In the Name of a Killer cad-1

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Is it true there was some defilement of the body?’ The question, in a strong American accent deep within the hall from a man whom Danilov could not see, silenced the underlying murmur that had been constant since the conference began.

  McBride looked inquiringly along to the two detectives. Danilov shook his head, indicating Smolin. Cowley saw the gesture and nodded towards the Prosecutor as well. Smolin bent sideways, to the Militia General, which took him away from Burden, who had said nothing about the head shearing in any public statement so far, and was leaning out to speak to the Russian. Unaware of the Senator’s attempt to attract his attention, Smolin blurted that Ann Harris had been shorn by her murderer.

  The outburst from the hall was such that even Danilov, who believed he had adjusted to the strangeness of an international press gathering, was bewildered. McBride lost control of the questioning, so there was a cacophony of shouts that no one could hear. While he was blinking around the room Danilov found himself instinctively pressing the straying hair into place and hoped the nervousness hadn’t been caught on film or by one of the photographers. Once more McBride quietened the room, to make the questions intelligible. There was an uproar of demands for the significance of the hair cutting: most included the word ‘maniac’ to describe the killer. There were as many demands to know what else had been done to the body, to which neither Danilov nor Cowley replied. The progression to sexual assault was inevitable, and Danilov insisted there was no evidence of there having been any. A query about the reason for Burden’s presence gave McBride the opportunity to include the politician for the first time, and Danilov was grateful for the obvious shift of camera lights and attention. Spared the glare he concentrated upon the questioning, trying to identify from the voice the man whose question about defilement could obviously refer to the girl’s hair.

  Burden played to every emotion. He talked of loving his niece (‘a sweet, beautiful and brilliant girl’) and of his personal determination to see her killer (‘this monster’) brought to trial. He had come to Moscow personally to meet the investigatory team and to pledge (‘this is my personal undertaking’) any further American help that might be needed. He avoided but did not rule out the question of further FBI personnel coming to Moscow. With no way of knowing, at this stage, how long the investigation might last, he did not intend remaining in the Russian capital until its conclusion but would return if and when circumstances demanded. Asked what verdict he expected from a successful prosecution, Burden said: ‘Those of you who know me well — and it’s good to see a few old friends here today — will also know my support of capital punishment. A person who takes a life doesn’t deserve to have one.’ That reply brought the questioning back to the Federal Prosecutor, who confirmed capital punishment did exist in Russia and added to another query that it was carried out by pistol shot. Burden said at once: ‘That sounds just fine to me.’

  Danilov found the individual television appearances more difficult than the general conference. There were three, all for American networks, and he insisted upon Cowley being at his side at every one, which meant the FBI agent did most of the talking, although Danilov was pressed to speak in English. He did so feeling like a performing animal. Before each appearance, a makeup person carefully combed his hair into place, for which he was grateful. Burden was also interviewed separately by each of the networks: for two of the appearances the politician had Danilov and Cowley sit with him, as if he were in some way controlling the investigation. Danilov sat throughout with his shirt glued to him by perspiration.

  John Prescott hurried towards the two detectives the moment they re-entered the ante-room in which they had earlier assembled and said at once to Cowley: ‘The Senator has been in touch with Washington. You’ll be getting guidance some time today. I thought you should know.’

  Cowley looked curiously at the younger, eager man. ‘OK. Let’s see what the reply is.’

  ‘It might be a good idea for both of you to be a little more forthcoming in the meantime,’ suggested the man, including Danilov in the approach.

  Cowley nodded, understanding. ‘Like I said, we’ll wait.’

  Danilov said: ‘I think the Senator should get all his information from the Federal Prosecutor: that’s how it should properly be done.’

  Prescott shook his head, in exaggerated sadness. ‘It’s a big mistake.’

  ‘Thanks for your concern,’ said Cowley, a Washington player recognizing another Washington player.

  ‘We’re all staying at the Savoy,’ announced Prescott, following the game plan. ‘It’s got a pretty fantastic dining-room. Why don’t you both join us for dinner tonight? The Senator would like that.’

