No Time for Heroes

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘I am countermanding that instruction,’ announced Oskin. ‘Metkin can receive copies. I want the initial information sent direct and immediately to me.’

  Danilov recognised another victory but it didn’t matter: he would, eventually, have to return to Petrovka, under Metkin’s control. ‘If the General is not officially informed it might appear I deliberately disobeyed an order.’

  ‘I will tell him it’s my decision,’ undertook Oskin.

  It would be necessary for Pavin to create his customary immaculate files, whatever transpired in America. Should he talk about a second, duplicate copy of everything going to Pavin? Not necessary, Danilov decided: files had to be kept.

  ‘There will be no independent decisions, taken without consultation with us,’ insisted Vorobie.

  It was ridiculous for them to imagine they could control an enquiry more than five thousand miles away. It would have been equally ridiculous for him to argue. Instead Danilov said: ‘My authority has been established with the embassy?’

  ‘Obviously we expect you to respect the position of the ambassador and his senior staff.’

  ‘And the security rezident?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Oskin.

  Restriction upon restriction, thought Danilov. The diplomatic staff would claim superiority of rank and the security officer would probably ignore him. ‘I think I understand what I am expected to do,’ said Danilov. What he understood was that he had been effectively trussed and gagged, made totally impotent: and that the public declarations of Russian open-handed co-operation were meaningless. Their understanding, determined Danilov: not his.

  ‘On the subject of proper conduct,’ picked up Vorobie. ‘Serov’s widow has complained you were rude and unsympathetic.’

  ‘I was neither,’ refuted Danilov. ‘Every question was necessary.’

  ‘What did you learn?’ asked Oskin.

  ‘Virtually nothing. She says she did not know of her husband’s association with Michel Paulac.’ Danilov looked directly at Vorobie. ‘Why was Serov’s tour of duty extended so often?’

  ‘Proven ability,’ said the Deputy. ‘It happens occasionally. We take advantage of it.’

  The vagueness intrigued Danilov, like so many other things about this meeting. He no longer had any feeling of euphoria. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘You will live in the diplomatic compound,’ insisted Oskin.

  Where he would be under effective supervision, Danilov recognised. He was hardly going to be able to conduct an investigation.

  ‘You will make no unauthorised statements,’ continued Oskin. ‘Any public announcements will come from here.’

  ‘This is not going to be an easy assignment,’ said Vorobie.

  Not made any easier by this encounter, thought Danilov. Close to insubordination, he said: ‘You haven’t left me in any doubt about that.’

  Pavin intercepted him at the office door, to warn him out of Ludmilla’s hearing of Metkin’s fury. ‘I had to tell him where you were,’ apologised the man.

  ‘What else could you have done?’ agreed Danilov.

  ‘He’s waiting.’

  Metkin actually rose from his chair, as if he were going physically to attack, when Danilov entered the room, and for several seconds the man was unable to speak properly. When he did, the demand to know why Danilov had gone to the Foreign Ministry without telling him was disjointed and stuttered. Danilov insisted he’d expected Metkin to be summoned separately.

  ‘Liar! I want to know all that went on: all that was discussed!’ declared Metkin. The words were stretched by anger.

  ‘I have to communicate direct with Vasili Oskin,’ disclosed Danilov. It really didn’t seem important any more to fight this man.

  Metkin’s apoplexy was absolute. His mouth opened and closed, without words: his body shifted and moved, uncoordinated. ‘You have to come through me!’

  ‘Deputy Minister Oskin has countermanded that instruction. You are to be officially told of the decision. You are to receive duplicates, of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You manoeuvred this!’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘Liar!’ said Metkin again.

  It was impossible for there to be any connection between Metkin and the ministry official. Which removed one uncertainty but left everything else hanging in the air; Metkin’s incandescent concern was surely more than simple anger about senior officials going over his head? ‘You could take the matter up personally with Deputy Minister Oskin.’

