by Rick Mofina
Later that night when he was alone, Jeff used that information and his own laptop to go online and develop his own list. He was confident that his list was similar to Cassidy’s. It was tricky and challenging but Jeff had succeeded in downloading the list to his cell phone.
He was set.
He checked the battery strength of his phone. It was good. He collected his paper map, wallet, ball cap, glasses, then left his room for the elevator.
CHAPTER 47
Manhattan, New York City
Getting a feature film, TV show, commercial or anything like that shot in New York City required permits.
And depending on what was involved, those permits required forms to be completed, fees to be paid and supporting documents to be provided to the mayor’s office of Film, Theater and Broadcasting.
That’s plenty of red tape, Brewer thought as Klaver parked their Crown Victoria on Fifty-third Street. The mayor’s redbrick office of film was not far from Broadway and where they did Late Show with David Letterman.
“This could be like searching for a needle in a haystack,” Klaver said.
“Humor me, right now it’s our best long shot,” Brewer said as they took the elevator to the sixth floor, then walked down the hall to the office of Betty Bonner, permit coordinator.
“Larry, you old flatfoot! Give me a hug,” Bonner, a woman in her late fifties wearing a loud print dress, orange-framed cat eyeglasses and hoop earrings, greeted them. Her bangle bracelets jingled when she hugged Brewer. “Is this your partner, the one who never talks?”
“Detective Klaver.” Klaver extended his hand. “Larry tells me that you two go way back.”
“We worked traffic together in another life, before I retired to the movie business and the job turned Larry into the crackerjack crime fighter and the bastard he is today.”
“Are we good to talk here, Betty?” Brewer asked.
“Follow me. I’ve got things set up.”
Bonner led them into a small meeting room and a table with file folders arranged in neat stacks.
“So you’re looking for someone involved as crew named ‘Rama’ or ‘Zeta’ who may be Russian, or Albanian?”
“Let’s say Eastern European.”
“But you’re not sure if it’s a feature, TV movie, TV episode, commercial, music video?”
“No.”
“Domestic, or international production?”
“Not sure.”
“That’s a tall order, so let’s get going. Okay, these—” Bonner set her hand on all white files “—are all permits of everything still in production. And these—” she touched yellow folders “—are option permits, while these—” she touched blue folders “—are all ongoing international productions.”
Bonner picked one up.
“Now, each of the permit folders and each of the international production folders contain any required visas, for temporary worker visas for non–U.S. citizens.”
“That’s a lot of folders,” Klaver said.
“Domestic and international productions commonly employ non–U.S. citizens, depending on their profession or skill.”
“Isn’t this computerized?” Klaver asked. “Can’t we just run a few keyword searches?”
“No, because most of our records are original,” Bonner said, “this is the best way to do this without a warrant. These are essentially public records. Now, you will find contact numbers of crew chiefs. And I have contacts in immigration and the State Department that can help us further once you nail something down.”
The detectives spent the next hours reading quickly through every folder, sorting through every permit, scouring crew lists. They sifted through forms, applications, copying down names and phone numbers.
By the time they’d completed the last file they were frustrated.
Nothing resembling Zeta or Rama with a connection to Albania, Russia or any Eastern European country had surfaced.
“Looks like we lost here,” Klaver said.
Brewer massaged his tired eyes.
“No. No. We haven’t exhausted this lead yet. We’ll keep going,” he said, consulting the names and numbers he’d copied. “Let’s start calling a few of these location managers. Somebody knows something about this guy on a set or location somewhere in this city.”
CHAPTER 48
Somewhere in New York City
Bulat Tatayev bent over the worktable.
He studied a map of New York City, took a pencil and made a small neat X on a Manhattan street, then marked a second X on the map several blocks from the first one.
Reflecting on all the new and careful changes, adjustments and recalibrations he’d made to calculations that he’d labored on over the past few weeks, Bulat sipped the take-out coffee one of the men had picked up from the Slavic place nearby.
It was good, for coffee made in America.
Swallowing the last of it, Bulat pushed aside any trailing bittersweet thoughts of Zama. The fool had to be removed. At this stage of the operation all liabilities had to be eliminated. Nothing could jeopardize their work.
Nothing could be permitted to stop them.
He needed the woman and boy alive to make the new recalibrated operation work.
Bulat crushed his cup and glanced at Alhazur, the man to his right, talking softly on a cell phone. The backup plan to obtain the component was in play and everything hinged on it. When Alhazur ended his call he hesitated to speak.
“Well?” Bulat asked. “What is the status of the device?”
“It has arrived here from Europe safely and the courier has just departed Newark for Manhattan.”
“Good, you lead the pickup team. We’ve salvaged the operation. A few more steps and we’ll launch.”
Alhazur lit a cigarette and drew on it hard.
