Live from Moscow (27 page)

CHAPTER EIGHTY

How did a kleptocrat behave? That depended on circumstances, Conley
supposed. And to whom the kleptocrat was talking. Across the desk, Shakuri
adopted a humble posture. Like a merchant beseeching an aggrieved customer.
Bowed head. Random and unforeseeable misfortune. Damage to both sides.

"I should first tell you this interview won't be easy for me,"
Shakuri said, clasping his hands and tilting his head at Conley and Oleg in
turn, in a gesture of mutual bereavement. "I couldn't help but feel responsible
for what happened. Peter Bradford was a fine man. I was deeply saddened. I
still am."

Conley had to admit. Shakuri was smooth. Only his eyes gave him away.
Calculating and intent.

Prior to arriving Conley had devised a strategy consisting of stages. First
elicit Shakuri's recollection of Bradford's interview---conducted across this
same desk five weeks earlier. Next hew to chronology: dinner at the villa,
discovery of Bradford's body, and ensuing investigation. His objective was to
draw Shakuri out. Allow him to recount details. Then double back to whatever
questions, by Shakuri's account, Bradford had asked about government complicity
in the heroin trade. Had Bradford been focused on this issue? Was he satisfied
with Shakuri's answers?

At last Conley would describe what he had seen on patrol with the Russians:
the opium smuggler in uniform. Hit Shakuri hard. Try to rattle him. Suggest
that Bradford had uncovered dangerous truths---truths that threatened the U.S.
aid bill. Trace a possible connection between these and his murder. Raise
doubts about the investigation.

Problem was---Shakuri was alert to his strategy from the outset. Prepared to
confront the corruption issue square on. Yes, Bradford had raised allegations
that the Tajik government was complicit in the heroin trade. Yes, Shakuri had
told Bradford, he was aware of such allegations.

What followed was a more detailed version of Hermann's exculpation. The
Tajik government could afford to pay militiamen and soldiers only about $50 per
month, while single smuggling operations could earn them $500 or more.
Tajikistan was one of the most impoverished republics in the former Soviet
Union. Heroin trade out of Afghanistan generated billions. Imbalances were too
profound. "I told your Peter Bradford, 'What are we to do?' "Shakuri
said, palms turned upward, an expensive Swiss watch visible under one cuff.
"There are bound to be pockets of corruption. I can't fight that kind of
temptation." Nearby, on one corner of the broad desk, stood a gold-plated
reading lamp.  Conley glanced at Oleg. Expressionless, just listening.

Hence the need for the U.S. military aid, Skakuri maintained. At the time
Bradford visited Dushanbe, the bill had not yet been introduced to Congress.
Still in drafting stages. Had Bradford been somehow aware of the bill, Conley
inquired, and asked questions about it? A measured smile crossed Shakuri's
face. "Oh yes. He had done his research. And knew all facts and
figures."

"Really? I thought those didn't become public until a few weeks later."

Shakuri shrugged: not his place to explain. Had Bradford obtained this from
Stanson and Hermann? Conley made a note to ask them about timing.

"Based on Bradford's questions, one thing was clear to me,"
Shakuri said next.

Conley looked up from his notes.

"He believed in U.S. policy here. He thought the aid bill was a good
idea."

"As simple as that? What about the corruption issue?"

Shakuri hung his head for an instant. When he raised it he oozed regret.
"With all due respect to our Russian friends…" He nodded at
Oleg. "They have their own interests here. I think Bradford saw through
their…tactics."

Conley glanced at Oleg, whose distaste was now more palpable.

"Like that uniform you saw, for example…on the so-called
smuggler…"

Conley was stunned. There was no way no way the Russians would have informed
Shakuri. That left only Bill Hermann…

Shakuri brought his folded hands up to chin level and regarded him with a
serene expression. "I'm not on the side of these terrorists…I assure
you, Mr. Conley. My goal is the same as the United States'. Franklin Stanson
and Bill Hermann know that. Peter Bradford did, too."

Sudden frustration welled in Conley. Hermann had spoiled his ambush. An edge
came through his voice.

