In the Name of a Killer (54 page)

‘Myself and the American. The General. Smolin, the Federal Prosecutor. I don’t know if there’s going to be anyone else. I suppose there could be someone from one of the Ministries.’

Kosov was finding it difficult not to smile. ‘It will be a big affair then?’

‘Certainly as big as the first one. International, of course. All the American media. World media, in fact. I hope you’ll be able to make it. You – your station here – deserve the recognition. It’s entirely a matter for you, of course.’

‘There
should
be recognition, of what my officers did,’ said Kosov, appearing to believe the tidied-up version himself.

‘That’s what I feel.’

‘I could probably get there.’

‘General Lapinsk will be very pleased.’

Kosov held up his glass. ‘It’s whisky. From Scotland. Would you like some?’

‘Please,’ Danilov accepted, although he didn’t particularly like whisky.

The liquor was in the bottom of the bureau, where the glass finished and cupboards began. There was an expansive array of bottles. Kosov carried the whisky back to his desk and poured from there. ‘What, exactly, would I have to do?’

‘Appear, with the rest of us. Explain how the arrest came about. Say how you and your officers had been on the look-out, after my request for assistance.’

Kosov nodded. ‘That’s all true,’ he said, easily.

‘It’s agreed then?’

‘Absolutely.’

Danilov gestured around the office. ‘Quite a few changes.’

‘Just made it more comfortable. Personal touches.’

‘I met an old friend the other day.’

‘Old friend?’

‘Someone I introduced you to, before I left. Eduard Agayans.’

Kosov frowned, and Danilov believed that briefly the other man genuinely had difficulty in recalling the name. Then the frown cleared and Kosov said: ‘I didn’t keep in touch, after a while.’

‘He’s encountering difficulties, with his business.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘He says some organized syndicates are crowding him out: not letting him operate although there’s business enough for everyone.’

‘I would have thought your division would have known all about organized syndicates,’ said Kosov. He got up from behind his desk and waddled forward, topping Danilov’s glass.

‘We do,’ declared Danilov. The other man could not have volunteered a better opening.

Kosov resumed his seat, serious-faced. ‘You mean there’s an official investigation being started?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet?’

Danilov shrugged. ‘It’s a question of degree, I suppose. If a problem becomes too flagrant, something has to be done about it. Things are very public in Russia now, because of the freedoms. There’s public debate, in newspapers and magazines, about a lot of things that never used to be openly discussed. You’ve seen that for yourself, surely?’

Kosov nodded, remaining serious. ‘How comprehensive would any investigation be?’

‘I would imagine that if one is initiated it will be fairly extensive,’ Danilov suggested. ‘I get the feeling quite a lot of attention is being concentrated on it: there’s already open talk within the Serious Crime Squads. Some reluctance, I think. Some people have special friends they don’t want upset.’

‘Has any particular syndicate been named?’

‘Not that I’ve heard.’

‘Was Agayans a particular friend of yours?’

‘We had an understanding. I liked him.’

‘It’s unfortunate, when one’s friends get inconvenienced.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘It was some of my friends who got Yezhov.’

‘I know. I’ll always be grateful.’

‘I would appreciate knowing a name – or names – if you hear anything.’

‘Of course. I’d like to ensure things aren’t made difficult for Agayans, of course. It seems he’s suffered enough.’

‘Maybe I could speak to some of my friends: see if they know anything about Agayans’s problems.’

‘I’m sure he’d appreciate that.’

‘And you will let me know, about any names?’

‘I guarantee it.’

‘I suppose I should wear my uniform for the press conference?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘I was sure you would.’

