In the Name of a Killer (The Cowley and Danilov Thrillers)

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Find who did it, as soon as possible,’ said Lapinsk.

  ‘I hardly need to be told that.’ The Director’s fatuous reply showed the strain under which the man believed himself to be.

  ‘You do need to be told to be careful in diplomatic situations. You went too far, entering the apartment. Think more, before you move. Otherwise there’ll be mistakes. And we can’t afford mistakes, any more than what used to be the KGB.’

  ‘I won’t have gone too far, if it helps me find who did it.’

  ‘Don’t argue with me about this, Dimitri Ivanovich! There isn’t going to be any glory in this investigation. Just problems.’

  ‘I’ll try not to offend.’ Danilov could see through the window that it was already dark outside. He tried to remember what Olga had told him she was doing tonight but couldn’t, only that she was going out. So there wouldn’t be any food in the apartment. And he hadn’t eaten at midday.

  ‘You can call upon whatever facilities you want,’ offered the Director. ‘Everything’s got top priority. I want morning and afternoon briefing: I’m going to be getting queries constantly.’ The man paused. ‘I’m frightened there’s going to be another one.’

  ‘There obviously will be, unless we’re lucky. And I don’t really know what I mean by being lucky,’ admitted Danilov, with aching resignation. It wasn’t until he was struggling against the crowd at the metro station that he realized one of the facilities he could probably demand was a permanent police vehicle. He’d have to remember, tomorrow.

  Olga had not left him anything to eat. Danilov poured the Stolichnaya he had denied himself in the long ago early hours of that morning and carried it to the bedroom. He only drank half before falling asleep. His last conscious thought was to hope that Lapinsk was wrong and that there would be a lot of personal glory if he carried out an impeccable investigation and made an arrest.

  The world’s press had a story of a predicted American Presidential candidate – already a well-known politician – connected with a murder in Russia.

  The coverage was staggering.

  The demand for press conferences and interviews and information was overwhelming, bewildering Russian ministries which believed they already understood the needs of the Western news media, but in fact knew them not at all. The sideways shuffle was as automatic as it was instinctive.

  The responding discussion was held at the Foreign Ministry. It was attended by a deputy official of the Interior Ministry and the Federal Prosecutor. General Leonid Lapinsk obviously represented the Militia. The Foreign Ministry delegate lectured on the political importance. The Interior Ministry deputy insisted upon the need for a quick resolution. With weight of authority, both ministries argued that the statement should come from the Federal Prosecutor, a thin, skin-sagged lawyer named Nikolai Smolin. The Prosecutor tried to spread responsibility, summoning Lapinsk the following morning to judge – and for the man to be enmeshed in – the communique. It said the Russian authorities deeply regretted a foul crime. Every effort and every available officer had been assigned to the investigation, for which there was every expectation of a quick conclusion. All information and developments would be made available to the media, as they arose.

  ‘Well?’ demanded Smolin. He had a croaking, dry-throated way of talking.

  ‘It seems to cover what they have been asking,’ said the mediaraw Lapinsk.

  ‘I’m sure it will satisfy them,’ smiled Smolin.

  It didn’t, of course.

  Another one soon. More buttons. More hair. Leave a trail: like a paper-chase. Had to taunt: to dare. Different coloured buttons than the reds and the green and the brown. Had to get this pattern right. Maybe try for red again, after all. Just a different shade. Difficult, of course: dangerous, trying to choose. Always the risk of attracting attention. Never sure what the colours truly were, in the dark, unless you were dangerously close. Had to be very close – risk the danger – to ensure it was a woman. Do it soon: quite soon. Important not to begin to like it, though. It would be madness, to like it. Wasn’t mad. That was the most brilliant part of it all: that he wasn’t mad. Only he knew that, though. Brilliant.

  Chapter Seven

  William Cowley attracted attention – which for a law officer was sometimes a disadvantage – because he returned it, intently. He was a large man, both tall and heavy-shouldered, the build of the college football player he had once been, long ago. But unlike many men of such size he did not try to come down to the stature of smaller people but walked purposefully and upright and invariably concentrated absolutely upon the person to whom he was talking. It was a natural confidence, often mistaken for conceit, which was a mistake, because William Cowley was not a conceited man. He was a very realistic, pragmatic man. A sad one, too.

