by Kim Fielding
Halyna gave him a professional smile. “You will have meal now in hotel restaurant. Then we will have brief city tour.”
He tried not to look impatient. “That’s great, but when will I be meeting my backup band? And scoping out the venue?”
She looked puzzled, probably needing a moment to decipher his slang. Then her smile returned. “Tomorrow.”
That was only a day before the first of the concerts, which wouldn’t give much time for preparation. But before Jaxon could complain, Reid nodded at her. “That’s fine,” he said. “That’ll work.”
Jaxon kept his mouth closed. Best behavior, he reminded himself.
They ate in the hotel restaurant, a slightly claustrophobic space with fancy tablecloths and flocked wallpaper. They were the only diners. Halyna departed abruptly, leaving them to the mercies of an ancient waiter and his equally ancient assistant. Although the menus came in heavy leather cases with the choices printed on nice paper, they offered few options, and everything was in Vasnytsian. It galled that Reid had to recite the selections.
The food tasted good—a hearty tomato-based soup, bell peppers stuffed with meat and potatoes and cooked in a slightly spicy sauce, sautéed garlicky greens that looked like spinach but weren’t, and some really good bread that was like a thicker version of pita bread. It was a much heavier meal than Jaxon wanted, but due to fear of causing offense, he polished it off. It came with some decent red wine, followed by tiny cups of Turkish coffee.
Reid ate all of his food but didn’t drink the wine. “I like a clear head when I’m working,” he explained. It was nearly the only thing he said while they ate.
Halyna collected them the minute they finished their coffee, and she whisked them back through the lobby and out the door. Jaxon would have preferred to wander on foot through the cobbled streets of the old town, but instead had to sit beside Reid in the back of the SUV.
They drove for hours, Halyna pouring Jaxon more wine as she explicated endless sites in excruciating detail. This was the building where Prime Minister Talmirov went to high school. That was the tramline he’d installed during his first year in office. Over there was the washing machine factory he’d personally opened last year. The three of them walked through a museum stuffed with old coins, ancient weapons, faded uniforms, and other flotsam from Vasnytsia’s past. Aside from some matronly guards and one janitor with a mop, nobody else was in the building. Then they were back in the car for more slow driving past monotonous buildings. Exhausted, still full, and a little drunk, Jaxon would have fallen asleep but for Reid’s subtle kicks and a strategic pinch or two.
Halyna didn’t comment on the many deserted storefronts. Most people gathered in several little street markets, where sturdy women in headscarves sold food, flowers, and cheap-looking household goods. There were also a fair number of cafés where people of all ages sat at sidewalk tables with coffee, beer, and cigarettes. They stared at the SUV as it passed.
By the time they returned to the hotel, Jaxon would have sold his soul for a comfy bed. But he had to sit through dinner, again in the hotel restaurant and again alone with Reid. He ate something, but he was too exhausted to figure out what. He drank more wine.
And then finally, blessedly, he was in his room. Halyna had disappeared, and Reid stood in the connecting doorway. He still looked crisp and chipper, damn him, and somewhere along the line, he’d found a chance to shave. “Breakfast at eight,” he said.
Jaxon groaned. “I don’t eat breakfast.”
“You will tomorrow. You need to keep your energy up.”
“Ugh. I hate—” Jaxon remembered the warning about audio surveillance and shut his mouth. Then he sighed. “I just want to give good concerts, okay?”
Reid strode over and set a big hand on Jaxon’s shoulder. “You will.”
Weird. Just that bit of contact gave Jaxon strength and confidence. “Fine,” he said. “Eight.”
“Do you need an alarm?”
Jaxon pointed to the ancient LED clock next to the bed. “I don’t think so.”
Reid went into his own room and closed the door.
Although the bed beckoned, Jaxon felt grungy. So he spent ten cranky minutes trying to figure out the damn shower before receiving a hot but weak stream of water from one of the sprayers. He spent longer in there than he should have. Eventually, though, he emerged to complete his nighttime preparations. Then, still naked, he crawled between the bleach-scented sheets and fell asleep almost at once.
