In the Name of a Killer (16 page)

‘Jesus! Who would have thought it?’ Andrews poured himself scotch, over ice.

Cowley refused any annoyance at the open condescension. He
had
been a drunk, so someone who’d known him as well as Andrews was entitled to disbelief. And if he showed any reaction, Andrews might imagine the reason deeper than simple annoyance, at being patronized. He said: ‘What sort of steer can you give me?’

‘Don’t take any of Danilov’s shit. Keep the asshole jumping. Let him know who’s going to be calling the shots from now on.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Cowley. The other man appeared to miss the reservation.

‘I’ve been pretty uncertain about this, ever since I heard it was you who were coming,’ admitted Andrews. ‘Haven’t you?’

‘Naturally.’

‘I don’t see any reason why there should be difficulties. There won’t be, as far as I am concerned.’

Cowley was surprised that the other man had accepted the secondary role so readily, despite Washington’s orders. ‘Or from me.’

‘Pauline said … suggested … that if it all went well tonight … you and I, I mean … I was to say how about coming for dinner one night? It’s miserable here, all by yourself. Would that be a good idea? I mean Pauline and I feel OK about it, if you do.’

Cowley was finding everything different about Andrews from what he had expected. Or remembered. ‘Sounds good to me. Why don’t we think on it?’

‘Good! She’ll be pleased.’ Andrews gestured around the apartment. ‘Meanwhile, any food you want you can get from the commissary. If you don’t feel like cooking for yourself there’s the embassy mess. Funny telephone system here: everything is direct dial, straight into anyone’s office: would you believe there are photographs of the entire fucking government, in the front of the telephone directory …!’ He offered a card. ‘That’s my home number. Anything you want, you call, you hear?’

And Pauline’s home number, Cowley thought. ‘Got it.’

Andrews finished his drink in a head-tilted gulp and said: ‘While you’re with the ambassador I’ll fix a meeting with Danilov.’

Cowley nodded. ‘You mentioned the autopsy report?’

Andrews handed over the dossier. ‘You’re going to crack this one and come out covered in glory!’

But not if he failed to solve it, thought Cowley. ‘I’m glad we’re going to get along,’ he said.

‘He said to say hello back,’ declared Andrews. He went straight to the cocktail cabinet, but more for effect than for the drink he poured himself.

‘How does he look?’

Andrews held up his glass, smiling. ‘You’re not going to believe this! He’s given it up.’

She didn’t believe it, Pauline decided: William couldn’t have changed that much.

‘It’s going to be interesting, working together again.’

‘I hope it is,’ said Pauline. She hoped he wasn’t too upset by what had happened: despite being married to him for more than three years she still often found it difficult to guess what Andrews was really thinking.

Chapter Twelve

Jetlag brought Cowley awake when it was still dark, just after five in the morning. He had expected to rouse earlier and decided, pleased, that it would only take a couple of days for him fully to adjust. He remained for a while where he was, trying to anticipate the day. The meeting with the ambassador probably
would
be a warning political lecture. So the uncertainty was Dimitri Danilov. Sneaky son-of-a-bitch? Jerk? Motherfucker? Asshole? Or one very upset Moscow-based FBI officer suffering a grievance, real or imagined? Despite the good beginning – the surprising beginning – Cowley decided he would have to guard constantly against any personal assessments influencing his professional judgement of whatever Andrews did or said. More than just be careful: determinedly objective. Unfair, after the airport greeting and the later conversation here, last night? Yes, Cowley decided. He was prejudging, on experience from the past: more revolving circles.

The autopsy report was on the bedside table where he had put it aside the previous night, together with copies of everything else Andrews had so far assembled. Cowley was sure he knew it all but pulled everything towards him to read completely through again. He concentrated particularly on the pathology examination, memorizing the details. It had been translated, of course. Cowley wished there had been a copy of the Russian original, for him to make a comparison to agree the English version. The medical account appeared comprehensive but there would need to be another post-mortem in America. Would it be automatic, without his suggesting it? A mistake to presume anything: he’d recommend it, as soon as the body was released. The list of articles removed from Ann Harris’s apartment was frustrating, because that’s
all
it was, a list with no indication of the significance of any single item. The knife rack was intriguing. And he wondered what had emerged from what was simply recorded as ‘correspondence’. He hoped Dimitri Danilov fitted none of the descriptions offered by Andrews: it would be impossible to proceed unless he and the Russian worked with at least some element of cooperation.

