by Dale Brown
The fact that she was very intelligent didn’t hurt. Her parents weren’t rich, but they were comfortable; there was never a concern about the basics. Frankly, if it weren’t for her mother, Chelsea suspected her father would have spoiled her rotten. Along with his reasoned advice and steady manner, Chelsea’s dad had a soft, overly generous impulse, especially when it came to his only child. Mom was the family banker, for good reason, and it was Mom who generally imposed the harsher discipline, or at least enforced it.
All of which was to say that nothing in Chelsea’s childhood had prepared her for the shock of Easter Sunday. Even her experiences in Ukraine, where she had faced down gunmen for the first time in her life, couldn’t quite compare. She would have been the first to object if someone suggested she’d been traumatized; on the other hand, even she would admit that the experience had been powerful in the most unwelcome way.
After her initial shakiness, Victoria had recovered quickly. Talking about how scared she’d been the next day before Chelsea left for work, she’d compared it to the time she’d faced down a boyfriend holding a shotgun on her.
“Not quite as scared as that, but almost,” she’d said breezily. “There’s so much evil in this world.”
To Chelsea, the cliché at the end seemed to make light of what they’d gone through, and she told her aunt she was trivializing murder.
“Come on, dear,” said Victoria. “Of course I’m not trivializing it. We certainly could have died.”
Though she loved her aunt, she was happy when Victoria left for home Tuesday afternoon, having changed her plans.
The scratches and bruises Chelsea had suffered during her ordeal were minuscule, the sort she might have gotten from falling while running on a sidewalk. She’d been extremely lucky.
Had the man meant to rape her or kill her? Probably both, she thought.
She replayed the tragedy in the hotel obsessively. It crowded into her thoughts while she tried to work, forced its way into her calculations, even elbowed away her attempts to solve sudoku puzzles. The men being lined up, the kid, the AR-15 . . .
Jin Chiang stuck his head through the open doorway of the lab.
“Chelsea, come down the hall and look at this,” said the software engineer, bobbing away. “Hurry!”
Chelsea closed down her workstation and locked the door before following Chiang to his lab. There, rather than finding him and one or two protégés staring at a workstation screen, she saw over two dozen Smart Metal employees watching the oversize presentation monitor at the front of the room.
Just as surprising, it was tuned to a cable news network.
“What’s going on?” she asked as she came into the room.
Some shushed her. Chiang pointed at the screen.
What she saw first was nothing—literally, just blackness. As she stared, she could make out some boxy shapes; buildings maybe.
Then there was a flash. Several. White and yellow.
Then a red hand rising. But not a hand—flames.
Words scrolled across the bottom of the screen:
U.S. attacking ISIS cell responsible for Boston attacks
Up in his office, Massina flipped back and forth between the different channels carrying the news reports. The U.S. had launched a wave of attacks in Libya against different ISIS cells. Targets in at least three different cities were being hit. The commentator speculated that there were probably a dozen others targeted, but at the moment the military was refusing to comment. All the news reports were coming from people on the scene, mostly via cell-phone uploads to sites like YouTube.
One hearty CNN reporter had climbed onto a roof in Tobruk—shades of Peter Arnett in the First Gulf War—and was giving a live commentary as the missiles struck a building about a half mile away.
“I know that building,” he told the anchor back home. “It’s just a school. Thank God it’s night and all the students are at home.”
At that point, the “school” erupted in a series of fireballs as the missiles hit a store of ammunition and explosives.
“I suppose those are their pencils igniting,” said Massina caustically.
Bozzone, standing near the desk, laughed.
Massina flipped through the channels again, settling this time on Fox. They were replaying an earlier, extremely shaky cell-phone video from Misrata.
“What do you think?” he asked Bozzone.
Bozzone shrugged.
“At least they’re doing something,” offered Massina.
“True,” said Bozzone. “But how do we know these are the guys? It looks more like they’re targeting a guerilla movement. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but it’s almost beside the point, at least as far as Boston is concerned. Despite what these guys are claiming.”
Yes, thought Massina. It wasn’t retribution.
Chelsea stared at the others as the broadcast continued. They were smiling, cheering each explosion.
She felt as if she should be doing the same. Yet for some reason, the explosions didn’t make her feel any better. Not that she was sorry for the terrorists who were dying; on the contrary, she knew they deserved to die, and if she’d been piloting the bombers or commanding the missiles, or even pointing a gun at one of them, she would have no hesitation pulling the trigger.
But that wasn’t the same as feeling satisfied, let alone elated.
She didn’t feel anything. Not joy, not sorrow.
Pain?
No.
Pleasure?
No.
Satisfaction?
Not even close.
Nothing?
Nothing.
“I’m going back to work,” she said, leaving the lab.
20
Boston–around the same time
Tolevi had just sat down to watch television with his daughter, Borya, when the American assault on the ISIS bases in Libya began. His first impulse was to change the channel, but all that did was bring a slightly less fuzzy image of exploding bombs to the screen.