“HEY! It’s past eight.”
Jaxon blinked up at the giant looming over him. “Wha?”
“It’s past eight. What happened to your alarm?”
“Huh? I don’t— Oh.” Jaxon’s brain shifted sluggishly into first gear and he realized where he was. “Shit. I think I forgot to set it.”
“Albina’s waiting for us.”
Reid stepped back as Jaxon pried himself from the bed. If Reid was scandalized by Jaxon’s nudity—and morning wood—he didn’t show it. But he did tilt his head and squint at Jaxon’s chest. “Interesting tattoo.”
Unlike many other people in the business, Jaxon hadn’t covered himself in ink. He wasn’t overly fond of needles, an anxiety that had probably spared him from some nasty drug addictions. But two years earlier he’d had a single large design inscribed onto the left side of his chest, directly over his heart. It was a guitar—a battered-looking acoustic—being played by a man. Although the guitar was rich in color and detail, the man was faintly sketched with black ink. He was faceless.
Jaxon patted the skin. “I was high.”
“I doubt it. That’s good art. Someone put a lot of time and thought into it.”
It wasn’t fair to have this conversation while naked and groggy. Jaxon had no defenses. “The butler at that hotel in San Francisco told me he was married to his job. I guess I’m the same. That’s why I got this tattoo.”
He turned and went to get ready for breakfast.
Chapter Five
ALBINA wore the same suit as the day before, or one identical to it, and her white blouse had a ridiculously large bow hanging from the collar. Her pale blonde hair was tamed in a neat ponytail, and she was aggressively perky, which annoyed the hell out of Jaxon.
“Did you enjoy your tour of our beautiful city?” she chirped as soon as he took a seat in the SUV.
He tried to think of something honest but flattering to say. “Halyna did a great job showing us around. Starograd has a lot of interesting history.”
“Yes, it does. This morning I will show you more historical places.”
Shit. “I thought I was going to meet with the band and see the venue. I really need to get ready for the concert.”
“This afternoon,” she said, her plastic smile unwavering. “This morning is more tour.”
Jaxon turned to face Reid, who said, “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to get ready this afternoon.” His tone was light, but his eyes were sharp, either pleading or commanding Jaxon to concede.
And Jaxon did, although he might have been a little sulky about it. He stomped around a musty natural history museum and scowled at a statue appearing to commemorate Prime Minister Talmirov’s first haircut. Then the SUV climbed the steep hill that loomed over the old city. Jaxon caught glimpses of several mansions among the trees. Albina said that back in the evil capitalist days of the late nineteenth century, these had been the homes of Vasnytsia’s aristocrats and industrial barons. Today many of them housed government agencies, while others were inhabited by high-ranking officials. “It is convenient for them to access their offices this way,” she said. As if that excused them reveling in luxury while everyone else squished into decaying rabbit hutches.
Near the top of the hill, the SUV stopped in front of a narrow, gated road flanked by several armed soldiers. The guards watched closely but didn’t seem surprised or alarmed by their presence. They’d likely been forewarned.
“Prime minister’s palace is there,” Albina said, pointing,
but Jaxon caught only the hint of a roofline through the trees. “I am sorry I cannot show it to you, but he is in very important meeting today.”
“I’m sure he’s a busy guy,” Jaxon said, which was as diplomatic as he was capable of being.
“Yes. Very busy. Now we see castle.”
The castle in question was at the crest of the hill, with a sweeping view of the city. It lay mostly in ruins, a sad pile of stones that only hinted at former defensive glory. Albina blamed the Ottomans, but Jaxon figured a century or more of neglect probably contributed. Still, it was a pretty location, with birds tweeting in the branches and wildflowers growing among the crumbling rocks. And it was nice to walk around outside for a short time.
“Can I take some pictures?” Jaxon asked. He’d been warned in his predeparture briefing to ask permission.
Albina nodded crisply. “Yes, please do.”
