In the Name of a Killer

Chapter Nineteen

Danilov hadn’t expected the Security Service’s Colonel to agree to an immediate meeting, but Gugin had insisted he was free, so Danilov had obviously accepted. The monolithic, yellow-washed headquarters of the disgraced and much reduced State Security Service formed before him as Danilov drove up the hill from the direction of the Kremlin. Of all the changes to Moscow squares and streets and boulevards, supposedly to erase the discredited legacies of communism, Danilov found the renaming of Dzerzhinsky Square the most illogical. Although Lubyanka was the pre-revolutionary original, Danilov considered the word far more emotive and reminiscent of past horror: Lubyanka, the prison which the KGB had grown to absorb, was infamous as one of the centres of Stalin’s slaughter, the title indelible in every Russian’s mind.

He had to stop, for the circulating traffic flow, so he had a complete view of the building occupying one entire side of the square. Above ground, in his obvious view, the building at its highest reached eight storeys. But Danilov knew that below ground it was more than twice that size, a vast underground city of separate buildings and offices and streets and command and communication centres, complete with its own underground train system constructed deeper than the publicly known metro, linked directly to the Kremlin. So what he could see was the tip of the iceberg. Which was fittingly accurate. Apart from the reduction in control upon the ordinary people of the country the new security organisation hadn’t changed dramatically, despite the supposed divisional and staff purges. It had adapted to the changes, like a chameleon adjusting quickly to changing surroundings, colouring itself to conform. For once, Danilov found himself hoping that even the internal surveillance had not diminished too profoundly.

Danilov edged into the traffic swirl and drove to the side of the building, as Gugin had directed. Danilov’s name was listed at the checkpoint. An escort got into the car to guide him to a parking area and then took him through two separate admission procedures at which his credentials were checked and listed.

Gugin was sitting, waiting, when Danilov was finally ushered into his office, a small man behind a large desk. He was in uniform, the left of which was marked with more decoration ribbons than Danilov would have expected. The man was too young for any of the obvious wars, and Danilov wondered how the man had achieved the decorations. Perhaps in other wars, the sort that no one knew about. Despite the honours, Gugin’s office was at the rear of the building, overlooking the original prison exercise yard. Not just the exercise yard, Danilov remembered. The conveyor belt executions had been carried out against those grey walls. Would the concrete slabs and blocks still be pitted by the bullets? It would probably be the sort of obscene monument the KGB would want, for their never really interrupted posterity: pockmarked macho. What Gugin’s room lacked in outlook it compensated for in fitments. Danilov realized the huge desk comprised part of a furniture set, all heavy and ornately carved, a towering, close-fronted bureau, a ceiling-to-floor bookcase and a side-desk with a roll-top covering, which was pulled down. If it was opened, would Stalin emerge, moustached and glowering, wanting to stand at the window for the bullet-spattered display down in the courtyard?

‘So?’ demanded Gugin and smiled, because this meeting was precisely what he had wanted. He was sure the benefits would be considerable: the stupid policeman wouldn’t realize the manipulation.

Danilov realized he should have been surprised by the quickness of the appointment. Gugin doubtless saw it as confirmation of the old KGB belief in Militia inefficiency, a cap-in-hand visit for help that could be laughed over later in some services’ club. Danilov smiled back, hoping the grimace didn’t appear as false as it was. ‘Our investigation is progressing extremely well,’ he lied.

Gugin’s smile remained, a disbelieving expression. ‘No problem with the American?’

Eager to show the security service’s awareness of everything, gauged Danilov. His mind ran on, worryingly. He’d known from the beginning that the investigation had the self-protective interest of the former KGB. So how closely were they monitoring him, personally? There wasn’t any real reason for him to be concerned at their discovering his affair with Larissa, but she was the wife of another Militia officer. It would give them an advantage over him if ever they needed one. ‘None that has arisen so far. Everything seems to be going quite well.’

‘Sure you can trust him?’

Was that an instinctive question? Or did Gugin have some private information? ‘Can he trust me?’ That was wrong, too: pretentious.

‘You tell me,’ demanded Gugin, enjoying himself. ‘I have no idea what’s going on.’ The policeman was stupid: it was going to be easy.

