In the Name of a Killer cad-1

by Brian Freemantle

  Agayans was there.

  But there was a long delay in the door being opened. Danilov waited, patiently, knowing he would be under self-preserving scrutiny from various vantage points. Agayans eventually unbolted the door himself, gazing through the narrow gap he allowed with frowning, almost disbelieving curiosity. The smile came with the final recognition, but the former back-slapping, hugging exuberance wasn’t there. Instead the Armenian nodded, in some private reassurance to himself, and said: ‘Hello, old friend. Welcome back. I hope I’m glad to see you.’

  The door was briefly opened wide enough for Danilov to enter, just as quickly closed and bolted again. Danilov was at once aware of the change. Previously the offices, glassed squares around the vast warehouse expanse, had been a beehive of activity, the warehouse floor swarming with people loading and unloading regiments of lorries. Now more than half the offices appeared deserted — Danilov could only count a total of six people in all of them — and there were only two lorries down below. Neither was being worked upon. The place had an abandoned, slowly dying air.

  Unspeaking, Danilov followed the wiry, black-haired man to his personal den: after the slightest hesitation, Agayans took the brandy bottle from a desk drawer, half filled two tumblers and offered one across the desk. Danilov accepted, waiting for the familiar toast. Tonight there wasn’t one.

  The invented reason for Danilov’s visit had been to inquire about mystery wanderers Agayans’s drivers might have seen on their nightly journeys around Moscow, but Danilov abandoned the pretence at once. Instead he said, simply: ‘What’s happened, Eduard?’

  ‘There have been a lot of changes,’ said the black marketeer.

  ‘I don’t need to be told that. Why? How?’

  ‘I know you are not involved,’ said the Armenian, obscurely. ‘You didn’t know: don’t know.’

  ‘Tell me!’ said Danilov, impatiently.

  ‘I don’t have Militia friends any more. My lorries get stopped. The contents stolen. My customers have to look elsewhere. I am being squeezed dry.’

  ‘But I introduced you … made sure …’

  ‘Introduced me,’ agreed Agayans. ‘You couldn’t make sure. For a time it was as it always had been. Then the hijacking started: the stealing of entire consignments by the organized syndicates. I protested to Kosov, of course: asked for the protection that was understood always between us. He told me not to worry: that he would see to it. His visits became less frequent. He didn’t seem to want anything. The lorry interception got worse. I asked him again but Kosov said there was nothing he could do. Now he doesn’t come at all.’

  ‘Which syndicate?’ asked Danilov, already guessing the answer.

  ‘The Dolgoprudnaya. They’re very organized. A brigade. Six months ago they not only stole my lorries, they broke the arms of both drivers and both mates. People are frightened to work for me now.’ Agayans leaned across the desk, adding more brandy to Danilov’s glass. ‘I need help, Dimitri Ivanovich. I want things to be like they were before. I wanted to come to you, but I didn’t want to inconvenience you at your new place.’

  Danilov nodded his thanks for the discretion. ‘What about others like yourself?’

  ‘The same,’ confirmed Agayans.

  A mess in which he did not want to become involved, decided Danilov, at once. He’d come, finally, intending merely to re-establish contact and benefit in a way he believed would still retain his integrity, offering to buy at a price the man would fix what he’d known Agayans would have for sale: barely illegal, according to Russian standards. This was an entirely new dimension: territory upon which he couldn’t intrude. Kosov controlled the Militia district now. He had no power here any longer: no excuse for interceding. So what was he going to do? What reason could he even give for his presence there, that evening? Where was his escape? Lamely, regretting the words as he uttered them and swerving as he spoke, Danilov said: ‘I’m sorry. I wish … I had no way of knowing …’

  Agayans appeared to miss the mid-sentence change of direction. ‘So I am glad to see you. I know you’ll help.’

  Danilov guessed the other man would spot an obvious lie with the quickness of the entrepreneur he was. Slowly Danilov said: ‘You know I am not in this district any more. My influence is limited: hardly any at all. I can speak to Kosov: will speak to him. But there can’t be any promises.’ It was the best he could do: all that he could do.

