Rheese looked at Matt, and G looked at Rheese. Matt looked at both of them.
“Does it have to be only one?” Rheese asked. “We are a bit pressed for time.”
Dmitri smiled and recited the applicable line from the appropriate policies and procedures manual: “If individual wish not to comply with established rule and procedure of check-in process, they may be escorted off property and added to permanent no-entry list.”
“This one”—Rheese pointed his thumb at Matt—”wasn’t even supposed to be in here. He was going to wait in the car. Your friend Markus asked for him to come in!”
“I understand, sir,” Dmitri calmly replied. “Do you wish to return to vehicle, or do you wish to proceed with check-in?”
Rheese’s face flushed red, and he growled, “Proceed.”
“Wonderful. You will go first.” He nodded to G and opened the plain white door for him.
While G followed Dmitri to the interview room, Rheese and Matt sat down on the hard bench by the wall. Rheese leaned toward Matt and whispered, “You will behave yourself in this interrogation. Do not forget that I have your—”
“I haven’t forgotten anything, Rheese,” Matt muttered. “So you can stop with the stupid threats.”
A few minutes later, the door reopened, and a smiling Dmitri gestured for Rheese to enter.
“You now.”
The door closed behind him.
Matt waited, feeling self-conscious under the lingering glances of the security personnel. The only sound in the room was the hum of the equipment and someone’s wheezy breathing. Finally, it was Matt’s turn, and he walked into a room furnished with a single metal table and two chairs.
“Have a seat, sir,” Dmitri said as he grabbed a clipboard from a hanging bin on the wall.
Matt sat down.
“Why do you wear glove and this snow hat inside?” Dmitri asked, his tone as pleasant as ever.
“Is that one of the questions?”
“No, I am only curious. Plus, I need glove remove for test.”
“Why do you need ‘glove remove’?” Matt asked.
“I have finger contacts for you. This is lie detector test.”
Matt nodded and glanced around the room, “Do you know what a germaphobe is? Someone who is afraid that if they touch anything, they’ll get sick and die?”
“I have sister-in-law like this, yes. Very annoying.”
“Well, that’s what I am. Will your things work through latex gloves? You know, like doctor gloves. Do you even have any of those?”
Dmitri considered this, studied Matt’s face for a second, and said, “I think this work. Let me get you glove.”
He left Matt alone in the room, listening to the air whistle through the single vent in the ceiling. His thoughts drifted back to Tuni. She had always protected him in situations like this. Even using the germaphobe story, she accomplished whatever was needed in a given environment without raising any eyebrows. She had even wangled them a private balcony at the Coldplay concert a few months back. And she never made him feel like a freak. He hoped she wasn’t too scared right now.
Dmitri came back in and dropped a pair of beige latex gloves on the table. Matt hoped they weren’t used. He pulled off his gloves and replaced them with the beige ones. No imprints. Dmitri crouched down under the metal desk and pulled out two sets of wires with finger clamps. After sticking these on Matt’s index fingertips, he took the seat across from Matt.
Clipboard in hand, he said, “Full name?”
“Matthew Turner.”
“Spell for me, please.”
Matt spelled it.
“Age?”
“Twenty-six.”
“And where you live? America, right?” Dmitri smiled knowingly.
“Yes, America.”
“Good, now . . .” Dmitri leaned forward and looked Matt directly in the eyes. “Do you have any negative feeling for Mr. Vitaliy Ostrovsky?”
“I’ve never heard of him.”
Dmitri appeared shocked by this and glanced up at the wall behind Matt. Matt turned around and saw only a single lightbulb. It was off. Dmitri shrugged.
“Do you wish to do harm in any way to Mr. Vitaliy Ostrovsky, his property, or his business?”
“No. Like I said, I don’t even know who he is.”
Another quick glance over Matt’s head.
“Last question. Is there any secret pertaining to your visit today that Mr. Vitaliy Ostrovsky, myself, or his security personnel would be interested to know?”
Matt took a deep breath and pondered. If he said no, it would surely be detected as a lie. If he spoke the truth, it could set off a chain of events he couldn’t possibly control. It could go either way. What he said next could get Tuni freed, or it could get her hurt or killed.
