But where?
Danilov rose and went finally to the desk, sitting in the chair in which Serov had sat, looking from closed drawer to closed drawer, unsure where to begin. The moment he did, there was fresh evidence of Serov’s fastidiousness. The top right-hand drawer contained invitations accepted, the left those rejected, often because of a clash of dates. The right-hand drawer also contained an address book, which Danilov scoured avidly, trying every combination of letters to locate a listing for, or reference to, Michel Paulac. There was nothing apart from official diplomatic numbers. Danilov slumped back, accepting it had probably been too much to hope for but disappointed just the same.
The official appointments diary was desk size, too big to be carried except in a briefcase. Serov’s handwriting was precise and legible, every word easy to read. Danilov went at once to the day of the murder. The only notation was a lunchtime reception for an exhibition of Native American art at the Smithsonian, marked as having been attended. Hunched forward over the desk, Danilov worked his way through every entry from the beginning of the year, forcing himself on until he reached the murder date again even though it quickly became obvious that it was an appointments diary, recording nothing else.
He put the diary aside and went just as intently through everything else in the desk. It was entirely devoted to the man’s function and position at the embassy: there was nothing personal, not even a photograph of Raisa. There was a Xeroxed form of Russian embassy events, the diplomatic list of Russian embassy personnel, six official diplomatic year books of European legations each marked at their cultural sections, a bulldog-clipped collection of bills and dockets on top of empty expense claim forms, and two drawers devoted to embassy stationery.
Danilov replaced the contents of each drawer as he had found it before extending the search in the way he guessed Redin would have done. He extracted each drawer completely from its slot, running his hands inside the cavity for anything secured or taped to the desk frame. He repeated the examination around every edge and the bottom of each drawer before replacing it. He got down on his hands and knees, probing the knee space for any concealed item, and at the end had found absolutely nothing.
The filing cabinet was as unproductive as everything else. There were brochures of events, both past and for the immediate future, all inserted according to date. Two drawers contained material and documents for the not-yet-assembled records that would have joined the rest of Serov’s career history on the shelves of the bookcase opposite. Two more contained correspondence stretching back over two years, annotated alphabetically. Recognising his own naivety, particularly after the failed attempt with the address book, he looked up P for Paulac and M for Michel before going on to F for finance and S for Switzerland. He even switched the combinations, in case Serov had filed European names under the designation of the Russian Cyrillic alphabet.
It had been naive to expect to find anything in an office that had clearly been cleansed as antiseptically as this. As naive as looking up initial letters in address books and filing cabinets, or imagining himself better trained in his art than Redin was in his. He’d given way to pride, Danilov accepted: he’d enjoyed the publicity too much, and too easily believed the media descriptions of his supposed ability. So he’d wanted to find within hours of his arrival in Washington the key that would unlock the entire mystery, like the English fictional detective who played a violin and wore a strange hat and solved crime in minutes, about whom a series was currently being shown on Moscow television. But he wasn’t operating in a fictional setting. He was operating in real life, in hard reality, and his entire future depended upon his behaving like a proper detective.
Wherever that elusive somewhere was in which Petr Aleksandrovich might have left the secret of his association with Michel Paulac, it definitely wasn’t here, indexed under letter heading.
Danilov slumped head forward against his chest, the momentarily unfocused appointments diary open before him, embarrassed with himself for expecting it to be so easy, pushing the personal discomfort aside by concentrating yet again upon the murder date. He saw the grouping of the words but he wasn’t consciously trying to read them: seeing more the pattern than the construction of the spelling. Which was probably why the oddness abruptly and sharply registered: that and the fact that he had juggled with the script of two languages with different alphabets while looking at the address book and through the cabinet.
Danilov had read English at Moscow University, and learned it so well that his first intention, before joining the Militia, had been to become a translator and interpreter. He didn’t need his expertise or fluency to be curious at what he was staring down at now.
Everything about what he had seen and read in this office told him Petr Aleksandrovich was a man of consummate attention to infinite accuracy. Yet the entry at which he was looking was inaccurate. The entry for the murder day read: Exhibition of Native American Art. Smithsonian. Noon. Attend. And Serov had written it in English. But the two ‘R’s in the phrase were written with the Cyrillic ‘p’ and the ‘n’ of ‘exhibition’ was printed with the Cyrillic ‘h’.
Serov would not have made that sort of mistake. Danilov’s conviction grew as he read the diary entries once more from the beginning, coming again and again upon the correct use of both letters. But there were exceptions: he found four dates, one in each of the preceding four months, when Cyrillic again intruded.
Carefully Danilov noted each date, stretching back into the chair as the fatigue finally washed over him. He was sure it was significant. Hopefully there was a way to find out what that significance was. It would also create a test, to see if Cowley really intended full co-operation. Danilov was uncomfortable at doubting the American, but supposed there would have to be such a test. He wondered if Cowley would attempt one with him.
‘You’ve been in there a very long time,’ said Redin, close to complaint, when Danilov emerged.
‘I wasn’t aware of a time limit,’ said Danilov.
‘Anything?’ demanded Pavlenko, who was also waiting.
‘After only four hours?’ mocked Danilov, extending his rejection of the security man’s remark.
‘You haven’t finished?’ frowned Redin.
‘Of course not,’ said Danilov. Could there be a way for Pavin to dissect Serov’s work files with his usual thoroughness? It would be something to consider tomorrow.
Danilov remained as vague when he telephoned William Cowley from the surprisingly spacious apartment allocated to him in the Russian compound on Massachusetts Avenue.
‘When can we meet?’ demanded the American.
‘Tomorrow afternoon, after I’ve looked at Serov’s home,’ promised Danilov. ‘I’ll telephone.’
‘How’s it looking?’
‘Too soon to say.’ Unlike the telephone system in Moscow, calls here were routed through a central switch-board and he guessed the conversation, like any he had over the following days, would be monitored. It would be unsafe to initiate any discussion he did not want overheard from any Russian facility.
He collapsed gratefully into bed, curious whether he would find any more oddly spelled words in Serov’s apartment the following day. And then discover what they meant, in the way he thought he could.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN