Pamela Donnelly was interviewed the same day, in the more formal and intimidating surroundings of the FBI headquarters in Washington. Pressed repeatedly, the girl said she was sure she and Hughes had been together throughout Angela Hughes’s absence. After three hours she admitted there had been two nights when she and Hughes had been apart. She couldn’t remember if one of those nights had been January 17: in tears she finally conceded it could have been.
‘Hughes could be triggering the machine because he knows the significance of January 17,’ one technician pointed out, during a break.
‘Or he could be a murderer,’ said his more cynical partner.
‘The machine doesn’t react when he’s directly asked if he killed them.’
‘A polygraph isn’t infallible. You know that.’
In his fifth-floor office, Leonard Ross decided against alerting Cowley in Moscow to the apparent inconsistency. There had been too many false starts. He decided, with his legal training, that he needed more and better evidence.
Chapter Thirty-One
Cowley’s evening with Pauline at the embassy club was less difficult than he thought it might have been. Richards did not attend but Baxter did, and although not openly affable, the man played host like the trained diplomat he was, constantly introducing Cowley to embassy staff, always close at hand to move him on from group to group. There was steak and ribs and salad with the choice of five dressings. Cans of American beer floated in bins of gradually melting ice, alongside a selection of hard liquor and rows of Californian wine. A juke-box claimed to contain the latest American top ten: the attempts at dancing were awkward and quickly abandoned, despite the efforts of the sing-along marine detachment with their once-a-fortnight permitted excuse to get close to secretaries and female researchers and archive staff. One of the marines won the raffle: the prize was a child-sized white bear that growled when it was bent forward. The marines kept doing it. From what he believed he had learned of Ann Harris, Cowley found it easy to understand why the dead woman boycotted the majority of such occasions.
A lot of people had obvious difficulty restraining themselves from asking about the murders or Paul Hughes or both. Some — usually on their way to drunkenness — were not restrained. Cowley blocked every attempt at prolonged talk about either, repeating that he was forbidden to discuss any ongoing investigation or anything about the financial director. He lied that he did not know the reason for the man’s recall. All he allowed was that they were hunting a maniac and that it was a difficult case. He agreed with everyone that Ann Harris had been a wonderful girl. Several times, when the conversation appeared to be getting too persistent, Baxter intervened to suggest that there were other people he had to meet. Cowley didn’t encounter anyone, during the social exchanges, who actually said they liked Moscow. Always stated during any conversation about Moscow in particular and Russia in general was the precise length of time — occasionally detailed in days — their tour still had to run.
He thought Pauline looked very good: beautiful, he’d decided, when he’d collected her from the apartment. Her hair appeared less flecked with grey, making him suspect a home tint, and the tiny lines around her eyes weren’t there any more. She wore dark blue, with a white blouse edged in a matching colour, which he thought suited her better than red. There was no difficulty, either, in their being together, because except for their arrival they rarely were: Pauline made the initial introductions, before Baxter took over, and then she mingled with her friends, only occasionally joining up with him. He noticed she drank Scotch again. He took root beer. They sat at the same benched table to eat, with about eight other people: Cowley just managed half his T-bone. Pauline only bothered with salad and didn’t eat all of that.
Cowley caught her yawning a couple of times around ten o’clock and she agreed to leave the moment he suggested it. It needed another fifteen minutes for Cowley to make his farewells. A lot of people said they’d see him around: Cowley thought they probably would.
She took his arm quite naturally as they circled the embassy block to get to the old, attached compound where she lived: he couldn’t remember their walking like that when they had been married. He liked it. Pauline said: ‘Pretty grim, eh?’
‘People were very nice to me. I enjoyed it.’
‘Another revelation about the new William Cowley,’ said Pauline, lightly. ‘Now the diplomat! It wasn’t too bad, I suppose. I think I enjoyed it too.’
They got to the entrance to the compound. Cowley stood back, for her to enter. She held the door open behind her, so he followed. Inside the apartment she said: ‘It’s not booze, so I guess it’s coffee. Pour me a small Scotch, will you?’
Cowley did so, thinking it was all very relaxed and easy: two people who had grown used to each other over a very long time quite comfortable in each other’s presence, not needing to give any sort of performance to impress or please. Happily married people. He wished it were still so.
He encountered her at the door of the minuscule kitchen, on his way to get ice. Without any exchange of words they swapped drinks, for her to get her own. He chose an easy chair. She sat on a couch, directly opposite, on the far side of the room. Too far away, he thought. And immediately corrected himself. He shouldn’t make any stupid move, to spoil everything. She wasn’t his wife any more.
‘Much pressure about Ann and Paul?’
‘Quite a bit,’ he said. ‘I got very good at dodging.’
‘Me too. People think I’ll know all about it.’
‘Do you?’
She nodded. ‘Barry’s told me some. It was pretty common knowledge that Ann moved about a bit, but I didn’t know she was quite like she was.’ She stopped, then quickly added: ‘I didn’t say anything to anyone, of course. Barry briefed me not to: it was like listening to you, all over again.’
