Puppet Master

Flash forward

Massina looked up from the computer screens and scanned the small room he had created.

Is this what my work has come to? he asked himself. Is this what I want to do?

But there was no time for introspection, especially on such complicated questions. People’s lives were at stake — including, and especially, his people, people he had put here.

So the only question to ask was: How do I help them?

79 Real time

Tolevi woke up on a cement floor in a dark basement. He knew he’d made a huge mistake — very possibly a fatal one.

Never be a wiseass. First rule of business.

He turned over to his chest. His hands and feet were free.

Good sign or bad? He had no idea.

Managing to sit, he looked around, eyes slowly adjusting to the dimness. The wall nearby was laid-up stone. There were pipes and a very dirty casement window across from him.

Two red eyes stared at him from a short distance away. A rat.

Lovely.

He stomped his foot. The eyes didn’t move.

“You’re a brave little thing, huh?”

Tolevi took several steps before it scooted to the far corner.

An overhead light flicked on before Tolevi could reach the window. He shielded his eyes as a pair of boots came down the steps. He turned toward them, unsure what to expect.

A man — dressed in black, one of the Russians — came about halfway down and leaned over the staircase.

“Who are you?” Tolevi asked.

The man turned and went back up without answering. The light flicked off; the door at the top closed with a slam.

“Let me out!” yelled Tolevi in Russian. He went to the stairs and started up, not sure exactly what he was going to do.

The door opened as he got to the second step. It was the bearded colonel.

“You want more, Tolevi?” he snarled. “You think because some jackass at SVR has use for you that you are free to do what you please? You are mafya shit.”

“What’s your name and rank?” Tolevi demanded.

“What difference would that make to you?” The Russian stepped back and called to someone. “Bring him up here. Watch it — he fights like a girl, dirty.”

You’re the one who kicked me, thought Tolevi, but he said nothing, not even when the Spetsnaz soldier grabbed his arm and yanked him up the stairs. He was led to the kitchen — they were in a small house still in Starobeshevskaya, on the opposite side of the village from the power plant and prison.

The Russian who had kicked him was talking on the phone. The soldier pushed him into a chair. Tolevi sat, trying to make out the conversation, but the Russian was mostly listening.

“What’s your rank?” asked Tolevi when the man hung up.

“Higher than yours.” The Russian laughed. “Donetsk is without corruption, unlike Kiev. They don’t need smugglers like you. And your friends in Moscow.”

Tolevi said nothing.

“The deputy mayor has been arrested,” added the Russian. “The prison is now under Russian control. Volunteer control.”

“You’re Spetsnaz. I know. So what’s your beef with SVR — with Moscow? We’ll cut a deal. I know how these things work.”

“You know many things. Do you know to keep your mouth shut?”

Tolevi glared at him.

“Good. You are learning. I would arrest you, but I’m sure your friends in Moscow would raise a stink. That is where they draw the line. So here is what I am going to do. I am going to send you back to them. And you know what you are going to do?”

Tolevi shook his head.

“You will tell them that the volunteers don’t need their interference here. We don’t like mobsters, especially ones who are working with the West. Do you understand that?”

“You can tell them that yourself.”

“You don’t take me seriously, do you?” The Russian’s face flushed. “I’ll fix that.”

One of the soldiers behind Tolevi grabbed his arms. As Tolevi struggled, the Russian took something from his side and lunged toward Tolevi. As Tolevi struggled to get away, he felt something sharp and cold against the side of his head. Pain followed, then weakness that hollowed the center of his stomach and made him collapse.

The Russian threw something down on the floor. It was the bottom third of his ear.

“Deliver that to your friends in Moscow.”

80

Louis Massina stared out the window. Hard to believe that less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d climbed out the small opening and made his way along the ledge to the roof.

A ledge that now looked incredibly, harrowingly small in the daylight. And very slippery.

Lunacy. Or survival instinct.

That wasn’t going to happen again. He was never going to feel unsafe in his own building, let alone his office.

He’d already decided that he was going to keep the glass wall. The engineers had assured him they could replace the front with glass thick enough to be bullet- and shatterproof. Anything less would be giving in.

People working on Sunday. He would discourage it for most.

“Mr. Givens is ready,” said his assistant on the intercom.

“Send him in.”

Johnny Givens strode into the office, a big grin on his face. It would have been difficult for anyone who didn’t know him to realize that he was walking on two artificial legs.

“I finished all the paperwork,” said Givens.

“Have a seat.” Massina watched him fold himself into the chair. Simply recovering from his accident in such a short time was remarkable; there was much more here, much more.

Not Superman, not Frankenstein, but…

If you can do this with someone from a car accident, what else can you do? It is godlike, however blasphemous that may be.

“You’re not tired from last night?” Massina asked.

“A little, maybe. Because I didn’t have much sleep.”

“I talked to Jenkins and your personnel office at the FBI,” Massina told him. “They may be willing to keep you on at the Bureau, at your old job.”

“I don’t want that. I just did all the paperwork to work here.”

“A federal job does have its benefits.”

“So does this one. And it pays better. I’ve seen some of what you do,” said Givens. “I want to be involved. And this heart and legs — this is pretty special.”

“It is. There are downsides.”

“I know that.”

“The job is boring,” warned Massina. “Mostly, you’ll be a guard.”

“Are you rescinding your offer?” asked Givens.

“I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into,” said Massina.

“Mr. Bozzone and I talked about it. I’m sure I’ll do fine.”

“Good, then.” Massina went around the desk and extended his hand. “Welcome aboard.”

“Roger”—Test Robt RG/65-A — was a small bot constructed to look something like a miniature spaceman. His “hands” could manipulate objects and had optical sensors that were ten times as powerful as human eyes. But his function at Smart Metal was to test different AI learning routines and their relationship to chip design; in other words, help the scientists discover what processor and memory architectures were the best for learning.

Chelsea, who was leading the programming team, had invited Borya, their new intern, to witness the afternoon’s test.

“What we’re going to do now is a variation of the Three Kings test,” Chelsea told Borya as she finished going over the robot’s vital signs. “Do you know what the test is?”

Borya shook her head.

“It’s kind of a classic induction logic test. It comes from this story: There are three wise men or kings. Each is given a hat, either black or white. They can’t talk to each other, but they have to figure out what color hat they are wearing. They can’t see their hats, but they’re told that there is at least one of each color. So you ask the first king what color hat he is wearing. If he says he doesn’t know, then the next king should be able to answer, right?”

“Because he saw black and white, right?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s not much of a test.”

“Not for you. But let’s see what the robot does.”

Chelsea had placed three white balls in three boxes in front of the robot.

“Roger, wake up,” she said, walking to the bot.

The robot raised itself on its four legs.

“I have placed a black or white ball in the boxes in front of you,” she told it. “Open two boxes, and determine the color of the third ball. There is at least one ball of each color.”

The robot immediately moved to the first box.

“Chelsea,” hissed Borya. “You made a mistake in the instructions.”

Chelsea put her finger to her mouth, shushing her.

The robot opened the box, examined the white ball, then moved to the second.

“The third ball is black,” it declared.

“Why do you say that?” asked Chelsea.

“By logic. One ball must be black. Two white balls have been discovered.”

“Open the third box.”

Roger moved to the box and opened it.

“I have been mis-instructed,” said the robot. “This ball is white.”

Chelsea brought out three more boxes and set them down.

“Roger, same instructions as before.”

The robot opened two boxes, then stopped. “I do not know what color the third ball is.”

“Why?” asked Chelsea.

“Because the instructions may be faulty, as they were before.”

“Good. Roger, sleep mode.”

The robot settled down onto all fours.

“Did it pass the test?” asked Borya.

“So far.”

“Was the idea to see if it would use logic?”

“Partly it was to see if it would use the results of what it had learned to draw a conclusion and act on it a second time,” said Chelsea. “As it did that — and for us this was the important part — we recorded what was going on in its processing chips. We’ll compare all of that to a different version of its brain. Because we want to see what the best construction of the brain is. Is it just size?”

“The bigger the computer, right?”

“Well, humans don’t have the biggest brains on the planet, but they’re the smartest mammal.”

“Some are pretty dumb,” said Borya.

Chelsea laughed.

“So what’s next?” asked Borya.

“What’s next for you is homework,” said Chelsea. “Which means it’s time for you to go home.”

“Come on. This was just getting good.”

“Those are the rules. I’ll walk you out.”

“My dad still hasn’t called,” said Borya as they waited for the elevator. “The FBI guy told Beefy there’s nothing new.”

“Are you worried?” asked Chelsea.

“A little… A lot.”

“Mr. Jenkins is trying to get him to call,” Chelsea told her. “I’m sure he’s OK.”

“He doesn’t like him.”

“Jenkins? Why do you say that?”

“I can tell. He has that look.”

“So, that’s it, though, we just watch the kid?” Johnny asked Bozzone. “Were there threats?”

“No. But Lou’s worried, since there was a mafya connection. And the father has missed his calls to her. Two and two, right.”

“Sucks for the kid.”

“Yeah, well, just remember she was smart enough to run the ATM scam. I have it in four-hour shifts. Watch her. She’s, uh, a free spirit.”

“I saw.”

“Chelsea’s waiting with her in the lobby. When you get her home, don’t let her take her bike out. You’ll never keep up.”

Actually, Johnny thought he could. “Are we walking?”

“Take our pickup.” Bozzone pointed to the keys on the board at the side of the room. “You can drive, right?”

“Sure.”

Or at least I could before, thought Johnny as he headed for the elevator.

Borya recognized the security guy — Johnny Givens, from last night — as soon as he came down the stairs.

He was frowning. But his eyes widened when he saw Chelsea.

Ha! He likes her.

“I’m Johnny Givens,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ll be with you for the next four hours.”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” Borya asked playfully.

“There’s one right there. I’ll stay outside the door.”

“It was a hypothetical.” Borya looked at Chelsea. “Think he could pass the Three Kings test?”

“I’m sure he’d ace it. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

“Got it.”

“We’re going to go this way,” said Johnny. “I need to find the pickup truck.”

“I have my bike. I can just ride it home.”

“Is it a tandem?”

“What’s that?”

“A bicycle built for two.”

“Just one.”

“Then we’ll take the truck and put it in the back.”

“Why don’t we walk?”

“I’ll tell you what. If I’m with you later in the week, I’ll get a bike and we’ll bike together, all right? Unless you jog.”

“Jog?”

“You know, run. Like, exercise.”

“I could do that. But I’d rather bike.”

“All right.”

“You have a bike?”

“No.”

“You need one if you’re going to ride.”

“No shit.”

Borya laughed. “I know where you can get a good one.”

“Then we’ll go there the next time we work together.”

“Work?”

“I’m working. And you’re supposed to be doing your homework, right?”

“Don’t go dad on me. You were doing so well.”

“Here’s the elevator.”

None of the security guys were particularly friendly. This one, at least, seemed like he wasn’t a complete jerk.

“You have bionic legs, right?” she asked as they walked to the back hall and the entrance to the parking lot.

“They’re not bionic.”

“Can I see them?”

“Maybe later.”

“Just your legs,” she said quickly. “Not — you know.”

Johnny laughed. He stopped and pulled up his pants leg. “There.”

“It looks real.”

“That’s how they made it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as it did at first. But, sometimes. Yes.”

“Can I touch it?” asked Borya.

“I guess.”

Borya dropped to her knee and touched the exposed calf. It didn’t quite feel real, but the skin was soft, not hard, as she’d expected.

“Do you like it better?” she asked, rising as he pulled his pants leg back down.

“Better, no. But it may be pretty cool.”

“You’re a real hero,” said Borya.

“Come on, let’s get going,” said Johnny, in what Borya knew was a pretend-tough voice. “You have to do that homework, or they’re going to be on my ass.”

81

Shoved on a plane to Moscow by the SVR in Donetsk, Tolevi was met at Domodedovo International Airport by a mousy woman holding up a sign with his name on it. He considered just walking by, but realized that was foolish; the Russians could grab him any time they wanted. The woman looked at his ear, shook her head, then walked him to a car in the terminal’s no parking area, all without a word. They drove about fifteen minutes before arriving at a clinic; patched up by an elderly doctor whose Far Eastern Russian was difficult to decipher, Tolevi emerged to find an envelope with his name on it at the receptionist’s desk. Inside was his ticket, a baggage check claim for his luggage, and a stamped visa that expired three hours after the flight boarded.

He knew better than to dawdle, let alone ask questions. His ride was gone, but a cab to the airport easily arranged. It turned out that the visa’s timing was prescient; they sat at the gate for exactly two hours and fifty-five minutes past boarding time for reasons never announced; then they spent another half hour on the tarmac due to “air traffic controller problems.”

Flying coach nonstop from Moscow to New York — if it wasn’t the worst flight Tolevi had ever taken, it certainly ranked close. The plane itself wasn’t horrible — Aeroflot used an Airbus 330 for long-distance flights — but he was stuck in a middle seat with a snorer on his right and a woman who prayed to herself the entire time she wasn’t eating.

But when he landed, he was in the States, finally.

The first order of business after collecting his bag would be to find a pay phone. He hadn’t been able to call Borya the whole time he’d been gone. She’d be worried, as would Martyak.

Assuming Borya hadn’t killed Martyak by now. A definite possibility.

“Gabor Tolevi?”

Tolevi turned to see a tall, middle-aged man in a suit standing next to the rope at the gate exit.

He looked familiar.

“You’ll come with us,” said the man, flashing an ID. “Trevor Jenkins. FBI. We met in Boston. Come along with us.”

Another man in a suit rose from a chair at the front of the gate. Tolevi spotted two more men in suits rising at the edge of the waiting area.

“I have to call my daughter,” he said.

“You can do that from the car.”

“I don’t have a car.”

“We’re going to drive you,” said Jenkins. “We’ll take care of the luggage.”

The biggest surprise was waiting in the car, actually a large SUV with three rows of seats: Yuri Johansen.

“Good evening, Gabe,” said Johansen, sitting in the first row behind the driver. “Have a good flight?”

“The flight was terrible.” Tolevi had no option but to slide next to him. “My stay was worse.”

“You didn’t get our guy,” said Johansen.

Outside the truck, Jenkins shouted to some men boarding a vehicle behind them. Another vehicle pulled up in front. It was a regular caravan.

“I’m lucky I got out with my life,” Tolevi told Johansen. “One of the Russians in charge down there decided he liked me so much he cut off part of my ear as souvenir.”

Tolevi turned his head toward his CIA handler.

“I bet that hurts.”

“Jenkins said I could call my daughter. Is he FBI, or is he with you?”

“Bureau. Use his phone when he gets in.”

“I met Dan,” said Tolevi. “If you were going to have people there, you should have had more.”

“If we had access to more,” said Johansen, “do you think we would have sent you?”

Jenkins tapped the back of the driver’s seat and they pulled out, a three-vehicle parade to Boston. He didn’t particularly like the CIA officer, Johansen, let alone the arrangement the bosses had come to, but “make the best of it” was now the clear order of the day.

National interest and all that.

They were at the precipice of a huge bust, breaking not only the back of the Russian mob in Boston and New England but also some of its connections back to Russia and the Ukraine. Even if Tolevi didn’t cooperate and the CIA chose to keep him off limits, major criminals were going down. This meant cybercrime, prostitution, drugs, cigarette and vodka smuggling.

But the big prize was the Russian intelligence service connection.

Stratowich wasn’t talking yet, but he would. It was just a matter of time. They’d already gotten information from his apartment, his phone records, even his girlfriend.

The day before he broke into Smart Metal, he’d met with Maarav Medved, a known mafya chieftain; from him he’d received instructions on how to get into Smart Metal. Twenty minutes before that meeting, which had taken place at a restaurant in downtown Boston, two members of the Russian SVR had gone into the restaurant and sat with Medved — something the FBI knew from routine surveillance, and now a security video from a store just across the street.

How much they could make of the connection remained to be seen. The U.S. attorney had asked for a wiretap warrant on Medved; thus far the most interesting tidbit was information about which Russian prostitutes were the best in bed. But it was early days; Jenkins had no doubt they would end up with considerably more dirt, and undoubtedly have enough hard evidence to expose SVR operations. A serious win for him, even though his task group hadn’t been assigned to do that.

