Live from Moscow (31 page)

CHAPTER NINETY-THREE

Even absent his smile, Shakuri didn't appear to lose heart. After a moment
he rose again, in no hurry, and walked over to the hearth. Though the fire
blazed, he picked up the poker and jabbed out with distracted movements. Conley
watched him from behind. Oleg appeared to sink into his own thoughts.

"Maybe you just need more time," Shakuri said, keeping his back to
them.

"Time? For what?"

"To consider my proposal." He glanced over his shoulder at Oleg,
with an arched eyebrow. "To talk it over."

"Forget it," Conley said. "I thought I made that clear."

Shakuri turned back toward the fire, piercing several glowing embers and
sending sparks fluttering up the chimney.

"We'd like to be brought back to our hotel," Conley added.
"With Bradford's laptop. Without further delay." Shakuri's profile
was visible from rear angle. His mouth and the corner of one eye turned up
again in amusement. Conley felt a growing anger. "Are you aware of what
you're doing? The course you're embarking on?"

Shakuri stabbed at another ember, provoking a new burst of ascending sparks.
"Alas, Mr. Conley. I've already embarked."

Overtones in his voice caused Conley's heart to pound. He nonetheless held
firm. "Well then ask your driver to get the car ready." Conley was
about to rise from the sofa when Shakuri replaced the poker in the cast iron
stand next to the hearth. With deliberate slowness he turned to face them, his
amusement giving away again to regret---the kind he had shown before they'd
walked to the study.

"You know, Mr. Conley, I thought you might be more like Peter Bradford.
Are you married?"

"No, I'm not."

Shakuri clasped his hands behind his back and took several slow paces across
the room, parallel to the sofa. He pivoted slowly, then stopped to
re-scrutinize him. "Ah yes," he said after a moment. "At last I
recognize your type."

Conley couldn't tell if the remark was leading to flattery or something
else. He glanced at Oleg, who was watching Shakuri again and listening with a
sardonic twist to his mouth. The latter paced back in opposite direction, and
allowed himself a slight laugh.

"Perhaps if I threw several women into the equation? Most alluring
young beauties in all Tajikistan? The rest of the week with them…that
plus the money?"

Conley just stared, astonished. Shakuri was serious.

"…All these accumulated misfortunes and rough
edges…Bradford's murder, the militiaman…everything…would
become less important…rendered secondary by the sweet thrall and
incomparable release of the female sex. By Friday night you could be here
toasting the aid bill over dinner with Franklin Stanson and me, with no burning
determination to set this all right…"

"You're wrong about that…"

Shakuri pivoted to face them, his face still showing more regret than
menace. "Am I?" He directed his gaze once again at Oleg. "Mr.
Mikhailov?" Conley looked at Oleg next to him on the couch; the Russian
met his gaze for an instant before looking away, his manner obscure. All at
once Conley lost patience. "All right, this is enough." Abruptly he
rose from the divan to a standing position.

With a world-weary expression Shakuri raised his hand in a signal to the two
guards. Both advanced several steps, their arms hanging ready at their sides
and ready for roughness.

"Wait," Oleg said. He was still sitting.

Conley was startled. "Wait? For what?"

"Maybe we should take some time to talk this over."

"Are you kidding? Anyway this is my decision, not yours."

Oleg's voice was flat, unemotional, his eyes now more pragmatic than
contemptuous. "I mean this situation has a lot of angles." Still
flabbergasted, Conley glanced back at Shakuri, whose eyes displayed hints of
mastery.

"Your Russian friend has a point," he said.

"Give us 48 hours," Oleg said from the couch.

"I was hoping for that," Shakuri answered. He turned to Conley.
"Unfortunately you'll have to stay here, at my villa. As my guests, of
course."

"Guests?" Conley shot back. "That's absurd…If I don't
communicate for that long with my editor and others, alarms will be
raised."

Shakuri smiled. "I have a plan for that."

CHAPTER NINETY-FOUR

Face and hands crimson from the outdoors, Claire maneuvered through the
newsroom maze and ignored lingering glances from scattered male reporters.
Already light-headed from nicotine, she nonetheless garnered a second cigarette
from Gallagher and returned to the patio an hour later to smoke alone, her back
to the wall and one eye on the glass door leading to the newsroom. Twice, in
between agitated drags on her cigarette, she punched the speed-dial to Conley's
cell-phone---to gain the initiative…to intervene somehow while such
possibility existed. And twice she heard:
"Number active but
unavailable"
in Tajik, Russian and English.

Now her modicum of control was eroding fast. What if Conley tried reaching
Gallagher again? Her only hope was first contact. That one incoming call, if it
went elsewhere, could hurtle her world into chaos and scandal.

