Live from Moscow (12 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Gallagher was cutting across the newsroom and passed the desk of Jerry
MacPherson, city columnist, whom he’d known for almost two decades.
MacPherson had a half-eaten sandwich within reach, and was scanning a late edition.

"Hey Art," MacPherson said, lowering his paper. "These
stories are getting quite a buildup."

A full-page advertisement had appeared that day. Gallagher had tried in vain
to mute any hyperbole, in cooperation with Fallon and the marketing department:

Boston World Tribune reporter Steve Conley is now on assignment overseas,
retracing the steps of reporter Peter Bradford, who was murdered in Tajikistan
on October 17
^th
. Through Conley,
The World Tribune
is
carrying on the work that Bradford never finished: investigation of a heroin
pipeline that stretches from Europe back to Central Asia. Conley is also
reconstructing the tragic events that led to Bradford's death.

Details to come next month in
The World Tribune.

Below, in one corner, was a head and shoulders file photograph of Conley,
wearing a tie and blazer. Opposite was a similarly sized portrait of Bradford
wearing a pinstriped suit, with the sub-caption
Peter Bradford, 1977-2006.

Gallagher slowed and stopped, feeling beleaguered.

"Quite a resurrection for your boy Conley," MacPherson observed.

"That's the good part."

"And the bad part?"

Gallagher sighed. "I'm due for a meeting Jerry. Maybe another
time…over lunch."

"You're on," MacPherson said, rustling his paper back up.

When Gallagher entered Larson's office Nathan Frick was already present, and
by all appearances had been for quite a while. Taut and nervous, as usual. He
frowned when Gallagher lowered himself into the other chair with a light thud.

"Before we get to the briefing, Art…" Larson said...
"I've scheduled a conference call with Harry. On events in
Washington."

At once Frick flipped his notepad open to a page of pre-prepared notes.
Larson's phone rang, and she activated the speakerphone. Whitcombe sounded as
if he was calling from a busy lobby.

Gallagher felt ambushed.

"I'm sitting here with Art and Nathan Frick," Larson said.
"Nathan's here for edification. And to stay informed."

Whitcombe sounded a little surprised about this but didn't delve further.
Foremost on his mind was the aid bill. He'd intersected with Reynolds earlier
in the day, then proceeded with his own back-channel contacts. "Timing is
striking, no doubt," he said. "Is there a connection to Peter? My
contacts don't know any more than we do." He recounted conversations he'd
had with Senator Knowlton, senior senator from Massachusetts, and a Deputy
Secretary at the State Department. Next day, he was scheduled to visit two
other Congressmen, but didn't expect much. After that he had some private
business.

Gallagher provided a quick update on Conley's activities in Prague.

"I hate to say it," Whitcombe responded. "But that Chechen
drug lord may represent our best hope for a breakthrough, at least until Conley
gets to Dushanbe."

Gallagher was not surprised when Frick spoke up next.

"This is Nathan speaking," he said. "I've become well enough
acquainted with Peter's case to offer a suggestion."

Frick referred to his notes. "A lot seems to depend on the Russians
here. With this drug lord, for example. They also interacted with Peter in
Tajikistan. Why not contact them, even before Conley gets to Moscow? That way
we're not just depending on the State Department and other parts of the U.S.
government for information. I'd suggest a meeting with the Russian ambassador,
if you can arrange one."

Gallagher had not thought of this. He had to admit that Frick's idea was a
good one.

"The Russians may at least have some theories," Frick concluded.

"Excellent suggestion, Nathan," Whitcombe said over the
speakerphone. "I'll pursue it."

Afterward Gallagher noticed that Frick made insinuating eye contact with
Larson.

"Complexities in this story keep growing," she said, with her
elbows on her desk and her usual calculating detachment. "It's a good tutorial
for you, Nathan."

Good idea or not, Gallagher thought their scheming was getting out of hand.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

East European journalists were even more cynical than their West European
and American brethren, Conley reckoned.  They remained worn out by the
half-truths and repression of the Communist period, as well as the ensuing
corruptions of the 90s. They assumed their battles were half-futile.

Jiri Hodac had been a university student when Communism fell in the
"Velvet Revolution" of 1989. Nonetheless he had a grayish pallor and
dark circles under his eyes. Burdens of an earlier time.

Conley and Milena sat with him in an Albanian restaurant near the Prague
train station---ensconced in a side booth. Décor was expensive but
gaudy---red velvet and brass. Most tables were full. Air thick with smoke.
They’d just ordered. Hodac worked for a Czech weekly newsmagazine. He was
explaining his investigation of the heroin trade.

"People at the top try to hide the problem," Hodac said between
drags on a cigarette.

 "Officials I've spoken to have been pretty frank," Conley
said.

