Live from Moscow (22 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

The former
Le Meridien Boston
had passed out of French ownership and
was now the
Langham Hotel Boston
.
To Claire’s
disappointment the new management had closed the
haute cuisine
Julien
restaurant, which she’d often enjoyed with Peter. Otherwise, though, the
essence of the establishment remained. The 1920's-era building had once served
as regional headquarters for the U.S. Federal Reserve and retained its stately,
Old World character
.

A hotel made most sense, she’d decided. Peter's parents were at their
vacation home in Nassau, Bahamas, still getting over their trauma. Elizabeth
Whitcombe was heading north to New Hampshire and her husband for the weekend.
And from the Langham the
World Tribune
was just a quick 10-minute drive
south
.
Moreover she’d always liked the aura of the place--one she
associated with Peter and also with the building's half-century at the
master-switches of New England finance. Even if she didn't understand central
banking, she'd gleaned some essentials. Deliberation. Power. Quiet control.
Attributes she wished for herself during the next week or two. She now sat in
the three-story back lobby atrium, in a Louis XIV armchair upholstered in
embroidered silk. Elegant jazz filtered down from a piano in the
Café
Fleuri
.

Problem was…this power-setting wasn't conferring desired
effects.  Her airway was constricted and her heart was beating fast. Janet
Larson was arriving any minute. Accomplished, confident and unflappable. A
model of professional success.

Everything that Claire knew that she was not.

Larson pulled up outside under the covered rear entrance, behind the wheel
of a large Mercedes. The valet hastened to open the door. There was little
doubt. This was a woman who'd proven herself.

Claire swallowed hard and rose from her chair.

After exchanging greetings, as they mounted the escalator to the
café, she remembered her previous day's conclusions. Gallagher was
central, but beset by conflicts from all sides. Frick was mere watchdog. Harry
Whitcombe had abdicated. That left Janet Larson as the only other remaining
force.

The maitre d' gave her and Larson a respectful once over. "This way,
please," he intoned before ushering them to a desirable table on the
atrium balcony. After they ordered, Larson reiterated her condolences---followed
by a suitable pause, filled by ranging melodies and soothing chords of the jazz
piano. She then placed forearms on the table and got to what seemed foremost on
her mind.

"We had so little time yesterday in the newsroom, Claire," she
said. "I didn't get a chance to ask about Harry Whitcombe…Nate Frick
tells me you visited him."

"Yes, at his ski lodge at Loon."

Larson's tones were measured. How's he doing, she asked?

"Well…He took Peter's death hard. I guess he needs time to
himself."

Yes, haven't we all. Not many visitors?

"Just me, as far as I know."

For the first time Claire detected in Larson's eyes something she hadn't
expected. Larson became immobile, rapt. Deferential, even. 

Then it occurred to her. Uncle Harry was not taking phone calls in New
Hampshire. Larson, for all her accomplishment and high status, was still a
hired hand trying to divine the boss's intentions.

For now, Claire recognized, she was sole conduit to the top.

Misrepresentation was out of the question. But there were opportunities for
nuance…certain emphases. Larson resumed, weighing each word.

"I'm sorry to say the stories we're doing on your husband added to
Harry's strains."

"That was my sense, too."

"Did you happen to talk about them?"

"You mean Conley's assignment?"

Larson nodded.

"Uncle Harry said the situation is more complex now."

"Indeed."

"Especially because of this bill in Washington."

Larson offered another guarded nod, still waiting. Claire took a quick
breath and plunged forward. She felt an exhilarating return of confidence. The
Langham finally felt right.

"But I believe he still wants to see it through."

"Right through Dushanbe?"

"That was my impression. After all it's just one more week."

Roaring engines and a staccato
thump, thump, thump
of blades announced
their presence up and down the valley. Helicopters were not ideal for
interdicting smugglers. And this was daylight besides.

However this flight was one part reconnaissance and one part show of force.
Nikolai, a lieutenant officer in an elite unit of airborne infantry, pointed
out the side hatch over a rugged terrain of rocks, scrub grass and stunted
trees. They were about 500 meters above the valley's base. Air was clear and
cold. He shouted to be heard. "He says look there," Oleg interpreted,
speaking close to Conley's ear. "Just below the ridge line."

