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

by Brian Freemantle

  Smolin had a presentation prepared. Practically at dictation speed he read out a statement of the facts of Ann Harris’s murder: name, age, position at the American embassy and circumstances of her body being found, although omitting the bizarre details. Russia was grateful for the offer of American investigatory help and an agent from the FBI was liaising upon scientific matters here in Moscow. The investigation was in its very preliminary stages but as the Federal Prosecutor he had no doubt of its eventual successful conclusion. He also welcomed the presence in Moscow of Senator Walter Burden, uncle of the dead girl, to whom on behalf of the Russian Federation he expressed his deepest sympathy.

  Danilov was conscious of the shifts of impatience from the journalists he could see in the first few rows during the Prosecutor’s opening. There was the briefest of pauses when Smolin stopped talking, no one appearing sure whether he had finished or not, and then a babble of shouting. For the first time the control of the unpractised Smolin wavered. The Prosecutor sat confused on the dais, looking to Lapinsk for help. But it came from McBride, the media expert. The American stood to take charge, yelled several times ‘OK guys, let’s calm it down and get started, shall we?’ and after a while re-established some sort of order. And then, remaining standing, picked out the questioners demanding attention: sometimes he did so by name. The opening questioning centred upon the progress and content of the investigation, which McBride referred to the Prosecutor or Lapinsk, who in turn signalled either Danilov or Cowley to respond. Cowley most of the time deferred to Danilov, whose discomfort increased, particularly when the third or fourth question demanded his identity, which he gave haltingly. Cowley was called upon immediately afterwards to identify himself. In response to the same question asked several different ways Danilov insisted that inquiries were progressing routinely, but Cowley caused a fresh barrage of demands by saying that there were certain lines of inquiry that were being pursued. At once aware of the mistake, the American withdrew, denying there was any expectation at this early stage of an arrest.

  ‘Is it true there was some defilement of the body?’ The question, in a strong American accent deep within the hall from a man whom Danilov could not see, silenced the underlying murmur that had been constant since the conference began.

  McBride looked inquiringly along to the two detectives. Danilov shook his head, indicating Smolin. Cowley saw the gesture and nodded towards the Prosecutor as well. Smolin bent sideways, to the Militia General, which took him away from Burden, who had said nothing about the head shearing in any public statement so far, and was leaning out to speak to the Russian. Unaware of the Senator’s attempt to attract his attention, Smolin blurted that Ann Harris had been shorn by her murderer.

  The outburst from the hall was such that even Danilov, who believed he had adjusted to the strangeness of an international press gathering, was bewildered. McBride lost control of the questioning, so there was a cacophony of shouts that no one could hear. While he was blinking around the room Danilov found himself instinctively pressing the straying hair into place and hoped the nervousness hadn’t been caught on film or by one of the photographers. Once more McBride quietened the room, to make the questions intelligible. There was an uproar of demands for the significance of the hair cutting: most included the word ‘maniac’ to describe the killer. There were as many demands to know what else had been done to the body, to which neither Danilov nor Cowley replied. The progression to sexual assault was inevitable, and Danilov insisted there was no evidence of there having been any. A query about the reason for Burden’s presence gave McBride the opportunity to include the politician for the first time, and Danilov was grateful for the obvious shift of camera lights and attention. Spared the glare he concentrated upon the questioning, trying to identify from the voice the man whose question about defilement could obviously refer to the girl’s hair.

  Burden played to every emotion. He talked of loving his niece (‘a sweet, beautiful and brilliant girl’) and of his personal determination to see her killer (‘this monster’) brought to trial. He had come to Moscow personally to meet the investigatory team and to pledge (‘this is my personal undertaking’) any further American help that might be needed. He avoided but did not rule out the question of further FBI personnel coming to Moscow. With no way of knowing, at this stage, how long the investigation might last, he did not intend remaining in the Russian capital until its conclusion but would return if and when circumstances demanded. Asked what verdict he expected from a successful prosecution, Burden said: ‘Those of you who know me well – and it’s good to see a few old friends here today – will also know my support of capital punishment. A person who takes a life doesn’t deserve to have one.’ That reply brought the questioning back to the Federal Prosecutor, who confirmed capital punishment did exist in Russia and added to another query that it was carried out by pistol shot. Burden said at once: ‘That sounds just fine to me.’

