In the Name of a Killer cad-1

by Brian Freemantle

  There was a momentary impasse, the three of them crowded into the tiny hallway. Cowley thrust the chocolates towards her and said: ‘I wanted to get something different: more original. Sorry.’ He was stumbling, tongue-tied. It shouldn’t have been like this.

  ‘It was very thoughtful,’ Pauline accepted.

  ‘Let’s not hang around here!’ urged Andrews, propelling them further into the apartment. ‘Settle down! Relax!’

  The apartment was inferior to the suite he occupied in the newly built compound, the only point of comparison he had. The hallway wasn’t really a hallway at all, just an entry box with a clothes closet. The living-room was another box: literally squaresided and more cramped than it deserved to be by the inclusion of American furniture and converter-connected television and stereo equipment. The lid of a drop-down cocktail cabinet literally overhung one of the chairs, displaying the drinks. Cowley stood not knowing where to sit. Pauline stood not appearing to know what to do or say, either. Another impasse.

  ‘Drinks!’ bustled Andrews, enthusiastically, depositing the brandy among the regiment of bottles in the cocktail cabinet. ‘What are we all going to have to drink? Let’s relax! Enjoy ourselves!’

  Cowley chose the settee, needing it for his size. ‘Maybe a juice.’ He was conscious of Pauline’s frown.

  ‘Scotch,’ she said, still looking at Cowley.

  ‘Forgot that you didn’t, not any more,’ said Andrews, to the other man. ‘Need to get supplies.’

  As Andrews disappeared into the kitchen, Pauline said: ‘Barry told me but I didn’t believe it. Since when?’

  ‘Seems like forever.’

  ‘Which sounds like it’s difficult?’

  Cowley thought about it. ‘Not really. Sometimes. But not often.’

  ‘You’re looking good on abstinence.’

  ‘You’re looking good, too.’ Which was a lie. He was surprised about the greyness. There were the faintest of lines around her eyes, too. He still thought she looked wonderful.

  ‘It’s Boeuf-en-Croute,’ Pauline announced. ‘Liver pate and hot goose liver cooked together to start. We can get most things from the commissary if we plan ahead.’

  She’d remembered the favourite. Polite consideration, nothing more, he told himself. What more could there be? ‘I guessed it would be something special.’

  ‘It’s not,’ she insisted, modestly. ‘Just ordinary.’

  ‘How’ve you been?’

  ‘OK, I guess. Moscow’s difficult. Insular. Everyone is on top of everyone else here.’

  Andrews burst back in from the kitchen, grape juice in hand. ‘Pauline caught you on CNN today!’ At the cocktail cabinet the man poured himself a heavy Scotch, adding only one cube of ice. ‘Said you looked great. Very authoritative.’

  Pauline smiled, more widely this time, showing the teeth she had worried so much about having capped, because of the expense. ‘But you didn’t look very comfortable at times.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ Cowley admitted.

  ‘Not hugger-mugger with Senator Burden, he of all power and influence!’ exclaimed Andrews. ‘He’s the guy who makes careers in Washington.’

  ‘Or breaks them,’ Cowley pointed out.

  ‘That sounds interesting?’ demanded the resident FBI man.

  ‘I think I’m caught in a power play, back home: between a rock and a hard place.’

  ‘Then get out of it,’ Andrews advised. ‘This could be your big chance: we’ve talked about it. Don’t fuck it up.’

  ‘I’m trying not to,’ said Cowley. He avoided looking too quickly at Pauline: when they’d been married he had never sworn in front of her in company, believing it showed disrespect. When he did look, she seemed unaware of the obscenity.

  ‘Getting personal calls from the Director is pretty impressive stuff,’ insisted Andrews.

  ‘It’s the politics of the thing,’ Cowley dismissed. He looked once more to Pauline, curious if she would be bored by shop talk. She didn’t appear to be. But then she’d always been interested in the job.

  ‘Come on, buddy!’ urged Andrews. ‘You’re flying high: you know that. Lucky bastard.’

  ‘We’re not into an arrest situation yet,’ said Cowley.

  ‘It can’t be long.’

  ‘I thought William came for dinner, not interrogation,’ intruded Pauline, gently.

