CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The man who opened the door to Raisa Serova’s apartment was tall and straw-haired, aged about forty. Surprisingly deep black eyes were shielded behind rimless, medically tinted spectacles. The suit was well cut, conservative grey. When Danilov introduced Cowley, Oleg Yasev said: ‘I was not told an American was to be present!’
‘There was no reason for you to be told,’ said Danilov. He hoped the autocratic attitude was not going to set the tone of the encounter, but feared it would.
For a brief moment Yasev remained in the doorway, barring their entry, but then he stood aside.
Raisa Serova was on the same couch she’d occupied during Danilov’s previous visit, legs elegantly crossed. She wore a black dress cut more for its style than to indicate mourning. The heavy linked bracelet matched the single-strand gold necklace at her throat. Everything was as neatly sterile as before. Raisa frowned at Cowley, too, recognising him as a foreigner. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Your husband was murdered in America: it’s an American investigation,’ said Cowley. This wasn’t going to be easy, he guessed.
The woman looked questioningly at Yasev, who shrugged. Raisa gestured towards the man and said to Danilov: ‘I am told you entered my apartment in Washington? You had no right!’
‘I had every right. I was accompanied by an official from the embassy. A list was made of everything I took as possible evidence.’ Who was supposed to be interviewing whom?
‘You took!’ Raisa uncrossed her legs, coming more upright in her seat. ‘What did you take?’
Pavin was carrying everything in his briefcase, so she’d see soon enough. ‘A diary. Some photographs.’
‘I want everything returned! Immediately!’
‘Mrs Serova,’ intruded Cowley, as professionally calm as Danilov. ‘How long had your husband known and associated with gangsters?’
Her arrogance slipped. She began: ‘I don’t…’ but Yasev cut across her. ‘I really don’t consider that is a proper question to ask!’
Danilov turned fully to face the man. ‘You are not here to decide what is or is not proper. You are here in support of Mrs Serova, nothing more. If you interfere or in any way obstruct this interview I will contact your ministry and have you removed…’
‘… and I will have an official protest made from Washington,’ endorsed Cowley. He must remember later to tell Danilov it was an empty threat, just made to get this asshole off their backs.
Yasev’s face flamed beneath the yellow hair. ‘My instructions are to protect Mrs Serova.’
‘What does Mrs Serova need protection from?’ seized Danilov.
‘Protect her interests,’ added Yasev.
Danilov jerked his head towards the telephone near the entrance to the living room. ‘Call your ministry,’ he ordered, intentionally demeaning.
Yasev stared at him tight-lipped, hands clenched by his sides in frustration. He shook his head, retreating slightly behind Raisa, as if physically standing guard.
Acknowledging their victory, Cowley said: ‘I asked you a question, Mrs Serova.’
‘Which was preposterous. My husband knew no criminals.’
‘Not a man named Viktor Chebrakin?’ took up Danilov, intent upon the slightest reaction. He was aware of Cowley, beside him, concentrating just as strongly.
‘No.’
‘Or Yuri Chestnoy?’
‘No.’
‘Igor Rimyans?’
‘No.’
‘Valentine Yashev?’
‘No.’ Throughout Raisa showed no facial response whatsoever to any of the names.
‘They were listed in your husband’s handwriting, with others, in documents in your husband’s office,’ said Danilov.
‘I know nothing of it: I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true.’
Danilov had told Pavin before their arrival how he wanted things produced. He reached sideways for the diary he had taken from the Massachusetts Avenue apartment. The pages containing Serov’s coded records of Michel Paulac’s Washington visits were tagged with yellow paper slips. ‘Is this your husband’s?’
‘You know it is.’
Danilov crossed to where Raisa was sitting, flicking through the marked entries. ‘He misspelled words, to identify the dates of Michel Paulac’s trips to America.’
‘That’s ridiculous! And I told you I don’t know anyone named Michel Paulac.’
‘Were you and your husband very close?’ took up Cowley.
Yasev shifted slightly. Danilov looked at him warningly. The man said nothing.
‘That is an impertinent question!’ protested the woman.
