“Oh, my God,” she said. “I’m actually tearing up here, hon.”
They adjourned to the den and sat on their respective favorite couches. Framed pictures covered every wall but the window side. The candids: 6-year-old Matt and 2-year-old Iris in Mom’s arms, preteen Iris with braces, 8-year-old Matt with Mom. Grandpa Luke fishing with a younger, thinner Roger. Every school picture the kids ever had taken. The photos of Iris followed her through middle and high school, but Matt’s school pictures stopped at age 10. A current shot of smiling Beth and Roger on vacation in Nassau. The most recent picture of Matt was his newspaper shot, framed in oak.
Beth dabbed her eyes with a tissue and chuckled. “I mean, it’s not as though we’re the parents of a paraplegic who just took his first steps, but it’s kind of like that, you know?”
Roger swallowed and nodded, deep in thought. His gaze drifted across the photos above him.
She continued, “You just want him to be normal . . . feel normal, you know?”
He didn’t say anything.
“What do you think, hon? I can never read your faces.”
Roger shrugged. “It’s good, yeah. I think it’s real good.”
Beth sighed. “Okay, Mr. Robot. I’m calling your daughter. Maybe she and I can have a nice little cry together.” She put a hand on his shoulder in passing and left the room.
Roger stretched an arm out from his couch and picked the postcard up from the coffee table. He sounded out the message, “Bons baisers de Bora Bora,” and gazed at the image on the back.
“Good for him.”
FIVE
The Ukrainian customs officers appeared to be preoccupied with drug trafficking, and their muzzled German shepherds and shorthaired pointers nosed each person who passed. The uniforms of the officers reminded Matt of old Cold War spy movies.
After claiming their bags, he and his three captors walked outside the automatic glass doors. Stinging cold slapped their faces. Of the four, Matt was the closest to appropriately dressed. Z, in a short-sleeved button-down and cargo pants, swore and tilted his head to the wind. Snow covered the ground and lay piled in high berms on either side of the plowed road.
They found a row of cars with drivers holding signs. Most of the signs were in Cyrillic letters, but G spotted one that read “CHURCH” and waved to the driver.
“Misters Church?” the driver said in a thick Slavic accent. He wore a tight long-sleeved thermal shirt under a fleece vest, dark blue jeans, and ushanka hat. His vehicle was a brand-new limousine version of a Mercedes R-class crossover.
He loaded the bags into the trunk as Z opened the door and everyone piled in. The interior was warm and nice, without the gauche overdone luxury Matt had expected. The rear seats were of fine leather, with six body-cradling seats in two facing rows. They had enough space to stretch their legs out without inadvertently playing footsie. Bottled waters awaited them in underlit cup holders, and the armrests boasted more switches and knobs than those in the airplane they were just on.
Z found a small, shiny black electronic tablet on one of the seats. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it, when a voice came through the vehicle’s speakers.
“Do no touch, please. Put it where, please.”
Z looked through the clear glass panel at the back of the driver’s head. The driver glanced back through the rearview mirror but said nothing more.
G gestured for him to put the thing back. “Stop messing with stuff,” he said. You break one thing in here, it probably costs more than your whole truck.”
Scowling, Z put it down.
“Where are we going?” Matt asked.
“We are meeting someone at his home,” Rheese said. “A very wealthy someone. All you need to know is that you’re staying in the car unless called upon. And if called upon, you will only answer what is asked of you. Answer honestly and succinctly, with no cheeky nonsense, understand?”
“What will I be asked about? Is this for the Bible, ’cause I told you I didn’t learn anything more than a few Psalms and my way around a cathedral in Vienna.”
“We have a nearly two-hour drive ahead of us. My hope is that you come upon something a bit more concrete before our arrival.”
“Not likely. When do I get to talk to Tuni?”
Rheese seemed to ponder this for a moment and then said, “Let us see if we can’t use the landline where we’re going. None of our mobiles work in this country anyway. Acceptable?”
