Live from Moscow (10 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

In subsequent days, Conley tried to determine when he'd taken leave of his
full faculties. Front to front in the rowboat, Claire close-by in the stern?
Before blazing hearth at the inn, Claire with slacks plastered dry and face
lustrous from heat? Hobbling out in tandem after goblets of brandy?

At least one feature was clear. By time he found himself sitting alone on a
marble bench in her lobby, back in Paris, while she parked her car, his maxim
had flipped.

Anyone but Claire
no longer applied.

It had become something like:
Claire is all that matters just now.

Conley caught his image in the lobby mirror. Hair windblown from the Grand
Canal, then dried into a wild thicket at fireside. Eyes shiny and euphoric.

"It just won't stop," Claire said as she entered.

Rain drummed on the sidewalk outside. The iron and glass door clanged shut
as she shook the rainwater from her umbrella.

"…Anyway…we're back indoors."

Conley propelled himself to his feet before she could help. She looked at
him, curious.

"It suddenly feels better," he said.

She formed a smile.

However when they entered the elevator compartment and she pressed the floor
button, lingering rose drained from her cheeks. She averted her eyes. Several
seconds passed before Conley remembered why. As they ascended, elevator whirring
and clanking in keeping with an earlier epoch, his impulses gained a sudden and
fatuous rationale. Simple human closeness. That was just what she needed.

When the door opened on the sixth floor there was no going back.

"This way," she said, leading him out and around a corner at a
slow pace because of his limp. Her apartment stood alone at the end of a side
corridor. When they reached it she lowered her head and fumbled for her keys in
her purse.  Conley stepped closer and clasped her upper arms with both
hands. She looked up---surprised.

"I know this week must have been challenging for you,
Claire…"

She studied him, unsure what to make of this.

"…And you've been exceptional…"

Words were irrelevant, he decided. He placed both hands behind her back,
then drew her into embrace. Her body stiffened, as she managed a measured
response.

"What can I say? Thank you."

She glanced at her door and back, as if this could still benign.

Instead he brought his lips down onto the side of her neck: gentle but
unambiguous. Immediately she shook free. Startled, Conley retreated and
re-focused. Tears materialized as she steadied herself against a wall with one
hand. They were short-lived.

In their place rose a boil of anger.

"Why did you do that?"

Conley couldn't answer. His move hadn’t seemed that forceful. Part of
it was also surprise. He'd been rebuffed before, but very seldom.

"I was just widowed…It's been a matter of weeks!"

"I'm sorry, Claire. That was completely out of place. Some impulse took
over…"

"Impulse? This is your work!"

Conley could only look back with wide eyes. Her glare made him cringe.

"There's no excuse…Perhaps I should go…"

She paused. By degrees, her anger appeared to recede. A more analytical
expression emerged. She reached into her handbag again, as Conley wondered what
would come next. Was she going inside to call Harry Whitcombe? Past
dislocations replayed themselves. His own recklessness astonished him. Her hand
trembled as she clicked the deadbolt free---though this seemed to indicate
determination rather than trauma. Before opening the door she turned back
toward him. Her hard gaze brooked no further nonsense.

"I invited you here because of what you went through in
Argenteuil," she said. "That was the
only
reason." She
paused again: one last re-consideration. Then she added, "We've gotten
this far. Stay for dinner anyway."

"Are you sure?

"Yes. This is a good point to talk some things through."

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Gallagher handed his keys over. The fellow looked like a college student.

This was a consistent virtue of Whitcombe's parties. Valet parking. No need
to search for a vacant spot on the streets of Cambridge on a Saturday evening.

"I never figured out where they bring the cars," Denise said, as
she took Gallagher's arm. They were in front of Whitcombe's Georgian mansion,
in an elegant, tree-lined neighborhood. The valet was already driving off.

"We could ask, if you’re curious."

They passed through a small gate and mounted several stone steps to a red
brick walkway. Clusters of people were visible through the lighted living room
windows: top-level editors and managers from various departments of the
Boston
World Tribune
. These affairs usually numbered about 50 people, including
spouses. Cocktails and hors d'oeuvres.  Whitcombe and his wife held them
twice a year: in spring and autumn. The autumn gatherings, Gallagher had noted,
never fell on the same weekend as the Harvard-Yale game.

Denise inclined her head and spoke in an undertone. "I'm still
surprised they're having it this year."

"Already been a few weeks. These Brahmins move on."

Inside a maid took their coats. Whitcombe and his wife Elizabeth greeted
them, gracious as usual. Elizabeth was a tall, slender woman with immaculate
courtesies from another era. Both husband and wife were products of a vanishing
New England WASP establishment.

Indeed, grief was not on display.

