Live from Moscow

a novel

CHAPTER ONE

Peter Bradford was certain he'd done this for Claire. Not because she'd
asked him. The initiative was all his.

She’d propelled him. And he’d almost gone the distance.

He lay on his back. Straining his head forward, he looked down the length of
his body and clutched both hands over his stomach. Under flat moonlight he saw
that his fingers were dark with blood, which was soaking through his shirt and
coat, pasty and warm on his skin. Temperatures were mild but now felt
sub-freezing. He shivered and noticed that his breathing and pulse were rapid
and increasing. An unmistakable precursor, he’d once read.

His hearing was acute. In the distance he heard the sound of a single
automobile, reversing north. Its two occupants…the idiots…had
concocted their rash and unsophisticated plan over a laptop
computer….They'd unzipped the case and grown confused, then angry,
arguing with wild gestures. Bradford didn't understand a word of Tajik; he'd just
stood by. Now he realized the two had been debating his fate. Without warning
one broke off the discussion, strode toward him in the clearing, and fired two
gunshots at short range to the stomach:
thwack, thwack.

He turned his head to one side. The laptop still lay on the hardscrabble
surface, several yards away. Nearby was its companion case. Both left behind
like surplus baggage.

Sound from the motor faded, leaving the forest quiet.  He looked up.
Stars shone. Signaling what came next? Instead of grappling toward last-minute
answers he thought of Claire. Somehow she softened the unknowns.

His breathing quickened further and his heart began to pound. Lucidity gave
way to dizziness. He felt himself slipping away, disconnected from his
surroundings and enveloped by warm liquid. Swimming and sliding into a long
tunnel.

CHAPTER TWO

Arthur Gallagher cleared his throat and scanned the faces of the
congregation. There were occasions when compassion trumped other
considerations. This was one.

He concluded his eulogy for Peter Bradford on a sublime note.

"In the journalistic profession pursuit of facts---of the truth---often
requires sacrifice.  Peter clearly lived by this credo. In his work he was
willing to do whatever was necessary. Even risk his life.  For all of us
his passing is premature, and tragic.  And the violence with which he died
carries a certain senseless quality.  But I would suggest that we find
another interpretation.  Peter was engaged in a moral undertaking, serving
all of us.  What higher calling is there than the quest for truth,
especially on behalf of others?  At this difficult moment, I would hope
that we can take some small solace from this feature of Peter's time on earth,
however shortened."

Gallagher folded his notes and re-beheld the 300 or so mourners. With care
he descended two steps from the altar and headed back toward his seat in the
second row.  He was still a few years from retirement, but advancing age
and an old football injury already imposed certain limitations, and these were
only compounded by jet-lag after the flight from Boston.

In the aisle he received an appreciative nod from Harrison Whitcombe, the
publisher of the
Boston World Tribune.
Whitcombe wore his usual
stoicism---almost. He was also Bradford's uncle. Gallagher, as Managing Editor,
had supervised Bradford's final assignment---the first in which a reporter had
died during the 153-year history of the newspaper
.

There was a short pause. The church fell quiet, except for a couple of muted
coughs that reverberated off the high ceilings.  In the row ahead of
Gallagher, Bradford's widow, Claire, reached into her purse.  Her
shoulders convulsed as she extracted a handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes with a
quivering hand looked forward again. Her shoulders squared---a show of determination.

Gallagher's acquaintance with her was meager---a few conversations at social
gatherings in Boston a couple of years earlier, when Bradford was based there.
Her French accent was strong, he remembered, but she’d left an impact for
other reasons, even if she didn’t mean to. A combination of idealized
mediums: middling height, light brown hair of shoulder length, green
eyes---average lengths and colors, rendered in curves that were just short of
voluptuous. Also…how would Gallagher describe it? She threw off live
energy.

Oriented around her husband's career. No children yet. As far as Gallagher
knew she had just part-time work in Paris. With Bradford gone where would she
look for new direction and purpose? Where would that energy go?

Gallagher wondered.

The fact was he didn't believe his own lofty rhetoric. The assignment had
seemed worthwhile at the outset. But Bradford had taken it too far; his death
had been needless. Gallagher felt disquieting responsibility. Was there a way
to give her true solace? He wished there were.

It was rather late in the game for new lessons. Reporters sometimes did have
to take risks. But he could at least prevent another tragedy on his watch. That
was something. He focused his gaze on Bradford's casket, which was open. The
priest, a tall, gangly man in his 30s, returned to the center of the
altar.  The funeral mass resumed, in the French language.

Yes, Gallagher told himself. This would not happen again. Certain
assignments had to be kept under tighter control.

CHAPTER THREE

An eight-oared crew swept by 20 yards off the riverbank, under insistent
shouts from the coxswain. The rowers’ faces were concentrated, and
written with pain. Other boats followed in close succession, displaying the
same aching resolve.

"What drives those guys?" Steve Conley asked.

