Live from Moscow (8 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Gallagher never brought his cell phone to editorial meetings---an example
for other editors. Today he half-wished he'd made an exception. He was awaiting
a call from Conley. Thankfully this particular conclave was almost done.
Sunday's layout had been more or less decided, barring important breaking
stories. Several editors had already left the room, including Larson. Only the
business section remained. Phil Marcello, the Business Editor, suggested
leading with the bankruptcy of Telelogix, a Route 128 high tech company.

"How many people out of work?" Gallagher asked.
"Fifteen-hundred or so?"

"Closer to two thousand."

"Big number. Let's go with it."

Gallagher glanced at his watch. Time was nearly noon.  He adjourned the
meeting, a little earlier than usual. Marcello and two other remaining editors
didn't look surprised. They knew Conley's assignment had risen to the top of
Gallagher's priorities. And that Harry Whitcombe was the precipitator.

Gallagher huffed his way down the side of the newsroom, at a pace that
dampened his armpits by the time he reached his office. At once his desk phone
rang. He thudded into his chair and picked up. It was Conley. He wanted to talk
about Argenteuil. There was a charge in his voice. Gallagher recognized it at
once. Male reporters and threatening environments. Impulses toward excess
daring. Sometimes needing to be tamped down.

Bradford had already provided the basics about Argenteuil: northern suburb,
mostly public housing, heavy concentration of poor immigrants, main market for
hard drugs in Paris---especially heroin. Bradford had gone there, by his own
account, to chronicle "the end of the pipeline" and "the human
toll."

"Why go there at night?" Gallagher asked Conley.

"That's when most of the dealing takes place. And Bradford went there
at night."

He sighed. "Look Steve, I know that's the thrust here. But as I've
said, you have some flexibility."

There was a pause on Conley's end. Gallagher sensed another factor was involved.

"I hope you don’t feel pressured, Steve."

"Pressured? How?"

"I mean because of Claire."

"Not at all. In fact she seems to have misgivings. She even suggested I
might back out…that the rest of the assignment is more important."

"She may have a point."

"No need. I think it’ll be worthwhile."

"Okay, just be careful."

"Will do."

Before the call concluded Gallagher remembered the advertising campaign that
Whitcombe had conceived. Before he could tell Conley about it Larson appeared
in his office doorway.

"A bomb exploded at a beach resort in Indonesia," she said. 
"A tour group from Boston is there. We're trying to find out more."
She pivoted and headed toward the conference room.

"I'm afraid I've got to go, Steve," Gallagher said into the
handset. "Send me an e-mail after this is all over and tell me what
happened."

After hanging up he huffed around his desk and headed out toward the
conference room. His mind was already shifting toward the new story out of
Indonesia, though the knots in his stomach persisted.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

There was a general rule about the narcotics trade, Conley knew. Harder the
drug, the greater the violence and mayhem.

And this was heroin. What drugs were more potent? Perhaps only crack.

He sat in back of a taxi, headed north into Argenteuil along a desolate,
trash-strewn boulevard. Grim, 1970s-era apartment blocks passed by outside.
Time was nearly 10 o'clock. The driver, looking wary, reached for his door
panel and activated the locking mechanism.
Thunk
. Now Conley was beginning
to understand why Claire had wavered from her original single-mindedness.
Reconstructing Bradford’s assignment was one thing. What had possessed
him? Simple follow-through? He started to second-guess himself.

"This intersection is the one you specified
,
" the driver
said, pointing ahead.

"Sure you can't wait here near the corner? I'll be 20 minutes, at the
most."

Worried eyes rose to the rear-view-mirror. "I'm sorry
Monsieur
.
Not a place I would choose to remain for any length of time."

Conley asked to be let out at the curb. At once the driver performed an
abrupt U-turn and gunned back toward central Paris. Left alone on a broken
sidewalk, he became more alert. Surrounding apartment buildings were set back
across dirt and scraggly trees. Rhythmic music emanated from a parked car. Low,
aggressive-sounding male voices were audible from an opposite building.
Clustered around a shadowed doorway, he spotted half a dozen human shapes,
wearing baggy pants and hooded sweatshirts. Heads pointed in his direction.

Several years earlier Conley had done an investigative story on drug markets
in Boston. From that experience he knew it was best not to stand idle. He
should glimpse some dealers, see how business was conducted, and get out. A
phalanx formed as he approached the assemblage.

"I'm looking to buy," he said in French, scanning the darkened
faces to make eye contact. "This the right place?"

"Aha…a foreigner," said one, in guttural tones.

"That's right."

The spokesman exchanged amused glances with his cohorts.

"Where from?"

Conley didn't answer. "Can I buy heroin here or not?"

Inside his baggy sweatshirt the spokesman seemed to bristle. "We've got
a place inside," he said, gesturing over his shoulder.

