But it was a far more compelling story than Farrell had first thought. Frustrated, Farrell was certain she could construct a more interesting piece. She’d get some file video from the film and tape library. She remembered some old black-and-white newsreel stuff KEY News had obtained of the Romanovs at play on their royal yacht, the Standart. Shortly thereafter, Czar Nicholas II and his family had been forced from the Alexander palace and sent into exile, only to be executed a few months later by the ruthless Bolsheviks. Their royal bodies had been doused with acid and buried in a pit in the darkness of the Russian woods.
She could ask Robbie to pull it for her.
The story of the long-lost Moon Egg and how it had been discovered decades after its creation as an Easter gift for Czarina Alexandra from her devoted husband, was a producer’s dream. It had all the elements: romance, wealth, betrayal, tragedy. I can’t miss with this story, thought Farrell. It’s great TV.
Farrell pulled out her cell phone and stabbed the numbers that would connect her with the Fishbowl, the Evening Headlines command center. Dean Cohen picked up.
“Cohen,” he answered crisply.
Swell. The fair-haired boy busy kissing up to Master Bullock. Dean was forever trawling around the Fishbowl. He thrived on hanging out in the executive producer’s glass-enclosed office.
“Dean, it’s Farrell.”
“How’d the auction go?”
“Great. Can I talk to Range?”
“He’s on another line.”
“I’ll hold.”
Farrell held on, her eyes scanning the auction gallery. She saw a tall, pretty woman gathering up her things and rising from her seat. An even taller teenaged boy got up along with her. There was something familiar about her.
Pat! She looked almost the same as she had the last time Farrell had seen her. How long ago was that? Farrell’s mind searched. Could it be almost twenty years? And that must be Peter—he had been just a baby when last she’d seen him! My God.
“Bullock here,” snapped the voice in the earpiece. Bullock’s abrupt, clipped manner always caught Farrell off guard.
“Range, it’s Farrell.”
“I know who it is.”
Of course he knew who it was. How stupid of her to identify herself again. When would she learn that, with Bullock, she should dispense with the niceties? He just wanted her to get to the point.
Farrell hated herself as she heard herself stammer, “Well, the Moon Egg just went for six million.”
“And?”
“Well, I think we could do a good story on it.”
“Why?”
“The whole history of the thing is fascinating.”
“Who bought it?”
“A telephone bidder who wants to remain anonymous.”
There was a short pause on the line. Farrell pictured Bullock checking his computer screen.
“We’re heavy tonight. Best we can do is give it a twenty-second v/o.”
The connection was broken.
Chapter 5
“The Bowl doesn’t want it,” Farrell announced, shrugging. “Do you mind, Beej? I’m going to take a cab back to the Broadcast Center now.”
“Damn, I love the shot I got of that doorman in the Russian cossack getup out front. Cool costume. Oh well, you go ahead, Farrell. I’ll see you back there.”
B. J. D’Elia continued to pack up his video gear as he watched Farrell walk away, her shoulders slumped. It would only take about ten minutes to break down and stow away the tripod, lights, and wires and load them into the crew car parked outside Churchill’s on Madison Avenue. Farrell knew that. And with no story to produce for tonight’s broadcast, there was certainly no big rush to get back to KEY. She must want to be on her own, not in the mood for company or conversation. Who could blame her? Farrell couldn’t get herself arrested on Evening Headlines.
Twenty-eight years old, Bartolomeo Joseph D’Elia loved working in television news. Forty hours a week, plus all the overtime he could get, he was paid for his passion. Going out to cover whatever assignment blew his way, B. J. lived by his wits, his skills, and the seat of his pants.
Was he lucky, or what! He thought of that all the time. Most poor stiffs hated to get up in the morning, dragged themselves to their boring jobs, counting the hours until it was time to go home. Then they ate some dinner, watched a lot of television, and went to bed, only to get up and do it all over again. When he thought about what life must be like for those guys, he shuddered. B. J. knew he was one of the fortunate few who actually looked forward to work each day.
