No Time for Heroes

by Brian Freemantle

  Pavin was red with confusion. He looked helplessly at Danilov, then back to the three officials. Stumbling again, Pavin said: ‘This can’t be. This never happened. I don’t understand …’

  Much as he wanted to, Danilov decided he couldn’t intervene yet, not until he’d fully gauged the manoeuvre against them.

  Smolin was back at the table, standing by the dossiers like a conjuror behind boxes from which inexplicable magic would be produced. ‘These are your files, brought by yourselves today. Come …!’ He beckoned Pavin, imperiously. ‘… Each memorandum is numbered. Locate it in the index. Then find its cross-reference …!’

  Pavin stood but hesitated, and Danilov agonised at the appearance of the man physically holding back. When he did move, it was reluctantly. As he made the examination, the head-shaking bewilderment grew and he looked helplessly again at Danilov. ‘… It’s properly done! As I do it! But I didn’t do it! I was never ordered to seal the area: work with Colonel Kabalin and Raina. These orders, these messages, never came to me …!’

  ‘You received orders you did not carry out,’ accused Oskin, re-entering the discussion.

  ‘The ill feeling between yourself and some members of the Organised Crime Bureau is obvious,’ said Vorobie, speaking to Danilov again. ‘We have conducted a lengthy enquiry with Director Metkin. He believes – as we believe – that because you were passed over for the directorship, you gave telephone instructions from Washington to ignore essential routine to create precisely the sort of embarrassment that arose, to discredit your department and him …’

  It was a much cleverer and much more devious effort than they had tried before. Would this be all Metkin had fabricated? Or would there be more? He’d been excluded from the arrest of Mikhail Antipov, then entrusted with the so-far failed interrogation, which didn’t make complete sense. Danilov decided to limit his defence until he was sure there was nothing else. It would still be a staggering counter-accusation to make.

  He cleared his throat, not wanting to appear uncertain. ‘Your accusation – the accusation of Director Metkin – is entirely without foundation or substance. The files in this case have been fraudulently tampered with, altered to include documentation invented to conceal either total incompetence or an attempt to discredit Major Pavin and myself! All of which I can categorically prove …’

  He welcomed the utter astonishment of the three men facing them. Further awareness came to Danilov. This had to be the make-or-break confrontation between himself and Metkin: if he was going to survive, he had to make the rebuttal utterly devastating. He pointed to the stacked table.

  ‘Those are our files. And because we were given no warning of what to expect this morning, you will accept we had no opportunity – or reason – to change them to support any defence we might make. They don’t, in fact, support us: they damn us …’

  ‘What’s your point?’ broke in Smolin. The lawyer’s voice had lost its attack. It was neutral, less sure than a few moments earlier.

  ‘Retain them until I produce a true copy.’

  ‘You have a copy …?’ broke in Smolin, again.

  Before Danilov could reply, Vorobie demanded: ‘Why?’

  The moment of positive commitment, Danilov recognised: there would be no retreat, no place of safety if he got anything wrong. He wouldn’t disclose his duplication of Serov’s documents, which still had to be tested. If he’d believed in God Danilov would have thanked Him for the decision, that first day back from Washington, to safeguard himself the way he’d devised there.

  ‘Anatoli Nikolaevich Metkin should not be the Director of the Organised Crime Bureau. He is incompetent, promoted beyond his capability … someone prepared to falsify and lie to remain in office and try to destroy others he regards as a threat …’

  Astonishment stayed on every face, even Pavin’s.

  ‘The start of the investigation into the Ignatov killing was chaotic, completely disorganised and completely justifying the American complaint,’ resumed Danilov. ‘I believed a cover-up would be attempted, which is why, unknown even to Major Pavin, I have maintained duplicate records of every official communication in this case … I consider an enquiry should be held into the actions of General Anatoli Metkin’ – Danilov allowed a final pause – ‘both during his directorship, and as a Militia colonel of investigation before that.’

  Both Sergei Vorobie and the Federal Prosecutor were looking at Oskin, the man representing the ministry to which the Militia was answerable. ‘How long will it take for you to produce your evidence?’

