They reversed the comparison procedure, Cowley dictating to Danilov’s checking: everything from Washington had been duplicated in Russian as well as English. Cowley admired the consideration.
Subjected to American examination had been the quilted topcoat Yezhov had been wearing when he was seized, together with a jacket, a jerkin, two pairs of trousers, three shirts, a set of underwear and one pair of shoes. And the buttons recovered from Yezhov and later from his bedroom cache.
The blood smear on the quilted coat had been B Rhesus Positive and proved, under DNA analysis, to be that of Yezhov himself. From the left-hand pocket of the coat had been recovered four separate hairs, two deeply embedded in the lining. One was positively identified under the DNA test as having come from Vladimir Suzlev. The other three, under the same test, were definitely from Ann Harris. From the right-hand pocket six separate strands were lifted, three also deeply implanted in the lining. One remained unidentified. One was from Lydia Orlenko. Four were provably traceable to Nadia Revin. Three more hairs from Ann Harris were found in the left-hand pocket of one of the pairs of trousers. A single hair from Lydia Orlenko had been embedded inside the left-arm sleeve cuff of the jerkin.
The pyrolysis test on buttons required them to be heated to 770 degrees Centigrade. This converted the material into gas, to be run through a chromatograph mass spectrometer. It had therefore been necessary to destroy four of the samples under scientific test conditions. One of the buttons had beyond doubt formed part of a set of six green coloured fastenings, three of which had remained on the shirt, close to and below where her belt would have covered them, listed as being that worn by Ann Harris on the night of her murder. Five buttons were analysed by a Foyier Transformer infra-red spectrometer: two unquestionably came from the same shirt, actually completing the hacked-off green set. In the holes of two others, one blue, one brown, remained strands of the cotton that had secured identical buttons to the outer coat that Lydia Orlenko had worn when she was attacked, and to the fashionable driving jacket in which Nadia Revin had kept warm on her way home from the Metropole Hotel. Both buttons again proved positive, under pyrolysis.
Cowley paused, briefly looking up from his recitation of the scientific facts. ‘There was no comparison possible with three manufactured from a nylon base or one of polyester. Neither from the three …’ Cowley faltered, frowning up to meet the puzzlement of both Danilov and Pavin. ‘… Neither from the three made from bone, which is not a substance reacting to the stated tests,’ he forced himself to finish, unevenly.
There were several moments of complete silence in the room. Then Pavin insisted, defensively: ‘The log isn’t wrong.’
‘We compiled it together,’ Cowley agreed.
‘Let’s do it again,’ Danilov insisted.
They did. With the same result.
‘It doesn’t make sense,’ complained Pavin, the man of absolute accuracy.
‘There’s one way it could,’ Danilov suggested.
‘It’s unthinkable!’ blurted Cowley.
‘Find another explanation.’
There was a further silence, then: ‘I can’t.’
The Moscow offices of the New York Times are on Ulitza Sadovo Samotechanya, about a mile from the American embassy, so it was convenient for them both to stop en route to taking Cowley to the US compound. The visit only took minutes. Afterwards, they agreed to meet again that evening: by then they would both have guidance. Danilov was quite open about going back to the Lubyanka.
With so much to transmit to Washington — and certainly verbally to discuss as well, on a secure line — Cowley set out at once for the FBI office. But almost at once he paused, changing his mind to make the simple detour. Pauline opened the door, smiling curiously.
‘Barry asked me if I’d make sure there were no problems, remember?’ Cowley said.
The agreement to a meeting had been instant, as before, but Danilov entered the suite of Kir Gugin more confidently on this second occasion.
Danilov said at once: ‘I know how you used me. Congratulations. It worked very well.’
Gugin shook his head. ‘You confuse me.’
Danilov was impatient with the charade. ‘I want you to use me again. There was more, wasn’t there? You hadn’t finished.’
The Colonel, whose intended disruption had itself been disrupted by the seizure of Petr Yezhov and who had been seeking a way to recover, smiled cautiously. ‘Why don’t we talk about it?’
‘Why don’t you just give me what I want?’
The effect would be what he wanted, Gugin reflected: the other man deserved the resentful independence, having realized the earlier manipulation. ‘Why not?’ he agreed.
Chapter Forty
In one of those bureaucratic decisions defying logic, unless it had to do with saving money, Barry Andrews had again been booked into the temporary, scarcely basic hotel across the river in Pentagon City. The commute to and from FBI headquarters was almost an hour if he hit rush-hour traffic, like he was doing this morning. All in all, Andrews was annoyed, thoroughly pissed off at the thoughtlessness. He didn’t deserve it; didn’t his record describe him as outstanding? He bet Cowley had never been dumped out in the boondocks, although Christ knows he’d deserved to be, so many times. Andrews felt the anger building and tried to stop it getting worse. Foolish to lose his temper. He’d given himself plenty of time, so it didn’t matter that he was stuck in traffic. He’d still be early: early enough maybe to grab some breakfast because he refused to eat anything in that Pentagon City dog’s nest. Give him time to settle down. That was the thing to do. Settle down. Stay calm: calm and cool. Today was the day. Reward time, after the Moscow imprisonment. Today he was going to get the final assignment of duties, within the Russian division. And ahead of Cowley’s return. Showed what little clout the guy had, in his own section, decisions being made without him.
The traffic block shifted and Andrews was able to start moving slowly across the 14th Street bridge. He’d certainly been treated pretty good since he’d gotten back, apart from the hotel. He guessed everyone getting a headquarters posting probably received the welcoming letter from the Director, but he’d liked the gesture: deserved it, too. And all the guys in the division had been friendly, beers after work the first night, always someone suggesting lunch, offers of help from everyone if he needed it. Had him marked out, Andrews guessed. Someone on the ascendancy: asshole creeping. He didn’t care. It was good.
He’d respond, of course: invent some problems so no one would think he was too smart, not needing help from anyone. Which he didn’t. Still wise to settle in, though: settle in and see which way the wheels turned. Even the shitty hotel wouldn’t be an irritant much longer. He’d kept on top of the letting agency and been promised he could get back into Bethesda by the weekend. Perfect timing for Pauline’s arrival. Have to go through it with her again, how he wanted it all to be. She hadn’t been properly concentrating in Moscow. The distraction of Cowley, he decided: everyone distracted by William John Cowley, reformed alcoholic, reformed everything, Mr Good Guy. If the man with the beard and the trick with feeding five thousand hadn’t got there first, Cowley could have invented a whole new religion.
The traffic was smoother when he left the bridge and Andrews settled more comfortably back in his seat: he’d been unaware of being tensed forward like that. It was going to be interesting, when Pauline got back: watching, listening, picking up the hints that would be there to what they’d done behind his back in Moscow. That was going to be the best part, in the very beginning. The first game. Cultivating the revived friendship, putting them together all the time and all the time each of them knowing — because they always had to know — that he had her. Who’d won. She was a bitch, he decided suddenly. Didn’t deserve him. No matter.