"I'm just buying, not shooting."

"We do business in there."

Several smirks were distinguishable under the hoods as Conley followed the
man through the door. There was a bank of battered mailboxes, with a
half-stairway illuminated by low-wattage bulbs. Graffiti dominated the walls.
Five knocks by the dealer brought access to a run-down, first-floor apartment.
Another man, bigger, re-latched the door behind them. Were there any actual
residents in this part of the building? Conley's heart began thumping. Off the
entryway lay a small kitchen. Through a half-closed door he glimpsed piles of
cash and heard voices. 

"This way," the dealer said.  His hand swept toward a wide
doorway, into an erstwhile living room. Conley took a half step forward and
looked inside.

Four people. Representing three or four races, like the dealers themselves.
Shabby furniture. Vacant stares. Faint stench. One was preparing to shoot up.
Two others displayed bloody, bandaged arms. Conley absorbed impressions, as
best he could, then recoiled and re-addressed the dealer.

"I told you. I just want to buy, not shoot."

"Why rush?" the dealer sneered.

Conley glanced around. The large man from the door stepped closer. Another
emerged from the kitchen and adopted a threatening stance.

"Don't like our facilities?" The dealer, though shorter than Conley,
brought his face up close. Conley held his ground.

"I'd just rather shoot up elsewhere."

"You are a first-timer, aren't you?"

Conley didn't answer.

"We always help our new customers. Shoot here, then we'll let you
go."

"I don't have a needle," Conley said, trying to buy time.

"I'll get you one."

The dealer's chuckle yielded a gold front tooth. A shudder ran through
Conley, as he considered ramifications. Could he make for a window? The living
room faced street and hoodlums out front.

"It's crowded in there," he said. "Is there another
room?"

This provoked a suspicious glare. Then another chuckle as the dealer pointed
toward the other end of the entry corridor. Conley went first. A toilet lay
ahead, along another small corridor perpendicular to the entryway.

"Take a left," the dealer said from behind.

"Just go on in?" Conley asked when they reached a closed door.

"
Oui
. Hurry up. Quit wasting my time."

There was no handle, and Conley pushed the door open to reveal a cramped
room, a soiled twin bed along one wall. One window, masked by a tattered red
curtain. Cheap table in the center. Syringes and spoons scattered on top,
around an ashtray. Single, battered easy chair arrayed alongside. The dealer
grinned and picked up a syringe.

"These look clean to me. Sit down and get ready."

"Shouldn't I buy first?"

"Wait here. And I said…
sit down
."

With a pretense of compliance Conley settled on the easy chair.

Before turning away the dealer displayed a triumphant sneer, and Conley
watched him down the corridor toward the kitchen. He didn't squander any
seconds. In three quick steps he bounded to the door, slammed it shut, and slid
the deadbolt. Shouts erupted outside. Then angry pounding. Sprinting across the
room, he threw open the ragged curtain. His airways constricted. The window was
encased on the outside by a metal grill.

A crash came from the door, producing splinters on the hinges.

With a violent tug Conley ripped the curtain from the rod, wrapped his fist
in the fabric, and smashed the glass. Most shattered away; he punched out
remaining shards. Reaching through, he grasped two narrow metal bars and shook
as hard as he could.  Loose at the bottom. At once he bounded back to the
easy chair, grabbed its armrests, and hoisted it to his chest. Then, after a deep
breath, hurtled himself across the room, chair first. At the final instant he
lowered his head and drove his shoulder forward into the backrest of the chair.

A clang filled the room and jarred his insides. The grill gave way, but
didn’t break loose, and he bounced backward and landed with a grunt on
the floor, the chair tumbling back upon him. Shouts from the hallway grew more
intense; with another crash, the hinges started to break and detach. Cursing,
Conley struggled to his feet, then picked up the chair for another run at the
window. In his second short sprint he sought maximal speed and with his last
stride launched himself and the chair again toward the window with concentrated
force. The impact yielded shearing steel and crumbling concrete, as the bottom of
the grill gave way and the latticework swung outward as if on a hinge…His
momentum carried both the chair and his body out into the darkness, the
sensation of sailing through a void…Wood snapped as he broke through
branches of bush…followed by a violent, thudding impact. His nose and
lips drove into hard, wet dirt. Pain throbbed in his midsection and knifed
through his knee. He scrambled to his feet and looked up. The lighted opening
was eight feet above. Muffled shouts gave way to splintering as the door to the
room finally gave way.

Conley turned heel and sprinted away into darkness. Despite his injured
knee, he ran faster than he had run in a very long time.

Several blocks he came spotted a police car, parked near a well-lighted taxi
stand. He also made a vow. He would set aside compulsions like the ones that
had propelled him here, whatever they were.

