Puppet Master Page 16

  He tossed the gun into Jenkins’s chest so quickly that the FBI agent didn’t have time to grab it; it bounced through his hands and fell to the ground.

  “I’d get the car fixed if I were you,” added the man as he started away. “Boston police love to give out tickets for broken taillights.”

  39

  Grace Sisters’ Rehab Center

  Boston—later that day

  Johnny Givens took a deep breath, then pushed himself forward on the parallel bars.

  The legs, newly fitted, felt unsteady.

  That was the strange thing—they felt unsteady. He really did feel them, even though they were carbon fiber and fancy plastic and wires and circuits—not skin, not blood, not bones or nerves.

  Fake legs.

  But he could feel them.

  Partly this was his brain making things up. His mind was substituting what it knew for the sensations that were tickling the nerve endings in the stumps. But there were real sensations. That was the marvel of the legs Massina and his people had invented for him. They were real legs. Almost.

  “Keep going, Mr. Givens,” said Dr. Gleason. Gleason was the doctor in charge of his health, the head of a large team of surgeons and other specialists, therapists, scientists, engineers, nurses, and probably a dishwasher or two. Despite his other responsibilities, Gleason spent at least an hour every afternoon with Johnny.

  The physical therapist spent three hours each morning, and four in the afternoons. Every moment sucked. Johnny called her Gestapo Bitch.

  Not to her face. She looked like she could put him through the wall if he did.

  “Use your legs to walk,” she commanded from the far end of the bars. “Move!”

  “Easy,” said Gleason. “I don’t want his heart overtaxed.”

  “He’s barely at sixty beats a minute. I’ve seen nine-year-olds work harder than this.” Gestapo Bitch shook her head in disgust. “Move, Givens, move! And put your weight on your legs. They’re not going to break!”

  Givens put more weight on his left foot, pushing forward. He was a little kid, learning to walk again.

  Was he ever going to really walk again?

  “You’re doing really well, Johnny,” said Dr. Gleason. “Keep going.”

  Johnny felt his hips swinging as he maneuvered down the bars. That was good—he was supposed to use his whole body.

  Sweat poured down the sides of his face, down his back, across his neck. It flowed from every pore in his torso, from his arms, from his hands. Gestapo Bitch might think that he was barely working, but he knew better. He could feel the mechanical heart beating away.

  It was interesting, though. It did increase its rate, but not nearly as much as a “real” heart would. It was very steady, measured, as if it knew better than the rest of his body what he needed.

  As Johnny reached the end of the parallel bars, the sweat from his hands made his palms slippery. He decided to stop and wipe his hands on his shirt, needing to dry them. Steadying himself on his left side, he took his right hand off the bar and ran it down his right rib cage, the driest part of his T-shirt. As he started to switch sides, his left hand slipped. He quickly shoved his right hand toward the bar, but his momentum pitched him to the side. He tried grabbing the bar, but it was too late; he unceremoniously toppled backward, to the floor.

  Son of a bitch!

  I am never going to do this! Never!

  Why the hell did God screw me like this? Why is he such a bastard?

  “Are you all right, Johnny?” asked Dr. Gleason, starting over.

  “He’s OK,” scolded Gestapo Bitch. “Get up and go back. You don’t stop until you get to the end. You stop, you do it again.”

  Johnny didn’t move.

  “Do you need help?” asked Gleason.

  “He doesn’t need help,” snapped Gestapo Bitch.

  Damn you, bitch!

  Johnny reached up to the bar. Gestapo Bitch loomed over him and smacked his hand away. “Push yourself up with your legs. Use them or lose them.”

  “They’re not my legs,” he told her.

  “They sure as hell are. Push yourself up with your legs.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Good. Now push yourself up with your legs and stop being a crybaby.”

  “I’m going to kick your ass when I’m better.”

  Gestapo Bitch leaned in until her face was an inch from his. “I’m waiting for the day, Sissy Breath.” She straightened. “Now get on your feet.”

  40

  Boston—that same day

  Louis Massina was not used to giving up, much less being told to give up. There was simply no way that he was not going to pursue the ATM thieves.

  On the contrary, it was now his number-one priority. But Massina being Massina, the issue was not simply one of revenge, let alone getting his money back. It had provoked a wide range of thoughts about computer security, national security, and even politics. Petty thievery was one thing; being able to infiltrate and manipulate the banking system, quite another. The FBI’s sudden decision to drop the case suggested many things to Massina, not least of which was the possibility that the government could secretly manipulate the banking system for its own purposes. Even if that wasn’t what was going on here—more evidence would be needed on that score—the potential surely existed.

  Massina had always taken Internet security very seriously; that was a necessity at a firm where IT was critical to its operations. Chinese and Russian hackers, almost surely state-sponsored, constantly tried to break into Smart Metal’s systems. And they were only the more notorious—just in the past week, hackers from several Western European countries had tried to breach the company’s e-mail systems. Most of Smart Metal’s work was done on internal systems that would not allow any outside access, from trusted sources or not, but even that system had to be constantly monitored for potential breaches.