Getting Tolevi to play along would be useful. It was difficult, however, to judge exactly what the CIA’s attitude toward him was. They were as cagey as ever, barely admitting that they ran him, though it was obvious they had sent him to the Ukraine. He was a black marketer, flouting, if not breaking, U.S. laws on exporting goods to both Russia and the breakaway areas of Crimea and eastern Ukraine. He had connections to the mafya—Johansen insisted he wasn’t a member, though Jenkins was sure he was, even if it was a few rungs below Medved.

The one good thing about the SVR case — the CIA wouldn’t try to hound in on the glory. In fact, the Agency would stay as far away publically as possible, fearing they’d get into a tit-for-tat fight with their Russian rivals. That gave Jenkins’s bosses plenty of room to work with the locals, who of course wanted some measure of glory for having been lucky enough to be there when Jenkins’s man got Massina down.

Glory all around.

But he still didn’t have his brother’s murderer.

“I want to call my daughter,” said Tolevi.

“You’ll call her,” said Jenkins. “It’s a long ride.”

“Am I under arrest here?”

“No. Not at all.” Jenkins leaned forward. “If you want to get out, we can stop right here.”

They were on the Van Wyck Expressway; traffic was actually moving at a decent clip, unusual even for the middle of the day.

“What exactly do I owe this honor to?” said Tolevi.

“We’re all trying to cooperate,” said Jenkins. “We picked up a friend of yours, a Mr. Stratowich, who has been giving us a lot of information.”

“Stratowich.” Tolevi pronounced the name to rhyme with garbage, which completely synched with his tone.

“He speaks highly of you,” said Jenkins.

“I doubt that. He’s talking to you?”

Jenkins shrugged. No, Stratowich was many things, but not a squealer. Still, if you had him, you could get a lot of information, make connections.

“Stratowich is an asshole,” Tolevi told them. “I want to talk to my daughter.”

“If you’re so concerned about Borya,” said Jenkins, “why did you set her up to take the fall for your ATM scam?”

“What ATM scam? What is the obsession with ATMs?”

“You had nothing to do with that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. No. Listen, Stratowich is a goon. Strictly low level. He doesn’t have the brains to rob a candy store, let alone diddle with banks, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“A bag guy for Russian intelligence?” asked Jenkins.

Tolevi turned to Johansen. “What’s the game here?”

Johansen didn’t answer, pretending to stare out the window. Tolevi decided that he could use a little silence himself, so he sat back between them, feeling more than a little cramped in.

Middle seat blues: The theme of the last forty-eight hours.

It wasn’t until they were on the New England Thruway nearly a half hour later that Johansen broke the silence.

“So, you could not recover our friend the butcher,” said the CIA agent. “Tell me what happened.”

Tolevi glanced at Jenkins. Obviously these guys were working together.

“The Russians moved in,” Tolevi said. “They were apparently sweeping up the rebels who were corrupt. I got caught in the middle of that. The brother wasn’t much help. Nor, frankly, was Dan. I lost track of them.”

“How?”

Tolevi described what had happened, leaving out the SVR connection. If Johansen knew about it, he’d bring it up. Otherwise, it would open him up to too many questions, most of which he preferred not to answer.

“The man who cut your ear off is a colonel in the Spetsnaz,” Johansen told him. “He has a reputation for being honest. And ruthless.”

“I figured he was a colonel. He had that f-u look in his eyes they get when they’ve been in the army too long.”

“Where is your prize now?”

“Still in jail, as far as I know.”

“Describe it.”

Tolevi slumped back in the seat, trying to force a replay of his visit through his mind. But thoughts of his daughter kept getting in the way.

What am I going to tell her about my ear?

“Oh that… cut myself shaving.”

And the damn thing was throbbing out of control.

Times like this he really missed his wife. He missed her always, but right now even more. She would have soothed the way somehow, absorbed some of Borya’s shock.

The girl will freak. She thinks of me as indestructible. She is such a good kid.

“You’re describing an impenetrable fortress,” said Jenkins. It was the first sign that he was listening. Johansen shot him a look.

“It’s not easy to get into,” admitted Tolevi. “But I went through the front door. I would have been able to get him out. The money was all lined up. We need to take care of that.”

“The Russian took it over?” asked Johansen.

“It looked that way. There’s some sort of power struggle going on. I’d guess the Russians are in the middle of it.”

Johansen, satisfied for now, leaned back on the seat.

They really need me, thought Tolevi. He’s playing it too cool.

But do they need me as a patsy? Or because I’m the only hope they have?

Either way, there wasn’t enough in it for him to risk his life going back.

“What was your role in all this?” asked Jenkins. “Why are you involved?”

“Ask Yuri.”

“You can tell him,” said Johansen. “He knows you work with us.”

“I’m just trying to make a living. Sometimes I help an old friend out.”

“You make a living by smuggling things.”

“It’s not necessarily smuggling. I just find a way to get things people need from point A to point B, with a lot of interference in the middle.”

“You corrupt people.”

“No. I make my living off of other people’s greed,” said Tolevi. “They’re the ones who are corrupt.”

“Which explains why you had your daughter rip off those ATM machines.”

“You keep talking about ATM machines. I have no idea what you mean.”

“You know nothing?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“The night we arrested you—”

“He wasn’t technically arrested,” interrupted Johansen.

“The night we found you outside the bank with your daughter,” said Jenkins, correcting himself. “Why was she there?”

“She found an ATM card. Being a teenager, she wanted to try it. I punished her, don’t worry. She knows it was wrong.”

“She reprogrammed that ATM card as part of a scam.”

“What?”

“She programmed that card so it would put money into her account.”

“There’s no way my daughter would have done that.”

“That’s my point,” said Jenkins. “No fifteen-year-old girl is doing that. But she confessed. She took the fall for you.”

“Are we talking about my daughter?”

“Someone funneled over two hundred thousand dollars from people all across the city. Borya claims it was her.”

“Get away.”

“You know nothing about that?” asked Johansen.

“Borya did that? No way. She’s a good girl. There’s no way she did that.”

They stopped for a bathroom break and something to eat about two hours out of New York. On the way out of the restroom, Tolevi spotted a pay phone.

“I’m calling my daughter,” he told Jenkins.

Tolevi went to the phone and put in a quarter, then all his change to make the call.

He was still twenty-five cents short and had to borrow it from the agent.

He went straight to voice mail.

“Borya, this is your father. What the hell have you been doing with the banks? You are to talk to no one until I get there. Do you hear me? No one! And… do your damn homework.”

He slammed the phone into the receiver.

“Teenagers are tough, huh,” said Jenkins.

Tolevi gave him a death stare before starting back toward the car.

“I have a kid about the same age as yours,” said Jenkins, trailing along.

“I told her never to lie to me,” said Tolevi. “Never. How did she do this?”

“She claims she found some of the information on the Web and adapted the rest.”

“Bull. Someone put her up to it.”

“Who?”

“I’ll break his legs when I find out. I’ll feed him his balls. Was it Medved, one of his people? He’s a slime.”

“Not having your wife is hard, huh? I don’t think I could raise my girl on my own. She’s not as smart as yours, but she’s still a handful.”

“Everything is a test,” said Tolevi. “Everything.”

Johansen was waiting in the parking lot.

“I have to go deal with something,” he told Tolevi. “I’ll be back in touch.”

“When do I get my money?” said Tolevi. “I borrowed money to get the butcher out. It needs to be paid back with interest right away.”

“You didn’t get the butcher out. There’s no payment.”

“I need that money.”

“Get us the butcher.”

“The place is impenetrable,” said Tolevi. “You said it yourself.”

“Jenkins said it, not me. If you can’t do it, that’s not a problem. But we’re not going to pay you.”

“I really need the money.”

Johansen stared at him.

“I can’t go back to Donetsk,” said Tolevi. “Maybe not even Russia. Not for a while.”

“Then you have a lot of problems that I can’t solve, Gabe.” Johansen looked at Jenkins. “I’ll be in touch.”

82

Massina caught up with Sister Rose Marie as the nun made her way through the children’s ward. He watched her from the hall for a moment, talking with the little ones. For a woman who had never had any herself, she certainly seemed to have a way with children. She offered neither toys nor candy, yet the Good Humor ice cream truck couldn’t have gotten a brighter response as she walked through the large room, stopping at each bed. Her smile was contagious, but more so was her optimism; she exuded grace, to use the religious term, and the children were eager to soak it up.

As was he.

“I see your secret source of energy,” said Massina as she came out of the ward. “This is your fountain of youth.”

“It is. The Holy Spirit is strong with them. He always gives me energy.”

“What I have to do someday,” he told her, “is come up with a computer program that can duplicate your enthusiasm.”

She wagged her finger at him. “Computers are not people, Louis. They have no souls.”

“Maybe not yet.”

“Don’t blaspheme. Only God gives souls.”

“Why can’t God give a soul to a machine?” asked Massina. “Certainly He could. He could do anything.”

“You are always provocative, Louis. And maybe you are right. A machine with a human soul.”

“Or a machine soul, as God directs.”

“Now we are getting into areas that Sister Williams is better at,” said the hospital administrator. “Have you had lunch?”

“It’s nearly three.”

“Have you had lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Come with me to the cafeteria anyway. I assume you want to talk.”

“Yes.”

They walked to the end of the hallway, the Sister waving and nodding to patients and staff alike.

“I had a bad experience the other night,” Massina told her in the elevator.

“I saw the news. Someone broke into your building.”

“There’s a lot more to it than that,” said Massina. He had managed to keep much of the story — including the fact that he had escaped to the roof — out of the papers and TV broadcasts. He told her about it now, lowering his voice as they went into the patients’ cafeteria. Sister Rose liked to mingle with the families; she had gotten several ideas for improvements simply by overhearing complaints. This had become more difficult over the years, however; few people in town didn’t recognize her instantly.

Sister Rose selected a tuna salad from the refrigerated display, along with a water. Massina insisted on paying.

“It sounds like quite an ordeal,” said Sister Rose Marie when they sat down.

“It was. There was a moment — I cursed God for putting me up on that roof.”

“You climbed there yourself, though.”

“True. But I felt as if He wanted me to die. And I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to follow his will.”

“Louis, if you want to make a confession, Father Dalton will surely hear it.”

“He’ll just give me a couple of Hail Marys and Glory Bes and call it a day,” said Massina. “I had my doubts on my roof. I thought I was going to die.”

“But you didn’t. And so now, what else is it that you’re supposed to do?”

“That’s a point.”

“That’s the important point, isn’t it? We all have our moments. Peter had his moment of despair. Even Christ on the Cross. ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.’ But He wasn’t forsaken at all. And neither were you.”

“No,” agreed Massina.

“So what are you going to do?”

“A lot,” said Massina.

“Souls in machines?”

“More than that.” He looked around the cafeteria. He’d been so focused on that moment of doubt on the roof, his cursing at God, that he hadn’t looked at it as Sister Rose did. And hers was the proper view: It was a moment of affirmation. He was alive. It had to be God’s will.

So what was he going to do with that?

“I have a question for you, Sister.”

“Yes?”

“What you do — you’re obviously a force for good.”

“You’re very kind.”

“I wonder if there are limits to what we can do.”

“I can’t answer that for you, Louis.” She laughed. “You seem to have no limits.”

Massina remained serious. “You think it’s right to work against evil?”

“Of course. Someone has to. Someone has to fight.”

“Yes, we do.”

83

Chelsea went to the door of the lab and cleared the lock. The door flew open; Borya and Johnny Givens were standing in the hall.

“Today’s supposed to be a study day for you at school,” said Chelsea.

“I’m in trouble,” said Borya. “Can I come in?”

Inside the lab, Borya played the voice mail her father had left.

“You’re going to have to face the music,” Chelsea told her. “Even if it’s not going to be pleasant.”

“Can you be there? You and Johnny?”

Chelsea looked up at Johnny. He looked bemused.

“I’ll go for moral support,” said Chelsea. “You have to do the talking.”

“Can I do it here?”

“I don’t know.”

“In the lobby. So he sees I’m not lying about the internship. And that I’ve turned over a new leaf.”

“You’ve turned over a new leaf?” asked Chelsea.

“I work here. That’s new.”

“Let me check with Mr. Massina to see if it’s OK.”

Jenkins didn’t recognize the number on his cell phone, but he decided to answer it anyway.

“This is Jenkins.”

“Mr. Jenkins, this is Chelsea Goodman at Smart Metal.”

“Ms. Goodman. How are you?”

“I’m fine. I heard that you are bringing Borya Tolevi’s father back to Boston.”

“I’m giving him a ride, yes.”

“His daughter is at our building. She’d like to meet him here. She’s interning with us.”

“I…” He glanced over at Tolevi, who was staring out the window of the SUV. Tolevi had calmed some from earlier, but he was still clearly upset with his daughter. “Why there?”

“It was part of the deal for restitution.”

“But why meet there?”

“I think she wants to… explain what she did.”

“And I can listen?”

“That’s up to her. I checked with Lou. He said it’s fine. They have to stay in the lobby. No tour.”

“All right.”

Jenkins hung up, then leaned across the front seat and gave the driver the address.

“We’re making a stop before we get to your house,” Jenkins told Tolevi.

“Why?”

“To pick up your daughter.”

Every part of Borya’s body trembled as she stood in the hallway in front of the reception area. She was relieved that her father was on his way home, and safe.

And petrified at his anger, which came through loud and clear in his voice mail.

Her dad had punished her countless times. But this was going to be different.

At least he was home.

The first man through the door was the FBI agent, Mr. Jenkins. She didn’t see her dad.

And then there he was.

Borya forgot her fears and ran to him, throwing herself at his chest. Relieved, crying, joyful to hold him.

Tolevi held his daughter for a long moment, unsure what to say. He was extremely angry — so angry that he could feel his face burning.

And yet, how could he be mad at her?

Oh, he was angry. So angry.

PISSED!!!

But damn.

Baby.

“You and I have to talk,” he told her.

She clung harder.

“Mr. Tolevi, this is our lawyer,” said Chelsea. “He’ll explain the legal arrangements. No charges are to be filed. Full restitution is to be made.”

“I gave all the money back,” sobbed Borya. “I’m working here to pay the rest.”

“Maybe we should go someplace where there is more privacy,” suggested Chelsea. “There’s a space right over there.”

It wasn’t until Jenkins saw the way Borya clung to her father that he finally accepted that her father had nothing to do with the scheme. He thought of his own daughter, and what he would do if she had pulled a stunt like that.

No way would she ever do it. Not even close.

He should spend more time with her.

“So, let me understand this,” Tolevi told Chelsea. “There was a shortfall, and Borya is going to make it up by working here.”

“That’s right,” interrupted the attorney.

“Assuming you agree,” said Chelsea.

“I can pay whatever it is.”

“Wouldn’t it better if she worked it off?” asked Chelsea.

“I agree,” said Jenkins. “She’s showing some responsibility.”

Tolevi shot him a look.

“Just saying.”

“Borya,” Tolevi asked, “do you want to work here?”

“One hundred percent. You should see the cool stuff they have. Robots, computers—”

“We’ll discuss it at home,” he told her. “We’ll discuss it.”

Jenkins didn’t have to have a daughter to know that meant yes.

84

“I’d say we’re ninety-five percent sure the Russian intelligence service was involved,” Jenkins told Massina in his office after Tolevi and his daughter left. “I’d say one hundred percent, but nothing in life is certain.”

“They want our plans for the robot. And this Tolevi wasn’t involved?”

“No. Although he knows some of the players. The CIA had him under surveillance here. It’s Stratowich and this mafya chieftain, Medved. Medved has ties to what used to be the KGB. Your plans are worth a fortune. They figured you were an easy mark. Low-hanging fruit.”

“Because we don’t work on Sunday?”

“They got in. So they weren’t that wrong,” said Jenkins. “Right now, they’re laying low, worried about what Stratowich is telling us. But they’ll be back. They don’t give up when they want something.”

