Live from Moscow (15 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

During his adult life Conley had passed through passport controls often
enough to take them for granted. He shared a conceit common among Americans:
that he was welcome to come and go from most countries as he pleased. Who could
object? Therefore he was taken aback when a Czech customs officer scanned the
barcode of his passport and stiffened with attention. The officer studied a
computer screen and picked up a phone.

Klucar, Conley guessed. Who else could be behind this?

Another officer entered the booth by a rear door, and gave him a grave
appraisal. The two men returned to the screen---in no rush. Conley glanced over
his shoulder. Other passengers in the same line grew disgruntled and peeled off
to other queues. His
Aeroflot
flight was scheduled to leave Prague for
Moscow in 90 minutes.

"Come with me, please," the second officer said, coming round
front, Conley's passport in hand.

"May I ask what's wrong?" Conley asked, keeping stride as he
followed, still with a slight limp.

The officer stared straight ahead and gestured toward a side room. Inside
there was a three-foot high counter manned by another uniformed agent, and a
small table with two chairs. A camera on a tripod stood facing the far wall.

"Sit down," the senior officer said, closing the door. 
"…And fill this out." He placed a one-page form on the table,
with pen. It was in English and required standard information: passport number,
date, next destination,
airline
and flight number.

"I have a right to know what this is about…" Conley
objected.

"You've appeared on our list of 'persons of interest,' per order of the
Prague Police. Our job is to confirm that you leave the country."

Indeed, a parting jab from Klucar. Conley picked up the pen.

Twenty minutes later he was sitting in the departure gate for his
Aeroflot
flight, exit stamp finally in his passport. Seated around him were most
burly, middle-aged Russian business types, conversing with each other or
talking on cell phones. Intermingled among them were several striking young
women, tall and slender and provocatively dressed, reading books or magazines.
Conley had never been to Russia but he had read about freewheeling sexual mores
in the post-Soviet epoch…

He pulled out his cell phone and called Milena---energetic and cheerful,
despite the week's turmoil. When he related his travails at passport control,
she was unconcerned.

"It's nothing,"
she said.
"I know Ivo. He just
wants to be aware of everything."
She laughed. When she spoke again, her
tone became more profound.
"You know you made my step yesterday
easier…I mean breaking off my engagement. Can you believe my
fiancé expected to proceed to bed as if nothing had happened? Doctor or
not, he's crude and one-dimensional. You're an example of better…what
women should aspire to."

"Milena, I think you're giving me too much credit…"

"No…Claire made that clear to me. She's a widow, looking to
you for reinforcement…And she couldn’t have chosen better..."

"Really, Milena…"

Conley leaned forward in his seat and ran his hand through his hair. This
notion was already so far advanced that he'd given up protesting. He regretted
that Jenna never found the same perspective.

"Look, Steve. Somehow this week our romance never really got
started. When can I see you again?"

"Well, thanks to Klucar, I doubt Czech customs will let me back
in."

"Oh…we'll think of something. Meanwhile, please call me from
time to time from Moscow and Tajikistan…when you get a chance. Keep me
updated. I feel involved in this story now."

"Of course, Milena."

This assignment, despite all the mishaps, had a way of attracting partisans.
After saying goodbye he leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
Several of the girls he had noticed earlier cast interested glances in his
direction. With luck, he thought, he would sit next to one of them on the
plane. Otherwise, if reputation held, he might encounter others like them in
Moscow. Perhaps that was just what he needed, after the ups and downs and near
derailments of the past two weeks. Release.

Just before boarding he called Claire. He decided not to tell her about his
customs difficulties. She answered on first ring.

"I've been up for four hours. I've been waiting for your call."

Conley checked his watch: almost 10 o'clock, the same hour as in Paris. He
summarized what Gallagher had told him about the meeting in Boston, including
Harry Whitcombe's recusal and abrupt departure on vacation. Across their
connection her breathing quickened.

"Withdrew? That doesn't sound like Uncle Harry. What do you mean he
withdrew?"

"That's all I know. Art Gallagher said he thinks Janet Larson won't
cancel the story, but the emphasis may change…" As soon as the words
exited his lips Conley wished he had employed different phrasing.

"Oh God…"
Her voice rasped.
"Larson? I've
never met her. What do you mean by…’a change in emphasis?’
"

He hesitated. "It's still preliminary, Claire…Nothing
definitive."

"Steve, please just tell me."

"Maybe more straight news emphasis. That is, on Peter's original story.
And perhaps…somewhat less on the tribute. But I should underline,
Claire…" She cut him off.

"Right after this I'm going to call Uncle Harry."

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

This Saturday morning, like most others in New England in early November,
was ideal for walking. Though most foliage had fallen from trees, autumn
lingered. Crisp, still air prevailed---a benevolent lull before onset of
winter. Welcome outdoor tranquility after indoor stresses at work. Instead
Gallagher was struggling to hold the leash. Something had excited the dog.

