Live from Moscow (14 page)

CHAPTER FORTY

Somehow Conley had gained an impression---without ever visiting the
country---that Czech health care was first-rate. Milena's hospital room
supported this notion: large, clean and airy, with a high-tech, adjustable bed
and other state-of-the-art furniture. Or had Klucar commandeered one of the
better rooms in Prague?

Fortunately she’d only been grazed. She was due to check out soon, and
now reposed in a sitting position, with her foot bandaged and resting on a
small pillow. Her hospital smock was flimsy and revealed most of her long legs.
She was already back to her cheerful norm, and asked Conley if he could
accompany her home.

"The police are sending a car," she noted.

"Will Klucar be in the vehicle?"

"Don't worry about that. My mother's fixing lunch. I want to invite
you."

"And your fiancé?"

"He won't be back in Prague until tomorrow."

Conley thought a moment. "Okay…I should just call Claire
first."

This had the same effect as before. Milena tilted her strawberry blonde mane
and smiled. Claire answered after just one ring. Her voice was still fraught,
and had a new quality that put him on guard.

"I've decided to come to Prague. I'll try to get a flight later
today."

"Prague? Why?"

"First of all, I feel responsible for what happened to Milena."

"Claire, I told you she's fine."

"She was shot! And I encouraged her."

"She's right here, Claire. I'll let you speak to her."

Conley suppressed the "mute" button as he passed his phone over.
"She's upset. Try to reassure her that you're okay."

Milena switched eagerly to French. Empathy welled again in her eyes,
unaffected by their misadventures at the casino: "…I'd love to meet
you sometime, Claire…But there's no need to rush here today…I don't
think you could help us with the police…I'm really fine. Next week,
maybe…or even in Paris."

When Conley took back the phone Claire didn't sound placated. She asked him
about reactions back in Boston.

"I reached Art Gallagher about an hour ago," he answered.
"Unfortunately I caught him in the shower." Conley had imagined
Gallagher standing with towel wrapped around his ample midsection, beard
dripping wet. "He was shocked…until I assured him that Milena was
okay."

"And?"

"He remains worried…that's for sure. He also mentioned that Harry
Whitcombe has become more concerned about my safety, for reasons having to do
with the aid bill. However for now the assignment is still on. Any changes will
probably be around the margins…"

Klucar stormed into the room, again wearing a trench coat. He shot Conley a
pugnacious, dissatisfied glance before turning his attention to Milena at
bedside. Conley moved toward a far corner and turned to face the wall, placing
his index finger over one ear. Claire was still unsettled.

"Will you at least call me again before you leave Prague? Update me
about Milena and keep me abreast of any changes in Boston?"

"Of course."

Upon disconnection Conley attempted a polite retreat to the corridor. Klucar
stood up straight, folded his arms in front of his barrel-like torso and made
hard eye contact. He addressed Conley in Czech.

"Before he leaves, he wants to say something about the article,"
Milena translated.

"The article?"

"He said he hopes you'll go light on last night…Prague has a
positive image in Europe and the U.S.…He wants to keep it that way."

"I'll report the facts. I can't soft-pedal what happened."

Upon hearing the translation, Klucar seethed, holding his chin in thumb and
index finger. Only additional remarks by Milena---in Czech---cooled him down. He
stepped forward with his meaty hand outstretched and only half a scowl.
Abruptly he was gone.

Conley gave Milena querying look.

"He's always had a soft spot for me," she explained.

"Does he know yet about…?"

A nurse breached the doorway with a wheelchair, interrupting him. After a
courteous nod she collected some folded clothes from a side dresser, then slid
curtains closed around Milena's bed. He stepped aside. After Paris he had
yearned for a more straightforward, conventional week here in Prague. It hadn't
turned out that way.

"Will you wheel me downstairs to the police car?" Milena asked,
from inside the sashes. "You can also get a ride."

He walked to the window. The semi-circular drive of the hospital was visible
five stories below; a Prague Police squad car was parked there, waiting. In
short order Klucar's bald head and burly shoulders materialized; an intense
conference followed with the uniformed policeman/driver.

