Live from Moscow (26 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SEVEN

This was precisely what Claire had aimed toward when she'd first come to
Boston. Respect from Larson. Support from Gallagher. Placement in the thick of
editorial decision-making. Only now her plan had been turned upside down. What
disgraces might Conley unearth about Peter, halfway around the globe? This
question kept turning over in her head.

The meeting---late morning on Monday---had been underway for nearly an hour.
She was sitting at one end of the long table, opposite Larson---a sign of her
new, hard-won status. Frick resided at Larson's elbow, sinewy and alert.
Halfway down the other side, Gallagher reclined with his arms folded over his
stomach. They'd been reviewing Conley's agenda for the week in Dushanbe. Plans
and contingencies. Soliciting her input at every turn. Through it all she was
doing her best to stay composed. She kept her hands folded on the table, to
avoid shaking. Conscious that tightness in her throat made her speech hoarse.
Larson---in her careful, diplomatic way---was finally getting around to what
she'd been intent to know from the beginning: whether Claire remained in
contact with Harry Whitcombe. "These next issues relate to the aid
bill," she said, flicking her eyes down the length of the table over the
tops of her reading glasses. "A shame Harry's not here…"

Friday's luncheon maneuvers now seemed like hollow tactical triumphs. Claire
told herself to be prudent. To keep Uncle Harry’s unscripted homecoming
to herself. Nonetheless she struggled to think straight …Gallagher
intervened to take her off the hook. "On that note…I've got an
update from Reynolds…" His chair produced a metallic squeak as he
leaned forward over his notes.

A sudden impulse seized her. She was desperate to break free of this
play-acting…to get something moving, even if she didn't know in what
direction. She lobbed her bombshell back across.

"I saw Uncle Harry over the weekend," she said.

Larson and Frick froze. Gallagher looked up from his legal pad---more
worried than startled.

"In Boston?" Larson asked.

"At my hotel on Saturday morning. And again that same evening, for
dinner in Cambridge."

Larson made on obvious effort to stay cool, though her eyes bore new
flickers of trepidation. This kind of chaos was not her strong suit. 
"Is he still here?"

There was no going back. "Well, yes," Claire blurted. "He
called me this morning." At the same instant she felt her cell-phone buzz
in her breast pocket, and pulled it out so that the low buzz became audible to
everyone, as well as a flashing LED indicator. The display didn't identify the
originating caller.

"Only a handful of people have this number," she said, her voice
still hoarse. "Could be either Steve Conley or Uncle Harry."

Everyone stared at the phone. Another chirping ring pierced the silence.

"Perhaps you should answer then," Larson said.

Due to the weakness of the signal Conley rose from his shabby, low-slung
armchair and walked over to the window. Over a crackling connection, he heard
Claire say,
"It's Steve."
There was a pause and sound of a
door opening.

"Claire, can you hear me? Am I interrupting something?"

"I was in a meeting…I'm here at the World Tribune. But I'm out
in the corridor now."

"Another meeting…?" A burst of static cut him short. He
shifted two steps, hoping to mitigate interference. His third-floor room in the
Hotel Tajikistan
, in classic late Soviet style, had a large, drafty
plate-glass window, hung with worn, mass-produced lace curtains. Outside,
darkness had fallen.

"It's a long story…"
Her voice sounded strained.
"I'm
involved on this end now. Janet and Art have agreed…"
Another
burst of static garbled her remaining words.

In frustration Conley yanked open the threadbare curtain, as if that would
improve his reception, and determined that his south-facing direction was the
problem. That Claire had insinuated herself into editorial meetings somehow
didn't surprise him.

"Where are you calling from?"
she asked.

"My hotel room."

"Can't you use your room phone?"

"No…I've been advised not to. It could be tapped."

"Tapped?"

Hermann had given him the warning. For an instant he stared at his own
reflection on the blackness of the window, holding his cell-phone; such advice
now struck him as preposterous. He decided not to go into details.

"It's nothing," he said.

Shifting another half step, he found a vector where reception sounded more
stable. "It's been a few days since we talked, Claire," he began,
before giving a quick summary of his weekend with the Russian patrols. In
contrast to earlier calls, she was short on questions, much less insistent. He
wondered if it had something to do with her presence in the newsroom. In
response to his query about the meeting she belied uncharacteristic hesitation.

"Well, one topic…is whether or not you should go to Shakuri's
villa. That is, if you're invited."

"Art and I talked about that last week. We agreed that Oleg should go
with me."

"Now they don't seem so sure…"

There was a knock on the hotel room door, three quick raps: a code/safety
measure he had agreed upon with Oleg. Conley took several quick steps toward
the door, unlatched it, and bounded back toward the window. Crackling
obliterated most of Claire's words. He glanced toward Oleg, who wore a winter
coat and held a fur hat; he made an apologetic gesture, as if to leave and come
back later. Urging him to stay, he held out his palm, then leaned closer to the
glass.

