‘Wouldn’t you say that in my place?’ asked Danilov, anxious not to alienate the man a millimetre more than he believed necessary.
‘That’s exactly what I’d say,’ Gugin admitted.
‘So?’ Danilov was echoing the greeting he had received when he first arrived. They’d virtually turned the complete circle.
‘That’s all you get,’ Gugin insisted.
‘You mean there’s more?’ snatched Danilov. The balance had shifted, putting him in control now.
‘No more,’ the officer repeated, worried he had been careless. He didn’t want it all to go at once: the information had to drip slowly, like water eroding a rock.
One demand at a time, Danilov resolved. He sat, waiting. Gugin sat, appearing undecided. Finally, abruptly, the man felt sideways into a desk drawer, retrieved several sheets of paper and offered them across the desk. He couldn’t reach fully and had to toss them the last part of the way, so they skidded on the shiny surface. Danilov collected them eagerly, scanning the listed exchanges.
‘They liked sex, didn’t they?’ said Gugin. It was a thoroughly satisfactory meeting. How far and how fast would the ripples spread?
Danilov looked up from the intercepts. ‘I can’t be manipulated now.’
You just have been, thought Gugin.
Cowley was late for Burden’s reception, delayed by the amount of material he had to send to Washington: he would have been later if Andrews had not helped with the actual transmission. Cowley hoped there was enough for work to start upon the psychological profile at Quantico’s Behavioural Science Unit. It was something else he hadn’t discussed with Danilov. He’d have to remember to do so, during their next meeting. As he finally made his way from the communications room to the ambassador’s quarters Cowley’s mind was occupied by what had come in from Washington. Results were promised in the overnight diplomatic pouch on the second autopsy upon Ann Harris and also on the forensic examination of the girl’s personal possessions too hastily sent back from her office.
Cowley decided it would be better to postpone his planned confrontation. It was already late, and although in normal investigatory circumstances that would not have been a consideration, there might just be something extra in the scientific material arriving the following day from America. In addition to which he still couldn’t make up his mind how much Dimitri Danilov was holding back. And the man about to be confronted couldn’t go anywhere, anyway. So Cowley was confident he could take his time.
The reception took place in an ante-room to Hubert Richards’s enormous office, similarly high-ceilinged, expansively windowed and glitteringly chandeliered. The size overwhelmed the small number of people present: Cowley’s illogical impression upon entering was of a group of people huddled together in a protective vault, the way people clustered in the event of an accident or in fear of some dangerous physical assault. At once a man he didn’t know detached himself from the group, striding across to meet him, a professional smile etched into place.
‘John Prescott,’ the man introduced himself, thrusting out his hand. ‘Are we glad to see you! You’re the man it’s all about!’
The handshake was aggressively firm, professional like the smile. Prescott cupped Cowley’s elbow, guiding him almost urgently forward to the waiting group. As he approached Cowley saw the party was practically divided, as if there were two teams. There was a knot of people — one an extremely attractive woman — around Burden, whom he recognized from American television broadcasts. Cowley thought the political cartoonists were remarkably accurate. Another praetorian guard flanked the ambassador: Ralph Baxter and Paul Hughes were in the gathering, among several other people whom Cowley didn’t know. There was a range of drinks on the tray a steward offered. Cowley took orange juice.
Prescott adopted the role of host, introducing Cowley to his set of people, but so quickly that Cowley missed some of the names. Burden’s greeting was as professional as his assistant’s. The attitude was avuncular. He several times referred to Cowley as ‘my boy’ and said he knew Cowley was going to get ‘the goddamned bastard who did this to my little girl’.
‘I’m taking part in tomorrow’s press conference,’ announced the politician, looking briefly towards the ambassador, who nodded in confirmation. ‘So we’ve got a lot to talk about.’
‘I’ve outlined things on a daily basis to the ambassador,’ said Cowley. He was increasingly glad he hadn’t told Richards about the first murder. As he spoke Cowley looked across to the assembled diplomats. They were all staring back at him, expectantly.
‘Know all about that,’ said Burden, impatiently. ‘I need the complete inside track.’
Thank God he’d been in touch with Washington, providing the easy escape, thought Cowley. How easy would it really be? It wasn’t his problem: not a lasting one, at least. He felt sorry for the diplomats. Nearly all of them looked like rabbits caught in a poacher’s light, tensed for the explosion of the gun. ‘I think we should talk later tonight.’
‘Precisely what I want,’ agreed Burden, enthusiastically. ‘Good man!’
He’d graduated from being a boy, recognized Cowley. Burden moved away to mingle with the embassy staff, a politician permanently at work. Prescott was attentively at his elbow. A plump, vaguely dishevelled man who had been with the Senator approached, smiled and said: ‘James McBride, in case you missed it first time. I handle the media. Guess it’s going to be pretty hectic tomorrow.’
‘Probably,’ Cowley accepted. Apart from arranging to meet Danilov first, he hadn’t thought much about it. ‘Noon, right?’
‘Noon it is,’ confirmed the other American.
Would the material promised from Washington arrive in the following day’s diplomatic bag? If it did, Cowley decided he would have the confrontation that afternoon or early evening. Where? Here at the embassy? Or at home? The embassy would probably be best: more properly official. He’d not alerted Washington in advance of the encounter — determined to be utterly sure before he made any accusation — and he certainly wasn’t going to make any disclosure at a press conference he was reluctant to attend in the first place. Objectively Cowley realized he’d be open to criticism for withholding the very announcement everyone wanted, if he got a confession. But being even more objective, Cowley decided the criticism could only come from Burden in his desire to be centre stage. He was sure the FBI Director would support the in-field decision to wait until all the conclusive evidence was assembled, to avoid any evasion. ‘I’m not sure it’s going to be very worthwhile.’
‘You any idea of the coverage this is getting, back home?’ demanded the press spokesman.
‘Some,’ said Cowley. One of the instructions he’d received from Washington was to urge the Russians to continue separating the murder of the taxi driver and Ann Harris. It was difficult to imagine Burden’s reaction if he learned of the link. Which, Cowley supposed, was inevitable, eventually. There was a valid rationale, if the suspicions were confirmed: maybe Burden’s fury would be mitigated by the possibility of a trial taking place in the United States. That reflection began another but Cowley halted it, determinedly: he was tiptoeing into legal minefields he wasn’t trained to explore and which were none of his concern. His job was to assemble the evidence, make the arrest and let wiser, superior minds take it from there.
‘You know what? This time tomorrow you could be a media star! You realize that? You’re going to be televised into millions of homes all across America — all across the world, I guess — as the American G-man hunting a Russian maniac. What do you think of that?’
In truth Cowley didn’t think very much of it at all. ‘The term G-man isn’t used inside the Bureau any more: I’m not sure it ever was, particularly. It was …’ Cowley hesitated, realizing what he was going to say, acknowledging its validity now. ‘… a publicity hype,’ he finished.