Puppet Master

by Dale Brown

“Yeah. I’m trying.”

  “Try harder.”

  He sat upright. Blood rushed from his head and he felt dizzy.

  “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Your therapist.”

  “Right.”

  “The wheelchair is ready.”

  “I still have an IV.”

  “Take it with you.”

  “How?”

  The therapist reached up and unhooked the bag of fluid, then dropped it in his lap.

  “My legs,” said Johnny. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have legs. Use your arms.”

  He edged toward the side of the bed.

  “I have to look in on another patient,” said the therapist. “I’ll be back.”

  She walked from the room. Johnny took a deep breath, then pushed himself toward the chair parked next to the bed. His arms felt stiff, foreign. It was incredibly difficult to move.

  Was this for real? Did the bitch even know he hadn’t been out of bed since he got here?

  Damn.

  He flattened the palms of his hands against the mattress and slid a few more inches.

  Why the hell am I being tortured like this?

  Outside at the nurse’s station, Louis Massina stood with folded arms, watching the monitor playing the video from Johnny Givens’s room. He could see the sweat rolling down the crippled man’s temple.

  “You’re really making him work,” Massina told the therapist.

  “He’s going to work a lot harder than this.”

  Massina nodded. “I have a meeting. I’ll look in on him tomorrow.”

  35

  FBI Boston field office—around the same time

  “So we just release him?” Hightower held her palms up.

  “Yeah.” Jenkins leaned back in the chair. “I guess.”

  “What does he do for the CIA?”

  Jenkins shook his head.

  “You know . . .” Hightower’s voice trailed off. She put her forefinger to her right temple and rubbed in a circular motion, as if she were turning a wheel there. “I wasn’t sure about this guy when you brought him in. But now . . . There has to be some connection with the mob. It makes sense.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You have a name, you can flesh out his background, get to work on that.”

  Jenkins gave her a sardonic smile but kept himself from telling her that he knew how to do his job. It had been a long night for her as well.

  It wasn’t bad enough that the CIA had ordered Jenkins to let his only suspect go. His boss’s decision to forbid him to use Massina was even worse. And he wasn’t going to be able to explain it fully to Massina either.

  Hey, my boss thinks I was using you to do illegal hacking. We didn’t go that far, no way. I was on the right side of the line. I think. But now we have to play by my boss’s rules.

  Well, to some extent. But I can’t get you into trouble. So . . . hasta la vista.

  Right. That would be some conversation.

  “When are you going to tell him he’s free to go?” asked Hightower.

  “Would you do it?”

  “Me?”

  “I’m not sure I can trust myself not to hit him,” Jenkins confessed. “Or pound the wall on his way out.”

  Told he could go, Tolevi walked out of the interrogation room and down the hall to the lavatory, moving as deliberately as he could. He guessed that they would still be observing him. This release might even be a trick.

  Standing in front of the men’s room mirror, he tried to smooth the wrinkles from his jacket. He combed his hair straight back, patting the sides. He was due for a cut.

  I look like I have two black eyes.

  More than likely Johansen had gotten him released. Though it was possible this whole thing was part of an elaborate plot to pressure him into doing whatever job the CIA officer was pushing.

  Whatever that was. It had to be big for Johansen to meet him in person. And not even on a train.

  Tolevi’s thoughts turned to his daughter. She’d be getting up soon, to go to school. He needed to get home and talk to her before then, find out what the hell she was doing.

  Had she stolen an ATM card? He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but there seemed to be no other logical explanation.

  What was the punishment for that? Grounding for a year?

  What if she just found the card? Or told him that. What would he say?

  She’d broken curfew, so the card was irrelevant. That definitely earned her a punishment. A stricter curfew and, better, loss of computer privileges, except for homework.

  That was the Achilles’ heel—homework. The teachers assigned every damn thing on the Internet. You’d think they never heard of libraries, let alone pencils and paper.

  Tolevi continued to brood on what to do about Borya as he collected his suitcase and left the building. The real solution here was to hire a full-time, live-in babysitter; the “nanny” he was using to check on her was clearly ineffectual.

  And what would a new babysitter do? Put her in chains?

  Maybe that was the best way.

  The suitcase bumped along after him as he strode toward the front hall. Tolevi stopped and examined it. One of the wheels was chipped.

  I oughta send these idiots a bill.

  Once, ten years before, Stephan Stratowich had blown off a speeding ticket in Florida, figuring that by the time the police caught up with him, he would be out of the state, immune to anything they could do.

  And he was—until two years later, when he was stopped at a routine DWI checkpoint in Illinois. He’d passed the breathalyzer test easily—Stratowich touched alcohol only on his birthday—but then was detained on a warrant check: the Florida court where his ticket was answerable had filed a bench warrant when he failed to show.

  That experience weighed on him now, pushing him to settle the speeding ticket he’d gotten the day before with a quick visit to city court. He was hoping he could plea-bargain the damn thing in person that morning. If that didn’t work, then he’d pay the damn thing and be done with it. He couldn’t afford to take any chances.

  One of his “uncles” could probably get him out of it. But he was already deeply in debt, and he didn’t need to add another favor to the fifteen grand.

