Live from Moscow (35 page)

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-FIVE

Claire tried to regain her composure and listen. The gist of the call was
unclear. She couldn't hear Conley's end, and Gallagher mainly asked clipped,
intermittent questions. A few passing references to Peter caused her heart to
skip. Whatever Gallagher heard didn't appear to surprise him---or even more
important--- provoke rueful glances in her direction.

When the call was over he snapped the cell-phone closed and slumped back in
his seat, holding the device on his stomach. "Thank God…" he
muttered, appearing both stunned and relieved. For some seconds Claire couldn't
get a word out.

"So where…?"

Stanson's large boots appeared
tout direct
in front of her. Her eyes
traveled up. The official was still gripping his cell-phone in one hand. New
twin creases had formed above the nose-bridge of his aviator glasses. He didn't
ask her how she was feeling. "Strangest thing," he drawled, half to
himself. "I can't reach Shakuri."

"Is that so?" Gallagher responded, crossing his arms over his
belly and tightening the fabric over his overcoat around the shoulder.

"Yeah…And none of his folks are in his office."

Gallagher stroked his beard with one hand, his manner more aggressive.
"What’s next then?"

"Well…" Stanson continued. "Guess we should get going
all the same. I can try Shakuri from the car before we get airborne. Are you
ready?"

"Our bags in the car?" Gallagher asked, getting up from his seat.

"Yeah…all set."

"Take them out. We won't be flying to Dushanbe."

Stanson's eyebrows rose, shifting the creases to his forehead.
"What?"

"We're heading into the city instead. We’re staying in
Moscow."

"I don't understand…"

"Conley's been rescued."

"Rescued…?"

"By Russian troops."

Stanson went rigid.

"And I can tell you why you can't reach Shakuri, Franklin. The Russians
have taken him into custody."

Horror spread across his face.

"It was Shakuri who abducted Conley."

On television or otherwise, Claire had never observed a government
official---French, American or any other---subjected to a world-upending
experience. For Stanson this was just such a tornado: one that smashed
long-held assumptions and sent them spiraling into the air like clouds of
debris. Months of planning and organization tumbled up and away before his
eyes. With fascination she watched him: wide stance, chest heaving and
speechless in the face of the devastation.

"Sir?" The young plainclothes guard asked, returning to Stanson's
side.

More chest-heaving silence.

"…Sir, I called ahead. Your plane's waiting."

At last some ingrained adaptability in Stanson seemed to come back to the
fore. One that derived from untamed spaces, Claire supposed. Yes, an unexpected
obstruction from a harsh natural order. But there was no point in
commiseration. There might still be time to rise and regroup. Stanson narrowed
his stance and raised his head.

"Cancel the plane," he told the guard. "I'm going back into
the city." He gestured at Gallagher and Claire. "So are they."

"Sir?"

"And get a line open to the White House. We've got to decide what to do
about this aid bill. I've also got some things to hash out with my Russian
contacts." The guard pulled out a walkie-talkie to transmit instructions
to someone outside. Stanson turned back toward them; behind the aviator glasses
his eyes were now on automatic. "Can we take you in, Art?"

Gallagher took one step closer to Claire: a protective move. He glowered
back.

"Never mind. We'll take a taxi."

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-SIX

Thrust from the twin jet engines was sudden and powerful and pressed Conley
against the backrest. He reclined his head and relaxed his neck, accommodating
the force. The Tupolev 104 surged down the runway and lifted off in a smooth,
roaring arc. At 300 meters and still ascending, the aircraft banked hard
left.  A gaping downward view opened on the floodlit perimeter of the
airbase. Gripping both armrests, he peered out his window.

Below he spotted the main gate, in bright illumination. There were two
vehicles parked outside---big SUVs. Several human figures stood nearby and
although they were already in miniature their faces were tilted up at the
plane.

"Probably Hermann," he remarked over the engines.

"Sure you did the right thing?" Oleg responded.

"There was no time."

The plane came out its bank turn and rose into low-lying clouds, leaving
just darkness out the window.

"You could have stayed."

"No thanks."

After an initial plea Hermann had called again---the ring came on the stairs
of the plane. Conley had turned off his phone. The sooner out of Tajikistan the
better, he’d decided.

