Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (49 page)

The group huddled close, trying to make it out in the faint light.

“Is that …” Matt began. “Is it Alexandria?”

“Mm-hmm,” Pete replied. “Eighteenth year of Ptolemy XII. That’s Cleopatra’s father.”

“I’ve never seen so detailed a map of the ancient city,” Grandma observed.

“Because there are none,” Pete said. “Oldest Alexandria maps in existence were made a thousand years later, and based on a lot of guesswork. This here is the real deal. Contemporary.”

“I’m taking it with me,” Matt said, then winked at Pete before he could protest. “Not like that.” He took his fingers off the corner, and stood up, grinning. “Bit of work ahead of you, eh?”

Wide-eyed, Pete shook his head, dizzy with the unimaginable scope of the find.

Matt wrapped his arms around Pete and clapped his back. “Our agreement from the first batch still stands, yes? Every single piece.”

“Yeah, man. You know it. The entire world—those who care, anyway—will be able to access high-res images, the translations, the whole enchilada.”

Everyone said their goodbyes up in the main chamber. As Grandma kissed Matt’s cheek, Matt observed Leo bypassing Joss’s hand, moving in for a hug.

“Oh … uh, sure,” Joss said, and flashed a bemused look Matt’s way.

“We’ve been through so much, you know?” Leo said.

“Mmm, yeah,” Joss said as she stepped out of the columns in front of Matt, heading for the sunny entrance.

Pete said, “Don’t be a stranger for so long this time, man.”

“No way,” Matt replied. “And thanks again, everyone. I’ll be back, for sure. Soon.”

“Hey, could I get your number?” Leo called after them. “Joss, I mean.”

Joss pretended she didn’t hear, cutting right at the entrance and hustling outside, and Matt heard someone smack Leo’s back.

“What’s wrong with you, kid?” Grandma Bubsy scolded Leo. “Can’t you see they’re together?”

* * *

Flight announcements repeated in multiple languages over the terminal speakers. Matt sat alone at a counter on a stationary stool, charging his phone. Across the busy walkway, Joss held up cheesy tourist-bait shirts to him, eyebrows raised:
“This one? No? How about this one?”
He gave her a thumbs up when she draped a busy, navy-blue shirt over her front—I.T. would appreciate the cartoony Sphinx perched atop the Great Pyramid, swatting away attacking aircraft.

His phone buzzed in his hand.
Unknown Caller
.

Hmm…

“Hello?”

“Well, Matthew,” Markus said serenely, “So pleased I caught you before your flight departed.”

Matt scanned the area for any watchful eyes.

He played it nonchalant. “Yeah, me too.”

“But of course. Two items. First, no questions, please. I thought you’d be comforted to know that your honorable intentions with our gray friend ended as they should.”

“Honorable int-”

“Thanks to recent turns of events, Mr. O’s connections with the appropriate authorities there now exceed those waning gray connections. While the admirable Americans there made every effort to covertly abscond with their captive, the locals were waiting outside their base, and in great numbers. After a tense-yet-peaceful bit of diplomacy, the captive was transferred into legal local custody.”

“And then what?” Matt thought he knew where this was going.

“Well, there was a bit of a mix-up—it happens sometimes in dense bureaucracies—and now no one knows where the prisoner ended up.”

“Right. I’m sure not a soul knows.”

“Nor will they,” Markus said flatly. “Ever.” He paused a moment, allowing that to sink in. He wanted Matt to know, in no uncertain terms, that Absko was dead, and no body would ever be found. Markus resumed with his more playful, disappointed-schoolteacher tone, “Now there is only the matter of the Tarias, and your debts to Mr. O.”

Matt cleared his throat, setting aside the Absko revelation for the moment. “I just want to say once again that I appreciate all of the help you and Mr. O pro-”

“Not me,” Markus interrupted. “I merely serve Mr. O. You may send all gratitude his way. Likewise, your appreciation for any potential clemency bestowed. The rapidity of new contract signings with the Kenyan VP and neighboring leaders may offer a brief window of good will, however, outstanding issues of property-”

“Of course, absolutely,” Matt cut in. “And congratulations on all of the new opportunities. If not for the antiquities officials confiscating everything I had, you can bet everything would have been returned. I do hope, though, that the packages I had sent were accepted as a sincere act of contrition.”

