Live from Moscow (2 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Bradford's death still hung on Gallagher like lead ballast, and jet-lag only
weighed him down further. He'd revved himself with extra caffeine this morning
to keep going. Halfway across the newsroom, clutching paper cup in one hand and
notepad in the other, he repeated his resolution.

No more calamities.

When he huffed into the conference room Janet Larson, the editor-in-chief,
was already seated. With characteristic efficiency she reached for the phone at
her end of the long table.

"Hello Harry?  We're ready down here."

She replaced the handset and stared at notes through her reading glasses.
This was a special meeting.  Called by Harry Whitcombe late the previous
afternoon, from a first-class plane cabin over the Atlantic, during a delayed
return flight from Paris.

The subject was Bradford.

Gallagher was taking his first sip of coffee when Whitcombe strode into the
room. Face still bearing strain from the funeral. Otherwise pressed and erect,
despite the travel. Purposeful set to his Brahmin jaw-line. Straight to his
customary place at the end of the table. There was reason to worry. Much about
Bradford's death remained unresolved. More might come from the same pipeline.
Gallagher got right to it.

"I've exchanged several more e-mails with the U.S. official based in
Moscow---Franklin Stanson, the same one who organized the transport of Peter's
body to Paris."

"Diplomat, right?" Larson interjected.

"Not exactly."

Larson eyed him over her reading glasses.

"Anti-terrorism. His main focus is Tajikistan."

Gallagher pressed on.

"Stanson believes the original claims of the Tajik government, and of
Prime Minister Shakuri. Peter was killed by two of Shakuri's bodyguards. Their
own plan: a botched robbery. They thought Peter was carrying a lot of
money."

Whitcombe shook his head, still not buying it.

"I queried Stanson about the robbery angle," Gallagher elaborated.

"And?"

"Apparently Peter spoke Russian during his dinner with Shakuri. The
bodyguards figured he was an arms dealer."

"An arms dealer?" Whitcombe's normally stoic features roiled.
"Why in God's name would they think that?"

"We're talking about a corrupt part of the world here, Harry. Roles and
rules are pretty fast and loose." This remark made Whitcombe mull for a
few seconds.

"…Stanson says that Peter's laptop computer and wallet went
missing," Gallagher continued. "It's consistent with the robbery
explanation."

"Anything ever recovered?"

"No. Even after the bodyguards were arrested."

Whitcombe joined his fingers into an inverted "V" and stared down
through the space underneath.

"What happened over the weekend was more troubling," Gallagher
added.

Whitcombe brought his gaze up over his co-joined fingertips. Larson's head
snapped up from her notes.

"…The two bodyguards were themselves killed. Some sort of prison disturbance. 
Stanson and the other American official never got a chance to interview the
suspects."

"While awaiting trial?" Larson asked, incredulous.

"Yes."

Whitcombe's inverted "V" crumpled. After a moment the set returned
to his jaw.

"That settles it," he said.

Gallagher felt additional weight descending. The week was not unfolding as
he’d hoped.

"I had some ideas on the flight back," Whitcombe said. "I
want to run over various angles in my own mind…during lunch. But I'll
want to move forward. Let's meet again this afternoon."

CHAPTER SIX

At times Conley wished he had become a sports writer, rather than a news
reporter. The atmosphere in the sports department was juvenile and
uncomplicated, like the locker room of a high school or college athletic team.
Energies were channeled into games; writers kept one foot in the halcyon of
pre-adolescence.

Every time Conley saw Joe Banacek he was reminded of these traits. This
morning Conley spotted him in the green-marble, ground-floor lobby of
The
World Tribune
. Banacek wore a jocular grin, as usual.

"Good time at the Charles?" he asked Conley.

Their encounter on the Boston University Bridge had been brief. Banacek had
been heading in the other direction; there hadn't been much time to talk.
Conley said he'd enjoyed himself. Also that he'd been surprised to see Banacek
on a Sunday; Banacek's fall beat was pro football.

"The Pats played Monday night," Banacek noted, laughing.

"I know. Still…" Conley laughed as well.

They passed through the glass door at the rear of the lobby and stepped onto
the escalator to the newsroom. "I skipped out after that," Banacek
added. "Caught some games on TV. Rowing can be boring, after a couple of
hours."

Indeed the crew competition, for Conley also, had been mostly a backdrop. In
the corridor down to the newsroom they didn't hurry.  Neither one of them
was on deadline. In addition Banacek was divorced, with plenty of free
time---always ready to share a beer during later hours if opportunities arose.
On the bridge he’d given Jenna an appreciative once over. A woman had
accompanied him; there’d been compulsory introductions. Conley could not
recall seeing Banacek with the same woman twice.

