Live from Moscow (24 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

In her absence maid service had put her room in order. Claire hung out the
"Do not disturb" sign and doubled-latched the door. With unsteady
steps she kicked off her heels, threw her scarf and overcoat on the bedspread,
and collapsed into a soft armchair by the window. Quietness and comfort
restored a measure of equilibrium. Her thoughts became a little more coherent.

Until questions re-emerged and careened around her head…Was the money
connected with Peter's death? Where had it come from? Why had he opened a Swiss
bank account without telling her?

For her the estate had been only a ruse. Not a gateway to these sorts of
riddles.

Uncle Harry's hypotheses struck her as utterly bizarre. Peter as some kind
of clandestine intermediary? Mixed up in espionage, perhaps with a foreign
government? It was ridiculous! Peter had often spoken of thinking for himself,
of independent action, but espionage was the opposite of that.

Worst of all were Uncle Harry's further intimations. "Sidelines,"
as he called them? Whiffs of corruption? Such notions made her dizzy. She
leaned forward and held her head in her hands. Part of her felt an impulse to
sob. These revelations were too overwhelming. For a quarter hour she remained
in this same position---shocked and immobile, with careening questions and no
answers.

At last something clicked and she sat up straight, her color rising. For the
first time that morning she felt
angry.
Angry that Uncle Harry would
leap to such conclusions, and that the
World Tribune
would back away
from the tribute. Peter had given his
life
in service of the
paper…And Uncle Harry was family, for goodness' sake!

Then she remembered the money. How to explain it? She slumped against the
backrest with her eyes closed. Meeting her friends this afternoon was out of
the question now; she was in no condition for that. And that evening Uncle
Harry had invited her to dinner in Cambridge; Elizabeth would be there.
She’d accepted, and was obliged to go.

Meanwhile Conley remained right in the middle of all this, now out of cell
phone range in the hinterlands of Tajikistan. So what if his intentions were
good? He was oversexed and self-absorbed, without a full grasp of what he'd
stumbled into. Maybe if she just concentrated…focused…tried to stay
calm…she could work this all out…

She nearly jumped out of her armchair when her cell-phone rang.

Only four people in the U.S. had her number: Uncle Harry, Gallagher, Larson
and Conley…She'd just spoken to Uncle Harry and Conley was incommunicado.
She took a deep breath and grabbed the device from the adjacent table.

"Hallo?"

"Claire, this is Art Gallagher…Hope I'm not disturbing
you."

She had already lost her composure. His call only disoriented her more.

"I realize you're staying in a hotel. …If you have no other
plans, my wife and I would like to invite you to our house for a home-cooked
meal. We live out in Belmont."

Claire struggled to think. Could this be an opening from another quarter?
"That's very kind," she blurted. "Unfortunately I'm having
dinner with the Whitcombes tonight."

"Harry Whitcombe? He's back in Boston?"

"Well…yes."

On his end Gallagher seemed confused. Voices and laughter sounded in the
background, as if he was at some sort of social event.

"Actually we were thinking of tomorrow evening. Can you join
us?"

"Tomorrow? What time?"

"Say…five-thirty? We can have a drink beforehand."

Claire gripped the phone tighter and tried to control stress in her voice.
"Okay, thank you, Art. Belmont, you said? I'll need driving
directions."

Gallagher snapped his cell phone shut and held it near his chin, with one
arm crossed over his stomach. Around him the field was already blanketed with
parked cars and loud laughter. Last Boston College home game of the season.
Tailgate parties were bellowing to life.

"Is she coming?" Denise asked.

"Yes."

"You look perplexed."

"Harry Whitcombe is back in Boston."

They'd set up a grill behind the open hatch of their Volvo wagon. Denise put
down a pitcher of Bloody Marys, next to a tray of hors d'oeuvres, dip, and a
bowl of potato chips. She gave her husband a perplexed look of her own.

"He met Claire this morning, at her hotel," Gallagher explained.
"Claire sounded a little…"

"There you are!"

This booming interruption came from Mike Fallon, red-faced and grinning.
Though with Fallon, Gallagher and Denise both knew, redness was a matter of
degrees. His wife Shannon was more restrained than her husband, but a good
sport about pre-game parties. She placed a sealed, plastic bowl of cookies on
the table, after which Gallagher gave her a hug---one that grew more from
common origins in South Boston than shared corridors of the
World Tribune.
Fallon did likewise with Denise, then slapped a fleshy hand on Gallagher's
shoulder.

