Live from Moscow (40 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-SEVENTEEN

In the retelling, Conley and Oleg had just lifted off from the Russian air
base, bound for Moscow. Gallagher assisted their reconstruction---and their
omissions---by asking suitable questions. Now the narrative was winding down.
So was Gallagher. His jet lag was finally hitting him in earnest, despite
countless cups of coffee. A cell-phone rang at the table. It was Claire's. She
looked confused as she answered.

"It's for you, Art," she said, handing the device over.

He listened briefly, issued a slight grunt, excused himself and walked out
to the lobby.

The caller was Reynolds, from Washington---well before dawn East Coast Time.
In the face of dismay in Congress and outrage in the media, the White House had
decided to withdraw the aid bill. No vote rescheduled. Conley's kidnapping and
Shakuri's disgrace had done too much damage.

Gallagher smiled as he snapped the phone closed. Satisfaction lightened his
step as he re-traversed the restaurant. He and Conley had achieved a worthwhile
final objective in this long ordeal; their plan had come off. They'd spared
Claire without sparing Stanson. American taxpayers would not squander $550
million on an initiative born of zealotry and incompetence.

Truth had been edited only at the margins.

Some follow-up would be necessary during the remainder of the day, including
an interview with Stanson---more tolerable now that outcomes were known. Conley
could file a second bulletin back to Boston. Maybe there would be a low-key
celebratory dinner. After that Gallagher was looking forward to telephoning
Denise and getting to bed early.

When he returned to the table he announced the news.

"That's great," Conley responded, looking distracted. Eager to get
up.

Reaction from Oleg was more enthusiastic. If Oleg was indeed an intelligence
operative, preferences of the Russian government were plain.

"You're sure?" he asked. "Completely withdrawn?"

"Seems that way."

Gallagher had decided not to press him about his true role in all this. At
least for today.  Oleg had been a party to the plan; he deserved his due.
"I suggest another break," he said, reaching for his cigarettes.
"Before Franklin Stanson hunts us down."

"No arguments here," Conley said, closing his notepad. He glanced
across at Lilya, who had followed the review with quiet attention.

"I should go back to my classes, Steve."

"I'll walk you out."

As Conley pushed back, disappointment seemed to fall across Claire. She
asked him how long the break would be. He cleared his throat and glanced at
Gallagher. "What…ten minutes, Art?"

"Make it twenty. I'll call Stanson. We'll get that over with before
lunch."

Gallagher lit a cigarette and remained seated, watching Conley and Lilya
make their way toward the lobby. Exhaling a plume of smoke, he realized
Claire's gaze was fixed in the same direction. He turned and examined her
profile. Glints of curiosity were gone, supplanted by a new expression.
Gratitude, or even tenderness?

Did she know?

He decided it didn't really matter. Her burdens seemed lifted. That was what
he wanted most of all.

And this was almost over.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-EIGHTEEN

On the way out Lilya re-established her earlier distance. Conley walked
alongside, matching her long gait, dodging a couple of waiters, wondering if
he'd be able to revive the openness he'd glimpsed in her when she'd arrived. He
hoped she hadn’t misinterpreted Claire’s presence. They drew up at
the coat-check counter.

"Can we meet this evening, Lilya?"

"What about everyone else?"

"Well, we are meeting for dinner…a kind of celebration. But you
can join us."

Hesitation crossed her face. "I don't know, Steve. I feel out of
place."

"You're not."

"It just seems like there's still a lot going on. Your editor's here.
Claire also, who naturally has a strong interest in this…I'd just be a
distraction."

"How about tomorrow?"

She considered the proposition, and said, "Maybe the best thing to do
is wait a few days, until your situation settles down."

"Really, I'll have time."

"I think it's best, Steve. For now, let's just stay in contact by
phone."

Her mind appeared made up. "I should probably get to back my
classes," she concluded. She gave him an amicable smile and resumed stride
across the lobby, buttoning her coat as she went. There was no confrontation
involved. No shyness, either; she was just trying to be sensible. Outside, they
moved a few paces from the entrance and stopped. Her posture reminded him of
their walk at Moscow State University. Before he could formulate further
objection she pecked him on the cheek, gave him a light hug, and strode away
down the curving sidewalk. He took a deep breath, watching her go. She was
probably right.

