Live from Moscow (29 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-EIGHT

The thought that Peter had done this for her anguished Claire. If she had
known she would have stopped him. One thing was certain; he'd left her in
un
gachis terrible.
To salvage his reputation and save herself from scandal
she had to act fast. That meant rethinking her venue. Was the
World Tribune
newsroom
still the most pivotal location? She had doubts. In Boston she was simply
awaiting an eruption. Pre-positioning herself to limit damage. Dynamics had
changed.

If an eruption came, she now recognized, it would emanate from Dushanbe. And
Conley would be the catalyst. In Dushanbe she could identify a margin for
genuine action, thanks to Tracey's observations…She stopped herself
again, struck again by her own foolishness.

Visas and time zones obstructed her path. There was no way to reach
Tajikistan in a short period.

Whitcombe now stood at the end of the long conference table. Larson and
Frick were already seated. Gallagher was the last to arrive, huffing in from
the hallway with a notepad in hand and thudding into a chair. The under-support
yielded a grating squeak.

"Excuse me…I just got a message from Conley," he said.

This riveted Whitcombe and abruptly refocused attentions of Larson and
Frick.

"He and Oleg, the interpreter, were about to head to dinner at
Shakuri's villa."

"Is that all?" Claire sputtered.

"He didn't go into detail. I’ve got my cell-phone here. Please
make sure yours is on as well, Claire. He could call at any time."

"When he does," Whitcombe said, his shoulders sagging slightly but
his jaw set. "We should try to get him on the speaker phone."

Claire pulled her cell phone from her purse and checked the display. As she
slipped the device into her coat pocket, an impulse took hold that was both
unsettling and empowering. She hesitated for a moment before acting on it. Then
with a subtle movement of her thumb, she switched off the ringer.

If Conley called, she wanted to be alone. Maybe she could mitigate damage.
Circumscribe the initial discharge of information back to the Gallagher and
others. Engage him one-on-one. Only question was…how to do it. How could
she induce the kind of discretion that Conley had shown Tracey?

"Anyway…glad we're all here…" Whitcombe said, taking
his seat. Larson and Frick still looked shell-shocked. Gallagher regarded
Whitcombe carefully while stroking his beard.

"…Why have I come back early? First and foremost, to be here
during this critical week. Granted, the situation became more complex. The aid
bill. Growing murk in Dushanbe. High stakes geo-politics. But I over-reacted. I
lost sight of my duty. Bottom line is…Conley is in the thick of all this.
And he needs all the support he can get. And Claire, too. I wanted to be here
with her if any important news came back about Peter."

Whitcombe directed a steady, tired gaze at her, as if to confirm their
covert collaboration. Simultaneously Gallagher rotated his head and made eye
contact, awash in paternalistic sympathy. So well-meaning, she now realized. If
he only knew…

"I realize I was a little too partisan about Peter early on,"
Whitcombe continued. "That was wrong. I'll try to stay more objective from
this point forward."

Trying to appear inconspicuous, Claire reached into her pocket to
double-check her cell-phone. The ringer remained off.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-NINE

Sap ignited and spewed miniature, staccato explosions inside the fireplace.
Shakuri waited patiently until the noise subsided. Then he began.

"Right away, during the interview in my office, Peter Bradford was a
man I understood. Realistic. Ambitious. And, I confirmed later,
family-oriented. In some ways, I might even say, not unlike myself. We came
from different worlds. But we spoke the same language. I'm not talking about
Russian, English, or whatever. I'm talking about views of life…suitable
priorities."

Here was a post-Soviet kleptocrat, Conley thought, feigning likeness to a
bookish Yankee blueblood. He found these premises ridiculous, but held his
tongue for the moment.

"Therefore, not far into the interview, I wasn't surprised when he made
me a proposal."

"He made
you
a proposal?" Conley interrupted.

"Please." Shakuri held up his palm. "Let me continue. Yes,
that's right. He made
me
a proposal. He started by making an observation,
much as you did today. That my government is mixed up in the heroin trade.
Okay, I have trouble claiming total innocence. We didn't want to, but we've had
no choice. We've had to support ourselves…and our country, somehow."

This provoked what sounded like profanity from Oleg, half-audible and in
Russian. Shakuri gave him a smile of false commiseration. "The Russians
know this all too well. However if they could send us bigger amounts of money,
not just tanks, soldiers and helicopter gun-ships, it might all be
different…"

Oleg's eyes narrowed. He contained himself.

