Puppet Master

by Dale Brown

  The city was much as he remembered it, though there were noticeable gaps and plenty of burned-out buildings. The Donbass Hotel, one of the grandes dames of Ukrainian hospitality, stood untouched at the corner of Artyoma Street. Tolevi hadn’t bothered to make a reservation; he had guessed, correctly, that there would be no problem getting a room.

  The hotel, which only a few years before was regularly filled with tourists and businessmen, was now mostly empty, operating out of sheer will. Only a single car, marked with prominent UN signs on the sides, hood, and trunk, sat out front.

  A mustachioed clerk snapped to attention as Tolevi and Dan came in. Rooms were quickly found—fourth floor, back side; you didn’t want to face the street if you didn’t have to. Tolevi gave Dan a hundred-euro down payment and told him to take the rest of the night off.

  “Won’t you need a guide?” asked the young man.

  “I can get around for a while. We’ll meet for breakfast. Seven a.m.”

  “That early?”

  “Arrange a wake-up call.”

  Tolevi checked the room. He assumed that he was being watched by the local intelligence network, whatever that might be; while he couldn’t be sure there was a direct connection between the rebels who were now in charge and the SVR, he had to assume that there was. Nonetheless, it didn’t look as if he was being followed when he left the hotel for a stroll.

  Despite the presence of Ukrainian troops to the west and north, the city appeared calm, and there were no signs of rebel fighters, or Russians for that matter, in the area near the hotel. Tolevi walked several blocks without seeing so much as a policeman, let alone a military vehicle. Cars and trucks, mostly Western, passed; there was less traffic than he remembered since his last visit, but more than two years before. People passed with shopping bags slung from their shoulders; the handful of luxury shops near the hotel all looked open for business.

  Tolevi found a café and went in, ordering a coffee; if anyone thought he was out of place, they didn’t stare or make any overt sign. He paid with Russian rubles—it had been declared the official currency a year before—but the waiter didn’t seem to care, nor did he say anything to the woman who paid in hryvnia, the official Ukrainian currency.

  Reasonably sure that he wasn’t followed into the café, Tolevi left and continued walking, heading toward a small park a few blocks from the hotel. He found a bench near some children playing on a swing, and once again scanned the area for a tail. Still not seeing one, he walked a few more blocks to a store that sold prepaid telephones. He bought one, then summoned a taxi.

  Twenty minutes later, Tolevi arrived at an early-Soviet-era apartment building. After the cab turned the corner, he walked around the block, turned left, and went into a gray four-story building that smelled of simmering cabbage. He walked up a flight, paused one last time to make sure he wasn’t being followed, then went up to the top floor and knocked on the door of an apartment at the far end of the hall.

  The man who answered the door nearly dropped the cigarette from his mouth when he saw Tolevi. He grabbed it, then spread his arms wide to embrace him.

  “What? What are you doing here?” asked the man, ushering him inside.

  “Business, Grandpa. Business.”

  Denyx Fodor was not Tolevi’s real grandfather, but he had known Tolevi as a baby, and the families had once been close enough to earn that sort of endearment. They had not seen each other since Tolevi’s last visit to Donetsk, and Fodor cataloged the changes with some relish over a bottle of French wine. The old man still had a store of bottles left over from the days when he imported it; that business had crashed during Ukraine’s depression, which had preceded the revolution and then been deepened by it. Now he was semiretired, with small interests in two shops in town; the proceeds paid his rent but not much more.

  Tolevi waited patiently through Fodor’s stories, mostly of rebel and Russian outrages, then explained the outlines of the deal he had come to make, carefully leaving out the business in the restroom, as well as the CIA mission.

  “We can get medicine at the pharmacies,” said Fodor. “But not reliably. And the quality—I think it is Chinese.”

  “This will be from the West,” said Tolevi.

  “You can get past the embargo?”

  Tolevi shrugged. “There are ways.”

  “And what do you need of me?”

  A ride to a place where using the cell phone would not be a problem either for Fodor or anyone else, and a set of eyes to watch for anyone following. Fodor was more than game.

  They finished the wine while waiting for the sun to go down, then went out to Fodor’s car, a ten-year-old Lexus. A half hour later they stopped near a railroad siding that had not been used since before the civil war.

  Tolevi walked down the tracks for five minutes before making the call to the number Johansen had given him. There was no answer.

  He was walking back, considering what to do, when a text arrived with an address and the words “butcher shop” in Ukrainian.

  Right. Pick up some meat. Ironic and yet fitting at the same time.

  “I need another stop, please,” he told Fodor when he got back to the car. “And go over the river so I can throw the phone away.”

  54

  Boston—that day

  Gestapo Bitch’s real name was Joyce Kilmer, “like the lady who wrote about the tree.” She had been a CPA with a running fetish until she’d broken her leg.

  Learning how to properly rehab after the injury had taken her quite a while, until she’d found the right specialist. It had convinced her she could do better.

  “What did you learn from the Marines?” asked Johnny Givens as they warmed down after his Saturday morning run. Kilmer had surprised him by joining him.

  More of a surprise was the fact that she didn’t bark at him, only laugh.

