No Time for Heroes cad-3

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Yes,’ conceded Cowley.

  Johannsen took a long pull at his drink, and Cowley watched the other man’s throat move as he swallowed. The detective said: ‘I liked the way you fucked him over the photograph.’

  ‘We’re going to need the best we can get. With Raisa in Moscow, he pretty definitely ate around here somewhere.’

  ‘Raisa? You got a file on them?’

  ‘He was a genuine diplomat.’

  ‘Who’s been killed by the Mafia, like genuine Russian diplomats are killed all the time!’ said Johannsen. ‘Wouldn’t it be good to screw Pavlenko further with a pocket diary among Serov’s stuff, detailing lots of scuttlebutt!’

  ‘I’d settle for a simple entry and a phone number.’

  Johannsen finished his drink and put the empty glass pointedly on the ledge, Cowley had to wait several minutes in the crush at the bar, surrounded by people and glasses and the smells he remembered so well; he felt the perspiration prick out on his face.

  When he got back, Cowley said: ‘I think you’re going to be proved right. It’ll be a miracle if anyone heard anything down there: certainly not enough to take them to a window, to look out.’

  ‘We as good as told you.’

  ‘Routine to be gone through,’ insisted Cowley.

  ‘On the subject of which,’ grinned Johannsen, ‘I think it would be a Christian act if I volunteered a little assistance to my regular partner ringing doorbells in one of those apartment blocks over there, don’t you?’

  The man might instead tell Rafferty he’d just agreed it was a waste of time and call the door-to-door enquiries off, thought Cowley, but he was anxious to get out of the bar. ‘I guess he’d appreciate it.’

  The telephone monitor registered a call when Cowley got into the Bureau car. He returned it without starting the engine.

  ‘Got something intriguing,’ said Harry Robertson, the scientific co-ordinator. ‘Looks like your Russian was shot dead with a Russian gun! How about that!’

  CHAPTER SIX

  There was no move to humiliate Danilov publicly until the day Leonid Lapinsk officially left. The old Director retired without any ceremony, merely touring the Petrovka building to say individual goodbyes. It was mid-morning when he reached Danilov’s cluttered and over-flowing office, separate from the general squad room because of Danilov’s seniority. Anatoli Metkin, the new Director, was at Lapinsk’s side.

  Danilov guessed a lot of the other investigators would be watching from the communal room further down the corridor. There was nothing for him and Lapinsk to say to each other. They shook hands and wished each other luck. Danilov told the other man he deserved his retirement and Lapinsk said he was looking forward to it but knew already he would miss the job. Danilov said he personally would miss the other man and immediately wished he hadn’t when Metkin smiled, a gloating expression. Throughout the farewell, Lapinsk’s nervous cough seemed more pronounced than usual.

  Metkin made no attempt to move when Lapinsk backed out into the corridor. The man appeared to be speaking to both of them when he said Danilov’s appointment represented an expansion of the Bureau, but Danilov took it as a confirmation of a larger audience he couldn’t see.

  Turning more towards Danilov, Metkin looked around the office in which it was difficult to move for files and folders and reference books and box containers, which made the place look like an animal warren but was in reality Danilov’s own records system. He knew what every bundle and packet contained, and could retrieve material hours ahead of the proper basement archives. Metkin said: ‘This will no longer be your office. Kabalin is senior investigator now.’

  Vladimir Nikolaevich Kabalin had been Metkin’s partner, allegedly specialising in organised gang crime, and had been another on Danilov’s now laughable purge list: Danilov wondered if Metkin would remain, with Kabalin, on the payroll of one or more of the gangs they were supposed to have investigated. There was no reason why they couldn’t double or treble their income now; with Kabalin as senior investigator and Metkin in ultimate charge, the rackets could continue uninterrupted and unchallenged.

  ‘Where will my office be?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s a problem,’ dismissed Metkin, enjoying himself. ‘We’ll have to find you somewhere. I want you in my office. An hour.’