  ‘I’ve already got a commitment,’ Cowley apologized. Which would be easier, dinner with Burden and the sycophants or dinner with Andrews and Pauline? He didn’t think it was a good comparison.

  ‘And I’ve got a prior engagement, too,’ Danilov refused. Larissa’s shift still made the late afternoons convenient.

  The hopeful smile slipped from Prescott’s face. ‘Sorry you couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Maybe another time,’ said Cowley insincerely, as the other American walked back to Burden’s group, which was gathered in stilted conversation with the two other Russian officials. Cowley turned to Danilov. ‘I’d like that talk before I get back to the embassy, to discuss everything with Washington.’

  ‘But not here,’ said Danilov. The sweat was drying, cold and uncomfortable, on his back.

  ‘Your office is in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Why don’t I buy you lunch?’ He guessed he had sufficient roubles — just — and although the service would have been better in the foreign-currency part of The Peking the larger section that accepted Russian money would not be crowded this late. ‘How about Chinese?’

  It would make a change from Lean Cuisine, thought Cowley. ‘I think maybe I deserve it.’ What would Pauline make for tonight? In Rome she’d been awarded a diploma for Italian cooking, to add to the Cordon Bleu qualification she’d gained in a two-month residential course in Paris.

  It took another fifteen minutes for the two investigators to excuse themselves. The Soviet section of the restaurant was more crowded than Danilov had expected but they got a table. Cowley said he didn’t have any particular preferences, so why didn’t Danilov order for both of them: he didn’t drink, so he wouldn’t have any wine.

  ‘You didn’t play it straight,’ Cowley accused at once, the ordering completed.

  ‘Did you?’ challenged Danilov, just as quickly.

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Danilov. ‘You checked the twisted fingerprint in the evidence room when you came back to Petrovka, right? But didn’t tell me what you were doing.’ He was still enjoying the feeling of superiority.

  ‘I didn’t have the comparison back from Washington, from the stuff in Ann Harris’s office, until this morning,’ tried Cowley, defensively. ‘What was there to tell?’

  Danilov had ordered vodka in preference to the sugar-sweet Chinese wine. He sipped, to give himself time, and said: ‘How about suspicion? You’d seen Hughes’s hand, when you talked to him.’

  ‘You suspected it, too. With better reason. You had the transcript of the telephone conversations but all you gave me was the fact of out-of-hours calls. Why the hell only give me half the thing to hit him with? You were fucking about, waiting for me to move.’

  ‘With good reason!’ seized Danilov, still believing himself ahead in the exchange. Slightly relaxing, with an admission, he said: ‘And I didn’t have the transcripts: I had to get them, additionally.’

  ‘From intelligence monitoring of diplomatic telephones?’

  ‘I got them,’ said Danilov, shortly, refusing the confirmation. ‘It’s our advantage.’

  Danilov had ordered the duck and was glad, when it came. There were also stuffed dumplings and sour prawns. Appearing reminded, by the delivery of the food, Cowley said: ‘What about them eating tog
ether on the night of the murder? He couldn’t have jerked me around like he did if I had been able to hit him with that!’

  Danilov did not want to disclose completely how desperately close he had been to knowing nothing until the last minutes before the conference. Using the American’s opening, he said: ‘Waiting. I think you didn’t tell me what you had because you wanted to keep the situation with Hughes completely within the embassy, so you could ship him home. Now you can’t. Certainly not without creating a major diplomatic uproar because by now his exit, diplomatically protected or not, will have been banned.’

  He’d lost, Cowley conceded. He said: ‘The duck is good.’

  ‘It’s the obvious speciality.’ I’ve won, thought Danilov.

  ‘Maybe we should re-define the working relationship,’ suggested Cowley, capitulating.

  ‘I think that would probably be a good idea.’

  ‘I appreciated the inference in front of the prosecutor and your boss that everything was a joint discovery: that it was an evenSteven investigation,’ said Cowley.

  ‘That’s what I thought it was going to be.’