It was after six, but still quite dark when Cowley got out of bed. He put coffee on to percolate, and saw as he did so that the door to the liquor cupboard was ajar. He stood before it briefly, looking in at the selection: there was not the slightest desire, not any more. He closed the door, positively, collected his coffee and took it with him into the main room: close to the window he saw the whiteness of frost outside, despite the darkness; he was comfortably warm even though he was only wearing a thin robe. He supposed efficient central heating was essential in a country with such a climate. He hadn’t made any special preparation and hoped the clothes he’d brought would be sufficient. There were two views from the window, one directly towards the embassy still in blackness, the other sideways down a street of sleeping, lightless buildings. He was abruptly held by the absolute contrast to any American city he had ever known: there was no movement, of people or cars, anywhere. Nor the slightest sound, either. Cowley shivered, suddenly, although he still wasn’t cold.

He remained at the window for a long time, as what was to become the day gradually formed before him, and quickly realized it was never going to be a proper day at all: a thick, orange-grey fog smothered streets and houses and proper sight of anything, shrouding out any full light. He was able, though, to see his immediate surroundings: here his reaction wasn’t exactly shock but something close.

From the freshly built, red-brick residential compound and the never-to-be-occupied new legation he was looking directly at the rear of the old, pre-revolutionary embassy building. In between – actually built on to the back of the mansion like some inoperable growth – was the original accommodation compound, a crumbling warren of green-painted, small-balconied apartments as lifeless as everything else all around. But it was not the living quarters which caused the surprise. Accustomed to the baroque splendour of the US mission in Rome and the enormous, eagle-surmounted block forming one entire side of Grosvenor Square, in London, Cowley was amazed at the embassy itself. The mansion might once have been impressive but now it was completely neglected. It was dirt-grimed, the walls streaked with soot smears, the majority of the grit-coated windows sealed on the inside with either cardboard screens or wooden sheets. And again there was no sign of life anywhere. Cowley thought that rather than the diplomatic centre of the richest nation on earth, it looked like the abandoned home of the increasingly desperate poverty-stricken who’d finally boarded it against squatters or vandals until the arrival of the overdue demolition squad. He supposed the lack of maintenance or upkeep would have been understandable, if the transfer to the contemporary embassy had happened. But as it had been decreed uninhabitable he would have expected a greater effort to keep the existing building presentable.

Cowley took his time showering and dressing, choosing the thickest of the three suits he’d brought with him, debating whether to wear a sweater beneath and finally deciding against it. He was still ready early, waiting for the time to pass, when Andrews arrived, attempting some sort of rhythm in the way he knocked at the door. The man was wearing a three-quarter-length quilted coat, with a fur-trimmed hood. His trouser bottoms were tucked into fur-lined boots.

‘I’ll need to sign you in, the first time,’ announced the local FBI man. ‘I’ve got accreditation ready for you in the office. I’ll show you where that is in the embassy, too, so you can find your way there after you’re through with the ambassador. Name’s Richards, by the way: in full, Hubert J. Richards III. Family money from oil. Not a political appointment, to repay election contributions though. He’s a career professional. Not a bad guy. Anything you want?’

Cowley wondered how the other man managed to say so much without apparently taking breath. Careful, he warned himself at once: never critical, always objective. ‘You seem to have covered it all.’

Cowley followed the other American out of the complex, instantly conscious of the chill through his wool overcoat. His breath clouded whitely in front of him, a personal contribution to the fog. They had to go by the green-painted compound. Closer Cowley saw barbed wire coiled protectively along the enclosing walls. There was a Russian Militia guard in a sentry box at a minor entrance who looked at them without expression and made no challenge as they entered. The side entrance was in fact a long corridor: halfway along there was an American checkpoint, guarded by a marine who nodded and smiled familiarly at the resident FBI man. Andrews insisted on a formal introduction, assuring the marine Cowley would have his own ID after today. The marine said Hi: a new face, the highlight of his day.