  Still, Massina had never viewed computer security as a potential business area; he’d been under the impression that there were already plenty of other businesses in that field. But maybe that wasn’t true: if the banking system could be so easily compromised, then surely there was room for innovation.

  And innovation was what they did. For a profit, of course.

  So he had both altruistic and business reasons for pursuing the matter as he walked into Number 2 conference room to meet with Chelsea and his head of security to discuss it.

  “The FBI has dropped out. We’re pursuing this on our own,” he told them as he walked into the room. It was 10:40, five minutes before the time he had specified for the meeting, but both Chelsea and Bozzone had worked at Smart Metal long enough to know they were expected early. “What do we know?”

  “We know that sticking our nose into police matters is in general a very bad idea,” said Bozzone.

  Massina smiled. It was exactly because of remarks like that—speaking his mind even though it was not what Massina wanted to hear—that he valued Bozzone.

  Not that he was necessarily swayed by his advice. But the reality check was useful.

  “What else do we know?” Massina asked.

  “That most likely we’re looking at a gang with connections to Eastern Europe,” said Bozzone. “Most likely suspects. And that the CIA is involved.”

  Massina followed Bozzone’s gaze over to Chelsea. Number 2 conference room was small, arranged somewhat like a living room with a sofa facing a ring of three chairs and a love seat; there were side tables next to the chairs and at the ends of the couches. It was the only room in the entire building, aside from the restrooms, that did not have hardwired computers. It was something of an oasis.

  Chelsea and Bozzone were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, looking slightly uncomfortable; Massina sat in the leather chair at the center of the circle, as was his wont.

  “That’s what one of the task force members told me,” said Chelsea. “The FBI backed off because of that.”

  All the more reason for us to pursue it, thought M
assina.

  “I’ve been thinking about the situation a lot,” continued Chelsea. “If it’s not on the card, then the command string must come from the accessed account somehow. It nests in the ATM machine for a limited amount of time, then self-erases.”

  “Not at the processing points?” asked Massina.

  “Well, the FBI looked there, so presumably no. Anyway, if I could examine the account that was accessed when that string was sent, it might tell me a great deal.”

  “Do it,” said Massina.

  “With the bank’s permission or without?”

  Massina waved his hand. “However you need to.”

  Bozzone cleared his throat. “You know, breaking into accounts, whatever the purpose, it’s pretty much an illegal act.”

  “Is it?” asked Massina. He was not speaking theoretically; as he understood the law, stealing something from a bank account was definitely illegal; manipulating something in the account was almost surely illegal; but looking at something in an account—that wasn’t covered.

  “You bet it’s illegal,” said Bozzone.

  “We’re not doing anything to the account,” said Massina. “I can get a legal opinion if you want.”

  Bozzone shook his head.

  “It’s possible the FBI already has the data,” said Chelsea.

  “Talk to them,” said Massina.

  “But they don’t want our help,” said Chelsea.

  “Maybe national security is involved,” said Bozzone. “We don’t know.”

  “How would that be?” asked Massina.

  “I don’t know. But if the CIA is involved, there may be a lot of things we just don’t know.”

  “So let’s find them out,” said Massina.

  A long moment passed. “The idea of attacking the account seems pretty sophisticated, but on the other hand, they don’t take much money,” said Chelsea, interrupting the silence. “I would think if a gang was involved, they’d go for a big kill.”

  “I agree with that,” said Bozzone.

  “Maybe that’s what they’re planning.” Massina slid forward on the chair.

  “Maybe the FBI has actually already solved this, and they’re just waiting for that hit,” said Bozzone. “Then they strike. It’s possible the CIA is actually helping them.”

  “I didn’t get that impression,” said Chelsea.

  “Let’s stop dealing in the dark,” said Massina, springing to his feet. “By the end of the day, I want to know what resources we need, what people, whatever it takes to pursue this. Chelsea, come up with a plan.”

  Massina was already out the door before either Chelsea or Bozzone got up.

  “OK,” said Chelsea.

  “Listen, I don’t think this is a good idea at all,” said the security chief. “Bad, bad, bad.”

  “I kinda got that.”

  “If you are doing anything even borderline illegal, I don’t want to know about it. And for the record, I don’t think you should do it either.”

  Chelsea nodded.

  “I don’t think you should do anything illegal,” repeated Bozzone. “Nothing.”

  “I heard you.”

  “Is the FBI really out? Or is that a smoke screen to get us to stop being interested?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Ask your boyfriend,” said Bozzone.

  “My boyfriend?” Chelsea felt her face warm.

  “Don’t you have some sort of connection there?”

  Was he just being a bit of a wiseass, or had he somehow seen her? Or had someone else seen her and told him?

  “If you hear anything of use from your police friends,” Chelsea told him, “let me know.”

  41

  Boston—later that night

  Tolevi was just getting into his car at the parking garage two blocks from his house when a large man in a dark suit approached from the shadows. This was not entirely unexpected; if it had been, Tolevi would have stepped on the gas and run him down.

  Actually, he was sorely tempted to do just that now, even though he knew the man well. Or more accurately, because he knew the man quite well.

  Instead, he held his temper and rolled his window down.

  “What are you doing, Stratowich?”

