In the Name of a Killer cad-1

by Brian Freemantle

  The uniformed Moscow militiamen on duty outside the American embassy had clearly been alerted to their coming by Militia Post 122. They were deferentially admitted through the main entrance and directed by a secondary guard of American marines from an inner courtyard to the right of the mansion. The door they approached was mostly glass. The reflection was distorted, but Danilov decided he’d been right about the haircut: the greyness wasn’t obvious at all now. The mirrored image made him seem smaller, too, dwarfed by the ponderous Pavin behind. The only advantage was that he also looked slimmer, with no hint of the developing paunch about which both Olga and Larissa mocked him, one more gently than the other. The suit looked smart but it was only just a year old, one of the few genuinely bought articles after the halcyon period heading a Militia district.

  There was a reception desk where Danilov identified them both and asked for Ralph Baxter by name. The American appeared at once, a slight, quick-moving man with rimless spectacles and a moustache that seemed too big in proportion to the rest of his features. His shirt collar was secured behind the knot of his tie with a pin: Danilov had seen Americans wearing that style on television and wished such shirts were available in Moscow. He would have been happy with any sort of clean shirt that morning.

  Baxter said: ‘Dobrah’eh ootrah’ in badly accented Russian and offered a weak handshake. He turned at once to a man who had followed along the corridor and said in English: ‘Will you ask them to come into the office?’ To the receptionist Baxter said: ‘Warn Barry we’re on our way.’

  The translator was intense and young, leaning forward when he spoke and carefully picking the grammar and the intonation. Danilov guessed it was the man’s first posting, after language school.

  The corridor was buffed to a highly polished sheen and the walls hung with prints of American pastoral scenes. Halfway along there was a large plant in a tub, the wide green leaves almost as glossy as the floor all around. Baxter halted at the far end and stood back, gesturing the two Russians ahead of him. Danilov concluded it was not a working office at all but an interview or conference room. Another man rose at their entry. His hair was thinner than Danilov’s. He wore a double-breasted sports jacket, a hard-collared shirt with a club tie and sharply creased trousers: the impeccable appearance was completed by highly polished brogues. Barry, guessed Danilov, from what he had overheard in the foyer.

  ‘My colleague,’ said Baxter, offering no further introduction.

  There was another nod but no handshakes.

  Baxter indicated chairs set against the table: the Americans placed themselves in a facing half-circle and Baxter said: ‘We have been told this is a police matter. Serious. Possibly involving an American national.’

  The intense young man’s translation was completely accurate. Pavin took out a notebook and prepared to write. The American in the sports jacket did the same.

  Danilov outlined the finding of a young woman wearing American-labelled clothes earlier that morning, saying nothing about the shorn head, the buttons or the shoes. ‘Has any American employed here failed to turn up for work this morning?’

  Baxter shrugged. ‘Maybe. Personnel aren’t all rostered at the same time. There are usually people sick.’

  Danilov accepted he was going to have to produce the pictures Pavin had collected before they’d left Petrovka. They were good reproductions but the harsh whiteness of the spotlights had made the snarling face even more grotesque. He took the file from his briefcase. There were six facial photographs, each from different angles. He separated them so that all were displayed before sliding them across the table.

  The American in the sports jacket said: ‘Holy shit!’

  Baxter said: ‘Oh dear God!’ and repeated it, three times.

  The young translator blanched and swallowed several times. It seemed difficult for him to do so. When Danilov asked: ‘Is she attached to the embassy?’ it seemed a long time before anyone responded.

  ‘Ann Harris,’ identified Baxter, dully. ‘Her name is Ann Harris. She is a …’ He stopped, to correct himself. ‘… was a member of our economic section.’ He paused again, then said: ‘Oh my God!’

  So the identification had not proved the protracted difficulty it might have been, Danilov acknowledged. A minimal break-through: he was not encouraged.

  The American named Barry said: ‘What else, apart from the hair? Was she violated in any other way?’