"Oh…they may admit the problem is big," Hodac continued,
brushing his longish hair away from his eyes. "What they don't admit is
that lately the problem has gotten beyond their control. It's
huge…enormous."

"They've mentioned a few successes."

"Immigration crackdowns? Those are more symbolic than real. They're
just scoring points with the EU---aiming for more funding."

Hodac spoke excellent English. Milena's presence wasn't really necessary,
but by now she'd become as much companion as interpreter…Conley took
mental notes. This was not a place for notepads.

"And Klucar?" Hodac added. "He's worried about keeping
mafia-related violence out of the center of town. So as not to damage tourism."

"Looks to me like he's succeeded."

"He has. But certain outlying areas have become trading bazaars."

Milena tilted her head with interest---a bookish girl on a lark. Her short
skirt and high heels matched the attire of the other women in the restaurant.
Conley assumed most of the latter were hookers.

"Same thing I told to Peter Bradford a month ago," Hodac added,
shaking his head and stubbing out his cigarette. "Here, right in this
restaurant…sitting over there." Hodac gestured toward a nearby table.

The waiter came with their main courses.

Hodac had been investigating the Prague heroin trade for more than two
months. His sources were varied: police, drug enforcement, Czech criminals on
the periphery. He was due to file his story the following week. After that, he
said, he would probably leave Prague for a while. His story might kick up dust.
Not just with the Albanian mafia. Certain institutions in Czech government were
also bound to be unhappy. Of course the mafia was the bigger worry.

"This restaurant is safe, more or less," he said.
"…Until my story comes out."

Wholesale heroin business in Prague was compartmentalized in a way that
stymied authorities, he continued. Two different locales in central Prague
served as business venues. The restaurant they were in, with the bland name
Restaurant
Centralna Praha,
was where deals were negotiated and final terms agreed.
Cash exchanges were not allowed. Nor were weapons. Both rules were
followed---despite violent dispositions among participants.

Conley gave the restaurant another discreet survey. Hookers aside, the
clientele was mostly male. Europeans---dark-haired and swarthy---most under 40
years old. Lots of bulging muscles. Not many cheery faces.

Hodac said sellers were all Albanians. They controlled inflow. Most
buyers---those who smuggled heroin on to various European cities and retail
networks---were also Albanian. However a significant contingent of Italians
remained; the longstanding "pizzeria" distribution system was alive
and well. Italian retailers weren't averse to tapping into a new wholesale
source.

In parallel there was an Albanian-owned casino outside the city, called the
Lunar
Eclipse---w
here buyers and sellers met to carry out the deals. Only cash
changed hands there: no drugs. Transfers of product occurred outside of town,
deep in surrounding forests. Big cash meant big weapons. Patrons of the
Lunar
Eclipse
packed heavy firepower. Both sides waited in the casino while
product transfers proceeded outside of town. If deals went bad guns blazed---usually
in the parking lot.

"Here in the
Centralna Praha
they tolerate outsiders like
us," Hodac said, "It gives the place…a normal air."

"And the
Lunar Eclipse
?"

"Outsiders are not welcome. They're known to go missing and turn up
dead."

They finished their food and ordered coffees. Their waiter conveyed an
unspoken message.
This is not your habitat. You can eat here. But stay
within appropriate boundaries.
Ignoring him as he turned away toward the
kitchen, Hodac lit another cigarette, and watched the smoke dissipate with an
air of pessimism.

"Therefore I was surprised that Bradford wanted to go there," he
said. "I told him he would have to go on his own."

"What did he hope to achieve?"

Milena leaned forward on her elbows: bright eyes behind her glasses. A
counterpoint to Hodac's weary resignation.

"He said something like 'Journalists have to get up close and observe.
To see their subjects.' He wanted some vivid material to weave into his
story."

Conley crooked his index finger under his lower lip. "And the
risks?"

"Recklessness seemed out of character for him," Hodac observed.
"My impression was that he was a serious and responsible guy."

"He was."

Hodac squinted and took another drag.

"Did you hear what happened?" Conley asked him.

"He called me from the airport the day after. Said he just showed up at
the casino, played electronic blackjack, walked among the gaming tables, took
in the scene, then left."

"Hmmm."

"He talked as though the danger never worried him…Almost like he
was immune. I just thought he was lucky. At least until I read what happened to
him in Dushanbe, about two weeks later."

Conley folded his hands, formed a V with his thumbs, then drummed the V on
the tablecloth a few times.

"Are you going?" Hodac asked, referring to the
Lunar Eclipse
.

"Probably not," Conley ventured another glance at nearby tables.
"I've seen these people here. That's enough."

