Live from Moscow (3 page)

CHAPTER NINE

Paris was in exuberant transition from daytime rigor to evening indulgence.
Twilight had passed; cafes and boulevards were now glittering with light.
Streets were jammed and sidewalks humming. Departing office workers mixed and
merged with pleasure-seekers. The city was pulsing with renewed vitality.
Claire even felt a flicker of that this evening. She had wondered if she ever
would again.

From her seat at the outdoor café she had an unobstructed view across
the Quai de la Megisserie to the Pont des Arts. The bridge was brightly
illuminated. Amidst the heavy pedestrian traffic she spotted her friend
Veronique, striding along with bright scarf and designer handbag. 
Veronique glanced at her watch with a worried expression, then in the direction
of the café.

Claire always spotted people from far away. Nervous energy, she supposed,
even with her best friend. Moreover this was only their second meeting since
the funeral. So other emotions held sway. As Veronique approached her table
Claire stood and struggled to suppress tears. Veronique's eyes moistened as
well. She kissed Claire on both cheeks before they sat down, and placed a hand
on Claire's forearm with a look of mild alarm.

"I came as fast as I could…"

Claire thanked her.

"I mean…you're holding together, aren't you?"

"As best I can," Claire answered, dabbing her eyes.

Veronique gave her a sympathetic inspection. "With our lunch plans
tomorrow, and all, I didn't think you'd be ready for an evening outing."

"I just wanted to see you sooner."

Veronique gave her another worried examination. "But there's no
emergency?"

"No."

Veronique showed a bit of relief.

A waiter appeared. His cheerful
Bonsoir, mesdames
gave way to a more
subdued expression when he noticed Claire's red eyes. They ordered two
diablo
menthes
. After the waiter left Claire finished composing herself.

"I wanted to tell you…I actually got excited about something
today," she said.

Veronique looked surprised. "Going back to work?"

Claire worked as a part-time assistant at a fashion conglomerate---a
position with modest prestige and little future. The firm had given her a
one-month leave at the news of her husband's death.

"No, it's not that."

"Francois?" Veronique responded, with a rise of enthusiasm.
"Was it something he told you?"

"No. That was…helpful, Veronique. Thank you again for arranging
it. I'll tell you more about it later..."

Their waiter came with their cocktails and Claire was hit by a wave of
apprehension. What if this project didn't go forward? Were her hopes already
too high? She took a generous sip of her drink before resuming.

"Peter's uncle called me last night," she resumed. "Remember
him from the funeral?"

Veronique nodded.

"He's the executor for Peter's estate. He wanted to talk about a few of
those matters. All that's beyond me. It's too complex."

Veronique nodded again. Her
haute bourgeois
background gave her ample
acquaintance with wills, trusts and estate complexities.  She appeared
puzzled, although active inquiry about such matters was out of the question.

"…But that's really beside the point. His call had mostly to do
with the newspaper."

"The
Boston World Tribune?
"

"Yes. He told me the paper is doing some additional stories on
Peter."

Veronique leaned closer, to be sure she heard Claire above the growing din
in the café.

"There's going to be a kind of tribute," Claire continued.
"This will include…as far as I understand it…a re-enactment of
Peter's final assignment. It will be a way to honor him…to elevate his
memory. Maybe it will even produce more answers concerning his death."

"How?"

"They're sending a reporter out along the same trail. Same cities, same
interviews…everything."

Veronique considered this development for a moment, unsure how to react.

Claire's excitement welled up along with new tears. "Can't you see,
Veronique? It's great! This will be something lasting…for Peter’s
sake. Maybe it will make his death seem less senseless. And it's just what I
need right now…a goal."

"You mean you can help with this?"

"I think so…That part is still unclear."

The elevator whirred and whooshed up the long shaft toward Jenna's office, a
reliable trajectory and an emblem of new serenity and order. Alone in the
compartment, Conley leaned against the back railing. He felt responsible,
mature, settled. Maybe his usual undisciplined impulses were behind him.

Jenna's public relations firm was on the 25
^th
floor. Conley
greeted Nancy the receptionist, a jolly woman in late middle age who was
preparing to go home. Nancy had grown acquainted with him over the past few
months. Now she represented an amiable and comforting fixture. From there he
ambled down the familiar carpeted corridor to Jenna's office, a place, by now,
where he felt he belonged.

Time was 5:40: a period for loose ends, winding down, final e-mails. 
However when Conley poked his head in the door, Jenna sat immobile. Her elbows
were on her desk and her eyes straight ahead. She didn't brighten when she
turned and saw him. Conley's first guess was that she'd had a bad day, or an
unpleasant flight back from New York. He gave her a kiss.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Fine."

Jenna's controlled manners could sometimes make her hard to read.

Conley kept his hand on her back. "Thought we'd head to Newbury Street
for dinner," he said.  "That Italian place we've noticed a few
times.  Sound good?"

"Sounds great."  Gracious, as always. But something was off.

The weather was nice. They agreed to walk, and return for their cars later.

