No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

The arrival at Sheremet’yevo was disorganised, the airport clogged by its customary chaos, and Danilov was embarrassed at the comparison with his smooth, considerate reception in Washington. He had advised both ministries as well as Petrovka of their flight details, but there were no arrangements to ease them through the official formalities. A surly uniformed immigration officer took an inordinate time studying Cowley’s American passport, visa and entry form: finally Danilov tried to pull rank, identified himself and told the man to hurry, which was a mistake because the officer truculently did the opposite, which Danilov should have anticipated. It took almost a further forty-five minutes for their luggage to appear on the carousel, and when it did Cowley’s case had a deep score down its side.

There were two groups waiting for them outside on the concourse. Anatoli Metkin, in his full general’s uniform, was with Pavin, who looked visibly uncomfortable: one of the three men in the American embassy group held a photograph from which to identify Cowley. There was a confusion of introductions, and a momentary impasse over which car Cowley would occupy driving into Moscow. The American solved it by announcing he wanted to be briefed as soon as possible: he would travel in the embassy vehicle but in convoy to Petrovka, for an immediate arrival conference.

‘What is there from America to bring me up to date?’ demanded Metkin the moment Danilov entered their limousine. It was Metkin’s official Volga, with his personal driver. Pavin rode next to the man in the front seat, Metkin in the rear, alongside Danilov.

‘There’s nothing you haven’t already been told.’

‘What co-operation was there?’

Danilov was determined to retain the independence granted him by the Deputy Interior Minister. Which made it inevitable he would antagonise Metkin. ‘You’ll obviously get a copy of my report to the ministries, like you’ve seen everything else.’

Metkin’s lined face tightened into a mask. ‘I asked you a question!’ He spoke with exaggerated quietness, trying to intimidate.

In front of him Danilov saw Pavin staring rigidly ahead. He supposed the driver would gossip, although it was hardly a confrontation. In fact, Danilov decided, it had been a mistake to oppose Metkin so quickly and upon something so inconsequential. ‘They were extremely co-operative.’ Metkin would regard it as capitulation.

‘What about our own embassy?’

That was very much a matter for the Foreign Ministry, not Metkin. ‘I was able to work satisfactorily.’

‘Where did you obtain the names?’

Ahead, Danilov could just make out the still shrouded skyline of the city, and wished it was closer, sparing him this inquisition. ‘From among Serov’s belongings. I explained that from Washington.’

‘What about other names?’

Not an inconsequential question, decided Danilov. ‘I did not discover any more.’

‘What has happened to Serov’s belongings?’

‘They are being shipped back to the Foreign Ministry.’

Metkin turned directly across the car. ‘Why the Ministry? It is a Militia enquiry. Police evidence.’

‘They are technically Foreign Ministry documents. I have separated those that contain the names, for easy identification if we have to call for them as evidence. I can’t, at the moment, see we will need them. I’ve also asked that they are all kept available for us to examine further.’ Danilov was curious to know if Metkin were a good enough investigator to guess or realise why he was returning the Serov dossiers this way. He hoped he hadn’t wasted his time: it had taken him the entire afternoon at the embassy, after discussing the killing of Ignatov with Cowley.

Metkin nodded towards Pavin, in the front of the vehicle. ‘I have read the duplicates you sent back: all that was sent to the ministries.’

‘It was intended that you should,’ said Danilov cautiously.

‘What about the rest?’

Danilov frowned sideways. ‘Rest?’

‘Did you have any communication with either ministry of which I am unaware?’

‘None whatsoever,’ insisted Danilov.

‘I have your absolute assurance of that?’

‘You asked me a question,’ said Danilov. ‘I have answered it.’ He’d never been there – and didn’t want to go – but Danilov guessed the chill inside the car was roughly comparable to Siberia in deep winter.

At Petrovka there was more brief confusion as Cowley told the Americans he would make his own way to the hotel and the embassy. Metkin’s head darted back and forth during the exchanges, which were in English. As the embassy officials got back into their car, Metkin, speaking slowly and enunciating each word, asked if Cowley were comfortable in Russian; the American, unaware of the tension between Metkin and Danilov, said he was but if a problem arose Danilov could always translate. Metkin’s face closed, and he stumped into the Militia building without speaking further.