"Bradford understood. He understood how important this aid bill was to
me…to my country. He also recognized that I am not a terrorist, as I said
before. I despise the fanatics in Afghanistan and Chechnya as much as anyone. I
am two things. First I am a leader, with the best interests of my country at
heart. Second, I am a businessman. I realize that life demands
pragmatism…Transactions of different kinds."

Shakuri paused again for effect, rotating his head 45 degrees and
scrutinizing the fire over the peaked roof of his fingertips. Conley was
finding such theatrics even more insufferable than earlier.

"…And Peter Bradford was ready to do a deal. He proposed that I
pay him two and half million dollars. Why? To write a favorable piece…to
say that our government is fighting the heroin trade. To play up the
anti-terrorism angle as much as possible. The way he framed it, my payment to
him would be half of one percent of the $500 million in the aid bill---a
reasonable proportion, under the circumstances."

Conley's objection was automatic. This had to be a hoax, part of the
cover-up. "That makes no sense," he interjected. "For all sorts
of reasons…"

"No? Please let me explain. Bradford knew that he was the only American
journalist here in the weeks before this bill was introduced. At that time---in
late September---prospects were more uncertain. His story would be picked up by
the wire services and published all over. It would be the only independent
coverage at a critical stage. His influence could be decisive. I think he
planned it that way."

"And then what?"

"I accepted his offer."

Conley's voice rose. "What you're suggesting is the worst sort of
corruption…"

"Are you sure? Peter Bradford was simply endorsing the position of the
U.S. government. Was that so corrupt? Was it unpatriotic? So what if he made a
little money on the side?"

"That's not the way our system works…" Conley decided that
an American civics tutorial was pointless. A more unsettling possibility
occurred to him, even though he still assumed Shakuri was lying.
"…Were Stanson and Hermann aware of this 'deal,' as you call
it?"

Shakuri smiled. "Not of the particulars. For obvious reasons, they
preferred to look away. But you know how these things operate…" His
vagueness seemed calibrated, as if even the hint of complicity would frighten
Conley off.

This assumption was foolish and off the mark.

"So…I invited Bradford out to my villa. He came of his own free
will. And frankly, I was glad to have him. The deal he proposed made perfect
sense. Good business, as far as I was concerned. I did not resent it."

"And then what happened, as you claim?"

Again the gracious host, Shakuri sustained Conley's incredulity with patience.
"We talked over details. What he'd include in his articles and what he
wouldn't. When we agreed, we shook hands. Then it was time to transfer the
money…or half of it."

"In cash?"

"Of course not." Shakuri bristled for an instant before regaining
his composure. "We're more sophisticated than that, Mr. Conley. I have an
account in Luxembourg. I can order electronic transfers over the Internet. I
have a high-speed satellite connection here. Bradford gave me his bank data. A
numbered account in Switzerland. I simply got on-line and ordered the
transfer."

"What about the rest?"

"To be paid after his articles were published."

Next to Conley Oleg snorted through his nostrils. He was listening closely
but stared straight ahead at the fire. None of this seemed to surprise him.

"Do you know anything about international banking, Mr. Conley?"

"Very little."

"How about you Mr. Mikhailov?"

Oleg shot back a look of quiet loathing.

"Normally international wire transfers take two or three days,"
Shakuri said, a glint of smugness crossing his dark features. "During that
period the money is essentially out of control of both sender and recipient.
One of the many ways in which bankers make their profits. However…for
certain preferred clients…these times can be reduced. I'm one of those.
My bank in Luxembourg executes all transfers within two hours." Shakuri
paused, expecting them to be impressed.

"And where does the money in that account come from?" Conley
asked. "Stanson and Hermann?"

"They have already been generous with their help. However I also have
other sources of funds. Does it really matter?"

Conley didn't answer.

"Two hours," Shakuri resumed. "We had to wait that long for
Bradford to check that the money reached his account, using his laptop---and a
special interface program he got from his bank. Perfect for dinner. We went to
my dining room to celebrate." He gestured toward a threshold to one side
of the fireplace, leading into the room in question.

The scene was hard for Conley to imagine. "What did you talk
about?"

"As I said…a lot about politics. Central Asia most of all.
Bradford was well versed. After a while, and some wine, we talked about our
families."

Bradford had struck Conley as the last person to discuss his family with a
stranger.

"I think he was trying to justify what he did, especially to
himself," Shakuri added. "Not really out of guilt. More of an
intellectual exercise."

"Justify? How?"

"He explained he came from a wealthy family…the newspaper, old
money on both sides. But he couldn't really take advantage of it. Said all his
money was tied up in special funds. Restricted in various ways. I admit, I
couldn’t relate directly to his dilemma. It’s not part of my
experience. What I could understand was his frustration. He felt he wasn't
doing right by his wife. He and his wife were renting an apartment. Real estate
prices had gone up in Paris, like everywhere…They couldn't afford to buy
one. His wife's parents had offered to help. Any man would feel humiliated. He
felt trapped."

