In the Name of a Killer

Chapter Eighteen

In his anxiety to correct the oversight, Danilov was at Petrovka before his assistant, which was unnecessary because it was still too early in the day for the man to begin the inquiry. Major Pavin listened without expression to the briefing, not showing in any way that he knew it to be overdue and clearly forgotten until now. Danilov said: ‘It was obvious, knowing there hadn’t been a Russian in the apartment. And that she’d eaten. It’s my fault.’ Only to Pavin would Danilov have made such an open admission.

With attempted helpfulness Pavin said: ‘I didn’t think of it, either. They just might have eaten in a Russian-currency restaurant.’

‘Would you, with easy access to dollars?’

‘No,’ Pavin admitted.

‘And neither would Ann Harris. Remember the apartment? Everything was American. And the letters? How much she disliked it here? She ate the night of her death in a hard-currency restaurant, with as little contact as possible with anything Russian. I’m sure of it.’ He paused. ‘And those restaurants can be checked!’

Pavin gave a resigned grimace. ‘It’ll occupy a lot of people again.’

‘How about the Militia posts in the area of the murders?’

‘Nothing so far.’

‘Take men off that: this has priority. But not off the hospital inquiries: I don’t like the time that’s taking.’ He was still personally angry at overlooking basic routine: it had been obvious. He’d even isolated the fact that she’d eaten from the pathologist’s written account, marking it for significance! ‘Work through from top to bottom, tourist hotels and hard-currency and credit-card places first. Leave until last those that also take roubles.’

Pavin nodded to the instructions, smiling to one side of Danilov’s desk. ‘So you finally got a new bulb!’ he said, satisfied the pressure on maintenance had got results.

The bulb that had been dead in its socket for several weeks had been replaced before Danilov arrived that morning. Instead of thanking his assistant Danilov said, uncomfortably: ‘There’s a problem with the car.’

‘It’s almost new!’

‘I parked overnight outside my flat,’ said Danilov, in another admission he wished he didn’t have to make. ‘The wipers were stolen.’ He’d already decided not to tell Olga.

‘A lot of people take them off.’

‘I should have done,’ said Danilov, shortly. Hurrying to end his further embarrassment he said: ‘Let’s start the restaurant checks, OK?’

‘I’m not sure what I’ll be able to do about the car.’

Belatedly showing his thanks Danilov said: ‘It’s better in here, with the proper light.’

Danilov had warned the reception area again and Cowley was ushered into his office minutes after he replaced the telephone from his initial, nothing-to-report contact of the day with the Militia Director.

‘You had some inquiries to make at the embassy?’ prompted Danilov, at once. How much of the truth would he really hear?

Cowley had already determined that an edited account would be quite easy: all he had to do, almost literally, was stick to the truth. He repeated the explanation for the out-of-hours telephone calls given by Paul Hughes and declared that none of the diplomats to whom he had talked could suggest who the girl’s lover had been: there’d been no indication whatsoever during the social rounds at the embassy.

So much for cooperation, thought Danilov, disappointed. Interested in the effect it would have upon the other man, he said: ‘So they lied to you, too?’

The reaction tilted Cowley, putting him on the defensive. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Can you honestly believe there would be no indication who Ann Harris’s lover was, in that closed situation?’

Cowley smiled, humourlessly. ‘It’s difficult,’ he conceded.

‘Wasn’t there anything, from anyone? Baxter and Hughes particularly?’

‘Nothing positive from anyone.’ His first direct lie.

‘I didn’t ask that. I asked if there was anything.’

Cowley guessed the Russian didn’t completely believe him: he wondered at the black stains on the other man’s shirt cuffs. ‘Nothing,’ he insisted.

Danilov was convinced the other man was holding back. ‘How did they treat you, your people?’

Cowley smiled again, for better reason this time, toe-stretching for firmer ground. ‘Badly,’ he admitted, honest again. ‘They resent the suggestion of dirty smells inside their own house.’

Clever, decided Danilov. He regarded that as a truthful answer — an invitation for empathy between the two of them — which made him unsure where the untruthfulness was. ‘So it was completely unproductive?’

‘At the moment.’ Cowley would have preferred being open with the Russian: having another investigative opinion against which to put his own impression and get an impression back.

Danilov picked out the qualification immediately: at the moment. So what did the other man hope to discover later, after this moment? And where? And how? And about whom? The pathway had to be pointed by the American. ‘So where do we go from here?’

