‘The ambassador know this?’
‘I waited to talk to you.’
‘Burden?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll need to consult at this end.’
‘What about the ambassador and Burden?’
‘Nothing, until I get a guide here. There’s some more stuff coming for you, in the pouch. And the mind doctors think they can create their psychological profile, from what you’ve sent.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re quite sure, about the Russians’ attitude?’
‘Positive.’
‘You’ll get complete guidance by 8 a.m. tomorrow, your time.’
Cowley was too late to go back to the guest quarters to change. He was about to leave the embassy when he thought about taking something, so he detoured to the commissary. He’d wanted flowers but there weren’t any. There were chocolates but they were in practical square or oblong boxes, nothing ornate or fancy, for special occasions. Was this a special occasion? Of course it was. He was seeing his ex-wife who’d remained a friend, although a distant one, both in time and place. It was right, practically expected, that he should take her something. It had to be chocolates. He bought the largest box available. Was it pushing forgiveness and understanding too far, to include Andrews in the gift-giving? Why not? Cowley picked a bottle of French brandy, wishing he had been able to shop better elsewhere, particularly for Pauline. But where? Andrews was his guide for Moscow. And he could hardly have invoked the help of her present husband to buy a present for his ex-wife, no matter how civilized they were all trying to be. Why hadn’t he anticipated the situation and brought something from America? The choice would have still been difficult. And
shown
planning, which might not have been a good idea.
Andrews expansively opened the door of the compound apartment, drink already in his free hand. ‘You’re hardly late at all. Pauline’s got everything on hold.’
Cowley was surprised by Andrews’s babbled uncertainty: there was even a shake to the man’s hands. Cowley handed over the brandy, smiling up at Pauline as she came from a side-door he presumed led to the kitchen. She was wearing a red woollen dress which fitted quite tightly, moulded to her figure. She appeared as slim as ever, although perhaps slightly heavier-busted. When she came further into the light of the entrance hall he saw that her hair, which had always been very black, was streaked with grey at the sides. Perhaps it was difficult to get good tinting in Moscow: he would have thought there would be some facility for wives at the embassy. He thought she looked wonderful and wanted to tell her so. He didn’t, of course.
‘Hello William,’ she said. She’d always used the full name, never Bill. There was a tentative accompanying smile.
So they were all uncertain, Cowley accepted. He’d forgotten the deep-throated Southern accent. He’d mocked her about it, when they’d first met and in the early years, before everything went wrong, calling her Scarlett and telling her she could call him Rhett. Stupid, childish stuff, never admitted to anyone: no point in bringing it to mind now. ‘It’s good to see you.’ Stupid, childish words.
There was a momentary impasse, the three of them crowded into the tiny hallway. Cowley thrust the chocolates towards her and said: ‘I wanted to get something different: more original. Sorry.’ He was stumbling, tongue-tied. It shouldn’t have been like this.
‘It was very thoughtful,’ Pauline accepted.
‘Let’s not hang around here!’ urged Andrews, propelling them further into the apartment. ‘Settle down! Relax!’
The apartment was inferior to the suite he occupied in the newly built compound, the only point of comparison he had. The hallway wasn’t really a hallway at all, just an entry box with a clothes closet. The living-room was another box: literally squaresided and more cramped than it deserved to be by the inclusion of American furniture and converter-connected television and stereo equipment. The lid of a drop-down cocktail cabinet literally overhung one of the chairs, displaying the drinks. Cowley stood not knowing where to sit. Pauline stood not appearing to know what to do or say, either. Another impasse.
‘Drinks!’ bustled Andrews, enthusiastically, depositing the brandy among the regiment of bottles in the cocktail cabinet. ‘What are we all going to have to drink? Let’s relax! Enjoy ourselves!’
Cowley chose the settee, needing it for his size. ‘Maybe a juice.’ He was conscious of Pauline’s frown.
‘Scotch,’ she said, still looking at Cowley.
‘Forgot that you didn’t, not any more,’ said Andrews, to the other man. ‘Need to get supplies.’
