No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The man who opened the door to Raisa Serova’s apartment was tall and straw-haired, aged about forty. Surprisingly deep black eyes were shielded behind rimless, medically tinted spectacles. The suit was well cut, conservative grey. When Danilov introduced Cowley, Oleg Yasev said: ‘I was not told an American was to be present!’

‘There was no reason for you to be told,’ said Danilov. He hoped the autocratic attitude was not going to set the tone of the encounter, but feared it would.

For a brief moment Yasev remained in the doorway, barring their entry, but then he stood aside.

Raisa Serova was on the same couch she’d occupied during Danilov’s previous visit, legs elegantly crossed. She wore a black dress cut more for its style than to indicate mourning. The heavy linked bracelet matched the single-strand gold necklace at her throat. Everything was as neatly sterile as before. Raisa frowned at Cowley, too, recognising him as a foreigner. ‘Why are you here?’

‘Your husband was murdered in America: it’s an American investigation,’ said Cowley. This wasn’t going to be easy, he guessed.

The woman looked questioningly at Yasev, who shrugged. Raisa gestured towards the man and said to Danilov: ‘I am told you entered my apartment in Washington? You had no right!’

‘I had every right. I was accompanied by an official from the embassy. A list was made of everything I took as possible evidence.’ Who was supposed to be interviewing whom?

‘You took!’ Raisa uncrossed her legs, coming more upright in her seat. ‘What did you take?’

Pavin was carrying everything in his briefcase, so she’d see soon enough. ‘A diary. Some photographs.’

‘I want everything returned! Immediately!’

‘Mrs Serova,’ intruded Cowley, as professionally calm as Danilov. ‘How long had your husband known and associated with gangsters?’

Her arrogance slipped. She began: ‘I don’t…’ but Yasev cut across her. ‘I really don’t consider that is a proper question to ask!’

Danilov turned fully to face the man. ‘You are not here to decide what is or is not proper. You are here in support of Mrs Serova, nothing more. If you interfere or in any way obstruct this interview I will contact your ministry and have you removed…’

‘… and I will have an official protest made from Washington,’ endorsed Cowley. He must remember later to tell Danilov it was an empty threat, just made to get this asshole off their backs.

Yasev’s face flamed beneath the yellow hair. ‘My instructions are to protect Mrs Serova.’

‘What does Mrs Serova need protection from?’ seized Danilov.

‘Protect her interests,’ added Yasev.

Danilov jerked his head towards the telephone near the entrance to the living room. ‘Call your ministry,’ he ordered, intentionally demeaning.

Yasev stared at him tight-lipped, hands clenched by his sides in frustration. He shook his head, retreating slightly behind Raisa, as if physically standing guard.

Acknowledging their victory, Cowley said: ‘I asked you a question, Mrs Serova.’

‘Which was preposterous. My husband knew no criminals.’

‘Not a man named Viktor Chebrakin?’ took up Danilov, intent upon the slightest reaction. He was aware of Cowley, beside him, concentrating just as strongly.

‘No.’

‘Or Yuri Chestnoy?’

‘No.’

‘Igor Rimyans?’

‘No.’

‘Valentine Yashev?’

‘No.’ Throughout Raisa showed no facial response whatsoever to any of the names.

‘They were listed in your husband’s handwriting, with others, in documents in your husband’s office,’ said Danilov.

‘I know nothing of it: I don’t believe you.’

‘It’s true.’

Danilov had told Pavin before their arrival how he wanted things produced. He reached sideways for the diary he had taken from the Massachusetts Avenue apartment. The pages containing Serov’s coded records of Michel Paulac’s Washington visits were tagged with yellow paper slips. ‘Is this your husband’s?’

‘You know it is.’

Danilov crossed to where Raisa was sitting, flicking through the marked entries. ‘He misspelled words, to identify the dates of Michel Paulac’s trips to America.’

‘That’s ridiculous! And I told you I don’t know anyone named Michel Paulac.’

‘Were you and your husband very close?’ took up Cowley.

Yasev shifted slightly. Danilov looked at him warningly. The man said nothing.

‘That is an impertinent question!’ protested the woman.

‘What’s the answer to it?’ persisted Cowley.

‘Of course we were! Why?’

‘He kept a very great deal from you, didn’t he?’

Yasev went from foot to foot.

‘That remark does not deserve a reply,’ dismissed Raisa.

‘When we met last time you showed me your diary,’ reminded Danilov.

‘Yes?’

‘Can I see it again?’

‘Why?’

‘I want to compare the Paulac entries in your husband’s diary against yours,’ admitted Danilov openly.

‘This is not right…’ started Yasev, but in front of him Raisa raised an imperious hand, stopping the protest. She got up, left the room but was back within minutes, dismissively handing Danilov the black-bound book.

Danilov took his time. He checked entry against entry and prolonged the examination by passing both diaries sideways to Cowley. There was no tally between the two.

‘Satisfied?’ she demanded.

It was Cowley who answered. ‘Your husband was murdered. Horribly.’

