Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (11 page)

Markus scooped up the second Taria and returned it to its metal box.

Knowing he was only
playing
the defenseless psychometrist of yesteryear, Matt considered a quick change of plans. While it had no bearing on his plans, he
needed
to read that Taria. He felt like a drug addict sitting in front of the purest, highest-quality substance he would ever encounter, and it appeared Ostrovsky wouldn’t soon bend on the thing leaving the grounds.

Both artifacts resealed in their cases, Matt, Joss, and Ostrovsky sat mute for several minutes, Ostrovsky playing with his empty glass, spinning it in tiny turns on the coaster, his expression resolute. Joss engaged herself in a solo thumb war. Beneath the table, Matt’s bare hand remained firmly planted on the table’s underside, funneling Ostrovsky’s real-time thoughts into Matt’s head. The imprints rushed in as brief spurts, as the side of Ostrovsky’s hand intermittently grazed the wood tabletop.

Arrogant piece of dung useless American … wasting my goddamned time … whore mother can suck me …
Matt had been reading long enough to know that Ostrovsky wouldn’t relent any time soon. And then Ostrovsky thought,
He gets one more goddamned minute to change mind before I kick him out. Him and …
his eyes moved to Joss—her face and then her chest. Ostrovsky’s thoughts instantly switched to things Matt didn’t wish to see and so he popped his hand off the table. Though Ostrovsky’s current distraction might delay their ejection for a moment, Matt readied his words of acquiescence. It simply couldn’t end here—not after everything it’d taken to reach this chair.

Matt inhaled a deep breath and said, “Well…”

But Markus, as if on cue, spoke over Matt, leaning to Ostrovsky. “Sir, may I offer a suggestion?”

Ostrovsky growled, snapping out of his daze, and flipped a hasty hand in the air for Markus to proceed. Matt returned his fingertips to the table’s underside.

“Philippos,” Markus said, and Ostrovsky chewed on this. “Staffed, but currently no guests.”

Matt watched the side of Ostrovsky’s bare hand resting on the table as scattered thoughts about Markus’s suggestion bounced around Ostrovsky’s head. It seemed a good idea—frustrating because it was a compromise, bullshit because he’d have to wait—but a logical choice. But Rostik should meet them there; he was still in Alexandria …

Rostik. A dangerous contractor. He stole Taria B from its hiding place …

Matt tried to drill deeper on this Rostik character, but Ostrovsky’s focus shifted back to this island.

Philippos, a private Greek island in the Aegean Sea, owned entirely by Ostrovsky, with turquoise beaches and an epic main house Matt observed in the billionaire’s thoughts. Ostrovsky particularly liked that this would solidify and prolong Matt’s stay, enabling much lengthier readings. And the longer he spent reading the Tarias, the better the chances of finding the scrolls …
if Turner agrees
…

Oh, I’ll agree,
Matt thought, and Ostrovsky, as if hearing him, made his decision. He picked up his empty drink and tilted it to his mouth to catch the dregs of alcohol in the ice melt.

“Let’s do it,” Ostrovsky said, his sharpened eyes turning and landing on Matt’s. “You agree, Matthew?”

He knows!
Matt thought, reflexively yanking his hand from the table as if Ostrovsky somehow sensed it there, and had been reading Matt in reverse. It was Ostrovsky’s pretense: the simple, predictable man—unobservant, face-value. Even while reading him, Matt didn’t catch it, but now it was clear. Ostrovsky had earlier observed Matt’s hand beneath the table, noted it, put it together,
used
it.
The Art of War
. Have the enemy believe they’re winning up until they’ve lost.

Joss turned to Matt, confused. “Agree to what? Did I miss something?”

Matt swallowed—a child caught sneaking cookies. “Yes, it seems a sensible solution.”

“What ‘it’?” Joss said, frustrated. “What’s happening?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Matt replied. “Everything’s fine.”

Ostrovsky smiled, gratified, as after a prolonged massage, and reclined slowly in his chair. He nodded to his glass.

“More, Markus.”

ALT 41,000 feet – Black Sea – Present day

Three days ago, Joss Lynn Leland was in Pennsylvania doing her spiel on stage with Cameron, knot cinching her gut, knowing the odds he’d press her for post-conference drinks again. It’d always been a transparent scheme, beginning after their second seminar.

