Live from Moscow (20 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

They approached the building housing the
Boston World Tribune
London
bureau, just off Fleet Street. There were few cars and pedestrians. Early
October Saturday morning. Quiet central city.

Tracey wore the same jeans and sweater she'd worn to the previous evening's
play. She fixed her eyes on the sidewalk, a little overwhelmed. Conley floated
in hormonal daze. He'd vowed self-control. Now he realized it was futile.

She moved closer and squeezed his hand more tightly. When he reciprocated,
she asked him, "What are we doing after work?"

"Picking up where we left off, I suppose."

Mutual impulse pulled them up short and into full embrace. Her gangly limbs
and shyness only served to accentuate her beauty, as well as her youth. Conley
forced himself to cut their kiss short.

"So this morning wasn’t an accident?" she said, looking up
slightly at him.

"No. Spontaneous, maybe, but no accident."

She smiled and emitted a rare giggle. "Not enough to outweigh your
work ethic, though."

Conley smiled back. Her tone was clear; now that they’d crossed the
threshold, she wanted him as much as he wanted her. For an instant he wondered
if his punctuality and responsibility could have saved him. His search for
contraception…a reconsideration of the clock…some self-suppression
at the brink of consummation. All of which had proven insufficient. Later,
after work, the rest of the weekend held immeasurable promise and
excitement…

Revolving doors issued them into a brown marble lobby---empty, as usual on
Saturday morning. The guard took more interest in them than was customary.
"Mr. Whitcombe has already gone up," he said in his East London
accent, leaning forward across the countertop. "I remember him from last
summer."

Conley and Tracey skidded to a stop on the smooth floor.

"Good God," he said.

The guard observed Conley with a trace of concern, then added. "He said
he had a key."

Conley looked at Tracey. Her mouth hung open.

"I thought he was arriving on Monday," she said, in a tremulous
voice. She fumbled in her handbag for her cell phone, then pulled it out and
examined the screen. Her eyes widened. "I turned off the ringer at the
theater last night, then forgot…There are messages."

Conley shook himself alert and thought fast. Send Tracey up first? The
problem now was that the street was visible from the 10-floor windows of the
bureau. Whitcombe may have seen them entering the building together…

"We better just go up," he said. "Let's decide what to do in
the elevator."

Clasping her elbow, he guided her toward the elevators. Her excitement
dissipated; she looked suddenly overloaded. The morning was already momentous
enough. With a concerned expression the guard stood and watched them disappear
around the corner. At elevator bank, Conley pressed "Up", and a
compartment opened at once. This was unfolding at head-spinning pace.

"Let's just tell the truth…what happened yesterday evening, and
this morning as well," he said.

"Easier said than done."

Their elevator was passing the fifth floor.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't lie to him." Her tone became fatalistic.

"Then don't…"

Doors opened; they both hesitated. Conley made a determination. Facts
mattered more than intentions. There was no evading them.

He placed one hand on her lower back. "It's your decision. I'll stand
by you."

She glanced into his eyes as if tactics wouldn't matter, then entered a
trance-like state. Falling mute, they proceeded through the tenth-floor lobby
and down a short corridor to the glass office door of the
World Tribune
bureau.
It was lighted inside. Through glass Conley saw Whitcombe's long legs and
elegant cuffs extending from a side chair in the waiting area. He opened the
door and Tracey entered first. Whitcombe stood, revealing tailored blazer and
open collar. His tanned, weathered face was a mixture of relief and
bewilderment.

"Dad."

"Tracey…I tried calling…"

She stepped toward him, struggling to hold eye contact. They kissed and
hugged each other lightly, with noticeable tension.

When they separated, he said, "I went to your apartment about seven
a.m., after arriving from the airport. You weren't there."

She continued clasping his elbows, but cast her eyes downward for a moment.

Over Tracey's shoulder Whitcombe focused on Conley, who had hung back.
Assessment didn't take long. His eyes flared for an instant, then became hard.

CHAPTER SIXTY

The pastrami sandwich sat heavy in Gallagher's stomach. Portions were
generous at
Nick's,
a small diner a short distance down Morrissey
Boulevard. Next visit there, Gallagher vowed not to consume his entire serving
of fries.

After parking, he walked along the front of the
World Tribune
building
with Marcello, the Business Editor. At the front entrance he checked his
watch: 1:35. Claire wasn't due until two o'clock. If he got to his desk by 1:45
he'd still have a chance to scan wire services beforehand.

"Big lunch," he said, placing a hand on his paunch. "I don't
feel like getting behind my desk right away, Phil. I'm going to have a
cigarette."

