Dale Brown - Puppet Master

“Because the instructions may be faulty, as they were before.”

“Good. Roger, sleep mode.”

The robot settled down onto all fours.

“Did it pass the test?” asked Borya.

“So far.”

“Was the idea to see if it would use logic?”

“Partly it was to see if it would use the results of what it had learned to draw a conclusion and act on it a second time,” said Chelsea. “As it did that — and for us this was the important part — we recorded what was going on in its processing chips. We’ll compare all of that to a different version of its brain. Because we want to see what the best construction of the brain is. Is it just size?”

“The bigger the computer, right?”

“Well, humans don’t have the biggest brains on the planet, but they’re the smartest mammal.”

“Some are pretty dumb,” said Borya.

Chelsea laughed.

“So what’s next?” asked Borya.

“What’s next for you is homework,” said Chelsea. “Which means it’s time for you to go home.”

“Come on. This was just getting good.”

“Those are the rules. I’ll walk you out.”

“My dad still hasn’t called,” said Borya as they waited for the elevator. “The FBI guy told Beefy there’s nothing new.”

“Are you worried?” asked Chelsea.

“A little… A lot.”

“Mr. Jenkins is trying to get him to call,” Chelsea told her. “I’m sure he’s OK.”

“He doesn’t like him.”

“Jenkins? Why do you say that?”

“I can tell. He has that look.”

“So, that’s it, though, we just watch the kid?” Johnny asked Bozzone. “Were there threats?”

“No. But Lou’s worried, since there was a mafya connection. And the father has missed his calls to her. Two and two, right.”

“Sucks for the kid.”

“Yeah, well, just remember she was smart enough to run the ATM scam. I have it in four-hour shifts. Watch her. She’s, uh, a free spirit.”

“I saw.”

“Chelsea’s waiting with her in the lobby. When you get her home, don’t let her take her bike out. You’ll never keep up.”

Actually, Johnny thought he could. “Are we walking?”

“Take our pickup.” Bozzone pointed to the keys on the board at the side of the room. “You can drive, right?”

“Sure.”

Or at least I could before, thought Johnny as he headed for the elevator.

Borya recognized the security guy — Johnny Givens, from last night — as soon as he came down the stairs.

He was frowning. But his eyes widened when he saw Chelsea.

Ha! He likes her.

“I’m Johnny Givens,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’ll be with you for the next four hours.”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” Borya asked playfully.

“There’s one right there. I’ll stay outside the door.”

“It was a hypothetical.” Borya looked at Chelsea. “Think he could pass the Three Kings test?”

“I’m sure he’d ace it. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

“Got it.”

“We’re going to go this way,” said Johnny. “I need to find the pickup truck.”

“I have my bike. I can just ride it home.”

“Is it a tandem?”

“What’s that?”

“A bicycle built for two.”

“Just one.”

“Then we’ll take the truck and put it in the back.”

“Why don’t we walk?”

“I’ll tell you what. If I’m with you later in the week, I’ll get a bike and we’ll bike together, all right? Unless you jog.”

“Jog?”

“You know, run. Like, exercise.”

“I could do that. But I’d rather bike.”

“All right.”

“You have a bike?”

“No.”

“You need one if you’re going to ride.”

“No shit.”

Borya laughed. “I know where you can get a good one.”

“Then we’ll go there the next time we work together.”

“Work?”

“I’m working. And you’re supposed to be doing your homework, right?”

“Don’t go dad on me. You were doing so well.”

“Here’s the elevator.”

None of the security guys were particularly friendly. This one, at least, seemed like he wasn’t a complete jerk.

“You have bionic legs, right?” she asked as they walked to the back hall and the entrance to the parking lot.

“They’re not bionic.”

“Can I see them?”

“Maybe later.”

“Just your legs,” she said quickly. “Not — you know.”

Johnny laughed. He stopped and pulled up his pants leg. “There.”

“It looks real.”

“That’s how they made it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Not as much as it did at first. But, sometimes. Yes.”

“Can I touch it?” asked Borya.

“I guess.”

Borya dropped to her knee and touched the exposed calf. It didn’t quite feel real, but the skin was soft, not hard, as she’d expected.

“Do you like it better?” she asked, rising as he pulled his pants leg back down.

“Better, no. But it may be pretty cool.”

“You’re a real hero,” said Borya.

“Come on, let’s get going,” said Johnny, in what Borya knew was a pretend-tough voice. “You have to do that homework, or they’re going to be on my ass.”

Shoved on a plane to Moscow by the SVR in Donetsk, Tolevi was met at Domodedovo International Airport by a mousy woman holding up a sign with his name on it. He considered just walking by, but realized that was foolish; the Russians could grab him any time they wanted. The woman looked at his ear, shook her head, then walked him to a car in the terminal’s no parking area, all without a word. They drove about fifteen minutes before arriving at a clinic; patched up by an elderly doctor whose Far Eastern Russian was difficult to decipher, Tolevi emerged to find an envelope with his name on it at the receptionist’s desk. Inside was his ticket, a baggage check claim for his luggage, and a stamped visa that expired three hours after the flight boarded.

He knew better than to dawdle, let alone ask questions. His ride was gone, but a cab to the airport easily arranged. It turned out that the visa’s timing was prescient; they sat at the gate for exactly two hours and fifty-five minutes past boarding time for reasons never announced; then they spent another half hour on the tarmac due to “air traffic controller problems.”

Flying coach nonstop from Moscow to New York — if it wasn’t the worst flight Tolevi had ever taken, it certainly ranked close. The plane itself wasn’t horrible — Aeroflot used an Airbus 330 for long-distance flights — but he was stuck in a middle seat with a snorer on his right and a woman who prayed to herself the entire time she wasn’t eating.

But when he landed, he was in the States, finally.

The first order of business after collecting his bag would be to find a pay phone. He hadn’t been able to call Borya the whole time he’d been gone. She’d be worried, as would Martyak.

Assuming Borya hadn’t killed Martyak by now. A definite possibility.

“Gabor Tolevi?”

Tolevi turned to see a tall, middle-aged man in a suit standing next to the rope at the gate exit.

He looked familiar.

“You’ll come with us,” said the man, flashing an ID. “Trevor Jenkins. FBI. We met in Boston. Come along with us.”

Another man in a suit rose from a chair at the front of the gate. Tolevi spotted two more men in suits rising at the edge of the waiting area.

“I have to call my daughter,” he said.

“You can do that from the car.”

“I don’t have a car.”

“We’re going to drive you,” said Jenkins. “We’ll take care of the luggage.”