Back inside, halfway across the restaurant, he spotted Claire talking into a
cell-phone. The phone was his; he'd left it lying on the table. When he got
closer he discerned her end of the conversation, in French.

"No, Steve is fine…I'm making sure of that…I also felt you
and I had established a bond when we talked by phone two weeks ago. It was
almost instinctive…"

Conley drew up to the table and remained standing, trying to figure out what
was going on.

"Oh, here he is now." Claire smiled and handed the phone up to
him. "I answered for you. It's Milena."

"Milena?"

"I'm calling from Prague…"
She now spoke English.
"I've
read the news on the Internet…I wanted to call you as soon as
possible."

Nearby Claire remained tuned in, as if following an exchange of joint
interest. With his usual tact, Gallagher smoked and directed his gaze
elsewhere. Conley sidled to an inactive corner of the restaurant and sat down
at an empty table.

"I've been terribly worried."

"I appreciate that, Milena. But the reports are correct, as Claire just
told you I'm fine."

"In fact I've wanted to see you as soon as I can. That's why I
applied for a Russian tourist visa."

This was like a bolt from the blue, and especially welcome after Lilya's
retraction. Conley's hopes swelled and elongated.

"Unfortunately they turned me down because I’m still on
crutches."

Deflation occurred just as quickly. On her end, Milena did not sound
disappointed.

"I was pretty down about it, until I called your cell-phone and
Claire answered. I had no idea she was there. I just spoke to her. Talking to
her, I realized it was probably for the best that I didn't come."

"What? No…I would have been glad to see you..."

She interrupted him.

"Steve, that's the same selfless quality that drew me to you in
Prague. But you've got your stories to write.  And now Claire’s
there…and no doubt wants to hear more about her husband. I could hear the
excitement in her voice. She deserves your full attention."

Conley tried to object again, in vain. The rest of the conversation ran its
course. In cheerful, singsong tones, Milena declared that further postponement
of their incipient romance was in both their interests; she was, after all,
still dealing with the after-effects of her broken engagement. In a final,
unconventional postscript, she revealed that she and Claire had exchanged phone
numbers.

After the call he sat for a moment: legs wide and elbows on knees, staring
at the cell-phone in his hand. He looked up. Across a half dozen other tables
and too far away to have heard the conversation, Claire gazed back. She had the
same look of gratitude in her eyes---the one that had started after her talk
with Oleg.

He tried not to let it affect him.

Then out of the corner of his eye he caught Stanson making his way across
the restaurant. Conley supposed he was back for his interview.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-NINETEEN

Gallagher was not pleased to see Stanson coming. On the other hand, he
wanted to get this over with.

A well-dressed young Russian strode along at Stanson's side. When the two
neared the table, Gallagher noticed his breast-pocket name badge: hotel
management. The Russian's expression was harried.  Stanson appeared back
on edge. Something was up.

"Excuse me, Mr. Gallagher?" asked the manager, in correct English.

"Yes?"

"There are two television crews outside the hotel."

Gallagher glanced toward the lobby. Indeed, some sort of commotion seemed to
have started. Elevated noise. Hints of bright light.

"Television news?"

"One from CNN, one from a Russian station. They've learned that Mr.
Conley is here."

Conley re-approached, still clasping his cell-phone. His face was perplexed,
and became more so as he caught these last sentences. Stanson addressed him,
with a nervous, momentous aspect to his drawl.

"They want interviews, Steve."

"Now?"

"Well…those folks don't like to wait."

Gallagher made eye contact with Conley, whose thoughts appeared to run in
multiple directions. This was not what they needed just now. The manager
re-addressed Gallagher.

"Others have started to call, from newspapers also…From different
countries."

"Many?"

"Ten or twelve. Maybe more."

Gallagher frowned. For all the respect he retained for his profession, he
knew that reporters in a pack, on pursuit of a breaking story, could become
wild and obnoxious. Television journalists were the worst. He visualized a
daylong media circus. All at once, his anger re-boiled. He glared up at
Stanson.

"Are you behind this, Franklin?"

"No…believe me, Art. These hyenas corralled me when I went to the
embassy this morning. I couldn't get rid of them. They followed me back
here."

