’t bother asking where it was acquired.”

“Okay … Well, have you been able to translate this yet?” Matt said, his face alight with thrill. He mumbled to himself as he read the inscriptions on one face. The first in Demotic, a Hieratic script the Egyptians used for documents.
“The people,”
it said, and then switched to Ancient Greek:
“With life.”
He was about to reach for it to flip it over and read another side, but paused and asked, “Would you mind?” He glanced at Markus.

Markus reached for the artifact, but Ostrovsky grabbed his wrist. “No! If you wish to read, you read. You want to be first person to touch my most precious piece, you do it
here
…
my
property. There is no safer place in country, I assure you.” He released Markus’s wrist.