"You did a sport in college," said Thom, referring to
Conley’s four more-or-less respectable years on the swim team.

"So?"

"You should have some idea."

Disinclined to ponder the question, Conley laughed and drained the rest of
his beer. Their group consisted of four couples, late 20s and early 30s,
sprawled on blankets on the Cambridge side of the Charles River. The occasion
was the annual Head of the Charles Regatta---for them and most others, rowing
as pretext for an afternoon in the October sun. He placed a languid hand on the
back of Jenna, who was sitting cross-legged next to him. She had not
participated in an analogous outing the previous year. Indeed, at the time they
had not even met. Thom observed the gesture.

"Remember last year’s Head of the Charles?" he asked.

At once Conley felt some of his lightness dissipate. It had been a stressful
juncture. Just weeks before, he’d seen his career derailed. Hints of
scandal. An abrupt transfer from London back to Boston. From fast-track
international correspondent to backwater features writer. To counteract the
recollections, he hooked his palm around Jenna’s waist and drew her
closer.

"This year’s better," he responded. "In more ways
than one."

"That occurred to me also."

Jenna understood the implication, and reacted with a slight, prolonged
smile. She was even-tempered and tolerant, features which Conley appreciated
after preceding events. Her smooth complexion, auburn hair, and arresting
figure only compounded her pluses.

There was a break in the procession of crew shells: a brief interlude
between race events. Conley sat up. Lunch had already come and gone, while the
Boston skyline and foliage of Back Bay still glistened across the river. He
proposed another round of beers, to which everyone assented. He stood and began
gathering empty cups and the discarded bags and wrappers from their picnic.

"I’ll give you a hand," Thom volunteered.

They dumped the refuse in a nearby trash can, then strolled toward several
tents that alumni organizations had set up about 75 yards away along Memorial
Drive. Their path was winding; people lounged everywhere on blankets or on the
grass. Scents of autumn leaves and alcohol permeated the air. Sunglasses and
semi-drunkenness were motifs of the day.

About halfway, Thom asked, "How
are
things at work these
days?"

"Tolerable."

"What about other newspapers?"

"More rejections. From
The LA Times
and
The Washington Post,
most
recently."

"Too bad…Tough times in the industry, I’ve gathered."

"That’s an understatement. The Internet continues to take a huge
toll, especially on classified advertising. No one’s hiring. If anything,
they’re laying reporters off."

"Maybe you should be grateful you still have a job."

"I am. And I prefer Boston anyway."

"I’m sure Jenna helps."

"She does."

They rounded the corner of the joint Brown/Dartmouth tent, now out of sight
of their group, and joined a queue.  In an open area to their left they
spotted a conspicuous blonde exemplar, early to mid-twenties, with low-cut
jeans that emphasized the spread of her hips and a swath of luminous skin
around her midriff. She was in conversation with two friends, but her large
eyes settled at once on Conley. They held contact for a few seconds.

 "Wow," Conley exclaimed under his breath.

Thom shook his head, aware that Conley's athletic proportions and thick hair
often provoked this kind of spontaneous interest. The girl's two companions
also shot glances in their direction. Some seconds later the girl herself
looked again. There was no mistaking the signal.

"Don't even think about it," he said.

Conley looked down: a bout of self-regulation. It was fleeting, thanks to
the beer.

 "We have to walk by them anyway. Harmless. Doesn't have to lead
anywhere."

Thom shook his head again.

Passing by the girls, beers in hand, they stopped. Ensuing banter was true
to form: offhand quips from Conley, polite questions and suggestive giggles
from the girls. Thom stood to one side and participated only to the extent
necessary, reluctant to abet the undertaking. When the repartee was spent Thom
shifted on his feet: a show of impatience. Conley was looking for an exit line
when the girl pulled out her business card.

"Why don't you call me?" she said. "…I mean, if you
want to." She held a smile.

Conley hesitated for a second and offered a sheepish grin.

"Sure…why not?" Transferring the beers inside one forearm,
he took the card, gave it a once-over, and saw that she was a paralegal
downtown. He thrust it into his back pocket, and thanked her. On the way back
through the blankets and bodies toward the riverbank, he felt a little giddy.
When they were out of earshot of the girls, Thom let loose.

"Why are you still doing that?"

"What could I do? I had to be polite."

"I hope you won't call her."

"Well…no. Of course not."

Conley realized his tone was unconvincing. Thom did too.

"Jenna’s a good find, Steve. I’d think you would have
learned."

The remark hit home. Dislocations from London still stung. Conley took a
deep breath to clear his head. They were almost upon their group. Thom studied
Conley's profile and sighed.

"Let's just forget it," he suggested.

"Good idea."

All the same Conley decided Thom was right. Time had really come for
self-restraint.

CHAPTER FOUR

Disorientation engulfed Claire between the fourth and third floors of her
apartment building in Saint-Germain-des-Pres, during her descent to street
level. This morning the precipitant was ordinary---the control buttons in the
elevator. Those buttons…Peter's fingers had pressed them almost every
day, just weeks earlier. All of a sudden the tight space became hot. She broke
a sweat and started panting.

