No Time for Heroes

by Brian Freemantle

  The three men remained unmoving while Danilov talked. Several times he offered the documentary evidence he had brought with him, but every time Nikolai Smolin shook his head, almost with impatience. Danilov got the impression there had been another conference, preceding this.

  ‘The American knows: will have told Washington?’ repeated Smolin, uttering what appeared to be his only preoccupation.

  ‘Yes,’ confirmed Danilov. The lack of response worried him. He didn’t think he could openly ask, if he didn’t get the guidance he wanted.

  ‘The money is still in this corporation?’ queried Sergei Vorobie.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would it be possible to get it back?’ asked Vasili Oskin.

  The information was in the documents they’d refused: at worse, he could only later be criticised for an oversight. He wasn’t going to have to ask, to get his question answered.

  ‘I am not sure about that. Or that a legal conviction is possible, upon the evidence of Maksim Zimin alone,’ said Smolin. The opinion wasn’t addressed to Danilov.

  ‘America will expect something,’ pointed out the Deputy Interior Minister.

  There had been a prior conference, Danilov decided: they were virtually continuing it now, talking as if he weren’t in the room. He wouldn’t tell them how he intended going on with the enquiries: it would be easier to have the sort of interview he wanted with Raisa Serova without the intrusion of Oleg Yasev.

  The other three men looked among themselves, as if seeking a spokesman. Vorobie said: ‘There has been very detailed discussion, after what happened in Italy. And there will have to be more, as a result of what you’ve added today. But every effort is to be made to avoid this becoming the diplomatic scandal about which we spoke at the very beginning. You are to make no approach to any of the named government officials. Are you clear about that?’

  ‘Completely,’ said Danilov. And more, he thought. There was definitely going to be a cover-up.

  Danilov was an hour later than he’d promised, getting back to Kirovskaya, but Olga was not annoyed. She kissed him, seeming not to notice his half-hearted response as she flustered around the apartment constantly talking, never waiting for him to reply, which after a while he stopped bothering to do. She said the silk scarf he’d bought – again on the plane – from Geneva was beautiful, and showed him all the Moscow newspaper cuttings of his part in the Sicilian gun battle and said how proud she was of him.

  It was, in fact, the first time he had seen the complete Russian coverage: there’d only been three clippings from the embassy in Rome. He was surprised how much space he had been given. He thought he looked ridiculous coming out of the helicopter in army fatigues.

  Olga made him tell her about it in minute detail, constantly interrupting with small questions when he tried to hurry, and he indulged her, not irritated as he sometimes was. She kept repeating how proud she was. That night she initiated the love-making and he found it easier to respond than he’d thought he would, but afterwards he remained awake long after she had drifted off into a snuffling sleep.

  He was soon going to have to find the words to tell her it was all over. What were the words? He didn’t know yet, but he had to have them exactly right when the moment came, to cause as little hurt as possible. Definitely reassure her that he intended to look after her. Would Larissa have worked out what she was going to say to Kosov? They’d have to talk it through first: get it right between them.

  He’d have to call Larissa tomorrow: she’d probably heard from Kosov he was back. Danilov couldn’t work out precisely what it had been when he’d spoken to the man, to arrange their meeting. There had been more than simply fury. Fear, Danilov hoped. Would he be able to achieve what he wanted, the following day? He thought so: the Italians appeared to be keeping their word, not releasing anything of the interrogation success. So Kosov’s friends would be frantic to know what had been discovered. It pleased Danilov, imagining them frantic. He hoped Kosov was the most worried of all. Not just frightened. Truly terrified. The bastard deserved to be.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Kosov had decreed the Metropole bar, which Danilov thought entirely predictable, but the man intercepted him as he entered the foyer, announcing that it was too crowded and they would talk in the car instead. Danilov allowed himself to be shepherded back outside, curious at the abrupt change. Distrust, at something he might have set up in the hotel after his misguidance about the investigation? Or was Kosov merely being theatrical, which was also predictable? It didn’t matter. Kosov was now compromising himself by insisting on the eavesdropped BMW.