“Yes.”
Dmitri looked up from the clipboard. “Yes?”
“Yes.”
“And what this might be?”
“I don’t want to be here.”
“You do not? Why is that?”
“I would rather be in Tahiti, on vacation.”
“Ah, yes. So would I.” He smiled and made a note on the clipboard. “Good, then let us join you your friend.”
He took the sensors from Matt’s fingertips and escorted him to the door. Rheese’s expectant face greeted them as he shot looks from Matt to Dmitri and back to Matt.
“Are we quite done?” Rheese said.
“Yes, done,” Dmitri replied.
Markus thanked Dmitri and said, “Follow me, please.”
They followed him down a long, curving hallway with ceilings fifty feet high. Giant tapestries and artwork hung on the smooth white walls. One wall changed to glass, looking into a skylit tropical courtyard with dark green foliage, palm trees, and a realistic-looking rocky cliff face covering one side. A small river ran through the miniature jungle and out the other side, disappearing beneath the floor.
The glass wall ended as they passed by the courtyard, and eventually, they came to a large, arched opening and an expansive sitting room. This was broken up into several smaller areas, each with a different style of matching couch, chairs, and coffee table. A row of billiard tables filled the far end of the room, and rectangular windows high above let in eight slanting bars of sunlight. At the ground level, the windowless walls were lined with bookshelves, artwork, tapestries, and a flat-screen TV the size of a billboard. Modern chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and a ten-foot-high marble fireplace revealed another large room behind it.
G went to the nearest couch and was about to sit down when Markus said, “Ah, Mr. Ostrovsky has invited you to join him at his breakfast table. Right this way, please.”
They crossed the large room to a set of intricately worked bronze doors which appeared to catch Rheese’s attention.
As Markus slid the doors back into their wall pockets, Rheese said, “Byzantine . . . remarkable.”
Markus nodded approvingly. “Eleventh century, newly installed just this year. Mr. Ostrovsky has impeccable taste.”
“Ah, Doctor Rheese!” a voice said from across the room. “We meet again!” A silver-haired man with olive skin stood up from a big table, his arms outstretched. He wore a thick white robe, untied and hanging open, leaving his hairy chest and belly, and all the rest, in full view. He looked fit for a man his age.
They walked up, and he came round the table. Rheese pretended not to notice Ostrovsky’s lack of trousers or undergarments, and Matt followed his lead, though he wondered if the man simply didn’t realize his robe was hanging open. Whatever the reason, his visitors got a full view of Vitaliy Ostrovsky.
“Welcome, welcome! I hope the drive was not too onerous in this weather. Hello, hi—you are this business partner?”
G shook his hand. “Yes, pleased to meet you, sir. You have an impressive home.”
“What, this old dump? Ha ha . . . no, I know. That is the idea, right? Build what you love, and whether others approve or not, it will leave an i
mpression. And you are this Matthew?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, thank you for coming to my home, one and all. Please, have a seat. I hope none of you have eaten just yet. No? Good, because you are in for a treat.”
They took seats in luxurious high-backed chairs, at a table that appeared to be pure concrete. An enormous silver chandelier hung over the table. Before them were settings of silver chargers and black plates with white saucers. On the saucers, napkins had been formed into hummingbirds suspended atop tripods formed of two forks and a butter knife. Long dishes of mixed fruits and berries divided the table down the middle.
A woman in what appeared to be housekeeping livery mixed with a nurse’s uniform walked in, holding the hand of a little girl in a big, fluffy pink dress.
“Taty!” the girl screamed, and ran to Ostrovsky. He leaned over his chair’s armrest and raised her high over his head.
“My little Veronikitty! We are speaking in English today, all right?”
The little girl pouted and looked accusingly at the others present.
“Nee!” she said, and her face told them that meant “no.”
“Veronika . . . ” Ostrovsky said in a warning tone. A bell chimed from another room. “Roza, take this little monster from me. Feed her whatever she wants.”
