In the Name of a Killer

Chapter Twenty

With a lot to crowd in before the press conference, Danilov got up early, slipping out of bed with practised ease to avoid waking Olga. There was a clean shirt in the drawer, although it wasn’t very well pressed, but they hardly ever were. It took a long time going through kitchen cupboards and shelves to find black polish, to cover the neglected tear in his shoe. When he found it, the polish was hard and atrophied, oddly topped with a white powder. It didn’t achieve much of a shine but the tear was less visible. While he waited for water to boil for tea, he wetted his hair and at once regretted doing so: it was so short it stuck up, like wheat in a wind. It would dry before the conference and the inevitable photographs. Olga hadn’t stirred by the time he left the apartment, the carefully removed windscreen wipers wrapped in paper.

He was ahead of the morning rush hour, reaching Petrovka sooner than he expected, which made him even earlier than he’d planned: the Militia building was in transition between night and day shift. His floor was deserted. In his now brightly lit office Danilov wrote out the morning schedule, beginning with Pavin and running through the other preparations as he waited for the American to arrive to be taken to meet Lapinsk and the Federal Prosecutor, in advance of the actual conference. Finally he sat considering the conference itself. He’d never attended such an event before and didn’t know what was expected. The reason for the advanced encounter with the Director and the Prosecutor, he supposed. All he’d have to do was take their lead. Particularly about both murders. Were they going to disclose the connection today? Danilov smiled, suddenly, at his own question. The reservation about the possibility of an embassy involvement still existed. Would an apparent insistence upon making a linking announcement today force the American into some sort of disclosure? It might be worth trying. In which case he’d have to brief Lapinsk and Nikolai Smolin in advance, to ensure their proper response. Definitely worth a try, he decided. Danilov was reaching forward, to make an unnecessary reminder note on his pad, when Pavin entered the office: he never completed the note. Pavin, who never moved quickly, positively flustered in, his normally dour face broken by an expansive grin. The expression was so unusual that Danilov saw for the first time that the man had a gold-edged filling on an eye-tooth.

‘I’ve got the restaurant and the man,’ announced the Major. Across the desk he offered the security agency’s reception photograph of Ann Harris with her hand on the arm of Paul Hughes.

Danilov smiled up at his assistant, in what appeared to be matching triumph but which included a lot of relief. ‘No doubt?’

‘Absolutely none. The restaurant is called the Trenmos: it’s a combination of two names, Trenton, in New Jersey, and Moscow. Very American and very popular with the embassy. They ate there a lot: were well known. And the reservation, for that night, was actually in Hughes’s name. And there’s even more. I took the photograph this morning to Suzlev’s taxi firm, when I made the check you ordered. Three other drivers remember Hughes as one of Suzlev’s regular customers. He used to practise his Russian, just like the wife said.’

Danilov went back to the photograph before him. ‘We’ve got him! … Shit! It was there and I missed it! Look!’

‘What?’ said Pavin, astonished by the outburst.

‘I even thought something was odd at the mortuary but I didn’t see it was,’ said Danilov. ‘And that was it — see! How could I have missed it?’

‘What?’ repeated Pavin, bewilderment replacing astonishment.

Instead of replying Danilov offered back the photograph. ‘Look at him!’ he insisted. ‘Look at the hand!’

‘The finger’s twisted!’ isolated Pavin, instantly.

‘The index finger of the right hand,’ agreed Danilov, more calmly. ‘It will obviously need to be confirmed forensically, for courtroom evidence. But it’s twisted so that it couldn’t give a proper impression. Just as none of the lateral pocket loop prints in Ann Harris’s apartment have a proper impression of the right hand that held the vodka glass. Or made prints in the bathroom. Hughes’s prints and those we found will match! I know they will!’ Danilov no longer felt inferior. That was, he conceded to himself, just how he had felt from the moment of Cowley’s arrival: inferior in scientific facilities and personal ability and in personal training and even — the most uneasy admission of all — in how he looked and dressed, compared to the American. But not any longer: not completely. In appearance maybe, but not on any other level. He’d drawn even, professionally proving himself equal. Now he wouldn’t have to stage any phonily rehearsed disclosures at pre-conference encounters. Because now he knew. So how would he handle it? He wasn’t sure, not at that moment.

