Puppet Master

Flash forward

Louis Massina was on top of the world, and he was falling, sliding, unable to stop, unable to save himself.

God, he prayed, if it’s your will to let me die…

The prayer died on his lips.

If it’s God’s will, the nuns all taught, so be it.

So be it.

No way. No.

The bastard’s going to kill me, and there’s so much more I have to do. I cannot die now. No. I am not going to die.

“God,” he said aloud, voice trembling, “if it’s your will that I die, screw it, because I’m not going, not without a fight.”

58 Real time

Tolevi rolled on the floor as the room exploded, covering his head with his arms. The flash of light had left him temporarily blinded; the loud boom made him deaf.

He thought about Borya back home. He was supposed to call her tonight at 5:00 p.m. her time.

Not going to make that.

He tried to crawl out of the confusion, unsure where he was going but believing movement would save him. Air rushed past and the ground rumbled; he heard something in the distance, a metallic rattle, then a softer but stranger sound, a thin sheet of aluminum foil being torn in two. Grit slammed into his face. He started to cough and pushed harder, dragging his legs across rubble, knowing that he had to get away, knowing that he would get away, but not sure what he had to get through to escape.

Then he was lifted, flying in the air.

Tolevi’s eyes felt glued shut. He started to cough again. The gunfire became louder. He became aware of the sides of his head pressing against the soft parts of his brain. He could feel his skull from the inside, could feel the bones as if they were a helmet pressing around his entire being.

I’m flying.

He moved his hands to pry his eyes open, but the lids wouldn’t budge.

A rush of cold air against his face. He opened his mouth and gulped. It smelled of the night, damp, thick with exhaust.

Someone called to him from the distance. Lights were moving nearby.

A car?

He fell onto something hard. The side of his face brushed along metal.

He was in a car or a truck, on the floor. They were moving. A voice floated over him in a language he couldn’t make out.

“You’re lucky they didn’t kill you.”

Russian. It was Russian.

“Da,” he mumbled, answering his own thought, not the voice. It continued, strengthening in tone, starting to become coherent. It was asking him questions, asking him why he had gone in there, what the wolves had wanted.

Volki. Wolves.

Not a question about whether he was OK.

Which should tell him something, should identify who he was with, but it didn’t.

Other voices, speaking Russian.

Two hands took hold of Tolevi from the back and hauled him upward, pushing him around so that he was sitting back to the wall of the vehicle. Water slopped over his face. Shaking his head, Tolevi reached his hands to his eyes and rubbed them.

He blinked; a flashlight shone on his face.

“Why were you with the criminals?” asked the voice. It belonged to a man in a black combat uniform, kneeling next to him. He was wearing a black watch cap with a ninja-style mask that covered his face.

They were in the back of a cargo van. Besides the man talking to him, there was another nearby, to his right. He, too, was wearing a mask. He was also holding an assault rifle — not an old Kalashnikov, like the man who’d stopped him on the street, but something newer, an AK-74 maybe, though Tolevi wasn’t sure. There were two men in the front of the truck; he could see their heads.

“Why are you in the People’s Republic?” asked the man next to him.

“Business,” mumbled Tolevi.

“With the criminal government?”

Tolevi struggled to clear his head. The man’s Russian had an accent that he couldn’t quite pick out, but he wasn’t Ukrainian.

Special operations troops helping the rebels. Spetsnaz.

Or not. They could be anyone, on any side.

You’ll never see Borya again.

“Where did you get these papers?” asked the man, holding them out.

“Checkpoint,” said one of the men in front.

The man who’d been questioning him stopped talking and moved to the other side of the van. But clearly they weren’t worried about being stopped: they slowed, the driver opened the window, and then they sped past.

A few minutes later they stopped at the rear of a large house. Tolevi was led out of the truck, not gently but not roughly either, and walked to the back door. Other vans pulled up as they walked, driving past to a barnlike building fifty or so meters away.

Inside, his escort pointed to a chair in the hallway and told him to wait. Tolevi sat down, scanning his surroundings. Oil paintings lined the walls, and the two lights he saw were small chandeliers, their chiseled crystals reflecting kaleidoscopically with a shimmer of bright white and tiny rainbow triangles.

There were more people inside, many of them.

I can probably walk out of here without anyone noticing, Tolevi thought. But where would I go?

Best to play along and see where this leads.

It was impossible to be in Tolevi’s business and not encounter difficult situations. He’d dealt with police and customs agents in Russia, the Ukraine, Poland, and Georgia; South America and Mexico. Most were surprisingly civil, more businesslike and less aggressive than the average traffic cop in the States. And these men, though clearly military, were far to the professional side of the spectrum. They weren’t treating him like a prisoner, really — no harsh pushes, no gruff language.

Yet, anyway. So hopefully things would go well here.

If not…

If not, I’ll take what comes.

59

Borya glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. She was pretending to work on an essay on King Lear, her last remaining homework for the weekend. Martyak was inside talking on her cell phone to some dweeb; thank God for that, Borya thought, because otherwise she would be hovering over her at the table. The babysitter was making an effort to be friendly; she had even offered the night before to help her with her homework. But her help was worse than useless; she had an impossible interpretation of King Lear: a metaphoric statement about why war is hard on families. And even Borya could tell her spelling was atrocious.

Borya’s father always called at certain intervals when he was gone, generally at 5:00 p.m. He was due to call tonight, but the hour had passed without a call.

That wasn’t necessarily unusual, but Borya found herself missing him, and anxious to hear his voice. That was the strange thing about their relationship: when he was here, she couldn’t stand the way he was on her, always around, snooping, checking up on her. But when he was gone, she missed him dearly. She thought of things they might do, like getting ice cream, or maybe going to the movies.

Not that he knew much about movies. But at least most times he would let her pick them. So it wouldn’t matter if he fell asleep in the theater, which he often did.

“How’s it going in there?” asked Martyak from the den.

“Slow.”

“Has your father checked in yet?”

“No.”

“No text?”

“He doesn’t usually text when he’s away. He calls.”

“Did he call?”

“No.”

“He said he would. Tonight.” Martyak came into the kitchen. Her jeans were at least two sizes too small, a look that did nothing for her. Her lumpy sweatshirt was something an old lady would wear. The guy she was dating must be half blind.

“You think he’s OK?” asked Martyak.

“My dad is always OK,” shot Borya.

“I’m just saying, he forgot to call. Maybe you should call him.”

“I don’t have his number.”

That was a lie so blatant that Borya couldn’t imagine why she had even said it. But the words were out there, and she couldn’t take them back.

“Well I have it,” said Martyak. She went back inside and got her cell phone.

“Here, I’ll call,” said Borya, picking up her own.

“Are you calling his overseas phone, or his domestic?” asked Martyak.

Domestic is such a weird word.

“Whichever one he answers,” said Borya.

“I’m calling his sat phone.” Martyak already had it dialed in.

Go ahead, thought Borya. Her father never answered that line; his regular phone nearly always worked in whatever country he was in.

Borya called the cell. But it went to voice mail after four rings.

“Hey, Daddy,” she said. “The babysitter is getting nervous because you haven’t called. I told her everything is fine. But, you know how girls are. I love you.”

She hung up.

“It says leave a message.” Martyak held up the phone, as if to show her.

“So? Leave one.”

“Mr. Tolevi, we were just checking in,” said Martyak. “Everything is fine here. We’re working on an essay on King Lear.”

Borya rolled her eyes.

“Hope to talk to you soon,” said Martyak, hanging up.

Borya and her father had a code — if she called on the sat phone, he would realize she really needed to talk to him, and he would call her right back from his cell. She figured the code would hold up even if it was the babysitter who called. She went over to the refrigerator, phone in hand, and got out some soda.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” said Martyak.

“That’s what I said.”

“Still working on Lear?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Want help?”

“Nope.”

“Goneril is my favorite character.”

She would be, thought Borya, staring at the computer screen.

Ten minutes passed. Fifteen. A half hour.

Really, Dad, what are you doing that’s more important than me?

60

“I hear you turned Johnny Givens down for a job,” said Chelsea, greeting Louis Massina when he walked into her office. “How come?”

“I didn’t turn him down. I told him there’d be a job for him when he got better. He still has a long way to go.”

“He didn’t hear that part,” said Chelsea. “The only part he heard was no.”

“That’s not my fault.”

“You know, Lou, you can be kind of, well, deaf sometimes. To other people’s emotions.”

Massina frowned. “Best to be direct in the long run,” he told her. “People appreciate you being honest.”

“Honest and blunt are different.”

“I wasn’t blunt.” Massina brushed his hand, tired of the argument. “What’s new with our ATM project?”

“It was an application layer attack on the local machines,” said Chelsea. “The solution isn’t difficult — it’s just fixing old code. But that’ll still be patchwork. I have a better system. I just need to test it.”

“Marketable?”

“Absolutely. The whole ATM system is ridiculous,” continued Chelsea. “It’s 1970s tech. I mean like, forget it.”

“Put together a task line and get ready to hand it off. I want you back on Peter. Las Vegas is coming up, and we need him ready.”

“You’re going to demonstrate him at a consumer show?”

“Why not?”

“You want to go into mass production?”

“Eventually.” Massina’s real goal was to kick a little sand into the eyes of a competitor who had just pulled out of the show. The bot was at least a year from any sort of regular production and even then it would be far too expensive for anyone but the most deep-pocketed company or the government to buy. But some wows from the media would look good in the marketing material.

“I talked to Flores, at the FBI, last night,” Chelsea added as he was about to leave. “He was trying to pump me for information on the girl.”

“Last night?”

“He made it look like a date.”

There was a wistful note in her voice.

Hmmmm, thought Massina. “What did he ask?”

“Nothing specific. But they’re definitely still working on the case, no matter what they told you.”

“If they want to cooperate, they should just come out and say that,” Massina told her. “You see? It’s best to be direct.”

“Should I tell Agent Jenkins that?”

“No. Let them come to us. Or me. You’re sure this girl is responsible?”

“No. But she’s smart enough. Maybe we should hire her.”

“You’re going to be running my HR department soon.”

Chelsea watched her boss leave. She wasn’t kidding about getting Borya Tolevi to work there. Not as a full-fledged employee: she needed to go to college and get more formal training. But the girl needed something to push her in the right direction. She was a smart kid, interested and intrigued — there was huge potential there if she just got the right chance.

She needed someone like Chelsea’s dad to push her. She didn’t have that.

That was the difference between them.

Maybe. Borya was far more rebellious. Chelsea would never have broken into an ATM network.

Not that she couldn’t have.

No, Borya was already a thief and a black hat hacker. If anything, she should be locked up in jail — and she would be if Chelsea told Jenkins what she knew.

Give her a job here? Ha!

Maybe it would steer her in the right direction. And Johnny Givens?

He was cute.

And incredibly strong. Mentally. It was impossible that he was out walking around. His face was still covered with scabs, his arms red with flash burns — and yet there he was, walking on artificial limbs Massina had invented.

Other people, too, but Massina mostly. The prosthetics were an obsession.