“There’s a problem,” Alhazur said. “Our sources tell us the contact in Amsterdam has just been killed. They suspect Russian security agents. We don’t know how close they are to us, or if they’ve alerted American intelligence. What if they put surveillance on the courier?”
Bulat held up his hand to stem Alhazur’s suppositions as he absorbed the complication and analyzed it.
“We proceed,” Bulat said.
“But it’s dangerous.”
“Everything we do is dangerous. We’ve come too far to turn back. Send your team now to meet the courier.” Bulat shot a finger at him. “No mistakes. We must have the device, at any cost.”
After Alhazur’s small team left, Bulat sat before one of the laptops, searched an encrypted file to obtain a telephone number. He then selected one of the prepaid, untraceable cell phones from the two dozen on the table and placed a call to a number with a 646 area code.
The line rang. He turned to look in the direction of the woman and the boy. Yes, they were now Bulat’s assets. They would play a vital role in the operation. He squinted. In the distance he saw some sort of commotion among a few of his men near the hostage area.
Bulat’s concern shifted when the line was answered.
“Hello.”
It was the voice of an older woman Bulat had known from his days of traveling the world, establishing a network of support cells.
“This is the prodigal son,” he said in their mother tongue. “We met when I visited at your home the last time I was in New York.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“Are you willing to help us?”
“I am willing to do whatever is needed.”
“Good. I will contact you with further instructions. Goodbye.”
“Wait!”
“Yes?”
“You are a hero to our people.”
Bulat allowed himself the beginnings of a smile. It died when he ended the c
all and took notice of the commotion by the hostages.
As he strode across the vast factory floor the situation came into focus. Several men were shouting, smacking the young guard’s head, holding up the end of a chain.
Where was the boy? Did he get away?
“Sir!” One of the men stiffened. “This moron fell asleep and let the boy escape.”
Bulat examined the chain while the guard dropped to his knees.
“Commander, the chain was faulty. Forgive me!”
Bulat looked at the woman, took quick inventory of the area as his blood began pulsating.
“How long has he been free?”
“Sometime before the dawn, a few hours?” one of the men said.
Volcanic rage rose in Bulat’s gut. He stepped up to the frightened guard and slapped his face.
“You insult the blood of the revolution!”
“I’m sorry, Commander.”
“You,” Bulat ordered his men, “secure the woman. You three! Take this sorry excuse for a life below to the furnace!”
Bulat’s breathing quickened.
“The rest of you find that fucking boy and bring him to me!”
Bulat’s nostrils flared and his eyes widened with wrath as he squatted down in front of Sarah and softened his voice.
“You’d better pray to your God that your son got away.”
* * *
Sarah battled the panic rising around her.
Cole is free.
She said this to herself over and over after Bulat had walked away and his men started scouring every part of the old structure. They overturned steel drums, smashed wooden crates and toppled old equipment. The menace was almost palpable.
Pop!
Sarah convulsed—the air had split with the firecracker bang.
A gunshot. In the lower level.
Cole? No! They didn’t shoot Cole!
Sarah cried out for him.
Then she looked at the two new guards a few feet away, assessing their low-toned mutterings and body language for any hint of what had happened below.
They wouldn’t shoot an innocent boy? They couldn’t shoot an innocent boy? What have I done? Was I wrong to send him off alone? I should’ve kept him with me. Oh, God, please let him be safe.
The shot echoed like an accusation until she could not longer bear it.
“What was that?” Sarah asked.
The guards glared at her, saying nothing, then she realized that the gunfire was for the young, terrified guard they’d led away. He paid for his mistake with his life, like the creep before him, who was going to kill Cole.
Then it hit Sarah, hit her the same way reality hits an ill-fated climber in the instant before the plunge.
I’m going to die.
There was a sense of finality in the air, a sense that their plot may be a massive suicide mission. They’d killed four people so far, surely they’d kill Sarah and Cole.
We’ve seen their faces.
For one terrifying moment she fell into a comalike stupor.
But Cole’s not here. Cole is free.
She had to believe that he got away, that he’d make it back to Jeff and back to Montana and a life without her.
Sarah fought her tears and tried to think clearly through her exhaustion, through her fear, taking comfort in her one hope, her prayer.
Cole’s not here. Cole is free.
She let her anguished mind take her back home, back to where she was standing on a gentle hill that offered her the great sweeping plain and the eternal sky.
God, please let Cole be safe.
CHAPTER 49
Somewhere in New York City
Dawn.
The first light of day made its way into the old factory, spilling down forty feet to the bottom of the pit where Cole Griffin was shivering in stinking water.
He struggled to be brave.
Don’t cry.
Then he heard the swish-splash again. Something else was in the water—something alive. Cole was unsure what it was but images and shapes were slowly emerging in the faint light. Keep away from me!
The pit was as big and round as his friend Tim’s aboveground pool. You could maybe fit a car in there. And the water—I hope it’s water—was deep.
