Dale Brown - Puppet Master

As the man went on with his complaints, Tolevi slyly eyed Dan. The driver’s anger had started to dissipate, but his body language said he didn’t trust Tolevi. That wasn’t particularly surprising, and in a way it was reassuring — he wasn’t trying to hide his feelings, which told Tolevi that he wasn’t working for the Russians at least, or probably anyone else.

But it didn’t mean Tolevi could trust him either.

He wouldn’t turn on him as long as he was expecting to be paid, Tolevi decided. After that, though…

Another customer came into the shop, and the owner ended the conversation.

“He talks a lot,” said Dan.

“Everyone has a story.”

“For all his complaints, you would think his coffee would be better.”

“It’s about what I had in Russia.”

“No. Russian coffee is better.”

Tolevi stirred his cup. The coffee wasn’t particularly good.

An opportunity?

“You know, driving a few suitcases of coffee over the border might be a good idea for you,” he suggested to the Russian. “You might be able to pick up some extra money.”

“Too risky.”

“No riskier than driving me across. Less.”

Dan shrugged.

“What if you had a permit?” asked Tolevi.

“Where would I get that?”

“Do you go across the borders a lot?”

“Enough.”

“Do you go west?”

“Into Ukraine? Of course.”

Just then a pair of twenty-something women entered the shop and came toward their table. Tolevi changed the subject, commenting on how pretty they looked. Dan glanced at them, then said they were nothing special.

“Maybe you’re right.” Tolevi pretended to agree. “I’m just deprived.”

“The beautiful women are in Crimea,” said Dan. “That’s the place to see them.”

“I agree with that.”

“You’ve been to Crimea recently?”

“A few weeks ago.”

Their breakfast came: rolls with mystery meat. It had a strong taste that hinted of sour anchovies; Tolevi ate anyway. He’d missed dinner and was operating on no sleep, something that always made him hungry. He hoped he wouldn’t pay for it later.

If the taste bothered Dan, it wasn’t obvious. He cleaned his plate in two gulps.

“I can get you to Crimea if you want,” offered the driver.

“It’s a long way,” said Tolevi.

“We can go directly. A few hours.”

Before the war, driving from Donetsk to the isthmus would have taken at least six hours. Now, assuming one could get across the two borders and make it through the potentially dangerous area in between, Tolevi reckoned it would be at least ten.

“How?” he asked Dan.

“I have a friend with a boat.”

“Where?”

“If you are serious, then we’ll talk about it,” said Dan. “You don’t need details. And you will have to pay.”

“No, I don’t need details. You’re right.”

“You want to leave today?”

Tolevi took a final sip of his coffee, working the small grinds that had been at the bottom of the cup around his tongue. Was the driver’s offer a trap?

“I have some things to do,” he told Dan, pulling out some rubles to pay. “Let’s see how the day goes before we decide.”

The police were professional.

That was the best and the worst Massina could say. They went through the building with him, checking for any overt sign of his captors; naturally there was none. They didn’t bother checking for fingerprints, let alone DNA.

“That’s CSI stuff,” said the lieutenant in charge. “It looks great on TV, and everyone thinks it’s a miracle drug, like aspirin, fixes everything, solves every crime. But look at this place.”

He swept his hand around the empty room. It was the top floor of a five-story office building that had not been occupied in more than a year. Its previous owners had leased it to a video game company that had gone bankrupt; since that time, it had been vacant, used mostly by vagrants and homeless drifters, except for a two-week stint a month before, when a film company rented out the floor.

“We wouldn’t know where to begin with DNA,” said the lieutenant apologetically. “There’s so much potential for things being around, for contamination—”

“Can’t you tell what’s fresh?” asked Massina.

The lieutenant’s sigh was the sort an exasperated parent might make when explaining to a three-year-old that the world was round for the five hundredth time.

Just because, kid. Don’t you get it?

They weren’t completely without leads: Massina’s Cadillac could be swept, though even there the police thought they’d find little. And they would look for video surveillance cameras at the club and on the route to the building. They had Massina sit with an artist, who tried to get a composite sketch of the man who’d spoken to him. But since he hadn’t seen the man’s actual face, they ended up with only the most generic description: roughly six foot, average build, foreign accent.

“I narrowed it down to maybe a tenth of Boston’s population,” said Massina sardonically when they were done.

“It’s a start,” said the artist.

I oughta nominate you for optimist of the year, Massina thought as he left.

Bozzone, Smart Metal’s head of security, was more sympathetic than the police, but he, too, offered little hope when he picked Massina up at the police station.

“The theory is, they made a mistake. They found out who you were and backed off,” said Bozzone after ushering his boss into one of the company cars, a GMC Jimmy. “That’s the only thing that makes sense.”

“Who were they looking for?” asked Massina.

“That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. There are plenty of possibilities. There are a bunch of people who have cars like yours.”

“Could this be related to the ATM scam?”

“They’re looking into that,” said Bozzone. “You might mention it to Jenkins. But from what they said to you, it doesn’t quite match. And Chelsea said that was a kid, right?”

“True.”

Bozzone walked through Massina’s house with him, carefully checking for signs of an intrusion even though the security system indicated there had been none.

“Put a hold on all your credit cards,” suggested Beefy after they were done. “And get new ones.”

“What a pain.” Massina walked to the kitchen.

“Better safe than sorry.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

“I’d like to get back to sleep, if it’s all right.”

“Go on.”

The security director hesitated.

“What?” asked Massina.

“About that business with the ATMs.”

“You think it’s connected?”

“No. But I think you went over the line.”

Massina opened the cupboard and retrieved a box of green tea. He wasn’t particularly concerned about caffeine content; it was only a few hours to dawn, and he’d already decided he wasn’t going to get any meaningful sleep.

“I’m not trying to lecture you,” added Bozzone. “But once you start going down this road, you open yourself up to all sorts of things.”

“Noted. Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?”

“I’m good.”

“Why don’t you go home, then?” Massina suggested. “I’m sure Tricia’s wondering what’s keeping you.”

“She could sleep through a hurricane,” said Beefy. “Thanks. I’ll see you Monday.”

Two hours later, having showered and done some yoga to loosen up, Massina headed in to his office. He loved coming to work, and Saturdays were his favorite days to be there; while the place was far from empty, his calendar was generally free, allowing him to roam at will. He liked to plant himself at the back of a lab and watch what was going on; he loved listening to conversations among engineers and scientists as they puzzled over problems. True, his presence often made such exchanges stilted, or cut them off prematurely, but he relished even the snippets of true creative endeavor and the conflict it sometimes brought. The words fail forward were more than a slogan to him. Wandering around his building kept him close to the hidden energy of the place.