  Andrews was at the cabinet again, refilling his glass. ‘Just talking,’ he said. ‘Call it envy.’

  ‘I’ve things to do in the kitchen,’ said Pauline. To Cowley she added: ‘Meat still rare? And Italian dressing on the salad?’

  ‘The Goddess of the kitchen,’ said Andrews, proudly. He put his glass down heavily. ‘Shit! I forgot the wine. It’ll take me a minute to get some from the commissary. Keep everything on hold!’

  ‘I really don’t …’ began Cowley, but Andrews was already on his feet, hauling his protective coat about him. Cowley saw Andrews had changed his shirt beneath the same suit he had worn that day.

  ‘I need to check the cable traffic anyway: never forget the time difference with the outside world.’ The door slammed loudly behind him.

  Pauline sat back in her seat. ‘It won’t take long. Nothing will spoil.’

  ‘Does he often check cable traffic during the evening?’

  ‘You know Barry. Mr Ambition himself.’

  ‘That why he took this post?’

  She nodded. ‘Necessary career move. He expects to get Washington next time. We should hear soon.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘If he did get Washington, he would be working under you, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘Not unless he was assigned to the internal Russian division, within the United States,’ said Cowley. As its head he had the right of veto over staff appointments within his section, he remembered.

  ‘I was very nervous about tonight,’ admitted Pauline, suddenly. ‘Am very nervous.’

  ‘I wasn’t sure, either. I’m glad I came though. Very glad. It is good to see you again.’

  Pauline smiled, more easily than before. ‘I’m glad, too … I mean there’s no real reason why we shouldn’t have got together, is there …? And it is Moscow, which is different from anywhere else …’ She floundered to a halt. ‘Do you think you could get me another drink?’

  Cowley took her glass, curious at her difficulty. Surely …? He refused to let the question even form. Another thought intruded. There didn’t seem much personal feeling between her and Andrews. No tenderness, no touching. But had there been between him and Pauline, when they’d been together? Pauline wasn’t the type of woman who needed that sort of attention: she’d be uncomfortable with it. He said: ‘How long have you been drinking Scotch?’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A couple of years, I guess. But just socially. You really off it completely?’

  He returned with her drink, nodding. ‘Quite a while now.’

  ‘No relapse?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘That’s good.’

  Cowley was unsure whether the remark was genuine or just politeness. ‘I think so.’ She’d pleaded so much, so often: tried anger and tears and threatened the divorce there had eventually been. A new feeling came, with the recollection, a positive sorrow at how unhappy he must have made her. She hadn’t deserved it: not any of it.

  ‘What about …?’ she started, then stopped.

  ‘No,’ he said, guessing the incomplete question. Her other unhappiness: humiliation as well as unhappiness, his hand up every available skirt. He’d really given Pauline the whole package.

  ‘No one?’ Her surprise was obvious.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘That’s sad,’ she said, unexpectedly.

  Now he was surprised. ‘Why?’

  She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. It just is. I always thought you’d get married again. I kept waiting for something on a Christmas card. You’re the sort of person who needs to be married.’

  ‘With my track record!’ He was intrigued at he
r assessment. He wondered what was keeping Andrews at the embassy.

  Pauline’s shoulders rose and fell again. ‘Mistakes happen.’

  Was that how she’d categorized their marriage, a mistake that could be dismissed with a shrug? He didn’t want her to think of it like that. ‘You happy?’ he said, then at once: ‘No! I didn’t mean that! I’m sorry. That was out of order; forgive me!’

  She nodded, agreeing with his self-correction. ‘Who’s ever really happy?’

  ‘A lot of people.’ He shouldn’t push it like this.

  ‘I’m OK. Moscow’s not an easy place for anyone.’ She stood, abruptly. ‘Time I made the salad,’ she said, finding an excuse.

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  She grinned at him from the kitchen doorway. ‘I don’t think I can handle all these changes at one time.’

  Andrews’s return prevented any further conversation. There was a clink of bottles from a plastic sack. ‘Jesus, it’s cold out there!’ He smiled brightly, first at Cowley, then at Pauline’s reappearance, and said: ‘You guys been all right?’

  ‘You were a long time,’ the woman accused.