"You're lucky, with Jenna," Banacek exclaimed, slapping Conley on
the shoulder.

Conley mustered a vague smile.

"Have a good day, buddy," he said, then turned and headed toward
the sports department.

About 15 reporters and editors were scattered across different desks in the
newsroom. There was little noise except for the murmur of phone conversations
and light clicking of computer keyboards. Most reporters were out on
assignments. Activity would pick up in the latter half of the afternoon.

Conley's desk was in the Sunday/Features Department---a holding pen for
accomplished reporters who didn't quite fit anywhere else.  Since London
features had become his main stock in trade.

Conley booted up his laptop and remembered Sunday.

Images of Jenna came back: tight sweater and jeans, the curves of her back
and behind, the shades of her hair enhanced by the sunlight. Also the scents
that permeated the stillness of her bedroom late that evening…He took a
deep breath and ran one hand through the hair on the side of his head. Nothing
in her was lacking. Educated, sociable, considerate… So what if she traveled
on business two or three days most weeks? Banacek was on the mark. He
was
lucky. 

Why did his attentions still ramble?

The girl from the alumni tent re-entered his mind; Samantha was her name.
Conley remembered he'd stashed her card in his wallet. He extracted it,
re-examined it for a moment, and threw it in the wastebasket. The issue was now
definitively settled. Nothing would develop from the encounter
.
He
logged into the network with his laptop, ready to get to work.

The phone rang on his desk.

"Hello, Steve?" The voice was female---at once familiar.

"Yes?"

"This is Samantha."

Conley's heart pounded a few hard beats. The exposed skin of her midriff
came back to him, full-center.

"Hope I'm not surprising you by phoning at work. You mentioned you were
at the
World Tribune
. I also saw your by-line in yesterday’s
paper. Excellent article."

Conley thanked her and said he didn't mind the surprise.

"Anyway, you never telephoned me after Sunday. Thought I'd take the
initiative."

Her firm was one of the more prominent in Boston, and occupied offices in of
the city’s premier skyscrapers. Conley inquired about her workweek, which
yielded an enthusiastic response. Peasantries soon ran their course, much like
Sunday. The girl had now twice put herself forward. Now she fell silent.
Waiting for a suggestion.

"I'm flattered you called, Samantha, but…How to say this? My
situation is such that I can't go further than our talk at the
Charles…I’m seeing someone else. It wouldn't be fair all
around."

After a pause she recovered. "Well, you're right to tell me up-front,
Steve. That's not so usual these days...I'm glad we connected anyway."

"Me too."

A tactful exit…When Conley hung up the receiver his disquiet was gone.
Such contacts did not have to develop further. Restraint was within his powers.
As it should be---at last---by age thirty.

Jenna was due to return from a business trip that afternoon, and dinner was
slated for evening. He looked forward to seeing her with a clean conscience.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Woods and rocky hillsides shone in the headlights as the Mercedes wound fast
along the two-lane road. Bradford tried to ignore the bodyguards in the front
seats. They were annoyances---set pieces in a much larger story. He was
operating with sweep and scale that they couldn't begin to understand.

This evening had been pivotal: a culmination of a month of planning and
weeks more of execution.

Shakuri had been forthcoming. Even beyond expectations. Out of pragmatism,
mainly. Aware of the power of American media and the leverage possessed by a
lone and determined reporter. Ready to open up. All that Bradford had surmised
about Central Asia---and about Tajikistan in particular---had turned out to be
true. U.S. initiatives in the region were having all sorts of secondary
effects.

This assignment had developed as planned.

Some aspects of the evening had been distasteful. As dinner had worn on and
the main business had been concluded Shakuri had become too familiar. Made
altogether too many references to Claire.

"I could tell there was an exceptional woman behind you, five minutes
into our interview this morning," he had said.

Bradford had eyed him over the top of his wine goblet.

"And that she's the main priority in your life," he'd added.
"I'm also a devoted husband."

Shakuri's wife was nowhere to be seen. On extended vacation in the Maldives,
he’d explained.

"To the health and happiness of your wife," the Prime Minister had
concluded, raising his goblet.

Bradford had managed a smile and reciprocated the toast.

The Mercedes rounded a hard curve and Bradford grabbed the handle over the
door for stabilization. With the other he held his laptop case in place on the
seat. Woods and hillsides continued sliding by in darkness. For all Shakuri's
crude edges, the man was perceptive. He'd guessed right about priorities, and
about Claire. Still, why was that his business in the first place?

Though now was no time to dwell on small intrusions. There were reasons to
be satisfied. Even to celebrate.

His timing had been perfect.

