What would Kosov do? Totally unpredictable. Danilov didn’t think the man, who had all the bombast and pretensions of a coward, would be physically violent. He’d shout and rage – maybe even threaten to fight – but it would be in other, already feared ways the man would try to get his retribution.
Danilov wasn’t as apprehensive now as he had been. He supposed it was the comparative ease with which the confrontation with the Chechen leaders had gone, being able to match threat for threat. He knew he could do precisely that, if Kosov started talking of the past. Go as far as playing the incriminating tapes, as tangible proof. There’d been the unreasoning fury when he’d learned how Kosov entrapped Olga, but although it was still with him the anger was colder now, not so all-consuming. Kosov would have lost his wife and his prestige with his paymasters and know there was never a possibility of their working together as partners at Petrovka. So did he need to go any further, to drive the man entirely from the Militia, which had been one of the first of the several unthinking resolutions he’d made?
Danilov did have to concentrate to prepare the evidence edited in the way the Federal Prosecutor decreed for the limited arraignment that had been decided, accepting as he did so the ultimate irony that he was doing precisely what he had promised the Mafia bosses, although not for the reasons they believed. Nikolai Smolin’s decision, not his, reflected Danilov, so Smolin could be the final arbiter of what was included. Accordingly Danilov set out to prepare what, in effect, was a précis of a statement or evidence account, attaching markers to events and facts Smolin might want either to add or omit. Because he respected the man’s ability, he frequently consulted the meticulous Pavin, so it was a time-consuming operation which he guessed would take him a further week to complete: maybe even longer. Danilov stopped earlier than he would normally have done on an initial preparation day, not wanting his personal distraction to affect his professional judgement.
He talked with Pavin about what they could buy Cowley. Pavin couldn’t think of anything in Moscow to compare in either quality or price with what Cowley had given them, but didn’t think that was necessary anyway: taking their lead from Danilov’s medal, why didn’t they go to the Arbat souvenir precinct and buy the American one of the dozens of genuine military decorations discarded by the greatly diminished army, and stage a valour presentation of their own? Danilov thought it was an idea that would appeal to Cowley.
Olga had tried very hard. She’d prepared hors d’oeuvres and set out bottles. In the forefront the FBI medal was on show, the presentation box open and propped up, for it to be displayed.
‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea,’ he protested gently. ‘It looks far too boastful.’
‘They’ll want to see it!’ she said, disappointed.
Danilov closed the box and took it from the table. As he walked towards the bedroom, he said: ‘If they ask we’ll show them. But not until they ask.’ He tossed it casually into his bedside drawer.
‘Yevgennie would show it off, if he had one,’ she said petulantly, when he returned to the living room.
‘Yevgennie and I do things differently,’ he said. There was already a mark on Olga’s new skirt.
‘Where are we going tonight, after the drinks?’
‘Why don’t we talk about it when they get here?’ He’d have to be the person to say something, first. Larissa and I have something to tell you, he thought. That wasn’t right. It transferred the announcement to Larissa. I have something to say. About Larissa and me. We’re in love – have been for a long time – and we’re going to get married. That was it, wasn’t it? He’d spent all day – and a lot of days before that – trying to wrap the declaration up in soft words and phrases, but there weren’t any soft words or phrases to make easier what they had to say. So he’d come out with it like that, bluntly, brutally. Olga or Kosov would say something then – Kosov, most probably – and then would come the tears and the arguments about divorce. And the last thing that would interest any of them would be an American medal. He had to remember to take it, he realised, suddenly. He hadn’t thought of packing anything yet – wouldn’t have been able to pack anything yet, without Olga asking what he was doing – but his clothes were all conveniently arranged, the shirts still folded suitcase size, from the trips abroad. He’d try to do it tonight, if Olga wasn’t too distressed or angry: make the break abrupt and clean. If he couldn’t he’d still take the medal, at least.
‘What time did you say?’
Danilov looked unnecessarily at his new watch. ‘Six.’ It was five-thirty. If they were going to be on time they’d be leaving now, to make allowances for the rush hour.
‘Do I look all right?’
‘Fine. But there’s a mark on your skirt.’
