Live from Moscow (28 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

Their chauffeured Lincoln glided from the new downtown tunnel into bright
daylight on Southeast Expressway. Morning traffic was heavy, though smooth. The
tunnel had mitigated Boston’s notorious bottlenecks of past years.

Claire wished her own world was half as well ordered.

Whitcombe sat beside her on the leather-upholstered rear seat, elbow on
armrest and gazing toward the Harbor. He turned toward her and clasped his long
fingers around her wrist.

"Both of us have to put on brave faces, Claire."

She nodded and fought back tears. They'd reach the
World Tribune
in
six or seven minutes, and have to show themselves in the newsroom. How could
she face Art Gallagher and Janet Larson after what she'd just learned?

Nothing made sense. Even less now, with stomach-turning new details from
Swiss banking authorities. Shakuri, a "two-bit potentate" Uncle Harry
had called him…obscure political games centered on the U.S.
Congress…numbered accounts…"influence peddling". Peter,
her exemplar of a husband! How could it be? What had driven him to this? Hadn't
he appreciated how much she loved him, with or without money? She still did!
Perhaps only time would help her understand…

Until then, she had to re-orient herself. How remained an open question.

Embellishment of Peter's memory now seemed vain and overreaching. Most
important now was to minimize damage. Rescue his reputation post-facto. This
had become a salvage operation.

"Remember the approach we agreed on, Claire?" Whitcombe asked.

"Nothing about this to anyone, at least for today?"

"Right."

Claire couldn't conceal her doubts. Information like this was bound to
explode into public domain sooner or later.

"The Swiss banking authorities won't let on," he added. "Nor
will the U.S. government…that's for sure."

"What about the longer term?"

"We'll have to react to circumstances."

Claire's mind careened through different scenarios. What would her family
and social circle back in Paris think of Peter if all this came out? Her
parents would be dismayed…even disgraced. Veronique, Francois and others
would remain sympathetic at first, but their recollections of Peter and
attitudes toward her would soon tilt toward pity and embarrassment. Those were
the last outcomes she wanted.

A revelation hit. Her new direction came into clearer focus. Yes, salvaging
Peter's reputation was essential. However…she also had to start thinking
about herself. Peter himself would have approved, given the circumstances. She
was the one still on the planet, after all. Affirm Peter by saving
herself…That principle would also guide her forward, in addition to the
first...

"There is one key variable we can't control at this point,"
Whitcombe added.

Her nausea grew as she remembered Tracey's obscure praise.
"
I
know…Steve Conley."

"We can't blame him, Claire. I put him in that situation."

"Do you expect him to find out?"

"It's possible. Who knows what he'll encounter with this Shakuri
fellow? Maybe the same propositions Peter did."

"Mon Dieu!
Conley was supposed to interview Shakuri this
morning." She reached in her purse and checked her cell phone. There were
no new messages. "And if he does learn the truth?" she asked,
half-breathless. "What will the paper do with it?"

Their limousine moved to the right lane, preparing to get off at the next
exit. Whitcombe gazed out toward the Harbor again, over beaches of the South
End, before turning back to her. "We'll have to publish it," he said.

"Even if the U.S. government objects, Uncle Harry?"

"I'm afraid so."

One of Tracey's words came back to Claire as they curved off the highway and
down the ramp. Scenes outside her window blurred, but the word rang clearly.

Discretion
. Maybe that was her only hope.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-FIVE

"Looks like Usmonov," Oleg said.

"Shakuri's aide?"

Oleg nodded, still squinting into darkness. The figure strode nearer through
shadows, making his face more identifiable. Oleg was right.

Conley's nervousness subsided, but seized him again when Usmonov drew up
close. The Tajik's eyes darted back and forth and he grasped the case in one
hand with a rigid, bare-knuckled grip---as if he were transporting live
explosives. Conley peered down and examined the item. This was more than a
social call. Neither he nor Oleg could guess its premise.

"I wanted…find you," Usmonov blurted to Conley, in a low
tone and with heavily accented English. He glanced toward the building.
"Shakuri has…security man in lobby."