  Metkin’s anger seeped away, as if a plug had been pulled. Quietly, invitingly, the man said: ‘I think we should talk about things. Reasonably.’

  It was his choice, Danilov realised. Metkin was seeking a special arrangement, wrongly believing he had influence he didn’t possess: seeking the sort of accommodation almost everyone in the Bureau reached every day of their lives. The what’s-in-it-for-me philosophy, on this occasion most definitely and hopefully for the absolute benefit and protection of Anatoli Nikolaevich Metkin. It could be easily manipulated, Danilov knew: sufficient to bring himself out of the wilderness of isolation. To what? Ever-smiling friends in shiny suits and real gold. Agreements reached in whispers. Easy access to everything he’d once had and for which Olga craved. Proper money: dollars, not lavatory-paper roubles. An easy life. A disease carrier among those already infected, everyone knowing the symptoms, everyone knowing there wasn’t a cure because no-one wanted to be cured. He said: ‘I don’t think there is anything for us to discuss.’

  Metkin’s crumpled face appeared to collapse upon itself. ‘Bastard!’ he said.

  It wasn’t any longer an angry remark, Danilov recognised. Metkin was frightened. Which, he supposed, made two of them.

  ‘What am I going to do while you’re away?’ Larissa had kicked the covering off the bed and was lying with her hands cupped behind her head, to bring her breasts up more fully.

  ‘Stay faithful,’ said Danilov.

  ‘Will you stay faithful to me in America?’

  ‘You know I will.’

  ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Danilov had already realised his trip to Washington temporarily relieved the pressure with either Olga or Larissa.

  She realised it, too. ‘I want things settled when you get back.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean it.’

  ‘So do I.’

  Olga was at the kitchen table when Danilov got back to Kirovskaya. She smiled up at him, offering a sheet of paper upon which she had been writing. ‘My shopping list,’ she announced. ‘I’m glad you’re going away.’

  So was he, thought Danilov. But Larissa was right: as soon as he got back he’d have to settle everything. He was coming close to using the thought of Yevgennie Kosov lashing out vindictively as an excuse for doing nothing. Like so many other excuses, before.

  ‘And this came, in the mail.’

  The franking on the envelope showed the delivery had taken almost a week, fast by Moscow postal standards. It contained a single sheet of paper. On it were three names, none of which Danilov recognised: certainly they weren’t people attached to the Organised Crime Bureau. Lapinsk had printed one word above his signature: Prahsteet. It means sorry.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Olga.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Danilov.

  The ambush was perfectly staged. The three canvas-covered Chechen trucks carrying the looted word processors from the Domodedovo airport warehouse became separated on their way into the city because the traffic was unexpectedly heavy on the former Andropov Prospekt, even that late at night. The rear lorry was split from the convoy by at least one hundred yards when they turned off the Ulitza Masinostrojenij. It was a regular route – which was a mistake – and the Ostankino group were waiting at the darkest section.

  The Chechen lorry was blocked, front and back, by two trucks that emerged from the side road near the bridge. Two Chechen guards who tried t
o fight had their skulls fractured by iron staves. The attackers – a separate group from those transferring the word processors – occupied the brief time it took by breaking the legs of the drivers and the third guard. Before they left they set fire to the Chechen vehicles. The men with the fractured skulls were left lying too close and sustained second degree burns that disfigured them for life.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  William Cowley was waiting at the immigration desk to usher Danilov out of the normal arrival line at Dulles airport to a side office. Inside they formally shook hands and informally examined each other, and Cowley just beat Danilov in saying how good it was to see him again. They spoke English. Cowley thought Danilov’s hair had grown thinner, and that he had developed a slight paunch. Danilov thought Cowley had grown heavier, as if he were neglecting himself.

  ‘Your people are waiting outside: this was the best way to talk, as soon as we could.’ From the concealment of the main immigration office Cowley had already identified Nikolai Redin as well as Valery Pavlenko among the reception group: it would be interesting if Danilov later spoke openly of the former KGB man.

