Dale Brown - Puppet Master

The bartender thumbed toward the back. Tolevi took his drink and set off in that direction, expecting to find either rooms or, maybe, a table. But though a shade darker because of the way the lights were fixed, there were neither tables nor rooms back there, just more dancers and would-be dancers, milling around in time to the beat. Tolevi resorted to asking people if they knew where Mr. Ivan was; this got him a few blank stares, but mostly he was ignored or unheard.

After a few minutes of this, he lost his patience. He went back to the bar and found the man who had served him. Holding up a hundred-euro note, he lured the man to him — it was a miracle the way cash got someone’s attention.

Grinning, the bartender leaned toward him.

Tolevi lurched forward, grabbing the bartender by the throat.

“Take me to Mr. Ivan. Now. ”

The bartender started to object. Tolevi tightened his grip, then shoved the man to the right, where the bar section turned into a sawhorse. He reached under and hauled the man out. Then, with a push, he set him in motion, his fist holding the back of the bartender’s shirt.

Mr. Ivan turned out to be a young man in a print silk shirt staring at a pair of women who were dancing a few feet away.

Tolevi pushed the bartender aside.

“Ivan, a friend sent me.” Tolevi spoke to him in Ukrainian. “We need to talk.”

“Who are you?”

“I need to make a purchase.”

“You are Russian?”

“Don’t worry about who I am,” said Tolevi. “Doneski sent me.”

Ivan nodded, then began walking directly through the crowd. Tolevi followed, ignoring the bartender’s complaints about the hundred-euro note.

You’re lucky I don’t throttle you. I am normally a peaceful man, but when I am pushed, it is too much. And I have been pushed for too many days now.

Mr. Ivan went out the front door and headed around the block to a black BMW 7 series that had to be nearly twenty years old. He popped open the trunk, revealing three large suitcases. He opened each, setting up a display in the back of the car, oblivious to the people who were passing.

“How much for the Sig?” Tolevi asked, pointing to the P226. The .40 caliber weapon looked to be the best of the bunch, which included a pair of 9mm Berettas and two Russian pistols Tolevi wouldn’t even consider. The Sig was a bit too large to be easily hidden, which was a drawback, but Tolevi thought its other advantages — the rounds it fired, as well as the fact that it could pack twelve of them — made it the obvious choice.

“Two thousand euros,” replied Mr. Ivan.

“A hundred,” said Tolevi.

It was a ridiculously low offer, insulting even. Mr. Ivan batted it away with a wave of his hand. “Two thousand.”

“Five hundred.”

This time the gun dealer shook his head. Tolevi said nothing. Two thousand euros was about two and a half times what the gun would go for in the States. But even if it was a reasonable price for a quality gun in Donetsk, it represented just about all the cash Tolevi had, in euros at least.

When Tolevi didn’t make a counteroffer, Mr. Ivan reached back into the trunk and began closing the cases, starting with the case that held the Russian weapons.

“Wait,” said Tolevi. “Seven-fifty. Let me see it.”

“Two thousand,” insisted Mr. Ivan.

The impatience Tolevi had felt a little while earlier returned. He leaned closer to the man. “A thousand cash,” he snarled in a low voice, “with six magazines and bullets.”

Mr. Ivan glanced over the back of the car at a large man in a black T-shirt. The thug leaned forward, as if ready to pounce, but stopped as the dealer shook his head ever so slightly.

“Two magazines,” said Mr. Ivan. “With the bullets. One thousand. Now, and be gone.”

“Let me see the gun,” said Tolevi.

Mr. Ivan dropped the mag and cleared the chamber, making sure it wasn’t loaded, before handing it to Tolevi.

At least he’s not stupid.

The weapon sat heavy in his hand, a reassuring feeling. It looked clean and, if not brand-new, only very gently used. The trigger was light. There was no way to fire it here, though; he had to trust that Mr. Ivan valued his reputation.

Ha .

Tolevi slid the gun into his waistband and fished out a thousand euros. Mr. Ivan handed over the loaded magazines and they were done. Tolevi quickly darted across the street, earning a hail of horns. He trotted around the corner, spotting Dan and the car coming from the opposite direction. He ran across traffic again as Dan pulled the car to the curb. Tolevi jumped in.

“I thought you got lost,” Tolevi told Dan, pulling on his seat belt. “Let’s go back to the hotel and get our stuff. I’m done here.”

Tolevi, busy loading the pistol and familiarizing himself with its feel, didn’t recognize where they were until he saw the storefront.

“Where are you going?” he demanded, jerking the gun toward Dan.

“Relax, and don’t point that thing at me,” said Dan, speaking in English. He slowed as they passed the butcher shop, but he didn’t stop.

“Who are you?” Tolevi switched to English as well. “Who are you really?”

“A friend of a friend. You missed your connection last night,” added Dan. “Luckily, the Russians missed the brother.”

As they turned the corner, a short, thin man, barely five-four, stepped from the shadows and walked toward the curb.

“Don’t stop,” said Tolevi.

“If we don’t, I suspect the man on the roof at the end of the block will shoot us both,” said Dan. “Put the gun away. It’ll make them nervous.”

Trevor Jenkins wasn’t sure what he expected when Massina asked him to come to the office late Saturday afternoon, but it absolutely wasn’t an attorney, let alone one with a proffer already filled out.

“There’s no way I can go along with this,” the FBI special agent protested as he finished reading the legal document.

“It’s very straightforward,” said the attorney. “Restitution guaranteed by Mr. Massina personally, and an explanation of the technique, in exchange for a guarantee of no prosecution. You do it all the time.”

“No, we don’t.”

“I can call the U.S. attorney myself if you want,” said the lawyer. His name was Jasper Lloyd; he was one of the top criminal lawyers in the state. “I’m sure he won’t mind.”

“You don’t understand how complicated this is,” said Jenkins.

“We’re making it uncomplicated.”

“I already have a suspect.”

“As far as we know, you have the wrong suspect,” said the attorney. “And here we can not only solve a crime but prevent future ones as well.”

“You’re withholding evidence in a federal investigation,” said Jenkins.

Lloyd made the slightest of shrugs, as if what Jenkins said was beside the point.

Jenkins turned to Massina, who was sitting across from him at the large conference room table. Chelsea Goodman was next to him.

“No,” Jenkins repeated. “I’m not letting him off.”

“You have the wrong person,” said Lloyd.

Massina rose. “Let’s you and I go in the other room for a minute.”

Jenkins followed him through the door that led to Massina’s office. The building was an amazing mix of architecture, from the nineteenth-century brick exterior shell to the sleek surfaces of the interior walls and floor. The furniture on the upper floor was all exotic wood and looked as if it had just come from a showroom. But Jenkins wasn’t here to admire the decorating job.

“You’re not going to prosecute a fifteen-year-old girl,” said Massina as soon as the door was closed.