Live from Moscow (9 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The icepack had been on Conley's knee for about an hour, and his hotel room
already felt confining. That was a problem with reduced mobility. Accumulations
occurred. Energy went into surfeit.

An outing with the French female student was now impractical, thanks to his
knee. Meanwhile the woman he'd noticed at breakfast---he’d never even
learned her name---was likely now back in England, following her business trip.
He flicked off his TV by remote control and dropped his icepack into a bucket.
Fighting stiffness, he hobbled to the sliding glass door of his balcony, where
his ninth-floor vantage afforded a view across the Seine to Palais de Chaillot
and its bracketed, floodlit fountains. He remembered an evening walk there,
about two years before. Just transferred to London, covering a meeting between
Chirac and Bush. Dinner afterward with a German female reporter…followed
by a stroll across Trocadero terrace. Later a weekend rendezvous in Amsterdam.
An unintentional, combustible romance which hadn't lasted.

Then more immediate recollections took over: Claire squatting on the
sidewalk, fingertips lingering on his lower thigh, adjusting the
brace…knees and haunches jutting forward and back…

These drove him through the sliding doors into fresh air.

Out on the balcony nighttime traffic along the river became louder---a
rumble with frequent honks. Voices rose from the hotel drive below. He placed
his hands on the railing and took a deep breath, contemplating her dinner
invitation. Prudence told him he should bow out, avoiding the potential for
trouble. His knee gave him a viable excuse. No, he decided. Just the weekend
remained; he was leaving Paris on Monday. For such a short period, he could
avoid impulsive blunders.

There would be no more career demolitions. His maxim would hold.
Anyone
but Claire.

Fortified, he hobbled back inside, extended his right leg and lowered
himself into the chair in front of his desk. A click of his mouse got him onto
the Internet. He'd already sent a conciliatory message to Jenna. Now he
composed one to Gallagher:

Art,

As I said in my brief message this morning, my visit to Argenteuil proved
worthwhile. I gained a vivid picture of the consumer end of the heroin
pipeline, and Bradford's starting point on the assignment. A grim world, as I
expected. I experienced a tense encounter with some drug dealers and had to
make a quick exit. However I emerged intact. More details later.

Today I wrapped up my interviews with Claire, focusing on Bradford's
personal side.

Basics I knew already: old-line family, stellar academic record,
self-discipline, talent with languages. Claire added depth and dimension.
Another quality emerged: his devotion to her. Claire has described how he
called her daily while on assignment, wherever he was.

I asked her: how could Bradford---usually so measured and sensible---proceed
into hazard in this case?  Or was it just bad luck? Despite their
closeness, Claire herself is uncertain. She's eager for more answers.

That's one question I'll try to figure out as I press forward.

Steve

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Ferocious crunching of shoulder pads and helmets ended with a screeching
referee's whistle. When Gallagher's cell phone rang from inside his jacket he
removed a glove and answered.

"Excuse me dear," he told Denise, clasping her knee.
"…Be right back." He then huffed to his feet, negotiated down
the steps of the bleachers and disappeared.

Bundled against autumn chill with scarf and mittens, Denise re-directed a
modicum of attention toward the lighted field. She didn't relish high school
football, in part because games fell on Friday evenings or Saturday mornings.
More appealing were Saturday afternoon contests at Boston College---where she
and Art were both alumni---with their warmer temperatures and better halftime
shows. However she did consent to one or two games per season at Boston Latin.
For her husband the games were a tenuous link to a more athletic youth, when
he'd played at Latin as a mid-sized offensive guard. During intervening
decades, sedentary regimes of the newsroom had taken a toll. She liked to
remind him, though; he'd kept all his hair---albeit gray now---the same thick
thatch that had captured her fancy in college.

Minutes later Gallagher thudded back onto his seat, out of breath from the
climb, head tousled from the outdoors. "Sorry. That was Reynolds, calling
from Washington." He was interrupted when the Latin quarterback scrambled
and threw a pass downfield. Latin supporters in surrounding bleachers leapt to
their feet. The pass sailed beyond the fingertips of the receiver, and the fans
sagged back.

"Remember Salimjon Shakuri?" he continued.

"The Tajik Prime Minister?

"Right. He was the one who invited Bradford to dinner just before
Bradford was murdered. Anyway…Reynolds learned that Shakuri visited
Washington about 10 days before he met Bradford in Dushanbe."