  ‘What do we need to know?’

  ‘Everything,’ declared Cowley. He detailed the difficulties with the two Russians at the formal identification, and looked unconvinced by Danilov’s assurance that both Serov’s office and apartment had been sealed. ‘Will they have been?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ admitted Danilov honestly. ‘I probably won’t even when I start going through them.’

  Pointedly Cowley said: ‘How’s it going to be between us, Dimitri?’

  ‘Straight, I hope.’ Danilov was reluctant even to hint at the restrictions imposed upon him, but unsure if the hesitation was motivated more by personal or professional pride. A combination of both, he guessed. ‘How do you see it being handled?’

  ‘The same,’ promised Cowley. He didn’t completely believe Danilov and knew Danilov wouldn’t completely believe him. Just how straight was it possible for them to be with each other? Not something to be determined this early. Testingly he asked about Raisa Serova, listening intently for any nuances to tell him Danilov was holding something back. He didn’t detect that the Russian was, but he wasn’t sure.

  ‘Do you think she was telling the truth about Michel Paulac?’

  Danilov made an uncertain gesture. ‘We need to find something that doesn’t fit before we can challenge her. She’s a very controlled woman.’

  Danilov’s baggage arrived at the same time as his returned passport. The visa entry was for an indefinite period.

  Cowley offered a card with all the FBI contact numbers. ‘I’ll wait to hear.’ He smiled, ruefully. ‘There’s not a lot else I can think of to do.’

  The third Russian waiting on the outside concourse was introduced by Pavlenko as Oleg Firsov, the senior embassy counsellor; the driver who took Danilov’s case wasn’t identified at all. Danilov was manoeuvred into the car between the two diplomats, with Redin in the front. Firsov, who was fat and perspiring and who was already smelling vaguely of body odour, moved to take instant charge. Everything had to be reported through him, before any communication to Moscow. That order included whatever Danilov was told by or learned from the Americans. It was potentially a politically awkward situation.

  ‘Why?’ interrupted Danilov, sharply, breaking the flow.

  Firsov, who had been delivering the recitation staring directly ahead as if he were talking to an audience instead of just one man, frowned sideways. ‘I don’t understand the question.’

  ‘Why is it potentially a politically awkward situation?’

  ‘I would have thought that would have been obvious.’

  ‘I don’t take any inference as obvious,’ rejected Danilov. ‘Was Petr Aleksandrovich acting officially when he met Michel Paulac?’

  ‘I have no information about that,’ said Firsov.

  Which was not an answer, identified Danilov. ‘If you have no information how can you say it could be politically awkward?’ he persisted.

  Firsov sighed, in attempted intimidation. ‘I was talking generally.’

  ‘I don’t investigate crime on the basis of generalities, either,’ said Danilov, refusing the superciliousness.

  From his other side, Pavlenko said: ‘I don’t think we should overlook seniority here.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Danilov. ‘Before leaving Moscow I was personally instructed by Deputy Interior Minister Oskin, in the presence of Deputy Foreign Minister Vorobie, to communicate directly with him, without going through intermediaries. Has that order been rescinded? If it has, I wish to see the written message.’

  Firsov’s shift of annoyance released a fresh waft of odour. ‘I do not believe Deputy Interior Minister Oskin intended the ambassador or any senior diplomat to be ignored!’

  ‘I am not suggesting senior officials at the embassy should be bypassed. Neither was Minister Oskin. What I am saying is that my liaison with Moscow must be direct.’

  ‘That point has been established,’ said Firsov icily.

  He wasn’t making friends, Danilov recognised: but then, he’d hardly expected to. ‘Liaison without interference or censorship …’ He paused, expectantly. Firsov remained staring directly ahead, breathing heavily. ‘… unless, of course, something I might report would benefit by additional assistance of facts from any member of the embassy staff.’

  ‘We assume you would like to settle in, after the flight?’ suggested Pavlenko.

