Live from Moscow (19 page)

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

So far this evening Lilya had been polite and companionable. But she'd kept
her distance. She was more like Tracey Whitcombe than Conley had realized.
Which meant that his week in Moscow was shaping up fine---apart from the threat
from Felayev. Just not the freewheeling release he'd fantasized about.

After dinner they found themselves in the
Chekhovskaya
Metro Station.

"Here, I'll help you buy tokens," she suggested.

He gave her some rubles, and she detoured to the cashier before they passed
through turnstiles and stepped onto a descending escalator. It was the longest
he’d ever seen; it traveled deep below ground. When they reached the
platform, he observed marble and chandeliers---a far cry from the gritty
"T" in Boston. Wall murals depicted outsized, heroic figures striving
toward a glorious socialist future. Moscow's metro dated from the 1930s,
he’d read, with construction overseen by several of Stalin's henchmen.
He’d also gathered that Soviet authorities had intended stations to
double as bomb shelters, even before the war. He asked Lilya if that was true.

"I don't know for sure. That's what they say."

When a train came they stood in the aisle and held handrails. Crowding by
other passengers compelled her to move closer, and she brushed against him as
the car swayed. The inadvertency of the contact kept him from overreacting.
During dinner he’d learned more about her: third-year journalism student
at Moscow State University, the elder of two sisters. Parents both university
professors: father in Physics and mother in English. Academia, though, was not
the first milieu she brought to mind. More like elite runways and fashion
monthlies, like Tracey…

They disembarked at
Universitet
station, also deep underground, and
ascended a long escalator. Outside, he re-donned his beaver
chapka.
Weather
remained below freezing, but stars were visible across the night sky. Minutes
later they were walking on a well-lighted, tree-lined street dominated by
student dormitories. Most windows were illuminated.  Accumulated snow had
a muffling, peaceful effect. Although cars were parked at curbside, there was
no traffic. Snow squeaked under their boots. Lilya pointed down a side street.

"My apartment building is just down there. But first I want to show you
something."

The Stalinist-Gothic spire of the Moscow State University's main building
loomed on their left. They crossed an expansive plaza, snow-covered and
deserted, then drew to a stop and placed their hands on a stone balustrade. A
twinkling panorama of Moscow unfolded below them, and she pointed out
landmarks: the Kremlin, the Church of Christ the Savior and the Russian White
House.

"And that's Luzhniki Stadium," indicating the nearest point across
the river, where the Moskva River bent in a half-loop. "The market we
visited is just beyond that."

Stadium grounds were snow-covered and empty.

Conley had an impulse to draw closer and put his arm around her. However
Lilya positioned herself elbows-out against the balustrade. He knew not to go
further.

"When are you leaving?" she asked.

"Friday morning, early. Six-thirty flight."

"I'd like to invite you to a ballet at the Bolshoi Thursday
evening…if you can come. Swan Lake."

He agreed, and after gazing a moment more at the panorama, she took a
prudent step away. It was time to walk her home.

Notions of release which he’d entertained earlier, he recognized, were
just fantasy. Maybe that was for the better.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Whitcombe drank only in evening and held his alcohol well. Still Claire
remembered that his self-containment could melt somewhat before a fireplace,
cognac in hand. This evening that hadn't happened yet. Perhaps because he was
only halfway through his first snifter. Or was it because he was worried about
her intentions with Gallagher?

"I'm glad you agreed to stay for the night," he said from his
leather armchair.

"Well, it was snowing."

Snowfall had stopped in mid-afternoon. More important had been Gallagher's
inability to see her until two o'clock the next day. She was still unsure about
Larson. For now she'd settled into one of five bedrooms---that usually utilized
by Tracey. She planned an early breakfast and a 7:30 departure. In preparation
she'd already brushed the snow-coat from her rental car.

