Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

It was inevitable that he would be late for dinner. Within minutes of his personally dispatching the ‘Eyes Only’ cable to the Director fully setting out the circumstances and suspicion surrounding Paul Hughes — and the complete Russian awareness of it — the direct telephone call came from Leonard Ross, on the secure line.

Andrews, who was still in the FBI offices reading the exchanges and actually took the call from the Director, said: ‘Jesus H. Christ!’ holding out the receiver, as if it were hot. As Cowley took the telephone, Andrews mouthed that they would hold the meal, for as long as it took.

Ross didn’t waste time with pleasantries, dictating his questions so precisely that Cowley was sure the Director had them written out in front of him: Cowley had little doubt the entire conversation was being recorded, for others to hear later. Cowley repeatedly insisted that at that stage all they had was strong circumstantial suspicion, not actual proof, and insisted just as frequently that it had been made quite clear at his meetings that day with Russian officials that Hughes would not be permitted to leave Moscow to be questioned in America.

‘What about diplomatic immunity?’

‘A Russian’s also dead,’ Cowley reminded him. ‘They’d refuse to recognize immunity. We don’t stand a chance of keeping the lid on.’

‘The ambassador know this?’

‘I waited to talk to you.’

‘Burden?’

‘No.’

‘I’ll need to consult at this end.’

‘What about the ambassador and Burden?’

‘Nothing, until I get a guide here. There’s some more stuff coming for you, in the pouch. And the mind doctors think they can create their psychological profile, from what you’ve sent.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re quite sure, about the Russians’ attitude?’

‘Positive.’

‘You’ll get complete guidance by 8 a.m. tomorrow, your time.’

Cowley was too late to go back to the guest quarters to change. He was about to leave the embassy when he thought about taking something, so he detoured to the commissary. He’d wanted flowers but there weren’t any. There were chocolates but they were in practical square or oblong boxes, nothing ornate or fancy, for special occasions. Was this a special occasion? Of course it was. He was seeing his ex-wife who’d remained a friend, although a distant one, both in time and place. It was right, practically expected, that he should take her something. It had to be chocolates. He bought the largest box available. Was it pushing forgiveness and understanding too far, to include Andrews in the gift-giving? Why not? Cowley picked a bottle of French brandy, wishing he had been able to shop better elsewhere, particularly for Pauline. But where? Andrews was his guide for Moscow. And he could hardly have invoked the help of her present husband to buy a present for his ex-wife, no matter how civilized they were all trying to be. Why hadn’t he anticipated the situation and brought something from America? The choice would have still been difficult. And shown planning, which might not have been a good idea.

Andrews expansively opened the door of the compound apartment, drink already in his free hand. ‘You’re hardly late at all. Pauline’s got everything on hold.’

Cowley was surprised by Andrews’s babbled uncertainty: there was even a shake to the man’s hands. Cowley handed over the brandy, smiling up at Pauline as she came from a side-door he presumed led to the kitchen. She was wearing a red woollen dress which fitted quite tightly, moulded to her figure. She appeared as slim as ever, although perhaps slightly heavier-busted. When she came further into the light of the entrance hall he saw that her hair, which had always been very black, was streaked with grey at the sides. Perhaps it was difficult to get good tinting in Moscow: he would have thought there would be some facility for wives at the embassy. He thought she looked wonderful and wanted to tell her so. He didn’t, of course.

‘Hello William,’ she said. She’d always used the full name, never Bill. There was a tentative accompanying smile.

So they were all uncertain, Cowley accepted. He’d forgotten the deep-throated Southern accent. He’d mocked her about it, when they’d first met and in the early years, before everything went wrong, calling her Scarlett and telling her she could call him Rhett. Stupid, childish stuff, never admitted to anyone: no point in bringing it to mind now. ‘It’s good to see you.’ Stupid, childish words.

There was a momentary impasse, the three of them crowded into the tiny hallway. Cowley thrust the chocolates towards her and said: ‘I wanted to get something different: more original. Sorry.’ He was stumbling, tongue-tied. It shouldn’t have been like this.

‘It was very thoughtful,’ Pauline accepted.

‘Let’s not hang around here!’ urged Andrews, propelling them further into the apartment. ‘Settle down! Relax!’

The apartment was inferior to the suite he occupied in the newly built compound, the only point of comparison he had. The hallway wasn’t really a hallway at all, just an entry box with a clothes closet. The living-room was another box: literally squaresided and more cramped than it deserved to be by the inclusion of American furniture and converter-connected television and stereo equipment. The lid of a drop-down cocktail cabinet literally overhung one of the chairs, displaying the drinks. Cowley stood not knowing where to sit. Pauline stood not appearing to know what to do or say, either. Another impasse.

‘Drinks!’ bustled Andrews, enthusiastically, depositing the brandy among the regiment of bottles in the cocktail cabinet. ‘What are we all going to have to drink? Let’s relax! Enjoy ourselves!’

Cowley chose the settee, needing it for his size. ‘Maybe a juice.’ He was conscious of Pauline’s frown.

‘Scotch,’ she said, still looking at Cowley.

‘Forgot that you didn’t, not any more,’ said Andrews, to the other man. ‘Need to get supplies.’

As Andrews disappeared into the kitchen, Pauline said: ‘Barry told me but I didn’t believe it. Since when?’

‘Seems like forever.’

‘Which sounds like it’s difficult?’

Cowley thought about it. ‘Not really. Sometimes. But not often.’

‘You’re looking good on abstinence.’

‘You’re looking good, too.’ Which was a lie. He was surprised about the greyness. There were the faintest of lines around her eyes, too. He still thought she looked wonderful.

‘It’s Boeuf-en-Croute,’ Pauline announced. ‘Liver pate and hot goose liver cooked together to start. We can get most things from the commissary if we plan ahead.’

She’d remembered the favourite. Polite consideration, nothing more, he told himself. What more could there be? ‘I guessed it would be something special.’

‘It’s not,’ she insisted, modestly. ‘Just ordinary.’

‘How’ve you been?’

‘OK, I guess. Moscow’s difficult. Insular. Everyone is on top of everyone else here.’

Andrews burst back in from the kitchen, grape juice in hand. ‘Pauline caught you on CNN today!’ At the cocktail cabinet the man poured himself a heavy Scotch, adding only one cube of ice. ‘Said you looked great. Very authoritative.’

Pauline smiled, more widely this time, showing the teeth she had worried so much about having capped, because of the expense. ‘But you didn’t look very comfortable at times.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Cowley admitted.

‘Not hugger-mugger with Senator Burden, he of all power and influence!’ exclaimed Andrews. ‘He’s the guy who makes careers in Washington.’

‘Or breaks them,’ Cowley pointed out.