Conley wore a harness with a safety cord; he braced himself against the
doorframe with one hand before raising his binoculars. A few seconds later he
steadied his sight line on the object of interest: a small caravan of heavily
laden mules and bearded men. They were dressed in camouflage gear and Oriental
head coverings. They numbered seven or eight and all looked up at the Russian
Mi-17-IV, an armed transport aircraft similar to those deployed in Afghanistan
by the Soviet Union in the 1980s. Nikolai shouted again to Oleg, who
translated.

"They may have heroin. Or they may not. In either case they won't
run."

Indeed the caravan-goers made no attempt to flee as the helicopter flew
closer. They continued plodding forward, leading their mules and casting sullen
gazes skyward.

"Tajiks, judging by their head coverings," Oleg said.

"Why aren't they afraid?" Conley asked.

"The Tajik government forbids us to fire from the air. And Russian
ground forces are being drawn down here. In another 10 months even these
over-flights will come to an end."

Their helicopter descended halfway and hovered over the caravan, kicking up
dust from the hillside. The smugglers stopped in their tracks. None made any
sudden moves, though their faces---partly concealed by their headscarves---held
traces of defiance. From a rear turret of the helicopter a Russian gunner aimed
a large, mounted machine gun.

"The idea is intimidation," Oleg translated. "We're not going
to back off as long as we still have a troop presence here."

"Do they ever fire at the helicopters?"

Oleg answered the question directly. "Almost never. What's the point?
Anyway these are small potatoes. The main heroin caravans travel at night,
under darkness. And those usually hide in caves before helicopters can find
them." The helicopter banked away from the men below and continued down
the valley. "See that? Where they were walking?" He pointed toward
the trail, four or five feet wide with a surface of broken rocks and dust---little
more than a ledge in the hillside. "That's one of three of four main
smuggling arteries coming north out of Afghanistan."

Conley studied the trail through his binoculars, following the snaking
line---barely discernible even in daylight.

"An ancient route for contraband," Oleg added "These tribes
have been smuggling along that path for centuries."

"Can't they be stopped at the border?"

"This route crosses into Afghanistan at a point where Tajik forces have
assumed control. Therefore the best we can do is interdict further north."

They continued sweeping down the valley. About 10 kilometers further south
they encountered another caravan, similar to the first.

"Do these caravans ever use motorized transport?" Conley asked.

"Jeeps and SUVs, sometimes, along other routes. But here---usually
mules and horses."

"One would think the Russian troops here have a big advantage."

Nikolai shook his head and Oleg translated.

"When we can catch them.  But there are just too many getting
through the border now to control."

The helicopter hovered over the second caravan as it did over the first. At
the rear of the aircraft Conley saw the gunner train his gun; he was 18 or 19
years old, dressed in bulky olive fatigues and a fur cap. Conley was the only
one in the helicopter wearing a helmet.

"If you can't attack them from helicopters," he asked Nikolai.
"How do you catch them?"

"Air-and-land missions. We wait in ambush. You'll get to go on one of
those
tomorrow night."

CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

Café Fleuri
was illumined by optimistic morning light. Claire
basked in new confidence. Upon finishing her breakfast she strode past a
uniformed Air France crew sitting at a circular table, festooned with
croissants, fruit and coffee. Males in the crew didn’t hide their
attentions. Even female flight attendants were appreciative and let their
glances linger. The maitre d' came alive as she rounded his stand at the
boundary of the café area.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bradford. Enjoy your morning."

Claire sensed his gaze upon her from behind as she walked toward the
staircase and escalator. She didn’t mind. Why not? He was human. For
perhaps the first time since Peter’s death, she felt like part of society
again.

This venue suited her after all.

At the bottom of the escalator she exited the atrium and crossed through an
expansive hall with marble ceilings---once the main entrance of the Federal
Reserve. To her left was a grand staircase leading up to the Julien Lounge, a
former adjunct to the restaurant, one of the most elegant in Boston.