Matt shrugged. “I don’t see much of a choice. Gimme the damned book. I’m telling you, though, this is a complete wild-goose chase.”
As Rheese dug in his attaché case, Matt looked at the men he knew as G and Z. Both were staring at him with the voyeuristic curiosity that reminded him of yokels at a carnival freak show. He was used to this, but there was something else, too. Ill-concealed fascination was normal, but this was something he hadn’t previously seen in observers. It might just be indifference, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was more like they were watching a documentary on how shipping containers are made: you don’t really care, but there’s nothing else on. Or maybe they didn’t believe it was real—also a typical reaction.
Rheese carefully handed him the book, in its wrapping, and Matt laid it on his lap. He took another look at his audience and felt a sinking, helpless sensation. His thoughts drifted to movie scenes, the ones where someone is made to drink the potion from an unlabeled vial. They must be voluntarily sedated—rendering themselves defenseless or, worse, poisoning themselves—on the assertion that it is the only way to free their kidnapped loved one or get to the bad guy’s lair. The parallels lingered in his mind as he removed his glove. Of course, he would be no more vulnerable now than during the time between the hotel and waking up on his jet. But now he was on the other side of the planet, on his way to who-knew-where.
“Wait,” he said. “My timer—it’s still in the suitcase.”
“I’ll wake you, lad,” Rheese said with a sigh. “Stop stalling. Time is of the essence here.”
And with that, Rheese slapped Matt’s bare hand down onto the ornate book cover. Matt’s head lolled back as if his power switch had been flipped to the off position.
* * *
He felt the usual rushing sensation in his head, like being shot through a progressively narrowing pipe and squeezed into a long, skinny noodle at tremendous speed. It never lasted but for a couple of seconds before he was squirted out of the tube like toothpaste, reformed into the shape of someone else’s body. At least, that was the best analogy he could muster when describing the experience to others. It was typically a very quick process—these days he needed maybe ten seconds to acclimate to the new environment. All senses turned on in the usual succession—vision, hearing, touch, smell, taste—and nebulous thought forms gelled and clarified into a comprehensible format.
In this case, the thoughts were of the same man he had met twice before: Heinrich Strauss, a 34-year-old landowner in Salzburg, Austria. He had been away only a week in Venice. She had no idea of his philandering while away, and yet, upon his return, he got a sickening note—a note that made him want to be dead. He lay on his side in a luxurious four-poster bed, rocking himself as he cradled his most prized possession. God would not ease his suffering. God would not bring her back or make her see that this dancer she’d run off with could never keep her the way Heinrich did. God was punishing him, but for what, he could not imagine. He had to die. He could see no other way to escape the feeling, the physical pain in his stomach, the nausea. Fast-forward. Matt couldn’t stand this guy.
The next imprint was a German cardinal, caressing the book, delicately turning the pages, reading the Latin Psalms like poetry. As he runs his fingers along its edges, despite its being the Vulgate and not the King James version, he considers himself closer to God than ever. It is 1951.
Fast-forward. Next . . . next . . . Yes, past the sermon in Turin . . . and here we are. Chambéry in Savoy, 1684. Big wedding coming up. Matt had o
nly just begun to touch on this imprint at the end of the last session.
The priest, Emil, walks along the pews with the book tucked under one arm, smoke wafting from the incense in the swinging four-chain thurible. His back aches; his gouty left foot is on fire. On the far side of the nave, Deacon Simon does his best to walk in step with Emil’s limp as they proceed up the aisles toward the altar. Simon is a pest, thinks the priest, glancing across the pews. He is perturbed by the notion that this red-haired imbecile will one day replace him.
Perhaps sooner rather than later, Emil thinks, and a memory from earlier in the day pops into his head. He had one of the sisters, Olivie, splayed across a table in the convent’s crypt. She was fighting him but not in any meaningful way. Another few minutes, and she would have succumbed, but Monsieur Simon decided at that supremely inopportune moment that he must fetch a bottle of wine for the sacristy. Emil cannot shake the image of his judging, admonishing, freckle-ridden face.