"Claire, this connection is too erratic. Tell Art I'll send him e-mail
later tonight. Tomorrow I'll find a place where there's better reception."

"So you'll call tomorrow, then?"

Her tone, Conley noticed, was more plaintive than resolute. That was a
first, since he'd left Paris.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT

Through his office windows Gallagher spotted Larson, striding along the
opposite wall of the newsroom. With one hand she held up her reading glasses,
prodding her lips with an ear stem. Even from a distance he could tell she was
frazzled. Still off balance after the morning's meeting. It was the first time
that had happened since he'd known her. And he had little doubt about the
cause.

As if on cue the door to the women's restroom swung open and Claire emerged,
while Larson was just a few paces away. Claire's eyes enlarged, and they both
pulled up and stared at each other.

Larson lowered her reading glasses and emitted an apparent pleasantry, while
Claire, taking a step forward with a stiff movement, clasped her lightly on the
elbow. Quick, forced smiles and both went on their way---Claire bound for the
water cooler. Gallagher couldn’t foretell how the conjoining would play
out. For now Claire enjoyed an exclusive line of communication to Harry
Whitcombe---her main card. This week would be an engrossing and unpredictable week
all around. Not just in Dushanbe.

Whatever happened he re-affirmed his resolution. He would help Claire where
he could.

He swiveled back toward his computer screen to re-read Conley's e-mail. It
was long: Conley's first since Moscow. He skimmed over his long description of
the Russian patrol, reaching the part that concerned Hermann:

…To me, this Tajik Interior Ministry uniform was vivid evidence of
corruption. But Hermann was dismissive: "the sort of thing that's bound to
happen in a dirt-poor country," he said. And that, "Shakuri is trying
to stamp it out." He claims the Russians exaggerate the phenomenon.
Old-style geo-political gamesmanship. I'm less convinced, so far…

Gallagher frowned, stroked his beard, and skipped further ahead. During an
afternoon interview with Ibrohom Vokhidov, Tajik drug enforcement chief, Conley
had decided not to reveal his first-hand witness of the uniformed smuggler. He
was withholding this bombshell for his interview with Shakuri:

…I won't meet Shakuri until tomorrow morning but Vokhidov seems
very much Shakuri's man: nothing but slavish praise for his boss. And very
obsequious to me, because I'm an American journalist. He doesn't speak English
very well yet, but "is studying with a tutor." Oleg translated.
Vokhidov wrings his hands over the prevalence of smuggling in the
south…This aid bill seems to have him salivating. Not that they're
strapped; they're already on an American gravy train, as far as I can tell.
Vokhidov was wearing an expensive tailored suit and had a spanking new Mercedes
limousine parked outside…Either through the heroin trade or U.S.
largesse---or both---these guys at the top seem to have tapped into a gold
mine. I never imagined money would figure so prominently in this milieu.
Bradford was definitely on to something…

Gallagher shook his head, regretful that Bradford's final e-mail had been so
lacking in detail, compared to Conley's disquisition. He skipped ahead to
Conley's last paragraph:

Claire told me on the phone that you, Janet and Nathan have doubts now
about the advisability of going to Shakuri's villa. Is that true? I haven't
received an invitation yet, but one may indeed be forthcoming tomorrow during
the course of my interview. For now I'm planning on accepting, as long as Oleg
can come along. If you've decided otherwise, please let me know by e-mail. I'll
also try phoning tomorrow, if I can find a location with a reliable signal.

Steve

Some of Gallagher’s resolve faltered and his stomach gnawed again. He
couldn't accord Conley second priority simply because he was ten time zones
away while Claire was here with her own agenda…A sharp tap behind him
plucked his anxiety and sent him swiveling 90 degrees. Claire stood in the
doorway gripping an empty paper cup with tense knuckles.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure, Claire."

In seconds she settled in the chair across his desk and leaned forward. The
cup was already drained. She'd been drinking coffee and water in a steady
stream all morning.

"Any news from Steve?" she asked, her voice still hoarse.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Just reading his e-mail."

Dread crossed her face. For a moment Gallagher wondered if her concern about
Conley's safety had grown. Then he reminded himself: for her this was still
about her husband.

"No bad news. Interesting observations about this aid bill, though.
Here. I'll make you a copy."

He clicked the "Print" command on-screen, then labored up from his
desk. The printer was out in the newsroom, just a few steps away, and as he
stood next to the machine, Frick strode by, taut and observant. He spotted
Claire and frowned before switching to a rigid half-grin.