‘Yes?’

‘We are trying to find his killer. Or killers.’

‘Yes?’ she questioned again.

‘Why are you so resistant, Mrs Serova? Don’t you want the murderer caught?’

Raisa Serova stared up at Cowley for several moments: briefly her impassive face twisted, close to an expression of anguish. ‘All you have done – every question you have asked – makes out Petr Aleksandrovich was a criminal!’

‘Wasn’t he?’ demanded Cowley remorselessly.

‘No! He was a kind, loving man dedicated to the job he did! He cried for joy when Communism ended here! And again when the coup against Gorbachov failed!’

‘He knew criminals!’ insisted Danilov.

‘I DON’T KNOW THEM! OR ABOUT THEM!’ The screaming, near-hysterical outburst startled them all: Pavin, less prepared than anyone because he was head-bent over the notebook, actually gasped in astonishment, jerking up towards the woman.

‘This is disgusting! Disgraceful!’ protested Yasev. ‘I insist it stops!’

Again both investigators ignored him. Danilov reached out again for the photograph of Serov with an unknown man. ‘Who is this with your husband?’

Raisa remained gazing down at the picture so long Danilov was about to prompt her when she spoke. All the hard, supercilious control had gone. She was wet-eyed and her lips were trembling. ‘My father,’ she said, broken-voiced. ‘He died two years ago. Of exactly the same cancer that is going to kill my mother, whom I took into hospital three days ago: less than two months, the doctors say. In the bowel, so they suffer a lot. And in between Petr Aleksandrovich has been murdered. Which leaves me with no-one…’ She looked towards Cowley. ‘Is this better, now I am crying…?’

There was a loud silence.

Cowley said: ‘I am not trying to make you cry, Mrs Serova. I’m trying to find your husband’s killers. And the reason for his being killed. And how he came to know the people he apparently did.’

‘Don’t you think I’d tell you, if I knew! Don’t you think I want them caught and punished; gassed or hanged or however it is you execute people in America!’

‘You knew nothing at all?’ said Cowley, less aggressively.

‘Nothing!’ She indicated Yasev again, behind her. ‘So unless there was some official reasons that I don’t – you don’t – know, I lived with a man who kept secrets from me. A man I didn’t know at all, but thought I did. So I don’t know now what sort of marriage I had.’

Danilov looked sideways, enquiringly, at Cowley who shrugged back, no questions left.

Sensing the embarrassment of both investigators, Yasev said: ‘Are you satisfied?’

Danilov retrieved from Pavin the final photograph, that of Serov with the elderly couple, offering it to the woman without the need to ask the question. Raisa glanced at it and said: ‘Petr’s parents. They live at Kuntsevo: they were very proud of him.’

Cowley was disappointed. He’d actually been encouraged by Raisa Serova’s initial arrogance, believing from the psychological sessions at the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico he recognised a barrier behind which she was hiding and which could be broken down: that was why he had been so hard, showing no sympathy. It had been a barrier, he supposed: one behind which she had every reason to crouch, in her grief. He was disgusted with himself, without needing any accusation from the pompous asshole of a ministry official. Cowley’s head ached, too, and his stomach was sour. He made a resolution to go easier in the bar tonight.

‘Can I have the photographs?’ asked the woman. She was practically pleading.

Danilov handed them to her, along with her diary.

‘What about Petr’s diary?’

‘I need to keep that,’ refused Danilov. ‘I need to understand the marked entries.’

There was no protest this time. Raisa said, more to herself than to anyone else: ‘The funeral’s on Wednesday. At Novadichy…’ Then, as if there had been some doubt, she went on: ‘… his parents are coming.’

Danilov welcomed the dismissive gesture from Yasev, moving towards the door ahead of Cowley and Pavin. In the car – in Russian for Pavin’s benefit – Danilov said: ‘That got us nowhere.’

‘It could have done,’ said Cowley.

At Petrovka, on the far side of town, Metkin smiled up at his former partner. ‘All set?’

‘An apartment on Ulitza Fadajeva,’ said Kabalin. He still wasn’t as confident as the other man.

‘Make sure it’s recorded in absolute detail.’

‘Of course.’

‘The Foreign Ministry have asked for a full explanation of what happened at the river. There’s to be an enquiry.’

‘Everything in place?’

‘It will be. Antipov will complete it.’

Every official ministry and investigation branch in both Moscow and Washington was inundated by media demands after the Washington Post exclusive. The American State Department liaised with the Russian Foreign Ministry, each denying any knowledge of the source and each promising an enquiry to discover it. A joint, confirmatory press statement was issued in both capitals.

Cowley learned about it when Washington demanded if he had had any contact with the press – which he immediately denied – and caught Danilov at Petrovka to warn him.

‘Part of our ongoing problem with your people?’ asked the American.

‘It could be. It certainly wasn’t Pavin or me.’

‘Now we’ll have cameras over our shoulders all the time. Fame again.’

‘Fuck fame,’ said Danilov. It was a better obscenity in English.