Live from Moscow (16 page)

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

The Cold War was long over. Conley had been in middle school when the Berlin
Wall came down. Still, certain associations lingered.

One was that the U.S. Embassy in Moscow was a nexus of espionage and
intrigue, under constant surveillance by the Russians. A proxy in a dangerous
global rivalry. Imbued with high-stakes glamour.

In reality he found a dilapidated building that seemed left behind by
history. While a security perimeter kept pedestrians moving and cars from
jumping the curb---anti-terrorism measures---there were few indications that
the place remained important. Russians waiting for visas---an emblem of the 90s
that Conley had seen on television---numbered just a dozen and didn't conform
to old stereotypes. Several applicants spoke on cell phones. From heavy traffic
on Bolshoi Deviatinsky Prospekt, another materialized out of a chauffeured
Mercedes.

Light snow was falling, with temperatures just below freezing. He passed by
the Consular entrance and into the Embassy gate. Inside the guardhouse
anteroom, he stomped his boots and brushed snowflakes from his overcoat. Up on
the fourth floor, American diplomats he passed in the corridor appeared glum
and jaded. Open doorways revealed cramped, shabby offices with copious stacks
of paper. Except for computers on desktops, the building seemed stuck in 1975.
A relic from another era.

Enthusiasm was apparent only among staffers who looked Russian. And from
Franklin Stanson, who seemed cut from a different cloth than his American
colleagues.

"This is mine," Stanson said, gesturing into a doorway with
down-home informality. "Come on in."

His office was bigger than others, with evidence of renovation---two-toned
walls, new furniture, and a double-paned window onto the Prospekt.
 "I'm a recent arrival," he explained as they sat down, with a
vague drawl that evoked the central-southwest---and that somehow sounded to
Conley more adopted than inbred. "Part of our new priorities."

Conley already had an idea about those, based on previous phone and e-mail
contacts. Stanson's State Department title was "Special
Coordinator--Central Asian Security Issues." Despite this lofty title the
official was unpretentious. Mid- 40s and moderately overweight. Wire-rimmed
aviator glasses. Photographs on a cabinet behind his desk: one of Stanson
astride a miniature all-terrain vehicle wearing goggles and surrounded by open
scrub-land; another with wife and three kids on a back-yard patio, all big
smiles, Stanson holding a barbecue spatula. Not at all consonant with the more
strait-laced, academic proclivities of the State Department.

He reiterated his condolences over Bradford, which sounded sincere, and in
fact he had been immensely helpful with scheduling and logistical matters.
These included setting up meetings with Russian officials, transport to
Dushanbe by Russian military plane and enlistment of an interpreter who spoke
Russian and Tajik---male this time, to Conley's slight disappointment---named
Oleg Mikhailov.

What to make of the cautionary notes sounded by the Russian Ambassador in
Washington to Harry Whitcombe? Conley realized he would have to wait and see.

"Any more developments in the case from Dushanbe?" he asked,
opening his notepad. He remembered that Bradford had occupied the same chair
five weeks earlier, during his interview of Stanson.

"None, I'm sorry to say."

"And the Chechen?"

"Same as last week. Just hot air."

Stanson provided more detail on his role in Moscow and Central Asia. Since
the mid-90s the Moscow Embassy had had a FBI representative cooperating with
the Russians on law enforcement matters---the Russian mafia at first, then
mostly terrorism after September 11
^th
---and a DEA representative
working on joint anti-narcotics actions. Both of these concerns loomed larger
starting from 2002, when Afghan opium exports re-surged following the U.S.
invasion. Hence more intense U.S. cooperation with governments of Tajikistan,
Uzbekistan and Turkmenistan on anti-drug initiatives. This was new terrain,
Stanson acknowledged. The Russians were not always comfortable with American
inroads into former Soviet republics. Stanson was their main U.S. liaison on
these issues and attempted to allay concerns.

Conley came to understand that Stanson did not speak Russian.

"I'm new to State," the official explained. This is my first
overseas assignment. I came straight off the Vice President's staff. Before
that I was in the military."

Was Stanson CIA? Incongruous, based on Conley's assumptions about that
crowd. He wasn’t the type for ponderous distinctions and shades of gray.
Indeed, Stanson spoke with stark conviction about his role. Though nuclear
disarmament ground on in obscurity, and joint space missions made an occasional
splash, drugs and terrorism now overshadowed other aspects of U.S.-Russian
relations. The war on terror was where the action was.

