No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Danilov did it first, aloud, within minutes of Yuri Pavin entering the Petrovka office. Even the normally dour man was smiling. He held the plastic-enclosed Makarov in front of him like a trophy.

‘A positive fingerprint match!’ announced Pavin. ‘Mikhail Pavlovich Antipov. One of the names on a Mafia list. The Chechen Family!’

‘Ballistics?’ demanded Danilov, just before laughing aloud.

‘The bullets recovered from Ignatov’s body definitely came from this gun,’ assured Pavin, completing his announcement.

Cowley laughed as well, when Danilov reached the American at the hotel, although very shortly. Pain was banded around his head, so that he had to squint against the light. He’d never had a proper hangover before. ‘This is how it happens sometimes. Let’s hope all the rest starts falling into place! I’ll be with you as soon as possible.’

Danilov was too preoccupied to detect the sluggishness in the American’s voice, thinking ahead: he was reluctant to tell Anatoli Metkin, although he knew he had no alternative. But Metkin received the news far more calmly than Danilov had anticipated, doing little more than nod, and making no reference to the earlier warnings of the American complaints. He agreed every available investigator in the Bureau should be seconded to the hunt for Antipov, and that uniformed Militia be brought in if necessary. When Danilov said Cowley was on his way to Petrovka, Metkin invited the American to attend the general briefing which he, as Director, would obviously give.

Cowley made no comment when Danilov passed on the invitation. Danilov thought the American’s face was puffy, and there seemed to be a lot of redness in his eyes.

They were the last to enter the squad room. There was a stir at the appearance of Cowley, who smiled and nodded generally: Vladimir Kabalin, lounged in a chair in the forefront, responded to the smile, extending it to Danilov. Beside him Aleksai Raina, who had acted as Kabalin’s scene-of-crime man and whose direct responsibility it would have been to seal the river area, didn’t make any greeting. He appeared quite relaxed but then, reasoned Danilov, he might not yet know of the criticism.

Everyone stood politely when Metkin came into the room. He waved them down with a gracious hand. Although it was unnecessary he formally introduced Cowley, who was acknowledged with more nods.

Metkin’s briefing continued to be formal. He outlined the irrefutable scientific evidence linking the Chechen gangster with the Ignatov killing and said the man’s criminal record was being run off, for every detective to receive a copy. There was no known address for the man. An arrest was urgent, so uniformed Militia as well as airport police would be alerted, to be on standby if necessary. First news of an arrest had to be given, day or night, to Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov, who was heading the investigation and would co-ordinate all information.

‘What brought about that transformation?’ demanded Cowley, back in Danilov’s office.

‘Your presence, most probably.’

‘There’s quite a flap in Washington. I was asked if I wanted it to be official. I said yes.’ The American had followed Danilov’s lead and was speaking English. At the far end of the room, Ludmilla Radsic was frowning, unable to understand.

‘I’ve been summoned to the Foreign Ministry.’ Before which he could see Larissa, if she was working the day shift at the Druzhba: there was insufficient time before the afternoon appointment to do anything practical in the investigation.

‘If Antipov gets picked up it’ll take all the heat out of any protest,’ Cowley pointed out.

‘I know,’ accepted the Russian. He was glad professionally, but disappointed personally.

‘What about another meeting with Raisa Serova?’

‘Why don’t we try tomorrow?’ suggested Danilov. He’d have to contact the Foreign Ministry escort, he supposed. He frowned and then remembered: Oleg Yasev. Reminded by one new name, he thought of the other three Lapinsk had given him. Pavin would have exhausted criminal records by now. He’d have to ask what progress there was with the ministry personnel registries.

He walked Cowley from the building, to phone Larissa from a street kiosk out of Ludmilla Radsic’s hearing. Larissa, who was working days, wasn’t sure if a room were free. He wanted to lunch, Danilov insisted.

Although there genuinely was no time for anything else, Danilov remained uneasy about intruding his personal affairs into the middle of a day. Pavin’s obvious surprise, when he said he was making a private enquiry but would telephone before going to the Ministry, didn’t ease the feeling. Pavin didn’t know of Larissa, of course, but Danilov was sure he guessed there was another woman.

Another of the reception managers who shared the same vacant room arrangement as he and Larissa recognised Danilov and smiled conspiratorially as he entered the hotel. He would, Danilov decided, be glad when all the deceit was over. Larissa was waiting beyond a curve in the reception area. She walked towards him head high, bringing her breasts up and with her hips undulating, and several men in the lobby turned to enjoy her progress.

