Live from Moscow (32 page)

CHAPTER NINETY-SIX

Gallagher didn't waste critical seconds stepping back into his office.
Instead he grabbed a phone from an empty reporter's desk. "I see," he
said, in staccato syllables. "How long ago? Thanks." He slammed down
the receiver and turned back to Claire, Larson and Frick. "Harry just left
for lunch," he explained, backing away. "I might still be able to
catch him downstairs."

"We'll come too," Larson said, Frick following a half-step behind
her.

Gallagher dodged a desk and glanced back at Claire. She passed the others
and drew alongside him, holding out her cell-phone and punching buttons with
her thumb. "Don't bother," he told her, starting to pant. "His
secretary said he left his phone behind..."

At full march perspiration broke from his armpits, while his thudding
strides and trailing cohort activated alarm. Editors and reporters cleared a
path. Past newsroom reception he charged down the narrow, single-file
escalator, sliding rubber safety railings through both hands. Machinery boomed
and shuddered under his mass; over the din he heard Claire's heels clanging
close behind. At bottom the steel floor panel came up fast. He grunted as one
leg almost gave out.

"Art!" Claire shouted, clasping his shoulder from behind.

"I'm okay…" Back on balance, he whirled, put his head down,
and flung open glass doors into the main lobby. In brighter daylight he made a
quick scan, then focused his vision through the tall, green-glass atrium facing
Morrissey Boulevard. Whitcombe was climbing into the rear of his limousine, one
foot still planted on the asphalt.

Before the driver closed the door, Gallagher burst through the entrance,
shouted "
Harry!"
and lumbered down the wheelchair ramp.
Whitcombe re-extracted his angular frame, swathed in gray overcoat. His weary
resolve appeared to mingle with dread.

"It's Conley, Harry…I just got a call…" Gallagher
paused, leaned forward with his hands on his knees, lungs heaving. "Excuse
me…" he said, straightening. "From Stanson in
Moscow…Conley missed his dinner appointment…His interpreter is gone
too…"

Gallagher felt Claire's hand on his back. Comradeship in crisis. Larson and
Frick finally drew up alongside. When his breathing moderated enough for
continuous speech he relayed the rest.

"No leads?" Whitcombe asked when he was done.

"None."

"What's Stanson doing in response?"

"Monitoring the situation for now, through Shakuri. He's planning to
fly down on Thursday."

"Thursday? Today's Tuesday…"

"Almost Wednesday morning in Tajikistan."

Gallagher felt a chill from the wintry air. Looking down, he realized his
perspiration had soaked through his underwear and imprinted foot-long ovals
under the armpits of his shirt. Whitcombe considered the situation, squinting
toward the harbor.

"We can't stand still," he said after brief seconds.

Larson drew a step closer, intent. Whitcombe glanced at her, noticed Frick
over her shoulder, then re-fixed on Gallagher.

"I'd like you to fly there, Art. To Dushanbe…to be on the scene
as soon as possible."

Astonished and still panting, Gallagher was at a loss for words.

"Claire, I'd like you to go also," Whitcombe added, turning toward
her.

"Me?"

 "You're part of this. Probably more than anyone."

Claire's mouth dropped in shock before her wide gaze shifted to Gallagher
and another reaction took hold. Gallagher couldn't classify it precisely.
Whatever tumultuous forces had unsettled her over the weekend unsnarled and
reordered. Hitherto vague notions crystallized. Her eyes seized with re-found
purpose. He could feel it, even if the outlines weren't clear to him.

She saw a way forward again.

Expressions on Larson and Frick told a different story. This was
thermonuclear. Gallagher finally managed a response.

"We'll get on it, Harry. However there are issues of visas and
transport…"

Whitcombe had not lost capacity for command after all and would brook no
obstacles. "Art, I suggest you get back on the phone with Stanson,"
he said. "Have him push necessary buttons. Try to get on his plane from
Moscow to Dushanbe on Thursday."

Gallagher made some quick calculations and cleared his throat.
"Actually Harry…that could work."

