‘Maybe I should have checked with you,’ conceded Andrews. Humbled contrition wasn’t easy.
‘It’s too late now,’ dismissed Cowley, impatiently.
‘So how’d it go, with Baxter and Hughes? Get anything to build up your picture?’
‘Some.’
‘Look,’ said Andrews, placating. ‘Personally, we’re in a goddamned strange situation. Which we’ve accepted. So no problem. Now let’s talk professionally. I work here, for Christ’s sake! Know a lot of people, which means I might pick up something if they’re snowing you, like you think the ambassador tried to do. Why not bounce it all off me? We’re on the same side, aren’t we?’
Cowley gazed past the other agent. Outside in the courtyard a man in overalls, the handyman Cowley guessed, was moving among the metal poles and their sagged connecting wires. Cowley watched the man individually lift and then drop three separate strands, achieving nothing: it was another foggy day, grey dampness sponging everything. He thought Moscow seemed to be a city with a blanket always pulled over its head. The handyman shrugged and walked out of sight. Cowley came back to Andrews, accepting the logical common sense of the suggestion. ‘Why don’t I do just that?’
Andrews smiled. ‘No reason not to.’
‘I’m going to need all the help I can get,’ admitted Cowley.
‘You got it,’ assured Andrews.
‘So it’s working well?’ said General Lapinsk.
‘It was a satisfactory first meeting,’ Danilov allowed, cautiously. He was disappointed that nothing more had emerged from the routine inquiries. The Records search had so far produced nothing. Neither had the assault or prowler checks throughout the Militia stations in the murder area. He reminded himself to ask Pavin about the psychiatric institutions.
‘You didn’t get any impression of them wanting to take over the investigation?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good,’ said Lapinsk. There was a spluttered cough.
‘I’m letting the American have some of the clothes she was wearing when she was stabbed: there’s a test for blood content of the body he wants to make, in Washington.’
The Militia General nodded. ‘What did he say about the first one?’
‘That there should be a public warning. Then he took our point about holding back in case there is embarrassment involving the American embassy. Realistically, we’ll have to do something about an announcement soon.’
‘The uncle wants to come,’ Lapinsk disclosed. ‘There’s been a visa application in Washington. It’s going to be granted, of course.’
‘He’ll create a lot of publicity.’
‘Which is something we have to talk about. It’s been decided who is going to take part in the press conference. It’s going to be the Federal Prosecutor, myself …’ The older man hesitated. ‘… And both yourself and the American.’
Danilov was stunned. ‘Me!’
‘It is apparently how major crimes with great public interest are handled in America.’
Copying to conform, thought Danilov. ‘Have the Americans agreed?’
‘It’s been proposed. There’s no reason for them to object.’
Possible difficulties shared were definitely difficulties spread sideways and backwards, Danilov supposed. Like manure. ‘Will it be a big conference?’
‘The main assembly hall at the Federal Prosecutor’s building is to be used.’
He would have to ensure Olga got his shirts washed and pressed, Danilov decided. He’d have to talk to her about it that night. Olga always needed time, to get things done.
Chapter Seventeen
Larissa and her husband lived in one of the better apartment blocks just off the inner ring road, the newest-built high-rises for members of the Party. The unthinkable collapse of communism in 1991 had terrified Yevgennie Kosov, who had never conceived its possible demise. He’d graduated into the Party direct from the Komsomol youth organization for the privileges of membership — which included superior living accommodation — not from any political ideology. Kosov’s personal ideology was the enjoyment of life as one of the Moscow elite and he had been initially frightened he might lose it all. He’d resigned and abandoned the Party, of course, like all sensible survivors. But still waited, in those early months, for official retribution. None had come. Now Kosov had completely recovered the shaken confidence, sure that things weren’t really going to change, but ready, at a moment’s notice, to adjust if the need became necessary.
Danilov retained the allocated but unmarked official car, knowing it would please Olga. She twisted back and forth in the front seat the moment he set off from Kirovskaya, swivelling fully after a few minutes to examine the rear seats and then announcing: ‘This is exactly the sort of car I want!’
‘This is a Volga. It’s not the model we’ve ordered. If we try to change we’ll go to the end of the queue.’
She tried to get the telephone off its rest but couldn’t release the clip: Danilov didn’t try to help her. She said: ‘Does this work? Could I speak to someone now, while we’re driving along?’
‘It’s official. All the calls are recorded.’
‘I want to call Larissa! Let her know we’re on our way! How do I pick it up?’
‘There’s no point in doing that.’
‘It could be explained as an official conversation. Yevgennie is a policeman, isn’t he?’
‘It won’t impress anyone: they’ll know it doesn’t belong to us.’
‘I want to!’
Danilov released the telephone and handed it across the car to his wife. She dialled incorrectly on the first attempt and he had to explain the transmission procedure as she dialled. Olga chattered her way through an inconsequential conversation about non-existent traffic delays, talking far more loudly than was necessary, and Danilov felt sorry for her. As she handed the telephone back to him, to be reclipped, she said: ‘Larissa was laughing. Why would she laugh?’
‘Maybe she thought it was funny.’ Danilov was not looking forward to the evening. For a while during the afternoon he’d considered cancelling. Larissa had protested that he shouldn’t, when they’d spoken: ‘I promise to keep my hands off you, even though it won’t be easy,’ she’d said. Perhaps she’d been laughing at the memory of the conversation, not at Olga’s showing off with a car telephone.
He managed to park immediately outside the apartment. Olga waited for him to walk around to let her out, as if she was reluctant to leave the car until the very last moment. He did so and began leading the way into the building, but she said: ‘What about the windscreen wipers! You know they’ll be stolen if you don’t take them off.’
Danilov turned back, irritated at having forgotten a basic rule of Moscow motoring. He returned to the vehicle, unsure how to disconnect the wipers on a model he didn’t know. The spring was too strong on the passenger side, briefly trapping his finger before he unhooked the blade. When he got into the better-lit vestibule he saw his hands were filthy with grease and that his shirt cuff was stained. His finger was bleeding slightly, where the spring had caught him.
‘You’re a mess,’ complained Olga.
‘I shouldn’t have bothered.’
‘It would have been awkward if it rained, on the way home.’
‘They might not have been taken.’
‘They would,’ insisted Olga. She liked to conclude any dispute, no matter how trivial.
Danilov felt foolish entering Larissa’s apartment carrying windscreen wipers. It didn’t help that she giggled at him. He smiled back, not knowing where to put the blades. ‘I need to wash.’
‘You do, don’t you? Why don’t you leave them in the kitchen?’
Danilov did so, and managed to get most of the grease off his hands in the sink there. Larissa stood watching, but by the door, as far away from him as possible. He thought she was going to remain there as he tried to get into the main room, forcing him to squeeze by and bring them close together, but at the last minute she came further into the kitchen, unblocking the doorway. As he went by she said quietly: ‘I might break my promise,’ and laughed again.