Gallagher and Denise meandered into a spacious, high-ceilinged living room,
with traditional furniture and light gray carpet. About 20 people milled about,
drinks in hand. Denise and Art opted for white wine presented by a roaming
waiter.

"My fellow marketer!" Gallagher felt a meaty hand on his shoulder
and turned to see the red face and jovial grin of Mike Fallon. Gallagher
responded with a beleaguered smile, remembering the ad campaign.

Fallon gave Denise a hearty kiss. "You know, Denise…I've never
spent as much time with your husband as I have this past week."

"Does he have good marketing instincts?"

"Unsurpassed among newsmen."

Gallagher shook his head and took a sip of wine. Fallon reacted with throaty
laugh and a gulp of scotch. Across the room Gallagher caught sight of Larson,
standing in front of the fireplace. Head bowed forward, in a
confidential-looking exchange with Nathan Frick, the new Deputy National
Editor. He'd followed her to Boston from their former shared employment at the
Minneapolis
Times.

"Art's too modest, Denise," Fallon continued. "Even more
space is being allocated."

Gallagher startled. "What?"

Fallon lowered his voice and nodded sideways toward the entry hall, where
Whitcombe was still greeting guests. "Harry wants to ratchet up the
campaign. The first ads have been moved up to Wednesday."

Gallagher stared back at Fallon, speechless.

"Look on the bright side, Art. If your man Conley comes through, you'll
be a hero."

"That's not my aim here."

"I'm just trying to make the best of all this."

After Fallon moved on Gallagher and Denise made their way over to Larson,
for obligatory hellos. When Larson turned to greet them she showed her usual
smoothness.

"Good to see you and Art in a social setting again," she said,
placing a solicitous hand on Denise's forearm. "It's been a difficult few
weeks."

Recent political maneuvers didn't help, Gallagher thought to himself. He
noticed Larson and Frick were both drinking mineral waters. Couldn't they relax
and suspend their plotting for one evening?

"And how are you enjoying Boston, Nathan?" Denise asked, trying to
be inclusive. "Settling in?"

Frick shifted from foot to foot. He was taut and wiry---an avid runner.
"We like it, thanks. Finally bought a house here, in Quincy. Our daughter
will start kindergarten there next year."

The four of them contrived some more strained small talk before Larson
pulled out her cell phone, glanced at the display and excused herself. Frick
beat a prompt exit to the hors d'oeuvres table, bypassing a nearby waiter with
a tray.

"Janet does seem a little different than earlier," Denise
observed, in an undertone again, as Gallagher helped himself to a small toast
with prosciutto and cheese. "Sure it's not just because of Bradford?"

"It's more than that."

They began a circumnavigation. Part way along Denise lingered with Megan
Fallon. Gallagher continued on his own. Later he cut through the adjoining
dining room to the hallway bathroom. On his return a young woman passed him
near the long mahogany dinner table.

"Mr. Gallagher?"

Gallagher drew up. She was tall and slender like a model…Long hair and
high cheekbones …Young…He smoothed his tie over his stomach.

"Tracey?"

She gave him an awkward smile. Gallagher remembered she'd been shy. He
hadn't seen her now for almost two years. Her summer internship had been
followed by a year at the University of London. As far as Gallagher understood
she'd spent the previous summer traveling on the Continent.

"I'm back at Wellesley now," she explained. "I'm in my senior
year."

Another shy smile. Gallagher looked at her. She had never seemed the wild
type. Whitcombe had handled the Conley episode; details had always been vague.
Her work in London had been solid---short news bulletins and occasional
human-interest pieces. Not just a spoiled rich girl. She'd gotten good reviews
from her supervising editor. Her work had continued part-time through the
academic year.

"First time I've seen you since your internship, Tracey."

"I should have come to the newsroom, Mr. Gallagher."

"Remember? It's Art. Anyway…this is my chance to hear more, first
hand."

Her shyness receded. "Best summer I ever had," she began, more
animated.

Gallagher was taking a sip of wine. He swallowed hard.

With minimal prompting she recounted highlights. Conley came up at several
junctures, always in favorable light---willing to bring her along to press
conferences, give her advice on assignments. What had been so traumatic?

Gallagher was startled by a voice over his shoulder. It was Harry Whitcombe,
all courtly bonhomie.

"I'm hearing all about Tracey's London experiences," Gallagher
told him.

Whitcombe didn't bat an eye. He cast an apologetic glance at his daughter
and placed a hand on Gallagher's shoulder. "Please excuse my interruption.
Art…I'd like to discuss my trip to Washington before you leave
tonight."

Gallagher assured him that he would. On Whitcombe's meeting schedule next
week in the capital were several high-ranking Congressional and State
Department contacts---potentially privy to further information on Bradford's
murder. Whitcombe's next remark sounded free of residue.

