In the Name of a Killer (17 page)

‘It is not normal for me to become involved in things that are not …’ Richards slowed to a halt, unusually finding it difficult to finish. ‘… strictly diplomatic,’ he managed clumsily. ‘But of course this is. Diplomatic, I mean.’ The smile was more obvious, apologetic, ‘I don’t wish any disrespect: I appreciate fully the valuable job you and your colleagues in other agencies perform …’

‘I understand what you’re saying,’ said Cowley. He guessed the enormous office had originally been a reception room. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling and there were fireplaces at either end of the room, both big enough for a man to have stood upright in either. Neither was lighted. The room was still very warm, almost too hot. The three floor-to-ceiling balcony windows looked out over Ulitza Chaykovskaya: layered glazing defeated any noise from the cars finally flowing along Moscow’s inner ring road. There was some wood barricading along the windows’ lower half, which would have been concealed from the outside by the balcony rails.

‘And political, as well as being diplomatic’

‘I was briefed by the Director, before I left Washington.’

‘Senator Burden has called direct, several times.’

‘He talked of coming personally, in a television newscast.’

‘He’s said the same to me on the telephone.’

‘What did you advise?’ Cowley judged the coffee better than he had made himself that morning.

‘He didn’t ask my advice.’

‘The Russians have been obstructive? Autocratic?’

‘That’s what I have been told, by my Second Secretary. And others.’

‘So you didn’t personally experience it?’

‘No. I’ve protested, on their behalf. And upon instructions from Washington. With some effect, it would seem. I’ve been informed this morning they are going to release the body. I’ve ordered all the arrangements, of course.’

We’re going to burn ass
, Cowley remembered: he mustn’t forget the request for a second autopsy. ‘According to what I’ve read so far, she lived on Ulitza Pushkinskaya.’

‘Yes.’

‘I understood all diplomatic staff lived in the compound.’

The smile flickered. ‘Insufficient accommodation. About half the personnel are outside. Many prefer it.’

Cowley was scarcely surprised, from what he’d seen from his guest quarters that morning. He was curious, at what he thought to be an odd tone in the ambassador’s voice. ‘Did Ann Harris prefer it?’

‘She insisted upon it.’

‘
Insisted
?’

‘She was an extremely strong-willed girl: most definite, once she made her mind up.’

For strong-willed read sure of uncle’s muscle, thought Cowley. ‘And she made her mind up about living on Pushkinskaya?’

‘I believe she was shown the available accommodation and chose to live in an outside hotel until she located an apartment.’

In diplomatic surroundings Cowley supposed he should be diplomatic. ‘What sort of girl was she? Part of the American community here? Gregarious? Or apart from it, a loner? Any special friends, here at the embassy? Any problems with her? Was she happy? Lonely?’ There were surely enough openings there.

Richards sat head bowed for several moments, considering his answer. ‘She was highly popular, but properly so. I have never received any complaint about her behaviour. She was certainly an asset at every function she attended in my presence. I am not aware of any particular friend. In my company she always appeared quite happy.’ The ambassador smiled, hopefully.

‘What about
outside
the embassy? Any particular Russian friends?’

‘None of whom I am aware.’

‘The autopsy found evidence of sexual activity: intercourse, not rape,’ said Cowley, abandoning diplomacy. ‘That indicates a special friend.’

The smile became a wince, of distaste. ‘I said I did not know of anyone.’

‘You are the authority here at the embassy,’ Cowley reminded him. ‘You are more likely to be told the truth than I might be, as a complete stranger.’

‘About what?’ There was no longer any smile. Or wince, even.

Cowley swallowed the sigh. ‘Ambassador,’ he said, patiently, ‘I’m trying to pick up a murder investigation without knowing whether I am going to get the slightest cooperation from people so far described, at best, as obstructive and autocratic. We both accept it’s a diplomatic and political swamp. The sooner the inquiry is resolved, the better for everyone at every level. So I need all the assistance I can get. Which is what I am asking, from you. I’m not concerned with morals or embarrassment, although if I can avoid the latter then I will. I am asking you, with your full authority as ambassador, to inquire of people who would be the most likely to know if Ann Harris had any special friend in this embassy.’

The pink face grew pinker. Richards said: ‘To what purpose?’

It was becoming difficult for Cowley to cover his irritation. ‘Whoever made love to her was probably the last person to see her alive: he might be the murderer! If he isn’t he might know where she had come from or was going to!’

‘Are you suggesting that somebody attached to this embassy might be involved?’

‘Sir, I am not suggesting anything. I don’t
know
anything, not yet. But why not? Somebody stabbed and disfigured her. I have to find out who.’ Not officially, Cowley corrected himself at once: officially his function was liaison. He’d have to keep that in mind later, with the Russian investigator.

Richards shook his head, as if he were refusing. But he said: ‘I’m sorry. I’ll make the inquiries, of course. In return I want to be fully informed. About everything.’

‘You will be,’ promised Cowley. To the limited extent I consider necessary, he added, mentally.

Barry Andrews was expectantly behind his desk when Cowley returned to the lower-level office. ‘How did it go?’ the man demanded at once. He gestured, encouragingly, with the hand that held an already lighted cigar.

Cowley shrugged. ‘Politely, I suppose.’

‘Just a political lecture?’ pressed the man.

‘I asked him to help me about any particular friend or friends she might have had, here at the embassy. He said he’d ask around.’

Andrews nodded, unspeaking for several moments. Then he said: ‘Danilov suggested noon. I said OK.’

To say anything about the earlier, pointless discussion would seem like mockery. ‘The Russians are releasing the body, according to the ambassador. I’d like to send a cable, on your wire, asking for a second autopsy.’

‘I’ll do it in your name,’ undertook Andrews.

