Dale Brown - Puppet Master

“Dead on.”

“Nice,” he told her. “Double ration of vodka at dinner tonight.”

“I prefer beer,” she told him. “Or better, a Coke.”

“They’re past the Russian ships,” said Johansen. “There was an explosion on one of the Russian vessels. Very fortunate.”

Massina, greatly relieved, got out of his seat. He doubted luck had anything to do with it — more likely, he guessed, they had used one of the UAVs as a weapon.

Which undoubtedly would have been Chelsea’s doing. So she was meant to be on the mission. And she could take care of herself.

“Next coms will be when they land,” said Johansen. “There are no Russian vessels between them and the shore. We’ll monitor for air traffic, but all the Russian patrols are based far to the southeast, in Russia; they should be OK.”

“That’s a relief,” said Massina. “I’m going to check on things. I’ll be back.”

“I’ll be here.”

Massina had a mental list of improvements he was going to make if he continued working with the government: Constant real-time communications that could not be detected. Full coverage of the target area to show where any “obstacles” (such as the Russian ships) were located. Some sort of quick reaction force ready to bail operatives out.

It could all be done with his devices.

Johnny Givens, who had taken over temporarily as his bodyguard, was waiting outside the box.

“How’d it go?” asked Johnny.

And that was another thing — his people would have access to the box. Period.

“They have a ways to go,” said Massina. “Johnny, you have a clearance from the government, right?”

“There’s different levels of clearance. They do background checks—”

“You could pass a CIA clearance check, right?”

“Of course.”

“You’re with me when I’m inside from now on. Nobody tells you no.”

“Great.”

Massina made his way across the large room to the elevator.

“You know, I’d rather be out there with them,” said Johnny.

“You have a long way to go.”

“Next time.”

If there is a next time, maybe, thought Massina, but he didn’t say it.

Borya Tolevi leaned toward the screen, looking at the string of integers and symbols. She had the entire day off from school, which meant she could work here until early afternoon, when Martyak got back from her classes and would be expecting her.

Borya was working on a defense against application layer attacks similar to what she had used to compromise the ATM networks. In her case, she had used coding that attacked a flaw in a database that left account information intact rather than purging it. The block of instructions in front of her sought to fix that.

She hadn’t understood everything involved in her original attack; mostly, she had followed a script she’d found on the Internet and made some slight adaptations as she’d gone. Now she saw that fixing the problem was somewhat complicated, a puzzle that forced her to think in metaphors as well as code. The instructions were like keys fitting into locks that had to then disappear without a trace.

People didn’t do that. Her father was gone, yet so much of him was still present, in her, in others.

“Have you broken the program yet?” asked Louis Massina.

Borya jumped.

“Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“How’s Chelsea?” Borya asked.

“She’s fine. So’s your dad.”

“Where are they?”

“Still can’t say. They have you working on the database hacks?”

“I’m looking at it. It’s pretty involved,” she confessed. “It’s like a college class.”

“Graduate level,” said Massina. “Keep at it.”

“Hey, Johnny.” Borya waved at the tall former FBI agent. “You hanging with me tonight?”

“If I’m on the schedule.” The security people took turns.

“Mary was wondering when you were coming back,” said Borya. “You should ask her for a date.”

“Can’t mix work with pleasure,” said Johnny shyly.

“Why not?”

Martyak’s blond curls and ample breasts were a powerful attraction. She was pretty, and before his injury Johnny wouldn’t have hesitated asking her out.

Now, though…

Johnny followed Massina down the hall to the elevator. Shadowing him inside the building was pretty boring. It did take him everywhere, though; he was really getting to know his way around.

“You’re looking a little pale,” said Massina as they waited.

“Yeah.”

“Tired, too?”

“Time for the meds.”

“Go ahead.”

“I feel like a junkie.”

“If you want privacy…”

Massina turned his back to him. Johnny reached into his jacket and took out the syringe set. He pulled up his shirt and injected himself, à la a diabetic, as the elevator arrived.

“Good as new?” asked Massina.

Never as good as new, thought Johnny. But good enough, and sometimes better.

In the years immediately following the dissolution of the Soviet Union, there were great plans to turn Berdyans’k — or Бердя́нськ, as it was styled in Ukrainian — into a major international tourist area. It had many of the necessary ingredients: a nearby airport, a train hub, a willing workforce, and, most importantly, beautiful seaside beaches and relatively accommodating weather.

But neither high hopes nor great assets equated to success, and the city never quite fulfilled its boosters’ dreams. Meanwhile, much of the nearby industry, which had scuttled along during the Soviet era, went through hard times, starved of investment.

The civil war further harmed Berdyans’k. Activity at the harbor was a shadow of what it had been even a year before. The cranes along the western stretch of the piers stood idle, almost lonely in the night.

All of this meant opportunity for a smuggler. Fewer prying eyes, more hands eager for handouts. While Tolevi had never done any business here, he scanned the quiet docks and warehouses with knowing eyes as they approached.

Money to be made here. Make a note of it.

Coffee by the boatload, right on that pier.

A green light blinked at the far end of the docks, under one of the large cranes ordinarily used to take cargo containers off a ship. Tolevi cut the engines and drifted, wanting to get a good look before committing to the dock. The Russian forces to the south were on high alert, still not entirely sure what had happened or where their foe was. While the radio traffic did not indicate they were searching this far north, there was always the possibility that some overdiligent junior lieutenant would feel the itch to prove himself by mounting an extra watch.

“That’s them,” said White after flashing the recognition code back.

“Let’s sit here a second and make sure,” Tolevi told him. “Porter, we got anything out that way?”

“Only that fishing boat we passed on the way in.”

Tolevi stepped over to take the glasses. The small boat anchored about a half mile to the southeast bobbed with the waves, a dim light at the fantail. It could easily be a smuggler’s sentry, or just a fisherman who liked spending the night alone on the water.

Money to be made here.

Tolevi then went to the starboard side and scanned the dock area and wharf beyond. Two vans were parked next to a building back by the crane.

His connection.

“All right, let’s go in,” he said, returning to the helm.