In Paris she'd recognized that she'd have to depend on Conley. His role was
essential, like it or not. But beholden to him to this degree? Now here she was
entertaining various wild schemes…Centered on the same womanizer who'd
derailed his career over Tracey Whitcombe and who'd risked the same with a
bumbling pass at her? The preposterousness of her position only compounded her
anxiety.

She made her way back into the newsroom.

"Claire?"

The voice came from behind. She stopped and spun around. It was Nathan
Frick.

"We've been looking for you," he said, in an excited tempo.

"Oh, really?"

"Where are you going?"

"To meet Art. We're going to lunch."

He frowned. "I see." With a nervous and deliberating smile, he
marched off in the direction of Larson's office. Claire took a deep breath to
clear her head and quickened her pace. The last thing she wanted was to be
corralled before leaving and subjected to Larson's piercing eyes and measured
questions. By contrast Gallagher's interest was compassionate, paternal. If she
had to sustain this suspense with anyone, better with him…

She didn't quite make it. Five meters short of Gallagher's doorway, Larson
intersected with her at brisk stride. Frick followed at her elbow, like a
faithful farm dog.

"Claire, Nathan told me you and Art were going to lunch." Her
politeness bore an inquisitive edge. "Mind if we join you?"

"I don't know…I haven't even asked Art where we're going."
She glimpsed Gallagher through his office windows, sitting at his desk,
gripping his phone with intense concentration. He next hung up in slow motion,
appearing stunned, then struggled up from his chair. Larson and Frick turned to
watch him emerge, huffing, from his office.

"That was Stanson, the U.S. official in Moscow."

Claire felt her heart skip a beat. Heads of Larson and Frick snapped up.

"Conley's missing. Along with his interpreter."

Claire gasped. She'd been so preoccupied with the risk of exposure that
she'd forgotten other dangers.
"Mon Dieu…"

"Missing?" Larson asked.

"He was supposed to join Shakuri for dinner tonight. He missed his
pickup. Disappeared from the hotel, along with Oleg."

"Just disappeared?"

"Last seen outside the hotel in early evening, making calls on his
cell-phone. Never returned to his room, Stanson said."

"Did he ever call here again…to either of you?" Larson
glanced at Gallagher, who shook his head, then at Claire, who did likewise. Her
face became more concentrated. "What time is it there now?"

Gallagher glanced at his watch. "Ten-forty-five. Shakuri apparently
started a search at once. About an hour ago he called Stanson in Moscow with
the news."

"Does Stanson have any notion what happened?"

"He's greatly alarmed…worried it might be a
kidnapping…criminal elements. He's keeping close tabs on the situation
through Shakuri."

"What about other U.S. diplomats or officials in Dushanbe? Are there
any present?"

"Not right now."

The four of them stood in silence for several seconds. Claire struggled to
guess what this could mean. Her thoughts careened through different scenarios.

"We should tell Harry," Gallagher said.

"Right away," Larson agreed.

CHAPTER NINETY-FIVE

Conditions of confinement could have been worse: delectable mutton and
potato casserole---a traditional Tajik dish, prepared by Mehrangiz, the
matronly house maid---coupled with Saperavi wine, a Georgian variety that
Conley had never sampled before. Mehrangiz served Conley and Oleg at opposite
ends of the long dining room table.

Mehrangiz spoke just several English phrases, with a thick accent:
"Would you like?" "Please" and "You're welcome."
Her manner was sweet and considerate. If she was aware of crisis, curious about
Shakuri's absence, or unsettled by the armed guards positioned outside the two
doorways to the dining area, it didn't show. Whatever puzzlement she
experienced stemmed more from the sullen silence that pervaded the meal. At one
point, as she re-filled wine, she paused at mid-table, switching her gaze back
and forth between Conley and Oleg, almost willing them to engage in
conversation. After she'd gone back to the kitchen, Conley couldn't restrain
himself. He looked down over a pair of lit candles, where Oleg was eating with
his head down.

"What did you mean by 'talk this over'?"

Oleg looked up, impassive, and with a flat voice answered, "Let's
discuss it after dinner."

Still dismayed, Conley resumed eating. Oleg's perfidy aside, there was one
small basis for optimism. Shakuri had not yet maltreated them. He was stalling.
Reason to hope that he would not go as far as murder. By meal's end it was
late: almost 11:30 p.m., or 1:30 in the afternoon back in Boston. He tried to
imagine the scene in the newsroom…Oleg was finishing a post-meal cigarette
when Mehrangiz reappeared, minus her apron, and made an announcement in Tajik.

"She's going to take us up to our room," Oleg translated.

"Better that than a cell in the basement," Conley answered,
getting up from his chair.

