“He could’ve, but he didn’t,” Howard said, lighting a cigarette. “I know these guys. How they operate. How they think. The syndicate would never risk being caught in a gun battle on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Not their style. I took a calculated risk and it worked.”
• • • • •
Hovering in the passenger seat of his Navigator, Anatoly Gennadi watched through his side-view mirror as Ethan’s rental car pulled onto Madison Avenue and stopped for a red light. He was talking on a burner with Nikolai Stanislov and Alexey Kolkov who were sitting in Stanislov’s law office surrounded by bodyguards. “Nikolai, they’re a block away,” Gennadi said impassively. “I’ve got second car tailing them and third car with production crew just leaving Broadcast Center.”
“Do they have security?” Stanislov said, his voice terse.
“Da. Four men dressed like soldiers with crew trucks, and Lloyd Howard sitting in car with Benson. Motherfucker. Wait a minute. The light turns green. Benson pulling very slowly through intersection and heading our way.” The hit man placed his Ruger on the dashboard and motioned for Mischa to pick up his Uzi.
“What’s going on, Anatoly? Talk to me,” Stanislov said as he glanced at the Pakhan who was twirling a gold cigarette lighter in his fingers.
“The car just pull up behind us, Nikolai. Do you want me to get out on street and make go away?”
“Not yet,” Stanislov said, sounding indecisive. “Just sit tight and watch them and let us know what they do.”
“Da. I watch.” He released the safety on his handgun. “Got big problem, Nikolai. Passenger door just open and Howard gets out. He’s holding gun. Chicken-shit Benson stays in car. What do you want me to do? Nobody around. Street empty. You want Anatoly to kill Howard? Kill Benson? Give word and I shoot. Nice and clean. Then make getaway.”
“Hold on a second, Anatoly.” The hit man listened as Nikolai said to the Pakhan, “There’s no way to stop the interview, Alexey, unless we kill them. Now’s the time to decide. Do you want Anatoly to take them out?”
“Need decision,” Anatoly said urgently as he slipped his finger onto the trigger, motioned to Mischa to get ready, and then peered back at Howard through the side-view mirror. “PI here soon. No time to discuss. Kill or no kill. What you want Anatoly to do?”
“Don’t kill them,” the Pakhan said, his voice booming through the telephone. “We can’t risk the cops fingering us for a bloody massacre—especially one with a journalist and a former undercover narcotics agent. They’d come after us for sure—even with all that fucking money I’m greasing those assholes. We’re better off hoping Frankie O’Malley can control his client. Call the other cars and come back to Brighton Beach. I don’t want things getting out of control with that fucking PI.”
“Do you understand the Pakhan?”
“Da, Nikolai. We back soon.” The hit man dropped the burner, clicked the safety on his Ruger, and motioned to Mischa to hide the Uzi on the floor. “No killing today. Mr. Kolkov says back off. Sounds pissed.” He turned and pointed his finger at Howard and whispered maliciously, “Bang. Bang. You’re dead, motherfucker. Now let’s get hell out of here, Mischa. Pakhan has new plan.”
• • • • •
Ethan kept checking his rearview mirror as he made his way up to Ninety-Sixth Street, worried the Lincoln would resurface behind them, when Mindy called on his cell phone. “Are they still following you?” he said anxiously.
“They were right behind us a minute ago, then they inexplicably zoomed around us, turned down a side street, and vanished. Are they tailing you?”
“They’re gone here, too,” he said, knowing how close he’d just come to another nasty confrontation with the hit man. “It’s a long story. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Think we’re okay?”
“I hope so. Are you with the crew?”
“We’re all together.”
“Good. Change of plans. We’ll meet up when we get to Rikers Island. Call me if the Russians show up again.” He punched off his iPhone and lit a cigarette, finally beginning to calm down. “What do you think, Lloyd?” he said, inhaling the nicotine.
“I think we’re cool. We may see them again later in the day, but who knows, maybe the Pakhan called off his dogs.”