Farrell, on the other hand, was struggling, and everyone at KEY knew it. Gossip was elevated to an art form. Who was in favor, who was screwing up, who was on the rise, who had already seen his or her best days. Career bumps and rough patches sustained the voracious appetites of the newshounds. They watched with the same fascination of rubberneckers on the highway who slow down to see if the passengers in a car wreck are going to come out alive—mesmerized and grateful (perhaps “happy” would be the right word) that they were safe, at least for today.
KEY News was no longer the cradle-to-grave operation it had once proudly been in years gone by. In the past, when a longtime employee had served the company well, the news division would keep him on staff when his most productive days were behind him. You took care of us, now we’ll take care of you. Not anymore.
Corporate loyalty cut both ways. Employees sensed the company wasn’t committed to the workers the way it had been once. Many employees didn’t give as much as a result. Why bust your hump for the company when it wasn’t going to be there for you?
That’s why B. J. was a standout. He always went the extra mile, treating every story he worked on like it had Emmy Award-nomination potential. He paid attention to the details, put thought and energy into each camera shot. Producers loved to work with him. When B. J. had done the camera work in the field, they knew that there would be great material to work with in the editing room. Producers always asked to have him assigned to their stories.
He was also a lot of fun. Quick-witted, well-read, and street-smart, he was able to size up a situation and, when it got tense, diffuse it with humor. In a world where everyone took themselves very seriously, B. J. could be counted on to put things in perspective with some comic relief. But today his attempts at humor had failed with Farrell. She hadn’t even smiled at any of his wisecracks.
He finished winding up the last bit of black rubber-coated electrical wire and stowed it in the camera gear case. He forgot Farrell as once more he looked to the front of the auction gallery.
That young Asian woman staffing the telephone bank was a babe. He wondered for about five seconds if he should go for it.
Chapter 6
The auction over, Pat and Peter went downstairs to the Churchill’s checkroom to collect their coats. Professor Kavanagh joined them on line. He extended his hand to Pat.
“Let me introduce myself, Mrs. Devereaux. I’m Tim Kavanagh, Peter’s Russian Studies prof.”
Pat shook his hand, smiling warmly. He had a good, firm handshake. Pat liked that.
“So very nice to meet you. Peter’s always talking about your class. It’s his favorite.”
“Your son has a real enthusiasm for Russian history. It’s uncommon for someone his age, especially since I would have to guess he doesn’t have much Russian blood in him.”
“You’d be guessing right. Peter comes from a long line of Irish men and women. But he’s never taken much of an interest in that part of his heritage.”
Peter corrected his mother.
“Mom, I’m an American. I know about American history.”
Pat nodded. “Of course, Peter. But it doesn’t hurt to pay a little more attention to what our forebears went through.”
Their turn came to pick up their coats and, buttoning her camel-hair reefer, Pat turned to say good-bye to Professor Kavanagh.
“It was so nice to meet you.”
“Same here. You know,
it’s lunchtime, and seeing all that beautiful Fabergé has really stimulated my appetite. How about I take you two out for an ail-American hamburger?”
Before Pat could decline, Peter chimed, “Great!”
Pat laughed. Why shouldn’t I go? she asked herself. Often when a man asked her out, she made some excuse about her business or her parental responsibilities. She’d finally admitted to herself that she just didn’t want to fall in love again, to be involved with someone who could complicate her life. But this would be safe enough. Peter and his teacher. A hamburger. There’d be no pressure. Professor Kavanagh was looking at her expectantly.
“Sounds good. A cheeseburger would hit the spot right about now.”
As they exited to the street through the heavy glass door, Pat felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned expectantly.
“My God—Farrell! Farrell Slater!” Pat reached to hug the other woman. “I haven’t seen you in . . . forever!”
