Return (Matt Turner Series Book 3) (5 page)

Joss could see in the side mirror that he was thinking.

Matthew’s voice remained even, untroubled. “Tell me what he wants before getting to your ‘imbursements.’”

“Confidentiality is of course implied-”

“Of course.”

Joss turned to Matthew, and he gave her an exasperated look. He wasn’t happy, but she relished this apparent collusion. With no clue what was annoying her team, Joss rolled her eyes.

Matthew mouthed
“library”
to her an instant before the caller, Markus, said it.

“The Library of Alexandria.”

Matthew uncurled his fingers, and then rewrapped them around the steering wheel. “More specifics, please.”

“The next large-scale Dead Sea Scrolls-level discovery,” Markus said with confident punctuation.

Joss hadn’t heard of this library, but she vaguely knew of the Dead Sea Scrolls.

Matthew glanced at the dashboard. “It’s after three here. Where are you, exactly?”

“Ukraine. It’s ten thirty here.”

“Really? Are you in a bomb shelter?”

“No, but thank you for your concern. Shall I go on?”

“No. Call me back at midnight, your time.”

“Very well,” Markus said.

Matthew pressed the button on the steering wheel and music returned to the speakers. He tugged at his beard—in deep thought for a moment—then checked the mirrors, and merged back into faster traffic.

Snapping out of it, he peeked her way. “Sorry, you were saying?”

“Um … I think you had said that I could ask you anything.”

“Ah, right. Yeah. Offer open.”

Joss regarded her sunset-painted fingernails. “Just so I’m clear … We’re pretending that call didn’t just happen, right?”

He popped a piece of gum into his mouth and sent a conspiratorial smirk her way. There it was! A personality! Humanity! And, really, the perfect answer to her question: no answer.

Moving on then …

“So, Matthew Turner, whatcha been up to the past twenty years?” He smiled again. Phew, she
could
make him smile. “Maybe start with the present, work your way backward.”

He nodded. “Sure. But you have to call me Matt. ‘Matthew’ is for Mr. Langley, and the press, and people like the man that just called.” Joss signaled agreement and
Matt
went on. “At present I’m only working on three things. My sister, Iris, and I have been working through missing persons cases. Confidentially, of course. It’s not easy work … bad news more often than not, but my family and I agree it’s the most important thing I can do with what I’ve got. I also teach a self-defense class one day a week at a dojo near my house, mainly to women and kids.”

“Wow, that’s cool. Do your students or whatever know who you are?”

“No, I use a different name. Only a couple of the people that run the place know who I am and they’re family friends from way back.”

“So you’re like a karate master? I don’t think I knew that.”

Matt turned the radio even lower. “Not karate. It’s a very old technique called
sin arma
—essentially weaponless, or hand-to-hand combat—that was taught and practiced by a small group based in Spain. It hasn’t been used for a while. Well, until recently.”

“‘A while.’”

“Yeah.” He observed Joss strumming fingers on her knee. “Nearly a thousand years.”

“And you learned it from a …”

“Yes. An individual I’ve spent many years with.” He tapped his temple. “Once you’re all settled, if you’re interested, you can come to a class and see what it’s all about. All else aside, it’s great exercise.”

“It sounds like you’re really passionate about it.”

Matt shrugged. “I guess I am. Insomuch as I’d like to see it spread. I’m teaching it to the folks that run the place so they can eventually take over. There’s no better modern, weaponless tactic for a person to decisively defeat a much larger opponent.”

“Decisively defeat. Sounds painful. For the defeated.”

Matt’s phone buzzed and then chirped like a cricket. He picked it up from a cup holder and glanced at the screen. He held it out for Joss to take.

“That’s my sister asking when I’ll be home. You mind texting her back for me? Tell her six, and that I’ll bring dinner. The unlock password is eight-six-five-three.”