“I don’t expect them to.” Massina got up from his seat and began pacing around the office. The glass window still hadn’t been repaired. “We’ve had attempts before. All by computer, nothing like this.”

“You’re going to have to start taking precautions. Personal precautions. A bodyguard. Do you carry a gun?”

“Rarely. Not at work, certainly.”

“You might think about it.”

Massina walked to the window and looked out. The memory of the other night was going to remain with him for a long time. “This Tolevi — you’re sure he had nothing to do with the break-in?”

“I’d love to pin it on him,” admitted Jenkins, “but honestly, no. He skirts the line. He’s a criminal, if you ask me. But he knows what he can get away with, especially with the CIA backing him.”

“He got his ear cut off.”

“Maybe it will make him retire.”

“I would think it would make him angry,” said Massina. “And want revenge.”

Yes, thought Jenkins. Massina was right. Revenge.

He knew the emotion well. Though for him, it was more a question of justice.

Justice and revenge.

“So, we’ll keep in touch on this, right?” he asked Massina. “Share information? Your help on the ATMs was invaluable. I’m sorry I wasn’t as frank as I could have been. My hands were tied. I’ll try and keep them untied in the future.”

“So will I.”

85

As tired as he was, Tolevi couldn’t sleep. He paced around the apartment, prowling the rooms, pawing the small mementos and household items that reminded him of his daughter and his wife.

He had to be quiet. Borya was down the hall, sleeping in her room. Martyak was in the guest room; he could hear her snore.

He needed a permanent babysitter. That was one mistake. Even though Borya was a teenager now, she still needed someone to watch out for her full-time, if only to tell Tolevi when she was getting into trouble. He’d been far too lax.

She loved him, and he loved her. But that wasn’t the issue. She needed more discipline.

You would have thought the damn school would have given more morals. That’s what they’re there for. You can’t find a stricter school in Boston for girls.

Borya was the least of his problems, in the near term, at least.

He owed Medved a lot of money.

Maybe that would go away if the FBI rolled Stratowich.

Couldn’t count on that. If anything, that would amp the pressure to get the loan paid quickly.

So. Money…

The option for a quick payoff was getting the butcher out. And bribery wasn’t going to work, not while the bearded colonel was in Donetsk.

What they needed was someone who could break in and yank him out. If they had their own army.

Smart Metal’s robot? The thing Stratowich had videoed going into the building.

Tolevi sat down at the kitchen table and checked the e-mail account where the video had been sent. He recovered the video file (discarded but not erased when the e-mail was checked as “read”) and watched it several times, then went to Google Earth, finding a satellite view of the prison where the butcher was.

He worked the idea around in his mind. After an hour, he decided he had nothing to lose.

He got one of his sterile phones from his study. Then he sat down with a bottle of vodka and a large glass, called Johansen’s contact number, and waited for his return call.

86

It was the most extraordinary meeting Louis Massina had ever attended, and it took place in a room that had only four simple wooden folding chairs, each padded at their feet. The floor and ceiling were cement, as were the walls. These were isolated from the rest of the building by different layers of material, including a copper envelope that made it impossible to either transmit or receive electronic signals inside. To get here, Massina had submitted to two different searches and been escorted, even inside the men’s room.

When he walked in, three men were already waiting. He knew none of them, and they didn’t introduce themselves. All wore business suits but no ties. He sat in the open chair, a man on each side, and one across.

“We’re very familiar with your work on robots,” said the man across from him. “It’s quite amazing.”

“We try. I have a good team.”

“We’d like to enlist your help,” continued the man. “We have a situation overseas where we think one or more of your robots would be very useful. We’re trying to save the life of someone who might be helpful to the West. He’d be grateful, and so would we.”

“Who?” asked Massina.

“We need a commitment from you before we give you any more information,” said the man. “As I’m sure you can understand, this is a matter of very high national security. And frankly, if it were known that we wanted to rescue this man, he would most likely be put to death immediately.”

“I see.”

“You would not be at risk, neither you nor your people. We would take over one of your robots and—”

“Excuse me, but let me understand what we’re talking about. If you’re looking to buy one of the robots that we sell commercially, that’s not a problem. But if you’re talking about something else…”

The man who had been talking looked at the man on his left. The man reached into his suit jacket and took out a piece of paper.

“This robot. Or something similar.”

It was Peter.

“That’s an experimental bot. I’m afraid only my people can operate it.”

“That might be possible,” said the man on Massina’s right. “Given the time constraints, it might be the best solution. But there would be a certain danger involved. And I have to emphasize the amount of secrecy involved. We wouldn’t want your device falling into the wrong hands.”

“I agree.”

“If you decided to work with us,” said the man across from him, “the government would compensate you fairly. We would have to work out a lot of details, but if there’s no interest, or if you think this is not the sort of area you’d prefer to get involved in, then let’s all walk out of this room as we came. Friends.”

I’m not sure we came as friends, Massina thought.

“Anyone on your staff who was involved would need to pass extensive background checks,” said the man on the right. “Of course, we would do everything we could to keep you safe, and your device safe. But there would be no guarantees. We would destroy it if things didn’t work right.”

Massina decided the seats had been arranged to make him think the man opposite him was in charge, but it seemed more likely it was this man on his right. They were all self-assured, all confident, and they certainly spoke like leaders used to having people agree with them. But the others glanced at this man a certain way.

Do my managers look at me that way?

“Explosives could be rigged in the device,” said Massina, “timed to go off unless a command was given. And the programming is already set to erase itself within a certain period of time, as a security precaution; we download it with each use.”

A recent innovation, given the Russian interest.

“But my company would have to be adequately compensated for our risk,” added Massina.

“We would absolutely agree,” said the man across from him. “If you need time to decide, we can give you twelve hours.”

Massina looked at the man on his right, the one he thought was really in charge. “Answer one question: Does this involve the Russian intelligence service in any way?”

“It does. Not directly. But if we can rescue the man we’re talking about, then they will be harmed severely.”

“I’m in,” said Massina. “What are the details?”

87

Two weeks after his meeting at CIA headquarters, Louis Massina stood in front of a console in the sub-basement of the Smart Metal building, staring at a hastily erected array of 5K video screens mounted on a partition in front of him. A small, shielded building had been constructed inside Underground Arena One as part of the most important project of Massina’s life.

Or his biggest folly.

The miniature building within a building—“the box,” they called it — connected Smart Metal and a small, very select group of engineers and scientists, along with a half dozen CIA analysts and specialists, with a covert six-member task force on its way to the Donetsk People’s Republic. Besides feeds from Smart Metal’s own sensors on the ground, the building within a building was able to receive feeds from the CIA’s own covert networks and tie into a limited subset of the spy agency’s network. The building and much of its infrastructure were so secret that only a few of Massina’s own employees had been involved in its construction; security was provided by the Agency, much to the consternation of Bozzone, who’d had to argue strenuously to even be permitted inside as Massina’s personal bodyguard.

Massina had not only learned the identity of the three men he’d met with — Yuri Johansen, a senior officer in charge of the extraction project, Agency Deputy Director Michael Blitz, Johansen’s superior and the head of all covert activities at the CIA, and CIA Director James Colby — but he had also had extensive conversations with all three.

If this mission went well, Colby had promised, there would be room for many others in the future.

Massina wasn’t sure he wanted that. The next few days might decide.

Johansen stood next to him at the consoles, reviewing recent satellite images of the “target” with someone at Langley. The Russians were still in charge at the prison and apparently at town hall, if the presence of their vehicles was any indication. Dan — the Agency operative who’d worked with Tolevi — had been ordered to stay away as they prepared the mission. That was for his safety as well as security for the mission, but it deprived them of what the spooks called “humanint”—human intelligence, the sort of critical yet often seemingly casual information that only a human being on the spot could gather. It was heresy to the techies, but there were many times when gossip in a bar was far more valuable than the finest-grained image a satellite could provide.

Massina walked back and forth behind the control console, waiting for a connection to the team traveling to the Ukraine. While they could talk at any time over an ultra-secure network, the very fact that there were electronic transmissions could tip off Russian intelligence to the team’s presence. Even if this was only a very general threat, Johansen had insisted it be minimized, and until the actual launch of the mission, communications would be strictly limited to times and places that minimized detection.

A clock in the corner of the right-hand screen counted down the time to coms: 00:04:42. Four minutes, forty-two seconds.

Massina began pacing behind the console. Having his bots on the scene meant he needed to have at least one of his people there.

Chelsea had been the logical person, by far. And if it had been anywhere else, doing anything else, he wouldn’t have hesitated.

But…

Johansen, of course, had claimed there would be no danger, no exposure — she would be miles away from the prison. If someone was needed for last-minute programming and checks — something he, frankly, wasn’t entirely convinced was necessary — then so be it; this would be accomplished in Donetsk. She would be covered there, and with security. She could leave at any point, and nothing would implicate her in the “project.”

Completely safe.

Massina wondered if he had said that to Tolevi before he’d had part of his ear cut off.

Reservations aside, Chelsea had been the logical choice. Not only was she the most knowledgeable about Peter, the main bot being used, but she was also extremely familiar with the two other types of robots they were going to employ: Nighthawk, an aerial drone similar to (though larger than) the Hum they had used with the FBI, and Groucho, an off-the-shelf model that was considered disposable, chosen to provide diversion because its technology was not considered that advanced.

More advanced than what the Russians had, probably, but something the Chinese were already busy knocking off.

Chelsea had worked on all of those projects. She was young and athletic. She had already worked with the FBI. His reservations were strictly paternal — he felt very protective. Sexist maybe, because she was a young woman, but most likely he would have felt the same if one of his male engineers had been involved.

In the end, he’d decided to sound her out about it, expecting, knowing, that as soon as she heard of the project, she’d be all for it, regardless of the risks. That was the way she was. That was the way they all were.

Chelsea had all but asked when she could pack her bag.

The CIA had scooped her off for a three-day training session that was basically a mini-version of its SERE programs — the acronym for survival, evasion, resistance, escape, or what a person trapped behind enemy lines was supposed to do to survive.

It was a great course for combat pilots. Did it work for twenty-something computer geniuses? Hopefully they’d never find out.

Massina had had some of Peter’s components dumbed down, just in case something went wrong with the fail-safe circuits that would autokill it. Still, the modifications only lessened its value; what was left would spare its captor at least three years of heavy R&D, assuming they were smart enough to use it.

Massina had also insisted on sending one more employee on the team to help Chelsea: Bozzone. His sole responsibility was getting Chelsea back alive.

Period.

And now they were on their way.

You must fight evil. You must do what you can do. Whatever the costs.

Massina walked around to the side of the room. The communications screen announced that “Puppet Master” was ready to receive communications.

Puppet Master—the code name for Smart Metal’s “box.”

It was Johansen’s term. Running robots was a little like running puppets to someone outside the profession.

To Massina, the idea was to create robots that acted on their own. The opposite of a puppet master. But you could only explain so much.

Massina paced, trying to turn his thoughts upbeat.

What are the interesting aspects of this project?

The last wasn’t exactly a plus: not knowing what you didn’t know was always a poor starting condition in the field.

“They’re on the water, beyond Turkey,” declared Johansen. The team had just sent a signal indicating they were en route to Donetsk. “We’re under way.”

Three minutes early, thought Massina. I hope that’s a good sign.

88

Chelsea Goodman leaned over the gunwale and let loose. Even though she hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and it was now well past nightfall, an amazing amount of half-digested food shot from her mouth over the side of the speedboat. Out of all the dangers she’d been warned of, by both her boss and the CIA people, seasickness had never once been mentioned. And in fact, she’d never been seasick before.

Chelsea liked new adventures. Vomiting, unfortunately, wasn’t on the list.

Clinging to the side of the boat, she slipped down off her knees, settling onto the deck. She made her breathing more deliberate, trying to relax her stomach. But the hard chop of the boat made that almost impossible, no matter what yoga slogan she repeated to herself. In less than a minute, she was back over the side, spitting and puking some more.

“It’ll pass,” said Beefy, laying his hand gently on her back.

“Uh-huh,” was all Chelsea could manage, leaning her face into the sea’s spray.

Tolevi, standing in the cockpit of the speedboat, fixed his eyes on the light at starboard. It shone from the stern of a small fishing boat anchored off the Crimea Peninsula, maybe a half mile from shore. The boat was owned by one of their contacts; if there were any Russian patrol craft in the area, the light would be joined by another at the bow.

So far, so good. They’d gone nearly one hundred miles in the past three hours, setting off from Sinop, Turkey, a little village on the southern shore of the Black Sea. Tolevi ordinarily didn’t ship from there — his wares were too bulky and his shipments too large — but the CIA liked the village for a number of reasons, including its proximity to an airfield. Tolevi suspected the Russians were well aware of this and kept the village and its varied ports under constant surveillance, but he was unable to persuade Johansen. And as in all things, when the Agency decided on something, it simply refused to change its mind.

Agency. It was an immovable entity beyond anyone’s ability to control. Pigheaded and obtuse, and full of automatons with far less reasoning power, in Tolevi’s opinion, than those packed away in Chelsea’s boxes.

He had four of its agents with him, not counting the speedboat “driver,” whom Tolevi recognized as a contract worker from an earlier encounter. The man in charge of the CIA contingent — he insisted on being called Paul White, though that wasn’t even the name on his phony Turkish passport — was supposed to be taking orders from Tolevi, or at least consulting with him; that was the arrangement, as Johansen had made clear. But from the moment they’d met in Turkey, it was clear that White thought he was in charge.

Frankly, Tolevi wouldn’t have had him as a driver, let alone a team leader. He was brusque with everyone he met, and while he did speak Russian, he tried to make up with speed what he lacked in pronunciation. This only emphasized how poor his language skills were.

He didn’t sound much like a Turk either. Tolevi had no doubt their cover story would sink quickly if they were stopped.

Which was why his heart rate bumped up when a second light appeared on the fishing boat.

“I have Puppet Master,” announced White, who was sitting in the cabin just below. “Confirming we’re good.”

“Turn the god damned radio off!” yelled Tolevi. “We have a Russian patrol boat out there.”

“Where?” asked White.

“Why don’t you take a better look at the god damned radar and tell me? That’s what it’s for.”

Bozzone helped Chelsea to the bench in the open area aft of the speedboat’s cockpit and cabin. Her stomach was still queasy, but at least it was empty.

“Water?” he asked.

“No. What’s going on?”

“There’s a patrol boat or something. We got a warning.”

“Where?” asked Chelsea.

“Got me. Ukraine’s on our left.”

“To port.”

“Aren’t you the sailor,” scoffed Bozzone.

“How long?”

“Assuming we get past them and into the Kerch Strait, three more hours. Don’t sweat it; these guys probably do this all the time.”

Tolevi saw the dark outline of the Russian vessel about ten o’clock to port, long and dark and low against the black shadow of land behind it.

It was a big ship, probably a frigate.

Good thing, he thought. They won’t be interested in us small fry.

Except they appeared to be. “Picking up speed, coming our way,” said Porter, who was lookout on the port side. He was an ex-SEAL, which Tolevi found reassuring — if the frigate cut them in half, he’d be able to rescue everyone in the water.

Tolevi jammed the throttle, hoping for a few more knots. The choppy water was cutting down on his speed; he was having trouble sustaining fifty knots.

Still, that was good speed, and he was easily outpacing the frigate.

Wasn’t going to outrun its radio, though. There would be other patrols up in the straits.

Maybe they’d be interested, maybe not. It wasn’t clear that they’d seen them, after all.

“You want to talk to Puppet Master?” asked White.

“No, for crap sake. Tell them we’re good and get the hell off the radio. I can tell you work for the government,” Tolevi added sarcastically. “You’d never make it in the real world.”

89

“Puppet Master, we are five-by. Signing off.”

“We copy,” said Johansen. He looked up from his station. “They’re good. Just coming up to Kerch Strait, between Crimea and Russia. Once they’re beyond that, there are very few patrols they have to worry about. Four hours from now, they’ll be in Berdyans’k, eastern Ukraine. Or Donetsk Republic, if that’s your preference.”

