‘So he was killed elsewhere?’
‘And thrown from street level, over the parapet: not brought down here and tossed in,’ expanded Cowley. ‘If the body was dumped from this pontoon, the gun would have been tossed in, too. And gone in the water. It’s on the ledge because it was dropped from above.’
‘According to the notice at the top of the steps the last ferry uses this pontoon at eight at night,’ said Danilov. ‘There would still be a lot of people on the streets after that, though. According to the pathology report, Ignatov had only been in the water a matter of hours. I think we can assume he came over the wall, already dead, around midnight the day before his body was found. And the gun right after him.’
‘Careless,’ judged Cowley. ‘Why not dispose of the murder weapon miles away? It’s a hit, obviously. But it’s not a very professional one.’
‘Careless?’ echoed Danilov questioningly. ‘Or conceited? People – or a person – so sure of themselves they didn’t imagine they had anything to worry about if the gun was found?’
There was movement near the wall as a forensic man finally scooped the Makarov off the ledge with what looked like a small fishing net and transferred it, without any finger contact, into a plastic exhibit bag. For the first time they both saw Pavin had returned to the jetty and was supervising the technical examination. Pavin personally took possession of the plastic-enclosed pistol.
‘That’ll have to go through our laboratories first,’ said Danilov. ‘Afterwards I think it should go through yours, as well.’
‘So do I,’ said Cowley. ‘The sooner the better.’ He turned to look fully at the Russian. ‘I wasn’t making any threats, to you personally, when I said I’d have to tell Washington what’s happened here. There’s no way you can be blamed.’
As it was intended I should be, Danilov thought. ‘I know it wasn’t personal… won’t be.’
‘You positive there won’t be any fall-out to affect you?’
‘Absolutely.’ Because I intend to see there isn’t, determined the Russian.
‘So you want to use me?’ guessed Cowley.
‘Not in any way to cause you problems. Or difficulties.’
‘But still using me, Dimitri Ivanovich?’
‘If you’re offended, I’m sorry.’
‘So it’s big internal problems?’
‘I’m not really sure how big.’
‘Can you win?’
‘I don’t know,’ answered Danilov honestly. ‘I hope so.’
The American seemed to be making a decision. ‘Use me – and my presence here – as much as you want. Just warn me first.’
‘Make the protest as strong and as official as you can.’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Dimitri Ivanovich.’
‘So do I,’ said Danilov.
Apart from taking the second series of photographs and retrieving the Makarov pistol, there was little for the Russian scientists to do, so their examination was soon over. The shipping officials told Danilov the dredger had already collected two containers of detritus. Danilov ordered them to collect a third before switching to the other side of the pontoon, hopefully to bring up anything that might have been carried downstream, away from the body, after it went into the river. They dropped Cowley off at the American embassy on their way back to Petrovka.
‘As strong and as official as you like,’ reminded Danilov.
He ignored his waiting messages, wanting to despatch his own first. They were very brief and, as required, were jointly addressed to both deputy ministers, with courtesy copies to Metkin. The FBI official was appalled, Danilov warned, at the incompetence of the Russian investigation. William Cowley intended formally complaining to Washington, who would obviously pass the criticism on to the State Department. Incalculable evidence had been lost by the failure to secure the area where Ignatov’s body had been found or properly to search it. And what technical material had been produced, particularly photographs, had been entirely misleading: part of the American’s report to Washington would doubt the standard and ability of Russian criminal science investigation. Danilov concluded by suggesting the complaints were precisely the type of embarrassment that had been discussed on the eve of his departure to Washington.
When he finished dictating Danilov expected Ludmilla Radsic to leave the office to fulfil her true function before typing the memoranda, but she didn’t. She went immediately afterwards.
By then Danilov had read his messages. The first summoned him to the Foreign Ministry for a conference with both Sergei Vorobie and Vasili Oskin. Vorobie added that Oleg Yasev, a senior Foreign Ministry official, would attend the intended interview with Raisa Serova. The second note, from Anatoli Metkin, approved the attachment of Kabalin and his assistant to the murder squad: any further, additional manpower was available.
Danilov made his private, protective record of everything.
Elliott Jones shook hands with the Metropolitan Editor of the Washington Post with a politician’s hearty enthusiasm, and said he was glad the man had been able to make lunch at the Four Seasons: it was his favourite restaurant. It was the mayor’s invitation and he had decreed the discreet table. The editor said it was his favourite, too. Both further agreed they were glad they’d finally been able to get together again. For most of the meal the conversation was about politics, with the editor agreeing how helpful the Post could be if Jones ran for higher office. Not until the coffee did the talk get around to the Mafia-type murders. When the editor said he couldn’t understand the virtual news blackout, Jones suggested maybe the story wasn’t in Washington any more and maybe William Cowley and Dimitri Danilov weren’t either. When the journalist wondered what would be important enough to take the investigators out of town, Jones asked if the Post’s resident correspondent in Moscow had reported the stool-pigeon type killing of a known member of the Moscow Mafia. The editor said he didn’t think so.
‘When am I going to meet him?’ demanded Olga. ‘I didn’t last time.’ She warmed to her idea. ‘We could make a party of it, with Larissa and Yevgennie. He was very good to me when you were away.’
Olga clearly wanted an audience for the reflected importance of entertaining an American investigator, Danilov saw. Why not? He’d enjoy impressing Larissa and he hadn’t forgotten Kosov’s gloating doubt after his deputyship had been announced. ‘How was Yevgennie good to you?’
‘He took me to the Metropole. And a club, the Night-flight: it was wonderful. I told you!’
‘With Larissa?’
‘She was working. And he’s got a fabulous new car. Lots of dials in the front that all light up.’
Why would Kosov choose a night when Larissa was working? ‘What did you talk about?’
‘How you were getting on in America. I said I didn’t know because you hadn’t phoned. Can we invite them, too?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Danilov. This time he wouldn’t have the reluctance he usually did, going through the subterfuge of social politeness with a man he was cuckolding. This time he’d be curious.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
It took Cowley three hours to transmit a full account of the Moscow debacle, helped by Stephen Snow who ferried the cables up to the secure embassy rooftop communications shack. Afterwards he accepted Snow’s invitation in the other direction, to the basement social club.
He recollected it vividly from the last time, with Pauline and the then unsuspected Barry Andrews, present and past husband trying to appear civilised, each over-compensating, each ill at ease. Little had changed. The marines who formed the security detachment were still as anxious to get as close as possible to the secretaries and the female staff who remained aloof during working hours, and the music sounded the same, scratched and vintage sixties. Hamburgers and ribs on disposable grills were an innovation and the beer was being kept cool now in a small refrigerator and two plastic cold boxes, instead of floating in a garbage bin of melting ice. Cowley recognised several people from his previous visit, although he couldn’t get their names. The recall was better on their part, understandably: he was an oddity, someone briefly appearing from outside their insular environment, the Man from Mars.