Live from Moscow (36 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-EIGHT

Fresh snow dusted the ovular drive. The driver steered the Volga into a
controlled skid on the slight incline, overcoming limitations of rear-wheel
drive. Car and driver were courtesy of an unspecified branch of the Russian
government.

"What the hell…?" Conley said, gripping ceiling handle in
the back. A massive, dark-blue SUV hulked atop the rise, near the Radisson's
main entrance. Just like Hermann's in Tajikistan. A driver was silhouetted
behind the wheel.

"Diplomatic plates," Oleg answered. "American."

"Uh oh."

As the Volga passed the SUV the driver raised a walkie-talkie to his mouth.

"Damn…just what we need," Conley said.

The hotel's revolving glass door opened just before they pulled to a stop.
Instead of Stanson, however, the figure of Claire launched toward them with
quick steps, arms wrapped tight and eyes blazing with energy. Her tangent
brought her to Oleg’s side of the car, which was closest.

"Claire?" Oleg said, eyebrows up and sitting a little straighter.

Conley nodded once.

"Wow."

Outside Claire was introducing herself to Oleg when her eyes found Conley
over the Volga, while behind her, half in a blur, Stanson emerged with a
single-minded look. As Conley rounded the back bumper she shot toward him, arms
outstretched and skidding on the snow with her high-heeled shoes. And into
clearer focus: with make-up, despite her long journey. To keep her balance, she
reached forward and clasped his shoulders, then kissed his cheek in greeting.
Inadvertent closeness brought contours and discharges of perfume. He sputtered
half-coherent gratitude before she withdrew.

She looked overwhelmed, even more than in Paris.

At last Gallagher appeared, shouldering past Stanson and snorting condensed
air out his nostrils. He brightened only when he gave Conley a handshake and a
tug on the shoulder.

"You can't imagine how relieved we are Steve," he said.

They were interrupted when the Volga's trunk sprung open with a creak.
Before the driver could reach inside, Conley grabbed the duffel bag, along with
his own laptop. Stanson drew up a few paces away.

Conley adjusted his grip on the items, keeping careful distance, while
Claire hovered at his shoulder, her wariness palpable. Gallagher's glower
revived. The cause was unmistakable now.

"Look Steve," Stanson drawled. "It went wrong for all of
us."

"Us, Franklin?" Conley answered. "You weren't abducted. We
were."

"I know."

"So?"

"Shakuri let us down."

"Is that all?"

"Not by a long shot. Our effort there is in ruins."

"Really? Can't say I feel any sympathy."

Stanson did not bristle. Instead, looking hard-hit and numb, he extended his
hand. Reluctantly, Conley put down the duffel bag and shook. Incompetence was
forgivable, he decided. It did not equal conspiracy.

Gallagher was not going to let Stanson off that easily. "Let's get
inside, Steve," he said, putting a hand on Conley's back. "There's no
need for this out here."

A beefy young American with a goatee showed up alongside the car; Conley
took him for contracted security. The duffel bag was still on the ground, and
now gained everyone's attention, including Claire's. It was clearly not full,
with just one item inside. Oleg stepped forward and picked it up before anyone
got ideas. An instant later a hotel porter also materialized, and offered to
help with their suitcases.

"I know it's late, Steve," Stanson said. "But maybe just a
few questions…"

This really set Gallagher off.

"You've got to be kidding, Franklin. We're the ones with questions for
you."

Stanson reared back, as if encountering a rattlesnake. His eyes gravitated
again to the duffel bag.

"And we have a deadline to worry about tonight," Conley added.

The official’s reaction looked just short of desperation.

Claire and Gallagher nevertheless left him behind, standing on the cold
sidewalk in the company of the stern-faced security guard. Oleg pulled up the
rear with the duffel bag. Conley tried not to look at Claire. His first order
of business was to talk to Gallagher---alone.

"Where are you going?" she asked, still close, in a tremulous
voice.

"Right now…to my room."

The entrance door revolved and conducted them to more comfortable interior
temperatures. She took his arm---a gesture he could have done without. This
time, he knew, his resolve would have to stick. The next 24-48 hours would
demand a clear head. He modified his earlier maxim somewhat, to suit these more
acute circumstances.