Chelsea rose from her workstation. Borya did remind her of herself, or a self she could have been under different circumstances.

How am I going to save her?

Massina headed home to change, then drove to the Antiquarian Club, where he had promised to put in an appearance at a fund-raiser. He didn’t particularly like playing VIP, but it was a favor to a member of his board of directors.

It meant putting on a tie as well as a suit. He fiddled with it in his bathroom, trying to get the knot centered perfectly. It wasn’t easy, and he was too distracted, thinking about a million things: ramping up production on a new bot line, repurposing an older generation of chips for handheld devices, the possibility of revamping ATM networks, Chelsea’s dalliance — or not — with the FBI agent.

And that little girl hacker.

Give the girl a job? Throw her in jail first. What’s wrong with parents today?

Thirty minutes later, tie still slightly askew, Massina walked into the lounge at the Antiquarian Club. The club’s name was not meant ironically — it was devoted to preserving the past, raising funds for the city’s museums and historical sites. He shook hands with the VIP host, then nodded his way to the bar, where he had just obtained a four-finger bourbon when a familiar voice scolded him.

“Now Louis, remember you have to give a speech,” said Sister Rose.

“Sister Rose Marie. Night off?”

“They cut the ball and chain for special events,” said the nun.

“I don’t have to say more than five words. That’s in my contract. What are you drinking?”

“Seltzer, please.”

“Not white wine?”

“Too early. I might tell some of the politicians what I think of them, and things would be awkward for the rest of the evening.”

“Sister, I don’t think you’ve ever offended anyone in your life. Even your insults are a blessing.”

“Don’t butter the bun on both sides, Louis. It’s likely to fall.”

Massina got her the drink.

“Your young man made remarkable progress,” she told him, sipping the seltzer daintily. “The drug regime is very, very good. And, of course, God was with him.”

“He came by and asked me for a job today.”

“Really?”

“I told him he has months to go. But he has the right attitude.”

“You can’t let him go back to work yet. He needs time.”

“I don’t intend to. Down the road, maybe.”

“Make it a long road, Louis. This is very fast.”

“If you’re thinking of poaching him, Sister, you’re welcome to take first shot. Half the people on my payroll work for you as it is. Or they think they do.”

“I’m worried about the effects as the drugs taper off.”

The mayor’s wife greeted Sister Rose, interrupting the conversation. Massina excused himself; spotting his board member, he went over and said hello. He soon found himself talking to a Harvard history professor who was an expert on the Revolutionary War and was working with an archaeologist planning to excavate a site near the harbor. The site was not that far from his laboratories.

Dinner passed quickly. Massina gave his very brief speech commending the organization with a slogan his PR director had suggested—The future needs the past to get ahead—and made his getaway as the session broke up.

Out front, he gave his car’s ticket to the valet and waited for the vehicle to arrive. Different projects flicked through his mind, problems, solutions.

Will Peter be ready to demonstrate?

How much of a test should it be given?

His car pulled up. He reached for his wallet to get a tip for the attendant.

At that same moment, someone behind him shoved a cloth bag over his head. Before he could react, something slammed into the back of his head. A curse died on his lips as he fell, unconscious.

61

Tolevi’s wife watched him run through the deserted streets. Somehow she kept up with him, even though she wasn’t moving. Dark clouds passed overhead. He looked up and saw they were airplanes, jet bombers. As he stared, they fell to earth, landing on legs that sprouted from their wings.

Robots.

He was surrounded. Their black metal smelled like coal dust and iron, pulverized grit.

He began to choke. He glanced up and his wife was looking at him, concerned.

“How are you here?” he asked her.

“You are dreaming,” she said. “You fell asleep.”

Tolevi woke with a hard shudder, disoriented. It took a moment to remember where he was: on the bench in the house near Donetsk.

People were moving around upstairs and inside. He seemed to have been forgotten.

Maybe I should just leave.

He got up, a little unsteady.

“So you’re back with us?” asked a bearded man at the end of the hallway.

Tolevi wasn’t sure he was speaking to him. “Me?”

“Come in here.”

Tolevi got up and walked down the hall, flexing the stiff muscles in his legs. He rubbed his shoulders; the house felt cold.

The bearded man sat behind a desk. The room looked like a den. There were stuffed animals on the shelves, and large animal heads on the wall: a lynx, an elk, a moose. The rug was striped; it took a moment for Tolevi to realize it was a leopard’s skin. Various small birds lined the shelves, the taxidermist having posed them in perfect gestures suggesting flight.

“Gabor Tolevi,” said the man. “Tell me why you shouldn’t be executed as a spy.”

“A spy?”

“And a smuggler.”

“I’m just a businessman.”

“Moscow likes you,” said the man behind the desk. He was speaking Russian, though his accent indicated he might be Ukrainian. More likely he was a Russian native but had spent considerable time in the republic before the war. “Yes, Moscow likes you, but I’m not sure.”

The man leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, revealing a tattoo on his right biceps. Most of it was obscured, but the bottom looked like a set of crossed swords at the base of a skull. “Your papers give you the right to import medicine,” he told Tolevi.

“Yes. It’s much needed.”

The man opened his desk drawer and took out a lighter. Picking up the papers on the desktop before him, he flicked, igniting the flame.

Tolevi debated whether to say anything. It didn’t seem worthwhile — what could he say to make the man stop?

Your people in Moscow asked me to do this?

That clearly had no weight.

The paper flared. The bearded man held on to it as the flames engulfed his hand, then he dropped the black curl to the desk.

“You’ll go back to America,” said the man. “You’re not needed here. I don’t care what Moscow says. We have plenty of black marketeers. All of them more honest than you and your masters in Moscow.”

“OK.”

The man laughed. “No argument?”

Tolevi shrugged. “What can I say?”

“Why did you go into that end of town?”

“I was looking for a place to store the goods.”

“Why would you need a storehouse?”

“If things went well, I wouldn’t. But in this sort of business — anything can happen.”

“Yes. You might lose your papers. You might go home empty-handed. And be lucky to get there.”

“I agree.”

The bearded man pushed his hand across the desk, removing the ashes that had fallen.

“One of my men will drive you to the city. Wait outside.”

Tolevi started to leave.

“I would not stay in Donetsk for very much longer,” added the bearded man. “It is not a safe place. Too many recidivists and anti-democrats marching around. You never know what may happen.”

62

Massina regained consciousness in a grungy room with a view of the Charles River. His hands were tied behind his back, and his feet were chained to the leg of the couch he’d been deposited on. He knew it had to be past midnight, though his watch had been taken, along with his wallet and phone.

While he was well off, Massina had never considered himself a prime target for kidnapping or even robbery. The company’s security forces were focused on the plant and IP, not his own person. So he looked at the situation the way he looked at everything unexpected: with great intellectual curiosity. What did these thugs think they were going to get, and why? How were they going about it? What were their assumptions and their motivations?

Money would be a good guess as to the latter.

Standing, he found he could move a few feet from the couch before being held back by the chain. He stretched as best he could, then tried to figure out where exactly he was by staring out the window at the darkened river.

Lights were scattered along the far shore. He thought he could see the outline of the bridge to his right, but the window wasn’t clean enough for him to get a good view of what was outside.

West maybe of Arsenal Street or Route 20.

He strained to see if there was traffic on the bridge — a lot of traffic would make it the highway, but he couldn’t tell from where he was standing.

“Awake, good!”

Massina jerked around. A man leaned up against the corner of the room. Massina hadn’t even realized he was there.

“You’re pretty rich, huh?” said the man.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

“Just to make sure you were OK. I apologize for the rough handling. It was a mistake. The people responsible have been punished.”

His face was obscured by the shadows, but Massina guessed that he was in his thirties. He spoke English with a heavy accent, Russian or German.

“Is this a kidnapping?”

“A kidnapping, no? Not even a robbery. Your wallet and phone are in the outside room.” The man stepped forward. His face was covered by a ski mask. Massina tried to guess his size — over six feet, but by how much?

“Here’s the key,” said the man, turning as he reached the door. He threw a small ball of tape at Massina, hitting him in the chest. The ball dropped to the floor near the couch. “You may go when you free yourself.”

“Who are you?”

“Friends. You may do well to take on investors,” added the man. “As insurance in the future.”

“What are you talking about?” demanded Massina, but the man left the room without answering.

63

Two burly men in civilian clothes drove Tolevi back to the city. They were quiet the whole way, but it didn’t take much to guess that they were Russians. The fact that they weren’t hiding their faces was a good sign, he thought: it meant they felt he had been sufficiently cowed not to be of further trouble.

It might also mean that they were going to kill him. He tried not to think about that possibility.

Whatever they were thinking, the less they knew about him, the better. The hotel key card was generic enough that it might not have been recognized; even if it had, a little misdirection might be useful. So he told the men to take him to the Ramada, which was on Shevchenka Boulevard near the reservoir. They dropped him there and took off quickly, not even bothering to wait until he entered the building.

Aside from the fact that the hotel was in eastern Ukraine — or the Donetsk People’s Republic — it was similar to every other Ramada on the planet. Tolevi went inside, nodded at the sleepy desk clerk, then walked over to the large coffeepot set up at the far end of the lobby. He filled a cup, then went out to the patio near the pool to sit, as if he were waiting for someone. He was surprised to find that his jaw, although painful as hell, was working. Maybe it wasn’t broken after all.

What he was really doing was sorting himself out. He’d lost his prepaid phone; he’d need a new one. Using either the sat phone or his regular cell, which were both back at the hotel, was now out of the question while he was in the city. The Russians used scanning technology just like the Americans; they might not be quite as sophisticated, but even they could figure out how to snag his number, location, and even conversations.

Without the documents permitting him to bring the drugs in, there was no sense contacting the men he’d planned to deal with. He’d only be putting them in danger, and at best he’d be cutting off the possibility of future deals. So that part of his trip was over.

SVR would not be happy. But they could take that up with the bearded Spetsnaz general.

More likely a colonel. Tolevi decided he would think of him as a colonel, though the man had not made his rank clear.

Were the Russians following him? The two men who’d dropped him off seemed not to care very much about him, but that could easily be a ruse.

Maybe they knew everything.

It was easy to get too paranoid, to let fear freeze you.

On the other hand, he had narrowly escaped death. The Russian operation against the loyalists had saved him.

But was that an accident? Or was that even part of a plan?

Too much thinking. Stop.

The coffee was terrible. Tolevi rose and dumped it on the concrete. He walked through the lobby and back out to the street, where he checked his watch.

Five past five.

Too early to see Fodor.

He decided he would get something to eat, then collect his luggage and ask the old man for a ride to the border. Surely he knew a way across.

Get home and regroup. He’d come up with something else for Medved.

It was a decent walk to the Donbass Hotel, a bit over twenty minutes. The air was still damp, but the predawn sky showed the clouds were breaking up; Tolevi guessed it would be a decent spring day once the sun came up. He imagined himself showing Borya Ukraine — not this Ukraine but the Ukraine of his youth.

An improbable dream now, but these idiots couldn’t stay at war forever; remove Putin and the conflict would likely evaporate. And Putin wasn’t as secure as the West believed.

