Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (9 page)

“I understand. I’m not trying to cramp your style or anything, and Iris gave me a bunch of things to memorize so I could argue with you on her behalf, but in all honesty, for someone who’s never been out of the country, I’m actually super stoked about the free tickets waiting for me at that counter.”

The woman in line behind Joss pointed. “Sir, they’re calling for next in line. That’s you.”

Matt grabbed his duffel and Joss followed him as he walked backward toward the counter. “I get it, Joss, I do-”

“I could hardly sleep last night thinking about the fact that I’d be in Russia tomorrow.”

Matt sighed.

“I won’t even talk to you,” Joss went on as Matt gave his passport to the ticket agent. “You can read, watch movies, stare mindlessly at the back of the seat in front of you … whatever you want. Pretend I’m not there. We’re just a couple of travelers who happen to be going to the same place.”

“Did you bring your passport?” he asked her.

“See, that’s the thing. I don’t even have to go with you to your meeting thing. Wait, what? Oh, yeah, I have it!” She grinned, elated as she dug in purse.

He’d do exactly that: leave her in Belgorod, Russia while he carried on to Ostrovsky’s private airstrip.

“How many bags?” the ticket agent asked.

“Just one more.” Matt grabbed Joss’s suitcase and set it on the big scale, noticing the lime green was patterned with tiny pink flowers. “This is hideous, by the way.”

“Mean,” Joss said.

Matt took the tickets, handing Joss hers. “Let’s go get that coffee. Starbucks or Dunkin’?”

Belgorod, Russia – Present day

The jet touched down and taxied off the runway. Outside, Belgorod, Russia’s small international airport appeared practically deserted, save for the cluster of cargo planes near the outlying hangars. When the jet turned to cruise alongside the row of gates, Matt observed forklifts unloading full, shrink-wrapped pallets. Humanitarian aid for the thousands of Ukrainian refugees streaming into the small city.

A passenger behind Matt asked their neighbor about the red cross-emblazoned cargo.

“Ukrayinski,” the man replied with resentment. Not all the locals were thrilled about their new guests from across the border.

The jet continued along the terminal, passing plane after parked plane at roughly 20mph, and then abruptly
stopped
. Passengers bowed in unison, clutching purses and loose items before they fell. The engines whirred down. Confused heads popped up between seats like groundhogs, peering forward for an explanation. Alas, the flight attendants appeared equally puzzled.

Matt glanced through his window again, spotting a black private jet idling in the jet’s path. Something told him this roadblock was no accident.

The overhead speaker clacked and a pilot spoke in Russian.

“What’d he say?” Joss asked.

“Just a moment.” Matt pressed his cheek to his window. “There’s a little jet blocking our path. Some guy in a suit now talking to ground crew … Hang on … Ground guy talking on his radio. Just signaled to the cockpit. I think they want to open the door.”

“They’re bringing the rolling stairs,” said a woman up the opposite row.

The cockpit door opened. An irritated pilot eyed the rows of passengers, then leaned to the flight attendant’s ear. She nodded, unbuckled her belt, and stepped to the aisle as the pilot returned to the cockpit, shutting the door behind him.

The flight attendant spoke in English, “Mr. and Mrs. Porter from United States?”

Rubbernecking travelers scanned the cabin for the condemned. Matt sighed. Joss had used her real passport, but Matt had traveled under his Todd Porter alias.

Great. They know Joss came with me.

He felt Joss’s anxious, awaiting stare. Without turning to her, he subtly lifted a finger from his lap. She took the hint and settled back in her seat.

“Need I consult the rosters?” the irritated flight attendant continued. “Please come to front, Porters. Your private aircraft will take you from here.”

Markus had said Ostrovsky’s plane would be waiting here, but failed to mention it’d stop his flight on the way to the gate, if that was part of the plan. They were probably worried about security in the airport, or Customs.

A soft thud resounded from outside the forward door—stairs now ready for steppers.

There was no use prolonging the inevitable. Matt opened his backpack, extracted his thin black turtleneck, and pulled it on. He fished around beneath half-eaten snack bags and device chargers, finding his beanie and gloves nestled at the bottom. Brushing crumbs from his hat, he nodded to Joss, and then stood.

Transfixed gawkers followed their short walk to the front.

Matt paused beside the flight attendant as she unlocked the hatch. He pulled on his hat and gloves, asking her in Russian, “Is this legal?”