The nanny nodded and took Veronika in her arms. As they left the room, the little girl started making demands in Ukrainian.
“She is a spoiled one, no?” Ostrovsky said. He spoke as if to old friends. “I do it on purpose, though, you see. I’ll have two more in the next five years. Little girls. They will love me like no other in the world, and girls who love their daddy never go away. Boys? They feel competition. As teenagers, they get bold and try to test you. That’s what I did. And I never went back. Screw them, you know? And if they don’t leave, it’s because they want to take over, take your money. That’s why I want only girls. And I tell you what, I am ruining them for any little punks who want to come sniffing around for diamond vaginas. If they want to get married someday, I might allow it, but if I’ve done my job right, the little bastards are going to be miserable!” He laughed and pounded the table. “They’ll be like servants to my little princesses.”
“What if you have a boy?” Matt asked.
Ostrovsky turned to him, his smile dipping a little. “I won’t.”
Matt swallowed, fearing that he knew what that meant.
A tall older woman in a white chef’s smock and toque emerged from a swinging door. Three men in tailcoats followed her, all holding covered platters. They arrived behind each guest and, setting the saucers with napkins aside, removed the chargers and plates and set down a platter in their place. They lifted the ceramic covers away in choreographed synchronicity, revealing a meal that came as a surprise to all but Ostrovsky. The servants left, but the chef remained, standing a short distance back from their host.
Each of the platters exhibited a hamburger-shaped item hidden inside a thin paper wrapping. Beside this was a patty of hash brown potatoes, half-wrapped in the same thin off-white paper. It looked like a generic McDonald’s breakfast. The servants returned and placed a glass of orange juice and a cup of coffee in front of each guest.
“Surprised, eh?” Ostrovsky said. “Open them up and take a look.”
They cautiously peeled away the wrappings, unveiling sandwiches made with an English muffin, a circular egg, sausage, and cheese. G leaned in and inhaled the scent.
“Looks just like a Sausage McMuffin, no?” Ostrovsky said with undisguised exuberance. “I’ve been having her work on this for the past year. First try: unacceptable! Some kind of lamb sausage, perfectly toasted muffin, aged reserve Hungarian cheese, duck egg. I tell this bitch, ‘Look, I am not asking for some gourmet shit that vaguely resembles a Sausage McMuffin! I want a goddamn Sausage McMuffin!’ She was very hurt. They take this shit personally because it is their art, but I don’t give a shit. I have more money than most nations, so my goddamn cook should be able to replicate whatever food I want. If someone else can make it and sell it for two goddamn dollars, I can have it made for me at home, no?” He leaned out and glanced back at the chef, then returned his attention to his guests, snickering as he thumbed behind him. “She tried again a month later—better, I suppose, but it still wasn’t right. I made her go to McDonald’s every morning for two months and have one. She’s been getting very close since then. The hash brown? Perfect. She nailed it last year after I told her, ‘Yes, that is more salt than you would put in an entire meal, but that is how they make it!’ Go ahead, taste the hash brown first. Tell me it is not spot-on. The right oil, perfect crisp on the outside . . .”
They each took a bite, Rheese a little less enthusiastically than G and Matt.
“Goddamn right!” G said with astonishment. “That is a Mickey D’s hash brown for sure.”
“Yeah, I can’t tell the difference,” Matt agreed.
Rheese smiled and nodded in silence.
“Okay, now, let us all try the McMuffin,” Ostrovsky said, carefully picking his up from the paper, sniffing it, inspecting the color. He squeezed the sandwich gently and glanced back to the chef. “Well done with presentation, Irochka. The extra-fine cornmeal on the top and bottom provides excellent hand feel.” He turned back to the table. “Last time it was the grainy sort, like regular English muffin. Inexcusable.”
She curtsied subtly, raising her chin in anticipation of the next test: taste.
They all chewed, deep in concentration. Their eyes hung on Ostrovsky, apparently shifting the food from one side of his mouth to the other. He swallowed and took another bite, Matt and G following suit while Rheese returned his to its platter and drank some juice. Ostrovsky smacked his lips.