  Danilov found the individual television appearances more difficult than the general conference. There were three, all for American networks, and he insisted upon Cowley being at his side at every one, which meant the FBI agent did most of the talking, although Danilov was pressed to speak in English. He did so feeling like a performing animal. Before each appearance, a makeup person carefully combed his hair into place, for which he was grateful. Burden was also interviewed separately by each of the networks: for two of the appearances the politician had Danilov and Cowley sit with him, as if he were in some way controlling the investigation. Danilov sat throughout with his shirt glued to him by perspiration.

  John Prescott hurried towards the two detectives the moment they re-entered the ante-room in which they had earlier assembled and said at once to Cowley: ‘The Senator has been in touch with Washington. You’ll be getting guidance some time today. I thought you should know.’

  Cowley looked curiously at the younger, eager man. ‘OK. Let’s see what the reply is.’

  ‘It might be a good idea for both of you to be a little more forthcoming in the meantime,’ suggested the man, including Danilov in the approach.

  Cowley nodded, understanding. ‘Like I said, we’ll wait.’

  Danilov said: ‘I think the Senator should get all his information from the Federal Prosecutor: that’s how it should properly be done.’

  Prescott shook his head, in exaggerated sadness. ‘It’s a big mistake.’

  ‘Thanks for your concern,’ said Cowley, a Washington player recognizing another Washington player.

  ‘We’re all staying at the Savoy,’ announced Prescott, following the game plan. ‘It’s got a pretty fantastic dining-room. Why don’t you both join us for dinner tonight? The Senator would like that.’

  ‘I’ve already got a commitment,’ Cowley apologized. Which would be easier, dinner with Burden and the sycophants or dinner with Andrews and Pauline? He didn’t think it was a good comparison.

  ‘And I’ve got a prior engagement, too,’ Danilov refused. Larissa’s shift still made the late afternoons convenient.

  The hopeful smile slipped from Prescott’s face. ‘Sorry you couldn’t make it.’

  ‘Maybe another time,’ said Cowley insincerely, as the other American walked back to Burden’s group, which was gathered in stilted conversation with the two other Russian officials. Cowley turned to Danilov. ‘I’d like that talk before I get back to the embassy, to discuss everything with Washington.’

  ‘But not here,’ said Danilov. The sweat was drying, cold and uncomfortable, on his back.

  ‘Your office is in the opposite direction.’

  ‘Why don’t I buy you lunch?’ He guessed he had sufficient roubles – just – and although the service would have been better in the foreign-currency part of The Peking the larger section that accepted Russian money would not be crowded this late. ‘How about Chinese?’

  It would make a change from Lean Cuisine, thought Cowley. ‘I think maybe I deserve it.’ What would Pauline make for tonight? In Rome she’d been awar
ded a diploma for Italian cooking, to add to the Cordon Bleu qualification she’d gained in a two-month residential course in Paris.

  It took another fifteen minutes for the two investigators to excuse themselves. The Soviet section of the restaurant was more crowded than Danilov had expected but they got a table. Cowley said he didn’t have any particular preferences, so why didn’t Danilov order for both of them: he didn’t drink, so he wouldn’t have any wine.

  ‘You didn’t play it straight,’ Cowley accused at once, the ordering completed.

  ‘Did you?’ challenged Danilov, just as quickly.

  ‘I thought so.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Danilov. ‘You checked the twisted fingerprint in the evidence room when you came back to Petrovka, right? But didn’t tell me what you were doing.’ He was still enjoying the feeling of superiority.