  ‘There was no physical indication at the scene,’ replied Danilov, able to remain strictly truthful. ‘There is an autopsy being performed today.’ I hope, he thought.

  ‘You any idea the heat this is going to bring down?’ demanded the man, talking sideways to Baxter. ‘Her uncle is Walter Burden, for Christ’s sake: chairman of the Ways and Means Committee …! He’s got more power than God. And he doesn’t like Moscow …! Oh holy shit!’

  An American Congressman! Politically it couldn’t be worse, Danilov recognized instantly. He went expectantly to the interpreter. Baxter intercepted the look and said quickly: ‘Don’t translate that!’

  ‘Say something!’ demanded Barry. ‘He’s staring at you: they both are!’

  ‘Say we’re shocked,’ instructed Baxter. ‘Horrified.’

  Danilov waited, forever patient. ‘Ann Harris was unmarried?’

  ‘Why?’ The question came from Barry.

  ‘I need all the information possible.’

  Again Barry spoke only to the other American. ‘I’m going to have to take this over, of course. Washington will insist. No investigation could be left to these guys! They’re amateur night, win a balloon and a lollipop if you get past the first clue.’

  ‘Shut up!’ Baxter’s recovery was difficult. ‘We’ll have this sort of discussion later.’

  Danilov decided he’d let it run long enough. ‘Was Ann Harris a single girl?’ he repeated.

  ‘Yes.’ It was Baxter.

  ‘Any relationships?’

  ‘What does that mean?’ Barry intervened.

  ‘Did she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘Why?’ he persisted.

  ‘I’m investigating the murder of a young girl. I have to know as much as I can about her.’

  The words came from Baxter like heavy footsteps. ‘She was single. An extremely popular girl: highly competent and highly respected, from the ambassador down. She did not have a regular boyfriend: any romantic involvement at all of which I am aware.’

  On this occasion the other American’s statement was direct, intended for translation. ‘This is a maniac: a perverted maniac.’

  ‘It would appear so.’

  ‘I tell you, it’s amateur night!’ came the repeated aside.

  Baxter turned to the man, irritably. ‘And I told you to shut up! You’ll get your chance, soon enough.’

  The contemptuous man sneered at the rebuke. Maintaining the expression, he said to the Russian: ‘So what are you doing?’

  Danilov was abruptly impatient: it had to be the tiredness. He said: ‘Starting at the beginning. Hoping to get to the proper end.’

  ‘I saw the movie!’ The sneer remained.

  Now a wash of definite fatigue engulfed Danilov, like a wave. How would they have reacted, if he’d spoken next in perfect English? They’d been extremely careless. There might be some excuse, because they would have been shocked, but he found it difficult to allow them very much. He said: ‘There was a key, in her pocket: to her apartment, obviously. I need the address.’

  ‘Hold on here now, Ralph!’ said the perpetual critic to the one identified man. ‘We can’t have Russia’s answer to Dick Tracy going through her things. We’ve got to insist on diplomatic protection.’

  Danilov wondered who Dick Tracy was.

  Baxter said: ‘I need proper guidance on this. Why the hell was she like she was; you know what I’m saying.’

  ‘I’ll get a handle on it, as soon as Washington puts the pressure on for me to take control,’ Barry assured him.

  ‘We’ve got behind with th
e translation,’ protested Danilov, mildly. ‘I asked for the lady’s address.’

  ‘I don’t have it, to hand,’ avoided Baxter, weakly.

  ‘It wouldn’t take more than a few moments to obtain, would it?’

  ‘There’s a great deal for us to consider. To discuss,’ said the diplomat, still avoiding.

  ‘Of course there is,’ agreed Danilov. ‘That doesn’t affect my getting her address, does it?’

  ‘Stall the bastard, Ralph!’ ordered his companion. ‘I don’t give a fuck how you do it, but stall him. If Washington hear we’ve let them stumble around we’re each of us going to be swinging in the wind with piano wire round our balls. Jesus, what a fucking mess!’