  The bastard was staging the performance to mock Leonid Lapinsk, whose protege he had been, Danilov realised; the outgoing Director stood head bowed in embarrassment, just occasionally looking towards the squad room. Danilov said: ‘So there’s nowhere for me to put my things?’

  Metkin almost over-stressed the sneer. ‘Is there anything in this junk heap worth keeping?’

  ‘Things that are necessary to keep,’ insisted Danilov. How clever was Metkin: how really clever? This was juvenile.

  Metkin shrugged. ‘They’ll have to be stored somewhere, until we can find accommodation for you. Don’t forget: an hour.’

  As he looked helplessly around the room, Danilov was sure he heard laughter from along the corridor. He got up and started tidying the files to be carried away, but the fury was shaking through him and he did it carelessly, so the fresh piles began toppling and slipping, creating worse chaos. Danilov stopped, forcing control. He could not allow Metkin to reduce him to unthinking, unco-ordinated anger by a few minutes of arrogant, childish pantomime.

  He looked up curiously at another noise from outside, not knowing what to expect, then smiled, relieved. Yuri Mikhailovich Pavin had been his partner, whenever Danilov had been able to manipulate the shifts, a plainclothes Militia major whose heavy, slow-moving demeanour belied the astute brain that made him, in Danilov’s opinion, the best scene-of-crime officer in the department.

  ‘Hear you’ve got to pack up,’ greeted Pavin. ‘Thought you might need help.’

  Danilov saw Pavin had several cardboard boxes – a rarity like everything else in Moscow – gathered in a ham-like grip. ‘They can’t have been easy to get?’

  ‘Someone in stores owed me a favour.’

  Pavin had never admitted how he supplemented his Militia salary, and Danilov had never enquired. Pavin moved towards the jumbled files. ‘Any particular order? Things to be kept in sequence?’

  ‘It’s got to be done by noon: I’ve been called before Metkin then. Just dump them in as they come: I’ll sort it out later.’

  ‘I’ve still got the key to the store-cupboard we used as the evidence room for the killings last year,’ said Pavin. ‘They’ll be safe there for a while. Not long, though.’

  Danilov stopped packing, looking at Pavin in disbelief. ‘You think anyone will bother to upset these things?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pavin. ‘You weren’t expected to take the job. They don’t want you here: you’re an intrusive nuisance, so everybody is going to do what they can to make it as uncomfortable as possible. Besides, these boxes are worth having.’

  ‘I’d be grateful for any warnings in advance,’ said Danilov, tentatively, and quickly added: ‘I don’t want to cause you any difficulty.’

  ‘I wouldn’t want that either,’ said Pavin honestly. ‘If I can safely help, I will.’

  They had packed, although badly, and already carried six boxes to the store-room before Kabalin arrived. It took the man too long to clear his face of the surprise at the empty room and Danilov was glad he’d blocked the doorway, keeping Kabalin outside for the disappointment to be witnessed by the other watching detectives.

  ‘There’s only one bulb!’ protested Kabalin. The office was an inner one, with no window, so lights had to burn constantly: a wall socket and a desk lamp were empty, putting the room in semi-darkness.

  ‘You’ll have to get replacements from maintenance,’ advised Danilov. The average waiting time for light bulbs in Militia headquarters was six months, and then they could only be obtained for reciprocal favours. The bulbs hadn’t blown: they were in one of the first packing cases now in the locked closet to which Danilov had the only key. The light sockets wherever he was put would
be empty, which made taking those from his old room a practical precaution, though Danilov regretted matching the childishness with which he was being treated.

  Anatoli Metkin had not had time to innovate any changes or even to become accustomed to the Director’s suite, and Danilov decided the man looked the furtive interloper he was. Metkin was physically indecisive, neither tall nor short, fat nor thin. A crowd person, but for his face, which was criss-crossed and latticed with lines, and his mouth was bracketed by two deep grooves that began close to his eyes and curved the entire length of each cheek. His eyes were unusually light blue and unsettling because of it, and he didn’t blink a lot, as if he were afraid of missing something.

  ‘You’re surprised at my appointment,’ declared Metkin.

