Free The Tsarina's Legacy by Jennifer Laam Page B

together. “We are moving Romanov heiress to President Class.”
    Veronica opened the overhead bin. “The three of us are going to spend the next week together in Russia, and I’m already sick of this pissing match.” She grabbed her coat and the flight attendant helped her with her suitcase. “Figure it out.”
    *   *   *
    President Class was nearly empty, blissfully silent, and smelled vaguely of a musky floral perfume. Veronica sank back into the enormous seat, her feet in fuzzy slippers, a knitted blanket tucked over her lap, and a glass of Bordeaux on her tray. The flight attendant assured her the seat reclined all the way back, helped her settle in, and then scurried off to find pajamas.
    Veronica opened Dmitry’s binder. She’d been sent a rough draft of her itinerary via e-mail, and the finalized version looked much the same: interview with Irina, press conference … no, wait, they’d added some sort of photo shoot. She flipped past a few more pages to read the first sentence of her bio:
    It is with tremendous honor that the Russian Monarchist Society welcomes acclaimed historian Veronica Herrera (Romanov) to St. Petersburg …
    Acclaimed historian? Try disgraced academic. The biography would need some work.
    Veronica turned to the back of the binder, to a list Dmitry had labeled “action items.” She found a picture of Reb Volkov grinning roguishly at the camera, his giant ginger-colored cat, Caravaggio, draped around his shoulders, facing the world with a guileless teddy bear face. The same picture had been used in last year’s People ’s “50 Most Beautiful People” issue. She lingered on the page a moment. Reb always brought the pretty.
    She flipped the page again and saw a small charcoal drawing of a building with a domed center edged by four slender minarets reaching toward the sky, all topped with tiny crescent moons. Absently she traced its lines. It was a mosque, beautiful in its simplicity.
    â€œLovely, isn’t it?”
    Veronica turned in the direction of the perfume and inclined forward to see around the large sides of her seat. The woman who spoke sat in the aisle across from her. She was perhaps five to ten years older than Veronica, with a professional air. Her blond hair was gathered into a side sweep, clipped by an onyx pendant with a picture of a Firebird, eyes glowing, soaring over the Russian countryside like a dragon.
    â€œHas Dmitry mentioned the mosque yet?” the woman asked.
    Veronica shook her head, confused.
    â€œI was the one who asked to include it in your itinerary. From what I understand, Moscow is in need of new mosques for guest workers coming to the city. The construction could become a part of your legacy.”
    â€œI’m sorry, do I know you?” Veronica finally asked.
    The woman extended her hand. A diamond tennis bracelet encircled her slim wrist. Her English was fluent with no trace of a Russian accent, only the affected tone of an American who wished she had been born a Brit. “I’m Irina Yusupova. Pleased to meet you, Dr. Herrera. I’m glad you finally made it up to the front of the plane where you belong.”
    â€œDmitry said you were meeting us in St. Petersburg.”
    â€œI wanted to meet with one of our donors in Westwood myself. Don’t tell Dmitry. I felt he didn’t have the right level of”—she fluttered her hands in the air—“sophistication for this particular gentleman. Fundraising is an art. We need all the support we can muster.”
    â€œWe didn’t even know you were on board.”
    â€œOf course not! I always get on right before the gates close. Why would I want to sit on an airplane any longer than necessary?”
    Irina kept smiling and nodding. Veronica felt another jolt of turbulence, weaker here than in the back of the cabin, and steadied herself. “So this mosque is important to