Live from Moscow (38 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-TWELVE

The structure was massive and darkened. The only illumination issued from
surrounding street lamps.

Lilya was to thank for this particular venue. Conley spotted an access
point. It was closed to motor traffic by metal barriers but penetrable on foot.

"Stop here," he said.

The driver was older than the first one and appeared confused by the
unorthodox destination. This was middle of the night in winter. And his
passenger was a lone foreigner. Conley re-donned his fur hat and decided not to
wrestle with language barriers and the return journey. This task could take a
while. The driver accepted payment without a word, and once Conley had exited
the vehicle, gunned his vehicle back toward the center. Sound from the engine
receded in snow-bound quiet, leaving just a muted hum of traffic from the
expressway several hundred meters back. Light snowfall had stopped, replaced by
a clearing night sky.

Inside the complex was a wide parking lot, plowed and hard-packed underneath
the new dusting. Conley crossed it to a cast-iron fence, found the main gate
locked, and peered through the iron bars. His destination hulked unlit and
empty under its white half-dome---vacated of events and spectators in the
winter months. Surrounding grounds and roadways were deserted.
Luzhniki
.
Lilya had also noted its former Soviet appellation: Lenin Stadium. Built at the
zenith of Soviet urban construction in the 1950s. Later employed in the
ill-starred 1980 Olympic Games. Lenin’s statue still towered out front:
gaze fixed on an idyllic future, overcoat billowing.

Just the setting Conley wanted. He found an open secondary gate and entered
the grounds. A park area to the left was lined with bare trees and blanketed by
white; he traversed it on a curving walkway. His feet squeaked on the fresh,
light layering of snow. There was still no one to be seen.

The southernmost loop of the
Moskva,
he knew, lay just ahead.

Through tree branches he glimpsed the terraced hilltop campus of Moscow
State University, high on the opposite bank.  Lilya was likely asleep in
her family's nearby apartment. His ruminations next returned to Gallagher, who
had been to Moscow once before but not to this particular bend.

"Will the laptop by itself ever prove anything?" he had asked.

"Not by itself."

"Could we investigate this further, through other avenues?"

"We can try," Conley had answered. "Tough, though, given
Swiss banking laws."

At last the riverside promenade came into view. Stone slabs lined water's
edge; along one section was a balustrade with iron railings. Lighting was
bright and would make him visible in wide vicinity. He looked left, remembering
his earlier late-night survey with Lilya. Several hundred meters up-river was a
metro station, suspended under a bridge, its plate-glass windows still brimming
with light. But its enclosed platform looked empty. Moscow metro had closed
more than a half-hour earlier, which decreased the likelihood of casual
observers.

Though he wore gloves the hand in which he held the laptop case grew a
little numb. He flexed his fingers several times around the twin handles.

"…And that would mean dragging Claire into it," Gallagher
had continued, more statement than question. "Right?"

"Unavoidable."

Gallagher had taken another long drag on his cigarette; by this time the
hotel room had grown thick with smoke and shared purpose.

Conley crossed a stadium roadway and reached the promenade. He stopped and
glanced in both directions. The entire river-bend was bright and open. Still
devoid of people. His final steps to water's edge were slower---he didn't want
to appear frantic and attract attention, just in case. His measured footfalls
squeaked in the silence. Through dissipating clouds a half-moon filtered
through and cast a faint light on the river---wider at this point than at
others in Moscow. An irregular patchwork of black water and white ice fragments
drifted in a gentle current. Opposite banks were steep and forested, rising up
into Lenin Hills. He balanced the laptop case on the iron balustrade. This was
the last chance to take stock.

"Is the part about Bradford’s action essential to the rest of the
story?" Gallagher had asked.

"Not to the heroin smuggling. Not even to my own abduction, when you
get down to it."

Gallagher had studied him, although he appeared to know the rest.

"…Really just the tribute angle."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"Right. So that's where we are."

Now it was Conley who waited for a cue. Gallagher had taken another long
drag on his cigarette.

"Let's ask ourselves, Steve. What's to be gained?"

It hadn't seemed appropriate at that juncture to mention
Versailles…the rainstorm…even if that was where some of the dynamic
had originated, at least for him. Since then, he'd convinced himself, other
impulses had taken over. Baseline compassion. Considerations of fairness. His
motives had become more enlightened…Hadn't they? He’d taken a deep
breath. Anyway the question that Gallagher had posed was valid and more
immediate.

"I just want to weigh the overall situation," he’d finally
answered.

"And?"

"Make the best choice. Do what's right."