As Andrews disappeared into the kitchen, Pauline said: ‘Barry told me but I didn’t believe it. Since when?’
‘Seems like forever.’
‘Which sounds like it’s difficult?’
Cowley thought about it. ‘Not really. Sometimes. But not often.’
‘You’re looking good on abstinence.’
‘You’re looking good, too.’ Which was a lie. He was surprised about the greyness. There were the faintest of lines around her eyes, too. He still thought she looked wonderful.
‘It’s Boeuf-en-Croûte,’ Pauline announced. ‘Liver pâté and hot goose liver cooked together to start. We can get most things from the commissary if we plan ahead.’
She’d remembered the favourite. Polite consideration, nothing more, he told himself. What more
could
there be? ‘I guessed it would be something special.’
‘It’s not,’ she insisted, modestly. ‘Just ordinary.’
‘How’ve you been?’
‘OK, I guess. Moscow’s difficult. Insular. Everyone is on top of everyone else here.’
Andrews burst back in from the kitchen, grape juice in hand. ‘Pauline caught you on CNN today!’ At the cocktail cabinet the man poured himself a heavy Scotch, adding only one cube of ice. ‘Said you looked great. Very authoritative.’
Pauline smiled, more widely this time, showing the teeth she had worried so much about having capped, because of the expense. ‘But you didn’t look very comfortable at times.’
‘I wasn’t,’ Cowley admitted.
‘Not hugger-mugger with Senator Burden, he of all power and influence!’ exclaimed Andrews. ‘He’s the guy who makes careers in Washington.’
‘Or breaks them,’ Cowley pointed out.
‘That sounds interesting?’ demanded the resident FBI man.
‘I think I’m caught in a power play, back home: between a rock and a hard place.’
‘Then get out of it,’ Andrews advised. ‘This could be your big chance: we’ve talked about it. Don’t fuck it up.’
‘I’m trying not to,’ said Cowley. He avoided looking too quickly at Pauline: when they’d been married he had never sworn in front of her in company, believing it showed disrespect. When he did look, she seemed unaware of the obscenity.
‘Getting personal calls from the Director is pretty impressive stuff,’ insisted Andrews.
‘It’s the politics of the thing,’ Cowley dismissed. He looked once more to Pauline, curious if she would be bored by shop talk. She didn’t appear to be. But then she’d always been interested in the job.
‘Come on, buddy!’ urged Andrews. ‘You’re flying high: you know that. Lucky bastard.’
‘We’re not into an arrest situation yet,’ said Cowley.
‘It can’t be long.’
‘I thought William came for dinner, not interrogation,’ intruded Pauline, gently.
Andrews was at the cabinet again, refilling his glass. ‘Just talking,’ he said. ‘Call it envy.’
‘I’ve things to do in the kitchen,’ said Pauline. To Cowley she added: ‘Meat still rare? And Italian dressing on the salad?’
‘The Goddess of the kitchen,’ said Andrews, proudly. He put his glass down heavily. ‘Shit! I forgot the wine. It’ll take me a minute to get some from the commissary. Keep everything on hold!’
‘I really don’t …’ began Cowley, but Andrews was already on his feet, hauling his protective coat about him. Cowley saw Andrews had changed his shirt beneath the same suit he had worn that day.
‘I need to check the cable traffic anyway: never forget the time difference with the outside world.’ The door slammed loudly behind him.
Pauline sat back in her seat. ‘It won’t take long. Nothing will spoil.’
‘Does he often check cable traffic during the evening?’
‘You know Barry. Mr Ambition himself.’
‘That why he took this post?’
She nodded. ‘Necessary career move. He expects to get Washington next time. We should hear soon.’
‘I know.’
‘If he did get Washington, he would be working under you, wouldn’t he?’
‘Not unless he was assigned to the internal Russian division, within the United States,’ said Cowley. As its head he had the right of veto over staff appointments within his section, he remembered.
‘I was very nervous about tonight,’ admitted Pauline, suddenly. ‘
Am
very nervous.’