‘That’s what the American would have been doing in the evidence room,’ Pavin guessed. ‘Checking the fingerprint sheets.’

‘Most probably,’ Danilov accepted. What he’d just learned might carry the investigation on. But, like so much else in the case, it created as many questions as it provided answers. There was far more political implication than before. And what was the Russian jurisdiction? Could he, a Russian investigator, enter the US embassy to question an American diplomat? He was sure he couldn’t. Whatever the result of any questioning, could Hughes invoke diplomatic immunity? Probably. Did what they had discovered really incriminate the man in murder? Not necessarily. Or merely extend a suspicion heightened by the telephone transcripts that the Cheka had reluctantly made available and which showed Hughes to be a liar? Maybe nothing more than that.

‘Now we’ve got to take it forward,’ said Pavin, prescient as always. ‘It’s the complication everyone was frightened of. It won’t be easy.’

‘It’s never been easy.’

‘You going to tell the American?’

‘I haven’t decided, not yet.’

‘It doesn’t look as if he was confiding in us.’

‘One of us is going to have to tell the other sometime,’ pointed out Danilov. ‘Otherwise it becomes ridiculous.’ So much was ridiculous.

‘Do we have enough to make an arrest?’

Danilov examined the question. ‘Maybe if Hughes were Russian. Certainly enough to bring a Russian in for questioning: people are always nervous, being interrogated in a police station. Stalin’s best legacy to the Russian legal system.’

‘Stalin’s unintentional legacy,’ disputed Pavin, with rare cynicism. ‘And Paul Hughes isn’t Russian.’

‘Then no.’

‘What about the press conference?’

‘An intrusion now,’ said Danilov.

‘You’re not going to say anything there?’

‘Not publicly,’ said Danilov, although an idea began to germinate. ‘Far too early for that. But Lapinsk must know. The Prosecutor, too.’

‘What about postponing the conference?’

Once more Danilov examined the Major’s question, acknowledging the point and wondering whether he had been right in thinking, as he was sure he once had, that Pavin would forever remain at his current rank. Danilov said: ‘It would be convenient. But wrong. It would convey the impression of a sudden development: build up expectation.’

‘I would have thought …’ Pavin started, but stopped at the intrusion of the internal telephone.

Danilov nodded to the announcement and said to his assistant: ‘The American, on time as ever. He’s learned the Marlboro trick.’ When the escorted Cowley was shown into the room, Danilov was instantly aware of the immaculately pressed suit and the hard-starched collar of the shirt, pin-secured, that he so much envied.

At once Cowley said: ‘I think this press conference is going to be difficult. Your people have agreed to Senator Burden taking part. God knows why. Or what the point is. It’ll be a circus.’

The Western ease in criticizing politicians, so new in his own country, still surprised Danilov. He was quite uninterested in any press conference now. Feeling his superiority, he said: ‘You haven’t discussed it, with the Senator?’

Cowley regarded the Russian sourly, ‘I have been instructed not to divulge anything of the investigation, to any outside party.’

Danilov’s germinating idea flowered, but he decided to give the other man one opportunity. ‘How about me?’ he said.

‘You?’

‘In an hour I am going to introduce you to my Militia General — someone I suppose you would call the Moscow police chief. And to the Federal Prosecutor: Attorney General, if you want a comparison. I’ve no idea how they will want the press conference to be conducted, but I think they’ll expect you and I to be in agreement with each other: know precisely where we are in the investigation.’

