Cowley took everything back to his compound suite but did not immediately read it, wanting to try at least to feel physically better. He left coffee filtering while he showered and shaved, his mind blocked by the forthcoming telephone conversation with the Director. The leads towards Hughes had been convincing, the obvious path to follow. And he had been correct in the peculiar diplomatic circumstances, alerting Washington in advance of any interview. But he didn’t need to read the incoming messages from Washington to imagine the panic. Obviously the Director would have discussed everything with the Secretary of State. So Paul Hughes’s sexual proclivities were public knowledge in the State Department. Would it affect the man’s future career? Almost inevitably. And that destructive information would have come from him. The necessary fall-out of an investigation. He wished the attempted self-reassurance had been more successful. All in the past now, he told himself. So what was the future? He wished to Christ he knew.
Being clean and shaved was the only improvement to the way Cowley felt. He poured coffee and still in a towelling robe settled to the messages, reading every exchange concerning the economist to prepare himself, reflecting beyond possible harm to Hughes’s career to the possible damage to his own. Overly pessimistic, he decided, seeking further reassurance. Wrong turns frequently occurred in investigations. This one – again because of the goddamned circumstances – was just more serious, that’s all. And entirely his own fault, Cowley decided: his and the Russian’s. They’d lost sight of what they were supposed to be doing and got into an infantile competition, each trying to outsmart the other, prove who was the better detective. And both ended up looking jerks. Not Danilov, the American corrected immediately.
The bulk of the remaining documentation was technical. The American post-mortem report was throughout critical of the Russian examination, claiming evidence could have been lost by its glaring carelessness. The American pathologist was only prepared to estimate the thickness and penetration of the stab wound to Ann Harris because of Russian incision clumsiness. Samples of hair that remained after the shearing had been subjected to deoxyribonucleic acid analysis, as had her blood, to isolate the molecular structure of her chromosomes and establish her individual genetic pattern. There was a request for available hair from the first victim, for similar analysis. The nasal bruising was obviously consistent with a hand being clamped over the victim’s face and then with the victim being pulled backwards, from behind. Chin bruising and inner lower lip contusions not listed in the Russian report were also consistent with this. Cowley underlined that paragraph, remembering the similar bruising earlier that morning upon Lydia Orlenko’s face. The two fingernails that had been roughly broken had left jagged splits and edges. The shattering of the nails could have happened either from striking the ground when she fell or by scratching her assailant in a last, frantic fight. No evidence had been found to support the scratching theory, from scrapings beneath the broken nails. But such evidence could have been lost during the first post-mortem, by movement of the body during transportation to America or by the delay in their receiving the body for examination. If the finger damage had been caused either by falling or fighting, the shattered parts should have been recovered by the scene-of-the-crime search. Such parts might also have had attached forensic evidence like blood or skin that could have been matched to the assailant by DNA comparison.
Cowley sighed, pushing the autopsy report aside. Nothing, except justifiable complaints. Or at least nothing that at the moment had any significance. Cowley halted the dismissal. There was one item of significance, which was further proof of Paul Hughes’s innocence. If Ann Harris had scratched hard enough to break her nails, Hughes’s face or hands would have been marked. And they hadn’t been, anywhere.
Back at the FBI facility in the embassy, Cowley personally transmitted all the details of the exonerating interview with Paul Hughes to Pennsylvania Avenue. Andrews remained with him throughout, reading each document after its dispatch. At the end the local man shook his head and smiled and said: ‘It happens. The damned case has only just begun.’
The connection from the secure booth in the embassy communications room to the FBI headquarters was instantaneous, with no interference whatsoever. At Leonard Ross’s insistence, Cowley verbally went through everything that he was sure the Director would by now have in front of him, in the fifth-floor office. There was silence for several moments after Cowley finished talking, the unspoken condemnation more accusing than any direct words. Eventually Ross said: ‘A complete mistake?’
