Live from Moscow (33 page)

CHAPTER NINETY-NINE

The bellhop at the
Langham
waved goodbye, unsure whether to smile.
Claire's departure was premature and sudden, and the faces of Gallagher and
Denise were lined with worry. Out of polite reflex she waved back. Denise edged
the Volvo away from the curb, checking traffic on Franklin Street in the
rearview mirror. Gallagher, sitting beside her in front, placed his hand on her
backrest and twisted his neck and shoulders.

"Looks clear," he said.

Lights were red at the intersection with Congress Street. From the backseat
Claire directed one last half-dazed glance at the hotel. Gallagher examined her
with concern. "You're sure about this?" She met his gaze and tried to
appear calm. She'd asked the concierge to return her rental car, in order to
save time. "…You can still get off in Paris. Forget about going on
to Dushanbe."

 "I'm sure."

"Okay, Claire. We're in this together."

The previous afternoon and evening at the
World Tribune
had been a
whirlwind: emergency visa arrangements for Russia and Tajikistan, orchestrated
by Stanson from Moscow, flight reservations, a flurry of meetings with
Whitcombe, Larson and Frick. Even a direct phone conversation with
Shakuri---middle of the night in Tajikistan---broadcast on the conference-room
speakerphone. "You have no idea why they disappeared?" Gallagher had
demanded---still disheveled from his frenetic rush downstairs to Whitcombe's
limousine. He’d leaned onto the conference table with straight arms, one
shirttail hanging down under his paunch.

"None."
There was static but Shakuri's voice had resonated
with sympathy and shared vigil.
"But we've organized an all-out search
around Dushanbe."

"And what if they've been taken elsewhere?"

"I am considering all possibilities, Mr. Gallagher."

Now Claire took stock. She wanted to be in Dushanbe, on hand if and when the
situation broke. But what if she never saw Conley again? Broader issues aside,
this was a real possibility; at intervals it made her nauseous. She remembered
Uncle Harry's harried one-to-one discursion in the corridor, between sessions. "I'm
as shaken as everybody else," he’d said. "We can only hope
Conley hasn't come to harm." Above his crossed arms he’d kneaded his
chin. "Is this somehow connected to Peter? We have no idea yet."

"When I get there, Uncle Harry, what do you expect me to do?"

"Art is acting on behalf of the paper…looking out for Conley. As
far as I’m concerned you're representing the family."

She’d given him a quizzical stare. His interests here were not
entirely consistent with her own.

"…Most of all Peter's memory, Claire."

"Assuming Conley is okay…do you want me somehow to…
intervenir
?"
Her English had deserted her. "I mean so that…bad things aren't
published?"

"No…If the truth comes out, we shouldn't suppress it."

"What then?"

He'd re-kneaded his chin and looked down at the floor. "Just keep it
all as dignified as possible. Yes…dignity, Claire. That's all we can hope
for." She’d considered his exhortation, about to object. Dignity for
whom? Then Frick had poked his head out of the conference room and they’d
re-entered the whirlwind…Now Denise finished navigating the maze of
downtown Boston and entered the Ted Williams Tunnel. The new asphalt gave a
smooth ride, and white lights lent a surreal quality to the interior of the
vehicle. Once settled at cruising speed, she glanced in the rearview mirror,
eyes awash with compassion.

"This has got to be as hard on you as anyone, Claire."

Claire examined her reflected image, unsure of her meaning.

"Because of the parallels…" Denise continued. "It's
like we're re-living everything that happened a month ago."

"Yes…I suppose you’re right."

"And you just saw him in Paris…Conley, I mean."

Claire swallowed hard. Conley
was
well-intentioned, as Tracey said,
despite his base impulses. Very human, after all.

"Let's not take the parallel too far," Gallagher interjected
solemnly. "Conley is still alive, as far as we know."

Denise reached across and put one hand on her husband's knee. "Of
course, dear. That's what I've been praying for these past 24 hours." He
looked down and placed his hand over hers. In the mirror Claire could see tears
well in Denise's eyes.

"…You'll look out for each other, won't you Claire?" she
said into the mirror.

"Of course, Denise."

Claire felt tears of her own. Gallagher struggled for a sober tone.

"We'll fly to Dushanbe on a U.S. government jet, and be with Franklin
Stanson," he said. "There will be American security personnel. All
possible measures. We'll be safe. Conley is our main concern." He twisted
back again. "Right, Claire?"

"Right."