  ‘An hour,’ promised Danilov.

  ‘Time to summon Director Metkin,’ said Oskin.

  ‘I suggest senior Colonel Vladimir Kabalin also be included,’ said Danilov.

  In the car, returning to Petrovka, Pavin said: ‘Where have you kept the copy memoranda?’

  ‘Among all my other files that irritate you so much, because of the mess.’

  ‘It won’t be there,’ predicted Pavin gloomily. ‘They’ll have gone through everything!’

  But it was. Danilov looked up triumphantly at Pavin, who had gone to his exhibits. The man was standing by the open safe.

  ‘The gun,’ said Pavin, his voice choked with disbelief. ‘It’s not here! It’s gone!’

  The surveillance by the New York Task Force was kept on the house near La Guardia, but no-one returned. The telephone tap heard nothing. The public records search through the boroughs of Queens and Brooklyn did not produce any of the other names Petr Serov had coded, in his Washington office. None of them had been accorded a Social Security number.

  ‘I’m damned glad we’re not up there,’ said Rafferty. ‘It’s turning out to be one great big dead end. Harsh words are going to be spoken and ability questioned.’

  Unaware of what was going to erupt in the next twenty-four hours, Johannsen said: ‘It ain’t going any better in Moscow, either. The only lucky guys are us, in this nice little backwater.’ He looked up, curiously, at Rafferty’s failure to reply.

  The other man was standing at the table, the photographs that had been taken from Rimyans’ living room laid out before him. He looked up at last, frowning. ‘I think we’re missing something,’ he declared seriously.

  ‘What?’ demanded Johannsen.

  ‘If I knew that we wouldn’t be missing it, asshole!’

  The summons from the Interior Ministry had been made by telephone, and the two men had left the Bureau headquarters before the return of Danilov and Pavin.

  ‘The reaction is too quick!’ insisted Kabalin. He was driving because they wanted to talk out of the presence of a driver.

  ‘What was there to take any time?’ said Metkin. ‘The documents are unchallengeable.’

  ‘Why both of us?’

  ‘You were the officer in charge.’

  ‘Acting on your instructions.’

  Metkin frowned at the man. ‘Don’t do or say anything foolish, will you, Vladimir Nikolaevich?’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It was Danilov’s first intention to say nothing about the missing Makarov, to allow time for a proper internal enquiry and search. Just as quickly he realised, like he realised a lot of other things, that the gun would never be found. And watching their initial frantic hunt and then insisting she had seen no-one open the safe was Ludmilla Radsic, who, if questioned by others which she undoubtedly would be, would provide the precise time he had discovered the gun had gone to prove he had withheld the information. The momentary concentration upon the woman prompted another thought and he almost asked her a quite different question, but stopped himself until he was sure.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ demanded Pavin. The normally unshakable man was white with bewilderment, moving around the room without direction, touching and shifting things as if he expected suddenly to find the missing evidence.

  ‘Go back to the ministry,’ said Danilov calmly.

  ‘But this means …’

  ‘… that everything’s collapsed.’ It wa
s as much a remark for the woman’s benefit – and satisfaction – as to stop Pavin blurting out something Danilov didn’t want her to hear. Danilov was thinking even further ahead now, itemising what could be salvaged. A lot, he decided. Not everything – and not by far the most important thing – but a lot.

  Pavin was still too confused fully to agree when Danilov tried to talk through the implications of the missing Makarov on their way back to the ministry. He wasn’t able to provide an answer to Danilov’s query about Ludmilla Radsic, either.

  ‘It’s all or nothing,’ Pavin complained.

  ‘It’s that anyway,’ Danilov said. ‘It always has been.’

  ‘It’s the system to accept, unquestionably, the word of the superior officer.’

  Just survive. Lapinsk’s words, remembered Danilov. Now he was sure he could. He said: ‘That’s just it! That’s the way Metkin and Kabalin think: their mistake. That’s why we can win!’

  ‘Only if the others will hear you out.’

