William Cowley was waiting at the immigration desk to usher Danilov out of the normal arrival line at Dulles airport to a side office. Inside they formally shook hands and informally examined each other, and Cowley just beat Danilov in saying how good it was to see him again. They spoke English. Cowley thought Danilov’s hair had grown thinner, and that he had developed a slight paunch. Danilov thought Cowley had grown heavier, as if he were neglecting himself.
‘Your people are waiting outside: this was the best way to talk, as soon as we could.’ From the concealment of the main immigration office Cowley had already identified Nikolai Redin as well as Valery Pavlenko among the reception group: it would be interesting if Danilov later spoke openly of the former KGB man.
‘What do we need to know?’
‘Everything,’ declared Cowley. He detailed the difficulties with the two Russians at the formal identification, and looked unconvinced by Danilov’s assurance that both Serov’s office and apartment had been sealed. ‘Will they have been?’
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Danilov honestly. ‘I probably won’t even when I start going through them.’
Pointedly Cowley said: ‘How’s it going to be between us, Dimitri?’
‘Straight, I hope.’ Danilov was reluctant even to hint at the restrictions imposed upon him, but unsure if the hesitation was motivated more by personal or professional pride. A combination of both, he guessed. ‘How do you see it being handled?’
‘The same,’ promised Cowley. He didn’t completely believe Danilov and knew Danilov wouldn’t completely believe him. Just how straight was it possible for them to be with each other? Not something to be determined this early. Testingly he asked about Raisa Serova, listening intently for any nuances to tell him Danilov was holding something back. He didn’t detect that the Russian was, but he wasn’t sure.
‘Do you think she was telling the truth about Michel Paulac?’
Danilov made an uncertain gesture. ‘We need to find something that doesn’t fit before we can challenge her. She’s a very controlled woman.’
Danilov’s baggage arrived at the same time as his returned passport. The visa entry was for an indefinite period.
Cowley offered a card with all the FBI contact numbers. ‘I’ll wait to hear.’ He smiled, ruefully. ‘There’s not a lot else I can think of to do.’
The third Russian waiting on the outside concourse was introduced by Pavlenko as Oleg Firsov, the senior embassy counsellor; the driver who took Danilov’s case wasn’t identified at all. Danilov was manoeuvred into the car between the two diplomats, with Redin in the front. Firsov, who was fat and perspiring and who was already smelling vaguely of body odour, moved to take instant charge. Everything had to be reported through him, before any communication to Moscow. That order included whatever Danilov was told by or learned from the Americans. It was potentially a politically awkward situation.
‘Why?’ interrupted Danilov, sharply, breaking the flow.
Firsov, who had been delivering the recitation staring directly ahead as if he were talking to an audience instead of just one man, frowned sideways. ‘I don’t understand the question.’
‘Why is it potentially a politically awkward situation?’
‘I would have thought that would have been obvious.’
‘I don’t take any inference as obvious,’ rejected Danilov. ‘Was Petr Aleksandrovich acting officially when he met Michel Paulac?’
‘I have no information about that,’ said Firsov.
Which was not an answer, identified Danilov. ‘If you have no information how can you say it could be politically awkward?’ he persisted.
Firsov sighed, in attempted intimidation. ‘I was talking generally.’
‘I don’t investigate crime on the basis of generalities, either,’ said Danilov, refusing the superciliousness.
From his other side, Pavlenko said: ‘I don’t think we should overlook seniority here.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Danilov. ‘Before leaving Moscow I was personally instructed by Deputy Interior Minister Oskin, in the presence of Deputy Foreign Minister Vorobie, to communicate directly with him, without going through intermediaries. Has that order been rescinded? If it has, I wish to see the written message.’
Firsov’s shift of annoyance released a fresh waft of odour. ‘I do not believe Deputy Interior Minister Oskin intended the ambassador or any senior diplomat to be ignored!’
‘I am not suggesting senior officials at the embassy should be bypassed. Neither was Minister Oskin. What I am saying is that my liaison with Moscow must be direct.’
‘That point has been established,’ said Firsov icily.