A brief silence, then Markus’s voice, away from the phone receiver. “Sergei, do we have any undelivered packages in receiving?”

A
beep
and radioed reply, “Yes, a few. Apologies.”

“Bring them to me, please. I’m in my office. Hold, Matthew.” The line was muted.

Joss walked up and plopped a shopping bag on the counter. Matt mouthed
“Markus.”

She whispered, “Did he get the packages yet?”

Matt motioned that it was happening at that moment—the wooden Taria I.T. shipped from his house, the bundle of scrolls he’d cajoled out of Pete, and the last item, something special Matt knew would seal the deal.

The line went active again, but it was not Markus’s voice, but Ostrovsky’s, and he was beyond giddy. He’d been in the room the whole time. “You kill me, Matthew! One minute I make plan to have your balls ripped off, and the next I feel I must blow you!”

Matt held up the OK sign for Joss. “That’s … great.”

“Speaking of,” Ostrovsky went on, “is Ms. Leland there with you?”

Matt hung up.

“What’d he say?” Joss said.

Matt adopted an Ostrovsky voice. “He sends his love.”

New York City, New York – Present Day

Jack’s Coffee Bean in Manhattan’s West Village neighborhood was as busy as Tuni remembered. Though it felt like a decade since she’d last ordered a mocha (and her favorite cinnamon apple mega-muffin), little had changed. There was free Wi-Fi now, and USB power outlets embedded in every table’s center, but everything else seemed like she’d only been gone a week.

Seated beside the front window, she found her surreal enjoyment tainted with anxiety. Matthew would be here any moment. They hadn’t actually spoken yet—just checking in with her, Iris had mentioned he’d be in the city this weekend, and asked if she’d like to meet up. Crippling fear had made Tuni hesitate, but she’d choked it back and said “Sure, how about some coffee?” And Iris took it from there. And now here she was, terrified of what he’d say, or wouldn’t say, or just a look that said enough.

She peered out the window. Many passers-by, but no Matthew.

Perhaps he’d think she brought Alexander not to have the two finally meet, but as a shield from any
real
conversation.

And then she had questions—genuine questions about Jivu’s fate since, according to the media, he hadn’t been seen in a month. Was it even safe for her and Alexander to be out in the world? Was it safe for her mother to go about her daily routines?

Another glance outside.

As if she wasn’t nervous enough, Alexander was being an intolerable brat this morning.

Only a moment ago, he’d said in Swahili, “I hate this bread.”

She was still taking the discipline slow. The adjustment for him was far more strenuous than her. “It’s called a bagel, and we’re speaking English, my angel.”

“I hate bagel,” he’d said. “I hate English.”

“Hate all you want. We’re speaking English. Eat the rest of my muffin if you want.” He’d eyed the muffin scornfully, preparing to express his even greater hatred of this thing he’d never eaten, but Tuni cut him off. “Say you hate muffins and it’s no TV when we get home. See, sometimes they show muffins on American TV.”

He’d been silently grumpy since then, playing with his Ninja Turtles in his lap.

And there was Matthew, ambling carefree up the sidewalk in cargo shorts and a striped white polo shirt. He had on sunglasses and a beard was growing in.

He was also exceptionally
fit
.

She suddenly wanted to pull out her compact for a final face check, as if she’d been instantly demoted to a frumpy old mum. It was bloody silly. She wasn’t here to attempt reconciliation, and she doubted Matthew had any such thing on his mind. This was a long-overdue reunion, a chance to close open wounds, and for her to express her gratitude directly.

The door chimed and he stepped inside, skirting past an exiting couple, and scanned across the narrow café.

Should she stand? To stand would necessitate a hug, and he appeared dangerously underdressed. A hug could set them on an awkward start. And where was Iris? She was supposed to come as a sort of buffer.

“This chair is hard,” Alexander said in Swahili. “I hate it.”

Tuni leaned down to him and adopted the rarely used scary mum voice. “You’d rather I put you outside? No hard chairs outside.” His eyes bugged, looking out the window to the busy street, and returned a slow no-nod. “No more ‘hate.’ No more Swahili.”

Yes-nod.

When Tuni looked up, a smiling Matthew had already spotted her, and was veering around the rubbish bin just a few feet away.

