Dale Brown - Puppet Master

What was she going to tell him? He had the card. Of course, accessing the account wouldn’t tell him anything, certainly not what she was up to.

There was thirty-seven dollars and change in the account. He’d ask where she got it.

That wouldn’t be the only question he’d ask. Or the hardest.

How did you set this account up? You’re not eighteen.

A friend.

Which friend?

James.

James who?

God, she would never be able to bluff her way through. The account had been set up entirely online.

She could tell him that. Just leave out the details.

I set the account up myself online.

Why?

Why… why? Because… I wanted to see if I could do it.

Dumb answer. That was practically admitting that she had hacked in.

But she didn’t hack in, and she had set up the account online. And lied in doing so, of course, but still, the original setup was legit.

What followed wasn’t. Everything that followed.

Should she tell him everything?

Oh, God, no. He’ll have a conniption.

Conniption. One of her teachers used that word. It was a good word. It fit.

Borya let her bike drop on the back walkway and ran up the stairs. She’d beaten her father home. Maybe she could pretend she was sleeping.

They took the suspect to the FBI Field Office at One Central Plaza, walking him in through the back and up to a suite of interrogation rooms.

The Bureau had assigned an interrogator, Jill Hightower, to the task force. She met Jenkins as they walked in, standing back against the wall as the agents and suspect passed. Letting the others go ahead, Jenkins led her to the small office down the hall.

“He’s the guy?” asked Hightower.

“Looks like it.”

“He talk?”

“Said nothing.”

“Ask for a lawyer?”

“No.”

Hightower seemed skeptical but let it pass. “A little older than I expected. Better dressed.”

“Yeah.” Jenkins thought that, too — he’d expected someone in their twenties, a gofer. This guy looked much farther up the food chain. And he was smart enough to keep quiet.

“Did he have ID?”

“Passport and driver’s license.” Jenkins showed her the passport. “We’re checking it out. There are no local warrants, for what that’s worth.”

“I hate it when they don’t fit the profile,” said Hightower. “We going in together, or do you want to hang back?”

“Let’s do it together.”

“You better get some coffee first. Your eyes are slits.”

Back at the van in Cambridge, Chelsea watched as the Hum circled above the black Lexus it had followed from the bank ATM. The driver had gone inside the nearby convenience market.

“Surveillance team is about five minutes away,” said Flores. “Any change?”

“Still inside. Oh wait — here he comes.”

The driver came out with a large coffee in one hand and a six-pack of something in the other. He went to the rear of the car and popped the trunk.

“Coffee for now, beer later,” said Chelsea. “He’d be in the same place if he skipped both.”

“He’s not drinking the coffee,” said Flores, looking over her shoulder. “Watch.”

The driver dumped the coffee out onto the pavement. He had put two cups together, one inside the other; he switched them, so that he had a clean cup on top, then he opened one of the beers and poured it in.

“At least it’s a light beer,” said Flores.

“Can you get him for DWI?” Chelsea asked.

“Have to call the locals. Not worth it — here are our guys. They’ll handle it.”

Chelsea watched as two FBI agents walked over to the Uber car. They had already run the plate and found out who the driver was, an Iranian Christian who had come to the U.S. a decade and a half before.

They didn’t expect trouble, and they didn’t get it. The man got out of the car without resisting and, after a few moments of conversation, walked meekly back to the agents’ vehicle. By then, four other FBI agents had moved in to secure his car; it would be searched and possibly impounded, depending on how cooperative the driver was.

With the driver in custody, Flores visibly relaxed, joking with the surveillance agents and checking baseball scores on his phone. Chelsea flipped back through the Hum video screens, first checking on the two FBI agents watching the ATM, who were waiting for a technical crew and the bank manager to arrive so they could remove it. After that, she flipped over to the other UAV feeds. Their placid scenes were almost shocking to her; how could things anywhere else be calm when there was so much excitement elsewhere?

It was exciting, even just sitting here in the van. More exciting than watching a robot she’d programmed run through its paces.

Or rescuing someone?

That had been different somehow, more immediate, or more dire, or more… that was different because it happened so quickly, and she was inside it. This was quick, too, or had been, but she was more distanced, more able to make decisions.

But both experiences were more like dancing than math, more like a sport, adrenaline racing.

And she liked that. It was a part of her that hadn’t been used in several years.

“You gonna join us when we wrap up?” Flores asked.

“Don’t we have to keep watching?” Chelsea asked.

“Nah. They have it under control now. We’ll just wrap it all up. What are you going to do?”

“Go home, I guess.”

“Hell, no. We have to celebrate. Ike’s.”

“Where’s that?”

“Downtown. It’s great.”

“Is it open this late?”

“For us.”

Tolevi sat ramrod straight in the chair in the FBI interview room, staring at the two-way mirror across from him.

Did they really think he didn’t know he was being watched? Did anyone not know?

The door swung open. The man the others had been deferring to walked in, followed by a short, slightly overweight woman. Neither was dressed particularly well; the man’s suit was crumpled at the shoulders, a clear sign that he had bought it at JCPenney or some similar outlet. The woman’s slacks were a size too big; her jacket the opposite.

“So, Mr. Tolevi.” The man pulled out the chair opposite him. The woman sat down next to him. “You live in Boston?”

Who was going to play good cop? Tolevi wondered. Probably the woman.

“You have my passport,” said Tolevi.

“Were you planning to go somewhere?” asked the man, who hadn’t introduced himself.

“I just got back.”

“And you went to the cash machine rather than going home?”

“I wanted to make sure I still had money in the account.”

“No withdrawal?” asked the woman.

They hadn’t told her they’d looked in his wallet. Or maybe she was just playing dumb.

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced,” he told her.

“Jill Hightower. I’m a senior agent.”

Tolevi turned to Jenkins. “And you?”

“Jenkins. Agent in Charge.”

“Well, Jenkins, Agent in Charge, why am I here?”

“I think you know.”

“No, really I don’t. And I believe you’re under some sort of obligation to tell me.”

“Do you understand your Miranda rights?” asked the woman. “Let’s go over them again.”

Jenkins studied the suspect as Hightower went through the pro forma warnings. She was right about him; he was very much more polished than what they had expected.

But his background fit. American of Ukrainian and Russian descent.