  “Let’s just say she pushed me,” said Kilmer. “Then I met Mr. Massina.”

  “You work for him, not the hospital?”

  “That’s right. Keep walking. We need two circuits. Then we’ll work on some core exercises.”

  They completed the walk, then began doing some exercises. Sweat flowed from Johnny’s pores.

  “All right,” she announced suddenly. “You’re done.”

  “Really?”

  “Until five o’clock, yes. Kale smoothie for lunch. Don’t forget your medicine.”

  “I can’t forget that.”

  “It’s important. Your body has been through enormous trauma. You’ve come a long way very fast—too fast, probably. But there’s no going back. Just stick with the program.”

  They walked back to the building in silence.

  “I didn’t know you worked Saturdays,” he told her as they reached the door.

  “I don’t. But you’re my prize pupil.” She smiled.

  “Is that why you’re being so nice?” he asked as the door flew open.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep kicking your ass. But . . .” She paused. “They’re going to release you this week. I wanted to make sure you’re OK with that.”

  “Really?”

  “Technically, there’s no reason for you to be in the hospital. The amount of recovery you’ve done, the stage you’re at—it would be, well, two months at least. But physically, you’re there. So, a hospital being a hospital, they’re ready to let you go.”

  “Wow.”

  “But you have to keep up with the program.”

  “I will. There’s no doubt about that.”

  “Good.”

  “Are you going to still work with me?” Johnny asked.

  “You’ll be assigned a new therapist. Two, probably. The post-release team likes to work in pairs.”

  “But I was just starting not to hate you.”

  “Time for you to fly, little bird. Fly, fly, fly.” She patted him on the back. “You’re on your own.”

  Despite what he told her, Johnny didn’t feel ready. He didn’t think he’d ever be ready. So when he saw
Sister Rose Marie waiting in his room when he got back, Johnny felt something close to panic.

  “How are you?” asked the diminutive nun.

  “Good.”

  “You’ve come a long way. How do your legs feel?”

  “Strange.” He laughed. “Very strange, still. But—I guess this is how life is going to be.”

  “It is.”

  “You guys have treated me really well.”

  “It’s what we do,” said the nun sweetly. “We’re thinking of releasing you.”

  “Ms. Kilmer told me.”

  “How do you feel about that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The nun nodded solemnly. “We’ll continue to see you on an outpatient basis. We have a therapist I’d like you to work with.”

  “Ms. Kilmer has been pretty good. I’d like to keep working with her.” Johnny sat on the edge of the bed.

  “The therapist I was talking about is a psychologist. Because there are issues.”

  “Like what?”

  “He’ll talk to you about that. There are adjustments. But physically . . . Johnny, you’ve done more in two weeks than a lot of our patients do in six months. Partly, it’s the drugs and the legs themselves—Mr. Massina’s work is quite incredible. But most of it is due to you. Even so . . . you do have adjustments you have to make. Mentally.”

  “Sure.”

  “Are you a religious man, Johnny?”

  “I’m not Catholic, Sister.”

  “I’m not trying to convert you,” she said gently, “but I do believe that faith can be a powerful component of healing.”

  Johnny didn’t know how to answer that.

  “You’re still angry with God, I would imagine, for doing this to you,” said the nun. It was as if she read his mind. But maybe that wasn’t so hard to figure out.

  “It is what it is,” he said.

  “God only gives us what He knows we can handle,” she told him.

  “I guess.”

  “Nurse Abramowitz will be in to help with out-processing Monday,” said the nun. “She’s Jewish, by the way.”

  “Does that make a difference?”

  “To her, I would suspect.” She smiled. “If you ever need anything, I’m always here.”

  55

  Donetsk, occupied Ukraine

  Tolevi had Fodor drop him off several blocks from the address he’d been given. The old man was dubious; it was not a good part of town, even before the war, and aside from that it was a frequent target of the government’s mortaring. But Tolevi insisted, and in the end the old man reluctantly let him go.

  “I’ll see you before I leave Donetsk,” Tolevi assured him. “And we will solve the world’s problems.”

  “That will take more wine than I own,” said Fodor sadly. “Take care, young man. Take care.”

  The streets were dark, lit only by the dim light cast from nearby windows. There wasn’t much of that: more than half of the buildings Tolevi passed were gone.

  Tolevi walked to the south first, away from the address, always on guard against being followed. The air felt damp and cold; a storm must be coming on, he thought. With so many buildings gone, he had to guess at the block segment where the butcher shop would be. He came around two blocks east, walking with a quick, businesslike pace toward his destination.

  He was very conscious of the fact that he had no weapon to defend himself with. Ukraine was not known for crime; if anything, before the war Donetsk was far safer than Boston, itself a relatively safe city. But war and deprivation made people desperate.

  I can take care of myself.

  The butcher’s shop was dark. The storefront, which had probably been plate glass not too long ago, was covered in plywood, but the door at the side was glass and intact. Tolevi knocked on it, pushing his head to the glass and trying to see if there was any light inside. But the place appeared empty.