Chapter 7
Tony didn’t really mind wearing the cossack costume. It sure worked like a charm on the little old ladies who were the big tippers. He was just grateful that Clifford Montgomery had decided that Russian Season at Churchill’s was February and March, not July and August.
He stood before the imposing entrance of the auction house wearing a long, marine-blue wool coat with red collar and cuffs, and slouchy black boots. A sword hung at his waist and slings of bullets crisscrossed his chest. A holster held a fake gun on his hip. He’d even let his beard grow in anticipation of this month. Tony wanted to look as authentic as he could.
What a crowd this Fabergé stuff was bringing in! Montgomery and the board of directors must be pretty happy. Good for business. And what was good for Churchill’s was great for Tony.
The more customers who came to the auction house, the more tips Tony made. At about thirty thousand dollars, his salary was meager by New York City standards. But in a good year he could triple his income by charming and pampering the wealthy clientele.
He hailed cabs and checked coats and packages, ingratiating himself to the patrons who expected to be accommodated and were prepared to pay for it. He accompanied old men and women and blind people across busy Madison Avenue; not because he’d get paid for it, but because it was the right thing to do. Many times, though, it did pay off—not because these vulnerable creatures were wealthy Churchill’s customers, but because the regular auction-house clients took notice of his good deeds and rewarded him for it. Ten- add twenty-dollar bills added up quickly and it was easy not to declare cash for tax purposes.
Christmastime was the best. People were the most generous then. But when there were special theme months at Churchill’s, and the same customers returned to each session in a series of auctions, they soon felt comfortable with the pleasant doorman. Tony took good care of them and, honoring their part of the unspoken contract, they slid the bills into his gloved hand.
“Good morning, Mrs. Busby.” He opened the door for yet another attractive, well-groomed woman.
Tony enjoyed his vantage point in front of Churchill’s. He saw everyone as they arrived and when they departed. He always made an effort to learn their names. The customers liked that.
Chapter 8
Thursday
Life was raw in “Little Odessa,” or Brighton Beach, as it was named on the map of the borough of Brooklyn. Brighton Beach Avenue, the main thoroughfare, bustled with intense, hardened faces hurrying to their destinations. Only the old and the very young moved at a more relaxed pace.
The avenue was dotted with open-air fruit stands. The Russian immigrants chose their apples, bananas, and pears with a level of concentration and wonder. It had not been like this in the Old Country. Never this abundance of fresh produce, ripe and unspoiled.
At the corner newsstands, the New York Post, the Daily News, and People magazine were displayed alongside Russian newspapers. Along the sidewalks, people set up their own small stands to sell books printed in Cyrillic, the Russian alphabet.
The street signs were in Cyrillic, too. So were the signs that labeled the drugstores, five-and-dimes, and jewelry shops. The markets stocked the traditional Russian foodstuffs: black bread, fish, and pastries. Lots and lots of pastries. After decades of deprivation, the Russian immigrant loved to indulge his sweet tooth.
On the boardwalk that ran parallel to Brighton Beach Avenue and alongside the cold, gray Atlantic Ocean, older men and women took their daily exercise in the late-winter sun. Conversations were all in Russian. Often the discussions centered on the crime in Little Odessa.
Some things would never change. In the Old Country, the government officials were always on the take. In America, the Russian mafia demanded its own pound of flesh. Too many times, the talk on the boardwalk was about some poor, defiant shopkeeper who’d been shot when he didn’t come up with the protection money. The criminals wanted a piece of everything.
In a rented room over the Primorski Restaurant, Misha Grinkov bent over his workbench. He had come to the United States so many years ago, heading straight for Brighton Beach. Not speaking a word of English, he wanted to go to the only place in America he knew of where language would not be a problem for him.
