Puppet Master

by Dale Brown

  Would it work?

  Probably not. But it was better than simply giving up.

  “Why are they following you?” Medved asked.

  “I’m wondering the same thing,” said Tolevi. “They followed me to the ATM and accused me of being involved in some sort of scam they didn’t explain. Maybe you can find out why. You have contacts.”

  “Why did they release you?”

  “I called a friend.” Tolevi had to be careful not to give too much away about that—mentioning that he worked with the CIA would be even worse than the FBI. “An attorney. I have rights.”

  Medved smirked.

  “They were asking about ATM cards, something I don’t deal with,” added Tolevi quickly. “Is that something I should be worrying about?”

  Medved shrugged—which convinced Tolevi that he had an ATM scam operating.

  Great. But why did they come after me?

  A subject for another time—Medved will tell you nothing you can trust.

  “In any event,” said Tolevi, “I assume they were looking to make me into some sort of spy. But they failed.”

  Medved studied his drink. “You owe me a lot of money.”

  “I’m about to conclude a deal that will pay you in full.”

  “With the FBI’s help?”

  “You think I’ve lost my head?”

  “I think you need money.”

  “I do need money. You know I’m good for it. I’ve owed you more in the past. I always pay.”

  “You see, Gabor, this is why we are friends.” Medved downed his drink and poured another. “Because we understand each other. We’re family. But. Debts must be paid. And talking to the FBI, to the federal’nyy d’yavol—that would be something my friends would not like. And I would not like.”

  Tolevi’s Russian was not perfect, but Medved’s was worse. Still, the meaning—“federal devils”—was pretty clear.

  “I can’t stop them from harassing me. I think this whole business is them thinking I’m a spy. So if you have influence—”

  “I think this is a personal matter for you,” said Medved lightly.

  “Fine. I do need your help. I need some travel documents to go to Donetsk.”

  “Why there?”

  “You want your money, right?”

  “You can talk to Demyan.” Medved shrugged. “But make it clear it is not my business.”

  “Unless there is a profit.”

  Medved smiled.

  Tolevi downed the rest of the vodka, then got up to leave.

  “By the end of the month, but no more,” warned Medved. “And talking to the Americans, never a good idea.”

  “I’m not so foolish,” said Tolevi.

  42

  Watertown—the next morning

  “The bank refuses to cooperate without a warrant,” Dryfus told Jenkins. “We’re not looking at that account. Or any other without the paper. They did say there’s been no reported theft in any of their accounts during the past forty-eight hours.”

  “None?”

  “No.” Dryfus shook his head. “We must have scared him into shutting down.”

  “Or laying low.”

  “It’s not that they’re being uncooperative,” said Dryfus. “They’re just sticking to procedure. Covering their asses. . . . How’s Johnny?”

  “He, uh, he’s doing a lot better.”

  “Without his legs?”

  “He’s got, uh, prosthetics.”

  “Like the blade runner things?”

  “No, these are, they look like real legs.”

  “I’ve been meaning to go over there.”

  Jenkins understood. He’d had to force himself this last visit: it was tough seeing Johnny, even if the doctors said he was recovering at a remarkable pace.

  “We have to figure out a way to get this guy,” Jenkins said. “For Johnny.”

  “Sure.”

  The look on Dryfus’s face suggested just the opposite of what his response implied—the incident that had claimed Johnny’s legs was not connected. Boston PD had already made an arrest.

  And his brother, James?

  This isn’t a personal thing. This isn’t a personal thing. And you have no evidence tying them together.

  I’ll get it, god damn it. I’ll get it.

  “Boss?” Dryfus had a concerned look on his face.

  “Just thinking,” confessed Jenkins.

  “We can’t get a subpoena?”

  Not without saying who it’s aimed at, Jenkins thought. And that will kill it. Even assuming they could get it, which was a stretch.

  “We need more evidence,” said Jenkins. “We have to just keep plugging away. We’ll dig into this Tolevi character, see who his connections are, what he does with the mob, everything. Something will come up.”

  “He’s got a kid,” said Dryfus. “Raising her himself. His wife died of cancer when she was like three or something.”

  “That’s nice. I’ll nominate him for father of the year. Right after we put him in jail.”

  The information that Tolevi had a daughter—and Jenkins’s flip remark—haunted him later in the day. Not because he didn’t think a father could be a criminal: there were plenty of examples of that.

  What bothered him was the fact that he kept thinking of different ways he might use the girl to get information on her father. And even for him that ought to be out of bounds.

  Jenkins had worked for the Bureau for some sixteen years. Like just about every other newly minted agent, he’d started out as a strict by-the-book guy, unstintingly self-righteous—so much so that if he could go back in time and confront his younger self, he would slap him across the face, then throttle some sense into him.

  Experience had erased both the self-righteousness and his approach to solving crimes. But that was not to say that he believed that the end justified the means. If he had long ago stopped being an Eliot Ness wannabe, still he believed in observing the broad rules of justice and procedure. He wouldn’t plant evidence, for example. And he wouldn’t harass children.