“Hey there!” he said cheerily, and she smiled too, scooting her chair back. He strode right past the two chairs on the table’s other side and rounded the corner to Tuni’s space by the wall, his arms already spreading. “So glad you could make it out here.”

He enveloped her warmly—as an old friend—and though she thought her relief sprang from the release of tension, an unexpected fountain of emotions swelled from her gut: deep, rising, irresistible, crushing. His arms slackened, the standard easing to end a friendly embrace, but she stiffened, squeezed, not letting him go.

“Hey, hey, it’s all good,” he said in her ear, and stroked her back and head, like a father. “You’re safe. It’s over. You’ll never see him again, and never be in that situation again. Trust me, okay?”

She wanted to wail unrestrained into his chest, releasing everything she hadn’t even realized sat burning inside her. His kindness only made her guilt worse, but it also made her want to stay inside this protective shroud. She’d never felt it from him before. She hadn’t felt it like this from anyone in her life.
“Like a father”
was right, or perhaps priest.
She
had always been the protector in their relationship—the maternal figure.

His shirt was wet with her tears, and she imagined the entire place staring at them, and so she emitted a blubbering laugh and pushed him away.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, grabbing up napkins as she sat down. “I’m fine, really, I’m fine … and thoroughly daft.”

Matthew maintained the warm smile as he shuffled back around the table, grabbing one of the chairs and sliding it around the corner to sit at the end, near Alexander.

“Hey, buddy. You must be Alexander.”

Alexander just sat there and stared up at him.

It was just as she feared. She tried to laugh it off. “We’re having some trouble getting used to only English, aren’t we, my love?”

His gaze didn’t move. Matthew was being patient and great, hunching down to Alexander’s level.

Matthew tapped his bare finger twice on the table in front of him, then pulled at his polo shirt’s buttons. “
Ni aina gani ya kifungo si wazi?
”

What kind of button won’t open? A joke.

“Oh, it’s okay, Matthew,” she said. “He doesn’t quite understand jokes yet.”

After a moment’s consideration, Alexander demanded to know what kind. “
Ni aina gani?
”

Matthew’s hand lurched forward under the table, tickling him. “The belly button!”

Alexander squealed laughing, flailing in his seat.

“Thank you,” Tuni said. “That’s very sweet.” Matthew brushed it off and sat up. “I don’t think I’d ever seen you with children. You’re good … getting down to their level and all that.”

“Probably a bit too easily,” he said. “
Now
, that is. Before was …
yeesh
.” He motioned as if some sludge monster was about to slather its cooties on him.

“Gloveless and shorts, eh? Are you …
off
, or in control?”

“In control. Finally.”

She nodded, sighing, dabbing the napkin beneath her eyes once more, just in case. She glanced outside again. “Iris?”

“She’s outside. I asked her to give us a few minutes before coming in. Otherwise, it’s like she’s the safety third.”

Tuni grinned, and probably blushed. “I haven’t heard this term, but it’s brilliant. Safety third, indeed.”

“Actually, safety
fourth
! My man Alexander here’s already the third.” He poked him in the side and Alexander giggled and grabbed his bagel, now eating it.

Matthew set his elbows on the table and looked in her eyes. His smile slowly relaxed. It was
serious
talk time, and Tuni’s chest began tightening once more.

“You heard the news about that Cuban general? Went missing, unseen for the past month?”

A different serious talk than expected …

“Yes,” she said, wriggling in her seat. “I’d wondered what happened there.”

“Another country had covertly arrested him when he was in Brazil, looking to bring him back home for trial. Their vehicle was ambushed, though—no one hurt, fortunately, no weapons used—but the general was rushed away.” A great stone dropped into Tuni’s stomach. Matthew saw it, and quickly continued. “From what I understand, it wasn’t the general’s loyal soldiers who got him, but a competing general. They say … they
unambiguously
said the body will never be found.”

Tuni forced back a gulp, inhaling a quivering breath. She wanted to accept it as fact. “And you believe this?”

“I do. Zero doubt.” He sat back, eyes intense and assuring.

His gaze held, and it made her cry again.

She dabbed the tears with a napkin and mouthed,
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

She wanted to use that connected moment to say sorry as well, but he stretched out his arms and went on, “Sad, but anyone who feared the general can rest easy.”