In the Name of a Killer Read Online Free Page B

there’ll be an interpreter.’ Lapinsk had arranged the meeting with someone named Ralph Baxter, a Second Secretary. From the diplomatic lists he’d already studied, Danilov knew nearly everyone was described as a Second Secretary.
    ‘You’re not going to tell them?’ Pavin smirked, appreciatively.
    Danilov had read English, with French as a second subject, at Moscow University: just prior to graduation he had considered a career utilizing linguistics but the Militia had a better pay structure, more privileges and inestimably more practical benefits for an easy life, so he hadn’t pursued the idea. Occasionally, watching on television interpreters at the shoulder of Russian leaders on overseas summits, Danilov regretted the decision. Interpreters didn’t get woken in the middle of the night to look at dead bodies, for one thing. He said: ‘Not at the beginning: it might be useful, being able to understand what they say among themselves.’ Be careful at the embassy . He thought the potential advantage outweighed any later recrimination.
    The uniformed Moscow militiamen on duty outside the American embassy had clearly been alerted to their coming by Militia Post 122. They were deferentially admitted through the main entrance and directed by a secondary guard of American marines from an inner courtyard to the right of the mansion. The door they approached was mostly glass. The reflection was distorted, but Danilov decided he’d been right about the haircut: the greyness wasn’t obvious at all now. The mirrored image made him seem smaller, too, dwarfed by the ponderous Pavin behind. The only advantage was that he also looked slimmer, with no hint of the developing paunch about which both Olga and Larissa mocked him, one more gently than the other. The suit looked smart but it was only just a year old, one of the few genuinely bought articles after the halcyon period heading a Militia district.
    There was a reception desk where Danilov identified them both and asked for Ralph Baxter by name. The American appeared at once, a slight, quick-moving man with rimless spectacles and a moustache that seemed too big in proportion to the rest of his features. His shirt collar was secured behind the knot of his tie with a pin: Danilov had seen Americans wearing that style on television and wished such shirts were available in Moscow. He would have been happy with any sort of clean shirt that morning.
    Baxter said: ‘ Dobrah’eh ootrah ’ in badly accented Russian and offered a weak handshake. He turned at once to a man who had followed along the corridor and said in English: ‘Will you ask them to come into the office?’ To the receptionist Baxter said: ‘Warn Barry we’re on our way.’
    The translator was intense and young, leaning forward when he spoke and carefully picking the grammar and the intonation. Danilov guessed it was the man’s first posting, after language school.
    The corridor was buffed to a highly polished sheen and the walls hung with prints of American pastoral scenes. Halfway along there was a large plant in a tub, the wide green leaves almost as glossy as the floor all around. Baxter halted at the far end and stood back, gesturing the two Russians ahead of him. Danilov concluded it was not a working office at all but an interview or conference room. Another man rose at their entry. His hair was thinner than Danilov’s. He wore a double-breasted sports jacket, a hard-collared shirt with a club tie and sharply creased trousers: the impeccable appearance was completed by highly polished brogues. Barry, guessed Danilov, from what he had overheard in the foyer.
    ‘My colleague,’ said Baxter, offering no further introduction.
    There was another nod but no handshakes.
    Baxter indicated chairs set against the table: the Americans placed themselves in a facing half-circle and Baxter said: ‘We have been told this is a police matter. Serious. Possibly involving an American national.’
    The intense young