Danilov guessed the newness was for any further visit to the American embassy to be in a presentable vehicle: most police cars — certainly the unofficial ones — were battered by careless use. ‘No time limit?’
‘None. And we’ve been allowed a place of our own for evidence: the old interview room at the end of the corridor!’
‘I want it posted off-bounds, throughout the building: I don’t want people wandering in and out. Try if you can to get all the keys. I don’t want any cleaning staff in there, either.’
Instinctively Pavin began making reminder notes to himself. ‘What are we going to need in there?’
‘Display facilities. Blackboards, pinboards, benches. And I want as good a street map as possible of Moscow …’
‘Street map!’ interrupted Pavin. Street maps, like Moscow telephone directories, were practically unobtainable, even officially.
‘We definitely need a map,’ insisted Danilov, aware of the difficulty. ‘What about forensic?’
‘The empty slot in the knife rack is twenty-four centimetres deep, straight-sided, no tapering at the bottom. It is six centimetres across and five and a half millimetres thick.’
‘So the knife that killed Vladimir Suzlev and Ann Harris would have fitted?’
‘Four of the other slots — those that held knives of different lengths and thicknesses — were exactly the same size as the empty one,’ Pavin pointed out. ‘Forensic say these things are mass produced by machine in America.’
Danilov retrieved the three handwritten notes he had just read. ‘Get forensic to check the manufacture of the paper and the ink.’
‘What does the writing say?’
‘It’s about pain,’ said Danilov, shortly.
Pavin offered the manila envelope and declared: ‘A gift from the Cheka.’
There were two photographs of Ann Harris. Both were sharply in focus and had obviously been officially taken at diplomatic functions. She had been pretty, Danilov acknowledged: beautiful even. In one shot the dark hair that had been so savagely shorn from her hung almost to her shoulders: in the other it was swept up into a sophisticated chignon. She was smiling in both — openly laughing in the loose-haired portrait — and her teeth were flawless. The chignon photograph was fuller than the other. The dress hugged her figure, outlining her breasts: Danilov wondered if she was holding herself to accentuate their heaviness. At once he checked himself, for allowing the impression. He shouldn’t be influenced by the revealing correspondence he had just read into making surmises like that. In the second photograph the camera had caught her with her hand resting on the arm of a snowhaired, patrician-featured man. He had not been looking at Ann Harris, however, but at an older, less attractive woman on his other side. Danilov reversed both. There were no names, to identify anyone.
Danilov looked back up to his assistant. ‘What about phone calls?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Have you tried direct, using Militia authority?’
Pavin nodded. ‘The supervisor said dialled calls weren’t recorded, by specific numbers. Only those connected by an operator. Or if someone asks for operator assistance, because of dialling problems.’
‘Get back to …’ began Danilov but stopped. With the inflated ego of a Lieutenant-Colonel, Gugin probably wouldn’t even take a telephone call from as lowly a figure as Yuri Mikhailovich Pavin, a mere Major. He’d have to do it himself: maybe Gugin would refuse to talk to him, too.
‘Yes?’ queried the assistant.
‘Nothing. Have you got the evidence list?’
‘With a copy for the Americans,’ Pavin confirmed. ‘And Novikov called. He wanted to know if you needed his written report sent or whether we would collect it. I said we’d collect it.’
Reminded of the appointment, Danilov stood, shrugging into his coat. Today he remembered to bring a hat: he carefully smoothed his crewcut, which was showing a tendency to regrow spikily, before putting it on as they walked down the corridor. He said: ‘It’s only five days until another Tuesday.’
Pavin frowned sideways. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘Nothing, I hope.’
There was nothing that could not have been discussed in minutes by telephone but Burden insisted on a personal meeting, so the politically conscious Secretary of State agreed. He announced at once that the FBI had a man on standby.
‘What’s his name? Is he good? I want the best. I’ll need to speak to him before he goes, of course.’
Hartz smothered the sigh. ‘I didn’t get a name. Obviously the Director thinks he’s the best. He’d hardly send a second-team player, would he?’
Burden frowned, as if suspecting impatience. ‘I’m going to call the ambassador in Moscow again. The child’s got to be brought back from there, for a Christian burial …’ He paused and then, fervently, said: ‘The bastards!’
‘I’ve already cabled the embassy, asking for an early release and return here,’ said the Secretary of State, glad he had done so in advance of the demand.
‘When the hell are you going to stop asking and start telling?’
‘When I think it will achieve some worthwhile purpose,’ said Hartz, curtly. He knew he would never be Secretary of State under this man.
There were round-the-clock demands on every possible Russian ministry from every possible media outlet with staff representation in Moscow. That was multiplied by some organizations, European as well as American, assigning correspondents to Moscow specifically to cover the murder of Ann Harris. Russian embassies throughout the West, not just in Washington, DC, were inundated. There was another responsibility-avoiding conference at the Foreign Ministry. There it was reaffirmed that the Federal Prosecutor, the man who would present an eventual charge against the murderer, should be the news source. This time, however, Nikolai Smolin successfully argued that the Militia chief, whose office would provide the convicting evidence, should share the burden.
‘There will have to be a press conference,’ said Smolin.
‘Not yet,’ cautioned the coughing Lapinsk. ‘There’s nothing to tell anyone.’ He took a pill to subdue the turmoil in his stomach.
Chapter Nine
The pathologist’s office, two-windowed and spacious compared to Danilov’s hutch, was neater than Danilov could recall from any previous, hostile visit and he recognized at once the obvious preparation. We’re all anxious to impress America, he thought: or avoid offence, at least. Was he personally anxious? It would be important, however this unfolded, not to let that dismissive nonsense at the American embassy bother him: he’d won the exchange, after all, belatedly revealing his understanding of the language.
Viktor Novikov wore a subdued check suit and an attempted air of neither an inferior awe nor patronizing superiority at the prospect of an American presence. The effort was too much either way and the man’s demeanour see-sawed awkwardly from one attitude to the other, like the uncertain light on Danilov’s desk.
Danilov was courteously a few minutes ahead of the scheduled appointment. Novikov hovered around the half-circle of chairs, further obvious preparation, so he was ready when the Americans arrived, opening the door for them expansively.
The man accompanying Ralph Baxter was the patrician-featured diplomat in the second photograph Danilov had seen that morning, the person upon whose arm Ann Harris’s hand had been lightly resting. The hair was pure white, combed forward Roman statesman fashion, to hide the fact that it was receding, the face beak-nosed and close to being unnaturally grey, putty-coloured. The man wore a black suit and a completely black tie: a dead man mourning the dead.