"If I may say so, Prime Minister Shakuri, Bradford wasn't representing
the U.S. government. He was here to report on heroin smuggling. How can you be
sure what he believed?"

"He accepted my dinner invitation. That says something, doesn't
it?"

CHAPTER EIGHTY-ONE

Some of Shakuri's description of his evening with Bradford rang true: French
cuisine---at least the Tajik evocation, prepared by Shakuri's personal
chef---Russian language, wide-ranging discussion of Central Asia. Consistent
with what Conley had learned about Bradford in Paris.

Other elements were less plausible. That Bradford had not asked any
follow-up questions to the morning's interview. That he hadn't even taken
notes.

"We shared a bottle of fine Bordeaux," Shakuri said. "I saw
it as a kind of celebration."

"Celebration?" Conley asked, mystified. "Of what?"

"Of a successful interview. Common points of view."

Without notes? Then why had Bradford taken his laptop along? Shakuri had a
ready answer: Bradford didn't want to leave it in his room at the Hotel
Tajikistan. Worried about robbery. In solemn, fateful tones, Shakuri proceeded
to accentuate the laptop's role in his subsequent detour and murder. From his
imperious desk chair the Prime Minister gazed over Conley and Oleg into middle
spaces of the cavernous office, as if he were glimpsing a vision:

"If he hadn't brought that laptop case, it all might have been
different."

Different, Conley asked?

"Well, you have to understand how simple most of our people
are…even those who work for me."

Conley recalled Hermann's commentary, delivered in guileless Rocky Mountain
drawl.

"In short," Shakuri continued, hewing the same line. "They
thought it contained money."

And why would they think that?

"People visit my villa. Cash is sometimes involved. This is not
Washington, Mr. Conley."

"People? People like Bill Hermann?"

Shakuri leaned back. A little arrogance showed through. "I'll let Bill
answer that."

There would be time later to get back to Hermann, Conley figured; he
contained his frustration and focused on the killers.  "Shouldn't
these two men have known the difference between a laptop case and a money
satchel?"

"These men were drivers, security. They probably had never seen a
laptop computer in their lives."

After Bradford left the villa, according to Shakuri’s recounting,
inordinate time passed before confirmation came of his arrival at his hotel.
Shakuri, worried about an accident, ordered a search, and police promptly
discovered Bradford's body in a clearing off the main road into the city.
Within hours the killers were apprehended at a road checkpoint 60 kilometers
north, attempting to flee through mountains into Uzbekistan. And the laptop?
Thrown out the window as the men fled, Shakuri said. Never recovered, despite
"thorough" search efforts. By time Conley got around to the fate of
the two men he could anticipate Shakuri's explanation. Another variation on the
poverty theme:

"We can't afford large prisons. All these animals are thrown together.
Other prisoners got the idea that these two were rich. How? I don't know."

Stanson arrived that weekend with Hermann. Two days of due diligence:
including repeat interviews of policemen, hotel clerks, waiters at Shakuri's
villa. Quick stamp of approval. Some feature was discordant…Conley
couldn't pinpoint what…until Oleg interjected, leaning forward with the
interlocked fingers and unflinching demeanor of a graduate school examiner:

"Did they have an interpreter?" he asked.

Shakuri appeared surprised but recovered himself with a flash of magnanimity
toward the Russian. "They used Bill Hermann's interpreter for certain
things…a Tajik, one of ours. On loan from our Foreign Ministry. Most of
the time, though…" Shakuri bowed his head in another bout of
contrived humility before looking up with a proud smile. "…I was
able to interpret for them myself."

CHAPTER EIGHTY-TWO

Claire closed her eyes as warm water massaged her face and slid down her
body in soothing, shifting layers. Steam filled the shower, and she drew moist
vapor deep into her lungs with slow inhalations. Noise didn't penetrate from
the hotel corridor---a welcome separation. She reached for a bar of aloe-based,
perfumed soap; with languid, circular movements she lathered the smooth skin of
her breasts and stomach. Her sleep had been restless. She needed to rally.
These were last moments of refuge before she confronted a new day of tumult and
challenges. In three hours she would be implanted in the conference room at the
World Tribune,
in another grueling, interminable session with Larson,
Gallagher and Frick.