‘When it’s convenient.’ Pretentious again. But quite truthful.

‘I would have thought trust was necessary,’ said Gugin.

Was there a point in this discussion? ‘Nothing has occurred so far to make me mistrust,’ Danilov lied. It was why he was here at security headquarters.

‘There is going to be an arrest, soon?’ It was more of a smirk than a smile.

‘As soon as possible,’ said Danilov, regretting the emptiness.

Gugin picked up on it at once. ‘I’m sorry it’s not going better.’

There was nothing to be gained by creating an argument. ‘I appreciated the assistance you gave, with the photographs. And the telephone log.’

‘Now there is something else?’

‘Not exactly something else,’ said Danilov. ‘Something to complete it.’

It was like operating puppet strings, thought Gugin. ‘Complete what?’

‘The telephone lists,’ said Danilov. ‘More than telephone numbers were recorded, weren’t they?’

‘You only asked for numbers.’ He had to play for a while, to avoid the Militia Colonel guessing the manoeuvre which had already brought congratulations from the chairman himself.

‘I am extending that request,’ persisted Danilov. Continuing formally, in the way of Russian bureaucracy, he added: ‘I repeat the same understanding as before — I will have it reinforced by the Director if you wish — that at no time will there be any disclosure of the source of the information.’

‘There wouldn’t have to be a disclosure. The source would be obvious to a child of five!’

‘I need to know.’ Danilov supposed that first by the telephone call and then by agreeing so quickly to come to see the man he had shown his desperation. Contradicting the earlier assurance, he admitted: ‘I think we are being lied to, by the American.’

‘We?’ queried Gugin.

‘I am being lied to,’ Danilov further conceded. ‘I need the information to compete! To win!’

For several moments the small, bubble-fat man regarded Danilov over the expanse of table, like a mole emerging from the far side of a field to find the cause of heavy footsteps overhead. ‘If I continue to refuse, would you try through your Director? Go as high as you could?’

Danilov was unsure what answer the man wanted, guessing the wrong reply would terminate the negotiation. ‘Yes. And the argument would be that I didn’t want the American FBI coming to Moscow and resolving right under our noses a murder inquiry that I could have probably solved ahead of them, had necessary information not been withheld from me.’

There was a further silence, of continued examination across the desk. Eventually Gugin smiled again, a vaguely admiring expression this time. ‘That’s good!’ he congratulated. ‘That really is very, very good.’ It was almost time for the apparent concession.

‘Wouldn’t you say that in my place?’ asked Danilov, anxious not to alienate the man a millimetre more than he believed necessary.

‘That’s exactly what I’d say,’ Gugin admitted.

‘So?’ Danilov was echoing the greeting he had received when he first arrived. They’d virtually turned the complete circle.

‘That’s all you get,’ Gugin insisted.

‘You mean there’s more?’ snatched Danilov. The balance had shifted, putting him in control now.

‘No more,’ the officer repeated, worried he had been careless. He didn’t want it all to go at once: the information had to drip slowly, like water eroding a rock.

One demand at a time, Danilov resolved. He sat, waiting. Gugin sat, appearing undecided. Finally, abruptly, the man felt sideways into a desk drawer, retrieved several sheets of paper and offered them across the desk. He couldn’t reach fully and had to toss them the last part of the way, so they skidded on the shiny surface. Danilov collected them eagerly, scanning the listed exchanges.

‘They liked sex, didn’t they?’ said Gugin. It was a thoroughly satisfactory meeting. How far and how fast would the ripples spread?

Danilov looked up from the intercepts. ‘I can’t be manipulated now.’

You just have been, thought Gugin.

Cowley was late for Burden’s reception, delayed by the amount of material he had to send to Washington: he would have been later if Andrews had not helped with the actual transmission. Cowley hoped there was enough for work to start upon the psychological profile at Quantico’s Behavioural Science Unit. It was something else he hadn’t discussed with Danilov. He’d have to remember to do so, during their next meeting. As he finally made his way from the communications room to the ambassador’s quarters Cowley’s mind was occupied by what had come in from Washington. Results were promised in the overnight diplomatic pouch on the second autopsy upon Ann Harris and also on the forensic examination of the girl’s personal possessions too hastily sent back from her office.

