To add to all the other excuses to shield those receptively open hands, thought Danilov. He said: ‘Keep me in touch, about what’s being said. And by whom.’ It was always useful to know one’s enemies. Was that overly paranoid? No. Just properly selfprotective. He’d need a lot of protection, if he did fail.
Pavin turned first, at the sound at the doorway, ahead of Danilov realizing the presence of William Cowley. The American was big, conceded Danilov, at once: standing as the man was, at the very threshold, he virtually blocked the entrance. Cowley remained where he was, as if waiting for an invitation to re-enter. Danilov provided it by introducing Pavin and identifying the Major as the exhibit officer. Cowley offered his hand first and went through the meeting ritual in Russian, thinking as he did so that if the Major was the exhibit officer he hadn’t really been over-extended assembling what had been set out in the room he’d just left. To Danilov, the American said briskly: ‘Now we can talk.’ He perched himself delicately upon the inadequate chair. ‘How do you want to run it? My impressions to you? Or yours to me?’
Deferring here, too, acknowledged Danilov: providing a way to build bridges between them. ‘No point in lectures, one to the other. Let’s just talk it through, compare points that stick in my mind to those that might have come into yours.’
The Russian had not taken the offer of command. Intentional avoidance, to put them level? Or hadn’t he realized the offer was there in the first place? ‘I’ll follow you.’
‘Why was she out on the street at all?’ began Danilov, rhetorically. ‘You’ll have seen it’s difficult to establish a reliable time of death, precisely because of the cold. Between eleven and one o’clock on the night Ann Harris was killed, the Moscow temperature fluctuated between four and six degrees below zero. She wasn’t dressed for that degree of cold — her topcoat was comparatively thin — so why did she leave a warm bed in a warm apartment to get where she was found?’
‘Assignation?’ suggested Cowley.
‘She’d just had one in her apartment.’
‘Called out, from one lover to another? I don’t know what guidance I’m going to get from the embassy, but from the correspondence and from the paraphernalia you found in the bedside cabinet she was a pretty busy girl, sexually. Possibly experimental, too.’
‘Which could throw up a number of possibilities,’ Danilov chimed in. ‘There could have been jealousy, from the lover she left at Pushkinskaya. Or from the one she was going to.’
‘Or neither,’ Cowley completed. ‘The on-the-scene forensic report made a point of the minimal blood leakage. Could she have been killed elsewhere and then dumped, where she was found?’
‘I think the blood loss was absorbed by the coat. She definitely wasn’t killed in her apartment.’
‘I’ve read the forensic findings at Pushkinskaya,’ agreed Cowley. ‘I just think the possibility of another murder scene should not be overlooked.’
Which up until now it had been, Danilov accepted. ‘The pathologist says the knife was very sharp: minimal bruising around the entry wound. So the wound could have sealed itself, upon withdrawal.’
‘There’s no medical evidence of that, in the report.’
With no intention of further criticism of the inefficient pathologist, Danilov said: ‘He claims no evidence of nail scrapings, where she might have fought. But the written account lists broken fingernails. We have to go back on that.’
Cowley nodded. ‘I was told by our ambassador this morning that the body is being returned to us. I’ve asked for another autopsy in Washington.’ He was possibly coming to the first moment of positive difficulty: it had been inevitable, although he hadn’t wanted it to arise quite so soon. Consciously trying to soften the statement — certainly not to appear condescending — the American said: ‘There’s an analysis procedure we use in America, to confirm death-at-the-scene: blood volume calculated by a victim’s height, weight and body size.’
‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ It would be wrong to let the chill growing between them develop. With a briskness matching that of the other man, earlier, Danilov hurried on: ‘Like you said, sexually she appears to have been a busy woman. But from the correspondence she puts herself in different lights to different people.’
‘Yes?’ said Cowley, curiously.
‘She was particularly confessional to the college friend, Judy Billington. If there’d been any personal contact between them — telephone calls or vacation visits — she might have said even more than she did in the letters: hinted the identity of the lover.’
