by Dale Brown
“We were going to that movie.”
“This is way cooler. Let me ask her.”
Chelsea’s plan hadn’t included a “friend,” but it was obvious that she was more babysitter than friend. As soon as Chelsea determined that Borya’s father wasn’t around, she decided the babysitter would do, at least temporarily.
Chelsea led them to the SUV. Twenty minutes later, they were sitting in Underground Arena One at Smart Metal, watching as Peter selected one of the dogs—Dusty, a collie-shepherd mix—to go for a walk. The dog pulled eagerly at its leash, venturing around the massive work area in search of interesting smells.
“You don’t have to control it?” asked Martyak.
“Only in the most general sense,” said Chelsea, trying to keep her explanation to the simplest terms. “It’s the same as if I asked a person to take the dog for a walk.”
“But you programmed it to do that,” said Borya.
“No, we programmed it to learn. It picked up the routine on its own. And it has taught itself how to deal with dogs based on trial and error.”
It might not sound like much to a layman, Chelsea continued, but for a computer system, it was extremely advanced. It wouldn’t be long before commercial versions of “home assistants” would be available, and capable of much more complicated tasks. A robotic home assistant could stay with a bedridden patient, fetching medicine and common items, even making the bed and cooking a simple meal.
“It’s kind of creepy,” said Martyak.
“I think it’s cool,” insisted Borya.
Chelsea let the robot run through its paces for a while longer, then suggested they go upstairs to her lab to look at some of the coding. When they got there, she asked if either of them wanted something to drink.
“I’ll take a root beer,” said Borya.
“Me, too,” said Martyak. “But uh, first—can I use the restroom?”
“It’s right down the hall on the left,” said Chelsea. She waited until Martyak was out of the room, then tapped her computer screen. “Take a look at this, Borya,” she said as a page of coding filled the screen.
The girl leaned in and began examining the program. She squinted, then began to pale.
“I know what you did,” said Chelsea. “With the ATM machines? I got the coding off the dark net myself, just as you did.”
“I . . .”
“You’re going to get in a lot of trouble. But I have a way out for you. We need to talk to your dad.”
“You’re going to tell him?”
“You should tell him. Can you give the money back?”
Borya didn’t say anything.
“You’ve stolen quite a lot,” said Chelsea. “This is very serious. The FBI—”
“I can give it back,” blurted Borya. “But my dad—he’s missing! He was supposed to call me and he hasn’t. And he hasn’t answered our code. He must be in big trouble.”
She started to cry.
66
Donetsk, that day
The day did not go well.
Clearly no longer trusting him, Dan didn’t want to let Tolevi out of his sight. Tolevi accordingly changed plans, deciding that he would take up Dan’s offer to drive him to Crimea; he could fly from there or, if things seemed to be going south, call on contacts for help. It was a better option than inadvertently leading Dan to Denyx Fodor.
He put off telling Dan, deciding to get a better idea of what was going on in the city, since they wouldn’t leave until night in any event. They visited several cafés and coffee shops that morning; Tolevi began asking about coffee, warming to the idea of importing the commodity. In the afternoon, he went into a few pharmacies, checking their stocks. Coffee and aspirin would be big moneymakers here, he decided; too bad the bearded colonel had declared him persona non gratis.
Maybe that could be reversed.
Tolevi watched Dan’s reactions as he chatted up the shopkeepers. He was curious, a hustler himself no doubt, smart enough to be quiet.
Maybe it would make sense to partner up. If Dan got him to Crimea: That would be the first test.
By mid-afternoon, Tolevi wanted—needed—a nap. Dan insisted on staying in the room as he slept. That was more than a little awkward, but Dan couldn’t be talked out of it, so Tolevi caught a fitful hour and a half of sleep, ending up feeling more tired than when he lay down.
They had dinner at the hotel. Tolevi felt Dan’s eyes on him as if they were a physical thing, rubbing against his temples, scratching at his throat.
“Let’s go for a walk,” he suggested when they were done.