Is he so ambitious that he would report the encounter to one of the bishops? And if so, would he know which ones might be receptive and which would chide him for such talk, as they hark back to their own misdeeds?
The names of transgressors known to him flash through Emil’s mind.
At the altar, Deacon Simon places his book down on the lectern and steps back.
“I am only reading from Matthew and Corinthians,” Emil says. “The archbishop will inform you of his requirements upon his arrival at the castle.”
Simon stares at him blankly for a second before his face lights up with recognition and he grabs the book back with a quiet apology. He places it atop its stand toward the rear of the altar as Emil finds the pages he had earlier selected.
“Fetch me a couple of marks, please,” Emil says. It would look good to be able to flip to the right page without a tassel hanging out, as if one’s fingers were divinely guided, but too many would be watching, and it was more crucial that things run smoothly. Royalty from all over would be present. “Also, make note that the castle will have considerably more pews.”
Simon nods.
That’s right, nothing happened, you lout.
“I think we are fine for now. We will practice with the others this afternoon. I already know my sermon.”
He closes the book.
He opens the book.
It is the next day. The Bible has been brought to another place: the castle he spoke of. Hundreds of people in lavish gowns and elaborate uniforms are staring at him. Cough, sniff, murmurs . . . A duchess brought an infant, and everyone in attendance disapproves. Archbishop Bertrand swapped readings and inserted two songs . . . Everything is in disarray . . . sniff, baby crying, cough, sneeze, the smell of unwashed bodies . . . chuckles . . .
* * *
“Get it together, Turner. We’re almost there,” Rheese said.
Matt stretched his back and neck. Sometimes, after a reading, it felt like waking up in the backseat of Mom and Dad’s car after a late-night function. We’re home, buster. Let’s go inside and get you in your PJ’s . . .
One time, when Matt was 10, he pretended to be asleep so his dad would carry him to bed, as he used to. It had worked, but his cheek ended up on his father’s shoulder. The leather jacket had an imprint of an angry argument with Mom. He never pretended to be asleep again.
Matt opened his eyes to see G and Z hunched over and peering out the big side windows. Matt turned and looked out, too. It was still morning, but the world had turned white. Snow fell at a hard angle. They had just passed some sort of entry gate and were approaching a huge field with snow-laden spruce trees planted equidistantly apart. It looked like a field of green chess pawns with icing.
As the car curved right, a building came into view on the left. The outside walls were of a shiny white material, broken up by enormous glass panels. It appeared nothing like a house, more like a modern office building or art museum. Stone accents and unexpected angles, as well as the lush landscaping, broke up the cold lines.
The car circled the building and pulled up in a spacious porte cochere. There were several luxury vehicles: the predictable million-dollar sports car, a stretch luxury sedan, and an oversize SUV. The one out-of-place car was a rusty old 1980s Porsche, faded red, with a broken taillight and several gray, Bondo-filled dents.
A slim, well-dressed man stepped out from an automatic sliding door. He appeared to be in his mid to late twenties, with perfect black hair, pale, flawless skin, and large eyes. He walked with confidence, ignoring the single-digit temperature. The driver opened the passenger doors, and Rheese stepped out.
“You are Dr. Rheese?” the man said with what sounded to Matt like a Russian accent.
“Indeed I am, good sir.” He held out his hand and they shook.
The man hunched over a little to look inside the car. “I am Markus, the house manager.” His eyes scanned the faces inside.
Z slid out of his seat and stepped onto the cobblestones.
“And who are you?” Markus respectfully asked.
Z shivered, hugging himself. “Can we go over this shit inside? God damn!”
Markus stood patiently and smiled.
“Security, all right?” Z answered.
“Then you will remain here.”
Z frowned. “Oh, hell no!” he said, but then fell silent when Rheese put up a cautioning hand.
“And who are you?” Markus said to Matt.
“Oh, I’m just waiting in the car,” Matt said, stuffing his hand back into his glove. Markus’s eyebrows rose, and his curt smile informed Matt that an answer was still due. “I’m, uh, Matt . . .” He looked to Rheese for help.