‘What’s the answer to it?’ persisted Cowley.
‘Of course we were! Why?’
‘He kept a very great deal from you, didn’t he?’
Yasev went from foot to foot.
‘That remark does not deserve a reply,’ dismissed Raisa.
‘When we met last time you showed me your diary,’ reminded Danilov.
‘Yes?’
‘Can I see it again?’
‘Why?’
‘I want to compare the Paulac entries in your husband’s diary against yours,’ admitted Danilov openly.
‘This is not right…’ started Yasev, but in front of him Raisa raised an imperious hand, stopping the protest. She got up, left the room but was back within minutes, dismissively handing Danilov the black-bound book.
Danilov took his time. He checked entry against entry and prolonged the examination by passing both diaries sideways to Cowley. There was no tally between the two.
‘Satisfied?’ she demanded.
It was Cowley who answered. ‘Your husband was murdered. Horribly.’
‘Yes?’
‘We are trying to find his killer. Or killers.’
‘Yes?’ she questioned again.
‘Why are you so resistant, Mrs Serova? Don’t you want the murderer caught?’
Raisa Serova stared up at Cowley for several moments: briefly her impassive face twisted, close to an expression of anguish. ‘All you have done – every question you have asked – makes out Petr Aleksandrovich was a criminal!’
‘Wasn’t he?’ demanded Cowley remorselessly.
‘No! He was a kind, loving man dedicated to the job he did! He cried for joy when Communism ended here! And again when the coup against Gorbachov failed!’
‘He knew criminals!’ insisted Danilov.
‘I DON’T KNOW THEM! OR ABOUT THEM!’ The screaming, near-hysterical outburst startled them all: Pavin, less prepared than anyone because he was head-bent over the notebook, actually gasped in astonishment, jerking up towards the woman.
‘This is disgusting! Disgraceful!’ protested Yasev. ‘I insist it stops!’
Again both investigators ignored him. Danilov reached out again for the photograph of Serov with an unknown man. ‘Who is this with your husband?’
Raisa remained gazing down at the picture so long Danilov was about to prompt her when she spoke. All the hard, supercilious control had gone. She was wet-eyed and her lips were trembling. ‘My father,’ she said, broken-voiced. ‘He died two years ago. Of exactly the same cancer that is going to kill my mother, whom I took into hospital three days ago: less than two months, the doctors say. In the bowel, so they suffer a lot. And in between Petr Aleksandrovich has been murdered. Which leaves me with no-one…’ She looked towards Cowley. ‘Is this better, now I am crying…?’
There was a loud silence.
Cowley said: ‘I am not trying to make you cry, Mrs Serova. I’m trying to find your husband’s killers. And the reason for his being killed. And how he came to know the people he apparently did.’
‘Don’t you think I’d tell you, if I knew! Don’t you think I want them caught and punished; gassed or hanged or however it is you execute people in America!’
‘You knew nothing at all?’ said Cowley, less aggressively.
‘Nothing!’ She indicated Yasev again, b
ehind her. ‘So unless there was some official reasons that I don’t – you don’t – know, I lived with a man who kept secrets from me. A man I didn’t know at all, but thought I did. So I don’t know now what sort of marriage I had.’
Danilov looked sideways, enquiringly, at Cowley who shrugged back, no questions left.
Sensing the embarrassment of both investigators, Yasev said: ‘Are you satisfied?’
Danilov retrieved from Pavin the final photograph, that of Serov with the elderly couple, offering it to the woman without the need to ask the question. Raisa glanced at it and said: ‘Petr’s parents. They live at Kuntsevo: they were very proud of him.’
Cowley was disappointed. He’d actually been encouraged by Raisa Serova’s initial arrogance, believing from the psychological sessions at the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico he recognised a barrier behind which she was hiding and which could be broken down: that was why he had been so hard, showing no sympathy. It had been a barrier, he supposed: one behind which she had every reason to crouch, in her grief. He was disgusted with himself, without needing any accusation from the pompous asshole of a ministry official. Cowley’s head ached, too, and his stomach was sour. He made a resolution to go easier in the bar tonight.