The stone fireplace and hearth were large---half of one wall in Whitcombe's
atrium living room. Big enough to accommodate roaring blazes like the one he'd
built after dinner. She sat at one end of a long sofa, facing the hearth and
nursing a small apéritif. There was a sudden burst of crackling and
sputtering.

"This wood isn't seasoned enough," he complained.

"It's not quite winter yet."

With a heavy air he re-crossed his long legs and stared into the red-brown
hues of his cognac. By degrees his real worry came to the fore.

"I hope you don't try to pressure them, Claire."

"Art Gallagher and Janet Larson?"

He nodded.

"No…No. Of course not."

He observed her, clearly skeptical, then re-scrutinized the fire.

"I really should have listened to Art from the beginning," he
said. "His was the voice of moderation."

She listened closely.

"Art was right about the dangers," he continued. "We just
threw Conley out there. It was reckless."

"Does that mean you regret the whole thing?"

Instead of answering he tilted his head back and drained the remainder of
his snifter with one swallow, causing his Adam's apple to rise and fall within
his turtleneck collar. After the liquid traveled down full he rose and walked
to the bar cabinet.

"More Amaretto?"

"No, thank you."

Claire didn't want her mind dulled by alcohol. Parameters were now clearer.
Also what she had to do. Namely, intercede with Gallagher. Whitcombe poured
himself another generous snifter and returned to his chair. Alcohol and fire
had made his face flush. She decided to make another run at answers.

"Uncle Harry, one thing I don't understand is your preoccupation about
Conley. Dangers seem under control. And he's a reporter. It's part of his
job."

"There's an underlying problem, Claire. I agreed to send him
for…how shall I say this?...inappropriate reasons."

She was confused. "He'll do a good job…the choice was fine."

"I mean…private reasons."

"Private?"

He drew another indulgent sip, then rocked his snifter gently with cradled
fingers. This act of warming seemed to comfort him. His face acquired a
mellower, regretful caste. His tone became more confiding.

"My judgment got mixed up…with my role as a father."

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

His nightstand clock read 6:55. With a groan, Conley stood, stretched and
tilted open the blinds. Dawn was breaking; pale light filtered into the bedroom
of his London apartment. There was a knock on his door.

"Tracey?" he answered.

"Can I come in?" Her tone was hesitant.

"Uh…sure." He was still drowsy, wearing just boxer briefs.

The door swung halfway open, with tentative movement. Tracey leaned in,
appearing embarrassed. She wore nothing but a towel.

"Hope I'm not intruding."

"No...of course not."

Keeping hold of the handle, she took a step inside. Her exposed shoulders
and long legs jump-started his senses.

"Been up long?" His voice was still gravelly from sleep.

"About half an hour."

He remembered they were both due at work at eight-thirty for Saturday duty.
Just the two of them---London bureau was small. That had been their pattern for
a while.

"I've already showered," she added.

Her hair was still wet and un-brushed; her skin looked soft and clean. As
close to feminine perfection as he could imagine so early in the morning.

"Thank you for being a gentleman last night, Steve."

In reality, he remembered, his behavior had more to do with
self-preservation than manners. He'd already been resisting such impulses for
five months, through joint travels and tutoring sessions at the bureau. There
had been no sound reason to abandon his efforts at this stage. Misplaced keys
or not.

He shrugged. "It was an accident. And we're co-workers, remember?"

She responded with a shy smile. "I came to ask if you have a hair dryer…"
Her voice didn’t hint at anything more.

"Sure. Let me get it."

He padded across to his dresser, then turned with device in hand. Courtesy
brought her several steps forward, reaching toward him. Her movement was
natural, but had the instant and unintended effect of loosening her terry-cloth
towel. Despite her wide-eyed grab, edges separated, revealing the smooth curve
of one hip. Adjustment carried more risks…She went still, blushing.

Instead of turning away---a polite reaction---Conley went into thrall. The
cord went spinning off the dryer handle. Tracey watched the plug strike the
floor, remaining immobile. The double bed was inescapably close-by.