‘I’m sure they will,’ said Cowley, smoothly. He didn’t like the evasion. Although he did not altogether trust Danilov — he put trust on a different level than this present consideration — he genuinely liked the rumpled Russian with his tight haircut and his permissible pride in his ability to speak English, which he supposed matched his own in the ease he had found with Russian. He didn’t feel he had any choice in the deceit. The forensic results that had arrived overnight in the diplomatic bag had provided far better evidence than he’d expected — even though the unnecessary elimination stuff had to be gone through — and he anxiously needed further guidance. Which he’d already asked for, before leaving the embassy that morning. And until he got Washington’s reply — although he was sure he could predict what it would be — it was impossible for him to confide anything.

‘So you believe we do?’ pressed Danilov. ‘That we both know where we are?’

Danilov did have something! It was poker with strangers whose game he didn’t know, all cards face-down, unsure of the value of his own. ‘I’d certainly like to think so …’ A pause. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

The familiar, evasive response, Danilov recognized. It had been Cowley’s choice, not his: the man had been given his chance, chosen the course he wanted to follow. ‘Yes,’ he said, heavily. ‘I would have liked to think that. You’ve shared everything with me?’

Cowley nodded, wanting to use the directness. ‘And you’ve shared everything with me?’

Danilov nodded agreement back. Confrontations to come, he thought: some sooner rather than later. ‘Shall we go?’

It was only when Pavin turned from Stolesnikov Street towards the conspicuous Marxist-Leninist Institute on Pushkinskaya that Danilov appreciated the ironic coincidence of Ann Harris’s apartment being in the same thoroughfare. Danilov expected Pavin to park in the Institute’s facilities, but at the adjacent Prosecutor’s premises the Major sounded sharply on the horn. The signal was instantly answered by the high iron gates swinging open to admit them. Pavin put their car next to General Lapinsk’s official, freshly washed Volga.

Their smooth and quite unexpected reception continued inside. A uniformed attendant ushered them to the second floor and into a reception room where Lapinsk and Nikolai Smolin were already waiting. Danilov knew he and the American were fifteen minutes ahead of their appointed time. He went through the introductions, assuring the other two Soviet officials there was no problem in any discussion being conducted in Russian. For several moments after the formal greetings, the four men stood in an uncertain group, no one certain how to proceed. At last, with ill-concealed reluctance, Smolin took nominal charge, which had to be his role for the conference.

‘There have been over a hundred journalist applications to attend today,’ the Prosecutor said. ‘And the television teams all have support staffs. We’ve arranged simultaneous translation. The television companies have also asked for individual interviews, after the open session …’ The Prosecutor hesitated, indicating Lapinsk. ‘I have all the police reports, up until yesterday. Is there anything else I should know?’

The first of the confrontations, thought Danilov. He looked briefly to Cowley, unsure how the American would react, before saying: ‘We know who was in her apartment the night she was killed. And he’s lied, not admitting that he was there. His name is Paul Hughes. He’s an American economist, her superior at the embassy.’

There was absolute silence in the room, each of the other three men staring fixedly at Danilov. The American’s face was impassive.

Smolin said: ‘The proof’s incontrovertible?’

Danilov recounted the evidence in the order of uncovering it. He itemized the prints of the twisted finger on the glass and elsewhere in the apartment, a deformity from which Hughes visibly suffered, and set out the proof of Hughes and the girl being at the Trenmos on the evening of her death, the table reserved in Hughes’s name. And finally disclosed the positive identification by the other taxi drivers of Hughes being a regular client of Vladimir Suzlev. Danilov nodded, to include Cowley, and said: ‘There hasn’t been a formal accusation. But in a preliminary interview, he lied. He denied being particularly friendly with her — certainly didn’t admit being in her company on the night of her death. He also lied about the reason for after-hours telephone calls. He insisted the conversations were all official, connected with their work. They weren’t. I have the complete transcript, every word they exchanged. There’s no question of their not being lovers: in two he openly refers to pain, to hurting her.’

The attention was still absolute but the expressions were changing. Smolin was looking around the small group, as if for guidance. Lapinsk was frowning, concentrating upon the American at the obvious disclosure of Russian telephone interception and recording. Cowley was almost imperceptibly shaking his head, a gesture of disappointment: Danilov wondered about what. He hoped it was at the American’s realization of his mistake in not sharing whatever it was he had independently discovered.

