In the Name of a Killer

Chapter Twenty-Four

Cowley decided against reopening the Arlington apartment he had closed down before leaving for Moscow. Instead he checked into the J. W. Marriott on 14th and Pennsylvania, within convenient walking distance of the FBI building. He’d slept intermittently during the flight, the rest of the time calculating the practical advantages of coming back to America. It gave an opportunity to interview Judy Billington, the college friend in whom Ann Harris had confided so fully. And possibly John, the brother in New York, with whom she had also shown some openness. Cowley had also evolved some queries of his own to put to the Bureau’s scientific division and hoped personally to get down to Quantico to discuss the psychological profile of the unknown killer.

He had outlined the scientific evaluations to Danilov at their meeting two hours before flying out of Sheremet’yevo airport. The Russian investigator had been familiar with deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA, tests to establish genetic fingerprinting, although he’d had to concede such technology was at the moment inadequate for use in Russian police work. It was Cowley’s claim that a psychological and even physical profile of a killer they didn’t even know could be created by the Bureau’s Behavioural Science Unit that had bemused the Russian. Cowley’s insistence that the FBI regarded profile creation as a positive investigatory aid and that the unit had created accurate assessments of thousands of criminals in advance of their arrest had failed to convince the other man. At times he’d openly laughed in disbelief. Cowley wasn’t sure of the precise date, but he believed the Bureau had used the practice since the 1950s and would have thought enough scientific papers had been published since that time for the Russians to have at least learned about it, even if they didn’t trust it.

The same corn-and-milk-fed secretary came forward to meet him as he entered the FBI Director’s suite, but this time Fletcher was forewarned by Cowley’s call from the downstairs foyer and didn’t have to be summoned. Fletcher’s greeting was as supercilious as it had been for the briefing, just over a week before. Had it really only been just over a week? By the number of days, certainly. But to Cowley it seemed much longer: ages longer.

There was no smile from Leonard Ross, just the barest nod of greeting. The Director said: ‘Not an auspicious start.’

‘The circumstantial evidence looked good.’

‘You said so on the phone. And I read your report.’

‘And there were some operational difficulties,’ offered Cowley.

‘They’re still being obstructive?’

‘No,’ corrected Cowley. ‘There were problems of adjustment: there had to be. It’s settled now.’ Was it? He’d put it directly to Danilov, during their farewell encounter the previous day, that a lot of the mistakes had arisen through unnecessary personal competition, and the Russian had agreed. But there was no guarantee Danilov would keep his word to cooperate absolutely in the future. Which was not to doubt the man, but whatever instructions Danilov received from his superiors. Any more than he could guarantee to keep his word against positive orders from the man in whose office he was now sitting.

‘So how come they got to Hughes when I’d strictly ordered it shouldn’t happen, under any circumstances?’

A lawyer’s aggression towards a flawed witness, gauged Cowley. He recited the explanation he’d evolved with Danilov at the time, intent upon the Director’s reaction, which was impossible to guess from the man’s unchanging expression. ‘Hughes lives outside,’ Cowley concluded. ‘The Russians let me accompany them, in the middle of the night, to interview the victim and then straight from the hospital to Hughes’s apartment. I had no alternative: no time to consult.’

Ross nodded, a slow, doubtful movement. ‘It happened,’ he accepted. ‘Didn’t become the problem it could have done. Or has it?’

‘I don’t understand,’ frowned Cowley. The Director was clearly critical, but it didn’t at this stage appear to be a suspension-from-the-case situation.

‘You sure — I mean absolutely sure — about Hughes’s alibi?’

‘The wife is particularly strong. Gives the impression of total honesty and her evidence, against the woman who survived, makes the timing utterly impossible. And the girl’s account corroborates all the wife says and clears Hughes of the first murder.’

‘Wives and mistresses have got together in the past: dozens of times,’ argued Ross. ‘Women do the damnedest things for men. I’ve never understood it.’

Cowley shook his head. ‘There was no time for them to prepare a story that sticks together like theirs does.’

‘The State Department are bringing the kinky bastard back,’ Ross disclosed. ‘Hughes hasn’t finished answering questions, by a long way. The CIA are using words like disaster. Hughes is going to spend more time wired to a polygraph than Frankenstein’s monster. There won’t be a secret left, about Ann Harris or anything else, when the CIA finally unplug him from the lie detector.’ The white-haired man shook his head, a discarding gesture. ‘Anything more since your overnight report?’

‘The Russians are going to go public on the first murder. And the most recent attack.’

The Director frowned. Then his face cleared, in understanding. ‘It would have happened while you were in the air, of course. They already have. Burden’s given yet another press conference, in Moscow. He’s complained information has been withheld: said he felt the entire investigation was being mishandled. Or that there was concealment, for political purposes. He’s talked about raising it from the floor of the Senate. Got his usual headlines, all over this morning’s papers. Knowing Burden he’ll probably claim it was his presence that forced the Russian announcement and warned the people of Moscow. Christ, that man’s a pain in the ass!’