“The young man is my researcher on the business matter. He can wait here while I conduct my business with Mr. Ostrovsky.”
“No, he will come inside.” Markus said. His tone was matter-of-fact but still gracious. He held out a hand and helped Matt out of the car.
G followed Matt out and stood beside Rheese.
“And who are you?”
“Business partner.” G mirrored Markus’s thin smile.
Markus regarded him for a brief second before saying, “Ah, yes, I believe we spoke on the telephone. Very well, let us proceed to check-in.” He walked briskly, his shiny black shoes clicking on the paving stones of the porte cochere. “None of you have any items on your persons that would raise concerns, I trust?”
“No,” replied G.
The glass doors parted ahead of them, and out walked two fur-clad young women with disheveled hair and smeared makeup. Each carried a large purse and held an envelope. They looked a bit shaken as they hurried past, stiletto heels clicking arrhythmically on the stones. Matt glanced back and saw them climb into the old Porsche.
The glass doors slid apart, and Rheese, G, and Matt followed Markus into an anteroom of sorts, with doors labeled in several languages, the third of which was English: “Office,” “Receiving,” “Security,” and “Check-in.” Security also had a floor-to-ceiling window. A uniformed woman sat inside, looking at a bank of video monitors. The place had the feel and decor of an office building, down to the thin, rugged carpet and the potted ficus trees in the corners. Markus opened the door marked “Check-in” and held it wide.
“English,” Markus said to the man awaiting them. “Everyone, this is Dmitri. He will guide you through the check-in process, which should take no more than ten minutes. Assuming all goes well, I will meet you inside the main hall. Thank you for your patience.”
Markus turned and left, and the door clicked shut behind him.
“This is everyone first time visit to the house, it is?” Dmitri said. All three nodded. “This is very good. The check-in process is simple one, and is here in place to protect both the property, its employee, and guest such as the yourself. There is no individual that may occupy the house or its outlying structure without first processing through check-in. Any of you has question or concern?”
Matt raised his hand.
Rheese murmured out th
e side of his mouth, “Put it down, Turner.”
“Yes, you, sir, have question?”
“Will we be required to remove our clothing for this?”
Dmitri nodded understanding and cocked his head sideways with a confidential smile. “Only if you no pass part one, or if you are looking-good lady visitor.” He snickered. “I only joke. You have not to worry for this.” He stepped over to a big metal table with a stack of white plastic bins on it. Handing each of them a bin, he said, “Please empty all pocket into this and proceed to door.”
Rheese and G filled their bins with coins, keys, papers; Matt had only an airline ticket stub and a bit of lint. The next room had the familiar-looking airport metal-detecting archway and an X-ray conveyer, manned by three people in security uniforms. The husky man at the conveyer waved Rheese over and gestured for him to place his briefcase on the belt.
“Sorry, but this cannot go through there,” Rheese said as Matt and then G were being waved through the archway.
The X-ray operator said something in Ukrainian to Dmitri, and they exchanged a few words.
“Apologize,” Dmitri said. “You must pass case through.”
“I will do no such thing,” Rheese said. “Fetch your boss and he will agree with me.”
“Just a moment, sir,” Dmitri said, smiling with only his mouth. He stepped into the other room and spoke into a radio. He returned a moment later to the quiet little room, where everyone else stood in awkward silence, avoiding eye contact. “You will need to remove content and pass case through.”
“Very well,” Rheese said, and taking out the Gutenberg Bible, he placed the empty briefcase on the conveyer. Curious eyes passed over the book as they waited.
The X-ray man nodded as the case appeared out the other end of the machine, and Rheese replaced the book inside it.
“Now, the arch,” Dmitri said.
With a sigh, Rheese handed the case to Matt and stepped through the archway without setting off any alarms.
“Brilliant,” Rheese said. “Now, are we done?”
“With this part, yes. Please take seat here while we step into interview room with just one.”
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 4