The Export by J.K. Kelly (read along books txt) 📕

condo overlooking the Potomac and a sixty-footer tied up at a marina. No cave dwelling for me. I’m definitely housebroken.” She gave him a look of disappointment.

“Hey, I can get down on my knees and drag my knuckles on the floor and grunt when I need to, if that’s what you were hoping for?”

She smiled. “On your knees then, young man!” she commanded with a smile. “There’s no reason only the men in this family should have all the fun.”

A sudden knock at the door interrupted their banter.

“Mrs. Wilkerson, it’s Will.” She looked at Matt with embarrassment.

“Busted!” he said with a laugh.

“To be continued,” she whispered and then walked to the door to greet her Marine.

Evidently surprised to see Matt seated on the massive sofa behind her, Terry took a step in. “Just making my rounds,” he said. “Wanted to be sure everything was A-OK up here.” She smiled at him, and he returned the look.

Matt could see his expression change, and that was his cue to call it a night. He found his own way back to his room but first made a pit stop along the way. He found three off-duty Marines sitting with members of the residence’s female domestic staff around a large kitchen table drinking coffee, tea, cola, beer, or vodka.

“Looks like a party, but I’ll take a rain check,” he said, grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, and then headed out of the room.

“Not sure you were invited,” one of the Marines stated. These domestics were theirs, and they weren’t interested in sharing. Matt stopped. He was tired but wasn’t in the mood for testosterone or someone pissing on him to mark their territory.

“How’d you guys get here anyway? Navy give you a lift, or did the Air Force have to haul you around as usual?”

A second Marine stood up and extended his arm to block his outspoken comrade from additional dialogue with the unknown guest from the national security wing of their government.

“Stand down, gentlemen. I’m friend, not foe,” Matt said. He wished them a good night and then headed upstairs to recheck for bugs in his room and then hopefully get a good night’s sleep.

Once he finished his search and the beer, he checked his laptop one last time. To his surprise, there was a response to an email he had sent. It was from Staryy Kozel.

The next morning, as the four joined for breakfast at the same table they had sat at the night before, Matt briefed the Wilkersons on what he had been able to negotiate late into the night with the Old Goat.

“It’s actually pretty cut and dry,” Matt suggested. “We went back and forth on demands and solutions, and this is what we agreed to around five this morning.”

“Without briefing me first?” Wilkerson questioned.

Matt had little time for bullshit. The ambassador had gotten himself and his country into a mess, and Matt was here to solve it to the best of his ability. He had authorization to spend money if needed, had some meat-eating Marines who were up for a fight, and he had his own bag of tricks to play if needed. After pouring another coffee and then downing a twelve-ounce glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice without taking a gasp of air, Matt gave one of the servers a nod to indicate he wanted a second round of crepes, eggs, and orange juice.

“Yes, sir,” Matt said, “you told me all that I needed to know, and I have authorization for funding. I want to clean this up and get back to the States.”

Wilkerson looked at his wife and son, wondering if what Matt was going to divulge might be something he didn’t want them to hear. He gave Matt a questioning look. The nod he received in return led him to believe it was safe to proceed. “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s hear what the fixer has in store for us.”

“Well, first, Misha did indeed lose the baby, and as I indicated before, there is no way a DNA test on the baby’s remains, umbilical, or anything else for that matter, would be believed in the U.S. or anywhere else other than perhaps the offices of the National Enquirer.” Matt watched the three faces as he spoke, watching for emotion, reaction, something. But nothing came.

“I convinced whoever was on the other end of the email stream that the only financial concern you had was for Misha and her wellbeing. I am going to personally deliver 3 million Russian rubles, approximately $50,000, to Misha later today. She is going to meet me, along with her father, in Red Square at four o’clock in front of Lenin’s Tomb. I know the area well.”

“Is she okay?” Ray asked, finally showing interest in the woman he used to bed.

“She’s strong, like every Russian woman I’ve ever met. She’ll be fine, Ray,” Matt reassured him.

“Can I go with you?” he asked.

Matt looked at Wilkerson and then Sarah, his expression indicating one of them should step in. But they just sat there, taking in the briefing.

“No, Ray.” Matt felt bad for the boy, but he couldn’t let him be seen as part of a payoff. “Misha specifically said she doesn’t want to see anyone from the Embassy with me, not you or either of your parents ever again.” Ray shoved back in his chair and stormed out of the dining room, bumping into one of the servers but quickly steadying them and apologizing for his rudeness.

“He’ll get over her,” Sarah said to her husband, having turned her attention to him. “Now, Mr. Fixer, what are you going to do about little Anika?”

Wilkerson looked stunned. Not only did his wife know about his latest mistress, she knew her name.

“Matt,” the ambassador choked out, “give us the room, if you will.”

The server had just placed the fresh plate of food in front of Matt. The look and smell of French toast, fresh off the griddle, and covered with caramelized bananas was such a delicious