The rest of the trip was uneventful, Ethan using the time to get ready for the interview. When he got to the Francis R. Buono Memorial Bridge, he pulled off the road, linked with his crew, then told Lloyd to wait with the four AAA security guards in a coffee shop until they finished the shoot. Then he drove over the bridge and up to the main gate where an officious-looking corrections officer was standing in the middle of the road motioning for him to stop. Rolling down the window, he said, “Good morning. I’m Ethan Benson from The Weekly Reporter.”
“Credentials, please,” the guard said bluntly. Ethan handed over his driver’s license and waited as the corrections officer studied his face. “There should be a total of ten people in your party in two cars, two Chevy vans, and a small truck. Is everybody here?”
“They’re all right behind me,” Ethan said.
“Give me a moment.”
The guard looked suspiciously into the backseat, walked over to the row of vehicles, then ran through the same routine with the other members of his crew. Each time, he wrote a short note on a clipboard. Ethan sat impatiently, thinking it was taking forever.
After fifteen minutes, the guard ambled back to his car.
“Everything appears to be in order, Mr. Benson,” he said, glancing at the clipboard one last time as he handed Ethan his license. Then he told him to pull through the checkpoint and over to a small, windowless building a quarter of a mile down the road where Gloria Jimenez was waiting. Ethan thanked the guard, then drove up to the press officer and climbed out of the car.
“It’s good to see you again,” he said cordially.
Jimenez didn’t respond, her face stern, her body language confrontational. She was wearing a navy blue suit, a matching tie, a white shirt, and black athletic shoes. There was a nightstick in her hand and a revolver in a shoulder holster peeking out from her jacket. Ethan introduced Mindy and David and the rest of his crew who were all standing behind him, drinking cold coffee in paper cups.
“Where’s Peter Sampson?” she said, snapping at Ethan. “I thought he was doing the interview.”
“He won’t be here until just before we roll cameras,” Ethan said jokingly. “He’s lucky. Got to sleep late. Not like the rest of us who crawled out of bed at the crack of dawn to make it on time.”
Jimenez didn’t react. She just stared at a computer printout. “You’re right. It says right here he’s not due until ten thirty. I’ve got a corrections officer meeting him at the front gate and bringing him to our shooting location. Guess I forgot.” She looked at her watch. “We’re running behind schedule,” she said sharply, “and we need to go through all your equipment before you set up your cameras. I suggest we get started.”
It took more than an hour for a team of security officers to painstakingly examine each camera, lens box, cable bundle, light stand, microphone, TV monitor, and sound mixer, Ethan pacing back and forth, watching time slip by. When the officers finally finished, they piled into a Rikers Island bus and were driven down a winding two-lane road until they reached the North Infirmary Command Building, where they were ushered down a long hallway and into an institutional-green conference room.
Gloria Jimenez flipped on a bank of fluorescent lights. “I know this isn’t much, but we rarely allow cameras in the complex, so this is the best we could do. You’ve got two hours before we start the interview. Not a second more. I’ll be down the hall in case you need me.” She turned and walked briskly out of the room, leaving two guards standing by the door.
“Damn, that woman’s been a real bitch all morning. What got into her?” Ethan whispered as he peered around the room. “This space is tiny for a four-camera shoot. Can’t be more than fifteen by twenty feet.”
“A
nd it’s all concrete. So we’re gonna have a big problem with voices bouncing off the walls,” said Anthony Petulla, the soundman. “There’s no carpeting, no curtains, nothing at all to absorb the sound. And all that screaming. Can we get them to stop? I know I can’t filter that out with my mixer.”
“They’re inmates, Anthony. They’ll just make more noise if we ask them to keep quiet,” Ethan said, trying to remain positive. “There must be something you can do to deaden the sound so we can hear the interview clearly.”
The soundman rifled through his equipment and pulled out two large sound booms. “We can use directional microphones and shotgun the interview,” he said. “That’ll muffle the yelling. Shouldn’t sound any worse than background noise. That’s the best I can do.”
“That’ll work,” Ethan said, turning to his two cameramen, Herb Glickstein and Bobby Raffalo. “How do we build the set, guys?”