Conley shot a glance back at the hotel, then at Oleg. This had veered far
outside ordinary.

"I have…tell you something…." Usmonov faltered as his
rehearsed English from the office that morning deserted him. His quick breaths
produced bursts of condensation in the cold air.

"You can speak Tajik," Oleg said. "Or Russian."

After a second's hesitation, Usmonov responded with a torrent of Tajik.

"We'd better move over there, a little further away from the
hotel" Oleg said to Conley, his face intent. He pointed to a cluster of
trees that afforded more darkness. The three of them moved across about 15
paces, while Usmonov's eyes continued darting. No other people were visible in
the area.

Once among trees, his words gushed forth anew in hushed tones. While Oleg
listened, he glanced several times at the case, which he now clutched with both
hands. Despite darkness Conley gave it closer scrutiny. It appeared to belong
to a laptop computer. Conley thought he heard Bradford's name mentioned. Oleg
interrupted Usmonov to translate:

"This situation is dangerous, so I'll try to condense what he's saying.
He says that laptop computer is Bradford's…"

"Bradford's?!"

"Please listen…Shakuri had it in his office. Usmonov stole it
from a locked storage closet there this evening. He says Shakuri is not telling
the truth about Bradford, and the laptop proves it."

"Good God." Conley turned toward Usmonov. "Did Shakuri have
Bradford killed?"

Usmonov was agitated. He answered with a shake of his head and an almost
desperate shrug. What could that mean, Conley wondered? His rapid-fire
monologue resumed, until Oleg interrupted again.

"He says he found Bradford's body in the clearing. Shakuri sent him to
search. The laptop was there, too. He doesn't think Shakuri ordered Bradford's
murder. But he can't be positive. What he does know is that Bradford didn't
visit Shakuri's villa just for dinner. There was another reason."

"What?"

Usmonov opened his mouth to answer but stopped. His eyes widened as he
stared over Conley's shoulder. They spun around to see a burly, mustachioed
man, wearing leather coat and leather cap, was approaching them from the
hotel---without obvious menace but with an intent gaze through the shadows.
Oleg muttered under his breath.

"Trouble…looks like one of Shakuri's bodyguards. I saw him this
morning outside the Ministry."

Already tense, Usmonov flew into panic. He thrust the laptop case into
Conley's hands, then turned heel in the direction of his car, holding up a hand
to conceal his face. After eight or 10 paces he broke into a run. Shocked,
Conley watched him sprint away.

The bodyguard, apparently confused, also watched Usmonov's hasty retreat,
but made no move to follow. Instead he drew up silently, his eyes cold through
the darkness. His eyes traveled at once to the laptop case. Seconds passed
before suspicion finally rolled across the man's dark features. He responded
with an open palm---indicating Conley and Oleg were to remain where they
were---and pulled out a walkie-talkie. After brief conversation, he addressed
them in tone that was unmistakably aggressive.

"He wants us to go with him to his car," Oleg translated.
"It's in the parking lot. Other side of the hotel."

In the silence Conley heard the ignition of Usmonov's BMW, followed by
squealing rubber.

"And go where?"

"To see Shakuri."

"We're not scheduled to leave for another hour."

"I don't think we have a choice."

The bodyguard stepped toward Conley with extended arms. A bulge became
visible beneath his jacket. There was no need for translation; he wanted the
case.

"I would give it to him," Oleg suggested.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SIX

Six department editors got up and filtered out; this morning's convocation
had been shorter than usual. Larson stayed seated and kept her head down,
frowning at notes through her reading glasses. Another meeting was coming up.
More important, everyone assumed, given Conley’s agenda in Dushanbe.

Gallagher hauled himself out of his chair, and grabbed a late City Edition
off the table. Out in the corridor he re-scanned the front-page headlines. An
early-morning mill fire had claimed upper placement, but Reynolds’s
bulletin from Washington occupied prominent side position.

