‘What?’
‘File photographs of Ann Harris. I’d like to see who she circulated with, socially.’
‘She might not have been targeted. If anything came up, during, say, a normal embassy event it might have been retained.’
‘She was related to a prominent American politician!’ Danilov pointed out. By now he was totally confused by Gugin’s practically acquiescent attitude: it wasn’t right.
‘I’ll check that, too.’ Gugin was sure of an advantage now. It could be very good.
‘That would be extremely helpful.’
‘I’m sure it will be,’ said Gugin, amusing himself. He amused himself further with the obvious surprise of the other two men when he terminated his presence by abruptly announcing he had other meetings for which he was already late. He was anxious, in fact, to consult with others back in Lubyanka.
When they were alone Lapinsk said: ‘How are you going to take this forward?’
‘Routinely. Pavin’s setting up the checks on the mental institutions. It’s going to tie up a lot of personneclass="underline" possibly mean other cases will have to be put aside.’
‘That’s unimportant!’ declared the Director at once, anxious again. ‘There is only one priority. This case. Everyone’s frightened. The Foreign Ministry — and the Interior — are terrified of overseas newspaper and magazine stories of monsters and madmen roaming Moscow’s streets.’
‘There is one,’ said Danilov, unhelpfully. He jerked his head in the direction of the door through which Gugin had left. ‘I don’t understand what the Cheka are doing. Or rather, not doing!’
‘Neither did I, at first,’ Lapinsk confessed. ‘Then I sat through a half-hour lecture from the Foreign Minister and his advisers about the pitfalls and the Cheka attitude became entirely clear. They’ll cooperate in what we’ve asked: it makes them look willing participants. But they’re always going to be on the outside, free from any responsibility. They can’t afford or risk any more censure, can they?’
The explanation was still hardly an expression of confidence in either him or the Militia, Danilov recognized. ‘So it begins and ends with us? With me?’ Wasn’t that what he’d wanted? Already determined to fight for?
‘The KGB have far more expertise at political and diplomatic manoeuvre than we have. They’ve always needed it more.’
‘Are there any special instructions?’ And was he going to regret his own ambition, he asked himself. He hoped not.
‘Find who did it, as soon as possible,’ said Lapinsk.
‘I hardly need to be told that.’ The Director’s fatuous reply showed the strain under which the man believed himself to be.
‘You do need to be told to be careful in diplomatic situations. You went too far, entering the apartment. Think more, before you move. Otherwise there’ll be mistakes. And we can’t afford mistakes, any more than what used to be the KGB.’
‘I won’t have gone too far, if it helps me find who did it.’
‘Don’t argue with me about this, Dimitri Ivanovich! There isn’t going to be any glory in this investigation. Just problems.’
‘I’ll try not to offend.’ Danilov could see through the window that it was already dark outside. He tried to remember what Olga had told him she was doing tonight but couldn’t, only that she was going out. So there wouldn’t be any food in the apartment. And he hadn’t eaten at midday.
‘You can call upon whatever facilities you want,’ offered the Director. ‘Everything’s got top priority. I want morning and afternoon briefing: I’m going to be getting queries constantly.’ The man paused. ‘I’m frightened there’s going to be another one.’
‘There obviously will be, unless we’re lucky. And I don’t really know what I mean by being lucky,’ admitted Danilov, with aching resignation. It wasn’t until he was struggling against the crowd at the metro station that he realized one of the facilities he could probably demand was a permanent police vehicle. He’d have to remember, tomorrow.
Olga had not left him anything to eat. Danilov poured the Stolichnaya he had denied himself in the long ago early hours of that morning and carried it to the bedroom. He only drank half before falling asleep. His last conscious thought was to hope that Lapinsk was wrong and that there would be a lot of personal glory if he carried out an impeccable investigation and made an arrest.
The world’s press had a story of a predicted American Presidential candidate — already a well-known politician — connected with a murder in Russia.
The coverage was staggering.
The demand for press conferences and interviews and information was overwhelming, bewildering Russian ministries which believed they already understood the needs of the Western news media, but in fact knew them not at all. The sideways shuffle was as automatic as it was instinctive.
The responding discussion was held at the Foreign Ministry. It was attended by a deputy official of the Interior Ministry and the Federal Prosecutor. General Leonid Lapinsk obviously represented the Militia. The Foreign Ministry delegate lectured on the political importance. The Interior Ministry deputy insisted upon the need for a quick resolution. With weight of authority, both ministries argued that the statement should come from the Federal Prosecutor, a thin, skin-sagged lawyer named Nikolai Smolin. The Prosecutor tried to spread responsibility, summoning Lapinsk the following morning to judge — and for the man to be enmeshed in — the communique. It said the Russian authorities deeply regretted a foul crime. Every effort and every available officer had been assigned to the investigation, for which there was every expectation of a quick conclusion. All information and developments would be made available to the media, as they arose.
‘Well?’ demanded Smolin. He had a croaking, dry-throated way of talking.
‘It seems to cover what they have been asking,’ said the mediaraw Lapinsk.
‘I’m sure it will satisfy them,’ smiled Smolin.
It didn’t, of course.
Another one soon. More buttons. More hair. Leave a traiclass="underline" like a paper-chase. Had to taunt: to dare. Different coloured buttons than the reds and the green and the brown. Had to get this pattern right. Maybe try for red again, after all. Just a different shade. Difficult, of course: dangerous, trying to choose. Always the risk of attracting attention. Never sure what the colours truly were, in the dark, unless you were dangerously close. Had to be very close — risk the danger — to ensure it was a woman. Do it soon: quite soon. Important not to begin to like it, though. It would be madness, to like it. Wasn’t mad. That was the most brilliant part of it alclass="underline" that he wasn’t mad. Only he knew that, though. Brilliant.
Chapter Seven
William Cowley attracted attention — which for a law officer was sometimes a disadvantage — because he returned it, intently. He was a large man, both tall and heavy-shouldered, the build of the college football player he had once been, long ago. But unlike many men of such size he did not try to come down to the stature of smaller people but walked purposefully and upright and invariably concentrated absolutely upon the person to whom he was talking. It was a natural confidence, often mistaken for conceit, which was a mistake, because William Cowley was not a conceited man. He was a very realistic, pragmatic man. A sad one, too.
Both secretaries started to rise eagerly when he entered the Director’s suite: the younger, a corn-and-milk-fed blonde, won the race. Cowley answered the smile but politely, without any come-on flirtation: another reform, to go with all the rest. Cowley identified himself and the girl said Mr Fletcher was waiting. Fletcher was the Director’s personal assistant. The man emerged unsmiling from an inner office and said: ‘Thank you for coming,’ as if there had been a choice. Then he added: ‘The Director’s waiting.’
Ross’s fifth-floor office was at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue looking up towards the Capitol. The walls were hung solely with large, official photographs of the present and past Presidents and past FBI Directors. Cowley wondered where Ross’s photograph would hang, when the man left office; there didn’t appear to be any space left. There was a predictable furled American flag in one corner, behind the desk at which Ross sat. The carelessly fat man in the crumpled suit didn’t rise or move his face in any greeting. He nodded thanks to Fletcher, for the escort duty, and nodded again to Cowley, to be seated.