In the Name of a Killer

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘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 nodd
ed 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.

  Confident of himself and his language ability, gauged Cowley: stroke with velvet gloves, he remembered. ‘Why don’t we just work our way along with a combination of both? Anything I don’t get, I’ll ask: anything you don’t get, you ask.’

  Condescension? Or further politeness, like arriving ahead of time? Danilov said: ‘That sounds OK.’ He indicated the only visitor’s chair, which he’d cleared of file papers that morning. ‘Sit. Is there anything I can get you? Tea?’ He hoped Cowley didn’t accept: everything from the canteen was abysmal. The tea was like sewer water.

  ‘Not at the moment.’ The finger-touching courtesy was almost overdone. Cowley prevented himself making any examination of the cluttered office. Someone with little social contact since the break-up with Pauline, Cowley had spent a lot of the past three years watching television: this room reminded him of a natural history series he’d enjoyed, particularly the cut-away shots of underground nests of animals who’d dragged all sorts of crap into their holes and settled right in the middle of it.

  Danilov’s strongest impression was of the American’s size. The man filled the already overfilled room, the chair inadequate and lost beneath him. The suit, which wasn’t travel-creased, would have had to be specially made for him. Possibly the shirt, as well. Cowley’s hair was dark and tightly crinkled, beyond being wavy, combed straight back from a heavily lined forehead. The man had a direct, almost unblinking manner of looking at another person through eyes quite a light, almost unnatural, blue. As Cowley casually crossed one hand over the other, Danilov saw the heavy ring, with a large red stone, that Cowley wore on the little finger of his left hand: Danilov believed it had something to do with American college societies but wasn’t sure. The other American who had confronted him first at the embassy and then outside the girl’s apartment had worn a similar decoration. Cowley appeared quite at ease and relaxed in unfamiliar surroundings, showing no outward disquiet. In English Danilov said: ‘I suppose it is important for us to establish ground rules.’

  ‘Your choice,’ insisted Cowley. ‘I know all the exchanges between our two governments: my function is advisory …’ Cowley stopped, unhappy with the choice of words. ‘Help, where possible … to suggest technical or scientific ideas, maybe,’ he finished, badly. He hadn’t thought sufficiently before he spoke. And he really had been trying to appear friendly, conciliatory even to someone who would naturally regard his being in Moscow as an invasion of territory.

  People advised and offered help from superior positions or ability. Danilov guessed the American hadn’t meant to say that, not quite so bluntly. So what could have appeared the acceptance of a secondary role could equally be a patronizing one. Danilov moved consciously to stop the drifting analysis. Wasn’t there a danger, in constantly seeking several meanings from every word and phrase? He’d already decided, so many times that he’d lost count, that he was confronting an investigation more difficult than any he’d encountered before. And accepted he was getting nowhere. So he needed all the help he could find. He looked intently at the other man and thought once more, a professionally trained investigator. And then called to mind another previous reflection: the best-qualified man available. Wasn’t there more sense, more practical personal benefit, in putting to one side the suspicion and resentment, none of which had been caused by this man, to take advantage of the fresh mind and the fresh approach? ‘I don’t imagine it’s going to be easy, for us to adjust to working together. But if it is to work, we’ve got to be totally open with each other. Which I’m prepared to be.’ Danilov was sure the offer had sounded completely right, without any of the cynical opportunism that was there.

  Where was the sneaky, smart-assed son-of-a-bitch motherfucker? wondered Cowley. Respond in kind, he concluded, this time thinking ahead of what he was about to say. He smiled again, taking any criticism from the remark, and said: ‘It didn’t get off to a very good start at the embassy, did it?’

  Danilov smiled back, briefly. ‘Misunderstandings on both sides.’

  Cowley nodded, accepting the inference of a new start. So why not let it run that way, completely to ease his way in? All he had to do was to remain alert; careful against any advantage being taken from him. ‘Those ground rules suit me fine. Which means I’m missing the forensic examination of her apartment. Whatever the importance might have been from what you took from it. And if there was anything of importance in what’s simply listed as “correspondence” which you also removed.’

  Cowley had itemized everything a trained detective would need to see, in addition to whatever had already been made available. Testingly, Danilov said: ‘My assessment? Or the material?’