Senate Expected to Approve Military Aid to Tajikistan

Coverage of the bill by the
World Tribune
had been extensive, due to
the connection to Bradford and Conley. A sub-headline highlighted the money involved:

Vote scheduled for Thursday

$550 million to battle narcotics and terrorism

Frick almost barreled into Gallagher near the newsroom; only the newspaper
prevented frontal collision, and half crumpled in Gallagher's hands. Gallagher
couldn't hide his irritation. "No need to rush, Nathan. Our meeting's not
for 45 minutes."

Frick's apology was quick and distracted; he obviously had more urgent
priorities. He sidestepped Gallagher's bulk and hurried toward the conference
room, evidently in search of Larson. Gallagher, throwing a chafed glance after
his tense and wiry frame, wondered when these absurdities would finally end.
There was enough pressure on everyone this week without frantic maneuvering and
furtive one-on-ones. Conley's safety and Claire's continuing trauma deserved
primary consideration. He exhaled hard through his nose and shook his head.

Reynolds' story continued on page five of the front section. Opposite, on
page four, Gallagher saw the latest installment in the advertising campaign.
The same one had appeared in earlier editions. It occupied a full page:

This week
Boston World Tribune
reporter Steve Conley is in
Dushanbe, Tajikistan, investigating the death of colleague Peter Bradford. In
parallel Conley is continuing Bradford's efforts to report on the heroin trade
in Central Asia.

Few Western reporters visit this remote and dangerous country.
Conley's assignment reflects the ongoing commitment of the
World Tribune
,
even in the face of tragic loss, to courageous and unrelenting global news
coverage.

Full stories to come in December.

Beneath was a file photograph of downtown Dushanbe, one that emphasized the
city's more exotic qualities. Further down were the by now familiar twin,
head-and-shoulders portraits of Conley and Bradford. Phil Marcello was
lingering along Gallagher's path and saw him examining the advertisements.

"Is the campaign going straight through to December?" he asked.

"Good question," Gallagher grumbled. In fact the ads had been on
auto-pilot since Harry Whitcombe's abdication. Like many aspects of this
assignment, the campaign had acquired momentum all its own. There was nothing
Mike Fallon could do. Marcello strolled alongside Gallagher toward the business
department. Gallagher snorted and folded the paper. Marcello looked ahead and
suddenly stiffened.

"Maybe you'll get an answer today," he said.

Gallagher followed his gaze and also stiffened.

Across the expanse of the newsroom, on the far side, Whitcombe's towering
height was unmistakable. He stood erect and well-attired in a cluster of desks,
shaking hands with one of the older copy editors. Claire was nearby and had her
back turned toward them.

"Well I'll be…" Gallagher sighed, trailing off.

He hesitated to guess whether the publisher’s appearance heralded
renewed stability or another round of turmoil. As Marcello veered off and he
drew closer, Whitcombe still looked worn out, though minus his earlier despair.
His aura was closer to resignation.

"Hello Art," he said, shaking Gallagher's hand. "I’ve
returned somewhat earlier than planned."

By now Gallagher was inured to this. When he turned to Claire, though, his
jaw dropped. Her posture was rigid. Her eyes were glassy. Stress from the
weekend multiplied by three. Paternal instincts brought his hand to her
shoulder. "Everything's okay, I hope, Claire?"

Whitcombe answered for her. "No crisis, if that's what you're
asking." Through his tiredness he gave her a reassuring smile.
"Right, Claire?"

"Right."

Her voice was hesitant and high-strung. For whatever reason, she didn't seem
overjoyed by Whitcombe's early return.

"I'll explain more shortly," Whitcombe said. "Where's Janet?
Ah…here she comes."

Larson approached, Frick nipping behind her. She observed Gallagher,
Whitcombe and Claire together, and appeared to flip through a Rolodex of
scenarios. Her baseline composure rallied enough for a cheerful greeting.
Beyond that she seemed at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

"I suggest we gather in the conference room," Whitcombe said.
"The first thing I want to do is clear up any confusion."

CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN

The villa's living room was sunken and centered around a massive stone
hearth. A large fire was burning and exuded a sweet, pungent odor. Shakuri
tended the blaze with a metal poker, endeavoring to quell crisis and play
gracious host. His jerky manipulation of the poker betrayed his worry.