Yes, but he would die before giving up power willingly? What Russian would?

Tolevi was lost in his thoughts as he neared the hotel. It was the fatigue and the calmness that came with having a plan. In a place like Donetsk — in any place really, given his profession — it was very dangerous, and he realized it as soon as he entered the lobby and saw Dan rising from a couch to confront him.

“You’re up,” said Tolevi in Russian, as matter-of-factly as he could muster. “I thought we weren’t meeting for another hour and a half.”

“Where have you been?”

“Just a walk,” said Tolevi. “Have you had breakfast?”

The other man glared at him. He had the look of someone who thought he’d been cheated, or about to be cheated.

“Come on,” added Tolevi. “Let’s get coffee and food.”

“Where?” demanded Dan.

“There’s a good place across the street,” said Tolevi. “Come.”

The café where he’d stopped the afternoon before was not yet open, but another shop farther along the block was. The owner was clearly a morning person; he greeted the two men warmly and struck up a conversation with Tolevi about how difficult it was to find good coffee anymore.

As the man went on with his complaints, Tolevi slyly eyed Dan. The driver’s anger had started to dissipate, but his body language said he didn’t trust Tolevi. That wasn’t particularly surprising, and in a way it was reassuring — he wasn’t trying to hide his feelings, which told Tolevi that he wasn’t working for the Russians at least, or probably anyone else.

But it didn’t mean Tolevi could trust him either.

He wouldn’t turn on him as long as he was expecting to be paid, Tolevi decided. After that, though…

Another customer came into the shop, and the owner ended the conversation.

“He talks a lot,” said Dan.

“Everyone has a story.”

“For all his complaints, you would think his coffee would be better.”

“It’s about what I had in Russia.”

“No. Russian coffee is better.”

Tolevi stirred his cup. The coffee wasn’t particularly good.

An opportunity?

“You know, driving a few suitcases of coffee over the border might be a good idea for you,” he suggested to the Russian. “You might be able to pick up some extra money.”

“Too risky.”

“No riskier than driving me across. Less.”

Dan shrugged.

“What if you had a permit?” asked Tolevi.

“Where would I get that?”

“Do you go across the borders a lot?”

“Enough.”

“Do you go west?”

“Into Ukraine? Of course.”

Just then a pair of twenty-something women entered the shop and came toward their table. Tolevi changed the subject, commenting on how pretty they looked. Dan glanced at them, then said they were nothing special.

“Maybe you’re right.” Tolevi pretended to agree. “I’m just deprived.”

“The beautiful women are in Crimea,” said Dan. “That’s the place to see them.”

“I agree with that.”

“You’ve been to Crimea recently?”

“A few weeks ago.”

Their breakfast came: rolls with mystery meat. It had a strong taste that hinted of sour anchovies; Tolevi ate anyway. He’d missed dinner and was operating on no sleep, something that always made him hungry. He hoped he wouldn’t pay for it later.

If the taste bothered Dan, it wasn’t obvious. He cleaned his plate in two gulps.

“I can get you to Crimea if you want,” offered the driver.

“It’s a long way,” said Tolevi.

“We can go directly. A few hours.”

Before the war, driving from Donetsk to the isthmus would have taken at least six hours. Now, assuming one could get across the two borders and make it through the potentially dangerous area in between, Tolevi reckoned it would be at least ten.

“How?” he asked Dan.

“I have a friend with a boat.”

“Where?”

“If you are serious, then we’ll talk about it,” said Dan. “You don’t need details. And you will have to pay.”

“No, I don’t need details. You’re right.”

“You want to leave today?”

Tolevi took a final sip of his coffee, working the small grinds that had been at the bottom of the cup around his tongue. Was the driver’s offer a trap?

“I have some things to do,” he told Dan, pulling out some rubles to pay. “Let’s see how the day goes before we decide.”

64

The police were professional.

That was the best and the worst Massina could say. They went through the building with him, checking for any overt sign of his captors; naturally there was none. They didn’t bother checking for fingerprints, let alone DNA.

“That’s CSI stuff,” said the lieutenant in charge. “It looks great on TV, and everyone thinks it’s a miracle drug, like aspirin, fixes everything, solves every crime. But look at this place.”

He swept his hand around the empty room. It was the top floor of a five-story office building that had not been occupied in more than a year. Its previous owners had leased it to a video game company that had gone bankrupt; since that time, it had been vacant, used mostly by vagrants and homeless drifters, except for a two-week stint a month before, when a film company rented out the floor.

“We wouldn’t know where to begin with DNA,” said the lieutenant apologetically. “There’s so much potential for things being around, for contamination—”

“Can’t you tell what’s fresh?” asked Massina.

The lieutenant’s sigh was the sort an exasperated parent might make when explaining to a three-year-old that the world was round for the five hundredth time.

Just because, kid. Don’t you get it?

They weren’t completely without leads: Massina’s Cadillac could be swept, though even there the police thought they’d find little. And they would look for video surveillance cameras at the club and on the route to the building. They had Massina sit with an artist, who tried to get a composite sketch of the man who’d spoken to him. But since he hadn’t seen the man’s actual face, they ended up with only the most generic description: roughly six foot, average build, foreign accent.

“I narrowed it down to maybe a tenth of Boston’s population,” said Massina sardonically when they were done.

“It’s a start,” said the artist.

I oughta nominate you for optimist of the year, Massina thought as he left.

Bozzone, Smart Metal’s head of security, was more sympathetic than the police, but he, too, offered little hope when he picked Massina up at the police station.

“The theory is, they made a mistake. They found out who you were and backed off,” said Bozzone after ushering his boss into one of the company cars, a GMC Jimmy. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Who were they looking for?” asked Massina.

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. There are plenty of possibilities. There are a bunch of people who have cars like yours.”

“Could this be related to the ATM scam?”

“They’re looking into that,” said Bozzone. “You might mention it to Jenkins. But from what they said to you, it doesn’t quite match. And Chelsea said that was a kid, right?”

“True.”

Bozzone walked through Massina’s house with him, carefully checking for signs of an intrusion even though the security system indicated there had been none.

“Put a hold on all your credit cards,” suggested Beefy after they were done. “And get new ones.”

“What a pain.” Massina walked to the kitchen.

“Better safe than sorry.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“I’d like to get back to sleep, if it’s all right.”

“Go on.”

The security director hesitated.

“What?” asked Massina.

“About that business with the ATMs.”

“You think it’s connected?”

“No. But I think you went over the line.”

Massina opened the cupboard and retrieved a box of green tea. He wasn’t particularly concerned about caffeine content; it was only a few hours to dawn, and he’d already decided he wasn’t going to get any meaningful sleep.

“I’m not trying to lecture you,” added Bozzone. “But once you start going down this road, you open yourself up to all sorts of things.”

“Noted. Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”

“I’m good.”

“Why don’t you go home, then?” Massina suggested. “I’m sure Tricia’s wondering what’s keeping you.”

“She could sleep through a hurricane,” said Beefy. “Thanks. I’ll see you Monday.”

Two hours later, having showered and done some yoga to loosen up, Massina headed in to his office. He loved coming to work, and Saturdays were his favorite days to be there; while the place was far from empty, his calendar was generally free, allowing him to roam at will. He liked to plant himself at the back of a lab and watch what was going on; he loved listening to conversations among engineers and scientists as they puzzled over problems. True, his presence often made such exchanges stilted, or cut them off prematurely, but he relished even the snippets of true creative endeavor and the conflict it sometimes brought. The words fail forward were more than a slogan to him. Wandering around his building kept him close to the hidden energy of the place.

Smart Metal’s vast array of projects was both an asset and a detriment from a business point of view — an asset because it continually presented fresh areas of commercialization, and a detriment because it divided the attention not just of Massina but his staff as well. If the company had been publically traded, it would have had to stop and focus on one area or another — probably robotics, as that was not only its most profitable area but also the one with the best growth potential. But that was one of the reasons Massina kept the business private: he wanted Smart Metal to do what he wanted it to do, which was varied and full of possibilities.

Massina went down to what they called “Underground Arena One,” a very large workspace under the back of the building. It had been excavated during World War II for some reason no longer remembered, then covered by a two-story addition to the building. During his renovation, Massina had had the floors above the basement gutted so that the space was just under fifty feet high, and completely open; some municipal convention centers were smaller.

Peter — RBT PJT 23.A to Massina — was undergoing new tests this morning on “his” intuition system, the AI component that was supposed to let the robot spontaneously make decisions. The tests were open ended, as the engineers did not know exactly what the machine would do — more or less the point, after all, of the whole spontaneity concept. Massina came in when the robot was surveying a row of cages occupied by puppies. The dogs, curious about the roving mechanical creature, barked wildly as it approached. Massina went over and stood by Chelsea, who was in charge of the AI section and had designed the test.

“What’s going to happen?” Massina asked as the robot paused in front of a rather rambunctious Dalmatian.

“I’m not sure.”

“What are you going to do if it decides to kill them because they’re so loud?”

Chelsea held up the unit’s remote. There was only one command showing on the touch screen: stop.

Massina smirked.

Peter peered in the cage, taking a series of measurements. Then it moved on to the next. Massina went to one of the monitoring units and saw that the bot was primarily interested in the dogs’ heartbeats and body temperatures. It worked its way down the row, then came back to the Dalmatian.

The bot reached one of its arms toward the cage. The Dalmatian, which had been barking loudly, quieted, then moved back. Haunches up, it prepared to spring. Massina heard a distinct warning growl above the yip and yap of the other dogs.

Peter withdrew its hand, snapped the lock on the cage, and pulled the door open. Then it backed out.

The bot had decided to free the dogs.

Confused, the Dalmatian hesitated before bolting from its pen. The robot, meanwhile, freed the shepherd mix next to it.

“You better turn it off,” Massina told Chelsea, suppressing a laugh. “We’ll never round them all up.”

Peter managed to free two more dogs before Chelsea pressed the Stop button. The animals took a victory lap around the caged area, then went over and sniffed their savior, perhaps wondering if there was a way they could return the favor. The support team went to work trying to corral them, moving in with treats and leashes.

“I’ll bet it thought they were in distress,” said Chelsea.

“A good theory,” said Massina. “I want to talk to you about something. Maybe upstairs, where things are a little quieter.”

“Tell me where we are with the ATM project,” said Massina as he pulled out his desk chair to sit.

“I have to pull together a proposal,” said Chelsea. “I didn’t get to it — I needed to make sure Peter was ready for the test so we stay on track.”

“You have a reasonable idea of what happened with the ATMs, though?”

“Reasonable, yes.”

“And it involved the girl?”

“Yes.”

“I was wrong.” Massina put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. “I should have told you not to look at the accounts.”

“I didn’t go into the accounts or the banking system,” said Chelsea. “I looked at the video.”

“You didn’t hack into the systems?”

“No, Lou. Not at all.”

“Good. Good on you.” He sat back in the chair. “I got carried away about working with the FBI. I should have been more thoughtful.”

“OK.”