  Agayans regarded him sombrely across the desk. ‘I see.’

  ‘Kosov is a friend,’ exaggerated Danilov, hopefully. ‘He will listen.’

  ‘He’s owned by the Dolgoprudnaya,’ stated Agayans, simply. ‘He’ll listen to them first.’

  ‘Let me speak with him.’

  The Armenian lifted and dropped his shoulders, in resigned defeat. ‘You didn’t know about my troubles, before this evening. So why did you come again, Dimitri Ivanovich?’

  Danilov shook his head, positively. ‘It doesn’t matter, not any more.’ Objectively he doubted that a new washing machine and access again to clothes she couldn’t buy in the shops would have helped his problems with Olga anyway. He was going to have to resolve the situation with his wife and Larissa soon. He wished he knew how.

  Russian intelligence control every airport, so Colonel Kir Gugin knew within an hour about Angela Hughes’s departure for Washington forty-eight hours after her husband’s recall, aware even that it was Ralph Baxter who accompanied the solemn-faced woman to Sheremet’yevo. The following day, the exit of Pamela Donnelly, the other woman with whom Hughes had been involved, was recorded with equal efficiency.

  Gugin decided the entire operation had gone perfectly. The Americans would be in turmoil. Should he leave it there? Or sow more seeds? There was no urgency.

  Barry Andrews arrived outside the FBI building half an hour before the scheduled appointment, so he killed time in the nearest coffee-shop, which ironically was at the Marriott Hotel in which Cowley had stayed, a few days earlier. A proper hotel, he recognized, angrily: not like the shit-hole into which he’d been booked across the river, at Pentagon City. Wrong to show the annoyance, though: have to calm down before the interview. It didn’t matter where he was staying: only there for a couple of days.

  It was still early when Andrews presented himself in the reception area of the Bureau headquarters. The clerk said Personnel were expecting him.

  Chapter Thirty

  Nadia Revin enjoyed what she did and did it well. But entirely on her own terms, only accepting clients whom she approved in advance, after meeting or at least seeing them. She did not actually consider herself a whore. Whores didn’t choose. She did. It elevated her from the level of the streets. She had never ever taken a person physically ugly or misshapen. Or fat: fatness was ugly. And most certainly never a drunk. They always had to be Western, of course, preferably American because of the payment in dollars. Englishmen often carried dollars, too, which made them acceptable. French she found mean. And Italians too effusive: during lovemaking several had actually tried to kiss her, which she’d found repugnant.

  Nadia was beautiful and knew it, although not conceitedly: how she looked and how she dressed, always in black-market Western clothes, was all part of a profession in which she was an expert and about which she had an ambition she was determined to achieve. She kept her hair blonde and extremely long, well past her shoulders, because men seemed to like it that way and it allowed her to wear several different styles, all of which she knew went well with the deep blackness of her eyes and her high Slavic cheek-bones. She was not big-busted and glad of it, because she thought of big breasts, which usually sagged, as she thought of fatness, although she knew some clients with tit obsessions were disappointed. As someone offended by fatness, Nadia was fastidious about her own weight, consulting scales daily, using her dollars on the uncontrolled open market to buy the vegetables and the fruit her one-meal-a-day diet dictated. Of course she never touched alcohol. Drugs, of every sort and so easily available on the streets of Moscow,
were even more unthinkable: heavy, normal smokers were on her list of rejected bed partners. She was long-legged, and that appeared to heighten her almost to six feet, although she was no more than five foot nine inches tall. The impression was largely conveyed by the way she held herself, extremely upright, chin and head high, flat stomach held taut. From Western films and magazines, she knew it was a model’s stance: she’d practised for several months, until it was now quite natural and automatic.

