Dale Brown - Puppet Master

And his brother, James?

This isn’t a personal thing. This isn’t a personal thing. And you have no evidence tying them together.

I’ll get it, god damn it. I’ll get it.

“Boss?” Dryfus had a concerned look on his face.

“Just thinking,” confessed Jenkins.

“We can’t get a subpoena?”

Not without saying who it’s aimed at, Jenkins thought. And that will kill it. Even assuming they could get it, which was a stretch.

“We need more evidence,” said Jenkins. “We have to just keep plugging away. We’ll dig into this Tolevi character, see who his connections are, what he does with the mob, everything. Something will come up.”

“He’s got a kid,” said Dryfus. “Raising her himself. His wife died of cancer when she was like three or something.”

“That’s nice. I’ll nominate him for father of the year. Right after we put him in jail.”

The information that Tolevi had a daughter — and Jenkins’s flip remark — haunted him later in the day. Not because he didn’t think a father could be a criminal: there were plenty of examples of that.

What bothered him was the fact that he kept thinking of different ways he might use the girl to get information on her father. And even for him that ought to be out of bounds.

Jenkins had worked for the Bureau for some sixteen years. Like just about every other newly minted agent, he’d started out as a strict by-the-book guy, unstintingly self-righteous — so much so that if he could go back in time and confront his younger self, he would slap him across the face, then throttle some sense into him.

Experience had erased both the self-righteousness and his approach to solving crimes. But that was not to say that he believed that the end justified the means. If he had long ago stopped being an Eliot Ness wannabe, still he believed in observing the broad rules of justice and procedure. He wouldn’t plant evidence, for example. And he wouldn’t harass children.

Yet since he took this case — no, since his brother died — reality had appeared starker than ever. The guys in the white suits were losing the fight to the guys in the black suits. Why? Because they had to follow procedures that made no sense.

The best among them — his brother, Johnny Givens — followed their impulses to do good. Where did that leave them? Dead or crippled.

And yet… if there were no rules, where did that leave anyone? Where did that leave society? There were too few people like Massina, altruistic do-gooders who acted generously, righteously, under any circumstances.

I need to solve this case somehow, Jenkins told himself.

I’ll talk to the girl, but I’ll be careful about it.

Tolevi had told Medved about the trip not only because he needed travel documents but also because he figured that it would be far easier to get in and out of the Donetsk area if the Russian secret services thought he was helping the rebel government. Which meant that he had to contact someone he knew in Moscow, and word of that would inevitably filter back. It was even possible that Medved would start the information chain himself, since scoring points with the various services was always useful.

Tolevi had nothing against helping the rebels at the same time he was hurting them, especially if this brought a little extra profit. As it was, the sum Johansen promised would barely cover what he owed Medved. Making a little money on the side was only prudent business.

Smuggling guns into the contested area would have been foolish and barely profitable; not only were the Russians already supplying plenty but the rebels had raided Ukrainian armories and had enough guns and ammunition to supply a force several times their own. What they didn’t have was medicine and related supplies. Even aspirin would get a pretty good markup. A truckload of baby diapers would double or triple its investment.

In theory, of course, shipping such items into the contested area of Donetsk was strictly regulated, if not forbidden. But Tolevi knew he could work around that. The question was how. He wouldn’t bring the items now, of course; instead, he would make arrangements with buyers and shippers, setting things in motion. It was a bit like the opening sequence in a chess game — you thought some twenty moves ahead, preparing the board for the final onslaught.

He pondered the details and pitfalls as he drove to Quincy to see Demyan Kasakawitz for the paperwork he needed to enter Russia. Kasakawitz was a Pole who worked out of an electronics distributorship not far from Quincy’s business district. Ostensibly the distributor’s bookkeeper, he had the thick glasses and meticulous manner of a careful forger. His documents were known to be top rate, and among other things he had supplied Tolevi with the title to his last car, which he had traded in as a down payment on the AMG’s lease.

Short and round, Kasakawitz was a friendly man, the sort who always had some sort of sweets on his desk and could be counted on for an off-color joke or two before getting down to business. Today, however, was different: when Tolevi went into the back where his office was, a tall, thin man hovered behind him, staring with unblinking eyes at Tolevi as he greeted the forger. Kasakawitz answered with a low grunt, and Tolevi told him he would come back.

“No, I have the package for you,” said Kasakawitz, still not smiling.

“Where is it?” asked Tolevi.

“First, tell me about these robots,” said the other man.

“What robots?”

Kasakawitz got up, clearly not wanting to be included in the conversation. “I am going for a cigarette.”

Tolevi folded his arms and waited until they were alone. “What exactly is it you want?”

“Stratowich told you about a robot and sent you a video.”

“Stratowich.” Tolevi shook his head. “He’s a dunce.”

“He erased the video. But he sent you a copy.”

Tolevi took out his phone and checked the messages. “Looks like I erased it, too.”

“Show me.”

“I don’t think so.” He wasn’t lying, exactly: Once read, the file would no longer appear on his phone, though it was easily recovered from the server. But he was reluctant to hand over his phone.

“You are going to Russia. You need friends there.”

“I have friends there.”

“Give me your phone.”

“I need it.”

“Let me make sure that you don’t have the video.”

Tolevi handed it over. “Do you own this robot, or what?”

“No. We want it. Can you get it?”

Now, that was a business proposition if ever Tolevi had heard one. Unfortunately, he was already busy.

“Maybe when I get back. I’ll need more details. You have my documents?”

The man stared at him for a few moments more, then pointed to a large manila envelope on the corner of the desktop.

“When you return, we will talk.”

Tolevi rolled his eyes and reached for the envelope. The tall man grabbed his hands just as his fingers touched it.

“You live a dangerous life, Gabor Tolevi,” said the man. “Do not cross us.”

Ordinarily, Tolevi would have acted on impulse, breaking the man’s grip and then teaching him that there were limits to what he might stand for. But there was so much venom in the man’s voice — and his grip was so strong — that Tolevi decided to be cautious.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “Now let me go before I break your nose.”

A smile flickered across the man’s face, as if he would like to see Tolevi try. But he released him all the same.

Finding the account from the inquiry string that her program had captured was not difficult once Chelsea understood the protocol.