There was a faraway look in his eyes, as if he’d already started thinking about something else.

“The girl,” said Chelsea.

“What about her?”

“She’s worth saving.”

“I’m sure the FBI—”

“They’ll throw her in jail,” interrupted Chelsea.

“That’s not where she belongs?”

“Hell no. And I’m not completely sure it was her,” added Chelsea. “Without hacking into the account—”

“Which you’re not going to do.”

“Check. So I don’t know with one hundred percent certainty that it was her.”

“But you strongly suspect her.”

“Yes.”

“Then we have to tell Jenkins that.”

“I agree. But I’d like to do it my way. And yes, I think she can be saved. She’s not evil. She’s just… a girl.”

65

Borya answered her cell phone as soon as it started to ring.

“Daddy?”

“Borya? This is Chelsea Goodman, from Smart Metal.”

“Oh.… Hello.”

“I was wondering if you’d like to continue your tour today.”

“Of your labs? Sure.” Borya glanced at Mary Martyak, who was sitting across from her at the kitchen table, finishing her lunch.

Always eating, the fat slob.

“Great,” said Chelsea. “I’m just driving up your block.”

“You are?”

“Can you come now?”

“Um…” Borya searched her mind for an excuse to give Martyak. “Wait a minute.”

“What’s going on?” asked the babysitter.

“A friend, um…”

Martyak looked at her. Borya couldn’t find the right words for a plausible lie.

Tell her the truth. Why not?

“A friend of mine wants to give me a tour of this cool lab where they make robots.” The words gushed from Borya’s mouth.

“Oh?”

“Want to come?” Borya asked.

“Where is it?”

“It’s here in Boston.”

“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

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

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 criminal 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.

“Do you trust me, Trevor?” asked Massina, sounding for just a moment like the kind man who had helped give Jenkins’s daughter a new lease on life. The words were exactly those he had used when they’d hesitated about the operations.

Do you trust me?

He’d nodded. What choice had he had? To see his daughter walk again, he’d have done anything.

And now?

What choice did he have, really?

“Let me call my boss,” he told Massina.

Borya looked up as Chelsea came into the room.

“We need you now,” she said. “Are you ready?”

“Did you find my dad?”

“We’re working on that,” Chelsea told her. “That’s going to take a little time.”

“Where is he?” asked Martyak. “He really should be involved. It’s his decision.”

“This is what’s best for Borya,” Chelsea told her. “And he can choose to ratify it or not. But otherwise, she’s going to jail. And for a long time. These are serious crimes.”

Borya lowered her head. If her father hadn’t been missing, all of this would have been different. She’d have been able to tough it out.

But losing him was too much. She felt as if she’d been stabbed with a knife a hundred times.

God, please, get him back. Make them help me! Get him back.

Borya glanced over at Beefy Bozzone, who’d been keeping them company, playing cards and telling her stories about dogs he’d owned. He seemed to have had nearly a hundred of them, with a particular fondness for pugs, “ ’cause you just about keep ’em in your pocket.”

His pocket, maybe. He was big.

“Are you going to come with me?” she asked him.

“No one’s gonna hurt you,” he told her.

“I know, but—”

“Yeah, I’ll come,” said Beefy. “And you guys owe me twenty cents and fifty-five,” pointing first to Borya, then to Martyak. “Don’t forget.”

“What?” asked Chelsea.

“Card game,” he explained. “A debt’s a debt.”

68

Tolevi brooded silently as they drove, angry with himself for not figuring out that Dan was a plant. It was the sort of mistake that could have gotten him killed — and still might.

The butcher’s brother sat behind him in the car. Aside from answering Tolevi’s question—“Are you the brother?”—in the affirmative, he’d said only one thing since getting in the car: “Starobeshevskaya.”

It turned out that Starobeshevskaya was a small city centered around a power plant some forty-five minutes south of Donetsk. The power plant and city were separated from the surrounding area on the north and west by a wide lake and reservoir. Security was intense; they were stopped at a checkpoint a mile from the only bridge on that side of the water, and nothing Dan said about “urgent business” could convince the poorly dressed rebel guard to let them through. His gun was persuasive, but the two cars parked across the approach made it clear this was not going to be the way into town.

They drove back about three kilometers and turned south, circling around the lake to approach the area from the east. There was another checkpoint; this time Tolevi handled it.

“I have business with the mayor,” he said in dismissive Russian, leaning across Dan as he rolled down the window. “We’re late.”

The man asked for their identity papers.

“We’re Russian, you idiot,” said Tolevi.

He grabbed Dan’s ID before he could give it to the guard.

“Drive!” he demanded.

Flustered, Dan threw the car into gear and drove ahead.

“Awful ballsy,” he said when they were clear.

“Sometimes you just have to play the part,” said Tolevi.

“He’ll probably call ahead,” said the brother from the back. He spoke in Ukrainian, while Dan and Tolevi had used Russian.

“That’ll be fine,” said Tolevi.

“Where do we go?” asked Dan.

“To the prison.” Tolevi turned around. “Tell me about your brother. Tell me everything you know.”

The butcher — Olak Urum — had been a member of the rebellion until a few months before. But he had fallen out with the leadership over two issues: first, he had opposed Russian “assistance” in the revolution, believing it would not only taint the movement but also lead to annexation, something he didn’t want. And second, he had become disillusioned over the amount of corruption in the newly installed “People’s Government.” Apparently he had made the mistake of protesting this to the head of the Donetsk People’s Army Council — the rebel leadership, of which he was a member — and had subsequently been arrested on trumped-up corruption charges. The butcher owned the shop; the brother was just a helper.

“The charges, they could make them because we always had meat,” said the butcher’s brother. He hadn’t bothered to give his first name. Tolevi decided that was fine; the less he knew, the better. “Even in the worst time, with the blockade, our shop was open.”

“And how did you manage that?” asked Tolevi.

“I don’t know. My brother handled the business always.”

Tolevi was skeptical — chickens were one thing, but only someone very well connected would be able to bring in large quantities of good beef.

“The people at the prison, did they know your brother before he was arrested?” Tolevi asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“Your brother wants to be saved?”

“He wants to liberate all of Ukraine,” said the brother. “He has information to expose the rebels. They are very corrupt. A reunion with the west is the only way.”

It wasn’t the most heartfelt declaration, Tolevi thought, but he wasn’t here to judge where the man’s ultimate loyalties lay. He was just here to get him the hell out of Donetsk.

The Starobeshevskaya power plant was a massive installation. It burned coal; despite claims that it was one of the “greenest” plants in Eastern Europe, a heavy smog hung over the region as they drove toward the town that supported it.

If the brother’s story was true, freeing the butcher would be relatively easy, so long as Tolevi could come up with the money. Dan’s presence convinced him that wouldn’t be a problem; he suspected that Johansen simply wanted a bit of distance between the Agency and the rebels if things went wrong. But before he could start spending the CIA’s money, he needed to get a feel for the situation. Who was the highest authority? Was the “mayor” beholden to the rebels who guarded the prison, or vice versa? Where were the Russians in all this?

Hopefully far away.

He also wanted to find out about the prison itself. If, as with many Ukrainian facilities, the prison was old and ill maintained, it might be easiest to bribe a few guards and skip the mayor or warden completely.

The first order of business was gathering information, and the best place to do that was in the local bars. Tolevi assigned Dan and the brother a job: find a good place to stay in town, the nearer city hall, the better. And then he went to drink in some gossip.

69

Many things about Johnny Givens’s new “condition” were strange, but the weirdest were the shoes.

The feet on his prosthetic legs had been designed to replicate his “original” feet, so that as much as possible walking felt like it always had been. And it did. Except when it came to putting on the shoes.

While Johnny had considerable control over his “feet” and could even wiggle his toes, the prosthetics could not be manipulated to quite the same degree as his “original” feet. This made it hard to get his old shoes on without a shoehorn. Even with a shoehorn it could be difficult; it was far easier to put the shoes on the feet when they were off his body. But though physically easier, mentally it was very difficult — there was no more obvious example that he was now literally half the man he had been.

And it was just strange, like dressing a mannequin. Only he was the mannequin.

Johnny adjusted the shoes and then began strapping the legs to his stumps. Unlike “conventional” prosthetic legs, Massina’s version used feedback via the nerve endings in what remained of his upper thighs to communicate with his brain, interfacing through a series of contacts implanted in the stumps. The arrangement didn’t fool his brain into thinking that he still had his original legs, but the feeling was close, as if he’d put on a heavy snowsuit and clunky boots.

Eventually, it might all feel very familiar, and even comfortable. Eventually.

In the meantime, there was enough flex, as well as support, in the prosthetics to allow him not only to walk but also to run fairly well. In fact, he could run faster and with far less fatigue, thanks to actuators in the leg that literally put a spring into his step. He suspected that he might do extremely well in next year’s marathon, assuming he was in shape to enter.

Which meant a lot of running in the meantime. And for want of something better to do, he decided to start training that evening.

One leg at a time, just like always.

Gestapo Bitch’s joke. He liked her now, admired the way she had goaded him into working harder and harder. She was the perfect bitch, as good as the drugs he was taking, maybe even better.

Johnny strapped on his legs and connected the electrodes. He pulled on his pants, making sure the Velcro straps at the bottom were secure; the pants had always been a tiny bit big.

They were very big at the waist now. Amazing how much weight he’d lost.

Don’t need to stretch these babies. Just grab the phone, some backup dough, and rock ’n’ roll.

Johnny slipped his wallet clip — which held his FBI creds, a credit card, and a few bucks in cash — into his pocket, next to the phone, and hit the road.

70

The mayor was, by all accounts, a man of extremely sober reputation, completely incorruptible.

The deputy mayor, on the other hand, was open to all offers, intending to make as much as he possibly could before he was fifty, then cash in and move to Crete. Crete was not only the most beautiful place in the world but it was also the home of the world’s most beautiful women, and when he was rich, the deputy mayor was going to bed them all, one by one. This was his God-given right, and anyone who stood in his way would answer for it.

Tolevi heard all of this from the deputy mayor himself, who held forth at кінської голови — Kins’ koyi Holovy, or Horse Head, a bar two blocks from town hall. The man weighed three hundred and fifty pounds if he weighed an ounce, and however he had managed to get his job, his fellow citizens, at least those in the bar, gave him a wide berth. He had a volatile temper, which he hinted at as he spoke, gesticulating wildly even when making a mild point. Three times as he and Tolevi spoke about the power plant and the local coal that fed it — the most benign subject Tolevi could imagine, short of the weather — the deputy mayor balled his fist up and slammed it on the table.

Tolevi could not have wished for a better person to deal with, temper or no. After most of the bar’s patrons had cleared out for the night, he suggested that they move to a table near the back.

“Why?” asked the deputy mayor.

“Maybe we can do business,” said Tolevi nonchalantly.

“What business?” The tone could not have been less pleasant if Tolevi had threatened to rape the man’s daughter. “What business with you, Russian?”

“I am actually from America,” said Tolevi. “And my business is bringing things to Ukraine, where my family was born.”

“What things?”

