Live from Moscow (13 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Harry Whitcombe issued from austere Brahmin aristocrats who demanded
steadiness and efficiency from their own and others. His decisions held. He
seldom entertained second thoughts.

Therefore Gallagher was stunned when Whitcombe materialized in the
conference room, minus his usual purposeful stride. Drooped shoulders. Dark
circles. Wrinkled suit. Fleeting eye contact. Even his "good morning"
sounded ragged.

There was no precedent for this.

Once seated, the publisher began. "By accident or by design, Peter
ended up in Tajikistan at a peculiar time…"

Had late facts emerged in Washington, Gallagher wondered? Whitcombe hadn't
mentioned any by phone. Nothing new from Reynolds, either.

"… I knew about the aid bill, of course. What I didn't appreciate
were the geo-political complexities behind it."

Gallagher shot a glance back at Larson: perched in her usual end position,
opposite Whitcombe.  Today Frick coiled at her right. Her usual
comprehension was absent. She studied Whitcombe over the tops of her reading
glasses before floating a careful prompt.

"What…geo-political complexities, Harry?"

"Let's say the Russian ambassador opened my eyes."

Reactions from both Larson and Frick suggested this had not figured in their
calculus.

"…The ambassador indicated that the Tajik government is
corrupt…complicit in heroin smuggling. Including Salimjon Shakuri."

"Did the ambassador say that Shakuri was responsible for Peter's
death?" Larson asked.

Whitcombe shook his head, as if the question carried unsustainable burdens.
"The Russians don't know for certain. However they suspect Peter stumbled
across evidence of corruption, and died as a result."

"We talked about that possibility before," Gallagher noted.
"Remember, Harry…Franklin Stanson dismissed it."

This provoked another pang of discomfort. "I trust Senator Knowlton,
Art, as well as Undersecretary Marston at the State Department. I have no
reason to disbelieve this fellow Stanson, either. In my view, there's no
cover-up."

Gallagher recalled that Whitcombe's maternal grandfather had been Governor
of Massachusetts. A paternal uncle had served in the U.S. Senate. Patriotism
was hard-wired. Gallagher, for his part, had maintained a healthy skepticism
toward U.S. foreign policy since Vietnam.

"The Russian ambassador said the U.S. is new to Tajikistan,"
Whitcombe explained. "…And has poor intelligence there. They're
eager for a new strategic foothold. The ambassador also implied that obsession
with terrorism blinds the U.S. to Tajiki corruption."

To Gallagher this was entirely plausible.

"…Do I believe him? Tajikistan is a former Soviet Republic. So
the Russians have their own agenda. But many pieces fit together…"

Whitcombe choked on these words. Okay, Gallagher thought. But why such
distress? It was way out of character.

"Are you sure your contacts in Washington are fully informed,
Harry?" Larson asked.

"Perhaps it's a question of competence, Janet…The U.S. may be in
over its head there. And Peter ventured in alone…" Whitcombe's voice
choked again. "…I'm now worried that we're sending Conley into a
situation…with dangerous variables. Something for which I've been at
fault.

Heavy silence ensued. Government incompetence? New dangers? Did this mean
Conley's assignment would be cancelled?

"I admit I now have a certain impulse to pull back," Whitcombe
continued at last.  "…But…there's still the matter of the
truth in all this. Peter went to Tajikistan looking for that in the first
place."

He fixed a pained gaze on Gallagher.

"For now, Art…Please just ensure that Conley stays safe."

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Milena's lark now had a moral dimension. Cheerfulness combined with
altruism.

She was sitting beside Conley in their rented Opel, Conley at the wheel,
winding along a two-lane road through forest. A gaudy red and gold sign loomed
up on their right, incongruous in the darkness:
Lunar Eclipse Casino
.

"Turn here," she said, with no detectable apprehension.

Conley didn't share her calm. This bore hallmarks of a dangerous farce.

They curved downward though thick woods to an unremarkable concrete
building, which resembled a small swimming facility except for its red
color.  About 20 cars occupied the lighted parking lot, mostly BMWs and
Mercedes. As Conley climbed out he spotted three late-model, gray Skoda sedans
parked away from other cars, next to an embankment. A cigarette glowed in one,
revealing two silhouettes. Conley walked around and opened the passenger door
for Milena.

"Let me guess," he said in a low voice. "Plainclothesmen sent
by Klucar?"

She smiled. "You were concerned about safety, weren't you?"

The
Lunar Eclipse
lay outside city limits, and therefore outside
Klucar's formal jurisdiction. To Conley these plainclothesmen were just as
likely to arouse suspicion and volatility. He was starting to wish he’d
heeded Gallagher.

