Live from Moscow (34 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-TWO

Gunfire lasted all of five seconds. There were shouts outside---some barked
like commands, others shrieked like pleas of capitulation. Conley continued
gaping across at Oleg. He asked him if the shouts were in Russian.

When Oleg looked back and didn't answer, Conley walked back to the window
and peered outside, cautious. The scene in the courtyard took him aback.

Four Russian soldiers in special operations gear surrounded Shakuri's guard---a
couple of whom Conley thought he recognized from the smuggling patrol. The
Tajik's hands were atop his head. One soldier had relieved him of his pistol.
Another was patting him down for additional weapons.

Another ruckus erupted downstairs---what sounded like a group of soldiers
bursting through the front door. More shouts, in both Russian and Tajik. Rapid
footfalls receded down the corridor: their guard abandoning his position.
Shakuri's voice was distinguishable in the downstairs din, in frantic Russian.
Conley shot another question at Oleg, who was still sitting on his bed.

"Can you tell me what’s going on, for heaven’s sake?"

"Let's just stay put."

Still stunned, Conley moved toward the middle of the room. There was a
thundering of soldiers up the stairs, then more harsh commands. He stared at
the door, unsure what to expect. Within seconds a soldier hammered on the door.

"Vee, Oleg?"

Oleg stood up and shouted back. "
Da
."

"Kto drugoi?"

"
Tolka Conley
."

Splinters flew and the door ripped from its hinges. A Russian soldier
hurtled into the room, and crouched with weapon at the ready. Two others
followed, weapons also leveled and scanning all corners. Behind them, standing
in the doorframe, was Nikolai, wearing special operations gear like the others.
He made eye contact with Conley, and then with Oleg. There was a flicker of
acknowledgement, but no smile. He made an abrupt movement with his hand toward
the corridor.

"Davaitse!"

"The laptop!" Conley blurted, turning back toward the desk.

"Get it fast and let's go," Oleg said, in the same commanding tone
as Nikolai.

Conley yanked plug from socket, then jammed cord, mouse and laptop into the
case and zipped it up. When he looked up Oleg was already beating a headlong
exit. Nikolai---bulk augmented by gear, was poised with wide stance and flexed
knees, impatient and ready to hustle Conley away at full tilt.

"Davaitse!"

Grabbing the handle, Conley ran across and into the corridor. Halfway down
the stairs---behind one soldier at full rush ahead and Nikolai propelling him
from behind---he heard the pulsating chop of a helicopter nearing the villa.

Two soldiers were half-carrying Shakuri out the front door, one at each
elbow. Shakuri muttered a stream of protests, and what sounded like Russian
epithets. On the way through the foyer, Conley caught a glimpse of Mehrangi
z
standing by in befuddled alarm. "Wait!" he shouted, halting Nikolai's
impatient momentum. He and Oleg snatched fur hats and overcoats from the hall
closet, throwing them on in half-stride. He had an ill-placed impulse to say
goodbye to Merhangiz, but there was no time in any case…Outside, in front
of the villa, the helicopter had landed---blades idling.

"Davaitse!"
Nikolai shouted again.

Shakuri was hauled onto the aircraft like a sack of over-ripe potatoes, and
Oleg jumped after him. Nikolai directed Conley up under the moving blades and
Conley scrambled aboard, where a soldier pointed him to a bench next to Oleg.
Across the helicopter Shakuri was already strapped in, lashed so hard against
the interior fuselage that his face had gone red. He directed a bug-eyed, angry
gaze at Oleg.

"I should have known…" he spat in English, gritting his
teeth. "The Russians can't do this anymore…Franklin Stanson will
hear about this."

Oleg ignored him as remaining soldiers scrambled aboard. Engines revved for
liftoff and the aircraft shuddered aloft with a thumping roar. Fifty meters up
it banked away hard, inducing Conley and everyone else to flail for handholds.
Bracing cold wind blew in through the side hatch. Once on a straighter course,
Conley caught glimpses of rugged hilltops, passing underneath at high speed.

"We're heading for the Russian air base," Oleg explained.

Holding ceiling netting for stabilization, Nikolai approached them from
cockpit-end, automatic weapon still slung over one shoulder. He reached into
his jacket pocket and pulled out two cell-phones, then presented them on his
meaty palm. His comment came---at last---with a half-smile.

"These were in the villa," Oleg translated.

Uncomprehending, Conley took his phone back.

"That's how they found us," Oleg added.
"Triangulation."