“Let me buy you dinner,” he’d said. “We’ve much to celebrate.”

He’d flagged down a server for another round before Joss was halfway through her first. After gallantly offering to walk her to her hotel room, Cameron was sloshed and stumbling, believing himself ten times more charming and attractive than usual. In the hotel hall, he’d passed his room, following Joss to hers. He waited, leaning with one hand against the wall, as Joss slid the key card into her door.

“F’we keep this up,” he’d slurred, “we minuswell save the cash an’ get one room ferm’ow on.”

She’d stopped him with a finger jab to the chest. “Not happening, Cam. Now or ever. Night.”

Either by alcohol-induced amnesia, or obnoxious, misguided persistence, Cam had given it another go in Boston (even leaning in with half-open mouth, and copping a feel) on their walk back to the hotel. She’d elbowed him off, punched him in the throat, and told him that kind of crap couldn’t happen again. He’d sulked for the rest of the walk—hacking and gagging—and
she
felt like the ass.

But it wasn’t until Matt showed up that she’d even considered ditching Cam. It simply hadn’t been an option. Why not? Howsabout a little self-respect?

Now she found herself halfway around the world, 40,000 feet in the air in a multimillion-dollar private jet, seated facing the world-famous Matthew Turner, on her way to some luxurious personal island. As she gazed at Matt—off in space again as he peered out his window, one ungloved hand in his pocket—she tried to keep all of it in perspective. This kind of thing didn’t happen in real life. And while she’d pondered ulterior motives on Matt’s part, perhaps hiring her with similar eyes to Cameron’s (her trust in men may be a bit dented) she now perceived Matt’s outlook on her as somewhat paternal. It jived with his initial job offer to her, what she’d interpreted as some conviction that he must
rescue
her from this charlatan. She’d initially scoffed at Matt’s judgment, truly believing that he had it all wrong. She and Cam were
business
partners
, you see (notwithstanding the occasional harassment, but she could handle Cam’s malarkey herself).

Now, getting to know Matt better, her hindsight sharpening, and with enough distance from Cam, Joss found more truth in the “rescued” notion than she’d previously cared to admit. Because that’s what Matt did, right? Rescue people?

Is that all this is? Weaning me off Cameron? We both know Matt could’ve put his foot down on me coming. What purpose have I served, exactly, as his tagalong?

Maybe, despite the location or company, he considered her safest under his supervision. She was one of his successes, after all. He’d forever have a vested interest in her wellbeing.

She leaned over and peered around her seat back. Markus, still buttoned up tight in one of his sharp suits, already had those wide-spaced, steel-blue eyes on her, Mona Lisa smile firmly in place.

She faced forward and sat upright. Though he was quiet—usually only speaking when spoken to—Joss imagined Markus’s brain was this high-speed blender of observations, analysis, and calculations, always busy in there, and eternally loyal to his employer. Did he ever get time off? Would he even want it? It was a funny idea, this old concept of the devoted butler, like Alfred and Batman. Had Alfred ever said,
“Apologies, Master Wayne, but I’m taking off a couple days to take a shower, do laundry, and clean my own damned house.”
Oh, but why would they
want
to do anything but work for their master, right? Serving is their life.

Does Alfred even have his own house?

She wanted to stand up, sit down across from Markus, and say,
“So, Markie, where ya from?”

Just imagine the look on his face! Or maybe not … He could respond as smooth as ever—who knew?

“Pardon me, Matthew.” Markus’s voice, right over Joss’s shoulder. She and Matt looked up. Markus had both metal cases in hand. “We have another ninety minutes before Athens. I trust you’re eager to pre-examine the Tarias?”

* * *

As if being presented their favorite meal, Matt and Joss watched intently as Markus set the second Taria—the faultless one—onto the cloth-covered table between them.

The flight attendant who had brought the table emerged from behind a curtain with a tray of beverages.

Markus sat down in the seat beside Joss, and waved off the flight attendant. “Later, Eta.”

She nodded, returning to the galley.

Markus tugged his gloves tight at the wrist, and edged closer. “There were originally four,” he began, sliding the two artifacts together to line them up lengthwise, careful to keep them from touching. “As evidenced by the inscribed ellipses at one end of each. See?” He lifted each and held them close to each other so Matt could see the semicircle created by the two quarter circles. “When all four are joined together with the correct sides facing out, presumably, a full circle is displayed at this end.”