Milena merrily took his arm as they crossed toward the casino. Tonight her
pending bust-up with Klucar's son seemed last on her mind. Two burly doormen
flanked the front entrance, which consisted of heavy double black doors. On
edge, with unwavering gazes. One had a hand inside his overcoat. Conley could
guess why. It had to be the police presence.

"Lord help us," he said under his breath as they approached.

Milena spoke Czech to the pair. "They're asking what we want
here," she told Conley.

"Tell him we saw the sign on the road and are interested in
gambling."

Conley's use of English provoked surprise. One spoke Albanian into a
walkie-talkie and became suddenly friendlier. He opened one of the heavy double
doors and beckoned them through.

That was odd, Conley thought.
Thud. Click.
They were inside.

Around them was a small lobby, decorated in red and black, with a garish
gold-colored chandelier and stale odors of cigarettes.  Double doors to
the gambling salon lay straight ahead. Another security man was already opening
one, all hospitality. Conley still couldn’t read the dynamic.

"Don't forget that we're doing this for Claire," Milena said,
still smiling.

He frowned. Something about this wasn't right.

When they got through his misgivings were confirmed. He pulled Milena up
short. Through a haze of smoke he surveyed the room.

They’d walked into what looked and felt like a hair-trigger. Most
gambling activity was suspended. A patchwork of swarthy faces---from card
tables, roulette wheels, cash booth, all corners---turned in their direction.
Muscled bodies under flashy suits, lots of stubble and open collars. Tense stares…shifting
back and forth, between Conley and Milena and another object of interest on one
side. Conley turned and saw what that was. At last he understood what was
wrong. Two clean-cut Czechs in dark trousers and flashy blazers---unmistakably
Klucar's men despite their apparel---were seated at the bar. Two others at a
small table against the wall. No Albanians were nearby except for the
bartender. The plainclothesmen caught Conley's glance. They tried to appear
cool. They obviously weren't.

He whispered in Milena's ear. "You didn't tell me Klucar's men would be
inside
the casino!"

Her smile had gone. Her only response was to dig her fingernails into his
bicep.

An Albanian-looking man approached; his tie identified him as a manager.

"We welcome English customers to our casino," he said in heavy
accent.

Conley didn't rectify the misidentification. Options were limited. For now
he decided to go along. After a detour to the cashier’s booth for chips
he and Milena sat down at a blackjack table in the center of the room. At once
Albanians congregated behind them. With a wrenching sensation Conley put
remaining elements together. They supposed that he and Milena were tourists,
there by chance. They were anticipating gunfire with Klucar's plainclothesmen.
He and Milena had become human shields.

He could hardly believe they’d blundered into this situation.

Milena stayed close on the stool beside him. Her back and neck were now
stiff with fear. Her lark had become something else altogether.

Conley placed a 50 Euro chip on the betting square, and when the dealer gave
him ten and seven, with seven showing, he held. The dealer turned over a queen
and nine and swept the chip away. Two similar, perfunctory games followed,
before Conley held up the palm of his hand.

"This is absurd," he said in an undertone to Milena. "Let's
get out of here."

He gathered up his chips and helped Milena off her stool. The manager
re-approached with an air of protestation.

"There's too much attention," Conley told him. "We just want
to relax."

The manager nodded with contrived sympathy. Other Albanians
reluctantly…with deliberate slowness…cleared a path so they could
leave the table.

"Don't make any sudden moves," Conley whispered as they crossed
back to the cash booth. Milena's neck was still tense and her eyes straight
ahead. When they got out the front door quiet prevailed behind them---a
continued standoff. He sucked in some fresh air. Neither he nor Milena looked
back.

"That's a lot more color than I needed," he said, as they reached
their Opel.

No sooner had he spoken than a clang rang out behind them. They whirled
around to see two older-looking men---one with a mustache whom Conley had not
noted earlier---emerged from the front door, ignoring hard words from the
security pair. They strode straight toward him and Milena, eyes fixed forward
and glaring. A loud exclamation emanated from the embankment and Conley pivoted,
seeing Klucar's men outside their Skoda, drawing pistols. The two older men
accelerated their strides, fumbling inside their coats. Behind them the two
casino security employees went into half crouches, also reaching inside their
coats.

"Get down!" he shouted, pulling Milena into the narrow space
between their Opel and the next vehicle.

In mid-movement a shot rang out from the embankment, followed by a
thwack
in the direction of the casino. There was a cry of pain, a heavy thud, and
then the zip of another bullet passing nearby.

Milena emitted an ''aagghh" as she hit the asphalt.

Several seconds passed without more gunfire---nothing but frantic shouting
and rapid footfalls. Conley raised his head and saw that Milena's face was
contorted in pain.

"Are you hit?"

"Yes…my foot, I think."