  ‘No,’ denied Danilov at once. ‘I would prefer to go direct to the embassy and Petr Aleksandrovich’s office.’

  The silence froze inside the car. They were travelling along the sculptured highway towards the city: soon, Danilov remembered, they would be dropping through the Memorial Parkway beside the ribbon of the Potomac, where it would be possible to start picking out landmarks. ‘There were specific instructions from Moscow about the office? And the apartment?’

  ‘They have been followed,’ assured Firsov.

  ‘What was done to either, before that instruction?’ asked Danilov, worried about the intervening time gap.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Pavlenko carelessly.

  It was a guess, although a fairly safe one, for Danilov to direct his question to the front of the car, to the unspeaking Nikolai Redin. ‘Then there was a serious security lapse, surely? Are you saying no member of the security division within the embassy examined the office or the living accommodation of a member of the embassy who had been murdered?’

  Danilov got his confirmation of Redin’s role from the way the man’s neck and ears flushed. He turned to the rear. ‘Of course they were examined!’

  ‘What was removed from either?’ demanded Danilov.

  ‘Nothing,’ said the security officer.

  And if there had been, there was no way he would ever find out, Danilov accepted. The embassy limousine turned over the Key Bridge and Danilov recognised Georgetown, where he had spent time with Cowley on the last occasion. He hoped there would be the chance to do it again. He’d get his hair cut, too. Maybe buy a watch that worked.

  It had been good to see Cowley again, although Danilov had been uncomfortable with the verbal fencing. Several times in the serial killing investigation they’d risked serious error from initial, matching mistrust. The danger shouldn’t arise this time. They had been strangers then, thrust into a unique situation. Now they knew and admired each other. And he’d already decided to interpret the Moscow instructions his way. Had it been alcohol he’d smelled on Cowley’s breath? There was no reason why it shouldn’t have been, but he couldn’t recall the man being a drinker.

  At Lafayette Square, just before turning into 16th Street, Danilov looked sideways to the White House, thinking as he had the first time how small and inconsequential it appeared for the official home of the American President. The Russian White House was far more impressive. The protesting homeless were still bivouaced under plastic sheeting and boxes beside their complaining posters. He’d
thought before how quickly such demonstrations would have been cleared from around the Kremlin by the KGB. Now the KGB was gone and the streets of Moscow had their own box-and-tent townships of tattered, threadbare people.

  Inside the embassy, Firsov left Danilov with as much dismissiveness as he could achieve, and the reminder that the ambassador expected to see all communications to Moscow. Pavlenko led the way to the cultural section, Redin following. It was the security man who unlocked the door with an almost theatrical flourish, standing back for Danilov to enter. From the threshold Danilov saw a desk in immaculate order, pens and pencils in their holders, document trays bare, telephones neatly in line, and a pristinely white and unmarked blotter. A wastepaper basket alongside was empty.

  Hopeless, he thought: they’d had the last, mocking laugh.

  Momentarily Olga frowned into the telephone, not recognising the voice. Then she said: ‘Yevgennie! How are you?’

  ‘Didn’t want you to become lonely without Dimitri,’ said the man. ‘Would you like to eat out one night?’

  ‘Tell Larissa to call me, so I’ll know what she’s going to wear,’ asked the woman.

  ‘We’ll have to see how her shifts work out. She might not be able to make it. But that would be all right, wouldn’t it?’

  Olga, who didn’t want to spend time by herself at Kirovskaya, hesitated. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I’ll telephone, in a day or two. Set something up.’

  ‘I hope Larissa can make it.’

  ‘You can trust me by myself.’

  Kosov made another call immediately after disconnecting from Olga. ‘It’s all arranged,’ he said.

  ‘Good,’ replied Arkadi Gusovsky, in the study of his Kutbysevskiy mansion. He turned to Yerin as he replaced the receiver. ‘He’s done what we told him to do.’

  The blind man appeared surprised. ‘Everyone does what we tell them to do. They have to.’