In the Name of a Killer by Brian Freemantle Page A

experience.
    ‘I’m aware of the personal complication,’ Ross broke in, misunderstanding the interruption. ‘That’s why I’m seeing you personally. I want your complete assurance.’
    ‘Why not Andrews himself? It’s his field office.’
    Ross nodded. ‘And he’s more than competent enough to handle it: we accept that. But if we admit to an in-field agent it will be official confirmation of an FBI station at the Moscow embassy, which we don’t want. Presidential ban, in fact. He’s already accredited as a cultural secretary, so the Russians would know the scientific offer was just our way of getting in. And he’s due for relocation, although that, of course, can be postponed for as long as you decide. His function will be to assist, within the embassy.’
    How could the Director talk glibly of being aware of personal complications and make a suggestion like this? Cowley didn’t consider there were any remaining personal difficulties about the break-up: there were still cards at Christmas and birthdays and once a year a digest of events in their lives, over the preceding twelve months. But this was professional: an intrusion into the job to which Andrews had always been committed to the exclusion of every other consideration. He’d obviously see the murder of Ann Harris as his investigation, even unofficially at this stage. It was his investigation, by right if not by political and diplomatic choice. Now – if they got in as the Director was hoping to get in – it was about to be peremptorily taken away. And by the man who had been Pauline’s first husband, thus completing the confused circle where it was going to be hard, for Andrews at least, to separate what was personal and what was professional. Maybe for himself, too. He said: ‘If we do get involved, I’d like you to brief Andrews fully by cable why it’s being done this way. And why I’m the person being sent in.’
    ‘So there are going to be difficulties!’
    ‘I’m considering the investigation, nothing else. Resentment is inevitable, isn’t it? It would be unnatural if there wasn’t.’
    ‘Not if he’s properly professional, which he should be. And reads the instructions I’ll send.’
    ‘Let’s hope he does,’ said Cowley, doubtfully.
    ‘You can back off, if you want,’ offered the Director.
    Cowley realized, abruptly, that he didn’t want to back off. He wanted to return to the field and prove how good he was: how good he had always been, as an investigator. Was that all? Didn’t he like the idea of taking over from the man who now had his wife, being in charge of the man, personally telling him what to do? Of course not, Cowley told himself. That was absurd: worse than absurd, it was totally unprofessional. ‘I’ll go in, of course,’ he said, shortly.
    The Director smiled. ‘You’ll need velvet gloves, diplomatically. I want you to clear your desk. The preliminary request – offer – has already been conveyed by our ambassador in Moscow. It’s being reinforced, by the Secretary of State …’ He patted a dossier on the desk in front of him. ‘There’s not much but you can read what Andrews has sent from Moscow. Let the Duty Officer know where you’ll be, at all times.’
    ‘I’m usually at home,’ said Cowley. It was a dismally honest admission of his loneliness. He’d need velvet gloves all the time, not just diplomatically, he decided.
    ‘Sure you don’t want to think more about it?’ suggested Ross.
    Knowing the Bureau’s adhesive attention to detail, he supposed it was obvious there would be a full history in Personnel records about the collapse of his relationship with Pauline and of her subsequent marriage to Andrews, but Cowley was still vaguely unsettled by it. ‘Quite sure.’ Another sweeping commitment, he realized. Despite the assurances he was giving today, it hadn’t been particularly easy, during the last meeting three years earlier. Couldn’t be better, how about you? Couldn’t be