“Do you want to watch this?” he asked.
“Yes. Don’t you?”
“Not particularly. But all right.”
“Why don’t you want to see it?” Borya leaned forward on the couch, her head tilted slightly, a mannerism he thought she’d inherited from her mother. “Does it scare you?”
“How could it scare me?” answered Tolevi. He was genuinely surprised—what did his daughter think of him?
“Maybe you think the bombs will come here.”
“We’ve already been attacked. This is simply the response.” He studied her face, as if there were some clue there that would reveal the secret workings of her teenage mind. “And are you scared?”
“Of course not.”
“What about the other day, downtown,” he asked. “Were you scared then?”
“No.”
He actually believed her. The child had a very high threat tolerance, something that often got her in trouble.
“You would have been scared if one of them had pointed a gun at you,” said Tolevi. “Then.”
“Has that happened to you? I know it has,” she added. “I know people have shot at you. That’s why you only have half an ear, right? When you were with Chelsea.”
“Only a little was cut off,” he said defensively. About a third had been sliced, mostly the lobe, by an overzealous Russian prick of an officer.
“They cut it because you wouldn’t give up your friends, I bet.”
“Where do you get these ideas?” asked Tolevi, rising. He decided he would have a drink.
“Can you get me some chips?” she asked. “If you’re going into the kitchen.”
“Potato chips give you pimples,” he said. But he got the bag out anyway, and also a glass of orange juice—in his mind a balance to the chips—and was bringing them into the living room for her when the doorbell rang.
“You’re not expecting anyone, right?” Tolevi asked.
“I doubt it.”
> That was a no.
“Stay here,” he said, setting down her snacks.
Tolevi went back to the kitchen, out into the hall, and checked the video monitor, which showed the front door.
Maarav Medved. A Russian mobster with whom he occasionally did business. He was alone, the street behind him empty.
“What the fuck now?” muttered Tolevi. He opened the drawer below the security monitor and reached behind the back to get the gun hidden above the panel. He slid the gun into the back of his belt and covered it with his shirt before going down to the door.
“What do you want?” he demanded from behind the locked door.
“Gabor! Is that a way to greet an old friend?”
“I heard rumors you wanted to kill me,” said Tolevi.
“Kill you? Never!”
“You’re lying.”
Tolevi put his eye to the security peephole. Medved was still alone. His arms were wide, palms up.
What the hell was he up to?
“You hurt me more than you know, Gabor.”
Tolevi cracked open the door. Medved smiled.
“Come in,” said Tolevi, stepping back.
Medved spread his arms out to grab him in a bear hug. Tolevi put up his hand.
“My daughter is here,” he said.
“And that is perfect, because I have a gift for her.”
Medved reached into the pocket of his sport coat. Tolevi stepped back and pulled his pistol.
“What? A gun on your friend? What is this?” sputtered Medved.
“You tried to get me killed.”
“No. Never.”
“Don’t lie.”
“It was not me, and you know it. You had trouble with the Russian service, big trouble.” Medved shook his head dramatically. “But many people do, and it passes. You have no trouble now! Of course not! You worked that out. Now, I—I had nothing to do with that. Ask anyone.”
Medved seemed genuinely offended, even hurt.
“So what do you want?” asked Tolevi.
“Want? Me? Nothing. I am honored to call you a friend.”
This, clearly, is going to cost me something huge, thought Tolevi.
“Can I come in?” asked Medved.
“My daughter is here, as I said.”
“And as I said, excellent, because I have a present for her. A new iPad.” Medved held out a slim rectangle wrapped in plain brown paper. “They call it a mini.”
“She has one.”
“And now two. This one is better. I understand she is very good at computers, yes?” Medved took a step inside. Tolevi, puzzled by what Medved might be up to, let him go.
Not much was sacrosanct with the Russian mafya, but attacking families, especially children, was generally considered out of bounds. And this sort of attention was meant to convey the opposite, to make up for past wrongs.
Or curry favor.
“Borya! Borya!” said Medved, tromping up the stairs to the kitchen. “A present for you.”
Borya, bewildered, emerged from the living room. If she remembered Medved, her expression betrayed no hint of it.
“How much you have grown! I brought you a present.”
“Thank you,” said Borya hesitantly. She glanced at her father. He shrugged.
“How is school?” asked Medved.
“Do I know you?” asked Borya.
Medved laughed genially. “I work with your dad. You and I met at the Christmas party two years ago. I knew your mother,” he added gravely.
The last was a lie, but Tolevi didn’t correct it.
“Open the present,” urged Medved. “Go on.”
Borya ripped off the paper gingerly, revealing an iPad mini. It wasn’t boxed and didn’t include a plug.
“Uh, thank you,” she said, turning it over. “You know, usually these have, like, a wire for charging.”
Medved’s face fell. “Oh.”
“I’m sure I have a spare,” she said quickly. “Thank you.” Borya winked at her father. “I have homework.”