“Let’s make use of the available light from the windows on the back wall,” Glickstein said, placing two chairs opposite each other. “It’ll save us a lot of time setting up lights. Sampson’s only interviewing one person, right?”
“That’s the plan, but his attorney wants to sit next to him. So we’ll need to add a third chair and light for him as well,” Ethan said, chagrined. “I’ve met the guy and don’t trust him. He’s bound to interrupt and say something.”
“Does screen direction matter?” Raffalo said, pacing around the room.
“This is the first interview,” Ethan said. “Feodor can be looking either way—screen left or screen right.”
“Okay, we’ll set the shot screen right and have Feodor facing the windows.”
“And where do we put the DV cam for the wide shot?” Ethan said, beginning to see the first signs of a plan.
“If we don’t care about the equipment,” Herb said, “I’ll mount the DV cam in the far corner on top of a ladder. We’ve got a big wide-angle lens. It’ll make the room look enormous.”
“Do it,” Ethan said, satisfied. “I think the audience likes to see the lights and cameras in the wide shot. Gives them a sense of how much work goes into an interview like this.” He checked the time again. “It’s nine thirty. We only have an hour and a half before Feodor gets here. Can we make it?”
“We have to,” Glickstein said, already positioning light stands around the set.
“And it’ll look like a prison, even in the tight shots?”
“Piece of cake, Ethan. There are bars on the door and windows. I’ll make sure we see them in each shot,” Raffalo said as he began roughing out camera positions.
Ethan smiled and plopped down on a chair in the corner of the room, David crouching down in front of him as he pulled a copy of the questions from his briefcase. “I’ve got Sampson on the phone. We’ve got a problem.”
“What do you mean we have a problem?”
“He’s running late. And he’s in a foul mood.” He handed Ethan his cell phone.
“Hey, Peter, it’s me. What’s goin’ on?”
“I’ll tell you what’s goin’ on,” Sampson said belligerently. “I’m not gonna make it. I’ve been in this goddamn car for two hours, and the traffic’s terrible. You’ll have to delay the interview.”
“Until when?” Ethan said, dreading the thought of broaching the subject with Gloria Jimenez.
“How should I know? Let me ask the driver.” Ethan could hear bits of the conversation but couldn’t make out what they were saying. “The driver says we’ve got about an hour to go. That should get me to the prison about ten forty-five. Hopefully you have somebody meeting me.”
“There’ll be a security guard waiting at the main gate. He’ll bring you straight to the interview location. You should make it just in time.” Ethan covered the mouthpiece and turned to David, who was pacing in front of him. “There’s no problem. He’s not that far behind schedule. He’s just being Peter Sampson.”
“Are you still there?” Peter said, screaming into the phone.
“Still here, Peter.”
“I’ve been studying the new questions you emailed me. You’ve done an excellent job, but do we have to ask all these questions about the Russian syndicate? How do we know all this stuff is true? Paul told me they’re the guys who beat you,” Sampson said, pausing a moment. “By the way, how are you feeling? Better than yesterday, I hope?”
“Almost good as new,” Ethan said. “You can hardly tell I had a run-in with a Mack truck.”
“Glad to hear it,” Peter said honestly. “So reassure me about the Russians. How’d you find out they’re involved in the murder?”
“From multiple sources,” Ethan said, making sure nobody from the prison was listening. “And this morning, on our way here, we had another dust-up with the same guy who jumped me the other night.”
“What happened?”
“I can’t tell you now. Too many people around.”
“Okay. Okay. I get it. But you’re certain it’s the same guy?”
“Positive. Lloyd Howard was with me and scared him off.”
“And you’re sure he works for the Russian Mob?”
“Yeah. Lloyd says the cops, the DEA, and the FBI know all about him. They just don’t have enough evidence to bust him and put him away.”
“Okay. I’m with you, Ethan. I’ll ask the questions.” There was a short pause. “Traffic’s easing up. We’re gonna try to make up a little time. So I’m gonna ring off and read through everything one more time. See you soon.”
Ethan handed David his cell phone.
“We cool?” David said.
“Everything’s fine,” Ethan said, smiling. “He’s calmed down and is comfortable with our sourcing of the Russian connection.”
