Live from Moscow (21 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

"No need to go overboard, Nathan," Gallagher said. "Why
don't we just try again in fifteen or twenty minutes?" Frick was hovering
at the corner of his desk. Claire was puzzled about his role. Thus far Conley
had not mentioned him.

"In the meantime…mind if I sit down?"

"Go ahead," Gallagher snorted, crossing his arms over his
stomach.

Gallagher's phone rang, and he took a heavy breath before hitting the
speakerphone button. Frick edged forward on his chair; it was Conley. There
were honking horns on the Moscow end, as if he was in a moving vehicle:

"Sorry for the delay. I saw your number in my log. I was attending a
ballet."

Claire caught Gallagher shooting a disdainful glance at Frick.

"Didn’t mean to interrupt your evening, Steve," Gallagher
said, leaning forward and speaking toward phone console.
"…Claire’s here, by coincidence."

There was a pause on Conley’s end. "There? In your office?"

"Hello Steve," she interjected. Why did he sound so…
agité
…keyed
up? His voice reminded her of another occasion…

Gallagher continued, "We know it's your last night in Moscow. We just
want to make sure that nothing came of that threat from the Chechen."

"Well…I'm safe, first of all. Excuse me just a minute."
Male voices could be heard in the background, conversing in Russian. Frick
strained forward, his sinews tense. Prompting Gallagher to frown.
"…But there has been a new development…I’m now being
escorted back to my hotel in a car from the FSB. There’ll be two guards
outside my door tonight."

Claire’s heart skipped a beat. Frick sat up, enlivened again, while
Gallagher leaned closer to the phone console.

"What? Did you say guards?"

Conley explained developments surrounding Felayev's lawyer.

"Good Lord."

"Everything's under control, Art. And I'm leaving my hotel in six or
seven hours anyway."

Frick interjected. "Is there a reason to pull back…postpone, Art?
Until we assess this?"

Gallagher stroked his beard and stared at the phone console, ignoring
Frick's vindicating stare. To Claire he appeared torn. "No," he said,
finally. "That makes no sense. Ignore that comment, Steve. You should go
ahead."

Claire sighed in relief. Gallagher was not her adversary after all. Tugged
in different directions, maybe. And prodded by this annoying Frick character.
But not her adversary.

Better chance he’d be her ally.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

This evening had taken a breathtaking turn. Conley sat on the edge of his
bed. Lilya remained stunned.

"Who could have imagined?" he said.

Lilya fell silent for a moment. These outcomes were sudden.

"Well…" he added. "We'll just have to adapt." He
leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and running one hand through
his hair. "Have the guards outside made you feel safer?"

"I suppose so. It's a new experience. They're quiet, though."

"Same here. I hope we'll both manage some sleep."

"What time are you leaving?"

He exhaled and pressed the cell-phone hard against his ear, not quite free
of his earlier fanciful visions. "Car's picking me up at 5:30. I’m
meeting Oleg at the airfield."

"Will we stay in touch when you're in Tajikistan?"

He could find little reason to say no---not least because she’d fallen
under possible danger from Chechen terrorists and now had two guards posted
outside her apartment overnight, and agreed to try, following his first few
days with Russian interdiction forces. After the conversation concluded he
called Milena. It was an hour earlier in Prague. She was bright-spirited and
didn't mention her gunshot wound until he asked.

"Oh that? It's healing fast. I'm more concerned about what's going
on with you."

Her ardor for his assignment remained undiminished, and he pledged
continuing contact from Dushanbe.

When this call was also finished he sprung up and strode over to his window.
Four stories below, at the main entrance to the Radisson, he saw two young
women emerge. They were young---early 20s. Long legs beneath their overcoats,
along with smooth skin and high, rounded cheekbones that Conley could
appreciate even from a distance. Perhaps part of the casino or lounge staff,
just getting off the evening shift. They were laughing. Puffs of condensation
burst from their lips as they approached a taxi and conferred through the front
passenger window, and climbed into the back seat, revealing titillating expanses
of thigh before they slammed the door. Conley watched the taxi drive off,
forlorn.