All five of them stood in dazed silence as wind gusted off the harbor,
blowing up Whitcombe's salt-and-pepper forelock. It also shot through
Gallagher's soaked shirt and undershirt, inducing harsh tingling on the wet
skin underneath. This was precisely the outcome for Conley that he had feared.
From behind Claire pressed her hand more firmly against the damp fabric on his
back. Her touch felt directed now, somehow more resolute. It was also
trembling. Gallagher realized she wasn't the only one.

"Art, you're shivering. Let's go back inside. Time is short."

CHAPTER NINETY-SEVEN

As Shakuri's footsteps receded down the hallway Conley strode over to the
desk and tugged open the zipper to the laptop case. Oleg raised his eyebrows,
jaded and incurious, and pulled up a chair. With care Conley extracted the
device and placed it on the desk. It was a dark-gray, standard-variety Dell. He
also unzipped the back side of the case, which was divided into several
compartments. Peripherals were well organized; cords and cables coiled.

"A lot neater than mine," he observed.

Next he found a mouse and power cable, which he connected, attaching the
latter to an electrical outlet under the desk. Configured and ready, he pressed
power on. While the operating system booted they waited in silence, both
disinclined for now toward further play-acting. A screen soon appeared with a
password prompt.

"Oh no, just what we need…"

Oleg shook his head and reached toward the keyboard. "Here, let
me…" His fingers danced across the keys for 10 seconds until he hit
"Enter." Booting resumed. "It's just Windows," he said,
leaning back.

Icons materialized on screen and Conley focused. A standard array of
applications, installed by the
World Tribune
systems
department---nothing unusual. Except one: Hoderer-Feltz Bank, Zurich, an
elegant icon that seemed more Old World than New. He clicked, unsure what he
would find. To his surprise the application opened at once, no further password
required. A custom program, but relatively simple. The main page contained the
name and address of the bank in Zurich, along with an account number. There
were also three tabs:
Balance
,
Incoming
and
Outgoing.
He
clicked
Balance
. A new window popped up. There was a single, stark
figure, denominated in U.S. dollars: 1,250,000. Stunned for an instant, he
glanced back at Oleg, whose eyes were also on the number. The Russian showed no
reaction.

Next he clicked
Incoming
, popping open another window showing the
same number: $1,250,000. Also carrying a transfer date of October 15
^th
---the
date that Bradford had interviewed Shakuri and dined at the villa. The
originating bank was in Luxembourg. He glanced back again at Oleg and found the
same bland stare.

"You don't seem surprised."

Oleg snorted. "Should I be?"

"Fits Shakuri's story. But it might be a ruse. Shakuri could have
installed the program."

"And Usmonov?"

"Before drawing conclusions let's look in some other
applications."

Conley found Bradford's e-mail client and opened it. There was a message
from Gallagher in the
Inbox
---one Conley had already read back in
Boston. He clicked on
Sent Mail
. There was a long list of messages,
mostly to Gallagher. At top was one addressed to
[email protected], dated October 15
^th
. Startled again,
he clicked on the header:

Franz,

I have confirmed receipt of US$1,250,000 to my new account. I would like
to invest half of this amount in six-month U.S. Treasuries and UK gilts, and
the other half in high-yielding European corporate debt. Please provide
appropriate suggestions.

I expect another $1.25 million transfer in about two weeks.

Regards,

Peter Bradford

"Had his investment strategy all worked out," Oleg observed in a
caustic tone.

Conley sat back and crossed his arms, still incredulous. "Such a
straight arrow…such a great future ahead. Hard to believe." He
looked at Oleg again, who only clamped his lips in distaste. "You seemed
to expect it all along, Oleg. Can I ask why?"

For the first time all evening, the Russian laughed. "Instinct, I
guess. It's not important. The main question is…what are you going to do
now?"

"Assuming we get out of here?"

"Of course."

"I'll report what I found. There's no choice."