But when seeking employment in his new country, he had gone back to the business he knew best. He took a subway to Manhattan and to the sleek world of the Upper East Side, heading straight for La Russie Imperiale, the venerated Fifth Avenue antique store. La Russie Imperiale specialized in the sale of Russian antiquities, artifacts and jewelry from the days before the Communists had seized control of the largest country in the world.
The owner, Konstantin Kaledin, had spoken to him in Russian. Misha had described his work in St. Petersburg, and gingerly unwrapped a black felt-covered bundle that he had carried and guarded carefully on the long journey to his new home. When Kaledin had examined Misha’s expert work, he had hired the immigrant on the spot.
The very next day, Kaledin set Misha to work executing his specialty—enameling. There was a constant stream of cigarette cases, letter openers, tea-glass holders, kovshes, frames, and candlesticks that needed to be repaired. Misha mixed the compound of glass and metal oxides and heated it until it began to melt. That was painstakingly applied and fused to a prepared metal surface which had already been engraved. The extremely high temperatures necessary to melt the enamel taxed the skills of most enamel experts, but Misha had always enjoyed the challenge. During his long apprenticeship in Russia, he had spent every minute he could, experimenting with layering enamels, inserting gold-leaf patterns between the layers, and engraving decorations on the metal surface before applying the enamel. Misha lovingly polished the enamel with chamois leather for many, many hours. He did it willingly, knowing that the extra work made for a more beautiful finish.
One day Mr. Kaledin, his face even more serious than usual, approached Misha at his workbench.
“I have a very unhappy customer. The enamel cracked on a very costly piece. I trust you enough to repair it.”
So Misha Grinkov had come to see his first Fabergé egg in America.
For the next decade, Misha labored at La Russie Imperiale, repairing the enamel on the beautiful pieces that came into the shop and picking up English from the other workers and the aging Konstantin Kaledin. A job at La Russie had cachet in the world of antiques. A sales position provided one with an opportunity to acquire a better education in Russian works of art than could ever be gained in any classroom or library.
There was one apprentice salesman back in those early years, a salesman who had eventually become Kaledin’s right-hand man—a tall, well-spoken black man named Clifford Montgomery. Misha remembered how upset Kaledin had been when Montgomery had decided to leave the shop and go to work at Churchill’s Auction House.
Chapter 9
Jack McCord hated Russian school. He found the language difficult and he had little aptitude for it. But he loved his job, thrived on the investigative work and puzzle-solving, and took great satisfaction in
nailing the bad guys. Learning that damned Russian language was the price of admission to his profession.
The Cold War was over, but the Federal Bureau of Investigation still had reason to send select agents to Russian school. Though for decades the FBI graduates had worked in espionage and focused on the Soviet spies in the United States, McCord was assigned to the art-fraud division in the New York office. The spread of forged Russian art objects was virulent.
As he drove out to Brighton Beach in the early-morning hours, he cursed the budget cutbacks at the Bureau. There were never enough agents to do everything that needed to be done. A ridiculously strong argument had had to be made to his supervisor in order to have a surveillance team assigned to his case. Despite Jack’s pleading, the boss didn’t think Misha Grinkov was important enough to be watched around the clock.
“You’ll have to do the best you can,” Supervisor Roger Quick said.
Easy for Quick to say as he sat on his can, never having to leave the office. It had been a long time since Quick had been in the field, and it showed. Jack couldn’t stand Quick, and it angered him that he had to take orders from the jerk.
But he controlled himself. He knew Quick was egging him on and would love to see Jack lose his temper. Again.
In the foggy grayness of the morning, Jack found a parking space around the corner from the Primorski Restaurant. He parked the car, locked it, and walked toward the coffee shop across the street.
Nothing would make that son of a bitch happier, Jack reflected as he crossed Brighton Beach Avenue. Quick wanted Jack to blow his stack, knowing that one more burst of uncontrolled temper would end Jack’s career. The FBI didn’t like loose cannons.
He’d be damned if he’d give Quick the satisfaction.
Do You Promise Not To Tell? Page 2