Live from Moscow (5 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Sunday dinner at the Gallagher household was winding down. Denise Gallagher
stood to serve dessert to her husband, two daughters and their spouses, and
four grandchildren.  Art Gallagher sat at the head of the dining table,
his progeny arrayed along both sides. As he aged Gallagher relished such
moments more than all others.

"Who wants ice cream on their pie?" Denise asked, directing her
question at the grandchildren.

"I do!" the four said, almost in unison.  They were two boys
and two girls, aged four to seven.

"Not too much," cautioned Gallagher's daughter Cathleen.

Denise distributed the desserts to the four children.  Though she'd
grown plump in recent years, she still radiated the healthful beauty that had
first attracted Gallagher when they were both students at Boston College. She
was in perpetual good cheer.

Cathleen and Ann and their husbands all declined ice cream and asked for
narrow slices of pie, which Denise served along with decaffeinated
coffee.  "The usual, Art?" Denise asked Gallagher.

"Sounds great."  Gallagher's diet, such as it was, did not
extend to Sunday evening meals at home. He addressed himself to the eldest of
his grandchildren, aged seven. "Been reading lately, Neil?"

"Yes," Neil answered.  "I just read a book about Abraham
Lincoln."

"He really likes history," Cathleen explained.

Gallagher asked him some questions, and said, "Keep it up. Reading is
very important." After dessert Denise took the children into the living
room to play a short board game, while Gallagher stayed at the dining table to
talk with the adults.

As the visit concluded Denise retrieved jackets from a hall closet, and
Cathleen and Ann prepared the children for departure. The Gallaghers' dog, a
slightly graying golden retriever, shuffled nearby with wagging tail. After
final farewells and embraces the young families walked down the flagstone path
in front of the house and back to their cars on the street.

The time was about 7:30.  "Can I help clean up? Gallagher asked
Denise.

"No thanks. I'll manage. Just go and relax, Art."

Gallagher made his way to the family room, followed by the dog, where tall
Georgian windows opened onto the darkness of their back yard.  He plopped
into his favorite chair, a leather recliner, while the dog settled on the floor
nearby with a snort.  With children and grandchildren gone, he lit a cigarette,
relishing the after-glow of the meal. The afternoon had been idyllic; he needed
respite after a demanding week.

Their cat soon entered the room, jumped on the couch and curled up with an
air of contentment. A minute later both dog and cat had closed their eyes. The
room was quiet except for the faint sounds of Denise loading the dishwasher on
the other side of the house. Gallagher took a deep drag and leaned his head
back. When he finished smoking he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray by
his armrest and picked up the remote control. He tuned in to "60
Minutes," keeping the volume low so as not to rouse the pets. It was
broadcasting a segment he'd seen before so he switched to CNN. There he found a
report on political and religious strife in the Kashmir. A British journalist
had been taken hostage by Islamic extremists the previous week. He leaned
forward in his chair and turned up the volume. The dog moved its ears and
furrowed his brow. The cat half-opened her eyes.

This is a video that the terrorists released of Terris three days after
they abducted him…

The footage showed a man in his 30s, unshaven and with several bruises on
his face. He was holding a newspaper and looking toward the camera with a blank
expression.

Terris' abductors demanded the release of five Islamic militants from
Indian prisons…This demand was not met…The day after this video was
taken the terrorists executed Terris by slitting his throat…The
terrorists filmed the execution; we cannot show the footage because it is too
graphic for television….

Denise returned from the kitchen carrying a mug of hot tea. Before she sat
down she noticed Gallagher's demeanor. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"You look worried all of a sudden."

"This report," Gallagher said. He pointed at the television.

Denise settled onto the couch, next to the cat.  With her husband she
watched the rest of the report in silence. When the segment concluded Gallagher
grabbed the remote and switched off the television. He'd lost his appetite for
news---at least for this evening.

"Thinking about Conley?" she asked, tilting her head in sympathy.

Gallagher pursed his lips and shook his head. "He left this evening. In
a few weeks he'll be in the same part of the world. Back to where Bradford
was."

