‘I think so,’ said Angela. The intentional doubt in her voice covered any hint of vindictiveness.
‘You think. I asked if you were positive, Mrs Hughes.’
‘I thought so, at the time. Now I really can’t be sure.’
By the time the transcript reached the FBI Director he had received the alert from Moscow of the arrest of Petr Yakovlevich Yezhov. The Director decided to let both inquiries continue independently: he couldn’t decide what else to do.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
In Moscow the days following Yezhov’s detention were crowded: more familiar routine, then the wind-down procedure of preparing reports of all the available evidence that in this case would never be presented to any court.
And throughout it all Danilov felt a depressing anticlimax.
He refused to accept it was because of the never-to-be-disclosed true circumstances of Petr Yezhov’s initial capture: that would have been ridiculous. He’d dismissed any professional distaste at how it had been achieved on the night of the arrest. And even to contemplate the idea of jealousy of Kosov was unthinkable: he actually intended trying to get Kosov’s part in the affair publicly acknowledged. So why? The best explanation Danilov could evolve was in what the American had said: that there could probably never be a trial, despite the preparations he was now having made, and therefore never a legally conclusive ending. Which was scarcely an explanation at all.
Trying to be objective, he recognized he should feel the complete opposite to the way he did and be thoroughly satisfied. Despite Kosov’s involvement, the case would be marked on his file as successfully investigated. And most importantly, without any security agency takeover, which made it much more than a personal triumph, elevating it into a success for the Militia as a whole, particularly as uniformed officers could be included as well. The false starts and wrong directions weren’t recorded anywhere, were certainly not publicly known, and in the official euphoria of the moment would be instantly forgotten by those who did know, like General Lapinsk and the Federal Prosecutor. He was being stupid, Danilov told himself: behaving like someone wallowing in a mid-life crisis or the male menopause. And he knew he wasn’t suffering either.
He deputed Pavin to organize the evidence assembly, futile though the operation possibly was, and stood down the disgruntled squads who had so bungled the routine inquiries. He also talked through with Pavin the threat officially to note on their personnel sheets the criticism against the most inefficient, particularly the two who had failed with the first interview and search at Yezhov’s apartment. Pavin acknowledged that regulations existed for such complaints to be appended, but pragmatically pointed out that no one would be censured or transferred from Petrovka; that wasn’t the way the system worked. All he would be doing, therefore, would be increasing the considerable ill-feeling he had already generated, without any practical benefit. And he had to go on working at Petrovka, didn’t he? Danilov decided not to bother.
He maintained daily contact with the Serbsky Institute and the psychiatrist, hoping for some improvement in Yezhov’s condition for further and better interviews to be possible. Tarasov insisted just as regularly that anything approaching a reasonable, comprehensible conversation with the man would be impossible for a long time, possibly forever. Yezhov had realized where he was the moment he’d recovered from the sedation that got him back into the clinic, erupting into a cell-wrecking frenzy, and for his own safety was having to remain almost continuously sedated. Tarasov feared the regression into persecuted paranoia was permanent. Yezhov’s mother visited every day: he didn’t appear to recognize her, even when they briefly relaxed the sedation. Danilov said he’d keep trying. Tarasov said he could do what he liked, but he was wasting his time.
The daily conferences with Lapinsk continued as well, although after that first triumphant day there wasn’t a great deal for them to discuss. The anticipated media hysteria had burst with the Tass announcement of Nadia Revin’s murder and continued with the second statement, within thirty-six hours, of a suspect’s detention. Lapinsk was glad they had delayed the press conference. Now they had the success of a joint investigation between the United States of America and Russia, the first of its kind, to talk about. Both he and the Federal Prosecutor had reversed their previous reluctance to participate.
It was during the discussion about the press conference that Danilov suggested Kosov should be included. The General was clearly surprised at the idea of sharing the credit. Finding no discomfort in perpetuating the prepared account, Danilov pointed out that it had been Kosov’s officers who had apprehended Petr Yezhov, although the criminal investigation branch had already isolated the man as a potential suspect: it was right that the participation of a uniformed division should be acknowledged. Lapinsk, prepared to concede anything in his relief that the matter was practically over, said he didn’t have any objection. He added that he thought Danilov was extremely generous.
Danilov drove personally and alone to the Militia station, taking the chance of Kosov being there by not telephoning in advance. Kosov was there. He kept Danilov waiting over thirty minutes, which Danilov did patiently, and finally had him make his own way up to the third-floor office, which again Danilov did without offence.
Kosov was in his shirt-sleeves, collar unbuttoned. There was a glass on his desk, generously filled with what could have been either cognac or whisky. He drank pointedly from it as Danilov entered, but didn’t offer anything to Danilov.
‘You wanted to see me?’
The hostility would have been a useful barrier to use, to avoid the still postponed evening with Kosov and Larissa, Danilov reflected. He located his own chair, just inside the door, and brought it further into the room. ‘We’re still waiting for positive forensic evidence but circumstantially it looks as if he’s the right man.’
‘I didn’t doubt that he was.’
