No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Using the authority of Sergei Vorobie’s name, which gained him immediate access to whomever he wanted at the Foreign Ministry, Danilov demanded the complete personnel file on Petr Aleksandrovich Serov. Through the ministry he also ordered the man’s office at the Washington embassy to be sealed and to remain untouched until he arrived; he gave the same order for the apartment on Massachusetts Avenue. Knowing there would be a security service presence in the embassy, Danilov repeated the instructions about the office and the flat through the Interior Ministry for relay to Washington, well aware that in the past the old KGB, from which the new organisation had been formed, had regarded itself as beyond edicts from any but their own controllers. And sometimes not even them.

Throughout the telephone conversations Danilov was conscious of the scribbling interest of Ludmilla Radsic at the far end of the room, so when he finished he made it easy for her by dictating records of everything he’d done to create the beginning of Pavin’s meticulous dossier and Metkin’s spy file. Danilov decided the Director would by now be hating Moscow’s direct telephone dialling system, knowing his calls would have been monitored through a general switchboard. From her strained but blank-faced attention during the previous night’s conversation with Cowley, he knew Ludmilla did not understand English. While the woman was preparing the Ministry memoranda, Danilov quietly made his own flight arrangements to Washington and typed his own advisory note to Sergei Vorobie, requesting a final briefing. He did not send a copy to Metkin.

Again because of the attentive secretary, it was not until they were in the car on their way to Leninskaya that Danilov was able to speak openly to Pavin.

‘This has confused everybody,’ said the man, who was driving. ‘People aren’t sure just how strong Metkin’s position is: you caused a lot of upset with all those instructions and changes.’

‘Have you been asked to inform on me?’ demanded Danilov, with subjective cynicism.

‘Kabalin was very friendly after yesterday’s announcement: I’m expecting it to come. When are you going to Washington?’

‘The day after tomorrow.’

‘How long?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll be liaising with the ministries but I’ll come through you, as well, to maintain the records.’

‘Metkin will demand them.’

‘There’ll be nothing he can’t see.’

The Serovs’ Moscow apartment was close to the Gagarin monument, in one of the last ornate and still exclusive blocks built for members of the disbanded Communist Party. The flat was on the top floor, with one of the best views over the city. The elevator worked and was clean. There was no graffiti.

Raisa Serova opened the door and regarded them curiously, someone whose inherent assurance was subdued: a new widow. She was an extremely attractive, even beautiful woman, heavy busted but slim, sheathed in a fitted dark blue wool dress. The patterned gold necklace matched the bracelet on her left wrist. Her deeply black hair was bobbed short and the lipstick matched the dark crimson of her nails. There was the suggestion of redness around her eyes, a hint she might have been weeping, but Danilov wasn’t sure. Danilov guessed she was in her late thirties: it would probably be recorded on Serov’s Foreign Ministry file.

The woman showed no surprise when they identified themselves, nor any reluctance to receive them. She seated them in an expansive living room, with a view of the obelisk-like tower commemorating the first Russian astronaut. She offered tea, which they refused.

‘When is Petr Aleksandrovich’s body being returned?’ she demanded at once.

‘We don’t know,’ said Danilov.

‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’

‘We’re assisting the American authorities in their investigation.’

Her attitude changed slightly, into uncertainty. ‘You think I can help?’

‘Can you?’

‘How?’

She moved to a low couch, directly in front of the window, and took a cigarette from a black malacca box on the side table, carefully fitting it into a stubby holder. Danilov saw the cigarette was American, like so much else in the room. The television and an extensive stereo system were imported, linked to the fluctuating Moscow electricity supply by heavy transformers: Danilov guessed the furnishings, the curtains, the rugs, and maybe even the suite and the tables, came from America as well.

‘Your husband was murdered.’

‘I know that. Shot.’ There was the slightest tremor in the hand holding the cigarette, a hint of distress, but her voice was even.

‘So was a Swiss financier. Petr Aleksandrovich dined with him, the night they were both killed.’