  He stepped back to look at the apartments above. No light came from any of the windows. The sky was overcast, and without light from anywhere nearby, it was difficult to see, but to Tolevi it looked as if the right corner of the top floor appeared jagged, torn off by some prehistoric monster—or, more likely, a mortar shell from government lines.

  He knocked again, this time much louder. Still nothing.

  All right, then. I’ll come back in the day.

  Tolevi cupped his hands over his face and peered inside, trying to see if the place was simply abandoned. But he saw only shadows, and even these weren’t more than indiscriminate clouds.

  He stepped back, reluctant to leave. Finally he turned in the direction Fodor had taken bringing him here.

  Tolevi was a long way from the hotel, but there was no alternative to walking. He turned his collar up against the cold and hunched forward, hands in pockets.

  “You! Stop!” shouted a voice in Ukrainian behind him.

  Tolevi kept walking.

  “I said stop!” repeated the voice. It was deep, masculine, at least middle-aged, maybe older.

  No. Stopping is never a good idea, Tolevi thought. Stop and be killed, or robbed at least. Walk and at worst they think you crazy, and who messes with a crazy man in a war zone?

  He pushed his hands deeper into his pockets, hoping it looked like he had a gun.

  “I said halt!” This time the man behind him used English.

  Surprised, Tolevi stopped. The man flipped on a flashlight, casting a long oval ahead that silhouetted Tolevi on the street.

  “Turn around or I shoot,” said the man.

  Tolevi turned. Three men were standing a few meters away. The one in the middle had a Kalashnikov.

  “Show your hands,” said the man, still in English.

  “What are you saying?” asked Tolevi in Ukrainian, though of course he understood. “I speak Ukrainian and Russian. Take your pick.”

  “Hands up,” repeated the man in Ukrainian.

  The man on his right walked up to Tolevi. He was a few inches shorter, and much thinner. Pointing at Tolevi’s sides, he indicated he was going to frisk him; Tolevi widened his stance and submitted.

  “What were you doing at the shop?” asked the man with the rifle when the search was over. He played the flashlight’s beam across Tolevi’s face.

  “Looking for meat.”

  “At this hour?”

  “I was looking to make some stew,” said Tolevi.

  Still holding the rifle, his inquisitor handed the flashlight to the man on his left, then took out a cell phone. He looked at the face of the phone for a moment.

  Give me the answer, thought Tolevi. Ask me who is it for.

  But instead, the man asked again why he would go to a butcher shop in the middle of the night.

  “I heard sometimes it is open,” answered Tolevi. “If you want meat.”

  “You don’t look familiar.”

  “I’m a visitor. Trying to find food for a friend.”

  “You will come with us,” said the man. He slipped the phone back into his pocket.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” said Tolevi.

  “You will come with us.” He pointed the gun at Tolevi’s face. “Now.”

  56

  Boston—roughly the same time

  Johnny Givens stopped at the foot of the steps to his house on St. Charles Street and took a deep breath.

  “I’m home,” he said to no one in particular. “Home.”

  He put his hand on the rail and went awkwardly up the steps. There were so many things he had to get used to—his new legs, his mechanical heart, his new status as a “medically furloughed/soon to be retired on full disability” former government worker.

  The last would be the hardest, he was sure.

  Givens’s home was a duplex in Fields Corner West, an area described by the real estate brokers as “up and coming,” though some of the residents might take issue. It certainly had the requisite mixed population—Vietnamese as well as Hispanic, black, and younger white. But it was also the neighborhood where
Guinness had first been served, which made it quintessential old-school Boston. Had Givens been in a different kind of mood, he might have gone to the very bar, the Blarney Stone, which was only a short walk from, or a longish crawl to, his house.

  But he wasn’t in a drinking mood. Stepping into his apartment was like stepping into a different life—an old one that he had left not a week but eons ago.

  It wasn’t just that the place smelled stuffy, or that here and there a fine layer of dust had settled. The dimensions of the rooms seemed to have changed. The walls looked darker than he remembered, the furniture shabbier. His bed, unmade since the morning he left, looked different, smaller and angled in the room in a way that was unfamiliar. Nothing was exactly the same, and when he went from the hallway between the bedroom to the kitchen, he tripped over the wooden threshold. He caught himself on the doorway, but even as he righted himself he felt sheer panic, his emotions free-falling.

  What if I fall here and can’t get up? What if my heart stops? What if the legs become unattached or stop working?

  What what what . . .

  Irrational fears, all of them. If anything, he was stronger than he’d been—he’d always had a flawed heart, even if he hadn’t known it; now he had one that was perfect, as the doctor who’d plugged into its magnetic sensors had told him with some glee before his release.

  His artificial legs were several times stronger than flesh and bone. The drugs had pumped his muscles to a peak he hadn’t experienced since high school, and maybe not even then. He was a bionic man, better than before.

  Yet, not complete. Missing. A man missing who he was, who he had been.

  Johnny straightened himself and walked to the refrigerator to take stock. The milk was bad, but there was an unopened bottle of cola on the top shelf. He took it out and, in a sudden fit of tidiness, poured it into a glass before sitting down at the kitchen table to drink it.