Live from Moscow (23 page)

CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

Post Office Square lies in the heart of the Boston financial district and
contains a small, well-tended park. The park was almost empty this Saturday
morning, like office buildings that loomed skyward on all sides.

The soaring towers and absence of humanity added to Claire's sense of
surreal.

Just opposite the
Langham
she and Whitcombe entered a long,
trellis-covered walkway, surfaced with red brick. There was a line of
unoccupied benches within the enclosure. "I suggest we walk a bit
further…sit in the open," he said, as if vertical space would
emancipate whatever burdens he was about to share with her. Claire fought her
disorientation by gulping cold air. Additional oxygen didn't help. Why was this
encounter already more disquieting than the one they’d just had at Loon?

They proceeded into a circular plaza with a tall fountain, topped by a
half-sphere of water. She glanced upward at the converging streams and beyond.
Skies were gray again. Clouds that churned off Boston Harbor looked more
unpredictable than in New Hampshire. A granite bench by a bank of shrubs met
Whitcombe's criteria. As they sat down she adjusted her scarf and crossed her
arms. Not to ward off the chill air. More to stabilize herself against
unknowns.

Whitcombe crossed his long legs and stared at the brick walkway. His
deliberation was more alarming than reassuring. "Claire, I've had a couple
of days to reflect since you left Loon…"

Claire tightened her crossed arms.

"…And there's something more you need to know…something I
didn't tell you."

She fixed wide eyes on him.

"It concerns Peter's estate."

"Peter's estate? I thought that was just a question of sorting through
details…trusts and so on."

Whitcombe evaded her gaze for a moment before turning toward her.
"Claire, did you and Peter share your finances?"

"Well, yes. Those trusts were complicated. But we had joint finances
and shared the income. We didn't hide anything from each other."

His tired eyes hung on her. "Did you know about a Swiss bank account,
with Hoderer-Feltz Bank in Zurich?"

This only added to her perplexity. "No."

"Something I came across when I went through Peter's computer files at
his office in Paris, just after the funeral."

"In Paris? Why didn't you mention it to me then?"

"I wanted to look into it first."

Claire kept her gaze level; to look up at the surrounding skyscrapers, she
feared, would invite reverse vertigo. She remembered her expedition long ago
with Peter on the Pont du Gard; her sensation now felt like the inverse.

"How much money is in it?"

"That's the thing. At the time, there was a zero balance. That's what
Peter's records reflected."

"When was the account opened?" 

"On Wednesday, September 27
^th
."

"September 27
^th
? That was the week Peter was in
Prague."

"I'm aware of that."

Claire looked away and took a deep breath. Could Peter have taken such a
step without her knowledge? There had to be some explanation. Above her the
tall buildings seemed to spin and sway in the gray skies. She closed her eyes.
When she opened them Whitcombe uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, placing
his elbows on his knees. "Peter didn't mention a trip to Zurich during
that time?"

"No. Nothing."

"The bank said he opened the account in person."

"Maybe he was just preparing something…I don't know. Some kind of
surprise?"

Whitcombe winced and looked down at the brick walkway
.
Très
bien
.
This was odd…disorienting. But such
gloom was hard to fathom. A sudden thought rallied her.

"If there was no money in the account, Uncle Harry…What's the
problem?"

His next words were slow and measured:

"Money did appear in the account later. The day Peter died."

"The day he died? That doesn't make any sense."

"You're right."

Something in his intonation made her shudder. "How much?"

"One and a quarter million dollars."

Claire gasped. "What? From whom?"

"Swiss banking laws are secretive. It took me a while even to confirm
what was in the account. So far my lawyers haven't succeeded in identifying the
origin of the money."

"Even though…Peter was murdered?"

"This is Switzerland we're talking about, Claire. We may never find
out."

"Do you have any ideas?"

"Some---just hypotheses. I realize this is all a bit much to handle at
once. It has been for me. Let's get up and walk some more."

CHAPTER SEVENTY

Today Whitcombe's secret didn't propel him up a mountainside. His gait was
slow and considered. He bent slightly at the waist, gloved hands clasped behind
him. Release came through slow revelation.

