No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

There were wrongly spelled words. And on the same dates as those in the cumbersome office desk diary, although this time in a more convenient pocket version which matched the one produced by Raisa Serova in Moscow and which Danilov found in a bureau in the Serov apartment.

It wasn’t an easy search. Oleg Firsov, the resentful counsellor, had insisted on accompanying him to the murdered diplomat’s home, and Danilov had decided he couldn’t oppose, as he had at the embassy. With Firsov constantly at his elbow, Danilov moved through the flat appearing to ignore a lot but missing nothing. He was sure it had been searched like Serov’s office, but those before him had tried hard not to replace things too tidily, to maintain a lived-in impression. Danilov might not have realised the mistaken effort if he had not earlier been in the Serovs’ sterile Leninskaya penthouse. It should have been the same here, despite Raisa’s absence, because someone of Petr Aleksandrovich’s neatness would not have allowed the indented seat cushions and dishevelled magazines and partially opened closet doors and drawers.

There were fewer personal or family photographs than he’d expected. There were four of Serov and Raisa by themselves in Russia or America and six of them with other people, four with the same elderly couple and two of Serov with a man. He overrode Firsov’s protests against taking some away, packing them neatly in his briefcase.

‘They’re personal!’ insisted the diplomat.

‘So’s being shot in the mouth.’

‘I shall report this to Moscow!’

The only personal correspondence in the bureau was to Raisa Serova, always in the same wavering handwriting of an elderly mother bemoaning ill health. There were other complaints as well. Lawlessness had increased on the streets of Moscow since the collapse of communism. Economic reform and market economies had failed. Raisa was lucky to be out of it.

Bills were clipped together, as they had been in Serov’s desk. There was a detailed accounts ledger, completed up to the day before Serov’s death: in a pouch in the back, again clipped together and in numerical order, were statements from the Narodny bank. The joint account was ten thousand roubles in credit. Every listed transaction was doubly recorded in the accounts book, but here with a fuller explanation of income and expenditure. The income never varied, in any of the statements, neither did the source, in the audit book. Every deposit was listed as salary. Raisa was not shown to have any income.

To check the four particular dates without giving any indication to Firsov of his discovery in the embassy office, Danilov just rifled through the pages of the second diary initially, finding the confirmation he needed with the same double spelling on the same days. He felt an even greater jump of satisfaction than the previous day, knowing now the dates were significant.

Had he not been a diligent detective he might have discarded the diary at once, believing he’d learned all there was to find. But following the principle that crime was more often solved by dogged police work than by inspiration, he patiently went to the beginning of the year to read every entry, page by page. And was practically at once glad he did. There were far more frequent spelling variations here than in the office record, too many to copy and digest in front of an intrusive observer.

‘I’ll take this, too,’ declared Danilov.

‘A list should be kept of articles you’re retaining.’

‘It always is,’ said Danilov patiently.

It took him until midday to complete his search. Afterwards, with Firsov close beside him, which he regretted, Danilov numbered the photographs on a duplicated list, one for himself and the other for the counsellor, and identified the diary by itemising its date.

‘What do you intend telling Moscow?’ demanded the man.

Danilov looked at him, surprised. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘So what are you going to do now?’

‘Meet with the Americans.’

‘Nikolai Fedorovich will accompany you,’ announced Firsov.

Danilov felt the anger stir at the return of the patronising attitude. ‘Nikolai Fedorovich Redin is not a member of the Militia.’

‘He is officially accredited as a diplomat on the staff of the Russian embassy. It is essential you have a member of the embassy with you at all times.’

‘You have such instructions from Moscow?’

Firsov’s face began to colour. ‘An instruction is not necessary.’

‘I think it is.’

‘Are you defying me?’

‘I am personally answerable to the Foreign and Interior Ministries. As you have been officially advised. I don’t need assistance, nor to be accompanied in my dealings with American investigators. Which I shall tell Moscow, if called upon to do so.’ Danilov paused. Then, heavily, he said: ‘I am a professional detective. How would you suggest we describe Nikolai Fedorovich to justify his part in an investigation?’

Firsov’s colour deepened. ‘You are insubordinate!’

‘I am fulfilling the function I was sent here to perform and in which I will not be obstructed.’ He’d probably gone too far, but it was too late to retreat now.

For several moments the two men remained staring at each other, Danilov expressionless, Firsov glowering. Impatient at the impasse, Danilov said: I need the names of everyone who knew Petr Aleksandrovich: someone must have known he was meeting Michel Paulac.’

‘No-one did,’ insisted the diplomat.

‘You’ve already questioned people?’

‘Upon the ambassador’s instructions.’

‘I would like to see your interview notes and your report to the Foreign Ministry.’

‘I will seek authority from Moscow. And from the ambassador.’

‘Why don’t you do that!’ said Danilov, exasperated.

There was a delay of two hours before Danilov telephoned Cowley, because he had a lot to do in the seclusion of his own quarters at Massachusetts Avenue. ‘Where shall we meet?’ he asked the American.

‘Any objection to your coming here?’

‘Suits me,’ said Danilov. He guessed it would suit a lot of other people. Conscious of the open switchboard, he wondered how long it would take to report back to Moscow that he was about to enter the headquarters of America’s Federal Bureau of Investigation.