‘The evidence seemed compelling,’ Cowley insisted.
‘I’d intended you should escort Hughes back. I want you back here,’ declared the Director. ‘Get a flight today.’
‘I …’ Cowley started, but was cut off instantly.
‘… What?’ demanded Ross.
‘Nothing,’ said Cowley. ‘I’ll make the reservation.’
With such a complete telephone system available literally in front of him, Cowley called Dimitri Danilov from there instead of going back down to the FBI room. Determined, on his part, against continuing the competition he believed to have blurred their professionalism, Cowley announced his return to Washington, but said he wanted to meet Danilov before leaving, to discuss the outstanding requests of American scientists. Danilov had a further reason for a meeting: following the previous night’s attack upon Lydia Orlenko – and now there was no longer any reason to conceal a possible connection with the US embassy – the Federal Prosecutor and the Militia Director had decided the delayed public warning should finally be issued.
When Cowley returned downstairs and announced his recall, Andrews frowned and said: ‘When will you be back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You will be coming back?’
‘I don’t know about that, either.’
‘I said at the very beginning that I didn’t envy you this one.’
Cowley thought the man had said something different that night in his apartment, but he wasn’t interested in continuing the discussion. All he could think about was how badly he’d fouled up. ‘Maybe you’re lucky to be publicly out of it.’
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ admitted Andrews.
Burden reviewed the media coverage at a breakfast meeting in his suite: there were copies for everyone of what had been printed.
McBride said, invitingly: ‘Pretty damned good, don’t you think?’
‘So far, so good,’ agreed Burden. ‘Last night the FBI Director wouldn’t take my call. I was told the Secretary of State was unavailable. The ambassador here knows fuck-all. The FBI people here won’t cooperate … we’re being given the run-around.’
‘I don’t know who else – where else – we can go,’ ventured Prescott.
At that moment Beth Humphries came into the room, ashenfaced. Unspeaking she offered the Senator the Russian announcement of the linked murders, running on Reuter’s English language service.
‘Now we’ve got it!’ declared Burden, looking up. ‘I’m going to light a fire under the bastards that will roast them …’ He looked to McBride. ‘Get every reporter and television station you can find here, in two hours.’
‘Called back to be disciplined?’ queried Pauline, at once.
‘He caused the most God-awful flap, raising the alarm about Hughes,’ said Andrews.
‘Could it affect his career?’
‘Easily, at this level of political importance.’
‘Poor William.’
‘It could well be poor William,’ Andrews agreed.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Cowley decided against reopening the Arlington apartment he had closed down before leaving for Moscow. Instead he checked into the J. W. Marriott on 14th and Pennsylvania, within convenient walking distance of the FBI building. He’d slept intermittently during the flight, the rest of the time calculating the practical advantages of coming back to America. It gave an opportunity to interview Judy Billington, the college friend
in whom Ann Harris had confided so fully. And possibly John, the brother in New York, with whom she had also shown some openness. Cowley had also evolved some queries of his own to put to the Bureau’s scientific division and hoped personally to get down to Quantico to discuss the psychological profile of the unknown killer.
He had outlined the scientific evaluations to Danilov at their meeting two hours before flying out of Sheremet’yevo airport. The Russian investigator had been familiar with deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA, tests to establish genetic fingerprinting, although he’d had to concede such technology was at the moment inadequate for use in Russian police work. It was Cowley’s claim that a psychological and even physical profile of a killer they didn’t even know could be created by the Bureau’s Behavioural Science Unit that had bemused the Russian. Cowley’s insistence that the FBI regarded profile creation as a positive investigatory aid and that the unit had created accurate assessments of thousands of criminals in advance of their arrest had failed to convince the other man. At times he’d openly laughed in disbelief. Cowley wasn’t sure of the precise date, but he believed the Bureau had used the practice since the 1950s and would have thought enough scientific papers had been published since that time for the Russians to have at least learned about it, even if they didn’t trust it.
