Live from Moscow (39 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-FOURTEEN

Whatever misgivings Gallagher retained dissolved as he watched her. Across
the breakfast table Claire appeared unburdened and rejuvenated. Animated in a
way he remembered from brief encounters before Bradford's death---as if she
could now get on with the rest of her life.

This made all his recent trials a little more bearable. Absurdities less
acute.

He was convinced. He’d finally struck the balance he’d sought at
the beginning.

"Usmonov provoked the crisis," Conley explained to Claire,
re-tracing the prelude to the abduction, finger hooked in his third cup of
coffee. Oleg was in on the narration and eager to participate. "Right.
Because Shakuri couldn't leave us with the laptop."

"Why not?" Claire asked.

"It showed Shakuri had orchestrated a cover-up," Conley answered.

Claire frowned for an instant. "
Comment…
How?"

"Skakuri told Stanson and Hermann that the laptop was never found. This
was reported in the official Tajik and American investigations. It was a
lie."

"Once we got to the villa, we never saw that laptop again," Oleg
added.

"What happened to it…finally?"

"Destroyed," Conley said. "Shakuri didn't want to make the
same mistake twice."

They were nearly an hour and a half into an exhaustive review of Conley's
ill-starred days in Dushanbe. This exercise was intended partly to log and
synthesize facts for Conley's future articles in the
World Tribune
, with
questions from Gallagher and observations from Oleg, while the Russian's input
and recollections were still available. But it was also a summary presentation
to Claire. Modified and abridged, of course, just like the accounts that would
appear later in the paper.

It was proceeding well. With one caveat, Gallagher noted. Relieved as she
was, Claire detected missing elements. Her body language became a little
restive. This left him more convinced than ever that she had learned something
about Bradford's misconduct in New Hampshire and Boston. How else to explain
her distress over the weekend? Gallagher's thoughts were interrupted when
oversized boots appeared alongside the table. They were Stanson’s. Higher
up, the official displayed red-rimmed eyes behind his aviator glasses. Like Claire,
he also appeared unburdened, compared to the previous evening.

"Look, Steve. I'm here to apologize..."

With his mind on other matters, Conley was slow to react. He had told
Gallagher by phone about the erstwhile car chase, a stunt beyond the
pale---almost astonishing in the retelling. His face soured, while Gallagher's
own ire re-boiled; Stanson seemed to expect this.

"To you too, Art."

"Apologize? As damn well you should. What kind of nonsense was
that?"

"It was a tense night. Our guys just went a little overboard."

"Overboard?" Conley said at last. "To say the least."

"There are no excuses."

"You better believe it," Gallagher shot back, glaring. "We're
of a mind to write that that up for tomorrow's paper."

"Will you, if you don't mind my asking?"

It was almost certain that Stanson's security detail had seen Conley return
to the hotel, minus the laptop. For several seconds Gallagher didn't answer.
Conley’s distaste turned to unease.

"I know…Not my place," Stanson drawled, with an inflection
that carried a little too much inside game.

Claire's ears raised in full alert, her gaze darting back and forth across
the table.

"We're busy here Franklin," Gallagher snorted. "What do you
want?"

"Look…we took our licks yesterday in Washington. Mostly deserved.
I saw your story this morning…and connected it with everything last
night. Just want to say…you could have gone harder on us." He
directed a benign glance at Claire. "Whatever your reasons…well, we
appreciate the way it came out. You've left us with a chance to salvage
something."

Gallagher snorted again. "That wasn't our intention."

Stanson thought for a moment.

"Fair enough. Can I give you a ring later?"

"Maybe after lunch."

Gallagher was eager to get rid of him.

They watched Stanson amble out of the restaurant, pulling his cell-phone out
as he went. Silence at the table elongated past a comfortable
threshold…Gallagher stroked his beard. Conley gazed into his coffee.
Claire's eyes were narrowed, as if she was entitled to answers.

"Actually I have a few calls to make also," Oleg said. "I'll
excuse myself for about 10 minutes."

Oleg pulled back his chair; Gallagher and Conley watched him march past the
buffet counter. The shine in Claire's eyes grew more intense.

"Maybe a good time for a break anyway," Gallagher suggested.

"I agree," Conley said.

The two of them took last gulps of coffee and transferred napkins onto the
table. Claire's eyes narrowed further; she evidently wasn't pleased with this
evasion. "Okay, as you wish." Without pause she bolted up and strode
away, parting the mostly male clientele with quick, headlong progress. Her eyes
were on Oleg's back as he exited into the lobby.

"Uh oh," Conley observed. "She's identified a soft
target."

"I hope he's ready," Gallagher answered.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-FIFTEEN

Claire lost visual contact. By time she emerged into the lobby Oleg was
nowhere to be seen. She scanned back and forth before spotting him at a coat
check counter. Why was he going outside? Snow was piled a half-meter high and
temperatures were well below freezing. And it was supposed to be a short break.
This Russian really was inscrutable. Tightly contained. She wondered if she
could breech his sealed façade.