  She liked sex and knew all its variations. But while always ensuring every client was completely satisfied, she was as careful in its practice as she was about everything else. The dollars ensured Western-manufactured, black-market condoms which were far more sensitive than the thicker Russian product, and Nadia always insisted the men wore them, to protect herself from any sexual infections but particularly against AIDS. For the same reason she refused to engage in oral sex, although she never objected to a client performing cunnilingus upon her: she actually liked it. Occasionally men who described her figure as boyish wanted anal sex, which she allowed but again insisted upon a condom. She would not participate in group sex, even in a gathering as small as herself with two men, because she was aware of the physical dangers of the profession: she believed she could resist one man if a situation became ugly but not two. Neither had she ever participated in pornographic photographs, still or movie.

  Nadia’s preference — indeed the basis of her ambition — was a career as a selective call-girl. She rarely lingered in the foyers of the Western-currency hotels, like other whores: that would have identified her with them and she wasn’t one of them. Instead she waited in the tasteful apartment on Uspenskii Prospekt, near the Hermitage Gardens, waiting for telephone calls from well rewarded receptionists at the Savoy and the Metropole and the Intourist and the Moskva. She only actually went to the places after receiving the telephone message and even then, initially only to meet her prospective client, before deciding whether to accept him.

  If she did accept it, the encounter continued properly, as such things should. Nadia would never allow a fumbling, groping meeting: the back-against-the-wall couplings were for the street girls, not for her. It either had to be in the clients’ hotel rooms or at Uspenskii Prospekt, for which she always had her small BMW available, which had been expensive to buy and was a headache to protect from theft but was a sign of class: whores in Moscow did not possess cars. But she considered even that — your room or my apartment? — to be rushed. Nadia knew elegant, sophisticated call-girls didn’t rush. Lonely men enjoyed more than just sex: lonely men far from home wanted complete companionship. Nadia liked discreet, unhurried drinks — reciprocal trade for the cooperative hotels, after all — and then equally unhurried dinners in the hard-currency restaurants where the pace of service showed Western understanding, not Russian apathy. She was socially fluent in English and French. She knew the failings of glasnost and perestroika and could talk intelligently about them, just as she could talk intelligently about important political events in the West. And about Western films and Western books, because she read as well as spoke English and avidly studied the Wall Street Journals and the Herald Tribunes she bought from the various hotel outlets: sometimes, from contented clients, she even got the books she’d seen reviewed and described as bestsellers. They looked good on the bookshelves at Uspenskii Prospekt to those men who came home.

  She already had four regular clients who made contact whenever they were on business in Moscow, three American, one French. Two of the Americans now brought presents when they came. One lived in New York — he’d shown her photographs of the apartment in Manhattan and the weekend house in Westchester — and had said it would be terrific if she lived there instead of here, where he could only visit three times a year.

  Which was what Nadia intended to do — fulfilling her ambition by going to America — although not under his patronage. She’d had no need for male protection in Moscow and definitely intended retaining her independence in Manhattan. Her apartment would be high, with a view across the river, although she wasn’t sure which one because she hadn’t worked out the difference yet. She’d establish the same system as here, through receptionists and concierges and doormen: she didn’t imagine it would be difficult. She’d increase her list of regular clients, men who respected her, felt proud to have her beside them in restaurants. During the day, she’d shop at Bergdorf Goodman and Saks and Bloomingdale’s, which she knew were smartly sophisticated from what she’d read.

  Nadia had already made her visa application. The man from New York was due in another six weeks: at the moment she was undecided whether to ask him to sponsor her, which she understood would speed up her getting into America. She didn’t want the permanent, wrongly understood burden of him in America and guessed he would be nervous of the permanent, wrongly understood burden of her, imagining she wanted more than just an entry facility. It was something she had six weeks to think about, although she was already a long way towards deciding to ask the man. She had no family and therefore no ties to Moscow. Neither did she have the attitude about Russia that so many others did, as if they were tied to the country by some invisible umbilical cord.

  She felt the excited anticipation of someone embarking on a new career. Which was, she supposed, exactly what she would be doing. Very soon now.

  On this occasion there was no coffee served by broad-hipped ladies with iron-grey hair, and Ralph Baxter was already attentively with the ambassador, so Cowley guessed it was going to be a meeting of complaint, if not censure.