Cowley decided it would be better to postpone his planned confrontation. It was already late, and although in normal investigatory circumstances that would not have been a consideration, there might just be something extra in the scientific material arriving the following day from America. In addition to which he still couldn’t make up his mind how much Dimitri Danilov was holding back. And the man about to be confronted couldn’t go anywhere, anyway. So Cowley was confident he could take his time.

The reception took place in an ante-room to Hubert Richards’s enormous office, similarly high-ceilinged, expansively windowed and glitteringly chandeliered. The size overwhelmed the small number of people present: Cowley’s illogical impression upon entering was of a group of people huddled together in a protective vault, the way people clustered in the event of an accident or in fear of some dangerous physical assault. At once a man he didn’t know detached himself from the group, striding across to meet him, a professional smile etched into place.

‘John Prescott,’ the man introduced himself, thrusting out his hand. ‘Are we glad to see you! You’re the man it’s all about!’

The handshake was aggressively firm, professional like the smile. Prescott cupped Cowley’s elbow, guiding him almost urgently forward to the waiting group. As he approached Cowley saw the party was practically divided, as if there were two teams. There was a knot of people — one an extremely attractive woman — around Burden, whom he recognized from American television broadcasts. Cowley thought the political cartoonists were remarkably accurate. Another praetorian guard flanked the ambassador: Ralph Baxter and Paul Hughes were in the gathering, among several other people whom Cowley didn’t know. There was a range of drinks on the tray a steward offered. Cowley took orange juice.

Prescott adopted the role of host, introducing Cowley to his set of people, but so quickly that Cowley missed some of the names. Burden’s greeting was as professional as his assistant’s. The attitude was avuncular. He several times referred to Cowley as ‘my boy’ and said he knew Cowley was going to get ‘the goddamned bastard who did this to my little girl’.

‘I’m taking part in tomorrow’s press conference,’ announced the politician, looking briefly towards the ambassador, who nodded in confirmation. ‘So we’ve got a lot to talk about.’

‘I’ve outlined things on a daily basis to the ambassador,’ said Cowley. He was increasingly glad he hadn’t told Richards about the first murder. As he spoke Cowley looked across to the assembled diplomats. They were all staring back at him, expectantly.

‘Know all about that,’ said Burden, impatiently. ‘I need the complete inside track.’

Thank God he’d been in touch with Washington, providing the easy escape, thought Cowley. How easy would it really be? It wasn’t his problem: not a lasting one, at least. He felt sorry for the diplomats. Nearly all of them looked like rabbits caught in a poacher’s light, tensed for the explosion of the gun. ‘I think we should talk later tonight.’

‘Precisely what I want,’ agreed Burden, enthusiastically. ‘Good man!’

He’d graduated from being a boy, recognized Cowley. Burden moved away to mingle with the embassy staff, a politician permanently at work. Prescott was attentively at his elbow. A plump, vaguely dishevelled man who had been with the Senator approached, smiled and said: ‘James McBride, in case you missed it first time. I handle the media. Guess it’s going to be pretty hectic tomorrow.’

‘Probably,’ Cowley accepted. Apart from arranging to meet Danilov first, he hadn’t thought much about it. ‘Noon, right?’

‘Noon it is,’ confirmed the other American.

Would the material promised from Washington arrive in the following day’s diplomatic bag? If it did, Cowley decided he would have the confrontation that afternoon or early evening. Where? Here at the embassy? Or at home? The embassy would probably be best: more properly official. He’d not alerted Washington in advance of the encounter — determined to be utterly sure before he made any accusation — and he certainly wasn’t going to make any disclosure at a press conference he was reluctant to attend in the first place. Objectively Cowley realized he’d be open to criticism for withholding the very announcement everyone wanted, if he got a confession. But being even more objective, Cowley decided the criticism could only come from Burden in his desire to be centre stage. He was sure the FBI Director would support the in-field decision to wait until all the conclusive evidence was assembled, to avoid any evasion. ‘I’m not sure it’s going to be very worthwhile.’

‘You any idea of the coverage this is getting, back home?’ demanded the press spokesman.

