Live from Moscow (17 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

After Stanson, Conley had done two more interviews at the U.S. Embassy, with
representatives of the DEA and Department of Justice. Now he held a slip of
paper that contained two addresses: printed in Russian with English alliterations.
The first was for a bookstore next to the Frunzenskaya Metro station. The
second was for the Luzhniki market, on the southern edge of city center.

"I recommend one of those Russian fur hats," Stanson had told him
at the end of their interview, in his informal, self-assured twang. "In
this cold weather, I swear by them."

Even with Latin characters the names were long and difficult to pronounce.
Conley showed the taxi driver, who nodded and eased onto the Prospekt. Light
snow was still falling.

The driver, a rugged man of late middle age, spoke little English.
"From what country?" he asked in a thick accent, glancing in the rear
view mirror.

"The U.S."

"America?"

"That's right."

Conversation stopped; the driver was a stoical type. On the dashboard Conley
noticed a small photograph---an anonymous, well-endowed, blonde model---wearing
a bikini.  A universal little icon…free of language barriers.

He didn’t expect the same at the marketplace. This despite
Stanson’s declaration that English sufficed---"the traders
understand numbers, and that’s enough."

After navigating through dense traffic, the taxi pulled up to a curbside
where snow was piled a half-meter high. "
Vuot
," the driver
said, pointing at a block-like, multi-story building. There was a large sign in
block Cyrillic letters, beginning with a "K." Window displays
identified the ground floor as a bookstore. The driver agreed to wait, and
Conley climbed out and scrambled over the snow bank. In a series of four double
doors, only one was open; the rest were locked. People in their late teens and
early twenties squeezed in and out in steady streams. He guessed there was a
university nearby.

Inside was a long, single high-ceilinged hall, parallel to the street.
Packed with students. Stiflingly warm, in contrast to the frigid temperatures
outside. Information signs all in Russian. He wandered to his right, dodging
students and scanning shelves for Latin alphabetic characters or volumes that
looked like language references, and stopped a passing clerk.

"Where can I find English-Russian dictionaries?"

The girl pointed toward a far corner.

Conley located the shelf and selected a dictionary that was pocket size, and
at the closest service counter, pulled out his wallet to make the purchase.
Instead, an attendant pointed to a cash register booth about 10 meters away.
There an older woman sat, in an elevated position above the floor.

"I don't understand…"

From his right came a youthful female voice: English with a Russian accent:
"I'll help you, if you like."

Conley turned. Next to an adjacent bookshelf, with open book in hand, stood
a tall, slender girl, about 20. Her eyes were a startling green gray; when they
connected with his he swallowed hard. Eye color aside, she bore an exceptional
likeness to Tracey Whitcombe. The girl took a couple of steps closer, at once
assertive and shy. "You have to pay there," she said, gesturing
toward the cashier's booth. "Then you bring the receipt back here and pick
up the book."

Conley was still orienting himself. "It’s my first time in
Russia."

"I'll go with you to the cashier," she volunteered.

There was a line of several purchasers at the booth. The girl stood next to
Conley, quiet and self-conscious. He observed her more closely. Same high
cheekbones as Tracey. Same straight, red-chestnut hair parted in the middle.
Tracey's eyes were blue and her skin probably got more sun, but
otherwise…a Russian facsimile of Tracey.

"Do you like it here?" the girl asked, with polite shyness that
differed from Tracey's only in accent. Her grammar was fluent. Conley told her
about his limited foray into Red Square the day before. It had been cold. After
he paid she walked back with him toward the service desk.

"Why do you need a dictionary?" she asked. "Don't you have an
interpreter?"

"Not today. He starts tomorrow."

At the service desk he exchanged the receipt for the dictionary, while the
girl appeared to consider the situation.

"Are you doing some shopping?" she asked.

"In fact I'm going to buy one of those Russian fur hats."

"Really? A
chapka?
Where?"

Conley pulled out his slip of paper and showed her the name of the market.

"That's a 20-25 minute walk. Do you know how to get there?"

"I have a taxi waiting outside."

"You could have trouble. Not many sellers there speak English."

She looked at him, waiting. Tracey's improbable beauty, minus
career-decimating complications. A quirk. And just the corrective to Claire he
still needed.