A massive new U.S. aid bill was imminent: the latest installment in the war
on terror. Other Western reporters were not yet on the trail. That left the
field wide open. And rich with provocative story elements: terror, heroin, and
high-stakes international politics. Within a week his stories would get
front-page play in the
World Tribune.
Picked up by the wire services and
re-published around the world. Discussed in the corridors of government in
Washington and elsewhere. True sweep and scale.

Top journalistic prizes seemed within his grasp. Even a Pulitzer. Why not?
Wealth and status beckoned. He'd have the kind of life he'd always wanted for
himself and Claire…a proper apartment, for starters…wherewithal to
take her along on assignments... close access to her at all times…

His reveries were interrupted when the car abruptly slowed. The driver's
eyes showed nervousness in the rear-view mirror. The other bodyguard turned
backward; his eyes first flitted over the box of spices on the seat, then to
Bradford.

"Maybe problem…with tire," the man said in crude, heavily
accented Russian. "Need to check."

Their Mercedes pulled over onto the narrow shoulder with a crunching of
gravel. The road remained empty. Nothing about the car seemed out of order.
Bradford became suspicious and alert, while in the front seat the two men
exchanged another nervous glance. The bodyguard in the passenger seat got out
and walked toward the back of the vehicle. Bradford watched the man's burly
torso pass by the window.

In a flicker the door jerked open and Bradford was staring into the barrel
of an automatic pistol.

"What the hell?"

"Move over," the man scowled, teeth half-bared in his beard.

As Bradford slid across the seat the man slid in after him, jabbing the gun
barrel into his ribs. The driver gunned forward again with a churning of
gravel. His cohort with the gun shouted several words in Tajik and pointed to a
turnoff a short distance ahead. The Mercedes careened off the main route onto a
narrow dirt road, just wide enough. They ascended: up a hillside into
rock-strewn woods. Bradford felt the gun barrel stick harder into his ribs.

"Give me that case," the man said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Outside the soundproofed windows of the conference room, the newsroom was
revving higher. Reporters were materializing with varying degrees of dispatch,
bearing laptop computers and notepads. Inside, at the head of the ovular table,
Whitcombe sat tall, in his hereditary and natural place of command. His
straight spine suggested he had reached a decision.

"Art's eulogy gave me some ideas…" he began. "And not
just because Peter was my nephew."

Gallagher buttressed his elbows around his notepad several chairs down, his
gray hair tousled. Lunch was over-compacted in his stomach; preoccupation had
made him eat too much. From the opposite end of the table Larson peered over
her reading glasses.  Gallagher could almost hear her mind whirring
forward, reconnoitering the variables ahead. Gallagher gave a worried stroke to
his beard. This had not been his intention with the eulogy at all…

"The State Department investigation was not enough," Whitcombe
continued. "Too many questions remain."

"We haven't gotten Stanson's final report," Gallagher noted.

"True. But we can't wait. That wouldn't be worthy of Peter."

Larson asked Whitcombe what he had in mind.

"Re-trace Peter's assignment from the beginning. Then…when he
gets to Tajikistan…get some answers."

"The whole trip?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"As soon as possible."

This urgent tone made Gallagher fold his arms across the top of his stomach
in a defensive reflex. "Harry, are you sure we shouldn't wait?" he
suggested. "Let the dust settle? The final report from Stanson might
answer more questions."

"I'm afraid not, Art. We need immediate answers."

"What about the safety of the reporter?" Whitcombe was sympathetic
but unflinching. Something they'd have to manage, he said. Gallagher glanced
out into the newsroom. Standard afternoon patterns, although today was shaping
up to be less than routine---a launch-point for new unpredictability. "And
what if we don't learn anything new, Harry? Will it be worth the risk?"

"We can still do Peter's original story on the heroin pipeline out of
Afghanistan. Let's not forget…That's what brought him there in the first
place."

Larson struck a pose of quiet observation. Little surprise: she always
employed careful tactics with Whitcombe.

"I'm thinking of another angle, too," Whitcombe added.

Gallagher braced himself.

"…By reconstructing Peter's final assignment, we can pay tribute
to him. Elevate his sacrifice. He died on the job after all. In the pursuit of
truth, as you said, Art."

Gallagher almost winced. An obituary had led the front page on Sunday, and
run into two inside pages, complete with extensive biographical detail,
testimonials and photographs. His eulogy had been included.

"…This isn't just for the paper, Art, or for me. This is also for
Claire. She deserves more."

Still with arms crossed, Gallagher leaned back, provoking a loud squeak from
the undercarriage of his chair. He remembered Claire's trembling hand in the
church pew, and felt further clutches of responsibility.

"I can't argue there," he said, before releasing a long exhalation
through his nostrils.

"Knew you'd see it that way, Art."

Gallagher's next breath was heavier---more like a sigh.