  Stratowich quickened his pace as he neared the FBI building, which happened to be on his way. If he was paranoid about speeding tickets, he was absolutely on alert when it came to the Bureau. Yet it held a certain fascination. You had to know the enemy if you were going to conquer him.

  He had just decided to cross the street when he saw the door to the building open. A man was framed in the light behind him.

  Gabor Tolevi.

  Tolevi?

  Stratowich froze. He couldn’t imagine what Tolevi might be doing there.

  Before he could decide whether to approach him or not, a black Uber car drove up and stopped a few yards from the building. Tolevi—it absolutely had to be him, pulling a suitcase and carrying a briefcase—stepped out into the street, asked the driver a question, then jumped in the back.

  Stratowich stepped back into the shadows, shielding his face as the car passed. He caught a bit of the passenger’s profile, enough to confirm, at least in his mind, that it was in fact Tolevi. Though he couldn’t for the life of him imagine why Tolevi would be talking to the FBI.

  His uncle might. Perhaps this might be worth shaving a little interest off the debt.

  Leg Work

  Flash forward

  Johnny Givens walked into Louis Massina’s office, powered by pride, adrenaline, and a dollop of nervousness.

  “Mr. Givens,” said Massina cheerfully, rising from his desk to meet him halfway. “So good to see you.”

  Johnny extended his hand. The two men shook.

  It’s amazing to think I’m touching a fake hand, thought Johnny. As artificial as my legs.

  “I’m told you’re making excellent progress,” said Massina.

  “Thank you for your hel
p,” said Johnny.

  “You’ve put the effort in. It’s all you.”

  Massina smiled broadly. He was an interesting man—a genius, surely, and a rich one. Yet he was “real,” humble in many ways. He didn’t talk down to Johnny, as many people did. Nor did he offer bs pep talks.

  “Things are moving ahead?” asked Massina.

  “Yes. I didn’t come to thank you. I came to ask for a job.”

  “A job? Aren’t you—you’re still with the FBI?”

  “The Bureau isn’t going to let me go back to the field. I’m on, uh, a furlough. Unpaid.”

  “I see.”

  “I’d like to be part of your security unit,” said Johnny. “I’ve been thinking about your organization, the things you guys are into. You can use people like me.”

  “You’ve only been out of the hospital for a few weeks.”

  “Nearly a month.”

  A long furrow appeared on Massina’s forehead. Johnny’s exaggeration was a silly lie.

  “I’m not a scientist,” said Johnny. He had rehearsed a long speech, but now, faced with giving it in person, he faltered. He’d intended to list his assets as an investigator, wanted to point out how Smart Metal really needed someone like him who could spot trouble, maybe check over security flaws, be involved . . .

  But the words wouldn’t come. His mouth had suddenly dried up. His tongue stuck to the bottom of his mouth.

  “We may be able to find a place,” said Massina. “But only after your rehabilitation is over.”

  “I know what you’re doing—you’re pursuing this investigation into the mafya and the bank scams. I can be part of that.” Even in Johnny’s ears, his voice sounded an octave too high—tinny, almost pleading.

  Definitely pleading.

  “None of that concerns you,” said Massina, suddenly cold. “You go and complete your rehabilitation. Take care of yourself. The recovery period is at least a year. The drugs that have gotten you to this point—”

  “I’m ready to work now.”

  “Come back when rehabilitation is over,” said Massina. “Then we’ll sit down with my HR people and figure out where you’ll fit in. Assuming you don’t want to stay with the government.”

  Anger suddenly welled inside Johnny. Why the hell did he lose his legs? And his heart?

  “I’m afraid I have a full slate of appointments today,” said Massina, abruptly going back to his desk. “Several people are waiting to talk to me.”

  “Listen.” Johnny trembled. “I need a job.”

  Damn it to hell! Don’t you dismiss me, too!

  “I will help,” said Massina. “When your rehab is complete. When the doctors say it’s complete.”

  Johnny stood in the middle of the office, unable to move. This had not gone the way he thought it would.

  “I can do a lot,” he said weakly. “I can help.”

  “I’m sure. And you will.”

  Massina looked past him to the door, which had been left open. Johnny turned and saw Chelsea Goodman and two other Smart Metal employees in the doorway, staring.

  “You’re making a mistake,” he told Massina.

  The scientist said nothing. Depression, sadness, a sense of utter futility chased away the optimism Johnny had felt only a few moments before.

  Johnny knew that he owed Massina a great deal, probably even his life. But he wanted to yell at him, demand to be taken seriously. He was ready to work.

  Massina wasn’t blowing him off. Yet it felt like he was.

  Don’t project, he told himself. Don’t turn him into the source of all evil. Keep your head up. Don’t beg, and don’t betray yourself. Or him. You owe him a lot.

  “I’ll be back,” Johnny said finally, managing to turn and walk slowly out of the office.

  36

  Real time

  Boston—the next day

  Best to face the music quickly.

  Chelsea was on her way to the FBI task force’s debrief session, knowing she would see Flores there, when her cell phone rang. It was Massina.

  “Yeah, boss. What’s up?”

  “What happened last night?” he asked.