Now Moscow was less than three hours away. A full speed flight plan, Oleg
had indicated, with a light load---Conley and Oleg were the only passengers in
a modified commercial liner that seated 30. Suitcases three rows back amid
empty seats, snatched by the Russians from their hotel in downtown Dushanbe.
How? Conley couldn't imagine. His laptop was stowed in an overhead bin. So was
Bradford's, inside a Russian military-green duffel bag which he’d
requested at the base.

In terms of efficiency and coordination the Russian rescue operation had
been flawless.  Subsequent preparations at the base had lasted just 90
minutes. This dedicated jet---described by Oleg as a "special government
plane"---was further evidence of priority treatment. Now Conley was ready
to pose the obvious question. He waited another few minutes until the aircraft
reached cruising altitude, then fixed on the translator’s profile.

"Come clean, Oleg. Are you a Russian intelligence agent?"

Oleg didn't bat an eye. "You mean FSB?"

"Or SVR…whatever. Initials aren't important."

When there was still no reaction, Conley pressed further: "My
suspicions began on the patrols. When Shakuri took us prisoner, you expected a
certain outcome…confident the whole time. The airbase was the
clincher." Indeed, during more than half of their 90-minute sojourn at the
base, Oleg had been away for undefined "consultations." Now the
Russian stared forward and didn't answer. By now Conley had gotten used to
this.
"And what about this plane?"
He swept
an arm toward the empty rows of seats. "A special jet for an obscure
American reporter and his humble Russian interpreter? I mean, come on!"

This comment prompted only a sardonic half-smile. After a moment Oleg
finally answered.

"Would it really matter, for purposes of your story?"

"Maybe not. One part I can't figure out, though.  I understand the
stakes for Russia. But why involve me?"

Oleg chose his words with care. "A lot of intelligence is just being on
hand when important things happen."

"Fine. And the rescue? The timing seemed too good to be true."

Oleg pursed his lips in a show of disappointment, and finally turned his
face toward Conley. "You're a smart guy. Internet intercepts...a few bugs
in the villa. It's not difficult."

"You mean you…the Russians…knew what happened with Bradford
all along?"

"The bribe? Yes. The rest was logical deduction."

"Then why not tell Stanson and Hermann?"

"We couldn't hand over recordings. After all we'd recorded Stanson
there, too. That e-mail was circumstantial. We just conveyed our
'interpretation.' "

Various elements came together…"I see…"

Oleg gave a slight nod.

"Think Shakuri informed them about our apprehension, while it was in
progress?"

"I doubt it. That was just bluster." Oleg shook his head with an
air of lament. "Never thought I'd be excusing America to an American.
Blame Stanson's behavior on cold war reflexes…or on his overriding focus
on terror. Or on…" He trailed off.

 "Incompetence?"

"That's probably too strong a word. Better to call it lack of
experience. At least in Central Asia."

Conley started to laugh, but his smile faded when he remembered the $550
million of U.S. taxpayer dollars involved. This was one expensive bungle.

"I can only imagine what's going on with the aid bill now. Think
Stanson flew to Dushanbe by himself?"

"No."

"So he might be waiting for me in Moscow?"

Oleg raised his eyebrows: a clear affirmative. Conley didn't ask him how he
knew.

"Great. Just what I need."

"That might be the least of your challenges," Oleg observed.

"Are you referring to Felayev?"

"No…though speaking of incompetence, there was no excuse for what
happened last week when you were in Moscow. It shows that
we…Russia…are also susceptible to our own missteps. Just like
Stanson and Hermann. However before we arrive I can assure you. There will be
no repetition of that fiasco. Felayev's lawyer has been detained. And Felayev
himself has been put in strict isolation."

"That's good to hear. What are you talking about, then?"

"A different kind of challenge."

Oleg's omission took several seconds to register. "Damn. I'd started to
forget…" Conley reclined his head again on the backrest and stared
up at the overhead bin, where Bradford's laptop was stowed. The duffel bag was
meant for concealment from inquisitive eyes---Claire's, above all.

"I'm not looking forward to that;" he said. "Lord help
me."

"What are you going to do?"

