The Newsmakers (27 page)

“I think that's the idea.”

Detective Samuels walks in. “Is that a cronut?”

Mark nods and says, “Erica b-brought it.”

“In that case, you're both under arrest for crimes against your waistline.”

“Mark's been busy,” Erica says.

Mark presses a button and the printer comes to life, spewing out several pages. He hands them to Erica—they contain Leonid Gorev's Skype account and password, Anton Volodin's phone number, his address in Moscow, his birth record, and his military service in the Russian navy.

“You found all this on the Internet?” Erica asks.

“You j-just have to know where to look,” Mark says.

“Any luck determining the location of the ferry hackers?” Samuels asks.

“It's d-difficult. The hackers are v-very sophisticated.”

“Is it hopeless?” Erica asks.

“No! I'm making p-progress. I'm p-p-pretty sure they are within a hundred miles of New York City.”

“So are twenty million other people,” Samuels says.

“O ye of little f-faith,” Mark says.

“It's a job requirement.”

“You wear it well,” Erica says.

“Don't mean to be rude, but I w-w-want to get back to work.”

“Here's your hat. What's your hurry?” Samuels says.

As soon as they're in the hallway, Erica asks, “Did you find Leonid Gorev on any passenger list?”

“No. He may have flown under an alias. When it comes to passports and other identifying documents, these people are expert forgers.”

“Still, it's a setback.”

The two of them head across First Avenue to a coffee shop and sit in a booth. After they order, she brings him up to date on the Barrish case. “So I've got these two separate investigations—the ferry crash and Barrish's murder. I see them as parallel tracks and it seems to me the tracks are converging—on Leonid Gorev.”

“Who is just a point man for someone higher up the food chain,” Samuels says. “Barrish's murder was a real-body blow to our country, and the ferry crash was a very effective act of terrorism. Could it be the Kremlin? I wouldn't put anything past Putin.”

“We have to get Gorev to talk,” Erica says. “The best way to do that would be a full confession from Volodin that he attacked Mark and that he was paid by Gorev to do it. We can then take that confession to Gorev and force him to spill.”

“Unfortunately Volodin is in Moscow.”

Erica holds up the printout from Mark. “But we have this. Does the NYPD have any contacts in the Moscow police?”

“We do.”

“Do you have any Russian-speaking detectives on the force here?”

“Affirmative again. With the Russian Mafia expanding its reach in the city, they're in great demand.”

“Would you consider sending one over to Moscow?” Erica asks. Samuels gives her a skeptical look.

Erica leans across the table and details her plan. Samuels considers it for a moment. Then he says, “Don't breathe a word of this to anybody. If Gorev knows we're getting close to him, he'll be on a flight out of the country before we can tie our shoes.” He stands up and buttons his jacket. “And meet me at police headquarters in forty-eight hours.”

Erica pushes away the cup of metallic-tasting coffee as the waitress comes over, plops down beside her and—without asking—takes a selfie of the two of them.

CHAPTER 64

IT
'
S THE NEXT MORNING AND
Erica is in her office, once again quelling her fears by throwing herself into her work. She's one phone call away from securing the Dream Team for her first show. She's already spoken to Michelle Obama and Hillary Clinton. They were both warm and friendly and agreed to appear. But without Laura Bush it won't be complete. Erica hates hyper-partisanship—she considers herself a militant moderate and wants the show to foster a sense of unity and shared purpose among viewers, no matter where they sit on the political spectrum. For that to happen she needs the final link.

The office phone rings.

“This is Erica Sparks.”

“I have Laura Bush on the line,” a woman's voice says.

“Erica, this is Laura.” Her voice is welcoming.

“First of all, Mrs. Bush, I can't thank—”

“Please . . .
Laura
.”

“As you can imagine, Laura, I'm a little nervous,” Erica says.

“So am I.”

They share a laugh. Why are famous women so much easier to deal with than famous men?