And wars required allies. Ones like Salimjon Shakuri. Conley asked Stanson
straight out. Any worries that Shakuri was corrupt?

"None. I know him personally. He's a good man…and always
accessible. It helps that he speaks excellent English."

Any new concerns, after what happened to Bradford?

"Absolutely not. As I told Art Gallagher by phone, Shakuri was furious
when Bradford got killed. All the more because the killers were his own
bodyguards. He caught them immediately.  As far as I'm concerned, it was
no big loss when they were killed in that prison disturbance."

"Were you satisfied with your own investigation?"

"Yes. When I went down there Salimjon bent over backwards to help
me."

Conley's further probes about Shakuri and about the investigation yielded
similar answers. Shakuri was above reproach. An ally in the war on terror. What
more important measure was there?

There was another one Stanson saw fit to mention.

"As far as Salimjon told me, he and Peter Bradford found a common
language, that last evening before Bradford died. That says something, doesn't
it?"

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

The green-yellow ball sailed a half-meter past the baseline, kicking up clay
dust upon impact. Veronique reacted with a muted
"Longue,"
trying
to be gentle.

"Ras le bol!"
Claire muttered
cross-court. Club
decorum demanded she keep her voice down. Also that she not hurl her racket
onto the red-brown playing surface.

Her problem, even after all her recent dislocations, was the same as usual.
Plenty of velocity but no control.

They were in the indoor tennis complex on the Quai d'Orsay, just north of
the Eiffel Tower.  Claire held service: down
Love-30
. She stomped back
into position.
Focus
…she told herself…
Positive
energy...More topspin. 
She took a deep breath, coiled, and tossed the
ball straight up.
Thwack.
Her serve arced down and sideways into the far
corner, just where she intended. Veronique sprinted across the baseline, short
white skirt fluttering up around her waist, ball just within reach, managing to
stab a backhand.

Due to the original speed of serve, her return came back low and hard; only the
location was favorable for Claire: down the center. Begging for an aggressive
forehand. She planted her feet and wound up…
Topspin…Come over
the ball…Thwack.
Her contact unleashed an arcing, spinning buzz-saw
that landed five centimeters inside baseline and rocked Veronique on her heels.
It came in tight, and she fought it off with a cramped, defensive
forehand.  A lame floater arced back over the net and bounced high.
Perfect for an overhead smash.

Claire surged forward.
No mercy…
She bent her knees, shifted up
on her toes and brought her racket back.
Eye on the ball…Eye on the
ball…
Veronique's backhand corner beckoned; there was no chance to
chase the ball down… Claire's short skirt swirled up over her
undergarment…She powered her racquet over and down…
Thwack.
Ball
left strings like an air-to-ground missile, producing an instant of
exhilaration….

Smack.
It hit the tape and dropped straight downward.

She came out of her follow-through and watched in disbelief. The ball took
several impotent, faltering bounces along the net before stopping dead. A final
mockery.
"Absurd!"
Her voice reverberated in the cavernous
tennis dome. She placed hands on hips and glared.

From cross-court Veronique observed this outburst with an expression of
quiet sympathy. Then looked away. On the next point, still roiling with
exasperation, Claire sent two serves long. Her double fault ended the match.
Final score: 6-2, 6-1, Veronique.

They met at courtside to collect towels and tennis bags, and sat down for a
moment. Claire stared forward, still simmering, a towel draped over her bare
thighs, while Veronique zipped a cover over her racket head.

"I wouldn't worry about it, Claire. You haven't played for a
month."

"It's frustrating. I expected better."

"You're too hard on yourself…especially after all you've been
through."

"I guess I'd wanted this to set a tone."

"You mean after Peter?"

"No, for my trip to the U.S." 

"Let's go drink some mineral water. You can tell me more about your
plans."

They traversed the court area and climbed stairs to an open balcony with a
café, where twangs of racquet strings and thuds of balls echoed around
them. They sat down at a table that overlooked an expansive collection of
courts, and ordered. Veronique wore a look of concern.