‘It would have made it even worse, delaying any longer,’ suggested Cowley. ‘We were in a no-win position.’

‘It’s already gotten worse,’ said Ross. ‘He’s already called the President, from the Moscow embassy. Repeated the earlier threat about who has the power up on the Hill. He’s flying back for the girl’s funeral. Which doubtless he’ll turn into another media event.’

Politics and crime never mixed, reflected Cowley: which made it surprising how often the two were stirred together. ‘He has to be told everything?’

‘I’m damned if I’ll have law enforcement conducted to please Senator Walter Burden!’ said Ross, vehemently. ‘He’ll be told what I choose to sanitize and tell him. He and the President are career politicians. I’m not.’

He was definitely not being taken off the case, Cowley realized. There was a relief that went far beyond his professional ability not being seriously questioned: that the Director was accepting errors were unfortunately inevitable this early in any investigation. He wanted to go back and start again and not make any more mistakes and be there when they manacled a killer. To prove what to whom? Himself to himself, he supposed: to show he hadn’t lost the edge, after three years out of the field. Who else was there, anyway? Absurdly Pauline’s name — Pauline herself — came into his mind. Why should he want to impress his ex-wife? Because it mattered to him to do so, pointless though it was now that she was married to another man. To clear his mind Cowley talked of the interviews and meetings he wanted to have, now he was back in America. Ross agreed to everything.

‘Other things first,’ cautioned Ross.

‘What?’

‘The reason I brought you back. We’re due at Langley in an hour.’

There was always a fluster about a Director’s departure from Pennsylvania Avenue, particularly from the main entrance within the inner courtyard, and today Cowley was part of it and was conscious of the attention of everyone in and around the vestibule and from the overlooking windows. Cowley knew just how quickly rumours cooked in the microwave of FBI headquarters and was curious about what was being said about him at that moment. Whatever, he would be labelled someone in ascendancy, because failures didn’t get to ride with the Director. The glass screen was raised between them and the driver, enabling unrestricted conversation, but the Director initially kept to small-talk, asking about Moscow and the embassy and the investigation methods of the Moscow police.

As the driver took Memorial Bridge, to get over the river, Ross looked directly across the car and said: ‘How’s it working out personally, with Andrews?’

‘Well,’ said Cowley. ‘He’s helpful in every way he could, within the embassy. We’ve been together socially. No problems at all.’

‘That’s good. No resentment at being restricted to the embassy?’

‘None.’

‘Personnel want to settle the reassignment. We’re moving Harvey Proffitt from California. Giving the guy a chance.’

‘Andrews talked to me himself about his tour being over.’

‘He say what he hopes to do next?’

Cowley didn’t think he should rely upon the conversation with Pauline, although he knew she would be right. He shook his head. ‘No.’

‘Not anything about being attached to the Russian division back here?’

‘Nothing.’ Cowley waited for the Director to ask if he would have any personal feelings about it. Ross didn’t.

Instead he said: ‘Personnel have asked to bring him back, for discussions. Would that inconvenience you, at the moment?’

It would mean the complete burden of communications falling upon him, Cowley realized. But discussions were standard procedure in these sorts of career move. To object, as he was entitled to object, could hinder that career: the career of a man who’d cheated him and stolen his wife. Cowley wished the last thoughts hadn’t even occurred, especially as he’d already decided that hadn’t ever been the case. He said: ‘Of course he should come back.’

By the time the admission formalities to the Langley complex were completed, a man was waiting in the main foyer to escort them. There was no identification. Cowley was instantly reminded of Fletcher, back at FBI headquarters. Perhaps there was a cloning farm somewhere in the Mid-West producing featureless and characterless personal assistants for Washington chief executives. They went directly to the seventh floor, in the CIA Director’s personal elevator. There were three other men and a female stenographer with Richard Holmes. Cowley supposed the three unnamed men were part of the Agency’s Russian section. He would have thought the meeting could have been quite satisfactorily conducted between himself and them, without the presence of both Directors. And probably would have been but for Moscow telephone calls to the President from the chairman of the Ways and Means Committee. He was aware of witnessing at first hand the Washington self-defence art known as Watching Your Ass.

‘I’ve indicated the concern,’ said Ross.

‘So?’ said Holmes.

Cowley was disconcerted by the cursory tone of the demand: maybe he should start watching his own ass. He definitely wasn’t going to respond in front of a recording stenographer to a single-word question like that. ‘What, precisely, are you asking me?’

‘Is Paul Hughes being set up by Russian intelligence?’

Cowley weighed his answer. ‘I have no idea,’ he said, finally.

One of the aides sighed, but Cowley didn’t detect which one.