Her face shrugged. “No concern for you. You’re American. This will save you hours bypassing Customs.”

“Take me with you!” a man in the front row joked.

Scents of fuel and freshly laid asphalt streamed in as the door swung wide. Matt glanced back at Joss. “It’ll be fine. Really.”

She smiled, unconvinced, and followed him outside.

At the bottom of the stairs, the suited man stood with his arms crossed before him. Airport security and ground crew stood back, waiting. The man was pale, bald on top, and wore a silver suit that stretched tight around his pot belly, but draped loosely everywhere else.

He gestured for them to hurry, calling out in Ukrainian, “Come now. We are blocking the plane.”

Matt stepped onto the tarmac, replying in the man’s dialect. “Ah, yes. That must be why it suddenly stopped.”

“Yes, that is why.” The man reached for Matt’s backpack. Matt pulled it out of reach, receiving a disgruntled mug in return. “Come now. Get in.” He pointed to the private jet’s steps.

“Nope,” Matt said. He kept his gaze fixed on the man’s furious eyes. Joss clutched and twisted a wad of shirt in the small of Matt’s back. She was scared. It was a mistake to let her come at all. He’d been right to ditch her at the house, and should’ve stuck to his convictions.

“What is this ‘nope’? We must move the jet!”

“
You
must move jet,” Matt said flatly. “Not my problem. I don’t even know who you are.”

“Ach!”
He threw up his hands. “I am Yevheniy! Mr. Ostrovsky’s personal driver! You want back on that plane? Lose five hour in Customs? You know I’m here to pick up you and the lady.” Yevheniy surveyed the ground crew and other onlookers’ faces. Clearly, no one wished to say anything to an Ostrovsky man, but their patience would soon expire.

“The lady is not here for picking up.” Matt glanced back at Joss. “She’s staying at a hotel in town.”

Yevheniy flailed a hand in the air. “I don’t care! Send her to the hotel! You come on the plane, she stays here!”

“Are you talking about me?” Joss said. “What’s he saying?”

“I’m trying to explain about you staying in town here. I’m not thrilled at the idea of leaving you here on the runway to figure it out by yourself.”

“Well good!” She gulped. “I wouldn’t exactly be ‘thrilled’ either.”

“Come or stay if I care!” Yevheniy in broken English.

“Listen, Yevheniy, I have to get her to a hotel. Can you just park that thing somewhere for an hour?”

A sudden
clap
behind them. Matt spun and saw a luggage handler set Joss’s suitcase down, while another stood in the big jet’s open cargo hatch, Matt’s bag in hand. He tossed it down to the first handler, who proceeded to drag the bags to them as he scowled and murmured.

Yevheniy balled his hands into upturned fists of frustration. “There is no hour to spare! We’ve a set window to enter and leave airspace! Now we go, so we’re not shot down on way, yes?” He pointed to the small jet again. A young, suit-clad pilot popped his head out the door, outstretching his arms in a
“What’s the hold-up?”
gesture.

An instant later, a lanky official on a stairway shouted “Ay!” and strode toward them from the terminal, walkie-talkie in hand, trailed by a security team. The big jet’s pilot revved up his engines to a piercing whine.

There was no way around it. Joss was coming with him to Ukraine, and it was entirely his fault. Defeated, he motioned Yevheniy on. “Let’s go.”

Grumbling, Yevheniy grabbed both of their bags from the luggage handler and quickly shuffled to the private jet.

Security and the hollering airport official had broken into a jog—seconds away.

Matt spun to Joss. “I’m awfully sorry, but-”

“Well, I’m not!” She grabbed his wrist and marched after Yevheniy. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”

* * *

The drive from Ostrovsky’s private airstrip to his property’s front gate lasted only a couple minutes, but revealed plenty about the billionaire’s power and political status. Though Ukraine’s conflicts flared no less than 100 miles east—separatist and Russian forces having yet to drive the battle this far west—the airstrip, road, and perimeter of the Ostrovsky estate were lined with Russian armor and troops. The T-90 tanks, personnel carriers, and anti-aircraft vehicles had all been painted black, and the soldiers all wore unofficial black uniforms. What had Markus said?
“Mr. Ostrovsky always aligns himself with the appropriate team.”