Cowley’s feeling was not of anticlimax, but there seemed an emptiness about the days, a hiatus between the satisfaction of making an arrest and the finality of a positive conclusion. With time to analyse all that had happened, he realistically accepted that in an American court the circumstantial evidence would almost certainly be dismissed as insufficient to bring charges against Petr Yezhov, irrespective of any ruling about the man’s mental condition. And from Danilov he knew the psychiatrist’s opinion that the mental condition almost definitely precluded any clinching confession. Which put the proof of guilt, however the case was going to be closed, entirely upon forensic findings either from here or from Washington: he’d expected the American results sooner, although he knew from the daily discussion with Pennsylvania Avenue that what had gone back was being examined virtually fibre by fibre. At least he’d been promised preliminary guidance before the press conference he had been authorized to attend.

There was an uncertain day when it was suggested and then denied that Senator Burden would return to Moscow for the conference, which Cowley had thought to be preposterous when he first heard it. Instead the politician’s office issued a statement congratulating all the investigating agencies upon a successful conclusion: the Senator had never doubted the efficiency or professionalism with which the inquiry was being conducted. He probably would go to Moscow for any trial. Burden appeared on television and implied that the reason for his abrupt and inexplicable silence, after his initial easy availability to the press, was because he knew the investigation was at a critical juncture. He hadn’t wanted to do or say anything that might have impeded the arrest. He wasn’t asked by any interviewer how that could have possibly occurred.

Harvey Proffitt, Andrews’s San Francisco replacement, arrived for the hand-over period. He was a young, eager bachelor on his first foreign posting who regarded everything with open-eyed enthusiasm. The media coverage back home of the serial killings had been fantastic: when he eventually returned it was going to be difficult for Cowley to walk down the street without being recognized. He wished he’d been posted earlier, to help in any way he could. Moscow was a hell of an opportunity. He was going to take every bit of it. Andrews’s weary cynicism didn’t depress him.

Two personal letters from the Director, both marked confidential, arrived for Cowley in the diplomatic pouch. One was a letter of congratulation and commendation, which Cowley hoped was not premature. The other asked if he would like personally to decide the location of Andrews’s return posting. Cowley replied that he knew there were slots to be filled in Washington, New York and San Francisco: he was sure Andrews would be satisfactory in any of them, but there would not be a housing problem if he were assigned to Washington.

All of them – Cowley, Andrews, Pauline and Proffitt – went to another social evening at the embassy and Cowley hosted the long-promised return meal at a restaurant Pauline chose, the Glazur, on Smolensky Boulevard. Cowley considered inviting Danilov and his wife, but remembered the difficulty there had been at the beginning between the Russian detective and Andrews and concluded that it might put a strain on the evening. He decided to make it a separate invitation before he returned to America and probably to the Glazur again: the eggplant stuffed with caviare was magnificent.

During what had become a regular coffee session in the Bureau quarters – close to being crowded with the addition of the new FBI agent – Andrews said: ‘Looks like I’m going to miss the final act.’ He was flying back ahead of Pauline, who was staying behind to supervise the packing of their apartment. Washington was confirmed.

‘It won’t be much of an act,’ Cowley pointed out. ‘Nothing will ever reach a court.’

‘How much longer do you think you’ll be here?’

Cowley shrugged. ‘Difficult to say. Shouldn’t be too long.’

‘I can’t imagine it arising – you know as well as I do that she’s a pretty competent girl – but if Pauline has any problems can I tell her to call you? Packing up. Stuff like that?’

‘Of course you can.’

‘It’s good that everything’s as it was before between us.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Cowley. He wished the other man would stop saying things like that. He was actually considering it a strain, being constantly with the other man.

The following day, as promised, there was a cable from Washington. Hair samples found in the pockets of Yezhov’s topcoat, one pocket of the jacket and in one pair of trousers made positive DNA matches with the hair of Ann Harris, Vladimir Suzlev, Lydia Orlenko and Nadia Revin. There was also positive comparison with buttons recovered from Yezhov’s apartment and samples taken from the clothes of Ann Harris, Lydia Orlenko and Nadia Revin. When Cowley spoke to Danilov, the Russian said the Russian forensic team had reported that although there was no blood deposit, the knife
could
have been the murder weapon in every case. They were not prepared, however, to say the knife was
definitely
the weapon.