They fell silent and began a slow loop around the park. Claire glanced
sideways at his profile: mouth closed, eyes narrowed and gaze fixed forward.
Determined to complete the task that had driven him back to Boston. To her his
lordly pace was at odds with his message. Her high heels struck the bricks of
the walkway out of rhythm. All constants in her life seemed to be shifting…swaying.
She avoided looking up at buildings.

They passed a vagrant with several plastic bags of possessions, re-settling
on a bench after nighttime ousting, when the park had been brushed and
scrubbed. Further on a middle-aged man---probably a hotel guest---sat and
enjoyed a cigarette out of doors. Ordinary sights. To Claire they now seemed
like live props in a make-believe set.

What Uncle Harry had conveyed didn't square with reality, with all she
believed about Peter. She crossed her arms again, trying to retain the sureties
she was losing, until they reached a pavilion at the far corner. The newsstand
inside was closed. She raised her head, kept her eyes closed and took a deep
breath. When she opened them Whitcombe was looking down at her with worn-out
compassion.

"How can this be, Uncle Harry?"

"We don't know, Claire. That's what we have to figure out."

They retraced their steps, and when they returned to the bench, Claire was
grateful to implant herself again in one position. Whitcombe leaned back and
interlocked his fingers on his lap. "My first thought was that Peter was
working for the CIA. And that the money came from them. Lots of foreign
correspondents have worked for the CIA over the years. Maybe even
World
Tribune
correspondents."

"Peter? The CIA? Doing what?"

"God only knows. But the timing was peculiar. He went to Tajikistan to
research the heroin trade.  He happened to be there just as this military
aid bill came up."

She shook her head and squinted down at the wooden bench between them,
trying to concentrate. "It still doesn't explain why he was killed. And
you were just in Washington. Why didn't you just ask your contacts in the
government?"

Whitcombe paused. "I hesitated to do that."

"Why?"

"What if the money didn't come from the CIA?"

"What do you mean?"

"What if Peter had been working for another government? The French, for
example, or the Russians."

"French?
La Surete?
Uncle Harry, please…"

"Okay, but there are other possibilities…There's lot of money
involved. In the heroin trade, in this aid bill, everywhere. Peter put himself
right in the thick of it."

The backdrop of buildings behind Whitcombe was becoming a big, spinning
blur. Claire's thoughts were more jumbled than ever. "I don't
understand."

"The Russian ambassador was frank with me. Tajikistan offers lots of
room for sidelines, Claire. Of various kinds."

"Sidelines? I don't know that word…"

"Making money in parallel with reporting work. Selling information back
and forth. Acting as go-between."

In her disbelief she slipped partly into French. "
La corruption?
L'espionnage?
Uncle Harry, you knew Peter. That makes no sense. His
character was, how to say…
irreprochable..."

"Money can be a powerful motivator, Claire. And Peter may have thought
he was helping his country. This war on terror has caught people up in all
sorts of ways."

"Patriotism? I guess so…But money? Peter was rich, Uncle Harry.
You know that as well as anyone."

Whitcombe turned his well-bred features down the length of the park, back
toward the
Langham.
"Rich…well. You mean the trusts?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Did Peter ever complain to you about them?"

"Complain? No, not really. He said they paid for a first-class
education. They also supplemented our income in Paris. Though sometimes he said
he wished the higher payments would start earlier."

Whitcombe winced. Claire guessed why.

"Many trusts are set up that way, Uncle Harry," she said. "I
don't think it was such a huge issue for him."

"What about the incentives to work for the
World Tribune?
Were
you familiar with those?"

"I know that income increased if he became managing editor or
editor."

Whitcombe became sphinx-like, hands still folded on his lap. "They
didn't just increase. They tripled if he became managing editor and quadrupled
if he became editor. And that's not to mention additional shares of
stock." He pursed his lips. "Those incentives can shape lives in
powerful ways. Our Yankee forebears put us all in straitjackets. I realize
that, just as Peter probably did."

Claire opened her mouth, but didn't have a coherent response. She still
couldn’t tell what he was driving toward.

"If you don't mind my asking, Claire…how was your financial
situation with Peter? Strains of any kind?"

"Strains? No, not at all. We lived well. We dined out a lot, and stayed
in fancy hotels when we traveled together. Okay…our apartment in Paris
was rented, and we both would have preferred something bigger. It’s just
that prices have been going up so fast…"

Whitcombe winced, his pain more pronounced. Sensitive to his every reaction,
she paused.