‘There’s a lot to consider,’ said Smolin, stating the unnecessary obvious in the manner of a profound statement.

When Cowley began to speak, his voice wavered, high and low. He coughed, clearing his throat as Lapinsk was also doing, creating a frog-like duet. Stronger-voiced, Cowley said: ‘I was asked by Washington, before coming here today, to express again our gratitude at your not publicly suggesting there could be an investigation within the embassy into these killings. And to thank you, too, for keeping separate the murders of the woman and Vladimir Suzlev. I think there is a real need for these things to remain unpublicized.’

Lapinsk rattled more coughs. ‘This man Hughes. You say he hasn’t been formally interrogated? Had this new evidence put to him?’

‘No,’ said Cowley. How could he have believed he was ahead? All he’d had — having recognized at that hostile embassy meeting the obvious significance of Hughes’s twisted finger — was forensic proof returned in the diplomatic bag that morning of a lateral pocket loop print from the glass in the Pushkinskaya apartment matching those on the memo pad and matryoshka dolls in Ann Harris’s office. Cowley could understand Danilov holding out: he’d been doing the same himself. What he couldn’t explain was that having done so — having found the proof by himself — the Russian had then presented it all to the police chief and the prosecutor not as an individual coup, to gain all the personal credit, but as a joint discovery, the way they were supposed to be working.

‘And how is it going to be done?’ asked Smolin, quietly, focusing upon the political difficulties.

‘I don’t know. I will have to take advice from Washington,’ Cowley admitted.

‘Clearly there can’t be any premature disclosure at today’s press conference,’ said Lapinsk.

‘Which leaves us with little to say,’ Smolin pointed out.

‘And which was the situation until thirty minutes ago, before we were told this,’ argued the Militia General.

The Federal Prosecutor looked intently at the FBI agent. ‘There is probably a diplomatic argument against any Russian involvement whatsoever in the questioning of this man, Hughes?’

‘I would expect so,’ Cowley conceded. ‘That’s the sort of advice I was talking about needing, from Washington.’

Smolin nodded. ‘You’d agree with me, wouldn’t you, that the murderer of Ann Harris is also the murderer of Vladimir Suzlev?’

‘There can be little doubt.’

‘A Prussian victim, as well as an American one.’

Cowley was as intense as the other man, trying to isolate a manoeuvre he could not at the moment see. ‘Yes?’

‘I want a bargain,’ declared Smolin, sure of his strength. ‘I will agree to there still being no disclosure today of the Suzlev murder. I will also agree to there being no reference at the press conference to this man Hughes. And I will further agree there should be no move against Hughes until you get complete guidance how it should be handled from Washington …’ The Russian Prosecutor hesitated, the concessions presented. ‘In return for which I want a positive undertaking that when you interview Paul Hughes we — the Russians — have identical and complete access in that confrontation.’

‘There will be objections,’ Cowley anticipated, feeling he had to make the point.

‘That has to be our agreement,’ insisted Smolin.

‘Or you will announce the Suzlev murder? And that the fellow American with Ann Harris on the night of her killing is to be questioned about both?’ Cowley had no counter-arguments, nothing with which to resist the pressure.

‘I’m not going to issue ultimatums,’ said the Federal Prosecutor, having literally done just that.

‘It will have to be a Washington decision,’ said Cowley.

Smolin gave a nod of acceptance. ‘I think you should also advise them that the government here in Moscow would take the strongest exception to any effort being made unexpectedly to repatriate Hughes to the United States.’

‘I think you’ve made your position exceptionally clear,’ said the American. He — and the embassy and even Washington — were hog-tied.

Smolin smiled, a surprisingly youthful expression. ‘I’m glad we understand each other so completely! Does Senator Burden know anything of this?’

‘No!’ said Cowley.

