threw a pass downfield. Latin supporters in surrounding bleachers leapt to
their feet. The pass sailed beyond the fingertips of the receiver, and the fans
sagged back.
"Remember Salimjon Shakuri?" he continued.
"The Tajik Prime Minister?
"Right. He was the one who invited Bradford to dinner just before
Bradford was murdered. Anyway…Reynolds learned that Shakuri visited
Washington about 10 days before he met Bradford in Dushanbe."
Denise looked at him, intrigued.
"The visit wasn't publicized," Gallagher added.
"Did Bradford know about it?"
"If he did, he never mentioned it."
A booming punt arced across the field. Higher than usual for high school:
the punter was bound for college-level ball. Play concluded with more hurtling
bodies and crunching equipment. Gallagher elaborated. The Administration was
proposing a half-billion dollar military aid bill for Tajikistan: for
airfields, reconnaissance aircraft and helicopters, much in the form of cash
subsidies. The aim was to cut back the opium flow from Afghanistan.
"Sound like Bradford's timing was good," Denise observed.
"That's for sure."
On the field a running play produced numerous cutbacks and missed tackles.
Typical chaos for high school football. To Gallagher all the random variables
seemed apropos. After the whistle Denise was ready with another question.
"Do you think there's any connection between this bill and what
happened to him?"
"That's not what the State Department concluded."
"But you think otherwise?"
"Too early to say."
A section of students nearby broke into a chant: "Stop them cold. Stop
them cold…" Gallagher waited for the boisterous chorus to subside
before adding a footnote about the Chechen drug lord. When he'd finished,
Denise reached toward a canvas bag at her feet, pulled out a thermos, and
offered him some hot chocolate. Gallagher didn't hesitate. She filled two
plastic mugs, and gave one to him. His first sip tasted good and warmed his
insides. Both turned their attention to the field as the opposing quarterback
threw a long pass downfield. It fell incomplete, punctuated by another
cacophony of whistles. First half was over. Players from both teams trotted off
the field to their respective locker rooms. On the sidelines the bands readied
themselves with instruments and formations.
Denise wrapped an arm around Gallagher's shoulders and squeezed. "You
can just do your best, dear."
"You've said that since college, Denise."
"And I'll continue to say it," she said, laughing.
The visiting band marched onto the field, drums pounding. She squeezed
tighter and looked out. "For now let's try to enjoy the halftime
show."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A determined and tactful young woman, Claire recognized, could achieve small
wonders. In France especially. Claire's chin was up and her hands were high on
the steering wheel. She and Conley cruised slowly down the tree-lined lane,
pedestrians parting before them.
"I had no idea private vehicles could drive in here," Conley said.
"I wanted to surprise you."
Out of one eye she could see that Conley was impressed, and smiled, her mood
continuing to lift. "I drove out here yesterday afternoon and spoke to
several administrators," she said. "I explained that you were an
American reporter, and described how you'd been attacked in Argenteuil."
"Well, it worked." Conley looked forward again to see where they
were going.
They'd been permitted special entry into the Gardens of Versailles, through
the Porte Saint Antoine on the northern perimeter. Now they were
proceeding toward the center of the gardens along Saint Antoine
Allée, fine gravel crackling under their tires. A body of water came
into view at the end of the lane.
"The Grand Canal?" Conley asked.
Claire nodded, still smiling. "I still can't believe you've never seen
it."
"The one time I visited Versailles, it was pouring rain."
She gazed upward through the windshield. Gray skies, but no precipitation
was forecast until
their feet. The pass sailed beyond the fingertips of the receiver, and the fans
sagged back.
"Remember Salimjon Shakuri?" he continued.
"The Tajik Prime Minister?
"Right. He was the one who invited Bradford to dinner just before
Bradford was murdered. Anyway…Reynolds learned that Shakuri visited
Washington about 10 days before he met Bradford in Dushanbe."
Denise looked at him, intrigued.
"The visit wasn't publicized," Gallagher added.
"Did Bradford know about it?"
"If he did, he never mentioned it."
A booming punt arced across the field. Higher than usual for high school:
the punter was bound for college-level ball. Play concluded with more hurtling
bodies and crunching equipment. Gallagher elaborated. The Administration was
proposing a half-billion dollar military aid bill for Tajikistan: for
airfields, reconnaissance aircraft and helicopters, much in the form of cash
subsidies. The aim was to cut back the opium flow from Afghanistan.
"Sound like Bradford's timing was good," Denise observed.
"That's for sure."
On the field a running play produced numerous cutbacks and missed tackles.
Typical chaos for high school football. To Gallagher all the random variables
seemed apropos. After the whistle Denise was ready with another question.
"Do you think there's any connection between this bill and what
happened to him?"
"That's not what the State Department concluded."
"But you think otherwise?"
"Too early to say."
A section of students nearby broke into a chant: "Stop them cold. Stop
them cold…" Gallagher waited for the boisterous chorus to subside
before adding a footnote about the Chechen drug lord. When he'd finished,
Denise reached toward a canvas bag at her feet, pulled out a thermos, and
offered him some hot chocolate. Gallagher didn't hesitate. She filled two
plastic mugs, and gave one to him. His first sip tasted good and warmed his
insides. Both turned their attention to the field as the opposing quarterback
threw a long pass downfield. It fell incomplete, punctuated by another
cacophony of whistles. First half was over. Players from both teams trotted off
the field to their respective locker rooms. On the sidelines the bands readied
themselves with instruments and formations.
Denise wrapped an arm around Gallagher's shoulders and squeezed. "You
can just do your best, dear."
"You've said that since college, Denise."
"And I'll continue to say it," she said, laughing.
The visiting band marched onto the field, drums pounding. She squeezed
tighter and looked out. "For now let's try to enjoy the halftime
show."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
A determined and tactful young woman, Claire recognized, could achieve small
wonders. In France especially. Claire's chin was up and her hands were high on
the steering wheel. She and Conley cruised slowly down the tree-lined lane,
pedestrians parting before them.
"I had no idea private vehicles could drive in here," Conley said.
"I wanted to surprise you."
Out of one eye she could see that Conley was impressed, and smiled, her mood
continuing to lift. "I drove out here yesterday afternoon and spoke to
several administrators," she said. "I explained that you were an
American reporter, and described how you'd been attacked in Argenteuil."
"Well, it worked." Conley looked forward again to see where they
were going.
They'd been permitted special entry into the Gardens of Versailles, through
the Porte Saint Antoine on the northern perimeter. Now they were
proceeding toward the center of the gardens along Saint Antoine
Allée, fine gravel crackling under their tires. A body of water came
into view at the end of the lane.
"The Grand Canal?" Conley asked.
Claire nodded, still smiling. "I still can't believe you've never seen
it."
"The one time I visited Versailles, it was pouring rain."
She gazed upward through the windshield. Gray skies, but no precipitation
was forecast until
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