Denise released a sigh. "Let me get you a drink," she said. She
rose and walked over to their liquor cabinet. "…What would you
like?"

"Cognac, please," he answered. "A rather big one."

The room was quiet again, but both dog and cat were now awake and alert.
From the floor the dog raised its head and gazed at Gallagher with worried
eyes. On the couch the cat sat tense and upright and looked back and forth
between Gallagher and Denise, trying to determine what had changed. Denise
crossed the room and set a snifter of cognac down next to Gallagher.

"It will be all right, Art," she said, placing her hand on his
shoulder. "You'll just have to keep this one under closer control."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Claire slammed the door to her Peugeot and turned the key in the lock with a
trembling hand. Then she thrust the key-chain into her purse and strode across
the parking garage, heels snapping on the concrete and raincoat billowing up
behind her. This rendezvous was too important for foul-ups. She had to
communicate the seriousness of her intentions. The week had to start right. She
couldn't be late.

Halfway to the elevators she glanced at her watch: 7:45 a.m. Conley's flight
was due 10 minutes earlier. She broke into a run. When she reached the elevator
she stabbed the button with her finger. Through clenched teeth she cursed the
morning traffic. She was still out of breath when she emerged in the terminal.
She checked the arrivals screen. Next to Conley's Air France flight was the
notation
Vol Arriv
é.

The arrival hall was crowded. She half-ran, half-walked to the gate area,
dodging people along the way. She’d met Conley once, at a
World
Tribune
employee barbecue several years before.  Tall, light-brown
hair…athletic shoulders, perhaps…holding a beer…that was
about all she remembered.

She spotted him standing in the middle of the hall next to a luggage cart.
Unshaven, though dressed quite presentably in dark knit shirt and unbuttoned
gray overcoat. Looking around---waiting.

"Steve?" she said as she drew up, still out of breath.

"Yes. Claire? "

"Yes," she said in English. "Hope I'm not too late."

"No, I just came out of customs."

His face bore polite sympathy. Claire mustered a half smile. She was
determined not to play bereaved widow. There was too much they had to
accomplish. She had to bear Peter in mind and steel herself. "My car's
this way," she said.

Two minutes later they were standing by the back of her Peugeot. She opened
the trunk and cursed to herself. "Let me clear some space here," she
said. She bent over and pushed a couple of small boxes further back. With her
arms extended her spine arched…at the same instant she felt a twinge of
discomfort. She sensed that Conley's eyes were on her…Not so
objectionable under different circumstances; however…With a jerk she stood
up and whirled around. She gave him a frank stare.

Conley startled, then recovered his blank sympathy. His eyes bore dark
circles after the all-night flight. Now Claire felt embarrassed. Probably an
inadvertent glance.

"Should fit now," she said.

With luggage stowed and Conley strapped in beside her Claire nosed the car
up the ramp and out of the parking garage. When they emerged outside rain
splattered on the windshield and she turned on the wipers. Through the maze of
ramps leading from the airport she tried to collect herself. She remembered
what Harry Whitcombe had told her on the phone the day before. Proven reporter,
with international experience. Suffered some kind of setback and transfer last
year, though that didn't reflect on his abilities. Now entrusted with a coveted
assignment. Would be raring to go. Would do Peter justice.

She hoped so. She would accept nothing less.

Conley told her he already had an interview plan for the week---a good sign.
She reminded herself about her end. Hospitality was essential; he had to be
comfortable in order to be productive. Optimal results. For Peter. That was
what she wanted most.

"I'll take you straight to your hotel," she said.

"That would be great."

They were on the A1 heading into Paris. Despite wet conditions Claire gunned
the car along in the passing lane. She took her eyes off the expressway for an
instant to glance at Conley.

"I want this week to be worthwhile," she said.

"I'm sure it will be."

"This story is important to me. Maybe more than you realize."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Conley had not been overseas for more than a year. And he was traveling
alone. Maybe Thom was right. Sunday afternoon in Boston had changed certain
parameters. This was a chance to throw off restraints. At least entertain
possibilities. Though with one caveat.

