Линвуд Баркли - Elevator Pitch

“She made us all look like fools,” Headley had said angrily while his son sat on the couch, knees together, head slightly bowed. “You should have known she’d say no, and that she’d go off and write about our proposal. What the fuck were you thinking?”

His son had raised his head long enough to say, “But you said to give it a—”

“So it’s my fault,” Headley had said. “You come up with a strategy that doesn’t work, and it’s my fault.” He paused. “Maybe it is. Who I pick to advise me, that’s on me.”

Before Glover could say anything else, his father had pointed to the door and said, “That’s all.”

There’d been no point trying to completely refute Matheson’s piece about what had transpired in the limo. As Chris had said, she’d probably recorded it. Valerie had issued a short statement to say that Matheson’s experience made her a leading candidate for a possible project, and had nothing to do with undermining her work at Manhattan Today . Valerie also had to clarify what the mayor’s political ambitions were. And that, she said, was to be the best mayor of New York that he could be.

As he reworked the speech, Headley found it difficult to concentrate. He hated personnel matters, especially when they involved Glover. He was still staring at the screen, struggling to find a way to give the speech some new life, when Valerie Langdon strode into the room. She pointed to the flashing light on his phone.

Valerie said, “It’s Alexander Vesolov.”

“Should I know who that is?” Headley said, slowly turning his head to look at her.

“The Russian ambassador.”

“What does he want? A reception or something? Just take down the details.”

“He wants to speak with you. Personally. He’s quite insistent. He sounds pretty agitated.”

Headley took his fingers off the keyboard and sighed. “Christ, somebody not notice his diplomatic plates and give him a parking ticket?”

Valerie said nothing. Headley sighed and reached for the phone. A smile came to his lips as instantly as if a switch had been thrown.

“Mr. Ambassador, always a pleasure.”

“Mr. Mayor,” said the heavily accented Vesolov on the other end.

“What can I do for you today?”

“We are very concerned, of course, about what has happened to Fanya Petrov.”

The mayor didn’t speak for several seconds, trying to place the name, wondering whether it was one he should know.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that, Mr. Ambassador?”

As the ambassador did so, Headley scribbled the name on a scratch pad and held it up for Valerie to see. She made a Huh? face, but immediately got out her phone to do a search.

“This is a terrible, terrible thing,” Vesolov said. “This is a terrible blow to my country. It’s a terrible blow to the scientific community. Not just for Russia, but for the entire world.”

Valerie set her phone on the desk, screen up, under Headley’s nose. She’d found a Wikipedia page about the woman. Headley scanned it while he carried on the conversation.

“I can understand that,” the mayor said, speaking slowly and deliberately while he struggled to get up to speed. “Dr. Petrov’s work is certainly... groundbreaking. One of the leaders in her field.”

“Not anymore,” the ambassador said.

Headley decided he could not bluff any longer.

“I’m going to have to be frank here, Mr. Ambassador. You have me at a disadvantage. I’ve been in something of a bubble this morning. I do not know what has happened to Dr. Petrov. Has she been asked to leave the country? Is this a diplomatic issue? Because if it is, I’m not sure that I am the best one to talk to. I’d be more than happy to connect you with the State Department or any other appropriate agency.”

“Fanya Petrov is dead, Mr. Mayor.”

“I’m sorry. I did not know. My condolences. Perhaps you could bring me up to speed about what happened.”

“You know about the elevator accident?”

Ah, Headley thought. Something he did know a little about.

“Yes, of course. Very tragic. A horrible thing. I did not know Dr. Petrov was among the casualties. I somehow missed her name in the accounts of the incident. I knew one of the victims. Sherry D’Agostino. I visited the scene personally yesterday, and have directed my staff to—”

“Yesterday?” said Vesolov. “No, not that elevator accident. This happened this morning.”

Headley sat up in his chair, tossed the TV remote toward Valerie and pointed to the screen mounted on the wall. “This morning?” Headley said as Valerie started pushing buttons to bring the screen to life.

“You do not know this?”

One of the news channels popped up, but instead of local news there was a weather update. The mayor mouthed, Fuck!

Valerie came around the desk, forcing the mayor out of her way so she could start typing on his keyboard. She opened a browser and within seconds found an online news video, hit play with the volume off, and stepped back so Headley could watch it.

“I’m just getting more details now...” Headley said.

A woman was doing a remote outside the York Avenue apartment building, but the report was little more than her talking head. The chyron at the bottom of the screen read One Dead in Grisly Elevator Mishap .

“Of course,” Headley said, “the incident on York. Horrible, just horrible.”

“Fanya Petrov,” the ambassador said, “could very well have been on the cusp of some startling scientific discoveries. We have been in touch with her family in Moscow, and they are devastated.”

“I’ve no doubt. Please pass on our deepest sympathies.”

“How could something like this happen?” Vesolov asked. “Her head cut right off! A decapitation.”

Jesus, Headley thought. “It’s a terrible tragedy. These types of accidents are very, very rare.”

“Doesn’t seem that way,” the ambassador said. “One yesterday and one today?”

Headley struggled for an explanation. “I guess it’s like airplane crashes,” he said weakly. “We don’t have any for months, then two or three in quick succession. Mr. Ambassador, I’m going to personally check on the progress of this investigation and will report back to you myself.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” Vesolov said. “I look forward to hearing from you.” He ended the call.

Headley glared at Valerie. “Why didn’t I know about this?”

“I’d only just found out about it seconds before the ambassador called.”

“What’s the actual address where this happened?”

Valerie looked to her phone for details, and told him.

“I’ve been in that building,” he said. Headley put a finger to his chin, trying to remember. “A fund-raiser, I think. Last year.”

“How would you like to proceed?”

Headley sighed. “Get the car,” he said.

Alexander Vesolov took his hand from the receiver and leaned back in an oversized leather chair. He clasped his hands together over his considerable stomach and glanced at the large portrait of Vladimir Putin hanging on the wall to his right.

The door opened and a young, dark-haired woman with the most perfect posture in the world walked in.

“You were able to speak to the mayor directly?” she asked.

“I was,” Vesolov said.

“And how did it go?”

Vesolov wore a satisfied smile. “I was suitably outraged.”

The woman returned the smile and glanced, for half a second, at the portrait. “Would you like me to inform him?”

Vesolov shook his head. “No, I would like to do that myself.”

“Of course,” the woman said. “I will set up the call.”

Vesolov took his hands from their resting place atop his belly and leaned forward over the desk.