  ‘I didn’t have the comparison back from Washington, from the stuff in Ann Harris’s office, until this morning,’ tried Cowley, defensively. ‘What was there to tell?’

  Danilov had ordered vodka in preference to the sugar-sweet Chinese wine. He sipped, to give himself time, and said: ‘How about suspicion? You’d seen Hughes’s hand, when you talked to him.’

  ‘You suspected it, too. With better reason. You had the transcript of the telephone conversations but all you gave me was the fact of out-of-hours calls. Why the hell only give me half the thing to hit him with? You were fucking about, waiting for me to move.’

  ‘With good reason!’ seized Danilov, still believing himself ahead in the exchange. Slightly relaxing, with an admission, he said: ‘And I didn’t have the transcripts: I had to get them, additionally.’

  ‘From intelligence monitoring of diplomatic telephones?’

  ‘I got them,’ said Danilov, shortly, refusing the confirmation. ‘It’s our advantage.’

  Danilov had ordered the duck and was glad, when it came. There were also stuffed dumplings and sour prawns. Appearing reminded, by the delivery of the food, Cowley said: ‘What about them eating together on the night of the murder? He couldn’t have jerked me around like he did if I had been able to hit him with that!’

  Danilov did not want to disclose completely how desperately close he had been to knowing nothing until the last minutes before the conference. Using the American’s opening, he said: ‘Waiting. I think you didn’t tell me what you had because you wanted to keep the situation with Hughes completely within the embassy, so you could ship him home. Now you can’t. Certainly not without creating a major diplomatic uproar because by now his exit, diplomatically protected or not, will have been banned.’

  He’d lost, Cowley conceded. He said: ‘The duck is good.’

  ‘It’s the obvious speciality.’ I’ve won, thought Danilov.

  ‘Maybe we should re-define the working relationship,’ suggested Cowley, capitulating.

  ‘I think that would probably be a good idea.’

  ‘I appreciated the inference in front of the prosecutor and your boss that everything was a joint discovery: that it was an evenSteven investigation,’ said Cowley.

  ‘That’s what I thought it was going to be.’

  ‘Have we made our points, do you think?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  ‘It would be stupid to shake hands or anything like that, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Quite stupid,’ agreed Danilov.

  ‘I won’t get any playback from Washington, about anything, until tomorrow. I’ll call.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting.’ Danilov decided that everything had worked out well: extremely well. There still had to be Paul Hughes’s confession, of course.

  The meal cost fifty roubles. Danilov wondered if Lapinsk would let him reclaim it. He doubted it. The system didn’t work as he understood it did in the West, with expense accounts.

  Larissa was waiting behind the desk but emerged the moment he entered the hotel, to meet him in the foyer. She was smiling, enjoying herself in front of the other receptionists who shared the same rendezvous arrangements, and said: ‘Can I show you direct to your room, sir?’

  Danilov turned with her towards the elevators, conscious of the smiling attention. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘I’m proud of you,’ she said. ‘You looked terrific on television. We switched from Russian to CNN, when the satellite came on. CNN were heading their news coverage with it: running the conference live. You looked wonderful. Why have you had your hair cut so short, incidentally? I like it, but then I liked the grey bits, too. Made you look distinguished.’

  Danilov was unhappy she had so easily guessed the reason for the new hair-style. Ignoring her question, he said: ‘I didn’t like the conference.’

  The elevator stopped at the sixth floor and he followed her out. Larissa said: ‘You looked as if you did.’

  ‘This isn’t getting any easier.’

  ‘What’s that mean?’ Larissa secured the lock but didn’t come forward to be kissed as she usually did, remaining at the far side of the room to frown at him curiously.

  ‘Just what I said: that it isn’t easy.’

  ‘Just like it wasn’t easy the other night at dinner?’

  ‘You made the difficulties there. Olga suspects.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So it’s difficult.’

  ‘Why don’t we stop thinking about you for a moment?’ challenged Larissa. ‘How do you think it is for me, with a slob like Yevgennie?’