Cowley retreated thankfully into his edited preparation. The inconceivable link between a drunken Moscow taxi driver and an American diplomat was one of the most glaring implausibilities: he thought there would be some advantage in his examining once more the Suzlev file and perhaps in their both re-interviewing the widow.

Throughout what became an uninterrupted dialogue Danilov sat not looking directly at the American, but down at his desk: towards the end he began impressing a dotted pattern into a blotting pad which was too difficult to replace to be treated that way. He shouldn’t have taken risks with the pencil, either. Cowley had been provided with transcripts, and where available Englishlanguage copies of every documentary file, which he now had at the embassy. So there would be no need to refresh himself upon any of that. Which only left the forensic exhibits. But all those material exhibits had been explained in the written analysis. Was there something he had missed in the suggestion to interview again the widow of Vladimir Suzlev? ‘I think we can fit that in,’ he said, finally looking up from the punctured blotter. He hated not knowing: being kept in ignorance.

The response was too noncommittal for Cowley to get a guide to whether the Russian had accepted what he’d said at face value. Would he himself have accepted it in the same circumstances? Maybe. Then again, maybe not. ‘How about things from your side of the fence?’

‘Still routine,’ said Danilov. Believing the other man was reneging on their understood arrangement, Danilov felt no reluctance about holding back himself.

‘I have to appear at this joint press conference,’ said Cowley, moving the exchange along. ‘And I’ve been told Senator Burden is personally coming here.’

The reintroduction of beguiling honesty? Answering in kind, Danilov said: ‘I have to appear at the conference as well. Why is Burden coming?’

‘God knows,’ said Cowley. ‘Not our problem.’ He smiled encouragingly. ‘Could we get through those other things today?’

Professional dedication? Or impatience, to confirm a missed point? Danilov said: ‘I’m sure we can.’ Would he get the guide he wanted, while they were doing it?

It took Danilov a total of six minutes to arrange to visit Natalia Suzlev where she worked, at the offices of a Swedish-Russian joint-venture company selling Russian natural gas to the West. Cowley was back from the evidence room in precisely seven. Far too quick to have properly studied any of the closely typed pages, Danilov assessed. So the interest had to be among the material exhibits. ‘Refreshed your memory?’ he challenged.

‘I think so,’ said Cowley. He had the confirmation he wanted!

The offices of the joint-venture company were on the second floor of a modern, interlinked block of buildings on Leninskii Prospekt, opposite the huge cinema. Natalia Suzlev, who worked there as a telex operator, had obviously warned the rest of the staff that she was expecting an official visit: their arrival caused no surprise but a lot of interest. As she led them to an empty side-room Natalia’s head moved from side to side, to encompass the watching people, and Danilov got the impression she was enjoying the attention.

The side-room contained just a table and four chairs, all of which looked as if they were about to collapse. There was one print upon the wall, of an anonymous dacha, snow-covered in winter. Natalia Suzlev was a slightly built but wiry woman. Her fading brown hair was close-cropped, almost mannish, and her figure was mannish, too: she was quite flat-chested and angularbodied. She wore no make-up. The skirt was stained and the buttoned cardigan badly hand-knitted.

She sat down heavily, regarding Cowley curiously, clearly marking him out as a foreigner. ‘What is it?’ she said, looking from one policeman to the other. ‘Have you got him, the man that killed Vladimir?’

She seemed to have no difficulty talking about the killing. From the murder dossier Danilov knew they had been married for almost thirty years. A marriage from which all had gone but companionship, he guessed. Like so many others: did he regard Olga as a companion? He said: ‘No. We need some more help, so we can get him.’

‘What?’ This time she asked the question of Cowley.

‘Did your husband have any regular clients? People he drove for on a regular basis?’ asked Cowley.

Instead of answering, the woman said: ‘You’re American. I can hear the accent when you speak.’

Cowley nodded, agreeing: ‘Did he?’

‘What’s Vladimir’s death got to do with America?’

‘We don’t know that it has,’ said Danilov. ‘We’re just making inquiries. Did he have any regular clients?’

Natalia thought for a few moments. ‘Not that I can remember him saying. He just drove the streets. He was radio-controlled, of course: he could be directed, if anyone called in.’

‘I’m sorry if it distresses you, but I want to talk about the day he died,’ said Cowley, kindly. ‘He was off duty that night. What about during the day? Had he worked that day?’

‘Of course,’ said the widow. ‘Started early, about seven. Left before I got up. He was home, when I got back. He said Igor — that was one of his friends, Igor Morosov — had found a liquor store selling vodka that day and that he was going across, for a drink. And that I wasn’t to wait up. So I didn’t. In the morning I thought he’d gone straight to work …’ There was the briefest of pauses, still without any emotion. ‘But he hadn’t. He’d been killed.’