“I know my producer has outlined my vision for the segment with you, but let me elaborate. It's called ‘Three First Ladies—Nine Extraordinary Women.' We'll open the show with the four of us discussing what it means to be First Lady, and especially the causes you espoused while you were in the White House. I know how passionate you are about literacy. And as someone who grew up in a house without books, I can't tell you how moved I was by your efforts.”

“There's really nothing I enjoy more than curling up with a good book. And I must say that I was moved by your actions with Kay Barrish. She was a friend of mine,” Laura says.

“It's a loss that continues to reverberate, isn't it?”

“I miss her,” Laura says simply.

“After we talk, I want to introduce short segments on three women of your choosing—women who have inspired and enriched you in some way. Michelle and Hillary will do the same, and then we'll look for common threads.”

“It sounds worthwhile—and great fun. I accept.”

“You have just made my year.”

“I'm always delighted to see my fellow First Ladies and compare war stories. Tell me, have Michelle and Hillary signed on?”

“They have, yes.”

“Oh, so you reeled in the big fish first?” Laura says, tongue firmly in cheek.

They laugh. “Not at all. They just took the bait first.”

“I'm not buying that—hook, line,
or
sinker.”

Erica hangs up with a smile on her face. She can't believe she exchanged corny banter with a former First Lady. That she spoke to
three
First Ladies in one day. That they're all going to be on
her
show. She's about to call Greg and tell him the news when her prepaid rings. She walks into the closet before answering.

“Erica, it's George Samuels. We have a problem. Our contact in the Moscow police wants ten grand for ‘operating expenses.' ”

“Wow.”

“I should have seen this coming.”

“Can the NYPD pay it?”

“We have a no-bribe policy, which has a little give in it, but this case is too sketchy right now for anyone to sign off on a payment this size.”

“So without the 10K, we're at a dead end.”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Let me work on this.”

Erica hangs up. When you need water, you go to the deepest well. She goes back to her desk and calls Nylan—thank God he can't see that her hands are shaking.

“Erica,” he says in a flat voice.

Erica ignores his antipathy and says brightly, “I just had the nicest chat with Laura Bush. She's in. As are Hillary and Michelle.”

“This is the kind of thing you should be focused on.”

“Your faith in me has made it all possible,” Erica says, laying it on thick.

“I hope that faith continues,” Nylan says.

“I do have one other issue. I'm working on a story about price fixing by the major drug companies. Millions of Americans are forced to sacrifice their financial security to pay for drugs they need to stay alive. This is major. I have a source who swears he can deliver incriminating documents. But he wants to be paid for his services.”

There's a pause, and Erica can almost hear Nylan switching gears. His voice stays casual, but the undertone goes from honey to ice. “Erica, I want you charming First Ladies, not chasing half-baked conspiracy theories.”

“This isn't—”

“I want to leverage your star power, not squander it. There's nothing sexy about price fixing.”

Erica feels frustration boiling in her veins. This man is acting like he owns her.
Like he owns her
. Time to cut her losses. And she can hardly claim the moral high ground.

“All right, Nylan. I'll move on.”
I sure will move on.

“That's my star talking.”

Erica hangs up, walks back into the closet, and calls Samuels. “I've got the money,” she tells him. “How do you want it?”

Samuels gives her the transfer codes for the Moscow bank account. Then she heads out to her bank.

CHAPTER 65

NYPD HEADQUARTERS IS TUCKED BETWEEN
City Hall and the Brooklyn Bridge, at the southern edge of New York's vast Chinatown. Nearby are two imposing courthouses—one federal, one state—and other magnificent municipal buildings. Erica is awed by the grandeur.

Police Plaza, on the other hand, is a hulking, brutalist box dating to the early 1970s when Americans were rioting in the streets and public architecture crouched into a defensive posture. Erica wonders what they would build today if given the chance—surely something with more grace and fidelity to its stately neighbors.

