‘The hotels, mostly,’ said Natalia. ‘He preferred the ones close to the centre. Intourist, the Metropole, the Savoy. Didn’t bother much with the Cosmos: said it wasn’t worthwhile.’
‘Hotels mostly,’ echoed Cowley. ‘What about particular streets? He did have favourite routes, didn’t he?’
The reluctant shrug came again. ‘Maybe.’
‘Come on, Natalia!’ pleaded Danilov.
‘Chaykovskaya,’ said the woman. She identified the street upon which the American embassy was situated quietly, as if she were imparting a secret between the three of them.
‘There it is!’ Cowley spoke quietly, too, but triumphantly and in English.
‘It could still be coincidence,’ warned Danilov, also in English.
The widow said: ‘What was that? What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ said Danilov, smiling in the hope of further reassurance. ‘You’ve told us something which might be important. Vladimir drove along Ulitza Chaykovskaya in the hope of picking up Americans, right?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed.
‘And did he?’ Cowley came in.
She hesitated. ‘He said he was better than the other drivers: knew exactly the times to go up and down.’
Cowley came forward on his chair. ‘So he must have been talking about people working in the embassy? There couldn’t have been special times for casual visitors.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘The customers were people who worked at the embassy?’ pressed the American.
Another shrug. ‘I suppose so.’
‘Don’t suppose, Natalia! Were they?’ urged Danilov, forward himself now. ‘It’s important; very important.’
‘Yes. He said they liked him. He spoke quite good English: didn’t try to charge too much, like a lot of the others.’
‘What about regular customers?’ demanded Cowley. ‘If people at the embassy liked him – preferred him to other drivers – he must have had regular customers.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Natalia, falling back on her favourite phrase. Immediately realizing the negative repetition, she hurried on: ‘I’m not trying to be evasive. Of course he did. But he never mentioned names. He never knew names. He’d just say things like “I had the quiet one today” or “the one who tries to talk Russian” or “the rude one, who thinks he knows Moscow better than I do”. That’s all he ever said.’
‘Men?’ asked Cowley. ‘Did he always talk as if they were men? Or did you ever get the impression there might have been women who were regular customers?’
Natalia Suzlev frowned across the table. ‘He never said anything about women.’ There was a pause, the first indication of any difficulty. ‘Vladimir wasn’t interested in women … other women, I mean.’
Danilov wasn’t sure precisely what she meant. ‘Customers could call central dispatch, to order a taxi?’
‘Yes.’
‘By name? Did Vladimir ever say if people from the American embassy asked for him by name?’
Again there was a delay, while Natalia apparently considered the question. Abruptly she said: ‘No, never.’ There was a hesitation, to gain courage. ‘What is this all about? Please tell me. What did Vladimir do wrong at the American embassy?’
‘Nothing,’ said Cowley, urgently. ‘There’s not going to be any trouble. You’ve been very helpful.’
Back in the car on Leninskii Prospekt, Danilov said: ‘It would be a mistake to attach absolute importance to what she said; it could still be a coincidence.’
‘Or it could be something else,’ countered the American.
Danilov realized for the first time that somehow Pavin had got the windscreen wipers replaced on the car. There was another far more important function he had for Pavin: one he didn’t intend discussing with Cowley. The American should have thought of it himself, but he hadn’t. Or perhaps it was something else he was keeping to himself.
Senator Walter Burden didn’t like irritation, so he always travelled with an organizing entourage. Beth Humphries was an extremely efficient secretary. She was also a strikingly attractive, blue-eyed blonde who very obviously needed a 36 D-cup: Burden took a middle-aged man’s pleasure in the close presence of beautiful women and the misconception of other men that he slept with them all, which he didn’t and couldn’t since the precautionary prostate operation for a malignancy that had proven benign. John Prescott, one year out of Harvard, was eager to put the political degree to practical use and believed the patronage inherent as Burden’s personal assistant to be invaluable; his true ambition was actively to run for office in his native New Hampshire, but realistically he recognized the uncertainty of elected office against the better and longer-term career prospects as a Capitol Hill lobbyist. At the moment, he didn’t know which way to jump.