“Aspirin, cough medicine. And real coffee.”

“You can import these things to my town?”

“Let’s get a bottle and talk.”

The deputy mayor was fond of single malt scotch whisky, expensive under any conditions but outrageously priced here. Tolevi put down three hundred euro for a bottle of Macallan 12-year, which represented a markup approaching ten times what the original would have cost at the distillery.

He brought the bottle back to the table and poured the deputy mayor a drink, three fingers of scotch neat, no ice, no chaser.

The Ukrainian took the glass in hand, toasted the room, guzzled the liquor, and slid the glass back for a refill.

“Where’s yours?” he asked Tolevi as he took back the glass.

“I don’t like scotch.”

“I don’t drink alone.”

Sociable devil, aren’t you?

Tolevi reluctantly went to the bar for a glass and some ice. By the time he came back, the deputy mayor had drunk about a quarter of the bottle.

“So what is your business?” asked the deputy mayor.

“As I said, I bring things across the border,” said Tolevi. “My business is mainly in Crimea, but I’m looking to branch out.”

“Why here?”

“Because there is money to be made,” said Tolevi.

“We have our suppliers.”

“The shelves are bare in the pharmacies. No aspirin. And many other things.”

The deputy mayor shrugged. Clearly the man was a dolt.

“Band-Aids,” continued Tolevi. “Cough medicine—”

“We have many such items in town with the plant. They can get us anything we want. We are richer than Donetsk by far. Richer than Kiev. Even than Moscow.”

“How’s your coffee?” asked Tolevi.

It was the magic word. The deputy mayor lowered his drink.

“Tell me more about your business project,” he said. “How exactly does it work?”

71

Massina watched the girl as she described what she had done. Much of it was simply adapting program code she had found on so-called black sites on the dark Web — an illegal area used by hackers and other miscreants for various illegal purposes. She had a good understanding of how the different systems worked, and she knew how to look for “holes” or problems inherent in the programming.

She was creative. She was young. She was smart.

The question: Was she inherently evil? Or just a kid who needed guidance?

Chelsea was convinced it was the latter. But Massina could tell by looking at her face that she had some doubts as well.

Not that she would admit them to him.

Giving back the money was the first step. The girl hadn’t spent much; by the FBI’s accounting, less than five thousand. He’d agreed to guarantee a full recovery, which meant he’d be out that.

An investment? Or just a good deed?

What would Sister Rose Marie say?

Kiss it up to God, Louis.

Easy for a nun to say. They kissed everything up to God.

Jenkins and the U.S. attorney had gone home, as had his attorney. Massina, Chelsea, Borya, and her babysitter, who looked as if she’d been hit by a car, were the only ones in the conference room adjoining his office. Together, they’d finished off nearly two pizzas — one thing he could say for the kid, she could eat. The remains of the second pizza were in the box at the far end of the table.

He cleared his throat. “This is what I think,” he told her. “When your father comes home, he will review the arrangement my lawyer has worked out. You will give all of the money back.”

The girl nodded.

“The money that you’ve spent, you’ll pay off,” Massina continued, “by working here. Assuming your father is OK with that.”

“How much will I get paid?” she asked.

“We pay our interns fifteen dollars an hour.” It was a made-up figure — they had no interns. “You will work directly under Ms. Goodman’s supervision. If there is any hint of illegal activity, you will be fired. You understand that?”

Borya nodded.

“If your schoolwork slips, you will be laid off.”

She nodded again.

“You are a very lucky girl,” added Massina. “Ms. Goodman believes in you. As for me — the jury is out.”

“What does that mean?” asked Borya.

“It means that you have to prove yourself,” said Chelsea. “You have to be on your best behavior.”

“And you’ll find my dad?”

“We’re working on that,” said Massina.

Chelsea wasn’t sure whether it was the fatigue or the reality of what she had agreed to do. Whichever, she felt as if an immense weight of iron had settled onto her shoulders.

Borya was clearly worried about her father. When he turned out to be fine — which Jenkins said was surely the case, after checking with his superiors — how would Borya react? Would she renege on the whole deal?

Then she’d go to jail. Juvenile probably, according to the lawyer, though there was always a chance she could be prosecuted as an adult.

That would be a tremendous waste.

“Mr. Bozzone will drive you home,” Massina told Borya and Martyak. “He or someone on his staff will stay at your house until your father comes home.”

“I think we’ll be OK,” said Martyak.

“No. I want someone there,” said Massina. He got up. “We’re done here. Chelsea, can I see you for a moment in my office?”

Chelsea started to say good-bye to Borya. The girl hugged her, pressing tight against her chest.

“It’ll be all right,” Chelsea told her. “I promise.”

Don’t make promises you can’t keep!

She walked out with them to the hallway, where Beefy was waiting. Then she went to Massina’s office and knocked on the door.

“Come,” he said from inside.

He was sitting at his desk, thinking about something, hand supporting his chin.

“I know I have a lot to do,” Chelsea started. “I’ll make up for it tomorrow.”

“No one works on Sunday,” he said. “And relax. Peter is on schedule. I was impressed with the demonstration today. The bot will be fine for the demos.”

“Thank you.”

“You’ll have to get the ATM proposals into shape for a new team to take over,” he told her. “Make that your priority Monday.”

“Right, boss.”

He frowned. “So you trust her?”

“I think so.”

“I suppose I should ask you what your confidence level is,” he said. There was the slightest hint of wryness in his voice — the term was one they used when assessing the likely outcome of an experiment. “Have a good night.”

72

The hotel Dan and the butcher’s brother found in Starobeshevskaya was a scurvy place, filled with rats and smelling of stale cigarette smoke. Tolevi managed a few hours of sleep on sheets that looked as if they hadn’t been washed in months. Between that and the aftereffects of the scotch he’d had to consume with the deputy mayor, he felt as if he’d been dragged through a field at the back of a bulldozer, then run over a few times.

But there was work to be done. And now with the lay of the land exposed, he felt energized. He went downstairs and found Dan and the butcher’s brother sitting in the hotel’s small dining area, waiting for food.

“We’re getting eggs,” said Dan in his accented Ukrainian.

The kitchen was through a door to the left. Tolevi could see an old woman working at a stove. She was wearing a housedress; her gray hair was tied in a long braid that reached halfway down her back.

“I wouldn’t trust it,” Tolevi told them. “How’s the coffee?”

“Terrible.”

At that, he smiled.

The old woman walked out, wiping her hands on a towel. “For breakfast?”

“I’ll have some coffee,” he told her.

“Yes, yes. And what else?”

“Just that.”

“You must eat. You are skin and bones.”

“Just coffee. Where do you get your coffee?” he asked.

“Ahhh. Our troubles! We once had the finest coffee in the world. Now look at us. Nowhere can we find any that is good. We buy from Russia.”

She spit, shook her head, then went back to the kitchen.

“She’s right,” said the butcher’s brother. “This is terrible.”

“Opportunity knocks,” said Tolevi. “In the meantime, a full agenda today. Tell her I’ll take a rain check.”

“What are we doing?” asked Dan, starting to rise.

“You, not a thing. I have to talk to some people.”

“You need backup.”

“No, I don’t,” Tolevi told him. “Let me do what I do.”

Ten minutes later, Tolevi pushed a business card across the desk of the young man sitting at the entrance to the deputy mayor’s office. Though he was already losing his hair, the young man couldn’t have been a day past twenty-one. His face was a blotch of pimples, which ranged in color from bright pink to crusty red, and in size from microdots to a jagged mass about the size of an American dime. The latter had the misfortune of sitting on the young man’s forehead and was a great distraction as Tolevi explained that he had come to talk business with the kid’s boss.

“You’re far too early,” he said, studying Tolevi’s card. “He is never here before noon.”

“He told me eight.”

“Ha. You can never trust what he says after five.”

Five drinks or five o’clock? Tolevi wondered.

“We were going to the prison to visit the warden,” he told the young man. “Can you arrange that?”

“I am not sure.”

“Try. It has to do with a business deal the warden may be interested in.”

“It wouldn’t have been the warden. The warden is in Donetsk.”

“Who would it be then?”

The young man simply frowned and picked up the phone. Tolevi listened as he spoke to his counterpart at the prison.

“Olga Uvenski will see you in a half hour,” announced the aide. “If you leave now, you may get there in time. Security takes a while.”

It did, though not because it was thorough, which it was. The problem was that Tolevi had to run through the gamut of pat downs and metal detectors three different times, and more importantly had to be escorted from each by different guards, each of whom could be summoned only after a successful search. The guards took their time coming, responding from somewhere deep inside the complex — a cave perhaps, as they looked like Neanderthals and smelled not a little like sewage.

The prison was relatively new, with thick cement block walls, heavy steel gates, and generous rolls of razor wire even in the interior hallways. You couldn’t run in a straight line for more than twenty meters due to either barriers or the wire; there was even one twist-back on the large main stairway that led to the administrative section. Dozens of guards were scattered around, armed with long riot batons. Most were dressed in ill-fitting uniforms, and Tolevi got the sense that they were here more as a make-work project than out of any real need for security. A few joked, many listened to music on their phones, and nearly all were smoking cigarettes when he passed.

“You’re late,” said Olga Uvenski’s assistant when Tolevi finally arrived. The assistant was about the same age as the deputy mayor’s, but that was all they had in common. His skin was clear; tall and trim, he could have passed as a model.

“I apologize,” said Tolevi. “Is Ms. Uvenski in?”

“Wait.”

Tolevi sat in a leather seat at the side and folded his arms. The office was a few ticks above what he had expected, the furniture on par with what you’d find in the waiting room of a prosperous law firm in Boston.

That was a good sign.

Even better was the spring in Olga Uvenski’s step as she came out to meet him.

“A friend of Victor’s is a friend of mine,” she said, ushering himself inside.

Her office was decked out in enough fresh flowers to make a florist weep for joy. The furniture was even more impressive than what was in the waiting room. Her desk’s front featured an eagle head inlaid in cherry and oak, so highly polished that Tolevi could see a reflection of his shoes.

This was definitely his world, a place that knew no nationalities, where greed and weakness made anything possible. They were the counter to power, the remedy to the brutal Darwinian way of the universe, and even to the laws of physics. If you had money and wiles, you could escape any tyranny, or at least turn it to your advantage.

“And so, why did Victor send you?” Uvenski asked after her assistant brought them a tray of fresh tea.

“I notice that you offer tea rather than coffee,” said Tolevi, holding up his cup.

“You prefer coffee?”

“I suspect that you would, too, if the coffee were good.”

“Possibly.”

“Let me be frank. The deputy mayor and I are working on an arrangement that would provide coffee, among other things, to the area,” said Tolevi, launching into his pitch. “Good coffee, from South America. He is, well, I think of him as a franchisee. I import different things to parts of the world where they are sometimes not available. As you can tell from my accent, I am American, in a way.”

“You speak well. Your accent led me to believe you were Russian.”

“I have family there and in what is now west Ukraine, as well as the Donetsk People’s Republic.” He stepped lightly here, moving quickly. “A facility such as yours must need many items. I can supply them. I need to be able to bring things in bulk,” he added as an explanation. “To cover my costs. Unfortunately, they are significant, as you might guess.”