  FBI, guessed Danilov: and just as presumptuous and conceitedly believing himself above all censure as every KGB investigator Danilov had ever encountered, which fortunately had not been too many. Danilov supposed the discussion would have already begun about poor, brutally shorn Ann Harris at Security Agency headquarters in Lubyanka Square.

  Baxter made a conscious effort to compose himself. The American said: ‘This has been an appalling shock. She was a girl we all knew. Respected.’

  ‘I understand that,’ said the Russian detective.

  ‘We need the opportunity to discuss it: there are family to be advised, in America.’

  ‘I understand that, too.’

  ‘I would ask you to give us an hour or two.’

  ‘I don’t follow the reasoning.’

  ‘To discuss things, here in the embassy.’

  ‘I still don’t follow,’ persisted Danilov. ‘Any discussion here — the way you advise the family — is entirely a matter for you. All I want is an address, so I can continue my inquiries.’

  ‘We’d like to have that discussion, before we go any further,’ refused the desperate Baxter.

  Danilov intentionally let the silence build across the table between them. Finally he said, accusingly: ‘You are obstructing a criminal investigation into the murder of an American citizen.’

  ‘No!’ protested Baxter.

  ‘Don’t let him pressure you, Ralph,’ warned the other man.

  The good old days that Pavin yearned for weren’t completely gone, Danilov reflected: there might still be an inquiry avenue open to him. But first this had to be concluded. He said: ‘I regret you have refused greater cooperation.’

  ‘Fuck him!’ said the contemptuous one, after the dutiful translation. ‘This jerk won’t be around much after today.’

  ‘I regret that this is your opinion,’ Baxter said to the Russian, with diplomatic stiffness.

  Danilov looked too obviously at his watch, surprised nevertheless at the lateness. ‘We will leave you the location of the mortuary. I will need a member of this embassy there at exactly three o’clock tomorrow, for formal identification …’ The pause was as theatrical as the time-check. ‘… You will appreciate, of course, that there can be no question of releasing the body until all our inquiries are completed …’

  ‘Now wait a goddamned minute …’ said the critic. ‘Burden will go apeshit at the thought of his niece preserved here, on ice.’

  ‘I cannot accept that,’ protested Baxter, to Danilov, with increased professional formality. ‘I will personally make that identification and at the same time present both to you and to your Foreign Ministry the positive request for the return of the body of Ann Harris.’

  ‘Until all our inquiries are completed,’ echoed Danilov.

  ‘We’ll burn his ass,’ said the sneering American, looking directly and venomously at Danilov. ‘I’ll personally burn his ass.’

  ‘I think I have to talk to your superiors,’ said Baxter.

  ‘There is probably the need for higher authority on both sides,’ said Danilov. Be careful at the embassy, he remembered again. Beside him Pavin tore the mortuary address from his notebook. ‘Three o’clock,’ Danilov reminded, passing it across to Baxter. At the same time he began to pick up the photographs still displayed.

  ‘I want those,’ insisted the American who had done most of the talking. ‘They’re evidence I shall need.’

  Baxter said, through the interpreter: ‘We would like to keep the photographs.’

  Danilov completed the collection, tapping them tidily into their folder. ‘They are official police exhibits, the property of the Moscow Militia.’

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ exploded the predictable American.

  Danilov rose, before anyone else. Pavin followed, very quickly. Danilov said: ‘Thank you again, for this meeting,’ and stood waiting for Baxter to escort them from the building.

  The journey back to the exit was made in complete silence. At the door Baxter did not appear to know what to do. Finally he said: ‘I have the mortuary address.’

  ‘I’ll be expecting you,’ said Danilov.

  Pavin waited until he had negotiated the embassy forecourt and they were back on Ulitza Chaykovskaya before he spoke. He said: ‘I didn’t need a translation to know it was bad.’

  ‘She’s related to an American Congressman.’

  ‘Mother of Christ!’

