Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

‘Fuck him!’ said the contemptuous one, after the dutiful translation. ‘This jerk won’t be around much after today.’

‘I regret that this is your opinion,’ Baxter said to the Russian, with diplomatic stiffness.

Danilov looked too obviously at his watch, surprised nevertheless at the lateness. ‘We will leave you the location of the mortuary. I will need a member of this embassy there at exactly three o’clock tomorrow, for formal identification …’ The pause was as theatrical as the time-check. ‘… You will appreciate, of course, that there can be no question of releasing the body until all our inquiries are completed …’

‘Now wait a goddamned minute …’ said the critic. ‘Burden will go apeshit at the thought of his niece preserved here, on ice.’

‘I cannot accept that,’ protested Baxter, to Danilov, with increased professional formality. ‘I will personally make that identification and at the same time present both to you and to your Foreign Ministry the positive request for the return of the body of Ann Harris.’

‘Until all our inquiries are completed,’ echoed Danilov.

‘We’ll burn his ass,’ said the sneering American, looking directly and venomously at Danilov. ‘I’ll personally burn his ass.’

‘I think I have to talk to your superiors,’ said Baxter.

‘There is probably the need for higher authority on both sides,’ said Danilov. Be careful at the embassy , he remembered again. Beside him Pavin tore the mortuary address from his notebook. ‘Three o’clock,’ Danilov reminded, passing it across to Baxter. At the same time he began to pick up the photographs still displayed.

‘I want those,’ insisted the American who had done most of the talking. ‘They’re evidence I shall need.’

Baxter said, through the interpreter: ‘We would like to keep the photographs.’

Danilov completed the collection, tapping them tidily into their folder. ‘They are official police exhibits, the property of the Moscow Militia.’

‘Son of a bitch!’ exploded the predictable American.

Danilov rose, before anyone else. Pavin followed, very quickly. Danilov said: ‘Thank you again, for this meeting,’ and stood waiting for Baxter to escort them from the building.

The journey back to the exit was made in complete silence. At the door Baxter did not appear to know what to do. Finally he said: ‘I have the mortuary address.’

‘I’ll be expecting you,’ said Danilov.

Pavin waited until he had negotiated the embassy forecourt and they were back on Ulitza Chaykovskaya before he spoke. He said: ‘I didn’t need a translation to know it was bad.’

‘She’s related to an American Congressman.’

‘Mother of Christ!’

Danilov wondered if the Major genuinely had any religious beliefs: they’d never discussed it. Neither had they ever discussed special arrangements possible in this new Militia district from which Danilov might have benefited, as he’d benefited before. He was sure Pavin would have a source: probably several. Everybody had their special sources. ‘They don’t think we’re competent enough. They expect to take over. They refused to tell me where she lived.’

‘Do we go back to Petrovka?’

‘No. Drive slowly towards the scene. She wasn’t dressed to go out walking, in that temperature. She probably lived close.’

‘The embassy compound, surely?’ Pavin frowned.

‘Some embassy staff live outside,’ said Danilov. ‘It’s worth checking.’ His first call from the car telephone was to the Foreign Ministry. He quoted his official ID, explained in great detail to the Records division what he wanted and promised to call back. The clerk, a man, said the checks might be difficult. Danilov said he’d try anyway. Danilov’s second call took longer, because he had to be transferred through several departments to put the forensic team on standby. They were back in the side road off Gercena before he tried to reach Lapinsk. As he dialled he looked out to where Ann Harris had lain, spread-eagled, only a few hours before. The small amount of bloodstaining had congealed like black oil, not red, and the chalked outline was practically trodden away beneath the morning dampness of slightly thawed frost and fog. Unnoticing, unconcerned people were scuffing over the blood and chalk with the toe-to-heel care of Russians expert in walking over slippery, frozen surfaces.

‘Why haven’t you come back here?’ demanded the Director.

‘I need to seal the flat.’

‘There’s been an official complaint, through the Foreign Ministry! What the hell happened?’ There were several barking coughs.

After a detailed explanation Danilov said: ‘They expect to take control. I don’t know the man’s name but I think he’s FBI.’

‘It’s preposterous — arrogant — for them to imagine that!’

‘I hoped that’s how you’d feel.’

There was a momentary silence, from the other man. Then Lapinsk said: ‘I’ve been called to the Foreign Ministry. The Agency for Federal Security have been summoned too.’

‘Do you want me to be there?’ suggested Danilov. It hadn’t taken long for the pressure to begin.

‘Novikov is doing the autopsy this morning: I told him to expect you. Stay on the investigation. Did you tell the Americans about the other business?’

‘No. Or everything that happened to the girl.’

‘I accept you were badly treated. I’ll see that a protest is made, to counter theirs.’

The Records clerk at the Foreign Ministry said they had been lucky: it was the benefit of the new Western-style computerization. The official registration details of Ann Harris, an American national, for whom a diplomatic visa had been issued in May the year before last, listed her address as Ulitza Pushkinskaya 397. The man, who was obviously a gossip, asked what she’d done wrong. Danilov told him it was nothing, a technical matter.

‘Outside the compound!’ Danilov announced triumphantly, to Pavin, keeping the telephone in his hand to summon the waiting forensic scientists.

‘The Americans are going to be furious.’

‘I’m not exceeding any authority,’ Danilov insisted. ‘The address is not within the official diplomatic residencies.’

‘It’s probably still considered diplomatic territory, beyond our jurisdiction.’

‘We’ll worry about that later,’ decided Danilov. He paused. Then he demanded, suddenly: ‘Who’s Dick Tracy?’

Pavin frowned quickly across the car. ‘I don’t know. Why?’

‘I’m curious.’

Over the next three hours the repercussions of Ann Harris’s murder rippled quickly throughout widely differing parts of the world.

The American Secretary of State was halted by an aide just before taking off for Hyannisport for a sea fishing trip. He decided to cancel.

On Capitol Hill, in Washington, DC, a polite State Department officer hesitantly entered the Dirksen Building suite of Senator Walter Burden and said: ‘I am afraid, sir, there’s some unpleasant news. The Secretary of State asks you to call. He wishes to tell you personally.’

At the FBI headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue, at the bottom of Capitol Hill, a priority cable arrived from Moscow and because of Ann Harris’s family connections was hurried immediately to the Director. Although the Director was a judge himself, he convened a conference of the Bureau’s legal department.

Simultaneously, a matching priority cable was received at the CIA headquarters at Langley, Virginia. The Director called his own legal conference before telephoning his counterpart on Pennsylvania Avenue. Both Directors agreed to get separate legal opinion and talk later.

In Moscow Lieutenant-Colonel Kir Gugin hurried officiously into the Foreign Ministry, irritated there had been no reason for the summons, but curious to see if there could be any benefit for the newly created Agency for Federal Security.