‘I read that, in the newspapers.’

‘Did you know your husband was meeting a man named Michel Paulac, on the 19th?’

‘I have been here in Moscow for three weeks.’

‘So you did not know of the appointment?’ persisted Danilov.

‘No.’

Beside Danilov, Pavin was recording every word: Danilov had always been intrigued by the quick neatness of the note-taking from such a large man. ‘Did you know Michel Paulac?’

‘No.’

‘Your husband never spoke of him?’

‘No.’

‘Were you aware your husband associated with criminals?’

‘What?’ The woman’s voice was angrily loud.

Danilov repeated the question.

‘That’s an absurd thing to ask me!’

‘There are peculiarities about the killing.’

Raisa Serova stubbed out her cigarette but lit another immediately. Not looking at either of them, she said: ‘Petr Aleksandrovich was a diplomat, performing a duty for his country. He was a respectable, honest man. My husband did not know criminals. Nor associate with criminals. I resent the question and I am offended by it. I shall complain to the Ministry about your impudence! Get out!’

Neither Danilov nor Pavin moved.

‘I have come here with the knowledge of both the Foreign and Interior Ministries,’ said Danilov. ‘You can obviously appreciate the international implications of what has happened. It is not my intention to offend or distress you: I am merely asking questions that have to be asked… asked in the hope of arresting whoever killed Petr Aleksandrovich.’

Raisa Serova said nothing. Danilov sat, waiting, still making no move to leave. The impasse was broken by a muffled call from somewhere within the apartment. Without speaking, the woman left the room. Danilov and Pavin remained where they were, also silent.

When she came back she said: ‘My mother is unwell. Terminally.’ She wasn’t outraged any more.

‘Petr Aleksandrovich had been in Washington a long time?’

‘Yes.’

‘How did those extensions of duty come about?’

‘Instructions from the Foreign Ministry here.’

‘Petr Aleksandrovich did not not request them?’

She laughed at the naivety. ‘Everybody tries to extend in America: there’s no point in asking!’

‘He liked it there?’

‘He was popular. Did his job well: that’s why he was kept on.’

Without the guidance of the Foreign Office personnel file, and still seeking a link between the two murders, Danilov said: ‘Had your husband ever served in the Swiss legation?’

‘No.’

‘Anywhere in Europe?’

‘Paris. It was his posting before Washington.’

Close enough, thought Danilov. ‘Where else had he served?’

‘Caracas.’ She shuddered. ‘Venezuela is not an agreeable place.’

‘There must have been a lot of socialising, as a cultural attache?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you attend functions with your husband?’

‘It is seen as a joint posting, although I did not have any official diplomatic status.’

Danilov thought she would have performed the role very well. ‘So you and he discussed his work?’

She frowned. ‘He would tell me of events coming up: warn me in advance when I might have to attend.’

‘Did you keep matching diaries?’

Raisa Serova hesitated, looking directly at him. ‘Yes.’

‘Where is yours?’

The hesitation this time was longer, and Danilov guessed she was considering rejecting the inference of the question. But she got up and briefly left the room again, returning with a long but handbag-sized diary. Like everything else, it was American. She offered it to him without speaking.

The space for the 19th was blank: the only entries for a week prior and the period after related to her return to Moscow. There were two doctor’s appointments listed.

‘There was no purpose in matching our diaries when I was not in Washington,’ she said, anticipating the question.

‘How many diaries did your husband keep?’

‘Two; one at the embassy, another at the flat. One was the duplicate of the other. Petr Aleksandrovich was extremely efficient.’

‘Did you speak by telephone after your return?’

‘Twice, I think. Maybe three times.’

‘How did Petr Aleksandrovich seem?’

There was another frowning hesitation. ‘As he always seemed. Quite normal.’

‘He did not mention the intended meeting with Michel Paulac?’

‘I have already told you, no!’

‘You told me you did not know of an appointment,’ corrected Danilov. ‘Not that there had been no conversation about the man.’

‘I said my husband had never spoken of him,’ she reminded, correcting his correction.

