Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘No. I’ve protested, on their behalf. And upon instructions from Washington. With some effect, it would seem. I’ve been informed this morning they are going to release the body. I’ve ordered all the arrangements, of course.’

We’re going to burn ass , Cowley remembered: he mustn’t forget the request for a second autopsy. ‘According to what I’ve read so far, she lived on Ulitza Pushkinskaya.’

‘Yes.’

‘I understood all diplomatic staff lived in the compound.’

The smile flickered. ‘Insufficient accommodation. About half the personnel are outside. Many prefer it.’

Cowley was scarcely surprised, from what he’d seen from his guest quarters that morning. He was curious, at what he thought to be an odd tone in the ambassador’s voice. ‘Did Ann Harris prefer it?’

‘She insisted upon it.’

‘ Insisted ?’

‘She was an extremely strong-willed girl: most definite, once she made her mind up.’

For strong-willed read sure of uncle’s muscle, thought Cowley. ‘And she made her mind up about living on Pushkinskaya?’

‘I believe she was shown the available accommodation and chose to live in an outside hotel until she located an apartment.’

In diplomatic surroundings Cowley supposed he should be diplomatic. ‘What sort of girl was she? Part of the American community here? Gregarious? Or apart from it, a loner? Any special friends, here at the embassy? Any problems with her? Was she happy? Lonely?’ There were surely enough openings there.

Richards sat head bowed for several moments, considering his answer. ‘She was highly popular, but properly so. I have never received any complaint about her behaviour. She was certainly an asset at every function she attended in my presence. I am not aware of any particular friend. In my company she always appeared quite happy.’ The ambassador smiled, hopefully.

‘What about outside the embassy? Any particular Russian friends?’

‘None of whom I am aware.’

‘The autopsy found evidence of sexual activity: intercourse, not rape,’ said Cowley, abandoning diplomacy. ‘That indicates a special friend.’

The smile became a wince, of distaste. ‘I said I did not know of anyone.’

‘You are the authority here at the embassy,’ Cowley reminded him. ‘You are more likely to be told the truth than I might be, as a complete stranger.’

‘About what?’ There was no longer any smile. Or wince, even.

Cowley swallowed the sigh. ‘Ambassador,’ he said, patiently, ‘I’m trying to pick up a murder investigation without knowing whether I am going to get the slightest cooperation from people so far described, at best, as obstructive and autocratic. We both accept it’s a diplomatic and political swamp. The sooner the inquiry is resolved, the better for everyone at every level. So I need all the assistance I can get. Which is what I am asking, from you. I’m not concerned with morals or embarrassment, although if I can avoid the latter then I will. I am asking you, with your full authority as ambassador, to inquire of people who would be the most likely to know if Ann Harris had any special friend in this embassy.’

The pink face grew pinker. Richards said: ‘To what purpose?’

It was becoming difficult for Cowley to cover his irritation. ‘Whoever made love to her was probably the last person to see her alive: he might be the murderer! If he isn’t he might know where she had come from or was going to!’

‘Are you suggesting that somebody attached to this embassy might be involved?’

‘Sir, I am not suggesting anything. I don’t know anything, not yet. But why not? Somebody stabbed and disfigured her. I have to find out who.’ Not officially, Cowley corrected himself at once: officially his function was liaison. He’d have to keep that in mind later, with the Russian investigator.

Richards shook his head, as if he were refusing. But he said: ‘I’m sorry. I’ll make the inquiries, of course. In return I want to be fully informed. About everything.’

‘You will be,’ promised Cowley. To the limited extent I consider necessary, he added, mentally.

Barry Andrews was expectantly behind his desk when Cowley returned to the lower-level office. ‘How did it go?’ the man demanded at once. He gestured, encouragingly, with the hand that held an already lighted cigar.

Cowley shrugged. ‘Politely, I suppose.’

‘Just a political lecture?’ pressed the man.

‘I asked him to help me about any particular friend or friends she might have had, here at the embassy. He said he’d ask around.’

Andrews nodded, unspeaking for several moments. Then he said: ‘Danilov suggested noon. I said OK.’

To say anything about the earlier, pointless discussion would seem like mockery. ‘The Russians are releasing the body, according to the ambassador. I’d like to send a cable, on your wire, asking for a second autopsy.’

‘I’ll do it in your name,’ undertook Andrews.

‘Where do I find Danilov?’

‘Moscow Militia headquarters: Ulitza Petrovka 38. You taken up smoking since we last met?’

Cowley frowned, confused. ‘No.’

Andrews took a packet of Marlboro cigarettes from a drawer and offered them. ‘Moscow survival pack. Cab drivers will probably recognize you as a foreigner anyway: the Marlboro packet confirms it, guaranteed to make them stop. You’ll probably get a gypsy — a private car — stopping as well. They’ll either want the cigarettes or hard currency: dollars. Fix the price before you set out. They’ll start high, naturally. Three bucks is more than enough, for around the city. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s the system.’

Cowley accepted the cigarettes and the new patronizing lecture, allowing Andrews whatever small victory he needed.

‘I told Pauline you were going to eat with us,’ said Andrews. ‘She’s looking forward to it. Wants to see you.’

‘We’ll fix it, when I’m settled in.’ Was she really looking forward to it? Or was that casual politeness?

‘She’ll be pleased,’ assured Andrews. ‘And remember when you meet Danilov, don’t take any …’ He stopped, quickly. ‘I already told you, didn’t I?’ he finished.

‘Yes,’ said Cowley, wearily. ‘You already told me.’

The FBI Director considered refusing the call but decided it was a pointless evasion. He depressed the telephone console button.

Without any greeting, apart from identifying himself, Burden said: ‘I told Hartz I wanted to see the man you were sending, before he went to Moscow! Didn’t he tell you?’

‘He told me.’

‘So what happened?’

‘About what?’ said Ross, intentionally resistant.

‘Hartz told me this morning an agent has already gone. Without my speaking to him!’

‘That’s right.’

There was silence, from the other end of the line. Then Burden said: ‘Director, have we got a communication difficulty here?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Ross. ‘I saw no point in your talking to my agent.’

‘ You saw no point!’

‘Mine was the responsibility, for briefing the man. No one else’s.’

There was a further, although shorter silence. ‘I consider your attitude impertinent!’

‘I don’t see any purpose in this sort of conversation, Senator. I will, of course, contact you with whatever I consider relevant, from Moscow.’

‘I’m not accustomed to being spoken to in this manner,’ threatened Burden.

‘Neither am I,’ said the unafraid Ross, pushing the boredom into his voice. ‘So why don’t you stop it? It isn’t achieving anything.’ Now the difficulties at the budget agreement sessions would be enormous: but it would be worth it.