‘Some,’ said Cowley. One of the instructions he’d received from Washington was to urge the Russians to continue separating the murder of the taxi driver and Ann Harris. It was difficult to imagine Burden’s reaction if he learned of the link. Which, Cowley supposed, was inevitable, eventually. There was a valid rationale, if the suspicions were confirmed: maybe Burden’s fury would be mitigated by the possibility of a trial taking place in the United States. That reflection began another but Cowley halted it, determinedly: he was tiptoeing into legal minefields he wasn’t trained to explore and which were none of his concern. His job was to assemble the evidence, make the arrest and let wiser, superior minds take it from there.

‘You know what? This time tomorrow you could be a media star! You realize that? You’re going to be televised into millions of homes all across America — all across the world, I guess — as the American G-man hunting a Russian maniac. What do you think of that?’

In truth Cowley didn’t think very much of it at all. ‘The term G-man isn’t used inside the Bureau any more: I’m not sure it ever was, particularly. It was …’ Cowley hesitated, realizing what he was going to say, acknowledging its validity now. ‘… a publicity hype,’ he finished.

‘So what guidance can you give me?’

‘Guidance?’

‘The Senator’s going to be right up there with you,’ explained McBride, patiently. ‘I know you’re going to brief him later, but I want a steer I can give some of the press: particularly the TV majors like NBC and CBS. That way you’ll know what’s coming at you. No awkward questions you didn’t expect. Everything looking cool and under control. Know what I mean?’

Cowley sighed, looking around for the steward: he didn’t want another drink but it would have been a minimal break from this conversation. ‘Yes,’ he said, evenly. ‘I know what you mean.’

‘So what’s the word?’ McBride smiled again, encouragingly.

‘The inquiries into Ann Harris’s murder are ongoing. It’s a new investigation, little more than days old. It is, as you know, a joint investigation with the Russian authorities. That cooperation is proving very satisfactory.’

McBride remained looking at him, the smile uncertain now. Cowley was conscious of movement just behind him, to his right, and turned to see both Baxter and Hughes. He wondered if they had approached in time to hear what he said.

‘Go on,’ prompted McBride.

‘That’s it,’ said Cowley, shortly. ‘Anything else you want, you’ll have to get from FBI headquarters in Washington.’

The press spokesman’s face became serious. ‘Now wait a minute here, buddy. That’s a whole bunch of crap and we know it. We try a slip and slide like that and we’re all of us going to get roasted. And the Senator doesn’t get roasted. Not ever.’

Before Cowley could respond, Baxter said: ‘Doesn’t sound like you’re getting very far.’

The steward reappeared at last, and Cowley replaced his empty glass and took another. ‘There’s a Bureau rule against discussing murder investigations at cocktail parties. Takes all the fun out of the evening.’

‘I suppose it has to be difficult, this early into an inquiry,’ said Hughes. He was holding his cigarette in the same hand as his glass: it looked like whisky, from the colour of the contents.

‘Sometimes there’s an early break,’ said Cowley. ‘Lots of evidence just lying around, to be picked up.’

‘But not this time?’ persisted the financial director.

‘Bits and pieces,’ said Cowley.

‘You guys better excuse me,’ said McBride, striding off after the glad-handing Senator.

‘So you could be here in Moscow for quite a while?’ suggested Baxter. ‘Have to make sure we look after you. Sign you into the club, put on a dinner or two.’

‘Too early to say yet how long I’ll be here.’ Neither man appeared any longer offended by the previous day’s encounter. Across the room Cowley saw McBride in a mouth-to-ear conversation with Burden: almost at once Burden looked back in his direction, frowning.

‘So you don’t anticipate it being a very productive press conference?’ said Hughes.

Cowley decided the way the man was holding both his glass and cigarette was overly artificial. ‘Maybe the Russians will have something to say.’

‘Wouldn’t they have told you, if they had?’

‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ answered Cowley, honestly. The Senator and his followers were approaching, trailed by the ambassador.

‘I would …’ began Baxter but the Senator talked over him, dismissively. ‘I think it’s time we talked.’ He looked sideways, to the ambassador. ‘Your office free?’

‘Yes … please …’ volunteered the anxious Richards.