Claire almost choked on her response. Would Conley's discretion even be
relevant, at this stage? There was a real chance he’d be killed, if he
hadn’t perished already. Now some of her earlier thinking seemed so
selfish…Daylight broke at tunnel's end and they entered the complex of
ramps and roadways connecting different parts of Logan Airport. Denise and
Gallagher turned attention to signs that would lead them to Terminal E for Air France.
Still taut in the back seat, Claire re-adjusted her vision and clutched for
lucidity. Art was right. Conley's survival
was
now paramount.

She couldn’t forget that as this crisis unfurled.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED

After lunch Conley and Oleg had suspended their play-acting, fed up with the
artifice. Now the room was quiet, except for faint noises from elsewhere in the
villa. Oleg reclined on his bed and stared at the ceiling, while Conley lolled
on an armchair. Their inertia, as far as they knew, stood in bizarre contrast
with the world outside. Reverberations from their disappearance had spread to
distant corners: Boston, Washington and Moscow, not to mention Tajikistan.

Most bizarre of all was that Art Gallagher and Claire would wing their way
to Dushanbe on Thursday, according to Shakuri. Aboard Stanson's government
Learjet, no less. Gallagher's intervention was understandable. But Claire's?
Conley didn't know what to make of it. He remembered Shakuri's snide
suggestion:

"Wouldn't you like to tell her what she wants to hear?"

The Prime Minister had summarized his wider deceptions as if they were marks
of self-importance. Expansion of the search to include the entire western half
of Tajikistan, "at the request of your newspaper and of the U.S. State
Department." A press release from his own office----Conley and Oleg were
described as a "Boston-based journalist and his Russian
interpreter"----which declared their disappearance "likely connected
with terrorist and heroin smuggling elements operating in Tajikistan." In
Washington, official consternation. The Administration, Shakuri claimed, was
even exploiting the event to advance the aid bill. A Senate vote was still
planned for Thursday.

"You see," he’d said, stubborn in his confidence. "You
have nothing to gain by refusing my offer. Everything will go on as
before."

Somewhat to Conley's mystification, Oleg's gambit had actually bought time.
"And what if we do accept now?" he had asked. "How would we
explain our disappearance?"

"We'll cook something up, don’t worry."

Today Shakuri had been absent since morning, in his office in the city. On
the phone, conspiring with Stanson and Hermann to contain the crisis? By now
Conley supposed the two American officials were involved, on some level. Only
the degree of their complicity remained to be determined, if he and Oleg ever
exited this alive.

Restless, he stood and approached the window. Out in the garden area the
exterior security guard remained, bundled in winter clothes and bouncing on his
feet to stay warm. The other kept station in the corridor, his occasional
coughs and shuffles audible through the door.

Pacing back across the room, Conley re-analyzed the situation. After some
moments he stopped and addressed Oleg.

"Shakuri's painted himself into a corner."

Oleg rotated his head on the pillow. "Meaning?"

"He's detained us. And now he's issued false press releases."

Oleg raised an index finger toward the ceiling in yet another reminder, but
went along. "So?"

"One way or another, there's no going back."

"True."

"Then what's the point of his 'offer'? Why the stalling?"

"He may be corrupt, but he's not a killer," Oleg said, his tone
reverting to graduate school pedantry. "He's giving us a chance. Groping
for a way out. Just like we are."

Conley clenched his hands, paced back over to the window and leaned forward
onto the sill. Hard truth was settling in, and made this play-acting too
preposterous to sustain.  He straightened abruptly.

"At this point, he can't let us out of here alive. Can't you see that,
Oleg? He wouldn't risk it."

"We won't know for sure," Oleg answered, eyes flashing irritation
but voice even. "…Unless we agree to his proposal."

Conley glanced at his watch and confirmed that it was already
late-afternoon. Oleg was getting on his nerves again. "Our 48-hour clock
is almost half-gone," he shot back. "Are you suggesting we just wait
here until time's up, sticking with this charade?" Through walls he heard
sounds of two or three cars, pulling into the house driveway. He assumed
Shakuri had returned. Oleg ignored the sound and acquired another sarcastic
edge.

"What else do you have in mind?"

Instead of answering Conley scrutinized ground directly below the window. It
was a long drop; still, about one meter out from the wall was a cluster of
low-lying evergreen bushes which appeared relatively soft---a gentler landing
surface than in Argenteuil. He was suddenly grateful for that bizarre and
painful experience. This time he would do it right…

The windows were heavy double-paned glass, but without exterior grillwork. 
Each half was about twice as wide as his shoulders---more than ample clearance.
He glanced back at two armchairs alongside the sitting table. Perfectly sized
battering rams. He walked across, picked one up, determining the weight was
just right, while Oleg watched, curious. Conley ignored him for now and
visualized a plan. One key would be to wait until the guard was directly below.
Then if he and Oleg got running starts and broke through each window
simultaneously, they could fly down from above with the advantage of surprise.
With luck they'd land on the evergreens, compelling the guard to jump out of
the way. Between them, they then stood a decent chance of overpowering him and
wresting away his gun.