The gathering was in Metkin’s office, which Danilov accepted to be an improvement over that adapted for him, but it was still far short of the comfort in which FBI executives worked. There had been some changes since Danilov’s last visit. There was a glass-fronted bureau displaying neat racks of books that hadn’t been there before, and a more extensive range of telephones on a new, separate side table. Metkin busied himself as the host, seating Cowley in a ready-placed chair before going to yet another new range of low cupboards near the window to disclose an array of bottles. He appeared disappointed when the American refused the offer, which was not extended to either Danilov or Pavin. Danilov’s dismissal by his Director became even more obvious the moment the discussion began: Metkin’s concentration was entirely upon Cowley, with no attempt to include the other two men. Danilov forgot the irritation that had begun in the car, more interested than offended. He had expected Metkin immediately to bring them – or Cowley, at least – up to date about the murder of Ivan Ignatov. Instead Metkin persisted with questions about the Washington killings, so much so that at one stage Cowley actually looked away from the Militia Director to frown curiously at Danilov.

It was thirty minutes before they got around to the shooting of the Russian gangster. As he talked, Metkin produced photographs of where Ignatov had been found, both including and excluding the body, and some mortuary pictures of the dead man. Cowley studied each one before pointedly handing it sideways to Danilov.

The Russian spent more time looking at the mortuary shots than those of the river, then leaned sideways, quietly asking Pavin a question while Metkin talked. At once, the Director stopped and said: ‘What was that!’

‘I was asking if the autopsy confirmed the sequence of the wounds,’ said Danilov. And stopped. He decided Metkin was making himself look foolish, as he had at the ministry encounter.

‘Why?’ demanded the man.

‘I would have thought it significant, wouldn’t you?’

Metkin blinked, appearing to realise he was exposed in front of an American he was trying to impress. ‘In what way?’ he was forced to ask.

‘Why there was a mouth shot, if that wasn’t what killed him,’ said Danilov, with forced patience. ‘We know Ignatov belonged to one of the Moscow Mafia Families: why the copying of the American or Italian trademark, unless it was for a boastful reason?’

The Director looked confused.

‘It could show a link between our organised crime groups in America and yours here, in Russia,’ offered Cowley helpfully. ‘We’ll be very worried if it does.’

‘Quite so,’ agreed Metkin hurriedly.

‘The pathologist thought it was the final shot, when he was already dead,’ said Pavin.

‘Like ours,’ said Cowley, talking more to Danilov than the Director. ‘They want it to be understood.’

‘By us?’ asked Metkin, anxious to keep up.

Cowley frowned again. ‘Our experience in America is that the Mafia send messages to each other, not the enforcement agencies.’

‘I understand,’ said Metkin.

Danilov wasn’t at all sure Metkin did understand. He was witnessing the Director’s performance with growing astonishment. ‘What do we know about Ignatov’s movements, prior to his being killed?’ Danilov spoke generally, although he meant the question for Pavin. When the major didn’t reply, Danilov looked directly at him: Pavin, in turn, was staring at the Director.

‘We’re making enquiries,’ insisted Metkin, but badly, weak-voiced.

Surely the preliminary groundwork had been started, thought Danilov, growing more shocked. ‘What’s the early forensic report say?’

‘We’re still awaiting it,’ said Metkin. ‘We’re searching both river banks, upstream, to find where the body went in.’

‘We haven’t a forensic report after more than forty-eight hours!’ Metkin hadn’t properly organised the investigation! It would explain why he had tried to close him out of any discussion and asked more questions than he’d offered answers: the incompetent fool didn’t have anything to offer!

‘I’ve demanded priority,’ Metkin shrugged and looked with exaggerated apology to Cowley, inviting professional sympathy. ‘Why is it that scientists always complain of overwork?’

‘Has the area where the body was found been dredged?’ pressed Danilov relentlessly.

Metkin’s face was blazing. ‘There was difficulty getting a suitable vessel. It’s beginning today.’

Why had the idiot insisted on getting personally involved, so blatantly exposing his inadequacies! Danilov’s contempt for Metkin had until now been more for his suspected compromises and corruption than for the level of the man’s intelligence. On this showing Metkin didn’t possess either intelligence or cunning. Danilov felt oddly discomfited. Which was odd. Why should he feel any sympathy – discomfiture most of all – for Anatoli Nikolaevich Metkin? Certainly not for Metkin. His feeling was for a department he should have been heading and which, if he had been its director, would not be displaying this sort of ineptitude.