Olga look down, surprised, hurrying into the bathroom. Danilov heard the taps running. He poured vodka to the rim of the glass. Stage-effect, he thought. The dampness, where she’d tried to sponge it, made the spot look much worse when Olga emerged. He hoped it would dry before the others arrived, for Olga’s sake.
‘It’s going to be a good evening!’ predicted Olga brightly. ‘I know it is!’
Danilov jumped at the sound of the telephone, close to spilling his drink. He hurried to it, knowing it would be Larissa.
But it wasn’t.
‘I think something’s happened,’ announced Cowley.
‘What!’
‘The tape has just recorded the biggest goddamned noise I’ve ever heard. Now it’s dead.’
So were a great many people, one in particular. And within thirty minutes of the telephone call, briefly, inside, a blindly deranged man who loved her and wouldn’t let her go, even though Larissa wasn’t there any more – wasn’t anywhere any more – to be held and loved and protected, like he was going to protect her forever.
It was to take a week to establish that eight people had been killed and twenty more injured, two seriously. There were insufficient remains to identify Yevgennie Kosov or his wife Larissa, who had been sitting literally on top of at least four pounds of Semtex that exploded the moment the BMW ignition was fired. By a quirk – as obscene as the quirk that threw David Patton’s gun, still in David Patton’s hand, aside in the Sicilian shoot-out – Kosov’s ornately-jewelled watch was thrown clear by the blast: it was still working when it was found, close to the apartment wall. It was not attached to a wrist. Its discovery was officially logged in Militia records; it had disappeared when an identity-check search was made, three days after the atrocity.
Every window of the block was shattered, and the ground and first floors so badly imploded the entire section was declared dangerously unsafe and fifteen familes evacuated. The crater in Nastasiskij Prospekt was three metres deep and extended the entire width of the street.
The fire brigade were still dowsing the blazing wreckage of the car when Danilov got there. The heat of the explosion was so fierce the metal had burned, like paper: only the chassis suggested it might have been a car, and that was uncertain. What had survived was red, like blood, a cruel effect of water upon white-hot metal. It hissed and smoked, whitely, like awakening ghosts.
Danilov took it all in yet saw nothing. He trembled, like someone naked in the snow, but he was so hot his skin felt tight. He waved his police identity like a flag to get through the barriers to the very edge to the crater, staring down, knowing it was going to be all right because it had to be all right, and that she would be down there: injured, obviously, but still alive, able to recognise him when he got to her and went with her in the ambulance wedged between two fire trucks. He’d tell her it wasn’t important about Tatarovo and the wine tonight. They’d do it when she was better.
He stared wildly around, not understanding why he couldn’t see her, but there were a lot of people and a lot of swirling steam, so he had to be in the wrong place. He dodged in and out of firemen and uniformed Militia and when he still couldn’t see her he hurried to the ambulance and demanded to be told where she was, waving his police
authority again, not realising – not caring – there were others injured and killed, and that the bewildered medic didn’t know what he was talking about. When he did see the man’s confusion Danilov said Larissa’s name, over and over again, and tried to describe her: hair and chiselled nose and the way she held her head sometimes, oddly twisted, as if she was withdrawing from whoever she was talking to. When the medic shrugged and began to walk away Danilov snatched at the man to stop him, but rescuers were pulling angrily at him now. He shook them off, yelling his rank, trying to get down into the hole where men still wore safety suits and reinforced masks, to protect them from the heat.
The hands became stronger, refusing to be shrugged away, and then voices penetrated, voices he knew, Cowley’s and Pavin’s, and he turned gratefully to people he recognised. ‘Help me! She’s down there! She’s probably hurt. Can you see her? I can’t see her.’
‘Come out,’ said Cowley. ‘They’re getting her. You’re in the way. So come out.’
‘You’re sure? They’ve got her?’
‘Come out.’
Danilov scrambled up, needing their help, because he was still shaking badly and his legs were very unsteady. The other two were on either side, arms cross-linked to cocoon him, getting him away.
‘Where is she! She’ll need me to go to the hospital.’