"My name is Steve," he said.

"Mine is
Lilya
."

CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

Oleg Mikhailov walked out of the Interior Ministry onto Zhitnaya Street in a
state of extreme disillusion. Conley couldn't understand why.

They'd just interviewed the Deputy Interior Minister in charge of drug
enforcement---a lean, modern-thinking official named Sergei Zhukov. Zhukov was
unlike sclerotic and blinkered Soviet
apparatchiks
of yesteryear, or
self-enriching cronies of Yeltsin's era. One of Putin's disciplined,
westernizing breed. Part of a new Russia on the move.

"These problems are destroying us," Oleg said.

"Really?" Conley answered, donning his new fur hat. "Zhukov
seems to have a logical strategy in place."

"Logical? How can it be? Heroin addiction is growing fast."

"It's still lower here than in Europe."

Oleg snorted, unimpressed. They moved along a wide sidewalk toward Gorky
Park. Grim-faced pedestrians around them were bundled with heavy overcoats and
fur hats. Snowfall had stopped, though temperatures had plunged to minus 12
Celsius.

His accent in English was negligible. His only grammatical weakness, if
there was one, was an excess of idioms. "They sing a good tune," he
continued, adjusting his scarf against a bone-chilling gust. "But it's
still just boilerplate. It's just more polished than it used to be."

In his view, heroin was emblematic of the corrupt deluge that arrived from
the West since the fall of the USSR. This surprised Conley somewhat. Oleg was
only 32, little older than Conley himself. Minimal baggage from Soviet times,
Conley would have thought. Ample youth for fresh perspectives.

"Our country is a mess," the Russian added, in a hopeless tone.

Conley glanced around as they approached a large square. Renovated
buildings, fancy new shops, expensive German cars. On his way in from the
airport, on the city's outskirts, he had seen perhaps two dozen new luxury
high-rise apartment buildings. Indications were everywhere: Moscow was booming.

Oleg divined his ruminations.

"Don't let Moscow fool you. You haven't been to our villages."

"Less improvement there?"

"Improvement? Conditions are worse than in Soviet times."

Conley noted that heroin was primarily a big-city problem. Villages were
little affected, according to Zhukov. To which Oleg responded with a faint
grimace.

"Westerners can't understand our situation. Russia will never be normal
by your standards."

Hard-pressed to advance the optimistic case, Conley dropped the subject.
He'd been in Russia just a few days.

Otherwise Oleg had already proven himself a capable interpreter. Reserved
and focused. Of medium height and build, dark hair. Married, Conley had
learned, with a seven-year-old son. Nondescript except for intense, light-blue
eyes that belied his intelligence. It was easy to suppose that he’d been
a diligent, serious-minded student. 

A towering statue of Lenin dominated the square. Fighting a gust of wind,
Conley asked about Oleg's view of the Communist leader.

"An important figure in our history, for better or worse. We're still
affected by the course he chose."

On that score Conley agreed.

At the entrance to Gorky Park there was a small flower market: a half dozen
stands in the open air. Sellers were all elderly women: bundled in multiple
layers of clothing, and thick, felt-lined boots. Conley marveled at their
ability to stand outdoors for long periods in such frigid temperatures.
Transferring his leather case to his shoulder, he straightened his new hat,
made of beaver. Its warmth was remarkable. Lilya had taught him the Russian
word.

"These
chapki
are superb."

A little surprised by Conley's use of Russian, Oleg turned and scrutinized
the acquisition "That's not a bad one," he said. "Where did you
buy it? Your hotel?"

There were a couple of luxury clothing shops in the lobby of the Radisson,
which Conley had visited briefly on Sunday. Prices were outrageous. "No.
Luzhniki market, near the Olympic stadium. Franklin Stanson told me about
it."

"And you went down there by yourself?"

"No."

Conley encapsulated his acquaintance at the bookstore with Lilya, and their
subsequent foray to the market. At first Oleg frowned. Then his face gave way
to a sardonic smile.

"A familiar story," he said. "You're not married, are
you?"

"No."

"Are you seeing her again?"

"Yes. Don’t leap to conclusions, though."