"Saw you on the phone, Art…Hope you weren't doing newsroom
business."

Denise and Shannon separated themselves into another conversation.

"Well…not exactly. That was Claire. Bradford's widow."

Fallon's head cocked. Management at the
World Tribune
was unsettled
and on guard because of Whitcombe's abdication. He looked at Gallagher,
expecting more.

"Let me get you a Bloody Mary first, Mike," Gallagher said. He
poured two glasses and extracted his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He lit
one for Fallon, and one for himself. Before sipping his Bloody Mary he took a
deep drag. "Claire's staying in a hotel," he said finally. "We
invited her to dinner tomorrow evening."

"Nathan Frick invited too?"

Gallagher grunted and snorted smoke out his nose, and Fallon laughed. In
surrounding parking fields, bellowing and laughing grew louder as more
spectators arrived. Barbecue smoke infused the air. Sounds of drums and wind
instruments issued from the stadium, as bands warmed up before the game. They
glanced up at the changing skies. It appeared that the weather would hold, at
least through kickoff.

"Your boy Conley just has to make it to the end zone, Art.
No…let's call it the finish line."

"Right. He's almost there. Just another week."

"After that Harry Whitcombe will be back, too. Everything will be
normal again."

Gallagher thought for a moment, still puzzled by Whitcombe's early return to
Boston. There was no point in informing Fallon for now.

"Let's drink to it," Fallon suggested. He raised his glass.

Gallagher sighed and reciprocated. "I hope you're right, Mike."

"That's the spirit."

Over Fallon's shoulder Gallagher saw Denise signaling toward him.

"Time to light the grill," he said.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

For the first time ever Claire ordered room service. Her appetite was so
meager that she ate only a few bites of her sandwich and fruit salad, and left
plates and uneaten food in the hallway. After lunch she sat in the armchair or
paced. Her mood alternated between muddled despair and stubborn determination.
During one of the latter she moved a framed photograph of Peter from the
nightstand to the desk. Would his image bring answers? None came.

Should she call Uncle Harry and Elizabeth and opt out of dinner? Grapple
with this alone? She took a deep breath. Uncle Harry was as distraught as she
was. And Elizabeth was understanding,
très
sympathique.
They wanted to help her, one way or another. There were no sound reasons to
cancel.

As the hour approached she washed her face, re-applied her makeup, brushed
her hair, and put on a charcoal gray evening dress and pearls. Uncle Harry sent
a car; near six o'clock it deposited her at the side entrance of the
Whitcombes' red brick mansion in Cambridge. Harry and Elizabeth were there to
greet her. Just inside the foyer, Claire startled with surprise. Tracey stood
waiting. Was she informed about Peter? Her presence suggested she was.

"We weren't sure that Tracey would join us," Whitcombe said,
helping Claire off with her coat. "Hope you don't mind."

"No. Of course not." Claire tilted her face upward for an exchange
of kisses. Tracey displayed her usual long-limbed modesty. Claire had long
wondered: did Tracey understand how striking she was? But that was of no
consequence tonight…

"There are only four of us," Whitcombe said. "And we're all
family. I suggest we have drinks in the library." On the way, Claire
noticed there were no servants. Elizabeth explained that she had expected to
drive to Loon for the weekend, and had dismissed the cook and maid until
Monday. She was preparing dinner with her husband.

The Whitcombes' library was paneled in dark wood and upholstered in burgundy
leather. Turkish rugs covered swaths of floor. The house had been in
Elizabeth's family for generations and harked back to an earlier epoch, before
television and films. Books were numerous enough to require a decimal ordering
system. Claire requested scotch on the rocks on the stronger side.

"I think we all need one of those, Claire, after this week,"
Elizabeth said, tilting her head in shared commiseration.

"I'll join you," Whitcombe responded.

Tracey demurred and chose mineral water. Whitcombe repaired to a small
liquor cabinet set among the bookshelves. When they were all seated with drinks
Peter and the Swiss bank account hung in the room like a silent specter. Soon
Claire realized the aim of this gathering was not endless dissection in the
French manner. These old-line Yankees lent moral support through less esoteric
means: simply by hewing together. Tonight maybe that approach was appropriate.
Their careful cordiality reassured her, while the scotch lubricated her throat
and disentangled her senses. By degrees she settled back against the soft
leather of her backrest.