“What items would we need here?”

“Perhaps you would tell me.”

Uvenski, until now very neutral, leaned forward and, with a few words, showed why she ruled this domain. “I purchase items for the prison and the plant,” she told him with a sharp edge. “All items. Luxuries such as coffee are not needed here.”

“Ah well then, I guess my friend was simply making conversation.” Tolevi rose. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“Sit down, Mr. Tolevi. And let’s talk business. Meat. Beef. And yes, coffee. Fifty percent to me.”

“That’s a heavy percentage.”

“Half in goods, half cash.”

“Still. I have so many expenses. If those are taken into account—”

“Sit. Drink some more tea. Forty percent in cash, the rest in goods.”

“At that price, then I would need favors,” said Tolevi. “Another way for me to earn money, perhaps in a way you can’t. Some old employees are kept here. They would save me costs if they were on my payroll.”

“I do not think that is possible.”

“What if their parole were purchased? As part of the payment, one or two thrown in, for good will.”

“My good will or yours?”

“I have many high expenses. Forty percent — I doubt I can get a contract worth enough if the Russians oversee it. And without them, importation is too dangerous.”

“They don’t oversee anything. My budget comes from the Republic’s government, and with the power plant, we have a lot of leeway. I can guarantee the goods will arrive.”

“Forty percent then, and a dozen men.”

“Who?”

“I’ll supply a list.”

“If I wanted to make money that way, their families could pay me directly,” said Uvenski.

“Until one complained. Then you would find yourself accused of blackmail. Whereas if I did it, I am to blame.”

“Forty percent. I give you ten prisoners. You pay ten thousand euros per prisoner up front. I pick them.”

“You’ll pick people who can’t pay. I make the list. That’s a deal breaker. And you have to come down in price. My margins are very slim.”

Johansen would consider ten thousand euros to bail out the butcher a bargain. But one had to bargain.

“That’s my final offer.”

“Forget the prisoners,” he told her. “I don’t really know that business anyway. It was Victor who mentioned it, as a possible way of paying for the arrangements. I don’t need complications.”

“So, we have a deal?”

“I can’t afford it, even at forty percent. I’m sorry.” Tolevi rose to go. “Maybe some small shipments, something easy like aspirin or Band-Aids. But beyond that, to get coffee. I only get the best, because I drink it, and so it’s absurdly expensive. Everyone holds you up. So many payoffs just getting it on the ship.”

“Sit, Mr. Tolevi. Certainly we can work this out.”

By the time Tolevi emerged from the office, he had a tentative deal to supply the prison with medicine, coffee, and cigarettes at regular intervals for the next six months. To seal the deal, he would provide an up-front payment of ten thousand euros, to be transferred by wire to an account in Crete by the end of the week. In return, he would receive two prisoners, both of whom she said he could choose.

She then gave him a few suggestions, along with an idea of what he could probably get for them.

The butcher was not on her list, a minor matter — or so he hoped.

Tolevi got a tour of the facility on the way out. His guide — Uvenski’s assistant — walked him across a bridge that ran on the border of the exercise yard into an older brick building used as a storehouse for supplies. There was no direct connection between the building and the outside world; supplies had to be hand-carried past the outer wall and the rows of razor wire.

The aide was quite proud of this. Tolevi suppressed his disappointment.

Worse was the isolated building at the back end of the compound. This was a small, cubelike structure surrounded by a barbed-wire-topped fence and numerous warning signs indicating that the ground was mined on both sides of the fence.

“What’s in there?” Tolevi asked.

“Traitors.”

Back at municipal hall, the deputy mayor had not yet reported for work.

“You might have better luck looking for him where you found him last night,” suggested the young man.

“I’ll give that a try,” said Tolevi, anxious to close the deal.

73

Even the most insanely dedicated Smart Metal worker — and the description would apply to just about everyone — did not work on Sundays. That was an unbreakable rule set by Massina himself, and often enforced by a personal walkthrough shortly after midnight. As hard as he pushed his people, he thought the day off was critical for creativity — as well as religious observance, though this was unstated in his company’s policies.

He also liked having the building entirely to himself for a few hours.

The no-work policy was well known and absolute, so when he heard what sounded like footsteps below as he walked through the third-floor hallway, he dismissed the sound at first, thinking it just ambient echo of his own steps. But then the noise grew louder, and he thought he heard a whisper.

“Who is that?” he said aloud. “What’s going on?”

There was no answer.

Foolish. Massina walked to the security station near the elevator and tapped the screen. Everyone’s tag was coded, and the system kept track of everyone in the building. So it was a simple matter of typing a command to identify who was here.

It was him. With two guests.

“But I’m on the third floor, and they’re on the first,” Massina told the machine.

He clicked the rescan command, unsure whether he had typed a wrong command. But the system repeated the information. It was showing two Louis Massinas were in the building.

Which ought to have been an impossibility.

Massina lost himself in the problem for a moment. He was sure duplicate employees would set off an alarm within the system; both sets of IDs would be locked down and an alert would be sounded. But his ID superseded the system: he could go anywhere at any time, without being blocked.

The error must have to do with the way that part of the program was written — my ID overrides everything. And it has never been tested for two Louis Massinas.

The simplest things were always what tripped you up.

Massina got hold of himself. The first thing to do was to turn off his own transponder. That could only be done from one of the two master stations — one at the security control downstairs, and the other in his office.

Upstairs. Quickly.

“Someone is upstairs,” Stratowich told his two accomplices. “I thought the place was empty Sundays. Didn’t that article make a deal of that? The one Medved gave us?”

Neither man answered. Medved had supplied both men and the IDs, along with the schematic and information on the place’s layouts and security procedures. Clearly the intelligence had its limitations.

“Go take care of whoever it is,” Stratowich told the men. “I’ll get the robot thing.”

Fearing that the elevator would give him away, Massina decided to take the stairs to his office, moving as quickly as he dared without resorting to running, fearing it would make too much noise.

The door to the stairwell slipped from his hands as he went to shut it; it wasn’t a slam, but to him it sounded almost as loud as a firecracker.

It was too late to do anything about it. He bolted up the stairs, two at a time, running now for all he was worth until he reached the final landing. Nearly out of breath, he put his hand on the door and pulled it open, trying as hard as he could to be quiet. He squeezed out into the hall and this time held the door as it closed, holding it back so it wouldn’t slam.

The elevator was moving upward.

Massina let go of the door handle and bolted toward his office.

He heard the elevator opening behind him as he reached the outer door. He took his ID from his pocket and tapped it against the reader.

“Hey!” yelled one of the men who’d been in the elevator. “Hey!”

The door opened. Massina threw himself inside, then reached to hit the auto-close switch.

Something whizzed past as the door closed.

A bullet.

Jesus.

He ran to his office and shut the door. This was just a regular door, with an old-fashioned lock — something he guessed wouldn’t withstand a bullet.

How long would the outer door hold? Or the glass front of the office?

Stratowich cursed as soon as he heard the gunshots. His simple job was suddenly extremely complicated.

Get the robot thing and get the hell out!

He tapped the card on the door reader, but the door didn’t open. Instead, an alarm began to sound in the building.

What the hell?

“Shots fired, floor four,” said a mechanical voice. “Lockdown in effect.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic,” he cursed. “Where the hell are the damn stairs?”

Once it detected the gunshots through audio analysis, the security system was designed to shut all of the doors and contact the police. The labs were locked as a precaution. These could not be opened except by coded overrides; simply swatting the card reader wouldn’t do — a PIN number had to be spoken and the voice recognized. The elevator also shut down, and an alarm periodically rang through the building.

But any temptation to believe he was safe inside his office died in the fusillade of bullets that flew through the door at chest level. Massina’s insistence that his employees be able to see him was now a serious liability — the glass at the front of the office was thick, but not so thick that it couldn’t be shattered, as the two thugs in the hall were working to demonstrate.

Massina felt trapped by his own errors — the glass at the front of his office, the security flaw — who to blame for those but himself?

Kick yourself in the butt later. Right now, you need a way out.

74

Johnny Givens ran for about an hour, until finally he had had enough. Not that he was tired — in fact, he felt strong, ridiculously strong. He just didn’t feel like running anymore.

But he didn’t feel like going home either, so he started walking instead. He walked around the Common and Faneuil Hall, though it was closed. He walked to the Aquarium — also closed. He walked to the North End, where the Italian restaurants were still doing a decent business. Though dressed in his tracksuit, he knew he could be served at Lou’s Basement, a small place generally skipped by tourists and run by a man friendly to cops; the hostess got Johnny a place at the bar and he sat for a while, eating homemade ravioli and watching the end of the Red Sox game, a victory in Seattle. By the time the game was over, the place was ready to close. Johnny left a good tip and went out walking again, this time with more purpose — he was going home to bed.

All this energy was a by-product of the drugs he’d been given. The therapist and the doctors had made it clear what to expect. Throttle back, they said, or eventually you’re going to crash.

So it was time to go home, even though he didn’t feel like sleeping.

Though by now it was close to 1:00 a.m., this part of the city was still lively, and as he wound his way in the direction of the T — no sense walking all the way home — he found himself in the middle of a small crowd. He started listening to the different conversations. A couple was talking about parents coming for a visit; another sounded desperate to have children. A feeling of estrangement fell over him; the people were talking about things he had always wanted — marriage, family — but now thought he could never have.

The doctors claimed there was no physical reason he couldn’t have children, let alone a girlfriend or wife. But who would want a cripple? Who would want a man with mechanical legs, no matter how good they were? They might look real in the street; they might even carry him farther and faster than his “originals”—the marathon might be an interesting test — but he took them off when he got into bed.

He began feeling sorry for himself. That was a bad trap, something he knew he had to avoid, yet he couldn’t help it. It was as if a cloud settled on his head, blocking out the positive feelings he’d felt earlier. Maybe it was the drugs wearing down — he ought to have taken his nightly dosage by now.

Or maybe it was reality.

People say, Hey, you’re doing fantastic. You’re really something! You’re an inspiration.

What they don’t know is what it feels like inside. They don’t know how much it sucks, truly sucks, not to have real legs. Not to be a full person, to be only half.

And yet, he was stronger, wasn’t he? His upper body had responded to the medicine as well — he could bench-press twice his body weight, something he’d never been able to do before. Sure, rehab helped, but the drugs were like supersteroids.

This is really a new life. What are you going to do with it? Wallow in your shit? Or be somebody?

Johnny began to run. It was a trot, slow at first, barely above a walk, but gradually he picked up speed. He passed the entrance to the T.

Closed. He’d dawdled too long.

Have to go home by foot.

He pushed himself, running, and hoping that by running he could escape the cloud and its despair.

He’d been running for only a few minutes when he heard sirens nearby. Instincts took over — he began running in their direction, heading with them near the harbor. He took a turn and found himself two blocks from the Smart Metal building. A police car, lights flashing, was blocking the street nearby.

Johnny ran up to one of the officers, who was waving away traffic.