Jaxon took a few shots of an intact tower and then wanted a panorama of the view. He wandered along the edge of the castle in search of the best angle. Albina and Reid stayed put near some rubble that had once been a fountain. She was speaking to him in English, but Jaxon was too far away to catch what she was saying, and Reid seemed more interested in scanning their surroundings than listening to her.
Jaxon finally found a spot where a chunk of the exterior wall had collapsed, perfectly framing the city below. He knelt on a big square rock and held up his phone, which although no help in its usual roles, still functioned fine as a camera.
Nearby sat almost the only other people at the castle, a half-dozen men and women in their early twenties. They’d been staring since he got out of the SUV, but only now was he close enough to hear them talking. Not that he could understand, since they were speaking Vasnytsian. But when he’d shifted a bit for a fresh angle, he caught one of the women saying Jaxon Powers. He turned to look at them and they grinned.
“Hi,” he said. He would have approached them, but they all cut their eyes in Albina’s direction and gave him subtle headshakes. Right. No unauthorized mixing with the locals. He nodded and tried to demonstrate with his face and posture that he wished the rules were otherwise. After checking to be sure that Albina wasn’t looking at them, one of the women winked, pointed quickly at Jaxon, and then patted her chest over her heart. That small gesture meant more to him than any squealing or selfie demands.
A few minutes later, Reid strode over to join him while Albina went to the SUV to talk to the driver. “She’s checking on lunch,” Reid said. “Then she’s promised we’ll head to the venue.”
“Finally.”
In a quiet voice, Reid said, “You need to be patient, Jax. This mission is vital.”
The patronizing tone would have irked Jaxon if not for the nickname. Hardly anyone used it. He smiled. “I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“Is there, um, anyone listening to us right now?”
Reid glanced around quickly. “Probably just that group over there, but I don’t know if they speak English. It’s not often taught here.”
“They know who I am.”
“You’re a celebrity.”
Jaxon gave his arm a gentle push. “I’m a celebrity in the free world. How does anyone here know about me if they can’t get internet and stuff?”
“Information has a way of getting around barriers.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
Reid simply shrugged. Infuriating. Except… he was standing right there. Not touching, not even angled toward Jaxon. But all of his attention was on Jaxon, who felt it like a weight. A pleasant weight. It reminded him of the heavy quilt his grandmother wrapped around him when he was little. Jaxon was used to people focusing on him, but they were interested in Jaxon Powers, eight-time Grammy Award winner. Or maybe Jaxon Powers, a star-spangled notch on their bedposts. Few of them cared about Jax from Peril, Nebraska.
“Thanks for doing this,” Reid said. “It’s not your job and you could have said no.”
“Sure.”
“You’d be a lot happier right now tucked away in a fancy hotel suite in New York or Paris or somewhere.”
Jaxon flashed him a grin. “Alone? I’m not so sure about that.”
Then Albina was walking toward them and it was time to go.
LUNCH was an elaborate, heavy meal at a restaurant with gilded woodwork and velvet curtains. As he plowed through meat-filled dumplings in cream sauce, Jaxon wondered how Vasnytsians managed to stay so thin with such cuisine. Then it occurred to him that once again, he and Reid had the place to themselves—except for the waitstaff and Albina, who all hovered—and he was ashamed. He guessed that few of the locals were able to eat like this.
“Why don’t you join us?” he asked Albina.
She appeared briefly startled before shaking her head. “No, no. This is for you. I eat later.”
The waiters wanted to bring dessert and coffee, but Jaxon was stuffed. Besides, he felt desperate to get ready for the concert. What if the band sucked or the equipment was in the same condition as most of Starograd’s buildings? He hadn’t brought anything of his own, not even an electric guitar. “Can we go?” he pleaded.
Albina seemed to take pity on him and packed them back into the SUV. Jaxon hated the damned vehicle already, and he wondered if the driver was a robot. The mercifully short drive took them a hulking building with yellow paint, white columns, and a domed roof. “This is National Theatre,” Albina said as the SUV came to a halt. “It was gift from Emperor Franz Joseph.”
“Is he the dude who got assassinated and started World War I?”
