The Opal (Book 2 of the Matt Turner Series)

by Michael Siemsen

  “All right,” Matt said, leaning forward. “Um . . . just paraphrasing . . . it says, ‘That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen, which we have looked upon and touched with our hands, of the word of life . . .’”

  “Very good, Matthew! Very good indeed. That section alone—forget that it goes on—by itself, does it have any special meaning for you?”

  “I don’t know . . . not really,” Matt lied.

  “Nothing?”

  “Nope,” Matt said.

  “Hm. I would have thought otherwise.” Ostrovsky rested back in the chair, swirled a finger around in his chest hair. “Hmm . . . disappointing.”

  “Anyway,” Rheese interrupted, “as you can see, it is in impeccable condition. Every page present. Likely among the best-preserved of the surviving copies. It is uncataloged, so you would be free to display publicly, hide away, sell, or what have you. But the story—”

  “Tell me, Matthew,” Ostrovsky said, ignoring Rheese. “Had you ever heard of me?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s good. And now? Do you know who I am now?”

  “Not really. Some rich guy, I guess. A really rich guy.” Matt gestured around the room.

  “Ha ha, yes, of course. Don’t worry, this pleases me. I have no desire to be a household name. There is comfort in being number forty-three on Forbes’s list. This is intentional, you see? There are thousands of bank accounts, trusts, investment accounts, properties all over the world, attached to different names, estates. You add them all together, connect them to a single person. Perhaps that person is higher on a list than previously suspected. But you know what? I stay here, in my country. Unlike these sissy millionaires flocking to England—dual citizenship, and all that.” Ostrovsky appeared to have wandered away from his subject. He searched around the room, scratched his undraped privates, and resumed. “Matthew, tell me about this Bible.”

  “Well, Doctor Rheese is really the—”

  “No, no, go ahead, Turner,” Rheese insisted.

  “Oh, well . . . I know some of the people who have used it—you know, where they were and when . . . stuff like that . . .”

  Markus appeared behind Ostrovsky, leaned close, and whispered something in his ear. Ostrovsky’s face did not change. He nodded, and Markus walked away.

  Matt was still speaking, “. . . I believe the separation of the two volumes may have occurred sometime after—”

  “Hold on,” Ostrovsky interrupted, then grabbed a remote from the end table and turned up the music. He rocked his head with the beat. “I love this part!” He performed an air drum solo while biting his lower lip, eyes closed. “Okean Elzy. You know them?” He looked at Matt.

  Matt shook his head.

  “What, no? One of the biggest bands in the world! They are like Ukrainian equivalent to America’s U-two.”

  “U-two are from Ireland,” Matt said matter-of-factly.

  Ostrovsky looked at him, still smiling but almost with a sneer. “Well, what do you think? Could you get into this, or do you have to understand lyrics to like a song?”

  “It’s all right, I guess.”

  Shocked, Ostrovsky shot looks at Rheese and G. “I don’t understand Americans! You probably listen to bullshit, whiny music. Who is your favorite American band?”

  “I don’t know . . . I listen to a lot of different stuff. Look, do you want to hear about the Bible or what? The first volume—”

  “Turner, knock it off,” Rheese said. “We are guests. Vitaliy . . . Mr. Ostrovsky, Turner can tell you essentially the entire history of this book. He has made great headway in tracing it to the matching volume one, as well.”

  Ostrovsky again slumped back in his chair, frowning, with his legs spread wide. He squinted reproachfully at Matt as his head bobbed. He picked up the remote and turned off the music.

  “Markus!” he shouted. Then he turned to Rheese. “I will give you one hundred thousand for the book. No negotiation.”

  “One hundred . . .” Rheese blurted. “Just the . . . are you bloody joking? You haven’t even . . .”

  Markus reappeared from the hallway, “Yes, sir?”

  “Our guests are leaving. If Dr. Rheese wishes to sell, pay him one hundred thousand for the book.”

  “One hundred thousand!” Rheese muttered. “That’s not even a fraction! No one would . . .”