Still, he was alone. Split off from the pack, while Conley and Gallagher
maintained closed ranks back in the restaurant. She didn't hesitate. She was
halfway across the lobby, heels snapping, when he began buttoning his coat.

He raised his head and his austere expression vanished at once. Replaced by
one she didn't expect: both intimidated and gentle. He made eye contact with a
hapless half-grin.

"Claire…"

"Going outside, Oleg?"

"Well, yes…I need some fresh air. And the lobby's noisy."

She crossed her arms and took a step closer. He stiffened, holding his
half-grin. Her position blocked his path.

"I wanted to ask you a few questions," she said, slowing the
tempo. "While I had the chance."

"But we're going to start again in 10 minutes."

"I know."

"And I need to make a couple of calls."

"I'll go with you. I could use some fresh air myself."

"They're sort of…private."

"I don't speak Russian, so I won't understand anything."

"Hmmm…of course…" He nodded once, defenseless.
"Wait…what about your coat?"

"It will be short. And I seldom get cold."

He looked at her again, before nodding in surrender.

"Okay."

Claire fell in step beside him, her arms still crossed tight. At the sliding
doors, Oleg put on his fur hat, his gaze reserved, aimed down. Something about
his manner struck her. She performed a quick re-assessment. In one sense the
Russian resembled Conley. Beholden to the female of the species. Though minus
Conley's rash, uncontrollable impulses. Here was the civilized variant. She
liked her chances.

To obtain what was another question. She'd gotten what she wanted. Why did
she remain dissatisfied?

Mid-morning sun was relatively bright, with little wind. Still, the
temperature contrast was bracing. As they crossed to a small terrace that
jutted out onto the snow-covered front grounds of the hotel and drew to a stop,
her receptors notched even higher.

He pulled out his cell-phone but didn't punch any buttons. First privilege,
as she anticipated, fell to her. From the other side of the hotel she heard a
train, departing Kiev station. She locked eyes with him while remaining polite.

"Oleg, please tell me what's going on."

"With what?"

"You, Steve, Art…You're not telling me something."

"About what happened in Dushanbe?"

"About what happened to Peter in Dushanbe."

He reacted with an anguished expression, glanced sideways at her, then gazed
out toward ice flows on the
Moskva
.

"There is something, isn't there?" she persisted.

His mouth opened as if he wanted to ask a question. He stopped. Claire kept
a civilized distance, arms crossed. No advantage in moving closer. Oleg was not
Conley.

"Let me put it this way, Claire," he said at last, choosing his
words with care. "Steve made a hard choice."

"What kind of choice?"

"To withhold certain…information."

"What, exactly?"

"You're putting me in a difficult position, Claire…Aren't you
cold out here?"

Claire had hardly noticed. Her curiosity now consumed her. This lack of
confirmation was intolerable. She re-tightened her crossed arms and stared at
him, not moving. Oleg continued after a reluctant pause.

"Let's put it this way…Some unpleasant facts emerged. Not things
that happened to Peter. Things that he did."

"What things?"

"Claire, please."

"Peter was my husband. Don't I have a right to know?"

Instead of answering he studied her for a moment---discerning,
circumspect---then turned his eyes downward onto the paving stones of the
terrace, from which snow had been brushed away. His cell-phone hung at his side
in one hand: calls forgotten. She waited. Civilized or not, he was not going to
get off the hook. When he looked up his eyes were more decisive; his words came
in a purposeful stream.

"I won't tell you what those facts are. That's not my place. You'll
either have to find them out for yourself, or someone else will have to tell
you. What I can tell you is this. Steve didn't make this choice for selfish
reasons. Or for the sake of the paper. Or because of Art…although Art was
part of the decision. He made it for your sake."

"Me?"

"What your husband did in Dushanbe was…embarrassing. Disgraceful,
truth be told. You would have been ashamed. Steve recognized that and tried to
spare you. With Art's consent, of course."

"But for me? Why?"

"He said he’d added to your distress in Paris, and that he
didn’t have the heart to do it again. He also mentioned something about
redressing a wrong he’d committed last year with his
publisher…though that part I didn’t understand."

For a fleeting instant Claire thought she saw moistness form in the
Russian's eyes: a glimpse into a deep well of sentiment behind the controlled
exterior. He promptly re-contained himself, and resumed.

"I'll be direct, Claire, if I may. Steve hardly knows you, really.
Nonetheless he's tried to undo damage that your husband did. And he's taken
great risk in the process."

This comparison to Peter rattled her; in a way she didn't expect. Her eyes
also grew moist.

"I would say you’re lucky…lucky that Steve was the reporter
on this assignment."

She felt disoriented all of a sudden.

"…If I can give you any advice, Claire, it's this. Don't press
Steve about this. That would just add to his challenges. Especially today. He's
got stories to file. And he and Art have to contend with Franklin Stanson. Just
accept that he's done something good for you. And stand by in quiet
appreciation."