  ‘I didn’t have the opportunity earlier to congratulate you,’ evaded Danilov. The hypocrisy stuck in his throat. How much more would he find difficulty in saying and doing, in the future?

  ‘Lapinsk had promised the directorship to you, hadn’t he!’

  The former Director would not have admitted that. ‘The appointment is the responsibility of the Interior Ministry, not a gift of an outgoing incumbent.’

  ‘Exactly!’ said Metkin, triumphantly, as if the reply had proved something.

  Which Danilov supposed it had, hopefully for his own future protection, rather than Metkin’s satisfaction. Who was Metkin’s protector in the Ministry? There would be safety for himself, if he could find out. There were papers on the desk, and Danilov was curious to know if Metkin had written reminder notes for himself.

  Fixing Danilov with an unbroken gaze, Metkin said: ‘I do not intend any misconceptions between us.’

  ‘I hope there won’t be,’ said Danilov. The man was altogether too anxious, falling over himself to make his points and doing it badly. There was advantage to be taken here.

  ‘Your appointment is provisional. Did Lapinsk make that clear?’

  ‘No,’ Danilov conceded. Had it been an oversight by Lapinsk? Or an admission of further failure the old man hadn’t been able to concede?

  Metkin smiled, crumpling his face further. ‘If the experiment doesn’t work, it will be reconsidered. For that reason, your promoted rank to Lieutenant-General is only acting, subject to confirmation.’

  On what grade – his old or the temporary one – would his pension be calculated if he abandoned the whole stupid nonsense and quit the Militia entirely? ‘There is a car?’ He might as well get everything spelled out at the very beginning.

  ‘Not personally assigned. Allocated from the car pool, and only when operational requirements permit.’

  Which they never would, Danilov accepted. ‘How do you see this new role being fulfilled?’

  Metkin went at last to his reminder notes. ‘Your function is to be administrative from now on. You will be responsible for all operational rotas and rosters. You will supervise and be answerable for all supplies and facilities throughout the building. You will control and administer all financial matters and prepare accounts and forward budgets, for presentation to the Finance Ministry. You will also liaise, where necessary, with uniformed Militia offices throughout the city.’

  Danilov sat silent for several minutes, content to let Metkin believe he was overwhelmed by the catalogue of duties. Which were administrative, despite what Lapinsk had said, and would be overwhelming, if he ever tried to perform them properly, because they were the work of at least four men. But Metkin was failing to realise how the role he had just announced could be selectively manipulated. Hoping he was maintaining a look of shocked bewilderment, Danilov said: ‘Have you officially notified every relevant department here at Petrovka?’

  ‘The second thing I did after taking office.’

  That would be an essential part of the ridicule, accepted Danilov. Which was the only aspect from which the idiot would have considered it. ‘And the Ministry?’

  ‘The first thing I did,’ said Metkin. ‘Both our own and Finance.’

  He’d answered one of his earlier questions, Danilov decided. Metkin wasn’t clever at all. The man was really remarkably stupid. Danilov was sure he could make Metkin look even more stupid. He was going to enjoy doing it.

  It was regular commuters on the New York and Boston shuttles from National who became daily more offended by the smell from the anonymous grey Ford. Two noted the Hertz bumper sticker and complained to the airport office, on the third day.

  The service attendant began retching when he was ten yards from the vehicle and backed off, believing he recognised the smell, although he wasn’t sure. He was definitely sure he was paid to jockey cars and fix minor faults, not examine decomposing bodies. That was a job for the police.

  The Hertz supervisor agreed, and dialled the 911 emergency number.

  ‘Zimin was entrusted with briefing Antipov because he controls the bulls,’ insisted Yerin. ‘He should have gone to America himself, to see it went right: he likes seeing people hurt.’

  Gusovsky had agreed to Zimin being excluded from the meeting at his house in Kutbysevskiy. They were alone in the study, the bodyguards relegated to the outer rooms.

  ‘We didn’t suggest he went,’ reminded Gusovsky, lighting one of the thin cigars the doctors had prohibited when the shadow on his lung was first detected.

  ‘He should have suggested it himself.’

  ‘There’s the other obvious way.’