  G stood up. “Mr. Ostrovsky, sir, I think there’s been a misunderstanding. See, we were looking to sell—”

  “Yes, yes,” Ostrovsky interrupted. “Deal or no deal, like the television game show. Thank you for visiting.” He stood up and walked away. He said to Markus in passing, “Tell Denys never mind,” and disappeared around the corner.

  Rheese was in a daze, unable to grasp what had gone wrong. He carried on a conversation with himself under his breath, gesturing at the book and at himself.

  “Gentlemen, if you will follow me,” Markus said.

  “This is your fault, Turner,” G said, jabbing a finger into Matt’s chest.

  “What? Because I told him U-two are Irish?”

  “You screwed it up with your shitty attitude. You’re going to pay for this.”

  “Sorry if I have an attitude about being kidnapped! I’ll try to look on the bright side!”

  G looked as if he was going to hit him for sure, but he took several deep breaths and pushed him forward.

  They followed Markus back down the curving hallway, past the little indoor jungle, and through a door at the far end. It was a small office, with a nice wooden desk with two guest chairs. Markus walked behind it and sat down. He unlocked a drawer in the desk with his key and pulled out a checkbook and ledger.

  “So, Dr. Rheese, do you wish to go through with the proposed modified transaction?”

  Rheese was still in shock. “I . . . I can’t . . .”

  G interrupted and said, “Look, do you mind if I confer with my business partner here in the hall?”

  “Not at all,” Markus replied.

  G escorted Rheese out the door and closed it behind them. Markus gazed at Matt, who watched the wall clock’s second hand tick away.

  “So,” Markus said to Matt. “Do you use this germaphobe excuse often?”

  “What?”

  “When people ask about your gloves and such.”

  “Oh . . . um, yeah, I guess.” Is this guy fishing, or does he know?

  Markus reached into another drawer in his desk and produced a business card. He handed it across the desk to Matt. “It is English on the other side. If you are still . . . in the market, as it were, give me a call in six months if you are interested in work. He will have forgotten this interaction by then and will pay you extremely well, as I suppose you can imagine. Just don’t involve these other two, hmm?”

  Don’t ask. “Yeah, all right. Thanks.”

  Rheese and G came back in.

  “We’ll take the hundred thousand,” G said.

  Rheese pulled out the book, stared wistfully at it, and then slid it onto the desk. Markus picked it up, rolled his chair to a cherry cabinet, and placed the book in a safe, locking it afterward.

  “To whom do I write the check?”

  G and Rheese looked at each other, and G said, “We require cash. U.S.”

  Unfazed, Markus slid the checkbook into his desk drawer, opened another drawer, and took out a lockbox. He opened it and withdrew four stacks of perfectly crisp bills. G stuffed them into Rheese’s case, and the three of them followed Markus outside. He left them at the door with a pleasant smile and wave.

  “Thank you for your visit.”

  When they appeared, the limo door opened and Z popped out. He stretched his arms out, palms up, apparently aware that something had gone wrong.

  “Later,” G said as they got in.

  SIX

  The staring bothered her the most. He would just stand in the doorway, mouth open a little, and his sunken eyes would slowly pan across her body as if filming a landscape in a nature d
ocumentary. She didn’t want to think about what his pocketed hands might be doing. Her own hands were cuffed for most of each day. She got to stretch and breathe once in the morning and once at night during meals, not counting loo breaks. Her captor would mark it off on a clipboard of tasks and then send a text message from his phone. She supposed it was good that he reported to someone, even though she didn’t know to whom.

  When she had emerged from the shower three days ago, he was standing there in the bathroom in a button-down khaki shirt and black cargo pants. She had the towel in front of her, but he had seen everything before she screamed and covered up. She had planned her moves, expecting him to attack, but he simply stood there, staring, and said, “Get dressed. Quickly.” Then he had walked out, closing the bathroom door behind him. She had raced to lock the door and then grabbed the wall-mounted phone beside the bidet, but the cord was gone from the base and the wall jack. Her purse, too, had been taken from the counter, so no mobile phone. She had thrown on her clothes but was afraid to leave the bathroom. He knocked.

