In the Name of a Killer by Brian Freemantle

it soon: quite soon. Important not to begin to like it, though. It would be madness, to like it. Wasn’t mad. That was the most brilliant part of it all: that he wasn’t mad. Only he knew that, though. Brilliant.

Chapter Seven
     
    William Cowley attracted attention – which for a law officer was sometimes a disadvantage – because he returned it, intently. He was a large man, both tall and heavy-shouldered, the build of the college football player he had once been, long ago. But unlike many men of such size he did not try to come down to the stature of smaller people but walked purposefully and upright and invariably concentrated absolutely upon the person to whom he was talking. It was a natural confidence, often mistaken for conceit, which was a mistake, because William Cowley was not a conceited man. He was a very realistic, pragmatic man. A sad one, too.
    Both secretaries started to rise eagerly when he entered the Director’s suite: the younger, a corn-and-milk-fed blonde, won the race. Cowley answered the smile but politely, without any come-on flirtation: another reform, to go with all the rest. Cowley identified himself and the girl said Mr Fletcher was waiting. Fletcher was the Director’s personal assistant. The man emerged unsmiling from an inner office and said: ‘Thank you for coming,’ as if there had been a choice. Then he added: ‘The Director’s waiting.’
    Ross’s fifth-floor office was at the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue looking up towards the Capitol. The walls were hung solely with large, official photographs of the present and past Presidents and past FBI Directors. Cowley wondered where Ross’s photograph would hang, when the man left office; there didn’t appear to be any space left. There was a predictable furled American flag in one corner, behind the desk at which Ross sat. The carelessly fat man in the crumpled suit didn’t rise or move his face in any greeting. He nodded thanks to Fletcher, for the escort duty, and nodded again to Cowley, to be seated.
    ‘Senator Burden’s niece has been murdered in Moscow,’ announced the FBI Director, without any preamble. ‘For all the reasons that don’t need me to explain, we’re trying to get into the situation.’
    Imagining his guidance was being sought, as an acknowledged before-and-after-the-changes Russian expert, he said: ‘I could probably come up with something in a day or two.’ Andrews was going to be as busy as hell: something with a fall-out like this would be a bastard.
    ‘Already decided,’ said the Director, briskly. ‘We’re offering technical expertise. The sophistication of Russian criminal investigation will be light years behind ours.’
    ‘Will they go for that?’
    ‘Depends how it’s argued. It isn’t going to be easy, from what’s happened so far.’
    ‘What has happened?’
    So this was the forthright directness referred to in Cowley’s last personnel assessment, a trait which seemed to upset some people here on Pennsylvania Avenue. Ross, who rarely for a legal man preferred one word to a wrapped-up sentence, didn’t find it offensive. ‘The investigation is under the jurisdiction of the People’s Militia: that’s controlled by the Interior Ministry. There’ve been official complaints of arrogance and undiplomatic behaviour.’
    ‘Providing them laboratory room here isn’t going to give us much of an in.’
    ‘Which is why we’ve got to maximize it, if we get the chance,’ the Director insisted. There was a pause. ‘And which is why I want you to go.’
    ‘Me!’
    ‘You’ve got Russian,’ said the Director, itemizing the qualifications. ‘You’ve got overseas embassy experience. You’re up to date with every investigatory technique, from the courses at Quantico. And before your promotion to the Russian desk, you were the senior inspector here …’
    ‘But …’ broke in Cowley, intending to point out the gap of three years since his last in-field investigation