  Yet since he took this case—no, since his brother died—reality had appeared starker than ever. The guys in the white suits were losing the fight to the guys in the black suits. Why? Because they had to follow procedures that made no sense.

  The best among them—his brother, Johnny Givens—followed their impulses to do good. Where did that leave them? Dead or crippled.

  And yet . . . if there were no rules, where did that leave anyone? Where did that leave society? There were too few people like Massina, altruistic do-gooders who acted generously, righteously, under any circumstances.

  I need to solve this case somehow, Jenkins told himself.

  I’ll talk to the girl, but I’ll be careful about it.

  43

  Boston—that morning

  Tolevi had told Medved about the trip not only because he needed travel documents but also because he figured that it would be far easier to get in and out of the Donetsk area if the Russian secret services thought he was helping the rebel government. Which meant that he had to contact someone he knew in Moscow, and word of that would inevitably filter back. It was even possible that Medved would start the information chain himself, since scoring points with the various services was always useful.

  Tolevi had nothing against helping the rebels at the same time he was hurting them, especially if this brought a little extra profit. As it was, the sum Johansen promised would barely cover what he owed Medved. Making a little money on the side was only prudent business.

  Smuggling guns into the contested area would have been foolish and barely profitable; not only were the Russians already supplying plenty but the rebels had raided Ukrainian armories and had enough guns and ammunition to supply a force several times their own. What they didn’t have was medicine and related supplies. Even aspirin would get a pretty good markup. A truckload of baby diapers would double or triple its investment.

  In theory, of course, shipping such
items into the contested area of Donetsk was strictly regulated, if not forbidden. But Tolevi knew he could work around that. The question was how. He wouldn’t bring the items now, of course; instead, he would make arrangements with buyers and shippers, setting things in motion. It was a bit like the opening sequence in a chess game—you thought some twenty moves ahead, preparing the board for the final onslaught.

  He pondered the details and pitfalls as he drove to Quincy to see Demyan Kasakawitz for the paperwork he needed to enter Russia. Kasakawitz was a Pole who worked out of an electronics distributorship not far from Quincy’s business district. Ostensibly the distributor’s bookkeeper, he had the thick glasses and meticulous manner of a careful forger. His documents were known to be top rate, and among other things he had supplied Tolevi with the title to his last car, which he had traded in as a down payment on the AMG’s lease.

  Short and round, Kasakawitz was a friendly man, the sort who always had some sort of sweets on his desk and could be counted on for an off-color joke or two before getting down to business. Today, however, was different: when Tolevi went into the back where his office was, a tall, thin man hovered behind him, staring with unblinking eyes at Tolevi as he greeted the forger. Kasakawitz answered with a low grunt, and Tolevi told him he would come back.

  “No, I have the package for you,” said Kasakawitz, still not smiling.

  “Where is it?” asked Tolevi.

  “First, tell me about these robots,” said the other man.

  “What robots?”

  Kasakawitz got up, clearly not wanting to be included in the conversation. “I am going for a cigarette.”

  Tolevi folded his arms and waited until they were alone. “What exactly is it you want?”

  “Stratowich told you about a robot and sent you a video.”

  “Stratowich.” Tolevi shook his head. “He’s a dunce.”

  “He erased the video. But he sent you a copy.”

  Tolevi took out his phone and checked the messages. “Looks like I erased it, too.”

  “Show me.”

  “I don’t think so.” He wasn’t lying, exactly: Once read, the file would no longer appear on his phone, though it was easily recovered from the server. But he was reluctant to hand over his phone.

  “You are going to Russia. You need friends there.”

  “I have friends there.”

  “Give me your phone.”

  “I need it.”

  “Let me make sure that you don’t have the video.”

  Tolevi handed it over. “Do you own this robot, or what?”

  “No. We want it. Can you get it?”

  Now, that was a business proposition if ever Tolevi had heard one. Unfortunately, he was already busy.

  “Maybe when I get back. I’ll need more details. You have my documents?”

  The man stared at him for a few moments more, then pointed to a large manila envelope on the corner of the desktop.

  “When you return, we will talk.”

  Tolevi rolled his eyes and reached for the envelope. The tall man grabbed his hands just as his fingers touched it.

  “You live a dangerous life, Gabor Tolevi,” said the man. “Do not cross us.”

  Ordinarily, Tolevi would have acted on impulse, breaking the man’s grip and then teaching him that there were limits to what he might stand for. But there was so much venom in the man’s voice—and his grip was so strong—that Tolevi decided to be cautious.

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Now let me go before I break your nose.”

  A smile flickered across the man’s face, as if he would like to see Tolevi try. But he released him all the same.

  44

  Boston—roughly the same time

  Finding the account from the inquiry string that her program had captured was not difficult once Chelsea understood the protocol.

  What was baffling, though, was the fact that the account didn’t seem to exist.