  “Hurry up. You have thirty seconds.”

  She knew the shoddy door lock would do nothing. She knew that he knew that; it was why he walked out and closed the door.

  When she came out, he was right there. He grabbed her arms, spun her around, clasped handcuffs on her, and tossed her onto the bed. And there she had remained. Others had already taken Matthew. It was only the two of them in the bungalow now.

  He stopped staring at her for the time being and turned back to the suite’s living room.

  “When do I get to leave?” she asked. She had said it before and received no satisfactory answers.

  He looked silently back at her for several seconds before saying, “Do you want to shower?”

  She let her head fall back onto the bed. He left her and flopped noisily down onto the leather couch in the living room. His phone sounded with artificial button clicks as he composed another text message. Her mind was a confusion of half-baked escape scenarios and defeatist naysaying. The over-water bungalow was interconnected to others via branching pier walkways, but too far away for anyone to hear her. If she screamed when food was delivered, he might just kill the delivery person. If she were willing to be that heartless, it might actually bring others looking for them, but there remained the fact that Matthew was also a captive. Anything she did to get free might well endanger him.

  So I lie here shiftless like a bloody dosser.

  She heard his mobile phone ring in the other room, heard his muffled “Yeah?”

  Silence.

  “Okay, hold on a second.”

  He walked into the bedroom and held the phone to her ear.

  “Say something,” he said.

  “Um, hello?” she said.

  “Miss St. James . . .” The voice made her grimace. She knew it immediately.

  “Rheese,” she replied. “What are you bloody thinking? How dare you—”

  “Tuni?”

  “Matthew!” she said.

  Rheese’s voice returned. “Put Raúl back on.”

  Raúl. She had a first name now. That was something, anyway. And Matthew was alive, at least. He took the phone away from her ear and listened as he left the bedroom.

  “Understood. Yes. Can . . . can I speak with Fernando? Oh, fine, but tell him he needs to call me. I keep trying . . . hello? ¡Ai, pinche cabrón!” The phone clacked down onto a table.

  * * *

  A couple of hours passed with Tuni shifting from her side to her back, to her other side. She cried off and on, as she had since it all began. What were they doing with Matthew? Where was he? Was he equally worried about her? It sounded that way. Where was the rock she had prepared so specially for him? She had left it on the kitchen counter. Anyway, it was completely irrelevant now. Bloody Rheese. The man was vile. The phone call was obviously to have Matthew hear her voice, to prove she was still alive.

  How would this end? Her guard, “Raúl,” had made no attempt to conceal his face. He was of Latino descent, though he spoke with only the hint of an accent. His cheeks were pocked from acne. He was tall and strongly built, hair cropped short. She could see him in a military uniform. He was at least disciplined enough to keep his hands off her—so far, anyway. If he wasn’t worried about being identified later, did that mean he was going to disappear abroad—or that she wouldn’t be left alive to identify him?

  The only hotel telephone still plugged in rang in the kitchen. She heard him stride over to it without picking it up. It rang three more times and fell silent. He tapped away at his phone screen. Another text message. “The room phone rang,” she imagined him writing to Rheese. “What should I do?”

  His phone sounded off that it had received a reply. He wrote back. It went on in this way for several minutes, until Tuni heard a loud crash and a gunshot.

  SEVEN

  “So how big was it?” Z asked.

  The car merged onto the highway heading south, back toward Zaporizhzhya. The windshield wipers swung at full speed. Though it was not yet noon, the sky had gone dark beneath a heavy layer of charcoal clouds. Cars and trucks zoomed by, sloshing through the muddy snow.

  “Never mind that,” Rheese said. “Thanks to Turner’s poor manner and Ostrovsky’s eccentric petulance, we are quite short on revenue.”

  “It is so not my fault,” Matt said.

  “Shut up, punk,” Z snapped.

  Rheese continued, “Fortunately, we did not walk away empty-handed. Gar—er, G here—had a splendid idea that will hopefully bear fruit. Unfortunately for Mr. Turner, this will extend his stay with us for some time.”