“John Givens,” he said, pulling out his wallet clip for his FBI credentials. “What’s up?”

“Got a call of an intruder up the street.”

“Where?”

“Number ten.”

“Damn,” said Johnny. “Backup coming?”

“Yeah,” said the officer, but Johnny barely heard — he was already sprinting in the direction of the building.

75

Chelsea rolled over in her bed, drifting from consciousness as the cell phone rang.

Who’s calling me in the middle of the night?

Crawling to the edge of the bed, she grabbed the phone.

“Hello?”

“What are you doing?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Beefy. Can you go over and stay with Borya? I just left. One of my security guys is with her and the babysitter, but I can tell they’re nervous.”

“What’s going on?”

“We have an intruder alert at the building. I have to check it out. I just want someone the girl knows. Not a big deal. I didn’t wake you, right?”

“Shit.”

“Oh — I’m sorry.”

“I’m on my way.”

Stratowich reached the top floor just in time to see one of Medved’s goons charge at the glass wall. He fell, twisting on the floor.

“What the hell are you doing?” Stratowich demanded.

“There’s someone inside,” said the man, whom Stratowich knew only as Tomas.

Stratowich examined the glass. It was cracked, but it hadn’t shattered.

“All right,” he said, kicking at the crack. He kicked a few times, and a large piece caved in. Two more kicks and he had an actual hole.

“I hear sirens,” said Paul, the other man.

Stratowich pressed his hand to his head, trying to think.

“We’ll take him prisoner,” he said finally. “He’ll know a way out, or we’ll use him as a hostage.”

A gush of wind hit Massina in the face as he climbed through the window onto the small ledge outside his office.

It was humiliating to be running from some low-level burglar in his own building, but preservation was more important than dignity.

There were sirens outside — at least the police would be here soon.

His left foot slipped as he moved along the ledge. The space was about two feet wide, with a two-foot double rail that ran around the outside. The railing was sturdy — during the reconstruction, it had anchored the workers’ scaffolds. But it was low, and Massina was worried about falling if he leaned against it and then lost his balance.

If he could get to the corner, he could climb up on the roof and wait.

Like a cat running from a dog.

And he hated cats.

The police had cordoned off the building and were waiting for the head of Smart Metal’s security unit before going in. They had to wait — the front door was locked.

Johnny walked around the side of the building. From the outside, at least, it looked as if nothing was wrong. The place looked like everything else downtown; quiet, buttoned up.

Then he saw someone walking along the top floor.

What the hell?

He stared at the top floor, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. A torso popped out of the window a few yards from the figure.

He had a gun.

I have to do something.

“Are there sharpshooters?” he yelled to one of the policemen nearby.

“What?”

“People are climbing around the side of the building.”

One of the officers came over with a pair of binoculars and scanned the building.

“Can I see those?” Johnny asked. “FBI,” he added, taking out his wallet to show his creds.

The cop handed over the binos.

The second guy definitely had a gun. He was yelling something at the man who’d gone out first. He was still moving along the side of the building, albeit slowly.

Massina. That’s Mr. Massina!

Massina continued toward the corner as the man at the window yelled at him to come back or he’d shoot.

The one thing I’m not doing is going back, thought Massina. Though I’d rather not fall either.

The roof pitched at the end closest to the river. Massina calculated that he could climb up if he could get a few feet farther. The man behind him was threatening to shoot, but he was far more concerned about keeping his footing than getting shot.

Massina’s artificial arm had a very strong grip. He reached up, digging its fingers against the bricks.

Something flew past. He heard the dull echo of a gun.

Bastard is trying to kill me.

Don’t help him by slipping.

Stratowich tucked the gun back into the holster. The idiot who’d gone out the window was trying to climb up onto the roof.

“You’re going to kill yourself, you shithead,” he yelled.

He might also get away. Which would give Stratowich exactly zero leverage with the police.

A small part of him knew he should go back inside and give up. But his adrenaline was flowing, and the idea of someone actually getting away from him filled him with rage. So he hauled himself up on the ledge and began to follow.

When I see Medved, probably in ten years, I’m going to break every bone in his body. His, and the bastards he’s working with. They sent me here with crappy information. “Easy money” my ass.

Stratowich glanced to his left. He was up at least seventy-five feet, more. It wouldn’t be a pleasant fall. He pushed himself against the ledge and worked his way toward the side of the building.

The man he’d been chasing was just climbing up onto the roof. Damn it.

There wasn’t supposed to have been anyone inside. Medved had assured him of that — easy in with the purloined ID, grab the little robot thing, and leave.

Simple.

Stratowich reached up and put his hand on the roof, feeling around to make sure he had a good grip. It was tar or something similar; in any event, it didn’t feel like it was going to give way. He reached up with his other hand.

Something kicked his right hand, mashing his fingers. He pulled back, then remembered where he was.

“Damn you!” he yelled in Russian. He tucked back down, huddling against the wall. “I’ll get you, mother fucker!”

Massina slid to his right, expecting the man to try again, this time closer to the edge, where he wouldn’t have to climb up so high. Sure enough, a hand appeared there. Massina kicked at it. This time the hand grabbed at his shoe and pulled. Massina kicked violently — the shoe flew off; the hand disappeared.

A moment later, a head popped up farther to the left. He was a big man.

“I’m going to throw you off the roof,” growled the man.

Massina backed up. The roof’s pitch was gentle, but otherwise it offered nothing to him — no cover, and no way down. The nearest building was a good fifty feet across the side street — no way he was jumping to that roof, even if it hadn’t been two stories higher.

One shoe on, one off, Massina calculated how he might fight the man. Most likely they would both roll off.

The man rose unsteadily at the edge of the roof. “I’m going to kill you,” he growled.

“Do it then,” said Massina. He lowered himself slightly, ready to shift his weight — if the man charged, he would slide out to the side, kick him in the face.

And pray.

“Arrrrrr!” yelled the man, as if he’d been a Viking berserker. He jerked forward, then fell flat on his face.

Massina hesitated a moment, unsure, then started forward to kick his antagonist in the face as he struggled to stay on the roof. Massina was still a few feet away when he realized someone else was behind the man, punching him in the back from the edge of the roof.

Johnny Givens.

Something inside Johnny exploded as his fist hit the man’s back. All of his frustration, all of his anger, flew into his muscles. He was a nor’easter, a monster, Godzilla come to life — the bastard who’d pursued Massina had no chance. As Johnny pounded the side of the man’s ribs, he felt them give way. More punches — it was like beating down cardboard for the recycling bin, and with as little conscience as that.

Terrible sounds came from the man — a howl first, then a groan, then a wheeze, then something like a plea, followed by a whimper.

What are you doing?

What are you doing?

Johnny heard his own voice echoing in the hollow of his head, coming from a long distance.

The man’s life was in his hands. He could throw him to the ground. He wanted to.

That’s not who I am.

He delivered one more punch, then pushed the bloodied, beaten man to the side. Behind him and below, a fire truck’s ladder was being quickly cranked upward. Police were shouting.

“Mr. Massina?” yelled Johnny. “Are you all right?”

“I’m here,” yelled Massina, farther up the roof. “I’m here.”

Chelsea had left Massina alone at the office, and when she couldn’t get him on his cell phone, she decided he must still be there and was in trouble. She rode her bike to Borya’s house, dropped it at the stoop, and ran up the steps to find the girl and the babysitter sitting in the living room with the security guard Beefy had left. No one there looked very comfortable.

But they were safe.

“I’m going over to the building,” she told them. “I think Mr. Massina’s there. I want to make sure he’s OK.”

“I’m going with you,” said Borya.

“That’s a really bad idea.”

“I am going. I’m part of the company.”

“Then we’re all going.”

Chelsea managed to convince the security officer to take them. Piling Chelsea’s bike into the back of the Jimmy, they drove over in time to find a pair of fire trucks maneuvering near the far end of the building.

Beefy was standing in a cluster of police officers, watching the trucks.

“What’s going on?” Chelsea asked. “Was there a fire, too?”

“Lou climbed up on the roof,” Bozzone told her. “He just about kicked one of the burglars down. Someone stopped him, though.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“God, it’s Johnny Givens,” said Chelsea, spotting him as he came down the ladder. “Our Johnny Givens.”

“The FBI guy?”

“Yeah, look. There’s Lou.”

Johnny waited for Massina as he came down off the fire truck. The police were lowering the intruder, who’d been handcuffed, on the other truck.

Chelsea ran to Massina and hugged him. “What were you doing on the roof, Lou?”

“I’m thinking of adding a patio,” said Massina.

Chelsea turned to Johnny. His shirt was smeared with sweat, black tar, and long streaks of blood.

“What were you doing?” she asked.

“Job interview,” said Johnny.

76

As his assistant had predicted, the deputy mayor was holding down his corner at the tavern where Tolevi had first found him. He was neither surprised to see Tolevi nor apologetic that he hadn’t met him at his office as planned.

“I talked to Olga at the prison,” Tolevi told him, sipping a vodka. “We have an arrangement. But her price is very high.”

“How much?”

“Forty percent.”

“Outrageous!”

“Yes. Half of it is in merchandise, at least. But I have to pay her ten thousand euros up front.”

“You should have waited for me. I could have driven a much better bargain.”

Tolevi shrugged. “If you can cut a better deal, it will go to your share. In the meantime, she will give us two prisoners we can charge for release. This way, I can recoup a little of my investment.”

“Ah, excellent idea. Which ones?”

“I have a man in mind. You can name the other.”

“Who is your man?”

“Olak Urum.”

The deputy mayor straightened, suddenly sober.

“Why do you want him?”

“I can get a good price. And he did me a favor before the war. Several, actually.”

“Olak Urum? He was involved in the rebellion. They won’t give you him.”

“I would think that’s a reason they would. He was one of theirs.”

“No. He betrayed the cause.”

“How?”

The deputy mayor shook his head.

“He will owe me and be of use then,” said Tolevi.

“You told Olga this?”

“Not yet.”

“She won’t agree. I guarantee.”

“Just get me another name. Someone who will pay at least fifteen thousand euros.”

“Fifteen thousand? Impossible. No one is worth that much. Not even your Olak.”

“Then name a friend if you want, someone who will owe us and be useful. There’s too much to do to haggle. We have real money to be made here.”

“How infamous is your brother?” Tolevi asked when they were all back in the car, heading toward Donetsk.

“He’s not.”

“Why is it that the deputy mayor doesn’t think I can get him out?”

“There was a falling out in the committee. Some people hate him. Some don’t.”

“What does the prison director, the deputy warden or whatever she is — what does she think?”

“I have no idea.”

Tolevi pondered this. “He’s in the most secure part of the prison.”

The brother scoffed. “The house? They have real beds there. Not like the rest.”

“How does he rate a bed?”

“Some of the guards like him.”

“Have you thought about bribing them yourself?”

“They may arrest me, too. For being his brother.”

Back in Donetsk two hours later, Tolevi bought three more phones. He realized now it was going to cost more than ten thousand euros to free Olak, but Tolevi had no doubt from his conversation with the warden that greed would win in the end. The only problem would be making the suitable connections and then ensuring follow-through.