‘You trying to tell somebody something?’

She laughed at him. ‘Only what you’re missing. There isn’t a room.’

‘I said I wanted to eat lunch with you.’

She took his arm as they went towards the restaurant: over Larissa’s shoulder he saw the other reception manager smile at them. Because Larissa was managerial staff and recognised they were seated and given menus at once, and the wine Danilov ordered was served within minutes. Russian favour-for-favour philosophy working on automatic pilot, Danilov thought: it seemed a long time since he’d frightened the garage and supply managers at Petrovka. They’d be praying for the murder investigation to last for ever: but then he did not really want it to end either.

‘You look fantastic,’ said Danilov. It wasn’t empty flattery. Unlike Olga, he’d never seen Larissa untidy or uncared for: the clothes always appeared just to have been put on – even after the times they’d practically torn them off – her hair was always perfectly coiffeured, her make-up never blurred. Wrong to compare the two: unfair, as well. Olga didn’t know there was a comparison. Larissa did.

‘How was America?’

‘OK.’

‘Solve the crime?’

‘No.’

‘Saw in the papers you were enjoying yourself.’

It would have been the same photograph of him leaving the Georgetown restaurant to which Olga had referred. He said: ‘What shifts did you work, when I was away?’

She looked at him curiously. ‘Days. Why?’

So Larissa wouldn’t have been working when Kosov had taken Olga to the Metropole and on to a nightclub. ‘I just wondered.’

‘You going to be jealous of me when we’re married?’

‘I’m not jealous.’ What was it he’d felt watching the other men look at her in the lobby?

‘You blushed and looked guilty when Natalia smiled at you from the desk. I saw you!’ she teased.

‘I didn’t,’ he denied, pointlessly.

‘She thinks you’re nice,’ disclosed Larissa. ‘Everyone knows who you are, after what was in the newspapers and on television.’

‘I’ll be taking the American out while he’s here. Socially.’ He stared down at the blubbery pork that was placed in front of him, knowing he’d made a mistake.

Larissa looked up at him questioningly. She’d been more sensible, ordering fish.

‘Olga thought it might be nice if we all went out together: her and you and Yevgennie,’ he went on.

‘I’d like that,’ Larissa said at once. ‘So would Yevgennie: it would make the asshole feel important.’

‘I thought the Metropole, perhaps?’

She pulled another face. ‘Very impressive!’

‘You been there before?’

‘A few times. Yevgennie likes it. He can show off.’

‘Olga liked it, when he took her.’

Larissa stopped eating, her fork poised half way between her plate and her mouth. ‘You’re joking!’

‘Didn’t you know?’

‘No!’ She shook her head, disbelievingly. ‘You’re not serious, are you?’

‘Olga said the Metropole was wonderful: told me about Yevgennie’s new car with dials in the front that light up.’

Larissa pushed her plate aside. ‘Wouldn’t it be the funniest thing! Olga and Yevgennie…!’ She giggled.’Who’s going to tell them we don’t mind, you or me?’

He didn’t like Larissa dismissing it as a joke, which he at once accepted was absurd. After his hypocrisy there would be an almost natural justice in Yevgennie Grigorevich and Olga having an affair. Could they be? Of course they could. Should he mind? Whether or not he should didn’t enter his reasoning. He did. The thought of Kosov making love to Olga offended him and the thought of his making love to Larissa offended him, although Larissa insisted it didn’t happen between them any more and hadn’t for a long time, years in fact. ‘I don’t understand it.’

‘ Does it matter?’ she asked seriously. ‘I thought we had decisions to make when you got back? So? You’re back.’

‘I can’t do anything now. Not right in the middle of this case! That’s unreasonable and you know it!’ He hadn’t intended to sound so indignant.

‘When’s it going to end?’ She sounded indignant in return.

‘I don’t know. It could be soon.’

‘As soon as it’s over?’

‘As soon as it’s over.’ Danilov had the feeling of having said the same words before: but he was sure that if he had, Larissa would have challenged him about it.

‘I’ve decided how we’ll do it,’ she declared. ‘At the same time. We’ll choose a day and you tell Olga and I’ll tell Yevgennie.’ She smiled, sympathetically. ‘It’ll be easier for me. Yevgennie doesn’t care: he’s been fucking everything including knot-holes in wood since the day we got married. Olga doesn’t suspect anything, does she?’