Cowley nodded, knowing she wasn’t lying. Pauline had always been absolutely honest: his deceit when they were married had always been in complete contrast. ‘It’s thrown up a bad security situation at the embassy.’
‘Barry’s worried it might reflect upon him: you know what he’s like, about anything affecting his career.’
‘You looking forward to going back home?’
‘I guess.’
Cowley frowned. ‘You don’t sound sure.’
She shrugged. ‘Course I’m sure.’ Pauline looked briefly into her glass. ‘He’s going to ask to stay in the Russian division. That means you have to agree, doesn’t it?’
Cowley smiled, although sadly. ‘We’ve already talked about it, he and I. Of course I won’t do anything to block him.’
‘Some people in your position would, given the opportunity.’
‘I could be pissed off with that sort of remark.’
Pauline coloured, slightly. Hurriedly she said: ‘I didn’t mean … I’m sorry … that was rude …’
‘Hey!’ said Cowley, surprised at her distress. ‘I only said I could be. I’m not.’
‘I’m glad you and Barry are getting on OK,’ she said.
‘Just me and Barry?’
‘Don’t.’
‘What did you mean the other night, about being happy?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you happy?’
‘Enough. Maybe …’
‘Maybe what?’
‘I was always sad we couldn’t have kids, you and me. Barry refused, always. Some crap about not wanting to bring children into a bad world. I wish he hadn’t.’
Cowley got the impression Pauline was staring into her glass to avoid him seeing her emotion. Illogically — cruelly, if it mattered so much to her — he was glad that Andrews and Pauline hadn’t had children. It … He stopped the thought developing, annoyed at himself.
‘I’m sorry, beginning this conversation. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘It’s OK.’ Pauline took a deep breath and said: ‘Did you and Barry sort out the problems of the world the other night? You took long enough.’
‘I gu
ess,’ said Cowley, accepting the change of subject.
‘We’ve bought a house in Washington. About two years back. At Bethesda. It’s out on rental at the moment.’
Back on safe ground, thought Cowley. ‘If Barry’s application goes through it’s not automatic he will get Washington,’ warned Cowley. ‘There’s a bigger counter-intelligence detachment in New York and San Francisco.’
‘If Barry did get Washington, we’d all be in the same city.’
‘Yes.’
‘I think I’d like that.’
‘Me too,’ said Cowley. She was guiding the conversation now, not him.
‘As friends. Not for any silly reason.’
‘Sure.’ He decided not to press what she meant about silly reasons. He’d enjoyed himself — was enjoying himself — but imagined the evening would have been more uncertain if Andrews had been with them.
‘This isn’t difficult, is it?’ she demanded, presently. ‘Us being together like this, by ourselves?’
‘Not difficult at all.’ Not true, he thought: always a liar.
Pauline smiled, holding out her glass. Guessing his thoughts as he poured more whisky she said: ‘Don’t worry. Our roles haven’t been reversed.’
‘I wasn’t thinking that,’ he said. Another untruth.
‘I just feel like it tonight. This will be the last.’
Cowley returned with her drink. ‘Have you heard from Barry while he’s been in Washington?’
She shook her head. ‘Just a message today through the embassy that he’s on his way back. Before he left he said he hoped to get some indication if he’s going to get your division: even talked about checking out the house in Bethesda, to make sure we could take it over when we got back.’ She smiled, shrugging. ‘You know Barry: always sure things are going to go the way he wants.’
Had that been the way the man had thought when they were all friends together in London, planning to move in on Pauline? As realistically objective as he could ever try to be — disregarding all the times he conceded the abject failings that had destroyed his marriage — Cowley knew he would never ever be able completely to forgive or exonerate Andrews for what had happened. It wasn’t going to be easy — not for him, at least — if they were all in the same town together. ‘I’m not sure he’ll get a steer that quickly. He may.’
Pauline completed her drink, held the glass up for examination and declared: ‘Finished!’
Cowley had only drunk half his coffee. What remained was cold. ‘I should be going.’
‘Barry says the case is stymied: that there’s nothing to work on, now that Paul’s been eliminated,’ she said.
‘There’s a few ongoing, routine things. Nothing positive.’
‘Barry says it could affect you badly at the Bureau if you don’t get an arrest.’ Still that disturbing honesty.
‘It could.’
‘He’ll kill again, won’t he?’
‘Inevitably, unless we get him first.’
Pauline shuddered. ‘Sometimes I’m scared.’
From looking after him for so long, nearly thirty years in a few months time, Valentina Yezhov knew how he would agree to be touched and how he wouldn’t. He didn’t mind his hands being held, the way she’d held them when he was a child, comforting and reassuring him by her presence. She sat directly before him, both of his hands in hers, their knees touching, and said: ‘A man came back. Another one. People want to talk to you. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’ve done.’
‘Nothing,’ insisted Petr Yezhov. ‘Nothing wrong.’
‘So why do they keep coming? There must be something you’re not telling me.’
‘Isn’t.’
‘Look at me, Petr!’ his mother insisted. ‘I want you to look me fully in the eyes and tell me there’s nothing.’
Yezhov’s eyes flickered towards hers but couldn’t hold.