  Andrews held the plastic bag aloft. ‘Essential errand.’ He set the wine out on the table, three bottles each of red and white. To Cowley he said: ‘And there was a message for you. And I got ambushed. It was a busy, busy time.’

  ‘What message?’ demanded Cowley.

  Andrews left the table, for his wife to arrange the place settings and to clear all but two of the bottles on to a side dresser, offering Cowley the cable slip. ‘Blood content of the body is estimated to be two pints short, the predictable loss. So I guess she was killed in the street after all. The report is going to be in the overnight pouch, with some other stuff. Our medical people aren’t impressed by the standards of Russian autopsies, it would seem.’

  ‘What’s this about being ambushed?’ asked Pauline, from the table.

  Andrews replied still looking at the other man, not his wife. ‘Prescott, the Senator’s monkey. He was hanging around outside the office. Wanted to know if I was working with you on the murder. I said I wasn’t, to get him off my back. He seemed disappointed.’

  ‘What else did he say?’

  ‘Asked if I knew anything at all. I said I didn’t. He told me the Senator would be grateful if I could pass anything on: that he’d keep in touch.’

  ‘Everything you know is classified from everyone,’ said Cowley, repeating the earlier warning. ‘That includes Burden and the ambassador.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ assured Andrews. He lighted a cigar, slumping into a facing chair. ‘I’m glad this happened. Us getting together like this. Just like the old days, right?’

  ‘Close,’ agreed Cowley. They’d practically been a threesome in London. He supposed it had been inevitable that Pauline would turn to the other man, when things got as bad as they did between them.

  ‘Right that it should be like this. Adult.’

  ‘Yes.’ Cowley guessed the other man had had quite a few drinks before his arrival. Just as quickly he refused the criticism. How many times must Andrews have thought the same about him, at dinner parties in London? Had he sounded like this? Probably worse. Poor Pauline.

  ‘This is the social scene in Moscow, eating in people’s houses. Pauline and I will introduce you around: there are some great guys at the embassy.’

  ‘It could all be over quite soon,’ reminded Cowley. ‘I could be on my way back.’ What would the orders be from Washington tomorrow? He didn’t enjoy working like this, having constantly to delay and get guidance from the other side of the world. He would have liked to have confronted Hughes that afternoon, after getting all the Russian evidence.

  ‘I really don’t feel I’ve done enough, workwise.’

  ‘You’ve helped a lot,’ assured Cowley, meaning it. Andrews had taken a lot of the routine transmission stuff and evidence-logging off his shoulders. What would he say, if were asked about having Andrews in his Russian division back in Washington?

  ‘You want me to do anything more, all you’ve got to do is ask, OK? Really.’

  ‘OK,’ Cowley accepted.

  The meal was magnificent, as Pauline’s meals always were, and the evening became easier as they ate. By the end there were even reminiscences about their time in London together, the husband roles reversed, which Cowley imagined at first would have been difficult but wasn’t. Over coffee Andrews asked what it was like at Pennsylvania Avenue, without openly admitting his expectation to be posted there after Moscow, and Cowley talked of the differences from field work. ‘A lot of internal politics.’

  ‘But necessary, careerwise?’

  Mr Ambitious, thought Cowley, Pauline’s expression still in his mind. ‘Certainly the place to be seen and to impress.’

  ‘Just give me the chance,’ said Andrews, eagerly.

  The evening ended with their insistence that he should come again very soon and not stay by himself in the new compound and with other people from the embassy the next time. Cowley insisted in return that he should reciprocate by taking them to a restaurant they liked. At the door Pauline came forward for a parting kiss, which Cowley gave her lightly on the cheek, because it seemed quite natural to do so. He said he’d enjoyed it, which he had. And thought so again, back at the embassy suite.

