No Time for Heroes

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘When am I going to meet him?’ demanded Olga. ‘I didn’t last time.’ She warmed to her idea. ‘We could make a party of it, with Larissa and Yevgennie. He was very good to me when you were away.’

  Olga clearly wanted an audience for the reflected importance of entertaining an American investigator, Danilov saw. Why not? He’d enjoy impressing Larissa and he hadn’t forgotten Kosov’s gloating doubt after his deputyship had been announced. ‘How was Yevgennie good to you?’

  ‘He took me to the Metropole. And a club, the Night-flight: it was wonderful. I told you!’

  ‘With Larissa?’

  ‘She was working. And he’s got a fabulous new car. Lots of dials in the front that all light up.’

  Why would Kosov choose a night when Larissa was working? ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘How you were getting on in America. I said I didn’t know because you hadn’t phoned. Can we invite them, too?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Danilov. This time he wouldn’t have the reluctance he usually did, going through the subterfuge of social politeness with a man he was cuckolding. This time he’d be curious.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  It took Cowley three hours to transmit a full account of the Moscow débâcle, helped by Stephen Snow who ferried the cables up to the secure embassy rooftop communications shack. Afterwards he accepted Snow’s invitation in the other direction, to the basement social club.

  He recollected it vividly from the last time, with Pauline and the then unsuspected Barry Andrews, present and past husband trying to appear civilised, each over-compensating, each ill at ease. Little had changed. The marines who formed the security detachment were still as anxious to get as close as possible to the secretaries and the female staff who remained aloof during working hours, and the music sounded the same, scratched and vintage sixties. Hamburgers and ribs on disposable grills were an innovation and the beer was being kept cool now in a small refrigerator and two plastic cold boxes, instead of floating in a garbage bin of melting ice. Cowley recognised several people from his previous visit, although he couldn’t get their names. The recall was better on their part, understandably: he was an oddity, someone briefly appearing from outside their insular environment, the Man from Mars.

  A trestle table was bowed under the weight of gallon jugs of PX hard liquor, all of which Cowley refused. Instead he made a beer last while he renewed old acquaintances and made new ones, determinedly vague about the reason he was back there, talking generally about an enquiry connected with something that had happened back home. Without exception, everyone with whom he talked asked at some time how long he’d have to stay in Moscow.

  Cowley excused himself early and got a cab within minutes by using the street-wise advice of his previous visit, flagging down passing vehicles with a packet of Marlboro cigarettes displayed in his cupped hand. The driver tried for ten dollars in American currency but accepted five without argument.

  Having got there, Cowley wondered why he had been in such a hurry to get back to the hotel: at least at the embassy there had been other Americans to talk to, even if he had found them dull. There seemed nothing better to do than go to the bar.

  He was on his fourth Chivas Regal when, for the first time, he properly noticed three or four professional girls dotted around the side tables. One smiled openly at him, but he did not respond. Once it would have been different, but he wasn’t bothered any more.

  ‘This is unexpected! Dangerous!’ Vladimir Kabalin was a tall, long-necked man upon whom shirt collars didn’t properly settle. The sleeves of his jacket were too short, increasing the giraffe-like awkwardness.

  ‘It’s a bonus!’ argued Metkin.

  ‘It will make the rest more difficult. We should demand a meeting.’

  ‘Demand?’ queried Metkin.

  ‘Ask,’ corrected Kabalin.

  ‘It’s only one man,’ said Metkin.

  ‘Two,’ insisted Kabalin. ‘And it’s the American who’s the problem.’

  ‘Soon there won’t be any problem at all,’ said Metkin. He considered Danilov had beaten him once. The man wouldn’t do it again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The suggestion came from Wilkes, the black detective who thought at street level, but was initially rejected by Hank Slowen, who said you didn’t uphold the law by breaking it. Wes Bradley asked since when: a forest blaze could be put out by burning a firebreak in its path and no-one got pissed at the firemen. How many more Russian Mafia murders did Slowen want? At the end of the week the impatience was obvious from Washington and Slowen floated the thought past the two Washington homicide detectives with whom he kept in daily contact. Both thought it was a great idea.