"Let me wrap this up," he finally managed. "Meanwhile you can
adjust your towel."

Re-winding required concentration.

"And if we weren't…co-workers?" she ventured, in a tremulous
voice.

Conley looked up and met her eyes, aware that complications were somewhat
greater than that. He stepped toward her and with one quick movement encircled
her with his arms. Tight contact between them further dislodged her covering,
though this time her efforts to hold it in place were symbolic. She turned her
lips up to meet his.

A moment later he loosened his embrace so that the towel slipped from her
breasts onto the floor. He let the hair dryer fall on top of it.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

Computer-generated presentations had crept into
World Tribune
editorial
meetings in recent years. Gallagher didn't mind, within limits. On occasion
he'd even used a few Power Point slides himself, if they were graphical and
related to current stories. However this presentation was the most bizarre he'd
seen. Even more, that Larson---paragon of function and efficiency---listened as
if it was normal and appropriate.

Frick was the presenter. On-screen at one end of the conference room was a
large digital photograph of an Ilyushin 76 military transport plane. Below that
was a table of data.

"There's little public information on these aircraft," Frick said,
standing alongside. "These safety and crash estimates are from the
CIA."

It was the type of plane Conley would fly to Tajikistan on Friday---same as
Bradford.

"Art, how would you characterize Bradford's flight experience on this
aircraft?" Larson asked, placing the stem of her reading glasses in the corner
of her mouth.

Gallagher was leaning backward, his arms crossed over his stomach. " 'A
little rough.' That's all he said."

"Weather turbulence?" Frick inquired.

Gallagher swiveled back toward the screen, provoking a squeak. "He
wasn't that specific."

Frick was all taut energy, even though he'd presumably run his usual five
miles that morning. He eyed Gallagher for a moment, then pressed on, intent. He
related that three such planes had crashed in the previous 18 years, according
to U.S. intelligence data. Two had been operated by the Ukrainian military on a
contract basis for foreign governments. One, Russian, had been carrying
equipment only; no troops had been lost, just pilots. If there had been other
crashes, particularly during Soviet times, they had gone unreported. For a
military craft, Gallagher thought that was a decent safety record. He stroked
his beard, growing impatient.

Frick was not convinced.

"One plus is that this same plane is used for dropping
paratroopers," he said.

Gallagher stared, half in disbelief.

"That means there's a large aft door." With a concentrated
expression, Frick pointed to a rectangular hatch, visible in the image. Larson
followed with rapt attention from her end of the table.
"Therefore…" Frick continued. "…If Conley wears a
parachute he may have time to get out in an emergency."

Now Gallagher had really had it. "You must be kidding,
Nathan…"

Frick returned his stare, taut and determined.

"Nathan might have a point, Art," Larson said. "What's the
harm?"

Arms still crossed, Gallagher snorted. It was bad enough that Whitcombe had
veered off normal. Now it was permeating the rest of the organization…

"Better to err on the side of caution, Art. Especially after the
earlier mishaps."

"Are you suggesting I instruct Conley to wear one onboard the
plane?"

Larson gave a slight nod. Her face was sympathetic.

"It's a troop transport, Art," Frick said from the screen,
implying the point had been settled.

With a slight shake of his head, Gallagher made a corresponding note on his
legal pad. Next on-screen was a map of Tajikistan. Several lines and arrows
originated from the Afghan border in the south and crossed the middle of the
country in irregular patterns. West and south were several Russian flags; in
the middle, a Russian flag and an icon that appeared to resemble an armored
personnel carrier. In small text at the bottom was another attribution to the
CIA.

"These are the main smuggling routes," Frick said, tracing several
arrows from south to north with his index finger. Then he extended all four
fingers, in a more expansive gesture. "Along with principal Russian and
Tajik troop deployments." He bent at the waist and leaned across screen,
indicating Russian flags in south and west. "These are the bases for the 201
^st
Motorized Rifle Division: Border Troops. In 2003 they numbered 20,000. Since
then they've been in a phased withdrawal. It’s now almost complete.
Replacements are Tajik border forces."

