Hmm...another long wait. Apologies...please don't hit me...
Anyway, thanks for reviews, messages, etc. This chapter was again written to Godspeed You! Black Emperor...somehow their music makes me write faster. It also gave me a new idea for the ending, which will make this story longer, but hopefully more interesting.
Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan
- Li
Matryoshka
A design principle that denotes a recognizable relationship of similar object within similar object
Chapter Twenty-One
"Hot towel?"
Ariadne shakes her head resignedly at the fawning stewardess standing over her, a tray of steaming towels in one manicured hand and a pair of tongs in the other. It's the fifth time in as many minutes that this particular stewardess has passed, each time with a tray of some sort. Ariadne suspects that her attention comes not so much from a desire to keep them comfortable as a need to lean as close as she can to Arthur without throwing herself in his lap. Sure enough, the woman flashes him a sweet smile with her dazzlingly white teeth before shaking her perfect curls in his face. Ariande tugs ruefully at her own unwashed hair and finds herself wishing for ten more inches and endless legs.
"Hot towel?"
Arthur, ever the gentlemen, smiles and shakes his head. When she shows no sign of letting up, he coughs and shifts in his seat until his knee is pressed against Ariadne's. The stewardess has the dignity to blush to the roots of her hair before hastily retreating with her tray of cooling towels.
"Are you going to tell me why we're going to Vladivostok?" Ariadne asks once the woman is safely out of earshot.
"Eames and I have…acquaintances there," Arthur murmurs back. "They owe us a favour."
"Acquaintances?" Ariadne repeats skeptically. She can only imagine the kinds of acquaintances Athur and Eames have made over their years of extraction, or what kind of favours they might be owed.
"Hollywood movies aren't entirely without merit," Arthur replies with a small smile. "The only people who can hold their own against people like Antonelli are people like him. My acquaintances figure they can hide us until we decide on our next move."
"What about Eames and Yusuf?" she asks. "Are they going too?"
"Just Eames. Yusuf opted to go back to his wife in Mombasa."
Ariadne tries to wrap her head around the image of Yusuf having a wife. As a matter of fact, she has difficulties imagining any of her teammates having a family, or even friends, apart from each other. She remembers Cobb and wonders if it's simply easier not to have anything tying you down to one place. Suddenly, Arthur's leg feels uncomfortably warm against hers.
"Something wrong?" Arthur asks, catching sight of her expression. She quickly rearranges her face into what she hopes is a look of neutrality.
"Just wondering why you showed up early," she answers. "I thought you weren't supposed to meet Antonelli for another two days."
"I didn't meet him. I went to the warehouse this morning to pack up a few last things and the place was trashed."
"What?"
Several heads turn in their direction and Ariadne ducks in her seat. "Sorry," she whispers, lowering her voice, "what?"
Arthur runs one hand through his hair distractedly, a sure sign of bad news. "He shouldn't have been able to find us, but I've been careless lately." He pauses for a moment, but doesn't elaborate. "Either way, we're not safe in Paris. The only reason Antonelli could have to come after us would be if he knew something went wrong during the job."
"And you think we'll be safe in Russia?" Ariadne asks dubiously.
"No. But it'll give us more time."
Ariadne falls silent, contemplating the meaning behind his words. More time for what? To fabricate a plausible excuse for Antonelli, to put him off their track…To say goodbye, mutters a tiny, snide voice at the back of her mind, and she quickly banishes the thought.
"I don't know the full extent of what Antonelli's power is," Arthur continues. "There are people working for him in just about every city in the world, but outside of Europe, they're mainly just hired men. With the right connections and price, they'll glide over us in the crowd."
This concept of being glided over comes as a surprise to Ariadne. While no expert in the area herself, she's always believed in the whole 'loyalty until death' thing. Maybe not quite so dramatic, but nothing in the books and movies she's seen has contained any mention of the connections and prices that Arthur talks so calmly about. Either she's been extremely dimwitted – and the awards and merits proudly displayed in her parents' living room make her doubt this particular option – or there's more to the mysterious Russian acquaintances than Arthur is willing to tell her.
"What if he comes looking for us on his own?" she asks. "If this is so important to Antonelli that he came looking for us in Paris, won't he be on his guard?"
"We won't be safe in Vladivastok," Arthur repeats brusquely. "But we'll be safer."
The plane ride from Paris to St. Petersburg takes three hours, thirty-four minutes and twelve seconds, according to the atomic watch strapped around Arthur's wrist. Ariadne takes to making a meticulous study of its antireflective glass face and silver edges during the flight. She'd love to talk – she has dozens of questions to ask, some relevant and some leaning more towards the trivial or impertinent side, but about an hour into the flight, Arthur falls soundly asleep. She doesn't have the heart to wake him from his clear exhaustion. In sleep, his figure loses some of its usual immaculate appearance, but not much. He still manages to look more alert with his eyes closed and his hair in a state of casual disarray than half the boys at university in their graduation best. And they had been French too.
