Live from Moscow (25 page)

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

Thick fudge frosting and Oreo cookie ice cream, and such
portions…Claire couldn't recall last time she'd eaten such abundant, rich
dessert. But after this weekend she needed a boost. Not to mention allies. She
couldn't turn the Gallaghers down.

"There's more, if you’d like," Denise said.

Claire hadn't yet finished her first serving. Art was ready for seconds.

"Just a small slice and one scoop, please," he said to Denise.

Cake that Denise subsequently transferred onto her husband's plate was
sized…
très généreusement
by French standards.
The garnishing of ice cream was by itself…
une dessert propre.
Claire remembered why she'd had trouble staying trim during her sojourn in
Boston with Peter. It seemed like such a pedestrian preoccupation now, after
all that had happened during the past two months…

"Usually I'm stricter, because of Art's diet," Denise said.
"But these last weeks have been stressful…due to Peter, of course,
and Steve Conley…and everything else."

Did Harry Whitcombe fall into the same category of woe? Nathan Frick? Claire
wasn't sure how to react.

"More decaf?" Denise asked her.

"Please."

Earlier that evening she’d arrived still disoriented; Uncle Harry's
bombshell had turned her world inside out. What, now, was she aiming toward?
What did she hope to gain from Art Gallagher, if anything? Then there was
Tracey's half-hearted encomium to Conley, which had spun her thoughts off in a
vague new direction.

But the Gallaghers turned out to be just the rock-solid way station she
needed. Sympathetic and involved, like the Whitcombes, but less directly
affected.  Art's altruistic impulses toward her were now unmistakable.
Misgivings? There clearly were some. But both Art and Denise were in her
corner. She had relaxed ever so slightly.

During pre-dinner drinks, Gallagher had inquired, with evident
circumspection, about Harry Whitcombe's surprise appearance in Boston.
"Estate issues," she'd explained. What else could she tell them? Art
had adjusted his glasses and flicked a glance toward his wife. "Is he
going back to Loon, or staying here?"

"I'm not exactly sure, Art."

Now over dessert Gallagher trod gently back toward the
World Tribune.
"
I don't want to discuss the assignment too much on a Sunday, Claire," he
said, dabbing his lips with a napkin and reaching for his coffee cup. "But
I thought I'd give you some news."

Claire swallowed cake that was in her mouth and washed it down with a gulp
of decaf. Another bombshell was the last thing she needed.

"Our Congressional reporter in Washington…Reynolds is his name,
as I told you…continues to track that aid bill."

"Something happen since Thursday?"

"Well, yes. The amount of money…"

Claire dropped her fork, which clanked off the side of the dessert plate and
onto white tablecloth.  The utensil stuck in place because of its coating
of fudge and ice cream.

"…Has been increased: from $500 million to $550 million. And the
bill now has the votes to pass." While Gallagher paused, Claire pried the
fork off the fabric and examined the sticky, chocolate-colored stain
underneath. Denise caught her gaze and smiled. "It's nothing," she
told her in a polite undertone.

"…Final passage is expected on Friday," Gallagher added.

Claire struggled to appear calm. She replaced the fork on her plate.
"Is that good?"

Gallagher took another sip of decaf, then stroked his beard once with thumb
and index finger. "Good for Conley, I think. The Tajik government will go
out of their way to make sure nothing happens to him this week. The situation
should be more controlled. They don't want any last-minute dramas. Too much money
is at stake."

Claire's next words were spontaneous, entirely devoid of premeditation.
Afterward, she wondered if they were provoked by the high level of sugar in her
bloodstream, or by the Gallaghers' cat, which brushed against her shins at that
very instant under the table.

"I wish I could be there myself," she said.

At first Art's and Denise's expressions were uncomprehending. Then knowing
sympathy appeared, first in Denise's eyes, seconds later in Art's.

"That's a noble sentiment, Claire, after all you've been through,"
Denise said.

"No. I mean it."

Gallagher contemplated her for a moment, then said, "It's just a matter
of days, Claire. Steve will be leaving Dushanbe on Friday." She took
another quick sip of coffee while her thoughts raced ahead toward concrete
steps…travel…implementation…before hitting a wall and
stopping cold. Visas took weeks to process and there were no commercial flights
into the country. Her idea was foolish.

"I'm sorry," she said. "You're right."

"It's okay," Denise said. "We've all been under some
stress."

Still thoughtful, Art turned his attention to his last bites of dessert, and
Claire felt the cat brush her legs again. She lifted the edge of tablecloth to
look down around her ankles. The cat stopped and looked back up at her, wide-eyed
and intrigued.