“There’s a Russian ship nearby,” said Massina, looking at the sitrep screen. It was a satellite map that plotted the team’s position against a constantly updated grid of military and police assets in the region. Touching the screen delivered specific information about the asset — in this case, the Russian guided missile cruiser Moskva. The cruiser was the pride of the Black Sea fleet, its flagship and by far the most powerful craft in the area. Even its smallest gun could blast the speedboat out of the water.

“They know it,” said Johansen. “They’re avoiding it. There are patrol boats in the strait as well. It’s nothing to get too excited about. Tolevi deals with this all the time.”

“He told Bozzone he hasn’t personally gone with a shipment on the Black Sea since before the war,” said Massina pointedly.

“It’s like riding a bicycle. You don’t forget.”

90

They were past the big Russian ship, but, as Tolevi had expected, there was something else ahead, in the middle of the strait — smaller and quicker. A Rubin-class patrol boat, he suspected, capable of giving them serious problems.

Not as fast as he was, though. And not quite sure where he was yet, anyway.

Tolevi guided his speedboat eastward, heading in the direction of Tuzla Island, a spit of land that jutted out into the strait from Russia. The water there was shallow, not a problem for his craft as long as he was careful about it.

The patrol boat, which would have to be more careful, changed direction as well, heading toward them.

“They’re broadcasting to unknown vessel, asking it to identify itself,” said the CIA man handling the radios. “Maybe they do know we’re here.”

“Or maybe it’s a bluff,” said Tolevi. “We’re not helping.”

Would have been nice if Puppet Master IDed what we’re dealing with, Tolevi thought. Surely they could have done that. What the hell are they good for?

“Ignore them,” added Tolevi.

“Yeah, I wasn’t going to answer.”

The strait narrowed beyond the island, to a choke point less than three miles wide. There was a small Russian naval base near it. If the Russians were serious about stopping them, they could scramble boats from there to virtually blockade the strait.

Tolevi checked his gauges. He had enough fuel in the oversized tanks and auxiliary to get back to Turkey.

Scratch the mission, give it a couple of days before trying again?

Who knew what would happen in the meantime? More than two weeks had passed since he was last in Donetsk. The more time passed…

Just get it done.

White poked his head out of the cabin. “What are you doing?”

“Ducking a Russian patrol, what do you think?” spat Tolevi. “I’m going to slide around to the east.”

“You’re heading right toward their base.”

“Relax. We’re not worth getting out of bed for.”

“They can sink us from shore.”

“Unlikely.”

Actually, Tolevi had lost a boat to Russian patrols just after the Crimea takeover, probably in circumstances like this. But this wasn’t a good time to share that information.

“Everybody just hold on,” he announced. “I have to do some maneuvers.”

“Depth is getting very shallow.”

“I can see that.”

He angled closer to the shore, then cut his speed, unsure in the dark what might be ahead. The patrol boat was still coming east, though it was now pointing a little south.

“He can’t follow us here,” Tolevi told White as he cut the motor almost to idle. “We’ll be quiet and slip north.”

“Then what?”

“I’ll tell you that when I figure it out.”

Still a little queasy, Chelsea twisted around on the bench to see what they were running from. The Russian patrol boat was playing searchlights across the water less than two miles away.

“They don’t have a good idea where we are,” said Bozzone. “We’re close enough to the shore that they lose us in the clutter. Their radars are not as good as the radars in the West.”

Something clunked on the far side of the boat.

“Damn!” cursed Tolevi at the wheel.

The motor revved. They tipped sideways. For a moment, Chelsea thought they were going over. Then the boat suddenly surged ahead, swerving and righting itself.

“We gotta make it in one piece!” shouted Beefy.

“Everybody quiet,” responded Tolevi coldly. “Sound carries on the water. Besides, I need to concentrate.”

Tolevi tucked back toward the deeper water. He had the shadow of land on his left.

The next fifteen minutes were critical. If he could get far enough north before the patrol boat turned, he’d be free — it could never keep up in the shallow water.

On the other hand, if it turned back west and went north now, it could make a race of it. With the island between them, he would have an edge in speed, but it would have a shorter distance.

Fifty-fifty.

Of course, if it turned, it was giving up blocking him from going south. But he’d already discarded that possibility.

A minute passed. Another.

Once past the bottleneck, he’d be good. Keep going.

“She’s turning off,” said Porter.

“Giving up?”

“Moving pretty fast,” said the CIA officer. “West, northwest.”

“Damn,” muttered Tolevi. He slammed the throttle, trying to make the most of his head start.

91

“There are two more patrol boats coming out in the north,” said Johansen, pointing to the sitrep screen.

“Can we warn them?” asked Massina.

“That will tip the Russians off that something’s there. Better letting Tolevi handle it.”

Massina dropped into his chair, hands behind his head. His artificial limb felt cold.

Helpless.

92

Tolevi cut the engines, listening to the radio chatter. The Russians were definitely looking for them.

He was north of the island, a few hundred yards south of a rocky isthmus that poked down from the Russian side. If it weren’t for the naval base directly ahead, he could just slide along the beach in the shallow water. But the radio made it clear that the Russians there were alert and he’d have little chance of getting away without being spotted.

“Let me see your NOD,” he told Porter, asking for his night glasses.

The lookout came over with them.

“Take the helm. Just stay on this course, dead ahead, slow, not too much closer to the land.”

“No worries there.”

Tolevi took the glasses and climbed up onto the forward deck, bracing himself on the rail. He couldn’t see the Russian patrol boat that had followed him, or any of the other boats they were talking to.

There was a merchant ship, a smallish cargo carrier, about a mile away in the channel, heading north.

My shadow.

Tolevi scrambled back to the wheel. Revving the motor, he started in a beeline for the cargo ship.

“Keep watching for the patrol boats,” he told Porter and the other lookout. “They’re going to come right down there. Probably they’ll split, one forward, one kind of back up on either side, probably toward land, figuring we’re hiding in the shadows. I’m going to swing around that cargo boat and ride near it for a bit.”

“That’s right in the middle of the channel.”

“Yes.”

Chelsea watched the lights of the cargo vessel grow. It seemed oblivious to them.

“He’s using the bigger boat to hide,” explained Bozzone. “Old smugglers’ trick.”

If there were people aboard the cargo vessel — and surely there were — Chelsea couldn’t see them. The large, lumbering craft stayed on its course, moving very slowly parallel to the shore, in exactly the direction they were taking.

There were one or two ships beyond, one moving north, one coming south. The speedboat slid around the port side of the cargo vessel, slowing to ride parallel.

“There’s the patrol boat,” said Beefy, pointing aft.

“It’s what’s ahead that counts, right?” asked Chelsea. She got up, legs still rubbery, and made her way over to the cockpit area.

“Another patrol boat further north,” said White, emerging from below. “They’re talking back and forth.”

“They see us?”

“No, but I think they may suspect we’re near the cargo craft.”

“What if you had a diversion?” asked Chelsea. “Make them think we’re somewhere else?”

“Brilliant,” mocked Tolevi. “You have something like a destroyer handy?”

“How about some flares?”

“That’ll show them where we are. Go back to throwing up.”

What an asshole.

“If we load some flares on one of the drones and set them off back near the shore,” said Chelsea tightly, “maybe they’ll think we crashed.”

Tolevi didn’t answer.

“Well?” she asked.

“If you can do it, sure,” he told her, the edge in his voice gone.

Chelsea wobbled back to Bozzone.

“Help me get one of the Nighthawks ready,” she told him.

There were two patrol boats north, one right at the choke point and another somewhere farther north, according to the radio steaming toward it. Meanwhile, the craft they had ducked to the south was steaming northward.

Tolevi edged the speedboat so close to the cargo ship that he could just about touch the hull.

One good set of waves and they would be swimming. But at least according to the radio chatter, the Russians still weren’t sure where they were. The cargo ship was like a shield, blocking their view.

Not for long. The boat from the south told the others it was heading for it.

“If you’re launching that UAV,” Tolevi told Chelsea, “do it quick.”

Chelsea inspected the small, battery-powered UAV as Bozzone pulled it from its case. With a wingspan roughly as wide as a desk, the UAV was designed for slow, silent surveillance. It had two electric engines, one front, one back. Unlike Peter, it was not fully autonomous; it needed to be programmed in advance, or, alternatively, it could follow radio commands.

There was a small payload carriage underneath. She could attach a flare there, but how to ignite it?

“How about we put a flare gun there?” suggested Bozzone. “Rig the payload claws to fire it.”

“Yes!”

Chelsea saw it in her head. Rather than firing the flare outward, though, she would fire it at a jug of fuel.

“I need a gas can,” she told Bozzone.

“We can’t afford to lose any fuel,” warned Tolevi.

“We can’t afford to get caught,” she snapped. “I need some of those straps.”

The cargo vessel slowed, complying with an order from the Russians to heave to. Tolevi decided his best bet was to slip in front and run for it. That would hide him from the craft to the south, probably, but definitely expose him to the ships north.

One problem at a time.

He didn’t think Chelsea’s diversion was going to work. But at least the girl was trying to do something, unlike White.

“Stand by!” yelled Chelsea behind him.

The drone started up. It sounded like a miniature electric fan, and not a particularly strong one.

“More speed would make it easier to launch,” she said.

“That’s easy,” said Tolevi, reaching for the throttle.

Before they’d left, Chelsea had practiced flying the Nighthawks, but launching from a moving platform was always tricky. The aircraft dipped as she revved it off the deck, ducking left and heading for the waves. Come on, damn you!

As if hearing her thoughts, the little hawk spurt upward. Chelsea brought the joystick even, leveling off at about a hundred feet. There was just enough light from the deck of the cargo ship to see its outline as she turned it eastward.

The speedboat bounced sharply against the waves as it picked up speed. Chelsea took her hand off the stick, worried she might inadvertently jerk the little UAV into the water.

“It would be great if you could keep the boat smooth!” she shouted.

“It would be even better if we could sprout wings and fly,” said Tolevi.

The control panel had a thirteen-inch screen that plotted the aircraft’s position via GPS; optical feeds from the UAV could also be selected. Chelsea nudged the plane east in the direction of the shore. It didn’t move very fast; at top speed it wouldn’t even be able to stay with the speedboat.

It reached 30.3 knots.

“How far is the eastern shore?” she asked.

“A little more than a mile and a half,” said Bozzone.

“Do we have that diversion or not?” asked Tolevi.

“I need a minute and a half,” said Chelsea.

“Patrol boat is rounding the cargo ship,” said Porter. “They’ll have a clear view in a few seconds.”

Chelsea switched the control pad to cargo mode, which allowed her to manipulate the claws on the underbelly.

She pressed the right claw button.

Nothing happened.

Damn.

There was another harbor to port about a mile ahead. It was primarily for cargo, with a set of slips at the southwest side used by ferries.

Most likely there would be Russians there, or at least some sort of night watch. But going ashore was better than swimming. There was always a chance they could bribe their way past trouble, unlike on the water.

Assuming they made it in one piece. The Russians were broadcasting to the unknown boat again, and they sounded angry.

Chelsea looked at the controls. What had she done wrong?

She hit the button again, but nothing happened.

Left, right, port, aft…

Oh my God, I wired it upside down.

She hit the button for the other claw.

Red light exploded in the sky nearly two miles away, illuminating the night.

“There’s your diversion,” she said, quickly releasing the flare and its trigger.

Tolevi could see the ferry landing less than a mile away when White yelled from below that the Russians to the north had just spotted the flare.

“They’re going to check it out,” he yelled from below.

“Porter, where’s that patrol boat?” asked Tolevi.

“Just pulling even with the cargo ship. Got their lights on them.”

“They coming for us?”

“Can’t tell.”

Tolevi veered away from the landing, heading north at full speed.

Chelsea guided the drone back in their direction, but the speedboat was pulling steadily away.

“You’re going to have to slow down so the Nighthawk can catch up,” she told Tolevi.

“No way,” he answered. “We don’t have time to wait for your toy.”

“That toy just saved our butts.”

“We’re not out of trouble yet. I still have a boat north of us.”

Chelsea was too busy trying to fly the aircraft to see what was going on around her. The speedboat was moving as quickly as it could, very close to the western shore. She caught a glimpse of searchlights off the starboard side.

“Four miles to open water,” said Tolevi. “Push, pray, or get out of the way.”

She set the course on auto, which allowed the UAV to continue flying on its own, then selected the infrared image. One of the Russian patrol boats was less than a half mile from the plane, just to the left. She could see two sailors running on the forward deck.

Then it was past.

There was another ahead, this one at about two o’clock.

Painted black and relatively small, the UAV was not only invisible to the radar aboard the patrol boat but difficult for its crew to spot visually as well. And the boat easily drowned out the electric drone of its motor. There was no sign that the boat had spotted the aircraft.

The vessel grew larger. She could see its profile, long and sleek, like a miniature yacht with a deck gun on top.

“That second boat, the one still in front of us, it looks like it’s coming in our direction,” she told Tolevi.

“No shit.”

Something flashed on the deck.

“I think they’re firing at us,” she said.

Tolevi’s heart pounded as a geyser erupted a hundred yards away. When was the last time he’d been fired at?

Never by a patrol boat.

Bad time for a first.

“They stopped ordering us to stop,” yelled White.

“Get your life jackets on,” answered Tolevi. “Pick out a spot on the shore and swim for it if we go down.”

At this rate, there was no way the Nighthawk was going to catch up to the speedboat. But the Russian craft, slowing in its turn, was less than a half mile away.

The bridge was a huge greenhouse atop a sloping superstructure, with large plate-glass windows all around. She could see it plainly in the screen.

Chelsea nudged the stick until the windows were dead on in the screen. She aimed at the one closest to the bow.

Another shell whizzed overhead.

“Typical Russian aim,” snickered Tolevi.

Chelsea nudged the stick a little higher. The plate-glass window grew large in the screen.

Then it went black.

Something flared on the Russian patrol boat. Tolevi glanced in its direction, then continued steering, ducking as close to shore as he dared.

Two more miles. Two more. Then just north.

Porter came over and started to pull a life jacket over Tolevi’s head. Tolevi started to resist, then realized what he was doing.

But there were no other shells.

“I got this,” he said aloud, sensing they’d made it.

“Russian is dead in the water,” said White a moment later. “They claim their bridge was hit by a missile.”

Tolevi looked back at Chelsea.

“You hit it with the UAV?”

“Dead on.”

“Nice,” he told her. “Double ration of vodka at dinner tonight.”

“I prefer beer,” she told him. “Or better, a Coke.”

93

“They’re past the Russian ships,” said Johansen. “There was an explosion on one of the Russian vessels. Very fortunate.”

Massina, greatly relieved, got out of his seat. He doubted luck had anything to do with it — more likely, he guessed, they had used one of the UAVs as a weapon.

Which undoubtedly would have been Chelsea’s doing. So she was meant to be on the mission. And she could take care of herself.

“Next coms will be when they land,” said Johansen. “There are no Russian vessels between them and the shore. We’ll monitor for air traffic, but all the Russian patrols are based far to the southeast, in Russia; they should be OK.”

“That’s a relief,” said Massina. “I’m going to check on things. I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here.”

Massina had a mental list of improvements he was going to make if he continued working with the government: Constant real-time communications that could not be detected. Full coverage of the target area to show where any “obstacles” (such as the Russian ships) were located. Some sort of quick reaction force ready to bail operatives out.

It could all be done with his devices.

Johnny Givens, who had taken over temporarily as his bodyguard, was waiting outside the box.

“How’d it go?” asked Johnny.

And that was another thing — his people would have access to the box. Period.

“They have a ways to go,” said Massina. “Johnny, you have a clearance from the government, right?”

“There’s different levels of clearance. They do background checks—”

“You could pass a CIA clearance check, right?”

“Of course.”

“You’re with me when I’m inside from now on. Nobody tells you no.”

“Great.”

Massina made his way across the large room to the elevator.

“You know, I’d rather be out there with them,” said Johnny.

“You have a long way to go.”

“Next time.”

If there is a next time, maybe, thought Massina, but he didn’t say it.

