The dispute with Olga began with Danilov insisting upon taking Cowley to an authentic Russian restaurant instead of the Metropole hotel, although he agreed to a drink there first. It continued over his two initially suggested restaurants, so he didn’t bother to discuss the third. Her usual tint was still unavailable at the hairdressers; the substitute took badly again and she blamed him for the uneven colouring, which he thought was irrational and said so. She couldn’t find anything new to wear and turned her annoyance on Danilov, complaining he hadn’t given her sufficient money to buy what she wanted. Danilov gave her more. Olga bought the first suit she’d tried but rejected as too small, which it was, so she had to alter the buttons on the skirt which made it hang awkwardly. He tried to maintain peace by telling her it looked fine when she showed him, and she accused him of lying. He lost his temper in the quarrel that ensued and agreed Larissa would probably look better than her because Larissa usually did, which he bitterly regretted the moment he spoke. It did at least make him think before he spoke again, so when Olga said she was unhappy and thought they had a shitty marriage Danilov didn’t reply. They drove in hostile silence to Cowley’s hotel.
The American was waiting in the bar, as arranged. The whisky in front of him was the first, and he’d decided not to have more than two after that. Danilov chose Scotch as well, and hoped his surprise didn’t show when Olga ordered a martini, which as far as he knew she’d never drunk before. Cowley wondered why Danilov looked uneasy.
Kosov’s new BMW was parked very obviously outside the Metropole when they got there. Olga led familiarly into the hotel, going at once towards the chandeliered bar, where Kosov and Larissa sat in one of the better lighted booths. After the newspaper and television publicity Danilov was aware of several identifying looks, and guessed Kosov had intentionally chosen the most prominent banquette. He decided he was right from the exuberance with which Kosov greeted the American, as if they were old friends. They’d only met briefly during Cowley’s first investigation in Moscow: the Russian had been wrongly arrested in Kosov’s division. Kosov had enjoyed the brief notoriety: and because of the cover-up he had never known about the mistake. There was a bottle of French champagne already open in a pedestal cooler beside the table, and before the greetings were completed Kosov made a performance of pouring, ahead of the hurriedly approaching waiter.
Cowley thought he recognised Kosov as the sort of policeman he’d occasionally encountered, usually in small, Southern-State towns they believed they owned and probably did, although perhaps they were not quite so obvious as the Russian. Their earlier meetings had been entirely on an official level, and Kosov hadn’t behaved like he was behaving now. Cowley would not have expected a friendship between such a man and Danilov, which he at once acknowledged to be none of his business.
It was fortunate the two women were seated on opposite sides of the table. The jacket of Olga’s suit was strained too tightly into creases from bust to hip and the overhead light wasn’t kind to her patchy hair; she shouldn’t have worn the amber bead necklace so close to the blue stone lapel brooch, either. Larissa looked stunning. Her blonde hair was perfectly looped just short of her shoulders, shown off against the bright red dress with which she wore only a single-strand necklace of irregular black coral.
Kosov worked hard to dominate the conversation, going into elaborate reminiscences of their earlier encounter, insisting Cowley agree the serial killing investigation had been one of the most difficult he’d ever conducted. Cowley did agree because it had been, although Kosov would never know why.
‘I never thought you’d come back like this!’
‘Neither did I,’ said Cowley.
‘And now you’ve got your man again!’
‘Looks like it.’
‘You must have a massive confession by now!’
‘This is supposed to be a social evening, Yevgennie,’ said Danilov. It was a gentle rebuke, which he felt he should make, but he was intent upon the interest Kosov was showing in the murders.
‘The sort of work we do is interesting to everyone, isn’t that so?’ demanded Kosov, speaking to both women.
Olga nodded.
‘I’m fascinated,’ agreed Larissa.
Determinedly vague, Cowley said: ‘Investigations take their course. This one’s doing that.’ There’d been another protest from Washington that evening at the failure of the interrogation.
‘But you know which way to go? Where to look?’ persisted the division commander. ‘Are there going to be any more arrests here in Moscow?’
‘I always keep an open mind until the very end,’ said Cowley.
Kosov looked genuinely surprised when he was told they were not eating at the hotel, insisting the Metropole diningrooms were the best in the city: Danilov half expected the man to add that they were also the most expensive, but he didn’t. Cowley helped by saying he’d prefer a Russian restaurant: Danilov looked at Olga, who ignored him. Kosov paid for the champagne from a thick wad of dollar bills he ostentatiously counted out on the table top, adding a ten-dollar tip.