Erica passes through security, where she is greeted with smiles of recognition, and heads up to the eighth floor. The windowless conference room is nondescript, with just a table and chairs. Samuels is alone in the room, sitting in front of a large-screen laptop with Gorev's Skype account open on the screen. He's talking on a landline, is serious and keyed-up.

“Hang on, Ed,” he says into the phone, putting it down on the table before turning to Erica. “We're just about ready to go.”

Erica nods, her pulse quickens, her breathing grows shallow—if this doesn't work, her investigation will hit a dead end.

“It's one a.m. in Moscow, the lights are out in Volodin's apartment,” Samuels says. “We want to wake him up, get him when he's groggy and vulnerable.”

“And probably half drunk,” Erica says. She sits down next to Samuels—close enough to see the screen but not so close as to be in the computer's camera eye.

Samuels picks up the landline and asks, “You ready? . . . Great. Hang tight.” Samuels dials on Skype. The phone rings. And rings. And then it's answered—a bleary-eyed, underwear-clad Volodin appears on-screen.

“Leonid, it's the middle of the night,” he croaks, not yet focused.

“I hate to interrupt your beauty sleep, Volodin, but this isn't Leonid. It's Detective Samuels of the New York Police Department.” Samuels holds up his badge as he barks “Go!” into the landline. Suddenly there's violent knocking on the door of Volodin's apartment and shouted commands in Russian.

Volodin's head spins from the computer to the door and back. “We've positively identified you as Mark Benton's assailant!” Samuels shouts as the knocking and yelling from outside the apartment grows louder. And then there's a crash as the door is kicked in. Volodin tries to scramble over the back of the sofa as two men—one a Moscow plainclothes cop who looks like he's about six foot six of pure muscle, the other Detective Joe Ortiz of the NYPD—grab him and slap on handcuffs. “You're under arrest for the attempted murder of Mark Benton,” Samuels says.

“You're coming back to New York with me,” Ortiz says.

“That's right, Anton, we got the extradition papers all ready to file. Right, Serge?”

“Yes!” the Russian cop hisses.

“You're going to be standing trial for assault with a deadly weapon and attempted murder. Those punches left some evidence behind—your skin cells and DNA. We've also got positive identification from a witness. You're toast. Say good-bye to Moscow because you won't see it again in this lifetime.”

Volodin's swagger is a distant memory—he looks completely dazed, lost, desperately trying to gather himself and make sense of what's happening.

“You look pretty pathetic, Anton,” Samuels continues. “You're a two-bit thug, a worthless worm. I wish we could just off you and get it over with, save everybody a lot of time and money. You sicken me.”

Volodin's jaw drops open and he looks down.

“Look at me, you creep!”

Ortiz and the Russian cop each grab an arm and yank Volodin up. He raises his eyes.

“You're a spineless worm. A cheap thug for hire. I'm after bigger fish than you. You tell me what I want right now and I'll try and cut you a deal.”

“Can I stay in Russia?” Volodin asks.

“I'm asking the questions. Who hired you to beat up Mark Benton?”

“If I talk, you will get me a deal?”

“Depends on what you say. I'll tell you this though—you
don't
talk and you're looking at twenty in prison. There are no women in prison, Anton, no vodka, no cars, no nothing. Just a cellmate who might take a liking to your young Russian ass.”

There's a pause, and then Volodin spits at the camera. Serge slams his fist into Volodin's face—blood spurts from his cheek.

“There's more where that came from. Now who hired you to assault Mark Benton?” Samuels demands.

Something hard sets in Volodin's face as self-preservation takes over. He shakes free of Ortiz and Serge and looks right into the camera. “Leonid Gorev.”

“How much did he pay you?”

“Fifteen thousand dollars.”

“And you worked for him at the time?”

“I stole cars for him.”

“So on the morning of May second at approximately five thirty, you waited across the street from Mark Benton's apartment at 704
Greenwich Street. When you saw him come out of the building, you followed him onto Charles Street and attacked him.”

“Yes.”

“Aside from your fists, what did you use?”

“Pliers from the car garage.”

“Did you think you had killed him?”