His smile disappeared and he shot Conley an impatient glance, waving his
index finger at the ceiling. Eavesdropping was a new phenomenon in Conley's
experience and so bizarre that he had quickly forgotten about it. He recovered
himself.

"Well...I suppose we should consider our options…" This came
out like a line from a laughable high school drama production. He felt awkward
and suddenly tired. "…Bradford profited, and…"

"Why shouldn't we?" Oleg suggested.

"Yes...perhaps."

"I suggest we…you…sleep on it."

"Not a bad idea." Conley looked over at one of the beds and
noticed a clock on the nightstand. The time was nearly one a.m. What he needed
most now, he reckoned, was a good night's rest. The next day promised to be
strenuous, no matter how it developed.  He stood up, wondering if
Mehrangiz had supplied toothbrushes in the bathroom.

"Think about Bradford's wife," Oleg added, irony in his voice.

Conley managed a beleaguered laugh.

"Right. I’ll do that."

CHAPTER NINETY-EIGHT

Conley awoke with a restive jolt. The room was dark and the only
illumination came from moonlight filtering through the curtains. He reached
over and rotated the clock on the nightstand. He had to squint to read the
time: 5:17. His nervous system was taut. Not from instincts toward
self-preservation---though these would have fit the circumstances. More from
everyday compulsions.

Here he was in grave, even mortal, danger---held incommunicado as part of a
blundering, high-stakes geopolitical game---and all he could think about
was…the female sex.  He rolled over and drove his stiff appendage
into the mattress…Just before waking he’d had a dream: A frenetic
maelstrom in Moscow. Claire, Milena and Lilya in provocative mien. Irregular
outcomes. Details were already slipping away…

Across the room Oleg was snoring. The Russian mumbled and stirred. Conley
wondered if he was having a nightmare. About Shakuri? About Stanson's
collusion? The huge sums of money wasted, in such a corrupt region of the
world? Maybe all these together…He rolled onto one side, then onto the
other, trying to subdue his energies before making out the laptop through the
darkness, still set up on the desk. In response he ripped off his covers, swung
his legs out of bed, and tugged on his socks. Recalling that Mehrangiz had
mentioned bathrobes in the closet, he crossed over and pulled one on, then
cinched the belt, walked back to the desk and sat down. The computer was still
on and had had gone into dark-toned screensaver mode. When he hit a key he got
a password prompt.

"Damn!" he muttered. He glanced toward Oleg's bed: unsettled but
still sleeping.

Half out of frustration, he tapped in the first possibility that came to
mind:
Claire1.
To his surprise the screensaver vanished, re-displaying
Bradford's message to the Hoderer-Feltz Bank. He clicked back to Bradford's
Sent
File in the messaging application, and scanned down through the list for
September and October. There were no messages to Claire, just as she’d
indicated. Most were to Gallagher---others that Conley had also read when he
started the assignment. Some additional messages related to Bradford's
appointments in Prague and Moscow. He clicked on a half dozen of these, paying
special attention to messages to Stanson. Nothing unusual: dates, times,
preliminary queries.

Scrolling further back into September, another message caught his eye: to
Harry Whitcombe. The destination address was private: not bearing the
publisher’s
bostonworldtribune.com
suffix. With slight hesitation,
he clicked to open it:

Uncle Harry,

Enjoyed seeing you and Elizabeth and the rest of the clan for sailing
last month, when Claire and I were Stateside. The clambake was also delightful.
Sorry my work prevented me from joining you for golf in subsequent days.

For some months now I've had some issues I wanted to discuss about the
trust, but decided Marblehead in August wasn't the right time or place.

Since I turned 26 my income from the trust has been $150,000 per annum.
Coupled with my salary from the paper, that leaves Claire and me a substantial
base of support, even though Claire has been unable to gain any traction in her
career and contribute. But Paris, as you know, is an expensive city. And U.S.
and French taxes together swallow nearly half our inflow. Travel expenses have
eaten into the rest. Claire's parents have offered to help us buy
an apartment here, even with skyrocketing prices. But I've held them off
until now and we've stayed with a rental.