Tracey mostly listened, perched forward with alert eyes.

After about 15 minutes Uncle Harry and Elizabeth excused themselves to the
kitchen. Claire took another gulp of scotch, finishing her glass. Tracey
noticed at once and offered to get her another. Alcohol was having an effect.
On the other hand, as Uncle Harry said, this was family. And these were special
circumstances. Claire looked at Tracey's mineral water.

"Will you join me, Tracey?"

"Well, okay…maybe just one.

Tracey traversed the room to the drink cupboard, a little self-conscious.
"I just learned today, Claire."

"Like me then…"

"Yes..." She poured drinks; her own portion somewhat smaller.
"…At least my father's behavior now makes more sense. We didn't know
what was going on."

Claire remembered Whitcombe's regulated breathing and long strides up the mountainside
at Loon. She couldn't say she felt better now, knowing the source of his
torment.

After handing her the refill Tracey re-seated herself on the forward edge of
her armchair, pressed her long legs together, and wrapped her hands around her
glass. "There was a fairly big age difference between Peter and me growing
up," she said. "But we did spend a lot of summers together. I was
shocked. It just doesn't fit."

Some seconds of silence passed. Faint sounds of cookware emanated from the
kitchen on the other side of the house. What could she say? This evening was
about reinforcement, not explanations.

"You're kind to come tonight, Tracey."

"No need to thank me Claire. I admit…I feel partly to
blame."

"You?"

"I thought my father told you at Loon…"

Claire had almost forgotten about Tracey's connection with Conley---obscured
by Uncle Harry's bombshell in the park that morning. However that was
tangential to their main worry and
très personnel..
.

"He did. But really, Tracey…"

"No need to be embarrassed." Tracey paused for a moment,
considering her words. She took a small sip of scotch. "How well do you
know Steve Conley?"

"Well…he was only in Paris a week."

"Then I want to reassure you."

"Reassure me? About Steve?"

"I can tell you that he means well. Even when he's not really at
fault…he'll keep your best interests in mind."

Claire remembered Conley's impulsive, bumbling pass in the corridor outside
her apartment, and his subsequent misadventures in Prague and Moscow. Tracey's
endorsement of him seemed ambiguous. This scotch was not just relaxing, she
realized; it was dulling her mental acuity. She frowned and moved forward on
her armchair, gripping her glass hard with both hands. "I'm sorry,
Tracey…I don't understand what you're getting at." 

"Whatever information Steve uncovers about Peter, he'll be responsible
with it."

" 'Responsible?' I don't quite follow…"

"I mean that he'll have some discretion in the way he reports the
story. And well…we can be hopeful."

Claire gazed into her drink and fought her enveloping haze. Discretion? That
word had never come up before. Tracey opened her mouth to elaborate but stopped
when her father's tall frame appeared in the doorway. Whitcombe's
preoccupations seemed leavened by the act of cooking. Claire had never seen him
wearing an apron.

"We're ready with dinner," he said. "Rather simple.
Sometimes, though, simple is best."

CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

Two years earlier the base had served 15,000 to 16,000 Russian border
troops. That was now below 5,000, thanks to recent reductions. Who was going to
fill the void, Conley wondered? Tajiks?

"There's the nub of the problem," Oleg said.

Depleted or not, by nine a.m. the base was already in high gear. Like many
military installations it was a self-contained entity, with complex
infrastructure. Transport, housing, food, maintenance and training were all in
evidence. Individual soldiers---most clad in camouflage---strode between office
buildings around staging areas, carrying paperwork, maps or tools. A platoon
marched and performed weapons drills. Clerks unloaded a supply truck at an
adjacent mess hall. Near a gate a convoy of five armored vehicles queued up
with engines idling;
serzhanti
and an officer performed final checks
before venturing into rocky flatlands to the southeast. On an adjacent landing
pad a helicopter stood with stationary blades. Crates and gear were stacked
nearby, prepared for loading. To one side Conley spotted his black hardcover
suitcase, surrounded by olive duffel bags. Civilian baggage seemed an incongruous
presence, somehow, in this hardscrabble corner of Central Asia.

"There'll be some military personnel along for the ride," Oleg
said to Conley. "But this flight to Dushanbe is basically for you."

"Didn't realize the Russian military was so accommodating to Western
press."

"Times change."

