Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (13 page)

Zenobia reaches back and picks up a plate of fruits, setting it between us. She daintily plucks a grape from the bunch and bites it in half, chewing with her lips closed—a stark contrast to the thirty-year-old woman I tried to teach Latin. She’s been practicing Roman finesse. Only six years ago, one warm night we’d both enjoyed, the Queen sat in the dirt near a fire circle, legs spread out before her in a child’s manner, wholly at ease, as a servant presented a stone platter. Zenobia had torn a wing from the duck, devouring the meat, and spat gristle and bone into the fire.
“Delicious,”
she’d said with a messy grin.

“Eat,” Zenobia says. “The dates are from home. They’ve been warming in the sun.”

“Thank you,” I say, and she sees me searching for the appropriate formality.

She puts up a hand.
Thank you
is enough. She craves the relative normalcy of her former life. I peek up at her hair, a dark bronze, bleached lighter in sections by the desert sun, and arranged high in elaborate coils, beaded string holding small gold plates above each ear. Combined with her face, the entire arrangement surely took an army of staff the whole morning to create.

“You like it?” she says, having caught my eyes aimed well above hers. She smiles wide. Her teeth have been scoured clean since last we met, now gleaming white as a young child’s. “It took the entirety of the morning to prepare. I adore it, but it’s heavy as a house. Like carrying a wheat basket. A chore I endured more than once, if you recall.”

It’s how she wants me to remember her. I was right. She does crave the days of simple nobility—
Palmyrene
nobility, a full rank below the merely
affluent
of Alexandria. Many of her people still live a nomadic life, organized into small tribes. If I didn’t know how she’d ascended to the throne, and further, to Roman ruler of the entire region, I’d never believe it.

She’s given me every indication that speaking freely is not only acceptable, but encouraged. I must broach the performance. “Augusta,” I begin.

“
Zenobia
, Patra. You of all people,
please
.” Desperation in her voice. She needs it like water.

“Zenobia,” I say, and she inhales deeply, as if leaving a musty chamber and finally breathing fresh air. She nods. I continue, “I came to invite you to the Musaeum, to hear two of our esteemed guests relate their exploits from Galatia to Kashmir and back. However, I must admit that I overheard your audience with the priests.”

“The performance,” she says, eyes narrowing, wicked grin. “I cannot
wait
.”

“Yes, Aug—Zenobia, it’s sure to be entertaining, but that’s not my concern. You see, the performers, some of them are friends of mine, colleagues at the Musaeum. I … fear repercussions.”

“All the better I attend!” she proclaims. “It’ll appear I commissioned them, redirecting any venom to me.”

“That’s
beyond
kind of you, Zenobia, though I don’t wish anyone to suffer because of some silly exhibition. Their intent, these friends of mine, was to put on this little performance—something they’d been musing on for a few days—for the Musaeum residents. Then word spread beyond the walls and, not grasping the consequences, they had it moved to the amphitheater to accommodate a larger audience. And now …” I motion to her.

“With my attendance, you foresee a full amphitheater and the tale spreading beyond the city. I understand.” She puts her hand on mine, soothing. “Listen to me, Patra. You know that I love you, and you can ask me for anything. It would be done. But this … It sounds to me that the ox has already breached the pen. If you still wish me not to attend, I will not. But believe me when I say that my presence will absorb the responsibility, and even if word reached Emperor Antonius, he has his hands full in Rome for the foreseeable future. A man like that—a soldier—he won’t leave the Empire to the Senate and Magistracy, and with me here, he wouldn’t send a mere squadron of ships to dish out punishment. Losing them would be too much of an embarrassment.” She chomps a date, continuing with her mouth full, “No, it would be all or nothing: the Emperor goes about his business, forgetting in a day this tale of distant mockery, or the alternative, marshalling his entire fleet to dethrone the usurper, the
insolent
warrior queen.” She smiles warmly again. “A trivial, satirical performance, miles across the sea, frankly doesn’t warrant an undertaking of that monumental scale.”

ALT 18,000 feet – Aegean Sea – Present day

Matt set the Taria on the cloth. “Do we have internet access? Where are we? How long until we land?”