‘No one seems to be doubting it. There’s going to be another press conference.’ The office was unrecognizable as the room he had once occupied. There was thick, wall-to-wall carpeting, colour-coordinated with the curtains. The desk was of a heavy, dark wood with a leather inlaid top. A matching, glass-fronted bureau occupied most of one side of the room and the chair in which Kosov sat was dark wood, too, although the upholstery was button-backed red leather. It all reminded Danilov of Gugin’s office, at the Lubyanka. There was a photograph of Larissa on Kosov’s desk. She looked very beautiful.
‘I heard.’ Kosov sipped from his drink.
‘I hardly think it would be fair for all that you did to go unrecorded,’ flattered Danilov. ‘I’ve spoken to the General. He agrees you should appear at the conference.’
Kosov’s demeanour softened almost visibly: he actually began to smile before remembering his anger at the way the other man had treated him at his own Militia station and quickly clearing the expression. ‘Appearing with whom?’
‘Myself and the American. The General. Smolin, the Federal Prosecutor. I don’t know if there’s going to be anyone else. I suppose there could be someone from one of the Ministries.’
Kosov was finding it difficult not to smile. ‘It will be a big affair then?’
‘Certainly as big as the first one. International, of course. All the American media. World media, in fact. I hope you’ll be able to make it. You – your station here – deserve the recognition. It’s entirely a matter for you, of course.’
‘There should be recognition, of what my officers did,’ said Kosov, appearing to believe the tidied-up version himself.
‘That’s what I feel.’
‘I could probably get there.’
‘General Lapinsk will be very pleased.’
Kosov held up his glass. ‘It’s whisky. From Scotland. Would you like some?’
‘Please,’ Danilov accepted, although he didn’t particularly like whisky.
The liquor was in the bottom of the bureau, where the glass finished and cupboards began. There was an expansive array of bottles. Kosov
carried the whisky back to his desk and poured from there. ‘What, exactly, would I have to do?’
‘Appear, with the rest of us. Explain how the arrest came about. Say how you and your officers had been on the look-out, after my request for assistance.’
Kosov nodded. ‘That’s all true,’ he said, easily.
‘It’s agreed then?’
‘Absolutely.’
Danilov gestured around the office. ‘Quite a few changes.’
‘Just made it more comfortable. Personal touches.’
‘I met an old friend the other day.’
‘Old friend?’
‘Someone I introduced you to, before I left. Eduard Agayans.’
Kosov frowned, and Danilov believed that briefly the other man genuinely had difficulty in recalling the name. Then the frown cleared and Kosov said: ‘I didn’t keep in touch, after a while.’
‘He’s encountering difficulties, with his business.’
‘That’s unfortunate.’
‘He says some organized syndicates are crowding him out: not letting him operate although there’s business enough for everyone.’
‘I would have thought your division would have known all about organized syndicates,’ said Kosov. He got up from behind his desk and waddled forward, topping Danilov’s glass.
‘We do,’ declared Danilov. The other man could not have volunteered a better opening.
Kosov resumed his seat, serious-faced. ‘You mean there’s an official investigation being started?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Not yet?’
Danilov shrugged. ‘It’s a question of degree, I suppose. If a problem becomes too flagrant, something has to be done about it. Things are very public in Russia now, because of the freedoms. There’s public debate, in newspapers and magazines, about a lot of things that never used to be openly discussed. You’ve seen that for yourself, surely?’
Kosov nodded, remaining serious. ‘How comprehensive would any investigation be?’
‘I would imagine that if one is initiated it will be fairly extensive,’ Danilov suggested. ‘I get the feeling quite a lot of attention is being concentrated on it: there’s already open talk within the Serious Crime Squads. Some reluctance, I think. Some people have special friends they don’t want upset.’
‘Has any particular syndicate been named?’
‘Not that I’ve heard.’
‘Was Agayans a particular friend of yours?’
‘We had an understanding. I liked him.’
‘It’s unfortunate, when one’s friends get inconvenienced.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘It was some of my friends who got Yezhov.’
‘I know. I’ll always be grateful.’
‘I would appreciate knowing a name – or names – if you hear anything.’
‘Of course. I’d like to ensure things aren’t made difficult for Agayans, of course. It seems he’s suffered enough.’
‘Maybe I could speak to some of my friends: see if they know anything about Agayans’s problems.’
‘I’m sure he’d appreciate that.’
‘And you will let me know, about any names?’
‘I guarantee it.’
‘I suppose I should wear my uniform for the press conference?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I’m looking forward to it.’
‘I was sure you would.’
Cowley’s feeling was not of anticlimax, but there seemed an emptiness about the days, a hiatus between the satisfaction of making an arrest and the finality of a positive conclusion. With time to analyse all that had happened, he realistically accepted that in an American court the circumstantial evidence would almost certainly be dismissed as insufficient to bring charges against Petr Yezhov, irrespective of any ruling about the man’s mental condition. And from Danilov he knew the psychiatrist’s opinion that the mental condition almost definitely precluded any clinching confession. Which put the proof of guilt, however the case was going to be closed, entirely upon forensic findings either from here or from Washington: he’d expected the American results sooner, although he knew from the daily discussion with Pennsylvania Avenue that what had gone back was being examined virtually fibre by fibre. At least he’d been promised preliminary guidance before the press conference he had been authorized to attend.