  Kosov made no attempt to start the car once they were seated. Instead he gripped the wheel, staring directly ahead for several moments before saying: ‘You’ve made things very difficult for me, Dimitri Ivanovich. Could even have put me in danger. I don’t like that.’

  It was a poor attempt to sound threatening. ‘How did I do that?’ Danilov had no difficulty over the conversation being simultaneously overheard by Cowley at the American embassy. But he had to forget the tape, not perform to it.

  ‘By giving me the impression you did!’ complained Kosov, loud voiced, turning to Danilov at last. ‘I thought we had an understanding. You told me you were getting nowhere. I told other people!’

  The suit was blue, a shiny material like silk that Danilov had not seen the other man wear before. The cologne was overpowering in the confined space. ‘I’m not running this investigation alone! You knew that!’

  ‘You told me it was getting nowhere!’ insisted Kosov.

  ‘Which it wasn’t, when we talked!’ said Danilov, the explanation fully prepared. ‘It wasn’t until we got to Washington we heard what was going to happen in Sicily.’

  Kosov’s attitude softened, very slightly. ‘That’s where it came from! From an American source!’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘My friends will be relieved.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Danilov, wanting the reply recorded.

  ‘They wanted reassurance about security, here in Moscow.’ Kosov started the car as he spoke and Danilov hoped the firing of the engine hadn’t blurred the words.

  ‘You talked about an introduction,’ encouraged Danilov.

  ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about first,’ said Kosov. He turned away from the Kremlin, driving out of the city. ‘You were quite the hero!’

  ‘It was automatic: I didn’t realise I was doing it,’ Danilov answered, honestly.

  ‘They were interrogated, of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What’s been said? Admitted?’

  ‘Bits and pieces,’ said Danilov, intentionally vague.

  Kosov sighed. ‘Sufficient for a case?’

  ‘Enough for a murder prosecution in Italy.’

  ‘I mean here, in Moscow!’ said Kosov impatiently.

  Danilov realised they were driving on the edge of Tatarovo, close to the intended apartment. He had the bribe money ready in his pocket. Larissa would be waiting for him when her shift finished.

  He made an uncertain rocking movement with his free hand. ‘Maybe. Maybe not. There’s got to be a lot of discussion.’

  The sigh this time was even more profound. ‘So let’s start talking properly! Why are we going around in circles!’

  ‘I want to meet your friends. Face to face,’ declared Danilov. Kosov didn’t have any real choice in how the encounter went, but Danilov did not want to alienate the man too much. It would all come soon enough.

  The head shake was patronising. ‘Just tell me everything that happened in Italy. And what you want. I’ll arrange it all.’

  Pompous, arrogant bastard, thought Danilov. He shook his head in return. ‘Tell them I want to meet personally.’

  ‘You think you’re in a position to make demands?’

  ‘I’m the one who knows about Italy.’

  ‘It’s got to be through me!’

  ‘That’s not the way it’s going to be,’ refused Danilov.
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  ‘Dimitri Ivanovich! Why are we fighting?’

  ‘We’re not fighting. We’re avoiding the sort of misunderstandings that occurred before.’

  ‘Just tell me!’ implored Kosov. ‘I’ll pass it all on. And fix whatever you ask for.’

  Kosov wanted desperately to restore his credibility with his paymasters, guessed Danilov: maybe he even felt physically threatened. Repeating Kosov’s earlier complaint, Danilov said: ‘If I deal direct, there can’t be any misunderstandings. You won’t be endangered.’

  ‘I’m your friend! You can trust me. I’m willing to take the risk! I want to help you!’

  ‘Face to face,’ said Danilov, adamantly. Was it possible Kosov hadn’t passed on the information about his compromising past? It was hardly a reassurance, one way or the other: Kosov would tell the world and his brother when he learned about him and Larissa.

  ‘Somebody did say something in Sicily, didn’t they?’ pressed Kosov, trying to bring the conversation back on the course he wanted.