“No internet just yet,” Markus replied. “Fifteen minutes before we put down in Athens. What did you see?”

That was always the question, wasn’t it? What had he
seen?
As though vision were the extent of an imprint’s substance. He no longer felt compelled to correct people, explaining the deep, cerebral aspects of reading, the wholly enveloping act of entering another’s mind.

Joss wore a familiar expression he’d observed on countless faces: the eager,
tell me everything
look one might flash upon seeing a friend enter the room with their hair standing on end, black-smudged face of a cartoon explosion, and a dead alien slung over their shoulder. It was the face Tuni always had when he’d come out of a session in Kenya. It reminded him …

“Markus, you brought the other item we discussed?”

Joss perked up:
other item?

Markus snapped a nod. “As promised. Deliverable after two days’ work, regardless of findings.”

Matt didn’t like it at all, this leverage. Whatever Tuni had sent, it’d been intended for Matt. Ostrovsky justified withholding it, offering it as compensation (or
ransom
, to the vaguely observant), contending the package would’ve never made it out of the Kenyan presidential property if not for his operatives. This claim alone was concerning, but Matt downplayed his interest. If Tuni had been prevented from communicating all this time, who’s to say she hadn’t been attempting to reach out from the very beginning?

He’d long ago purged any lingering feelings (the positive ones, anyway), but the idea of her in trouble, or in pain, or
scared.
Terror was, by far, the most unbearable of emotions. A marriage with President The Gray now suddenly seemed unlikely to resemble Matt’s long-held vision of blissful opulence. But hey, maybe it was all roses for Tuni, after all. She could simply be saying
“Hi, hope you’re well. Things are bloody SPLENDID in the palace. Cheers!”

“So?” Joss demanded, patting the table impatiently. “Let’s hear it!”

Matt turned to Markus. “Alexandria, late third century, and the Library still exists. The ruler is a queen from a neighboring land, Zenobia. Have you heard of her?”

“Of course, Matthew,” Markus said as he returned the Tarias to their cases. “And the Tragedy of Alexandria is soon to occur.”

Matt feigned surprise. “
Tragedy
of Alexandria? We talking ‘tragedy’ in quotes here? Never heard of it. Is that supposed to be some known thing?”

“Fairly,” was all Markus replied.

Matt stared. “I’ve heard of a
lot
of things.” He knew what information existed in the historical record. Or so he thought.

Markus rolled his fingers to move on.

Matt glanced at Joss, still waiting for a recounting. “Sorry,” he said. “Here’s what happened …”

As Markus jotted notes, Matt described the building—the Serapeum—Patra, Zenobia, and the conversation he’d witnessed.

* * *

For some reason, when Markus spoke of a “private island,” Joss had envisioned a cute little thing, maybe a bit larger than a sandbar, with a single wind-blown palm tree at the top, situated beside a relatively nice beach house. From the shore, Philippos looked more like a tropical resort island, with a dense thicket of trees above a pristine beach, extending out in both directions until eventually wrapping around to some unseen rest of the island.

The dock led to a charming little beach hut with the flap up window covers. Elsewhere, this looked like the building where you’d grab a burger, or maybe check out a volleyball, or grab a stack of fluffy, fresh towels.

Joss stepped off the small boat and onto the wood pier. Markus’s husky bodyguard, Grisha, helped her up.

The driver opened the storage compartment where the luggage had been stowed and Joss motioned to her suitcase. “Should I-?”

“No.” The only English word Joss believed Grisha knew.

Markus called from the beach, where he and Matt stood waiting on a walking path that began where the pier ended. “They’ll bring all of your items, Ms. Leland. Please, come.”

She made her way to them, taking in more of the Greek isle scenery. “Sorry,” she said as she approached.

“Now,” Markus began. “The entire island is yours to roam—no rules or restrictions, but I do ask that you inform myself or Circe, the island manager, if you plan to venture to the south end. There are cliffs and caves, all quite spectacular, but also hazardous terrain. It’d be preferable, in fact, if someone took you there in the motorboat. I only ask this for safety purposes.”