Now it was Danilov who hesitated. ‘Do you know… can you imagine… any reason why Petr Aleksandrovich should have met a Swiss financier? And why he should have been killed in the manner in which he was: in the manner in which they both were?’

The woman stared at him in open-eyed amazement. ‘How could I!’

‘You must be bewildered by it, then?’

‘I am.’

‘But you haven’t tried to understand how or why he should have been meeting this man?’

‘There is no way I can undersand. It’s a mystery.’

‘Please don’t misconstrue this question,’ warned Danilov in advance. ‘But did your husband have friends or acquaintances you did not know about?’

‘He must have done, mustn’t he? I did not know of this man.’

‘I meant others.’

‘Do you mean women?’

Was he expressing himself badly, or was she making it difficult? ‘I mean do you think, this having happened, that Petr Aleksandrovich knew and met people, male or female, whose acquaintance he kept from you?’

‘It’s possible. If I didn’t know I wouldn’t know, would I? There were things that happened at the embassy which would have involved people I had no right to know about.’

This was becoming a perpetual circle, decided Danilov. ‘Will you be returning to Washington?’

She looked uncertain. ‘I haven’t thought about it. I suppose I shall have to, to close up the apartment.’

Which had been the point of his question: he wanted the chance to get into Massachusetts Avenue before Raisa Serova did. There had been outrage and protests from the Americans at his entering the Moscow apartment of the politician’s niece before them. The angriest outburst had been from the FBI man they’d eventually identified as the killer: they would never have proved it if the man had got there ahead of him. ‘You haven’t made any arrangements?’

‘I thought the funeral would have been first.’ There was a pause before she said: ‘Have you had any contact with American investigators about this?’

‘Very briefly.’

‘What do they say? What do they think?’

‘They don’t have any theories.’

‘The newspapers said you’ve worked with the Americans before?’

‘Yes?’ said Danilov, curiously.

‘Are they good? This man they named, Cowley, is he good?’

‘They have some extremely sophisticated methods of investigation, scientifically. Cowley is a very clever detective.’

Raisa Serova nodded, as if she were receiving confirmation of something she already knew. ‘So they will find the killer?’

‘I would expect so.’

‘Will he die? Be executed, I mean.’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Danilov. ‘The laws are different, from state to state.’ And the District of Columbia wasn’t a state anyway: he didn’t feel it was necessary to qualify.

Appearing to retreat inside herself, the woman said: ‘I loved him. Now I don’t have him any more.’

The abrupt outburst surprised him. Danilov could not think of anything to say.

‘Maybe, if I had been in Washington, he wouldn’t have had the meeting that night? Wouldn’t have died.’

Danilov was familiar with the ‘what if’ speculation of the bereaved. ‘It happened,’ he said, gently. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Yes.’

Danilov handed her a card: he’d already handwritten on the back the direct number into his new office. ‘If you think of anything, call me.’

Raisa Serova stared down at the card, then up at Danilov. ‘There won’t be anything.’

The Foreign Ministry personnel file on Petr Aleksandrovich Serov was waiting when Danilov returned to Petrovka. It was far more detailed than Danilov had expected. It confirmed, with the years listed consecutively, the postings to Caracas and Paris prior to the Washington appointment. He had married Raisa on 3 June, 1980, in Moscow’s Hall of Weddings. From the dates of birth, Serov was nine years older than his wife: he had been born in 1948, she in 1957. The extensions of Serov’s Washington service were noted, like the dates of the other overseas postings, but no reason recorded for keeping the man so long in America, although the four attached confidential assessments each praised Serov’s work and performance. Three used the word exemplary. There were also two confidential assessments on Raisa. Exemplary was the word used again.

Danilov was still reading when the telephone rang. He let Pavin take the call, which was quite brief. Instead of announcing it from his own desk, Pavin crossed the room, so the exchange would be unheard by the secretary.

‘You’re to go to the Foreign Ministry,’ said Pavin. ‘Raisa Serova has complained.’