SIXTEEN
A E I O U
Dries came knocking at the door because he wanted me back in my seat for landing. So I exited the tiny lavatory and its stench of old urine with all the dignity of a girl who runs to the bathroom every time her boyfriend tries to talk to her.
March isn’t the only man who wants something from me in this plane, by the way. For some unfathomable reason, Andrea has taken a keen interest in me. He waited in front of the door for me to come out, followed me on the way back to my seat, and sprawled himself in the aisle right next to me.
I grip the armrests, and my stomach heaves as we descend toward Constanta, aware of March’s gaze on me like a continuous breeze tickling my nape. He never gave up on me—still won’t—but does he realize he’s trying to rekindle a flame I remember nothing of? Even those dreams I had . . . intense, vivid as they might have been, now they’re just dry leaves on the ground. That doesn’t make a tree and certainly not a relationship either. What if I never remember, or I do, but I’ve changed? Isn’t love supposed to be something you can’t forget? If I loved him, wouldn’t I be sure instead of being terrified and feeling like he’s invading a part of me I have no control over?
The wheels touch the ground at last, and the Beriev bounces down a runway in the dark. Bathed in the glow of a row of lampposts, a few planes await—Turkish Airlines and some Romanian company that doesn’t ring any bells. Constanta—or rather MKA, as Jan calls it—seems like a small airport, with very little life on the tarmac save for a snowplow slowly clearing sludge from the apron under the eye of two employees leaning against the side of a luggage truck, cigarettes in hand.
After Jan is finished parking the plane in an isolated spot, we climb down that same rickety ladder and find ourselves on the frozen, silent tarmac, waiting while he goes to talk to the guys smoking near the luggage truck. I can’t see very well what they’re doing from where I stand, but I’m almost certain cash just changed hands. One of the men, wearing a bright-yellow vest, waves for the rest of us to follow.
Dries considers him with narrowed eyes, his hand inconspicuously reaching inside his coat . . . Next to me, March’s hand rises to hover between my shoulder blades. I shiver at the brush of his gloved fingers against my parka but resist the urge to squirm away. “Island, please wait. They’ll go first,” he says quietly, tilting his head at Dries and Dominik, who are now treading toward Jan and his contact.
“Why? Is something wrong?” I whisper.
Isiporho looks around the tarmac, lifting his long coat’s collar. “It’s a little too quiet out here.”
“It’s 9:30,” I counter. “Maybe there’re no night flights.”
“Maybe,” March admits with a somber gaze. “But a little caution can’t hurt, especially here . . .”
“Here? What’s special about this place?”
Isiporho chuckles. “You’re standing in the middle of a US air base.”
“What?” I whirl around and scan the planes frantically, only to be stopped by March’s arms around my shoulders.
“Don’t worry . . . technically we’re not inside the base. MKA houses a military base operated by the US and Romanian air forces. It’s a logistics hub, a gate to the Middle East,” he explains.
“The MiGs are over there,” Isiporho adds, grinning at a cluster of barely discernible buildings toward the end of the runway.
Meanwhile, Jan, Dries, and the guy with the yellow vest are through with their palavers. Having ascertained that no tank awaits in the dark to run us over, Dries flicks his wrist in a discreet invitation.
Jan returns to the Beriev to guard it with Andrea while the rest of us follow our new guide inside an aged concrete building. In the deserted hall too, there’s this strange silence, nothing but the clatter of our footsteps on the marble floor. Empty customs desks, only a few fluorescent lamps buzzing softly above our heads. March is tense. He might look his usual impassible self, but he hasn’t said a word since we left the tarmac. I find I’m oddly attuned to him, to the slightest tic in his jaw, the way he moves. I can tell he doesn’t like this bizarre atmosphere, and his unease gets to me too.
He stops, and I bump into his back, picking up the scent of mothballs. “Sorry,” I say, rubbing my nose.
In front of me, March has pulled out his phone. He unlocks it with a quick iris scan, and I glimpse a bald, glaring ostrich in guise of a wallpaper. There’s something familiar about it, but I can’t place it—maybe something I saw on Animal Planet? Our little group watches him check data on the screen with raised eyebrows. When he’s finished, he slips the phone back in his pocket and casually pulls out a silenced gun, aiming at the airport employee who led us here. Blood rushes to my temples, and my legs feel paralyzed as Dries, Dominik, and Isiporho react to the signal and draw out their own weapons like one man.
“That plane outside is a Dreamliner,” March calls, his voice loud and clear in the silent lobby, as if he weren’t talking to any of us but to some invisible assembly. “Turkish Airlines doesn’t operate any of those, but I believe you own one. Please show yourself.”