"I'd join you," Marcello said. "But this time I've quit for
good."

Gallagher reached into his coat pocket for his cigarettes and lighter.
Marcello shook his head and smiled.

"Okay. See you upstairs. Talk to you later about that real estate
piece." A high-flying commercial developer in Boston had just declared
bankruptcy.

At the bank of glass doors, an overhead canopy provided protection from
weather, and Gallagher moved to one side and lit up. After consecutive days of
outdoor calm wind now kicked up off the harbor. He buttoned up his coat collar.
His first drag was deep. When he exhaled smoke vanished in the wind. Smoking at
his desk had once been ingrained; now it was a fading memory.

His enjoyment was spoiled by the approach of Frick---unaccompanied by
Larson, to Gallagher’s slight surprise, even though she usually lunched
in her office. Reproach flickered in Frick's eyes at sight of the cigarette. He
contrived an ingratiating bonhomie.

"Enjoying a smoke before the storm hits?"

"Storm?"

"Nor'easter. Freezing rain and snow. Due to hit later this
afternoon."

"Oh, right."

Gallagher paid little attention to weather forecasts on weekdays. There was
always more compelling news. He took another drag.

"May have to forget about my run tomorrow morning," Frick added,
smiling.

"A shame." Gallagher snorted smoke out through his nostrils.

Frick stiffened on his wiry frame. Safety notwithstanding, he had become
less sure-footed since Whitcombe's abdication. Fields of battle had become
unpredictable.

"Any news from Conley?"

"A short voice message. That threat from the Chechen didn't amount to
anything." For now Gallagher just wanted to finish his cigarette in
peace. "Excuse me Nathan…I'm meeting Claire Bradford at two
o'clock."

Frick snapped to attention. "Claire Bradford!?"

He explained what he knew about her visit. When he mentioned that Claire had
seen Whitcombe in New Hampshire, Frick's eyes narrowed.

"Hmmmm."

"She's dropping by the paper as a courtesy. At least that's my
understanding."

Frick's suspicion intensified. "I'll see you upstairs," he said,
turning heel and hurrying into the lobby. Bound for his mentor, Gallagher
guessed. Now his cigarette was already half gone. His last few drags didn't
bring their usual pleasure. He ground the butt into the sand of an outdoor
receptacle.

Inside the marbled lobby, he was looking straight ahead toward the escalator
when the receptionist hailed him. He whirled around to find Claire rising from
a leather chair in the waiting area.

"I'm early, Mr. Gallagher."

Empathy replaced Gallagher's irritation. He walked over to meet her halfway.

"I've told you before, Claire. Please call me Art."

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Claire's gray overcoat and high heels were conservative but announced her
curves. Reaction across the newsroom was electric. Male heads lifted. A few
reporters recognized her; decorum forced their gazes back to computer screens.

Gallagher warned off malingerers with hard glances, and in his office helped
Claire remove her coat. Her hands trembled as she sat down, gripped the
armrests, and crossed one well-shaped leg over the other. She looked keyed up.
He guessed why. The newsroom had to bring back painful memories for her. His
guilt re-surged.

"I've thought of you often since Paris, Claire."

"I appreciate that, Art."

"Under the circumstances, it's remarkable you were able to assist Steve
Conley to such extent."

"I'm eager to contribute."

Present tense, Gallagher noted. Her grip tightened on the armrests. Did that
explain why she was here? In her eyes was the same determination he'd glimpsed
in
Notre Dame de Passy
church a month earlier. Only now she seemed to have
an objective in view.

Suddenly it became obvious. This was more than a courtesy call.

"How is Harry Whitcombe?" he asked.

"In good health, as always. Though a little preoccupied, right
now."

Gallagher nodded, withholding further comment. Her ostensible reason for
visiting Whitcombe in the first place, he remembered, was estate issues.

"How long were you there…in New Hampshire?"

"Less than a day. I arrived before lunch yesterday and left first thing
this morning."

"Rather short visit."

"Yes."

Over Claire's shoulder Gallagher spotted Nathan Frick circling the newsroom,
apparently in search of Larson. Frick cast a worried glance toward Gallagher's
office; his eyes narrowed when he saw Claire from behind.

Gallagher looked at her again.

"Plan to stay in Boston long, Claire?"

An even tighter grip on the armrests.

"A week or two…I haven't decided yet."

Her eyes became more determined. As if she feared resistance. Didn't she
realize how much he'd agonized over her trauma and struggled for balance these
past weeks?

Frick appeared suddenly in the doorway. His search for Larson had come up
empty.

