Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

The FBI Director shook his head in cynical bemusement. Washington at its best — or worst — he thought. ‘He can forget it.’

Apprehension settled heavily on Hartz. ‘What, precisely, is the legal guidance?’

‘The CIA doesn’t have any jurisdiction or authority,’ said Holmes, quickly. He wished the relief hadn’t sounded so obvious.

‘The Bureau has a criminal investigation capacity but again no jurisdiction or authority in the Russian Commonwealth,’ said Ross.

‘Burden expects there to be both.’

‘I don’t give a damn what Burden expects ,’ said Ross, who in addition to his disillusionment also had the financial independence to speak his mind. ‘I’m stating the legal reality.’

‘The Russians are behaving arrogantly,’ said Hartz. ‘I don’t think they should have entered her apartment as they did.’

‘What are you doing about that?’ asked Holmes.

‘There’s been a complaint, from the embassy. I’m calling the Russian ambassador here, to emphasize it.’

‘I don’t know the diplomatic protocol, but the Russians are investigating a murder,’ Ross pointed out, mildly.

‘You approve what they did?’ asked Hartz.

‘If the situation were reversed and it had happened here in Washington I wouldn’t have censored any of my people for doing the same. And there’s not a lot of practical purpose in complaining after the event, is there?’

The desk buzzer gave another warning, but Senator Walter Burden was already through the door before the Secretary of State reached it for a personal welcome. Burden nodded in recognition to both Directors and said in advance of sitting down: ‘I want to know everything that’s happened! All the developments!’ The man was immaculate in a broad-striped suit and pink shirt: the tie and pocket handkerchief formed a matching combination. He sat on the edge of his seat, leaning towards them intently: for no obvious reason he put on heavy reading glasses. He nodded, as if giving everyone in the room permission to speak.

‘I’m afraid the information is limited,’ Hartz apologized. He recounted what had been relayed from Moscow, aware for the first time of an odd mobility of Burden’s face: the man frequently widened his eyes, as if he were constantly astonished at what he was being told, an unnerving, intimidating mannerism.

‘Mutilated her?’ demanded Burden, when Hartz talked of the hair.

‘She was shorn,’ confirmed Hartz pedantically.

‘What about sex?’

‘There’s been no report of any sexual assault,’ said Holmes, entering the conversation. The Senator really did look like the Colonel Sanders logo.

‘They got the bastard?’

‘Not as far as we know.’

Burden looked to each of the three men. Then he said: ‘So, what are you doing about it?’ The word-biting New England accent was very pronounced.

Both Directors looked to Hartz for a reply. The Secretary of State said: ‘At the moment, waiting for more information from Moscow.’

Burden’s eyes widened. ‘I meant doing practically . How many investigators have you assigned? What’s the command structure? Has the President been informed?’

Ross gestured towards the CIA chief and said, with impatient bluntness: ‘Dick and I have both taken legal advice. Neither agency has any right of investigation whatsoever.’

Burden shook his head, seemingly incredulous. ‘I don’t believe what you’re telling me! You telling me that a sweet, innocent American girl — my niece — has been slaughtered in Moscow and that you’re not going to do a damned thing about it? Because if you are, think again, every one of you. I want that killer found and I want him tried and executed and I want it all done by Americans. You hearing me?’

The FBI Director reddened, the restraint clearly difficult. ‘I can understand your feelings. You have my sympathy. But as it stands at the moment there is nothing we can do. There’s no way of our getting involved.’

‘ Find a way!’ demanded Burden, loud-voiced. ‘I’m not having the murder of my niece investigated by a bunch of Russians using Stone Age techniques and methods! And I know the American public won’t have it, either.’

Hartz recognized that Burden could get as much media attention as he wanted. Hartz said: ‘I am calling in the Russian ambassador later to demand an assurance that everything possible is being done by the Russian authorities.’

Burden gave another head shake of disbelief, his eyes widening and contracting. ‘I asked if the President has been informed.’

‘I had a message sent to Camp David,’ replied Hartz. ‘He’s deeply shocked and asked me to pass on his condolences.’

‘That all! He didn’t talk about what we were going to do?’

‘He knows of this meeting. He’s asked to be kept informed.’

‘ I’ll inform him,’ said Burden, threateningly. ‘He’ll take my call.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ agreed Hartz. He decided to make his own contact, as well, to correct whatever slant Burden imposed in his account: it would be a very personal interpretation.

‘I would expect our investigative technology is more advanced than the Russians,’ offered Ross, reflectively. It was a professional remark, not offered as a defence against the Senator’s pop-eyed outrage.

‘I’m damned sure it is!’ said Burden, aggressively.

‘So?’ queried the CIA chief.

‘Maybe that would be the way to get in,’ suggested the Bureau Director. ‘Offer all and every access to our scientific facilities.’

‘Offer!’ echoed Burden, sneering. ‘Ask, you mean? Cap-in-hand?’

Ross sighed loudly. ‘I thought the point was to become involved.’

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ said Hartz. ‘I’ll raise it with the ambassador.’

‘We sure this is a genuine murder?’ demanded Burden, with sudden suspicion. ‘Has anyone thought that this might be an official assassination?’

Now it was the two Directors who looked incredulous: it was the unintimidated Ross who spoke for both, although still restrained. ‘What possible reason could there be for assassinating Ann Harris?’

‘I’m no admirer of Russia,’ admitted Burden, openly.

Hartz was well enough aware of Burden’s conceit, but decided this verged on megalomania. ‘Everything that has come from Moscow indicates a street mugging.’

‘Put it to your people in Moscow,’ ordered Burden, talking to the CIA Director. ‘I want that checked out.’

Now it was Holmes who reddened slightly. He nodded, saying nothing. Son-of-a-bitch, he thought.

‘Be direct with the ambassador, too,’ said Burden, continuing the instructions.

‘I’ll do what I consider best,’ said Hartz, finally resisting, although very weakly.

Pinpricks of colour now registered on Burden’s face and his mouth formed into an angry line. ‘This isn’t an ordinary murder: this isn’t the killing of someone who didn’t matter. Don’t forget that.’

‘The Bureau doesn’t consider anyone who gets murdered to be unimportant,’ said Ross, increasingly impatient.

‘I want a daily briefing,’ Burden insisted to the Secretary of State. ‘I want to know the outcome of the meeting with the ambassador and I want to hear everything that comes out of Moscow …’ He hesitated, looking to the CIA Director. ‘And don’t forget, either, to check the assassination theory.’

No one spoke in the first few moments after Burden’s departure. Then Holmes said: ‘What fucking assassination theory? Jesus Christ!’

‘I believe he thinks he’s Him,’ said Ross. ‘Can either of you begin to imagine what it will be like if he does become President? Thank God I’m not a Washington careerist.’