Dale Brown - Puppet Master

“You are wanting to import household items,” said the clerk, fumbling with the paperwork.

“No,” said Tolevi. “Common medicines — aspirin, cough syrup, bandages.”

“Not Russian?” said the man, looking up.

“These items are going to our friends in Donetsk,” said Tolevi. “There are needs.”

He handed the man the paperwork. The man frowned, then slowly read through it.

When Tolevi first started out in the import business, he’d made the mistake of offering a bribe to a Russian official. Fortunately, he did this subtly enough that he could back out with some amount of grace — and, more importantly, avoid arrest. It was not that all Russian officials were scrupulously honest; they were probably no more honest, on average, than the officials in other developed countries. But corruption here took place at a different level than it did, say, in Azerbaijan. One did not bribe the men responsible for looking over the paperwork. If a bribe were to be required, it would be presented elsewhere, and always as a fee related to some function. It was very civilized.

He’d already paid that fee. This should just be a formality.

The clerk read through the paperwork, carefully checking each line against some mysterious page on his desk. Tolevi had no idea what he might be doing — the paperwork was very straightforward at this stage — but he knew better than to question the man.

Finally, the man reached down and opened a bottom drawer. He took out a stamp and crashed it down on Tolevi’s documents until each was marked.

отклонил

Tolevi stared at the red characters in disbelief. The word — in Western letters, it was o-t-k-l-o-n-i-l — meant “rejected.”

“Excuse me, sir,” he said, trying to maintain his temper. “Why is this rejected?”

“You’re a foreigner.”

“Yes, but I have the proper forms. I was told I had approval.”

The clerk launched into a long explanation, speaking very quickly. Tolevi spoke excellent Russian — he had done so since he was a child — but he couldn’t understand half the words, let alone the logic.

“How can I appeal?” he asked when the man finally paused to take a breath.

“Appeal?” The clerk could not have looked more confused had they been speaking Greek. “There is no appeal.”

“There is always a process,” said Tolevi. “I have been in business now for—”

“I am sorry. I have another appointment.”

“No. I want to see your supervisor.”

The man rose. Tolevi debated; he could stay, which might bring out a supervisor, or it might result in a call to security. Once security was involved, anything could happen, including jail on whatever charge happened to be popular that day.

“Really, there is no way?” said Tolevi, rising.

The man shook his head.

“Here.” Tolevi took out a business card. “I am staying at the Mercure. Uh, if maybe something changes?”

“It won’t.”

“Take my card anyway,” said Tolevi, knowing he sounded more than a little desperate. “If it does.”

The man wouldn’t even look at it. Tolevi placed the card on the corner of the desk and left.

Was he being held up for another “tax”? But in such a case, it was unlikely that the clerk would have stamped the papers. The ministry could always issue new papers, but that required steps that others might see; it was unusual.

He was walking back to the hotel to have a drink and puzzle out the situation when he realized that the man in the blue sport coat was following him again.

Part of him wanted to confront the bastard and see if he had anything to do with the rejection. But good sense prevailed; Tolevi simply continued to the hotel and made his way to the bar. He ordered a vodka and tonic, then took a seat across the room.

The man in the blue jacket hadn’t followed him inside. Tolevi looked over the rest of the room, but if his shadow had an accomplice, he couldn’t pick him or her out.

He could go on to Donetsk without the permit and complete the CIA portion of his trip. But it would dent his cover story and, more importantly, prevent him from doing any real business, as the contacts would want the assurance that he could deliver the promised goods.

More importantly, it might mean that the Russians he dealt with no longer wanted him doing business in their territory. That was a problem of potentially catastrophic proportions.

Had he angered someone in the trade ministry?

Maybe Medved had somehow. But that seemed unlikely.

The drink was weak, the vodka not the best. Tolevi decided he would go upstairs to his room and rest a bit before having lunch.

Heading for the elevator, he spotted a restroom and ducked in. He was washing his hands when two other men came in, both Russians, both dressed like workers. Barely noticing them, he dried his hands and started for the door. It swung open just as he reached for it, smacking his right hand; as he jerked back, both of his arms were grabbed and he was pulled backward to the far side of the sinks. Three more men entered, two dressed as the others were, in T-shirts and black trousers. The third wore a tracksuit that would have been high fashion in the U.S. around 1980.

“What the hell?” Tolevi sputtered in Russian.

“Gabor Tolevi, welcome to Moscow,” said the man in the tracksuit. “State your business.”

“I was washing my hands.”

The man holding his left arm jerked it upward, pressuring Tolevi’s joints. The man in the tracksuit shook his head, though Tolevi wasn’t sure whether it was at him or the goon holding him.

“You’re in Moscow for business,” said the man in the tracksuit.

“I don’t talk to people when I’m being bullied.”

“Are we not gentle?” Tracksuit laughed, but then he waved his hands and the men behind Tolevi let him go. “We’ll use English,” he added. “So you’re more comfortable. And your accent is very bad.”

“I hang around with the wrong crowd.”

“You are here to sell medicine to the rebels. That is not a good thing.”

Rebels.

Until now, Tolevi had guessed the men were SVR or otherwise Russians. But the word rebel marked him as a Ukrainian.

Or did it?

“Medicine is medicine,” responded Tolevi.

“Yes, the medicine is one thing. Who it helps is another.”

“Aspirin helps everyone.”

“And that’s what you’re selling?”

“I don’t have the right permit,” said Tolevi. “So I’m not selling anything.”

“That is a shame. So you have no reason to go into the rebel lands, then?”

The man didn’t look particularly Ukrainian. Was he SVR posing as Ukrainian to test his loyalties? Or maybe mafya.

The only way to find out was to play along.

“Maybe I can find some reason to go there,” said Tolevi.

“Give me the papers you brought to the ministry.”

Tolevi hesitated. One of the men behind him — the one on the left, obviously an overachiever — moved close, reaching for his arm again.

“Work with us, and things will go well,” said tracksuit. “Hesitate, and — what is the saying, ‘All is lost’?”

Tolevi took the papers out of his sport coat pocket and handed them to the man.

“In the morning, there’ll be an envelope under your door,” said tracksuit. “Go about your business. We will contact you when we need you.”

He waved his head at the others, who shoved Tolevi as they walked to the door. Tracksuit paused.

“We know you spoke to partisans in Crimea,” he said. “That would not be a good thing to do again.”

And then, with a frown, he left.

Chelsea had forgotten she had a date with Flores until he texted her that afternoon, asking what kind of food she liked.