Baxter shrugged. ‘Maybe. Personnel aren’t all rostered at the same time. There are usually people sick.’
Danilov accepted he was going to have to produce the pictures Pavin had collected before they’d left Petrovka. They were good reproductions but the harsh whiteness of the spotlights had made the snarling face even more grotesque. He took the file from his briefcase. There were six facial photographs, each from different angles. He separated them so that all were displayed before sliding them across the table.
The American in the sports jacket said: ‘Holy shit!’
Baxter said: ‘Oh dear God!’ and repeated it, three times.
The young translator blanched and swallowed several times. It seemed difficult for him to do so. When Danilov asked: ‘Is she attached to the embassy?’ it seemed a long time before anyone responded.
‘Ann Harris,’ identified Baxter, dully. ‘Her name is Ann Harris. She is a …’ He stopped, to correct himself. ‘… was a member of our economic section.’ He paused again, then said: ‘Oh my God!’
So the identification had not proved the protracted difficulty it might have been, Danilov acknowledged. A minimal break-through: he was not encouraged.
The American named Barry said: ‘What else, apart from the hair? Was she violated in any other way?’
‘There was no physical indication at the scene,’ replied Danilov, able to remain strictly truthful. ‘There is an autopsy being performed today.’ I hope, he thought.
‘You any idea the heat this is going to bring down?’ demanded the man, talking sideways to Baxter. ‘Her uncle is Walter Burden, for Christ’s sake: chairman of the Ways and Means Committee …! He’s got more power than God. And he doesn’t like Moscow …! Oh holy shit!’
An American Congressman! Politically it couldn’t be worse, Danilov recognized instantly. He went expectantly to the interpreter. Baxter intercepted the look and said quickly: ‘Don’t translate that!’
‘Say something!’ demanded Barry. ‘He’s staring at you: they both are!’
‘Say we’re shocked,’ instructed Baxter. ‘Horrified.’
Danilov waited, forever patient. ‘Ann Harris was unmarried?’
‘Why?’ The question came from Barry.
‘I need all the information possible.’
Again Barry spoke only to the other American. ‘I’m going to have to take this over, of course. Washington will insist. No investigation could be left to these guys! They’re amateur night, win a balloon and a lollipop if you get past the first clue.’
‘Shut up!’ Baxter’s recovery was difficult. ‘We’ll have this sort of discussion later.’
Danilov decided he’d let it run long enough. ‘Was Ann Harris a single girl?’ he repeated.
‘Yes.’ It was Baxter.
‘Any relationships?’
‘What does that mean?’ Barry intervened.
‘Did she have a boyfriend?’
‘Why?’ he persisted.
‘I’m investigating the murder of a young girl. I have to know as much as I can about her.’
The words came from Baxter like heavy footsteps. ‘She was single. An extremely popular girclass="underline" highly competent and highly respected, from the ambassador down. She did not have a regular boyfriend: any romantic involvement at all of which I am aware.’
On this occasion the other American’s statement was direct, intended for translation. ‘This is a maniac: a perverted maniac.’
‘It would appear so.’
‘I tell you, it’s amateur night!’ came the repeated aside.
Baxter turned to the man, irritably. ‘And I told you to shut up! You’ll get your chance, soon enough.’
The contemptuous man sneered at the rebuke. Maintaining the expression, he said to the Russian: ‘So what are you doing?’
Danilov was abruptly impatient: it had to be the tiredness. He said: ‘Starting at the beginning. Hoping to get to the proper end.’
‘I saw the movie!’ The sneer remained.
Now a wash of definite fatigue engulfed Danilov, like a wave. How would they have reacted, if he’d spoken next in perfect English? They’d been extremely careless. There might be some excuse, because they would have been shocked, but he found it difficult to allow them very much. He said: ‘There was a key, in her pocket: to her apartment, obviously. I need the address.’
‘Hold on here now, Ralph!’ said the perpetual critic to the one identified man. ‘We can’t have Russia’s answer to Dick Tracy going through her things. We’ve got to insist on diplomatic protection.’
Danilov wondered who Dick Tracy was.
Baxter said: ‘I need proper guidance on this. Why the hell was she like she was; you know what I’m saying.’
‘I’ll get a handle on it, as soon as Washington puts the pressure on for me to take control,’ Barry assured him.
‘We’ve got behind with the translation,’ protested Danilov, mildly. ‘I asked for the lady’s address.’
‘I don’t have it, to hand,’ avoided Baxter, weakly.
‘It wouldn’t take more than a few moments to obtain, would it?’
‘There’s a great deal for us to consider. To discuss,’ said the diplomat, still avoiding.
‘Of course there is,’ agreed Danilov. ‘That doesn’t affect my getting her address, does it?’
‘Stall the bastard, Ralph!’ ordered his companion. ‘I don’t give a fuck how you do it, but stall him. If Washington hear we’ve let them stumble around we’re each of us going to be swinging in the wind with piano wire round our balls. Jesus, what a fucking mess!’
FBI, guessed Danilov: and just as presumptuous and conceitedly believing himself above all censure as every KGB investigator Danilov had ever encountered, which fortunately had not been too many. Danilov supposed the discussion would have already begun about poor, brutally shorn Ann Harris at Security Agency headquarters in Lubyanka Square.
Baxter made a conscious effort to compose himself. The American said: ‘This has been an appalling shock. She was a girl we all knew. Respected.’
‘I understand that,’ said the Russian detective.
‘We need the opportunity to discuss it: there are family to be advised, in America.’
‘I understand that, too.’
‘I would ask you to give us an hour or two.’
‘I don’t follow the reasoning.’
‘To discuss things, here in the embassy.’
‘I still don’t follow,’ persisted Danilov. ‘Any discussion here — the way you advise the family — is entirely a matter for you. All I want is an address, so I can continue my inquiries.’
‘We’d like to have that discussion, before we go any further,’ refused the desperate Baxter.
Danilov intentionally let the silence build across the table between them. Finally he said, accusingly: ‘You are obstructing a criminal investigation into the murder of an American citizen.’
‘No!’ protested Baxter.
‘Don’t let him pressure you, Ralph,’ warned the other man.
The good old days that Pavin yearned for weren’t completely gone, Danilov reflected: there might still be an inquiry avenue open to him. But first this had to be concluded. He said: ‘I regret you have refused greater cooperation.’
‘Fuck him!’ said the contemptuous one, after the dutiful translation. ‘This jerk won’t be around much after today.’
‘I regret that this is your opinion,’ Baxter said to the Russian, with diplomatic stiffness.
Danilov looked too obviously at his watch, surprised nevertheless at the lateness. ‘We will leave you the location of the mortuary. I will need a member of this embassy there at exactly three o’clock tomorrow, for formal identification …’ The pause was as theatrical as the time-check. ‘… You will appreciate, of course, that there can be no question of releasing the body until all our inquiries are completed …’
‘Now wait a goddamned minute …’ said the critic. ‘Burden will go apeshit at the thought of his niece preserved here, on ice.’
‘I cannot accept that,’ protested Baxter, to Danilov, with increased professional formality. ‘I will personally make that identification and at the same time present both to you and to your Foreign Ministry the positive request for the return of the body of Ann Harris.’