Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘Don’t take any of Danilov’s shit. Keep the asshole jumping. Let him know who’s going to be calling the shots from now on.’

‘Thanks for the advice,’ said Cowley. The other man appeared to miss the reservation.

‘I’ve been pretty uncertain about this, ever since I heard it was you who were coming,’ admitted Andrews. ‘Haven’t you?’

‘Naturally.’

‘I don’t see any reason why there should be difficulties. There won’t be, as far as I am concerned.’

Cowley was surprised that the other man had accepted the secondary role so readily, despite Washington’s orders. ‘Or from me.’

‘Pauline said … suggested … that if it all went well tonight … you and I, I mean … I was to say how about coming for dinner one night? It’s miserable here, all by yourself. Would that be a good idea? I mean Pauline and I feel OK about it, if you do.’

Cowley was finding everything different about Andrews from what he had expected. Or remembered. ‘Sounds good to me. Why don’t we think on it?’

‘Good! She’ll be pleased.’ Andrews gestured around the apartment. ‘Meanwhile, any food you want you can get from the commissary. If you don’t feel like cooking for yourself there’s the embassy mess. Funny telephone system here: everything is direct dial, straight into anyone’s office: would you believe there are photographs of the entire fucking government, in the front of the telephone directory …!’ He offered a card. ‘That’s my home number. Anything you want, you call, you hear?’

And Pauline’s home number, Cowley thought. ‘Got it.’

Andrews finished his drink in a head-tilted gulp and said: ‘While you’re with the ambassador I’ll fix a meeting with Danilov.’

Cowley nodded. ‘You mentioned the autopsy report?’

Andrews handed over the dossier. ‘You’re going to crack this one and come out covered in glory!’

But not if he failed to solve it, thought Cowley. ‘I’m glad we’re going to get along,’ he said.

‘He said to say hello back,’ declared Andrews. He went straight to the cocktail cabinet, but more for effect than for the drink he poured himself.

‘How does he look?’

Andrews held up his glass, smiling. ‘You’re not going to believe this! He’s given it up.’

She didn’t believe it, Pauline decided: William couldn’t have changed that much.

‘It’s going to be interesting, working together again.’

‘I hope it is,’ said Pauline. She hoped he wasn’t too upset by what had happened: despite being married to him for more than three years she still often found it difficult to guess what Andrews was really thinking.

Jetlag brought Cowley awake when it was still dark, just after five in the morning. He had expected to rouse earlier and decided, pleased, that it would only take a couple of days for him fully to adjust. He remained for a while where he was, trying to anticipate the day. The meeting with the ambassador probably would be a warning political lecture. So the uncertainty was Dimitri Danilov. Sneaky son-of-a-bitch? Jerk? Motherfucker? Asshole? Or one very upset Moscow-based FBI officer suffering a grievance, real or imagined? Despite the good beginning — the surprising beginning — Cowley decided he would have to guard constantly against any personal assessments influencing his professional judgement of whatever Andrews did or said. More than just be careful: determinedly objective. Unfair, after the airport greeting and the later conversation here, last night? Yes, Cowley decided. He was prejudging, on experience from the past: more revolving circles.

The autopsy report was on the bedside table where he had put it aside the previous night, together with copies of everything else Andrews had so far assembled. Cowley was sure he knew it all but pulled everything towards him to read completely through again. He concentrated particularly on the pathology examination, memorizing the details. It had been translated, of course. Cowley wished there had been a copy of the Russian original, for him to make a comparison to agree the English version. The medical account appeared comprehensive but there would need to be another post-mortem in America. Would it be automatic, without his suggesting it? A mistake to presume anything: he’d recommend it, as soon as the body was released. The list of articles removed from Ann Harris’s apartment was frustrating, because that’s all it was, a list with no indication of the significance of any single item. The knife rack was intriguing. And he wondered what had emerged from what was simply recorded as ‘correspondence’. He hoped Dimitri Danilov fitted none of the descriptions offered by Andrews: it would be impossible to proceed unless he and the Russian worked with at least some element of cooperation.

It was after six, but still quite dark when Cowley got out of bed. He put coffee on to percolate, and saw as he did so that the door to the liquor cupboard was ajar. He stood before it briefly, looking in at the selection: there was not the slightest desire, not any more. He closed the door, positively, collected his coffee and took it with him into the main room: close to the window he saw the whiteness of frost outside, despite the darkness; he was comfortably warm even though he was only wearing a thin robe. He supposed efficient central heating was essential in a country with such a climate. He hadn’t made any special preparation and hoped the clothes he’d brought would be sufficient. There were two views from the window, one directly towards the embassy still in blackness, the other sideways down a street of sleeping, lightless buildings. He was abruptly held by the absolute contrast to any American city he had ever known: there was no movement, of people or cars, anywhere. Nor the slightest sound, either. Cowley shivered, suddenly, although he still wasn’t cold.

He remained at the window for a long time, as what was to become the day gradually formed before him, and quickly realized it was never going to be a proper day at all: a thick, orange-grey fog smothered streets and houses and proper sight of anything, shrouding out any full light. He was able, though, to see his immediate surroundings: here his reaction wasn’t exactly shock but something close.

From the freshly built, red-brick residential compound and the never-to-be-occupied new legation he was looking directly at the rear of the old, pre-revolutionary embassy building. In between — actually built on to the back of the mansion like some inoperable growth — was the original accommodation compound, a crumbling warren of green-painted, small-balconied apartments as lifeless as everything else all around. But it was not the living quarters which caused the surprise. Accustomed to the baroque splendour of the US mission in Rome and the enormous, eagle-surmounted block forming one entire side of Grosvenor Square, in London, Cowley was amazed at the embassy itself. The mansion might once have been impressive but now it was completely neglected. It was dirt-grimed, the walls streaked with soot smears, the majority of the grit-coated windows sealed on the inside with either cardboard screens or wooden sheets. And again there was no sign of life anywhere. Cowley thought that rather than the diplomatic centre of the richest nation on earth, it looked like the abandoned home of the increasingly desperate poverty-stricken who’d finally boarded it against squatters or vandals until the arrival of the overdue demolition squad. He supposed the lack of maintenance or upkeep would have been understandable, if the transfer to the contemporary embassy had happened. But as it had been decreed uninhabitable he would have expected a greater effort to keep the existing building presentable.