Hodac's car, an aging
Skoda,
was parked a half-block from the
restaurant on a dark side street. Without explanation, Hodac crouched and
pulled a small flashlight from his coat pocket. He craned his head close to the
asphalt and inspected the car's undercarriage. "Can't be too
careful," he said, standing up. He clapped dust from his hands and brushed
his hair back from his eyes with a sleeve.

Bomb check? Conley asked. Hodac responded with a grim nod.

The Skoda's interior was cluttered with magazines and music CDs. The
journalist got behind the wheel and rolled down his driver's side window,
lighting another cigarette.

"You've got my number," he said to Conley. He nodded at Milena,
gunned the low-horsepower engine and sped off down the narrow lane. Conley and
Milena watched the car disappear.

"
Wenceslas
Square is
only two blocks from here," she said, taking his arm. "Let's
walk."

Conley still suffered a slight limp; he shot several glances over his
shoulder as they made their way to the top of the square. There they stopped
facing the statue of King
Wenceslas
on horseback. The rectangular expanse was mostly empty: small groups of students
and younger tourists. Milena stayed close by his side.

"What's wrong?" she asked. "You still seem tense."

"I'm just thinking about the casino."

She tilted her head, hair framing her face. "You need to relax. Why
don't you take a night to decide?"

"Good idea."

"What are your plans now?"

"I'll drop you off. Then maybe watch a movie in my room."

"In English?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Can I watch? I love American films."

Her inflection was amiable and innocent: no more suggestive than an
invitation to the library. Conley visualized the queen bed and tight furniture
arrangement. "In my room…?"

She smiled. "It's just a movie."

Conley reflected for a moment.

"Still wondering about my fiancé?"

"Well…"

"I caught him at a restaurant last week…with a nurse. He'd told
me he was at the hospital. Yesterday I learned the woman is with him this week
at the medical conference. It seems they're sharing a room."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. I plan to break it off when he gets back."

Milena nudged a breast into his ribs, yielding a whiff of perfume. Energies
from Paris swelled back, sudden and hard after the buildup with Claire. He
rotated her so that they pressed front to front, moved his hands to her hips,
and pulled her tighter. This met no resistance; she tilted her face upward, her
hair spilling everywhere…

His cell phone rang. He exhaled and stepped back. The caller was Claire. She
said she'd gotten his message.

Conley tried to focus, glancing first at Milena then at his watch. Better to
talk now; Claire would not be stayed. Collecting himself, he recounted the
interview with Hodac. Also his doubts over visiting the
Lunar Eclipse
.

There was a tense silence. As if new worries were rising on Claire’s
side
.

"The last thing we want is a repeat of Argenteuil. Would it help if
you went with someone else…maybe a bodyguard?"

"No, that would just invite more trouble. I'd go with my interpreter.
But it's not fair to put her in that situation…"

From Milena came a shake of the head. She gestured toward the phone.
"Can I speak to her?" she asked.

Conley hesitated then passed the device over. Milena pulled one side of
curls back, listened intently, answered "Oui," then proceeded in
French: "Yes, I participated in the interview…I know where that
casino is…No, I've never visited…A little dangerous, maybe…But
I wouldn’t worry about it." Claire spoke at length on the other end;
tears welled in Milena's eyes. "…I understand. On my side I just
want to help…"

Conley stood by, perplexed.

"She wants to speak to you again," Milena said, handing phone
back.

"I talked it over with Milena. She convinced me. Please, if you can,
call me back later."

Conley clicked off the connection, and looked at Milena for an explanation.

"I'm ready to go with you, Steve," she said.

"I appreciate that Milena, but…"

"Please don't worry about my safety. I want to contribute. And Ivo
Klucar might be able to give us some extra police protection."

Conley was taken aback, given what she’d just told him.

"He knows everything about his son," she said, seeing his
reaction. "He disapproves. And he's still fond of me."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. So why not use his help?"

Conley shifted on his feet and gazed down the square.

"Let's do this for Claire," Milena urged.

"I don't know…"

His body was now slack; she grabbed his arms and brought him back face to
face. She looked up with an expectant smile---prepared to wait.

"All right," Conley said, after a moment. "We'll go."

Her eyes brightened. She released a shriek of delight and planted a kiss on
his cheek. "I knew it. I was right about you."

Conley looked at her, uncomprehending.

"Your motives aren't typical…" she said. "I mean
they're not the ones that usually drive men in these situations, with women.
With Claire you’ve assumed a kind of responsibility. You're acting for
reasons that are so…
noble
."

They were still in a half embrace. Conley cleared his throat.

"Still interested in that movie?" he asked.

To his surprise she placed her hands on his chest, new purpose in her eyes.

"Our plans for tomorrow night are too important," she answered.
"That can wait."