‘We want the specific details of Hughes’s telephone interception,’ Holmes insisted.

Again Cowley hesitated, anticipating a later demand and aware he was going to look an inexperienced amateur, even a bungling one, in their eyes. He replied chronologically, trying to avoid the admission, talking of getting Hughes’s embassy telephone number as one Ann Harris had called, of Hughes’s lying explanation at their initial interview, but of the man’s collapse when the verbatim conversation was put to him at the later, early morning confrontation after Lydia Orlenko had been attacked.

‘Now let’s go back over all that again,’ said Holmes, with forced patience. ‘Why didn’t you challenge Hughes’s first explanation with the verbatim record?’

He was going to be shown up, Cowley accepted, desperately: there was no possible way he could watch — or save — his ass. ‘At the first interview I didn’t have a transcript: just the number.’

‘I don’t understand that,’ complained one of the aides.

‘That’s just how it happened,’ said Cowley, miserably. ‘We were following a normal investigation routine, trying to check out any known acquaintances of Ann Harris. At the beginning I was provided with Hughes’s embassy number, nothing else.’

‘By whom?’ demanded another aide.

‘Danilov, the Russian detective.’

‘Who produced the transcript?’

‘Danilov.’ It was already looking bad and was going to get worse. Not simply bad. Appalling.

‘Where is it, in full? I haven’t seen it. Just your verbatim note of what was put to Hughes at the second interview,’ intruded Ross, beside him.

Exposed by his own Director, thought Cowley: at the moment he felt he could have been exposed by a child of ten. ‘I don’t have it.’

‘You don’t have it!’ echoed both Directors, in unison and shared astonishment. The sighing aide sighed even more deeply.

‘Mr Cowley,’ said the Agency chief. ‘I’m trying very hard to follow what you’re saying. But you’re not making it easy. We know there’s an intercept direct into the offices of the head of the economic section of the US embassy in Moscow. We know the man had sex habits that expose him to blackmail. And we are being told — I think — that those intercepts could also throw up intimate facts about the dead relation of one of the most important people in Washington, someone who is going to become even more important. Let’s take it slowly, a step at a time, so it’ll all become clear to us. You said — your words — that Danilov produced the transcript. If he produced it, where the hell is it?’

Cowley waited a long time before speaking, not wanting to be caught out by a misplaced word any more than he already had been. ‘I would like to make something clear; something I think is necessary to explain. I am — was — in Moscow investigating the murder of the niece of someone you rightly describe as one of, if not the, most important politician in Washington. It’s already clear she’s the victim of a serial killer who’s also killed a Russian and is going to kill again, if he’s not caught. At one stage it appeared that killer was Paul Hughes. Can you imagine the fall-out of an American walking the streets of Moscow, killing people, one the niece of Senator Burden? I can’t! Of course I recognized by even getting the number that there was an intercept. But that was not my immediate concern: my immediate concern was getting an admission from the man. Arresting him …’ Cowley hesitated, aware that if he disclosed the moment he learned of the transcript — when the Militia Director and the Federal Prosecutor demanded a Russian presence at any encounter with Hughes — he would be admitting how he’d misled his own Director. He was soaked in sweat, able to feel the wetness beneath his arms and making its way down his back. Shifting the lie, anxious it would not be the misplaced word he was frightened of uttering, Cowley continued: ‘Danilov did not produce the transcript until we were facing Hughes, in his apartment, the second time. And not to me. To quote from, to break Hughes down.’

Silence iced the room.

‘And you just made notes?’ sneered an aide.

‘At that time, yes.’

‘That explanation could be considered a speech of mitigation,’ said Holmes, joining in the sneer.

‘It was intended to make clear what I considered perfectly acceptable circumstances,’ said Cowley, careless of the taut faces of the men sitting opposite. He’d lost so much there wasn’t a lot more he could lose.

‘Have you seen any part of the transcript?’ asked one of the unnamed Russian experts. He spoke breathily, identifying himself as the one who sighed.

‘No,’ admitted Cowley.

‘Didn’t you think the transcript important to have?’

‘Not at that exact moment!’ said Cowley, regretting the indignation sounding like a plea. ‘I was doing my job, not yours. And at that moment I was trying to get a confession.’

‘So you don’t have the sequence of the conversation, to know who was calling whom?’

Cowley looked steadily at the CIA Director. ‘I did not tell you — neither did I suggest in any report I sent from Moscow — that it was Hughes’s embassy telephone that was tapped. You’ve inferred that. I understood from Danilov that the calls to Hughes were outgoing, from the girl’s apartment …’ He suddenly decided that he did have cause for indignation. The meeting — perhaps interrogation was a better description — was turning events into an unjust accusation of his ineptitude. ‘Why is the sequence important? You know, from what I’ve told you, that there is a tap.’ Just as Andrews had told him, on the night of his arrival, that there were taps in the new embassy building, he remembered.