  Both secretaries started to rise eagerly when he entered the Director’s suite: the younger, a corn-and-milk-fed blonde, won the race. Cowley answered the smile but politely, without any come-on flirtation: another reform, to go with all the rest. Cowley identified himself and the girl said Mr Fletcher was waiting. Fletcher was the Director’s personal assistant. The man emerged unsmiling from an inner office and said: ‘Thank you for coming,’ as if there had been a choice. Then he added: ‘The Director’s waiting.’

  Ross’s fifth-floor office was at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue looking up towards the Capitol. The walls were hung solely with large, official photographs of the present and past Presidents and past FBI Directors. Cowley wondered where Ross’s photograph would hang, when the man left office; there didn’t appear to be any space left. There was a predictable furled American flag in one corner, behind the desk at which Ross sat. The carelessly fat man in the crumpled suit didn’t rise or move his face in any greeting. He nodded thanks to Fletcher, for the escort duty, and nodded again to Cowley, to be seated.

  ‘Senator Burden’s niece has been murdered in Moscow,’ announced the FBI Director, without any preamble. ‘For all the reasons that don’t need me to explain, we’re trying to get into the situation.’

  Imagining his guidance was being sought, as an acknowledged before-and-after-the-changes Russian expert, he said: ‘I could probably come up with something in a day or two.’ Andrews was going to be as busy as hell: something with a fall-out like this would be a bastard.

  ‘Already decided,’ said the Director, briskly. ‘We’re offering technical expertise. The sophistication of Russian criminal investigation will be light years behind ours.’

  ‘Will they go for that?’

  ‘Depends how it’s argued. It isn’t going to be easy, from what’s happened so far.’

  ‘What has happened?’

  So this was the forthright directness referred to in Cowley’s last personnel assessment, a trait which seemed to upset some people here on Pennsylvania Avenue. Ross, who rarely for a legal man preferred one word to a wrapped-up sentence, didn’t find it offensive. ‘The investigation is under the jurisdiction of the People’s Militia: that’s controlled by the Interior Ministry. There’ve been official complaints of arrogance and undiplomatic behaviour.’

  ‘Providing them laboratory room here isn’t going to give us much of an in.’

  ‘Which is why we’ve got to maximize it, if we get the chance,’ the Director insisted. There was a pause. ‘And which is why I want you to go.’

  ‘Me!’

  ‘You’ve got Russian,’ said the Director, itemizing the qualifications. ‘You’ve got overseas embassy experience. You’re up to date with every investigatory technique, from the courses at Quantico. And before your promotion to the Russian desk, you were the senior inspector here …’

  ‘But …’ broke in Cowley, intending to point out the gap of three years since his last in-field investigation experience.

  ‘I’m aware of the personal complication,’ Ross broke in, misunderstanding the interruption. ‘That’s why I’m seeing you personally. I want your complete assurance.’

  ‘Why not Andrews himself? It’s his field
office.’

  Ross nodded. ‘And he’s more than competent enough to handle it: we accept that. But if we admit to an in-field agent it will be official confirmation of an FBI station at the Moscow embassy, which we don’t want. Presidential ban, in fact. He’s already accredited as a cultural secretary, so the Russians would know the scientific offer was just our way of getting in. And he’s due for relocation, although that, of course, can be postponed for as long as you decide. His function will be to assist, within the embassy.’

  How could the Director talk glibly of being aware of personal complications and make a suggestion like this? Cowley didn’t consider there were any remaining personal difficulties about the break-up: there were still cards at Christmas and birthdays and once a year a digest of events in their lives, over the preceding twelve months. But this was professional: an intrusion into the job to which Andrews had always been committed to the exclusion of every other consideration. He’d obviously see the murder of Ann Harris as his investigation, even unofficially at this stage. It was his investigation, by right if not by political and diplomatic choice. Now – if they got in as the Director was hoping to get in – it was about to be peremptorily taken away. And by the man who had been Pauline’s first husband, thus completing the confused circle where it was going to be hard, for Andrews at least, to separate what was personal and what was professional. Maybe for himself, too. He said: ‘If we do get involved, I’d like you to brief Andrews fully by cable why it’s being done this way. And why I’m the person being sent in.’

