Dale Brown - Puppet Master

You have a name for the contact?

He is the brother of the man we want and he owns a shop. You’ll get an address, That’s enough.

No, it’s not.

If I tell you now, you’re a liability, even to yourself.

Is he wanted by the Russian, or the rebels?

Both.

How do I get him out?

Use your skills. I’m confident.

Why do you need him out?

He has information we need. Really, Gabe, you don’t need to know anything else. Just get it done.

Tolevi might be a smuggler by trade and an occasional spy, but he was not a killer, let alone the sort of action hero who could dig through the weeds and come out with a prize. That’s what they needed here.

Waltz out of Donetsk with some sort of CIA prize? Surely the rebels and the Russians would object. Violently.

Tolevi had killed before, but that was when he was young, and they’d deserved it. Then it was kill or be killed, and such decisions were not really decisions, were they? The species had evolved to make that very decision, to take that action. Kill or be killed.

Going into a place specifically to seek danger — that wasn’t him. Profit, yes, and sometimes that involved risk. You could balance that as an equation — it was math: X risk equals Y profit. But this was a little more complicated: risk to X power equals? Profit.

He could make the visit pay — that would be a good idea as a cover in any event. But beyond that… was finding some forlorn CIA contact something he wanted to do?

Did he have a choice?

“Daddy?”

“Hey, Sugarbaby.” Tolevi put down the glass and went to his daughter. She clutched him tightly, her fists grabbing the back of his shirt. She was getting big, reminding him more and more of her mother, God rest her soul.

“Who were those men?”

“Businesspeople.”

“For work?”

“Yeah. Something I need to do. It means more traveling.”

“Are you going to do it?”

“I’m afraid I have to.”

Tolevi wasn’t sure how much his daughter truly knew about his “business” arrangements. And naturally he kept any hint that he was working for the CIA from her.

On the other hand, an array of characters had visited the house over the years, and she’d met even more at various parties father and daughter attended. Borya even knew a number of mobsters’ sons and daughters. Though they never spoke about that part of his life, he suspected she had at least an inkling of his connections. It occurred to him that he should discuss that at some point.

But not now.

“I don’t like it when you go,” said Borya.

“I don’t like to leave you either. But you have school.”

“The lessons are so boring. They’re a waste.”

“And what were you doing out last night?” asked Tolevi. “Why were you out after curfew?”

“I found an ATM card,” she said.

She’d held on to him all this time; now she let go and sat on the chair across from the couch. He hadn’t realized how warm she was until she let go; he almost shivered.

Maybe she had a fever?

“Where did you find this card?”

“I found it near the school. I wanted to try it.”

“So you rode your bike all the way across town?”

Borya’s expression seemed to say, Where else would I have gone? She had a way of doing that — turning a perfectly natural question around as if it were the most bizarre thing in the world to ask.

“Where exactly did you find it?”

“On the sidewalk. Near school.”

“You know it was stolen?”

“It was?”

“That’s what the police say. It could have gotten you in a lot of trouble.”

“Oh.”

“You rode your bike pretty far in the dark,” Tolevi said, deciding to drop the business about the card. It was only natural that she would try to use it. He couldn’t fault her for that.

“It wasn’t that far.”

“It was after curfew.”

“I know I broke curfew.” She shook her head. “I know you’re going to punish me. I deserve it.”

Even though Tolevi knew this was a tactic designed to win leniency, he couldn’t help but feel somewhat proud of her for taking responsibility. She really was a good daughter — brilliantly smart, responsible, able to take care of herself. She didn’t go running all over town with druggies, and she wasn’t throwing herself at boys. She studied, got excellent grades. All the nuns said she could get into MIT. It was just a question of what she wanted as a major.

Probably some computer thing. He’d really prefer a doctor. But she had to follow her own muse.

“I am going to punish you,” said Tolevi. “We’ll figure out the punishment together.”

“Do you have the card?”

“Of course not. Why?”

“I just wondered.”

“Do you know whose card it was?”

She shook her head solemnly. Tolevi searched for something to say. He didn’t think she’d stolen it herself — Borya wasn’t like that — but it was just possible one of her friends had. That Susan Abonfinch or whatever her name was. She was a little sneak.

And the boyfriend last year. He was headed for the penitentiary — though if Tolevi saw him around Borya again, he’d save the state a lot of expense.

“What’s my punishment?” asked Borya.

Tolevi felt a pang of sorrow. Her voice sounded so much like her mother’s.

“What do you suggest?” he asked.

“No television for a month?”

“That may be too severe,” said Tolevi, already weakening. “Two weeks. But—”

“I won’t do it again. I promise.”

“And not while I’m away, especially. I worry about you.”

Borya jumped up from the chair and hugged him again, pushing her face against his chest. She was going to be some heartbreaker, this girl. Worse than her mother.

“You haven’t called me Sugarbaby in a long time,” she told him.

“I always think it.”

“I love you, Papa.”

“I love you, too.” He pushed her gently from his chest. “Now don’t take advantage of that.”

“I won’t.”

“Ha! I’m going to call Mrs. Jordan and see if she can stay with you while I’m gone. In the house. So she’s here all the time. Do you have much homework?”

“Just science.”

“Do it. Then we’ll go out for pizza.”

“I’d rather sushi.”

“Sushi, then. Go.”

More and more like her mother every day, Tolevi thought as he looked for Mrs. Jordan’s number in his phone’s index.

Jenkins had no intention of giving up the case. If anything, the fact that the CIA had reached out to pressure him made him all the more determined.

But he had to be careful now, more careful than he’d been. Putting Mr. Massina off was the first step. Staking out Tolevi’s home was the second.

The three men who came down the stairs looked a little too polished for mob types, at least not of the Russian variety. The shorter guy might be; he was older, casually dressed, and while he didn’t look particularly Russian, he had the swagger Jenkins associated with a street hood.

The other two, though. They might be bodyguard or enforcer types, except for their ties. In Jenkins’s experience, Russian mobsters never wore ties, except in court. They preferred open collars beneath their suits.

He took all their pictures anyway.

With no backup, he wasn’t in a position to follow them, but he did want to at least get a license plate. He slipped his car into gear and waited for them to get almost to the end of the block before he pulled out.