Straightening, he traced his index finger along one of the arrows. 
"Conley will accompany a Russian helicopter patrol from the 201
^st
that
will attempt to interdict smuggling along this route. As you can see, this one
originates from a border area now controlled by Tajik forces."

"Same kind of patrol that Bradford went on?" Larson asked,
directing the question at Gallagher.

"Yes, Janet. Same route."

Frick had a wireless control in hand; he clicked it to bring up another
slide, which contained a table of estimated casualties in the 201
^st
Division since its initial deployment in Tajikistan in 1999. In the country as
a whole, the unit had sustained 37 fatalities, according to CIA intelligence
estimates.

"Skirmishes are frequent on these patrols," Frick noted.

Gallagher's impatience grew. "Isn't that the point…to observe
these interdiction efforts?" Hearing his own words, he couldn't believe he
was now the one downplaying safety.

"We're just acknowledging risks, Art," Larson said.

Endorsed by his mentor, Frick was ready with his recommendation:

"I strongly suggest a helmet and a flak jacket."

This just about pushed Gallagher over the edge. "That's something I'd
rather leave to Conley…" he responded sharply. Then sighed; there
was no point in arguing. He made a note on his legal pad and promised to pass
the suggestion along.

Next up was an aerial photograph of downtown Dushanbe. The capital was
centered on a single broad avenue, running from railway station at bottom to
bus station at the top. At intervals along this thoroughfare were a large
mosque, a Russian Orthodox Church and an opera house fronted by large columns.
The photograph had apparently been taken in summer; leafy trees shaded
sidewalks.

"Prospekt Rudaki," Frick said, extending his hand toward the
screen. "Looks peaceful here. But we know better, after Bradford." He
stepped away from the screen and picked up some printed material from the
table, giving stapled packets of several pages to both Gallagher and Larson.
Gallagher had to refrain from rolling his eyes.

"A State Department Travel Advisory on Dushanbe," Frick said,
clicking ahead to the next slide.

On-screen were several excerpts from the Advisory:

Sporadic violence, including bombings and shootings in public areas, is
common, and it is largely the result of fighting between rival warlord factions
competing for control of markets and narcotics trafficking. In addition,
incidents between government troops and militia factions occur regularly. These
incidents have included several spontaneous shootouts in public
marketplaces…

Americans should avoid, in particular, the Green Market in Dushanbe
because it has been the site of numerous skirmishes that have killed or injured
a number of bystanders. Americans should remain inside during hours of
darkness...There have been a number of pickpocketings, muggings, and armed robberies
in the homes of persons perceived to have money, including foreigners.
Travelers should not travel alone or on foot after dark…

"Pretty alarming," Larson said, glancing from screen down to
printed material through her reading glasses. "Art?"

"I've read this before," Gallagher objected. "In fact I gave
a copy to Conley before he left…We should also remember that Bradford was
killed in the countryside...not in Dushanbe."

Back at the screen, Frick was ready with his next recommendation. "I
propose that Conley be limited to his hotel after nightfall." He stood
straight and faced Gallagher.

Gallagher crossed his arms more tightly and stared down at the table.
"Now wait just a minute, Nathan. In the field Conley's capable of deciding
such questions himself. His judgment is sound."

"He almost got shot in Prague," Frick countered.

Gallagher looked back at Larson. It was clear where she came down.

"I can suggest it to him," he said. "But that's all I'm
willing to do."

Frick turned off the overhead projector, nodded once at his mentor, and sat
down opposite Gallagher. Battle lines established.

"In my opinion…" Gallagher said, now past glaring.
"These safety measures are okay to a point. But we should be more worried
about this fellow
Shakuri
."