Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Petr Yezhov had been committed to the Serbsky Institute after being found guilty of both attacks. His name was isolated on the third day of the checks by the apathetic men who had been with Pavin for the meeting with the principal. Yezhov became the sixth on their list.

‘No one’s said how far back we should go,’ the first man pointed out.

‘A year?’ suggested his companion.

‘The doctor was right. It could take forever.’

‘Why don’t we stop, when we’ve got another two or three names on the list? It’s nonsense anyway.’

Dimitri Danilov considered being in the reception area for the American’s arrival at Petrovka but decided against it. The FBI presence had been described to him that morning as supportive, a scientific assistance. To have been waiting in the foyer might have conveyed the impression of deference. Which would have been wrong. So after the required but brief encounter with the Director — a worried diatribe from Lapinsk about the press conference running over into Lapinsk’s now familiar injunction to avoid worsening the already existing ill-feeling — Danilov remained in his jumbled office, waiting. He did, however, warn the reception desk of Cowley’s appointment, to avoid the American being kept waiting, as visitors to any Russian government building or organization were invariably kept waiting.

A professionally trained investigator would quickly realize the cul-de-sac into which they were blocked, Danilov accepted. And William Cowley would most definitely be a professionally trained investigator as well as — if not more so — someone with scientific expertise: it would be a matter of pride, apart from anything else, for the Americans to assign the best-qualified man available. Danilov felt a stir of unease, which bothered him. There was no reason for him to feel uneasy about the forthcoming meeting. Every recognized police procedure had been correctly followed, nothing overlooked, nothing forgotten. The reassurance didn’t come. He would be under new and different scrutiny from now on, a Russian detective being critically judged by an American. Wouldn’t he be making the same examination of the American? Of course he would. And if he did it properly, looking for the additional benefit, not the possible criticism, then the presence of another expert mind was something to welcome, not to balk at. It was going to be important, always to keep that balance in mind.

Danilov was at the office door when Cowley approached along the corridor — a polite ten minutes before noon — so the American had a chance before any physical contact to examine the Russian with whom he would be working. About forty, assessed the American: forty-five tops. Yesterday’s suit — maybe yesteryear’s — and definitely yesterday’s shirt, looking more like it had been rolled on than properly laundered. A hint of a belly bulge, so he didn’t exercise: conscious of it, too, from the way he was holding himself. Typically square, Slavic face, which was pale-skinned, another indication of an indoor, non-exercising man. Fading brown hair, close-cropped to be more than a crew cut but growing again, needing attention. Good personal control. Here was a Russian policeman heading an investigation into the murder of an American girl with heavy-duty US clout. And knowing it. Yet he was giving no facial reaction of either too little or too much uncertainty, calmly standing there, waiting.

As Cowley, accompanied by an escorting officer, reached him the Russian thrust his hand forward and said: ‘Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov.’

The American answered the handshake and in English said: ‘William Cowley, although of course it’s Bill, not William …’ The smile grew, just slightly. In passably accented Russian he went on: ‘How we going to do this? In Russian? Or in English? Guess there’d better be some ground rules.’

Danilov nodded to the withdrawal of the escort, backing further into his office, gesturing Cowley in with him. In English he said: ‘Whatever you feel most comfortable with.’ Surely a friendly offer, from the start? Although maybe it showed a conceit about his English.

Confident of himself and his language ability, gauged Cowley: stroke with velvet gloves, he remembered. ‘Why don’t we just work our way along with a combination of both? Anything I don’t get, I’ll ask: anything you don’t get, you ask.’

Condescension? Or further politeness, like arriving ahead of time? Danilov said: ‘That sounds OK.’ He indicated the only visitor’s chair, which he’d cleared of file papers that morning. ‘Sit. Is there anything I can get you? Tea?’ He hoped Cowley didn’t accept: everything from the canteen was abysmal. The tea was like sewer water.

‘Not at the moment.’ The finger-touching courtesy was almost overdone. Cowley prevented himself making any examination of the cluttered office. Someone with little social contact since the break-up with Pauline, Cowley had spent a lot of the past three years watching television: this room reminded him of a natural history series he’d enjoyed, particularly the cut-away shots of underground nests of animals who’d dragged all sorts of crap into their holes and settled right in the middle of it.

Danilov’s strongest impression was of the American’s size. The man filled the already overfilled room, the chair inadequate and lost beneath him. The suit, which wasn’t travel-creased, would have had to be specially made for him. Possibly the shirt, as well. Cowley’s hair was dark and tightly crinkled, beyond being wavy, combed straight back from a heavily lined forehead. The man had a direct, almost unblinking manner of looking at another person through eyes quite a light, almost unnatural, blue. As Cowley casually crossed one hand over the other, Danilov saw the heavy ring, with a large red stone, that Cowley wore on the little finger of his left hand: Danilov believed it had something to do with American college societies but wasn’t sure. The other American who had confronted him first at the embassy and then outside the girl’s apartment had worn a similar decoration. Cowley appeared quite at ease and relaxed in unfamiliar surroundings, showing no outward disquiet. In English Danilov said: ‘I suppose it is important for us to establish ground rules.’

‘Your choice,’ insisted Cowley. ‘I know all the exchanges between our two governments: my function is advisory …’ Cowley stopped, unhappy with the choice of words. ‘Help, where possible … to suggest technical or scientific ideas, maybe,’ he finished, badly. He hadn’t thought sufficiently before he spoke. And he really had been trying to appear friendly, conciliatory even to someone who would naturally regard his being in Moscow as an invasion of territory.

People advised and offered help from superior positions or ability. Danilov guessed the American hadn’t meant to say that, not quite so bluntly. So what could have appeared the acceptance of a secondary role could equally be a patronizing one. Danilov moved consciously to stop the drifting analysis. Wasn’t there a danger, in constantly seeking several meanings from every word and phrase? He’d already decided, so many times that he’d lost count, that he was confronting an investigation more difficult than any he’d encountered before. And accepted he was getting nowhere. So he needed all the help he could find. He looked intently at the other man and thought once more, a professionally trained investigator . And then called to mind another previous reflection: the best-qualified man available . Wasn’t there more sense, more practical personal benefit, in putting to one side the suspicion and resentment, none of which had been caused by this man, to take advantage of the fresh mind and the fresh approach? ‘I don’t imagine it’s going to be easy, for us to adjust to working together. But if it is to work, we’ve got to be totally open with each other. Which I’m prepared to be.’ Danilov was sure the offer had sounded completely right, without any of the cynical opportunism that was there.