"This is all so unfortunate," he said with a strained smile.

Conley and Oleg were seated on a plush, low-slung leather sofa, facing the
fire. Décor around them was a domestic variant of Shakuri's office
opulence: Turkish rugs, carved end tables and garish lamps. Conley stared at
Shakuri, still dismayed. Oleg wore an expression of quiet anger.

Shakuri paused, with a veneer of normalcy that contravened present
realities. "You are my guests here. I hope you realize that."

Conley glanced around. A burly bodyguard stood in the front foyer. Another
stood with arms crossed, blocking French doors that led out to a patio.
"Guests?" he said, unwilling to play along. "We were ordered to
come."

Shakuri contrived an accommodating tilt to his head. "I'm not forcing
anything on you here."

"Then why take away our cell phones?"

Shakuri didn't answer, and turned to gaze into the fire.

"And Bradford's laptop, for that matter?" Conley persisted.

Another soothing smile. "A precaution, until we sort this out."

"How?"

"Why don't you tell me what Usmonov told you?"

Conley felt a new swell of irritation. "A reporter is supposed to ask
questions, not answer them."

"How shall we start, then?"

"You can start by giving back that laptop."

Shakuri sighed and re-extended poker into fire. His movements became more
abrupt than before, as if he was growing exasperated. The point of the
instrument started to grow red hot.

Next to Conley Oleg sat straight and immobile, arms crossed. His earlier
impatience with Conley had long passed, his contempt for the Tajik leader now
manifest in his eyes. "You'll never see that laptop again," he told
Conley in an even voice, before re-fixing his cold stare on Shakuri.

"Ah…the usual Russian mistrust of us Tajiks," Shakuri said,
shooting a hard glance at Oleg before resuming his poker thrusts.

"Experience," Oleg answered.

"Such it has been for centuries. Can it ever change?"

Oleg held his cold stare.

"You know…" Shakuri said, still occupied with the fire and
seeming to welcome detour into a more general theme. "…That's one
reason we turned to the Americans."

For the first time since the ride out Conley remembered Stanson and Hermann.
Their single-mindedness and suspension of disbelief now struck him as more
preposterous than ever. Hermann had probably winged his way back to Alma Ata by
now, his weekly stint of two days and one night complete. "You mean
because they trust you?"

"Yes," Shakuri said.

"And what else?"

Shakuri ceased his poking but didn't answer.

"Money?" Conley suggested.

This word appeared to hearten Shakuri; he took several steps away from the
hearth and held the poker and its glowing tip out for inspection. The gesture
was more distracted than threatening, as if animated by the imminent and
delectable prospect of a half-billion dollars-plus in U.S. largesse. His
thoughts appeared to order around a decision, and he stepped back toward the
hearth and placed the still-hot instrument in an iron stand. With unhurried
steps he crossed the room to sink into in a low-slung armchair perpendicular to
the couch.

"The laptop's in the next room, in my study," he said. "I'll
be happy to give it to you later." He locked his eyes on Oleg for an
instant, in the manner of a debater who has scored a tactical point.

Oleg would have none of it. His only response was a slight, contemptuous
shake to his head.

Shakuri crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, still clinging to
pretenses of normalcy. "I can guess what Usmonov told you. Probably about
some cover-up. About what happened with Bradford. Yes?"

"Never mind what he told us," Conley said.

"Please, Mr. Conley…"

"Let's talk instead about Peter Bradford. Did you force him out here
also? The same way you forced us?"

Shakuri brought his conjoined fingertips up under his chin.  "I
was hoping it wouldn't come to this. But it seems I have no choice."

Some seconds of silence passed---just crackling from the fire. Conley half
expected Shakuri to signal to his guards to hustle over and haul them away.
Instead Shakuri gazed into middle distance and exclaimed, "I know you're a
journalist, Mr. Conley. But please let me talk for a while. You can ask
questions afterward."

"We're listening," Conley said.