Live from Moscow Read Free Page A

later hours if opportunities arose.
On the bridge he’d given Jenna an appreciative once over. A woman had
accompanied him; there’d been compulsory introductions. Conley could not
recall seeing Banacek with the same woman twice.
    "You're lucky, with Jenna," Banacek exclaimed, slapping Conley on
the shoulder.
    Conley mustered a vague smile.
    "Have a good day, buddy," he said, then turned and headed toward
the sports department.
    About 15 reporters and editors were scattered across different desks in the
newsroom. There was little noise except for the murmur of phone conversations
and light clicking of computer keyboards. Most reporters were out on
assignments. Activity would pick up in the latter half of the afternoon.
    Conley's desk was in the Sunday/Features Department---a holding pen for
accomplished reporters who didn't quite fit anywhere else.  Since London
features had become his main stock in trade.
    Conley booted up his laptop and remembered Sunday.
    Images of Jenna came back: tight sweater and jeans, the curves of her back
and behind, the shades of her hair enhanced by the sunlight. Also the scents
that permeated the stillness of her bedroom late that evening…He took a
deep breath and ran one hand through the hair on the side of his head. Nothing
in her was lacking. Educated, sociable, considerate… So what if she traveled
on business two or three days most weeks? Banacek was on the mark. He was lucky. 
    Why did his attentions still ramble?
    The girl from the alumni tent re-entered his mind; Samantha was her name.
Conley remembered he'd stashed her card in his wallet. He extracted it,
re-examined it for a moment, and threw it in the wastebasket. The issue was now
definitively settled. Nothing would develop from the encounter . He
logged into the network with his laptop, ready to get to work.
    The phone rang on his desk.
    "Hello, Steve?" The voice was female---at once familiar.
    "Yes?"
    "This is Samantha."
    Conley's heart pounded a few hard beats. The exposed skin of her midriff
came back to him, full-center.
    "Hope I'm not surprising you by phoning at work. You mentioned you were
at the World Tribune . I also saw your by-line in yesterday’s
paper. Excellent article."
    Conley thanked her and said he didn't mind the surprise.
    "Anyway, you never telephoned me after Sunday. Thought I'd take the
initiative."
    Her firm was one of the more prominent in Boston, and occupied offices in of
the city’s premier skyscrapers. Conley inquired about her workweek, which
yielded an enthusiastic response. Peasantries soon ran their course, much like
Sunday. The girl had now twice put herself forward. Now she fell silent.
Waiting for a suggestion.
    "I'm flattered you called, Samantha, but…How to say this? My
situation is such that I can't go further than our talk at the
Charles…I’m seeing someone else. It wouldn't be fair all
around."
    After a pause she recovered. "Well, you're right to tell me up-front,
Steve. That's not so usual these days...I'm glad we connected anyway."
    "Me too."
    A tactful exit…When Conley hung up the receiver his disquiet was gone.
Such contacts did not have to develop further. Restraint was within his powers.
As it should be---at last---by age thirty.
    Jenna was due to return from a business trip that afternoon, and dinner was
slated for evening. He looked forward to seeing her with a clean conscience.

 
 
    CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    Woods and rocky hillsides shone in the headlights as the Mercedes wound fast
along the two-lane road. Bradford tried to ignore the bodyguards in the front
seats. They were annoyances---set pieces in a much larger story. He was
operating with sweep and scale that they couldn't begin to understand.
    This evening had been pivotal: a culmination of a month of planning and
weeks more of execution.
    Shakuri had been forthcoming. Even beyond expectations. Out of pragmatism,
mainly. Aware of the power of American media and the leverage possessed by a
lone and determined