‘Making provable records,’ said Ross, simply. ‘That’s why you have a stenographer taking notes, as well as making a complete verbal recording, isn’t it?’
‘There have been times in the past when I have told …’ The politician halted, to correct himself. ‘… asked you to be careful, Mr Director.’
‘Which is what I am being, Senator: what we’re both being. So I’ll repeat my earlier suggestion. I think it would be advisable for us to talk alone, neither with staff present.’
Burden’s attitude now was the alertness of a jungle animal — a creature of the political jungle — sniffing the wind to detect an intruder into his territory. In a quiet voice — jungle animals don’t make sounds that might alarm — Burden said: ‘You tell me what you’re talking about, sir!’
Once more Ross gestured beyond the window. ‘I’m talking about media circuses and self-promotion and possible impediment of a criminal investigation. And of matters of a personal nature.’
It was possible to see Burden’s face colour, to reach puce: so long and so rare had it been for anyone publicly to confront the man with such disregard that for several moments Burden had difficulty making the words form. ‘I’ll destroy you, Ross! You hear me! You’re destroyed! Dead!’
The FBI Director sat as easily as he could in his steel-framed chair, not feeling the need to reply. Beth kept her head lowered over her notebook. There was the creak of leather, from where McBride had resumed his seat. There was no sound from behind, to identify Prescott. Burden was leaning positively forward over the football expanse, waiting for a reaction. Still Ross refused to give one. He was actually thinking of the theatre of a courtroom, reflecting how much better he had enjoyed it, even before his elevation to the bench. It was possible to resign the FBI Directorship, he supposed. But not yet: not too soon after this episode. It had always been important to win, when he was an advocate. The attitude hadn’t changed.
Forced finally to continue, Burden hissed the words. ‘I demand to know the truth, about what happened to my niece. The whole truth. In front of witnesses. Now!’
Ross prolonged the response, groping through his briefcase for the papers he wanted and then sorting them. Satisfied at last, reading from Cowley’s verbatim recollection of the intercepted telephone conversations, he quoted: ‘“I don’t mind head. Like it. Greek too. But Christ you hurt me last night. Made my tits bleed, you bastard …”’
‘… What in the name of God?’ exploded Burden, starting from his chair.
When Ross looked briefly up, he saw Beth’s face was close to being as red as the politician’s. ‘You demanded to know,’ Ross said, selecting a second transcript and starting to quote again. ‘“You didn’t say you were going to do that, when you tied me up. How would you like it with a dildo up your ass …”’
‘Stop it!’ roared Burden.
‘I’d like to,’ said Ross, calmly. Exaggerating, he went on: ‘Those are your niece’s words, Senator. There’s a lot more. Positively recorded. There are a lot of letters, talking like that, too …’ Ross hesitated, looking again at Beth: all Burden’s staff would have a very low level of security clearance. So Hughes couldn’t be named. Ross resumed: ‘She was sexually involved with a member of the American embassy, who we think was either being targeted or has already been suborned by Russian intelligence. At this moment, somewhere here in Washington, he’s strapped to a lie detector: before the interrogation is over he’s going to tell us everything we want to know. Which will unavoidably include every detail of the sado-masochistic affair he enjoyed with your niece. And which she clearly enjoyed, to a point. At first, we thought he’d killed her. It doesn’t seem now that he did …’
Ross paused, for breath. Exaggerating again, he said: ‘That was why there was the news blackout: to get him back here, into American jurisdiction. Which also protected the reputation of your niece. And let’s talk more about her. This man wasn’t her first lover, according to what we know. We don’t see any point in that becoming public knowledge. It won’t, not from the FBI or from any other source. We don’t yet know if she was involved with a Russian. She may well have been …’ Ross had to pause again, his voice becoming strained. ‘What cover-up existed was for the benefit of America. And your niece. Any further protests from you will seriously impede the questioning of a member of the American embassy who has been compromised. It will also, inevitably, lead to the disclosure of your niece’s involvement. I think to involve your niece in any of this is unnecessary. Misleading, too, because her connection would obviously mean yours, as well …’
‘Me!’ the politician managed at last, ‘It’s me they’re trying to embarrass!’
How easy the man’s arrogance was to manipulate, thought Ross. He said: ‘And they would succeed, wouldn’t they, with any public disclosure?’ He half twisted, including the media organizer in the discussion. ‘The line seems pretty direct to me. An embassy official compromised by Russian intelligence, involved in an aberrant sexual relationship with a woman known to be extremely close to an uncle who is a potential Presidential candidate. Would you like to face a press conference upon all the implications of that, Senator? Perhaps discuss your niece’s sexual inclinations, at the same time?’
The collapse wasn’t like the gradual deflation of a balloon, more of an abrupt pop. Burden buried his head in his hands, so that his voice was muffled. ‘Oh my God!’ he said. ‘What am I going to do?’
‘That’s a matter for you, as it always has been,’ said Ross, briskly. ‘I have told the press outside — whom I understand you don’t control — that there will be no statement from the Bureau. Only from you. If you decide to talk further, we would appreciate one of your people advising us. We would consider ourselves no longer restricted, in putting our case as well …’ He allowed the pause, nodding sideways to Fletcher, ‘I understand the President wishes to know the outcome of this meeting. I shall let him have a complete transcript. Is there anything further I can help you with, Senator?’
Burden’s colour had swung through the complete spectrum. When he looked up from his cupped hands, he was finally ashen, eyes stretched in genuine horror. He appeared initially unable to reply to Ross’s question, merely shaking his head, as a boxer shakes his head to clear a flurried attack. When he finally spoke, it wasn’t a reply at all. He said: ‘Do you imagine a long career here in Washington, Mr Director?’
‘No,’ said Ross. ‘I’ve come to dislike the place.’
They had to crest their way through the renewed wave of journalists as they left. This time Ross didn’t even bother verbally to refuse a statement, shouldering his way through towards the car. In the limousine returning down the hill, Fletcher said: ‘That was absolutely awful, wasn’t it?’
‘I thought it went very well,’ answered Ross.
Cowley broke his direct return to Moscow to stop in New York to meet John Harris. For the first time there was some obvious grief, but not as much as Cowley had expected. The meeting produced even less than that with Judy Billington. Reminded of the girl as the taxi pulled into Kennedy airport, he tore up the piece of paper listing her telephone number and discarded it in the waste bin on his way to the check-in desk.
At the moment Cowley’s plane lifted off, five thousand miles away in the direction in which it was heading Dimitri Danilov stretched up from his complete study of the haphazardly made and carelessly recorded interviews with psychiatric patients, past and present, whose history showed any of the tendencies for which they were looking. He should have been angry at the inefficiency, he supposed: it would have even been possible to censure the officers, because their names were on the reports. But he was too tired. And there was no point — and certainly no benefit — in getting angry at the deficiencies of the Moscow Militia.