She worries what to do when the plane starts its descent, but Arthur wakes up the moment the wheels touch ground with such precision that Ariadne wonders if there's a tiny chip embedded somewhere under his skin for the express purpose of jolting him from his dreams. He gives her a small smile, which sends her heart into its familiar and oddly comforting flutters, before he passes her a passport she doesn't recognize. She glances at Arthur curiously, but he's already slipped into business mode, his face smooth and perfect as he waits patiently for the aisle to clear. Ariadne riffles through the contents of the little book quickly and stops with a small shock at the second page. It's her alright – the thumbnail photo is one from her undergraduate class yearbook, but she does not remember changing her place of birth to Salzburg, or her name to Paige Streisslberger for that matter. In light of the tall stewardess still persistently standing near them, she wisely chooses not to ask.
Ariadne heart beats painfully fast when she hands the passport to a customs official once she steps off the plane. She's sure the whole airport can hear it, and even if they can't, the burly officer is bound to see the truth in her eyes. Fortunately, she seems to possess a better knack for acting then she'd thought, and she passes through with nothing more than the customary questions. Arthur, of course, goes through it all with less consternation than the most experienced businessman and seems highly amused by the shudder of relief that passes through Ariadne when they pass safely across the border.
"Do you really have such a low opinion of Eames' abilities?" he asks lightly as he leads her through the throngs of people in the atrium. "He would be offended."
"Eames did that?" she asks, surprised.
"Jobs are rare in our line of work," Arthur replies. "His talents at mimicry extend beyond dreaming. He made that for you during the Fischer job. It's always best to have a few of them lying around."
"A few?" Ariadne repeats incredulously. Were there more of these abominations hiding in Arthur's jacket pocket? Nothing could be worse than Paige Streisslberger, surely, but it was probably Eames' idea of a good laugh to accompany her photo with as degrading a name as he could find.
"Five or six, I think. We all have them," Arthur adds, misinterpreting her disgusted look. "Look, our ride's here." He points at a small Lear jet idling on the tarmac outside. As far as Ariadne can tell, there are no airline markings on it anywhere, and it looks too small to be a commercial carrier anyway. A chartered flight then, although she has difficulties imagining Arthur being content to travel with a plane full of tourists when Antonelli could be after them at any moment. Then another thought strikes and stumps her completely – were there any tours to Vladivastok?
The plane's exact origins eldue her until she actually steps inside and realizes she has neither ticket nor boarding pass in her hand. The richly furbished interior far surpasses the first class cabin of the Fischer job, and that had been wonder enough for a girl who grew up believing downtown Toronto to be the centre of the universe and the height of luxury. Again, she wonders just exactly what kind of acquaintances Arthur has.
"I see you've made it to the castle," comes a faintly sarcastic voice to her left, and Ariadne sees Eames stretched out in one of the jet's deep red leather chairs. He doesn't look at all like a man on the run for his life. In fact, the careless grin on his face hardens her heart permanently against the forger and his Paige Streisslbergers.
"I didn't expect Bulgakov to send his private jet," Arthur murmurs in response. He frowns a little as he surveys his surroundings. "I didn't know Bulagkov has a private jet."
"Times change," Eames replies in his best patronizing tones. "We haven't seen the man for over five years. Thankfully, he isn't as scrupulously unimaginative as you are, so perhaps he's managed to do something worthwhile and lucrative in that time."
Ariadne cannot but thank the unknown Bulgakov for his financially oriented imagination as she sinks into one of the luxurious seats. Even with a cloud of impending doom hanging over her, it's impossible not to appreciate the spaciousness of a private cabin after her sojourn in economy. For a moment, she allows herself to imagine that she isn't just a refugee on the jet, but its owner, heading for a month of blissful vacation. She could go to Sydney perhaps, and fully enjoy herself this time. She might even convince Arthur to go with her...The idea gives a warm, comforting feeling to her fingertips – that is, until Eames mercilessly pops her cocoon of dreams with a scathing remark about Arthur's dishevelled state.
"Who is this Bulgakov?" she intervenes hastily. Four hours cooped up in a tiny airplane seat had not put the architect into the mood for the two men's incessant bickering.
"He's an acquaintance of ours," Arthur answers. "We worked on a few jobs together before Mal died."
"You'll like him," Eames assures her confidently. "He's like you – an architect," he explains, as if all members of that cryptic species were really all one and the same.
"He's not like you at all," Arthur retorts. There's an edge of irritation that, for some reasons or other, causes Ariadne's heart to skip a beat. "Bulgakov will steal and sell anything if he's offered the right price."
