It didn’t. Nadia Revin had described herself as a student of Moscow University, from which she attached a testimonial, wishing to visit America to study for a thesis on East-West cultural differences: she was probably an expert already, reflected Cowley. The section of the form upon which sponsors had to be listed was blank: it was that omission which Baxter’s letter had asked to be supplied. The necessary photographs showed a strikingly attractive girl, blonde hair cascading beyond her shoulders. There had been a lot strewn around at the scene at Uspenskii Prospekt, he remembered.
‘So you never met her?’
‘Of course not! I must sign twenty of them every day of my life, without even reading the names and certainly not an already printed letter. It’s a production line. I’m sorry!’
Another totally acceptable, totally understandable, totally endblocked inquiry, decided Cowley: it had been an obviously official letter, so he supposed he shouldn’t have expected anything more. ‘I can keep the file?’
‘Help yourself,’ agreed Baxter. ‘You really are clutching at anything here, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Cowley admitted. Why did everyone have an answer?
‘So it’s another dead end?’ said Andrews, fifteen minutes later in the Bureau office.
Cowley shrugged. ‘It obviously had to be checked.’
‘You’re forgetting the Quantico lectures,’ Andrews pointed out. ‘Nothing comes from the background of their victims.’ With Cowley so preoccupied it probably wasn’t an opportune time to raise his personal situation. But there didn’t seem a lot that the other man could practically do, at that moment. To reassure Cowley that the routine had been cleared, Andrews added: ‘All the forensic has been packed and pouched. And I’ve checked all your outward messages. There’s nothing back yet.’ He paused. ‘Pauline said it was a good night at the club.’
‘I enjoyed it.’
‘So did she.’ There was no point in pussyfooting around. ‘I’ve applied to be attached to your division, when I leave here.’
‘She told me you were going to.’
Andrews made himself look directly at the other man. ‘It needs your approval.’
‘I know,’ said Cowley unhelpfully, awkwardly, looking back just as directly.
‘I wanted to tell you myself, like this,’ said Andrews. ‘Not for you to get a message from Washington, without my saying anything.’ Come on! Say something, for Christ’s sake!
‘This is best,’ Cowley agreed, still unhelpfully and knowing it. Why was he doing it, he asked himself. It was like bullying.
‘I hope it’ll be OK,’ said Andrews, with obvious difficulty. ‘With you, I mean.’ He hated — loathed — having to plead.
‘You really think I’d block you?’ It was time to stop being ridiculous.
Andrews shrugged. ‘There could be reasons.’
‘I told Pauline I wouldn’t.’ Wrong, he thought at once; he shouldn’t have given the impression they’d discussed Andrews behind his back. Quickly he said: ‘My approval will go in the diplomatic bag tonight.’
There had been a tension between them, since her outburst, but Olga hadn’t made any fresh accusations and Danilov hadn’t referred to it, either. Nor had they talked about the planned reciprocal evening with Larissa and Yevgennie Kosov. Danilov didn’t expect Larissa to accept now if an evening was suggested, but supposed that if a dinner party didn’t take place Olga would regard it as confirmation of her suspicion. He decided to go on saying and doing nothing: Dimitri Danilov, expert at burying his head in the sand, he thought.
With the new murder there was a genuine excuse for Danilov’s late return to Kirovskaya. As usual, Olga was in bed, her back turned away from his side of the bed. He didn’t think she was asleep but moved around with elaborate care. He wasn’t sure but he thought the night-dress was new: certainly it looked fresh. Perhaps the washing machine was fixed. Hopefully he checked the drawer. There were at least six clean shirts, crisp and neatly ironed. He’d have to remember to thank her, in the morning.
Danilov got carefully into bed but lay unsleeping in the darkness, re-examining everything for the hundredth — or was it the thousandth? — time, seeking anything he might have forgotten to do or check that might unlock a door. And finding nothing.
He was still alertly awake when the telephone shrilled.
‘We’ve got him!’ announced the thick, slightly slurred voice of Yevgennie Kosov. ‘His name’s Petr Yakovlevich Yezhov.’
Danilov recognized it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
There was no real justification in his going that night, but Danilov had always been uncomfortable with the thought of a vigilante posse: at that moment, as a result of such a posse, a man was in some sort of police custody for no other reason than taking a late-night walk in a Moscow street. There was certainly no cause to rouse Pavin. Or contact Cowley. It was routine, something he could do himself, and with an additional reason for going alone. Kosov, predictably inflating the situation, had said he was at the Militia post: there would be the opportunity, without it in any way appearing contrived, to talk about Eduard Agayans. Danilov pinched his finger again, re-attaching the windscreen wipers outside the flat: it was bitterly cold, well below zero, which seemed to make the bruise hurt more than it should have done. He’d forgotten his hat. He’d done that the night Ann Harris had been killed, he remembered.
It was the first time in two years that he had crossed the threshold of his old Militia station. So late he had expected to find it sleeping, with just a minimal nightstaff on duty, but there were two men inside the glass-hatched ground-floor office and a third at an extensive, light-blinking switchboard which was an innovation since his command. Danilov didn’t recognize any of them. Lights blazed throughout the building and Danilov thought, jealously, that clearly there was no difficulty in getting replacement bulbs here, and he was sure he heard sounds behind two day-room doors. It was impressive.
Danilov had expected to be directed upstairs, to his old office, but instead Kosov descended to him and Danilov belatedly realized that the other man, naturally, intended sitting in if not taking part in an interview being conducted on his own premises: the cells and the interrogation rooms were on the ground floor. Kosov wore his complete uniform, even his hat. There were effusive foyer greetings, continuing the display. To the uninterested counter officers Danilov was identified as a former commander: needing something to say, having involved the men, Kosov said that if they were needed they would be with what he called the prisoner.
On their way to the rear of the building, Kosov said: ‘Bastard tried to escape. Ran like hell. Luckily there were four of my people: two lorries. When they caught him two held him while the others called us. Knew it would work.’
‘Where?’
‘Ulitza Mickiewicz. Ducked into an alley, when he saw the trucks, but they saw him too. So one went around and blocked off the other end, in Spiridonievskii. He ran, like I said. But he wasn’t expecting them to do that, so he didn’t have much of a start. He didn’t fight, though, once they got him.’