‘From his office telephone Hughes presumably speaks to a lot of others far more important than his kinky bed partners,’ suggested Holmes. ‘The Berlin Wall might be souvenir pieces now and the Cold War supposedly history, but we’re not shutting up shop, any more than what was the KGB. Economics — just how fast and how far Russia is going down the financial tube — is the prime target. We want to know how big a damage limitation we might be looking at here.’

‘Maybe as extensive as the one the Bureau would have been involved in if Hughes had been the killer,’ said Cowley, wanting to score if he could.

There was more face tightening. The sighing man said: ‘Can you get the transcript?’

Cowley glanced worriedly at the stenographer, unsure of the commitment. If the Russian investigator had intended the promise to abandon the personal competition. And if Russian intelligence didn’t insist that whatever it provided was excluded from any cooperation. Too many ifs. ‘I would hope to be able to.’

‘Is Danilov truly Moscow Militia? Or could he be from the Cheka?’

‘We’re working from Militia headquarters. His is in a used office, occupied a long time.’

‘That doesn’t mean it’s his office. Why can’t it be a prop?’

‘He knows his way around it: is familiar there. He acts like someone accustomed to investigating crime,’ insisted Cowley. Imagining another scoring point, he said quickly: ‘If Danilov were an intelligence officer, why would he blow Hughes, if Hughes were targeted or already suborned? Why, for that matter, would they let him?’

‘To bring about exactly what’s happened,’ said the CIA Director. ‘It doesn’t matter if Hughes comes through the polygraph tests like George Washington and the apple tree. Or goes on to resist all the other questioning there’s going to be. We’re not going to be able to believe him. So we and the State Department are going to have to go back through everything the man has ever provided during the time he’s been in Moscow and reassess and re-analyse and adjust every decision that might have been made, based upon it. It’s called disinformation and it’s a bastard.’

In the car returning to Washington, Cowley said: ‘I’m sorry. It wasn’t very good back there, was it?’

‘No,’ said Ross, shortly.

‘Do those guys look for microphones in the john, before they sit down?’

‘For cameras, too,’ said Ross. ‘It’s the way their minds work.’ He hesitated, thinking how good it would be to get out of Washington permanently. Pointedly he added: ‘I’d like to do better, if there’s a next time.’

When Cowley called Quantico from his hotel, a behavioural psychologist named Peter Meadows said the profile was complete with the additional material about the failed attack and that he’d be happy to discuss it. Judy Billington said on the telephone she didn’t know how she could help. Cowley said something might come up, as they talked. She said it would have to be after the funeral, naturally. Naturally, Cowley agreed.

They’d decided to wait, because Yezhov’s mother was sure he would be home within the hour, which he wasn’t. Now they were annoyed. The senior detective, Ivan Truchin, was an ice-hockey fan who had front-row seats for tonight’s game and was anxious about being late. His partner, Anatoli Zuyev, had an appointment of gratitude with a garage owner for whom he’d obtained a consignment of tyres, and wanted to get his money that night. The woman roamed the apartment on Bronnaja Boulevard, arms wrapped around herself, not knowing what she was protecting herself against: they’d refused to tell her what Petr had done, but she was sure it would be bad. She was terrified.

It was almost another hour before he came home. Petr Yezhov knew authority at once and withdrew inside himself. They couldn’t trap him — lock him up — if he didn’t say more than he had to. He confirmed with a nod that he was a labourer at the marshalling yards at Kursk Station. When they asked what he was doing on the night of January 17, his mother hurriedly assured the policemen he had been at home with her: Petr couldn’t remember dates and would have looked guilty of whatever it was. He hadn’t been home on January 17. She said he’d been with her the night Ann Harris had been killed, too. Which was only partially true. He’d gone out for one of his walks around ten o’clock and she had been asleep before he returned. Yezhov told the Militia men he didn’t know anything about any attack, on any women. He was better now: he knew it was wrong to do that any more. He said he didn’t know where Gercena or Granovskaya were. It was getting late for both detectives when they made him open the locked door to his room. They were surprised at its neatness, which they ruined with the quick roughness of their search, rifling and discarding through bedside drawers and cupboards and making him open a cardboard suitcase beneath the bed. It contained photographs of railway engines: Yezhov liked railway engines, which was why he enjoyed working at Kursk Station.

In the car, as they left, Truchin said: ‘Another waste of time, like all the rest.’

‘Thank fuck we finished as quickly as we did,’ said Zuyev.

Back in the apartment, his mother made Yezhov sit directly in front of her, reaching out to hold both his hands, as she had when he had been a child — younger than he was now, certainly — and she’d wanted him to admit doing something wrong. ‘Have you been bad again? If you’ve been bad you’ve got to tell me, Petr Yakovlevich.’