Boston—a few hours later
As tired as he was, Tolevi couldn’t sleep. He paced around the apartment, prowling the rooms, pawing the small mementos and household items that reminded him of his daughter and his wife.
He had to be quiet. Borya was down the hall, sleeping in her room. Martyak was in the guest room; he could hear her snore.
He needed a permanent babysitter. That was one mistake. Even though Borya was a teenager now, she still needed someone to watch out for her full-time, if only to tell Tolevi when she was getting into trouble. He’d been far too lax.
She loved him, and he loved her. But that wasn’t the issue. She needed more discipline.
You would have thought the damn school would have given more morals. That’s what they’re there for. You can’t find a stricter school in Boston for girls.
Borya was the least of his problems, in the near term, at least.
He owed Medved a lot of money.
Maybe that would go away if the FBI rolled Stratowich.
Couldn’t count on that. If anything, that would amp the pressure to get the loan paid quickly.
So. Money . . .
The option for a quick payoff was getting the butcher out. And bribery wasn’t going to work, not while the bearded colonel was in Donetsk.
What they needed was someone who could break in and yank him out. If they had their own army.
Smart Metal’s robot? The thing Stratowich had videoed going into the building.
Tolevi sat down at the kitchen table and checked the e-mail account where the video had been sent. He recovered the video file (discarded but not erased when the e-mail was checked as “read”) and watched it several times, then went to Google Earth, finding a satellite view of the prison where the butcher was.
He worked the idea around in his mind. After an hour, he decided he had nothing to lose.
He got one of his sterile phones from his study. Then he sat down with a bottle of vodka and a large glass, called Johansen’s contact number, and waited for his return call.