Live from Moscow (18 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

The FSB press official was a lean, urbane man about Conley's age. Well-cut
suit and English with a Continental accent. Another example of Putin's new
breed. When he spoke about Movsar Felayev, however, his eyes became unmerciful
and hard.

"We've had him for almost two months now," he said. "We've
employed various methods to get him to talk."

Franklin Stanson had prepared Conley, in his Rocky Mountain drawl:
"Terrorism and drugs are extreme problems. They require extreme
measures."

The press official conducted Conley and Oleg along a subterranean corridor
of Lubyanka, the infamous building on Derzhinsky Square that once housed the
Soviet KGB. Its reputation was now more benign. Though that perhaps was a
matter of degrees. As they reached a heavy steel door, Conley noticed Oleg's
face was set harder than usual. From the other side, a young guard with a blond
buzz cut slid open a window hatch, then unbolted the barrier. The press
official ushered them into a windowless room, with concrete walls, about five
meters by five meters. Rugged wire mesh split it in two. In the other half was
another single, steel door. On Conley's side there were three chairs.

"Let's sit down," the official suggested. "The prisoner will
be here in a few minutes."

The young guard remained standing at attention against the wall.

"I want to underline," the official said. "We think Felayev
is lying about Bradford. But we thought you should hear him first-hand."

Conley nodded and pulled out his notepad. "Why would he say such things
in the first place?" he asked.

The official's face was impassive, his tone scornful. "He thinks he'll
gain leverage. Or a respite. Typical mindset of a terrorist. He believes he can
dictate the game. Just like the group that took over
Nord Ost.
"

The episode in question occurred in October 2002. About 40 Chechen
terrorists took over a theater complex and held more than 700 attendees
hostage. After two days of standoff, elite
Spetznatz
forces gassed the
building with a powerful knockout agent, stormed it, and dispatched the
hostage-takers who were still conscious with automatic weapons, all in under 30
seconds. Most theatergoers were saved, although 120 died from effects of the
gas.

On the basis of that response and others, Conley knew the Russians would not
make accommodation. Now he asked a question he had already posed in his
interview at the Interior Ministry on Tuesday: whether Felayev was more
terrorist
or heroin smuggler. The official didn’t
equivocate.

"In Chechnya roles of 'warlord' and 'drug lord', as you call them, are
intertwined. You can't separate them. Among other offenses, for example,
Felayev was involved in a plot last year to explode a bomb at the main
McDonald's in Moscow."

This McDonald's was not far from the U.S. Embassy and the Radisson. Conley
had already eaten there once. It was crowded and popular.

Opposite, a bolt clanged and the steel door swung open. Two, massively built
young guards escorted Felayev into the room, handcuffed. The Chechen was about
45 years old: dark, swarthy and bearded. Other features stood out, though. One
eye was almost swollen shut. In the midst of a tangled beard, Felayev's lips
were cracked and bloodied. A few teeth appeared to be missing. He shuffled
along the concrete floor in bare feet, gaunt and pale. Conley glanced at Oleg
and the official. Their reactions were the same: cold contempt.

The Russian guards maneuvered the Chechen in front of a chair, and forced
him down. The Chechen focused his gaze through the wire screen. His dark eyes
were hollow, but anger boiled up and flared in his pupils. He spat at Conley in
Russian.

"He says you're a…lackey," Oleg said.

"A lackey of whom?"

"Of the Russian government."

Conley stated that he worked for a U.S. newspaper, and had no association
with the Russian government. In Felayev this provoked curled lips, and another
insult, translated by Oleg:

"He says America and Russia are now one pack of infidel dogs."

Felayev leaned forward in his chair, snarling. His handlers slammed him
rearward, causing his face to contort in pain. Soon he recovered his glower.

"Do Chechens dominate the movement of heroin into and through
Russia?" Conley asked him.

From within his tangled beard the Chechen responded with a twisted smile.

"Here's your chance to explain yourself to an audience in the
West," Conley added.

The Chechen snorted a response.

"He said Peter Bradford asked him the same question a month ago,"
Oleg translated.

"And what did you tell him?"

Oleg winced before translating.

"He told him it was none of his business…and that Bradford
deserved to die for asking him such a question."