"Great. Thanks a lot."

Gallagher punctuated this with a snort. Stanson was supposed to at least be
adept with logistics. Couldn't this would-be rancher get anything right? Clamor
from the lobby grew. He stroked his beard and took stock. Timing was
inopportune. Still, he and Conley had to pass this hurdle sooner or later.

"Have a seat, Steve," he said. "Let's talk this over."

The closest chair was the same Conley had occupied all morning, on the other
side of Claire’s. As he re-seated himself, her features became more
alert. He resisted looking at her.

"Well, what do you think?" Gallagher asked him.

"This is kind of sudden, Art. But I suppose I can do the TV. At least
give a statement."

"And say what?"

Conley appeared to struggle to order his thoughts.

"Review the story you filed last night. Maybe add a few facts that we
discussed this morning."

"Will you take questions?"

Conley thought for a moment.

"Guess I'll have to."

Gallagher felt a jolt of apprehension. Enormous outcomes were now riding on
this exercise, for better or worse. They'd embarked upon a hazardous course.
From this point forward there could be no missteps.

"Sure you're up to it, on so little sleep?"

"Yes."

Stanson and the hotel manager were still hovering over the table. Gallagher
stared down into his empty coffee cup and re-stroked his beard. "He'll be
right out," he told the manager, who hurried away. Turning again to
Conley, he said, "After your TV appearance, Steve, I suggest you get out
of here for a while. Get some fresh air."

"Leave the hotel?"

"We want to break the rest of this story ourselves. Better to avoid
further TV appearances until things have settled down."

"And the print reporters?"

"I'll handle them. I'll also finish up here with Franklin."

Conley took a deep breath and rose to his feet. He continued to look
distracted, and to Gallagher's concern, didn't immediately step away from the
table, as if doing battle with interior imperatives.

"I'll prepare the statement in my room," he said. "Also brush
my teeth. I'll be back down in about 20 minutes."

Claire also stood, with a purposeful aura. She spoke next.

"I'll go with you, Steve."

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED TWENTY

Up in her room, Claire re-touched her makeup and pulled herself together in
minutes. Vanity was an indulgence; Conley took priority. Taking the stairs, she
clattered down to the fourth floor and rapped on his door. He took a while to
appear. In one hand he clutched pen and paper.

"How's it going?" she asked.

"Almost ready."

To her Conley looked somewhat unfocused. She began to worry about his
capacity for orderly presentation in the face of such a media frenzy.

"Just a few more minutes," he said.

"Shall I wait out here?"

"What for? Come on in."

Before stepping across the threshold she gave him another examination. His
eyes rambled down to her middle curves. She flushed, remembering where she had
seen that before. In her apartment building. After Versailles.

"Better I wait out here. I'll just distract you."

His gaze left her with reluctance; he shut the door and returned to his
sequestration. Claire paced a short distance down the hallway and back. Some of
her nervousness came back. Would he pull through?  Missteps here could
undo everything. Her heart was thumping and her breath was short by the time he
re-emerged, wearing overcoat and scarf. One sheet of paper was folded in his
hand.

"Have your hat?" she asked.

"For the press conference?"

"No, Steve. We're leaving right afterward. Remember?"

Absent-mindedly, he went back inside and grabbed it. Had he already
forgotten Gallagher's plan?

When the elevator doors opened downstairs, five reporters waited. Hotel
security had been able to ward off only the cameras. Claire locked her arm
through Conley's as they stepped out.

"We're all set up outside," one reporter said, in a Russian
accent.

"I'm ready," Conley answered, leading Claire forward through the
group.

Dense light penetrated the lobby. Through plate-glass windows Claire
glimpsed the scene outside. Light snow was falling. Four or five tripod-mounted
lamps formed an impromptu stage on the front steps of the terrace, throwing
snowflakes into stark illumination. Other TV crews appeared to have joined the
original two. There was a throng of print journalists. One of the reporters had
fallen in next to Claire.

"Can you say who you are?" he asked, in an American accent.

"Claire Bradford."

"Peter Bradford's widow?"

"Yes."

The reporters scribbled on their pads. One spoke clipped syllables into the
mouthpiece of a headset. Claire felt under assault, and locked her arm tighter.
Fate had thrown her lot together with Conley's. It was too late to backtrack.