Cowley put his glass on a small side-table as he followed Burden through a linking door into the familiar room: he thought it was even more attractive at night, illuminated by the chandelier. Every one of Burden’s party came into the office with them. Burden went directly to the ambassador’s desk, settling heavily into the chair. The others ranged themselves in a half-circle in close attendance.

‘I gather there’s been a misunderstanding between you and Jimmy here?’ said Burden, nodding in the direction of the press official.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Cowley. It was pointless their playing verbal ping-pong, batting nuance and ambiguity back and forth between themselves. ‘I am very early into an investigation. I am not permitted to discuss any part of that investigation with you. I have been told to suggest your contacting FBI headquarters in Washington for any information. There’s really no purpose at all in our having this or any other sort of meeting.’ Cowley heard what sounded to be a surprised intake of breath but didn’t know from where. Certainly it wasn’t from Burden. He’d come forward in the ambassador’s chair, wide-eyed beneath a lowered head, dark-faced with annoyance.

‘You know who you’re talking to, boy?’

Demoted, thought Cowley. He stood regarding the other man, feeling no apprehension. The stupidity didn’t deserve an answer.

‘I asked you a question, boy.’ The anger clipped off the end of the words even more than usual.

‘I obviously know the personal circumstances and you have my sympathy,’ said Cowley, turning towards the door. ‘I say again, I was told to suggest you contact Washington direct, for any information. There are very good communication channels here.’

‘Don’t you walk out on me!’ roared Burden.

Cowley halted, half turning back. ‘This is embarrassing. But it’s not a situation of my making. I don’t want to be part of continuing it. I am not trying to be offensive. Or obstructive. I am simply following specific instructions from Washington.’

Burden appeared to realize that the situation was of his creation and to exacerbate it would make him look even more ridiculous. His escape was to redirect the anger. ‘That bastard Ross!’ he said.

‘I would expect the Director to take your calls,’ offered Cowley.

‘A lot of people are going to take my calls. A lot of people are going to get them, too.’ Burden attempted to sound ominous, but that wasn’t any more successful than the earlier effort at intimidation.

As he continued towards the door Cowley saw the attractive blonde in Burden’s party turn away to prevent the Senator seeing her obvious amusement.

This was going to be the best one. The cleverest. It was going to be balanced on a knife-edge — there was a giggle, at the image — but the confusion would be complete. A blonde. A blonde really would be good. The one that failed off Ulitza Kislovskii with the sudden appearance of the man friend had been blonde. Hadn’t failed. Wrong to think that. Been interrupted, before it had started. Couldn’t have failed if it hadn’t started. Forget it. Hadn’t happened. Where was the panic? There should have been panic by now. Newspaper stories. People frightened. Wanted people to be frightened. They would be, after this one. Really the cleverest. Blonde. And buttons. Red buttons. That’s what the real things were like, red buttons.

The complete list of psychiatric patients whose case history showed possible similarities with the fixations manifested by the killer of Vladimir Suzlev and Ann Harris comprised twenty-six names when it was submitted to Major Yuri Pavin. With the need to have two officers present at every interview, and the even greater need to get those interviews completed as soon as possible, Pavin requested three extra men, anticipating the objections. Which came at once. There were officially written complaints that such a concentration of manpower would halt two other ongoing investigations, one a fraud case, the other an inquiry into currency speculation. General Lapinsk ruled that both should be suspended. The decision worsened the criticism throughout Petrovka towards Dimitri Danilov and to a lesser extent towards Pavin. The Major considered addressing everyone involved in the questioning in the early morning charge-room assembly, but upon reflection decided against it, believing it would appear as if he were defending himself when he did not consider he had anything to defend himself against. He stressed the importance of the psychiatric questioning when he assigned individual names to the paired groups. The response from every one was sullen indifference. Perhaps, decided the Major, Danilov himself should make the assembly-room address. He was the Colonel in charge, after all: it was his responsibility.

Then he read the overnight report of a two-man team engaged on another aspect of the inquiry, and in his initial excitement Pavin lost all concern about the psychiatric report problems.

Before telling Danilov he would have time to carry out the other inquiry the man had ordered, after seeing Vladimir Suzlev’s widow again. It was all coming together!