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Whitcombe strode into the
room. Face still bearing strain from the funeral. Otherwise pressed and erect,
despite the travel. Purposeful set to his Brahmin jaw-line. Straight to his
customary place at the end of the table. There was reason to worry. Much about
Bradford's death remained unresolved. More might come from the same pipeline.
Gallagher got right to it.
    "I've exchanged several more e-mails with the U.S. official based in
Moscow---Franklin Stanson, the same one who organized the transport of Peter's
body to Paris."
    "Diplomat, right?" Larson interjected.
    "Not exactly."
    Larson eyed him over her reading glasses.
    "Anti-terrorism. His main focus is Tajikistan."
    Gallagher pressed on.
    "Stanson believes the original claims of the Tajik government, and of
Prime Minister Shakuri. Peter was killed by two of Shakuri's bodyguards. Their
own plan: a botched robbery. They thought Peter was carrying a lot of
money."
    Whitcombe shook his head, still not buying it.
    "I queried Stanson about the robbery angle," Gallagher elaborated.
    "And?"
    "Apparently Peter spoke Russian during his dinner with Shakuri. The
bodyguards figured he was an arms dealer."
    "An arms dealer?" Whitcombe's normally stoic features roiled.
"Why in God's name would they think that?"
    "We're talking about a corrupt part of the world here, Harry. Roles and
rules are pretty fast and loose." This remark made Whitcombe mull for a
few seconds.
    "…Stanson says that Peter's laptop computer and wallet went
missing," Gallagher continued. "It's consistent with the robbery
explanation."
    "Anything ever recovered?"
    "No. Even after the bodyguards were arrested."
    Whitcombe joined his fingers into an inverted "V" and stared down
through the space underneath.
    "What happened over the weekend was more troubling," Gallagher
added.
    Whitcombe brought his gaze up over his co-joined fingertips. Larson's head
snapped up from her notes.
    "…The two bodyguards were themselves killed. Some sort of prison disturbance. 
Stanson and the other American official never got a chance to interview the
suspects."
    "While awaiting trial?" Larson asked, incredulous.
    "Yes."
    Whitcombe's inverted "V" crumpled. After a moment the set returned
to his jaw.
    "That settles it," he said.
    Gallagher felt additional weight descending. The week was not unfolding as
he’d hoped.
    "I had some ideas on the flight back," Whitcombe said. "I
want to run over various angles in my own mind…during lunch. But I'll
want to move forward. Let's meet again this afternoon."

 
 
    CHAPTER SIX
     
    At times Conley wished he had become a sports writer, rather than a news
reporter. The atmosphere in the sports department was juvenile and
uncomplicated, like the locker room of a high school or college athletic team.
Energies were channeled into games; writers kept one foot in the halcyon of
pre-adolescence.
    Every time Conley saw Joe Banacek he was reminded of these traits. This
morning Conley spotted him in the green-marble, ground-floor lobby of The
World Tribune . Banacek wore a jocular grin, as usual.
    "Good time at the Charles?" he asked Conley.
    Their encounter on the Boston University Bridge had been brief. Banacek had
been heading in the other direction; there hadn't been much time to talk.
Conley said he'd enjoyed himself. Also that he'd been surprised to see Banacek
on a Sunday; Banacek's fall beat was pro football.
    "The Pats played Monday night," Banacek noted, laughing.
    "I know. Still…" Conley laughed as well.
    They passed through the glass door at the rear of the lobby and stepped onto
the escalator to the newsroom. "I skipped out after that," Banacek
added. "Caught some games on TV. Rowing can be boring, after a couple of
hours."
    Indeed the crew competition, for Conley also, had been mostly a backdrop. In
the corridor down to the newsroom they didn't hurry.  Neither one of them
was on deadline. In addition Banacek was divorced, with plenty of free
time---always ready to share a beer during