by Josie Brown
Luuk holds out his hand to help me up into the van’s first passenger bench. As I take it and hike myself into the vehicle, I feel a pat on my bum.
Son of a bitch.
Abu’s coughing spell indicates he’s caught it too.
The van swerves away from the curve and into the roadway leading out of Sheremetyevo International Airport.
Despite being early afternoon in Moscow, the sky is a charcoal hue. A frigid brown mist hangs over the city like a well-worn shawl. Even the snow, shoveled high on the sides of the roadway, looks dingy.
The driver’s side mirror is extended far enough out that I can look into it. I anticipate at least one car will follow us to our destination. As my private road trip game, I see if I can spot which one is tailing us.
Half an hour later, we are at our destination: a five-story, mixed-use building on the three-lane boulevard known as Petrovka Ulitsa.
In the base of our building is a Bulgari Jewelers shop. Kitty-corner from us is the Bolshoi Theatre. This is undoubtedly a posh part of town.
A car did, in fact, follow us the whole way: a dark gray Lada Granta. I’ve never seen one before, but here they are as ubiquitous as puffy coats.
It passes us now as we exit the van. It seems as if Nikolay gives the driver a slight nod.
This doesn’t surprise me.
The Kremlin is only a kilometer and half from us, less than a twenty-minute walk. Should I venture a stroll, I’m sure I’ll be watched every step of the way.
HART MEDIA MOSCOW NEWS BUREAU is written across the office’s sleek glass doors, which open onto a small reception alcove. It holds a modern couch and an ornate marble sideboard, where a fresh flower arrangement of oleanders sits.
A small galley kitchen is off to one side. Besides a microwave and small refrigerator, there is also a coffee machine on the counter.
Yegor hands us numbered key cards. “These should open the three apartments upstairs.”
Nikolay and Yegor have separate offices. Luuk takes the only other empty room with a window and door, leaving Abu and me in the news pit, which consists of three desks surrounded by five-foot-high dividers: flimsy enough for every conversation to be heard.
The office mail has been placed on a small, round conference table. An envelope from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ office is the only piece yet to be opened. Apparently, Nikolay has taken care of the rest of it, which is stacked in neat piles for Luuk's review.
Luuk eagerly takes the unopened envelope. Grabbing a letter opener, he rips it open and tosses its contents on the table. Besides press passes for Luuk, Yegor, and Abu, it also contains three identical manifests with information on the parade route, a full press itinerary, and publicity photos of the weaponry that will be on display. Luuk slips one into his valise and hands the other to Abu.
All eyes move to the whiteboard beside the table, where a few other interesting stories have been hastily scribbled in English:
* * *
Breaking/Investigative: Breakout of African Swine Fever at a privately-owned meat packing facility;
Business Feature: Russia’s largest phone operator purchases stock in a retailer;
Politics: Overview of the opposition candidates in the upcoming presidential election.
* * *
Luuk gestures at the first bullet point. “The parade takes precedence, of course,” he declares. “But the ASF outbreak will also be of interest, I think.”
“So would a comprehensive overview of Putin’s political opposition,” I point out. “There are only two opponents. You can reach out to the campaign of one, and I’ll take the other.”
Yegor, who has been taking notes, pipes up with a grunt, “I’ll set up a meeting with the factory manager for Friday. By then he should have a good excuse as to why it is not the factory’s fault but that of the farmers.” He shrugs. “As for the opposition to our current president, I would not advise attempting a one-on-one interview—that is, if you wish to stay in the country. Perhaps covering a rally will get you the soundbites you need? And not to worry. We have enough gas masks to go around.”
“Great to know,” I retort.
“I’d like to see the camera equipment on hand and take a quick tour of the production bay,” Abu says.
Yegor points to the cubicle at the far end of the room. “Follow me.” The men head off in that direction.
I smile prettily at Luuk. “As you said, these other assignments must wait until we’ve covered the parade. Speaking of which, shouldn’t you make that call to your friend in Foreign Affairs earlier than later?”
He nods. “I’ll do so immediately.”
He leaves for his office. But before he shuts the door, he leans out again. “When I get off the phone, why don’t we grab a bite to eat before retiring?”
My nod is amiable enough. “Sure, okay.” Oh, hell. I am dead tired.
I guess his favor earns me the role of his new bestie. But if he believes it means friends with benefits, he’s got another think coming.
“Na zdorovye!” Luuk exclaims.
While he toasts to my health, I should be toasting to the survival of his liver, considering the amount of vodka he’s drinking along with our meal of borsch and beef tongue stroganoff. To lessen its effect on me, I make a point to take four sips of water for every gulp of vodka.
We found a cozy little restaurant just a kilometer away from the office. When Nikolay offered to drive us, I laughed. “Why even bother? Can’t the man assigned to follow us protect us?”
He stared as if he didn’t understand me. When Yegor translated for him, he snorted.
It must have been a good translation of my little joke.
Emma hasn’t texted back with Luuk’s dossier, which surprises me. Even before the appetizer he resumed his friendly inquisition:
How long have I been in the business? (“Eleven years. Hopefully, the next eleven or so will be well-spent with Hart Media.”)
