Live from Moscow (4 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

Fire dwindled in the massive hearth, mingling wood scents with the aromatic
haze of cigar smoke. Shakuri sat embedded in his armchair and ready to launch
into another superfluous discursion. Bradford tilted his snifter and finished
the rest of his cognac.

"Care for some more?" Shakuri asked.

"Nyet spasibo."
No thank you.
They'd been speaking Russian
all evening.

Bradford edged forward on the low-slung sofa. He glanced over his shoulder.
The thuggish bodyguard hovering near the entryway made him uneasy; otherwise Shakuri's
company would have been more tolerable. Nonetheless he'd gotten all he'd
wanted. Nothing would be gained by staying longer.

"I should get going," he said. "It's late."

With overdone regret Shakuri stubbed out his cigar.  "I
understand."

"I'll just collect my laptop."

"Fine. I'll have my men get the car."

Bradford traversed the sunken living room, climbed a few steps and proceeded
down the corridor to Shakuri's study. His laptop remained set up on a large
reading table, connected to the villa's wireless network. He reread material
he'd downloaded from the Internet an hour earlier---the main reason he had
brought his computer---then checked for new e-mail messages. There were none.
He shut down and packed the laptop into its zippered case.

In the entry hall the maid was waiting with Bradford's overcoat, along with
Shakuri. One bodyguard returned from outside.

"Did you use the chance to send an e-mail to your wife?" Shakuri
asked.

Why did Shakuri persist with this theme? Bradford told him he intended to
call Claire back at the hotel. Morning interview and evening dinner had been
long. Bradford did not expect Shakuri to say a quick goodbye. His expectation
was correct.

"I appreciate your resourcefulness, Mr. Bradford," Shakuri said,
as they stood near the doorway. The maid was holding the door open.

Bradford set down his laptop, preparing to shake Shakuri's hand.
"Resourcefulness?"

"You're the only Western reporter to come here in months. You've taken
time to delve into the situation in our country."

"I've tried."

"You see the big picture. Unlike most."

"I appreciate the compliment."

"And…even more important…you're not a mouthpiece for the
U.S. government. I didn't know what to expect when Franklin Stanson organized
your visit. Turns out you're your own man."

"It goes with my profession."

Shakuri concluded with a handshake that was too long and intimating for
Bradford's comfort. "I'm glad we found a common language," he said.

"Don't forget, Mr. Shakuri. I still have to write my stories."

Shakuri reacted with an overlong laugh. He wasn't through. "You do all
this for her, don't you?" he said, pointing at the laptop case hanging in
Bradford's hand.

Bradford tilted his head, not sure what he meant.

"I mean your work," Shakuri elaborated. "Your ambitions. What
we did this evening."

Bradford contrived a polite smile. By now he had had enough. Outside on the
oval of the drive, Shakuri's Mercedes was already waiting. The bodyguard from
the hallway reached toward the laptop, ready to pack it in the trunk.

"It's small," Bradford said in deliberate Russian, in order to be
understood. "I'll take it in the backseat."

The backdoor was already open. By the side of the car, Shakuri said,
"Roads here can be dangerous at this hour. But you're in good hands. My
men are armed." He offered a last handshake before Bradford got inside,
then waved as the car pulled away.

The Mercedes descended through woods abutting Shakuri's long driveway. In
front, the two bodyguards exchanged meaningful glances, uptight for reasons
Bradford couldn't discern. At the bottom of the driveway, before they merged
onto the main road, the driver examined Bradford in the rearview mirror.

"K moi gastinitse, da?" Bradford said.
To my hotel, yes?

"Da."

The road was empty. Another nervous glance passed between the two men before
the driver turned right and headed in the direction of the Dushanbe.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Gallagher liked giving reporters challenging new assignments. There was a
sense of fresh purpose. Pending discovery.

Not this time. Round one had yielded barbaric murder in a far-off country.

Granted, Claire Bradford deserved answers…some kind of redress. But
there were limits. Pressures from Harry Whitcombe or not. Another reporter was
on the line. Worst of all, he was starting to worry that Whitcombe, along with
his desire for a tribute, also saw this as a means of reversing dismal
financial trend-lines at the paper.

With a grunt Gallagher stood and reached across his desk for his notepad. Through
his glass wall onto the newsroom he spotted Conley's thatch of hair out in the
features area. Most interlocking reporters' desks in the surrounding expanse
were empty. A fitting tableau---Conley in internal exile. Today he was putting
finishing touches on his latest article: an investigation into grade inflation
in Boston public schools. Worthwhile reporting, but hardly glamour beat.

Even through recent turmoil, Gallagher had persisted as one of his
advocates. Most important: his top-notch writing and solid journalistic work,
rendered consistently within deadlines. No sick days and unfailingly punctual.
Beyond that there was certain common ground, despite gulfs of generation.
Though Gallagher was from South Boston and Conley the suburbs, Conley had
always struck Gallagher as uncomplicated---just an ambitious young guy from
Boston trying to make his way up. A contemporary variant of a longstanding
prototype that had once encompassed Gallagher himself. What happened in London,
as far as he was concerned, was not relevant.