  ‘So there are going to be difficulties!’

  ‘I’m considering the investigation, nothing else. Resentment is inevitable, isn’t it? It would be unnatural if there wasn’t.’

  ‘Not if he’s properly professional, which he should be. And reads the instructions I’ll send.’

  ‘Let’s hope he does,’ said Cowley, doubtfully.

  ‘You can back off, if you want,’ offered the Director.

  Cowley realized, abruptly, that he didn’t want to back off. He wanted to return to the field and prove how good he was: how good he had always been, as an investigator. Was that all? Didn’t he like the idea of taking over from the man who now had his wife, being in charge of the man, personally telling him what to do? Of course not, Cowley told himself. That was absurd: worse than absurd, it was totally unprofessional. ‘I’ll go in, of course,’ he said, shortly.

  The Director smiled. ‘You’ll need velvet gloves, diplomatically. I want you to clear your desk. The preliminary request – offer – has already been conveyed by our ambassador in Moscow. It’s being reinforced, by the Secretary of State …’ He patted a dossier on the desk in front of him. ‘There’s not much but you can read what Andrews has sent from Moscow. Let the Duty Officer know where you’ll be, at all times.’

  ‘I’m usually at home,’ said Cowley. It was a dismally honest admission of his loneliness. He’d need velvet gloves all the time, not just diplomatically, he decided.

  ‘Sure you don’t want to think more about it?’ suggested Ross.

  Knowing the Bureau’s adhesive attention to detail, he supposed it was obvious there would be a full history in Personnel records about the collapse of his relationship with Pauline and of her subsequent marriage to Andrews, but Cowley was still vaguely unsettled by it. ‘Quite sure.’ Another sweeping commitment, he realized. Despite the assurances he was giving today, it hadn’t been particularly easy, during the last meeting three years earlier. Couldn’t be better, how about you? Couldn’t be better. Glad to hear it. You look terrific. You too. Like Muzak played in supermarkets.

  ‘There’s a hell of a lot riding on this,’ said the Director in further warning.

  ‘I can imagine,’ said Cowley. Could he, he wondered.

  Eduard Ustenko was one of the new breed of Russian ambassadors, a professional product of perestroika reforms and the supposed Russian adoption of Western market philosophies: his university degree was actually in economics. He was always immaculately suited – usually in greys and blues – and always a sought-after guest on the Washington cocktail circuit, with a vivacious wife who managed to look as if she were dressed by a Paris couturier house, even if she wasn’t. The Style section of the Washington Post judged them the most popular diplomatic couple in the city.

  Today, dressed for the occasion, Ustenko wore dark, almost funereal, grey. Henry Hartz met him at the door of his office suite, as he had the CIA and FBI Directors earlier. As with the Directors he led the man to the easy chairs.

  ‘It’s a terrible tragedy,’ said Ustenko. ‘On behalf of my government I offer our deepest and most sincere regret. I intend extending that personally to Senator Burden and the unfortunate girl’s family.’

  ‘There should have been consultations before the girl’s apartment was entered,’ Hartz complained. He wondered how long it would take. And how difficult it would prove to be.

  ‘We would have also hoped for more cooperation towards our investigators when they visited your embassy. The entry and examination of the apartment was entirely consistent with a murder investigation. Every item removed for forensic examination has been listed.’

  ‘The apartment was sealed before the arrival of any of our officials,’ persisted Hartz. ‘We would expect an immediate copy of that list.’

  ‘I will pass that request on at once,’ promised Ustenko. ‘I can foresee no problems arising there.’

  Russia ten, America nil, scored Hartz. ‘You must understand our extreme concern at such a savage killing of an American citizen: an American diplomat?’

