UnBound - Neal Shusterman Page 0,107
yet in spite of it, he’s come to appreciate the routine and even Divan himself. It sure beats being a supermarket cashier.
Divan relies on him. Back home Gracie had relied on him, but that had been different. He resented having to care for his low-cortical sister. But for some reason he doesn’t resent working for Divan. He has no idea where Gracie is now. Whether she’s alive or Nelson killed her. Connor swore up and down she was alive last time he saw her, but Argent can’t know for sure. He tries not to think about her. She’s the one who abandoned him. Whatever bed she made, she made herself.
The hatch folds open into a short set of stairs to the tarmac. The Lady Lucrezia is so large its belly comes within four feet of the ground. Servants with umbrellas hurry a group of people from a limousine to the plane. The storm has picked up. They probably won’t be able to take off until it eases. Not good for Divan’s mood. He hates being grounded.
The first to enter is a woman. She wears no raincoat—instead she’s covered head to toe in a massive fur coat made from an animal that is probably extinct. Her coat alone may have taken out the entire species. This clearly must be Dagmara, Divan’s sister.
“Where is he?” she demands. “Why is he not here to greet us?” She exchanges a few snappish words in Chechen with Bula, Divan’s bodyguard.
Next to enter is a boy of about sixteen. Divan’s nephew, Malik. He’s good looking in that prom-king kind of way that would make Argent want to slash his tires if he were back home. He takes one look at Argent and says, “Who the hell are you? What’s wrong with your face?”
Dagmara answers. “This is Skinner—don’t you remember? I told you. He sold half of his face to a parts pirate for drugs, and your softhearted uncle took him in.”
Argent seethes but knows he can’t show it. Her version is so far from the truth he wants to scream. “Is that what he told you?”
Dagmara shrugs. “No, but I can read between the lines.”
He’s about to lead them up when a final figure comes in, cloaked in a rain hood. He removes it to reveal that he’s Asian, with a dark complexion. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that he’s Burmese.
Bula the bodyguard reaches for his weapon, but Dagmara comes between them.
“He is our guest and here by my invitation,” Dagmara says.
“You bring Dah Zey scum on Lady Lucrezia?” Bula doesn’t let go of his weapon but doesn’t remove it from its holster either.
“I am unarmed,” says the Burmese man. “I’m not here to cause trouble but to end it.”
Bula considers this, then turns to Argent. “Close the hatch.” Then he grabs the Burmese man by the arm. “You have special place to wait until Mr. Umarov decides what to make of you.”
Although Argent knows it’s just Bula’s poor English, it’s fitting. Because Divan has “made” things of the four Dah Zey assassins sent to kill him. Argent wonders if a bonsai life is in store for this man as well.
• • •
The champagne and trays of canapés that Argent serves seem a nicety that’s out of place in the shouting match that ensues the moment Divan finds out there’s a Dah Zey agent on board. He doesn’t need to understand Chechen to know what it’s about—and the storm inside seems amplified by the storm outside as the massive jet fights to climb above the turbulence.
The adults are too heated to eat or drink. It’s Malik who downs the champagne and the hors d’oeuvres. “Bring more,” Malik orders. Argent gets some more finger foods from the chef but decides giving the kid more champagne won’t do anyone any good.
Finally the tension settles, the turbulence becomes an occasional tremor, and Divan asks Argent to bring out snacks—most of which Malik has already eaten. Whatever understanding was reached, it didn’t involve ejecting the Burmese guy out of the “Sayonara Hatch,” a special airlock Divan had installed for the flushing of undesirables.
I’ve never had occasion to use it, Divan once told Argent, but it’s a comfort to know that it’s there.
With the Burmese interloper still locked away and guarded by Bula, Divan and his family settle in to the small talk that should have started the day. Apparently Chechen is their language of anger, because now they speak English.
Argent mixes their drinks and fetches food from the