Live from Moscow (30 page)

CHAPTER NINETY-ONE

Shakuri rang a small hand-bell and a maid appeared. She was modest and
matronly, a contrast to Shakuri's other indulgences. "Something to drink,
before we continue?" he asked. Conley and Oleg looked at each other,
dismayed at Shakuri's continuing pretense of hospitality.

"Just water," Conley answered.

"Tea," Oleg said, in a sullen monotone.

The maid disappeared and Shakuri resumed, unfazed. "Once you've heard
me out, maybe you'll join me for dinner. My wife and children are away this
week…" Vanity flickered in his eyes. "…At our vacation
house in the Maldives."

Conley ignored both house and invitation. "You were telling us about
the laptop…and about Bradford's wife."

"Yes...the laptop…" Shakuri shook his head, taking pains to
show his disbelief. "After dinner we proceeded to my study. A little more
private…" He gestured toward the retreating maid. "…And
more suitable for such a transaction. He booted up his laptop and got on the
Internet. He confirmed that the money was in his account in Switzerland. Lastly
he sent a quick e-mail to his banker. Our business was done."

"Then what?"

"A little final celebration was in order."

Conley maintained his skeptical gaze but played along.

"Nothing unusual," Shakuri continued. "Just an aperitif back
in the living room. Meanwhile, I asked my men to get the car ready."

"What's that got to do with Bradford's wife?"

For the first time Shakuri's affectation fell away; he clenched his teeth
with what seemed real regret, even self-recrimination. "What happened next
was my fault. I should have known better…" He re-clenched and
sighed. "Our chat was pleasant. We were both satisfied. Why not? Our
transaction had been profitable for both of us. I congratulated him on his
ability to see the big picture, and to take advantage of it…" They
were interrupted when the maid re-appeared with a silver tray: water and tea,
along with scotch on the rocks for Shakuri. She placed a silver bowl of mixed
nuts on a coffee table in front of Conley and Oleg, then stood to one side
awaiting further instructions.

"Mehrangiz would like to know if you'll be staying for dinner,"
Shakuri said.

Oleg didn't waver from his sullen stare. Conley shook his head.

Shakuri murmured an instruction; the maid silently retreated. Dinner now
seemed  secondary; he had become engrossed in his recollections and
impatient to resume. "We got up…While I organized the car, he
returned to my study to pack up his computer. When he showed up again in the
hallway, I asked him if he had sent an e-mail to his wife. He said his wife
preferred the phone. He intended to call her back at the hotel."

Conley startled; this element rang true. Shakuri sensed he'd found
resonance.

"…At the door, Mehrangiz helped him on with his coat. I referred
to his upcoming stories…he joked that I should withhold judgment until I
read them. We shared a laugh. Then I said, 'You do all this for her, don't
you?'  Bradford asked what I meant. I pointed to his laptop, which he held
in one hand, and said, 'This. Your work. Your ambitions. What we did this
evening.' He didn't answer but smiled a little. I knew I was right. As I
said…we understood each other."

Shakuri smiled for an instant at this particular reminiscence, before his
cloud of self-recrimination returned.

"…During this conversation one of my two security men was
standing nearby, listening. His name was Nadyrov. Bradford and I were speaking
Russian, so Nadyrov understood most of what we were saying. I hardly paid
attention to him. You have to understand…He'd been with me for
years…" Anger boiled up in Shakuri; he paused to regain his focus.

"Afterward I recalled… that Nadyrov was staring at the laptop.
Intent on it. He offered to stow it in the car while Bradford and I said our
good-byes. Bradford politely declined. After Bradford was found dead…when
we finally captured Nadyrov and his accomplice…the other man I sent that
night…we did an interrogation. The picture came together. Nadyrov thought
the laptop case contained money."

Conley studied Shakuri, half-stupefied. Oleg sat alongside with his lips
pursed, still staring at the fire, surprised by nothing.

"Is that all?" Conley asked. "That's a weak variation of what
Bill Hermann told us. You toss off some pleasant remarks about Bradford's wife
and Nadyrov thinks the case contains money? It doesn't make sense."

Shakuri leaned forward in his armchair and placed his elbows on his knees.
True or not, this retelling was cardinal to him. He was determined to finish.

"That's not all, Mr. Conley. Why don't the two of you come with
me."

They crossed the entry threshold. The bodyguard who had ensnared Conley and
Oleg at the hotel stood with arms akimbo and feet spread, glaring at them with
dark eyes. "This way," Skakuri said, gesturing down a hallway which
ran along a grand staircase.

They took a right into the study, which was a smaller and somewhat less
garish version of Shakuri's government office. Desk not as outsized; a modest
collection of books lined parts of two walls. A big window opened out onto a
dim panorama of craggy hillsides. Conley guessed Shakuri's wife had exerted a
restraining influence.

"Please, over here," Shakuri said, directing them across a thick
rug that embedded under their footfalls.

On the far wall he slid open a door to a closet and switched on a light. The
opposite side of the space was lined with shelves; on these were stacked
several piles of American newsmagazines, along with an assortment of American
souvenirs that presumably originated from trips to the U.S. Shakuri pointed
down at the floor.