"Does that mean you're…?" Conley stopped himself and decided
to save that question for later. He looked down at the display. They were close
enough to Dushanbe---and high enough in the air---that he appeared to have
reception. His first reflex was to call Gallagher. Maybe reach him while he was
still in Moscow and figure out what to do next. However Gallagher didn't have a
European cell-phone. That left Claire…

Watching Conley, Nikolai's smile faded. His remark carried a harsh tone
again---more like a command.

"Better wait until we get to the base for phone calls," Oleg
translated. "We should be there in about five minutes."

As the helicopter continued its fast trajectory over the hilltops, Conley
tried to comprehend the wider picture.

"Do you think Stanson knows about this operation?" he asked Oleg.

Oleg didn't bother asking Nikolai.

"Not yet. This is where real complications begin."

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-THREE

This was Claire's first visit to Russia, and despite her strains, the
country stirred stronger sensations than most others. Similar to visceral
reactions she'd experienced on early trips to the United States. She supposed
foreigners felt the same arriving in France…though of course she was
French.

Although her knowledge of Russian history was sparse she could divine
reasons for the aura. Russia was a country that mattered. A place of
earth-shaking events---a nation with capacity to surprise. Peter had tried to
communicate these features on a few occasions. Then, they'd seemed abstract,
remote. Now they were palpable. Why did she sense that something important
would happen to her here? On this journey she was just passing through to
Tajikistan…

Amidst a bustle of arriving passengers at Sheremetyevo-II airport, most
bundled in winter coats, she and Gallagher approached passport control---a more
imposing checkpoint than most others she’d encountered. Stanson was
supposed to meet them here---accompanied by a Russian customs official, so
visas could be issued on the spot. After customs clearance he would then
accompany them to another Moscow airfield, a smaller one, for onward departure
to Dushanbe.

Assessing the queues, and with Stanson nowhere to be seen, Gallagher excused
himself to visit the restroom.

While Claire waited for him to return, she scanned the line of booths,
looking for someone resembling an American government official. Stanson had her
cell-phone number, she remembered, in case there were problems. The cavernous
terminal at Sheremetyevo was chilly, which kept her alert in spite of her jet
lag.

Then she spotted him---it had to be----at the end of the line of booths:
swelling midsection under a too-tight overcoat, mostly bald and wearing
gold-rimmed aviator glasses. He reacted with a folksy wave, removing any doubt.
His lopsided grin was muted---this was a crisis, after all. There was a Russian
customs officer at his side. Stanson gestured for her to wait,
then
stepped into an adjacent, windowed customs office.

Her phone chortled and she straightened with a sharp intake of breath. Apart
from Stanson, she wasn't expecting any calls. Stanson was visible through
glass; he was not holding a phone. With a trembling hand, she pulled out the
device and answered.

"Claire?"

"Mon Dieu! Is that you…?" She sputtered. "Steve?"

"Yes. The first news is that Oleg and I have been rescued."
Conley
was speaking English.
"We're now at a Russian base. We're safe."

"Thank God. Who…what…?"

"It's a long story. There's not much time. Where are you now?"

"Moscow airport." She could barely get the words out. Her first
reaction was relief. Conley was alive. Moreover he'd called her first.

"Is Art with you?"

She cleared her throat. "Yes…but he's gone to the toilet."

"Are you with Stanson?"

"No, not at the moment…" Her head spun. "…But
he's here to help with our visas." She looked toward the passport office.
Stanson was emerging with the Russian official, who carried documents in hand.
"Wait…he's coming over now."

"Still no sign of Art?"

She shot a glance in the direction of the restrooms.

"Not yet."

There was a brief pause on Conley's end.

"Don't tell Stanson yet that I'm free. I want to talk to Art
first."

"Why? I don't…" Stanson had covered about half the short
distance now, and was glancing around the terminal, curious why Gallagher was
not with her.

"…It's complicated. There's no time to explain. Clear passport
control. Then play along as if nothing has happened. I'll call back in 15
minutes."

The connection went dead and Claire stood frozen for several seconds,
holding the phone near her ear. Stanson and the official were almost upon her.

"Claire?" Stanson asked, with a distinct drawl.

"Yes…" Just before he drew up she replaced the phone in her
coat pocket.

Stanson observed her quivering hand and re-assumed an air of sympathy as
they made introductions. The Russian official spoke English but was all
business. Claire had trouble looking the American in the eye. Conley's warning
had unleashed wild speculations. Why such caution? With a U.S. official, no
less? Her throat became dry and tight. Conley was safe. But this was another
wrenching twist. She would have to think on her feet.

"Here comes Art," she rasped, relieved to see Gallagher striding
back from the restroom.