She dashed off a few remaining e-mails; he stepped toward the plate-glass
window. Night had fallen over downtown Boston. Surrounding skyscrapers sparkled
with light. Signals changed at intersections; traffic stopped and started.
Across Boston Harbor a plane was landing at Logan and another followed on a
path of descent. Constancy, regulation, progress: a view of civilization.

Tonight Conley felt more integrated. On track toward full membership.

Behind him he heard light clicking from Jenna's computer keyboard. He
resolved to cheer her up----overcome whatever unpleasantness had arisen at work
or on the road. Part of his new duty.

At reception Nancy had gone. From a closet Conley helped Jenna don her light
overcoat.

"You can stay at my place tonight, if you'd like," he said.

Her head tilted: neither pleased nor displeased. Detached. "I don't
know," she said.  "I was just there last week.  We'll
see."

Outside the building Conley held her hand. No resistance, though somewhat
limp.

They crossed Beacon Street and entered the Commons.  To their right
loomed the illuminated façade of the Massachusetts State House. 
Crisscrossing the lighted pathways were office professionals, workers,
students, vagrants: the whole buzzing cocktail of urban America. Air was crisp,
clear and still.  Most autumn leaves had been raked away.

"Sure everything's okay?" Conley asked.

Jenna stared forward and didn't answer right away.

Whatever was amiss, Conley was fairly certain that he was not the cause.

CHAPTER TEN

Larson, editor-in-chief for little more than a year, had been brought in
from the outside: formerly of the
Minneapolis Times.
Gallagher had been
passed over for the top job. Age had been a factor. Gallagher had been
gracious, Larson pragmatic. Their resulting relationship had been cordial and
efficient, not close. With an obvious backdrop: Gallagher's retirement was not
far off.

Gallagher often suspected that Larson preferred an earlier exit to a later
one. This suspicion was on his mind this morning as he watched Larson at one
end of the conference room. She was standing next to a whiteboard. A list of
bullet points. Giving her due to both sides of the equation, in her usual
subtle fashion.  She was also preparing to place responsibility for the
assignment squarely onto Gallagher.

"Safety is a critical concern," she said.

"By all means," Whitcombe agreed, immaculate in tailored suit and
silk tie at the other end of the table.

Gallagher sat hunched over his notepad between them, and listened as Larson
enumerated various guidelines for the assignment that would minimize risks to
the reporter: no lone interviews, no nighttime excursions, no meetings with
known criminals, special care with Shakuri. Whitcombe endorsed every one,
without hesitation. Larson returned to her chair.

"Art and I have talked this over," she continued. "Art will
supervise the reporter. Okay with you, Harry?"

"Art supervised Peter. Makes perfect sense to me."

Larson leaned back: one piece in place. "That brings us to the choice
of reporter."

"Yes," Whitcombe said.

"Art came up with the short list. I'll leave the rest to him."

Gallagher took a gulp of coffee and set down his paper cup. Why did he sense
he was being set up? "Harry, you know that this story…has unusual
demands," he began. "That limited the field."

Whitcombe nodded and folded his tanned hands on the tabletop.

"…The reporter has to be single. With international experience.
Without a critical beat, at present. In short, not tied down and ready to go
next week."

Whitcombe's eyes narrowed somewhat.

"I'll cut right to the chase. I think Steve Conley is the best resource
available right now."

For all his in-bred civility, Whitcombe couldn't conceal a flare of
distaste. He took a deep breath…seconds passed before he regained his
equanimity.  "Frankly…" he said, holding a cold, even
tone. "…That was one name I'd hoped you wouldn't mention."
Gallagher glanced over at Larson. Her eyes were locked over her reading glasses
and down the length of the table on her boss.

"Art is confident Conley can do the job, Harry."

Whitcombe didn't react. He stared at his hands on the tabletop.

"However…if you're opposed, we can return to Art's short
list."

More seconds passed. Gallagher became aware of the advancing second hand on
the clock face over Whitcombe's shoulder. Hadn't London receded by now, after
more than a year? Gallagher had thought so…

Then some insight brightened Whitcombe's features. His hard expression
dissipated and he nodded to himself. "On second thought," he said.
"Conley is probably a very suitable choice."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

There were probably reasons why most people visited cemeteries during
daylight, Claire realized. Brightness offset the darkness of mortality. 
Gave clearer perspective.

She refused to be bound by such conventions.

Night was falling and there was a chill air. The Cimetière de Passy
was empty. She’d chosen to come at this moment. Her will was what
mattered.

She stood in front of Peter's grave. New sod had been overlaid but earth was
still fresh in several places. Bouquets of flowers stood against the headstone.
Hers was freshest among them.

On earlier visits she
had
come during morning. Now though, privacy
and isolation made her feel closer to him than ever.  She remembered his
voice, his laugh…his consuming fervency in intimate moments.

What on earth drove him into such hazard?
Tears erupted and streamed
down her cheeks. Then she closed her eyes and reminded herself why she had
come. Tonight was different.
She now had a goal.
She would understand.
She
would elevate his memory.