Outside the hotel Kosov said it was unnecessary to take two cars, bustling the American towards the BMW. Larissa appeared almost as possessive as her husband, hurrying Cowley into the back and putting Olga and herself on either side. Danilov got into the front. When Danilov announced they were eating at the Skazka, Kosov sighed in unspoken disdain. He put a Tina Turner cassette into the tape deck, which was tuned too loudly. As he drove off, Kosov waved his arm around the vehicle and said to Danilov: ‘What do you think?’
‘Very nice,’ said Danilov. Olga had been right about the array of dashboard illumination.
‘One of the newest: hardly any like it in Moscow.’
Danilov was tempted to ask the uniformed colonel how he could afford it, but didn’t bother.
In the rear of the car Cowley was making polite conversation, telling Olga to persuade Danilov to bring her to Washington for a vacation so he could show them around. With no alternative – and hoping the idea would never be taken up by them – Cowley said of course he and Larissa were included in the invitation when Kosov asked.
It was easier than Danilov expected to park on the Tovarishchevsky Pereulok. He was clearly not known there so Kosov did not attempt one of his favoured-customer entrances, which increased the effect of what happened when they did go in.
Danilov had made the reservation days before – necessary, as he intended paying in roubles – and had called in earlier that day to confirm the table was being kept for him. The first indication the manager recognised him from the publicity of the case came when the man asked if he would be bringing the American detective. It was the only occasion Danilov had experienced the benefit of fame and he enjoyed it: it was much easier than the usual Russian necessity to guarantee service, suggesting favour for favour. And seemed to work better. Their table was waiting, already set with zakuski – hors d’oeuvres – that included smoked salmon, sturgeon, caviar and individual salads. The manager greeted Danilov like a regular customer, shaking his hand and saying it was good to see him again, and gained the hoped-for introduction to Cowley in front of everyone else in the restaurant.
The candlelight against the dark wood gave the Skazka a genuine Russian ambience, heightened by the gypsy musicians. They ate bliny, filling each pancake themselves with caviar, and pelmeni, dumplings floating in sour cream. There was pork served two ways, in a mushroom sauce and roasted with plums, and lamb shashlik. Danilov ordered both red and white Georgian wine.
Cowley enjoyed the evening. He made everyone laugh with anecdotes of investigation mistakes that were legendary and most likely apocryphal in the FBI, which encouraged matching stories from the other two policemen: Danilov told his tales better than Kosov, who was showing signs of getting drunk. Olga’s words, when she tried to speak which wasn’t often, were slurring by now, too. Even Larissa attempted a contribution, telling of bedroom mix-ups and unusual assignations at the hotel. Cowley was conscious of her seeming to address Danilov when she told them, as if he would be more interested than the rest of them. Kosov made two more attempts to talk about the investigation, both of which were easily evaded.
It was Olga, over Armenian brandy, who eagerly suggested they all go on to a nightclub, looking expectantly at Kosov. But the man didn’t respond as she anticipated: he didn’t give any reaction at all, in fact, and she was about to repeat the idea, imagining he hadn’t heard, when Cowley said maybe another time.
Kosov insisted it was no trouble to drop the American off at his hotel: at the Savoy Cowley invited them in for a nightcap, allowing himself a final brandy, but still didn’t take up the nightclub idea. They parted noisily with promises to get together again sometime.
In the Volga, going home, Danilov decided the evening had been saved, socially, by the Skazka. And that Kosov had been blatantly over-interested, even for a policeman, in the Mafia murders. He’d known Kosov to be dirty, he thought, calling up the new English word: but not this dirty. Which was not part of his current problem. Or was it?
‘Why didn’t you kiss Larissa goodnight?’ Olga demanded, breaking into his reflections.
‘Forgot.’ Danilov thought he’d almost gone too far in the other direction, ignoring Larissa as he had, although it was how they’d agreed to behave when they’d spoken by telephone that afternoon. She’d practically been too obvious ignoring him, as well.
‘She looked beautiful tonight, didn’t she?’
‘I didn’t notice.’ He’d have to stop lying soon.
It was not raining that night, so it was not until the following day – when it was – that he discovered the windscreen wipers on the Volga had been stolen while it was parked near the Metropole.