"I'm afraid that doesn't sound like Peter Bradford at all. His family
apart, he earned a good salary."

"Really? As a journalist? Please, Mr. Conley. Do you know his
wife?"

"Well…yes."

"He said she was fond of fine restaurants. Fancy hotels. Works of art.
Stylish clothes. Tennis, as I recall. In Paris and Boston those expenses can
stretch a journalist's salary pretty thin. They'd even put off having children.
Moreover he wasn't even sure he wanted to stay with the paper and move back to
Boston. And these special family funds he talked about compelled him to do
that."

"Why would he tell you all this?"

"I understood him. I have a wife. Children, too. I'm also a man who
can't wait. And…I'm loyal to my country, just as he was."

Conley raised his eyebrows and shook his head.

"…Still don't believe me? The proof is on the laptop."

"Ah… the laptop." Conley adopted a sarcastic tone. "The
reason Bradford was killed, according to you and Hermann."

Shakuri paused again and gazed into the fire over his fingertips. "Not
only that. It also had to do with his wife."

CHAPTER NINETY

Where was Claire? She'd looked more strained than ever, and Gallagher was
worried. After the meeting, he'd wanted to invite her to settle in his office
for a while, as they awaited news from Conley. Instead she'd beaten an exit and
disappeared. With creased brow he stood and scanned the newsroom through his
office windows. Still no sign of her. He checked his watch. More than an hour
until lunch: the usual juncture for his late-morning cigarette. He hesitated,
then grabbed his cell phone off the desk and put on his coat.

At least Harry Whitcombe seemed back in standard form---for now. He half
sighed and made his way toward a small corridor that led to an outdoor patio.

"Art…"

He whirled around.  It was Claire.

"Where are you going?" she asked in her French accent, before he
could speak.

"Outside for a cigarette. But that can wait…"

"I'll join you."

"It's winter weather. You might want your coat."

"It's okay. I seldom get cold."

Gallagher examined her with a cocked eye as they walked along. Her strain
had acquired a different aspect. Her face had become flushed. Her movements
were quick and electric. He could imagine why. This waiting was bound to stir
adrenaline.

The rooftop patio contained a half-dozen picnic tables and overlooked a
small parking deck. Route 93 lay just beyond; its never-ending, multi-lane
traffic flung off a clamorous hum. Gusts of northerly wind blew from direction
of downtown, and compelled them toward a wall for shelter. Claire crossed her
arms tight. To Gallagher her gesture originated more from an impulse to expend
energy than conserve it.

"May I?" she asked, when Gallagher pulled out his pack of
cigarettes.

"Of course." He proffered one. "I didn't know you smoked,
Claire."

"Not since university. But the last week has been stressful."

"For all of us."

Gallagher extended his lighter with a cupped hand. Her cigarette shook
between her fingers as she tugged at the flame and took a deep drag. Her
expression was concentrated.

"At least your uncle's back," he said.

"Yes."

This did not have the reassuring effect he intended. Her gaze roiled,
swinging toward highway traffic and back onto him.

"Art…if Conley finds out anything bad about Peter, how would you
react?"

"Bad? What do you mean?"

"If Peter made a mistake…did something foolish."

"Foolish? He was over-ambitious, maybe. Too hard-driving. But I never
considered him foolish." Gallagher tried for a comforting tone. "I'm
sure that any mistakes he made were honest ones."

She contemplated his answer by bringing her cigarette to her lips for
another deep drag. The ember flared hard and yielded a long ash. As she
withdrew her hand, wind swirled around the corner and knocked the ash away in
dust-sized fragments. For Gallagher there was a helpless, susceptible quality in
this. He endeavored to reassure her further.

"Your husband was a fine reporter, Claire."

"Thank you, Art…" She exhaled smoke and cleared her throat.
Next she looked away; her whole body appeared to shudder. One arm remained
wrapped tight against her stomach.

"Are you sure you're not cold?"

"No. It's more nerves."

"Of course. I'm sorry."

On the highway, a tractor-trailer truck roared by and emitted several loud
blasts from its air horn. Gallagher took a drag of his own and waited until the
harsh noise tapered away.

"By the way. I assume Conley hasn't called?"

Her eyes widened and she reached into her suit pocket. When her hand found
the device, she remained immobile for several seconds. She extracted it with a
trembling palm and examined the LCD screen. Flush rose again in her face,
despite the frigid air.

"No.
Nothing."