‘He kept his taxi at home?’ asked Cowley.

‘Yes.’

‘But he walked to Igor’s place? Did he often do that, walk when he could have driven?’

‘Sometimes. Igor doesn’t live all that far away.’

‘It was winter: freezing.’ Danilov picked up the questioning. ‘Doesn’t that surprise you, that he didn’t take his car?’

The woman shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He just didn’t. He didn’t say what he was going to do, apart from go to Igor’s and that I wasn’t to expect him back early.’

‘Did you ever drive with him?’ asked Danilov. ‘I’ve seen people — wives or girlfriends — with taxi drivers sometimes.’

‘Prostitutes!’ declared Natalia, at once.

‘Not always,’ argued Danilov, patiently. ‘Did you?’

‘A long time ago,’ said the woman, distantly, hinting at Danilov’s earlier thoughts about the marriage. ‘He used to like me going out with him at night sometimes. But not for a long time.’

Cowley put his hand to the outside of his jacket pocket, feeling the outline of the Marlboro cigarette packet: Andrews’s advice had got him a cab within minutes every time he had used it. He took the packet from his pocket now, gesturing with it towards the woman. ‘Did Vladimir stop for these?’

The woman sniggered, finding the question amusing. ‘Of course.’

Cowley seized the chance. ‘You said he just drove the streets, but he wouldn’t have simply done that, would he? He would have driven along particular streets, where he knew people would have these … foreign tourists.’

Natalia looked warily between them. ‘He didn’t do anything wrong … and anyway, he’s dead.’

‘We’re not saying he did anything wrong … not looking into anything like that,’ said Danilov, in eager reassurance, sensing an opening. ‘We’re just trying to find who killed him. Don’t hold anything back that might help us.’

‘I don’t know,’ said the woman, stubbornly, looking away from them.

Guessing the reason, Danilov said: ‘I know why drivers stop for anyone showing Marlboro cigarettes. I’m not interested how many dollars or how much foreign currency Vladimir saved. It’s yours.’

The wary look was still there. ‘Maybe he did,’ she allowed. ‘Drive in certain places, that is.’

‘Tell me the places,’ insisted Cowley.

‘The hotels, mostly,’ said Natalia. ‘He preferred the ones close to the centre. Intourist, the Metropole, the Savoy. Didn’t bother much with the Cosmos: said it wasn’t worthwhile.’

‘Hotels mostly,’ echoed Cowley. ‘What about particular streets? He did have favourite routes, didn’t he?’

The reluctant shrug came again. ‘Maybe.’

‘Come on, Natalia!’ pleaded Danilov.

‘Chaykovskaya,’ said the woman. She identified the street upon which the American embassy was situated quietly, as if she were imparting a secret between the three of them.

‘There it is!’ Cowley spoke quietly, too, but triumphantly and in English.

‘It could still be coincidence,’ warned Danilov, also in English.

The widow said: ‘What was that? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ said Danilov, smiling in the hope of further reassurance. ‘You’ve told us something which might be important. Vladimir drove along Ulitza Chaykovskaya in the hope of picking up Americans, right?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed.

‘And did he?’ Cowley came in.

She hesitated. ‘He said he was better than the other drivers: knew exactly the times to go up and down.’

Cowley came forward on his chair. ‘So he must have been talking about people working in the embassy? There couldn’t have been special times for casual visitors.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘The customers were people who worked at the embassy?’ pressed the American.

Another shrug. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Don’t suppose, Natalia! Were they?’ urged Danilov, forward himself now. ‘It’s important; very important.’

‘Yes. He said they liked him. He spoke quite good English: didn’t try to charge too much, like a lot of the others.’

‘What about regular customers?’ demanded Cowley. ‘If people at the embassy liked him — preferred him to other drivers — he must have had regular customers.’

‘I suppose so,’ said Natalia, falling back on her favourite phrase. Immediately realizing the negative repetition, she hurried on: ‘I’m not trying to be evasive. Of course he did. But he never mentioned names. He never knew names. He’d just say things like “I had the quiet one today” or “the one who tries to talk Russian” or “the rude one, who thinks he knows Moscow better than I do”. That’s all he ever said.’

‘Men?’ asked Cowley. ‘Did he always talk as if they were men? Or did you ever get the impression there might have been women who were regular customers?’

Natalia Suzlev frowned across the table. ‘He never said anything about women.’ There was a pause, the first indication of any difficulty. ‘Vladimir wasn’t interested in women … other women, I mean.’

