‘There’s a few ongoing, routine things. Nothing positive.’
‘Barry says it could affect you badly at the Bureau if you don’t get an arrest.’ Still that disturbing honesty.
‘It could.’
‘He’ll kill again, won’t he?’
‘Inevitably, unless we get him first.’
Pauline shuddered. ‘Sometimes I’m scared.’
From looking after him for so long, nearly thirty years in a few months time, Valentina Yezhov knew how he would agree to be touched and how he wouldn’t. He didn’t mind his hands being held, the way she’d held them when he was a child, comforting and reassuring him by her presence. She sat directly before him, both of his hands in hers, their knees touching, and said: ‘A man came back. Another one. People want to talk to you. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’ve done.’
‘Nothing,’ insisted Petr Yezhov. ‘Nothing wrong.’
‘So why do they keep coming? There must be something you’re not telling me.’
‘Isn’t.’
‘Look at me, Petr!’ his mother insisted. ‘I want you to look me fully in the eyes and tell me there’s nothing.’
Yezhov’s eyes flickered towards hers but couldn’t hold.
‘Look at me!’ she commanded, loudly. ‘Look honestly at me!’
This time the look lasted slightly longer before his eyes wavered and dropped. ‘Didn’t do anything. Don’t want them here. Tell them to go away.’
‘You don’t want to go into one of those places again, do you Petr?’
‘No!’ said the man, making himself look at her fully at last because of the importance, needing to convince her. ‘Won’t. Ever.’
‘You will, if you’ve done something you haven’t told me about. You’ll be locked up for longer this time: much longer.’
‘No!’ whimpered the man, clutching at his mother’s hands until they began to hurt. ‘Won’t. Haven’t done anything.’
The media demands, fuelled by Senator Burden’s initial complaints, increased rather than diminished because of what the press regarded as official and suspicious silence. There was open opinion and comment column criticism of an inept and clumsy Moscow statement, released through the Tass news agency, that there were lines of inquiry that at the moment could not be made public, but which it was hoped would lead to a positive development. Newspaper, magazine and television suspicion was greatest in Washington where, in a dramatic reversal, Senator Burden’s office announced there would be no further press conferences or public statements about the murder of Ann Harris. Senator Burden had been given private reassurances that everything possible was being done to bring the murderer to justice: any further discussion would be counter-productive.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Barry Andrews ignored the pilot’s usual advice about keeping the safety-belt fastened while seated, slipping the buckle aside and smiling up at the china-doll stewardess. With something to celebrate — he was sure he had something to celebrate — he ordered champagne. He’d still wanted a more positive indication. There had been no reluctance by the Personnel panel disclosing his promotion to G-13 grade. Or any way to misunderstand their obvious approval of his past record. Outstanding, the chairman of the board had said: which he’d already known it to be but which was still good to hear. Cowley was the problem, he decided: the inability — because of the Moscow business — to get the necessary acceptance from the Russian division director. Which was, Andrews accepted, the one uncertainty he couldn’t anticipate or do anything to affect.
He took the wine, watching the bubbles rise. So what would Cowley do? Stay strictly professional, judge the appointment on its unquestioned merits and approve it? Or take the heaven-sent opportunity to settle a still tender score and reject it? Andrews’s mind stayed with the second possibility, examining it completely. He’d exposed himself badly if there was a rejection. It would be recorded on his unblemished file, without any explanatory note, for every other department head to see if he had to apply elsewhere. Leaving the obvious inference that he had some failing not shown up by the record which made him unacceptable. Not badly exposed, he tried to reassure himself. There was no secret in Pennsylvania Avenue, about the break-up and his remarriage to Pauline. So any rejection by Cowley wouldn’t need an explanation. Everyone would understand immediately why it was and if anything the criticism would be directed towards Cowley himself, for allowing personal feelings to affect professional decisions.
There’d never been open anger, not even in London when Pauline had demanded the divorce and they’d confronted him, purple-faced from the previous day’s booze, sweating and befuddled by that day’s intake, and announced their intention to marry. Instead Cowley had cried, like a child about to lose a toy, his nose running to make his face even wetter. Nor anger later, either, when the man was sober and they were going through the formalities. And certainly, since the Moscow episode had begun, he hadn’t detected any deep-rooted feeling against him. There’d been the spat about returning the stuff from Ann’s office, but that had been professional irritation, which Andrews could understand: it was the personal stuff he couldn’t understand. Andrews decided, abruptly, that Cowley was a wimp. Always had been. Just didn’t drown it in a booze bottle any more, that’s all. He was glad the cloying togetherness of Moscow was ending: he’d done his best — Christ, hadn’t he done his best — but it hadn’t been easy. Cowley the wimp hadn’t suspected, of course: hadn’t suspected a thing.
Andrews gestured for his empty glass to be refilled. Cowley wouldn’t block him, he decided confidently. He’d think of doing so, obviously: wouldn’t be human if he didn’t. But in the final analysis he’d be the complete professional he’d always been — even during the drunken period — and make his decision on the merits of the proven record and the recommendation of Personnel.
But what if Cowley didn’t do that? What if Cowley was a bastard and allowed himself the pleasure of a refusal?
He wanted the Russian division: was determined to get it. What about appealing the decision, if Cowley turned him down? There was a job discrimination tribunal, but there was a catch-22 in using it. Even if you won, you got yourself labelled a trouble-maker throughout the Bureau. Which could be a worse, unofficial, stigma than an unexplained official rejection on your file. In this case, though, it would stigmatize Cowley equally badly, for letting personal feelings influence a Bureau decision.
Premature concern, he told himself: nothing could block him, get in his way, not now. Which was why he’d ordered the letting agency to serve notice on the tenants in Bethesda. Get Pauline in there as soon as possible, sorting things out, getting the place right in the way she knew he liked to live. But there was Moscow to pack up. She’d have to do that first. Maybe they’d stay for a while in an hotel, although not the shit-hole in Pentagon City, while she got things ready. He’d go through it all with her, when he got back. Didn’t want her to get anything wrong. She did get things wrong, sometimes. It was annoying when she got things wrong. Stupid.
He’d give a farewell party, Andrews decided. Invite everybody to the social club, not just from their own embassy but from others as well, the Brits and the one or two people he’d got to know among the French. Andrews smiled, caught by a thought. It was ironic — even amusing — that one of the guests would be William Cowley, to be left behind in Moscow hunting a killer he was no nearer finding now than when he’d arrived.
His mind back on the man whose decision could settle his future, Andrews concluded that as soon as he got back — tomorrow, definitely — he’d tell Cowley of his official application and directly say he hoped the man would support and accept it. No reason why he shouldn’t. Absurd not to say something, in fact: might even offend the man, antagonize him unnecessarily, for him to learn about it from some official memorandum in the diplomatic bag from Washington. It was a positive benefit, not the delaying nuisance he’d first thought it to be, having Cowley in Moscow where they could talk about it openly, face to face.