The night before, she'd celebrated there with a spare but expertly-prepared
three-course meal, accompanied by fine Bordeaux. Content to savor her initial
success in radiant solitude, and to remember earlier dinners with Peter. Her
trip was proving worthwhile. Conley's assignment was going forward. And she was
very much involved---just as she’d wanted. On Monday afternoon, she was
scheduled to meet Larson, Sullivan and Gordon at
World Tribune
headquarters.

"We'll benefit from your presence," Larson had said, with her new
and unexpected deference. "Especially without Harry there."

Claire glided into the lobby, chin and spirits up. From her room she planned
to call old friends of hers and Peter's, including a couple who lived in Back
Bay. Her weekend was free. Time for a little distraction. She hit the elevator
button and was waiting for one to open when a voice sounded behind her.

"Good morning, Claire."

A familiar baritone…she whirled around. Her jaw dropped. Standing
before her in blue blazer and gray slacks, overcoat folded over his forearm,
was Harry Whitcombe. Her immediate impression was that he looked
haggard…Something was wrong.

"Didn't mean to startle you, Claire… I drove down from New
Hampshire."

Claire glanced at her watch: just after 8 o'clock. He must have left Loon at
5:30 or earlier.

"Uncle Harry. This is so unexpected…Is there some
emergency?"

"Not an emergency, exactly. No."

She stared up at him because of his height, overcome by sudden shortness of
breath. Her confidence evacuated her in an instant.

"…But I couldn't wait. I came down here for your sake."

His expression carried a pall. Hints of painful duty. What could this be
about?

"This may take a while," he said, looking at her with tired eyes.
"Might be best if we find someplace quiet."

Both of them look around. The lobby was becoming busy. She felt a stirring
of panic. "My room's not really
pr
é
sentable
…The
bed's probably still unmade."

"Of course." He thought for a moment. "The park should be
relatively empty on Saturday morning. Fresh air might also help. Would you
object?"

Her hand trembled as she reached up to brush aside a strand of hair.

"I'll get my coat."

Two platoons of Russian soldiers hid behind rocks that overlooked a small,
hillside plateau---about 70 kilometers north of the Afghan border, along the
same smuggling trail Conley had observed the day before by helicopter. They'd
been ensconced for two hours, starting shortly before nightfall, armed with
Kalashnikovs, a tripod-mounted heavy machine gun, and two shoulder-fired bazookas.

"Firepower is our main advantage," Oleg had explained beforehand.
"Along with communications."

A pair of all-terrain vehicles lay 50 meters up-trail; two others were
hidden off about 100 meters south, ready to close off escape. All four vehicles
had back-mounted heavy machine guns. Ambush was the goal. Encroaching darkness
brought lower temperatures; already anticipated with gray-camouflaged cold
weather gear and fur hats. In the dimming light Conley could see the faces of
the Russians.  Expressionless, despite their youth, with an air of
fatalism---they were doing a necessary job. Nikolai was most active: surveying
the trail through infrared binoculars over a jagged boulder. Every 15 minutes
he communicated in a low voice through a hand-held radio. Otherwise the
contingent was silent. Oleg sat next to Conley---impassive, leaning against the
same rock, hands thrust in his pockets. Back at the base he'd translated
questions and answers to Nikolai.

"We get some intelligence on these convoys," the squad leader had
said. "Some good, some bad. We can't be sure what will happen
tonight."

And what happened during a similar foray with Bradford?

"Nothing. Our intelligence was faulty. We sat in the cold for six
hours. He seemed more interested in what I told him the next day, in an
interview back at the base." When Conley had queried him further, Nikolai
said, "We'll have time to talk tomorrow, after the operation."
He’d then pivoted his bulky frame and strode away toward the divisional
command building.