The press official sitting next to Conley shook his head, repulsed, and
issued an instruction. One of the guards swiped a massive backhand blow. When
Felayev straightened, blood trickled out of one side of his mouth.

"Can he communicate with the outside?" Conley asked.

"He does have a lawyer, who visits once a week. Part of our legal
reforms."

"So it's possible he ordered Bradford's killing?"

"Possible, though very unlikely. We listen in on all his conversations
with the lawyer."

Blood now formed a rivulet that dripped down Felayev’s beard and
plopped down onto his striped prison tunic. Without prompting, he barked his
next pronouncement in guttural English.

"We'll kill you, too..."

The official considered this for a few brief seconds then issued another
curt instruction. The guards hauled the Chechen to his feet and hustled him
toward the door. Before Felayev disappeared he struggled to look back over his
shoulder at Conley, and made a final exclamation in Russian. The door closed
with clang before Oleg translated:

"He said they'll find you in your hotel this week."

Conley was a little concerned. He glanced at the official.

"I wouldn't worry. We'll make sure he remains incommunicado. A least
until you leave Moscow."

The three of them stood to go; the young guard let them out. As they
retraced the long corridor, Conley asked the official when the Chechen was
going to trial.

"In a month and a half. We'll have to lighten up on him before he
appears in public. But not for a few more weeks." Both the official and
Oleg remained stern. It wasn't meant as a joke. The official saw them off.
Outside on the square, a light snow was falling. Conley turned to Oleg.

"With a figure like Felayev, to be honest, I can't say I disapprove of
such measures."

"I would imagine the same happens at your base at Guantanamo,"
Oleg answered.

"Guantanamo? That reminds me…I promised to call Franklin Stanson,
to tell him what happened."

CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

Mid-November is off-season in Northern New Hampshire, Claire remembered.
Vibrant reds and oranges have disappeared from mountainsides. Foliage-seeking
tourists have gone. Skiers have not yet arrived. Vistas are stark, dominated by
bare branches and granite bluffs.

Interstate 93 was almost empty as she now cruised north. The freeway
consisted of two lanes on each side---northbound and southbound---separated by
a wide median strip of trees and rock formations. She swept forward on long,
banked curves, no cars ahead or behind, gaining new sight lines around each
bend. Skies were gray but clear. Peaks of the White Mountain Range were low at
first, then grew larger. At the exit for Waterville Valley, where she’d
skied once with Peter for a weekend, memories resurfaced…Laughter on the
chair lift…Hot chocolate in the base lodge…A violent tumble trying
to keep up with him on an expert trail…

With a gasp she looked at the dashboard clock. She'd promised to call Conley
15 minutes earlier. She cursed and grabbed her cell phone from the passenger
seat, and hit the speed-dial number she'd programmed. It beeped; the display
read: "Out of range--Cannot complete call."

"Incroyable!"
she shouted, gripping the wheel.

For distraction she turned on the radio. It was tuned to a rap/hip-hop
station. Raw, pounding beats. Male vocalists. Energized, she cranked it up.

Ride or die…Double R what…Better keep your hammer right by
your side…

A female artist answered, with tough, inner-city inflections:

I'm a savage bitch…Ain't nobody gettin’ close to this…

Claire swayed at the wheel and rocked her head. She was in the States, free
of Paris' stilted confines…from
la prudence
of Veronique and
Francois. On the road and taking initiative. This was just the sort of
empowering anthem she needed.

Plus I'm a purebred baby. I don't fuck with mutts…

She kept the station on; other tough, pulsating riffs followed as she neared
deep valleys of Franconia Notch and peaks soared higher. At Lincoln she curved onto
an off-ramp. Lincoln's main drag was how she remembered it: shopping plazas
with skiing and hiking stores, restaurants and condo complexes. On her left she
noticed a restaurant where she and Peter had often dined during their weekend
getaways at Loon, on several occasions with Harry and Elizabeth Whitcombe.

When she turned into the entrance for the mountain bare ski trails came into
view: all brown grass and rocks. Chair lifts snaked up slopes, listless and
empty. Atop a pylon near the gondola base station, two ski-area employees
performed repairs. Otherwise there were no souls to be seen. She took a left
and wound up an incline by the Mountain Club Hotel. Several more upward bends
brought her to Whitcombe's lodge, which was set back from the road through a
swath of forest. Twigs and dead leaves crackled under her tires as she turned
into the driveway.