CHAPTER FIFTY

Gallagher, Larson and Frick had convened for breakfast at the Harborside
Hyatt at Logan Airport. Tall windows faced west across water. Sunrise glistened
on the skyscrapers of downtown Boston.

Both the setting and early hour were unusual. Gallagher was growing
unaccustomed to departures from habit; Conley's assignment had that effect.
Larson was bound for a one-day national conference of editors-in-chief in
Chicago; her flight left in an hour. In these conditions, she'd concluded that
one workday was long to be absent from the newsroom. Moreover Moscow was eight
hours ahead of East Coast time.

"I see no reason to alter Harry's main parameters," she said,
taking a sip of orange juice.

"Meaning Conley should continue on to Tajikistan?" Gallagher
asked.

"Yes."

"And the advertising campaign?" He raised a forkful of scrambled
eggs from his plate.

"It should go ahead as planned."

In addition to eggs Gallagher's breakfast consisted of plump sausages that
oozed cholesterol, and a stack of toast soaked in butter. Larson and Frick
ministered over sliced cantaloupe and melon. Their only beverage was juice.
Gallagher bit off some toast, took a gulp of coffee and girded himself. He was
expecting another ambush.

"Art, what new steps have you taken to ensure Conley's
safety…since we talked about it with Harry?"

"There are no significant dangers this week in Moscow, thank goodness.
So we've been reviewing plans for Tajikistan."

He sensed Frick tensing next to him.

"I'm glad to hear that…But I'm afraid to note that the results so
far have been worrisome. The shooting in Prague was a wake-up call."
Larson paused, a cube of cantaloupe suspended on her fork. "If I may say
so, Art, I think you need some help on this."

"Help? No one's been more vocal about safety than I've
been…"

Larson held up the palm of her free hand, implying that she hadn't finished.

"I don't really fault you, Art. You're a newsman, through and through.
But first Peter Bradford, and now Conley…we can't place reporters in
harm's way in our single-minded pursuit of big stories. Perhaps I should have
stepped in earlier…" She finally placed the cube of cantaloupe in
her mouth. After chewing and swallowing she resumed. "Moreover Harry was
right about Tajikistan. All sorts of new complexities we didn't appreciate.
I've had to consider those as well."

Frick's head was down. He was slicing one of his cubes into two smaller pieces.

"Until now Nathan has been an observer," Larson continued.
"Now I'm assigning him a more active role. He's to advise you day to day
on safety issues with Conley."

Gallagher put down his knife and fork. "Advise me, Janet? Is that
really necessary?"

"I think it's best. None of us wants more mishaps."

Gallagher snorted and glanced out the plate-glass window. At a nearby marina
only a few pleasure craft and sailboats remained at their moorings. Others had
been dry-docked for the winter. Retirement suddenly beckoned.

"I'll do my best to help, Art," Frick added, his tone a little
snide.

He gave Frick an irritated glance, picked up his knife and fork and stabbed
at a piece of sausage. Then he remembered Conley and Claire and swallowed hard.
For their sake, if for no one else’s, he'd have to see this through.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Claire had visited New Hampshire before. While living in Boston she and
Peter had escaped north for ski weekends at Loon or Waterville Valley. Once in
summer they'd hiked the White Mountain National Forest.

On this occasion, at 6:45 a.m. she departed the Logan Harborside Hyatt in
her rental car---a Ford Taurus. Despite early rush-hour bottlenecks on Route 3
North, she reached the Massachusetts-New Hampshire border one hour later. Her
plan was to stop in Nashua for breakfast. Previously she and Peter had only
exited there for gas. As she turned left onto Nashua's Main Street she raised
her left foot and reached toward the stick shift. Her foot kicked into a void
and her hand grabbed air, due to her habituation to manual transmissions.

"Zut!"
she said.

Perhaps she just needed coffee. She hadn't slept well, thanks to time zone
change and nerves. Again she wondered if she was going too far, chasing down
Uncle Harry at his ski lodge. Until she reminded herself of her mission, on
behalf of Peter.

To the dead we owe only the truth.