There would be no more misadventures like this one.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Cars were backing up behind Claire's Peugeot in front of the Hilton. Apprehension
took hold of her. What if some misfortune had befallen Conley in Argenteuil?
She turned off the ignition and grabbed her cell-phone. Her call was ringing
through when Conley emerged from the hotel's sliding glass doors. "
Mon
Dieu
," she gasped. She jumped out, keeping the phone to her ear. Over
her roof she took in a frightful picture. Conley was limping. His face was
scraped in several places, his lips swollen. He stopped and reached inside his
coat to answer.

"What on earth happened?" she blurted in French. At first Conley
appeared fazed, then spotted her and gave an awkward wave. "I'm coming
over," she said, clicking off and rounding her car.

On the sidewalk her jaw slackened. Every other footfall made Conley
wince---apparently an injury to his right leg. A uniformed doorman observed his
fitful progress, and offered to take his laptop. Conley declined the offer and
started down the steps. She bounded up, grabbed an elbow, and helped him to the
bottom. There he straightened himself with a droopy smile.

"I encountered some trouble in Argenteuil last night…Nothing
serious."

Claire stared at him, still open-mouthed. Nausea rolled through her. She
thought these worries would arise later. Not in
Paris.

"Just a hyper-extended knee, along with few scrapes and
bruises..."

"But you have trouble walking!"

"Actually my knee is worse this morning. It stiffened up."

"Why didn't you call me?"

"I evaluated it myself before breakfast, based on my sports experience.
Really, Claire…There's nothing to worry about."

Nausea turned to mild panic and hyperventilation. She'd hardly considered
the possibility that Conley’s assignment would get derailed, especially
so early. She managed to sputter a question.

"Have you eaten?"

"It’s not that bad. I was able to take the elevator down to
breakfast." He read her expression. "…Nothing's changed,
Claire. I'm continuing my assignment. I just have to go easy for a few
days."

"Are you sure? I mean…you're in rough shape."

"Really. I'm sure."

Her breathing slowed, as she sensed her alarm was overdone. Eager to get off
his feet, Conley moved toward the car, and she grabbed his elbow again to help.
He had to extend his right leg as he lowered himself in the seat, while her
mind raced over his remaining two days in Paris. She’d wanted to take him
to the cemetery that afternoon to see Peter's gravesite…

By time she scrambled back around and behind the wheel, she re-focused on
his injuries. She leaned toward him and held his chin between her thumb and
forefinger, turning his face from side to side to inspect abrasions and
swelling.

"Anything I can do, Steve? Buy you some medicines, maybe?"

"Maybe a temporary knee brace. Also Ibuprofen for the pain." 

Claire jammed her key back in the ignition. Out in traffic Conley gave a
brief account of his encounter with the heroin dealers. Minutes later they were
double-parked in front of a pharmacy on a side street. He reached for the door
handle.

"Don't be absurd, Steve…you can hardly walk. Stay here."

Inside, waiting at the counter she overran with self-rebuke. How could she
have been so nonchalant, letting him go alone? She'd just been at home, reading
magazines. She couldn't let this sort of mishap occur again. Through the
windows of the pharmacy she gazed back toward the street. Inside her Peugeot
Conley had lowered the visor and was inspecting his face in the mirror,
touching his scrapes with tips of his fingers. She felt sudden pity.

For now she had to bolster him.

Several minutes later, items in hand, she opened his passenger door and
squatted alongside. "I got what you wanted, Steve. The pharmacist
suggested you try this brace on before we leave." He took the box from her
and read the directions. "…Why don't you stick your legs out?
That'll give you more space." She shifted to one side, keeping her upright
crouch on the asphalt.

Conley winced as he swung his injured leg outside the doorframe.  The
brace bore Velcro straps; he unfastened them and leaned forward. Constriction
from his overcoat hindered his reach.

"Here, let me help," she said, taking the brace. She put it on,
taking care not to apply excess pressure. "That's not too tight?" she
asked, examining from both sides.

"No, not at all. It fits fine."

She looked up, alert to indications of discomfort. Instead Conley appeared
dazed. Even embarrassed. When he looked away, she thought fast. What
adaptations were now in order?

"Do you have any plans for tomorrow afternoon and evening, Steve?"
she asked, still her upright crouch.

"Tomorrow's Saturday…" He glanced at his knee. "No, I
suppose not. Why?"

"I'd like to invite you to my apartment for a home-cooked dinner. After
all…we should conclude the week on a more positive note than this."

He paused, his expression reluctant. "But you must have other plans,
Claire. I don't want…"

"I insist."

He agreed, still looking a little worried. She guessed the reason.

"As for the afternoon…I'll have to come up with a creative
plan," she told him.
"One that takes account of
your knee."