Denise smiled. "Her name is Cleopatra. I hope she's not bothering
you."

After her gaffe, Claire welcomed such distraction. "No, of course
not."

"She's drawn to people with a lot of energy."

Claire took the remark as a compliment. She smiled with all the grace she
could muster, after the ordeals of the weekend. When they'd finished dessert
Denise cleared away plates to the kitchen, declining her offer of help and
leaving her and Art with fresh refills of decaf. Claire noticed Art eyeing his
cigarettes, which were lying next to an ashtray and lighter on a side cabinet.
She remembered him lingering outside the lobby of the
World Tribune
on
Thursday.

"I don't mind if you smoke, Art."

"Thanks. I guess more lenient attitudes still prevail in Europe." 
With exertion he pushed back his chair, then reseated himself with a thud. His
first drag was a deep one. Nicotine appeared to crystallize his thoughts.

"I understand you're coming into the newsroom tomorrow," he said.

"Yes…Janet Larson invited me."

Around Gallagher the smoke formed a blue-gray cloud. He shook his head once.
"A lot of newsroom politics have grown up around this assignment. But
let's try to forget about that this week."

"Okay."

Indeed, politics were now the least of her concerns.

"These next few days, Claire, what can I do to help you?"

"Well…I…don't even know anymore, Art. I just
want…"

Gallagher studied her, his concern palpable through the pall of smoke.

The dictum from Voltaire almost caused her to add,
"…the
truth."
But she stopped herself. Now she wasn't sure if she meant it.

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Cleopatra was already shooting upstairs, sensing the approach of bedtime.
Denise paused at the bottom step. "Coming up soon, Art?" From his
favorite armchair, Gallagher blew a column of smoke out into the darkened
living room. "Just a few minutes, dear."

Trajan sprawled on the carpet a few feet away, eyes half-closed. Gallagher
had just taken him out to curbside for the day's final ministrations. A
tranquil ritual: Trajan was compliant and predictable when there were no
bitches in the vicinity.

Embers glowed in the fireplace. The fire had been largely for Claire's
benefit, as they'd settled down for after-dinner liqueurs. Now she'd been gone
more than an hour. Her presence, though, still buzzed the house. Gallagher
continued to marvel about her. There was no mistaking it; for all her trauma,
she was a force. He had strong suspicions that activity in the newsroom---at
least that involving Larson, Frick and himself---would revolve around her all
week.  Whatever happened, she'd be the driver.

Not that that was bad. He'd decided she deserved it.

Moreover these newsroom maneuvers would probably matter little, in the end.
Conley would be making his own decisions on the ground in Dushanbe.

There was little choice but to hope for the best.

After a last, deep drag Gallagher stubbed out his cigarette and rose with a
half-grunt. He bent over and patted Trajan. Unlike Cleopatra, Trajan was
limited to downstairs. "Good old boy," he said.

Once upstairs, he sat down on the edge of the bed, pulled off his slippers
and unbuttoned his cardigan. Denise emerged from the bathroom, wearing a cotton
nightgown. Cleopatra showed her contentment by brushing against Gallagher's
calves.

"I'm glad we invited Claire," Denise said.

"I am too."

"The poor girl seems under terrible strain."

"Yes…Even more than a few days ago."

"Why would that be?"

Gallagher exhaled hard and stretched his arms backward to slip off his
cardigan. "Harry's return, maybe. Or those estate issues she alluded
to."

"I hope she's not having money troubles."

"Wouldn't think so."

Denise clicked on the bedside reading lamp, turned back covers, propped up a
couple of pillows, and climbed in. On her nightstand was a hardcover copy of
Norman Mailer's
Ancient Evenings;
her interest in ancient Egypt
paralleled her husband's in Rome.
She reached for her reading glasses,
just as Cleopatra leaped onto the bed, in single, spring-like motion. The cat
settled down around her feet. As rituals went, sleep was Cleopatra's favorite.

"Do you think Harry will show up at the
World Tribune
tomorrow?"
Denise asked.

"Good question. I don't know."

"Would you be surprised?"

Gallagher sighed. He stood, inhaled, and thrust his chest out. With both
hands he reached under his stomach to unfasten his belt buckle. "After the
last couple of weeks, I'm prepared for anything."

"This drama is almost over, dear."

After hanging his clothes, he padded across toward the bathroom, clad only
in boxer shorts and undershirt. He observed Denise opening her book. Its
binding extended up to the plunging neckline of her nightgown, accenting her
plump bosom. New and unexpected energy took hold of him.