Borya Tolevi leaned toward the screen, looking at the string of integers and symbols. She had the entire day off from school, which meant she could work here until early afternoon, when Martyak got back from her classes and would be expecting her.

Borya was working on a defense against application layer attacks similar to what she had used to compromise the ATM networks. In her case, she had used coding that attacked a flaw in a database that left account information intact rather than purging it. The block of instructions in front of her sought to fix that.

She hadn’t understood everything involved in her original attack; mostly, she had followed a script she’d found on the Internet and made some slight adaptations as she’d gone. Now she saw that fixing the problem was somewhat complicated, a puzzle that forced her to think in metaphors as well as code. The instructions were like keys fitting into locks that had to then disappear without a trace.

People didn’t do that. Her father was gone, yet so much of him was still present, in her, in others.

“Have you broken the program yet?” asked Louis Massina.

Borya jumped.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“How’s Chelsea?” Borya asked.

“She’s fine. So’s your dad.”

“Where are they?”

“Still can’t say. They have you working on the database hacks?”

“I’m looking at it. It’s pretty involved,” she confessed. “It’s like a college class.”

“Graduate level,” said Massina. “Keep at it.”

“Hey, Johnny.” Borya waved at the tall former FBI agent. “You hanging with me tonight?”

“If I’m on the schedule.” The security people took turns.

“Mary was wondering when you were coming back,” said Borya. “You should ask her for a date.”

“Can’t mix work with pleasure,” said Johnny shyly.

“Why not?”

Martyak’s blond curls and ample breasts were a powerful attraction. She was pretty, and before his injury Johnny wouldn’t have hesitated asking her out.

Now, though…

Johnny followed Massina down the hall to the elevator. Shadowing him inside the building was pretty boring. It did take him everywhere, though; he was really getting to know his way around.

“You’re looking a little pale,” said Massina as they waited.

“Yeah.”

“Tired, too?”

“Time for the meds.”

“Go ahead.”

“I feel like a junkie.”

“If you want privacy…”

Massina turned his back to him. Johnny reached into his jacket and took out the syringe set. He pulled up his shirt and injected himself, à la a diabetic, as the elevator arrived.

“Good as new?” asked Massina.

Never as good as new, thought Johnny. But good enough, and sometimes better.

94

In the years immediately following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, there were great plans to turn Berdyans’k — or Бердя́нськ, as it was styled in Ukrainian — into a major international tourist area. It had many of the necessary ingredients: a nearby airport, a train hub, a willing workforce, and, most importantly, beautiful seaside beaches and relatively accommodating weather.

But neither high hopes nor great assets equated to success, and the city never quite fulfilled its boosters’ dreams. Meanwhile, much of the nearby industry, which had scuttled along during the Soviet era, went through hard times, starved of investment.

The civil war further harmed Berdyans’k. Activity at the harbor was a shadow of what it had been even a year before. The cranes along the western stretch of the piers stood idle, almost lonely in the night.

All of this meant opportunity for a smuggler. Fewer prying eyes, more hands eager for handouts. While Tolevi had never done any business here, he scanned the quiet docks and warehouses with knowing eyes as they approached.

Money to be made here. Make a note of it.

Coffee by the boatload, right on that pier.

A green light blinked at the far end of the docks, under one of the large cranes ordinarily used to take cargo containers off a ship. Tolevi cut the engines and drifted, wanting to get a good look before committing to the dock. The Russian forces to the south were on high alert, still not entirely sure what had happened or where their foe was. While the radio traffic did not indicate they were searching this far north, there was always the possibility that some overdiligent junior lieutenant would feel the itch to prove himself by mounting an extra watch.

“That’s them,” said White after flashing the recognition code back.

“Let’s sit here a second and make sure,” Tolevi told him. “Porter, we got anything out that way?”

“Only that fishing boat we passed on the way in.”

Tolevi stepped over to take the glasses. The small boat anchored about a half mile to the southeast bobbed with the waves, a dim light at the fantail. It could easily be a smuggler’s sentry, or just a fisherman who liked spending the night alone on the water.

Money to be made here.

Tolevi then went to the starboard side and scanned the dock area and wharf beyond. Two vans were parked next to a building back by the crane.

His connection.

“All right, let’s go in,” he said, returning to the helm.

Chelsea’s stomach riled slightly as she clambered out of the boat to the dock, and she had to step to the side as the others carried the waterproof boxes with the bots and other gear from the cabin to the waiting vans.

Bozzone waited for her to catch her breath, then nudged her gently to walk with him in front of the vans. Tolevi was standing with the man they met on the dock—“Dan”—whom he seemed to know.

Tolevi put up his hand to warn them back, then stepped with Dan a few feet away.

“What are we doing?” Chelsea asked Bozzone.

“No English.” His voice was barely audible.

Chelsea rubbed her eyes. Pulling all-nighters in the lab was one thing; pulling them out here was something completely different.

And yet this didn’t feel like a place of danger, especially after what they’d just been through. It was too quiet.

They could be back home, or on a vast sound stage, waiting for a movie to be filmed. The sky in the distance, a faint blue between dark black waves and thick clouds, was a painted scrim, shadowed by hidden lights. The sounds of the night — some seabirds, the relentless lapping of water against the docks — were piped in from speakers stashed full circle around the stage.

Tolevi left the other man and walked toward the vans. He yelled something in Russian or Ukrainian — Chelsea had trouble distinguishing the languages — and the men helping them boarded the vans.

Chelsea started for the nearest van, but Tolevi stopped her.

“Our car’s up the road,” he told her.

“Car?” asked Bozzone.

“Complications. We have to change our plan. This will be safer for both of you.”

The butcher’s brother had kept tabs on Olak Urum’s location in the prison with the help of two guards who were close friends of the family, an arrangement the Russian crackdown had failed to end. Earlier in the evening, one of the guards had told him his brother had been moved; Dan had only just been informed before coming to the rendezvous.

The question was where he’d been moved to. The guards didn’t know, and while the brother had a few ideas, he hadn’t had a chance to check them out.

Given that, Tolevi had opted not to go to Starobeshevskaya, even though that had been the plan. It was too small a place to risk staying for several days, if it came to that. So they were going to a backup south of Donetsk, about a two-hour drive away. There they would split up.

“The gear will be on a farm. We’ll stay in a safe house about a mile away,” Tolevi told Chelsea and Bozzone. “It’s more comfortable, and I can make phone calls from there without attracting attention, and our cover story will make more sense. Plus, there are beds. I’m guessing you don’t want to sleep on the floor with the boys.”

“Might be interesting,” shot back Chelsea.

“Never at a loss for a comeback, huh?”

“Are you?”

“Only when I talk to my daughter.” She’s a lot like you, he thought. But you’re not necessarily as sharp as you think. There’s more to the universe than slinging numbers around.

They drove in silence for the next hour. Chelsea and Bozzone both nodded off. Tolevi turned up the radio, afraid he was going to do the same.

H-20 was the main road north, dividing farm fields and skirting urban areas much like a highway back in the States. Tolevi stayed on it until he was a little more than halfway to his destination. Fearing he might run into a checkpoint as he got closer to Donetsk, he got off near Buhas and began making his way west, using the GPS to guide him, since he had only a vague idea of where he was.

Ordinarily, the back roads were a better bet against checkpoints and patrols. And according to the briefing he’d been given before leaving on the mission, there were almost no more rebel road stoppages in the area.

So when he realized he was heading for one about ten minutes from the farmhouse where he was headed, Tolevi momentarily thought of running through it.

Foolish, foolish.

Unless they’ve already decided to kill us.

“Up!” he told the others. “Wake up. Remember your cover story. We’re being stopped.”

An old car had been pushed across the road, blocking off all traffic. There were two pickup trucks on the other side, parked parallel to the road just off the shoulder. A group of men huddled near an oil drum, smoking cigarettes. One of them stepped out, holding up his AK-47 to signal that Tolevi should stop.

As if I have another choice.

Tolevi rolled down the window as he coasted to a stop. He put on his best cheery voice, even though he was tired as hell.

Ukrainians, not Russians.

Good.

Maybe. They’ll be more apt to shoot.

“Gentlemen, hello,” he said in Ukrainian. “How goes it?”

“Where are you headed?”

“I am taking the model and her photographer to Klaven Farm. I have to be there by dawn for their photo shoot.”

The man who’d stopped them leaned over, peering in the back. Chelsea and Bozzone blinked at him.

“Model?” asked the man. He reeked of cigarettes.

“A photo shoot for some fancy French magazine. She is from Africa,” added Tolevi. “Somalia.”

“Ah, exotic.”

“Yes.”

“Does she fuck?”

“I don’t ask.”

They looked disappointed, but not inclined to find out for themselves.

“We have to search the car, comrade. Open the trunk and step out.”

“I don’t mind you searching,” Tolevi said, “but I am late, and if you could hurry it along, it would be appreciated.”

The man frowned. Tolevi reached for the trunk latch, then opened the car door. As he did, he palmed a ten-euro note from his pocket.

“If I am late they take it from my pay,” he said, producing the bill. “Worse, they don’t use me again. Let me help you.”

The man grabbed the money, then walked to the back. Two of his companions came over to gawk at Chelsea and Bozzone. There were at least two other irregulars at the side of the road, smoking cigarettes near a rusted oil drum.

“They have papers?” the man asked Tolevi.

“Yes. The company insists on working the right way.” Tolevi shrugged, as if he were talking about an affliction. “They’re always getting their permits and meeting with the big shots.”

“They speak Ukrainian?”

“They don’t speak much at all. I don’t know. African or something. Maybe English, if you try a bit.”

“Where are you from, comrade?” The tone was suddenly suspicious.

“Kiev,” Tolevi said proudly. “We got out after the traitors took over. My brother is still there, in jail. Since then, Donetsk. But someday, I will be back. Someday.”

The man nodded. He leaned to his left, glancing around the trunk — it was empty — then waved Tolevi away.

“Go. Good luck with your task. She looks pretty, at least. Maybe you will get lucky later.”

95

“ISIS is taking credit for the attack on the Russian ship,” Johansen told Massina. He’d just sent the order. “A bit of misdirection.”

“Will the Russians believe it?”

“Probably just enough to prevent them from looking too thoroughly for our friends,” said the CIA officer. “In the meantime, we’ll continue looking for the butcher. They can’t have taken him far.”

“They could have flown him back to Russia,” said Massina. “What then?”

“I can’t rule it out,” admitted Johansen. “If that’s what happened, then we pull the plug. We get everyone across the border to Kiev, as planned, and they come home. I doubt that’s the story, though. More than likely he is in Donetsk somewhere. Just a question of finding him. These sorts of things are to be expected. They happen. No covert operation ever goes the way you plan. It’s not a computer program.”

“Those don’t always go the way you plan either,” said Massina. “How long do we wait?”

“A few days. There’s no rush that we know of.”

“The fact that they moved the prisoner doesn’t mean anything to you?”

“There’s nothing we can do about it at this point. We just keep plugging away. Don’t worry, Dan’s one of the best.”

“And Tolevi?”

“He’s very good at what he does,” allowed Johansen. “As long as his own agenda isn’t in conflict with ours, things should go well.”

96

Tolevi sat in a small café and sipped his coffee. This was the worst cup yet.

You can make a fortune here! And you don’t even have to smuggle it in. Import from Indonesia through Brunei, roast it in one of those empty warehouses down in Berdyans’k.

Cha-ching, cha-ching. Let the cash registers flow.

The bell at the door rang, nearly in time with Tolevi’s mental notes. He looked up and saw Dan entering with the butcher’s brother. Both looked glum.

They glanced around the place for a moment, then came over to the table and sat.

“So?” asked Tolevi.

The butcher’s brother shook his head. “They don’t know.”

“We have to check the main municipal prison in the city,” Dan said. “They reopened it last month. It’s the logical place.”

“How do we do that?” asked Tolevi.

“I have friends,” said the brother. “I’ll know by the end of the week.”

“That’s too long,” said Tolevi. “We’re taking too much risk as it is.”

“It can’t go any faster.”

Tolevi glanced up at the waitress, who was coming over with menus. Dan waved her off, but the brother ordered ryba, fried fish.

“How do we speed it up?” Tolevi asked.

“Any other way is going to be too risky,” said Dan, shaking his head. “This guy isn’t worth it.”

“If he’s not worth it, then why are we here?” Tolevi answered.

He glanced at the brother. He was grimacing.

“I’m not saying we don’t get him out.” Dan backtracked. “I’m just saying we take our time. We have to get him out in one piece. If we rush, they’ll kill him.”

“And if we wait here too long, we get killed.”

Tolevi thought about Dan’s reaction as he drove back to the house where Chelsea and Bozzone were holed up. Dan had marked out the boundaries of the risks he was willing to take and trusted the brother more than Tolevi thought warranted. Risk assessment was a matter of perspective: Dan spent a lot of time in the country and could easily fit in, so he didn’t see waiting around as dangerous. Whereas Tolevi, who knew that the people he was with stood out like sore thumbs, saw far more danger in waiting.

Whose perspective was right?

Mine.

The whole mission was risky. That’s why they were willing to pay so much.

Too much?

The CIA had put an awful lot of energy into getting a rebel out of jail. Maybe he did have information on the Russian “volunteers,” but so what? Everybody in the world knew that the Russians were running things; why go to such lengths to prove it?

Of the five CIA officers who’d come with them, four were paramilitary people, covert agents trained in special operations. From what Tolevi gathered of their backgrounds, all but one were military, the one SEAL and two Rangers. The fourth spoke Russian as well as he did.

White was older than the others, by ten years. He hadn’t shared his background with Tolevi — he was way too gruff for that — but it was obvious from the way he carried himself that he was used to being in charge, and Johansen had been noticeably respectful. So figure him for a very senior guy.

It really doesn’t matter, does it? Just figure out where the hell he is…

Damn!

“I know where he is,” said Tolevi out loud. He reached for the GPS and zoomed out the map to get his bearings.

The house Chelsea and Bozzone were staying in was an old farmhouse, abandoned for some time. The floors were covered with dust. The few pieces of furniture in the front room — a pair of wooden kitchen tables and three chairs, one of them broken — were well worn and looked as if they dated from the early twentieth century. The mattresses upstairs were new, but they were the exceptions. There was no electricity, and the toilets had to be flushed with water from the jugs stacked along the walls.

Bored, Chelsea reached into her bag and pulled out the paperback of Sudoku puzzles, flipping to the back section where the hardest puzzles were. She’d done most of them on the plane, saving the last two.

They weren’t math problems per se, though there were mathematical equations you could use to describe the puzzle and its possible solutions:

“Still doing your puzzles?” asked Bozzone.

“I’d love to take a walk.”

“Too dangerous. We don’t want to be seen.”

“The nearest house is a mile away. No one can see us from the road.”

“Didn’t you have enough excitement on the water?”

“I sure puked enough.” Chelsea went back to the puzzle.

Tolevi recognized the road even before he saw the Russian military vehicle parked along the side.

There was no question of going inside — the Russian colonel would surely imprison him. But it was the most logical place for them to have brought the butcher.

The question was how to find out if he was there.

Has to be there. The brother would know if he was anywhere else.

Two Russian commandos were standing by the truck. Tolevi drove past, eyes on the road.

Has to be there, he thought. Now, how do I prove it?

97

Jenkins took a deep breath, then pushed into the jail’s interrogation room. Stratowich sat at the table, stoically erect and staring straight ahead. The room was bare, except for the table, two chairs, and a pair of surveillance cameras in each corner.

“You have a shiner,” said Jenkins, sitting across from him. “I heard you were in a fight.”

Stratowich didn’t acknowledge him.

“There’s some pretty serious charges against you,” said Jenkins. “Attempted murder. Kidnapping.”

“I didn’t kidnap anyone.”

“I guess the court will decide that.” Jenkins reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bag of M&Ms. He tossed it across the table. “I heard you had a sweet tooth.”

Stratowich continued staring straight ahead.

“Your friends haven’t lifted a finger to help you,” said Jenkins. “They want you to take the rap for everything.”

No answer.

