Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

Pauline coloured, slightly. Hurriedly she said: ‘I didn’t mean … I’m sorry … that was rude …’

‘Hey!’ said Cowley, surprised at her distress. ‘I only said I could be. I’m not.’

‘I’m glad you and Barry are getting on OK,’ she said.

‘Just me and Barry?’

‘Don’t.’

‘What did you mean the other night, about being happy?’

‘Nothing.’

‘ Are you happy?’

‘Enough. Maybe …’

‘Maybe what?’

‘I was always sad we couldn’t have kids, you and me. Barry refused, always. Some crap about not wanting to bring children into a bad world. I wish he hadn’t.’

Cowley got the impression Pauline was staring into her glass to avoid him seeing her emotion. Illogically — cruelly, if it mattered so much to her — he was glad that Andrews and Pauline hadn’t had children. It … He stopped the thought developing, annoyed at himself.

‘I’m sorry, beginning this conversation. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

‘It’s OK.’ Pauline took a deep breath and said: ‘Did you and Barry sort out the problems of the world the other night? You took long enough.’

‘I guess,’ said Cowley, accepting the change of subject.

‘We’ve bought a house in Washington. About two years back. At Bethesda. It’s out on rental at the moment.’

Back on safe ground, thought Cowley. ‘If Barry’s application goes through it’s not automatic he will get Washington,’ warned Cowley. ‘There’s a bigger counter-intelligence detachment in New York and San Francisco.’

‘If Barry did get Washington, we’d all be in the same city.’

‘Yes.’

‘I think I’d like that.’

‘Me too,’ said Cowley. She was guiding the conversation now, not him.

‘As friends. Not for any silly reason.’

‘Sure.’ He decided not to press what she meant about silly reasons. He’d enjoyed himself — was enjoying himself — but imagined the evening would have been more uncertain if Andrews had been with them.

‘This isn’t difficult, is it?’ she demanded, presently. ‘Us being together like this, by ourselves?’

‘Not difficult at all.’ Not true, he thought: always a liar.

Pauline smiled, holding out her glass. Guessing his thoughts as he poured more whisky she said: ‘Don’t worry. Our roles haven’t been reversed.’

‘I wasn’t thinking that,’ he said. Another untruth.

‘I just feel like it tonight. This will be the last.’

Cowley returned with her drink. ‘Have you heard from Barry while he’s been in Washington?’

She shook her head. ‘Just a message today through the embassy that he’s on his way back. Before he left he said he hoped to get some indication if he’s going to get your division: even talked about checking out the house in Bethesda, to make sure we could take it over when we got back.’ She smiled, shrugging. ‘You know Barry: always sure things are going to go the way he wants.’

Had that been the way the man had thought when they were all friends together in London, planning to move in on Pauline? As realistically objective as he could ever try to be — disregarding all the times he conceded the abject failings that had destroyed his marriage — Cowley knew he would never ever be able completely to forgive or exonerate Andrews for what had happened. It wasn’t going to be easy — not for him, at least — if they were all in the same town together. ‘I’m not sure he’ll get a steer that quickly. He may.’

Pauline completed her drink, held the glass up for examination and declared: ‘Finished!’

Cowley had only drunk half his coffee. What remained was cold. ‘I should be going.’

‘Barry says the case is stymied: that there’s nothing to work on, now that Paul’s been eliminated,’ she said.

‘There’s a few ongoing, routine things. Nothing positive.’

‘Barry says it could affect you badly at the Bureau if you don’t get an arrest.’ Still that disturbing honesty.

‘It could.’

‘He’ll kill again, won’t he?’

‘Inevitably, unless we get him first.’

Pauline shuddered. ‘Sometimes I’m scared.’

From looking after him for so long, nearly thirty years in a few months time, Valentina Yezhov knew how he would agree to be touched and how he wouldn’t. He didn’t mind his hands being held, the way she’d held them when he was a child, comforting and reassuring him by her presence. She sat directly before him, both of his hands in hers, their knees touching, and said: ‘A man came back. Another one. People want to talk to you. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’ve done.’

‘Nothing,’ insisted Petr Yezhov. ‘Nothing wrong.’

‘So why do they keep coming? There must be something you’re not telling me.’

‘Isn’t.’

‘Look at me, Petr!’ his mother insisted. ‘I want you to look me fully in the eyes and tell me there’s nothing.’

Yezhov’s eyes flickered towards hers but couldn’t hold.

‘Look at me!’ she commanded, loudly. ‘Look honestly at me!’

This time the look lasted slightly longer before his eyes wavered and dropped. ‘Didn’t do anything. Don’t want them here. Tell them to go away.’

‘You don’t want to go into one of those places again, do you Petr?’

‘No!’ said the man, making himself look at her fully at last because of the importance, needing to convince her. ‘Won’t. Ever.’

‘You will, if you’ve done something you haven’t told me about. You’ll be locked up for longer this time: much longer.’

‘No!’ whimpered the man, clutching at his mother’s hands until they began to hurt. ‘Won’t. Haven’t done anything.’

The media demands, fuelled by Senator Burden’s initial complaints, increased rather than diminished because of what the press regarded as official and suspicious silence. There was open opinion and comment column criticism of an inept and clumsy Moscow statement, released through the Tass news agency, that there were lines of inquiry that at the moment could not be made public, but which it was hoped would lead to a positive development. Newspaper, magazine and television suspicion was greatest in Washington where, in a dramatic reversal, Senator Burden’s office announced there would be no further press conferences or public statements about the murder of Ann Harris. Senator Burden had been given private reassurances that everything possible was being done to bring the murderer to justice: any further discussion would be counter-productive.

Barry Andrews ignored the pilot’s usual advice about keeping the safety-belt fastened while seated, slipping the buckle aside and smiling up at the china-doll stewardess. With something to celebrate — he was sure he had something to celebrate — he ordered champagne. He’d still wanted a more positive indication. There had been no reluctance by the Personnel panel disclosing his promotion to G-13 grade. Or any way to misunderstand their obvious approval of his past record. Outstanding, the chairman of the board had said: which he’d already known it to be but which was still good to hear. Cowley was the problem, he decided: the inability — because of the Moscow business — to get the necessary acceptance from the Russian division director. Which was, Andrews accepted, the one uncertainty he couldn’t anticipate or do anything to affect.

He took the wine, watching the bubbles rise. So what would Cowley do? Stay strictly professional, judge the appointment on its unquestioned merits and approve it? Or take the heaven-sent opportunity to settle a still tender score and reject it? Andrews’s mind stayed with the second possibility, examining it completely. He’d exposed himself badly if there was a rejection. It would be recorded on his unblemished file, without any explanatory note, for every other department head to see if he had to apply elsewhere. Leaving the obvious inference that he had some failing not shown up by the record which made him unacceptable. Not badly exposed, he tried to reassure himself. There was no secret in Pennsylvania Avenue, about the break-up and his remarriage to Pauline. So any rejection by Cowley wouldn’t need an explanation. Everyone would understand immediately why it was and if anything the criticism would be directed towards Cowley himself, for allowing personal feelings to affect professional decisions.