Not Claire.
Especially not now.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-NINE

Claire sprayed another wisp of perfume on her throat and smoothed her dress
along her hips and thighs. Then she inhaled and inspected her image in the
full-length mirror. Her hemline bordered on
risqué
. Such an
approach was manipulative, she knew. She wasn’t proud of it. But other
options had run out. Now she had to maneuver along less demure borders.

All she needed was Conley’s attention. She would proceed from there.

What had he learned about Peter? That would be her first order of discovery.
If he knew what she supposed he knew…well, then she faced a challenge of
persuasion. She had to nudge him toward concealment. Or at least toward
circumscription of the most shameful details. Play on his sympathies, without
becoming suggestive. Redirect his impulses toward benevolent ends. Tap into the
discretion that Tracey had described.

That was, as long as she still had time. Deadlines were coming into play.

"Call me when you're ready," Gallagher had told Conley as
they’d stepped off their elevator, about ten minutes earlier. "We
have nine time zones in our favor. No extreme rush."

"You won't be asleep?"

"Let the phone ring if I am."

Her room was on floor six, across the hall and three doors down from
Gallagher's. Conley's was below on the fourth floor; she’d memorized his
number. In front of the mirror she took one more deep breath to steel her
nerves, and ventured out. She closed her door with care, minimizing the
latch-click, then padded down to Gallagher's door, where she paused and
listened. Just quiet tapping on a computer keyboard---fine so far. Because
elevators lay further away than the stairwell, she opted for the stairs. Time
could be critical.

On the landing between the sixth and fifth floors, out a low-slung
 window, she glimpsed the Moskva River, illuminated along both banks.
Visible to the left were top floors of
La Maison Blanche de la Russie,
or
Russian White House, where she knew that Boris Yeltsin had stood atop a tank
during the 1991 coup attempt by Communist retrogrades---last, wheezing gasps of
Soviet power---and ushered in a new age. This fleeting panorama stirred
sensations like those she'd experienced at the airport that afternoon. Russia
was a land of pivotal events, earth-shaping changes. Through no choice of her
own it was turning out that way for her…She tried to control her
breathing the rest of the way down.

More than 30 hours had passed since she'd slept; she was now operating on
adrenaline. In the curving hallway on the fourth floor, she had trouble
registering the numbers. Yes…ascending like the eighth
floor…Conley's room #454 was about halfway to the end. Her breathing
quickened again as she approached his doorway and stopped. She lifted her arm
to knock, but paused in mid-air.

Her hand was shaking. Not just trembling. But really
shaking…
more
than at any time since Peter's funeral. She lowered her arm and filled her
lungs with a slow, deep breath, sensing she had to compose herself.

Again she smoothed her dress and looked down the length of her figure, from
cleavage to tapered ankles. Her figure gave her confidence. If she
couldn’t command a few decisive minutes---especially with someone of
Conley’s susceptibilities---who could? All of her tribulations and
efforts on behalf of Peter, it seemed, had come to this. Her goals were
different than at the beginning, but stakes were never higher. Paris, New
Hampshire, Boston…interviews, phone calls, travel…all that was
behind her. And what better venue now than Moscow? It seemed fitting.

She raised her hand. This time she brought her knuckles down and knocked.

She waited, expecting the door to open. Instead…nothing. She bent
forward and listened: total silence. Alarmed, she knocked again. From within:
more wrenching silence.

Her mind revved as she wondered where Conley could have gone in such a short
span. She'd never seen Stanson leave the hotel. Maybe he'd hung around and
telephoned Conley from the lobby…prevailed upon him to come downstairs,
intent above all on that damned aid bill…
Ras le bol!
Chest
heaving, she turned heel and strode toward the elevators. If Conley was indeed
down with Stanson, there might still be a chance for preemption…

At the elevator bank she stabbed the
Down
button, and crossed her
arms. One compartment was descending. Taking forever. When its doors opened
there was single occupant…one of the goateed American guards, standing
straight-backed and startled against rear wall. Issuing another expletive under
her breath, she stepped on board, arms still crossed and in no mood for
standard pleasantries. Then jabbed the button for the lobby---already
illuminated---and whirled on the American. His face flustered.