‘The Billington girl certainly needs to be interviewed.’ He was enjoying himself, Cowley abruptly realized. He was back where he felt he belonged, in the middle of a complicated and at the moment insoluble investigation, the sort of environment he didn’t know any more from an administrative desk in Pennsylvania Avenue. And he wasn’t finding any personal difficulty, with Andrews. The self-criticism was immediate. He’d barely spent two hours in the other FBI agent’s company, so how could he decide there wasn’t any personal difficulty? And there was still the meeting with Pauline. Three years, he thought again. How much would she have changed, in three years? How much had he changed in three years? Virtually completely, he supposed. He wondered how she’d like the transition. Cowley recalled the Director’s remark about distraction, determinedly stopping the way his mind was drifting. He smiled across at the Russian. ‘Anything else?’
It was right to have come this far discussing only the girl, whose murder was the sole interest of the other man, but they couldn’t go any further. Danilov said: ‘Possibly quite a lot, but I don’t think we should consider it by itself.’
Cowley frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Ann Harris wasn’t the first murder victim,’ said Danilov, simply. ‘She was the second.’
Senator Burden had demanded the meeting but it took place at Henry Hartz’s urging, insisting upon the FBI Director’s attendance and further insisting it was not possible so obviously to disdain the politician, which had been an irritated Leonard Ross’s initial intention. Richard Holmes also regarded it as a nuisance having to come into the city from the CIA headquarters at Langley, but not with the same obvious ill-will as his Bureau counterpart. They assembled in the Secretary of State’s suite at Foggy Bottom, again ahead of Burden’s arrival.
‘The more we tolerate his nonsense, the worse it’s going to get,’ complained Ross.
‘We don’t have a choice,’ said Hartz, flatly.
‘Why not?’ demanded Holmes.
‘Burden is playing with a marked deck,’ said Hartz. ‘The President needs Burden’s constant support, up on the Hill. And he’s going to need it through the term. The damned man — and his party — controls Congress. The moment Burden pulls the plug, we get a lame-duck President whom Burden can defeat for a second term, which every incumbent President starts campaigning for from the moment of his inauguration. All of which makes Burden as powerful as hell. And he knows it: every little bit and particle of it.’
‘He’s made open threats?’ anticipated Ross, with weary resignation.
‘Last night. During a fifteen-minute private meeting at the White House,’ confirmed the Secretary of State, just as wearily. ‘What Walter Burden wants Walter Burden gets. And that’s the word of God. It might not be officially recorded as such, but you’d better believe that it is.’
‘Shit!’ said Ross, viciously.
‘Shit’s the stuff that fuels politics,’ reminded Hartz, with unaccustomed cynicism.
‘The President might need the arrogant bastard’s influence,’ said Ross. ‘I’m not at all sure I do. Or that I’m officially supposed to.’
‘The feed from the White House is that he’s got to be handled with care,’ insisted Hartz. ‘Let’s keep our personal feelings to ourselves, OK?’
The Secretary of State didn’t try to greet Burden at the door on this occasion and probably wouldn’t have reached it in time anyway, so quickly did the politicia
n enter from the outer office.
‘I’m not satisfied,’ announced Burden, once again before he was properly seated. ‘I’m getting a run-around and I don’t get treated that way.’ The clipped-voice warning was delivered quietly, ominously without any outward emotion.
‘What exactly is it that you want?’ said Hartz, accepting his role as convenor.
‘To be told everything that’s happened. What progress has the FBI agent …’ Burden paused, directly addressing Ross. ‘… The FBI agent I was specifically prevented from speaking with, before his departure … made in the investigation? Are there any definite leads? The likelihood of an arrest …?’
‘… Our agent has only just arrived,’ interrupted Ross, impatiently, immediately disregarding the earlier instruction because he was damned if he was going to be threatened by this man. ‘I’ve already told you I will pass on anything you should know. These meetings achieve nothing.’