"Stand by…?"

Her voice was hoarse and trailed off. Moscow seemed to shift and undulate
underfoot. Snow and sky became an unsteady kaleidoscope of blue-grays and
indistinct horizons. Her interior coordinates also loosened: a spontaneous
re-ordering. Since New Hampshire and Boston she'd lacked a satisfactory focal
point; self-preservation wasn't enough…

"Claire, are you okay?"

Crystals tumbled into place. New colors and alignments emerged---ones she
never anticipated. In them, Conley evoked not qualms and apprehensions but
…gratitude. And to think she'd flogged him forward through trials he
might have avoided on his own…Here in Moscow even contrived to exploit
his susceptibilities. Her own egotism appalled her. How could she have been so
oblivious? Francois had been right. She
had
gone to excess. She bent
forward slightly to bring more blood-flow to her head, and took several deep
breaths. When she stood straight Oleg’s eyes were infused with sympathy.

"I'm sorry Claire. Maybe I went too far."

"No, Oleg…you were right."

They stood in silence for a long moment. Claire continued her regulated
ventilation. Gradually the snowbound cityscape stabilized. At last Oleg
appeared somewhat reassured. Then something caught his attention across the
hotel drive.

"Lilya!"

The salutation caught Claire off guard. Oleg waved to a young hatless woman
across the drive, about to enter the hotel. She stopped and looked back: tall,
slender and with a shy smile. About 20 or 21, Claire surmised, and bearing an
extraordinary resemblance to Tracey Whitcombe. Though probably Russian.

The young woman hesitated for a moment, unsure whether to interrupt, and
greeted him. "Steve's in the restaurant," he said in English, loud
enough to be heard above nearby traffic. "…I'll be there in five
minutes." The girl smiled again and continued into the hotel. Her gait was
long-legged. Claire watched her disappear.

"Who's that…?

"Oh…just a girl Steve met here last week."

"I'll let you make your calls, Oleg," she said suddenly.

He looked at her, appraising the change.

"Thank you for everything."

Before Oleg had a chance to utter another word she turned heel and strode
back into the hotel.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-SIXTEEN

Conley observed Gallagher at the buffet, surveying the pastry selection
through his bifocals. At peace, it seemed. All they had to do now was stymie
Claire's curiosity through the afternoon, and file a follow-up bulletin back to
the paper, which would lay groundwork for later feature articles. Conley was
confident about Oleg; the Russian was the epitome of restraint.

He did a double take and put down his coffee cup.

Lilya had entered the restaurant. When he stood and waved, she located him
and came over, grabbing attention from several quarters, more exceptional even
than he remembered. Tall and flawless. Like Tracey. During his week in Dushanbe
she'd become almost an abstraction.

"I got your phone message when I was in class," she said.
"Maybe I should have called first."

Conley deflected her apology and gave her a hug, surprised to see her so
soon---especially when her returning embrace became tender and prolonged. Inhibitions
from their previous encounters seem to have melted away. He was not
complaining.

"I was following everything on Russian news," she said.

"Well, it turned out okay."

"I was worried."

"Thanks, Lilya…

While they were still standing close he glanced over her shoulder and
trailed off. Claire was marching past the maitre d', a new kind of urgency in
her step. Her inquisitive cast was gone, replaced by a look of
gratitude…and something else. His first concern was that Oleg told her
more than he should have.

Gallagher returned with his plate and introductions followed. As everyone
sat down, Claire took the chair next to Conley, leaving Lilya across the table
and looking a little uncomfortable. Conley didn't know what to make of the
situation. Hadn't he relieved Claire of those pressures? Done his duty?

"You actually came at a good time, Lilya," he said, trying to put
her at ease.

"I'm not interfering?"

"We were on a break."

No warning signals showed in Oleg’s eye when he rejoined them. Instead
a glimpse of deep emotion---a facet of him Conley had not seen before. Had
Claire gotten to the Russian? Her inflection suggested that she had.

"Finish all your calls, Oleg?" she asked him.

"Yes."

Gallagher took a bite of pastry and wiped his beard with his napkin. He
appeared to appraise the new dynamic, and wasted little time.

"Shall we get started again?"

"Sounds good," Conley answered, reaching for his notepad. "I
suggest we review details of the rescue operation. Okay with you, Oleg?"

"Fine with me."

Lilya asked them if it was okay if she stayed. Conley saw no reason why not.

"Of course. You're a journalism student. You might benefit." 

She hesitated. "Okay."

He flipped to a fresh page. At Luzhniki Stadium he'd made a vow. This was
going to be a different kind of release. Different from the one he’d
envisioned at first. That meant avoiding Claire in the aftermath. Not
revisiting impulses from Paris.

Maybe Lilya offered a way out.

"This part should be more straightforward," Gallagher observed as
they re-started their review.

Conley hoped that would be true.