  ‘They’ll have to, whether they like it or not,’ insisted Danilov. ‘It can’t be kept internal; swept away. The Americans will have to be told the gun has vanished.’

  ‘It was in our custody,’ said Pavin miserably. ‘My custody.’

  ‘I can do it!’ Danilov said adamantly.

  Despite its lavishness, Vorobie’s office was inadequate for the enlarged meeting. Metkin and Kabalin were waiting in a larger conference room, with the Federal Prosecutor and the two government officials.

  ‘I hope there’s good reason for keeping us waiting?’ demanded the Interior Ministry man.

  ‘There is,’ announced Danilov at once. ‘The Makarov found by the river, with Antipov’s fingerprints, has disappeared.’

  Smolin’s mouth actually fell open and stayed like that for several moments: Vorobie turned to look at Oskin, as if he’d misheard and expected the other man to correct the misunderstanding. Kabalin frowned. Any facial movement from Metkin was lost in the already creased features.

  ‘What!’ managed Smolin, finally.

  ‘Major Pavin checked the evidence safe, while I was collecting this,’ said Danilov, gesturing with his true copy of the communications register. ‘The gun has gone.’

  ‘That can’t be!’ said Oskin weakly.

  ‘It is,’ said Danilov. He had to anticipate every move and counter-accusation likely to come from the other two Militia officers. He wanted them confused, making mistakes in their eagerness to make their charges.

  ‘The evidence exhibits are your responsibility,’ intruded Metkin at once.

  Good, thought Danilov: from the fatuous exchanges on the day of their return from Washington, he knew the more Metkin tried to advance an unsound argument, the more he exposed his weakness: the man’s reasoning and manoeuvring was too deeply embedded in the past. ‘I accept that: as I accept the dossiers are entirely my responsibility.’

  The apparently full admission caused the baffled curiosity Danilov wanted. This time Metkin’s frown was discernible.

  ‘You admit it?’ demanded Vorobie.

  ‘I want it understood,’ qualified Danilov. ‘Like I want it understood that is why the written records have been altered and the gun has disappeared. To discredit me and bring about my dismissal.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about records being altered,’ said Metkin. ‘Those records prove without question either incompetence or insubordinate refusal to follow others. I don’t need to describe to anyone here what the loss of the murder weapon means.’

  ‘Without the gun, Antipov can’t be charged: brought before a court,’ said the Federal Prosecutor anyway, as if he couldn’t believe what he was being forced to say. ‘The gun, with unarguable fingerprints, was the evidence.’

  ‘Which the Americans will have to be told,’ agreed Danilov. ‘It’s difficult to imagine their reaction to this. Proof, if any more were needed, of official complicity, to prevent a proper police enquiry …’ Time now to switch, to bury the bastards under the weight of their own misjudgements. ‘… The enquiry into the Ignatov killing was deliberately mishandled, at its outset. Since then every effort has been made by the Director of the Organised Crime Bureau flagrantly to obstruct it. There should be a thorough and complete enquiry into that determined attempt to disgrace and discredit the department, together with myself and Major Pavin.’ Had he left anything out? If he had, it was too late now. The abyss was yawning before him, bottomless. He wasn’t frightened. He supposed he should be.

  This time the reponse was splintered. The higher officials lapsed into further head-turning bemusement, seeking an inquisitor. Metkin had to speak, although not as the inquisitor, more the prosecutor, the role Danilov was sure the man had rehearsed. Come on, thought Danilov: over-extend yourself. Make the most important mistake of all.

  The Director rose, making what he was going to say formal and official, a declaration. ‘I refute utterly these outrageous accusations, which are totally without foundation, the ramblings of a desperate man. The horrendous shortcomings and the even more horrendous failures are those of Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov, who should be removed at once from an enquiry he has so bungled, from its inception, it cannot now continue …’

  It would once have worked, Danilov accepted: as little as four years ago, any attempted defence would have been ignored and higher authority would have sided with higher authority, obeying the Communist favour-for-favour principle, and he would have been as good as dead. Now …