  ‘Horrible,’ conceded Danilov at once. He humped his shoulders. ‘There isn’t anything I can say that would help: just that I feel sorry. I still don’t see why you behaved as you did.’

  Larissa slowly began to disrobe, actually humming to herself a vague tune to accompany the striptease, which became more and more raunchily explicit with the more clothes she took off. ‘I wanted you to feel me when I was wet but you wouldn’t. Why wouldn’t you?’

  ‘You tried to make it obvious, to Olga and maybe to Yevgennie. You were trying to create a situation, weren’t you?’ demanded Danilov. He’d set out to show his annoyance but realized he sounded weak and petulant instead.

  ‘Feel me now,’ insisted Larissa, completely naked.

  ‘I think it would be an idea to cool things off for a while.’

  Larissa pulled back the bed covers and lay provocatively displayed for him, one leg raised, the other stretched out before her on the bed. ‘Do you really mean that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘What’s the point of hurting people?’

  Larissa frowned. ‘Who?’ She appeared genuinely perplexed.

  ‘Olga. Yevgennie.’

  She laughed. ‘All Olga has is a suspicion! And the only way to hurt Yevgennie would be to take his brandy bottle away. And do you really care? Wouldn’t you like to sort things out, so that we could be married?’

  ‘It’s complicated, you know that,’ said Danilov, refusing to answer. He’d never intended the affair to become this serious. Still didn’t. So why had he allowed it to happen? Surely he hadn’t been trying to prove he was still attractive to a vivacious, beautiful woman, despite the encroaching greyness he’d got rid of in a barber’s chair and the stomach bulge he constantly tried to suck in! Of course not! He had enjoyed the flattery, though. And Larissa was beautiful and vivacious.

  ‘Why don’t you come and fuck me, to help you make up your mind?’

  Going towards her, Danilov realized the dinner episode hadn’t been for her personal enjoyment, a private joke. Larissa was pushing the situation, wanting Olga to find out.

  There was a giggle of delight, quickly stifled as the television transmission ended. Worried. How they should be. Looked it, all of them. Frightened. Right they should be frightened. How it was important they should be. Sensational, about the hair. Not a maniac, though. Got that wrong. Cleverer than any of them. Prove it, now the hunt was properly announced. Hunt but never find. Never know where to look. How to look. Going to worry a lot more, all of them. Never get it right. T
he giggle came again, longer this time. Then the hum.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was inevitable that he would be late for dinner. Within minutes of his personally dispatching the ‘Eyes Only’ cable to the Director fully setting out the circumstances and suspicion surrounding Paul Hughes – and the complete Russian awareness of it – the direct telephone call came from Leonard Ross, on the secure line.

  Andrews, who was still in the FBI offices reading the exchanges and actually took the call from the Director, said: ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ holding out the receiver, as if it were hot. As Cowley took the telephone, Andrews mouthed that they would hold the meal, for as long as it took.

  Ross didn’t waste time with pleasantries, dictating his questions so precisely that Cowley was sure the Director had them written out in front of him: Cowley had little doubt the entire conversation was being recorded, for others to hear later. Cowley repeatedly insisted that at that stage all they had was strong circumstantial suspicion, not actual proof, and insisted just as frequently that it had been made quite clear at his meetings that day with Russian officials that Hughes would not be permitted to leave Moscow to be questioned in America.

  ‘What about diplomatic immunity?’

  ‘A Russian’s also dead,’ Cowley reminded him. ‘They’d refuse to recognize immunity. We don’t stand a chance of keeping the lid on.’

  ‘The ambassador know this?’

  ‘I waited to talk to you.’

  ‘Burden?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ll need to consult at this end.’

  ‘What about the ambassador and Burden?’

  ‘Nothing, until I get a guide here. There’s some more stuff coming for you, in the pouch. And the mind doctors think they can create their psychological profile, from what you’ve sent.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re quite sure, about the Russians’ attitude?’