The interior of the embassy was better than the exterior – cleaner at least – but there were cracks in some places in the high-ceilinged corridor and the wall covering was faded with age. Their footsteps echoed. Andrews’s office was on the first floor, with a window unobstructed by either cardboard or wooden screens. It overlooked an inner courtyard in which, inexplicably, there were a number of metal posts, some connected by wire. Cowley hung his own coat on a rack while Andrews shucked off his quilted anorak and changed his boots for gleaming loafers. Beneath the shapeless protective coat he was crisply dressed, as always: sharp-as-a-tack, Cowley remembered.

‘You’ve got to sign for this,’ said Andrews, officiously, presenting the accreditation tag.

It was exactly the same as those issued at Pennsylvania Avenue, where they fitted security key slots to gain and record admission to the different departments in the building. It was already equipped with a chain, to wear around the neck as everyone did in Washington, and a file photograph which had been among the personal material sent ahead. Cowley put the ID in his pocket. He lowered himself into the only other chair in the room, curious about the poles in the courtyard. It looked something like a volley-ball court but he didn’t think it could be.

‘No problem, overnight?’

‘None that I can think of.’

Andrews sat at the window, with its strange view. Without looking back, he said: ‘This job could make a career, couldn’t it?’

‘What?’ frowned Cowley, momentarily confused.

Andrews turned. ‘I mean Burden. All the power and influence the guy’s got. Find the nut who killed his niece and Burden is going to be eternally grateful, isn’t he? A friend for life!’

Cowley regarded the other man steadily, remembering the previous night’s conversation about glory. ‘If we make a case, your participation will be recognized. I promise you that.’

‘Privately?’

‘It’ll count, where it matters.’

Andrews didn’t respond at once. Then he said: ‘Sure.’ There was a further pause. ‘What time do you want me to tell Danilov to get here?’

Cowley’s frown deepened. ‘Why don’t we ask what time I could go see him?’

Andrews’s face tightened perceptibly at the unspoken correction. ‘You forgotten what I told you last night, about how to handle him?’

‘I said I’d work the patch my way.’ He didn’t like the reversal, from the first day: didn’t at all like the tension he could feel between them.

‘It’s a mistake.’

‘My way, OK?’ He didn’t have to give in: he was in charge.

The resident FBI man nodded, slowly. ‘Whoops, mustn’t get out of line, must I?’

‘Let’s not build an issue out of it.’

There was another slow nod. ‘You’ll need transport.’

There’ll be cabs.’

‘Moscow’s not like anywhere else. Maybe I should go with you?’

Cowley shook his head, positively. ‘Nothing to identify your true position here. You had the Director’s briefing: you know that.’

There was further head movement of begrudging acceptance. ‘Easy to forget.’

‘Let’s keep it easy,’ placated Cowley, hopefully.

‘Sure.’

‘This is a two-man operation.’

‘Whatever.’

Silence came briefly between them. Cowley said: ‘I’ll accept whatever time Danilov suggests.’

An internal telephone shrilled on Andrews’s desk, surprisingly loud. ‘The ambassador’s ready for you.’

‘Good,’ said Cowley, gratefully.

Hubert J. Richards III
looked
a professional career diplomat, impeccably dark-suited, pink-checked and quiet-voiced: at the end of every sentence there was a suggestion of a smile tempting agreement with the offered opinion, but not too fulsome against a contrary opinion having to be courteously considered. He stood to shake Cowley’s hand and waited until Cowley was seated before sitting himself. He hoped Cowley had had a good journey and found his accommodation – ‘always difficult, here in Moscow’ – adequate. It was a horrible business, most upsetting. Coffee was served by a bulky, broad-hipped woman with irongrey hair and a slight limp.