After winding through the newsroom maze he sat on a desk adjacent to
Conley's and crossed his arms over his stomach. Their usual rapport remained on
key, even when Gallagher tugged his beard and indicated he had something
important to discuss.

"Not a transfer to the Worcester bureau, I hope," Conley joked.

Gallagher tried to laugh. Instead he got right to his point. For Conley's
next assignment, he said, he would be supervising editor. Conley was plainly
surprised. His surprise grew when Gallagher told him the subject.

"Bradford? Even after all the articles this weekend?"

Gallagher had to suppress a sigh.

"Yes, Steve. The paper wants to do more."

Ninety minutes later Conley sat across Gallagher's desk, more upbeat than
Gallagher had seen him in quite a while. He’d forwarded all relevant
e-mails. Conley now scanned down Bradford's itinerary and interview schedule.

"Prague, Moscow, Dushanbe…This will be quite a trip."

"Those are just the basics," Gallagher explained. "Bradford's
laptop was never recovered in Dushanbe. And he operated on a long leash."

Conley didn't have to inquire. Bradford had been unique among field
reporters with his direct supervision by Gallagher. Prerogatives of bloodline.
There was an assumption among news staff---well founded---that Bradford was
destined for the role of Managing Editor, once Gallagher retired. Hence the
special arrangement.

"Don't forget about Paris," Gallagher added.

"Right. That drug bazaar outside the city."

"Actually…you should allow a full week there."

"A week…?"

"Claire Bradford has agreed to help."

This provoked another slightly surprised look. Gallagher elaborated.

"She's volunteered to help fill the gaps I mentioned. Also to give some
personal insights…especially as to why Bradford threw himself into this
heroin story the way he did."

Conley paused, mulling this information.

"Peter Bradford…now Claire as well," he said. "I can't
figure it out, Art. This story has to be important to Harry Whitcombe. Why
would he agree to put me on it?"

Gallagher's gaze wandered to a pile of local editions on one corner of his
desk. He possessed scant knowledge of what had transpired between Whitcombe and
Conley in London. And he'd asked himself the same thing. However that ranked
least among his concerns. More pressing was another question. Where should he
draw limits, this time round?

"Harry approved your selection, Steve," he said. "Let's leave
it at that."

"Okay."

"I'd prefer to focus on something more important."

Conley gave him a quizzical look.

"…Your safety."

Conley had apparently considered this already. "Don't worry, Art. I'll
make sensible choices."

"I hope so. This assignment will be high profile…with extra
pressures. Especially at the end, in Dushanbe."

"I know."

"If questionable situations come up…significant risks…will
you consult me?"

"Given what’s happened, of course."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The scene was still vivid in Conley's memory. Early autumn sunlight streamed
into the small conference room. Central London hummed outside: the bustle of
mid-morning. Harry Whitcombe was pressed and groomed and sat with his hands
folded in front of him. No obvious signs of turbulence from the previous day.
Anger detectable, but contained. Little showed in his eyes except determination
to address a most unwelcome problem---of which Conley was the root cause.

"Tracey is only 20 years old," he’d said.

"Yes, I know." Conley couldn’t justify himself. So he
stopped and waited for Whitcombe to continue.

"Tracey and I have open communication on most matters," he said.
"But in this instance, I told her I’d prefer not to hear details.

Conley took a breath before reacting. Whitcombe held up his hand.

"The fact is I didn’t come here to delve into her romantic life.
Therefore I asked her just one question. That was whether she had a
relationship with you that went beyond professional boundaries. She said that
she did."

The patrician publisher waited a long downbeat before breaking the silence.
His stare was like granite.

"Would you acknowledge that that’s the case?"

Conley paused. Nuance seemed pointless.

"Yes."

Whitcombe’s eyes narrowed briefly but he retained his cool.
"Whatever the exact circumstances, the situation is unacceptable. Tracey
is an intern, and you’re her immediate superior in this bureau."

Conley remembered thinking: Whitcombe's hand is on the lever and he appears
disinclined to waste time. The pull will come before this meeting is over. In
the next instant, however, Whitcombe had paused and looked toward the window.
His thoughts seemed to drift out of the room. His face acquired a softer, less
businesslike cast.

"However in this case I am not disposed toward extreme measures."

Conley raised his head slightly, surprised.

"...Precisely because Tracey is my daughter."

Whitcombe had then turned back and refocused. "You'll be transferred
back to Boston."

And that was that.

"What are you thinking about?" The question came from Jenna. She
was at the wheel of her Saab, speeding along under the bright lights and white
walls of the Ted Williams Tunnel toward Logan Airport. It was mid-afternoon on
Sunday and traffic was light.

"Sorry," Conley said. "I was thinking about Harry
Whitcombe."

"He's given you another chance."

"True."

"If I were you I'd be grateful."

"I am." 