"I've already got my ticket," Claire blurted, eager to get her
mind off tennis and refocus on her mission. "I'm leaving on
Wednesday."

"This is all rather sudden, Claire. You said the idea came to you in
church?"

Claire described her revelation just after Communion.

"I went to the later Mass," Veronique said. "Afterward
Francois mentioned he had seen you. He seemed worried."

Claire set her jaw. Veronique meant well, but had a subtle way of nudging
her away from bold undertakings. This pattern went back to their university
years. Veronique and Francois were of the same ilk.

"We talked," she said. "I told him I was confident about what
happened."

Veronique's worry appeared to deepen.

"…That afternoon I finally reached Peter's Uncle Harry. He's in
New Hampshire now." She described what she knew about Whitcombe's retreat
from Boston and his flight north. "He was evasive. Like he'd rather not
talk to me."

"Maybe he just needed to recover, after all this stress. It
happens."

"No…it's not like him."

"Still, what can you do?"

"I can't sit around here trying to figure it out. There's too much at stake."

Veronique took a deep breath, as if minor catastrophe was taking shape.

"When I hung up," Claire continued. "I was desperate. I
didn't know what pretext I could use for going over there. I thought for a
while…" She remembered herself panting, alone, at the kitchen table
in her apartment. "Then I received another inspiration."

Veronique had to refrain from wincing. "What?"

"Peter's estate. I called him back."

"Peter's uncle is the executor, isn't he?"

"Yes."

Now Veronique listened with a more acute, analytical air. For
l'haute
bourgeoisie
this was essential indeed.
Le patrimoine.

"I told him I also wanted to talk about the estate," Claire
recounted. "That I hadn't heard anything in a while."

She recalled his exact words. On his end Whitcombe had paused, as if caught
off guard. "He said some complications had arisen…that the
settlement was going to take longer than he expected."

"Problems like that aren't uncommon."

"But why would he be evasive? Not just about the estate, but about
Steve Conley's assignment?"

Veronique adopted a discreet tone. "Have you familiarized yourself with
Peter's estate?"

"There are complicated family trusts. I have some of the documents. The
Whitcombe branch was just one side---Peter's mother is Harry Whitcombe's
sister. Peter's father came from money also. I still don't understand how it
all works."

To this point Veronique had forgotten to sip her Perrier. For Claire the
estate was more means than end. She quenched her thirst before continuing.

"I told him I wanted to fly to the States to discuss it. He sounded
shocked. He tried to dissuade me."

Veronique was now riveted; both of them were oblivious to tennis action
below, despite line calls and ball/racquet contacts. Claire remained keyed up,
even while frustrations from their match receded, and pressed on.

"I said, 'I'm coming anyway, Uncle Harry.' He was speechless. He still
doesn't know when I'm arriving."

Veronique gave way to astonishment. "What are you going to do when you
get there?"

"The first thing I'm going to do is insist upon seeing him. I'll drive
to New Hampshire if I have to. Beyond that…" She pursed her lips and
shook her head. "…I'm still developing my strategy."

In fact her plan remained vague.

"…Art Gallagher would agree to meet me…out of courtesy. I
also want to be introduced to Janet Larson somehow."

Veronique reached across the table and put her hand on Claire's forearm.
She'd abandoned any notions of dissuasion. "You're facing so much
uncertainty, Claire…I wish I could help." Just then Claire's cell
phone chirped from inside her tennis bag, which lay on the floor. She yanked
open the zipper and rummaged through her gear. Since Sunday she'd been so
preoccupied with her pending trip to the U.S. that she'd been absent-minded
about other matters…

"Excuse me, Veronique…
Bon
sang!
I should have left the phone out." She found the device
and answered. Indeed the caller was Conley, wanting to describe his interviews.
She said she was keen to hear details, and asked if she could call back in 45
minutes.

"Steve Conley is in Moscow now," she explained, readdressing
Veronique and placing the phone down.

"It's nice that he's calling you every day…keeping you
informed."

"Thank God for that," Claire said, taking a sip of Perrier with a
slight tremble. "When he called yesterday he was in his hotel room,
working. I worried that he'd waver…but the shooting didn't affect him. He
seems even more eager than ever to bear down…to thrust ahead with the
story.

"This week Conley should be fine," she added. "The main
question marks are in Boston."