Joss looked at the phone in his hand, remembering that Matt had made Cameron sign those books. He’d wanted Cam to imprint his thoughts into them for later reading. If she held his phone, wouldn’t she be putting
herself
into it? What if he could access everything she’d ever thought about him? See and hear the way she and Cam had spoken of Matt so cavalierly—so cruelly, if she was to be honest—when they’d still thought him dead, or at least a withering hermit? Early on, she’d said something like, “If
he’s
not profiting off that goldmine of a name,
someone
should,” and she laughed the time Cam said, “Why wait until his rotting corpse is found curled up in a corner?” They’d guiltlessly plotted to defraud conference attendees. And, godammit, now she was actively thinking about all of those horrible things! Placing them fresh in her memory, ripe for the psychic plucking! Oh God, there was no way all that would remain a secret forever. What would be worse: him finding out everything now, or some time down the road? And would she
ever
have privacy around him?

“It’s okay,” Matt said. “You don’t have to worry about imprinting on it. I have control over my ability now … as you can see.” He gestured with the phone at his summer attire and hairy legs.

Joss sat paralyzed, cleared her throat, her hovering hand moving not an inch closer to take the phone from him. She tried to formulate an excuse, some rational explanation for not just grabbing the damned thing and texting his sister back. Every passing second he held the phone in the air between them heaped suspicion and guilt onto her shoulders.

After what seemed like forever, Matt let her off the hook and dropped the phone back into the cup holder. “No worries. It’s fine. I’ll just call her. Probably better anyway, in case she texts something back.”

“Yeah, I just … It’s sort of weird to-”

“You don’t have to explain, Joss.” He gave her a kind look, his skin glowing again with that aura of serenity.

His warmth made her feel even crappier.

“But,” he continued, and she looked at his face—now that of a school principal letting a student off with a warning this time, “working with me, there are obviously special conditions. Honesty and trust is essential. In both directions. I don’t care what you did or said when you were with Langley. I’m certain you’ll find the work you do with us to be much more rewarding.”

Joss inhaled a cleansing breath. “Both directions, eh?”

“It’s the only way, given my advantages.”

“Okay. So you just said you don’t care what I said or did with Cam. Does that mean I don’t have to do a big confessional thing?”

“No way.” Matt frowned. “Please, spare me. Clean slate.”

Joss sighed relief. “Wonderful. So now tell me: have you read me? Just now or before? Like how you read Cam with the book?”

“
You’re
in that book, too, you know. As well as the door handle there, your seat, the seatbelt, and so on. It’s like happening upon someone’s open diary or unlocked phone. You can choose to leave them alone, or pick them up and peruse. I choose to leave them alone.”

Matt held his earnest gaze on her for a beat.

Joss nodded. “I’d pick up both and tear through that shit without a second thought.”

Matt laughed. “I appreciate your honesty. Hopefully you believe and accept my assurances that I would not. And I’ll be sure to change my phone’s password as soon as possible.”

They both laughed, and as Joss relaxed deeper into her seat, it felt as though Matt had done the same.

“All right then,” Joss said. “What’s the third thing?” He shot her a confused glance. “That you’re working on? You said, at present you’re only working on three things. The missing people cases was one, the fighting thing was two.”

He stiffened his chin and took a deep breath. “Let me get back to you on thing three. It’s a bit complicated, and a large wrench was just thrown into it. I need to work it all out.”

“Am I the wrench?”

Matt frowned. “What? Oh, no.”

“The call then? Markus?”

“Yup. And we’ll leave it there on thing three for now.”

Nairobi, Kenya – Presidential Palace – Three weeks ago

Ngina rolled the candle back and forth between her palms and prayed in silence. Conscious of the sweat beading on her head and upper lip, her smock sticking to her clammy neck, she moved her face closer to the water closet’s window. The breeze cooled both skin and tension as it pushed in through the thin sliver—the window open as wide as security would allow for the first floor, despite the bars.

Ngina inhaled a final whiff of the fresh air, shook out her limbs, and turned the candle upside down. She stuck her finger into the freshly-carved hole in the bottom and did a final sweep to remove any remaining wax flakes from the inside or bottom, then picked up the gold sticker from the counter. After covering the hole with the label sticker and smoothing the edges to be sure it appeared brand new, she deposited the candle into her apron’s right side pocket. A final peek into the left side pocket where she’d placed the shavings and small chunks she’d carved out. One more look at herself in the mirror above the sink. Her dark skin shone again with the glaze of new sweat. She dabbed her sleeves about her face.