She stood straighter.

An idea came to her and she opened her eyes. What better way to start than with
a place they'd shared? Not just any place. Very special, and just a short walk
away. She took a step forward and touched the headstone. A slight smile formed
amidst the tears.

On the path toward the gate her bearing became purposeful. Her shoes generated
a staccato friction on the fine gravel. Yes, this was a new phase. Acting, not
waiting. Once out of the cemetery she turned right. Her car was parked in the
other direction. It didn't matter. She was in
motion.
By the gate of the
church she caught a glimpse of the rectory. Light emanated from several
windows.  Francois was probably inside enjoying his second or third drink
of the evening. She had no urge to stop for a visit. Faith was well and good.
But she required more immediate solutions.

Pedestrians on the sidewalk observed her fast pace and parted in front of
her.  Several men attempted eye contact. She kept her gaze straight ahead.

When she reached the bookends of Palais de Chaillot her stride slowed.
Through the opening the Eiffel Tower rose up in full illumination. She took a
deep breath. Recollections crystallized.

Yes…she and Peter had walked exactly here. They'd had dinner around
Alma and strolled to Trocadero afterward.  Their third date. Autumn, just
like now. They were still tentative with each other. Both students: Peter in
the first year of graduate studies in Paris, she halfway through her six-year
struggle at the Sorbonne. Claire remembered Peter stiff and proper and wearing
a raincoat, keeping a comfortable distance as they walked. Hesitations issuing
more from his side than hers. Not because he was withdrawn or uncertain, but
because he was deliberate and systematic. Trying to assimilate Claire into this
outlook for the future. Claire remembered him walking across the terrace with
his hands clasped behind him, contemplating an attraction that was new and
consequential, but in the manner of an older man already confident of his place
in the world.

He had attracted her like a force field. His energy was controlled and
directed. He saw a way forward.

She remembered his words as they had approached the end of the terrace and
stopped at the stone banister. His voice had been smooth and modulated, even in
French: "Are you sure you want to continue seeing me? Given my plans after
this?"

Claire hadn't answered. She had just smiled.

Now she stood in the same location and closed her eyes for a moment. 
They'd stood here, a couple of feet separating them, then leaned forward and
rested their forearms on the banister. They'd gazed across the Seine at the
Eiffel Tower, illuminated then just as it was this evening. Claire didn't open
her eyes. The memory was vivid enough. She’d looked at his profile. He
was reflective, earnest. It was evident to her what he was thinking, even if
the context was distant, contingent, and uncertain. He was thinking ahead.
Restraining his impulses.

He could be relied upon. The recognition had released an emotional charge
inside her.

She’d turned toward him and stepped closer, so that her body was
almost touching his, then tilted her face upward and clasped the lapels of his
overcoat. What happened next seemed foreordained.  An awakening of
closeness and understanding drew them into full embrace. Their lips met without
effort. Afterward Claire couldn't say for sure whether she'd kissed him or he'd
kissed her. Their kiss just happened.

And been attended by the first, unmistakable upwelling of…another part
of him. From that moment forward his restraint had gradually fallen away. A
surprise, at first. But what woman would complain? Control continued to reign
in other domains of his life…

Now, back in the present, Claire opened her eyes. The same nighttime
panorama lay before her. To her left lay one of the stairways that led down to
the fountains and park. They'd descended these same steps, still holding hands.
That's what she'd do now. She didn't want this aura to be broken...

At the top of the stairs a voice sounded from her left. Unintelligible, at
first…followed by louder repetition. Claire roused herself and refocused
on the here and now. A young man in disheveled clothing stood next to her. His
hair was long and unkempt and his face unshaven. He was close---too close. His
manner was aggressive.

"Can't a beautiful
mademoiselle
like you spare any change?"
he said. Half grin, half sneer. He thrust his hand toward her.

Anger exploded inside her. At this place, at this moment, she felt
intrusion…violation of the worst kind. She clenched her fists.

"Get away from me!"

The young man froze in place, surprised. Still wearing a half-grin, not sure
whether to mock her or retreat. With a quick movement Claire reached into her
purse and grabbed a collapsible umbrella. She raised it over her head like a
weapon.

"I mean it, you bastard!" she shouted.

The man recoiled downward and away, anticipating a blow to his head. Across
the terrace near the Palais a policeman took notice and ran toward them. 
With a frantic look in his eyes the panhandler looked over his shoulder then
fled down the stairs. Out of breath, the policeman drew up to Claire.

"Are you all right, Mademoiselle?"

She nodded. The policeman continued his pursuit down the stairway.

She replaced her umbrella in her handbag, and noticed that her hand was
shaking and her body was coursing with adrenaline. She took several deep
breaths. After a moment she collected herself. Still standing at the top of the
stairs, she made a determination. This episode would be an example. There was
no room for such inanity. She would not tolerate distractions.

Nothing would stop her.