Live from Moscow (37 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-TEN

By Gallagher's reckoning a daily newspaper was compelled to cover the sweep
of human existence: the whole mixed bag. This included, by unfortunate
necessity, the repellent and disruptive---crime, catastrophe, armed conflict,
disease, corruption. The less agreeable aspects of life on the planet.

Reporters, at least those on his watch, were supposed to be the detached
chroniclers of this malady and chaos. Not the propagators, as beset by avarice
and delusion as everyone else.

Maybe recent turmoil with Whitcombe should have inured him. The mystifying
and unexpected could come from anywhere, even closest proximity. He leaned
forward on knees and stroked his beard.

"So you're telling me Bradford planned this all along?"

"Sure looks that way," Conley said.

They sat in two cylindrical chairs upholstered in bright fabric, situated
before wide, plate-glass windows in Gallagher's room. Curtains were open.
Snowflakes fluttered down outside, glittering with refracted light from the
hotel entrance driveway six floors below. Beyond was a background panorama of
the river and nighttime Moscow. They hardly took notice. Conley was also
leaning forward on his knees, appearing overcharged rather than fatigued by his
recent ordeal. Earlier he'd placed the empty duffel bag aside. Now he pointed
to the laptop case, lying on the small circular table between them.

"It's corroborated there."

"Corroborated or confirmed?"

"Not quite confirmed, but almost. Consistent with everything Shakuri
claimed."

Conley had already filled out the whole story: kidnapping, surreal purgatory
at the villa, Oleg's presumed links with Russian intelligence, the stunning
rescue by Russian
Spetzsluzhbi.
 Gallagher had listened with rapt
attention, injecting occasional queries---an editor intent on details. He'd
also listened with the stupefaction a man in his 60s who has encountered most
of the gamut but is surprised to learn there are yet more bizarre and
unimagined permutations. Human capacity for folly and self-ruin was remarkable
indeed.

"I suppose Bradford was always something of a cipher to me," he
said to Conley.

"I never knew him as well as you did."

"So gifted. So privileged. Why would he do it?"

Conley thought for a moment. "More than just money, it seemed."

"What then?"

"Shakuri kept emphasizing Claire."

"Lots of men are devoted to their wives. But why such recklessness?
Loss of judgment?"

"I've wondered about that."

"Any theories?"

Conley hesitated, then leaned back and ran a hand through his hair. His
cheeks inflated as he exhaled, as if he was fighting some interior pressure. At
once Gallagher guessed what that was.

"Have you told anyone else this?"

"The only other person who knows is Oleg. And now you."

"I appreciate that. Why?"

Elaboration didn't come easily to Conley. "I haven't worried about the
reputation of the paper, to be honest."

"Well…it will be a blow. No doubt about that."

"I'm also not worried about the impact on U.S. foreign policy, either.
I mean the ramifications for the aid bill. That strikes me as a three-ring
circus anyway."

Gallagher shook his head and grunted, remembering Stanson's fatuous
oversimplifications.

"Claire, on the other hand…" Conley didn't finish.

Gallagher reacted with a similar drawn-out exhalation, and also reclined in
his chair. He then stroked his beard, raked by disquiet of his own. Claire's
presence across the hall was a palpable reminder of what had become his
parallel priority with this assignment. Conley was safe; his most pressing
priority was accomplished.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" he asked.

Conley seemed glad for the interruption.

Gallagher used a matchbook provided by the hotel. During his initial drag
Bradford's laptop was next to the tabletop ashtray, mute and inert but inviting
contemplation.

"In normal working order?" he asked.

"Yes." Conley shook his head, showing regret but not spelling it
out.

The subtext was clear to both of them. If the computer had been destroyed as
Shakuri had intended, or had never been found, Shakuri's claims could have been
dismissed as the eleventh-hour rants of a desperate charlatan. His
incriminations would have been almost impossible to investigate, and unsuitable
for publication. As it was…

Gallagher took another deep drag, squinting at the machine.

"Do you think Claire knew?" he asked Conley.

"In Paris, I was pretty sure she didn't. After that I can't say."