“You know they were Russian agents, right? Spies. Working with them makes you a traitor. You’re an American citizen. How does it feel to betray your country?”

Nothing.

“The thugs you were with, they’re talking a lot,” continued Jenkins. “Now, it would seem to me, well, you could be in a position to help yourself. And your family. You have two kids, don’t you? You’d probably like to see them at some point. Make sure they’re OK. I could arrange that.”

Stratowich reached for the candy. Jenkins watched as he opened the package, tearing it neatly along the top. He made a very small hole, popping out a candy onto the table. He picked it up deliberately and put it into his mouth, not chewing, letting it melt.

“There are a lot of things you could help with. And if you did, we have a program to protect you. If you help us. Whole new identity, new start on life. People have been placed around the world. It’s surprising what they’ve accomplished as free men.”

Another candy, but no words.

He’s trying to show me he’s disciplined, thought Jenkins. Well, I’m not impressed.

“One of the things I’m interested in has to do with the murder of a federal agent,” he told the prisoner. “Funny thing is, he has the same last name as I do. In fact, he was my brother. If someone helped me figure out who that was, I would be very grateful. Extremely grateful.”

Stratowich raised his eyes to look at him. Jenkins barely managed to duck before a half-melted M&M shot from Stratowich’s mouth.

“Think about it,” Jenkins told him, getting up. “You can keep the candy.”

98

“The only way we can find out is to go in there.” Tolevi folded his arms. With all but two of the team inside — the others were standing watch on the road — the tiny front room of the farmhouse felt almost claustrophobic. He could smell Dan’s sweat. White paced behind Chelsea, who was sitting in one of the chairs. The rest of the chairs were empty; none of the others wanted to admit they were tired.

“Huge risk,” said White. “You go in, there’s no guarantee we can get you out.”

“We run the same play we were going to run on the prison,” said Tolevi. He’d thought about it the entire ride back, pluses and minuses, every contingency. “I spot him, you come in and get us out.”

“The robot can only carry one person,” said Chelsea. “And it’s not armed.”

“We don’t need the robot,” argued Tolevi. “I only need a diversion. You have your little airplane things tell us where people are. We wait until they’ve gone out on their mission — they go every afternoon and they’re away for most of the night?”

“We don’t know that for sure,” said Dan.

“I do,” said Tolevi. “They have a dozen people. Just about everyone goes on a mission — there’s only a skeleton crew there. Blow up the front of the building, start a fire. I go out the back with the butcher, grab a vehicle, and we’re out.”

“Pretty chancy,” said White. “I don’t like it.”

“Then come up with a better plan. Because we can’t stay here forever. We don’t even have enough food in the house for the rest of the week.”

Chelsea listened as the debate continued. It reminded her of the single college debate she had witnessed, where both sides made arguments but neither could really make a convincing case. Tolevi said it was their only choice; White said it was too risky. Dan wasn’t sure.

Who was right? Impossible to say.

“We could do some reconnaissance,” she suggested finally. “Fly one of the drones overhead, see how many people are inside with the infrared. Maybe we can figure out where he is.”

“The building is two stories,” said White.

“It should be able to pick up heat signatures. It’s an old building, right? Minimal insulation. It’s worth a try.”

“Can it see into the basement?” asked White. “That’s where they’re likely to be held.”

“If the sensors were good enough to see inside the prison building,” said Tolevi, “it’ll see inside this. It’s an old building. Impressive from the outside, but once you look closely you see everything’s thin and falling apart. Besides, what’s our other option?”

“You’re awful damn gung-ho,” said White.

“You’re awful damn cautious.”

“The first goal of any mission is to survive it,” said White. “That’s all I’m saying.”

“Let’s try the recon then,” said Tolevi. “The alternative is packing it in. Because we’re not going to pick up anything on the street. We’d know already. So it’s this or we go home.”

“When do you check in with the butcher’s brother?” asked White.

“An hour. But he would have called if he had something.”

“Let’s try the drone,” said White.

An hour later, Chelsea entered the barn where they’d stashed the robots. The two vans were parked in the middle of the open space; the gear boxes were arranged along the side.

The place smelled like cows. Her nose began to itch, and her stomach — still slightly queasy from the night before — growled.

Work to do.

She had the case open before Bozzone and the others were even inside.

“We’ll launch from the field at the back,” she announced. “You better make sure it’s clear.”

It’d seemed so easy when she’d said it back at the house. Now she only saw problems: What if she couldn’t launch it? What if someone saw them from one of the fields down the road? What if the UAV was spotted? It was black, designed to fly at night. During the day, with the sun fairly bright, it would be a lot more obvious.

Just do it.

“Help me with the wings,” she asked Bozzone.

Tolevi paced around the barn, waiting as Chelsea got the UAV ready.

He thought of Borya, back home.

Not good — concentrate.

One million bucks. The solution to a lot of problems.

And if this didn’t work, then damn it, Johansen was going to pay him something. Half at least. Three-quarters.

I risked my life. You owe me.

Owe you what? Johansen would say.

Hardass.

That was the only way you survived in that job. Tolevi had to admire that; he was a hardass himself.

“Ready to launch,” said Chelsea. She looked at him. “Coming?”

The Russian building was some ten miles to the north. Besides the main house and the barnlike garage at the rear Tolevi had seen when he was their prisoner, there were two small sheds on the other side of the copse to the south. There was only one vehicle outside; the unit was obviously out on a mission.

“Let’s look inside the house,” Tolevi told Chelsea. “Put on the infrared.”

“I have to fly right overhead and fly a circuit,” she told him. “Those men at the road may be able to see the Nighthawk.”

“Chance we take.”

Chelsea decided to take the UAV low, hoping that the trees at the front of the property would shield it from view. They would probably hear it, though.

Three passes, she decided. Three passes and we should have enough.

She thought of plotting the course and letting the controller fly the aircraft but decided against it. If someone came out of the house, it would be faster to abort if she was at the controls.

Her hand started to tremble as she tucked toward the house on the first pass.

I can do this. Just like dancing.

Not really. But I can do it.

The small aircraft came across the back of the building faster than she thought it would. By the time she had it turning, it was nearly at the tree line. She tightened the turn and banked over the building. The controller was recording the infrared feed; they’d look at it when she was done. She needed her full attention on the ground.

Banking again, she spotted a figure walking near the barn.

Concentrate. One more pass.

Chelsea took the UAV so close to the roof that she nearly hit it.

Three turns, done.

She jammed the throttle. The nose of the aircraft pitched up suddenly, starting to stall. Gently she backed off power, managed to catch it, and sailed back over the open field.

“They saw something,” said White, who was standing behind her. “I saw the guy at the back look up.”

“Did he raise his gun?” asked Dan.

“No.”

“Whatever,” said Tolevi. “What do we got?”

Chelsea set the plane on a slow course south, then activated the autopilot. She pulled up the infrared screen and reviewed the video over the house.

It was shorter than she’d thought — barely forty-five seconds.

“Two guys there, one there,” said White. “That’s it?”

Tolevi leaned over the screen. “This is where I was. This looks like a kitchen. Maybe it’s the command room or team room. That’s why there’s two guys there.”

“How do you know that’s the kitchen?” asked White.

“Look. You can see this is a sink, right? The heat outline? And a stove.”

“OK.”

“This guy is by himself,” said Tolevi, pointing to the other side of the house.

“Prisoner?” asked White. “Or just someone taking a nap?”

Chelsea zeroed in on him, enlarging the image. His hands were together. Possibly tied, maybe not.

“Is that the basement?” White asked.

“It looks like it,” said Chelsea. “That’s how the computer is interpreting it.”

The program wasn’t sophisticated enough to make a full 3-D image, but the different angles indicated that the third person was below the others. Which did mean the basement.

“All right, well, with only three people in there, the time to go is now,” said Tolevi.

“There are four outside around the property,” said Chelsea, zooming back. “Two at the front, two at the garage area.”

“Yeah, I got that. Better than twenty.” He went over to the case that had their tracking device, which had been engineered to look like a watch. He took out the reader, then tested it by pressing the lower right button twice.

“Make sure this works,” he told Porter, who was standing nearby.

“We keep a UAV watching the place,” suggested White. “They come back early, we pull the plug.”

“Fine,” said Tolevi. “I’ll be back.”

Chelsea went back to the Nighthawk’s visual feed. It was flying toward a small hamlet.

Damn.

She banked to the north, pushing it to gain altitude.

“How long before dark?” she asked.

“Two and a half hours before sunset,” said White. “People spot it?”

“Not yet.”

“Keep it south of the homestead, and watch those roads. This way if they see it, they may not put two and two together.”

“Maybe they’ll think it’s Russian,” said Bozzone. “Or a bird.”

“Or a psycho ceiling fan with wings,” said Chelsea.

For the first time since the mission had begun, everyone laughed.

99

Here it was, a million dollars. All he had to do was walk in, locate the butcher, send the signal, and let the games begin.

Tolevi did a last-minute com check.

“You guys hearing me?” he asked White, who was with the paras in the trucks a half mile behind him, each pulled off to the side of a different road. Any sign of trouble, and they would pounce.

“Yeah. We’re all ready here. Everyone’s in place.”

“Doin’ it,” said Tolevi, taking a deep breath as he started his car.

Chelsea and the bots were with White. Assuming Tolevi found the butcher, they’d launch the assault an hour after dusk, when it was plenty dark. If things went south in the meantime, they’d either go in with guns blazing, or…

There was no “or.” This had to work.

A million dollars. Not as much as I’ve made in three hours, but up there.

Actually, profitwise, it had to be his best score. Practically no overhead on this mission, assuming you didn’t count the abortion of a trip a few weeks before.

That should be counted. R&D.

He made a mental note to do the math on the proceeds per minute.

Focusing on the rewards made the risks seem less imposing. He hated White for playing Mr. Cautious — surely it was an act, because the CIA officer would clearly have been urging something even more reckless if Tolevi hadn’t suggested this. He was only playing to the girl, Chelsea.

Who, despite being a bit of a know-it-all, was very pretty.

Only a few years older than Borya.

Probably older than she looks.

“White?” he said. Disguised as a cell phone, the low-probability-of-intercept radio was always on.

“Good coms.”

“I’m moving.”

Tolevi put the car in gear and drove up the road. The guards were still there, leaning against their truck, blocking the driveway.

“I’m here to see the colonel,” Tolevi said in Russian, skidding on the gravel as he stopped.

One of the men threw down his cigarette and came over. Tolevi recognized him as one of the thugs who’d held him two weeks before, but the man didn’t seem to remember.

“I have business with the colonel.”

“There is no colonel here.”

“The hell with you, dog. Moscow sent me. You have a problem with that, you take it up with them.”

“Let me see your papers.”

“Fuck yourself and your mother’s mother. Greshkin in Moscow said he’d sack the whole bunch of you if you gave me shit again.”

The name of the head of SVR’s Directorate S — the covert unit — apparently didn’t mean anything to the man, for he didn’t react.

“Are you gonna move?” Tolevi demanded in terse Russian, “or am I going to sit here and insult you until the colonel comes out?”

“The colonel is on a mission,” said the other soldier, coming over.

“I’ll wait inside. I gotta take a dump. Or maybe I should do it in your truck.”

The threat of defecation did the trick. The second soldier pulled the first soldier aside. After a few seconds’ consultation, he went to move the truck.

“Driving to the front door,” Tolevi said over the radio.

He parked near the door, checked the pistol at his belt, then got out. He’d debated about the gun — they would surely search him when he went in and confiscate it, but since they thought he was working for the intelligence service, the weapon would be more or less expected. It might even enhance his story.

And if they didn’t search him, then he’d have a gun. That would make everything easier.

He could hear the thin buzz of the UAV nearby. The soldiers’ truck at the front was loud enough to drown it out, but away from other noises you could detect it if you tried hard enough.

“Keep that UAV as high as you can,” he told them. “I can hear the buzz.”

Knock on the door, or just go in?

Why knock?

But the choice wasn’t his to make: the door flew open. One of the colonel’s aides stood on the threshold.

“I’m back,” Tolevi told him. “I have a message from Moscow, and instructions.”

“You are not welcome here.” The aide pointed at his ear. “Don’t you learn?”

“This is a debt that will be paid in the future.” Tolevi pointed at his ear. “Right now we both have orders. You think I wanted to come back? Get the hell out of my way, asshole.”

Tough guy had worked outside, but not here. The aide flew out the door at him. Tolevi had been an excellent street fighter in his youth, but his youth was well past. The aide had ten years and a good sixty pounds of muscle on him. He grabbed Tolevi and threw him against the wall, shoved him inside, then picked him up and tossed him to the floor on his back. Before Tolevi could react, the Russian jumped on his chest, pressing his forearm into his neck and his knee into his stomach.

“I’ll break you in two, scum,” said the aide.

“Fuck you,” muttered Tolevi, struggling to breathe.

The aide held him a few more seconds, then got up. Tolevi thought he was starting to pass out. A kick into his ribs sent a wave of pain through his body, and he wished he had lost consciousness.

Another soldier came and hauled him to his feet. Tolevi put up his hands — he’d forgotten about his gun, still in his belt — but couldn’t ward off the blow from the side to his damaged ear. As he screamed with pain, the aide snatched the pistol from his belt and smacked him across the chest with it. Then he shoved him to the ground. His radio flew across the floor.

Fortunately, it looked like a cell phone. The soldier couldn’t tell the difference when he smashed it with his heel.

“He’s in,” White said down by the vans. “But they’re giving him a hard time. I think we lost the radio.”

“Are you going in?” asked Chelsea.

“No,” said White. “He knew it would be rough. Hang tight, and keep that UAV overhead.”

100

Borya looked at the clock on the wall and jumped up.

She’d told Mary Martyak she’d be home an hour ago.

It was hard to keep track of time when you were at Smart Metal.

“I have to go,” she told her supervisor. “See you Friday. Regular time.”

“Regular time,” said Lisa Macklin. “See ya then.”

101

Think about the money. Think about Borya.

Tolevi felt his face swelling, blood rushing to repair the damage done by the Russian commandos’ feet. He pushed up to his haunches, sliding back against the wall, dazed but conscious.

No money is worth this. It’s not the pain, it’s the humiliation. One of them, maybe, but two?

Should have just blown the pricks up and been done with it.

Blown Johansen off.

“Get up, mafya shit,” yelled the soldier. “You’re bloodying the hall.”

You’d think they’d at least be a little scared of the damn SVR. If it was still the KGB, they wouldn’t pull this shit.

“I’m not mafya, asshole.” Tolevi winced, expecting to be hit again, but apparently the soldiers were satiated and walked away.

Tolevi took a quick inventory of his teeth — still there, still intact — then attempted to get his bearings.

Three in the house. Two just beat the shit out of me. The other… our prize… downstairs?

He bent over to the radio and scooped it up. It was smashed and undoubtedly beyond hope. But his watch was intact; it had a signal function that he could use to alert the team. Push the button twice, and they’d move in.

Find the butcher first.

Tolevi staggered into the hall behind the room, heading in the direction of the kitchen. He found his two friends laughing at the table. They had coffee and some sort of goulash, half-finished, on their plates.

“I need water,” he told them.

They ignored him. He went to the sink, found a glass.

There was a door to his right. He hoped it was the basement.

“This a closet or the bathroom?” he mumbled.

They didn’t answer, which was the response he was hoping for. He walked to the door with an exaggerated stumble, then opened it, intending to go down. Probably they would push him; he braced himself for a tumble.

But it wasn’t the basement. It was a bathroom.

Tolevi hesitated.

“Make sure you close the door. We don’t want to smell your shit,” snarled the soldier who’d done most of the hitting.

Chelsea pulled the radio earbud out and squeezed the plastic, trying to make it more comfortable. Nothing seemed to work; her ears continued to itch.

The screen for the Nighthawks — she now had two in the air — was in front of her on the floor. Peter’s controller was to her left; the controls for the Groucho mechs sat on the floor to her right. All three of the ground robots were already positioned in the woods, ready to go.

“Looks like he’s in the back with the two soldiers,” she told White, who was sitting in the front of the van with Bozzone.