Still, that leaves us in a bind---barely breaking even. My question is
this: given my intention to make a career at the World Tribune, and to meet the
requirements specified by the trust, might some of this income be accelerated?
As I understand I will receive $350,000 annually---at current distribution
levels---if and when I move up to the Managing Editor position. I could really
use some of that in Paris just now.

On a related note, any chance that Art Gallagher might be encouraged to
retire sooner rather than later?

Respect and affection,

Nephew Peter

Conley stared on screen and shook his head---uneasy that he was delving into
private correspondence but also dismayed that Bradford had trouble living on
such an income. How much did two people need, even in Paris? In both London and
Boston Conley had managed fine on his salary; he'd even shaken off the
decimation of his savings by the Nasdaq meltdown in 2001. During the past year
he'd been helped, perhaps, by Jenna's insistence on sharing their restaurant
and vacation bills…Curious about Whitcombe's answer, he switched to
Bradford's incoming folders, sorted by date, and found what he wanted:

Peter,

I sympathize with your dilemma. I know Paris is expensive and that Claire
is accustomed to living well.

However great-grandfather Whitcombe was a stern master. We're still
abiding his rules today. I'm afraid my hands are tied; there's no choice but to
wait.

Art Gallagher? Art has been a faithful servant to the paper for more than
three decades. We haven't even broached the subject of retirement yet, although
he's approaching his mid-sixties. I've assumed this is still two to three years
out. I'm waiting for his initiative.

Janet Larson has lately suggested---in her typical subtle way---that Art
should be nudged aside. Seems she has one of her protégés in
mind, as a way of consolidating her grip and also heading off your ascendance.
She's astute in many ways, but this isn't Minnesota. She's got a lot to learn
about the way we operate here.

My advice for now? Have a talk with Claire. Convince her to keep her
spending down. And hang in there.

In love and support,

Uncle Harry

P.S. - Enjoyed your piece last week about tensions in NATO over the
European Expeditionary Force.

All of a sudden Conley noticed the room had grown quiet; Oleg had stopped
mumbling and thrashing. He glanced over at the bed and saw Oleg lying on his
side with eyes open, staring back.

"Bad dreams?" he asked.

Oleg didn't answer. He swung his legs out of bed and sat with his elbows on
his thighs. After a moment, he looked up.

"Anything interesting?"

"Well…more substantiation of Shakuri's story."

Oleg clamped his lips again. His eyes were bleary but still not surprised.

Conley summarized what he'd read, highlighting Bradford's financial strains.
The Russian shook his head.

"Poor guy. A common problem."

"Bradford? A poor guy? With trust fund income…and a good salary
besides?"

"I mean with such a wife."

"Claire? She's from a well-to-do family, as far as I gathered."

Oleg was still bleary. "I don't mean just money."

"What, then?"

"I've understood she's attractive. Right?"

"Well, yes…"

"Ambitious?"

"I don't know. In her own way, maybe."

"Determined? Always wanting to go forward?"

Conley paused and recalled his week in Paris in more detail. Claire's
parting stipulations at Charles de Gaulle Airport were most vivid.

"I guess I'd have to say so."

"It can be difficult to refuse such women…to slow them
down."

With effort Conley tried to reconcile the picture. "I can appreciate
that to some extent. But to make the choice that Bradford did? To compromise
himself in this way? And with a repulsive kleptocrat like Shakuri?"

As if reprimanding a careless child, Oleg held up his index finger again and
pointed at the ceiling----another reminder about listening devices. This caused
Conley to expel a long breath, chafing anew at the limitation. The Russian
resumed.

"We don't know. He might have been under her sexual thrall. Sometimes
guys like Bradford…straight arrows, you call them?…are susceptible
to that."

"All because of sex? That's a bit extreme, isn't it? In my case, I'd
never…" Conley stopped himself. His thoughts muddled.

Oleg was insistent.

"It happens all the time."