Now Conley re-scanned river waters and weighed the case in his hand,
wondering if the nylon shell would provide unwanted buoyancy. There was also
the risk of suspension on an ice patch. He decided these were minimal. Extra
battery packs, portable surge protector and power cords---still stored in the
zippered side compartment---added more than enough density. And he could aim
for open water. He stepped back from the railing and swung the case backward,
estimating how far he could hurl it with a locked sidearm. Advantage could be
obtained from the flexible handles. Release would be critical, much like a
hammer throw.

He stopped and stood still---one last fit of contemplation. The snowbound
quiet was almost total: disturbed only by murmur from the river and distant,
faint din from the expressway. Jenna's stinging denunciation re-crossed his
memory. Here he would exercise different reflexes. More justifiable ones. Even
if they required a stretch.

"Women---at least certain ones, under special circumstances---can move
our boundaries," Gallagher had said, just before Conley had gotten up to
go. "That's just the way we're constituted."

Conley ventured one more glance around the area---still white and
lifeless---then heaved in several lungs-full of cold air. Out on the river a
sizable patch of black water had formed among the ice flows, 20 meters straight
out from his position on the balustrade. He tested his footing. New snow
helped, affording additional traction on the hard-pack. Seeing no sense in
agonizing further, he took two more quick steps away from the railing and swung
the case around and behind his body in a deliberate half-circle. At maximum
extension he cocked his back knee, then exploded forward with short, hop-steps
and hyperventilating breaths. Just short of the balustrade he snapped his
shoulder forward and reversed the arc, rising to the balls of his feet and
propelling his arm forward. The case ascended above eye level; he raised his
chin and extended his fingers. At the instant of release he grunted, delivering
the object up and out into darkness.

Trajectory was perfect.

He stood with feet splayed, hands on thighs and watched; moonlight provided
just enough illumination. The case re-acquired gravity and carried out dead
center into open water. There was a white splash, muffled, like everything
else, by the snow.

For several seconds…five, ten…the case bobbed on the surface.
Like some abortive flotation device. Conley stood up straight and leaned out
over the railing, squinting for better visibility.

At last water permeated zippers and nylon and the weight of electronics took
over. The case sank by rapid, inexorable degrees and disappeared with a gurgle.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-THIRTEEN

Helplessness had spun into despair, and three hours of fitful sleep hadn't
slowed her spiral. Questions had tormented Claire all night long. Why were
Gallagher and Conley boxing her out? There could only be one answer. And it
wasn't in her favor.

Conley's behavior was most maddening. Running off for a late-night
rendezvous just when she was most desperate for information. Eluding
her…Not even bothering to answer his cell-phone. Couldn't his Russian
girlfriend wait? Yet that shouldn't have been a surprise.  Same
self-absorption she'd witnessed in Paris.

First let down by Peter…the man she loved. Now forsaken by Conley and
Gallagher---her supposed collaborators in an undertaking that would define the
rest of her life.
Le caractère masculin
was just as inconstant
and unreliable as she'd suspected during certain low points before her
marriage. American besides; that could only exacerbate the syndrome. Possessed
by cold agendas. Inaccessible, devoid of compassion…

Claire poked the "L" button on the console with a feeble finger.
Her hand drooped back to her side and she glimpsed herself in the elevator
mirror: ashen face. Eyes without the usual tense determination. Spent.
Defeated. Humiliated.

Near ground level she closed her eyes and sucked a deep breath.
Bien…
her
fate was decided. She'd tried to salvage Peter's reputation, and her own life.
But what more could she do? A merciless new reality awaited her. She should at
least grasp a strand of dignity and maintain her self-control. That would be
something. By time the doors opened she had squared her shoulders and raised
her chin, ready for the worst. In the hotel restaurant Gallagher sat alone at a
big table along one wall. He raised his hand to get her attention, then huffed
to his feet. His courtesy seemed hollow after last night, along with his
paternalistic air. After they sat down he waited for the waiter to pour her
coffee.

"Steve called me. He's upstairs in his room with Oleg. Said they'll be
down in about 10 minutes."

"Oleg? I thought he was coming later."

"We wanted to speak to him before Stanson had a chance."

Another furtive conclave, she thought. These men and their maneuvers, their
puerile political games…Of course she'd been shunted aside. It was all
too late now, anyway.

"Claire, I can guess what's foremost on your mind. The best way to
start is to read this."

Gallagher slid a single sheet of paper across the table. It was a computer
printout: page one of the
Boston World Tribune's
on-line edition, dated
that day. Claire's fingers trembled much more than usual as she picked up the
sheet. Headline was huge:

Conley freed in Tajikistan by Russian troops

World Tribune Wire Reports -
World Tribune reporter Steve
Conley, who disappeared on Tuesday while on assignment in Tajikistan, was freed
from captivity Thursday in an extraordinary helicopter-borne rescue operation
by Russian Special Forces.