"I came to show you these," he said.

There, in a neat row, were nine or ten identical black cases. The cases were
soft-cover and well crafted: synthetic canvas, treated leather and durable,
high-grade zippers. Their pliable handles protruded upward in near symmetry.
The entire ensemble appeared spanking new.

"Are these laptop computers?" Conley asked.

"No, in fact, just cases," Shakuri answered.

Conley squinted at Shakuri, uncomprehending. Oleg stood a half-step back,
chafing, his mouth curled in sarcasm.

"Take a closer look," Shakuri said.

Conley leaned over and examined the luggage from varying angles. The cases
did appear to be for laptops, although their zippers and compartments made them
suitable for multiple uses. He reached for one and grasped one pair of handles.
It contained no weight and came up easily, feeling empty. Standing again, he
proceeded with closer inspection. An imprinted leather brand label read
"Tumi." Remarkably similar to Bradford's laptop carry-on, the one
he'd held two hours earlier, perhaps even the same make and model. He opened
his mouth to speak. Shakuri interrupted.

"I know what you're thinking," he said. "And you're right.
It's practically the same."

Conley squinted back at him. "Fine. But what does this prove? And
what's this got to do with Bradford's wife?"

"In fact this part has nothing to do with Bradford's wife. It has to do
with Bill Hermann." He paused, in the manner of a self-important trial
lawyer reaching summation.

"We're listening."

"Hermann has used these for cash during the past eight months. How
much? It's not really important. I even lost track. They were short-term
payments…unofficial transfers, if you will. To get me by until the aid
money came through. I always asked Bill if he wanted the cases back, to use
them over again. He repeatedly waved me off.
'What the hell,
" he
would say---here Shakuri did a passable imitation of an American western
drawl---
'Don't bother.' 
His budget seemed unlimited. Therefore the
cases have been piling up here in my closet."

Conley scanned down the black row. Whatever denominations were involved,
total currency had to be a lot.

"…My drivers and security people are not complete morons,"
Shakuri continued. "They understood what was in those cases. They also saw
that Hermann left without them, empty-handed. They correctly surmised that the
contents went straight into my safe."

He gestured toward a wall panel adjacent to his desk. The safe was
apparently hidden.

"So they thought Bradford was
leaving
with money?" Conley
asked.

"Exactly. Bradford came out in here with me in my limousine, after
work. My daytime driver was on duty at the time…the other two took over
for him. But they never saw Bradford
arrive
with the case. Then there
was Bradford's fluency in Russian. Other Americans these men had seen---Stanson
and Hermann---spoke just English. Another thing we gleaned from our
interrogation. They thought Bradford was some sort of independent
merchant…maybe an arms dealer. That made them a little more willing to
take a risk. I mean as opposed to someone like Hermann. Nardyrov and his cohort
were cunning, up to a point."

"Didn't you tell them Bradford was a journalist?"

"I did, but who believes that, in this part of the world? Most people
play multiple roles. Russians certainly do, right Mr. Mikhailov?"

Oleg glowered at Shakuri for several seconds then shifted his eyes back
toward the panel that concealed the wall safe.

"I still don't get it,' Conley persisted. "What do your comments
about Bradford's wife have to do with all this?"

"They just corroborated what Nadyrov already assumed. People in
government or journalism don't have such conversations. Businessmen do. More
often than not, they're out struggling for their wives. What other motivation
is there? Am I right?"

Conley didn't answer him and pressed on. "After that…did you have
those two men killed? Was that story about the prison disturbance a
fabrication?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Do Stanson and Hermann know all this?"

Shakuri gave a faint smile but stayed mute.

"What about Usmonov? What's his role?"

Shakuri sighed, as if bemoaning the overreaching of youth.
"Yes…When Bradford didn't arrive at the hotel on time, our security
people there called me. At first I thought it might be an accident. The roads
along these hillsides up here can be hazardous. I called Usmonov in the city.
Asked him to drive toward the villa, looking for a car wreck. Instead he found
tire tracks into the woods. By the time he found Bradford it was too late. I
instructed him to leave at once, and take the laptop. He gave it to me the next
day, and I stored it in a locked closet in my office. I should have known
better. I should have destroyed it."

"Where's he now?"

"Usmonov? He won't get far."

Conley glanced at Oleg. His face was stoic, except for a simmer of contempt
in his eyes. "Now what?" he asked, turning back to Shakuri. "Are
you telling me this so I can publish it? Somehow I doubt that."

Shakuri drew his arms back so that his suit jacket splayed open and his
ample midriff protruded forward over his belt. He met Conley's gaze with a
smirk. "Let's put it this way, Mr. Conley," he said. "I have an
offer for you."

Conley was about to object when Oleg intervened in a caustic tone: the first
time he had spoken since they'd entered the study.

"I knew this was coming," he said.

CHAPTER NINETY-TWO

Back in the living room, Shakuri re-stoked the fire before settling again in
his armchair. He interlocked his fingers and directed his attention over them
at Oleg, who glowered back.