Gallagher experienced a sudden onrush of connections. Events of the previous
two weeks tipped in relentless, interlocking sequence and created a
pattern…Whitcombe's mysterious disintegration…Claire's abrupt
journey to the U.S. over "estate issues"…their urgent
consultations in New Hampshire…Followed by her rush back to Boston and
frantic involvement in newsroom affairs. Whitcombe had run across the money, he
guessed, even if its origins weren't clear. Then passed that information on to
Claire.

"Why don't we just ask her?" Conley volunteered.

"Let's not rush…and reduce our options. We want to handle this as
best we can."

At first Conley appeared puzzled, then…buoyed…as if he'd spotted
an exit marker. An instant later his expression became more guarded. These were
forbidden waters. Gallagher studied him, taking another drag on his cigarette.
The contrast with Bradford was heartening. Here was conscience, even if pulled
in two directions. As for the rest…Conley's supposed predilections were
proving inaccurate. No way they applied here. Not after the crushing blunder
he'd perpetrated just last year with Tracey Whitcombe.

Moreover Claire was not that type of girl.

In this case a different impulse manifested itself. The sort of virtue
Gallagher thought had disappeared from the last generation or two. Sometimes
gallantry came from improbable quarters.

"Don't get me wrong," he said. "I'm not trying spare the
paper here. Or even Harry Whitcombe, for that matter."

Conley studied him in return.

Gallagher believed some of Whitcombe's tribulation was deserved. Claire, on
the other hand, was different. An unimpeachable casualty of her husband's greed
and overreach. In broader sweep, even a collateral victim of the war on terror.
Her visit to Belmont the previous Sunday already seemed like ages ago. Since
then his sympathies had deepened, due perhaps to his reflexes as a father. Her
struggles had become his own.

Not that he would compromise truth…He hadn't done that in his entire
career. They just needed to delete one small part while retaining essentials.
Edit out one component without damaging the whole. Spare Claire without sparing
Stanson. And the risks, if there were any? Larson had him in her crosshairs.
Frick was insufferable. And absurdities of previous weeks made retirement look
like an improvement.

"Let's consider some different approaches," he said, before taking
another drag.

Conley raised his eyebrows.

"Hypothetical ones," Gallagher emphasized, exhaling gradually and
squinting at Conley through the smoke.

Conley brightened---a ready and reliable participant.

"First, the evidence," Gallagher continued. "Do we know for
sure this money was a bribe? That there was quid pro quo?"

"No. Not absolutely."

Gallagher paused, holding his dwindling cigarette near his lips. Was he
going too far? For an instant he wondered if his judgment had been befouled by
jet lag. With a decisive movement he stubbed out the butt in the ashtray. No,
he determined. The fault lay with this assignment. It had been dubious from the
beginning. And evolved into fiasco.

Now was time to find a redeeming outcome.

"Okay, then," he said. "Let's talk this through."

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-ELEVEN

The digital bed-clock read 12:51. Conley double-checked it against his
watch. The hour was suitable. More nocturnal the better. He hoped Gallagher was
right. Their plan was already in motion. There was no space to backtrack.

Two floors up, Gallagher was writing an initial bulletin to send back to the
World Tribune.
Within minutes of transmission wire services would pick
it up. Reports and commentary would cascade across far corners of the globe.
Swift and indelible consequences in Boston and Washington.
Convulsions in politics and diplomacy here Moscow, and back in Dushanbe. Conley
took a deep breath, smelling the odor of Gallagher's cigarettes on his clothes.
Finally he stood, wrapped his scarf around his neck and buttoned his overcoat.
He considered telephoning Oleg for help, but decided this was best done solo.
Time was short, and the fewer complications the better.

He
really
hoped Gallagher was right.

Bradford's laptop case lay on a luggage platform by his closet; Conley
grabbed the twin handles and slung the strap over one shoulder. In his other
hand he clutched his fur hat, exited the room, and closed the door with as
little noise as possible.