  “Looking for you. Medved wants to talk to you.”

  “What a coincidence. I want to talk to him.”

  Stratowich snorted. He didn’t believe him, though it was in fact true.

  “Get in,” Tolevi told him.

  “That’s not how this works. I drive you.”

  “I’m not getting out of my car. You can get in, or you can follow. Your choice.”

  Stratowich thought about it for a moment, then went around to the passenger side. Once again, Tolevi suppressed the urge to hit the gas.

  “Nice car,” said Stratowich as he closed the door. “New?”

  “Six months.”

  “You could have used this to pay your debt.”

  “I need a car.”

  In truth, though expensive, the Mercedes E63 S wouldn’t come close. And it was leased.

  Tolevi played with a bit of its twin turbo V-8 power as he raced the light. The big brakes worked pretty well, too; they kept him from crashing into the side of a Nissan Altima that pulled out in front of him just ahead of the intersection.

  “Jeez, take it easy,” croaked Stratowich.

  Tolevi grinned. “I will if you put the pistol away.”

  “It’s in my pocket.”

  “Then take your hand out of your pocket. You’re likely to blow your nuts off and mess up the leather.”

  Tolevi drove at an easier pace for the next half hour, skirting the airport and heading north along Route 1A, heading for a bar Medved owned not far from the Boston Yacht Club; how he had managed to get the zoning changed to permit the conversion of two former family homes to commercial was a mystery only to those naive enough to believe in the Tooth Fairy. The Russian mafya was not particularly large in the Boston area, at least not when compared to places like New York and L.A., but what it lacked in absolute size it made up for in connections, with both the legitimate power structures and the illegal underground, still largely dominated by the Irish and the Italians, respectively.

  Maarav Medved was not the top Russian in the local network. Not only did Tolevi not know who the chief was—the “pa khan” had no business contact with anyone below his generals—but Medved’s exact position was murky as well. Maybe he was a general, or maybe he was just a colonel; Tolevi couldn’t tell. And obviously he would never ask.

  Like many other Russian mafya organizations around the world, activities in Boston were decentralized and malleable; your position often depended as much on your ability to bully and persuade as it did on the size of your army and the number of your guns. Tolevi had to deal with Medved because he needed his dock connections to unload his items without problems; from that arrangement, others flowed. Tolevi cut him percentages of certain deals that were of interest, and sometimes carried messages back to Russian and other Eastern European countries for him. He’d also borrowed a fair sum, which had come due with interest, undoubtedly the subject of tonight’s meeting.

  Medved welcomed Tolevi with a bear hug when he walked into the club. One reason was that, business aside, he seemed to like Tolevi, who was easy to talk to and smarter than most of the goons Medved surrounded himself with. The other was that he liked to personally make sure his visitors were unarmed.

  “Beautiful night,” said Medved. He nodded to Statowich, who went off to sulk by the bar. “Nice and warm. Should we sit outside?”

  “Fine with me.”

  Tolevi followed him outside. They chatted in Russian for a while, Medved asking about his daughter; Tolevi inquiring about the health of Medved’s mother, who had recently had a heart attack.

  “You were in Russia last week?”

  “No,” said Tolevi. “Crimea.”

  “That’s Russia. Now.” Medved raise his glass. “Putin, he is a bold one,
no?”

  Tolevi shrugged. “Obama’s a pansy. Anyone could have taken it.”

  “What were you doing in Crimea?”

  “For one thing, seeing my mother-in-law.”

  “Your mother-in-law?” Medved laughed. “And she didn’t shoot you?”

  “She would if she could. I had some other business. When the arrangements are finalized, of course we’ll make the appropriate requests.”

  “Very good.” Medved reached across the table for the vodka bottle. Tolevi caught the strong scent of sweat. It was not a warm night; there was no reason for Medved to sweat as if he’d been out running a marathon.

  Medved filled Tolevi’s glass, then his own.

  “So what did your friends want?” Medved asked.

  Tolevi heard the door opening behind him and immediately went on his guard. He shifted his weight in the chair, calculating what he would do if grabbed from behind.

  If it was Stratowich, kick him in the shin—the bone there had been broken barely a year before and was still tender. Anyone else, though . . .

  “Which friends do you mean?” asked Tolevi. “My cousin?”

  “Your friends at Center Plaza.” Medved slapped his glass on the table.

  As if that’s going to intimidate me, you fat frog.

  “The FBI?”

  “So Stratowich was right.”

  “Like a broken clock,” said Tolevi. “They seem to think I’m a spy.”

  “Are you?”

  “Not as far as I know.” Tolevi pushed his glass forward, staring into Medved’s eyes. After a few moments, Medved frowned, then refilled both glasses.

  “They followed me there from the airport,” Tolevi told him. “They made some sort of bullshit excuse. You know something about it?”

  “I know that you don’t want to talk to the FBI under any circumstances.”

  “No shit.”

  That was the moment, Tolevi thought, when Medved would signal whoever was behind Tolevi.

  He waited, trying to keep his muscles as relaxed as possible. He’d need to push into whoever attacked, catching them off guard before he kicked for the groin.