Nodding to the American, but speaking to Metkin, he said: ‘Mr Cowley has to report back to Washington. We don’t have anything official – no scientific assessment apart from the wound sequence – to offer? Is that right?’

Metkin’s colour had not subsided. ‘It is being prepared. It will have to be translated into English, of course.’

Despising himself – although not much – for manipulating the American’s involvement, but determined to gain the maximum advantage over someone he knew would have shown him no mercy, Danilov said to Cowley: ‘Do you want a translation? Or would you prefer the original?’

‘The original,’ replied Cowley, as Danilov knew he would.

‘That should speed things up, shouldn’t it?’ persisted Danilov.

‘I will send as much as possible to the embassy before the end of the day,’ undertook the crumple-faced Metkin.

Speaking to Cowley, and very obviously taking over control of the encounter, Danilov said: ‘I might bring it myself.’

Metkin didn’t object or argue. Instead, appearing anxious to escape, he said: ‘I think we’ve covered everything, up to date.’

There was an almost visible collective relaxation when the three men reached Danilov’s elongated room, further along the corridor. Danilov asked Ludmilla Radsic to find a third chair for Cowley – for a brief moment believing she was going to refuse to leave the room – but didn’t immediately speak when she went out, unsure exactly what to say.

It was Cowley who spoke first. ‘I don’t understand what was going on back there. I don’t want to know, necessarily: it may be none of my business. It only becomes my business if the investigation is endangered.’

‘I hope it won’t be,’ said Danilov, deciding against any further explanation. As the woman re-entered with the chair he reverted to English. ‘If I feel it might, we can discuss it.’

Cowley hesitated. Then, pointedly, he said: ‘The moment it becomes a problem, OK?’

‘My word,’ assured Danilov.

Presciently, looking between the two Russians, Cowley said he guessed they had things to talk about and he had to touch base at the embassy and would stay there until Danilov called. Seeing the opportunity, Danilov insisted he and Pavin would check the American into the Savoy first. Neither tried to get out of the car when they got there, and Cowley didn’t seem to expect it.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ demanded Danilov, when he was finally alone with Pavin. ‘That was a farce in Metkin’s office!’

‘It’s been a farce from the beginning,’ complained Pavin. ‘When Ignatov’s body was found, Metkin summoned everyone to a conference in the squad room. But no decisions were made. He had me give a verbal report of what had come back from America – he’s convinced you’re withholding things, incidentally – but virtually none of the normal procedures for a murder investigation was started. After the conference, Metkin stayed for hours in his office with just Vladimir Kabalin. The first day was lost. There is a rumour in the squad room there was a call from the Interior Ministry, but I don’t know from whom or what was said. But it was only afterwards that any sort of proper investigation began. Kabalin was appointed investigating officer: he’s using Aleksai Raina as his scene-of-crime officer. Nothing has come for me to co-ordinate with what we’ve got from America.’

Danilov snorted, gesturing Pavin to pull in to the side of the road. ‘I still don’t understand why Metkin exposed himself like that. It was ridiculous.’

‘We only had a few hours’ warning that Cowley was coming back with you. That seemed to change everything.’

And could explain a lot more. If he had returned from America by himself, the obvious failings of the investigation could very easily have been manipulated to make him the incompetent. As it was, Metkin had became ensnared in his own trap. ‘He still shouldn’t have risked it.’

‘He’ll have realised that by now. It would have been better left with Kabalin: made him look the fool.’

Danilov twisted in the seat, to face his assistant. ‘You think Metkin could know something about the Serov business? This is where it all begins, here in Moscow. It has to be!’

Pavin considered the question seriously, slowly shaking his head, although not in outright rejection of the idea. ‘I can’t see how. Not with Serov in America. About Ignatov…’ He shrugged. ‘I doubt it would be a personal knowledge of the man himself. About the Ostankino Family, it’s possible. In Moscow anything’s possible, if it’s illegal.’

‘Those rumours in the squad room, about the call from the Interior Ministry? What about a name? Rank even?’