‘Look at me!’ she commanded, loudly. ‘Look honestly at me!’
This time the look lasted slightly longer before his eyes wavered and dropped. ‘Didn’t do anything. Don’t want them here. Tell them to go away.’
‘You don’t want to go into one of those places again, do you Petr?’
‘No!’ said the man, making himself look at her fully at last because of the importance, needing to convince her. ‘Won’t. Ever.’
‘You will, if you’ve done something you haven’t told me about. You’ll be locked up for longer this time: much longer.’
‘No!’ whimpered the man, clutching at his mother’s hands until they began to hurt. ‘Won’t. Haven’t done anything.’
The media demands, fuelled by Senator Burden’s initial complaints, increased rather than diminished because of what the press regarded as official and suspicious silence. There was open opinion and comment column criticism of an inept and clumsy Moscow statement, released through the Tass news agency, that there were lines of inquiry that at the moment could not be made public, but which it was hoped would lead to a positive development. Newspaper, magazine and television suspicion was greatest in Washington where, in a dramatic reversal, Senator Burden’s office announced there would be no further press conferences or public statements about the murder of Ann Harris. Senator Burden had been given private reassurances that everything possible was being done to bring the murderer to justice: any further discussion would be counter-productive.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Barry Andrews ignored the pilot’s usual advice about keeping the safety-belt fastened while seated, slipping the buckle aside and smiling up at the china-doll stewardess. With something to celebrate — he was sure he had something to celebrate — he ordered champagne. He’d still wanted a more positive indication. There had been no reluctance by the Personnel panel disclosing his promotion to G-13 grade. Or any way to misunderstand their obvious approval of his past record. Outstanding, the chairman of the board had said: which he’d already known it to be but which was still good to hear. Cowley was the problem, he decided: the inability — because of the Moscow business — to get the necessary acceptance from the Russian division director. Which was, Andrews accepted, the one uncertainty he couldn’t anticipate or do anything to affect.
He took the wine, watching the bubbles rise. So what would Cowley do? Stay strictly professional, judge the appointment on its unquestioned merits and approve it? Or take the heaven-sent opportunity to settle a still tender score and reject it? Andrews’s mind stayed with the second possibility, examining it completely. He’d exposed himself badly if there was a rejection. It would be recorded on his unblemished file, without any explanatory note, for every other department head to see if he had to apply elsewhere. Leaving the obvious inference that he had some failing not shown up by the record which made him unacceptable. Not badly exposed, he tried to reassure himself. There was no secret in Pennsylvania Avenue, about the break-up and his remarriage to Pauline. So any rejection by Cowley wouldn’t need an explanation. Everyone would understand immediately why it was and if anything the criticism would be directed towards Cowley himself, for allowing personal feelings to affect professional decisions.
There’d never been open anger, not even in London when Pauline had demanded the divorce and they’d confronted him, purple-faced from the previous day’s booze, sweating and befuddled by that day’s intake, and announced their intention to marry. Instead Cowley had cried, like a child about to lose a toy, his nose running to make his face even wetter. Nor anger later, either, when the man was sober and they were going through the formalities. And certainly, since the Moscow episode had begun, he hadn’t detected any deep-rooted feeling against him. There’d been the spat about returning the stuff from Ann’s office, but that had been professional irritation, which Andrews could understand: it was the personal stuff he couldn’t understand. Andrews decided, abruptly, that Cowley was a wimp. Always had been. Just didn’t drown it in a booze bottle any more, that’s all. He was glad the cloying togetherness of Moscow was ending: he’d done his best
— Christ, hadn’t he done his best — but it hadn’t been easy. Cowley the wimp hadn’t suspected, of course: hadn’t suspected a thing.
Andrews gestured for his empty glass to be refilled. Cowley wouldn’t block him, he decided confidently. He’d think of doing so, obviously: wouldn’t be human if he didn’t. But in the final analysis he’d be the complete professional he’d always been — even during the drunken period — and make his decision on the merits of the proven record and the recommendation of Personnel.
But what if Cowley didn’t do that? What if Cowley was a bastard and allowed himself the pleasure of a refusal?
He wanted the Russian division: was determined to get it. What about appealing the decision, if Cowley turned him down? There was a job discrimination tribunal, but there was a catch-22 in using it. Even if you won, you got yourself labelled a trouble-maker throughout the Bureau. Which could be a worse, unofficial, stigma than an unexplained official rejection on your file. In this case, though, it would stigmatize Cowley equally badly, for letting personal feelings influence a Bureau decision.
Premature concern, he told himself: nothing could block him, get in his way, not now. Which was why he’d ordered the letting agency to serve notice on the tenants in Bethesda. Get Pauline in there as soon as possible, sorting things out, getting the place right in the way she knew he liked to live. But there was Moscow to pack up. She’d have to do that first. Maybe they’d stay for a while in an hotel, although not the shit-hole in Pentagon City, while she got things ready. He’d go through it all with her, when he got back. Didn’t want her to get anything wrong. She did get things wrong, sometimes. It was annoying when she got things wrong. Stupid.
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