"We're not interested in any offers," Conley said.

Shakuri smiled, clinging to his motif of cordiality. "But you haven't
heard my proposal. Please, Mr. Conley…have a little patience."

"You can start by assuring us that no harm will come to Usmonov."
Conley demanded. "He was just returning what was ours." Shakuri kept
his smile but his voice hardened a bit. "You have your own perspective on
that. It was a crude and idiotic stunt…But let's get back to our main
business." Conley glanced again at the guards, who remained in place with
feet spread and arms crossed. "Is this an offer or a demand?" he
asked, sarcasm in his voice.

"An offer."

Getting past the guards and beating an escape into the surrounding hillsides
was the only way out. Conley supposed Oleg was thinking along similar lines.
However the guards were armed. And there was nowhere to seek refuge after that.

"Okay. Now you know the truth about Bradford…" Conley
opened his mouth to object, but Shakuri held up his palm and continued.
"All proven, as I've said…by information on the laptop. Which I'll
give you momentarily. So where does that leave us? With an embarrassment. To
myself, my country…and, if I may say so, also to the U.S. government. At
a moment of great importance for all concerned. Why should we wreck all that
because of the stupidity of a couple of bodyguards? Misunderstanding over what
was in a ridiculous little case? I didn't commit any crime. Neither did Hermann
or Stanson. Bradford proposed our arrangement, after all. Entered it under his
free will."

"So that's now what this is about?" Conley asked.

Shakuri returned a pleasant, inquisitive smile.

"…Not derailing the $550 million dollar aid bill?"

Shakuri looked down at the floor. Relish crossed his eyes, as he
contemplated vast sums in prospect. "Well, yes. But not just that. What
about the reputation of your paper, Mr. Conley?"

"My paper has a reputation for truth and accuracy…"

Shakuri affected a slight guffaw. "Okay then, what about Bradford's
young widow?"

At this Conley faltered before responding. Did Claire know about the money?
Was it now in her possession? These questions had thus far not occurred to him.

"For her and everyone else," Shakuri continued. "What's to be
gained from exposing all this?"

"That's not the point here…"

"You'd be doing your own government a favor, just like Bradford
was."

"You still don't appreciate the way the U.S. media operate…"

"No? I've been to the States numerous times. I know money reigns
supreme. Free press or not. Just like it does in Russia now, too." With a
flicker of amusement he glanced again on Oleg, who appeared to figure more
prominently now in Shakuri's calculations. Oleg didn't deign to return this
particular eye contact. "Or am I wrong?"

Shakuri's question hung in the air. It was rhetorical anyway.

"…And what I'm asking is minimal, Mr. Conley. You can write
anything you want on the heroin trade. Those stories won't appear until after
the vote on Thursday. When they do? Wheels will already be in motion. They'll
be nothing but background noise."

Conley waited. He now guessed what Shakuri had in mind.

"All you have to do? Forget what I told you about Bradford. Stick to
the current explanation…which, by the way has been seconded by the U.S.
government. And…" Shakuri paused for climactic effect. "…Make
some money for yourselves in the process…" Shakuri observed them.
His attention fixed again on Oleg. "The deal? Same I reached with Peter
Bradford. Two-and-a-half million dollars. For
each
of you. Yes, my total
price has gone up. But…a necessary piece of business, let's say."

Shakuri paused again, with a calibrated grin, studying their faces. "I'm
ready to pay each of you half up front. Tomorrow, even. That would give you a
day to set up suitable banking arrangements. Contact lawyers in Europe, do
whatever you have to. I'm assuming neither of you has a pre-established Swiss
account…like Bradford." He laughed at his own joke.

As Shakuri's laughter trailed off in the cavernous living room Conley
experienced neither indignation nor righteousness. More like…detachment.
The offer didn't tempt him at all. It was odd. He glanced at Oleg. The Russian,
for his part, seemed neither surprised by Shakuri's brazenness nor curious to
hear more.

Shakuri noted this and remained focused on Oleg. "Russia may not be
down and out any more, Mr. Mikhailov. But $2.5 million goes a long way. In
Moscow, just like anywhere else. It's a respectable number by any standard,
no?"

Oleg continued staring into the fire.

"Meanwhile…you might even score some points with your friends at
the U.S. Embassy," Shakuri added. "Maybe they'll issue you an
American passport?" He chuckled again.

Conley thought Oleg might bristle. There was still no reaction. Shakuri's
eyes flitted to Conley and back to Oleg. "Of course the two you would both
have to agree. Just one of you won't suffice."

Oleg's contemptuous expression hadn't wavered. Otherwise Conley couldn't
tell what the Russian was thinking.

"Mr. Mikhailov…Maybe you could help persuade your American
colleague? Tell him his ideals…or his priorities…whatever…"
Shakuri chuckled again. "…are all well and good, but…you
know…"

Now Oleg locked eyes with Shakuri and gave him a cold stare.

Shakuri's grin faded. "I see…of course. Typical Russian caution.
They always suspect dirty tricks."