Did I enjoy Cambridge? (“Uni was aces, except for all the smug toffs…”)
Do I miss England? (“It will always be home,” I declare with just the right Queen-and-Country fervor in my voice.)
Luuk’s last question comes with an interesting bit of information: “You know, they say this office is a stepping stone to the position of Hart Media Network’s International news anchor in New York. If offered, would you take it?”
“Indeed! But that’s putting the cart before the horse.” I add coyly, “I assume you would, as well?”
“I wouldn’t turn it down,” he replies smugly.
“Then a toast to our mutual success.” As I clink my glass against Luuk’s, he brushes his fingers against mine.
We end our meal with Russian tea cakes and coffee, for me, anyway. Luuk sticks to vodka. By now, his English is sloppy, and some of his phrases are coming out in Dutch, so I giggle then demand he repeat them in English. I play the coquette because I want to stay on his good side—at least, until he hears back from his contact at the Foreign Ministry, which he insists will be no later than ten o’clock tomorrow.
“That’s cutting it close,” I remind him. “We have to be in the parade press stands by noon.”
“He won’t let me down.” When he lays his hand on my arm, the implication is clear: Nor should you.
Ugh.
I stand up. “We should get some rest. It’s been an exhausting day. Tomorrow promises to be even longer.”
He takes the hint. However, after slipping two one-hundred-ruble notes under his glass, he whispers, “I’ve spotted our Russian escort. There is a back door by the lavatories. Leave from there now, and I’ll do the same after I ask our waiter to pour our shadow a glass of vodka.”
With a slight nod, I stroll casually to the back.
A few minutes later Luuk follows. He’s laughing at his little trick.
I pretend to chuckle too, but only because I need to stay in his good graces until my mission is completed. I pray his little stunt doesn’t get us kicked out o
f the country. Otherwise, I will have failed.
At that point, I’d have nothing to lose to make him pay. I’ll start with breaking a few fingers. Maybe then he’ll get the message that he should keep his hands to himself.
We’ve stayed out late enough that night has fallen, and the streets are empty.
The back door leads into an alley. We turn right.
“Are you sure we’re headed in the right direction?” I ask.
“Ja! Follow me,” he insists. He’s tipsy enough that he slips on a damp cobblestone.
I am not at all assured.
The drink has loosened his tongue to the point that he’s humming something in Dutch. Now and then he belts out a lyric, albeit off-key.
My only consolation is that if he’s drunk enough, he’ll snooze off the moment his head hits the pillow.
In his bed, not mine.
We are a few blocks from our building when I hear footsteps. I turn to see two men approaching us. Both are large, block-headed, and broad-shouldered. They carry two-foot lengths of steel piping. It’s too late and too cold for baseball, so I assume we’re what they’ll be swinging at.
Luuk, who is yodeling some ditty, seems oblivious to the impending danger. Oh, bother. This means I’ll have to fend for him and myself.
The first thug uses his bat to shove Luuk against the wall. He growls something at Luuk, which I take to mean, “Your wallet or your life.”
Before the second one can do the same to me, I kick him between the legs. As he doubles over, I grab his bat and hit him over the head with it.
When Thug Number One turns around to see what’s happening, my sidekick throws him off balance and slams him into the wall.
Still, he hangs on to his steel pipe. When he comes at me and swings it, I block his strike. He pushes me off and strikes again, this time lower.
But I block that one too.
When he pulls back for a third strike, I take my bat with both hands and swing for the fences.
Or in this case, his head, cracking it with my bat.
He lands face down on the cobblestoned street.
Luuk stares at me. Suddenly he’s stone cold sober. “You can certainly protect yourself.”
“Yes, of course I can!” I retort. “I’m a woman who has traveled through some pretty savage places.”
He nods, but his silence speaks volumes. I may have saved his life, but I’ve also spooked him.
I guess I don’t have to worry about fighting him off after all.
Our apartment doors are next to each other. When we reach them, Luuk bows stiffly. “As you said, it has been quite a long day. Until tomorrow.”
“Until tomorrow,” I echo.
He waits until I close the door before entering his place.
I guess when you’re a horndog, nothing kills the urge for romance quicker than watching your date bash in the heads of two guys who would have otherwise eaten your lunch.
By seven-thirty I enter the news bureau. I’m in a demure wool dress suit: a navy bateau-neck sheath with a matching jacket and low-heeled shoes.
On the way to my desk, I walk past the conference table to peruse today’s stack of mail. Nikolay has already sorted it. There is one envelope that Nikolay didn’t dare open. It is stamped with the insignia of the Russia Ministry of Foreign Affairs and addressed to Luuk.
Thank goodness, my press pass has come!
Nikolay is already in his office. He holds a steaming ceramic cup and a small paper plate of something that looks like a pastry. Noting my glance, he points toward the kitchenette. “It is tula pryanik! You can eat too!” Once he’s in his office, he closes the door. My guess: so that we can’t see that he’s monitoring the rest of us.