High-pitched prattle from the telephone yanked her out of her sequestration.
Soap slipped from her hand and shot across the tub. She grabbed the lever on
the shower control and cranked the water off with such sudden force that valves
shuddered in the wall. She spun and flung open the shower curtain.

"Zut!"
she shouted. Five or six rings sounded by time she
grabbed the handset, alongside the toilet. Her heart pounded with renewed
tension.
"Oui?
…I mean, yes, hello?"

"Claire? I'm sorry. I know it's early…"

"Uncle Harry?"

"Yes…I tried calling your cell phone…no answer."

"Something wrong?"

"Well…I do have some news..."
His tone was somehow
becalmed, with new resolve.
"I'm still in Cambridge. I'd like to see
you this morning, if possible…before you go into the newsroom."

Would this be another world-shattering stroll in Post Office Square? She
didn't think she could sustain another. She took a deep breath, still dripping
wet. Was this something he could tell her over the phone?"

 "You already know half of it, Claire. Maybe the rest won't be
such a shock."

Claire waited, fearful of what he would say next.

"Why don't we meet for breakfast? We can get a quiet
table…just have a long talk."

"Here at the hotel?"

"Yes. Can you be ready in 30 minutes?"

Claire's hand shook as she replaced the receiver.

She finished her shower in a hurried, heart-pounding blur. When she
blow-dried her hair in front of the mirror, she was unsettled by her own
reflection. Her eyes were glazed and haunted.  After three days of torment
and disorientation, she wondered if she would finally learn the full truth
about Peter. Half in a trance, she managed to get dressed, presentable and
downstairs to the Café Fleuri at the appointed time. Whitcombe was
waiting at a far table. The waiter ushered her there at once. Another Air
France crew was assembling at the usual circular table in the middle of the
restaurant. This time she hardly registered glances from several pilots as she
passed by. When Whitcombe rose to greet her, she noticed he was wearing an
immaculate gray suit, starched shirt and tie---as if prepared for business. He
appeared fatigued, but with new purpose.

"Let's order first," he said, after they sat down. "Shall we
just get the buffet?"

Claire agreed. Food was her last concern right now. After the waiter
appeared, poured coffee, and noted their decision in favor of the buffet,
Whitcombe made no move to get up. Claire sat stiff in her chair, almost afraid
to speak. He broke the silence.

"We've got time, Claire. I've got my driver with me. We can proceed to
the
World Tribune
together after breakfast."

"Together?"

"Yes. I'm going back to work today."

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

Conley rounded his knuckles and rapped; a blunt
"Da"
sounded
within. The latch released and Oleg appeared in the doorway, wearing a
tracksuit and slippers. He was holding a book, his place marked with an index
finger. Conley apologized for interrupting.

"Phone reception is better on the other side of the building. I want to
make a few calls before we head out."

Oleg examined him and thought for a second. "Hang on. I'd better go
with you." A half-minute later he'd donned trousers, boots and overcoat,
and they were lurching downstairs in a creaky and cramped Soviet-era elevator.
Western travel advisories were consistent: Dushanbe could be dangerous for foreigners
after dark, even around hotels. Conley and Oleg put on their fur hats before
they emerged into the lobby, hoping to avoid attention.

Outside they found a small, scruffy, park-like area situated on the north
side of the building. Nearby streetlights were broken or not turned on; the
only illumination emanated from an interspersing of occupied guestrooms.
However a clear nighttime sky made for decent visibility. Temperatures were
just a few degrees below freezing. As Conley examined the green glow of the LCD
on his cell-phone, Oleg pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one. Conley
declined.

"I didn't know you smoked, Oleg."

Oleg lit up and took a deep drag. "I've been away from my wife for a
while."

"You mean she forbids it at home?"

The Russian didn't answer. He took another drag, ember flaring in the
darkness. Conley found the number he was looking for. His call was picked up
after two rings.

