‘No,’ deflated Cowley, at once.
‘Satisfied about what?’ demanded the woman.
No one answered her. Indifferent about showing the same consideration as Cowley in front of the economist’s wife, Danilov said: ‘January 17 was a Tuesday. Where were you on January 17 …?’ He looked fully at Angela Hughes. ‘Do you remember the time your husband got home on January 17?’
‘How the hell could anyone remember something so unimportant after five weeks …?’ began Hughes, outraged, but his wife cut across him. ‘There’s no way I could have remembered,’ she said, ‘I was on home leave in Newark, New Jersey, with our sons, for the last three weeks of January: I wasn’t even here, in Moscow, on the 17th.’
There was a brief period of absolute silence, before Cowley said: ‘Mr Hughes, I’d appreciate your getting dressed to come to the embassy with us now. We’d like to speak to …’ He paused. ‘… The rest of the staff in the finance division.’
To Cowley, the woman said: ‘What’s he done? Why are you talking to him like this?’ And then swinging around to confront her husband she said: ‘Tell me what you’ve done!’
‘Nothing!’ Hughes insisted, with matching forcefulness. ‘You heard what he said. They want to speak to my staff: proper — essential in fact — that I am there. It’s my responsibility.’ He finished actually moving away from the group, sparing himself any further demands from anyone.
‘This isn’t right!’ she protested, turning upon them. ‘Not right at all! You’re not telling me the truth.’
‘Mrs Hughes,’ said Cowley, the patient consideration faltering. ‘The person to tell you the truth is your husband. But not now. Later.’
Dressed — although carelessly shaved — Hughes’s demeanour shifted surprisingly in the car going towards the American embassy, something close to confidence showing in the man. As they connected with the inner ring road, he actually turned smiling to Danilov, whose question it had been back at the apartment, and said: ‘Isn’t that funny? I’d forgotten all about Angela being back in America on January 17: wouldn’t have got the significance, not for a long time.’
‘What significance?’ asked Cowley.
‘You tell me,’ replied Hughes, defiantly. ‘Why is January 17 so important? What happened then?’
Danilov was unsettled by the man’s changed attitude. Trying to upset it, he said: ‘Don’t you remember? That’s the night Vladimir Suzlev, the taxi driver, was murdered.’
‘Aah!’ said Hughes, drawing out the expression. More defiant still, he said: ‘That makes January 17 very important, doesn’t it. Crucial, in fact. Good.’
Their arrival at the embassy prevented any continuation of the conversation. By unspoken agreement, Pavin remained with the car in the side road separating the embassy from the museum to Fedor Chaliapin. The entry guard was the marine whom Cowley had encountered on his first day and seen on subsequent visits. Cowley insisted Dimitri Danilov was coming into the legation upon his authority, and Hughes further bewildered both investigators by saying that he also guaranteed the Russian’s admission.
Pamela Donnelly responded immediately to Hughes’s summons, hurrying through the door without knocking and smiling broadly until she saw the other two men, belatedly coming to an uncertain halt, the smile fading.
‘It’s all right,’ said Hughes quietly, calming. ‘You remember Mr Cowley, from the other day?’
The girl nodded, guardedly. She was as carefully dressed as before, mid-calf brown leather boots a perfect match with the deeper brown velvet skirt, the sweater cream this time, with no motif. She didn’t look the sort of girl who would enjoy having her nipples bitten or enduring any other sort of pain for that matter. But who could tell? Cowley said: ‘We want you to tell us something. The truth. About January … particularly a period about five weeks ago.’
She looked questioningly at Hughes. He said: ‘It’s all right, darling. Tell them everything. They know about you and me. So it’s important you tell them what they want to know.’
Pamela looked back to Cowley. ‘What about January, five weeks ago?’
‘Do you remember Tuesday, January 17?’
She frowned. ‘Not particularly. Should I?’
‘We want you to,’ came in Danilov. ‘Were you and Mr Hughes together that night?’
She looked uncertainly again at Hughes, who nodded. She said: ‘Yes.’
‘It was five weeks ago,’ said Danilov, picking up on Hughes’s earlier protest. ‘Can you be definite about that specific date?’
‘Yes,’ she said again, shortly. She was beginning to colour.
‘Why so sure?’ pressed Cowley.
‘I don’t like this … it’s … it’s unpleasant,’ she objected.
‘It’s important, darling. Very important,’ said Hughes, urgently. ‘Tell them everything they want to know.’
Refusing to look directly at them, Pamela said: ‘Angela was in America. For three weeks. The middle week — the 17th was in the middle week — Paul virtually lived with me all the time …’ The colour deepened. ‘Certainly stayed with me every night. He only went home between times to change.’
‘At night?’ demanded Cowley.
‘Sometimes. We’d go back together, pick up what he wanted, and go on somewhere.’
‘He didn’t go out alone, on the night of that Tuesday?’
‘Not any night. Why?’
‘They think I killed Ann,’ Hughes announced. His voice was flat but he smiled, inviting astonishment at the absurdity of the suggestion. ‘There was another murder before her. On the 17th.’
‘What!’ The girl was pebble-eyed with astonishment. ‘But that’s … incredible.’
Cowley had thought she was going to say absurd or ridiculous; that’s what alibi-providers usually said. ‘What about last night?’
‘Paul came to my place from the gym. I cooked a meal.’ She stopped, refusing to go on.
‘What time did he leave?’
‘Sometime after eleven. Quarter after, maybe.’
From his desk Hughes said to Danilov, ‘Which gives me fifteen minutes to get to Pecatnikov, just like Angela told you.’
‘Would you be able to swear in court, on oath, to everything you’ve told us today?’ asked Cowley, resignation in his voice.
‘In court?’ echoed the girl, alarmed.
‘If you were asked?’
She looked at Hughes, briefly, then said: ‘Yes. If I had to.’
‘So would Angela,’ Hughes insisted. ‘You heard what she said.’ The supercilious assurance was fully restored again: he had his hands cupped across the desk, the right one uppermost, showing the twisted finger that had seemed so important such a short time ago. ‘Is there anything else we can help you with? Any of us?’
‘Not for the moment,’ said Cowley, trying for a way to puncture the pomposity. ‘Maybe later. Your wife will probably have questions of her own.’
Cowley escorted Danilov out of the embassy, to the waiting car. There he said: ‘I guess I’ll have a lot of overnight messages.’
‘And I have to brief the Director and the Prosecutor.’
‘We’ll speak by phone,’ said the American.
Barry Andrews was in the FBI office but away from his desk, pacing back and forth in front of the window. When Cowley entered, Andrews said: ‘Thank Christ you’re here! Where the hell have you been?’ He gestured to a pile of messages and diplomatic pouch material. ‘They’re going ape-shit in Washington, particularly over Hughes. You’re to keep the Russians from getting anywhere near him: you’ve personally got to get him back. Hidden in a box if necessary.’
Cowley scooped up the waiting papers. ‘There was another attack last night,’ he announced, wearily. ‘This time the victim didn’t die. And it won’t be necessary to ship Hughes home in a box. He’s a sado-masochist and Christ knows what else, but he didn’t kill Ann Harris. Or anyone else. He’s got alibi witnesses all the way.’ He hammered his fist against the desk, at once regretting the theatricality. ‘We’ve been wasting our fucking time! For days we’ve been chasing the wrong leads to the wrong man!’