"Are you going to read now?"

On the bed, Cleopatra raised her head from front paws and opened her eyes,
shooting glances at both of them.

Denise looked up at him over the tops of her reading glasses, smiling and a
little surprised. "Why do you ask?"

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

In physical terms Bill Hermann struck Conley as a younger clone of Franklin
Stanson: same wire-rimmed aviator glasses and spreading midriff. Otherwise:
minus the drawl and unaffected manners. A more explicit offspring of
Washington, and of the defense establishment in particular.

When Hermann saw Oleg he stiffened, as if encountering an intruder on a
restricted base. It was clear that Hermann did not share Stanson's ease with
Russians.

"Peter Bradford came alone," he said.

"Oleg is my translator during this trip," Conley explained,
shaking Hermann's hand.

"But our talk's in English."

"Oleg's accompanying me to everything. The more informed he is, the
better."

Hermann paused and squinted at Conley and Oleg through his glasses. Conley
wondered if Hermann was among those who rejected intelligence from the
Russians. Safe bet that he was. Fifteen years after the fact, the Cold War had
its stubborn holdouts. When at last Hermann thrust out his hand to Oleg, the
movement could have been through barbed wire.

"That's right. Franklin mentioned you."

Oleg's face was impassive, except for a slight curl around his mouth. He
seemed used to such treatment.

They settled around a small conference table along one side of Hermann's
spacious office. A fourth-floor window opened onto the gray tones of Prospekt
Rudaki, the main boulevard of Dushanbe, and was set in a five-story
building---seemingly the only modern, post-Soviet office building in the
capital. There was a perimeter wall around the edifice and tight security in
the lobby. The office was furnished with sleek, new acquisitions: satin-nickel
finishes and black-leather. On a side cabinet next to Hermann's desk were a
state-of-the-art PC and a full complement of peripherals, including a 19-inch
flat-screen monitor.  Like Stanson, Hermann didn't seem to lack for
funding. The war on terror didn't cut corners.

Hermann spent just half the week there. As usual he'd flown in from Almaty
that morning, and would fly back out on Wednesday afternoon. His main office
was in the U.S. Embassy in Almaty, which other members of the U.S. mission to
Tajikistan also utilized as their primary base.

"Still a bit hairy to live here full-time," Hermann stated in an
over-forceful voice. "But we're looking to change that."

His State Department title was "Special Liaison for Anti-terror
Initiatives-Tajikistan."  His line of reporting was somewhat
ambiguous, although he seemed to fall under Stanson's supervision. Was Hermann
CIA? Such distinctions were often blurred where terror was concerned. Conley
decided to ask.

"The Agency has never had any permanent resources here," the
official answered. "So if you're asking if I'm the Station Chief, the
answer is no. There's nothing to manage."

Conley didn't understand. If not intelligence, what was his principal brief?

"Planning for this aid grant. Preparing the way for a 'full-court
assault' on the terror networks here."

Further questioning revealed that Hermann was the local U.S. interlocutor
for Shakuri, at least for three days per week. To Conley's astonishment he
admitted he had never ventured outside of the region around Dushanbe, not even
south toward Afghanistan, as Conley just had---with Russian troops or without
them. The anti-terror effort meant something different in Tajikistan than it
did in Afghanistan. Money was the centerpiece, rather than U.S. operatives on
the ground. For now the entire initiative hinged on Shakuri. The U.S. military
advisors and equipment, if they came at all, would come later.

Hermann read Conley's dismay and tried to defuse it with an awkward nod to
nationalism. "You should understand, Steve. The Russkies…"
Conley glanced at Oleg, who just gave the official a cold stare.
"…are on our side now, at least at the top level. I’ll
acknowledge that. But down here, there's still the old rivalry. They'll try to
shut us out, if they can. Here we have to find our own solutions."

If he was bothered by Oleg’s disdain, it didn’t show---as if the
dynamic was immutable and therefore unsuited to regrets. However Conley's
dismay stemmed more from other factors. "With so little
intelligence," he asked. "What makes you certain you can trust
Shakuri?"

Hermann refocused his hard stare. "I know the rumors about him. That's
the sort of thing we hear from the Russians." Conley described what he had
seen on the heroin interdiction sortie over the weekend---a smuggler in Interior
Ministry uniform. "It's a messy country," Hermann responded.
"Dirt poor. There's bound to be that kind of thing. Shakuri wants to clean
it up."

"With $500 million in U.S. funds?"

Hermann seemed proud of the number. "Actually it's now $550
million."