He glanced down and saw that the top of her boot was torn. Blood showed
through a hole. Two of Klucar's men from the casino appeared at the end of the
opening between the cars, out of breath. One bent down and examined her wound.
His partner spoke in urgent tones into a walkie-talkie.

"Keep her lying down," the first plainclothesman said in halting English.

Conley cradled Milena's head and shoulders on his lap, to keep her off the
asphalt, which was wet and cold. She continued wincing, but showed no other
signs of trauma. Nearby were the sounds of men moaning and angry protests in
Italian. He turned to one of the plainclothesmen.

"What happened?" he demanded in English.

"They were going after you and we told them to stop. One of these
reached for his gun. We shot him. When he fell his gun fired. The shot hit
Milena."

To Conley it didn't make sense.

"They're Italian," the plainclothesman continued. "We're
still trying to figure everything out."

Two police squad cars screeched up, sirens wailing. Klucar got out of one,
wearing a trench coat, with his thick neck straining against his tie and shirt
collar. He strode straight over to Milena, bent down, and asked her several
questions in Czech. His relief was fleeting; he stood and barked orders. An
ambulance arrived; Milena was loaded onto a gurney and then into the back.

Klucar cast a reproachful glance at Conley, turned heel and jumped in the
passenger seat of a squad car. Ambulance and squad car sped out of the parking
lot with sirens re-activated, while Conley surveyed the aftermath. One Italian
was sitting on open asphalt, clutching his arm. His compatriot was in
handcuffs, attended by a uniformed policeman. Assorted Albanians and the two
security guards were observing the scene from the casino entrance, keeping
their distance. The English-speaking plainclothesman drew alongside.

"There's your explanation," Conley said, pointing to a vehicle two
parking spaces down from his rental car. The vehicle was an Alfa Romeo with
Italian plates. "They were just walking to their car."

"This got more complex than we expected," the plainclothesman
said, shaking his head.

"That's an understatement."

"You'll have to come with us to the station."

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

It was only 8:15 and Claire---who’d risen early since Peter’s
death---had been on a knife's edge for two hours.  Four cups of coffee had
exacerbated her strain. After each cup she'd gotten up from the table and paced
back and forth. Conley was taking too long. Ten more minutes and she'd call
him. Again she reassured herself. Milena seemed astute. The police were there.
Conley had help and protection. And Peter had gone the casino alone without
incident, after all.

Her cell phone chortled on the dining room table; its tones reverberated
inside her rib cage. She leapt forward and snatched it up. Her chest tightened.
Conley sounded strained and tired. Something had gone wrong.

"We ran into some problems last night."

"Mon Dieu…What happened?"

"Where should I start?… We visited the casino as planned. The
police protection was a little clumsy. Milena was shot in the foot…an
accident. I should stress it's nothing serious…"

Claire's right hand trembled, holding the phone. She pressed the device hard
against her ear. "Shot?…By whom?"

"By a heroin trafficker. Now she's in the hospital. I'll visit her
again in about an hour. Again, Claire. It's nothing serious."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. Just a superficial wound."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm at the Prague Central Police Station. In fact I'm back for a
second visit. I was already here half the night."

Claire had to sit down as he provided more details. Dread took over. This was
even worse than Argenteuil. An early-stage calamity she never expected. She
remained astonished that Milena had been shot. Was this a forewarning that
Conley was heading toward a violent outcome, similar to Peter's?

"Turns out the man who shot her was an Italian."

A misunderstanding, he explained. Two Italians had chosen that night to
confront the Albanians over disputed retail territory in the UK, and had
mistaken Conley and Milena for dealers. The rest was too confusing for Claire
to follow.

 
"A big mess. I'm still helping the police with follow-up
reports. I've had to postpone my departure to Moscow."

Claire pressed the cell phone harder to her ear. She couldn't think
straight.

"I now expect to leave on Sunday, if all goes well."

His contingent phrasing made her shudder.  On the other hand, should
she still be urging him on?

"I'm not looking forward to telling Art Gallagher,"
he
added.

"Will you call me from the hospital later?"

Conley said that he would.

After the call Claire dropped her cell phone, sending it clattering on the
table. She closed her eyes and held her head in her hands. All she'd wanted was
to honor Peter. Now Conley's assignment seemed to be spinning out of control.
She felt helpless.

Her disquiet drove her to her feet and over to her dining room window.
Morning light provided some equilibration. She spotted a workman on the other
side of the interior courtyard, standing three stories up on a tall ladder,
installing a new drainpipe. His face was half-turned in her direction. He appeared
content, absorbed.

The workman gave her a cue. She took a deep breath. Her usual determination
re-stirred. Yes…that was exactly what she needed. Hands-on
involvement…action. Real engagement. Not sitting in Paris waiting for
phone calls, but
moving…doing something. 
She just had to
figure out what.