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-FOUR

There hadn't been time for a final restroom visit onboard the plane. Now
Gallagher felt better. Ready to bear down on Stanson. He had some hard
questions.

Through the moving thicket of arriving passengers, he spotted Claire,
standing with two men. One wore the uniform of a Russian customs officer. The
other, he presumed, was Stanson. In foreign locales he could usually identify
his countrymen.

Stanson's official status did not reassure him. Gallagher had entered the
journalistic profession during Vietnam, and the epoch had imbued him with
baseline skepticism toward the U.S. government, especially when it came to
foreign policy. Bradford's murder had been appalling enough---attributable
perhaps, to the hazards reporting from an unstable part of the world. But
Conley's abduction bordered on bizarre. Something was out of whack. His latent
mistrust from decades earlier had re-wound to full.

Claire didn't appear at ease around the American official either, which made
him even more vigilant. After quick introductions, he demanded an update.

"Unfortunately there are no new developments," Stanson drawled.

"Nothing?"

"I've kept in constant contact with Prime Minister Shakuri."

"And?"

"And the search continues."

"Shakuri's your man, isn't he?"

"Well, yeah…"

"Is he going to be answerable this time around?"

Stanson rocked back on his heels and swung his arms up slightly from his
sides, as if surprised by an unruly animal in the wild. Gallagher also noticed
Stanson's winter boots, under his suit cuffs, which appeared incongruously
large. A closer look revealed the reason. Their soles contained lifts, which
gave him extra stature that he didn’t really possess. Gallagher
wasn’t at all surprised.

"I'll fill you in the car, Art," the official answered, struggling
to maintain his rangeland cadence. "But first I reckon we'd better get
these formalities out of the way."

As they followed Stanson and the Russian customs officer, Claire flashed
Gallagher a rattled look, followed by a glance at her watch.

"Remember, Claire…"

Her wide eyes turned back toward him, in stride.

"…We're in this together."

She responded with a stiff nod.

The Russian official excused himself briefly at the checkpoint, and the
visas took just minutes. Out in baggage claim, Gallagher and Claire took
position near a moving carousel, with Stanson standing beside them. Other
arriving passengers on
Air France
were mostly middle-aged French and
Russian businessmen. Many of these, Gallagher noticed with slight irritation,
directed discreet gazes at Claire. An
International Herald Tribune
tucked
under one man's arm made Gallagher remember the aid bill.

"You up to date on the vote in the Senate today?" he asked
Stanson.

"Sure."

"Well?"

Stanson glanced at his watch. "Oh, it's still on…in six hours or
thereabouts. Around the same time we'll touch down in Dushanbe tonight."

A sharp intake of breath emanated from Claire. Gallagher glanced at her. Her
eyes remained fixed on the carousel.

"No postponement because of Conley?"

"Well no…You have to remember, Art…there are broader issues
involved here."

Anger welled in Gallagher. He’d heard that line before. "Wait just
a minute, Franklin. You mean to tell me that a reporter's life is…"
He stopped, alarmed. Claire was breathing hard, almost hyperventilating.
Despite chilliness in the terminal her overcoat was unbuttoned, as well the top
of her blouse. Her face and the exposed skin above her breasts were crimson.

"Claire! Are you okay?"

"Uhh…just a little warm. There's my bag." She pointed at the
carousel.

Gallagher looked over and found most male eyes in the vicinity fixed on
Claire's partly open blouse. His glower compelled them to look away.

"I'll get it," Stanson volunteered, stepping toward the carousel.

"Mine's right behind it," Gallagher said.

A beefy man with a crew cut and goatee materialized out of nowhere, whom
Gallagher took to be a plainclothes security guard---American. He helped
Stanson with the bags while Gallagher guided Claire to a row of chairs outside
the nearby Air France baggage office. Stanson issued an instruction to the
guard, who carried the two suitcases outside, then stepped away to a quiet corner
and pulled out a cell-phone.

Once seated, Claire remained flushed and panting.

"Claire is there anything I can…?" Gallagher began.

Her cell-phone chortled, cutting him off. She pulled it out, not bothering
to look at the display, and handed it to him while it was still ringing, in a
quavering hand.

"It's Conley."

"Conley?" Gallagher was confused for an instant before his hopes
surged. He took the phone and flipped it open. "…Steve?"

Their ensuing conversation came in quick bursts and was the most staggering
in Gallagher's 40-year career in journalism. Abduction, attempted bribery,
high-stakes geo-politics…even a daring military rescue. And these were
just the highlights. Some details, Conley insisted, weren't suitable for the
phone.