“Move up to the house,” White told the paras. “Let’s get ready to grab him.”

White turned to Bozzone. “I’m going to get in position. You guys OK?”

“We’re good,” said Bozzone.

“Chelsea?”

“Yeah. Go.”

The van rocked as White hopped out. Chelsea checked the UAVs. She had the video divided in half, displaying the visual feeds for both with a small GPS map in each view’s right-hand corner.

A warning came up on the screen to the left: the battery for Nighthawk 1, the one they had launched first, was starting to run low; she’d have to recover it soon.

Nighthawk 2 was circling about a half mile south, ready in reserve. She checked it quickly, catching a glimpse of some kids playing soccer. Its vitals were good; she decided she would move it up now, while things were still relatively quiet.

She plotted a new course, then took control from the computer. As she did, she noticed a cloud of dust billowing up in the corner of the forward video image. She banked the bird back south.

“Vehicles,” she said over the radio. “I think the Russian commandos are coming back.”

102

Massina and Johnny were passing through the hallway when Lisa Macklin ran out of her lab room and nearly knocked them down.

“Whoa, cowboy,” said Massina. “Watch where you’re driving.”

“Trying to catch little Borya. She left this.” Macklin held up a backpack.

“I don’t see her,” said Massina.

“Excuse me.” Macklin trotted to the rail, looked over it, then ran to the elevator.

Massina continued down the hall, stopping to check on the 3-D interface unit, which was refining a program that used gestures to command robots. Simple in theory, in practice the need for a complex and deep dictionary of commands made thing vastly complicated. The programming was the easy part; refining the gestures so a wide range of humans could do them unambiguously was proving nearly impossible.

“Put on the glasses and check out our latest iteration,” offered the project director.

“I’d love to, but I have some things I have to get to,” said Massina apologetically. He was due back in the box. The operation would be starting any minute.

“How we doing, Shadow?” he asked Johnny back in the hall. “How are your legs?”

“Good. Great. How’s your arm?”

Massina gave a short, self-deprecating chuckle. “You know, you’re the first person that’s asked me that all year. Probably since my last checkup.”

“How long did it take you to get used to it?”

“I’m not used to it.” They stopped in front of the elevator. “You never get used to it. You accept it and move on.”

Johnny nodded.

“Eventually it feels more comfortable,” said Massina gently. “But there’s always loss there. Deep loss.”

“Yeah.”

The elevator opened. Macklin stepped out. She still had the backpack in her hand.

“Missed her,” she said. “I’ll have to find somebody to drop it off.”

“Why don’t you take it, Johnny?” suggested Massina. “I won’t need you for a while.”

“Sure.”

103

They’d worked out two plans in case the Spetsnaz came back. One was to simply let them; the presence of more bodies complicated matters but didn’t make the mission more difficult per se.

The other was to take them out as they pulled up.

It was White’s call.

“Set up to intercept the bastards,” said White over the team radio. “I don’t have coms with Tolevi,” he added. “Anybody?”

No one had him.

“What’s he doing?” White asked Chelsea.

“He’s stopped moving. He’s near the first two.”

“What about our jackpot?” said White.

“Still prone downstairs.”

“Let’s take these guys. Chelsea, get the drones moving to the house.”

Chelsea turned to the Groucho controls. Both were loaded with explosives. She directed Groucho 1 to head toward the front of the house; Groucho 2 was programmed to move to the garage, where the vehicles would be.

“The trucks are almost past the road,” she told Bozzone.

“I’m ready,” he said. He raised his rifle, then twisted in the seat so he was facing the intersection where they would pass.

Tolevi sat on the closed toilet, trying to work out where the door to the basement would be.

Front room. Hallway to the left.

Go back there and check it out.

He got up and reached for the door, then realized he’d better flush the toilet, or the two bozos in the kitchen would be suspicious.

As the toilet flushed, he heard the crack of a gunshot outside.

God damn it, White. No way.

There was another bullet, louder, then rounds of automatic fire.

Son of a bitch! White, you asshole!

Two of the paras had set up near the front of the house with scopes, using their MK 17s as light sniper rifles. The shots took down the two men at the road before the three Russian Gazes reached the property. But the gunfire brought one of the men who’d been back by the garage area forward before the CIA paras at the back could get a shot on him, and he began peppering the area in front of the house with covering fire — which would have been a bad thing for his comrades had they still been alive.

More importantly for the CIA team, he radioed the men in the trucks.

The Americans were outnumbered, but they weren’t outgunned. Porter aimed a Russian rocket-grenade launcher at the lead truck as it stopped a hundred yards from the property. The grenade hit before more than half of the men could get out; those who weren’t hit by shrapnel were burned alive.

Tolevi yanked the door to the bathroom open, expecting to see the others in the kitchen. But they’d already run to the front room.

He ran around the other way, hoping to get to the basement before they cut it off. Bullets shot through the front of the house, tearing up the wood and plaster. He dove to the ground, then scrambled into the room.

The two commandos were at the windows, aiming Minimis — Belgian squad-level machine guns similar to American M249s — out the window.

“What the hell?” Tolevi shouted as the man on the right turned toward him. “Who’s attacking?”

“Just stay down, asshole.”

“Where the hell is my gun? I’m not going down without a fight!”

“Stay down or I shoot you.”

A fusillade of bullets came through the front. Tolevi ducked.

Where the hell did they put my pistol?

He went through to the left. There were two doors. He opened the first. It was a stairway up.

Other one.

As he reached for the door, the front of the house exploded. He fell to the ground, dazed and choking with the smoke.

“Who fired at the house?” demanded White. “What the hell — was it the robot?”

“The robots are still fifty yards away,” said Chelsea.

“A grenade from the Russians,” said Porter. “They must have misfired.”

“Get these—”

White’s voice was drowned out by gunfire. Chelsea lowered her head, as if the bullets were here, not a few hundred yards away. Rattled, she tried to focus on the Nighthawks. That was her job, to spot where the enemy was and tell the others. She flipped on the infrared to make it easier to spot the bodies in the field and woods.

It was starting to get dark.

Eight Russians left fighting.

Another truck coming to the intersection — their intersection.

Turning.

“Beefy, we have another truck.”

“Stay here and don’t move!” Bozzone told her, bolting out of the vehicle with his rifle.

Tolevi got to his knees. The commando nearest him had been thrown back by the explosion. His Minimi lay on the floor a few feet away.

Just by coincidence, it was the thug who had taken the first cuts at him.

Tolevi reached the machine gun just as the commando rose. The Russian held his hand out for it.

“Here,” said Tolevi, leveling it toward the man’s stomach and pressing the trigger. “See you in hell, scumbag.”

Chelsea watched Groucho 1 rumble up to the front of the house. The building was blackened and pockmarked; a grenade had gone off in the front yard moments before.

The idea had been for Groucho 1 to explode as a diversion, allowing Tolevi to go out the back; alternatively, it would be used to clear the way for a frontal assault. Unsure how it could be used now, she left it parked in ready mode, waiting for instructions.

She looked at Groucho 2, which was sixty seconds from its assigned position at the back barn. Then she looked back at the Nighthawk screen, trying to locate the soldiers and radio their positions to the rest of the team.

Gunfire rattled outside, very close to the van. She ducked down, folding herself at the waist over the control units.

It’s not supposed to go like this.

A sharp rap on the front driver’s side door caught her by surprise, and she twisted around, frozen.

A face appeared at the window.

A child’s face. One of the kids who’d been playing soccer.

Crying.

Oh my God, thought Chelsea, scrambling to unlock the door.

Tolevi had never fired a Minimi before and wasn’t used to its heft or kick, both of which affected his aim. But he made up for that with the sheer amount of bullets, cutting the commando nearly in half before letting off of the trigger.

The other man turned, a puzzled look on his face.

Tolevi fired. Two bullets flew from the gun, then nothing. He’d emptied the magazine.

Both bullets missed. The other man, still not entirely comprehending, started to raise his own weapon in defense.

“Damn it!” yelled Tolevi, launching himself toward him.

He swung the machine gun up, using it like a spear as he struck the Russian. They tumbled back against the wall as the Russian’s gun began spitting bullets. Tolevi’s hand felt as if it was burning — he’d inadvertently touched the barrel — but by this point he was beyond pain, stoked with adrenaline and fear. He wedged the Minimi against the man’s throat, violently mashing it downward as the other man began to cough. The Russian let go of his gun and tried to push Tolevi away. But Tolevi had too much leverage now, and all of his viciousness, all of his anger and desperation, went into his hands and arms. He pushed against the man’s throat with all his might, awkwardly but effectively, until the man stopped struggling.

One more slam to make sure, then he sprung up, dropping the empty machine gun on the floor. He started to back out, then, realizing a gun would be more than a little useful, he reached down and grabbed the other Minimi.

He looked up.

A man was standing on the other side of the room.

The butcher.

“You really are his brother, aren’t you?” said Tolevi, surprised at how similar the men looked in real life. “The pictures don’t do you justice.”

The butcher shook his head. Tolevi realized he’d been speaking in English.

“I’m here to get you out,” he said in Ukrainian. “Your brother sent me.”

“My brother?”

“He’s outside.” A lie, but it was the easiest way to tell Olak that he was on his side. “I’m an American. With the CIA. Working for them. We’re here to rescue you.”

“What?”

“Come on. We’ll get out the back.”

There were two kids there, both boys eight or nine years old. Chelsea pulled them inside, hit the lock button, then pushed them down beneath the dashboard in front of the seats.

“Stay down!” she told them in English.

Their confused looks made it clear they didn’t understand, but Chelsea didn’t have time to try and explain. She went back to the control screens as a fresh volley of gunfire raged nearby.

Beefy!

“Chelsea, we’re hearing a lot of gunfire from your area,” said White over the radio. “What’s going on down there?”

“There’s kids, shit,” she said.

“What? What are you saying?”

She looked at the screen. Two Russians were running up the side of the road toward the house.

“There are two guys coming up the road, off on the shoulder,” she told him.

“OK, OK. Are you all right?”

“There was another truck — Beefy’s dealing with it. Beef?”

There was gunfire outside, then silence. Chelsea felt her chest untighten.

There was a knock on the passenger side door.

“Open the door, OK?” Chelsea said to the kids.

They don’t speak English!

Chelsea looked at the video screen. Nighthawk 1 was on 10 percent battery. It had to land. She decided instead she would use it as a missile — she zoomed out until she found the truck that had stopped near them, then overrode the safety controls to send it into a crash.

The pounding at the door continued, more desperate, she thought.

“I’m coming, Beef,” she said. She left the control unit and scrambled forward. There was no one there.

“Damn,” she said. She pushed open the locks, then glanced at the children cowering in the front. “Come in the back with me,” she told them. “Come on.”

She grabbed hold of both of them, urging and pulling. They had just reached the back of the van when the rear door opened.

“Beefy, I was so wor—”

She stopped midword. A Russian commando was pointing a rifle at her.

104

“They’ve already started,” said Johansen as Massina entered the box.

“You should have called me.” Massina stared at the sitrep screen, trying to make out what was going on.

We’re going to make some huge improvements, he thought to himself. I want to see things in real time, up close, and without relying on their satellites and feeds. It’s going to be easy to ID our people. We’re going to have more bots and devices on the ground. UAVs. It’s going to be our operation.

“Where are they?” he asked Johansen.

“They’re at the house.” Johansen’s tone was even sharper than usual. “Still two or three guerillas to take care of. Then they have to get out.”

“Where are Chelsea and Bozzone?”

“They’re in their command truck, in the south. It’s out of the frame.”

“Why?”

“I guess they’re concentrating the feed on the house. The vans are too far from the action. Don’t worry. Just a few more minutes, and everyone will be fine.”

105

The UAV struck the Spetsnaz truck with a loud crash. The commando at the door of Chelsea’s van jerked back, looking to see what had happened. Chelsea reached for Peter’s control, hoping to tell the robot to grab the Russian.

The commando got to her first, pulling her out of the vehicle and throwing her on the ground. He yelled at the children, who lay frozen in fear on the floor of the van. Then he pointed his gun at them.

Chelsea jumped up.

“No! No!” she screamed.

He tossed her down again. Then he reached in and dragged out the first child. The other followed meekly. The commando shouted something at them, waving with his hand. He wanted them to move.

Chelsea’s body trembled. Her brain froze.

And then her father spoke to her, as he had so often before, voice calm but firm.

Protect the children. Keep your head.

“Grazhdanskiy,” she said, trying to tell the soldier they were civilians. But either her pronunciation was so bad he couldn’t understand her, or else he was too concerned with getting away from the now smoldering Gaz that he didn’t pay any attention. Chelsea grabbed the children to her, shepherding them up the road.

One of the kids smelled; he’d wet himself from fear.

The soldier yelled, then pointed off the road. Chelsea thought of bolting for a moment, then saw that there was another commando sitting on the ground a few yards away. He had a gun cradled in his lap; his pants were red. Obviously he’d been wounded.

Where was Bozzone? Watching, she hoped. Ready to come to their rescue.

Or dead.

There was a building beyond, an outbuilding that belonged to the neighboring farm. The soldier who’d captured them pointed to the building and reeled off a command that could only mean, Inside!

Chelsea stooped toward the wounded man, intending to try and help — and maybe get his gun. But the other soldier ran up and pushed her away, shoving her toward the children.

With no other option open, she put a hand on the back of each child and helped them inside the building.

Tolevi grabbed the butcher by the arm and tugged him to the back of the house. The kitchen window had been shattered. Outside, two Russians crouched by the van he’d been in the first night. One was firing into the woodline — aimed shots, so obviously he had at least a vague idea where his target was.

The other was looking back at the house.

“You know how to work this?” Tolevi asked the butcher. “I don’t know how many bullets are in the magazine.”

“Give me.”

“Here. I’m going to see if they have other weapons.” Tolevi handed the gun over, then started to leave.

“American!” yelled the butcher.

Tolevi looked back. The bastard was holding the gun on him.

“What?”

“Hands up or I fire,” said the butcher.

Tolevi started to raise his hands. The butcher pressed the trigger anyway.

Borya, thought Tolevi. Borya!

Nothing happened. Either Tolevi had picked up the wrong gun in the confusion, or both magazines had been emptied.

I’m nothing if not lucky, thought Tolevi, rushing the butcher.

106

The Nighthawk was flying in a circular programmed pattern. The robots were all on standby.

What was going on?

Massina tried to make sense of the confusion on the ground. Where was Chelsea? Why wasn’t she moving the mechs toward the knot of enemies on the road? The Grouchos could have taken them out easily.

Chelsea, aren’t you seeing this?

Something was very wrong. Massina backed out the image. The control van was empty.

Damn it.

He pulled over the keyboard and began typing the override sequences he’d need to take control of Groucho 1 and 2.

107

By now, Tolevi was so bashed and bruised that he didn’t feel any pain at all as he slammed into the butcher.

“I’m here to rescue you, asshole. God,” he said over and over as they rolled on the floor, punching and kicking.

A good three-quarters of the blows by each man missed, but that still meant plenty of punishment for both. They finally fell apart, exhausted. Tolevi jumped to his feet; the butcher slid away, then spun around, revealing a handgun.

“Listen, you idiot,” said Tolevi. “I’m here to get you out. I’m taking you to the West.”

“I’m not going west,” snapped the butcher. “Put your hands up and shut your mouth.”

Chelsea jumped as the door slammed behind her.

Be calm for the kids.

The building was a small shed, barely large enough for a tractor; it was completely empty, save for some empty seed bags on the floor. There were two windows, both partially boarded, one on the left and one at the back.

The children ran to the back window.

“No, no, get away from it,” she said, going over to them. “Get back!”

Both boys pointed outside. There was another child outside.

“Is he all right?” she asked the children inside with her. But they didn’t understand. She waved her arms at the child outside, trying to get him to duck; he just stared at her, dumbfounded by everything that was happening.

I have to tell the others where I am, she realized. She reached for her radio, then realized that the earbuds weren’t there. She’d lost the headset back near the van somewhere; without it, the radio was useless.

Break the window and escape.

It was very narrow, too narrow even for her.