Danilov wasn’t sure precisely what she meant. ‘Customers could call central dispatch, to order a taxi?’

‘Yes.’

‘By name? Did Vladimir ever say if people from the American embassy asked for him by name?’

Again there was a delay, while Natalia apparently considered the question. Abruptly she said: ‘No, never.’ There was a hesitation, to gain courage. ‘What is this all about? Please tell me. What did Vladimir do wrong at the American embassy?’

‘Nothing,’ said Cowley, urgently. ‘There’s not going to be any trouble. You’ve been very helpful.’

Back in the car on Leninskii Prospekt, Danilov said: ‘It would be a mistake to attach absolute importance to what she said; it could still be a coincidence.’

‘Or it could be something else,’ countered the American.

Danilov realized for the first time that somehow Pavin had got the windscreen wipers replaced on the car. There was another far more important function he had for Pavin: one he didn’t intend discussing with Cowley. The American should have thought of it himself, but he hadn’t. Or perhaps it was something else he was keeping to himself.

Senator Walter Burden didn’t like irritation, so he always travelled with an organizing entourage. Beth Humphries was an extremely efficient secretary. She was also a strikingly attractive, blue-eyed blonde who very obviously needed a 36 D-cup: Burden took a middle-aged man’s pleasure in the close presence of beautiful women and the misconception of other men that he slept with them all, which he didn’t and couldn’t since the precautionary prostate operation for a malignancy that had proven benign. John Prescott, one year out of Harvard, was eager to put the political degree to practical use and believed the patronage inherent as Burden’s personal assistant to be invaluable; his true ambition was actively to run for office in his native New Hampshire, but realistically he recognized the uncertainty of elected office against the better and longer-term career prospects as a Capitol Hill lobbyist. At the moment, he didn’t know which way to jump.

Charles Easterhaus had been baptized Carlos and was included in the circus because Burden liked to convey to the influential Hispanic electorate in his constituency that he did not hold the racial prejudices that he actually did. Easterhaus’s function was difficult to define. The job description was also that of personal assistant, but his graduation had been from the streets of New York’s Little Italy, although no evidence of the background remained, either in his appearance, behaviour or accent. He was more basically a fixer than the Harvard graduate and usually better at it. Easterhaus got favoured tables at restaurants with month-long waiting lists, theatre tickets for blocked-out shows and presidential suites in hotels which had months before confirmed the reservations to other guests. He was a dark-haired, archetypal Latin who possessed an enviable address book to supplement necessary public events with girls who looked every bit as good as Beth Humphries and sometimes better. Some were professionals. Burden paid and Easterhaus slept with them: he was a man who enjoyed complete job satisfaction.

James McBride had been with Burden since his earliest days as a Congressman, which made him invaluable as a media organizer. McBride knew every favour received or bestowed, every deal struck or broken, every trick practised and played and every shortcut Burden had ever taken to become the power he now was in Washington, DC. It meant McBride was always ahead when some ambitious journalist tried to rake the muck, which they sometimes did. He had a book, like Easterhaus, but McBride’s tome recorded the indelicate embarrassment of those who tried to expose the embarrassments of the Senator. He called it his shield, which it was. He was the only man who, late at night when they were drinking, could openly call Burden an asshole to his face and get away with it because no matter how drunk Burden became, he knew McBride could never be replaced. Deep down Burden knew it was true, anyway.

Despite the individual expertise and the team’s cohesive efficiency, their Moscow arrival was disorientating. Each and all of them were accustomed to special receptions and it didn’t happen at Sheremet’yevo airport. They had to stand in the immigration line like everybody else and wait interminably in the Customs reclaim for their baggage. Ralph Baxter did succeed in getting to them there, but there were no porters, so they had to pay a foreign currency dollar each for a cart to wheel their own cases into the crowded, jostling concourse.

Easterhaus was left to guard the carts while the rest, led by the Senator, ascended to the VIP lounge on the first floor for the Burden-convened press conference.

It was exclusively for Western correspondents and television reporters and cameramen. Burden agreed to the print media conference first and television interviews afterwards. He had come personally to Moscow to find out what had happened to his niece; until now he felt he had been denied information by American officials and looked for more cooperation in Russia. He was determined the killer would be brought to justice. Meetings were scheduled with a number of Russian officials and ministries. Towards the end of every interview, he introduced his favourite speculation, wondered if it were coincidence that the victim had been his niece. The reference was sufficiently intriguing to guarantee headlines across America. Burden was extremely pleased with the coverage.