Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘That sounds interesting?’ demanded the resident FBI man.

‘I think I’m caught in a power play, back home: between a rock and a hard place.’

‘Then get out of it,’ Andrews advised. ‘This could be your big chance: we’ve talked about it. Don’t fuck it up.’

‘I’m trying not to,’ said Cowley. He avoided looking too quickly at Pauline: when they’d been married he had never sworn in front of her in company, believing it showed disrespect. When he did look, she seemed unaware of the obscenity.

‘Getting personal calls from the Director is pretty impressive stuff,’ insisted Andrews.

‘It’s the politics of the thing,’ Cowley dismissed. He looked once more to Pauline, curious if she would be bored by shop talk. She didn’t appear to be. But then she’d always been interested in the job.

‘Come on, buddy!’ urged Andrews. ‘You’re flying high: you know that. Lucky bastard.’

‘We’re not into an arrest situation yet,’ said Cowley.

‘It can’t be long.’

‘I thought William came for dinner, not interrogation,’ intruded Pauline, gently.

Andrews was at the cabinet again, refilling his glass. ‘Just talking,’ he said. ‘Call it envy.’

‘I’ve things to do in the kitchen,’ said Pauline. To Cowley she added: ‘Meat still rare? And Italian dressing on the salad?’

‘The Goddess of the kitchen,’ said Andrews, proudly. He put his glass down heavily. ‘Shit! I forgot the wine. It’ll take me a minute to get some from the commissary. Keep everything on hold!’

‘I really don’t …’ began Cowley, but Andrews was already on his feet, hauling his protective coat about him. Cowley saw Andrews had changed his shirt beneath the same suit he had worn that day.

‘I need to check the cable traffic anyway: never forget the time difference with the outside world.’ The door slammed loudly behind him.

Pauline sat back in her seat. ‘It won’t take long. Nothing will spoil.’

‘Does he often check cable traffic during the evening?’

‘You know Barry. Mr Ambition himself.’

‘That why he took this post?’

She nodded. ‘Necessary career move. He expects to get Washington next time. We should hear soon.’

‘I know.’

‘If he did get Washington, he would be working under you, wouldn’t he?’

‘Not unless he was assigned to the internal Russian division, within the United States,’ said Cowley. As its head he had the right of veto over staff appointments within his section, he remembered.

‘I was very nervous about tonight,’ admitted Pauline, suddenly. ‘ Am very nervous.’

‘I wasn’t sure, either. I’m glad I came though. Very glad. It is good to see you again.’

Pauline smiled, more easily than before. ‘I’m glad, too … I mean there’s no real reason why we shouldn’t have got together, is there …? And it is Moscow, which is different from anywhere else …’ She floundered to a halt. ‘Do you think you could get me another drink?’

Cowley took her glass, curious at her difficulty. Surely …? He refused to let the question even form. Another thought intruded. There didn’t seem much personal feeling between her and Andrews. No tenderness, no touching. But had there been between him and Pauline, when they’d been together? Pauline wasn’t the type of woman who needed that sort of attention: she’d be uncomfortable with it. He said: ‘How long have you been drinking Scotch?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A couple of years, I guess. But just socially. You really off it completely?’

He returned with her drink, nodding. ‘Quite a while now.’

‘No relapse?’

‘Nope.’

‘That’s good.’

Cowley was unsure whether the remark was genuine or just politeness. ‘I think so.’ She’d pleaded so much, so often: tried anger and tears and threatened the divorce there had eventually been. A new feeling came, with the recollection, a positive sorrow at how unhappy he must have made her. She hadn’t deserved it: not any of it.

‘What about …?’ she started, then stopped.

‘No,’ he said, guessing the incomplete question. Her other unhappiness: humiliation as well as unhappiness, his hand up every available skirt. He’d really given Pauline the whole package.

‘No one?’ Her surprise was obvious.

‘No one.’

‘That’s sad,’ she said, unexpectedly.

Now he was surprised. ‘Why?’

She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. It just is. I always thought you’d get married again. I kept waiting for something on a Christmas card. You’re the sort of person who needs to be married.’

‘With my track record!’ He was intrigued at her assessment. He wondered what was keeping Andrews at the embassy.

Pauline’s shoulders rose and fell again. ‘Mistakes happen.’

Was that how she’d categorized their marriage, a mistake that could be dismissed with a shrug? He didn’t want her to think of it like that. ‘You happy?’ he said, then at once: ‘No! I didn’t mean that! I’m sorry. That was out of order; forgive me!’

She nodded, agreeing with his self-correction. ‘Who’s ever really happy?’

‘A lot of people.’ He shouldn’t push it like this.

‘I’m OK. Moscow’s not an easy place for anyone.’ She stood, abruptly. ‘Time I made the salad,’ she said, finding an excuse.

‘Anything I can do?’

She grinned at him from the kitchen doorway. ‘I don’t think I can handle all these changes at one time.’

Andrews’s return prevented any further conversation. There was a clink of bottles from a plastic sack. ‘Jesus, it’s cold out there!’ He smiled brightly, first at Cowley, then at Pauline’s reappearance, and said: ‘You guys been all right?’

‘You were a long time,’ the woman accused.

Andrews held the plastic bag aloft. ‘Essential errand.’ He set the wine out on the table, three bottles each of red and white. To Cowley he said: ‘And there was a message for you. And I got ambushed. It was a busy, busy time.’

‘What message?’ demanded Cowley.

Andrews left the table, for his wife to arrange the place settings and to clear all but two of the bottles on to a side dresser, offering Cowley the cable slip. ‘Blood content of the body is estimated to be two pints short, the predictable loss. So I guess she was killed in the street after all. The report is going to be in the overnight pouch, with some other stuff. Our medical people aren’t impressed by the standards of Russian autopsies, it would seem.’

‘What’s this about being ambushed?’ asked Pauline, from the table.

Andrews replied still looking at the other man, not his wife. ‘Prescott, the Senator’s monkey. He was hanging around outside the office. Wanted to know if I was working with you on the murder. I said I wasn’t, to get him off my back. He seemed disappointed.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘Asked if I knew anything at all. I said I didn’t. He told me the Senator would be grateful if I could pass anything on: that he’d keep in touch.’

‘Everything you know is classified from everyone ,’ said Cowley, repeating the earlier warning. ‘That includes Burden and the ambassador.’

‘Don’t worry,’ assured Andrews. He lighted a cigar, slumping into a facing chair. ‘I’m glad this happened. Us getting together like this. Just like the old days, right?’

‘Close,’ agreed Cowley. They’d practically been a threesome in London. He supposed it had been inevitable that Pauline would turn to the other man, when things got as bad as they did between them.

‘Right that it should be like this. Adult.’

‘Yes.’ Cowley guessed the other man had had quite a few drinks before his arrival. Just as quickly he refused the criticism. How many times must Andrews have thought the same about him, at dinner parties in London? Had he sounded like this? Probably worse. Poor Pauline.