"If you’re here about Conley, Nathan…" Gallagher
pre-empted. "…I haven't had a chance to check my messages
yet."

Frick continued hovering. Gallagher had no choice but to introduce him to
Claire. Something about Frick seemed to make her wary. Trying to get rid of
him, he swiveled toward his computer: no e-mail from Conley. A quick check of
his voice messages revealed the same. "Nothing yet," he reiterated,
making his impatience evident. "But let's not blow this out of proportion.
I'm sure he'll send an e-mail message before he turns in. And he's flying out
tomorrow morning, for goodness' sake. Let’s talk later."

"Why not call him?"

"Can't this wait, Nathan?" He turned back to Claire. "Please
excuse this interruption, Claire…"

"I really don’t mind. Any chance I can listen in?"

Gallagher hesitated, sensing it wasn’t a good idea. However compassion
lowered his barriers. "I guess not." He exhaled and looked down
through his bifocals at his speed dial numbers. To his surprise Claire
interjected again.

"In fact I tried calling him a few times during the past couple of
hours. No answer."

Gallagher glanced up and paused with his hand over the keypad. "You
tried calling Conley…from here in the States?" She nodded, which
made him worry that Conley had let her get over-involved. By now the purpose of
her visit was becoming clearer. He released a half-sigh and hit the speed-dial
button. A message came from the speakerphone, first in English and then in
Russian:
The number you have dialed is temporarily blocked…

"That's the same message I've gotten," Claire said.

Gallagher checked his watch. "It's almost 10 o'clock now in Moscow. Not
that late yet."

Frick reacted quickly as a whip. "Does he usually turn off his cell
phone in the evening?"

"No…not usually."

"Let's call his hotel room."

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Thanks to a program printed in both English and Russian, Conley had
acquainted himself with the story beforehand. And like most ballets,
Swan Lake
was vivid and easy to follow. At the beginning, Young Prince Siegfried, the
hero, is dissolute and self-indulgent. A passing flock of swans intrigues him,
and turn out to be beautiful maidens in another form---consigned by a wicked
spell to be swans during daytime and human at night. Siegfried becomes besotted
with Odette, queen of the swan maidens, and vows to rescue her from her daytime
purgatory.

During a ball in Act III Siegfried is beguiled by another princess, and
temporarily forgets about Odette. By Act IV he regains his good senses and goes
in search of Odette. A storm breaks over the lake, stymieing his efforts. The
final, pivotal scene now unfolded onstage. Beside Conley Lilya sat attentive.
Tchaikovsky's musical score soared toward thundering climax. Two wings of
ballerinas, clad in white, swept toward one another from opposite sides of the
stage, carrying Siegfried and Odette with them.

At last the pair united at center stage. The two formations of swan-maidens
coalesced around them, in an orgiastic fusion of trembling limbs and white
fabric.

While Conley joined in applause he glimpsed Lilya’s profile. During
the ensuing standing ovation and curtain calls she kept respectable distance,
which she'd done all evening. Outside in the theater lobby, provocative young
women were everywhere, and he tried not to be affected, by them or Lilya.

By now he’d recognized that Russian social mores were more restrained
than advertised. Which, he concluded again, was probably for the better. The
military flight to Tajikistan on which he and Oleg were booked departed at 6:30
a.m. the next morning.

As he and Lilya collected their coats and hats in the lower lobby he stifled
his usual impulses.

 "We'll take a taxi and I'll drop you off at home," he told
her.

"Why don't you come up for tea? Before you head back."

Conley stopped with one arm in sleeve. He looked at his watch. "It's
late. What about your parents?"

"They're in Ekaterinaburg with my sister. Visiting my
grandparents."

She was facing him. Her expression was polite, non-suggestive. He
nonetheless tilted into fancy until a voice startled him from the side.

"Mr. Conley. I'm relieved we found you. Your phone was turned
off."

Conley turned. The press officer from the FSB materialized with two
plainclothes security men, bearing an air of urgency.

"Why? Something wrong?" Conley promptly cleared his head, pulled
out his phone, and re-activated the ringer.

"Movsar Felayev had an unscheduled meeting with his lawyer this
afternoon. There was some…unauthorized communication. We have concerns
about your safety."

Beside Conley Lilya tensed.

"Is there a chance he got some instruction out?" 

"Well…that's our worry. Therefore some guards will be posted
outside your hotel room overnight. We called Oleg Mikhailov. He's been apprised
of the situation."

Conley thought for a moment. "So what do you recommend now?"

"Straight back to the Radisson, I'm afraid. It's for your own
safety."

"What about Lilya? I intended to take her home."

"We advise that she also receive protection, at least for
tonight."