They kept walking, not speaking. It became abruptly dark, out of the search floodlights: briefly Danilov’s vision fogged completely, a wipeout of consciousness. When he became aware again, he was on the edge of the rear seat of the Volga, his feet and legs still outside the open door.
‘She dead, Dimitri,’ said Cowley, refusing Danilov his fantasy of shock. ‘She wouldn’t have known anything. But she’s dead.’
Danilov began to cry then, knowing it was true but not wanting to know it was true, racked by great, convulsive sobs and needing the arms that still held him. They stayed that way for a long time, the three of them in a tight group, Cowley repeating Larissa was dead until finally Danilov mumbled that he knew, but softly, so that if it wasn’t true it wouldn’t matter. He became aware of where he was and of the two men supporting him: became properly aware for the first time of the full horror of the atrocity itself.
‘OK?’ asked Cowley finally.
Danilov nodded.
‘We need to talk. For you to hear things.’
Danilov nodded again.
Cowley held him tightly, very briefly, ‘I’m sorry.’
Danilov was fully conscious of what had happened and what he was doing and where he was, but he still moved and reacted dully, needing to be prompted and guided as they entered the darkened, night-staffed embassy and were led by Cowley to the FBI office: Pavin remained at the rear of the procession, a cautious hand hovering at Danilov’s shoulder.
‘I’m all right,’ insisted Danilov when they got there. ‘Thank you, but I’m all right.’ He looked questioningly between Pavin and the American. ‘How?’
Pavin said: ‘I’ve known for at least three years. It was your weakness: how you could have been attacked. I’ve never understood why you weren’t. I always tried to cover your back.’
‘Yuri telephoned, after you called him to find out from the uniformed division what had happened,’ expanded Cowley. ‘I figured you might need help.’
‘We were going to tell them tonight,’ said Danilov, not really addressing either man. ‘Olga and Yevgennie. Talk about divorce and then get married …’ He gave a shrill laugh, momentarily close to the edge. ‘We’ve got a flat. We were going to celebrate with champagne tonight.’
Just as introspectively, Cowley said: ‘Holy shit!’
‘We came here for a reason,’ reminded the pragmatic, less emotional Pavin.
Cowley straightened, reaching for the tape which had been carefully marked, so he could cut it off before the sound of the explosion.
‘We told you to come!’ echoed Gusovsky’s voice. ‘When we say come, you come!’
‘I couldn’t. Not immediately.’ Kosov was snivelling, a trapped animal.
‘You set us up!’
‘I didn’t! He cheated me, too.’
‘You’re no good to us any more, Yevgennie Grigorevich. We can’t trust you.’
‘No! I’ll speak to him!’
‘There’s nothing to speak about.’
‘Let me try!’
‘No good to us any more,’ repeated Gusovsky, monotonously. ‘He laughed at us, as fools. Did you both laugh: think we were fools?’
‘No!’ wailed Kosov.
‘You’re the fool, Yevgennie Grigorevich.’
Cowley snapped off the replay button, at the warning marker. ‘They did it.’
‘I know,’ said Danilov simply.
‘It was the last conversation we recorded.’
‘I want to hear the explosion!’ demanded Danilov.
‘No you don’t,’ said Pavin, gently. ‘There’s no point.’
‘They probably brought someone in from another republic to do it,’ said Danilov, close again to personal musing. ‘They’ll never be charged, not Gusovsky or Yerin.’
‘No,’ agreed Cowley. ‘That’s the way it’s done.’
‘It’s not the way it should be,’ said Danilov.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
The investigation was not given to the Organised Crime Bureau but to a general criminal unit, which spared Danilov from inevitable participation. When it was learned it had been the car of a Militia district commander, the newspapers speculated it was a revenge killing by someone whom Kosov had arrested: police records of all his cases were being examined, for a likely motive through which to trace the killer. Television as well as newspapers carried photographs of Kosov and Larissa. It was a good picture of her – posing in her head-tilted way – and he cut it from two different newspapers because he didn’t have a picture of her. Olga cried a lot but Danilov didn’t, not after the breakdown that first night, by the crater. He took to arriving at Petrovka by eight in the morning and not leaving until six or seven, but never later, because it was unfair to leave Olga alone.