Colour flooded Burden’s face and momentarily he appeared unable to speak. Before he did so, Hartz hurriedly intervened. ‘We have been officially informed that the body is being returned. Will you inform the parents? Or would you have us do it? There’s a procedure for this sort of unfortunate affair, where there’s been a sudden death.’
Burden initially seemed unwilling to withdraw from the dispute with the FBI Director, his open-and-close eyes moving in anger. But then he said, tightly: ‘I’ll do it.’ He turned quickly to the CIA Director. ‘Well?’ he demanded.
Holmes stared back, nonplussed. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘What about the idea of assassination?’
‘None whatsoever,’ said Holmes, smoothly. He hadn’t made any inquiry of the Moscow station, just reiterated his hands-off-at-all-costs order.
‘No doubt whatsoever?’ persisted Burden.
‘None. It was a street crime.’
‘Keep your people on it: I still think it’s sinister.’
Holmes nodded, not deigning to reply.
Burden looked to each of the three other men, addressing them all. ‘What about when the bastard’s caught? We got the extradition warrants under way? I want him back here, a proper trial for everyone to see. And a proper sentence …’
‘Execution, you mean?’ Ross, the former judge, cut in.
‘That’s exactly what I mean!’
‘You know something we don’t, Senator?’
Burden concentrated again upon the overweight FBI Director. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘You know who did it?’ demanded Ross. ‘That he’s an American? That’s the only chance in hell I could ever see of us being able to demand jurisdiction and extradition, and even then I’m doubtful of the legality. But let’s carry the hypothesis on, to see where it gets us. How do you want him executed? You favour the electric chair? Or lethal injection? Gas chamber, maybe? How do you imagine it’s going to work: some sort of lottery in reverse, getting all the States that still have the death penalty to put in bids for the right to try and pronounce judgement on him? We going to afford this guy a lawyer or have we decided to dispense with that: might slow the process up and I’m not sure you want that, do you?’
Burden was utterly exposed and he knew it, like everyone else in the room. His face was an even deeper red now, the prominent vein that had reacted before to anger jumping again in his forehead, eyes bulging, his hands twitching in frustration. When he spoke it was with difficulty, the words jerky and uneven. ‘I had a very important meeting last night … a meeting at which I received certain undertakings. I don’t believe those undertakings are being fulfilled by people here this morning.’
‘I’m sorry you should feel that way,’ said Hartz, anxiously. ‘I’m not sure what more any of us could have done, at this early stage.’
Burden made an obvious effort at recovery. ‘It seems to me the only way I am going to find out what I want is to go to Moscow myself.’
Pauline Andrews decided that despite there having been nothing in the Christmas cards or the yearly digests Cowley must have remarried. To somebody whom he clearly loved much more deeply than he’d ever cared for her: it still hurt that he hadn’t loved her as much as she’d loved him, which had been absolutely, able for so long to forgive all his mistakes and all his thoughtless disregard. Having remarried was the only explanation she could find for Barry’s insistence that Cowley had stopped drinking. He’d certainly not been able — or not wanted — to stop during all the years when she’d begged and pleaded. She hoped he was happy, with whoever it was. It was going to be strange, seeing him again. She felt ambivalent about it. Sometimes, since learning of his coming to Moscow, she’d wanted to meet him, meaning it when she’d told Barry she was looking forward to the encounter. But other times not, frightened it would all be too hard. But why should it be? The other times hadn’t been difficult, not really. Frosty, maybe: very much arm’s-length. But what else could she expect? She’d once loved him so much. Always felt so secure, so protected. Which was before she’d discovered he was screwing around, practically boring his way through every female in every embassy to which they’d ever been assigned. And before the drinking. Which had come first? She couldn’t decide. Her recollection was that it had seemed to happen at the same time. It would have been good, to feel secure and protected again. Too late, like so much else.
Pauline determined to try particularly hard with the dinner. Boeuf-en-Croute. That had always been his favourite.