There was an uncertain day when it was suggested and then denied that Senator Burden would return to Moscow for the conference, which Cowley had thought to be preposterous when he first heard it. Instead the politician’s office issued a statement congratulating all the investigating agencies upon a successful conclusion: the Senator had never doubted the efficiency or professionalism with which the inquiry was being conducted. He probably would go to Moscow for any trial. Burden appeared on television and implied that the reason for his abrupt and inexplicable silence, after his initial easy availability to the press, was because he knew the investigation was at a critical juncture. He hadn’t wanted to do or say anything that might have impeded the arrest. He wasn’t asked by any interviewer how that could have possibly occurred.
Harvey Proffitt, Andrews’s San Francisco replacement, arrived for the hand-over period. He was a young, eager bachelor on his first foreign posting who regarded everything with open-eyed enthusiasm. The media coverage back home of the serial killings had been fantastic: when he eventually returned it was going to be difficult for Cowley to walk down the street without being recognized. He wished he’d been posted earlier, to help in any way he could. Moscow was a hell of an opportunity. He was going to take every bit of it. Andrews’s weary cynicism didn’t depress him.
Two personal letters from the Director, both marked confidential, arrived for Cowley in the diplomatic pouch. One was a letter of congratulation and commendation, which Cowley hoped was not premature. The other asked if he would like personally to decide the location of Andrews’s return posting. Cowley replied that he knew there were slots to be filled in Washington, New York and San Francisco: he was sure Andrews would be satisfactory in any of them, but there would not be a housing problem if he were assigned to Washington.
All of them – Cowley, Andrews, Pauline and Proffitt – went to another social evening at the embassy and Cowley hosted the long-promised return meal at a restaurant Pauline chose, the Glazur, on Smolensky Boulevard. Cowley considered inviting Danilov and his wife, but remembered the difficulty there had been at the beginning between the Russian detective and Andrews and concluded that it might put a strain on the evening. He decided to make it a separate invitation before he returned to America and probably to the Glazur again: the eggplant stuffed with caviare was magnificent.
During what had become a regular coffee session in the Bureau quarters – close to being crowded with the addition of the new FBI agent – Andrews said: ‘Looks like I’m going to miss the final act.’ He was flying back ahead of Pauline, who was staying behind to supervise the packing of their apartment. Washington was confirmed.
‘It won’t be much of an act,’ Cowley pointed out. ‘Nothing will ever reach a court.’
‘How much longer do you think you’ll be here?’
Cowley shrugged. ‘Difficult to say. Shouldn’t be too long.’
‘I can’t imagine it arising – you know as well as I do that she’s a pretty competent girl – but if Pauline has any problems can I tell her to call you? Packing up. Stuff like that?’
‘Of course you can.’
‘It’s good that everything’s as it was before between us.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Cowley. He wished the other man would stop saying things like that. He was actually considering it a strain, being constantly with the other man.
The following day, as promised, there was a cable from Washington. Hair samples found in the pockets of Yezhov’s topcoat, one pocket of the jacket and in one pair of trousers made positive DNA matches with the hair of Ann Harris, Vladimir Suzlev, Lydia Orlenko and Nadia Revin. There was also positi
ve comparison with buttons recovered from Yezhov’s apartment and samples taken from the clothes of Ann Harris, Lydia Orlenko and Nadia Revin. When Cowley spoke to Danilov, the Russian said the Russian forensic team had reported that although there was no blood deposit, the knife could have been the murder weapon in every case. They were not prepared, however, to say the knife was definitely the weapon.
That night, on the eve of his departure, Barry Andrews threw his farewell party at the embassy club. He got drunk. There were speeches and the ambassador made a presentation. Cowley initially thought it was clumsy that the embassy staff chose a set of matryoshka dolls identical to those in Ann Harris’s office upon which Paul Hughes’s fingerprints had been found, but then realized they wouldn’t have known the significance. Cowley danced twice with Pauline. When he invited her a third time, she declined.
He got up early the next morning, reversing their roles to drive Andrews to Sheremet’yevo. Pauline came as well.
‘Look after her for me,’ said Andrews, at the gate.
‘I will.’
‘By the time you get back to Washington, I’ll probably have your job!’ said Andrews, laughing at his own joke.
The polygraph had been discarded days ago, replaced by a much more aggressive interrogation team, a mix of CIA and FBI questioners.
‘Pamela doesn’t think you were with her on January 17.’
‘I was!’
‘Why did the polygraph register your uncertainty?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Your wife says she isn’t sure that you got home before twelve, when the Russian woman was attacked.’
‘I was!’
‘Why would she say she isn’t sure?’
‘Maybe she’s trying to get back at me!’
‘You did go over to the Russians, didn’t you?’
‘No!’
‘We’ve got independent confirmation from a Russian source.’
‘Liars!’
‘Tell us about it. The killings and the rest of it. We could do a deal if you told us everything.’
‘There’s nothing to tell!’
In the Name of a Killer Page 40