The elevator door opened and for a dizzy moment she braced her arms against
the frame. Though the building was well-appointed it didn't have a concierge;
the small lobby was empty. She made her way to a bench against one wall and sat
down. Her breathing echoed off the marble surfaces and amplified the void.
Could this really have happened?

The past week seemed surreal.

She caught a reflection of herself in a mirror across the lobby, leaning
back against the wall---skin flushed scarlet, knees thrust forward and apart.
Gaze vacant and half-wild from lack of sleep: almost another person. In
response she closed her eyes. The lobby was cooler. Her breathing slowed and
she refocused on the mirror. That was
her
image: haggard but still alive
and present. The reality of
being
fortified her. She had to marshal
forward. She owed that much to herself and Peter. She set her jaw, shot to her
feet and strode out through the front door. The fresh autumn air evaporated her
dampness and cleared her head; she kept her chin up, marching through the
morning pedestrian traffic toward a nearby parking garage.

Driving was part of the plan. Relatives or friends had shuttled her around
for the past week. Getting behind the wheel would be an important step.
Parisian traffic would be a test. She'd always thrived on the disarray and
confusion of the city's boulevards and narrow side streets. Not because she
relished disorder---the opposite. Her satisfaction derived from mastery.

Two levels underground she spotted her car, a green Peugeot sedan, and dug
the keys from her purse. The familiar vehicle boosted her pace. She managed a
polite nod to an elderly man, before she stopped in her tracks and stared.
There, just a few spaces from her own car, was Peter's silver Audi. Somehow
she'd forgotten…he'd left it there before flying to Moscow. She'd driven
him to the airport…So tangible! Only the screeching tires of a car at the
other end of the garage jolted her out of her fixation. She'd have to deal with
the Audi later…

Her keys trembled in her hand as she unlocked the door of her Peugeot.
Before the tremor had appeared just on stressful occasions: university
examinations, job interviews, her wedding. Now the condition seemed permanent.

Seconds after disgorging from the exit ramp onto the Boulevard St. Germain,
she was westbound along the bank of the Seine in the late-morning flow.
Traffic, as usual at this hour, was fast and unforgiving. She drove with both
hands on the steering wheel, leaning forward. With a glance in her rear-view
mirror she executed a quick lateral move, which provoked honks from two cars
behind her and a quiver of satisfaction. Her capacities were intact…She
was not a helpless victim…She could still bend chaotic variables to her
will.

Skirting the Seine on the Quai d'Orsay, the Eiffel Tower swept by on her
left. Straight and tall: a galvanizing point of reference. Her foot pumped the
clutch and she jammed the stick shift into higher gear. Additional confidence
came with a rare and unexpected parking spot on rue Franklin. Notre Dame de Passy
was just around the corner. Minutes later she was seated on a divan inside the
rectory. The salon around her was ornamented in Napoleon III-era gilt frames
and red-velvet curtains. A crucifix hung over the carved marble fireplace.

The room already felt a little stifling. Claire wondered what she'd gain
from this.

Francois, the priest who’d officiated at Peter's funeral, entered with
a sympathetic expression, accompanied by a nun carrying a silver tray. Once the
nun served coffee and withdrew, he settled into an adjacent armchair. Claire
thanked him for his orchestration of the funeral. Short notice. Peter's
Protestantism and long-pending conversion had not been an obstacle.

"Veronique suggested I come to you for advice," she said.

They were both aware of the premise. Veronique had set this up---Claire's
closest friend and Francois' cousin. Francois now cradled his cup and saucer
and crossed his long legs. He seemed unsure what to expect. Claire was hardly a
regular at mass. She made an effort to keep her voice steady.

"With Peter gone, I feel…I don't know where to go or what to do
next."

"That's natural, Claire."

"Everything points me back."

She described her disorientation in the elevator, and the shock of Peter's
car.

"Perfectly normal," Francois responded. "It's just been a
week."

Claire spotted a Bible on the small table next to Francois' armchair.
Several bookmarks protruded. She opted for preemption.

"I do believe in God, Francois."

He eyed her over another sip of coffee.

"…Jesus…the lessons from the cross…everything you
mentioned at the funeral."

No movement yet toward the Bible.

"It's just that…I need something more immediate."

His eyes narrowed with new concern.

"…What I need is a goal."

Francois' voice became gentle: an attempt to understand.

"Goal?"

"Something to point me ahead. An objective…one that's connected
to Peter somehow."

He paused and looked into his cup. "Everything doesn't happen according
to our earthly designs, Claire," he said. "Sometimes we have to
wait."

"I can't wait, Francois."

"Here…" he said, slowing the tempo. He set down his saucer
and reached for the Bible. "Let's try to find some answers in the
Scriptures."

Claire shifted on the divan. She had nothing against the Scriptures. But she
was already eager to go.