Don’t trust too much. This is always the stage where things are most vulnerable. You get overly optimistic and forget to be suspicious. Paranoia is not a bad thing.

Paranoia did serve him well, but so did optimism. At the moment, Tolevi was feeling almost invincible. He knew he had to guard against overconfidence, but on the other hand, wasn’t confidence necessary for victory?

The de facto partition had made it difficult to get money transfers into Donetsk from anywhere but Russia. Tolevi called a man in Moscow who he knew would lend him the ten thousand euros he needed to satisfy the prison administrator, with another forty on call just in case.

The only problem was his interest rate — one hundred percent, compounded weekly.

The CIA was good for it. Tolevi hoped. If not, it would come out of the butcher’s bounty.

Agroros Bank had recently opened a branch in Donetsk. Tolevi spent an hour and a half establishing an account there, using his Russian papers. The bank official was friendly until they got to the final set of forms, which asked what business the account holder was in.

“Importing,” said Tolevi. “Medicines, mostly.”

“From?”

“South America.”

“This is what you do?”

“Yes.”

The man picked up the papers and went into the back. It wasn’t clear what the objection might be. As the minutes ticked by, Tolevi considered whether he might be better off just leaving. But that would mean he’d have to give up getting Olak, give up on the million dollars the Agency was going to pay him for getting him out.

The money or your life?

It’s not going to come to that.

Tolevi sat for nearly twenty minutes before the clerk emerged with another man, whom he introduced as the branch president.

“You are an importer?” asked the president.

“I have arrangements with friends in Moscow,” Tolevi told him. “We have papers from the trade ministry.”

“Can I see them?”

“They’re at the hotel.”

“You ship medicine?”

“Aspirin, things like that.”

“Nothing else?”

“Coffee.”

The branch president stuck out his hand. “Thank you very much for using us.”

77

It was Jenkins, called to the scene by Bozzone and Johnny Givens, who connected the attack on Massina with the forged entry at the building. The men who’d kidnapped him had been after his ID card; they’d copied it and returned it, along with everything else in the wallet. Massina had stopped his credit cards but hadn’t given the ID a thought. Its embedded data has been copied and used to get in.

“Basic mistake on my part,” said Bozzone as they debriefed what had happened. “I should have had the entire system reprogrammed.”

“We need to update our security,” said Massina. “I’ll take the blame. We’ll fix it.”

“And we need people in the building on Sundays,” said Bozzone. “The automated systems aren’t enough.”

Massina frowned. But Bozzone was right; having people in the loop did help deal with the unforeseen.

Sometimes.

“We’ll talk about it Monday,” he said. “Right now, I have to get to mass.”

Jenkins left the Smart Metal building feeling like he was rocket propelled. They had Stratowich on more than a dozen charges, from attempted murder down to breaking and entering. They could probably find a jaywalking charge in there, too.

Stratowich, a quick check showed, had definite connections to the Russian mafya.

And among his “possible associates” was Gabor Tolevi.

Bingo.

With all due respect to Massina, he’d obviously been taken in by the girl’s story. Tolevi undoubtedly had put her up to it, right before vamoosing. She might even know where he was; Jenkins recognized crocodile tears when he saw them.

Maybe he wouldn’t be able to touch Tolevi ultimately. But he’d be able to pressure him, and besides, Stratowich wouldn’t know that — he could tell him that Tolevi had caved. So Stratowich would have all the reason in the world to give up every SOB in the Russian mob to him.

Including the SOB who had killed his brother.

That was the real goal — not the ATMs, not even the mafya.

Burglary was a local crime, and Stratowich was taken to Boston police headquarters for questioning; he’d be processed from there. Jenkins woke the Bureau’s Boston PD liaison up and had her clear the way so he could question him before arraignment. That was a coup on her part, since the locals were always suspicious that the Feds would swoop in and grab their case from them.

They certainly had a lot of firepower on it: Jenkins counted three different lieutenants in the hallway outside the interrogation room, and the DA himself was inside making sure all the legal niceties were observed.

It was because of Massina. He was well liked, well respected… and rich. A trifecta when it came to police concern.

Jenkins made a beeline for Bill Grady, the homicide lieutenant in charge. Grady was a forty-something veteran whom Jenkins had met at a St. Patrick’s Day celebration some years before; their paths had crossed a few times since.

“I’m not here to steal your case,” Jenkins told him. “Your suspect is involved in something I’m working on, and I’d love to piggyback if I can. All credit to you.”

“I heard your guy was the one who made the actual grab on the roof,” said Grady.

“That’s right. He was talking about what a great job Boston PD did surrounding the building and getting him down.”

“We can share.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Just remember, it’s a two-way street,” said Grady.

“Absolutely.”

Grady clearly wanted something, and not something small. Payback would undoubtedly hurt. But Jenkins would worry about that down the road.

Jenkins watched the interrogation via a closed-circuit camera. Stratowich had invoked his constitutional right and didn’t look particularly worried, sitting silently, arms crossed, refusing to talk.

Maybe that’s why they don’t mind me being here, Jenkins thought. They’re not getting anything out of him anyway.

“Let me try a bit,” he told Grady. “Maybe I can loosen him up.”

“We’re not offering him a deal,” said the DA.

“I wasn’t going to suggest that. Just that he might be able to make things easier on himself if he talked.”

“We’re not offering a deal.”

“If you could roll up the entire Russian mob in Boston,” said Jenkins, “you wouldn’t offer him a deal?”

“Well…”

“But who would get the credit?” said Grady. “The Feds.”

“There would be enough credit on something like that to go around,” said Jenkins. “A lot of credit.”

“Only if the Boston PD was the lead agency.”

“And the prosecutions were local,” added the DA.

“Look, I don’t know the politics of it,” said Jenkins. “But I do know that this guy is connected to the guy I’ve been pursuing on an ATM case. And that he is in deep with the Russian mob.”

“We know that,” said Grady.

“So — you’re talking, what, at least two dozen other indictments. And you got the guy on attempted murder.” Jenkins shrugged. “You have a triple already. Why not go for a grand slam?”

78

A small bit of Tolevi’s paranoia had returned — enough to make him cautious when they saw the van parked outside the bar where he had arranged to meet the deputy mayor.

“Drive us around the block,” he told Dan.

“Why?”

“Just do it.” Tolevi reached beneath the seat, making sure his pistol was still in place.

“What’s going on?” asked the butcher’s brother from the back.

“I’ve seen that van before,” said Tolevi. It was similar to the one he’d been thrown into the other night. It might even be the same one.

Thousands of trucks like that. Even here.

They circled the block without seeing anything particularly exceptional. Starobeshevskaya was a sleepy village no matter what time of day it was.

But that van… surely it was the same one the Russian Spetsnaz had used.

“Go down by the power plant, then take me near the prison,” he told Dan.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. I just have a feeling.”

“A feeling?”

“If you don’t want to know the answer, why do you ask the question?”

Nothing exceptional was going on at either the jail or the power plant that Tolevi could tell; the guards looked half asleep, just as they had the other day. The Starobeshevskaya municipal building looked almost deserted — also the way it had looked the other day.

I’m really letting my emotions get the better of me. I have to relax. I’m so close to pulling this off that I see devils in every shadow.

He had Dan drop him off two blocks from the bar. The stroll calmed his slight case of nerves — as did the pistol, which he’d slipped under his jacket.

The bar was open, but the only patrons were two old crones sitting in a corner playing some sort of card game. A young woman was behind the bar, slowly drying glasses and setting them on the counter. She shrugged when Tolevi asked if she’d seen the deputy mayor.

“I just got here,” she told him. “Maybe he was here, maybe not.”

“Doesn’t he come in every day?”

“Have you tried his office?”

“That’s where I’m going next.”

The van was gone. Tolevi went inside to look for the pimple-faced assistant, but he wasn’t in. Neither was the deputy mayor. In fact, he had a hard time finding anyone in the building, on any of its floors; it wasn’t until he reached the third floor that he found someone, and he was a maintenance man.

“Say, I’m looking for the deputy mayor,” Tolevi said.

The man barely looked up from his mop.

“The deputy mayor,” repeated Tolevi. “Would you happen to know if he or his assistant is in?”

The man made as if he didn’t understand, even though Tolevi was speaking Ukrainian. He tried again. This time the man shook his head and pointed to his ears.

“You’re deaf?” asked Tolevi.

The man pointed again, then nodded.

No wonder you got the job, Tolevi thought as he went back downstairs.

He was just coming out of the building when the first Gaz drove up. Four Russian special forces troops, dressed in black uniforms with no insignias, hustled from the vehicle and began running to block off the street.

Tolevi backtracked quickly, going through the door and then running down the hall to the nearest trash can. He dumped his pistol there, then ran to the entrance on the west side of the building, hoping to get out there without being noticed.

The way was clear. He put his head down and went out, walking briskly toward the sidewalk and then turning to the left. As he did, a second Gaz sped down the road in his direction, stopping at the intersection behind him.

Tolevi slowed his pace slightly — he didn’t want to seem as if he was in a hurry to get away — and crossed the street. He could hear boots scraping and some instructions being barked, but no one accosted him as he reached the next corner and turned. Curious about what exactly was going on, he considered turning around and going back, but that was foolish; the Russians would not like bystanders. So instead he walked two more blocks, then turned to the south and made his way back to where he had left Dan and the butcher’s brother with the car.

Dan wasn’t there.

Damn it.

They had arranged to meet a few blocks away if there was trouble. Tolevi turned around and headed in that direction, but he saw another Russian military vehicle parked in the intersection a few yards from where Dan would have been. So he went back to the bar, figuring it was the best place to pick up gossip and hoping that he might find the deputy mayor there. But the bar was now empty; even the bartender was gone.

He decided to help himself to a drink while he considered what to do. Leaving two five-hundred ruble notes on the bar — about twenty dollars U.S. — he took a half-full bottle of vodka and a glass and sat down at a nearby table. He was just pouring himself a drink when a pair of Russian soldiers, all in black and wearing balaclavas covering their faces, rushed in. They looked over the place quickly, then came to him, pointing their AK-74 assault rifles at his face.

“Just having a drink,” he told them in Russian.

“On the floor,” barked one of the men.

He started to get up but was apparently moving too slowly for the men. One of them grabbed him and threw him to the ground. He started to protest, but a sharp kick in the small of his back knocked the wind out of him. He felt his wallet and identity papers being lifted from his pocket.

Another man came into the room.

“Let him up,” said the man after a few moments.

Tolevi got to his knees, still trying to catch his breath.

“Mr. Tolevi, again,” said the bearded Russian colonel standing behind him. It was the same man who had questioned him after the raid on the butcher’s shop. “When I told you to leave Donetsk, I had something much farther in mind.”

“I was never very good at geography,” said Tolevi.

The remark earned him a swift kick in the stomach. His reaction — to grab the colonel’s boot and twist him to the ground — earned him a nozzle strike to the temple, dropping him to the floor, unconscious.