‘Where do I find Danilov?’

‘Moscow Militia headquarters: Ulitza Petrovka 38. You taken up smoking since we last met?’

Cowley frowned, confused. ‘No.’

Andrews took a packet of Marlboro cigarettes from a drawer and offered them. ‘Moscow survival pack. Cab drivers will probably recognize you as a foreigner anyway: the Marlboro packet confirms it, guaranteed to make them stop. You’ll probably get a gypsy – a private car – stopping as well. They’ll either want the cigarettes or hard currency: dollars. Fix the price before you set out. They’ll start high, naturally. Three bucks is more than enough, for around the city. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s the system.’

Cowley accepted the cigarettes and the new patronizing lecture, allowing Andrews whatever small victory he needed.

‘I told Pauline you were going to eat with us,’ said Andrews. ‘She’s looking forward to it. Wants to see you.’

‘We’ll fix it, when I’m settled in.’ Was she really looking forward to it? Or was that casual politeness?

‘She’ll be pleased,’ assured Andrews. ‘And remember when you meet Danilov, don’t take any …’ He stopped, quickly. ‘I already told you, didn’t I?’ he finished.

‘Yes,’ said Cowley, wearily. ‘You already told me.’

The FBI Director considered refusing the call but decided it was a pointless evasion. He depressed the telephone console button.

Without any greeting, apart from identifying himself, Burden said: ‘I told Hartz I wanted to see the man you were sending, before he went to Moscow! Didn’t he tell you?’

‘He told me.’

‘So what happened?’

‘About what?’ said Ross, intentionally resistant.

‘Hartz told me this morning an agent has already gone. Without my speaking to him!’

‘That’s right.’

There was silence, from the other end of the line. Then Burden said: ‘Director, have we got a communication difficulty here?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Ross. ‘I saw no point in your talking to my agent.’

‘
You
saw no point!’

‘Mine was the responsibility, for briefing the man. No one else’s.’

There was a further, although shorter silence. ‘I consider your attitude impertinent!’

‘I don’t see any purpose in this sort of conversation, Senator. I will, of course, contact you with whatever I consider relevant, from Moscow.’

‘I’m not accustomed to being spoken to in this manner,’ threatened Burden.

‘Neither am I,’ said the unafraid Ross, pushing the boredom into his voice. ‘So why don’t you stop it? It isn’t achieving anything.’ Now the difficulties at the budget agreement sessions would be enormous: but it would be worth it.

Petr Yezhov had been committed to the Serbsky Institute after being found guilty of both attacks. His name was isolated on the third day of the checks by the apathetic men who had been with Pavin for the meeting with the principal. Yezhov became the sixth on their list.

‘No one’s said how far back we should go,’ the first man pointed out.

‘A year?’ suggested his companion.

‘The doctor was right. It could take forever.’

‘Why don’t we stop, when we’ve got another two or three names on the list? It’s nonsense anyway.’

Chapter Thirteen

Dimitri Danilov considered being in the reception area for the American’s arrival at Petrovka but decided against it. The FBI presence had been described to him that morning as supportive, a scientific assistance. To have been waiting in the foyer might have conveyed the impression of deference. Which would have been wrong. So after the required but brief encounter with the Director – a worried diatribe from Lapinsk about the press conference running over into Lapinsk’s now familiar injunction to avoid worsening the already existing ill-feeling – Danilov remained in his jumbled office, waiting. He did, however, warn the reception desk of Cowley’s appointment, to avoid the American being kept waiting, as visitors to any Russian government building or organization were invariably kept waiting.

A professionally trained investigator would quickly realize the cul-de-sac into which they were blocked, Danilov accepted. And William Cowley would most definitely be a professionally trained investigator as well as – if not more so – someone with scientific expertise: it would be a matter of pride, apart from anything else, for the Americans to assign the best-qualified man available. Danilov felt a stir of unease, which bothered him. There was no reason for him to feel uneasy about the forthcoming meeting. Every recognized police procedure had been correctly followed, nothing overlooked, nothing forgotten. The reassurance didn’t come. He would be under new and different scrutiny from now on, a Russian detective being critically judged by an American. Wouldn’t he be making the same examination of the American? Of course he would. And if he did it properly, looking for the additional benefit, not the possible criticism, then the presence of another expert mind was something to welcome, not to balk at. It was going to be important, always to keep that balance in mind.

Danilov was at the office door when Cowley approached along the corridor – a polite ten minutes before noon – so the American had a chance before any physical contact to examine the Russian with whom he would be working. About forty, assessed the American: forty-five tops. Yesterday’s suit – maybe yesteryear’s – and definitely yesterday’s shirt, looking more like it had been rolled on than properly laundered. A hint of a belly bulge, so he didn’t exercise: conscious of it, too, from the way he was holding himself. Typically square, Slavic face, which was pale-skinned, another indication of an indoor, non-exercising man. Fading brown hair, close-cropped to be more than a crew cut but growing again, needing attention. Good personal control. Here was a Russian policeman heading an investigation into the murder of an American girl with heavy-duty US clout. And knowing it. Yet he was giving no facial reaction of either too little or too much uncertainty, calmly standing there, waiting.

As Cowley, accompanied by an escorting officer, reached him the Russian thrust his hand forward and said: ‘Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov.’

The American answered the handshake and in English said: ‘William Cowley, although of course it’s Bill, not William …’ The smile grew, just slightly. In passably accented Russian he went on: ‘How we going to do this? In Russian? Or in English? Guess there’d better be some ground rules.’

Danilov nodded to the withdrawal of the escort, backing further into his office, gesturing Cowley in with him. In English he said: ‘Whatever you feel most comfortable with.’ Surely a friendly offer, from the start? Although maybe it showed a conceit about his English.