"Trajan!" Gallagher commanded in a loud voice. "Calm
down!"

This name grew out of Gallagher's interest in Roman history.

"What's gotten into him?" Denise asked. "I haven't seen him
like this for a while."

They were walking along a quiet, tree-lined street in Belmont, about a mile
from their house. Residential, with little traffic. Most yards were wooded and
landscaped. Small wildlife were not uncommon. They scanned the yard ahead,
expecting to see a rabbit or a squirrel scurrying among the dead leaves.
Gallagher noticed red markers for an electronic fence.

"There's another dog there," he said, yanking the leash in
frustration. Both Gallagher and Trajan were now panting from exertion.

A few paces further they spotted a tall, lean Collie, previously concealed
by bushes. One sight of Trajan and the other dog started yelping. It ran back
and forth on a small patch of lawn, kicking up fallen leaves---agitated, though
seeming neither aggressive nor frightened. Trajan barked in return, and surged forward
with more determination.

"Probably a bitch in heat," Gallagher observed. "Better
double back. Let's cut down along the pond."

They reversed direction.  He gave the leash several harsh tugs, but
Trajan wouldn't relinquish interest, continuing to bark and strain toward the
collie. He was glad for his leather gloves, which gave him a firmer grip.

"I thought he was past that sort of thing," Denise said.

"Hardly. In dog years he's only in his 50s."

"Fifties? He's behaving like a randy teenager."

As they retraced the street this struggle continued. Every few paces Trajan
lunged the other way. Soon Gallagher broke a sweat. He wanted to unbutton his
coat and remove his scarf. But one hand held the leash.

"Dammit, Trajan!" he said, almost growling.

Denise tried speaking to the dog in soothing tones. When that didn't work,
she scolded him. At last they rounded down a side street toward a small pond,
as yelping from the collie receded. Trajan finally relented, though drool
dripped from his mouth and his chest continued to heave. Gallagher also
endeavored to catch his breath.

"Thank God humans have more control than that," Denise observed,
eyeing the dog. Then she laughed. "Otherwise the world would be in
chaos."

"A matter of…degrees, maybe." Gallagher was unable to
complete a full sentence without gasping for air.

"I assume you're talking about men."

"Men more than women, I suppose. Luckily most men find…other
outlets for that drive…Work, sports…and of course marriage."
Gallagher wiped his brow with his handkerchief.

"And if they don't?"

Gallagher made fleeting association with Conley and Tracey Whitcombe in
London. Somehow that context seemed different. "A few of our younger,
unmarried reporters seem to lead variable romantic lives," he answered.
"But not to the point where it disrupts their work." He looked down
again at Trajan, now loping obediently alongside. The theme continued to
interest Denise.

"Which do you think is more important for a man…as an outlet, I
mean. Work or marriage?"

"Hard to say. Both are vital."

"What about Clinton?"

Gallagher laughed. "A rather unique case."

Denise removed a glove from one hand, and reached across and smoothed out
her husband's forelocks of gray hair, then encircled his waist with an arm. Her
message was unspoken: he was lucky that he'd married her early in life. He
didn't doubt she was right. They reached the end of the side street, pond
ahead, fronted by a small park with well-kept grass and scattered trees.
Several benches stood halfway down to the water. They walked across the grass
and sat down on one to rest.

"We'd better keep him on the leash today," he said of Trajan. For
now the dog's energy had subsided; he sat alongside the bench, tongue drooping
from his mouth. Before them the pond's surface was gray and glass-like. A
half-dozen ducks floated on the other side. For Gallagher, it a placid scene
after a stormy week. The shooting in Prague…Whitcombe's
abdication…He wondered if the publisher was already up in the mountains
of New Hampshire.

Denise divined his thoughts. "You still can't figure out what's gotten
into Harry Whitcombe, can you?"

"No. Not really."

"And neither can Janet?"

"She seems as mystified as I am."

At once he imagined Larson and Frick huddled together---perhaps in Larson's
office at that very moment---analyzing and recasting their strategy. The
newsroom was quiet on Saturday morning. Perfect for intrigues. He shook his
head and tried to banish the thought.

He and Denise sat in silence for a moment, gazing at the pond. Perspiration
under his beard and around his neck evaporated in the dry, calm air. The
weather would also be ideal for the BC football game they planned to attend
that afternoon. But that was several hours away. "Let's stay here a little
longer," he suggested, finding no objection from Denise. He reached into
his jacket pocket for his cigarettes and lit one---not even shielding the flame
of his lighter because of the calm conditions---and glanced down at Trajan. The
dog glanced back, observing his repose, then settled snout onto front paws.