“You better get it done,” Tolevi told her, winking back.
“So, what favor is it you want?” Tolevi asked when she left.
“Favor? No favor. In fact, I have a present for you,” declared Medved.
He reached into his jacket and took out a thick envelope. “It is a way of saying thank you.”
“Thank you for what? What did I do for you?”
“Not for me,” said Medved. “Someone more important than me.”
That would include 99 percent of the world, thought Tolevi. “Can you give me a hint?”
“You helped a babushka, on the day of the attacks,” said Medved.
Tolevi shrugged. The old grandma in the deli. He’d forgotten the incident entirely.
“Let’s just say she is the mother of someone very important. He will not forget this. Ever. Anything you need—anything—come to me. Bingo.”
“Bingo?”
“Yes, yes. Well, have a good night with your daughter. Family is very important. The most important.”
Tolevi showed him to the door. It was only when he had gone that he opened the envelope.
There were a hundred one-hundred-dollar bills.
Borya came into the kitchen as he finished counting. “What was that all about?”
“Looks like I did a good deed,” said Tolevi.
“I checked it for a virus,” she said, holding up the iPad. “It’s clean. Newest specs. Is it stolen?”
“That’s anyone’s guess,” admitted Tolevi.
“Do you think there’s a bomb inside?” she asked.
“Not one with explosives.”
21
Boston–two days later
Massina’s vague sense of unease after the American assaults in Libya only grew in their immediate aftermath. The waves of cruise missiles and standoff munitions launched by American ships, submarines, and aircraft were followed by ground operations conducted by Libyan troops. These were reported to be a great success.
Still, despite claims that they had been launched in retaliation for the Boston attacks, nothing Massina heard or read indicated that the Boston plotters had been brought to justice, or even captured. The Pentagon wouldn’t even comment on whether they’d been targeted.
Having given the issue some thought following the attacks, Massina realized that Muslim extremists were a nihilistic pathogen that poisoned countries directly and indirectly. No amount of reason or goodwill could convince them to alter their path toward conflagration. Eventually they, or people they influenced, would get ahold of a nuclear weapon. Maybe this would happen in Pakistan, maybe Russia, maybe even, God forbid, the U.S. Millions would die or be poisoned. The only way to prevent that was to stamp them out, and keep stamping.
Given that logic, the attacks in Libya made sense. And yet they were inadequate at best. And since they didn’t directly target the perpetrators in Boston—or if they did, clearly they had missed—they were beside the point. If you didn’t punish the people responsible for the attacks, there would surely be more attacks.
The evening of the attack, Massina had met with a friend of his at the FBI and offered to help in any way possible. It was a sincere offer, but he could tell from the reaction that his friend thought it was pro forma, the sort of thing people said in times of crisis.
Which only frustrated him more. Still, Massina was taken off guard when he got a text on his private phone a week and change after the attacks:
Can we meet?—YJoh
Massina almost dismissed it as spam, then realized who “YJoh” was. He replied:
Come to my office
The answer came quickly.
Can’t. Café near Fenway?
Now it was Massina’s turn to pass.
Can’t leave office.
Tonight?
He thought for a moment.
I am going to a cocktail party at Hilton Downtown at 7 p.m. Meet me there.
Johansen didn’t respond.
/> “Must be a yes,” Massina told himself.
Massina spent a good forty-five minutes at the party before Yuri Johansen caught his attention with a subtle wave from the portable bar in the corner. Massina excused himself and ambled over, stopping to say hello to the mayor’s wife, who was here alone tonight, her husband being in Washington on business.
“I’m so glad none of your people were hurt,” she told him after an air kiss.
“Yes, and it’s a miracle that you and your family were OK,” said Massina.
“We have good people around us. The bastards tried.” The word bastards came out of her mouth easily, even though it was a stark contrast to her otherwise dignified, nearly prim, manner. Evelyn—Mrs. Mayor to the press—was old-Boston Brahmin, a sharp contrast to her husband. Their marriage was the ultimate proof of opposites attracting.
“Anything that I can do to help us get back on our feet,” said Massina, “you’ll let me know. Make sure Bobby knows.”
“He does.” Evelyn grasped his arm. “Thank you, Louis. Your help means a lot.”
Massina nodded. Evelyn let go of his arm, then drifted away.
“You feel very strongly about your city,” said Johansen, who’d walked over while he’d been talking.
“Of course,” said Massina.
“I’d like to have a conversation.”
“Go ahead.”
“Needs to be private. Come on.”
Johansen led him out of the hotel to a waiting Escalade. As soon as both men got in the back, the Cadillac SUV pulled away from the curb.
They drove up to Atlantic Avenue, continuing north. Massina waited for Johansen to say something—anything.
“Mr. Johansen,” he said finally, “if you want my help, you should start by not wasting my time. It’s very precious to me.”
“We believe the Boston attacks were planned by a man whose nom de guerre is Ghadab min Allah—Allah’s Wrath.”