Nikolai appeared with a steaming pot of coffee and three aluminum mugs, and
sat down with Conley and Oleg at a wooden table, situated along a
clapboard-sided administrative building. There was bite in the dry air, but no wind.
Interrogation of the prisoner had already started. Conley decided to hold that
subject for later. "I'd first like to ask about Peter Bradford," he
said, pulling out his notepad. Oleg translated his questions about the mission
that Bradford had accompanied. Nikolai was complimentary. Bradford had followed
instructions without hesitation: no problems at all with the Russian language.
Calm at all times, even while lying in wait on a ridge.

"Very professional," Nikolai said. "He knew how to
behave."

Conley made a note and underlined it. Bradford had never encountered combat
before. Not bad for a blueblood scholar in Slavic studies, who’d spent
most of his adult life in lecture halls and libraries at Harvard and the
Sorbonne.

Was Bradford disappointed when there were no encounters with smugglers? No,
Nikolai answered. Bradford seemed to understand the vagaries of such
operations: "It didn't seem essential to him, one way or the other."

What was essential, then?

Nikolai thought for a moment. "Nothing I mentioned about the political
situation seemed new to him." Complicity of the Tajik government in the
heroin trade? Bradford had listened carefully and taken copious notes. Not
surprised, though. More like confirmation. Nikolai called Bradford "a man
who came prepared." At last Conley asked about the interrogation. Nikolai
shook his head in distaste.

"Same old story. We've caught a half-dozen of this type before."

This particular smuggler was a junior officer in the Dushanbe militia. His
job was to make sure the convoy reached destination---a small warehouse near
the train station in central Dushanbe---without interference from authorities.
Imprimatur for safe transit. Orders? "Right from the top," the
smuggler had pleaded.

"What will happen to him?" Conley asked.

"We'll hold him for about a month, then turn him back to the Tajik
government."

"Then what?"

"His main mistake was getting caught. So he might spend some time in
prison. Symbolic sentence, you could say. Six months or a year. After
that…who knows? He might even be put back in circulation."

"Incredible. Is the Tajik government adversary or ally in all
this?"

Nikolai's offered a fatalistic shrug. "That's for Moscow to determine.
We're just military. We have to do the best with the orders we're given."

After translating this remark, Oleg injected commentary of his own, speaking
less like an interpreter than a spokesperson for Russian interests: "You
should appreciate our dilemma here, Steve. Tajikistan is a sovereign country.
Root out government corruption? That's not realistic. What's the best we can
do? Same we've been doing since the 90s.  Reduce heroin going to Russian
cities---at least a little bit. Curtail opium going through to Europe. Deprive
the Chechens of some income. That's about it." By now Oleg had gotten up a
head of steam, to the extent possible for a stoic, careful Russian.
"…That's not even our main worry. If Russian troops were completely
gone, can you imagine the dangers? Hordes of Muslim extremists flooding in here
from Afghanistan? Think it's bad now? It would become a real nightmare."

Conley visualized a map of the region, with various curved arrows pointing
north. "I suppose that explains why the U.S. has become engaged."
Oleg grimaced. He translated the remark into Russian for Nikolai, who averted
his eyes and seemed content to let Oleg respond:

"The U.S. means well. But quite frankly…" He checked
himself. "It lacks experience in the region."

"Let's take this prisoner, for example," Conley said.
"Interior Ministry. That's part of Shakuri's domain, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"How does Franklin Stanson react to such information?"

"Stanson is more-or-less well-disposed toward Russians and values our
recent cooperation. Still, on an institutional level, the U.S. doesn’t
trust our intelligence. There’s suspicion that Russia is…how do you
say it…trying to box the U.S. out of the region. Call it residual
mistrust…a legacy from the Cold War. That filters out into the field,
even to guys like Stanson."

"So Stanson would prefer to trust Shakuri?"

"Shakuri speaks fluent English. That counts for a lot. Stanson says
'Shakuri is a man the U.S. can do business with.' "

Conley glanced up from his notepad and across the compound toward the
helicopter pad. Blades on the aircraft remained still but soldiers were now
loading baggage and other items aboard. Departure was scheduled in 30 minutes.
He turned back again to Oleg.

"Still…my impression is that Stanson is dedicated. This war on
terror is important to him. Would you give him that?"

This question was translated into Russian for Nikolai; he kept his hands
folded and stared down at the wooden table.

Oleg released a weary exhalation. "Maybe. But good intentions can be
dangerous in this part of the world."