Anyone but Claire
. He had to remember that.

Nine hours of sleep had restored his energy. He was standing by the front
door of the Paris Hilton, waiting for Claire to pick him up and conduct him to
another location. It was a crisp fall morning. A half-day of interviews lay
ahead: the first session about Bradford.

A new workday produced a steady emission of guests from of the hotel. Cars
pulled up; businesspeople emerged with briefcases; the doorman hailed cabs. A
team of young stewardesses emerged, wearing uniforms and pulling small carry-on
suitcases. Conley tried to guess their provenance then heard their accents as
they passed. Australia or New Zealand, he figured.

The women proceeded to a waiting van and began climbing aboard and sliding onto
the long seats. Several skirts rode up. Conley had a direct view.

One of the affected stewardesses sensed his gaze and whirled around before
getting fully settled. She caught him…and smiled. No ramifications: just
a nod at forces of attraction. Conley smiled back. Doors closed and the van
pulled away down the semi-circular hotel driveway.

His mood elevated. Attractive women were everywhere.  Why entertain
unsuitable possibilities? There was no need.

A honk from across the drive re-directed his attention. It was Claire; she
waved from inside her Peugeot. Once he was strapped in she maneuvered out of
the drive.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"St. Sulpice. I have a café in mind."

Conley noticed a slight quiver in her voice, but no other outward signs of distress.
His first impression from the airport was reinforced. She had stayed remarkably
strong through her trauma. They headed east on Avenue de Suffren. Claire drove
fast again, weaving through heavy morning traffic. Conley steadied himself with
the handle above his door. Her gaze was resolute. She seemed anxious to get
started.

"Do you like Paris?" she asked.

"It's one of my favorite places."

The remark seemed to please her.

Ten minutes later they were seated in a café off Place de St.
Sulpice, at a table under a windowed canopy. There were only a few other
patrons, alone and reading newspapers. The space was quiet except for
occasional clinks from the kitchen and pigeons flapping their wings in the
square. Conley set his notepad on the table. They ordered two
café-au-lait, which arrived in short order.

"I've prepared some notes, too," Claire said. She pulled a sheaf
of papers from her purse and placed them in front of her. The stack contained
at least 15 pages, some handwritten, some computer-printed.

Conley was a little taken aback. Claire noticed his reaction.

"I hope I haven't overdone it," she said.

"No, of course not."

Fact was, Conley was impressed. He’d half expected her to be incapable
of full-bore interviews. Could he proceed in French, he asked? He'd done a few
interviews before in the language, when he'd been based in London. He'd read
Le
Monde
on the plane to bone up.

Claire looked doubtful. "Are you sure?"

"Let's try."

They switched. Conley began by reviewing Bradford's impetus for doing the story,
which he had gleaned from Bradford's e-mail correspondence with Gallagher. It
stemmed from the war on terror.

Opium production in Afghanistan had boomed since the U.S. and allied
invasion in late 2001---an unintended consequence of the ouster of the Taliban.
Now ninety percent of the derivative heroin from Afghanistan that reached
Western Europe transited through Tajikistan. This destabilized Russia's
southern borders and frustrated Western attempts to choke off the financial
base of Islamic terrorist groups like Al Qaeda. Hence the U.S. interest.

Bradford had sought to trace the pipeline from Europe back to Tajikistan and
explain the link to terrorism. Claire confirmed these details. However Conley
didn't want to get too bogged down in geo-politics. This was more about
Bradford.

"Tajikistan is obviously a dangerous place," he observed.
"Did that worry Peter?"

"Somehow it didn't," Claire said, her eyes watering a little as
she recalled.

"Why was that?"

"He seemed to have a clear plan. He said lots of elements were coming
together at once in Tajikistan…and that he might be the only reporter to
understand them."

For now Conley was inclined to agree.  Bradford had been on to
something. The country's role in the global heroin trade was important---and
largely overlooked.

With one finger Claire brushed away a tear. However she didn't falter.

"He believed this was his big opportunity.