Dale Brown - Puppet Master

Johnny stood in the middle of the office, unable to move. This had not gone the way he thought it would.

“I can do a lot,” he said weakly. “I can help.”

“I’m sure. And you will.”

Massina looked past him to the door, which had been left open. Johnny turned and saw Chelsea Goodman and two other Smart Metal employees in the doorway, staring.

“You’re making a mistake,” he told Massina.

The scientist said nothing. Depression, sadness, a sense of utter futility chased away the optimism Johnny had felt only a few moments before.

Johnny knew that he owed Massina a great deal, probably even his life. But he wanted to yell at him, demand to be taken seriously. He was ready to work.

Massina wasn’t blowing him off. Yet it felt like he was.

Don’t project, he told himself. Don’t turn him into the source of all evil. Keep your head up. Don’t beg, and don’t betray yourself. Or him. You owe him a lot.

“I’ll be back,” Johnny said finally, managing to turn and walk slowly out of the office.

Best to face the music quickly.

Chelsea was on her way to the FBI task force’s debrief session, knowing she would see Flores there, when her cell phone rang. It was Massina.

“Yeah, boss. What’s up?”

“What happened last night?” he asked.

“We got someone.” She briefly summarized what had happened. “I’m on my way over to debrief with the task force. I’m not sure whether they’re going to need us anymore.”

“Jenkins just came in here and told me they’ve ended their operation and we’re out,” Massina told her. “What’s going on?”

“They ended it?”

“Agent Jenkins interrupted my breakfast meeting to tell me,” said her boss. “Why did they close it down?”

“I don’t know.”

“Find out. Get our equipment back.”

Massina hung up. Chelsea knew from his tone that this was far from the end of things. She also knew that she had better come back to the office with at least some explanation, plausible or not.

She arrived at the task force office a few minutes later, not knowing what to expect. No one answered when she buzzed at the back door; she was just taking out her cell phone to call Jenkins when the door opened.

It was Flores.

Awkward.

He waved her in, then followed her into the team room. It was empty.

“Aren’t we meeting to debrief?” she asked.

“Jenkins called about an hour ago to tell everyone to take the day off.” He shrugged. “I guess he knew we all had hangovers.”

“What’s going on?” asked Chelsea.

“Have a seat.”

Chelsea pulled one of the chairs away from its workstation and sat down. She’d taken a long shower at her apartment; between that, a handful of Tylenol, and two cans of ginger ale, she felt almost refreshed.

Flores, on the other hand, looked like Chelsea had felt a few hours before.

“The guy is hooked into the CIA somehow,” said Flores. “They said cease and desist.”

“The CIA?”

“It’s total bullshit. He’s mafya. Russian mob. Take a look.” Flores led her over to one of the workstations. “You’re not seeing this,” he announced, dropping his voice to a whisper as he tapped a few keys. A long text document appeared. Chelsea was nearly halfway through when she realized that it was referring not to the suspect, whose name she remembered as Gabor Tolevi, but someone named Medved.

“This is the guy?”

“No, this is a guy we think he may work for. Or with. Or something. Medved is mafya. Where the CIA comes in, I have no idea.” Flores leaned close to scroll down the screen. He smelled like Dove soap and cheap shampoo; at least he’d showered. “This is a reference to a photo, here, which shows them together.”

He tapped the screen and a picture of two men appeared. The faces were in the shadow; Chelsea couldn’t tell if either was the man at the ATM last night.

“Tolevi’s on the right,” said Flores. “He’s got some sort of import thing going on. Goes to both sides of Ukraine. Maybe legal; I’d bet not.”

“I see.”

He was uncomfortably close. She slid to the side and got up.

“The CIA gave you this?” she asked.

“Nah. This is our stuff. The Boston PD has some minor stuff on Medved and his associates. You never get a good picture of these guys, of what they do, unless you get informers. But they’re pretty tight around here, as tight as the Sicilians were in the thirties and forties.”

Chelsea spotted the coffee carafe and decided she wanted a cup. It was a good excuse to put more distance between them.

Flores followed her across the room.

“I guess I’m unclear what’s going on,” she said, sipping the coffee. It was pretty bitter, despite being weak. “Are you guys stopping the operation? Was this guy involved?”

“I don’t know. They couldn’t find anything that would definitely link him to the theft.”

“What? We saw the string, the extra coding.”

“You saw it; we didn’t,” said Flores. “When they looked at the card, there wasn’t anything special on it.”

“You looked at the card?”

“He said we could.”

“Did you check the account?”

“We need a warrant to do that.”

“Give me the number.”

“I can’t,” he said, glancing at the workstation.

Chelsea didn’t need more of a hint. She walked back to the computer. There were several windows open; she moused around until she found a list that showed data inquiries from the compromised machine. Rather than copying them, she sent the page to the printer. Getting up to retrieve them, she bumped into Flores.

He reached to her. For a second she thought he was going to hug her, and she worried what she would say. But he only held his palm out as if to stop her from falling.

“I’m fine,” she said, slipping past.

“You don’t remember last night, do you?” Flores asked as she retrieved the list.

“Some.”

“You fell asleep on the bed. You took off your jeans, and boom. You were out.”

“I don’t usually drink.”

“I collapsed next to you. We didn’t do anything.”

Chelsea searched his face, not sure if he was telling the whole truth, not sure whether she wanted to ask for more details. He seemed to be trying to smile, but he could only turn up one half of his mouth.

He seemed apologetic. Because they hadn’t managed to do anything?

“I just wanted you to know — I just…” Flores fumbled with his hands, rubbing them together, as if washing. Finally, he jabbed them beneath his arms, squeezing his chest. “I wouldn’t take advantage of you… I like you.”

“I like you, too, Flores.”

Later, back in the lab at Smart Metal, she wondered to herself if she should have kissed him then.

By the time Tolevi got home, Borya had left for school. As angry as he was, he was too exhausted and jet-lagged to go to her school and confront her. He rationalized that little would be gained by pulling her out of class; it was far more sensible to wait until she came home. Still unsure exactly how he would punish her — or even how to find out exactly what she was involved in — he sat down on the couch and flipped on the television. Within moments he was asleep.

Given an unexpected reprieve, Borya spent the school day attending all of her classes, uncharacteristically participating in each one, even in a discussion of Catcher in the Rye, where her teacher complimented her definition of alienation. While her opinion of the book had not changed— dreck —she was now aware of a certain parallel between the main character and her own life. Hers was more interesting and she was smarter, but Holden Caulfield did at least have the right impulses, even if his inventor couldn’t express them properly.