‘I wasn’t sure, either. I’m glad I came though. Very glad. It
is
good to see you again.’
Pauline smiled, more easily than before. ‘I’m glad, too … I mean there’s no real reason why we shouldn’t have got together, is there …? And it
is
Moscow, which is different from anywhere else …’ She floundered to a halt. ‘Do you think you could get me another drink?’
Cowley took her glass, curious at her difficulty. Surely …? He refused to let the question even form. Another thought intruded. There didn’t seem much personal feeling between her and Andrews. No tenderness, no touching. But had there been between him and Pauline, when they’d been together? Pauline wasn’t the type of woman who needed that sort of attention: she’d be uncomfortable with it. He said: ‘How long have you been drinking Scotch?’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. A couple of years, I guess. But just socially. You really off it completely?’
He returned with her drink, nodding. ‘Quite a while now.’
‘No relapse?’
‘Nope.’
‘That’s good.’
Cowley was unsure whether the remark was genuine or just politeness. ‘I think so.’ She’d pleaded so much, so often: tried anger and tears and threatened the divorce there had eventually been. A new feeling came, with the recollection, a positive sorrow at how unhappy he must have made her. She hadn’t deserved it: not any of it.
‘What about …?’ she started, then stopped.
‘No,’ he said, guessing the incomplete question. Her other unhappiness: humiliation as well as unhappiness, his hand up every available skirt. He’d really given Pauline the whole package.
‘No one?’ Her surprise was obvious.
‘No one.’
‘That’s sad,’ she said, unexpectedly.
Now he was surprised. ‘Why?’
She shrugged again. ‘I don’t know. It just is. I always thought you’d get married again. I kept waiting for something on a Christmas card. You’re the sort of person who needs to be married.’
‘With my track record!’ He was intrigued at her assessment. He wondered what was keeping Andrews at the embassy.
Pauline’s shoulders rose and fell again. ‘Mistakes happen.’
Was that how she’d categorized their marriage, a mistake that could be dismissed with a shrug? He didn’t want her to think of it like that. ‘You happy?’ he said, then at once: ‘No! I didn’t mean that! I’m sorry. That was out of order; forgive me!’
She nodded, agreeing with his self-correction. ‘Who’s ever really happy?’
‘A lot of people.’ He shouldn’t push it like this.
‘I’m OK. Moscow’s not an easy place for anyone.’ She stood, abruptly. ‘Time I made the salad,’ she said, finding an excuse.
‘Anything I can do?’
She grinned at him from the kitchen doorway. ‘I don’t think I can handle all these changes at one time.’
Andrews’s return prevented any further conversation. There was a clink of bottles from a plastic sack. ‘Jesus, it’s cold out there!’ He smiled brightly, first at Cowley, then at Pauline’s reappearance, and said: ‘You guys been all right?’
‘You were a long time,’ the woman accused.
Andrews held the plastic bag aloft. ‘Essential errand.’ He set the wine out on the table, three bottles each of red and white. To Cowley he said: ‘And there was a message for you.
And
I got ambushed. It was a busy, busy time.’
‘What message?’ demanded Cowley.
Andrews left the table, for his wife to arrange the place settings and to clear all but two of the bottles on to a side dresser, offering Cowley the cable slip. ‘Blood content of the body is estimated to be two pints short, the predictable loss. So I guess she was killed in the street after all. The report is going to be in the overnight pouch, with some other stuff. Our medical people aren’t impressed by the standards of Russian autopsies, it would seem.’
‘What’s this about being ambushed?’ asked Pauline, from the table.
Andrews replied still looking at the other man, not his wife. ‘Prescott, the Senator’s monkey. He was hanging around outside the office. Wanted to know if I was working with you on the murder. I said I wasn’t, to get him off my back. He seemed disappointed.’
‘What else did he say?’
‘Asked if I knew anything at all. I said I didn’t. He told me the Senator would be grateful if I could pass anything on: that he’d keep in touch.’