This encounter would require tact. Underneath, though, she would stay
determined.

I'm a savage bitch…

The lodge was modern, two-and-a-half stories high and paneled in red-brown
cedar: one of the larger houses on the mountain, though not ostentatious. A ski
trail ran nearby, also obscured by forest. Over low treetops on the down-slope,
there were commanding views toward the base lodge and across the valley.

From double front doors Whitcombe emerged wearing corduroy slacks and a
fleece pullover, and embraced her when she got out. Without reserve, but minus
his usual outdoorsman's glow. Depleted. Just as he had sounded on the
telephone.

Claire still couldn’t identify what had gotten into him. She was
determined to find out.

Minutes later they were at a large cedar table in the atrium living/dining
area, vaulted with exposed beams. Sliding doors and plate glass windows
displayed the panorama across the valley. Whitcombe poured two mugs of coffee.
Her hand trembled with adrenaline as she raised her mug. Hip-hop beats still
echoed in her head. She just had to stick to her plan.

"Uncle Harry…I hope I'm not out of line coming up here."

"You're family, Claire. You're always welcome. You know that."

"It's just…there were certain things I wanted to talk about right
away."

He studied her with tired eyes. "Estate matters, you said."

"That's right."

"I'm happy to answer general questions, Claire. But as I told you on
the telephone, I don't have all the materials here with me."

"That's okay. I've got trust documents in the car."

She moved to get up, but Whitcombe raised his palm, his long fingers
outstretched.

"I suggest we at least finish our coffee."

"Okay."

He studied her again, new apprehension in his eyes.

"Claire, has something in particular got you worried?"

"Well…" she said, her voice quivering. "…I don't
really understand some of the trusts…They're all so
legalistic…" In an instant she decided her ruse was pointless. Her
shoulders sagged. "I admit, Uncle Harry. I really came here about the
newspaper stories."

"You mean Steve Conley's assignment?"

She nodded.

"What, exactly?"

"I've worried about where this whole project is going…that
it’s not going that well. And might even be abandoned."

"Don't worry. That probably won't happen."

"Probably…? What does that mean?"

"I mean it's largely out of my control."

Claire felt herself start to hyperventilate, and managed to check herself.
"I'm sorry, Uncle Harry…I don't understand what's going
on." 

"There are extra hiking boots and sportswear here, Claire. I suggest we
take a hike. Better to explain in the fresh air."

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

They'd marched up North Peak for almost an hour. Loon's mid-mountain lodge
came into view: two-stories with dark wood siding. Whitcombe crossed a small
side deck and tugged a door handle. "Locked," he said. He cupped his
gloved hands and peered inside. "No one here."

Through an adjacent picture window Claire glimpsed silhouettes of stacked tables
and chairs. During ski season she’d stopped there with Peter…
Stomping snow from ski boots on a grate at the door. Pulling off hats, goggles
and mittens. Flexing stiff toes. Collecting bowls of hot chili in the cafeteria
line. Happier times, not long ago.

These flashbacks bolstered her resolve. Her efforts, she reminded herself,
were on his behalf.

She and Whitcombe gazed further up. Near the summit, an employee of the
mountain climbed down from a lift pylon and packed his tools. He was a long
distance away and his figure was very small.

"Would you like to keep climbing, Claire?"

She had traversed six time zones and slept little the night before.
Nonetheless her adrenaline was pumping. "Fine with me."

"Those are expert trails. A lot steeper."

"I'm ready."

They set off across a gentle incline that fronted the lodge, matted with
brown grass. Gradients soon became more demanding, and ten minutes later they
attained the lower portion of the peak's main expert trail. Ascent became
sharper. Cables and empty chairs dangled inert on their right. Rocks required
them to concentrate on their footing.

"Those boots fit okay?" Whitcombe asked. They were Elizabeth's.

"A little big. But I'll manage."