His energies kept building, with no release. The surfeit would have to go
somewhere, eventually. Where was an open question.

Time was near midnight; he re-packed his clothes and prepared for bed. At
the desk he noticed that his laptop computer was still on, and decided to check
e-mail one last time. Clad in undershorts, he sat down and connected. There was
only one incoming message. He startled when he saw the sender: Tracey
Whitcombe. His heart pounded as he opened the text:

Dear Steve,

This message probably comes as a surprise. We last communicated more than
one year ago---in London!---what already seems ages ago. At that time, as you
know, I made a bargain with my father. Not one you wanted, I remember. It was
my idea and my decision. But it was the only way I saw for you to keep your
job.

And so far I've upheld my pledge to him---not to contact you again until
after I graduate from college. (It's been more difficult these past few months
with my return to Wellesley!) Why am I now breaking my promise?

These are unusual circumstances.

I'm aware you're overseas. I've gathered you're now in Moscow. (Yes, I've
kept abreast of your activities at the paper, and especially your current
assignment.)

I'm writing for two reasons. First because I'm worried about you. Second
because I'm worried about my father.

About a week ago he returned from a short trip to Washington in a state
of extreme disconsolation. I visited my parents in Cambridge the following
weekend, and I'd never seen him like this before. Sunday he left for our lodge
at Loon Mountain, though ski season won't start for another month. Even my
mother is perplexed. About all we were able to ascertain is that his withdrawal
is connected with your assignment. He made statements such as "I set the
whole machine in motion." And "I hope Conley doesn't come to the same
end as Peter."

Naturally I've been disturbed by this. So I took the initiative of
calling him last night. Oddly, Claire was making an overnight
visit---apparently discussing Peter's estate. I begged him for further
explanation. "Specifically, I asked: 'Why are you so worried about
Steve?'"

"He's heading into an unpredictable situation," he said.

I asked, "But haven't you known that from the beginning?"

"New factors have emerged," he said. "I'll be able to tell
you more in a couple of weeks."

It still didn't make sense. When I begged for further explanation, he
admitted that he’d agreed to send you in the first place in part because
of me. "To get him away from Boston."

You see, Steve, I'll graduate in May. My pledge will then expire. After
that…I think he was worried we'd resume what we'd started in London. You
may not realize this, but I think he saw this assignment for you as a prelude
to another transfer overseas. By time I graduated, you'd be safely gone. Now
he's distraught that he's put you in peril for self-serving reasons.

Naturally, this whole situation is distressing to me. I hope stability
will soon return---that you'll be safe and my father will be back to normal.
For now, I have only one request: don't place yourself in danger! I realize
you've got a critical assignment, for you and the paper both. But most
important is to come back to Boston alive!

With affection (and worry),

Tracey

P.S. - Please send me an e-mail or two from Dushanbe if you have the
chance.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

Gallagher had just seen Claire off. On the up-escalator to the newsroom he
stared down at humming metal and shook his head. She’d lost her husband
just a month before. At minimum the paper now owed her sympathy and
consideration. She deserved to be heard. Problem was…where to draw the
line? How would he ever tell her no?

At newsroom reception, he turned left and skirted toward his office. Halfway
along he encountered Jerry MacPherson at a water cooler.

"Who was that?" MacPherson asked.

"Claire Bradford."

"Thought so. She's not easy to forget."

Gallagher shot him an arched eyebrow. "No. That she's not." He
stopped, extracted a paper cup and opened spigot, bending to see the cup below
his paunch. MacPherson looked a little puzzled. "Doesn't she live in
France?"

"Yes."

"What brings her here?"

Gallagher exhaled so that his mustache puffed out. He straightened and took
a sip of water before answering. "I think I have an idea."

MacPherson became intrigued. "Something to do with the stories on her
husband?"

"You guessed it."

"Uh oh. Sounds like a challenging situation."

MacPherson listened with cocked head as Gallagher summarized the development
particularly intent on Claire's connection to Harry Whitcombe, and that
she’d just been to visit him in New Hampshire. "Interesting,"
he observed. "Did she fill in any of those blanks?"