An instant later the hotel phone rang from inside, its two-tone electronic
sound resonating up and down the quiet corridor. Acting upon his first
instinct, he re-inserted his key-card, jump-stepped back inside, and shut the
door. Had Gallagher developed second thoughts? Stanson, in a last-ditch
scramble to shape the outcome? He decided there was no choice but to answer, in
case the caller was Gallagher. On the third ring he picked up.

"Steve, this is Claire."

She was speaking fast. Her voice was strained and excited, even more than
earlier.

"I've wanted to see you. Were you up with Art?"

"Well, yes, for a short talk…"

"Can I see you now?"

"It's late, Claire. I suggest we wait until morning. Art and I are
meeting downstairs for breakfast at 7:30. We're going to review
everything…"

"Steve, I really can't wait. I'll be right down."

"Claire, I…"

She hung up.

Conley thought fast. He considered stowing the laptop in the closet, or
exchanging a few words with her before leaving. It was impossible…Claire
was not the type to be sloughed off. Within seconds he spun heel and bolted
back out of his room.

Not Claire. Especially not now.

His door closed with an over loud thud, making him wince. He glanced toward
the elevators---and wary of intersecting with her---clasped the laptop to his
hip and sprinted toward the stairwell. Behind him he heard the bell ring and
the doors slide open. As he reached the stairway exit he yanked down the lever
and pivoted inside, grasping the interior handle and releasing it with as much
delicacy as he could.

The click was muted but audible. Leaving no time to linger. He lunged down
the stairs and grappled the tubular railing, taking steps two at a time down
through the third and second floors. Ten seconds later he burst into the lobby,
heart pounding, and slowed his pace. There were still dozens of people present
despite the late hour, and among them, in the lounge area, he spotted one of
Stanson's security detail rising to his feet and raising a walkie-talkie. Eyes
forward, he traversed the open area near reception with a swift, controlled
stride. At the entrance the sliding glass doors opened in quick sequence, and
once outside he veered to his left, where several taxis were waiting. Halfway
down the U.S. Embassy SUV remained parked in the fluttering snow. He jumped
inside the first taxi in line.

"Just go!" he half shouted to the driver, pointing two fingers
toward the avenue.

The middle-aged driver was alarmed but nonetheless started up and roared
down the drive. Passing the front entrance Conley caught another glimpse of the
lobby. No sign of Claire. He sighed with relief, then looked back. The SUV had
illumined headlights and was following about 15 meters behind.

"Idiots!" he said in a loud voice.

The driver startled and apprised him in the rear view mirror.

"You speak English?"

"A little."

At bottom the driver merged onto the riverside boulevard, where the
late-night traffic was moderate and fast-moving, and snowfall only a minor
impediment to visibility.  Conley looked back again over his shoulder. The
massive grill and multiple headlights of the SUV loomed behind. The security
guard was keeping close contact, preventing other vehicles from interposing
themselves in the lane.

"Can you lose that SUV?"

The driver examined his mirror again. "The truck?"

"Yes. That’s the one."

The driver didn't answer but stepped on the gas and shifted lanes, shooting
several cars ahead of the SUV. Within seconds the guard adjusted and re-closed
the distance. They were now sweeping down the river at considerable speed. Much
faster and this escapade would turn dangerous.

Stanson's single-mindedness had gone way too far.

"Where?" the driver asked, looking at Conley with a furrowed brow
in the mirror.

"There." Conley pointed ahead. "Take a right on that side
street."

The driver abruptly re-shifted lanes and did as instructed, compelling
Conley to grasp the seat back as the Volga rounded the corner. Conley glanced
again over his shoulder. The SUV's chassis tilted as it hit the turn, before
its grill and headlights popped back on course. Feeling a ripple of dismay, he
swore. He was a U.S. citizen, a journalist engaged in private activity, not a
terrorist or criminal. …The situation was devolving into the bizarre. He
examined the street through the windows: quiet, with darkened residential
buildings. Parked cars and snow-banks were tight on both sides, forcing the
driver to moderate his speed.

"There," he pointed. "Back toward Kiev Station."

The driver did as told, then looked in the mirror. In his growing alarm he
blurted a question in Russian. Conley guessed its meaning.