Pavin shook his head again. ‘No ministry name. But it’s generally accepted he’s got special friends outside: the inference is obvious, from the way he and Kabalin specialised before the promotion, that whoever they are, they’re high in some organisation. Again, no names.’

‘Not even a suggestion of a Family?’

‘Not even that it is a Family. My own guess is that it must be, so why not the Ostankino?’

He had to guard against being misdirected by his personal feelings. ‘Maybe I’m looking too hard.’ Accepting it was a task roughly similar to trying to find Paulac’s entry documents if he’d visited Moscow, Danilov nevertheless offered Pavin the single-sheet note Leonid Lapinsk had mailed before blowing his head off. ‘None of these three names have surfaced so far. I don’t know their significance, but they must mean something. Try criminal records first, then government employment registers. Don’t put them into the files: they’re not part of the investigation.’

‘You find them in Washington, too?’

Danilov remained silent. If he disclosed the source and the three were later found to be criminals, a dead Director whom he’d admired would be tainted by association. ‘I just want them checked.’

‘ Did we get copies of everything you sent back to the Ministries from America?’ demanded Pavin.

‘Absolutely,’ insisted Danilov.

‘Why send Serov’s things direct to the Foreign Ministry?’ queried Pavin. ‘I would have thought they would have justified a closer examination back here than it was possible for you to make while you were there.’

Danilov smiled. ‘It took me most of my last day in Washington to photocopy the entire collection of documents in which Serov hid the names: photocopies I’ve personally brought back. We’re going to ask the Foreign Ministry for the originals to be returned: say we want to examine them further. Which we do, to compare everything I’ve got – the complete set – with what comes back from the Ministry. If there’s anything missing, we’ll know there’s something official they don’t want us to see, won’t we?’ Danilov was sure it was a worthwhile precaution: one, probably, he should continue now he was back in Moscow. He decided, at that moment, that he would.

‘You think something will be held back?’

‘I want some way of knowing how independently Serov was operating from Ministry control. Which we might get if the material is incomplete. Serov was five thousand miles away: he had to have a link back here.’

Back at Petrovka, Danilov began dismantling the barriers erected against him. He sent memoranda to both deputy ministers that he was resuming command, with a carbon copy to Vladimir Kabalin to reinforce his authority to receive what had so far been assembled on the Ignatov killing. He added that he wanted Kabalin and Raina to remain part of the murder squad, which would need extra manpower. Trying to ease Pavin’s workload, he ordered them to take over the scrutiny of Sheremet’yevo airport entry visas, for any reference to Michel Paulac. He advised the Foreign Ministry he wanted to interview Serov’s wife again, for them to appoint an observer if they wished, hoping they wouldn’t consider the woman’s complaint sufficient to do so. He decided against telling Pavin that he was making additional photocopies of everything: it came close to being a paranoid precaution.

It was not until the very end of the day that any of the promised material on the Ignatov murder arrived, a preliminary autopsy report delivered to Danilov by one of Metkin’s secretaries, with an assurance a duplicate had been sent direct to Cowley. Danilov thought Metkin’s effort pitifully inadequate, like everything else, but he was glad he did not have to go to the American embassy himself. He had the woman carry back to Metkin copies of all the instructions he had issued, guessing the man would already know from Ludmilla Radsic: she had left the room several times after finishing the typing.

Ivan Ignatsevich Ignatov had been a well-nourished male, aged forty-nine, with no indication of organic disease, although his medical file recorded treatment for syphilis. The medical report confirmed the mouth-shot had been post death. There was no water in the lungs, so Ignatov had been dead before going into the river, and there was no water damage to the body, so it had not been immersed for any length of time. Cause of death had been a direct bullet wound to the heart. There was evidence of previous, non-fatal injuries: what were judged to be three stab wounds to the left arm and shoulder and another, which could have been far more serious and would probably have required hospital treatment, to the lower right-hand side of the body, near the liver.

Before leaving the Militia building Danilov ordered Pavin to assemble – and copy for Cowley – all available archival material on the known Mafia Families of Moscow, particularly the Ostankino with whom Ignatov had been linked. When he telephoned Cowley, the American said he was going to hit the sack, too.