"Not really. I have no more answers than you do, Jerry." Across
the newsroom he spotted Frick entering Larson's office, and snorted. MacPherson
followed his line of vision.

"How did Frick get mixed up in this?"

"Another question I’ve been contending with."

MacPherson smiled. "Makes me glad I'm a columnist and not an
editor."

Gallagher grunted and gulped his remaining water. Feeling beleaguered, he
crumpled his paper cup and threw it in the wastebasket. MacPherson laughed,
throwing away his cup as well.

"Just one request, Jerry," Gallagher said, turning to go.

"Yes?"

"Don't even think about making Claire a subject for your column."

MacPherson laughed again. "Right. Fascinating material.
Just a little too close to home."

CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

Floodlights illuminated the airfield and surrounding snow-banks. Four
uniformed Russian guards manned the gate, wearing flak jackets and armed with
submachine guns. One collected Conley's passport and scrutinized him through
the back-seat window. Another kneeled and inspected the Volga's undercarriage
with a bomb-detecting device. Check complete, the sentries slid open concrete
crash barriers and waved the car through.

Chechen terrorism necessitated extra precautions, even in pre-dawn Moscow.

The Volga crunched along a plowed roadway toward a two-story building. An
enormous Ilyushin-76 transport jet stood on the tarmac nearby, engines idling.

Closer to the building Conley saw two figures waiting, wearing fur hats and
bundled against cold. One was Oleg; the other was Franklin Stanson, squinting
through his aviator glasses through the floodlight. When Conley emerged from
the car Stanson displayed an easy, lopsided grin---somehow out of context on a
Russian military base.

"Heard about last night," he drawled. "Wanted to make sure
you left Moscow in one piece." He escorted Conley and Oleg onto the
tarmac. They reached another checkpoint, manned by a pair of soldiers
shouldering automatic weapons. "This is as far as I go," he
half-shouted over din of jet engines. "Good luck."

Conley thanked him again for logistical arrangements.

"Keep me informed from Dushanbe," he added, still half-shouting.

A Russian officer conducted Conley and Oleg through the rear hatch, which
was open and formed a loading ramp. Soldiers carried in boxes of supplies,
which they stacked along both sides of the fuselage. Just aft of the cockpit
there were two benches, one on each side. Four Russian soldiers sat on one, in
winter combat gear. Conley caught their attention; they stared at him, glum and
impassive. The officer indicated seats opposite, where harnesses hung down; he
and Oleg strapped themselves in. Nearby he noticed parachutes fastened by
netting to the fuselage's ceiling, and remembered Gallagher's suggestion over
the speakerphone with Frick.

Oleg followed his gaze, informed of this exhortation from Boston.
"They're there if we need them," he said over the noise, with a faint
grin.  Conley shrugged off the jab. He was still curious about Stanson's
unannounced appearance. "Did you know Franklin Stanson was coming?"

"No. But I wasn't surprised."

"Really? Why not?"

"I've done interpretation work for him. My impression is he likes to
stay on top of everything."

"Still…a pre-dawn sendoff? I'm just a reporter."

Oleg thought a moment. "Don't forget about Bradford."

"You think all this attention is because of Bradford?"

"Why ask me? You're the American."

"Still…you know Stanson better than I do."

"Not much. Don't forget he only brought me on his first trip to
Dushanbe. After that he went there on his own…"

"Without an interpreter? Why was that?"

Oleg opened his mouth to respond just as hydraulic lifts activated for the
rear hatch. Din increased; speaking became impractical. He leaned back, silent
and inscrutable. Engines revved higher and the plane taxied toward runway.
Based on Bradford's experience Conley was prepared for a rough flight. However
takeoff was smooth and the jet roared upward along a clean arc to cruising
altitude. By degrees the din subsided, replaced by a hum and constant,
low-level vibration that resonated through all hard surfaces. Several soldiers
across the aisle nodded into sleep, out of either boredom or fatigue. Conley
realized there were no females aboard---his first flight under such
circumstance.

Conley wished to discuss Stanson further. But Oleg's eyes closed and he also
nodded into slumber.