The trio passed the hut, entering a shady stand of trees, a cobblestone path replacing the smooth concrete. Markus gestured toward a pair of enticing hammocks with little side tables for drinks. Beyond stood another, smaller hut—or more like a storage shed—with its paneled doors swung wide, its only purpose to supply ready stacks of those fluffy towels Joss had envisioned.

“Footwear, headwear, and sunglasses can be found in the cabinet around the side there, as well as all manner of sun lotions. It’s hottest about this time each day. And you’ll rarely see a cloud in the sky, so do protect your skin. You may find as others that afternoons here are best spent in the water. Life preservers, snorkeling, and more advanced watersport gear can be found back in the beach hut we first passed.”

Continuing up a weaving path bordered with what couldn’t possibly be native foliage and flowers, they reached a sprawling single-story house, all glass and dark wood, its steel I-beam structure left exposed. A short bridge over a koi pond led to the tall wood doors.

“Beautiful,” Joss said.

“Pleased you like it,” Markus said. “This is the staff quarters where I’m staying, and where you can fetch me or Circe at any time. Additionally, everyone has a radio, so if you don’t wish to make the walk, have any staff member ring for me. And now to
your
lodgings.” He extended his arm toward the continuing stone path.

As they rounded the corner of the staff building, Joss remained mute despite the desire to ask why
she
wasn’t staying in the staff quarters. Recalling the initial conversation at the mansion in Ukraine—the part where Mr. Ostrovsky suggested a less-than-professional relationship between her and Matt—Joss wondered if Markus was about to lead them into some grand bedroom, declaring,
“And here is where
you
two will be staying!”
Funny to imagine it, but what if he actually did? And what if Matt didn’t snap right up and protest?

“Here we are,” Markus said as they exited the grape-tangled arch of an arboreal tunnel.

“Jesus,” Matt said quietly.

Joss stopped beside them and took in the sight. “That’s a
house?
”

The one-story structure was elegant yet primitive, built with large blocks of roughhewn stone, expansive glass, and coarse wood accents, like a refurbished, modernized, Ancient Greek ruin. It looked to Joss like the secret lair of some Bond villain.

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Matt admired. “Mr. Ostrovsky’s architects win again.”

Markus nodded, clearly proud of the property, and led them inside, touring them through room after room.

“An interesting detail observed only by those arriving via helicopter …” Markus indicated a framed photograph on a wall near the kitchen.

Joss leaned close. Shot from an aircraft of some sort, the photo appeared to exhibit some other island, or this island, but prior to any construction. Blanketed with trees, the only signs of human presence were the pier and a set of umbrellas on one of the beaches.

“No buildings,” Joss said.

Matt leaned in beside her. “Wow, I see it. That’s amazing.” He stepped aside.

Markus pointed to an area of the photo for Joss. “The roofs are all painted and embellished to match the surrounding trees, and all structural shadows are masked by clever landscaping. The property is nigh invisible to aircraft and satellites.”

Joss followed him into a wide hallway. “Mr. Ostrovsky doesn’t mess around when it comes to vacation, eh?”

“He wishes for his guests to feel safe as well,” Markus said without turning. “The island had to meet the strict requirements of many government security agencies in order for Mr. Ostrovsky to host their officials here.”

“Surface to air missiles?” Matt joked.

Markus stopped between a set of doors, turning to him with an earnest expression. “Philippos is fully secure.” He turned to address Joss, indicating a pair of French doors. “These are your quarters, Ms. Leland.”

Joss put a hand on her chest in a
“who me?”
gesture before shuffling forward and opening the doors.

“Yeah, this’ll do,” she said, taking in the suite. The Greek theme didn’t stop at the structure—from the column-flanked fireplace to the pale linen palette, the room would appear aristocratic and cold if not offset by the abundance of rugs, brightly-colored upholstery, and dark wood accents.

Matt’s room was equally impressive, and essentially the same size, though Joss noticed at once that the chandelier over
his
sitting area was far less elaborate than hers.

Haha
, she thought.
I’m so ridiculously petty.

Markus observed Matt assessing the ostentatious king-sized bed. “Your bedding is all new and unused, and the staff have been instructed to utilize gloves for everything during your stay.”

Matt conveyed gratitude with a nod; however, his gears continued turning. What was his deal? Safety? Other guests who’d used the room?