  Metkin turned, sure of himself, confronting Danilov face-to-face. ‘The responsibility for picking up what is left of this miserably failed investigation will be mine. And that of senior Colonel Investigator Vladimir Kabalin …’ He went back to the assembled, tight-faced officials. ‘The decision upon the failings of Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov and his assistant must be yours. My official recommendation is that the enquiry be an internal, criminal one, for gross dereliction of duties, which is provided for under the Militia statute …’

  Got you! thought Danilov triumphantly: old ways, old reasoning. Just like they’d miscalculated how to – or not to – set up the Ignatov case. Beside him Pavin came close to a physically separating movement, which didn’t offend Danilov. The repeated cough was to attract attention more than to clear his throat and he stood, matching Metkin’s stance. ‘The suggestion there should be an official enquiry was mine,’ he reminded. ‘And its sentence upon anyone found guilty of negligence or misconduct should be as severe as possible, under both the law and internal regulations …’ The pause was entirely self-indulgent, Danilov savouring the moment. ‘But it can’t be internal, within the Militia. This is a joint investigation, between America and Russia. And now we can’t proceed with a murder prosecution. Which we have to announce not just privately to the Americans but publicly, because of the international publicity that has been generated. To satisfy the Americans and the public in general of our official integrity and professional ability, any enquiry must be entirely independent of the Militia …’ Danilov caught the look Kabalin attempted to exchange with Metkin, who refused to respond. Abruptly another idea came to him, which gave a gap for Oskin to break in.

  ‘I don’t think there is any doubt of the need for a fuller hearing,’ began the Deputy Interior Minister briskly. ‘I propose this meeting be adjourned for more detailed consideration of all the points that have been raised …’

  ‘Not all the points have been raised!’ interrupted Danilov, annoyed at himself for allowing the intrusion. ‘This meeting has already been adjourned once today: I have not yet been able to answer the accusation I was brought here to explain …’ It had broken the sequence he was trying to present, making his case more disjointed than Metkin’s. Talking directly to the deputy, Danilov said: ‘The independence of a very necessary enquiry will have to be under the aegis of the Interior Ministry, at least. With officials of other ministries co-opted …’ He chanced the slightest of pauses, thinking of another bombshell he could lob, unreal though he knew the concept to be. ‘P
ossibly, even, including American participation: full exchange of evidence and findings at least …’

  Metkin did answer Kabalin’s look at last: the colour was beginning to seep into the Director’s face.

  He’d risked insubordination, thought Danilov: could he get away with arrogance as well? ‘An essential remit of any enquiry must be the attitude of Mikhail Antipov …’ They weren’t going to cut him off: they were frowning, but in interest, not irritation any longer. ‘… You have all seen the transcripts of the interrogations of this man: entirely pointless, unproductive questioning … Why? Why has a man – a man arrested by senior Colonel Kabalin – remained contemptuous and patronising, knowing, because I told him at the first interview, that his fingerprints were on the murder weapon: knowing a conviction that carries the death penalty was inevitable? That’s inexplicable, even for a hardened criminal like Mikhail Pavlovich Antipov …’

  ‘… This is unfair!’ erupted Kabalin at last. ‘… I am not being given an opportunity to explain …’

  Danilov could hardly believe the interruption. More quickly than anyone else, he said: ‘Explain, then!’

  Kabalin was even appearing awkward. He’d half risen, but not completed the movement; now he was neither sitting nor standing but at a crouch, as if he were about to run. Danilov guessed the other man would have probably liked to do just that.

  Kabalin said: ‘There is a clear inference being made, entirely unsubstantiated by any fact. I reject it!’

  This time Smolin got in first. ‘What inference?’

  ‘That in some way Antipov learned from me the gun would never be produced.’

  ‘Did he?’ asked Oskin directly.

  ‘No!’

  ‘Something that may be possible to prove, either way,’ reentered Danilov, abandoning any reservation on how far he might go. ‘Antipov was due to be questioned again today, although long before now. That interview, like all the others, will be fully recorded. He would suspect something if I wasn’t the person who accompanied the American. How much would his attitude change if I told him his protectors – his protectors, not naming anyone – had failed to dispose of the gun …’