The same corn-and-milk-fed secretary came forward to meet him as he entered the FBI Director’s suite, but this time Fletcher was forewarned by Cowley’s call from the downstairs foyer and didn’t have to be summoned. Fletcher’s greeting was as supercilious as it had been for the briefing, just over a week before. Had it really only been just over a week? By the number of days, certainly. But to Cowley it seemed much longer: ages longer.
There was no smile from Leonard Ross, just the barest nod of greeting. The Director said: ‘Not an auspicious start.’
‘The circumstantial evidence looked good.’
‘You said so on the phone. And I read your report.’
‘And there were some operational difficulties,’ offered Cowley.
‘They’re still being obstructive?’
‘No,’ corrected Cowley. ‘There were problems of adjustment: there had to be. It’s settled now.’ Was it? He’d put it directly to Danilov, during their farewell encounter the previous day, that a lot of the mistakes had arisen through unnecessary personal competition, and the Russian had agreed. But there was no guarantee Danilov would keep his word to cooperate absolutely in the future. Which was not to doubt the man, but whatever instructions Danilov received from his superiors. Any more than he could guarantee to keep his word against positive orders from the man in whose office he was now sitting.
‘So how come they got to Hughes when I’d strictly ordered it shouldn’t happen, under any circumstances?’
A lawyer’s aggression towards a flawed witness, gauged Cowley. He recited the explanation he’d evolved with Danilov at the time, intent upon the Director’s reaction, which was impossible to guess from the man’s unchanging expression. ‘Hughes lives outside,’ Cowley concluded. ‘The Russians let me accompany them, in the middle of the night, to interview the victim and then straight from the hospital to Hughes’s apartment. I had no alternative: no time to consult.’
Ross nodded, a slow, doubtful movement. ‘It happened,’ he accepted. ‘Didn’t become the problem it could have done. Or has it?’
‘I don’t understand,’ frowned Cowley. The Director was clearly critical, but it didn’t at this stage appear to be a suspension-from-the-case situation.
‘You sure – I mean absolutely sure – about Hughes’s alibi?’
‘The wife is particularly strong. Gives the impression of total honesty and her evidence, against the woman who survived, makes the timing utterly impossible. And the girl’s account corroborates all the wife says and clears Hughes of the first murder.’
‘Wives and mistresses have got together in the past: dozens of times,’ argued Ross. ‘Women do the damnedest things for men. I’ve never understood it.’
Cowley shook his head. ‘There was no time for them to prepare a story that sticks together like theirs does.’
‘The State Department are bringing the kinky bastard back,’ Ross disclosed. ‘Hughes hasn’t finished answering questions, by a long way. The CIA are using words like disaster. Hughes is going to spend more time wired to a polygraph than Frankenstein’s monster. There won’t be a secret left, about Ann Harris or anything else, when the CIA finally unplug him from the lie detector.’ The white-haired man shook his head, a discarding gesture. ‘Anything more since your overnight report?’
‘The Russians are going to go public on the first murder. And the most recent attack.’
The Director frowned. Then his face cleared, in understanding. ‘It would have happened while you were in the air, of course. They already have. Burden’s given yet another press conference, in Moscow. He’s complained information has been withheld: said he felt the entire investigation was being mishandled. Or that there was concealment, for political purposes. He’s talked about raising it from the floor of the Senate. Got his usual headlines, all over this morning’s papers. Knowing Burden he’ll probably claim it was his presence that forced the Russian announcement and warned the people of Moscow. Christ, that man’s a pain in the ass!’
‘It would have made it even worse, delaying any longer,’ suggested Cowley. ‘We were in a no-win position.’
‘It’s already gotten worse,’ said Ross. ‘He’s already called the President, from the Moscow embassy. Repeated the earlier threat about who has the power up on the Hill. He’s flying back for the girl’s funeral. Which doubtless he’ll turn into another media event.’