Cole stretched. He couldn’t reach bottom with his feet.
His fingers and arms were sore from holding on to the metal bar so that he could keep his head and shoulders above water. Broken metal filing cabinets and twisted sections of tin ductwork were clustered near him. He was so cold his teeth were knocking together. He had to find a way to get out of here.
Swish-splash.
There it is again.
It came from the opposite side of the pit. Cole searched around for something, anything, to defend himself against the thing, or things.
He found nothing.
The dark circular brick walls rose to the world above. It was impossible to climb out of here. He clawed and pounded at them, banging his handcuffs against them.
It was futile.
Cole was overcome, on the verge of tears, ready to cry out for help, when the increasing light slowly revealed hope in the form of rusted metal rungs embedded into the stone, ascending to the surface.
I’ll climb up. I’ll get out and get help.
But as fast as Cole’s heart soared, it sank again.
His escape ladder was on the other side of the pit, where the thing was. Cole would not only have to swim across the murky water but he would have to confront whatever was splashing in it.
I can’t do this. Not with that thing over there.
At that moment he heard shouting, men arguing far off.
Searching.
Now they know I got away. They’re looking for me.
He stared at the ladder. He had to reach it, had to get out of there but that option vanished when he heard a loud bang, like a gunshot. Then the building reverberated with the nearing clamor of the searchers.
They’re closer now, much closer.
Keeping his grip on the bar, Cole moved and maneuvered to the heaped file cabinets and misshapen ductwork, hiding among them just as spears of light pierced the pit.
They’re right above me looking down with flashlights.
Their voices dropped into the pit along with small stones, nails and bits of debris that cascaded to the water.
Swish-splash.
Cole froze. He felt weight on his left shoulder, tiny claws suddenly dug through his shirt as a rat rose from the water. Cole stifled a scream. He couldn’t make a sound because flashlight beams lit the water, probing the junk around him. If he yelled they would hear him.
The rat moved closer to Cole’s head, poking its nose in his ear.
Cole couldn’t bear it. He swatted the rat away, the splash triggered voices of reaction above. The flashlight beams raked wildly over the water until they locked on to a furry back moving on the surface away from Cole.
The water plinked as bolts whizzed-splashed near the rat.
The men were trying to hit it.
Laughter from above and the light beams vanished as the men left the pit to resume searching other areas of the factory.
They didn’t see me.
Embracing a measure of relief, Cole took a few breaths.
He had to get to the ladder on the other side.
But I can’t, the big rat is there waiting to eat my face. He wanted to give up, cry out to the creeps. Take me back to my mom—I can’t do this!
But his mother’s words, telling him to get help, still echoed in his head, driving him to be brave, to face his fear. Yes, but the rat was fearless, big and getting bigger.
A monster.
I can’t, I can’t go over there, oh, help me….
“Cole, stop this now! You have to listen to me, son, and you’ll be fine!”
His dad’s voice suddenly came back to him from so many years ago when they were at his dad’s friend’s cabin at the lake in North Dakota. They’d gone up for a weekend of fishing. Cole was about six or seven and had gone off alone, stepping into a little rowboat tied to the dock. He was looking at the fish swimming around it, not knowing that the rowboat had come untied and he’d drifted. He didn’t know how to use the oars, panicked and cried for help.
“Listen to me, Cole!”
His dad’s voice boomed from the dock, over the quiet laughter of the other men urging him to go get him in another boat. But Cole’s dad had decided to use that terrifying moment in Cole’s life to teach Cole how to survive on his own.
“Push down on the oar handles… Now, push the oars away from you… Now, lower them into the water! Now, pull them hard to you!”
Cole’s first efforts failed. The coordination was hard; his dad and the men at the dock were getting smaller as Cole drifted farther away.
“I can’t do this! I can’t.”
“Yes, you can! Listen to me! Stay calm, think this through and you’ll be fine, son!”
Cole struggled, sobbed, but his dad would not let him quit and eventually Cole made it back, stronger than when he’d left, for he’d mastered the skill of rowing a boat and in the process had defeated a fear. Cole loved and respected his dad for teaching him how to survive.
His father’s words guided him now.
Stay calm, think this through and you’ll be fine.
Cole reached deep into himself for every molecule of strength and courage he had left.
All right, I’m going to do this—one, two, three.
Cole let go of the metal bar and began swimming toward the ladder. If you come at me, rat, I’ll punch the crap out of you. Cole used breaststrokes, traveling without splashing. His heart skipped when his leg brushed against something alive. Then his hand touched something furry, telling him instantly: there’s more than one rat in here.
He felt a tugging at his sneaker, a gnawing. He retaliated with a kick, and swam faster until he grabbed the rungs. His feet found the rungs under the water and felt lighter as he hefted himself from the water.