Keeping pace with his long strides was a challenge. Claire panted a little,
determined not to lag behind. Beside her Whitcombe began breathing in deep
rhythm, like an endurance athlete. Exercise seemed to liberate him, to quell
his demons. They hadn't discussed Conley's assignment since they'd left the
house.

"We'll talk on the way down," he had declared. "Easier that
way."

A hundred yards up-trail Claire's turtleneck collar became damp. She pulled
off her knit cap and stuffed it in her jacket pocket. There were first
indications of snowfall. Several flakes fluttered onto her forehead and
eyelids.

Whitcombe noticed her glancing at the sky, which was a darker gray than
before.

"Just the kind of dusting we get here in November," he said.
"Nothing to worry about."

There was also no wind. And Claire had more pressing concerns. They
continued their upward march, sometimes zigzagging in favor of better terrain.
Her thighs started to burn, increasing her need for oxygen. Nevertheless she
tried to moderate her panting. To her this climb had become a measure of will.

And she wouldn't relent until she was satisfied.

"Remember that part of the trail?" Whitcombe said, pointing to the
right and parsing his speech to accommodate his breathing."…Where
the mogul field is…during winter?"

Claire glanced there through the sparse snowflakes. An image of Peter in
mogul mode came back: knees together, back loose, shoulders square down the
fall line---precise, as with everything he did. She fixed her gaze forward
again and drew a knit glove across her forehead to wipe away perspiration.

In places, snowflakes were now sticking to the brown grass.

"Heavier than I expected," Whitcombe acknowledged, not breaking
stride. He glanced over his shoulder; she put on a strong face.

To the dead we owe only the truth…

"Just to the traverse…up there," he said. "Then we'll
head back."

Five minutes later they propelled themselves up onto a strip of level ground,
a narrow lateral route carved into the mountain to allow skiers to cross
between different slopes. They stopped. Whitcombe put his hands on his knees
for a moment before standing up to his full, angular height. He tilted his face
skyward and allowed some of the flakes to strike more directly, as if relishing
an instant of escape. His gray forelock poked out from under his cap.

Escape from what, Claire wondered? She faced him, hands on her hips,
standing straight. Up the trail near the peak, she noticed that heavier
snowfall made the upper pylons less distinct. Still she made out that the
workman was gone, having descended by another route. In any event she didn't
care about such side items. She couldn't wait any longer.

"What's changed, Uncle Harry?"

This broke his aura of liberation. He stared down at brown grass before he
spoke.

"Claire, did Peter talk to you about the U.S. aid bill? For
Tajikistan?"

"A little bit."

"The one now under consideration by Congress?"

She nodded.

"There's a lot of money involved. A half-billion dollars, to be
exact."

"Money? Are you saying money had something to do with Peter's
death?"

"Claire, let me put it this way. Tajikistan involves more than just
heroin."

Claire thrust her hands in her jacket pockets, part angry and part
befuddled. In careful, patient tones, Whitcombe recounted what he'd learned
from the Russian ambassador about corruption in the Tajik government.

"But Peter knew about that…He talked about it with me."

Whitcombe winced and shook his head, snowflakes fluttering around him.

"What are trying to tell me, Uncle Harry?"

"That this has gotten very complex, Claire."

"Okay… it's complex. My question is…what does that mean for
Conley's assignment?"

"It means that commemorating Peter…may not be the main objective
any more."

Claire's hand trembled as she brushed a snowflake from her eyelid.
 "Are you saying there won't be a tribute, Uncle Harry?"

"I didn't say that. I'm just saying I could no longer be objective
about it. That's why I've had to take a step back."

"So you're leaving it all to Janet Larson and Art Gallagher? They'll
decide how to remember Peter?"

His burdens appeared suddenly heavier. Why such torment? The aid bill?
Pressures from Washington? To her there was still some element missing…

"I'm sorry, Claire," he answered. "For one thing, another
reporter is now involved…it's a matter of safety."

They stood in silence for a moment. Snowflakes became denser around them,
obscuring vistas through a filter of whiteness. Claire tried to assimilate what
he had told her. He was withholding something; of that much she was sure.

"Better head back, Claire. Would you prefer to take this traverse
around to an intermediate trail? Inclines are easier."

"Whichever way is faster."

As they stepped over onto the down-slope she was already thinking ahead to
Boston.