Denise looked at him, intrigued.

"The visit wasn't publicized," Gallagher added.

"Did Bradford know about it?"

"If he did, he never mentioned it."

A booming punt arced across the field. Higher than usual for high school:
the punter was bound for college-level ball. Play concluded with more hurtling
bodies and crunching equipment. Gallagher elaborated. The Administration was
proposing a half-billion dollar military aid bill for Tajikistan: for
airfields, reconnaissance aircraft and helicopters, much in the form of cash
subsidies. The aim was to cut back the opium flow from Afghanistan.

"Sound like Bradford's timing was good," Denise observed.

"That's for sure."

On the field a running play produced numerous cutbacks and missed tackles.
Typical chaos for high school football. To Gallagher all the random variables
seemed apropos. After the whistle Denise was ready with another question.

"Do you think there's any connection between this bill and what
happened to him?"

"That's not what the State Department concluded."

"But you think otherwise?"

"Too early to say."

A section of students nearby broke into a chant: "Stop them cold. Stop
them cold…" Gallagher waited for the boisterous chorus to subside
before adding a footnote about the Chechen drug lord. When he'd finished,
Denise reached toward a canvas bag at her feet, pulled out a thermos, and
offered him some hot chocolate. Gallagher didn't hesitate. She filled two
plastic mugs, and gave one to him. His first sip tasted good and warmed his
insides. Both turned their attention to the field as the opposing quarterback
threw a long pass downfield. It fell incomplete, punctuated by another
cacophony of whistles. First half was over. Players from both teams trotted off
the field to their respective locker rooms. On the sidelines the bands readied
themselves with instruments and formations.

Denise wrapped an arm around Gallagher's shoulders and squeezed. "You
can just do your best, dear."

"You've said that since college, Denise."

"And I'll continue to say it," she said, laughing.

The visiting band marched onto the field, drums pounding. She squeezed
tighter and looked out. "For now let's try to enjoy the halftime
show."

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

A determined and tactful young woman, Claire recognized, could achieve small
wonders. In France especially. Claire's chin was up and her hands were high on
the steering wheel. She and Conley cruised slowly down the tree-lined lane,
pedestrians parting before them.

"I had no idea private vehicles could drive in here," Conley said.

"I wanted to surprise you."

Out of one eye she could see that Conley was impressed, and smiled, her mood
continuing to lift. "I drove out here yesterday afternoon and spoke to
several administrators," she said. "I explained that you were an
American reporter, and described how you'd been attacked in Argenteuil."

"Well, it worked." Conley looked forward again to see where they
were going.

They'd been permitted special entry into the Gardens of Versailles, through
the Porte Saint Antoine on the northern perimeter. Now they were
proceeding toward the center of the gardens along Saint Antoine
Allée, fine gravel crackling under their tires. A body of water came
into view at the end of the lane.

"The Grand Canal?" Conley asked.

Claire nodded, still smiling. "I still can't believe you've never seen
it."

"The one time I visited Versailles, it was pouring rain."

She gazed upward through the windshield. Gray skies, but no precipitation
was forecast until evening. So far her plan was on track. At the end they
reached a basin which formed the top end of the canal. To their right the
waterway stretched off, long and straight, over what looked like a kilometer or
more. Straight hedges of trees abutted both sides, along with sculptures at
precise intervals.

She drew the car to a stop and turned off the motor. Ahead, at water's edge,
was a float. Tied to it were about a dozen rowboats; an attendant was helping a
young couple into one. She gestured with an open palm. "This activity is
outdoors and doesn't require walking, Steve…just what you wanted."

He looked a little unsure.

"Don't worry… I'll help you get in and out. You just have to do
the rowing."

Less impeded than usual because of slacks and casual shoes, she clambered
out and hurried around to his side of the car. With both hands she clasped his
right elbow as he eased up to a standing position. During their traverse he
endeavored not to lean into her, as if proving he could walk unaided. That was
a good sign, she figured.

"Take this one," the attendant said as they reached the float.
"But watch your footing. Those boards are wet." The man bent down to
draw the vessel closer, causing the float to shift slightly.