"Anything we can do to help Conley, right, Art?"

"By all means, Harry."

Twenty minutes later Gallagher rejoined Denise. He described his
conversation with Tracey and this latest example of Whitcombe's inexplicable,
newfound enthusiasm for Conley.

"Maybe it doesn't matter anymore, Art."

Gallagher reflected for a few seconds.

"…It was more than a year ago, after all."

"You're probably right, Denise.
Just a sidebar."

CHAPTER THIRTY

Claire glanced at her watch while they sat in a coffee shop in Terminal 2 of
Charles de Gaulle Airport. Conley was already checked in, and measures were in
place to ensure he reached his gate on schedule. His face still bore scabs from
his misadventure in Argenteuil, and he winced once when he flexed his knee.
Despite that he looked relieved. And how would she put it? Obliged.

He was proceeding onward with certain new understandings. Parameters, she
could say. Most gratifying? Impetus for them had come from his side.

After his ill-conceived overture the previous evening, she'd been standing
in her kitchen, stirring a saucepan on the stove. Trying to stifle her
irritation and discuss his plans for Prague and Moscow. What had happened in
the hallway, she'd told herself, was just a product of surging hormones and
brandy on an empty stomach. Granted, his advances had been inappropriate.
Appalling, even. But didn't he still deserve some dispensation because of his
injuries? And what was he worried about? That she would thwart his assignment,
by complaining to Harry Whitcombe? Didn't he yet understand?

For now, this was her way forward.

"Can I make amends, Claire?" he had asked from her small dining
table.

"Amends?" She'd been perplexed. "What you have in mind?"

"I wish I had some ideas."

He'd fallen silent and she'd studied his profile over the serving counter.
Hair still wild from Versailles. Expression out of whack. As if dismayed by his
own behavior…Then she'd considered wider context while finishing her
cooking. By time she brought over the first course and sat down, she was ready
to explore this further.

"I don't wish to be out of place, Steve…" she’d begun,
trying to moderate the edge that remained in her voice.

Conley had listened with full attention.

"…Or intrusive. It's your assignment."

To this point he looked amenable to whatever she might propose.

"What I'd like most of all is to remain involved."

"In my assignment?"

"Yes."

"You are involved."

"I know. What I mean is…on an ongoing basis. So we can avoid
problems like Argenteuil."

From there she had proceeded by tactful increments. Not that delicacy was
required. Conley hadn't needed much persuasion; worry appeared to weigh on him.
She remembered Peter saying something about a stain on his record---an
unspecified association with Tracey Whitcombe in London. Was that what lay
behind his apprehension?  By the second course she brought her notion into
starker relief. She mentioned staying in the loop. Almost like Art Gallagher.

This had caused him to lean back from the table---first indications of
caution.

"First of all," she continued. "I want to stay in contact
by phone."

"I planned to do that anyway."

"I mean every day, at least once."

He'd cleared his throat. "And discuss what?"

"Everything. How each interview is going…additional discoveries
about Peter…the overall direction."

Another pause: Conley had stared at the table, a crease forming between his
brows. "This is my story, Claire, even if it concerns your husband. I
can't let you write it for me."

"Of course…
naturellement.
I just want to stay informed. Is
that too much to ask?"

He'd reflected again. Accountability appeared to settle over him. "No.
It's manageable, I suppose."

"We're agreed then," she had said quickly, raising a toast. The
glass had trembled in her hand. After an instant of hesitation Conley had
raised his as well.

Now, at the airport coffee shop, she didn't sense that he was leaving. More
that she was sending him off. Her sympathy came back to the fore.

"Do you have enough Ibuprofen for your knee?"

Conley nodded.

"In Prague, please wear your brace. Your knee needs to heal. We want to
avoid problems the rest of the way."

He chafed slightly at the first person plural. She checked her watch again.

"Your flight boards in 30 minutes. I told the cart driver to meet us
here. In fact here he is now…"

An electric cart pulled up, adjacent to the coffee shop. While the driver
waited Conley hobbled across to the passenger seat. Claire deposited his laptop
in back and came up alongside him. He seemed afflicted by another impulse to
hug her. It passed; he extended his hand instead.

"Don't forget, Steve. Every day."

"I'll try."

"I'm counting on it. Good luck." She waved as the cart beeped and
moved off toward passport control.

Yes, she determined…Argenteuil had probably been a fluke. This would
turn out fine---as long as he took suitable precautions when he reached
Tajikistan. Her efforts on behalf of Peter would continue. Greater meaning
would come out of this. She raised her chin and strode back across the
departure hall toward the parking garage.