"If you ever meet a moral thief, Arthur, let me know. Isn't that what your lofty Cambridge professors would call an oxymoron?"
"What happened with Bulgakov?" Ariadne asks with rather more force than necessary. She can spot a gaping hole in their decision to trust this man, but now does not seem the right time to mention it. She suddenly misses Yusuf who, if not particularly interesting or comforting, made an excellent peacemaker. "Why doesn't he work with you anymore?"
"Extraction didn't pay well enough to support his lavish needs. He thought there would be more money in stealing from the physical world."
"Is there?"
"Of course," Arthur replies, and Ariadne is surprised to hear a definite tone of bitterness. "Less risk, more reward. There will always be a demand for gold and Impressionist art. As powerful as an idea can be, there are only a few of them worth stealing to begin with, and even those don't always materialize well."
"What a cheerful idea, Arthur. You're just a ray of sunshine, aren't you? I really don't know where I'd be without your eternal optimism."
"Incarcerated," Arthur deadpans, and Ariadne is filled with the strangest convulsion to laugh and strangle the pair of them simultaneously. However, she manages to keep a straight face and clear head, and concludes that Arthur really must be rubbing off on her. She wonders briefly if her grandmother's scarf still smells like mint and pine needles.
"He was a brilliant architect, but he never really got into dreaming," Eames continues, tactfully ignoring Arthur. "In any case, he owes us more than a few favours."
"Er…if Bulgakov will really sell or steal anything, aren't you worried he'll go to Antonell?" Ariadne points out.
"He's not just a good thief, he's a first class grudge holder as well," Eames explains with a grin. "Antonelli landed him in jail years ago, but Bulgakov has never forgiven him for it. It's a bit of a hindrance really, considering his field of business."
"And you're positive he won't change his mind?"
"I don't think Antonelli would think of going to him in the first place," Arthur assures her. "But this is only a temporary measure anyway, until we decide on our next move."
"Which is what, exactly?" Eames asks with more viciousness than usual.
Arthur shoots him a most scathing glare. "Perhaps you'd like to honour us with your opinions, Mr. Eames?"
"I still say we should have stayed in Paris," Eames replies, lifting and raising one shoulder. "It's the last place he'd expect to find us. He probably wouldn't even have looked for us there. We could have laid low for a few months until he cools off, instead of gallivanting around the globe. "
"It would take more than a few months for Antonelli to cool off. And while we might have gone underground in Paris, Ariande has too many friends there-"
Ariadne makes an incredulous noise at this statement, which Arthur seems not to hear.
"-and one of them would be bound to give her away if they saw her."
"That's why they call it going underground, Arthur. So no one sees=" He stops as the jet suddenly makes an abrupt and rapid descent through the clouds. "We can't be there yet," he mutters tersely, looking out the window.
Arthur is already on his feet, a gun in his hand. Ariadne's brain fails her completely and she finds herself wondering just how he managed to get that past customs when the woman ahead of her hadn't even been allowed to take her eyelash curlers aboard the plane.
"Get behind me," he tells her curtly.
He doesn't wait for her to move, but simply places himself between her and the door. Eames, looking grim with his own gun, stands beside him, leaving Ariadne feeling like an utterly useless damsel in distress. They keep their aim trained on the cockpit door, and she suddenly realizes it's the first time that she's seen either of them hold a weapon outside of a dream. Of course, she'd known that they must have one hidden somewhere, but they look strangely out of place. It's as if her dreams – their dreams – are escaping, pushing out reality and filling the empty space with this dreaded, gut-wrenching void between the two.
The cockpit door clicks and rattles slightly. Arthur and Eames tighten their grips and Ariadne desperately wishes she'd paid more attention in those preschool karate classes. Her hand clutches involuntarily at the bishop in her pocket and her fingers, cold and numb, curl desperately around it as the door finally slides open.
But the figure standing there is not the man she expects. Even Arthur falters for a moment. Tall, grey and well-built, the man steps into the room, unarmed. The clipped politeness Ariadne remembers is gone from his voice, replaced by steel that makes her dig her fingernails into the skin of her palm.
"I would advise you gentlemen to drop your weapons. My pilot is prepared to blow up this cabin if I tell him to, and I assure you that I have no sympathy for your lives whatsoever. I would have left you to Antonelli's whims, but it strikes me that even dead, you'll be more use to me than him."
The dark eyes flash for a moment, briefly betraying a glimmer of emotion.
"Tell me, Monsieur Borden, what does Antonelli want with my godson?"
Ahem again. A lot of people seem to be confused by what's happening...or who the hell I'm talking about at the end. If you are confused, I suggest you reread chapter 9 to remind yourself of a character that I have sadly neglected.