“Well? What do you think? I am very interested to hear from Americans on this.”
“I thought it was good,” Matt said.
“Yeah, it’s really good,” G concurred. “Seems right to me.”
Rheese shrugged. “I don’t really eat this sort of thing, so hard to say.”
“Matthew, you look an honest young man. Tell me the truth. Is it the same as the hash brown? Can you tell the difference?”
Matt looked apologetically to the chef, still standing behind Ostrovsky. Her wrinkled lips seemed capable only of pursing.
“It’s . . . it’s not the same,” Matt admitted. “Sorry, but it’s real close. I think it’s mainly the sausage. Also, the English muffin is too normal. Theirs are softer, squishier . . . something about them that makes them seem forever fresh. But like I said, it’s still very good!”
“No, no, you don’t have to apologize, my friend. This is her fucking job, and she gets paid a fortune to take my abuse. You are correct; it is not the same. A hundred times closer than the first one, I tell you that, but not the same. Irochka,” he said, and she stepped forward. “Another failure. I’ll give you my scores later.”
She curtsied and returned to the kitchen without a word. Ostrovsky wolfed down the rest of his sausage and muffin sandwich and hash brown. With his mouth stuffed, he said, “I know that bitch is crying in there right now. So sensitive.”
G and Matt ate some more of theirs while Rheese sipped at his coffee.
“What do you think of that coffee?” Ostrovsky asked him.
“Mmm, delicious,” Rheese said.
Ostrovsky shook his head, “Tell the truth, now, Doctor. Matthew here went out on the limb and spoke his mind—a laudable deed.”
“Honestly . . .” Rheese looked down at his cup. “It’s terrible.”
“Right!” Ostrovsky blurted with a grin. “She perfected it around the same time as the hash brown! Now, if you all don’t mind, let us adjourn to the sitting room to talk business.”
Just as they left the table, the big bronze doors rolled open with a soft rumble. Markus greeted them with a pleasant smile and waved them into the room. Rock music played from unseen speakers. The vocals were in Ukrainian, Russian, or some other Slavic language.
&
nbsp; “There are tea and pastries, sir.”
“Thank you, Markus. Tell Denys to prepare downstairs for later.”
Markus bowed his head, crossed the great room, and left up the main hall. Ostrovsky strode to one of the sitting areas, his silky robe flowing behind him like a cape and allowing peekaboo views of his pale, hairy backside. Behind his back, G made a gesture and shook his head, mouthing, “What the hell?” to Rheese.
“Have a seat, please. Let us talk about this business. I have about twenty more minutes to devote to this matter before I must bid you all farewell.”
Rheese opened his attaché case and carefully extracted the book. The table in front of him had a plush-covered board on it, obviously placed there for this purpose. G slid it in front of Rheese, who carefully placed the book on it. Ostrovsky sat down in the lounge chair next to Rheese, flipping the sides of his robe away so he could sit.
Ostrovsky produced a pair of silky white gloves from under the table. He slid them on, opened the cover, and peered at the first page, running his fingers over the text and colorful embellishments. He leaned forward and held his nose close to the paper, inhaling deeply and noisily.
“Smells good,” he said with a smile. He had the excited look of a drug addict about to score the best stuff ever. He flipped the book over and felt the spine and the brass adornments. Reopening it to a random page, he scanned it, flipped to the next, then turned several more pages, searching for something. Matt could see Rheese cringing at the fast, careless page turns. Ostrovsky poked a page, said “Ah!” and then read aloud: “Quod fuit ab initio quod audivimus quod vidimus oculis nostris quod perspeximus et manus nostrae temptaverunt de verbo vitae.” He looked up at Matt. “You know what this means?”
Matt nodded, “Yes.”
Rheese’s head popped up and turned to Matt, “Wait . . . really? You speak Latin?”
Matt shrugged.
“Tell me what it means, Matthew,” Ostrovsky whispered, as if asking a poet to recite his work.
“Well, it’s not complete. That’s just the first part, right?”
“Shh,” Ostrovsky wagged two fingers at him and nodded to the book. “Just the passage.”
The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series) Page 5