"These real estate excesses of the past five or six years are like
nothing I’ve ever seen," he said, with slight shakes of this head.
"It’s become an obsession…People everywhere setting
themselves up for ruin. The sort of pitfall from which Peter would have been
immune, I’d have thought…" He looked down at the pavement in
another moment of reflection. "Anything else?"

"Well, we also both wanted kids. We’d just been putting off some
of those things…"

A gust of northerly wind blew through the park and ruffled his
salt-and-pepper hair from behind. For all his pain---or because of it---he
seemed oblivious to the chill. "Whatever the immediate reasons…even
in an indirect way," he muttered, half to himself, "Those trusts may
have driven Peter to this. To pursue some kind of reckless plan."

His phrasing caused her to breathe faster. More oxygen traveled to her brain
but didn't allay the spinning. "Reckless…but Uncle Harry...This is
Peter we're talking about!"

"Claire, please. We're just getting at the truth."

The Russians had been all business on their interdiction mission: tough,
stoic, and efficient. Now, though, they were back at base, and their tone was
altogether different. They sat around an open fire in a sunken, sheltered area
away from main buildings: singing, making toasts, and devouring spits of
barbecued pork. Vodka flowed in abundance. Midnight had already passed.

Conley sat between Nikolai and Oleg on a bench of logs and stone, smack in
front of the fire and hatless. Across flames a soldier strummed a guitar and
sang Russian folk songs, accompanied by a flushed and swaying chorus of four,
still wearing mountain camouflage.

Bradford had missed such festivities, due to the fact that his operation had
come up empty.

"I'm surprised they're on key after all that vodka," Conley
observed. He and Oleg had participated in four or five toasts---less than most
of the group, and he was already feeling effects. Not that it mattered; Nikolai
had insisted upon putting off their interview to morning.

"It's a way for them to relieve stress, to unwind," Oleg said.
"These young guys are out here in pretty harsh conditions."

One serenading soldier disentangled himself and sat down on a nearby stone
wall. He stopped singing but continued swaying to the music, empty shot glass
in one hand and cigarette in the other. He looked about 19 years old. For a
moment Conley thought he might tumble backward onto the ground.

"This posting is also remote," Oleg added. "There are
practically no women here."

Conley nodded.

"Moreover the locals are basically hostile. It's not as dangerous as
Chechnya. But our guys do get killed from time to time. In skirmishes with
bandits, like those you saw today. A couple of dozen died last
year." 

They paused and listened to music. Next to Conley Nikolai stretched his
bulky frame toward the fire and tended skewers of pork and onions. Morsels of
pork oozed fat, which made the flames sputter.

"Most Americans and Europeans hardly know this place exists,"
Conley said. "Let alone that there are Russian troops here."

This comment made Oleg grimace. "The U.S. has taken an interest
lately.
"

"You mean because of Afghanistan?"

He nodded and Conley looked south. Beyond the base perimeter, 100 meters
away, a rocky valley yawned in darkness. Afghanistan was only 30 kilometers
further. "Franklin Stanson and his ilk mean well," he continued,
exasperation crossing his face. "But we've been here for centuries, in one
way or another. They forget that."

Conley was eager to talk about Stanson again. He tried, through his mild
haze of vodka, to formulate a question. Nikolai interrupted his thoughts.

"Eshcha shashliki?" 
He asked, holding out a plate
heaped with skewers of pork and onions.

Conley had already eaten two skewers' worth. Meat sat heavy in his stomach.
"Nyet,
spasibo,"
he said. Oleg declined also. Nikolai grinned and shouted
across to the musicians.

"About that uniformed prisoner, Nikolai..."

The Russian released a gruff laugh and reached for a vodka bottle with his
outsized fist. Oleg translated.

"He says there's been no time for interrogation…"

Singing stopped. Guitarist and chorus rounded the fire with empty plates and
shot glasses. Conley and Oleg consented to one more toast.

"I forgot to ask you, Oleg" Conley said, as Nikolai filled their
shot glasses. "When you were in the military, was your duty similar to
this?"

"No. More like staff work."