At City Hall she switched to the right lane and scanned for restaurants.
Main Street was lined with trees and clean brick sidewalks. Architecture dated
from turn of the century: storefronts, restaurants, banks and churches. A
breakfast place came up on her left---a greasy spoon: not the croissant and
coffee category she had in mind.  Then two more trendy-looking restaurants
on her right, but which just offered lunch and dinner. Several blocks ahead, at
what appeared to the last major intersection, she spotted another
eggs-and-bacon place:
Central Diner.
 She pulled to the curb and
parked.

Next to her on the passenger seat lay several folders of documents: Peter's
will and trust materials, which she'd brought from Paris. She'd spent much of
her flight from Paris to Boston reviewing these, and found them tedious and
incomprehensible, due in part to the legalistic English. She considered
bringing them to breakfast, but left them behind.

The estate was a means, not an end. Over breakfast she would focus on more
important questions.

Outside air was colder than in Boston: temperatures around freezing,
although still without snow cover. While locking up she noticed a parking meter. 
"
Bon sang!"
she said, fumbling inside her purse. She didn't
have U.S. change.

Closer inspection revealed that charges didn't apply until 8 a.m. She
checked her watch: 7:41---probably enough time. She turned heel and strode
toward the restaurant, heels snapping on the bricks. When she entered the diner
a small bell rang. Faces glanced in her direction, mostly male. A few did
double takes and watched her as she seated herself on a stool at one of the two
horseshoe-shaped counters. A young waitress approached. "Coffee?" she
asked.

"Yes. And a menu too, please."

The waitress caught her accent and looked curious.

Claire looked around and found other glances before eyes got re-directed.
Clientele was a cross-section: several business or lawyer types in shirts and
ties, half a dozen others dressed for more rugged outdoor work, several
white-haired retirees in cardigans. Hadn't they encountered a foreigner before?
Or was it her dark gray suit ensemble and pearls? She tried not to get
irritated. Her first sip of coffee almost made her wince. At once bland and
bitter. She added cream. The waitress re-materialized and took her order:
blueberry muffin and a bowl of fruit. Her encounter with Harry Whitcombe would
be in a couple of hours. She had to concentrate…She'd start with the
estate…Just general questions about the trusts…Later, perhaps over
lunch, she'd displace that with Conley's assignment...

"Here you are," the waitress said, placing down muffin and fruit
and interrupting her train of thought. "More coffee?"

Claire's mug was only half-empty. She had forgotten about this practice,
which didn't exist in Parisian cafes.

"Please," she said.

The waitress paused a beat. "Where are you from, if I may ask?"

"France. Just arrived yesterday."

"We had a couple of people in here from Europe last summer…German
backpackers."

Other patrons had stopped talking and were listening.

Claire was at a loss. "New Hampshire is good for that," she said
finally.

"Where in France are you from? Paris?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact."

"That's interesting…welcome to Nashua."

The waitress considered another question, but gave her a half-smile and
returned to other duties. A few patrons stood to pay bills. Attention waned.
Workdays beckoned. Just as Claire finished her muffin and fruit her phone range
in her purse. It was Conley.

"I just got out of an interview…at the Defense Ministry. I
received your voice message and your new cell phone number."

On the other end of the connection there was a lot of background noise, as
through Conley was calling from a car or taxi.

"Where are you now? Am I reaching you at a convenient time?

"I'm in Nashua, NH…just finishing breakfast."

"Nashua?"

"Oh no…" Through plate glass at the front of the diner
Claire spotted a meter maid, moving up the line of cars parked at the curb, pad
of tickets in hand and already eyeing her rental car. She checked her watch:
8:05. "Steve, something's come up," she said, determined to avoid a
fine. "Can I call you back in a couple of hours?"

Before he had a chance to say goodbye, she stood from her stool, and reached
into her purse and asked the waitress for change for a dollar, her French
accent amplified by the rush.

The girl understood what was happening and scurried to the cash register. In
seconds she came over with four quarters. Striding out, Claire realized she was
right behind her, and appeared to know the meter-maid. When they emerged onto
brick sidewalk the latter was examining the license plate and flipping to a
blank ticket.

"Wait, Debbie…she's French," the waitress proclaimed, as if
that warranted blanket pardon. "And she just got here."