She wondered if he would bring a photograph of the new wife. She’d like to see a picture: find out what his new wife looked like. Or would she?
Chapter Fourteen
The American remained absolutely motionless but in an attitude of wariness after Danilov’s announcement, head curiously to one side, as if he imagined he had misheard. ‘When?’ he demanded, finally.
‘A month ago.’
‘Exactly the same?’
‘The head shearing and the shoes. And the hair sprinkled over the face. But buttons weren’t taken off …’ Danilov paused. ‘And the victim was a man.’
‘Jesus.’ It was Cowley’s only lapse from complete control and even then it was muted, a thought spoken aloud to himself. He shifted on the inadequate chair, blinking out of the momentary reverie, jerking his head vaguely towards the outside corridor and the exhibit room beyond. ‘That the Russian-language paperwork, back there?’
‘We’ll get a translation.’
‘I’d like to hear it all from you, in the meantime.’
Danilov didn’t need anything from the dossiers, so well did he know the facts. He recounted the first murder in strict police narrative, date, time, circumstance, family history, medical findings and finally the forensic opinion.
Throughout the account the American remained motionless again and looked away from Danilov in absorbed concentration, making no interruption. When Danilov stopped there were a few moments of silence before Cowley stirred. ‘Check me out on the similarities,’ he demanded. ‘Both killings at night, stab wounds from the rear, running right to left across the body. Hair shorn, shoes placed neatly to the right side of the head. But in the case of Suzlev no buttons taken. Hair scattered over the victim’s face, both times. No obvious robbery, in either case. Anything I’ve left out?’
Danilov thought, briefly. ‘The area. Pavin’s marking it out on the map: both were reasonably close together, so the proximity could be a factor. There’s nasal bruising, in each case. Both killings were on the night of a Tuesday, maybe going over into the early morning of a Wednesday. And the measurements of the knife wounds are the same.’
‘Matching the knife missing from the apartment?’
‘Possibly.’
‘What about forensic at the Suzlev scene? Any separate hair or blood samples, other than Suzlev? Fingernail scrapings?’
‘None.’
There was a silence. Cowley broke it. ‘So we’ve got ourselves a one hundred per cent nut!’
‘Nut?’ It was the first verbal misunderstanding.
‘Ma
niac,’ corrected Cowley.
‘Unquestionably.’
‘What about records; cases of attacks like this in the past?’
‘We’re running checks. And on psychiatric hospitals, obviously. Nothing, so far. Because the area of both killings is fairly contained, I’m having all the police stations in the district asked about prowlers, suspicious characters, street violence that might connect.’
‘You think Tuesdays are important?’ asked Cowley.
‘It’s a possible connection, that’s all.’
‘We’ve got too much,’ said Cowley, distantly, again in private reflection: any thoughts about operational complications between himself and the Russian detective didn’t seem a factor any more. An already difficult case had been compounded a hundredfold and his only consideration was upon the information with which he had just been presented. Still reflective he went on: ‘Too much and at the same time nothing at all. Just confusion.’
A fresh mind with the same conclusion as himself, thought Danilov, disappointed.
Think! Cowley reasoned: he needed to think, to assemble evidence lists of his own, to put things in what he considered the proper order of importance. ‘Why haven’t you connected the Suzlev case until now with what you’ve given us?’ The demand was openly critical — an unspoken accusation that the Russians were holding back — but Cowley was unconcerned at that moment.
Danilov regarded the other man quizzically. ‘I had one personal meeting at the embassy at which I was treated like a fool: denied any cooperation by anyone. The opportunity didn’t even arise to set the situation out. I regard this as the first chance there’s been.’
‘Sorry,’ Cowley apologized at once and sincerely. ‘That was out of order.’ The FBI agent hesitated. ‘You get a lot of serial killing in Russia?’
‘Serial killing?’ queried Danilov, meeting the second misunderstanding.
‘Multiple homicides committed by someone who kills for no other reason other than personal gratification.’
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