That night, on the eve of his departure, Barry Andrews threw his farewell party at the embassy club. He got drunk. There were speeches and the ambassador made a presentation. Cowley initially thought it was clumsy that the embassy staff chose a set of
matryoshka
dolls identical to those in Ann Harris’s office upon which Paul Hughes’s fingerprints had been found, but then realized they wouldn’t have known the significance. Cowley danced twice with Pauline. When he invited her a third time, she declined.

He got up early the next morning, reversing their roles to drive Andrews to Sheremet’yevo. Pauline came as well.

‘Look after her for me,’ said Andrews, at the gate.

‘I will.’

‘By the time you get back to Washington, I’ll probably have your job!’ said Andrews, laughing at his own joke.

The polygraph had been discarded days ago, replaced by a much more aggressive interrogation team, a mix of CIA and FBI questioners.

‘Pamela doesn’t think you were with her on January 17.’

‘I was!’

‘Why did the polygraph register your uncertainty?’

‘I don’t know!’

‘Your wife says she isn’t sure that you got home before twelve, when the Russian woman was attacked.’

‘I was!’

‘Why would she say she isn’t sure?’

‘Maybe she’s trying to get back at me!’

‘You did go over to the Russians, didn’t you?’

‘No!’

‘We’ve got independent confirmation from a Russian source.’

‘Liars!’

‘Tell us about it. The killings and the rest of it. We could do a deal if you told us everything.’

‘There’s nothing to tell!’

‘We’re going to break you, Paul. Find it all out in the end.’

‘I didn’t do it! Any of it!’

‘Let’s start again, from the beginning.’

Chapter Thirty-Eight

They assembled as before in the ante-room of the main conference chamber of the Federal Prosecutor’s building, but on this occasion the mood was quite different, incongruously light-hearted. The immaculately uniformed Yevgennie Kosov was clearly nervous but concealing it well, politely deferential to both General Lapinsk and Nikolai Smolin. There had been several clean shirts for Danilov to choose from that morning and Olga had pressed the trousers of his suit without being asked. When he thanked her she said she was going to Larissa’s flat, to watch the conference on their large-screen television. She seemed to expect Danilov to say something but he didn’t. The American ambassador and Ralph Baxter accompanied Cowley but made it clear they did not intend taking part in the conference, but were there to observe. Cowley remarked to Danilov that the forensic findings settled everything: Danilov admitted, but only within the other investigator’s hearing, that he was relieved. Until the Washington confirmation he’d considered the proof too circumstantial, by itself. He still had the feeling of anticlimax.

The room had been set up as it had been for the first conference, with a long row of tables on a raised dais at one end of the room, and translator facilities for the journalists. Danilov guessed the hall was more crowded now than it had been the first time. There was a lot of noise and it was hot under the camera lights. As he sat down Danilov saw the man who had asked the question about Ann Harris’s hair shearing and realized he had forgotten to complete the inquiry he’d had Pavin begin. It didn’t matter any more.

The orchestrating skills of Senator Burden’s media organizer were badly missed: for the first time Danilov was aware of the shallowness of Smolin’s voice, which frequently failed to carry, despite the microphones. Several times there were shouted requests, both in Russian and in English, for the man to repeat himself and to speak more loudly.

The Federal Prosecutor tried. He insisted there was no doubt of the guilt of the man they had in custody. With unhesitating distortion, Smolin said forensic tests both in Washington and here in Moscow had positively identified samples recovered from the man’s clothing as having come from the bodies of the victims. They had also recovered the murder weapon, a single-edged knife the man had been carrying in a home-made sheath at the time of his arrest. Like a conjuror reaching his favourite trick, Smolin abruptly produced the knife from inside his jacket and held it aloft: there was a renewed explosion of camera lights and repeated requests for Smolin to show it in various ways to various camera positions. Cowley frowned sideways to Danilov, who shrugged: he’d thought the knife was still in the forensic laboratory. That was where it should have been.