  ‘Who goes to Switzerland?’

  ‘Stupar. The Swiss won’t recognise his qualifications, though: he’ll have to work through a local lawyer.’

  ‘I think we should start limiting knowledge only to what people have to know. It’s safer.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Gusovsky.

  ‘And that should include Zimin from now on. He’s only good at controlling thugs.’

  Gusovsky didn’t respond. If Zimin proved a liability, he’d have to be eliminated. Gusovsky decided against reaching a decision too soon: when it happened – if it had to happen – he’d make it an example throughout the Family, to prove no-one was safe, no matter how high in the organisation. A public execution, in fact.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Cowley supposed his identification was inevitable (‘Hey, don’t I recognise you?’) once the Georgetown photographs were compared in the newspaper picture libraries. Just as it was inevitable the media would fill in the lack of real information with long references to his having been the first American investigator officially to work in Moscow. He still regretted the exposure. He’d missed the initial coverage, on the previous evening’s TV news, but it was repeated on every morning channel and all the newspapers carried his picture at the scene the previous day and from the Moscow affair: some even had shots and lengthy accounts of the case. There was, of course, no identification of Pauline’s second husband as the killer: according to the carefully concocted official records, the murderer was the mentally deranged Moscow labourer they had first – wrongly – arrested.

  There were already three enquiries from FBI Public Affairs for interviews by the time Cowley got to his office. There was also a message from the State Department that the Russians were providing more up to date photographs of Serov. The embassy had also formally requested the return of the body. Cowley rejected the interviews, and telephoned the Director’s office for a meeting that afternoon.

  A list of what had been found on the body was already on his desk and Cowley at first skimmed it hopefully, remembering Johannsen’s remark about a pocket diary. There wasn’t one. In addition to the DC driving licence that had provided the original identification, there were locally billed MasterCharge and American Express cards, four house keys, $76 in cash, a pair of spectacles, in their case, American manufactured ballpoint and fountain pens, and a clean pad of reminder notes marked as undergoing forensic testing for previous page indentations. There had been a plain band of Russian-origin gold on the man’s wedding finger, and a tie clasp and matching cuff-links of American make.

  Cowley had just finish
ed going through the list when Rafferty and Johannsen arrived. Even before he sat down Rafferty said: ‘We didn’t know we were with a celebrity! Do we give autographs when we’re asked or not?’

  There wasn’t the earlier resentful edge of cynicism, and Cowley was glad. ‘What about the house-to-house?’

  ‘Zilch,’ dismissed Rafferty.

  ‘The captain wants to know if you need the scene to remain sealed. All your guys have gone,’ said Johannsen.

  ‘I’m seeing our scientific co-ordinator this morning. I’ll check if it can be released. And there is something from the scene: a shell casing from a Russian gun.’

  Both homicide detectives straightened slightly in their chairs, discarding the professional casualness. ‘You think maybe he was killed by one of his own people?’ queried Johannsen. ‘That it is the Russian Mafia!’

  ‘Could be a set-up, to make it look like that,’ cautioned Rafferty.

  ‘Let’s wait for the evidence,’ warned Cowley. He’d already made up his own mind what it proved, and he wasn’t happy with the conclusion.

  ‘If this is an in-house Russian affair we’re not going to get diddly squat, judging from the co-operation of those two embassy guys yesterday,’ said Johannsen.

  ‘Maybe there’ll be something we can pick up from the memo pad?’ suggested Rafferty, studying the list Cowley handed him.

  ‘The MasterCharge and American Express billing is local,’ pointed out Cowley. ‘Check with both: get the charge sheets, particularly if there were any on the night of the murder.’

  ‘There would have been a counterfoil on him, if he’d picked up a tab,’ argued Johannsen.

  ‘Not necessarily, if he didn’t want to put it against an expense account,’ said Rafferty.

  ‘Let’s get the accounts,’ insisted Cowley. ‘If there’s nothing for the night in question, they might still isolate a favourite restaurant. And restaurants are going to be today’s enquiry. There are photographs of Serov coming through State, from the embassy.’