A trap? My gaze cuts to the Romanian airport employee who led us here. He’s looking left and right, his cheeks deadly pale. He knows something . . . Dominik grabs the Romanian traitor by the collar, and at this point, he and I now have at least one thing in common: we’re going to need new pants soon if the tension amps up any higher.
I wait, perfectly still, aware of my own breathing while bright-red dots appear on our chests, our heads, one after another, dancing like fireflies. Dries mutters a curse when a new set of footsteps echoes at the other end of the hall. A figure emerges from the shadows—an old man, wearing a black coat over a dark suit. He must be at least sixty, with gray hair and deep lines on his face. Not very tall or brawny, but he doesn’t need that, right? I gulp softly when I see a red dot tremble in March’s hair.
“It’s all right,” he murmurs without turning back.
“Is he one of your . . . friends?” I reply through gritted teeth.
March’s arms move smoothly to set his aim on the newcomer. “No, but it’s going to be all right. He won’t hurt you.”
Somehow I doubt that, especially since Dries looks pretty pissed to see this particular acquaintance walking toward us. The guy pulls something from his lips—a cigarillo, whose characteristic scent wafts our way.
“What a pleasure to see you back among the living, Mr. November. How have you been? Our Finnish colleagues insist you spend your next vacation elsewhere. They’re still trying to explain to the Russians why a tank barreled through their border and destroyed a patrol vehicle.”
Gravelly voice—no wonder, with the kind of stuff he smokes—and American. From the US base Isiporho mentioned then? March doesn’t move a muscle, but I register Dries’s soft, dangerous whisper to the treacherous airport employee still in Dominik’s grasp. “Make no mistake, my little snake, you won’t slither out of here.”
The old guy smirks. “And isn’t that Mr. Kovius? Risen from the waters of the Styx as well.” He’s now standing mere feet away from of us, and his dark, beady eyes are focused on March—no, on me? A smoke ring spins our way. “That’s some very precious cargo you have there, Mr. November. You can trust us to treat it with the utmost care.”
A muscle contracts in March’s jaw, but his gun remains pointed toward the cigarillo man, his voice steady and almost cordial as he responds, “I’m afraid I’ll have to decline.”
That doesn’t ruffle the asshole one bit. His forefinger taps the cigarillo, sending ash snowing to the ground. “Let’s be reasonable. Mr. Kovius and Miss Chaptal are coming with us. And if they prove useful, you have a slim hope of seeing her again once I’m done with her.”
A slim hope? I curl behind March, who seems oblivious to the red gem still gleaming on his temple. “You’re acting far beyond your new mandate,” he tells our host. “And you know I won’t let you take her.”
Take me where? And more importantly, what for? This whole ambush doesn’t exactly scream official police business . . .
“Let’s try this again, perhaps more serenely,” Cigarillo-man replies before raising his hand and waving two fingers in the air. The red dots that had been marking us until now vanish instantly. He tilts his head to March expectantly, who lowers his gun in response. Dries and the others soon follow, but this collective gesture of goodwill does little to alleviate the tension in the lobby. It’s in the air, in every shallow breath I take, dancing across my skin like static electricity.
Another cloud of smoke stretches our way while Cigarillo-man’s gaze sets on Dries. “Miss Chaptal spent eight months with your brother. As you can imagine, I have many questions for her . . . and for you.”
Dries glances my way; if he didn’t look so arrogant all the time, I’d swear I just caught a flicker of worry in his eyes. How the hell does this guy know so much about us anyway?
Cigarillo-man’s attention returns to March. “Once she’s helped us, I’m certain we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement, Mr. November.”
“How kind of you. However, I’m afraid Island needs urgent medical attention. No one questions her until she’s seen Viktor and certainly not without me present,” March retorts icily.
“Bugorski? Does Miss Chaptal know what kind of care he provides?” Cigarillo-man asks, cocking an eyebrow at me.
“What do you mean?” The question crosses my lips before I can stop myself. I’m getting a creepy vibe from this . . .
Dries steps in with what I gather he means to be a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry about Viktor; he’s a leading expert in his field.”
Isiporho, who’s been observing the exchange silently until now, points at the Beriev still parked on the tarmac. “He’s the one who made Dikkenek’s arm.”
“Really?” I ask hesitantly—are neurosurgeons even supposed to deal with prosthetics?
“He’s good,” Isiporho confirms with a wink.
But that doesn’t seem to satisfy Cigarillo-man. “In any case . . . I’d rather question Miss Chaptal before”—he makes a little show of searching his memory—“Viktor der Butcher gets hold of her.”
Viktor . . . der Butcher?
March turns to check on me, reading the silent question in my eyes. “It’s only a nickname they gave him in Germany; it really isn’t as bad as it sounds.”