Claire tightened her embrace on Conley to make sure he didn't slip. Climbing
in, he supported himself on the gunwales and lowered himself into the middle
seat, between the oarlocks. She followed, grasping his shoulders as she climbed
around and settled in the stern. His right leg was splayed straight out,
brushing hers, with his foot under her seat. "How's your knee?" she
asked him.

"A little pain…not bad. The main problem is that I can't bend
it."

She leaned forward and placed her fingertips on his good knee. "That's
the last thing to be concerned about. Let's start!"

The attendant shoved them off.

As Conley maneuvered out of the basin, a wind kicked up. Small ripples
appeared on the water's surface. Claire grew concerned, but was relieved to see
that Conley was not put off.

Instead, with sudden fixation, he aimed the bow straight down the canal.

His first several strokes launched the vessel forward with startling force
that she had to tighten her neck muscles to prevent her head from whiplashing
back. Where did that come from? At least he was enthusiastic…

Once their momentum was established, he found a smooth rhythm, his arms and
shoulders rocking forward and back. Oarlocks clunked and rattled at the
conclusion of each stroke, sending vibrations through the wooden hull. Water
gushed off the bow and gurgled along the gunwales.

Claire relaxed her neck but continued to grip the forward edge of her seat
for stabilization.

"You're a good rower," she said, noting the large surface puddles
he was generating with the oars. "But you don't have to go so fast. Take
it easy, if you like. There's no rush."

"I have a lot…of pent-up energy."

His powerful strokes and high tempo persisted, and she made no further
objection. Most important to her was that he seemed to have forgotten about his
injuries. "If you don't mind my asking," she said, raising her voice
over the racket. "What did you tell Art Gallagher about Argenteuil?"

Conley was not winded, though he was taking deep, regulated breaths, like an
athlete in an endurance event. The question seemed to rouse him---as if he had
half-forgotten about his assignment.

"I told him basic facts…" he said during the recovery
portion of his stroke, straightening his arms and leaning forward. He dug the
oars into the water and drove his back toward the bow, producing another surge
forward, then exhaled as he twisted the oars out of the water and started the
cycle again. "…But I didn't tell him much…" he paused for
another cycle, "…about my injuries."

"Did you talk about Prague and Moscow?"

"I told him…"
surge, thunk, rattle, exhalation
,
"…that all my appointments are set."

That was just what Claire wanted to hear. She released her grip on her seat
and placed her palms on the transom behind. After straightening her elbows for
support she leaned back, more relaxed. Some distance ahead they neared an
intersecting waterway. "This is the Petit Canal," she half-shouted.
"Why don't you stop here?"

After an additional pull and surge Conley lowered the oar handles to his
knees, lifting blades above gunwales. They coasted over long meters, silent
except for the gurgling of water. Finally he dropped the oars with a splash.

Claire noticed traces of perspiration around his neck, and suggested he
relax a moment. Conley pulled off his scarf.

"Enjoying it, Steve?"

"Very much."

"In the mood for a little detour?"

"What do you propose?"

"We can take the Petite Canal that way," she said, pointing to her
right. "That will bring us to Grand Trianon."

Conley looked along this somewhat narrower passage. The Trianon gardens and
palace were visible at the end.

"Some people think Trianon palace is just as magnificent as Versailles
itself," she added.

Just then a gust of wind swept across the water and splattered raindrops on
the surface.  Claire looked skyward. A bank of threatening clouds had
formed.

"Oh no…"

Conley also looked upward. Another gust swept a sheet of rain over them,
heavier this time. Drops splattered on their faces.

"We may not get the chance to do either," he said.

"I agree. We'd better turn around and go back."

When they were up to speed in the other direction, rain became constant.
Claire raised her coat collar, re-gripped her seat, and hunched forward to
stay warm. With new disquiet she observed raindrops exploding on the
scabbed-over scrapes on Conley's face. His wool overcoat was already soaking
moisture.

"We should dry ourselves and warm up after this," she half-shouted,
her body rocking with the hull. "I know an old café in the town of
Versailles with a big fireplace…built before the Revolution. We have
plenty of time before dinner. We can go there."

Conley nodded, but didn't break his rhythm. He gazed over Claire's head and
shoulders down the Grand Canal. "Too bad…,"
surge, thunk,
rattle, exhalation,
"…we didn't at least…"
surge,
thunk, rattle, exhalation,
"…make it to the end."

"I know. It wouldn't have taken much longer."