Conley and his Russian interpreter were abducted Tuesday from their hotel
in central Dushanbe on orders from Tajik Prime Minister Shimon Shakuri, and
subsequently held in forced seclusion at Shakuri's residential villa outside
the city. Shakuri orchestrated the abduction in an apparent attempt to conceal
damaging information about the murder of World Tribune reporter Peter Bradford,
who died while on assignment in Tajikistan on October 15
^th
.

Russian forces tracked Conley through his cell-phone and staged a
surprise assault on the villa.

Until Thursday Shakuri was the main U.S. liaison in the Tajik government
for a proposed $550 million U.S. military aid package. The fate of the aid
package is now in doubt. (see adjacent story)

Conley, 30, a five-year veteran of the World Tribune news staff, was in
Tajikistan in part to investigate Bradford's death, which occurred under
circumstances which the World Tribune believed had never been adequately
explained. Conley had interviewed Shakuri early Tuesday.

Within hours of their rescue Thursday Conley and his interpreter---a
Russian citizen named Oleg Mikhailov, aged 32--- were flown out of Tajikistan
by Russian military air transport. Both are now in Moscow and report no injury.

In the course of the operation Russian troops apprehended Shakuri. Russian
military authorities later turned him over to the custody of the Tajik
government. Shakuri has been relieved of his responsibilities and is now in
Tajik prison awaiting trial on kidnapping charges.

Timing of the abduction, according to Conley, was connected with a vote
in the U.S. Senate on a military aid bill for Tajikistan, originally scheduled
for Thursday. Shakuri served as the main U.S. liaison in the Tajik government
for the aid package, which has been motivated by the war against terrorism. The
Senate vote was postponed when news reached Washington that Shakuri was
responsible for Conley's kidnapping.

Bradford, 28, was murdered under mysterious circumstances after a dinner
at Shakuri's villa on October 15th. Two of Shakuri's bodyguards were charged in
the killing, but died in a prison disturbance before they could be tried in
court.

During the course of his two-day captivity Conley elicited additional
information from Shakuri about Bradford's death. Shakuri claimed that he
attempted to bribe Bradford during Bradford's visit to the villa, to dissuade
him from reporting upon Tajik government complicity in heroin smuggling.
Bradford refused, though the two bodyguards assigned to transport him back to
his Dushanbe hotel believed he had accepted, and killed him en route on the
mistaken assumption he was carrying a large amount of cash.

"We'll never be able to confirm Shakuri's explanation," Conley
said in Moscow. "It's plausible, but it doesn't mitigate the tragedy and
senselessness of Bradford's death."

Shakuri offered similar bribes to Conley and Mikhailov, $2.5 million
dollars each, Conley said, which they refused. Their refusal prompted Shakuri
to detain them at the villa….Russian troops sustained no casualties in
the rescue operation. Russia has based 20,000 troops in Tajikistan since 1995.
A phased withdrawal from border areas began in March 2004…

Claire didn't bother reading the rest. The sheet continued trembling in her
hands, for different reasons now. "So that's all Steve learned about
Peter?"

"Inadequate, I'm afraid. It leaves a lot of questions unanswered."

"Will there still be an article?"

"You mean about Peter?"

She nodded.

Gallagher studied her for a moment and stroked his beard. "Of some
kind. But the focus may shift. More to Steve's abduction. A lot will depend on
Harry Whitcombe."

Claire's heart was pounding…Deliverance. A benevolent quirk of fate.
Maybe God himself had even intervened to spare her…

"Less than you wanted, I know."

"No, I…I mean I…"

"Good morning, Claire."

She looked up and saw Conley standing next to the table, Oleg at his side.
He looked worn out as they sat down, no doubt from his late-night assignation.
That hardly mattered now. Gallagher told them he had just shown her the story.
While the waiter reappeared to pour more coffee for everyone, she couldn't
contain herself. Her English became jumbled, a little euphoric.

"Don't think I'm disappointed, Steve. I wanted more answers. But you
and Oleg got out from there…that's first of all…"

She realized Oleg was observing her. The Russian looked away and took a sip
of coffee, wearing a half smile, and over his cup cast a sympathetic glance at
Conley, who frowned, as if warning him off. Conley then made quick,
indecipherable eye contact with Gallagher.

Puzzled, Claire stared at all of them in turn. A tenuous silence fell over
the table. Relieved as she was, she was gripped by new curiosity. What exactly
had gone on last night?

"Guess it's a buffet," Gallagher said, suddenly pushing back from
the table. "We should get breakfast. We've got a full day ahead."