He wasn’t making friends, Danilov recognised: but then, he’d hardly expected to. ‘Liaison without interference or censorship …’ He paused, expectantly. Firsov remained staring directly ahead, breathing heavily. ‘… unless, of course, something I might report would benefit by additional assistance of facts from any member of the embassy staff.’
‘We assume you would like to settle in, after the flight?’ suggested Pavlenko.
‘No,’ denied Danilov at once. ‘I would prefer to go direct to the embassy and Petr Aleksandrovich’s office.’
The silence froze inside the car. They were travelling along the sculptured highway towards the city: soon, Danilov remembered, they would be dropping through the Memorial Parkway beside the ribbon of the Potomac, where it would be possible to start picking out landmarks. ‘There were specific instructions from Moscow about the office? And the apartment?’
‘They have been followed,’ assured Firsov.
‘What was done to either, before that instruction?’ asked Danilov, worried about the intervening time gap.
‘Nothing,’ said Pavlenko carelessly.
It was a guess, although a fairly safe one, for Danilov to direct his question to the front of the car, to the unspeaking Nikolai Redin. ‘Then there was a serious security lapse, surely? Are you saying no member of the security division within the embassy examined the office or the living accommodation of a member of the embassy who had been murdered?’
Danilov got his confirmation of Redin’s role from the way the man’s neck and ears flushed. He turned to the rear. ‘Of course they were examined!’
‘What was removed from either?’ demanded Danilov.
‘Nothing,’ said the security officer.
And if there had been, there was no way he would ever find out, Danilov accepted. The embassy limousine turned over the Key Bridge and Danilov recognised Georgetown, where he had spent time with Cowley on the last occasion. He hoped there would be the chance to do it again. He’d get his hair cut, too. Maybe buy a watch that worked.
It had been good to see Cowley again, although Danilov had been uncomfortable with the verbal fencing. Several times in the serial killing investigation they’d risked serious error from initial, matching mistrust. The danger shouldn’t arise this time. They had been strangers then, thrust into a unique situation. Now they knew and admired each other. And he’d already decided to interpret the Moscow instructions his way. Had it been alcohol he’d smelled on Cowley’s breath? There was no reason why it shouldn’t have been, but he couldn’t recall the man being a drinker.
At Lafayette Square, just before turning into 16th Street, Danilov looked sideways to the White House, thinking as he had the first time how small and inconsequential it appeared for the official home of the American President. The Russian White House was far more impressive. The protesting homeless were still bivouaced under plastic sheeting and boxes beside their complaining posters. He’d thought before how quickly such demonstrations would have been cleared from around the Kremlin by the KGB. Now the KGB was gone and the streets of Moscow had their own box-and-tent townships of tattered, threadbare people.
Inside the embassy, Firsov left Danilov with as much dismissiveness as he could achieve, and the reminder that the ambassador expected to see all communications to Moscow. Pavlenko led the way to the cultural section, Redin following. It was the security man who unlocked the door with an almost theatrical flourish, standing back for Danilov to enter. From the threshold Danilov saw a desk in immaculate order, pens and pencils in their holders, document trays bare, telephones neatly in line, and a pristinely white and unmarked blotter. A wastepaper basket alongside was empty.
Hopeless, he thought: they’d had the last, mocking laugh.
Momentarily Olga frowned into the telephone, not recognising the voice. Then she said: ‘Yevgennie! How are you?’
‘Didn’t want you to become lonely without Dimitri,’ said the man. ‘Would you like to eat out one night?’
‘Tell Larissa to call me, so I’ll know what she’s going to wear,’ asked the woman.
‘We’ll have to see how her shifts work out. She might not be able to make it. But that would be all right, wouldn’t it?’
Olga, who didn’t want to spend time by herself at Kirovskaya, hesitated. ‘I suppose so.’
‘I’ll telephone, in a day or two. Set something up.’
‘I hope Larissa can make it.’
‘You can trust me by myself.’
Kosov made another call immediately after disconnecting from Olga. ‘It’s all arranged,’ he said.
‘Good,’ replied Arkadi Gusovsky, in the study of his Kutbysevskiy mansion. He turned to Yerin as he replaced the receiver. ‘He’s done what we told him to do.’
The blind man appeared surprised. ‘Everyone does what we tell them to do. They have to.’