The smaller of the two kids might make it, though, if she broke the glass.

She put her elbow next to the bottom of the pane and smacked it through. The glass was surprisingly thick and stubborn — it took three blows before she broke it.

Hands up, Tolevi moved reluctantly to the door.

“If we go out there now, we’ll get caught in the cross fire,” he told the butcher. “And we don’t want that, right?”

“Open the door and let’s go.”

Chelsea boosted the first boy up. He wiggled into the space, pushing himself back and forth, but he was just too big, and the window was too small. They finally gave up; he slid to the ground.

“We need your friend to go get Peter,” she told him. “Just the controls, I mean, I dropped it. Can you tell him?”

The boy gestured apologetically with his hands. He had no clue what she was saying. She tried miming it out, but that was useless as well.

Translation app, she thought.

Great idea if she had one.

“Video game,” she tried. “Control.”

The boy hesitated a moment. “Videohra?”

Close enough, she decided. “Controls.” She gestured with her hands. “Back there.”

The boy went to the window and said something to the kid outside. He disappeared for a moment, then reappeared, far too soon to have gotten the controller.

But he passed something inside.

A cell phone.

This is no good to me, Chelsea thought.

Call Smart Metal. Have them get a translator.

She started to dial. How long would it take them?

Borya can speak Ukrainian. And she’s a kid; I can give her the phone and have them talk to her.

Chelsea hit the Kill button, then punched the country code for the U.S., hoping she remembered Borya’s cell number correctly.

108

Borya looked at her cell phone, vibrating on the kitchen table as she did her homework.

A strange number came up on the ID. It looked very odd.

Probably someone trying to sell her a credit card.

She spun the phone around on the table. Homework sucked. She needed a break.

“Yes?” she said in a funny voice, answering the phone.

“Borya, this is Chelsea. I dropped the controls to Peter by my van, and I need you to tell these kids to get it.”

“What? Chelsea? Where are you?”

“I dropped the controls to Peter and need these kids to run and get it,” said Chelsea. She was out of breath. “Can you tell them?”

“Um… OK.”

“You have to do it in Ukrainian.”

“OK.”

“Do you remember what the controller looked like?”

“I think so.”

“Do it! Try! Please!”

Medved checked the address. Tolevi lived in a damn nice house, far nicer than he deserved.

He was a slime. Clearly, Stratowich was right about him squealing to the FBI — that’s why Stratowich was in jail right now.

They’d get Stratowich next. The foreign service didn’t like to take risks, which was why they used him in the first place.

His car was in the driveway. So he was home.

“Ready?” Medved asked the man alongside him.

“Just about,” he said, screwing a silencer onto his gun.

“We get the information first. And my money.”

“Talk to him all you want. Just as long as he’s mine in the end. No witnesses.”

“No shit.”

109

The kids thought it was a game.

That was one way to deal with it, thought Chelsea as they giggled, passing the phone back and forth. Then the smaller of the two, the one who’d gotten stuck in the window, tiptoed to it and told his friend outside to go get the controller.

“And tell him not to get caught,” said Chelsea.

Outside the house, Tolevi slid to the ground, next to the commando who’d been watching the house. The commando still thought he was on his side.

And apparently he trusted the butcher. None of this was making a lot of sense. Tolevi expected it to implode any minute.

“They’re coming in the front,” he told the Russian. “Watch this one,” he added, pointing to the butcher. “He’s nuts.”

The commando waved at him, then turned his attention down the hill, firing at something moving in the brush.

Tolevi glanced around, trying to find some sort of weapon. But it was too late; the butcher dashed across the yard, sliding next to him.

“говно!” yelled the Russian. “Shit, holy shit! What is that?”

It was one of the little bots, the Groucho, walking on six legs toward them.

The commando took aim.

Tolevi jerked around. “Duck!” he yelled to the butcher.

110

Massina saw the soldier taking aim at the mech.

“OK, now,” he said as he pressed the button, detonating the device at the rear of the robot.

The screen blanked with the explosion. Massina looked over at the sitrep. None of the men near the truck moved.

He directed the UAV to fly closer to the front of the house, then keyed the command for Groucho 1, directing the bot toward the rear of the Russian position there.

“Tell them help is coming,” Massina told Johansen.

111

The wounded Russian heard the crashing noise at the back of the shed over the din of the gunfire up the hill. It surprised him — he wouldn’t have thought a girl and two little boys could break the damn thing down.

He struggled to get to his feet. He was supposed to kill them if they escaped. Truth be told, he didn’t want to. But orders were orders.

His legs were wobbly. He’d been struck by two bullets. One had merely squashed itself against his bulletproof vest; it had given him a bruise but not much else. The other had gone into his thigh. He’d lost a decent amount of blood, though the injury didn’t figure to be life threatening.

Damn Ukrainian bastards. Damn Putin for sending us here.

An odd contraption turned the corner as he approached. It was metal, alien, something from outer space? It had claws.

The soldier raised his gun and fired. His first bullet missed. His second hit it square in the body.

The thing didn’t stop. It sped full into him, claws like spears digging into his chest.

Falling backward, he lost his rifle.

Chelsea charged after Peter as the bot pushed its “hand” down on the Russian’s chest. The kids ran in front of her and started kicking him.

“No, no,” said Chelsea, scooping up his rifle. “Leave him. Don’t kill him!”

They shouted something at her that sounded like norham jushua. She gathered they were saying he was a bad man or evil.

“That’s all right. Leave him. He’s hurt. Come on.”

She started in the direction of the van, following Peter as he headed toward the second Russian.

Someone yelled, and then there was a shot. Chelsea grabbed the children close and pushed them with her to the ground, watching Peter rush forward toward the commotion.

A second later she heard a familiar voice yelling from the woods.

“It’s me!” shouted Bozzone. “I know you’re here if Peter is. Are you all right?”

Better than all right, ballerina girl, laughed her father in her head.

Chelsea jumped to her feet.

Tolevi pushed himself up from the dirt. The butcher was still on the ground.

“Asshole,” he yelled, stomping his wrist to release the pistol. He grabbed it, then took hold of the back of the butcher’s shirt.

Something blew up in the front of the building.

“We’re here, we’re here!” Tolevi yelled, running around to the side. The last thing he needed was that idiot White shooting him. “The butcher is with me! The butcher is with me!”

112

The doorbell rang.

Borya looked up at Mary Martyak.

“Think we should get it?” asked Martyak.

“Yes, of course,” said Borya, putting down her phone. Chelsea had had to hang up but had told her to stand by.

Stand by.

Borya left the phone on the table and ran to the door.

“Who is it?” she asked, pulling it open.

“Hey there, Borya,” said Johnny Givens. “You left this at work.” He held up the backpack.

“Oh wow, I totally forgot it.”

“Hello, Johnny,” said Mary Martyak from inside.

“Mary.”

“Come on in,” said Borya, grabbing Johnny’s hand. “I just talked to Chelsea.”

“You did?”

Across the street, Medved and the Russian intelligence operative got back into their car.

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” said Medved. “Stratowich should be able to keep his mouth shut until then.”

“He better.”

“You’re welcome to get rid of him, as far as I’m concerned,” said Medved. “Take him and Tolevi out. I’d sleep better.”

“What makes you think I’m not going to?”

Medved nodded. There was a little too much menace in his companion’s voice, he thought, the sort of tone that hinted he would be next.

“Let’s go to my club and have something to drink,” Medved said. “Relax with some wine and girls. Tomorrow is another day.”

“Tomorrow, yes,” said the man. “Tomorrow.”

113

They were in the trucks, all of them, including Bozzone and Porter, both of whom had been shot.

The butcher’s hands and feet were trussed, and Tolevi was not being very gentle with him.

Massina looked over at Johansen.

“They’re good,” said Johansen. “They’ll make it.”

“Who is the butcher, really?” said Massina.

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t want to be rescued. He had a gun on Tolevi. You can see it in the videos. And Tolevi tied him up.”

“He did want to be rescued. At one point.”

“Who was he?”

“The Russian SVR officer who was involved in planning the Ukrainian invasion,” confessed Johansen. “The rebels got tired of him and put him in their prison. He sent a message through his brother that he wanted to defect.”

“Does anyone else on the team know that?”

“It’s need to know. And they didn’t.”

114

Tolevi had a strong suspicion about what was up, but there was no way to be sure until it played out. And the only way for that to happen was to pick up the brother as planned, because otherwise they’d never make it through Ukraine. So he drove to an intersection two miles from the compound and waited for the butcher’s brother to appear.

It took nearly twenty minutes.

“Hop in,” Tolevi said, opening the side door of the van. “We’re running a little late.”

The butcher’s brother climbed in. Tolevi pointed to the lumpy frame under the blanket in the back. “He’s unconscious, but OK. We’re letting him sleep”

The brother yanked a pistol from his belt. “Bastard,” he yelled, shooting at the figure below the blanket.

He got off three shots before Tolevi and one of the CIA paras managed to get the gun away from him. They wrestled him to the side, then searched him for weapons. They found a small 9mm at his back and a radio.

The para tied him up.

“Why?” asked Tolevi.

“He’s not my brother. I am working for SBU—Sluzhba Bezpeky Ukrayiny.” The Ukrainian special service — in effect, their FBI.

“No shit,” said Tolevi. “But I will say you guys look a lot alike. You could be brothers.”

“That’s why they sent me, no? I was a colonel in the army. They came to me. We have worked on this six months, more.”

“Why?” asked Tolevi.

“He’s one of the barbarians who set up the invasion. He was so despicable, even the rebels couldn’t deal with him. They put him in the prison to keep him safe. A lot of them wanted to kill him. He was in the house by himself.”

“Why didn’t you just blow up the prison?”

“We’ve tried. We couldn’t get him ourselves.” He spit on the blanket. “We knew the Americans could. I’ll help you get across the border. I owe you.”

“I hate to tell you this, but this ain’t him.” Tolevi pulled off the blanket, revealing a pair of duffel bags, a backpack and some rolled towels. “Don’t worry, though. He’ll pay for his sins many times over.”

115

Getting to the border was easy, even though none of them trusted the directions the butcher’s brother had laid out. Dan found a road, and a bribe to the Ukrainian guard saved them the trouble of shooting the poor bastard. Once across, they changed the plates so the vehicles looked like government trucks, and they were left alone.

The “brother” did look an awful lot like Olak Urum, Tolevi thought. But in reality he was a colonel in the Ukrainian intelligence service, which had concocted an elaborate plot to get the butcher killed in revenge for the many deaths he’d caused. Ironically, just like the butcher, he had started his career in the Soviet KGB.

Takes one to know one.

Now the butcher was coming back to the U.S. anyway, where he’d detail Russia’s lies for the world.

They drove for several hours before reaching Kiev and the airport. The plane was waiting in the commercial area. The guards there — all CIA — whisked them to the tarmac. Neither the butcher nor his brother, both sleeping with the aid of a heavy dose of propofol, objected at all.

They left the Ukrainian in the back of the van. The butcher was carried onto the plane in a stretcher. It was a 737 registered to a South African airline — according to the papers, at least.

“We got everybody?” asked White as the last para boarded.

Asshole CIA officers, thought Tolevi. Can’t even friggin’ count. But they always got to be in charge.

Screw him.

A million bucks.

I think Johansen owes me a bonus on this one. Call it entertainment tax.

How much would one of these planes cost?

Chelsea stood next to Bozzone as he was helped into his seat. He’d taken two slugs, one in the arm and one at the side of his chest, deflected by the ceramic plate in his bulletproof vest. Both he and Porter had been treated by one of the paras; both were going to be fine.

“More than you bargained for, huh?” Bozzone said as he sat down.

“What do you mean?”

“Guns. You didn’t expect that, right?”

“No. Not at all.”

“They said it would be dangerous. Were you scared?”

She had been scared. Yes.

But…

“I was scared,” she admitted. “But we made it.”

“We did.”

The plane began to taxi.

“I’m ready to go home,” she confessed.

“Me, too,” said Bozzone. “But it’s going to be dull after this. Real dull.”

“Somehow I don’t think so. But I won’t mind if it is.”

116

Tolevi had the CIA driver drop him off two blocks from the house, claiming it was a security issue, even as the man protested loudly that they were not being followed.

They were being followed, Tolevi knew — by the FBI, whose motives he was sure had far more to do with nabbing American-based mafya connections than protecting him.

How much protection he actually needed, how much the CIA would actually pay him, what he would do next week — these were all unknowable at the moment, and not worth thinking about. What was worth thinking about — though perhaps even harder to contemplate — was what he would say to his daughter.

She needed discipline, that much was clear. If she’d been a boy, he would have sent her — him — to military school straightaway.

But then a boy would never have given him so many problems. A boy…

He knew how to deal with boys. He had been a boy. But girls — he’d raised one and loved one and still she was a mystery, a deep, deep mystery.

Chelsea, the robotics girl (as he thought of her), had sung Borya’s praises to him on the flight back, calling her a hero and a budding genius, puffing his father’s pride. But now that he’d had a little more time to reflect, he’d not only put the young woman’s praise in perspective — clearly the robotics girl saw too much of herself in his child — but he’d also thought about the possible implications of what his daughter had done. If the mobsters found out that Borya had actually been involved, she could easily be targeted; a young girl would be easily picked off, and those animals had no scruples, no scruples at all.

Lose Borya? That will be the end. I will kill myself that day.

No, the next day, the day after I have killed the beasts responsible.

So she had to be kept out of harm’s way. And he had to discipline her for stealing from the banks… as clever as that was. And he had to punish her for breaking curfew and lying. And he had to protect her and nurture, feed this great intellect that apparently she was harboring, because a girl that smart had potential far beyond a normal child, so he owed not just her but probably the race to nurture it properly…

He had to do so many things regarding Borya that he couldn’t settle on exactly what he should do, either in the short or long term, and certainly not in the two blocks that he walked from the car to the house. He thought of walking around the block a few times, but that would be useless — he wasn’t going to get anything settled in his mind out here. He had to go and talk to his daughter, just plunge in, let his gut lead him to where he had to go.

And besides, it was cold.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Tolevi trotted up the steps. He was surprised to find the door unlocked.

The foyer and front rooms were unlit, and only a dim light came through the hallway.

“Borya?” he asked, biting back his fear.

A second passed before there was an answer; in that moment, he felt ten times the anxiety he’d felt at his worst in the Ukraine.

“In the kitchen, Daddy,” she said.

Wary, Tolevi walked to the back of the house, muscles tense. The light flickered — Borya had placed two candles in the middle of the table.

“Ta-dah!” she exclaimed. “Welcome home.” She wrapped herself around him, hugging him tight. “I missed you, Daddy.”

“I missed you, too, baby.”

“Where’s your bags?”

“It’s a long story,” he told her. “But I’m here, safe and sound.”

“So am I. I made chicken Marsala.”

“Really?” Tolevi glanced at the stove. A covered grill pan sat on the top.

“Have a seat,” she insisted. “And there are potatoes.”

“Potatoes?” he joked. “I feel like a king.… Where’s Mary?”

“She went home. I told her I didn’t need her.”

“Borya.”

“Now that I have a job and everything, I’m ready for responsibility.”

“What job?”

“Smart Metal.”

“I thought that’s an internship.”

“They can call it what they want. But they’re paying. I got you some wine. This is supposed to go with chicken.” Borya retrieved a bottle from the refrigerator. It was unopened — a good thing, thought Tolevi.

“I invited Chelsea,” added Borya, “but she was too tired. Do you like her?”

“Uh—”

“I’m not trying to set you up,” Borya said quickly. “Just, she’s really nice. And smart.”

“That’s good. Not as smart as you,” added Tolevi.

“I’m sure she’s smarter,” said Borya, handing him the wine. “Can you open this?”

In the flickering light, she looked exactly like her mother. Tolevi felt a tear forming at the side of his eye.

“I need a corkscrew,” he said quickly, rising so he could brush it away without his daughter seeing.

“We can talk about business tomorrow,” announced Borya, her back to him as she opened the stove to retrieve the potatoes. “Tonight, we’re celebrating, just me and you.”

“Exactly,” he managed. “Exactly.”