"The first thing I'm going to do is talk to my editor."

"Art Gallagher?"

Conley gripped the armrests and released a long exhalation.

"Yes. Before I see Claire, I hope."

CHAPTER ONE HUNDRED-SEVEN

With an irritated movement Gallagher ground out another cigarette in the
floor-post ashtray. Through wafting smoke he squinted across the lobby bar of
the
Radisson
. To his dismay Stanson had materialized. Near the
lobby’s artery the U.S. official paced with wide gait and cell-phone to
his ear, pleading in over-audible down-home vernacular to a Russian government
contact named Vasily for confirmation of Conley's touchdown at a Moscow
airfield. Claire circled close-by: arms coiled, shooting wary glances at him
and steeling an eye on the automatic doors of the main entrance. Her excited
mid-body squeeze swelled her bosom, her tight dress amplifying her curves.

This had become an overcharged welcoming party.

Coming down with her in the elevator, after they’d both checked in and
gone to their rooms, Gallagher had also caught a subtle scent of fine perfume.
He understood that French women tended to present themselves in exquisite
manner on important occasions. And Conley's liberation truly was exceptional.
This had to be a relief to her, for obvious reasons. Why did Stanson have to
interfere?

Rounding out the contingent was one of Stanson's goateed, beefy private
security escorts, standing at semi-attention with face fixed forward---and eyes
flitting inexorably and intermittently to Claire. To Gallagher, her wariness of
Stanson was more than appropriate. He’d guided her husband and then
Conley into the clutches of Shakuri---a figure proven corrupt and duplicitous
beyond even Gallagher's rather extreme speculations. And there were plenty of
other troublesome questions that lacked answers.

When Stanson snapped his cell-phone shut, the device rang again within
seconds. He answered and made a few glum acknowledgements. Collapsing the phone
again, he strode straight toward Gallagher in the lounge area.

"Just got confirmation from Washington," he drawled, sidling up.
"The Senate vote's been postponed."

"Postponed?" Gallagher growled. He had been on the phone with
Reynolds in Washington. "I heard that the bill was dead."

"Well…that depends."

"Depends on what?"

Stanson hesitated, as if on another tornado watch. Gallagher clambered up
from his upholstered armchair with a snort and stood face-to-face, letting him
know he wasn't in the mood for evasion.

"Well…" A pained expression crossed Stanson’s face.
"The main problem is Shakuri."

"You don't have to tell me that."

"He didn't just let us down. He also embarrassed Rahmonov, the
president of Tajikistan. And maybe cost his country a half billion dollars.
Shakuri is through."

"Then how can the bill still stand a chance?"

"Rahmonov is putting forth another Prime Minister."

"Quick as that?"

"Younger guy, named Usmonov. Supported by the Russians. We don't know
him well yet, although he does speak some English…"

Stanson trailed off, his head pivoting toward the middle of the lobby.
Gallagher's gaze followed; he assumed Conley had arrived. Instead two
long-legged young, women sauntered through, wearing elaborate, expensive
fashion, including fur coats. Two somewhat older men, presumably their husbands,
trailed behind, smoking cigars. Just back from a concert or expensive dinner,
Gallagher guessed. So called "New Russians," radiating prosperity.
Claire caught the women's attention. Admiring glances at first…until they
noticed an absence of male attendance. Their expressions became wary and
territorial. They assumed Claire was a hooker. A threat.

The scene ratcheted up Gallagher's anger even further. "If I were you,
I'd be a little more worried about Claire, and a little less worried about the
bill," he said.

Stanson looked dumbfounded.

"…Do you realize what she's been through? If it hadn't been for
Shakuri…"

"Art, please."

Gallagher glowered at him.

"I'm sorry about Bradford, but there are bigger concerns here."

"I'm telling you Franklin, if I hear that line one more
time…"

Their exchange was broken when Claire's heels went snapping away from the
lounge area, toward the front door. She had a full head of steam.
"Probably Conley," Stanson declared, spinning away with no apology
and striding off after her. Gallagher snorted, then huffed along behind.

As Stanson passed his American security escort Gallagher heard him mutter,
"It's
always the French."

Now Gallagher’s blood was really boiling.