  Danilov wondered if the Major genuinely had any religious beliefs: they’d never discussed it. Neither had they ever discussed special arrangements possible in this new Militia district from which Danilov might have benefited, as he’d benefited before. He was sure Pavin would have a source: probably several. Everybody had their special sources. ‘They don’t think we’re competent enough. They expect to take over. They refused to tell me where she lived.’

  ‘Do we go back to Petrovka?’

  ‘No. Drive slowly towards the scene. She wasn’t dressed to go out walking, in that temperature. She probably lived close.’

  ‘The embassy compound, surely?’ Pavin frowned.

  ‘Some embassy staff live outside,’ said Danilov. ‘It’s worth checking.’ His first call from the car telephone was to the Foreign Ministry. He quoted his official ID, explained in great detail to the Records division what he wanted and promised to call back. The clerk, a man, said the checks might be difficult. Danilov said he’d try anyway. Danilov’s second call took longer, because he had to be transferred through several departments to put the forensic team on standby. They were back in the side road off Gercena before he tried to reach Lapinsk. As he dialled he looked out to where Ann Harris had lain, spread-eagled, only a few hours before. The small amount of bloodstaining had congealed like black oil, not red, and the chalked outline was practically trodden away beneath the morning dampness of slightly thawed frost and fog. Unnoticing, unconcerned people were scuffing over the blood and chalk with the toe-to-heel care of Russians expert in walking over slippery, frozen surfaces.

  ‘Why haven’t you come back here?’ demanded the Director.

  ‘I need to seal the flat.’

  ‘There’s been an official complaint, through the Foreign Ministry! What the hell happened?’ There were several barking coughs.

  After a detailed explanation Danilov said: ‘They expect to take control. I don’t know the man’s name but I think he’s FBI.’

  ‘It’s preposterous — arrogant — for them to imagine that!’

  ‘I hoped that’s how you’d feel.’

  There was a momentary silence, from the other man. Then Lapinsk said: ‘I’ve been called to the Foreign Ministry. The Agency for Federal Security have been summoned too.’

  ‘Do you want me to be there?’ suggested Danilov. It hadn’t taken long for the pressure to begin.

  ‘Novikov is doing the autopsy this morning: I told him to expect you. Stay on the investigation. Did you tell the Americans about the other business?’

  ‘No. Or everything that happened to the girl.’

  ‘I accept you were badly treated. I’ll see that a protest is made, to counter theirs.’

  The Records clerk at the Foreign Ministry said they had been lucky: it was the benefit of the new Western-style computerization. The official registration details of Ann Harris, an Americ
an national, for whom a diplomatic visa had been issued in May the year before last, listed her address as Ulitza Pushkinskaya 397. The man, who was obviously a gossip, asked what she’d done wrong. Danilov told him it was nothing, a technical matter.

  ‘Outside the compound!’ Danilov announced triumphantly, to Pavin, keeping the telephone in his hand to summon the waiting forensic scientists.

  ‘The Americans are going to be furious.’

  ‘I’m not exceeding any authority,’ Danilov insisted. ‘The address is not within the official diplomatic residencies.’

  ‘It’s probably still considered diplomatic territory, beyond our jurisdiction.’

  ‘We’ll worry about that later,’ decided Danilov. He paused. Then he demanded, suddenly: ‘Who’s Dick Tracy?’

  Pavin frowned quickly across the car. ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘I’m curious.’

  Over the next three hours the repercussions of Ann Harris’s murder rippled quickly throughout widely differing parts of the world.

  The American Secretary of State was halted by an aide just before taking off for Hyannisport for a sea fishing trip. He decided to cancel.

  On Capitol Hill, in Washington, DC, a polite State Department officer hesitantly entered the Dirksen Building suite of Senator Walter Burden and said: ‘I am afraid, sir, there’s some unpleasant news. The Secretary of State asks you to call. He wishes to tell you personally.’

  At the FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue, at the bottom of Capitol Hill, a priority cable arrived from Moscow and because of Ann Harris’s family connections was hurried immediately to the Director. Although the Director was a judge himself, he convened a conference of the Bureau’s legal department.