"I should look on the bright side," he said, expelling a plume
of smoke toward the sky and watching it dissipate. "I don’t expect
any new misadventures next week.  Moscow should be low-key."

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The sanctuary of Notre Dame de Passy was a long way from Boston. And from
Moscow. Too distant for material influence. However Claire had come here
seeking intervention from higher up.

So far she wasn't getting it.

Eight o'clock mass on Sunday morning, to which she’d gravitated after
waking at 5:45 with a tense jolt, drew mostly elderly parishioners. Now she
guessed she was the only communicant under fifty, in two lines stretching up
center aisle toward the altar. Most were ladies 75 and older, way beyond calls
to action. Meanwhile Francois' exhortations had struck her as empty platitudes,
handed down from Rome. Church, at least today, was not a place for answers.

She wondered what to do next.

In recent years she'd made only rare appearances at Mass, with her parents.
Her excuse had been that Peter was Protestant. Now she clasped her hands in
front of her and bowed her head as she shuffled forward along the stone floor.
She tried to concentrate. Maybe the act of communion would illuminate some
path...

She kneeled along the left railing, second from end. Her hands trembled
slightly; she folded them and opted to receive the wafer in her mouth. In her
peripheral vision saw Francois---tall and lanky and dressed in his priestly
robes--- moving down communicants to her right, administering the sacrament.
When he reached her he paused in surprise. A hopeful expression crossed his
face as he placed a wafer on her lower lip and tongue and pronounced the
liturgy. When she stood up with other communicants she felt…exuberant in
a way she had never experienced in church before. She sat down again in her
pew, straight-backed and gripping the forward edge of her seat with both hands.

An idea exploded in her brain and caused her toes and fingertips to tingle.

Further decisions were centered in Boston. She had to go there, while there
was still time.

During Francois’ final prayer and benediction, she continued sitting
bolt upright, and hardly heard him. Her mind raced…How to organize such
an expedition? On what basis? She'd tried calling Uncle Harry the day before but
he'd left Cambridge for New Hampshire. His cell phone had been out of range.
Francois dismounted the altar and with an assistant priest and two altar boys
made slow procession down the aisle. After he’d passed, she was eager to
get out. She'd received the inspiration she'd wanted. Now she had to develop
the plan and take action.

In the aisle, to her frustration, she got caught behind a gaggle of
slow-moving but well-meaning old ladies. When she finally reached the door
Francois excused himself from a conversation with a white-haired man and took
several steps toward her with his long arms outstretched.

"So happy to see you here, Claire," he said, clasping her above
both elbows. He looked curious.

"Yes…I'm glad I came."

"Can you wait 10 minutes? Meet me in the courtyard?"

With reluctance she agreed.

The courtyard was small and lay between the church and the rectory. Trimmed
shrubs, and empty flower beds, due to the season, intersected by gravel paths.
Secluded from the city around, and partly sheltered from cold, damp wind. There
were two stone benches; Claire remained standing. She paced back and forth, her
heels grinding and scraping the gravel.

First she had to determine who was most important at the
World Tribune
,
now that Uncle Harry had disengaged. She knew Art Gallagher, but not very well.
Larson was a big question mark. Would any of them listen to her? What pretext
could she manufacture? Questions became jumbled…Maybe if she just got
away from church. She glanced at her watch. Already fourteen minutes had
passed. Francois was typical
haut bourgeois
. For all his consideration
and courtly manners, she remembered, he was often late. She sighed with
frustration.

A moment later he rounded the corner, robes billowing. He was full of
apologies. He asked if she preferred to talk in the rectory.

"Let's stay here, if you don't mind, Francois. Fresh air does me
good."

"I understand." He studied her again. "How have you
been?"

"Much better. I think I've found a solution."

He looked in her eyes, his expression growing worried. "Solution?"

In hurried cadences she related recent events in Prague and Boston. And her
sudden revelation following Communion. As he listened, Francois crossed his
arms and held his chin in one hand, staring down at gravel.

"This didn't come from the
philosophes
, Francois," she told
him. "It came during Mass."

"Communion is a sacrament, Claire, an affirmation of faith. It's about
forgiveness and redemption, not plans of action. I would be careful."

"The way I see it, I was inspired."

His priestly robes billowed with a slight gust of wind, and he lowered his
hands to hold garments in place. "Inspiration is not always divine,
Claire. Maybe this idea just came to you by accident."

"I came here for Peter's sake…to find a solution," she said,
her eyes flashing with defiance. "God gave it to me."

Francois fell silent for a moment. He exhaled---a sigh almost---then asked,
"Will you at least delay awhile before going to Boston? Maybe pray about
your decision?"

"Maybe I'll pray for additional inspiration, Francois. But I haven't
got time to wait."