‘I haven’t prepared any food. I didn’t expect you.’
Danilov poured himself a Stolichnaya, neat. He didn’t ask about ice, not trusting the small freezer compartment of the refrigerator. He’d forgotten to put any ice-cube trays on the outside balcony, where they would have frozen naturally. ‘I’m not hungry. Is the washing machine fixed?’
‘It goes, but slowly. Nothing looks clean.’
‘But you’ve managed to wash something?’
‘Not yet. There didn’t seem any point if it was going to come out dirty.’
Danilov extended his glass. ‘Do you want something?’
‘To talk. I’m glad you’re home. I want to talk.’
Danilov carried his drink to his lumpy chair, unsure how the packing in the seat and back had become so ridged. The television squatted before him, in baleful mockery: like Bocharov had stood before him, that afternoon, Danilov thought. It was fortunate Cowley hadn’t been with him, to have realized the inefficiency. He wondered what the American would bring back from Washington. Trying to anticipate what Olga was going to say, he loosened a few notches on his integrity and said: ‘I suppose we have to think about a new television. And a washing machine.’
‘What’s wrong with us?’ Olga demanded.
Danilov’s surprise was genuine. ‘What?’
‘You’ve got someone else, haven’t you? Having an affair.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Don’t you be ridiculous. For all your interest I might as well not exist. When was the last time we made love? You can’t think that far back, can you?’
Danilov hadn’t been able to remember that night coming back from the uncomfortable evening with the Kosovs, either. Trying a practised retreat, he said: ‘Maybe I’ve been neglecting you. I’m sorry. But you know the sort of case I’m involved in. The pressures. That’s all it is.’
‘You didn’t give a damn long before this case. Is it Larissa? I think it could be Larissa.’
‘Of course it’s not Larissa. There’s no one. I told you that.’ Illogically — or maybe not illogically at all — he wondered if this was how guilty people felt under interrogation in some dank interview room. Feeling the need to say more, he added: ‘Larissa Kosov is a friend. Of us both. I am not her lover.’ He was immediately unsure if he should have gone on.
‘I don’t believe you.’
Danilov extended his hands, the gesture spoiled because he was holding the vodka glass in one of them. ‘I can’t say any more than I have. That you’re imagining everything.’ Wanting to move, to do something to deflect the attack, Danilov got up and walked towards the kitchen annex to top up a glass that didn’t need refilling. The alcohol burned when he drank it, still in the kitchen.
‘If you want a divorce you can have it. We’ll have to go through the counselling procedure, but that only takes a month or two. Then it’ll all be over.’ The declaration had obviously been rehearsed: towards the end Olga’s voice had begun to waver, denying the bravery.
‘I don’t want to divorce. Please stop this! It’s all nonsense!’ Didn’t he want a divorce? He didn’t know: hadn’t thought about it. He didn’t think he wanted to marry Larissa.
‘I know Larissa is prettier than me. Looks after herself better. Probably better in bed. Is she, Dimitri Ivanovich? Is she better than me in bed?’
Yes, thought Danilov: a hundred times better. He said: ‘I won’t talk like this. About our friend like this: our friend. Iam not having an affair!’
‘I don’t want to go on like we are now. You’ve created a situation. You’ve got to make a choice.’
Danilov wished he knew what he wanted to do. ‘You’re wrong. So there’s nothing to talk about.’ The denials were beginning to sound empty even to himself.
Olga shook her head, a sad gesture. ‘Make up your mind, Dimitri Ivanovich. Soon.’
Both feigned sleep quickly that night, but neither did, each knowing the other was pretending. Danilov knew Olga expected him to make love to her. It was better not to try at all than to make the effort knowing that he would fail.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Cowley gave in his eagerness to receive, initially holding back only about Paul Hughes. For the evidence collection he was so anxious to get to along the corridor he handed over the critical American autopsy report as well as the Quantico psychological profile — which Danilov received quizzically — and dismissed the meetings with Judy Billington and John Harris as fruitless. In return Danilov, relieved, said hair samples had been retained from Vladimir Suzlev, so the FBI request could be met. Lydia Orlenko, who’d given more details about the attack, was naturally upset about her hair but would probably agree to losing a little more: Pavin could get it. At that moment the Major was interviewing a psychiatric patient whose case history recorded a shoe fetish: he’d personally interviewed one whom he’d eliminated because the man had been left-handed.
Reminded about fetishes, Cowley said: ‘The psychologist who prepared the profile says buttons indicate a nipple complex.’
‘Which Hughes appears to have,’ Danilov pointed out. Could Pavin locate a larger chair to make the American more comfortable? There would be little point in bothering if the Cheka took over, because Cowley wouldn’t be coming here any more. Would the man be allowed at Dzerzhinsky Square? It was an additional complication that didn’t seem to have occurred to anyone.
Cowley hesitated, uncertain how much he should disclose.
‘Hughes has been withdrawn. He won’t be coming back.’
Danilov nodded, slowly. ‘Withdrawn to be questioned further?’
The obvious anticipation of a trained detective or of a planted intelligence officer, wondered Cowley, remembering the doubt about Danilov at the CIA meeting. He could be wrong — he’d been too often wrong already on this case — but he found it difficult to think of the Russian as anything but a policeman. ‘He’ll be questioned further.’
‘Will we be told the result?’ asked Danilov.
Cowley guessed the other man was still suspicious, despite their cooperation agreement just before his return to Washington. ‘I would expect to hear, if anything relevant emerges.’
The recall was obvious, Danilov supposed. And at once concentrated the thought. And would have been obvious to Gugin from the beginning, just as it would have been obvious when the man had made the telephone transcripts available that the Americans would instantly recognize the source and act upon it. So Gugin had planned — wanted — it to happen. One realization led logically to another, bringing a burn of anger: he’d played the performing monkey to the intelligence agency’s organ-grinder. The anger deepened at the thought that it should have occurred to him earlier. ‘And you’ll tell me, if you hear?’
He had to make a decision, thought Cowley: they would go round in circles, chasing their own tails and getting nowhere, unless they started operating as a team rather than competitors. He said: ‘At our last meeting I gave you an undertaking. I mean to stick to it.’
Danilov smiled at the reassurance, which he hadn’t sought. ‘I intend to do the same. After what’s already occurred, I don’t think either of us can afford to do anything else.’
Cowley was unsure whether he should continue the honesty by openly making the request. He’d gone a long way to creating the initial difficulty by covertly making the fingerprint comparison, he reflected. ‘I would like my own copy of the telephone transcript.’
Danilov didn’t respond for several moments. Gugin would have probably expected this demand, too. So to agree would mean his continuing to be the organ-grinder’s monkey. To refuse would endanger the fragile working relationship still not provably established with the American. Practicality was more important than pride, he decided, easily: being manipulated by Gugin was a side issue, little more than an irritating distraction. He tapped the documentation that Cowley had delivered and said: ‘Why don’t I read this, while you’re getting whatever you want?’