“Perfect,” David said, relieved. “I was worried he’d balk at the new line of questioning.” David turned as Herb Glickstein motioned for him to sit down in one of the chairs on the set. “The cameraman wants to block shots and tweak the lights. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Go for it,” Ethan said, checking the time. Almost ten o’clock. They were cutting it close, but there was nothing more he could do but wait for his production team to turn the conference room into a television studio. A month of hard work was finally coming together.
CHAPTER 29
PAVEL FEODOR WALKED ONTO the set through a maze of cameras and lighting equipment, accompanied by three husky corrections officers. He was wearing a clean orange jumpsuit with the words H Block emblazoned just above his right breast pocket and Rikers Island Jail in bold letters across his back. A cigarette was hanging from his mouth, smoke slithering out of his nose as he moved with a cranky limp, his leg still sore from the beating he’d received at the hands of one of the prison’s finest gatekeepers.
Herb Glickstein was inching backward in front of him, holding a small, versatile Panasonic camera. He began rolling as soon as Feodor had emerged through the locked security door separating H Block from the long hallway leading to the conference room, making one continuous shot lasting over two minutes. Ethan watched as Feodor walked up to Sampson, his hands and feet manacled in chains, and listened as the anchorman introduced himself as if he were talking to a friend at a dinner party.
Ethan had just endured another dust-up with Gloria Jimenez, who’d refused to slide the start time even five minutes to allow his crew a little extra time to finish checking the lights and adjusting the cameras. Her itinerary said eleven o’clock sharp, and by God, there’d be no deviation from the plan. As he stared into a bank of monitors at his command station, Frankie O’Malley walked onto the set and over to Sampson. They shook hands vigorously and made small talk as Feodor stood in silence, his cigarette burning down to the filter. Ethan leaned over and whispered to his cameraman. “Herb, you getting this?”
“On all four cameras.”
“Excellent. I’m gonna need all this back and forth when I get to the edit room.” He patted Herb on the shoulder and walked onto the set. Sampson had just taken his seat and was
checking his makeup in a monitor as Gloria Jimenez explained to the public defender in no uncertain terms that the warden would issue a short statement to handle the rush of press inquiries once word of the interview leaked out. Ethan cleared his throat, interrupting Jimenez in midsentence, and said he was ready to get started. Then he motioned to O’Malley to sit on the left facing Sampson and for Feodor to sit next to him on the right. Kneeling, he looked into Pavel’s eyes and asked if he had any questions.
“No, Mr. Producer, let’s get this over with,” Feodor said defiantly, “before I change my mind and cancel the whole damn thing.” Then he spit his cigarette on the floor and turned to his attorney, who was still talking a mile a minute to the press officer. “Enough, Frankie. I can’t listen to you babble anymore. Mr. Benson here is ready to start my interview, and it’s my moment, not yours. So shut your fucking mouth and let’s get started.”
O’Malley began to protest but stopped as Ethan, surprised by the sudden outburst, walked Jimenez to a chair in the back of the room where she could watch the interview, and waited for the three corrections officers, still clutching their nightsticks, to move to a small observation window outside the door. Then he sat down between David and Mindy in front of his monitors and carefully checked the framing of each shot. Giving his crew the thumbs-up, he put on his headset and said in a calm but firm voice, “Turn off your cell phones and roll the cameras.”
There was a moment of profound silence before Sampson cleared his throat, stared into the lens of his camera, and said, “Hello, I’m Peter Sampson, anchorman of The Weekly Reporter. Thank you, Mr. Feodor, for sitting down and talking to us today.”
The opening moment was captured in vivid detail, Bobby Raffalo sitting on a medium shot of the anchorman, Herb Glickstein zooming into a tight shot of Feodor, the lockdown camera poised on a two-shot of Pavel and his attorney, and the small DV cam making a sweeping wide shot of the entire set from the top of a ten-foot ladder.
Ethan was ecstatic. The images were crisp. The lighting perfect. And the sound coming through his headset had just a hint of the inmates screaming in the background. It looked and sounded like a prison.
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