  “We got someone.” She briefly summarized what had happened. “I’m on my way over to debrief with the task force. I’m not sure whether they’re going to need us anymore.”

  “Jenkins just came in here and told me they’ve ended their operation and we’re out,” Massina told her. “What’s going on?”

  “They ended it?”

  “Agent Jenkins interrupted my breakfast meeting to tell me,” said her boss. “Why did they close it down?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Find out. Get our equipment back.”

  Massina hung up. Chelsea knew from his tone that this was far from the end of things. She also knew that she had better come back to the office with at least some explanation, plausible or not.

  She arrived at the task force office a few minutes later, not knowing what to expect. No one answered when she buzzed at the back door; she was just taking out her cell phone to call Jenkins when the door opened.

  It was Flores.

  Awkward.

  He waved her in, then followed her into the team room. It was empty.

  “Aren’t we meeting to debrief?” she asked.

  “Jenkins called about an hour ago to tell everyone to take the day off.” He shrugged. “I guess he knew we all had hangovers.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Chelsea.

  “Have a seat.”

  Chelsea pulled one of the chairs away from its workstation and sat down. She’d taken a long shower at her apartment; between that, a handful of Tylenol, and two cans of ginger ale, she felt almost refreshed.

  Flores, on the other hand, looked like Chelsea had felt a few hours before.

  “The guy is hooked into the CIA somehow,” said Flores. “They said cease and desist.”

  “The CIA?”

  “It’s total bullshit. He’s mafya. Russian mob. Take a look.” Flores led her over to one of the workstations. “You’re not seeing this,” he announced, dropping his voice to a whisper as he tapped a few keys. A long text document appeared. Chelsea was nearly halfway through when she realized that it was referring not to the suspect, whose name she remembered as Gabor Tolevi, but someone named Medved.

  “This is the guy?”

  “No, this is a guy we think he may work for. Or with. Or something. Medved is mafya. Where the CIA comes in, I have no idea.” Flores leaned close to scroll down the screen. He smelled like Dove soap and cheap shampoo; at least he’d showered. “This is a reference to a photo, here, which shows them together.”

  He tapped the screen and a picture of two men appeared. The faces were in the shadow; Chelsea couldn’t tell if either was the man at the ATM last night.

  “Tolevi’s on the right,” said Flores. “He’s got some sort of import thing going on. Goes to both sides of Ukraine. Maybe legal; I’d bet not.”

  “I see.”

  He was uncomfortably close. She slid to the side and got up.

  “The CIA gave you this?” she asked.

  “Nah. This is our stuff. The Boston PD has some minor stuff on Medved and his associates. You never get a good picture of these guys, of what they do, unless you get informers. But they’re pretty tight around here, as tight as the Sicilians were in the thirties and forties.”

  Chelsea spotted the coffee carafe and decided she wanted a cup. It was a good excuse to put more distance between them.

  Flores followed her across the room.

  “I guess I’m unclear what’s going on,” she said, sipping the coffee. It was pretty bitter, despite being weak. “Are you guys stopping the operation? Was this guy involved?”

  “I don’t know. They couldn’t find anything that would definitely link him to the theft.”

  “What? We saw the string, the extra coding.”

  “You saw it; we didn’t,” said Flores. “When they looked at the card, there wa
sn’t anything special on it.”

  “You looked at the card?”

  “He said we could.”

  “Did you check the account?”

  “We need a warrant to do that.”

  “Give me the number.”

  “I can’t,” he said, glancing at the workstation.

  Chelsea didn’t need more of a hint. She walked back to the computer. There were several windows open; she moused around until she found a list that showed data inquiries from the compromised machine. Rather than copying them, she sent the page to the printer. Getting up to retrieve them, she bumped into Flores.

  He reached to her. For a second she thought he was going to hug her, and she worried what she would say. But he only held his palm out as if to stop her from falling.

  “I’m fine,” she said, slipping past.

  “You don’t remember last night, do you?” Flores asked as she retrieved the list.

  “Some.”

  “You fell asleep on the bed. You took off your jeans, and boom. You were out.”

  “I don’t usually drink.”

  “I collapsed next to you. We didn’t do anything.”

  Chelsea searched his face, not sure if he was telling the whole truth, not sure whether she wanted to ask for more details. He seemed to be trying to smile, but he could only turn up one half of his mouth.

  He seemed apologetic. Because they hadn’t managed to do anything?

  “I just wanted you to know—I just . . .” Flores fumbled with his hands, rubbing them together, as if washing. Finally, he jabbed them beneath his arms, squeezing his chest. “I wouldn’t take advantage of you . . . I like you.”

  “I like you, too, Flores.”

  Later, back in the lab at Smart Metal, she wondered to herself if she should have kissed him then.

  37

  Boston—that afternoon

  By the time Tolevi got home, Borya had left for school. As angry as he was, he was too exhausted and jet-lagged to go to her school and confront her. He rationalized that little would be gained by pulling her out of class; it was far more sensible to wait until she came home. Still unsure exactly how he would punish her—or even how to find out exactly what she was involved in—he sat down on the couch and flipped on the television. Within moments he was asleep.