Two blocks later, he asked Dan what it would cost to get him to Crimea.
“Round trip, two thousand euros.”
“I can get you five hundred, for one way,” said Tolevi. “When we get there.”
“One thousand five hundred, all in advance.”
Tolevi laughed. “I’m not so stupid that I would pay anyone for that trip in advance, not even my own brother. And I don’t have the money, besides.”
“Then pay me now for the trip here, and we’re done.”
“We can do that,” said Tolevi.
They continued walking, still heading away from the hotel. After a block, Dan stopped him.
“I would consider taking the money when we got to Crimea,” he said, “if you pay me the money you already owe me now.”
“You have papers if we’re stopped at the border?” Tolevi asked.
“We won’t be stopped. I know several ways.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’ll give five hundred euros before we leave, and two thousand in Crimea when I arrive. But first we have to do one thing.”
“Name it.”
“I need to get a gun. I’m not going near the border with no defense.”
Buying a gun in Donetsk was harder than Tolevi would have guessed. There were several gun stores in the city, including one not far from the hotel, but all had been closed since the beginning of the war. Dan claimed not to know of anyone who would sell one, and Tolevi finally decided he would have to use one of his business contacts to get the weapon. Using Dan’s phone, he called him, and after buttering him up with talk about importing medicine and coffee, he found him willing to help. In fact, the man was so cheerful about it, telling him not only where to go but also saying he could use his name, that Tolevi felt a little guilty. If the Russians were listening in, they would roll the shopkeeper up by the end of the week.
The gun dealer worked out of a club on the eastern side of the city. The area had become something of an unlikely hot spot in the past few months, with young Donetskers flocking there after hours to hear dance music and lose themselves in alcohol and whatever drugs they could find. Even at this early hour, the district streets were full, which seemed to throw Dan as he hunted for a place to park.
“Just drop me and wait,” Tolevi told him as he went around the block.
“I’m coming in.”
“These things are better done alone.”
“I’m coming in.”
“You’ve been in this place before?”
“Never.”
“Try the next block. Let’s not get too close.”
Even three blocks away, it was hard to find a spot. Dan locked the car, checked the door twice to make sure, then ran to catch up to Tolevi, who had assumed his jaunty, no-one-better-screw-with-me step. Tolevi glanced at Dan’s face as he caught up; he had the look of a worried younger brother.
Under other circumstances, Tolevi might have been amused, but at the moment any sign of vulnerability was potentially a fatal liability. He whirled on Dan. “Hike up your game.”
“What?” stuttered Dan.
“You walk like a scared rabbit. Go in confident, or stay here.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Pretend you’re a gangster,” Tolevi told him. “And walk like it. Or we’re dead meat.”
The quizzical look on Dan’s face made it clear he still didn’t
understand. Tolevi gave up, charging toward the club.
It was barely midafternoon, way early for a place like this, but two bouncers looked over anyone who wanted to enter.
“I have business with Mr. Ivan,” Tolevi told the one with the more intelligent face.
The bouncer looked at Dan.
“He’s with me.” Tolevi brushed past, walking with the swift determination of a veteran party crasher. The door led to a wide ramp that made an L turn after twenty feet; there was another bouncer stationed there, though all he did was glare as Tolevi passed. A set of double doors separated the hallway from a large dance area that vibrated with Euro electric pop. It was Western music circa 1995, an odd choice for Donetsk, but then there was no telling what sort of psychological undercurrents ran through the population, especially the younger crowd that frequented the place.
The dance floor was surprisingly crowded. Women in skirts that barely covered their butt cracks gyrated around and between men wearing jeans so tight they could only be eunuchs. Colored lights throbbed from above in no discernible pattern; a five-year-old playing with a light switch would have produced roughly the same effect.