  ‘Have we made our points, do you think?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘It would be stupid to shake hands or anything like that, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Quite stupid,’ agreed Danilov.

  ‘I won’t get any playback from Washington, about anything, until tomorrow. I’ll call.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’ Danilov decided that everything had worked out well: extremely well. There still had to be Paul Hughes’s confession, of course.

  The meal cost fifty roubles. Danilov wondered if Lapinsk would let him reclaim it. He doubted it. The system didn’t work as he understood it did in the West, with expense accounts.

  Larissa was waiting behind the desk but emerged the moment he entered the hotel, to meet him in the foyer. She was smiling, enjoying herself in front of the other receptionists who shared the same rendezvous arrangements, and said: ‘Can I show you direct to your room, sir?’

  Danilov turned with her towards the elevators, conscious of the smiling attention. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ she said. ‘You looked terrific on television. We switched from Russian to CNN, when the satellite came on. CNN were heading their news coverage with it: running the conference live. You looked wonderful. Why have you had your hair cut so short, incidentally? I like it, but then I liked the grey bits, too. Made you look distinguished.’

  Danilov was unhappy she had so easily guessed the reason for the new hair-style. Ignoring her question, he said: ‘I didn’t like the conference.’

  The elevator stopped at the sixth floor and he followed her out. Larissa said: ‘You looked as if you did.’

  ‘This isn’t getting any easier.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ Larissa secured the lock but didn’t come forward to be kissed as she usually did, remaining at the far side of the room to frown at him curiously.

  ‘Just what I said: that it isn’t easy.’

  ‘Just like it wasn’t easy the other night at dinner?’

  ‘You made the difficulties there. Olga suspects.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So it’s difficult.’

  ‘Why don’t we stop thinking about you for a moment?’ challenged Larissa. ‘How do you think it is for me, with a slob like Yevgennie?’

  ‘Horrible,’ conceded Danilov at once. He humped his shoulders. ‘There isn’t anything I can say that would help: just that I feel sorry. I still don’t see why you behaved as you did.’

  Larissa slowly began to disrobe, actually humming to herself a vague tune to accompany the striptease, which became more and more raunchily explicit with the more clothes she took off. ‘I wanted you to feel me when I was wet but you wouldn’t. Why wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You tried to make it obvious, to Olga and maybe to Yevgennie. You were trying to create a situation, weren’t you?’ demanded Danilov. He’d set out to show his annoyance but realized he sounded weak and petulant instead.

  ‘Feel me now,’ insisted Larissa, completely naked.

  ‘I think it would be an idea to cool things off for a while.’

  Larissa pulled back the bed covers and lay provocatively displayed for him, one leg raised, the other stretched out before her on the bed. ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘What’s the point of hurting people?’

  Larissa frowned. ‘Who?’ She appeared genuinely perplexed.

  ‘Olga. Yevgennie.’

  She laughed. ‘All Olga has is a suspicion! And the only way to hurt Yevgennie would be to take his brandy bottle away. And do you really care? Wouldn’t you like to sort things out, so that we could be married?’

  ‘It’s complicated, you know that,’ said Danilov, refusing to answer. He’d never intended the affair to become this serious. Still didn’t. So why had he allowed it to happen? Surely he hadn’t been trying to prove he was still attractive to a vivacious, beautiful woman, despite the encroaching greyness he’d got rid of in a barber’s chair and the stomach bulge he constantly tried to suck in! Of course not! He had enjoyed the flattery, though. And Larissa was beautiful and vivacious.

  ‘Why don’t you come and fuck me, to help you make up your mind?’

  Going towards her, Danilov realized the dinner episode hadn’t been for her personal enjoyment, a private joke. Larissa was pushing the situation, wanting Olga to find out.