Politics and crime never mixed, reflected Cowley: which made it surprising how often the two were stirred together. ‘He has to be told everything?’
‘I’m damned if I’ll have law enforcement conducted to please Senator Walter Burden!’ said Ross, vehemently. ‘He’ll be told what I choose to sanitize and tell him. He and the President are career politicians. I’m not.’
He was definitely not being taken off the case, Cowley realized. There was a relief that went far beyond his professional ability not being seriously questioned: that the Director was accepting errors were unfortunately inevitable this early in any investigation. He wanted to go back and start again and not make any more mistakes and be there when they manacled a killer. To prove what to whom? Himself to himself, he supposed: to show he hadn’t lost the edge, after three years out of the field. Who else was there, anyway? Absurdly Pauline’s name – Pauline herself – came into his mind. Why should he want to impress his ex-wife? Because it mattered to him to do so, pointless though it was now that she was married to another man. To clear his mind Cowley talked of the interviews and meetings he wanted to have, now he was back in America. Ross agreed to everything.
‘Other things first,’ cautioned Ross.
‘What?’
‘The reason I brought you back. We’re due at Langley in an hour.’
There was always a fluster about a Director’s departure from Pennsylvania Avenue, particularly from the main entrance within the inner courtyard, and today Cowley was part of it and was conscious of the attention of everyone in and around the vestibule and from the overlooking windows. Cowley knew just how quickly rumours cooked in the microwave of FBI headquarters and was curious about what was being said about him at that moment. Whatever, he would be labelled someone in ascendancy, because failures didn’t get to ride with the Director. The glass screen was raised between them and the driver, enabling unrestricted conversation, but the Director initially kept to small-talk, asking about Moscow and the embassy and the investigation methods of the Moscow police.
As the driver took Memorial Bridge, to get over the river, Ross looked directly across the car and said: ‘How’s it working out personally, with Andrews?’
‘Well,’ said Cowley. ‘He’s helpful in every way he could, within the embassy. We’ve been together socially
. No problems at all.’
‘That’s good. No resentment at being restricted to the embassy?’
‘None.’
‘Personnel want to settle the reassignment. We’re moving Harvey Proffitt from California. Giving the guy a chance.’
‘Andrews talked to me himself about his tour being over.’
‘He say what he hopes to do next?’
Cowley didn’t think he should rely upon the conversation with Pauline, although he knew she would be right. He shook his head. ‘No.’
‘Not anything about being attached to the Russian division back here?’
‘Nothing.’ Cowley waited for the Director to ask if he would have any personal feelings about it. Ross didn’t.
Instead he said: ‘Personnel have asked to bring him back, for discussions. Would that inconvenience you, at the moment?’
It would mean the complete burden of communications falling upon him, Cowley realized. But discussions were standard procedure in these sorts of career move. To object, as he was entitled to object, could hinder that career: the career of a man who’d cheated him and stolen his wife. Cowley wished the last thoughts hadn’t even occurred, especially as he’d already decided that hadn’t ever been the case. He said: ‘Of course he should come back.’
By the time the admission formalities to the Langley complex were completed, a man was waiting in the main foyer to escort them. There was no identification. Cowley was instantly reminded of Fletcher, back at FBI headquarters. Perhaps there was a cloning farm somewhere in the Mid-West producing featureless and characterless personal assistants for Washington chief executives. They went directly to the seventh floor, in the CIA Director’s personal elevator. There were three other men and a female stenographer with Richard Holmes. Cowley supposed the three unnamed men were part of the Agency’s Russian section. He would have thought the meeting could have been quite satisfactorily conducted between himself and them, without the presence of both Directors. And probably would have been but for Moscow telephone calls to the President from the chairman of the Ways and Means Committee. He was aware of witnessing at first hand the Washington self-defence art known as Watching Your Ass.
In the Name of a Killer Page 28