"Art."

"Nathan."

Frick continued on his way, heading toward Larson's office. There was one
benefit to the current maelstrom, Gallagher thought. Usual plots were
suspended. Subsumed by Whitcombe and Claire. No need for political
self-defense.

When he got back Claire was perched on the edge of her chair, paper cup now
crumpled in her hand. He watched as she skimmed through the two-page text, wide
eyes dancing over the lines. At first she seemed comforted, until she got to
the second page and reacted with a slight intake of breath.

Conley's reference to Bradford, Gallagher guessed. He was seized by new
pangs of compassion, which impinged upon his parallel responsibilities to
Conley. There was no easy way to do both of them justice. His stomach churned
as she read through to the end.

"Are you going to approve his visit to Shakuri's villa?" she
asked, barely able to get the words out.

Gallagher looked down at his desktop and took a deep breath. "I have
some qualms about it. But if his interpreter, this fellow Oleg, goes with him,
I'm going to give the green light."

"Are you sure?"

"We've gotten this far, Claire. If possible, we should see it
through."

She swallowed hard and became trance-like. Gallagher was surprised. 
Why wasn't she relieved, as he expected?

CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE

Government offices Conley had visited elsewhere---Prague and Moscow on this
trip; others during his posting in London---were impressive. Spacious yet
understated emblems of state power.

He and Oleg now sat in Shakuri's outer receiving chamber. It was just as
large as Vokhidov's actual office, which they'd visited the previous afternoon,
and possessed an even greater abundance of Turkish rugs, Italian marble
statuary and silk throw pillows. Even relative to previous experience, he was
stunned by such opulence. Understatement did not apply.

"I can imagine the President's quarters," he said.

"It’s on the floor directly above us," Oleg answered.

"Convenient."

Over dinner the previous evening Oleg had characterized Shakuri as "the
President's bagman…at least that's the view of him in Moscow."

"By the Russian government?" Conley had asked.

"Russian media, too."

Double doors opened at the end of the room. A dark, well-manicured man of
about 30 approached them. He wore a European suit and a cordial smile. "My
name is Usmonov," he said, in heavily accented English. "I'm the
Prime Minister's assistant."

Conley and Oleg shook his hand. Usmonov's next statement sounded
well-rehearsed.

"Pleased to receive you. The Prime Minister is ready."

Usmonov led them through his own office, about the same size as the outer
chamber, where Conley glimpsed additional fine appointments. With ceremony,
Usmonov opened another set of double doors, stood aside, and beckoned them to
enter.

In the middle of a cavernous space, Shakuri stood waiting. As Conley crossed
the floor, he registered soft carpeting underfoot and luxuries in every corner.
Official photographs of Shakuri now seemed to him not entirely true to subject.
Up close and in person Shakuri looked more aging sybarite than virile
right-hand strongman: an overfed, rounded face, framed by receding dark hair
and a mustache. His physique was dominated by ample mid-girth.

The Prime Minister’s eyes were alert and evaluating, and he contrived
a mirthful smile. His handshake was fleshy and warm, and he held the grip a
little too long for Conley's comfort.

"You said you were coming with an interpreter. I hope that doesn't
reflect on my English."

"Just in case there's a need," Conley replied. He introduced Oleg.

"We didn’t meet when you came last year with Franklin
Stanson," Shakuri said to the Russian.

"Franklin didn’t include me in that particular
discussion," Oleg answered.

Shakuri tossed off an apparent joke in the Russian language while clasping
Oleg's hand. Oleg smiled just enough to be polite. Message: he was not to be
co-opted.

To prepare for the interview Conley had reviewed Shakuri's background.
Former young star in the Communist Party. Educated in Moscow at the prestigious
Institute for International Relations, including intensive training in English,
in preparation for Soviet diplomatic service. With the fall of the USSR, a
shift to…a more lucrative stage.

They walked over to Shakuri's desk. The Prime Minister’s English
pleasantries were free and subtle. The President, by all accounts, spoke just
Tajik and Russian. Who better positioned than Shakuri, therefore, to cultivate
Stanson and Hermann?

An elaborate, hardwood conference table stood to one side of the office.
Conley glimpsed oil paintings, more sculptures, and table lamps with gold
adornments. The room was crammed with ostentation. Behind them, Usmonov
silently retreated, closing double doors. Conley and Oleg seated themselves on
two chairs with carved armrests and silk upholstery, while Shakuri ensconced
himself on a high-backed leather desk chair---more throne than office
furniture.  Conley leveled his gaze across the expansive, polished desk
surface.

Shakuri had left his drab Soviet roots behind. His was a relatively novel
breed that Conley had read about but never glimpsed up close: Central Asian
kleptocrat
.