"Then take the bridge…Let’s get to the other side of the
river."

Around the station they veered around scattered pedestrians and circumvented
several parking areas. The SUV did likewise and stayed tight behind, its
massive grill looming even closer through the illuminated snowflakes. The taxi
driver kept one eye on the mirror as they ascended a ramp toward the bridge.
Halfway across Conley's cell-phone rang from his coat pocket, giving him a
start. He extracted it from his coat pocket. The number on display was
Claire's---the last distraction he needed at the moment. He turned off the
ringer.

"Where now?" the driver asked as they reached the opposite
embankment.

This couldn't go on, Conley decided. It was preposterous. An idea hit him,
drawn from one of his taxi rides with Oleg the previous week.

"Church of Christ the Savior. You can drop me off there."

The driver look perplexed for an instant, but appeared to understand. Most
of all he was relieved to hear an endpoint.

"Just at church?"

"That’s right. And you can take it at normal speed on the
way."

At the next intersection they turned right up a wide boulevard, heavily
trafficked despite the late hour, and cruised down the middle lane until they
re-approached the opposite loop of the
Moskva.
Now certain of their
destination, the driver remained wordless as he changed lanes, exited a
down-ramp and turned left at a green light. On the ensuing riverside
thoroughfare the illuminated spires of the Kremlin loomed up off in the
distance, while the SUV remained hard on their bumper. Conley turned around in
his seat and made out its massive grill-work and rack-headlights, tempted to
throw a finger. He now regretted cutting Stanson some slack earlier in the
evening. Even more, he wished he could describe these ridiculous excesses in
his upcoming articles. Under the circumstances, however, he knew he’d
have to refrain.

The church came up fast along the embankment, and the driver exploited a
break in oncoming traffic to perform a sharp, illegal left-turn. The SUV
promptly followed suit with screeching tires, tilting on its chassis again and
provoking loud honks from onrushing traffic.

With the taxi in the lead, they entered a well-lit drive which appeared to
lead to underground parking beneath the church. "Here," Conley
pointed. "Near the bottom of those ramps." He glanced at the
counter, doubled the amount and hastily retrieved necessary rubles from his
wallet as the driver pulled to a stop. "…
Spasibo,"
he
said, before grabbing the laptop case and flinging open the door. Out on the
pavement he saw the SUV already halted, just two meters back. The guard emerged
from the driver’s side door and stepped around front, crew-cut and
goateed like the other one---an overweight thug. Conley was half-inclined to
pause and give him a dressing-down, a verbal thrashing. Even better an actual
one. Instead he kept it short, making sure he was heard above the nearby
traffic.

"You guys are out of control!" he shouted.

With a stone face the man stared back.

An instant later both of them caught sight of a police car about 30 meters
away, parked under a concrete awning closer to the church. Two Moscow cops were
visible inside, wearing their trademark fur hats. Seeing them, Conley
didn’t hesitate, and turned and bolted toward the ramps. Upon reaching
the first one, he looked back. The guard obviously wanted to follow, but was
preoccupied instead by the police car, which had turned on its headlights and
advanced out from its original position. To minimize further attention to himself,
Conley slowed to a fast walk. From the second and third ramps he verified that
he was proceeding alone.

At the broad stone terrace which surrounded the church on top, he performed
another scan, finding the area deserted and coated with new snow. The church in
its nighttime isolation presented a striking, even peaceful, tableau, but he
beheld it for just a few seconds before turning right toward the connected
footbridge. Its span was also empty. Part way out over the river, he cast
another look back at his drop-off point. The two policemen had now exited their
squad car, while the American guard remained in place, talking into his
walkie-talkie but unable to abandon his own vehicle.

When Conley reached the middle of the bridge he gazed out over the railings.
Jagged platelets of ice moved past in the current below, new since his sojourn
a week earlier. Ahead, through the fluttering flakes, a factory district came
into view on the opposite bank. It also appeared devoid of people and activity
at this hour, but he hoped he could find a taxi stand somewhere beyond.

By now Gallagher had probably filed the initial report. At last the way was
clear…for the other component of their plan.