Charles Easterhaus had been baptized Carlos and was included in the circus because Burden liked to convey to the influential Hispanic electorate in his constituency that he did not hold the racial prejudices that he actually did. Easterhaus’s function was difficult to define. The job description was also that of personal assistant, but his graduation had been from the streets of New York’s Little Italy, although no evidence of the background remained, either in his appearance, behaviour or accent. He was more basically a fixer than the Harvard graduate and usually better at it. Easterhaus got favoured tables at restaurants with month-long waiting lists, theatre tickets for blocked-out shows and presidential suites in hotels which had months before confirmed the reservations to other guests. He was a dark-haired, archetypal Latin who possessed an enviable address book to supplement necessary public events with girls who looked every bit as good as Beth Humphries and sometimes better. Some were professionals. Burden paid and Easterhaus slept with them: he was a man who enjoyed complete job satisfaction.
James McBride had been with Burden since his earliest days as a Congressman, which made him invaluable as a media organizer. McBride knew every favour received or bestowed, every deal struck or broken, every trick practised and played and every shortcut Burden had ever taken to become the power he now was in Washington, DC. It meant McBride was always ahead when some ambitious journalist tried to rake the muck, which they sometimes did. He had a book, like Easterhaus, but McBride’s tome recorded the indelicate embarrassment of those who tried to expose the embarrassments of the Senator. He called it his shield, which it was. He was the only man who, late at night when they were drinking, could openly call Burden an asshole to his face and get away with it because no matter how drunk Burden became, he knew McBride could never be replaced. Deep down Burden knew it was true, anyway.
Despite the individual expertise and the team’s cohesive efficiency, their Moscow arrival was disorientating. Each and all of them were accustomed to special receptions and it didn’t happen at Sheremet’yevo airport. They had to stand in the immigration line like everybody else and wait interminably in the Customs reclaim for their baggage. Ralph Baxter did succeed in getting to them there, but there were no porters, so they had to pay a foreign currency dollar each for a cart to wheel their own cases into the crowded, jostling concourse.
Easterhaus was left to guard the carts while the rest, led by the Senator, ascended to the VIP lounge on the first floor for the Burden-convened press conference.
It was exclusively for Western correspondents and television reporters and cameramen. Burden agreed to the print media conference first and television interviews afterwards. He had come personally to Moscow to find out what had happened to his niece; until now he felt he had been denied information by American officials and looked for more cooperation in Russia. He was determined the killer would be brought to justice. Meetings were scheduled with a number of Russian officials and ministries. Towards the end of every interview, he introduced his favourite speculation, wondered if it were coincidence that the victim had been his niece. The reference was sufficiently intriguing to guarantee headlines across America. Burden was extremely pleased with the coverage.
Chapte
r Nineteen
Danilov hadn’t expected the Security Service’s Colonel to agree to an immediate meeting, but Gugin had insisted he was free, so Danilov had obviously accepted. The monolithic, yellow-washed headquarters of the disgraced and much reduced State Security Service formed before him as Danilov drove up the hill from the direction of the Kremlin. Of all the changes to Moscow squares and streets and boulevards, supposedly to erase the discredited legacies of communism, Danilov found the renaming of Dzerzhinsky Square the most illogical. Although Lubyanka was the pre-revolutionary original, Danilov considered the word far more emotive and reminiscent of past horror: Lubyanka, the prison which the KGB had grown to absorb, was infamous as one of the centres of Stalin’s slaughter, the title indelible in every Russian’s mind.
He had to stop, for the circulating traffic flow, so he had a complete view of the building occupying one entire side of the square. Above ground, in his obvious view, the building at its highest reached eight storeys. But Danilov knew that below ground it was more than twice that size, a vast underground city of separate buildings and offices and streets and command and communication centres, complete with its own underground train system constructed deeper than the publicly known metro, linked directly to the Kremlin. So what he could see was the tip of the iceberg. Which was fittingly accurate. Apart from the reduction in control upon the ordinary people of the country the new security organisation hadn’t changed dramatically, despite the supposed divisional and staff purges. It had adapted to the changes, like a chameleon adjusting quickly to changing surroundings, colouring itself to conform. For once, Danilov found himself hoping that even the internal surveillance had not diminished too profoundly.