The Prosecutor’s smile became one of further understanding, at the quickness of the reply. ‘You don’t intend to tell him?’

‘Senator Burden is highly regarded, held in great esteem in Washington,’ said Cowley, seeing a pathway to safety. ‘I believe he is in daily communication with my Director, through the embassy.’

Smolin momentarily lowered his head, in contemplation. Looking up he said: ‘Would it be wise for me — for one of us — to indicate a possible early conclusion to this investigation?’

‘Not at all!’ said Danilov, quickly. ‘Any suggestion like that would create enormous pressure for us to say more. And not just from the press; from the Senator and his staff.’

As if on cue the attendant who had escorted Danilov and Cowley reappeared to announce the arrival of Burden and his party. Danilov saw that the interpreter from his one visit to the American embassy had been assigned, to assist. The interpreter clearly recognized Danilov but gave no indication. Probably the young man was offended, like all the others. Danilov intercepted a look directed at Cowley by Burden, and thought other people appeared to be offended by each other as well. He stared curiously at Cowley for a reaction but the American detective showed nothing. There was a flurry of introductions. Burden allowed Danilov a minimal handshake, but said: ‘You’re the investigator who speaks English, right?’

Danilov guessed it was Baxter, at the embassy, who had issued the warning: he saw the man for the first time at the rear of the group. Also at the rear was an extremely attractive blonde woman, who gave the briefest smile. ‘Yes,’ said Danilov.

‘So tell me, in English, how we’re doing on this.’

The interpreter positioned himself to translate simultaneously and Danilov was conscious of Smolin’s frown of irritation, at being ignored so soon after learning from Cowley that Burden was briefed at the highest level. For Smolin’s benefit he said in Russian: ‘I think the Federal Prosecutor should advise you,’ and at once repeated it in English, for the American politician. Burden’s eyes came open, in quick outrage, but Baxter, forever the professional diplomat, actually stepped forward to intercede, moving the introductions on. Momentarily Danilov thought Burden was going to refuse to move away, but abruptly the man turned to Smolin and Lapinsk. Because of the need to translate everything, Danilov was able to listen and to consider everything that was said and he was impressed — and surprised — by the way Smolin handled the encounter, which he knew to be something completely new for the man. Burden fired questions rapidly, hardly allowing one to be interpreted before posing another, his head slightly sideways to a young, fresh-faced aide who frequently prompted the Senator. They were still engaged in the exchanges when one of the Russian attendants came into the room to announce the press were assembled. Burden insisted at once that the press could wait (‘I want to hear more’) but Smolin saw the escape from the American pressure, leading them out towards the lecture room.

As they began to move Cowley came alongside Danilov and said: ‘We need to talk, directly after this.’ His face was tight with what Danilov inferred to be anger.

‘Of course.’

‘Properly,’ said Cowley.

‘That’s what I’ve been waiting for us to do,’ said Danilov. He hadn’t intended the discussion between Cowley and the Prosecutor to turn out as it had — he hadn’t anticipated at all how Smolin would react — but he wasn’t dismayed at what had happened. He enjoyed not feeling inferior any more.

A raised dais had been erected at one end of the hall, split laterally by a baize-covered table. The seating put Smolin, Lapinsk, Cowley and Danilov in a line, with the row continuing for Burden to sit between John Prescott and James McBride. The rest of the American party, including Baxter, stood at the side of the dais, but lower, at the level of the hall. The room was packed. The area directly in front of the platform and the table was a snakepit of wires and cables, feeding microphones and TV units already arranged. Among the wires hunched camera-laden photographers: at the follow-my-leader entry on to the stage there was an explosion of flash-guns and television lights flared on, making it difficult to focus upon any of the assembled journalists seated in the main body of the hall. There was a simultaneous translation booth at the far end of the table, and through the glare Danilov could make out many of the journalists holding ear-pieces to their heads. Further along the table Burden and his aides were doing the same.

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 awarded 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. The giggle came again, longer this time. Then the hum.