Tolevi angled through the dancers to the bar area on the right. It was an odd contraption. A third of it was wrapped in black leather with Christmas lights stapled into the fabric; another third was a pressboard frame, unfinished except for the cherry bar top. The final third extended the same bar top on sawhorses. The bar was standing room only, and not much of that. Tolevi squeezed in, ordered himself a vodka, and asked the bartender where Mr. Ivan might be.
The bartender thumbed toward the back. Tolevi took his drink and set off in that direction, expecting to find either rooms or, maybe, a table. But though a shade darker because of the way the lights were fixed, there were neither tables nor rooms back there, just more dancers and would-be dancers, milling around in time to the beat. Tolevi resorted to asking people if they knew where Mr. Ivan was; this got him a few blank stares, but mostly he was ignored or unheard.
After a few minutes of this, he lost his patience. He went back to the bar and found the man who had served him. Holding up a hundred-euro note, he lured the man to him—it was a miracle the way cash got someone’s attention.
Grinning, the bartender leaned toward him.
Tolevi lurched forward, grabbing the bartender by the throat.
“Take me to Mr. Ivan. Now.”
The bartender started to object. Tolevi tightened his grip, then shoved the man to the right, where the bar section turned into a sawhorse. He reached under and hauled the man out. Then, with a push, he set him in motion, his fist holding the back of the bartender’s shirt.
Mr. Ivan turned out to be a young man in a print silk shirt staring at a pair of women who were dancing a few feet away.
Tolevi pushed the bartender aside.
“Ivan, a friend sent me.” Tolevi spoke to him in Ukrainian. “We need to talk.”
“Who are you?”
“I need to make a purchase.”
“You are Russian?”
“Don’t worry about who I am,” said Tolevi. “Doneski sent me.”
Ivan nodded, then began walking directly through the crowd. Tolevi followed, ignoring the bartender’s complaints about the hundred-euro note.
You’re lucky I don’t throttle you. I am normally a peaceful man, but when I am pushed, it is too much. And I have been pushed for too many days now.
Mr. Ivan went out the front door and headed around the block to a black BMW 7 series that had to be nearly twenty years old. He popped open the trunk, revealing three large suitcases. He opened each, setting up a display in the back of the car, oblivious to the people who were passing.
“How much for the Sig?” Tolevi asked, pointing to the P226. The .40 caliber weapon looked to be the best of the bunch, which included a pair of 9mm Berettas and two Russian pistols Tolevi wouldn’t even consider. The Sig was a bit too large to be easily hidden, which was a drawback, but Tolevi thought its other advantages—the rounds it fired, as well as the fact that it could pack twelve of them—made it the obvious choice.
“Two thousand euros,” replied Mr. Ivan.
“A hundred,” said Tolevi.
It was a ridiculously low offer, insulting even. Mr. Ivan batted it away with a wave of his hand. “Two thousand.”
“Five hundred.”
This time the gun dealer shook his head. Tolevi said nothing. Two thousand euros was about two and a half times what the gun would go for in the States. But even if it was a reasonable price for a quality gun in Donetsk, it represented just about all the cash Tolevi had, in euros at least.
When Tolevi didn’t make a counteroffer, Mr. Ivan reached back into the trunk and began closing the cases, starting with the case that held the Russian weapons.
“Wait,” said Tolevi. “Seven-fifty. Let me see it.”
“Two thousand,” insisted Mr. Ivan.
The impatience Tolevi had felt a little while earlier returned. He leaned closer to the man. “A thousand cash,” he snarled in a low voice, “with six magazines and bullets.”
Mr. Ivan glanced over the back of the car at a large man in a black T-shirt. The thug leaned forward, as if ready to pounce, but stopped as the dealer shook his head ever so slightly.
“Two magazines,” said Mr. Ivan. “With the bullets. One thousand. Now, and be gone.”
“Let me see the gun,” said Tolevi.
Mr. Ivan dropped the mag and cleared the chamber, making sure it wasn’t loaded, before handing it to Tolevi.
At least he’s not stupid.