"Steve!"
Milena answered.

Safety ranked first among her concerns; Conley assured her he was alive and
well. However that was not her only priority; there was also the critical
matter of his assignment. During Conley's quick summary, her breathless queries
suggested that her investment in the outcome had only grown since Prague.
Conley attributed that in part to her gunshot wound. He asked about her
recuperation.

"It's still healing well. I should be off the crutches in two more
weeks."

During ensuing chitchat Milena didn't mention her broken engagement. Indeed
her singsong tones implied it was no longer relevant. Conley nonetheless felt
guilty, and apologized for various disruptions he had wrought. After the call
concluded he stared into the darkness for a moment, his thoughts wandering.
Oleg took a last drag and eyed him through a small cloud of smoke.

"I thought these calls were for work," he said, making his
dissatisfaction clear.

"Not exactly…my interpreter in Prague."

"Interpreter?"

"Female. It's a long story."

Oleg snorted some last smoke out through his nostrils, then ground the butt
into a patch of hard-packed dirt with the toe of his boot. 

"Just one more…personal call…if you don't mind, before I
call my newsroom," Conley added. "To Lilya."

"Lilya? Can't that wait until another time?"

Somewhat irritated himself, Conley ignored the question. Oleg just shook his
head and lit another cigarette. Finding Lilya’s cell-phone turned off, he
called her apartment, where a male voice answered---her father. English didn't
work. Conley passed the cell-phone to Oleg, who engaged in a brief exchange
before pressing the "Disconnect" button. His disaffection became more
evident.

"She's at the library," he said, half-scoffing. "She'll be
home later."

Conley shrugged and took the phone back.

"Don't you get tired of all that?" Oleg asked.

"Of what?"

"Constant juggling? Instability?"

"Sometimes."

"Where's it all going?"

Conley returned an uncomprehending stare, together with another flare of
irritation.

"…I mean wouldn't you be better off focusing those energies on
just one?"

As he opened his mouth to answer his attention was diverted; a mid-sized
German sedan jammed on its breaks on a side street, about 70 meters away. The
driver was alone in the vehicle, and eyed them at length through the passenger
side window before crawling forward. They could make out just his dark silhouette.
Twenty seconds later the car passed the corner of the park area and disappeared
from view. Through the darkness Oleg squinted after the vehicle, then took
another drag. Conley was now glad the Russian had stayed around.

"Just one or two more calls," he said. "Both
work-related." Gallagher's office number fell to voice mail, so he left a
message:

"…As expected, Shakuri invited us to dinner at his villa. We
accepted. A car will pick us up in an hour. Naturally we're both wary,
especially after some tense moments during the interview this morning. But I
agree with you. Dangers are low. Shakuri won't let harm come to us with so much
riding on this aid bill. In fact he's promised to send two elite bodyguards
along with the driver. I'll send an e-mail upon my return, along with details
about the interview and dinner. Before I go, I also promised to ring Claire on
her cell phone…"

As Conley prepared to redial Oleg observed him. His sarcastic tone became
somber.

"Hope your call to her isn't your last, as Bradford's was..."

They stopped, alarmed again, and looked toward the side street. The same
German sedan returned, again at slow speed, the driver's attentions even more
flagrant than before. His silhouette showed him to be young and hatless, with
short hair. The vehicle vanished again at the end of the hotel building. Engine
remained audible.

"I don't like the looks of that," Oleg said.

"Neither do I."

They gazed toward the end of the building in silence. A half-minute later
the engine stopped, and a car door opened and closed. "Let's be
alert," Oleg said in an even undertone. He threw down his glowing
cigarette.

Admonition was unneeded. Conley was already tense.

There was reason to be; an instant later the driver rounded the corner of
the building with quick steps. He glanced in several directions, then strode
straight toward them. He carried a small case in one hand.

Conley didn't see a weapon but nonetheless considered various quick courses
of action. Most obvious was to hustle back into the hotel.

"Hang on," Oleg said, gripping Conley's forearm. "I think I
recognize him."