Jenna offered a distracted smile and redirected her attention to the tunnel
roadway. Distraction or not, Conley was relieved she was still in his corner.
He hadn't been sure over the past few days. Since dinner on Newbury Street,
something had been off. What, exactly? He couldn't say. Most significant was
that he was turning a new page. Misadventures like that in London were now part
of the past. In that sense he was departing on an upbeat.

Daylight broke ahead at the end of the tunnel. They emerged onto the
up-ramp: a long smooth curve. Without obvious precipitant, Jenna grew
hard-faced and intent. Conley assumed she was focusing on the signs and routing
to Terminal E for Air France. Instead she pulled off into a breakdown lane.

"Something wrong?" he asked, looking around. He hadn’t
noticed car trouble or inadvertent wrong turns.

She sat staring ahead, both hands fixed on the steering wheel. Self-control
was her norm; this seemed a pause for verification. Conley studied her from the
side, now concerned.

"I decided now might be a good time to raise this," she began.

"Raise what?"

"An issue that's been on my mind."

"Something serious, Jenna?"

"Yes."

"But I'm leaving for Europe."

The circumstances didn’t give her pause.

"I'm going to interview for a job in New York next week," she
said. "It's another firm. A position with more responsibility and more
money. They're very interested in me."

"I don't know what to say…I thought you were happy in your
current job."

Her hands remained on the wheel.

"…And that you liked Boston."

"I do."

Conley thought for a moment. "What about us?"

"That's why I want to talk. It means we need to reconsider where we're
going. Maybe step back."

"Step back? You mean break off?"

She took her hands off the wheel and turned to look at him. "Yes."

"Can I ask why?"

"We've been together now for almost five months. Long enough to know
each pretty well." She paused, weighing her words. "You have a lot of
what I've always wanted in a guy. Smart…I'm even amazed sometimes.
Good-looking and athletic…you stay healthy. And you're considerate, in
your own way."

Conley assessed the last phrase. "So what's the problem?"

"Sex."

"Sex?"

"Not the sexual component of our relationship. That’s fine. Sex
in a more general sense." 

"What do you mean?"

"I’ll speak openly, Steve. Are your desires limited to
me?"

Conley was caught off guard. "I’ve never been unfaithful, Jenna.
I hope you know that."

She observed him closely. "That may be, but is that enough? Don't you
think I'm sensitive to the way you are in public? Anytime an attractive woman…from
teenager right up to early 40s…gets within 100 yards, it's as if you go
into high alert. You're like a hound with its tail up."

"Please, Jenna. I think that's an exaggeration." He paused. When
her face didn’t soften he continued. "Anyway…to the extent
that I have those impulses, I try to control them."

"You
try."

He nodded.

"When I’m around, you mean."

"Yes. Of course."

She gave him a frank stare. "And what about the rest of the
time?"

Conley didn’t have an immediate answer. Jenna averted her eyes,
showing disillusion that was deep-seated and impervious to repair, a sort he
had never glimpsed before.

"Look, Steve," she said, looking back at him. "You’ve
told me what happened in London. And at first, when you told me the details, I
gave you the benefit of the doubt. But now I have my own experience to go on.
And that’s made me see it in a different light. These propulsions of
yours…they’re just too overpowering. You can’t ever really
contain them. Consequently I’m never entirely confident what will happen
next."

"Really? Your doubts are that extreme?"

"Yes, I’m sorry to say. I’m still not convinced I can
always count on you to do the right thing."

Conley stared back. Her words stung.

Sudden pity crossed her eyes.

"Don't take this the wrong way, Steve. I know you mean well. Your
intentions are good. If not for this particular factor, I wouldn’t be
taking such a step."

They both fell silent, staring out the windshield. The only sound came from
cars passing by outside on the ramp. After a moment Jenna put a hand on his
knee. "I do still like you," she said, in a benevolent tone.
"…a lot. And I really hope this assignment goes well." She
shifted the automatic transmission into
Drive
and glanced in the rear
view mirror, preparing to re-enter traffic.

"Well, that's something, I suppose," Conley said as they pulled
out and headed toward the terminals.

Forty-five minutes later Conley had passed through security and was sitting
at the Air France departure gate, his laptop and overcoat draped on an adjacent
seat. Tall windows looked onto terminal docking stations and the western
reaches of Boston Harbor, which was dappled in late-afternoon sunlight. The
landscape had an unreal quality; Conley felt shell-shocked. He pulled out his
cell-phone and called Thom. Thom was in his living room watching a football
game; his girlfriend had gone to the supermarket. He had to mute the television
before Conley told him what happened.

"That's too bad
.
I really thought you had a chance with
her."

"So did I."

"How are you taking it?"

"This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this. I’m
starting to wonder if she’s right."

There was a pause on Thom’s end. Compassion kicked in.

"Forget it…Hey, look on the bright side. You're going to
Europe. You'll be on your own. You can run free for a few weeks. Let off some
steam. And you won't encounter any interns, right?"
Thom laughed.

"No."

"And no relatives of your publisher?"

"Well, that's not exactly true."

Thom's laugh subsided. When he spoke next his voice was thick with worry.

"Good Lord….I’d forgotten about that..."