Danilov edged into the traffic swirl and drove to the side of the building, as Gugin had directed. Danilov’s name was listed at the checkpoint. An escort got into the car to guide him to a parking area and then took him through two separate admission procedures at which his credentials were checked and listed.
Gugin was sitting, waiting, when Danilov was finally ushered into his office, a small man behind a large desk. He was in uniform, the left of which was marked with more decoration ribbons than Danilov would have expected. The man was too young for any of the obvious wars, and Danilov wondered how the man had achieved the decorations. Perhaps in other wars, the sort that no one knew about. Despite the honours, Gugin’s office was at the rear of the building, overlooking the original prison exercise yard. Not just the exercise yard, Danilov remembered. The conveyor belt executions had been carried out against those grey walls. Would the concrete slabs and blocks still be pitted by the bullets? It would probably be the sort of obscene monument the KGB would want, for their never really interrupted posterity: pockmarked macho. What Gugin’s room lacked in outlook it compensated for in fitments. Danilov realized the huge desk comprised part of a furniture set, all heavy and ornately carved, a towering, close-fronted bureau, a ceiling-to-floor bookcase and a side-desk with a roll-top covering, which was pulled down. If it was opened, would Stalin emerge, moustached and glowering, wanting to stand at the window for the bullet-spattered display down in the courtyard?
‘So?’ demanded Gugin and smiled, because this meeting was precisely what he had wanted. He was sure the benefits would be considerable: the stupid policeman wouldn’t realize the manipulation.
Danilov realized he should have been surprised by the quickness of the appointment. Gugin doubtless saw it as confirmation of the old KGB belief in Militia inefficiency, a cap-in-hand visit for help that could be laughed over later in some services’ club. Danilov smiled back, hoping the grimace didn’t appear as false as it was. ‘Our investigation is progressing extremely well,’ he lied.
Gugin’s smile remained, a disbelieving expression. ‘No problem with the American?’
Eager to show the security service’s awareness of everything, gauged Danilov. His mind ran on, worryingly. He’d known from the beginning that the investigation had the self-protective interest of the former KGB. So how closely were they monitoring him, personally? There wasn’t any real reason for him to be concerned at their discovering his affair with Larissa, but she was the wife of another Militia officer. It would give them an advantage over him if ever they needed one. ‘None that has arisen so far. Everything seems to be going quite well.’
‘Sure you can trust him?’
Was that an instinctive question? Or did Gugin have some private information? ‘Can he trust me?’ That was wrong, too: pretentious.
‘You tell me,’ demanded Gugin, enjoying himself. ‘I have no idea what’s going on.’ The policeman was stupid: it was going to be easy.
‘When it’s convenient.’ Pretentious again. But quite truthful.
‘I would have thought trust was necessary,’ said Gugin.
Was there a point in this discussion? ‘Nothing has occurred so far to make me mistrust,’ Danilov lied. It was why he was here at security headquarters.
‘There is going to be an arrest, soon?’ It was more of a smirk than a smile.
‘As soon as possible,’ said Danilov, regretting the emptiness.
Gugin picked up on it at once. ‘I’m sorry it’s not going better.’
There was nothing to be gained by creating an argument. ‘I appreciated the assistance you gave, with the photographs. And the telephone log.’
‘Now there is something else?’
‘Not exactly something else,’ said Danilov. ‘Something to complete it.’
It was like operating puppet strings, thought Gugin. ‘Complete what?’
‘The telephone lists,’ said Danilov. ‘More than telephone numbers were recorded, weren’t they?’
‘You only asked for numbers.’ He had to play for a while, to avoid the Militia Colonel guessing the manoeuvre which had already brought congratulations from the chairman himself.