"I’m happy to wheel you down," Conley said. "But it's
probably better if I go separately, by taxi."

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Harry Whitcombe's spacious, wood-paneled office on the top floor was his
refuge. Visits by Gallagher and Larson were rare. The publisher preferred to
meet his managers for different departments---news, advertising, circulation,
and production---in other parts of the building, in their own domains.

This habit was emblematic. Whitcombe was not haughty. Just patrician. Better
to descend from the heights than blur lines.

Gallagher and Larson now sat in front of his massive, mahogany desk, while a
secretary served coffee on cups and saucers. This morning Gallagher would have
preferred the conference room. Conley's mishap in Prague didn't need
amplification.

He also would have preferred the standard Harry Whitcombe.

The publisher sat in a high-backed chair padded in burgundy leather. Again
with sagging shoulders and wrinkled suit. He sat mute, hands folded, and
listened to Gallagher's account of the evening at the
Lunar Eclipse.
His
well-bred features were even more pained than before---as if all this was
moving toward tragedy.

Nathan Frick was absent. When things got unpredictable Larson flew without
cohorts.

"Fortunately the Czech interpreter is expected to recover completely
from her wound," Gallagher concluded, finding himself in the unaccustomed
position of downplaying risks to life and limb. Anything to mitigate the pall.
"And it was an isolated event. There's no connection to what happened to
Peter in Dushanbe."

"Are you sure, Art?"

Gallagher thought this question odd.

"Absolutely, Harry."

For a moment the only sound was metronomic ticking of a grandfather clock
against one wall…an heirloom. Gallagher half-wondered if Whitcombe would
take his face in his hands.

"Are you inclined to change anything, Harry?" Larson ventured.

Whitcombe closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. Several seconds
passed. Eyes remained closed. Again, Gallagher wondered. What was this all
about? The publisher held his next breath at the point of maximum expansion.
His eyebrows rose…as if he'd glimpsed a resolution. Some of his torment
seemed to dissipate. His shoulders straightened somewhat as he opened his eyes.

"I'm removing myself from further involvement in this assignment."

Gallagher was too stunned to react. Larson spoke first.

"Why, Harry, if I may ask?"

"It's gotten…beyond me. This military aid bill has muddled the
whole picture. I can't stay objective. I'm too directly affected."

She shifted and scrutinized him from a slightly different angle. "But
you still want it to go forward?"

"Yes."

"Along the same lines?"

"Well, maybe less emphasis on Peter and more on straight news
aspects…" His voice trailed off. "…But from this point
forward I think you and Art should make those decisions."

Larson waited for more.

"…Conley's safety has to be respected. But everything
else…the character of the stories, the advertising…I'll leave up to
you."

"Can I confer with you if I need to?"

"No. I'm taking two weeks of vacation."

Larson's eyes widened. "Two weeks?"

"Yes."

She brought one stem of her reading glasses to her lips and recalibrated
herself. "Should Art still supervise Conley on a day-to-day basis?"

"That makes sense to me."

She turned to Gallagher.

"Art, please make sure that nothing like this happens again. I want to
give safety higher priority." Her eyes flicked over to Whitcombe, to make
sure he'd heard.

Larson was badgering
him
on such issues, Gallagher thought? This was
even more bizarre.

"With all due respect, Janet, I've been emphasizing safety all
along."

Larson responded with a cool look. Gallagher crossed his arms and gazed back
across the desk at Whitcombe, whose eyes appeared vacant, thoughts already
bearing him elsewhere. This office now seemed more way station than refuge.

"Where are you going on your vacation, Harry?" Larson asked, still
struggling to map this out.

"My ski lodge in New Hampshire."

It was still early November. Gallagher had never known Whitcombe to go there
off-season. But today all bets seemed off.

"No snow yet," he added. "But I'll benefit from the peace and
quiet."

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

"A shame your mother had to leave so soon," Conley said. "She
went to such trouble with lunch."

Milena shrugged.

"Back to work," she said, in a singsong voice.

Her apartment in central Prague was in a high-ceilinged, pre-war building.
Early afternoon light filtered through tall windows. Plates and half-empty
platters remained spread before them. Milena stretched her arms overhead.
Conley stood and started to clear away dishes.