  The choice was left to Wilkes.

  The hooker was dull-eyed but painted professionally to attract attention with glistening make-up that hadn’t had time to smudge. She wore long boots that came up over her knees but were still far short of the micro skirt that only reached her crotch. The long-sleeved T shirt was short-waisted to expose a lot of bare stomach and tight for the nipples of her heavy tits to bulge through. Carla Roberts was one of several names she used: in blue movies she was known as Pouter Pet. When Wilkes announced that alias to the waiting detectives Carla grinned and said they all better believe it. The print-out showed fifteen previous prostitution convictions; there were also sentences for larceny and receiving.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ she challenged, immediately aware of the change from a normal vice arrest when she was led past the charge room cages into an interview room.

  Bradley indicated a chair. Hesitantly she sat down but pushed it away from the table. Bradley picked up her sheet from it. ‘Ten arrests in the past year, Carla. You training to fuck for America when it becomes an Olympic sport?’

  ‘Average,’ said the girl, professionally. She crossed her legs, professionally again, not tightly, so her see-through underwear stretched over her crotch.

  Bradley said: ‘Nice!’

  Slowen, against the wall, thought how glad he was he’d chosen the Bureau and not the police force. He knew the arrest record gave the girl’s age as twenty-three: he would have given her another ten years.

  Carla smiled at Slowen, embarrassing him. ‘You guys got something special in mind? A little party, maybe? I quote rates.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Bradley. ‘You know, with a record like yours a concerned, Christian-minded prosecutor could recommend a custodial sentence. Care and rehabilitation. Show what a caring society we are. And you’d be with an awful lot of dykes, so that pussy you’re flashing at me wouldn’t heal up. Wouldn’t get paid for it, though. Still, you could be saved …’

  ‘What the …?’ Carla uncrossed her legs, putting both feet firmly on to the ground. ‘Why don’t you stop jerking me around and tell me what this bullshit is all about!’

  ‘It’s about co-operation, Carla,’ said Bradley. He reached across to where she was sitting, grabbing her left arm before she could stop him and yanking the sleeve up above the elbow. There was a line of track marks along the vein in the crook of her arm: one was scabbed and looked septic. ‘Old hits. You finding difficulty scoring recently?’

  The girl snatched her arm away and dragged her sleeve down to cover the evidence of her heroin addiction. ‘Why don’t you fuck off!’

  ‘That’s what we’re offering to do,’ said Wilkes.

  ‘Providing the exchange is right,’ said Bradley.

  ‘You help us, we help you,’ agreed Wilkes.

  Slowen thought it was like a double act, the sort of routine comedians used. He didn’t consider this version funny.

  ‘We could make a case for rehab, putting you before a court. And get it,’ insisted Bradley. ‘Shitsville, with smoke-stacks. And there’ll be the dykes, of course.’

  ‘… Or you could learn to love us,’ came in Wilkes, on cue. He took something Slowen didn’t immediately identify from his jerkin and dropped it on the table.

  Carla’s eyes locked on
to it. A nerve twitched, by her mouth and Slowen thought her hand moved, instinctively, to reach out.

  ‘Lotta happiness in that baggie, Carla,’ promised Bradley. ‘It’s good stuff. Could be eighty percent pure, not like the cut-down crap. Enough there for a month, unless you binge …’

  ‘… And we know there ain’t nothing out there on the streets ‘cos we’ve stopped all the traffic lights at red,’ said Wilkes. ‘Which is how they’re going to stay. Seems to me you’re still pretty much together, so I guess you had a little stash going for you. Sensible girl. But it’s going to run out soon. Then what you gonna do, Carla? You ever been really strung out? Screaming for it but there’s nowhere to go get some? That’s what it’s going to be like for you, in a day or two. Screaming. Hurting …’

  ‘… Or this,’ said Bradley, pushing the heroin closer to where she sat. ‘Feel it, Carla. Feel the weight of it. Imagine how good it would be …’

  ‘… All you gotta do is tell us where we can find Viktor Chebrakin or Yuri Chestnoy or any other of these connected Russian guys,’ took up Wilkes. ‘You do that you walk with our grateful thanks and that little present there, all to yourself …’

  ‘… Or we gotta tell the courts about the dealing,’ said Bradley.