Reid gave him an appalled look. “That was Franz Ferdinand.”
“Oh, right. Like the band.”
Jaxon was spared Reid’s response as they got out of the car. Armed men stood at the enormous front doors of the building, but they stepped aside for Albina, who opened the door. The lobby was fancy in an overblown but faded way, with worn red carpet and marble stairs. A ceiling fresco displayed toga-clad deities playing instruments and sitting among clouds. Always a wiseass, Jaxon almost asked where Talmirov was. But then he saw him, in a poorly done rendition, playing a violin. Jaxon wondered which unfortunate god had been kicked out of the orchestra and plastered over for the prime minister’s sake.
A tall, skinny man in a suit popped out of a door and came running toward them. He had a bad comb-over and a thin attempt at a mustache, and he looked as if he was about to piss his pants with anxiety. He chattered at Albina and Reid so quickly that he sounded as if he was in fast-forward. When Albina introduced Jaxon, the man—whose name was Zima—shook his hand rapidly and tried to smile. Then he gestured at the group to follow him.
“Why is he so nervous?” Jaxon whispered to Reid as they walked. “Is something wrong?”
“I don’t think so. He’s just under pressure to make sure everything goes right.”
Jaxon remembered the stories of what happened to people who displeased the Vasnytsian government, and he felt a flood of sympathy. Although Jaxon had experienced a few minor disasters in his years of performing, he’d never had to worry about being sent to the gulag.
Zima took them through several doors and down long corridors clearly not meant for public viewing, with their flickering lights, scuffed and dingy paint, and worn floor tiles. The air smelled of dust and sweat and, very faintly, of boiled cabbage.
Finally they arrived backstage, where three young men scrambled out of folding chairs to greet them. Albina and Zima did introductions, a confusing process because the drummer and bass player were both named Ivan, while the third guy, who played backup guitar and keyboards, was Igor. None of them spoke more than four words of English. Great.
Fortunately Reid and Albina could interpret, and music tended to transcend linguistic barriers. The band turned out to be familiar with Jaxon’s biggest hits, also a plus. And while they weren’t the most skilled musicians he’d worked with, they were acceptable. The equipment surprised Reid. Most of it appeared brand-new, probably p
urchased specifically for his concert. The venue was great too. Big stage, gorgeous gilded auditorium, and wonderful acoustics.
“It is okay?” Albina asked worriedly as Jaxon paced the stage.
“Yeah. It’ll work out fine.”
A collective sigh of relief rose to the rafters.
Jaxon stood in front of her. “So can you tell me the agenda? I know I’m supposed to play for an hour, but that’s all I know.” The lack of information sucked, and he still didn’t understand why the plan was a state secret. Nevertheless, he’d obediently devised a set list that should satisfy Talmirov and last about sixty minutes.
“Our minister of culture himself will introduce you. Prime minister will be sitting there.” She pointed to a balcony. “And then you will sing.”
“No opening acts?”
She looked confused. “You will sing.”
“Okay. Fine. Then what?”
“You return to hotel.”
Simple enough. “And after that? I think we’ve covered all the tourist sights.”
“Next night, we will have party at hotel. Several ministers will attend. Perhaps even prime minister himself, but he is very busy man.”
With or without Talmirov, Jaxon had the impression the party wouldn’t exactly be a boozy, druggy blowout. “And the second concert?”
Anxiety flooded her face. “Five nights after first concert. It is important holiday. We call it National Workers’ Day. This concert will be in main square.”
Jaxon didn’t like outdoor concerts. For one thing, the sound carried poorly and frequently competed with other noises, such as sirens. For another, the weather was unpredictable. He’d once had to stop a summer festival gig in Missouri because a thunderstorm had rolled in, threatening to drown, electrocute, or blow everyone away. And with outdoor performances, especially free ones, crowd dynamics were tricky. The audience tended to be drunker, more hopped up on drugs, more likely to cause problems. Not that he expected the citizens of Starograd to do a reenactment of the concert at Altamont, but the idea of this second performance still made him uneasy.