  “What? What are you talking about? And what about Tuni? I didn’t get to talk to her, and you said—”

  “Yes, yes, lad. The meeting did not end as expected—on many levels.” Rheese and G shared a look. “We will get you in touch with her as soon as possible, but for now I’m afraid that is low priority. I do need to get to a phone and contact some chaps I know. I’ll give it a shot at the airport. Perhaps we’ll have a moment for you to exchange a word or two with her. The good news is, the funds received for the Gutenberg will further bankroll our pursuits.”

  “Yeah, what about that?” Matt said. “You said the Bible was someone else’s that you had to return. Why did I even bother reading it all that time if you were just going to sell it to that guy?”

  “There was a change of plans before we arrived at the estate. There was no time to fill you in. Its original owner will not be the happiest, but when all is said and done, he will be rewarded handsomely.”

  “And he’s just going to accept that? Who is this saintly mystery person?”

  “That’s none of your concern. Besides, if he has any issue with receiving fair market value for it, I will refer him straight to Vitaliy Ostrovsky and have them work it between themselves. I feel somewhat bad, but we have larger affairs now.”

  “The adults need to talk now,” G said. “We got anything for him to read or whatever?”

  “I’ll cover my ears.”

  Rheese looked around and said, “Hmm, well, not really . . .”

  Matt thought of a hundred things in the car with them that would surely have imprints, but he remained stoic. He did not want to be forced into another session. Fortunately, Rheese seemed preoccupied with ancient artifacts as the sole source of imprints.

  “Do you have any more of that chemical you used back on the island?” Rheese asked.

  Uh–oh . . .

  “Had to leave it on his plane,” G replied. “Could have been a problem at airport security.”

  Rheese glared at Matt. “This could all be over if you had held your bloody tongue, you know that? Yes, the damned thing tasted right! Yes, the music was sublime—a soul-satisfying delight, in fact!”

  “Look, I’m not very good at talking to people,” Matt replied. “Blame it on homeschooling.”

  Rheese sighed and peered at his watch, “Well, it’s another hour to the airport. Everyone just kee
p quiet. I’m going to attempt a quick catnap.” He picked up the little leather pillow from between himself and Matt, placed it between his cheek and the window, and wriggled down in his seat.

  Matt glanced at G and Z. Both wore their displeasure with him openly. As if that weren’t enough, Z mimed lifting his own chin, slid a finger across his throat, pulled an invisible tongue from the invisible gash, and adjusted it at his collar as if tightening a tie.

  And in that moment, Matt realized he was more frightened of these two than he could ever be of Rheese.

  * * *

  “Funny you should mention that, Professor,” Jimmy Moon’s voice said through the pay phone. “I got a lead yesterday on something that might fit that description. Price was way out of my range, but if you’ve got the bankroll, you could probably flip it for a tasty profit.”

  Rheese smiled and clenched his fist. Things were looking up. He peered through the window into the departures terminal. More airport police with dogs were patrolling the area where Garza and Solorzano were sitting inside with Turner. They let the dogs do a quick sniff as they passed, but continued on their way. Another opportunity to alert the authorities, which Turner had passed up. At least that part of the plan was working.

  “Tell me more,” Rheese said.

  “Hang on a sec—I’ve got a picture here . . .” Jimmy, Rheese’s old assistant, described the item, shown on a table lit by a desk lamp, with a square ruler beside it for scale. He went on to provide what little further information he had, and offered to put in some research hours for a fee and get back to him. Luckily, Jimmy knew the general area where Rheese needed to go, and the contact information for the source, so they didn’t have to spend another night in Ukraine.

  Rheese signaled to Garza to bring Turner to the phone. Best to get the call to his woman out of the way. It surely wouldn’t muzzle his relentless blathering, but it had been a part of the deal, and it would remind the lad who was in charge. He considered giving them a minute to exchange whatever teary-eyed drivel they felt was necessary, but it was six bloody degrees outside.

  “That was bullshit, Rheese!” Matt complained as they reentered the terminal.