‘Can I have the photographs?’ asked the woman. She was practically pleading.
Danilov handed them to her, along with her diary.
‘What about Petr’s diary?’
‘I need to keep that,’ refused Danilov. ‘I need to understand the marked entries.’
There was no protest this time. Raisa said, more to herself than to anyone else: ‘The funeral’s on Wednesday. At Novadichy…’ Then, as if there had been some doubt, she went on: ‘… his parents are coming.’
Danilov welcomed the dismissive gesture from Yasev, moving towards the door ahead of Cowley and Pavin. In the car – in Russian for Pavin’s benefit – Danilov said: ‘That got us nowhere.’
‘It could have done,’ said Cowley.
At Petrovka, on the far side of town, Metkin smiled up at his former partner. ‘All set?’
‘An apartment on Ulitza Fadajeva,’ said Kabalin. He still wasn’t as confident as the other man.
‘Make sure it’s recorded in absolute detail.’
‘Of course.’
‘The Foreign Ministry have asked for a full explanation of what happened at the river. There’s to be an enquiry.’
‘Everything in place?’
‘It will be. Antipov will complete it.’
Every official ministry and investigation branch in both Moscow and Washington was inundated by media demands after the Washington Post exclusive. The American State Department liaised with the Russian Foreign Ministry, each denying any knowledge of the source and each promising an enquiry to discover it. A joint, confirmatory press statement was issued in both capitals.
Cowley learned about it when Washington demanded if he had had any contact with the press – which he immediately denied – and caught Danilov at Petrovka to warn him.
‘Part of our ongoing problem with your people?’ asked the American.
‘It could be. It certainly wasn’t Pavin or me.’
‘Now we’ll have cameras over our shoulders all the time. Fame again.’
‘Fuck fame,’ said Danilov. It was a better obscenity in English.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The arrest of Mikhail Pavlovich Antipov was perfectly co-ordinated, even to the hour. It was carried out by a squad of plainclothes and uniformed Militia officers under the command of Vladimir Kabalin. They smashed their way with sledgehammers into the Ulitza Fadajeva apartment at four o’clock in the morning, when the man was in bed asleep. He was with two girls who later turned out to be mother and daughter: the daughter was fifteen years old.
The surprise was so absolute there were three officers with pistols drawn and trained upon him before Antipov properly awoke. He tensed, beginning to move his right hand behind him, but stopped when he saw the pistols: after he and the girls, without embarrassment, got nakedly out of bed one of the uniformed men found a 9mm Stetchkin pistol beneath the pillow.
‘What’s this about?’ demanded the man. He remained naked. The girls were also taking their time getting dressed: the fifteen-year-old giggled openly at the ogling policemen.
‘Murder,’ announced Kabalin shortly.
Antipov laughed. ‘Who did I kill?’
‘Ivan Ignatsevich Ignatov,’ identified Kabalin formally. One of the plainclothes officers was taking note of the exchange.
‘I didn’t kill anyone.’
‘We know you did,’ sighed Kabalin. ‘We’ve all had enough time to admire the size of your prick. Get dressed.’
Antipov started to, but slowly. Nodding to the girls, now fully clothed, he said: ‘What about them?’
The apartment block had been under surveillance from early the previous evening, which was how they’d known Antipov was there, but the girls hadn’t entered with the man and Kabalin was uncertain what to do with them. ‘They’re coming too.’
Antipov stopped dressing, smiling again. ‘They almost killed me last night: nearly fucked me to death!’
The girls laughed.
‘Remember it,’ advised Kabalin. ‘Could be a long time before you get it again.’
As well as putting on clothes – a knitted sports shirt beneath a deep brown chamois jacket that matched the Gucci loafers – Antipov slipped a gold wristwatch on his left arm, a gold bracelet on his other wrist and took his time selecting rings, a platformed gold band for his left hand, a silver one with an onyx centre for the right.
‘You look beautiful,’ said Kabalin.
From the main room Antipov looked at the smashed-down door. ‘Who’s going to pay for that?’