  He wasn’t tired so he made himself coffee and sat thinking about the evening. He was intrigued by her response to the question he probably shouldn’t have asked, about her being happy. Unthinking answer to unthinking question, he decided. She seemed very quiet, deferring to Andrews’s approval a lot of the time. But that could have been his imagination. And was it any of his business? She wasn’t his wife any more. Not his responsibility. Not that he’d shown enough — none, which had been the problem — when they had been married. Their first protracted time together since the divorce, Cowley reflected. So how had it been for him? A lot of nostalgia. A lot of regret, too, at what he’d done in the past. Love? Of course. He’d never fallen out of love with her, just destroyed hers for him. You’re the sort of person who needs to be married. Was he? Cowley felt discomfited by the assertion. He certainly felt lonely, most of the time. Lost even. But easing loneliness wasn’t marriage. So what was his definition of marriage? A question he wasn’t qualified to answer: didn’t want to answer, certainly not tonight. If he wasn’t completely happy as he was, at least he wasn’t completely unhappy: he had made his private adjustments, marked his own boundaries. To anyone outside, he was a success. Only he felt otherwise: knew just how much he’d failed, a failure for which no professional achievement could compensate. He had enjoyed the evening. And would enjoy more with her. With them. And he wanted to take them out, too. Somewhere special. But where? No problem. He’d ask Danilov. Who better than one of the city’s foremost detectives?

  Would there still be amicable contact with Dimitri Danilov? With anyone in Moscow? Tomorrow there was the challenge to Paul Hughes, who had a tell-tale twisted finger and lateral pocket loops in his prints and who’d lied and whose intercepted conversation they now had with Ann Harris, talking of sex and pain and what they were going to do to each other. All to be exposed tomorrow. The warning he’d given Andrews that night would probably be right. Maybe there wouldn’t be the opportunity to meet other people from the embassy or for any more evenings with Andrews and Pauline or pay-back dinners in Moscow restaurants.

  Cowley was still feeling no fatigue and didn’t expect to sleep, but he did, very deeply, so he was distantly aware of the telephone ringing several times before he came sufficiently awake to lift it.

  ‘There’s been another one,’ announced Danilov. ‘She’s lived. I’ll be at the embassy for you in ten minutes.’

  The shaking wouldn’t stop: couldn’t stop. Huge, aching shudders. Had to stop it. Get control. Horrible. God, it had been horrible. Terrifying. She’d risen from the dead. Literally. Surged up from the pavement, screaming, snatching out. Sure she was dead; had to have been dead. Felt the k
nife slide in, although not as smoothly as usual. Felt the life go out of her. And she’d fallen like the others. Lifeless. Lay still while the hair came off. But then surged up, grabbing, as she’d gone on to her back. Screaming. Terrible, terrible screaming. Wouldn’t have seen. Couldn’t have seen. Impossible to be completely sure, though. No description. Too dark. Too confused. No danger then. Had to stop the shaking. It hurt. Ached. Bitch. Cow. Why hadn’t she stayed dead? That’s what she should have done, stayed dead. Only got a few buttons. And dropped most of the hair. Wasn’t the same, only a few buttons and so little hair. Second failure. Worse this time. She hadn’t seen, though: no description. Be able to do it again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  They approached the hospital well before dawn, driving hurriedly through empty, yellow-lit streets: Moscow was utterly deserted and cold, a moonscape with houses. The talk was stilted, just one or two-word exchanges: Danilov knew only that it was a woman in her thirties, that the attack had happened quite near her home on a street named Granovskaya, and that she’d survived. Pavin was already at the bedside.

  Cowley brought both their feelings into the open. ‘It was our fault. We spent all our time worrying about diplomatic niceties and gave him the chance to do it again! What the hell were we thinking of? It was all so obvious. We knew it could happen!’

  ‘She lived,’ repeated Danilov.

  ‘Luck. Nothing to do with us.’

  Cowley was initially numbed by the hospital. But for the very occasional sight of a uniformed nurse or a white-coated attendant he would not have believed himself in a hospital at all. Rather it was like moving through a tiled but condemned underpass taken over by squatters, maybe in New York’s Little Italy or Washington’s Anacostia. There was litter underfoot and even beds in the corridors, humped with sleeping, snuffling people like he’d seen in documentaries on American television of homeless derelicts who had moved into public facilities due to be demolished. It took Danilov a long time to find an attendant sufficiently interested to guide them to the emergency section, where there appeared to be more staff: certainly more activity. Here there were no overflow beds in the corridors. Strip lighting gave better illumination than in some of the earlier parts through which they had walked.