Puppet Master Page 29

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “From?”

  “South America.”

  “This is what you do?”

  “Yes.”

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

  The money or your life?

  It’s not going to come to that.

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

  “You are an importer?” asked the president.

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

  “Can I see them?”

  “They’re at the hotel.”

  “You ship medicine?”

  “Aspirin, things like that.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Coffee.”

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

  77

  Smart Metal Headquarters, Boston—morning

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

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

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

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

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

  Sometimes.

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

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

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

  And among his “possible associates” was Gabor Tolevi.

  Bingo.

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

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

  Including the SOB who had killed his brother.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “We can share.”

  “I appreciate that.”

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

  “Absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “We’re not offering a deal.”

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

  “Well . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

  “We know that,” said Grady.

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

  78

  Starobeshevskaya village—the next morning

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

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

  “Why?”

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

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

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

/>   Thousands of trucks like that. Even here.

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

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

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

  “What’s going on?”

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

  “A feeling?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Doesn’t he come in every day?”

  “Have you tried his office?”

  “That’s where I’m going next.”

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

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

  The man barely looked up from his mop.

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

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

  “You’re deaf?” asked Tolevi.

  The man pointed again, then nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

  Dan wasn’t there.

  Damn it.

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

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

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

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

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

  Another man came into the room.

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

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

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

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

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

  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

  Starobeshevskaya village—a short time later

  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.