Danilov was later unable to remember anything of the drive to Kirovskaya, his recollection beginning with being in the apartment trying to explain to Olga that he’d attempted to warn her of his return from Washinton the previous day but that she hadn’t been there to take his call.

Olga smiled hopefully towards the suitcase. ‘Do I have presents?’

‘Perfume. Armani,’ said Danilov. He’d bought it in-flight, during the duty-free distribution.

Olga frowned. ‘I gave you a list!’

‘I came back in a hurry. There wasn’t time for shopping.’ He had forgotten all about her damned list, but there really had not been time.

‘I don’t believe you!’

‘I was working! Not on vacation!’

‘I saw a photograph of you coming out of a restaurant! Was that work?’

‘ Yes,’ he said emphatically.

‘A normal married man would have found time!’

A normal married man probably would have done, he conceded. But he didn’t consider himself to be normally married, not any more. ‘I’ll be going back,’ he said, without thinking, wanting only to deflect the diatribe.

‘You’ll get them all then?’ The hope was back in her voice.

‘I promise.’ He’d promised Larissa he’d resolve their situation when he returned to Moscow.

Olga followed him into the bedroom, talking all the time but disjointedly, verbally giving him a shorthand account of what she had done while he had been away. She went into minute detail about her dinner at the Metropole Hotel with Yevgennie Kosov and of going afterwards to the most popular nightclub in Moscow, having decided there was no reason not to tell him because it had all been entirely innocent. But by then Danilov was deeply asleep, and didn’t hear anything she said.

Cowley had more difficulty getting to sleep than Danilov, lapsing into half slumber but then coming abruptly awake in the darkened hotel room, his mind too busy with the events of the day.

The courtesy visit to the embassy had been predictable and uneventful. No-one he’d met on the previous visit appeared still to be there. The First Secretary was a beaming Texan named Jeplow who seemed uncomfortable out of cowboy boots and promised the ambassador was available whenever Cowley felt like saying hello. The resident FBI agent was a chain-smoking New Yorker two assignments distant from Barry Andrews, but who apparently knew the story of Cowley’s first visit, because the man’s initial greeting had been that whatever happened it was going to work out better this time. His name was Stephen Snow. He hadn’t come out to Sheremet’yevo because he didn’t want to make himself too obvious to the Russians, even though it was now two to a bed and everything was hunky-dory. Cowley, who couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the expression, assured the man he understood. Snow said, naturally, he was there to do anything Cowley asked.

A recurring reason for Cowley’s wakefulness was the bizarre encounter with the Militia Director. Cowley didn’t think he’d ever witnessed a depth of antipathy between two men as obvious as that which seemed to exist between Metkin and Danilov, which – as he’d said immediately afterwards – wasn’t any of his business. His concern was how long it could remain none of his business, if it was going to wash over into their professional relationship, which it had clearly done that morning. It was a long way from being a situation to bring officially to the notice of the Bureau or the State Department, but it was something he had to keep very much in mind. It might have helped if he’d had some idea what it was all about. Did he know Danilov well enough openly to ask? Something else he did not have to decide right away.

The meeting was again in the Pecatnikov club, where they felt most secure: Alexandr Yerin was particularly familiar with the surroundings, because he lived in an apartment two floors above.

Mikhail Antipov frowned across the table at the komitet, not sure how forcefully he could protest but deciding he had to, because he was the one exposed to all the risk. ‘I won’t have any defence, if anything goes wrong!’

‘Nothing will go wrong,’ soothed the blind man.

‘How do we know we can trust them to do it right?’

‘They’ve got to do it right,’ said Gusovsky. ‘They’ve got to do everything we tell them: they’re ours.’

‘A new Mercedes and $5,000,’ reminded Yerin.

‘Just laugh at them?’ queried the killer.

‘That’s all. Just laugh at them,’ agreed Gusovsky.

After the man left, Maksim Zimin said: ‘No-one expected the American to come back.’

‘That won’t be a problem,’ said Yerin. ‘In fact, I don’t think he should be left out.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ asked the thin-bodied Chechen leader.

‘I don’t have an idea at the moment,’ admitted Yerin. ‘But I will. We’ll fix Danilov and we’ll fix the American.’ The man smiled. ‘Before the year is out, we’ll virtually be running Moscow: we’re practically doing it already.’