Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Cowley took his time showering and dressing, choosing the thickest of the three suits he’d brought with him, debating whether to wear a sweater beneath and finally deciding against it. He was still ready early, waiting for the time to pass, when Andrews arrived, attempting some sort of rhythm in the way he knocked at the door. The man was wearing a three-quarter-length quilted coat, with a fur-trimmed hood. His trouser bottoms were tucked into fur-lined boots.

‘I’ll need to sign you in, the first time,’ announced the local FBI man. ‘I’ve got accreditation ready for you in the office. I’ll show you where that is in the embassy, too, so you can find your way there after you’re through with the ambassador. Name’s Richards, by the way: in full, Hubert J. Richards III. Family money from oil. Not a political appointment, to repay election contributions though. He’s a career professional. Not a bad guy. Anything you want?’

Cowley wondered how the other man managed to say so much without apparently taking breath. Careful, he warned himself at once: never critical, always objective. ‘You seem to have covered it all.’

Cowley followed the other American out of the complex, instantly conscious of the chill through his wool overcoat. His breath clouded whitely in front of him, a personal contribution to the fog. They had to go by the green-painted compound. Closer Cowley saw barbed wire coiled protectively along the enclosing walls. There was a Russian Militia guard in a sentry box at a minor entrance who looked at them without expression and made no challenge as they entered. The side entrance was in fact a long corridor: halfway along there was an American checkpoint, guarded by a marine who nodded and smiled familiarly at the resident FBI man. Andrews insisted on a formal introduction, assuring the marine Cowley would have his own ID after today. The marine said Hi: a new face, the highlight of his day.

The interior of the embassy was better than the exterior — cleaner at least — but there were cracks in some places in the high-ceilinged corridor and the wall covering was faded with age. Their footsteps echoed. Andrews’s office was on the first floor, with a window unobstructed by either cardboard or wooden screens. It overlooked an inner courtyard in which, inexplicably, there were a number of metal posts, some connected by wire. Cowley hung his own coat on a rack while Andrews shucked off his quilted anorak and changed his boots for gleaming loafers. Beneath the shapeless protective coat he was crisply dressed, as always: sharp-as-a-tack, Cowley remembered.

‘You’ve got to sign for this,’ said Andrews, officiously, presenting the accreditation tag.

It was exactly the same as those issued at Pennsylvania Avenue, where they fitted security key slots to gain and record admission to the different departments in the building. It was already equipped with a chain, to wear around the neck as everyone did in Washington, and a file photograph which had been among the personal material sent ahead. Cowley put the ID in his pocket. He lowered himself into the only other chair in the room, curious about the poles in the courtyard. It looked something like a volley-ball court but he didn’t think it could be.

‘No problem, overnight?’

‘None that I can think of.’

Andrews sat at the window, with its strange view. Without looking back, he said: ‘This job could make a career, couldn’t it?’

‘What?’ frowned Cowley, momentarily confused.

Andrews turned. ‘I mean Burden. All the power and influence the guy’s got. Find the nut who killed his niece and Burden is going to be eternally grateful, isn’t he? A friend for life!’

Cowley regarded the other man steadily, remembering the previous night’s conversation about glory. ‘If we make a case, your participation will be recognized. I promise you that.’

‘Privately?’

‘It’ll count, where it matters.’

Andrews didn’t respond at once. Then he said: ‘Sure.’ There was a further pause. ‘What time do you want me to tell Danilov to get here?’

Cowley’s frown deepened. ‘Why don’t we ask what time I could go see him?’

Andrews’s face tightened perceptibly at the unspoken correction. ‘You forgotten what I told you last night, about how to handle him?’

‘I said I’d work the patch my way.’ He didn’t like the reversal, from the first day: didn’t at all like the tension he could feel between them.

‘It’s a mistake.’

‘My way, OK?’ He didn’t have to give in: he was in charge.

The resident FBI man nodded, slowly. ‘Whoops, mustn’t get out of line, must I?’

‘Let’s not build an issue out of it.’

There was another slow nod. ‘You’ll need transport.’

There’ll be cabs.’

‘Moscow’s not like anywhere else. Maybe I should go with you?’

Cowley shook his head, positively. ‘Nothing to identify your true position here. You had the Director’s briefing: you know that.’

There was further head movement of begrudging acceptance. ‘Easy to forget.’

‘Let’s keep it easy,’ placated Cowley, hopefully.

‘Sure.’

‘This is a two-man operation.’

‘Whatever.’

Silence came briefly between them. Cowley said: ‘I’ll accept whatever time Danilov suggests.’

An internal telephone shrilled on Andrews’s desk, surprisingly loud. ‘The ambassador’s ready for you.’

‘Good,’ said Cowley, gratefully.

Hubert J. Richards III looked a professional career diplomat, impeccably dark-suited, pink-checked and quiet-voiced: at the end of every sentence there was a suggestion of a smile tempting agreement with the offered opinion, but not too fulsome against a contrary opinion having to be courteously considered. He stood to shake Cowley’s hand and waited until Cowley was seated before sitting himself. He hoped Cowley had had a good journey and found his accommodation — ‘always difficult, here in Moscow’ — adequate. It was a horrible business, most upsetting. Coffee was served by a bulky, broad-hipped woman with irongrey hair and a slight limp.

‘It is not normal for me to become involved in things that are not …’ Richards slowed to a halt, unusually finding it difficult to finish. ‘… strictly diplomatic,’ he managed clumsily. ‘But of course this is. Diplomatic, I mean.’ The smile was more obvious, apologetic, ‘I don’t wish any disrespect: I appreciate fully the valuable job you and your colleagues in other agencies perform …’

‘I understand what you’re saying,’ said Cowley. He guessed the enormous office had originally been a reception room. An ornate chandelier hung from the ceiling and there were fireplaces at either end of the room, both big enough for a man to have stood upright in either. Neither was lighted. The room was still very warm, almost too hot. The three floor-to-ceiling balcony windows looked out over Ulitza Chaykovskaya: layered glazing defeated any noise from the cars finally flowing along Moscow’s inner ring road. There was some wood barricading along the windows’ lower half, which would have been concealed from the outside by the balcony rails.

‘And political, as well as being diplomatic’

‘I was briefed by the Director, before I left Washington.’

‘Senator Burden has called direct, several times.’

‘He talked of coming personally, in a television newscast.’

‘He’s said the same to me on the telephone.’

‘What did you advise?’ Cowley judged the coffee better than he had made himself that morning.

‘He didn’t ask my advice.’

‘The Russians have been obstructive? Autocratic?’

‘That’s what I have been told, by my Second Secretary. And others.’

‘So you didn’t personally experience it?’