  There was a giggle of delight, quickly stifled as the television transmission ended. Worried. How they should be. Looked it, all of them. Frightened. Right they should be frightened. How it was important they should be. Sensational, about the hair. Not a maniac, though. Got that wrong. Cleverer than any of them. Prove it, now the hunt was properly announced. Hunt but never find. Never know where to look. How to look. Going to worry a lot more, all of them. Never get it right. The giggle came again, longer this time. Then the hum.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was inevitable that he would be late for dinner. Within minutes of his personally dispatching the ‘Eyes Only’ cable to the Director fully setting out the circumstances and suspicion surrounding Paul Hughes — and the complete Russian awareness of it — the direct telephone call came from Leonard Ross, on the secure line.

  Andrews, who was still in the FBI offices reading the exchanges and actually took the call from the Director, said: ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ holding out the receiver, as if it were hot. As Cowley took the telephone, Andrews mouthed that they would hold the meal, for as long as it took.

  Ross didn’t waste time with pleasantries, dictating his questions so precisely that Cowley was sure the Director had them written out in front of him: Cowley had little doubt the entire conversation was being recorded, for others to hear later. Cowley repeatedly insisted that at that stage all they had was strong circumstantial suspicion, not actual proof, and insisted just as frequently that it had been made quite clear at his meetings that day with Russian officials that Hughes would not be permitted to leave Moscow to be questioned in America.

  ‘What about diplomatic immunity?’

  ‘A Russian’s also dead,’ Cowley reminded him. ‘They’d refuse to recognize immunity. We don’t stand a chance of keeping the lid on.’

  ‘The ambassador know this?’

  ‘I waited to talk to you.’

  ‘Burden?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll need to consult at this end.’

  ‘What about the ambassador and Burden?’

  ‘Nothing, until I get a guide here. There’s some more stuff coming for you, in the pouch. And the mind doctors think they can create their psychological profile, from what you’ve sent.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re quite sure, about the Russians’ attitude?’

  ‘Positive.’

  ‘You’ll get complete guidance by 8 a.m. tomorrow, your time.’

  Cowley was too late to go
back to the guest quarters to change. He was about to leave the embassy when he thought about taking something, so he detoured to the commissary. He’d wanted flowers but there weren’t any. There were chocolates but they were in practical square or oblong boxes, nothing ornate or fancy, for special occasions. Was this a special occasion? Of course it was. He was seeing his ex-wife who’d remained a friend, although a distant one, both in time and place. It was right, practically expected, that he should take her something. It had to be chocolates. He bought the largest box available. Was it pushing forgiveness and understanding too far, to include Andrews in the gift-giving? Why not? Cowley picked a bottle of French brandy, wishing he had been able to shop better elsewhere, particularly for Pauline. But where? Andrews was his guide for Moscow. And he could hardly have invoked the help of her present husband to buy a present for his ex-wife, no matter how civilized they were all trying to be. Why hadn’t he anticipated the situation and brought something from America? The choice would have still been difficult. And shown planning, which might not have been a good idea.

  Andrews expansively opened the door of the compound apartment, drink already in his free hand. ‘You’re hardly late at all. Pauline’s got everything on hold.’

  Cowley was surprised by Andrews’s babbled uncertainty: there was even a shake to the man’s hands. Cowley handed over the brandy, smiling up at Pauline as she came from a side-door he presumed led to the kitchen. She was wearing a red woollen dress which fitted quite tightly, moulded to her figure. She appeared as slim as ever, although perhaps slightly heavier-busted. When she came further into the light of the entrance hall he saw that her hair, which had always been very black, was streaked with grey at the sides. Perhaps it was difficult to get good tinting in Moscow: he would have thought there would be some facility for wives at the embassy. He thought she looked wonderful and wanted to tell her so. He didn’t, of course.

  ‘Hello William,’ she said. She’d always used the full name, never Bill. There was a tentative accompanying smile.

  So they were all uncertain, Cowley accepted. He’d forgotten the deep-throated Southern accent. He’d mocked her about it, when they’d first met and in the early years, before everything went wrong, calling her Scarlett and telling her she could call him Rhett. Stupid, childish stuff, never admitted to anyone: no point in bringing it to mind now. ‘It’s good to see you.’ Stupid, childish words.