  ‘Particularly in the circumstances,’ said the politically aware ambassador.

  Hartz felt the perspiration start: he was glad it was only slight. He had intended immediately raising the offer of American technological assistance but quickly changed direction, to use Ustenko’s opening. ‘Senator Burden is an extremely influential politician here in Washington.’

  ‘I recognize that,’ Ustenko accepted. ‘He – and his views – are well known to me. Although not personally, of course.’

  ‘A man very aware and adept at domestic politics.’

  ‘That’s my belief.’

  ‘But sometimes, unfortunately, with stubbornly held and preconceived ideas which do not reflect the reality of current situations elsewhere in the world.’

  Ustenko nodded but said nothing this time.

  Hartz realized, uncomfortably, that he was teetering on the very edge of a diplomatic abyss. ‘Senator Burden’s particular influence is upon allocation of overseas aid.’

  The ambassador nodded again but still remained silent.

  ‘On the subject of aid, we are very sincere in our offer of any technological assistance that might be useful in tracking down the killer of Senator Burden’s niece.’

  ‘We appreciate that,’ said Ustenko, speaking at last. ‘I understand the Russian gratitude has already been officially expressed.’

  ‘Not having suffered the economic difficulties unfortunately experienced by your country in the last few years – difficulties you know we are anxious to alleviate – it’s conceivable that our law enforcement agencies have developed some quite unique techniques.’

  ‘Quite conceivable,’ agreed Ustenko.

  ‘I would like you to reiterate our offer to your government.’

  ‘I understand,’ said the ambassador, who did, completely.

  He was doing his best to disguise it but the anger was obvious as he thrust into the compound apartment and from experience Pauline said nothing, waiting for him to speak. It was important always for him to lead a conversation when he was angry.

  ‘The investigation has been taken away from me!’ Andrews announced, hands tight against his sides. ‘They’re sending somebody from Washington.’

  ‘You’re due for recall anyway,’ said Pauline, quickly, wanting to help.

  ‘I hadn’t finished talking,’ Andrews complained. ‘The somebody is your ex-husband.’

  ‘Oh,�
� said Pauline, lost for anything else.

  ‘I’ve been told to help, with anything within the embassy. That’s all.’ Fucking messenger boy, he thought.

  ‘How …?’ Pauline stumbled. ‘I mean, it’s got to be …’

  ‘It’s going to be fine,’ Andrews interrupted, subduing his fury, not wanting Pauline to know how he felt. ‘We’ve worked together in the past. No reason why we shouldn’t again.’

  ‘If you’re sure,’ said the woman, uncertainly.

  ‘It’ll be good, being back together again, like the old days!’ insisted Andrews, his face clearing. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Not if he hasn’t changed,’ said the woman, finding her own answer and believing it was what her new husband would want to hear.

  Chapter Eight

  The first victim had been a man.

  His name was Vladimir Suzlev. At the time of his death he had been fifty-two years and three months old, a married man with two teenage children, an off-duty taxi driver. And quite drunk: Novikov’s autopsy suggested, from the alcohol level in his Group O blood and stomach contents, that Suzlev has consumed more than one flask of spirit, perhaps almost two. Danilov wondered if that much alcohol had numbed the pain of the knife going in: he hoped so. Certainly the death scene photographs at which he was looking, laid out on his overflowing desk in his overflowing office at Ulitza Petrovka, didn’t show the terrorized agony frozen on Ann Harris’s face. Absurdly Suzlev appeared almost to be smiling, a happy man in sudden death. No more than asleep. Dreaming. The head shearing hadn’t been so horrific here because absurdly Suzlev has been almost bald. According to the bewildered and grief-racked wife who worked as a telex operator for a joint-venture Russian-Swedish company, Suzlev compensated for a completely hairless pate by allowing the peripheral hedge to grow long, almost collar-length. In death, the man had simply had a haircut, a short-back-and-sides tidying. A lot of the hair cut off was scattered over his face, as much of Ann Harris’s had been strewn over hers. Suzlev’s shoes were placed neatly beside the right side of his head.