Both guards reasserted their presence and they followed Merhangiz out across
the living area to the foyer. As they mounted a curving marble staircase, he
heard Shakuri's voice behind a closed door, evidently talking on a telephone;
the language was English. Upstairs, halfway down a high-ceilinged corridor with
marble floor and moldings, Merhangiz opened a heavy door of dark wood.

"You're welcome," she said, beckoning them to enter first. The two
guards stayed in the corridor.

They entered an expansive, high-ceilinged bedroom. In the center was a small
sitting area with furniture, flanked by twin beds against each wall. Chattering
in Tajik to Conley, Merhangiz gestured toward one of the beds.

"She offers to turn down the beds," Oleg said.

"Fine."

She turned down Conley's bed then crossed the room and did likewise for
Oleg's.

"She says the bathroom is there, near the entry." Oleg pointed
toward a door off the entryway. "There are toothbrushes and towels inside.
Also bathrobes in the closet."

"We're right at home then," Conley snapped.

His sarcastic tone caused Merhangiz an instant of disappointment, but she
beamed another gracious smile as she turned to leave and said, "You're
welcome." Before the door closed behind her Conley spotted the leg and
shoulder of a guard, positioned across the hallway.

"She's a nice woman," Oleg said.

Conley just grunted. He crossed to a large, two-paned window on the opposite
wall, parted the curtain, and looked outside. Below was a small garden, bounded
opposite by woods and an ascending hillside. Lights along several walkways
provided partial illumination. A guard stood next to a garish fountain, head
tilted upward. He tried the handle. It was locked tight.

"Great," he said, releasing the curtains and turning away.

Oleg was already sitting in an armchair. "It wouldn't matter," he
said, lighting another cigarette.

"Well, at least we agree there."

The Russian didn't appear eager to press his case. He took a slow drag and
exhaled a plume of smoke toward the ceiling.

"Dreaming about new-found riches, are you?" Conley asked.

"No."

"Then what?"

"Analyzing other aspects of Shakuri's proposal..."

"Oh really…?"

"…which you might have been too quick…to rule out."

"Look," Conley said, leaning forward to show his anger. "It's
a bribe, plain and simple. And Shakuri is despicable…a dissembling
huckster. If you think…"

Oleg winced, held his palm up and shook his head---causing Conley to stop in
mid-sentence. He raised his index finger and encompassed four corners of the
ceiling with a circular gesture, then held the finger against his ear. His
message was clear; the room was bugged.

"What the hell…" This time Conley cut himself off.

"What I'm saying is…" Oleg continued. "…Some of
his points make sense. For example…what's to gain from revealing all
this?" At this he stuck his cigarette in his mouth, rose from his chair
and padded across to a desk near the window. There he found a pen and paper,
removed a single sheet, and scribbled a note.

Conley was unsure how to react. "Well, that's…" From the
desk Oleg made another circular gesture with his index finger, encouraging
Conley to keep talking. "…where you're wrong…But go
ahead…We have time…You can at least state your case…"

Oleg was now in front of him, holding out the piece of paper. "Thanks.
Okay…Let's start with Bradford's reputation…and his
widow…"

Conley took the note. It read:
We're only buying time.
He grabbed the
pen from Oleg's hand, took several steps to the desk and scribbled:
For
what?
Oleg paused, as if the answer wasn't straightforward. He re-took the
pen, leaned over the desk, creases forming between his eyebrows. Before he
scribbled again, there was a knock on the door. He stuffed the paper in his
back pocket, while Conley crossed and opened the door. It was Shakuri.

"May I come in?" he said.

Conley responded with a sullen nod, then closed the door as Shakuri walked
past. In his hand…and impossible to miss…was Bradford's laptop
case. Shakuri stopped in mid-room and turned to face them. "Yes, I've
brought it," he said.

Conley wondered if Shakuri meant to turn on the device at once.

"You know," Shakuri continued, "you've caused me to do a lot
of scrambling tonight. I've been on the phone…mostly with Franklin
Stanson but also with my own police officials."

"Stanson?" Conley said. "Good God…is he…"

Shakuri gave an ironic snort and didn't allow Conley to finish the question.
"And Franklin has been on the phone back to Boston…to your
editor…"

"Art Gallagher?"

Shakuri nodded. "You've been reported missing. Absent from your hotel
without explanation…"

"You're insane! Do you have any idea…?"

"Officially I'm enraged…and orchestrating the search."
Shakuri paused, letting the words sink in. "If you're not found,
well…" He smiled. "Just one more example of the chaos
here…And of the need for American aid."

Conley glanced back toward the door and clenched his fists, seized by the
impulse to attack Shakuri and at least go down fighting before the guards could
intervene.

Shakuri observed his coiled stance and smiled. "Don't worry. There's
still time to avoid extremes." He glanced at Oleg. "I'm counting on
Mr. Mikhailov…not to mention the laptop."