"Don't tell me you've taken a room at the hotel!"

"Well, ma’am, I…"

"Is Steve Conley downstairs?"

The guard's eyes widened. As the descent resumed, he pulled a walkie-talkie
from inside his coat.

"Is he with Franklin Stanson?" she demanded.

"I'm afraid I can't answer that, ma'am."

That particular form of address made her ready for battle.

When the bell dinged and doors opened she stormed straight into the lobby,
and in full stride she scanned the armchairs and couches before pulling up with
a sharp breath. There was Stanson, hunched forward on a couch and talking into
another walkie-talkie. Conley was nowhere to be seen.

Stanson caught sight of her. Surprised. Then puzzled. He glanced over her
shoulder. Claire spun around. The guard was coming up behind her, his own
walkie-talkie to his mouth. He made a hand signal which confirmed her
suspicion.

They were also looking for Conley.

She stared down at the floor to think clearly. If Conley was absent from his
room and wasn't with Stanson, where could he be? This was Moscow. She'd gained
an inkling he'd met a girl here. A rendezvous would be in character…his
usual misplaced priorities. The hotel bar…She spun again, finding her
coordinates and spotting it off to the right of the atrium…Then set off
again, heels snapping and determined to hold the initiative over Stanson. The
bar adjoined the lounge area and was busy with a late evening crowd.  She
marched straight to the heart of it, near where a jazz pianist was playing. The
eyes of the musician and those of some of the clientele flitted over to her,
curious. The space was sprawling and dimly lit. She scanned low-slung leather
arm chairs for Conley…in discreet
tête-à-tête
with
a young woman.

Nowhere in sight.

Her chest heaved again when she realized she’d left her cell-phone
back in her room.
Non! Comment-est-il possible?
She marched back out
into the lobby, where Stanson and the security guard remained, still in
battlefield surveillance mode.

Her next thought was the hotel entrance---that Conley might be awaiting an
assignation outside. She snapped across the lobby and outside with such
impatience that she almost clipped the sliding doors.

A few taxis…Stanson's SUV…
quel monstrosité.
But no
Conley.

The next idea that occurred to her was the shower…She hadn't heard
running water but maybe he'd had the bathroom door closed. Back across the
lobby an empty elevator was poised with open doors. She hit number four and
then the "Close" button, before the guard could make a move to follow
her. Up on the fourth-floor she scrambled down the corridor, ready to abandon
all attempts at decorum.

This time she pounded on Conley's door.

"Steve, are you in there?"

Silence. She pressed her ear to the painted metal surface. No murmurs of
running water.

She pounded again. More jarring silence.

Had he deliberately eluded her? Taken an elevator to Gallagher's room? She
darted to the stairwell, prevented from bounding the steps in pairs only by her
skirt and high heels. Her clattering echoed up and down the concrete walls,
abating only when she attained carpeting on the sixth floor corridor.

Fresh panic gripped her and brought her foot speed under last-second control
as she approached Gallagher’s room, worried that she was too late. She
padded forward as if in a trance, quiet except for her heavy breathing.
Nearer…a murmur of low voices turned panic to dread... She stopped
outside. The voice inside was Conley's, in purposeful narration. How? Almost
gasping for air…unable to get enough oxygen…she bent closer.
Gallagher was now posing a question, in a tone serious and full of consequence.

Abruptly their conversation stopped. Claire guessed her labored breathing
was audible, and she was seized by a flight impulse. In a blur she scampered
down and across the hallway to her door, number 657. She fumbled with the key
card that she'd clutched in one palm during her entire foray, now slick with
perspiration and difficult to manipulate. It shook in her hand…she
couldn't insert it. She shot a panicked glance over her shoulder…The card
finally slipped in and out, unlatching the lock. She lunged inside and brought
the door closed.

She listened. There were no untoward sounds from the corridor.

The room spun around her. She needed the embrace of gravity. Her feet
brought her to the bed, where she collapsed, face upward.  Both
Peter’s legacy and her own future were being defined across the hall.
After weeks of planning…yearning …struggle…Moscow had yielded
forces beyond her control. There was nothing to do but wait.

One way or another, she was sure that life would be different in the
morning.