I don’t need the unnecessary calories, but Nikolay’s pryanik looks too good to pass up. As I pass the reception alcove to grab a cuppa, I notice that some of the oleander blossoms have fallen onto the table and floor. The mess is unseemly. Because I doubt the men will see it as their place to do anything about it, I pick them up and drop them in the kitchen’s wastepaper basket.
Abu arrives twenty minutes later. He nods formally before putting his satchel in the production bay. Noting my cup of coffee, he grabs one for himself.
He takes his time reviewing the manifest. I busy myself with a Russian dictionary, putting together a list of questions for the press conference.
Russian Times radio network plays on the television monitors mounted in the four corners of the room. The feed is closed-captioned in English.
Eight o’clock goes by without Luuk appearing, as do nine and ten o’clock.
It’s now ten-thirty. Over the top of my cubicle, I finally see him.
I look down, pretending to review the government-sanctioned press photos that might work for our articles. Luuk doesn’t go straight back to his office, so he must have stopped at the conference table to check the mail. Good, he’ll see the press pass envelope.
A few minutes later he strolls past my desk without saying anything.
He has nothing in his hand but his valise.
I wait eight minutes before knocking on his door. “Come in,” he barks. His tone is impatient.
Warily, I open the door and walk in. “Good morning. I guess the need for sleep finally caught up with you.”
“Yes, I’m still fatigued. Is there coffee?”
I nod. “And pastries, if you care for one.” I hesitate and add, “As for the press pass—”
“Ah yes!” He shrugs. “So sorry, but it never arrived.”
“Oh.” Hmm. “Perhaps you should call? We could pick it up on the way to the parade.”
“In fact, Gwendolyn, I just tried my contact again. His assistant answered and informed me he is out. I asked again about the extra pass and emphasized the importance of it. She apologized profusely, but she was adamant they were not able to get one.” He opens his hands as if to indicate that he doesn’t hold the answer I seek. “You can start immediately on the tainted cow meat story, ja?”
No, you liar.
“And thank you for your offer to get me coffee.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Cream and sugar with it, please.” He waves me away.
You son of a bitch.
The coffee beans need to be ground. A portable grinder is in the cabinet, as are the coffee filters.
“Oh, bother!” I grumble as a filter drops to the floor.
I stoop to pick it up. As I drop it deep into the wastebasket, I palm some of the oleander petals.
Into the grinder they go, along with the beans.
I pluck a mug from the cabinet and add the cream and sugar as the coffee percolates. I also take two pryaniks and put them on a plate for Luuk.
When the coffee is ready, I pour it into the mug—all of it, because I made just enough for a single cup.
But before I leave the kitchen, I clean out the coffee pot and the grinder, dump the old grounds, and grind more beans for another fresh pot.
Now, I ask you: Am I a considerate co-worker, or what?
Luuk’s cramps begin a half hour later. When he leaves his office for the lavatory, his face is pale and sweaty.
I open my eyes wide when I see him. “Luuk, is everything alright?”
He starts to answer but then thinks better of it. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he stumbles through the news pit and out the front door.
A half an hour later he still hasn’t returned. Yegor looks at the wall clock and frowns. “We must leave now for Red Square if we are to make the parade!”
“Shall I call Luuk?” I ask.
Yegor nods.
I pick up my company-issued cell phone and dial. (Not Luuk’s phone, but Yegor doesn’t have to know that.) “Luuk, it’s time to leave…What...you’re too ill to go? Oh! My poor dear man! Well, yes, of course, I’ll go in your place! Do try to rest! I’ll check in on you when we come back.” I look up at Yegor. “He left his press pass and manifest in his valise. I should get it.”
�
��Yes, please, and immediately! As it is, we will get caught in the parade traffic!”
I run to Luuk’s office. Yes, in the valise on his desk is his press pass, along with mine.
I take both.
7
Two-Shot
Most often, a "two-shot" is the term for an interview in which the reporter and the guest are in the same shot, even when the camera is aimed behind the reporter’s head. It also refers to any shot including two people; two anchors at a single news desk, for instance.
A relationship is always a two-shot. Solo selfies are cute, but don’t you prefer the ones in which you’re standing beside a loved one?
“Okay, Gwendolyn, we roll video in three, two…” Abu drops his raised fingers until he’s down to one then points to me, and I begin:
“Russia’s military pageantry is in full force today to a wildly cheering crowd as its state-of-the-art T-14 Armata battle tanks roll through Red Square. Considered the most sophisticated and technically advanced armored vehicle in the world, these tanks…”
I do a similar video piece when the Kurganets-25’s promenade into view. These armored personnel carriers are considered the next generation of such vehicles.
All footage we shoot is also uploaded to Acme’s secure data file, where Lamar can regurgitate these soundbites into print news stories that will appear on my computer. I'll then turn them in under Gwendolyn’s byline.
I look at the pride on the faces around me. At the same time, I think of all these things the Russian people are coerced to do that restricts their freedom and perception of the outside world.
A dictatorship, even one masquerading as a democracy, works for the few, not the many. To keep the masses in their place, Russia uses these shows of strength to say: “Look at us! No one can dominate us!”