Now Conley crossed his arms and tried to stay warm. His helmet was back in
the barracks. Gallagher's exhortations notwithstanding, his fur hat was warmer.
This was his first potential exposure to military combat. He remembered what
Claire had told him back in Paris, tears welling in her eyes:

"I was so relieved when Peter called me afterward. And to think…I
assumed the main dangers were past! If I had known what was to come, I would
have flown to Dushanbe to be with him…"

Nikolai raised binoculars for another survey. Motionless silhouettes
surrounded him, cradling weapons in the moonlight. Conley closed his eyes; his
mind traveled back to the sidewalk outside the
pharmacie
in
Paris...Claire's head was down, her compressed thighs and jutting haunches
straining against the fabric of her skirt…He caught himself. Two weeks
and seven thousand kilometers later, the image enthralled him more than a
pending firefight. Maybe that pointed out his difficulty…

"Vinimanie!"
Nikolai said in a loud whisper, raising his
hand.

Conley re-focused and glanced at Oleg, who signaled with an open palm that
they should be quiet. Soldiers raised weapons and assumed more alert postures.

In the distance he could make out the clopping of hooves. Faint at first,
then more distinct---another mule caravan. Nikolai peered south through his
lenses, then raised his thumb. Without a sound, soldiers lowered their infrared
goggles. Clopping hooves came closer, and Conley wondered if the smugglers had
sent out advance scouts.

The answer came in the form of
Rat-tat-tat
automatic gunfire, just
north. Nikolai barked a command into his transmitter and swept his hand
forward, compelling soldiers out from their concealed positions. On one side
two machine-gunners set up a tripod, while others scampered up and over. From
below came shouts in Tajik, followed by the whiz of bullets overhead. At once
the tripod-mounted gun responded with heavy fire, while the other Russians
descended the hillside, guns blazing. Conley thought he heard the
thwap,
thwap, thwap
of bullets hitting flesh, followed by screams. Two explosions
filled the valley as the Russians unleashed bazooka rounds.

Oleg clasped his forearm, keeping him down behind their rock. Within seconds
gunfire abated. Remaining shots seemed to shift beyond the plateau, further
down the mountainside. After a pause they rose from their squats and peered
down. Carnage on the plateau was evident even in the new moonlight. Half a
dozen bodies---in traditional Tajik nomadic garb---lay scattered across the
flat surface. One smuggler kneeled with his hands on his head, guarded by two
Russian soldiers. A wounded Russian soldier sat against a rock on the edge of
the plateau, holding his shoulder, receiving help from a comrade. Further down
the valley, gunfire continued, punctuated by commands in Russian.

"A few probably tried to get away," Oleg said.

Two mules were down, apparently hit by errant bullets; their baying filled
the night sky. Three others---heavily laden---were running around squeaking and
hawing. One soldier ran after the animals, shouting in Russian, attempting to
corral them.

"They're probably packed with opium," Oleg explained. Gunfire
receded further; the Russians were giving chase. "…I think it's safe
now to go down."

They scampered over the rocks and clambered down the gravelly hillside. When
they reached the plateau the Russian soldier had secured two of the three mules
to a boulder; with an air of reluctance he then dispatched the two wounded
mules with pistol shots. Bodies remained scattered around; one nearest to
Conley and Oleg was face down, his robes soaked in blood. One hand still
clutched a Kalashnikov. Oleg's features were hard, as if this were nothing new.

"Let's go take a closer look," he suggested.

He crouched down and turned the body over. Mouth gaped open; eyes rolled
back in their sockets. "That's unusual," he said, frowning.
"This one doesn't have a beard."

From the other side of the plateau came a shout:
"Opium na
vseh!"
Conley turned. A soldier displayed a cloth-bound bundle high in
the air.

"Opium on all of them," Oleg translated. "Guess the
intelligence was good."

Nikolai and half a dozen soldiers materialized from below, weapons slung
over their shoulders and two more prisoners in tow. He surveyed the scene and
strode over to Conley and Oleg. When he saw the body he frowned, bent down and
ripped the tunic away. What he saw made him shake his head in disgust.

Beneath the robe of the dead man was a uniform. "National
militia," Oleg explained, hands on his knees and leaning over Nikolai's
shoulder. "Evidence of government involvement." Nikolai raised his
bulk to a standing position and shook his head. He didn't appear surprised.
Oleg translated his remark from Russian:

"He says this is a real-life example of what he told Bradford."