"I'm Lyle Higgins from CNN," said the reporter with the headset.

"Yes?" Conley answered, not breaking stride.

Their gaggle was now approaching the sliding glass doors.

"We're breaking into our main coverage."

"You mean…"

"Yes. When you come through those doors you'll be live."

Claire's heart slammed several beats.

"Good God," Conley said.

Claire re-tightened her arm and tried to speak with a steady voice.

"You'll do…fine, Steve."

In seconds they were through and outdoors and staring across the hotel drive
at a disconcerting multi-tier of lights, lenses and indistinct faces. A racket
erupted: questions and instructions, mostly in English, along with pings and
whirs from digital cameras. Claire noticed four or five large-diameter TV lenses:
all aimed at her and Conley. Among these was one from TV2, the French station.
How many were live feeds? It was surreal.

"Let's go," Conley said.

They crossed the entryway to the front steps of the terrace. He drew several
lungs-full of air. Snowflakes accumulated on his eyebrows.

"Here, give me your hat."

Claire was barely able to get the words out. She took his fur headpiece and
separated herself.

Cameras stayed on Conley. He took position near the top step, where a bank
of microphones had already been set up, and held out his single sheet of paper.
When he looked up the throng fell silent; only noise came from traffic on the
boulevard below. For a long moment he appeared mesmerized by the lenses.
Seconds passed as snowflakes fluttered down and Claire felt her knees grow
weak: a terrifying helplessness. To waver now would be catastrophic. Her new
appreciation for him aside, Conley could be a stricken fool on occasion; she
knew that firsthand.

However in the next instant he became straight and focused. Wayward currents
that gripped him at other inopportune moments appeared checked and
re-channeled. He began in a deliberate voice.

"As has been widely reported, I went missing in Dushanbe, Tajikistan on
Tuesday, along with my interpreter, Oleg Mikhailov. This happened while on
assignment for my employer, the
Boston World Tribune.
 We were
investigating the heroin trade, as well as the death of my colleague
Peter
Bradford, who perished in Tajikistan on October 15
^th
while on
assignment there. In fact, as my paper reported last night, we were kidnapped
and held in forced custody by Shimon Shakuri, the Prime Minister of Tajikistan.
This was a misguided attempt by Shakuri to cover up incriminating details of
Bradford's death. We were rescued late yesterday afternoon by Russian special
forces, who invaded Shakuri's residential compound by helicopter. The main
elements of the episode are described in today's report in the
World
Tribune.
I am making this statement to confirm that Oleg Mikhailov and I
both came to no harm, thanks in large part the professionalism of the troops
involved. We are both in excellent condition."

A tumult exploded. Claire couldn't make out any individual questions. Conley
raised his voice to finish.

"I will provide further details of my experience in an upcoming series
of articles in the
Boston World Tribune."

He took a step backward and toward her, but before he got further the
reporters swarmed around him. They were like pack animals. Cameras whirred and
clicked anew.

"How much did Shakuri offer you?"

"What exactly did Shakuri want you to do?"

"Are you sure Bradford wasn't bribed?"

At that Conley stopped. The unruly chorus subsided, lenses still trained.

Claire held her breath. She had half an impulse toward consolidation. To
lead him away before this spun in dangerous directions. However when he
answered, his words came out with extra conviction, as if animated by a primal
force.

"Yes, I am. Peter Bradford was not bribed. He was just doing his job,
and pursuing a story. For that he sacrificed his life."

His tone carried impact. Uncharacteristic silence fell on the throng, even
if just for a brief moment.

"…We should accord all possible respect to his memory."

The chorus erupted again. This time Claire didn't let Conley linger.
"Let's go, Steve," she said, pulling him away by his elbow and up
onto the hotel drive.

There was a line of five taxis further down the curve. Several reporters and
two cameras were keeping pace with them. "Better that one," Conley
suggested, pointing further down then opening the rear door when they reached
his intended vehicle. He seemed to know the driver. Once installed in the back
seat Claire was still panting. Lenses still seemed everywhere, aimed at her
through the windows. However the test had passed. Relief began to take over.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

Claire figured Conley should decide. He had certainly earned the privilege.