The weapon sat heavy in his hand, a reassuring feeling. It looked clean and, if not brand-new, only very gently used. The trigger was light. There was no way to fire it here, though; he had to trust that Mr. Ivan valued his reputation.
Ha.
Tolevi slid the gun into his waistband and fished out a thousand euros. Mr. Ivan handed over the loaded magazines and they were done. Tolevi quickly darted across the street, earning a hail of horns. He trotted around the corner, spotting Dan and the car coming from the opposite direction. He ran across traffic again as Dan pulled the car to the curb. Tolevi jumped in.
“I thought you got lost,” Tolevi told Dan, pulling on his seat belt. “Let’s go back to the hotel and get our stuff. I’m done here.”
Tolevi, busy loading the pistol and familiarizing himself with its feel, didn’t recognize where they were until he saw the storefront.
“Where are you going?” he demanded, jerking the gun toward Dan.
“Relax, and don’t point that thing at me,” said Dan, speaking in English. He slowed as they passed the butcher shop, but he didn’t stop.
“Who are you?” Tolevi switched to English as well. “Who are you really?”
“A friend of a friend. You missed your connection last night,” added Dan. “Luckily, the Russians missed the brother.”
As they turned the corner, a short, thin man, barely five-four, stepped from the shadows and walked toward the curb.
“Don’t stop,” said Tolevi.
“If we don’t, I suspect the man on the roof at the end of the block will shoot us both,” said Dan. “Put the gun away. It’ll make them nervous.”
67
Boston—about the same time
Trevor Jenkins wasn’t sure what he expected when Massina asked him to come to the office late Saturday afternoon, but it absolutely wasn’t an attorney, let alone one with a proffer already filled out.
“There’s no way I can go along with this,” the FBI special agent protested as he finished reading the legal document.
“It’s very straightforward,” said the attorney. “Restitution guaranteed by Mr. Massina personally, and an explanation of the technique, in exchange for a guarantee of no prosecution. You do it all the time.”
“No, we don’t.”
“I can call the U.S. attorney myself if you want,” said the lawyer. His name was Jasper Lloyd; he was one of the top crimina
l lawyers in the state. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”
“You don’t understand how complicated this is,” said Jenkins.
“We’re making it uncomplicated.”
“I already have a suspect.”
“As far as we know, you have the wrong suspect,” said the attorney. “And here we can not only solve a crime but prevent future ones as well.”
“You’re withholding evidence in a federal investigation,” said Jenkins.
Lloyd made the slightest of shrugs, as if what Jenkins said was beside the point.
Jenkins turned to Massina, who was sitting across from him at the large conference room table. Chelsea Goodman was next to him.
“No,” Jenkins repeated. “I’m not letting him off.”
“You have the wrong person,” said Lloyd.
Massina rose. “Let’s you and I go in the other room for a minute.”
Jenkins followed him through the door that led to Massina’s office. The building was an amazing mix of architecture, from the nineteenth-century brick exterior shell to the sleek surfaces of the interior walls and floor. The furniture on the upper floor was all exotic wood and looked as if it had just come from a showroom. But Jenkins wasn’t here to admire the decorating job.
“You’re not going to prosecute a fifteen-year-old girl,” said Massina as soon as the door was closed.
“What are you talking about?”
“You haven’t solved the case, have you?” said Massina.
“Like hell. As soon as Gabor Tolevi comes back to the States, we move in. We already worked that out.”
“First of all, he’s missing,” said Massina. “And second of all, he’s not the one who did this.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you should go back inside and call the U.S. attorney. Agree to the terms, sign on the dotted line, and then we’ll explain. Everything will work out, I guarantee.”
“You guarantee?”
Was this the same man who had sat with Jenkins and his wife all day when their daughter was being operated on and then fitted with the prosthetic? He had seemed so kind then, and understanding. Jenkins knew that Massina was no fool; not only was he a Boston native but no one could do business on the scale he did without a good helping of street sense. Still, his tone and the sharp-elbow approach didn’t quite jibe with the man Jenkins thought he knew.