  ‘There are leads to follow,’ allowed Danilov.

  ‘Are you going to follow them?’

  ‘I could.’

  Kosov seized the intentional ambiguity. ‘But you needn’t?’

  They reached the outer ring road and joined the circle. ‘There’s a lot to be gone through.’ Lying easily, he said: ‘It depends what I present to the Federal Prosecutor.’ Whose decision, upon whatever I present, I already know, thought Danilov.

  ‘What about Cowley?’ said the other man. ‘He surely heard all you did: would know if something was …’ He smiled, conspiratorially. ‘… overlooked?’

  ‘Cowley’s interested in resolving the murders in America. What happened here in Moscow is secondary: peripheral, providing he can close the cases at home.’ Danilov chose the words carefully, wanting them relayed accurately to defer any use of the compromising photographs. He’d watched Kosov closely, mentioning the American, and didn’t think Kosov knew of the pictures. If he had, he would have surely referred to the whore’s murder by now: he’d actually held back, waiting for Kosov to talk about it.

  ‘Let me handle this,’ said Kosov, renewing his plea.

  ‘No,’ persisted Danilov.

  ‘Without any indication of what happened in Italy they might think it’s a trap.’

  ‘I’m going to them. What sort of trap can I set?’

  ‘They’ll want guarantees.’

  ‘You give guarantees: you’re their man, aren’t you?’

  Kosov gave a self-satisfied smile, and Danilov felt the revulsion move through him. Kosov said: ‘They’re going to ask me what you want.’

  ‘To talk about things of interest to both of us,’ said Danilov, almost embarrassed by the gangster-movie talk.

  ‘What if they refuse?’

  ‘Tell them they can’t refuse: that they’ll regret it, if they do.’

  ‘They don’t like threats.’

  ‘I’m not making threats. Just being direct.’

  ‘We’re going to make a great partnership, Dimitri Ivanovich!’ said Kosov.

  He had briefly forgotten Kosov’s absurd belief they would ever work together. ‘A great partnership,’ he agreed.

  Danilov was conscious of immediate attention the moment he entered the Druzhba hotel: some hotel staff came from the reception area to look at him and smile familiarly, and Danilov was glad he and Larissa weren’t going to use one of the unoccupied rooms. She came quickly around the hidden part of the curved counter, where she normally waited. He guessed she was enjoying the recognition.

  ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’

  ‘I feel I’m on display!’

  ‘You are. You’re famous.’

  Danilov hurried her from the hotel, wondering why he felt uncomfortable at the recognition, but not at coming directly from his meeting with Kosov to finalise his living arrangements with the man’s wife. He waited until she was seated beside him in the Volga before kissing her. ‘I’ve got the dollars for the apartment.’

  ‘Good,’ she said briskly, as if there had never been any doubt he would be able to obtain them.

  ‘Before we commit ourselves, you should consider very seriously that Yevgennie could expose me, because of the past.’

  ‘We talked about it already.’

  ‘Don’t we need to talk about it again? Life with me is going to be very different from what it is with Yevgennie Grigorevich.’ She had the comparison of riding in the shuddering Volga against the smoothness of the BMW as a very real example.

  Larissa reached across for his hand. ‘My darling! I want it to be as different as it possibly can be. I love you!’

  ‘There’s something else. I won’t just abandon Olga. I want to be able to help her – not just with money: if she has any problems. She … she isn’t very good with things.’

  Larissa squeezed the hand she was holding. ‘Wasn’t I the one to say it would be nice if we stayed friends?’

  ‘I love you,’ Danilov returned finally.

  At the Tatarovo apartment, he handed over the money and signed the leasing agreement, and the landlord took them around for another tour of inspection, for Larissa to itemise the things they would need. She did so in a notebook, making reminders to herself where she intended to put individual pieces of furniture.

  ‘I hope you’re happy here,’ the landlord said.

  ‘We will be,’ said Larissa, positively.

  The Secretary of State had agreed at once to one of their breakfast meetings, but cleared his diary for the entire morning.