"Just put those platters in the refrigerator," she said.
"I'll do the rest later."

"Don't be ridiculous. You've got a bullet wound."

Her smile implied that it was harmless.  Her face shone.

"Would you like some tea?" she asked.

"Great idea."

Conley ignited the gas stove to heat the kettle and transferred empty plates
to the sink. There was no dishwasher---a legacy of communism, he supposed. He
opened the tap and began washing by hand.

"While you're doing that I'll go into the living room."

Milena reached for her crutches, which were leaning against the wall. When
Conley scrambled over to help, she waved him away and hobbled out, unfazed.
Near the sink he glimpsed a wall clock: almost two-thirty. Still early
afternoon: a languorous time on weekdays. Many hours stretched ahead before
dinner. Most of the world around remained at work. He and Milena were
secluded…crisis over, all labors behind them…

Circumstances were quite different than in Paris. Out in the hallway with
the tray, he passed a window that looked toward the street. The squad car was
long gone.

"There you are," Milena said when he rounded the corner into the
living room.

She was sitting on the couch with her legs crossed, forthright and natural.
Some buttons undone on her blouse, but not too far down. Only her foot bandage
was incongruous. Conley set the tray down, poured the tea, sat down and leaned
back next to her. The living room was quiet. Windows faced an interior
courtyard, where last, golden-hued leaves of autumn hung on tall branches.

"I'm relieved to get clear of Klucar," he said, taking a sip. "I
worried he'd detain me before I get to the airport."

"On what grounds?"

"I don't know. It wouldn't be difficult to come up with some pretext.
Foreign nationals were involved. It was a mess."

She chuckled. "Don't worry about Ivo. He’s not as hard as he looks."

"I hope so. For your sake, too."

This remark somehow pleased her. Without a word she placed her cup and
saucer on the coffee table and leaned toward him.

"Let me take that," she said, transferring his teacup as well.
Rising to her knees and gripping his shoulders, she kept her bandaged foot
stable swung the other across him into a straddle. In an instant Conley found
his face enveloped in her mane of curls. "You'd probably do the same thing
again," she said, rocking back and looking him in the eyes.

"I'm not sure about that."

"I am."

Pent-up energies propelled Conley’s hands under the fabric of her
skirt. His fingers found a gossamer-like thong, and a total absence of
resistance…

A doorbell buzzed in the hallway.

Milena disengaged, moving upright on her knees. Her face drained.

"Oh no."

"Should I get it?"

"No I'd better."

The doorbell buzzed again. Conley fetched her crutches and helped her up.
With a worried expression she hobbled out in double-time, while he followed
behind. At a hallway intercom, she pressed a button. A young male voice
answered. Her worry became panic.

"It's my fiancé," she said, her words hoarse.
"He’s back early."

"What should I do?"

The buzzer rang again. Milena hesitated, then activated the de-locking of
the door downstairs.

"He's coming up. You’d better go."

Conley was already re-tucking his shirt. His overcoat hung nearby. He
grabbed it and snared his shoes from the floor. For her part Milena eyed the
peephole, in an awkward position on her crutches. Her breathing was quick; she
turned the deadbolt and flung open the door. The elevator lay opposite,
enclosed in a metal cage. Machinery whirred. Compartment on the way up. Milena
pointed left, toward the stairway leading to the sixth floor, barely getting
words out:

"There! Up to the next landing…"

He darted across the threshold and bounded up stairs two at a time---shoes
in one hand and overcoat draped over his other elbow. At an intermediate
landing he slipped in his socks and almost fell. A bolt of pain went through
his knee before he clenched his teeth and bound up remaining steps to floor
six. The elevator clanged to a stop below. He could climb no further. Floor six
was topmost in the building. He crouched in a far corner stayed quiet while
wooden doors rattled open.

Milena and her fiancé exchanged tense words. Her apartment door
closed with a bang.

Still in his socks, Conley padded back down, alert and careful as he rounded
the fifth-floor landing. Prague suddenly felt like Paris. It had not been
corrective at all.