The man from whom Pavin bought the medal on the Arbat insisted it was for bravery under fire: they were doubtful, but that was what they told Cowley on the day he left Moscow, and he was as delighted as Danilov had guessed he would be. They talked over the reunion plans that didn’t need any more discussions: there had been no reference, from either Cowley or Pavin, to Larissa’s death during the four days since they had got him away from the scene. Only at the moment of parting, at Sheremet’yevo, the last thing Cowley said was: ‘I really am sorry.’ Danilov thanked him.
Danilov hadn’t discussed with the American what he intended doing, because there was no reason for Cowley to know. He didn’t tell Pavin, either, although he guessed the man would realise later because it was Pavin he told to organise the swoop on Wernadski Prospekt, to bring in the Ostankino leader.
Yuri Yermolovich Ryzhikev was much heavier than he’d appeared in the prints, bull-chested and thick-necked, with very full black hair and the dark complexion of someone from one of the southern republics: Danilov thought occasionally there was the trace of a Georgian accent. There was a lot of gold adornment, which seemed to be the requirement of every mafioso in the city: the man came into the Petrovka suite with a camel-coloured topcoat slung cape-like around his shoulders, over a brown silk suit. The shoes were crocodile. There wasn’t the arrogance of the Chechen chieftains, but there was no apprehension over the arrest, either.
He sat where Danilov told him but asked at once if Danilov knew what the fuck he thought he was doing. Danilov quietened the attitude at once by offering across the table the copies of the original Svahbodniy Founder’s Certificate and the second certificate transferring control to Raisa Serova upon her father’s death, both of which held Ryzhikev’s name. The government had recovered the money, Danilov said. Ryzhikev had been stupid like the Chechen had been stupid, but in Ryzhikev’s case it hadn’t happened once but twice, first losing it t
o the Chechen and then to the Russian authorities. So he did know what the fuck he was doing. He was giving Ryzhikev a warning.
No action was being taken over the embezzlement, and they knew all the murders had been committed by the Chechen. But no Mafia clan was going to be above the law any more. They had a file on the Ostankino, like they had on every other Family: they knew Wernadski Prospekt was the main house, but they had all the other clubs and restaurants as well. To prove it, Danilov listed those they had discovered, during the surveillance, adding the one that had been firebombed by the Chechen. They didn’t just know the locations, they had identities, too, he continued, and to prove that recited all the names listed in Zimin’s confession, as well as the few Pavin had managed to assemble from the sparse Petrovka files. They didn’t rate the Ostankino as seriously as the other Families, because they knew it would be swept up by the Chechen, who were already taking over whatever they wanted. When he said that, Danilov offered the certificate that had never become operable, replacing the Ostankino directors with Gusovsky and Yerin.
‘The Chechen are going to take you over: look how easy it is for them to kill your people, whenever they like. So by eradicating them we get rid of not one but two mobs, don’t we?’
They already had a massive file on the Chechen. They had over thirty names and they knew the meeting places, at Gusovsky’s home on Kutbysevskij Prospekt and the restaurant on Glovin Bol’soj and the well-protected club on Pecatnikov.
Danilov made it a condescending lecture, once waving the man down when Ryzhikev appeared about to speak, and when he finished the man’s face was puce and he was hunched forward in his chair, looking more bull-like than before, as if he were about to charge.
‘You can go now,’ dismissed Danilov. ‘Until you’re absorbed, just remember what I’ve said. We know who you are and where you are. We can swat you like a bug, whenever we want.’
‘You’re out of your fucking mind,’ managed Ryzhikev at last. ‘You got it wrong. All wrong.’
I hope I haven’t, thought Danilov, at the end of that day. He was in the basement, where the incinerator was housed, feeding the car tapes and the transcripts into the flames, carefully and individually, wanting it all completely consumed, like Larissa had been completely consumed. Technically it was evidence, he acknowledged. But as Cowley had agreed, at the embassy the night it happened, Gusovsky and Yerin would never be punished for ordering the assassination. What he had tried to achieve today was much better: justice without trial. The ultimate personal compromise, for a policeman.
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