  He would probably have posed the same question himself, Cowley acknowledged. ‘Both. But the material first: I don’t want to assume any preconceptions you might express, in advance of my seeing what evidence is available.’

  Danilov again recognized the correct professional reaction. ‘Everything’s along the corridor.’

  There was certainly no room for it in this nest, thought Cowley: he hoped he hadn’t let his attention wander. ‘I’d better start getting up to date.’

  Cowley thought the Russian exhibit room pitiful: three baizetopped, collapsible tables (one containing a map, the other completely barren), two obviously new filing cabinets (presumably unfilled), two long-corded telephones, brown Formica everywhere (Formica wall strips and Formica panelling and Formica wall platforms), and heightening the whole scene into farce a new, multi-horned pedestal coat-rack upon which no coats hung. And with no office personnel whatsoever. In America, had the murder victim been a Russian diplomat with the sort of political connections of Ann Harris, there would have additionally been a computer bank, staffed by operators, possibly a mini-telephone exchange, an exhibit and evidence controller in charge of an assembly group and at least three more display boards, one clearly indicating hour-by-hour and day-by-day progress. Cowley said: ‘Seems pretty well organized to me.’

  Danilov looked at the American curiously, pointing towards the one occupied exhibit table. ‘That’s what you want. I’ll be back in my office. Take your time.’

  Cowley lowered himself to the table as the Russian left the room but did not move at once to the document files, trying instead to assess the encounter. It barely qualified as preliminary. But was useful nevertheless. Certainly very different from what he might have expected from the warnings from Barry Andrews. So Barry had mishandled it, at the beginning. He wouldn’t completely ignore the warnings, though. He would simply wait, as he’d always intended to wait, to reach his own judgement on the Russian investigator. What was that judgement so far? Ill-dressed and uncomfortable with it, from the frequent shrugging together of his jacket and the fingering of his tie, against his crumpled shirt. But reasonably sure of himself, which was an advantage. In Cowley’s operational past, personal uncertainty of any sort in a partner – and he had to think of the Russian as a partner – had always been a hindrance as well as sometimes a danger in the field. He thought Danilov was clever, too. If there was one conclusion – premature maybe, wrong possibly – that Cowley had reached about Dimitri Danilov it was that the man was definitely not a fool. Which was another advantage. Enough, so early in the acquaintanceship: perhaps more than enough. He leaned forward for the first of the correspondence bundles.

  Back along the corridor, Danilov reached the Director at the first attempt on the internal telephone, anxious to cancel the pointless afternoon briefing. The meeting with the American had seemed to go reasonably well, he assured Lapinsk. Cowley was now studying the outstanding documentation. After which they were to talk again. Beyond that, there was nothing to report apart from forensic proof that the notes referring to pain which had been retained by Ann Harris had been
written on American paper in American-manufactured ink: the report had been waiting when he’d returned from the morning briefing, which was why he hadn’t mentioned it then.

  ‘It’s amicable, then?’ demanded the Director, an elderly man needing to be reassured more than once.

  ‘It seems to be, so far,’ said Danilov.

  ‘How much does he know?’

  ‘We’ve only talked about the woman at the moment.’

  There was a burst of coughing. ‘Call me at once if any problems arise later. I want to be warned in advance.’

  Pavin entered the office as Danilov replaced the receiver. The Major said: ‘How’s it gone?’

  ‘We’ve agreed on complete openness. He’s looking at the correspondence and the forensic report on the flat. It’s really too early to decide what sort of man he is.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll keep his word about sharing everything?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Danilov admitted. ‘We’ll have to see.’ Did he intend sharing everything? And how could he check on the other man’s honesty? He was going to have to remain very alert.

  ‘He’s certainly big enough,’ said Pavin, another big man. ‘I was downstairs when he arrived. He came by ordinary taxi. I thought there would have been an embassy car but there wasn’t. Just an ordinary street taxi.’ Pavin appeared surprised.

  ‘We’re talking again, when he’s completely filled himself in. You’d better be here, to meet him.’

  ‘How good is his Russian?’

  ‘Seems all right.’ The two men looked at each other, nothing left to say and with nothing positive left to do. An absolute cul-de-sac, Danilov thought again. He was genuinely anxious now to expand the conversation with the American, to see if a fresh mind would come up with anything new. Only four more days before the next Tuesday, he remembered. ‘What about the case history search of psychiatric clinics?’