  ‘What fucking dealing …?’

  ‘That baggie there,’ said Bradley. ‘That’s what Detective Wilkes found on you, after arresting you for soliciting, Carla. I know he did. He’s already told me.’

  ‘MOTHERFUCKER!’ screamed the girl.

  Slowen felt sickened. But the Bureau had done enough entrapments and deals in the past. And would in the future.

  ‘So what do you say, Carla?’ invited Wilkes.

  For several moments the hooker sat staring at the generous sack of heroin, hypnotised by it. The twitch became more pronounced and she swallowed a lot, tongue coming out over her tight-together lips. ‘I don’t know where those people are! If I did, I couldn’t tell you.’

  ‘You’re not hearing me right, Carla,’ said Bradley.

  ‘Fuck you!’

  Wilkes, the man who knew his way in dark alleys, said: ‘It’s as bad as that, is it?’

  ‘Don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘They couldn’t get you, if they were inside.’

  ‘I don’t know! And it’s not just one or two names, is it? It’s groups. Organised.’

  The girl shook her head. Slowen noticed for the first time the sheen of perspiration making her face even shinier, threatening the sharp lipstick and mascara lines.

  ‘We’d make it look right,’ promised Wilkes. ‘Bring more girls in, run them through the courts so you couldn’t be singled out. Make a dealer bust, too. Lotta guys, so no one person would stick out as someone you’d fingered …’ He picked up the bag, tossing it up and down in his hand. ‘I bet you never had this much stuff at any one time in your entire life.’

  ‘Promise?’ mumbled the girl.

  ‘Our word,’ assured Bradley.

  ‘I get the bag?’

  ‘And less heat from now on,’ guaranteed Wilkes. ‘Just enough to convince them you’re not a special friend.’

  ‘Peter,’ she said, a mumble again.

  ‘Peter who?’ seized Wilkes.

  ‘Peter the Pole. Don’t know any other name.’

  ‘Is he Polack?’

  ‘How the fuck do I know! Speaks English like he’s got a rock in his throat.’

  ‘Where do we find Peter the Pole?’ asked Bradley.

  Carla shrugged. ‘Around.’

  Bradley put an enclosing hand over the heroin. ‘Better, Carla.’

  ‘He usually uses the Adam and Eve bar, on Columbus. But not now the heat’s on.’

  ‘Where’s he live?’ asked Wilkes.

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘We take guesses.’

  ‘There are rooms over the amusement arcade on Atlantic.’

  ‘We want you to look at some mugshots, see if you can pick out Peter the Pole for us, OK?’

  ‘I get the bag?’ Carla persisted.

  ‘You got the bag,’ assured Bradley.

  As the girl left the room with Wilkes, Slowen said: ‘That wasn’t very pretty.’

  Bradley said: ‘What’s pretty got to do with it?’

  Leonard Ross had lunch served in his private dining room, Maryland chowder followed by New England lamb.

  ‘We’ve got to accept we’ve caught the Russians running a criminal enterprise from their embassy,’ insisted the Secretary of State. ‘There can’t be any other reason for the way the investigation is being handled in Moscow.’

  ‘Cowley doesn’t go that far,’ reminded the FBI Director.

  ‘But he expects us to protest officially?’

  ‘I asked specifically. He says yes.’

  ‘You got any thoughts about withdrawing him?’

  ‘None,’ said Ross. ‘I’ve got two murders to solve. Cowley stays until we understand the connection.’

  ‘I’ve summoned their ambassador for an explanation,’ disclosed Henry Hartz. ‘I’m damned if we’re going to have a Mafia office on 16th Street!’

  ‘Seems like one’s already there,’ warned the Director.

  The doubtful Yerin had again persuaded Gusovsky to meet the two Organised Crime officers without the third member of the komitet. Gusovsky had agreed to Zimin’s exclusion because he still trusted the blind man’s judgment in all things, but he would have liked to feel more confident about Yerin’s entrapment idea. The meeting had been in the Glovin Bol’soy restaurant, in a private rear salon where the policemen had eaten discreetly while they finalised the move against Danilov and Cowley.

