Free In the Name of a Killer by Brian Freemantle Page A

officer had not by now announced KGB control. ‘What’s the official response going to be?’
    ‘Mainly political,’ Lapinsk disclosed. ‘The Minister is waiting for the meeting with the ambassador.’
    Danilov looked pointedly at Gugin. ‘There is some technical help I would appreciate from here.’
    Gugin returned the attention in apparent surprise, in reality wondering if this was going to show him the way. ‘What?’
    Danilov leaned forward, offering a slip of paper upon which he’d copied Ann Harris’s telephone number. ‘Would there have been any monitor?’
    Gugin stared steadily back at the detective for several moments. ‘I won’t know, until I check. We could never admit it.’
    ‘I don’t want to admit it. I want access to numbers she might have called. If the man she slept with isn’t her killer at least he might know why she got out of bed to walk around Moscow in the middle of the night.’
    ‘It would be extremely useful,’ encouraged Lapinsk.
    ‘I’ll inquire,’ promised Gugin. But think and plan first, he decided: there probably would have been a monitor, upon somebody so well connected politically. This really could be the way.
    The reply confused Danilov. Now they were openly inviting KGB involvement and still the man wasn’t making the control demands there should have been. ‘I’d like something else.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘File photographs of Ann Harris. I’d like to see who she circulated with, socially.’
    ‘She might not have been targeted. If anything came up, during, say, a normal embassy event it might have been retained.’
    ‘She was related to a prominent American politician!’ Danilov pointed out. By now he was totally confused by Gugin’s practically acquiescent attitude: it wasn’t right.
    ‘I’ll check that, too.’ Gugin was sure of an advantage now. It could be very good.
    ‘That would be extremely helpful.’
    ‘I’m sure it will be,’ said Gugin, amusing himself. He amused himself further with the obvious surprise of the other two men when he terminated his presence by abruptly announcing he had other meetings for which he was already late. He was anxious, in fact, to consult with others back in Lubyanka.
    When they were alone Lapinsk said: ‘How are you going to take this forward?’
    ‘Routinely. Pavin’s setting up the checks on the mental institutions. It’s going to tie up a lot of personnel: possibly mean other cases will have to be put aside.’
    ‘That’s unimportant!’ declared the Director at once, anxious again. ‘There is only one priority. This case. Everyone’s frightened. The Foreign Ministry – and the Interior – are terrified of overseas newspaper and magazine stories of monsters and madmen roaming Moscow’s streets.’
    ‘There is one,’ said Danilov, unhelpfully. He jerked his head in the direction of the door through which Gugin had left. ‘I don’t understand what the Cheka are doing. Or rather, not doing!’
    ‘Neither did I, at first,’ Lapinsk confessed. ‘Then I sat through a half-hour lecture from the Foreign Minister and his advisers about the pitfalls and the Cheka attitude became entirely clear. They’ll cooperate in what we’ve asked: it makes them look willing participants. But they’re always going to be on the outside, free from any responsibility. They can’t afford or risk any more censure, can they?’
    The explanation was still hardly an expression of confidence in either him or the Militia, Danilov recognized. ‘So it begins and ends with us? With me?’ Wasn’t that what he’d wanted? Already determined to fight for?
    ‘The KGB have far more expertise at political and diplomatic manoeuvre than we have. They’ve always needed it more.’
    ‘Are there any special instructions?’ And was he going to regret his own ambition, he asked himself. He hoped not.
    ‘Find who did it, as soon as possible,’ said Lapinsk.
    ‘I hardly need to be told that.’ The Director’s fatuous reply showed