Puppet Master Page 28

  74

  Boston—around the same time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Or maybe it was reality.

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

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

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

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

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

  Closed. He’d dawdled too long.

  Have to go home by foot.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Where?”

  “Number ten.”

  “Damn,” said Johnny. “Backup coming?”

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

  75

  Boston—around the same time

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

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

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

  “Hello?”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Who is this?”

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

  “What’s going on?”

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

  “Shit.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry.”

  “I’m on my way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Like a cat running from a dog.

  And he hated cats.

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

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

  Then he saw someone walking along the top floor.

  What the hell?

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

  He had a gun.

  I have to do something.

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

  “What?”

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

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

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

  The cop handed over the binos.

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

  Massina. That’s Mr. Massina!

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

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

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

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

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

  Bastard is trying to kill me.

  Don’t help him by slipping.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Simple.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  And pray.

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

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

  Johnny Givens.

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

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

  What are you doing?

  What are you doing?

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

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

  That’s not who I am.

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

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

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

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

  But they were safe.

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

  “I’m going with you,” said Borya.

  “That’s a really bad idea.”

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

  “Then we’re all going.”

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

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

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

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

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

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

  “The FBI guy?”

  “Yeah, look. There’s Lou.”

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

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

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

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

  “What were you doing?” she asked.

  “Job interview,” said Johnny.

  76

  Starobeshevskaya village—afternoon

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

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

  “How much?”

  “Forty percent.”

  “Outrageous!”

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

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

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

  “Ah, excellent idea. Which ones?”

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

  “Who is your man?”

  “Olak Urum.”

  The deputy mayor straightened, suddenly sober.

  “Why do you want him?”

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

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

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

  “No. He betrayed the cause.”

  “How?”

  The deputy mayor shook his head.

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

  “You told Olga this?”

  “Not yet.”

  “She won’t agree. I guarantee.”

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

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

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

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

  “He’s not.”

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

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

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

  “I have no idea.”

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

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

  “How does he rate a bed?”

  “Some of the guards like him.”

  “Have you thought about bribing them yourself?”

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

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

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