There was a puff of white condensation at the temperature change in the examination room when Brierly withdrew the drawer. Some cosmetic effort had been made to pad a sheet around what remained of the head, and the face had been cleaned of blood; the same disguising sheet was arranged to cover the chest wounds. The coldness of the preservation drawer had whitened Serov’s face, heightening the blackness of the bruising and powder burns to the mouth. Rigor had frozen it wide open, as if the man had died screaming. The eyes were closed. The identity label was tied to the big toe of the left foot, like a price tag.
‘That is Petr Aleksandrovich,’ said Pavlenko evenly. There was no facial reaction from either Russian at Serov’s disfigurement.
‘We’d like to talk,’ said Cowley, not wanting to lose the opportunity with a Russian away from the confines of the embassy.
The pathologist led them back along the corridor to a small room opposite the reception desk. As Cowley sat, Redin leaned close to Pavlenko and spoke: the grating of his chair prevented Cowley hearing what was said.
‘We regret this incident very much indeed,’ began Cowley. He’d served in overseas embassies, in Rome and in London when he had been a full-time field agent, and knew the need for diplomatic niceties.
‘You are police?’
‘Yes.’ Cowley didn’t intend openly identifying himself as FBI in front of Redin.
‘You know who did this?’
‘There’s been no arrest yet.’
‘Why was he shot like that, in the mouth? It is bestial.’
‘We don’t know,’ admitted Cowley. He did not yet intend getting into a Mafia discussion, either.
There was another head-bent, whispered exchange between the two Russians. Again Cowley didn’t hear what was said.
‘Was he robbed?’ asked Pavlenko.
‘There is no obvious indication of that.’
‘We would like his belongings,’ announced Pavlenko. ‘And the return of the body.’
‘We are still making enquiries,’ said Cowley, held by the sensation of deja vu. The Russians had initially refused to release the body of the senator’s niece or her effects, after the Moscow murder that had taken him to Russia the previous year. It had been one of several early disputes.
‘What have your enquiries got to do with returning the body and the contents of Petr Aleksandrovich’s pockets!’ demanded Pavlenko.
‘The investigation has only been under way a very short time,’ pointed out Cowley. ‘Everything will be released as soon as possible.’
Pavlenko was a thin-faced man. His features hardened now, in anger. ‘We do not want this to become even more difficult than it is. A Russian national has been murdered!’
‘And we’re trying to find out who did it,’ said Johannsen, close to rudeness. ‘And why.’
Quickly interceding, Cowley said: ‘Where did Petr Aleksandrovich live?’
Pavlenko hesitated. ‘The Russian compound.’
‘We need to learn his movements last night. We would like to interview Mrs Serova.’ He instantly regretted demonstrating his knowledge of the language by his correct feminisation of the name, but the Russians appeared to miss it.
‘She returned to Moscow on compassionate leave two weeks ago,’ disclosed the diplomat. ‘She has an elderly mother who is ill.’
‘So Serov was living alone?’ said Johannsen.
‘Yes.’
‘Does anyone at the embassy know what he was doing last night?’
Pavlenko shrugged. ‘I have not asked.’
‘We would like to be allowed to visit the embassy, to talk particularly to people in the cultural division, to discover if he had an appointment or an arrangement to meet anyone,’ said Cowley.
‘He said nothing to me,’ replied Pavlenko.
‘He might have talked to someone else,’ persisted Johannsen.
‘I do not think so,’ insisted the Russian.
‘Why not?’
‘I was Petr Aleksandrovich’s immediate deputy. The conversations were between the two of us.’
‘He must have spoken to other people as well!’ challenged Johannsen, and Cowley thought he detected the beginning of a policeman’s belligerence at being given the runaround.
‘Not yesterday. There were only secretaries in the office, apart from Petr Aleksandrovich and myself. He would not have talked about any social event with them.’
‘Were you social friends as well as work colleagues?’
Pavlenko hesitated again. ‘Yes.’
‘So you would talk about social things?’ said Johannsen.
‘Not yesterday,’ refuted the Russian.
‘Would you have known if he was on an official engagement?’ The homicide detective was still polite, but only just.
‘There was nothing last night.’ There was the faintest sheen of perspiration on Pavlenko’s face.
Once again Cowley failed to hear all that passed between the two Russians, but he thought he caught Redin say neel’z’ah and wondered what it was Pavlenko had been warned he couldn’t or shouldn’t say.
‘So there is an appointments diary?’ pressed Johannsen. ‘We’d like to see that.’
Pavlenko stopped just before the angry rejection, breathing deeply. ‘It is unthinkable for you to examine official documentation belonging to the Russian embassy. I have told you there was no official function last night.’
‘We would also like to examine the apartment at Massachusetts Avenue,’ bulldozed Johannsen. ‘There could be some indication there of where he went.’
‘That’s equally ridiculous!’ refused Pavlenko.
Delicately, choosing each word, Cowley said: ‘You have Russian staff responsible for the security of your embassy facilities, just as we have marines at our embassy in Moscow. Would it be possible for us to provide a list of questions to which we need answers – like, for instance, any diary entry or note at the Massachusetts Avenue apartment – for your own officials to answer for us?’
Pavlenko hesitated, glancing sideways at the other Russian, but without any muffled conversation said: ‘No. I do not think so.’
‘There are many routine enquiries for us to make,’ said Cowley. ‘Particularly around the Georgetown district in which he was found. It would help if you could supply a reasonably up-to-date photograph to be duplicated and carried by officers conducting street enquiries.’
‘I am not sure any are available,’ said Pavlenko.
Cowley sighed, careless of the frustration showing, no longer concerned at Johannsen’s aggression. Pavlenko was being openly obstructive: standard Russian suspicion, or something more?
‘A photograph was officially supplied for Petr Aleksandrovich’s visa application,’ he said. ‘If there is none more current we will use that.’
Pavlenko’s face twitched at losing the exchange. ‘I will enquire of our personnel division.’
‘There will be need for us to speak again.’
‘Tomorrow,’ insisted Pavlenko, trying to turn the demand against the American. ‘To agree the release of the body and effects.’
‘To discuss further co-operation between us,’ corrected Cowley. The vaguest suggestion of an idea came to him. Just as quickly, he dismissed it. He was letting himself fall into nostalgia.
‘Jesus!’ exploded Johannsen, within seconds of the door closing behind the Russians. ‘If they’re all as awkward as that bastard, maybe we aren’t dealing with a Mafia killing at all. Maybe whoever popped Serov just got fed up waiting for the son-of-a-bitch to say something that made sense! I thought we were all supposed to be on the same side now!’
‘Some don’t believe it as much as others,’ said Cowley. ‘I want you to do something. I’ll get State to run a check on every diplomatic affair the night of the killing…’
‘… So we can check every one to see if Petr Aleksandrovich Serov attended,’ cut in Johannsen, in a groan.