Finally, a quick rinse of the flathead screwdriver she’d used to carve out the candle, a brisk hand washing, and she was out the door. Seven minutes was far too long to be in the water closet, but a glance down both directions of the hall found the area clear of other staff.

She headed to the mansion’s south wing.

As she passed the hallway to the main kitchen, a deep voice said, “Ngina, a favor,” in Swahili.

Ngina recognized the voice of Masil, the Chief of Staff, which meant that His Excellency, President Jivu Absko, had returned early from the South.

She stopped just past the hall, backed up, and turned to face Masil.

“Did you require me, sir?”

“Yes. If you’re not busy, please inform the First Lady that she will be hosting a small dinner party at seven this evening, and send the President’s apologies for the short notice.”

Ngina dipped and nodded, waited for Masil to go, and then she continued down the corridor.

Good and bad
, she thought.

Good because she now had a better excuse for another visit to Mrs. Absko; bad because His Excellency had this keen sense—an unnerving awareness of any matters aslant. Even those few wholly scrupulous members of the staff with nothing to hide breathed sighs of relief when he was away. And Ngina, normally a member of the latter group, prayed and promised to God that this would be the last time she’d dance outside those boundaries. No more. If she completed the task without being caught, there wouldn’t be another foolish violation like this.

But is that what God would want?
she thought.
To abandon the Lady and little Alexander?
God doesn’t want you killed, so yes.

She rounded the last corner to the master suite and found the Lady’s immense guard, Thabiti, sitting on his stool outside the door. He regarded Ngina with a sideways look, his eyes tracking her without any head movement, as if that trunk of a neck could no longer twist.

“Ngina,” he greeted.

She stopped and stood before him. What business did she have here, if not to drop off or pick up Alexander for school? Masil’s request had been a blessing. His Excellency’s early return was not.

“Thabiti. Per Masil, the Lady has an unscheduled dinner party to prepare for.”

He pressed his lips together in annoyance and unclipped the radio from his belt. “Thabiti to Andra.”

The head housekeeper’s frazzled, nasally voice, “Yes, Thabiti?”

He pressed the talk button again, his irritation slathered atop every syllable. “A dinner party?”

“Yes, a dinner party. Get over it.”

Thabiti rolled his eyes and presented an elaborate sigh. Ngina knew Thabiti hadn’t suspected a lie—he had no cause to distrust her—and was clearly less concerned with a nursery maid, so much as another night of impromptu overtime. He waved her on.

“Wait,” he said, and she stopped. “What’s in your apron?”

She turned with what she hoped looked like a genuine
oops, how silly of me!
flail, and pulled out the candle for him to examine.

“A replacement for the Lady’s lavatory. She prefers the jasmine from the nursery water closet over the cherry blossom scent the chambermaids have been using of late. Should I have Samy replace it? I should have Samy do it-”

He cut her off with a dismissive, slo-mo wave:
Candles? Go.

She smiled apologies and opened the door to the President’s suite, closing it behind her.

Beyond the dimly lit hall and elaborately decorated antechamber, Ngina found Mrs. Absko sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Alexander, nearly four years old.

“My Lady,” she said with a nervous curtsy.

Mrs. Absko, beautiful despite her tired eyes, replied in her unique, foreign brand of Swahili, “I know it defies your tongue’s every muscle, Ngina, but it would make a world of difference to me if you would call me Tuni now and then.”

Ngina closed her eyes and wished herself transported to her old bed in her mother’s house in Narok. To roll back the clock ten years—an innocent thirteen-year-old with only school and acne burdening her thoughts. “I … I can’t, my Lady.”

Mrs. Absko’s head sunk, her eyes returning to the little cars on the floor, Alexander smashing them into each other and simulating massive explosions. “Were you able to do it?”

“Yes, my Lady.” Ngina produced the candle from her pocket, handing it to Mrs. Absko. “I’ll place the rest in the cabinet, behind the rolls, like you wanted.”

“Thank you. Please, don’t misunderstand. I do appreciate-”

The main door to the suite opened and the President’s voice streamed in. The footsteps of several others marched after him. The group halted, their voices echoing around the corner from the antechamber. The President sounded upset.