  ‘I liked the confidence Metkin showed,’ remarked Gusovsky, after the two other men had left, both with their dollar bonuses safely pocketed.

  ‘No reason why he shouldn’t be confident,’ insisted Yerin.

  ‘There’ll be an enquiry at the highest level. There’ll have to be, to make it look right officially.’

  ‘We’ve got all the influence we need.’

  ‘I hope we won’t be called upon to use it,’ said Gusovsky.

  Yerin had a blind’s man sensitivity to nuance. ‘You nervous?’

  ‘I’d like more guaranteed control.’

  Yerin closed his hand in a grasping gesture. ‘We’ve got the Organised Crime Bureau, the Interior Ministry and the judiciary! It would be hard to have more control!’

  ‘That should be enough,’ conceded Gusovsky, annoyed now he’d let the uncertainty show.

  ‘All Antipov’s got to do is laugh.’

  Danilov and Cowley laughed initially, though. But wrongly.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Danilov did it first, aloud, within minutes of Yuri Pavin entering the Petrovka office. Even the normally dour man was smiling. He held the plastic-enclosed Makarov in front of him like a trophy.

  ‘A positive fingerprint match!’ announced Pavin. ‘Mikhail Pavlovich Antipov. One of the names on a Mafia list. The Chechen Family!’

  ‘Ballistics?’ demanded Danilov, just before laughing aloud.

  ‘The bullets recovered from Ignatov’s body definitely came from this gun,’ assured Pavin, completing his announcement.

  Cowley laughed as well, when Danilov reached the American at the hotel, although very shortly. Pain was banded around his head, so that he had to squint against the light. He’d never had a proper hangover before. ‘This is how it happens sometimes. Let’s hope all the rest starts falling into place! I’ll be with you as soon as possible.’

  Danilov was too preoccupied to detect the sluggishness in the American’s voice, thinking ahead: he was reluctant to tell Anatoli Metkin, although he knew he had no alternative. But Metkin received the news far more calmly than Danilov had anticipated, doing little more than nod, and making no reference to the earlier warnings of the American complaints. He agreed every available investigator in the Bureau should be seconded to the hunt for Antipov, and that uniformed Militia be brought in if necessar
y. When Danilov said Cowley was on his way to Petrovka, Metkin invited the American to attend the general briefing which he, as Director, would obviously give.

  Cowley made no comment when Danilov passed on the invitation. Danilov thought the American’s face was puffy, and there seemed to be a lot of redness in his eyes.

  They were the last to enter the squad room. There was a stir at the appearance of Cowley, who smiled and nodded generally: Vladimir Kabalin, lounged in a chair in the forefront, responded to the smile, extending it to Danilov. Beside him Aleksai Raina, who had acted as Kabalin’s scene-of-crime man and whose direct responsibility it would have been to seal the river area, didn’t make any greeting. He appeared quite relaxed but then, reasoned Danilov, he might not yet know of the criticism.

  Everyone stood politely when Metkin came into the room. He waved them down with a gracious hand. Although it was unnecessary he formally introduced Cowley, who was acknowledged with more nods.

  Metkin’s briefing continued to be formal. He outlined the irrefutable scientific evidence linking the Chechen gangster with the Ignatov killing and said the man’s criminal record was being run off, for every detective to receive a copy. There was no known address for the man. An arrest was urgent, so uniformed Militia as well as airport police would be alerted, to be on standby if necessary. First news of an arrest had to be given, day or night, to Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov, who was heading the investigation and would co-ordinate all information.

  ‘What brought about that transformation?’ demanded Cowley, back in Danilov’s office.

  ‘Your presence, most probably.’

  ‘There’s quite a flap in Washington. I was asked if I wanted it to be official. I said yes.’ The American had followed Danilov’s lead and was speaking English. At the far end of the room, Ludmilla Radsic was frowning, unable to understand.

  ‘I’ve been summoned to the Foreign Ministry.’ Before which he could see Larissa, if she was working the day shift at the Druzhba: there was insufficient time before the afternoon appointment to do anything practical in the investigation.