  It took Henry Hartz a full hour to go completely through what Cowley had sent from Moscow. Finally he looked up to the FBI Director and said: ‘So there’s a definite government connection!’

  ‘I think we should date it from the coup that didn’t work,’ warned Ross.

  ‘Serov was a currently serving, accredited diplomat at the Russian embassy,’ argued Hartz. ‘There are three other names here who are members of the current government!’

  ‘Haven’t we ever found a rotten apple in a diplomatic barrel?’ asked Ross gently.

  ‘Not a whole goddamned orchardful setting up ten-million-dollar drug deals with Mafia organisations right around the goddamned world!’ erupted Hartz.

  ‘Serov wasn’t,’ pointed out the FBI Director. ‘By then he was dead. I’d like to go along with what Cowley suggests: wait a little to see what comes out of the enquiries that are left.’

  ‘I’m definitely waiting for Moscow to come to us,’ agreed the Secretary of State. ‘They’re the ones who’ve got to do the explaining.’

  Two miles away, at the FBI headquarters in downtown Washington, Rafferty looked up from one of the overnight cables from Cowley directed specifically to them, together with all the other additional evidence and specimens. ‘Son of a bitch!’ he said. ‘All the time, we were looking for the wrong face in the pictures, with Michel Paulac.’

  ‘We’ve got the photographs,’ said Johannsen philosophically. He picked up the print that had accompanied Cowley’s request from Moscow. ‘All we’ve got to do now is make the match.’

  Which they did surprisingly quickly.

  ‘Son of a bitch!’ exclaimed Rafferty again. ‘We’re really getting good at this!’

  They got even better. Computerised immigration records threw up a number of exit and entry visas not just for Oleg Yasev, but for Raisa Serova, too.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  They got to Leninskaya early, before eight o’clock, wanting to guarantee Raisa Serova would be there. The widow opened the door to them in a trousered lounging suit: she wasn’t made-up – Danilov decided she hardly needed to be – but her hair was perfectly in place, although hanging loose. It was more of an instinctive than positive gesture, to try to close the door in their faces, and she didn’t push against it when Danilov reached out, stopping her.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said.

  ‘I shall complain …’

  ‘… Stop it!’ interrupted
Cowley. ‘It’s over, Raisa. We know.’

  For several moments she remained at the door, gazing at them, then stood back, unspeaking, for them to enter. She went to her usual couch, in front of the widow, and huddled into it, her legs tucked beneath her as if she was trying to make herself inconspicuous. They sat where they had before. Pavin got out his notebook, ready.

  ‘It was Italy, I suppose,’ she said dully.

  ‘And America: it was in America, after Italy, that everything was pulled together,’ said Cowley. They intended, in the beginning, to be intentionally obscure, to lure her into saying more than she otherwise might.

  ‘Would you believe me, if I told you I am relieved?’ said Raisa.

  It would have been easy to feel pity for her, but Danilov didn’t. Instead of replying, he reached sideways for the damning evidence Pavin had waiting. One by one, on the table between them, he set the photographs from both Geneva and Washington, jabbing his finger on each print as he enumerated them.

  ‘This is a copy of the photograph I took from your apartment in Massachussets Avenue … a photograph you were extremely anxious to have returned. It shows your late husband with your father, Ilya Iosifovich Nishin, also now dead … Here is your father with Igor Rimyans, a known Ukrainian gangster living in the United States of America. It was removed from his house in the Queens district of New York …’ Danilov hesitated at the photographs that had only become significant in the last forty-eight hours, since Rafferty and Johannsen had carried out the comparison Cowley had requested on his return to Moscow, then his finger jabbed again, three times, in separate identification.

  ‘In each of these Michel Paulac, a naturalised Swiss financier whose family came from the Ukraine, where their name was Panzhevsky, is shown at official Washington receptions …’ The finger pointed very definitely. ‘And here … here … and here … you are shown at those same functions, although the invitations were in your husband’s name and you never signed or gave your correct name in the registration records that are kept at these events …’