‘It’s all being recorded,’ assured Kabalin. A photographer was already taking pictures of the interior of the apartment. Kabalin indicated his scene-of-crime officer, Aleksai Raina: the man was putting the Stechkin pistol into an exhibit bag. ‘Everything taken for examination is being recorded.’
‘Have you got the legal right to remove things?’
‘Probably not. You going to complain?’
‘Probably not.’
‘What about our time?’ demanded the elder prostitute, taking her lead from Antipov. ‘Who’s going to pay for that? Everyone got a good look!’
‘Think of it as advertising,’ suggested Kabalin.
‘On a Militia salary, none of you could afford to buy what’s on offer,’ said Antipov.
‘Put your arms out,’ ordered Kabalin.
‘What!’ For the first time Antipov showed anger.
‘Manacles,’ said Kabalin.
‘Fuck off!’
‘I don’t care if you want to be chained forcibly. Suit yourself.’
Antipov extended his arms, wincing slightly when Kabalin snapped the handcuffs shut. The photographer took several exposures of the formal arrest.
At Petrovka, Kabalin let the two prostitutes share a detention cell and put Antipov in the holding cage adjoining the interview room. The arrested man had recovered his insolent disdain: he carefully removed the chamois jacket before stretching out full length on the narrow bed, hands cupped behind his head.
Kabalin telephoned Metkin from the Director’s own office. ‘Perfect,’ he reported.
‘I’ll come,’ said Metkin.
Dimitri Danilov was told by the desk officer as he walked into Petrovka to report at once to the Director: the man already had the telephone in his hand, announcing the arrival.
‘It was all done while you were asleep,’ Metkin announced, as Danilov entered the suite.
He took his time recounting every detail of the arrest, even showing Danilov the already processed photographs of the chained and glowering Antipov. A full account had already been sent to both the Foreign and Interior Ministries, with the suggestion that a full press communique be issued both to assure the American authorities of the standard of Russian investi
gations, after the recent criticism, and to satisfy the media clamour after the disclosure of the link between the killing of Ignatov and the Washington murders. Danilov didn’t have to bother contacting Cowley about the arrest, either: Metkin had already informed the American embassy.
‘It seems to have all worked out very satisfactorily?’ offered Metkin.
‘Yes,’ agreed Danilov. It was like being back at the beginning, sure about nothing, understanding nothing. ‘When was it discovered where Antipov was?’
‘Some time last night. Why?’
‘I would have expected to be told, as the officer in overall command.’ It sounded like whining petulance. But he should have been told: taken part in the arrest.
‘Concerned about headlines, Dimitri Ivanovich?’
‘Concerned about the efficiency of the operation after the problems we’ve already had,’ said Danilov.
Metkin tapped the photographs in front of him. ‘Everything has been done correctly…’ He smiled. ‘Now all you and your American friend have to do is interrogate the man and extract the confession.’
Why, wondered Danilov, was the questioning being left to him? Was the need to include Cowley sufficient reason?
Antipov’s arrest was not the only early-hours seizure in connection with the three matched killings. The Brooklyn Task Force had begun the promised, informer-concealing round-up of hookers and drug dealers the afternoon that Carla Roberts appeared before a judge to be fined $50 and released. By the end of the second day they had a surname and a description for Peter the Pole, who wasn’t Polish but Ukrainian and whose full name was Petr Zubko. Records produced a rap sheet with two small-time drug-trafficking convictions and three for aggravated assault. And a mugshot.
Bradley set up a round-the-clock stakeout on the Adam and Eve bar on Columbus and got a virtually positive ID on the third night: to make sure, they followed Zubko home to the amusement arcade on Atlantic Boulevard, picking out the room above when the light went on. The Americans didn’t wait as long as the Russians, three hours later and 5,000 miles away. It was only one in the morning when the SWAT team smashed in the door: the plywood was so flimsy the lead man was carried by the force of his first sledgehammer strike halfway through the hole he made. They were able to laugh about it afterwards: Zubko had already injected and was on the nod, too far gone to react. If he hadn’t been shooting up he could easily have killed the spread-eagled officer with one of the two guns later found in the stinking, dishevelled squat. Neither of the guns was a Makarov.
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