‘I am extending that request,’ persisted Danilov. Continuing formally, in the way of Russian bureaucracy, he added: ‘I repeat the same understanding as before – I will have it reinforced by the Director if you wish – that at no time will there be any disclosure of the source of the information.’
‘There wouldn’t have to be a disclosure. The source would be obvious to a child of five!’
‘I need to know.’ Danilov supposed that first by the telephone call and then by agreeing so quickly to come to see the man he had shown his desperation. Contradicting the earlier assurance, he admitted: ‘I think we are being lied to, by the American.’
‘We?’ queried Gugin.
‘I am being lied to,’ Danilov further conceded. ‘I need the information to compete! To win!’
For several moments the small, bubble-fat man regarded Danilov over the expanse of table, like a mole emerging from the far side of a field to find the cause of heavy footsteps overhead. ‘If I continue to refuse, would you try through your Director? Go as high as you could?’
Danilov was unsure what answer the man wanted, guessing the wrong reply would terminate the negotiation. ‘Yes. And the argument would be that I didn’t want the American FBI coming to Moscow and resolving right under our noses a murder inquiry that I could have probably solved ahead of them, had necessary information not been withheld from me.’
There was a further silence, of continued examination across the desk. Eventually Gugin smiled again, a vaguely admiring expression this time. ‘That’s good!’ he congratulated. ‘That really is very, very good.’ It was almost time for the apparent concession.
‘Wouldn’t you say that in my place?’ asked Danilov, anxious not to alienate the man a millimetre more than he believed necessary.
‘That’s exactly what I’d say,’ Gugin admitted.
‘So?’ Danilov was echoing the greeting he had received when he first arrived. They’d virtually turned the complete circle.
‘That’s all you get,’ Gugin insisted.
‘You mean there’s more?’ snatched Danilov. The balance had shifted, putting him in control now.
> ‘No more,’ the officer repeated, worried he had been careless. He didn’t want it all to go at once: the information had to drip slowly, like water eroding a rock.
One demand at a time, Danilov resolved. He sat, waiting. Gugin sat, appearing undecided. Finally, abruptly, the man felt sideways into a desk drawer, retrieved several sheets of paper and offered them across the desk. He couldn’t reach fully and had to toss them the last part of the way, so they skidded on the shiny surface. Danilov collected them eagerly, scanning the listed exchanges.
‘They liked sex, didn’t they?’ said Gugin. It was a thoroughly satisfactory meeting. How far and how fast would the ripples spread?
Danilov looked up from the intercepts. ‘I can’t be manipulated now.’
You just have been, thought Gugin.
Cowley was late for Burden’s reception, delayed by the amount of material he had to send to Washington: he would have been later if Andrews had not helped with the actual transmission. Cowley hoped there was enough for work to start upon the psychological profile at Quantico’s Behavioural Science Unit. It was something else he hadn’t discussed with Danilov. He’d have to remember to do so, during their next meeting. As he finally made his way from the communications room to the ambassador’s quarters Cowley’s mind was occupied by what had come in from Washington. Results were promised in the overnight diplomatic pouch on the second autopsy upon Ann Harris and also on the forensic examination of the girl’s personal possessions too hastily sent back from her office.
Cowley decided it would be better to postpone his planned confrontation. It was already late, and although in normal investigatory circumstances that would not have been a consideration, there might just be something extra in the scientific material arriving the following day from America. In addition to which he still couldn’t make up his mind how much Dimitri Danilov was holding back. And the man about to be confronted couldn’t go anywhere, anyway. So Cowley was confident he could take his time.
The reception took place in an ante-room to Hubert Richards’s enormous office, similarly high-ceilinged, expansively windowed and glitteringly chandeliered. The size overwhelmed the small number of people present: Cowley’s illogical impression upon entering was of a group of people huddled together in a protective vault, the way people clustered in the event of an accident or in fear of some dangerous physical assault. At once a man he didn’t know detached himself from the group, striding across to meet him, a professional smile etched into place.
In the Name of a Killer Page 20