  It was and it began at once. Hubert Richards said: ‘I was to be told of everything involving this embassy. You blatantly withheld from me this disgraceful business of Hughes and Miss Harris. And of Miss Donnelly, who has also been withdrawn. Mrs Hughes, too, of course. And you brought a member of the Moscow Militia into the embassy without my permission, which should have been sought. The first proper information I received of any of this came from the State Department, to me here. Which is preposterous!’

  The ambassador had the hots echoed in Cowley’s head, from his interview with Judy Billington. Could Ralph Baxter be the other, unnamed diplomat who’d cried when he got too drunk to make love to the dead girl? Cowley supposed he could be censured for bringing Danilov on to the premises, but not for much else. He didn’t consider there was anything for which he had to make a grovelling apology. ‘The situation was governed by circumstances. The way it happened was unavoidable.’

  ‘Bringing a Russian detective into this embassy was avoidable,’ Baxter insisted, joining in the attack. ‘There was sufficient time to have fully briefed the ambassador before you returned to Washington. It would have then been quite possible to keep up the correct order of things, with us providing rather than receiving the information. It was all avoidable.’

  In tandem, Richards announced: ‘I am protesting to the Bureau. Both direct and through the State Department. Your behaviour was arrogant and disrespectful.’

  Momentarily Cowley couldn’t remember who else had been described as arrogant, and then recalled it had been Danilov, that first day: it seemed a favourite accusation at the embassy. How seriously would any complaint be taken against him? Everyone in Washington already knew the sequence of events: even that he’d brought a Russian investigator into the embassy. So the repeated news wouldn’t come as any startling revelation. ‘I don’t accept that I was either arrogant or disrespectful. But on the subject of information exchange, I consider I was not fully advised — which I could have been — about the sort of woman Ann Harris was. Now it’s no longer relevant: at the time I sought help, it might well have been.’ The two other Americans exchanged looks, and once more Cowley wondered if Baxter had been the disastrous one-night stand mocked by Judy Billington.

  ‘I want to know — now and fully — of anything else that might affect this embassy,’ Richards insisted.

  ‘You will have been warned of the security breach on telephone communication, into the embassy?’ questio
ned Cowley.

  Baxter nodded: ‘We have already been advised that electronics experts are flying in to conduct a survey throughout the embassy. The entire staff are anyway under permanent instructions to be guarded in what they say on an open phone line.’

  Advice that neither Ann Harris nor Paul Hughes had followed, thought Cowley. ‘There’s obvious concern that Hughes might have been isolated by Russian intelligence, as a blackmail target. The woman, too.’

  Richards nodded again, as if he already knew that, as well. ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Nothing,’ assured Cowley. He hoped neither man considered this the beginning of a complete information exchange between them. He certainly didn’t regard it as such.

  ‘The list of articles taken from Miss Harris’s flat refers to correspondence,’ said Baxter. ‘Does it contain anything that might cause any further possible embarrassment to this embassy?’

  Cowley looked steadily at the man. ‘Like what?’ he said, question for question.

  Baxter shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Anything.’

  You wanted information, thought Cowley: so squirm, you bastards. ‘I have reason to believe, from the letters and inquiries I made among her friends back in America, that Ann Harris had been involved in sexual liaisons with other men, in addition to Paul Hughes.’

  Both men regarded him impassively. It was Baxter who spoke. ‘Who?’

  ‘I don’t have names,’ said Cowley. Pointedly he added: ‘Not at the moment. I’m sure I’ll find out, by the end of the inquiry.’ There, he thought: sweat.

  Paul Hughes went through four days of unremitting polygraph interrogation by a rotating team of CIA technicians before the machine gave a blip, indicating an inconsistency. The questioning at that stage did not involve the KGB and blackmail: they were still building up a full historical profile, taking Hughes’s movements back to the time when his wife was on home leave and Vladimir Suslev had been killed. Asked specifically if he had been with Pamela Donnelly on January 17, Hughes said he had. And the polygraph needle jumped.