"Really? As of when?"

"Saturday." Hermann reclined in his chair and crossed his
arms.  "You know. Peter Bradford seemed to understand all this before
he got here."

"Understand what?"

"Our challenges in this country. How terror is priority number one. And
maybe most important…that we've got to exploit the assets we have."

That led Conley into his next line of questioning.

On the subject of Bradford's murder Hermann adopted a tone of bureaucratic
lament. An unfortunate but unavoidable accident in a chaotic region. Collateral
damage. "Sad," he said in a more somber tone, leaning forward again
over conference table. He interlocked his fingers in a show of fatalism.
"But this kind of senseless violence happens in these parts." Conley
asked: did Hermann believe explanations from Shakuri and Tajik authorities?
Oleg bore in on Hermann with an intense look. This seemed of more interest to
the Russian than other matters.

"No doubts at all," Hermann answered.

Even though Bradford was killed by security personnel who worked for
Shakuri?

"Shakuri let us know right away. The killers were found and arrested
the very next morning."

"And died a few days later in prison," Conley noted. "Before
you could interrogate them yourselves."

Though Hermann had his defenses raised he was not the type to be provoked.
He sat up straighter, one elbow on an armrest, and studied Conley with a plain
expression, ignoring Oleg for the moment. This was one American to another. No
concealment behind the big aviator glasses. There was nothing to hide at this
outpost of empire.

"Let's review the facts," Conley suggested.

Hermann appeared ready to oblige and reached for a folder. Conley glanced
over the exterior of the packet for indications of security classification, and
saw there were none.

In slow, methodical, fashion he revisited the crime and reviewed details of
the official Tajik investigation. There was an unadorned directness in
Hermann's approach that Conley found commendable to certain extent, but also
unsettling. For a security operative in a dangerous, convoluted region---an
emissary in the war on terror, in effect---Hermann exhibited little fine
differentiation. There was no calibrated scale; the war on terror set us
against them, forces of good versus forces of evil. Shakuri had joined ranks
with the United States; his reliability in the Bradford investigation was
assumed.

And if not? The war on terror trumped other considerations.

"One part still doesn't make sense," Conley said.

Hermann listened, still willing to cooperate, to a point.

"Why would the killers assume that Bradford was carrying a large amount
of cash?"

"Maybe they'd heard things."

"Like what?"

"I'll be honest, Steve. I mean they'd heard about Americans
distributing cash... Stanson and me. Preparing the ground here. We'd visited
Shakuri's villa. Details are classified. But you get the picture."

Conley glanced at Oleg, who didn't seem surprised.

"You mean they thought Bradford was working for the U.S. government?"

"Maybe. An easy mistake. Not many Western journalists come through
here…They didn't speak English. Maybe they thought he was making the
rounds…that Shakuri was just the first stop. I hate to say it. These
people are primitive. Who knows what they imagined?"

A half an hour later, when Hermann saw Conley and Oleg off in the lobby,
Conley remained troubled by these explanations. Hermann's singular focus and
credulity were vexing. Too many suppositions and leaps of faith. Out on the
Prospekt he and Oleg walked southward, toward their hotel. Piles of pungent,
dead leaves---raked long before and still awaiting collection---lined the
sidewalks. They passed Dushanbe's massive, columned opera theater, a relic of
Soviet dominion and now in crumbling dilapidation. The main railway station was
visible at one end of the boulevard; Conley knew it was the primary transit
point for heroin bound northward to Russia. Car traffic was meager. Almost all
pedestrians were male, in somber Central Asian garb.

Despite overlapping history, this was a world apart from Moscow.

He stopped, reached into his case and pulled out his camera. At two o'clock
they had an interview scheduled with the Tajiki director of drug enforcement,
an underling of Shakuri's. That left time for photographs before lunch. Like
Bradford, Conley was acting as his own photographer on this assignment. He
turned on battery power and examined digital indicators. "Oleg, I'm
starting to agree with you in one sense. Stanson and Hermann seem a little one-dimensional."

Oleg raised his eyebrows. "What about Bradford?"

"Not cut from the same cloth. Bradford was different."

He stepped closer to the curb and readied his camera. He had gotten it into
his head to take some shots that encompassed the train station. Several
passersby gave him suspicious, angry stares. He ignored them.

"Different? How?" Oleg asked, becoming a little on guard because
of the attention.

"He was too smart, one would think…to blunder into untenable
situations."

Oleg made a quick scan of the sidewalk in both directions. "You're
probably right. My impression is…he wasn't the blundering type."