  To make sure she understood the protocol and was therefore getting everything right, she canvassed the cafeteria for anyone who had an account at the same bank. She recorded a query with the card—that morning Massina had leased an ATM machine for the lobby, for research as well as his employees’ convenience—then replayed everything with the account information.

  Nothing. Nada. The account didn’t exist.

  Which a bank manager confirmed for her in person when she went to inquire about it, asking about a check supposedly written on it.

  It had to have been erased. There were ways to get the information back—looking at backup files would be the easiest, but she’d need the bank’s cooperation. And if they weren’t going to cooperate with the FBI, they surely wouldn’t work with her. She didn’t bother asking.

  Not sure what to do next, she went back to the lab and replayed the drone footage. It had taken the drone about ninety seconds to get over the site after receiving the command.

  Which wasn’t all that much time, but it was certainly after the card had been used.

  So why was the suspect facing in the direction of the ATM when the drone arrived?

  At the time, they thought it was because he’d heard the boy on the bike behind him, but the more she considered it, the more Chelsea wondered. She went back to the drone’s video and zoomed in, looking at the scratchy images from the distance. The earliest image showed the suspect on the sidewalk alone, walking toward the ATM. It wasn’t until several frames later that the bike appeared.

  Maybe nothing.

  Or maybe they had gotten the wrong person.

  The person on the bike was a girl. The drone had gotten a decent facial image, good enough to use for a search.

  The computer system went to work, testing the image against a series of commercial identity databases, starting with anyone ever charged with a crime in Massachusetts—police mug shots had recently been declared public information. After the criminal databases turned up nothing, it began trolling through Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, paging through a mountain of selfies.

  But it wasn’t until a full five minutes had passed—an eternity considering the computer resources Chelsea had at her command—that it found a hit on a picture that had appeared in a school newsletter the year before.

  The girl’s name was Borya Tolevi.

  Gabor Tolevi’s daughter.

  Chelsea replayed the drone’s image, looking at the confrontation between the two. There was no sound, but it was clear that the two were having an argument.

  What about, Chelsea wondered. But it wasn’t hard to guess.

  45

  Grace Sisters’ Hospital, Boston—same time

  Time for a run.

  Johnny Givens stood at the end of the field, surveying the track. It was an old cinder-and-dirt affair, exactly a quarter mile, dating from the days that the grounds had belonged to a Catholic school. Never quite abandoned, it had recently been adopted by a local track club, whose members had smoothed out a decade’s worth of ruts and re-topped it with extremely fine gravel, donated by an area mining operation. It was even but hardly perfect, but that was fine as far as Johnny was concerned; he could run here without being bothered, and there would even be less shock to his stumps than on a “real” track.

  Stumps. He was just getting used to the word.

  “You don’t really think you’re going to be able to run this,” snarled Gestapo Bitch. She’d seen him in the hall and followed him out.

  “I’ll walk it if I have to,” he told her.

  “Are you trying to prove something?” she retorted. “You’re barely off the IV.”

  Damn straight he was trying to prove something. Johnny took a breath, then leaned forward.

  Suddenly he was running.

  Not very fast, or very steadily. But with Gestapo Bitch watching him, he sure as hell wasn’t giving up.

  The doctors were feeding him with some serious medicine, steroid concoctions, and a shelf full of vitamins. He was their guinea pig. But that was
fine by him.

  His heart pounded as he took the first turn. The weight on the side of his head grew. His arms weren’t keeping up with his legs.

  The left one gave way. Johnny collapsed to the ground, face-first.

  Damn! Damn!

  Why does God hate me? Why is he doing this to me? Why?

  Johnny pounded the ground. Tears rolled down his face.

  Why?!

  “I told you,” snickered Gestapo Bitch.

  He slipped again getting up. Tiny stones were embedded in the palms of his hands. The front of his shirt was covered with dirt.

  Run. Run!

  Unsteady, he took a step to find his balance, then began running again.

  More a trot, but he had to move.

  Why is God doing this to me?

  46

  Boston—later that afternoon

  “Nice bike.”

  Borya looked across at a short black woman. She had her own bike, a Trek Silque with custom red fade paint on a gray frame.

  “So’s yours,” Borya said, tightening the strap on her backpack. She tried to puzzle out who the woman was.

  Not a mom; more an older-sister type.

  “What are you doing?” asked the woman.

  “Riding home.”

  “Want some company?”

  Weird.

  “Free country. I guess.”

  “I’m Chelsea. Chelsea Goodman.” The woman stuck out her hand.

  “You a lesbian?” asked Borya.

  “No.” Chelsea laughed. “Why?”

  Borya shrugged.

  “I have a question for you,” said Chelsea, sliding her bike parallel to Borya’s. “What do you know about ATMs?”

  Borya stabbed at the bike pedal, launching into a sprint. She charged down the block, wind whipping back her hair. She sped across the intersection, barely dodging a turning car, then crossed back and turned the corner.