‘She made some remark, a long time ago, that you and I seemed to get on well together. I don’t think she meant anything by it.’

‘It would be nice if we could stay friends, afterwards. With Olga I mean. It probably won’t happen, but it would be nice.’

‘I’d like that,’ agreed Danilov. ‘I won’t say anything to her, about her and Yevgennie. She told me, after all, so it can’t mean anything.’

‘I’m not interested enough to ask Yevgennie,’ dismissed Larissa.

Danilov’s own words echoed in his head. It might not have meant anything to Olga, apart from a rare outing to places she didn’t normally go, but he belatedly remembered Olga telling him Kosov had asked about the Mafia investigation. ‘Yevgennie said anything else about me? About the job?’

Larissa examined him over her wine glass. ‘You think that’s why he took Olga out? Trying to find out something about you?’

Larissa was remarkably astute as well as being beautiful. ‘I don’t know,’ he avoided.

‘He’s taken me to places… restaurant and clubs…’ she offered slowly. ‘There have been people there he’s friendly with. I don’t like them.’ The movement didn’t amount to a shudder, but it came close.

‘What’s the new car like?’

‘German. Very luxurious.’

‘From his friends?’

‘Who else?’

None of the black marketeers to whom he’d introduced Kosov had ever been grateful enough to offer him a limousine, reflected Danilov. Thinking of how he had been rewarded, Danilov looked at his watch. Distrusting it, he checked with the restaurant clock and saw, surprised, that it was registering the correct time. ‘I have to go.’

‘Arrange the evening, with the American,’ said Larissa. She allowed a gap. ‘I’ll tell you, if Yevgennie says anything. About you.’

‘I want you to.’

‘I think he’s jealous of you,’ she said. ‘It’s nothing more than that.’

‘I’m not sure he’s jealous,’ said Danilov. He thought Kosov was altogether more than that.

There was nothing new when he telephoned Pavin, at Petrovka.

Rafferty and Johannsen had rarely had it so good and were determined to keep it that way. They were beyond the reach of their own precinct, on permanent secondment to the Bureau. And with Cowley in Russia things were on hold, although both were far too clever to let that become obvious. They worked out of an anteroom to Cowley’s office, which enabled them to appear constantly surrounded by illustration boards and annotated folders and exhibit lists. They maintained case records in immaculate order, creating a separate section for what Cowley sent back from Moscow. They used the telephone a lot, particularly when anyone looked into the room, direct dialling personal calls: Johannsen spoke to relatives in Stockholm he normally only communicated with in a card, at Christmas. Rafferty confidently got tickets for baseball games, knowing he could always make them. They harassed their DC colleagues two or three times a day for any progress at street level on the two murders, despite being told to go fuck themselves, and made friends with the security staff at the Swiss embassy, through whom anything might emerge concerning Michel Paulac. The interesting photographs came from there in the middle of the second week.

‘Now lookee here!’ said Rafferty, as they drove away. Johannsen was at the wheel. They’d decided to lunch at a seafood place an FBI agent had recommended up on the bay shore, near Annapolis.

‘You want me to crash the car or you going to tell me without my having to look?’ asked Johannsen.

‘Three pictures,’ announced Rafferty. ‘According to the covering note, Swiss security think they show our man Paulac with three men who could be Russian.’

‘Serov?’

‘Nope.’

‘They look Russian?’

‘What’s a Russian look like, for Christ’s sake! Baggy-pants days are over: these guys are into Gucci and Ralph Lauren now.’

‘Where do the photographs come from?’

There was a rustle of paper and turned-over prints as Rafferty shuffled through the package. ‘Private party, hosted by Paulac, at some restaurant overlooking the lake…’ He was silent, reading for a moment. ‘… Somewhere around October, 1991.’

‘Looks like a comparison run past every Russian picture the Bureau have on record,’ said Johannsen. ‘We should start tomorrow.’

‘And if we blank out, we send them to Cowley in Moscow. There’s only about a hundred million Russians. Should be a piece of cake for him to get a match.’ The previous day they had told Cowley there were no police or FBI records on any of the Moscow Mafia names he’d supplied.

‘What about asking the Swiss to go through their entry files for incoming Russians, for say September, October and November, 1991?’ suggested Johannsen.

‘Christ, you’re a clever detective!’ mocked Rafferty.

‘I fancy shrimp,’ said Johannsen. ‘Shrimp and then a nice big crab. You think there’s crab available at this time of the year?’

‘Smart detective like you should be able to find one,’ said his partner.