"I have an idea," he said.

Still stoic, Oleg didn't move. His eyes flitted to the chair that Conley
still gripped with both hands.

"What are you going to do?" Conley’s voice rose.
"…Just sit here waiting to die?"

Still no response.

"All right, Oleg. Suit yourself. I'll do this alone if I have
to…"

Shouts erupted outside, interrupting their exchange and fracturing the
quiet. These were followed at once by staccato bursts of automatic weapons
fire. Within the span of a second, Oleg jackknifed up to a sitting position,
intent and alert. Conley put down the chair and gaped across at him.

"What the hell is that?" he said.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-ONE

The Air France jet ascended through clouds northeast of Paris and settled at
cruising altitude; Moscow was almost three hours away. With a slight grunt,
Gallagher unbuckled his seat belt, snapped open his
International Herald
Tribune,
and reread the front-page headline.

American reporter disappears in Tajikistan

Apparent abduction

The previous day the
Boston World Tribune
had published a brief story
on page one, with initial, scant information---and this in turn had circulated
on wire services. Today Conley's disappearance had become a major global news
item, in part because of the aid bill pending in the U.S. Congress. More
details were emerging, including a statement from Shakuri and comments from the
White House.

In the next seat Claire sat taut and engrossed in the morning's edition of
Le
Figaro,
which
contained a lengthy, page-three article on continuing
developments. On the
International Herald Tribune
, Gallagher scanned
down to Conley's photograph: same one employed in recent
World Tribune
advertisements.
With a hollowed-out sensation he re-read the text:

…This is the second disappearance by a World Tribune reporter in
Tajikistan in little more than a month. Peter Bradford, a World Tribune
correspondent based in Paris, was murdered under mysterious circumstances on
October 15
^th
. Both Bradford and Conley traveled to the remote,
little-known region of Central Asia to investigate the heroin trade out of
Afghanistan, a major source of financing for international terrorist
organizations…A spokesman for the White House called the abduction
"alarming, a situation we are monitoring closely." The official asserted
that "such lawlessness highlights the need for a greater American security
presence. Terrorist elements behind Conley's disappearance should know that
this Administration will not be dissuaded…"

Gallagher leaned his head back on the seat rest and exhaled hard through his
nostrils. The all-night transatlantic flight had been taxing, as always. And on
this onward leg dozing was out of the question. Claire was now absorbed in
Le
Monde,
which also had page-three coverage. Its pages quivered slightly in
her hands. Gallagher knew enough French to understand the headline:

Un deuxième journaliste
américain disparu en Tadjikistan

La Maison Blanche promet la
fermeté

"Anything beyond what
Le Figaro
reported?" he asked her,
startling her out of her concentration.

"Same, more or less. This article mentions me, like the other
one."

French media apparently did not yet know she was bound for Tajikistan. 
Thus far she had not been mentioned in American reports.

"Reporters are calling my parents in Paris," she said, referring
to her quick phone call to them from CDG Airport.

"How do they feel about this?"

"My trip?"

"Yes."

 "They doubt it’s a wise idea. They're extremely
worried."

Gallagher winced. Back in Boston he'd been through two agonizing phone calls
with Conley's parents. They also were distraught, quite understandably. Claire
observed his pained expression.

"This isn't your fault, Art."

Before he could object a stewardess pulled alongside with a beverage cart.
They both ordered coffee. Taking a sip, he said: "It still doesn't make
sense."

"What?"

"That Shakuri would allow this to happen, with so much at stake."

The pilot came over the address system with customary remarks, first in
French and then in English. Smooth flying was expected, although a light
snowstorm was underway in Moscow.

"…When we land there I'll have some pointed questions for
Franklin Stanson," he added.

Claire nodded, though her expression became distracted; Stanson seemed of
little consequence to her---as if Conley’s safety was now foremost.
Gallagher hoped she was realistic about her ability to affect the outcome.

"We should remember, Claire. Our influence may be limited."

She thought for a moment.

"Maybe not, Art. If we're with Stanson, we'll also be close to Shakuri,
right?"

"I would think so."

"Good. That means we'll be right in the center of things."