Entering the front gate, they left behind the army of bored, gawking troops, and now set eyes on an uninhabited palette of greens speckled with pink, yellow, and red flowers—nothing like the flat, snow-covered fields from Matt’s previous visit. As Yevheniy cruised along the lengthy driveway to the main house, Matt noticed a wall, perhaps fifteen feet high, hidden just beyond the bordering tree hedge. Subtle anomalies among the shadows—untreelike movement—revealed a sampling of Ostrovsky’s own perimeter guards acting as
“bee-watcher-watchers.”
Though he could only make out a few of them among the foliage, Matt knew he’d entered the lion’s den, now completely surrounded.

If three are visible, expect three hundred.

The war math of Haeming Grimsson, an eleventh century Icelander with whom Matt had become more than a little acquainted. The opal. A thousand years ago, its faceted surface adorned the pommel of the Norseman’s exquisite sword. Now it existed as dust and memories—shot into countless tiny pieces by a madman in Cuba—an indeterminate number of its microscopic particles forever entombed within Matt’s body.

“Wow,” Joss breathed. “You weren’t kidding about this place.”

“Yeah,” Matt replied.

Joss motioned to Matt’s bare hands as she went on. “I think I could deal with living here … You know, minus the tanks, guns, and such.”

Matt looked down, realizing his gloves lay on his knee. He mouthed “thanks” as he slid them on.

Yevheniy pulled beneath the massive carport jutting out from the house, and parked at the end of a row of luxury vehicles. He remained in the driver’s seat, regarding the rearview mirror. “See you later,” he said bitterly. He wouldn’t be opening any doors for them.

Matt and Joss exited the vehicle. Automatic doors slid open at the house’s guest entrance, and a suited attendant stepped out, stopping just outside the lobby with a welcoming smile.

As they walked across the carport’s cobblestone surface, Matt pulled his beanie down over his ears and neck, overlapping the black turtleneck’s collar. It felt both comforting and unnerving to be back in his trademark “uniform”—fully covered to protect his skin from accidental imprint reads. He’d dressed this way for so long that he’d grown used to the heat. Though no longer worried about his skin grazing imprinted objects, it’d taken a while to reprogram his instincts and lose that exposed feeling when outside his home.

“Welcome,” the attendant said.

The glass doors slid open behind him. Out walked Markus, Ostrovsky’s thirty-something affairs manager, as always, adorned in a stylish suit—this one beige, all sheen, sharp lines, and tapers—his black hair arranged in a perfect coiffure, polished shoes clacking onto the marble tiles.

“Almost beat me to the door this time,” Markus said, placing his hands behind his back and offering a subtle bow in place of a handshake. “Welcome, Matthew. And to you as well, Miss. I am Markus, the house manager.”

“Nice to meet you,” Joss said as she stepped into place beside Matt.

“Shall we?” Markus said, extending a hand toward the door. “In case Matthew did not tell you, Miss, we have a brief check-in process.”

“I’m aware, thank you.”

Matt appreciated how she presented herself—matching Markus’s manner, his brevity.

Inside the check-in office, Markus handed them off to security clerks. “I’ll see you momentarily.”

Matt and Joss passed through the security scanners without a hitch, and were led by a clerk through the “interview” room. Matt was curious why they didn’t require a polygraph test like last time, at least for a new visitor like Joss.

The final door opened to reveal Markus once again, standing at-ease with his genial, if plastic, smile. “Thank you, Gustav. Matthew and Miss, right this way, please.” He indicated the left fork of the great hall, a different path than the one Matt had previously walked. “Mr. Ostrovsky awaits you on the terrace.”

Matt and Joss followed behind him, taking in the hall’s marble floor, vaulted ceilings draped with what were surely ancient tapestries, wide-spaced display cases on pedestals, and a few seemingly unprotected paintings spaced out along the walls.

“It’s like a museum,” Joss whispered to Matt.

Markus replied without slowing or turning. “That was the steering wheel from a rather famous sunken cruise ship. The case here on the right contains the famed bust of Zenobia … And finally, in the recess coming up on the left, we have Cézanne’s
Card Players
, currently the most valuable artwork in the world.”

The hall ended at a T where floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a vast landscape one would hesitate to call a back-yard. Markus paused, allowing them a moment to take it all in.

Outside, each stepped level boasted its own showpiece. The terrace just outside the windows evoked a Tuscan château, edged with marble statues and potted cypress. A lavish seating area surrounded a fire pit. The next tier down housed an impressive, boulder-encircled swimming pool seemingly transplanted from a tropical resort. Beyond stood a pool house, followed by gardens, stables, and riding fields. In the distance, someone had their horse cantering around a riding ring.