Matt nodded, knowing this was incorrect. The ellipses were carved precisely so people would
think
there were four keystones. “What’s at the other ends?”

Markus turned them around and Matt observed the unique engravings on each. The triangular end of the older—well, more worn—Taria had a cluster of Hieroglyphs, a group of characters generally used in a city’s name. In this case, he saw a snake, water, sunrise, and others.

“Djanet,” Matt said. “Tanis to the Greeks.”

“Yes,” Markus agreed. “But what of this one? Mr. Ostrovsky’s people have been unable to translate it thus far.”

“It’s Demotic script … Would you mind?” Matt twirled a finger, and Markus rotated it. “Yeah, right there. You read it from right to left. The
off
thing about it, and probably the reason your person couldn’t figure it out, is that you don’t often see an inscription like this. Sort of a formal Demotic. Looks a lot like modern-day Arabic, but shares more in common with the hieroglyphs Demotic was based on. The whole point of the script was to be able to
write
it, and quickly, with ink. If you were making something more permanent, decorating a wall or something, you’d have still used Hieroglyphics.”

“Sorry if it’s a dumb question, but if they always used the Hieroglyphs, why do you think they put that other language on this thing?” Joss asked. “And can you read it?”

“The pieces were inscribed in three different languages as a code,” Matt explained. “Combined, they’re essentially a treasure map, and the people who made them wanted to ensure that only an intellectual like them could decipher the text. Very few people at that time would’ve been able to perfectly translate all three, and I’m assuming there’s key information in each language that doesn’t exist on the other two pieces. This here,” he pointed at the Demotic inscription, “says ‘spouse,’ possessive, and ‘relative,’ so I’d translate that as ‘in-law.’”

Markus smiled. “Very good, Matthew. This is very, very good.”

Matt reached out, hovering a hand near the Tarias. “May I?” What he really wanted was to yank his gloves off and get inside those things, but one thing at a time. The translations would likely sharpen Ostrovsky’s focus on the scroll hunt, and that’s exactly what Matt needed.

Markus nodded,
proceed.

“Joss,” Matt said. “Could you take some notes, please?”

Flustered for an instant, she dug around in her bag, withdrew a yellow notepad, then found a pen at the bottom of her purse. “I’m ready.”

Matt spent the next few minutes dictating his translations of the inscriptions, flipping the stones with his gloved hands. Joss separated the translations onto different lines, and marked them with Markus’s designations of Taria A and Taria B, followed by a number indicating the side. When finished translating, Matt peered across the table at her pad.

“Oh, I like this,” Matt said, indicating her notes.

“I defined side one the same for both stones,” she explained, pointing with the back of her pen. “You started reading ‘B’ on a different side than ‘A,’ but they’re both in order here. I used the curved lines on the ends as the reference point. So this line is side one, the curve is side two … like that. I can change it if-”

“No, no,” Matt said. “That’s perfect.”

Matt observed Joss striving to remain nonchalant, but she clearly appreciated the opportunity to contribute.

“This is how we catalogued as well,” Markus commented. While he had yet to share the translations completed by Ostrovsky’s people—likely to keep from influencing Matt’s translations—Markus had a clipboard with printouts at the ready. “Go ahead, Ms. Leland. Begin with your A-one, if you would.”

Joss cleared her throat ceremoniously. “‘Return, protect, wisdom, tomb, remember, The Great, meet at,’ and then the side inscription: ‘Tanis.’ Did I spell that right?”

“Spot-on,” Matt said, then, curious, turned to Markus, who was scribbling little notes on his clipboard. “Are we in sync so far?”

Markus shrugged. “In essence. I’ve made notes.”

Matt sighed. “Okay, read the next one, please, Joss.”

“‘Of all time, heretic, the people, with life, song, him, Tanis’ again, and then the side symbol, ‘in-law.’”

“Two things.” Matt pointed at her sheet. “Him is actually
hymn
—like a song—and it’s not Tanis again, it’s Thonis, with a t-h. Different city all together.”

Markus leaned forward. “May I borrow that a moment?”

Joss handed him the notepad, and Markus compared the two, scrawling more notes for himself.

“Markus,” Matt began. “Obviously, I’ll be able to offer some more clarity once I’ve read them, but out of curiosity, did your people have any theories on the inscriptions’ meanings?”