No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

It was Danilov’s first intention to say nothing about the missing Makarov, to allow time for a proper internal enquiry and search. Just as quickly he realised, like he realised a lot of other things, that the gun would never be found. And watching their initial frantic hunt and then insisting she had seen no-one open the safe was Ludmilla Radsic, who, if questioned by others which she undoubtedly would be, would provide the precise time he had discovered the gun had gone to prove he had withheld the information. The momentary concentration upon the woman prompted another thought and he almost asked her a quite different question, but stopped himself until he was sure.

‘What are we going to do?’ demanded Pavin. The normally unshakable man was white with bewilderment, moving around the room without direction, touching and shifting things as if he expected suddenly to find the missing evidence.

‘Go back to the ministry,’ said Danilov calmly.

‘But this means…’

‘… that everything’s collapsed.’ It was as much a remark for the woman’s benefit – and satisfaction – as to stop Pavin blurting out something Danilov didn’t want her to hear. Danilov was thinking even further ahead now, itemising what could be salvaged. A lot, he decided. Not everything – and not by far the most important thing – but a lot.

Pavin was still too confused fully to agree when Danilov tried to talk through the implications of the missing Makarov on their way back to the ministry. He wasn’t able to provide an answer to Danilov’s query about Ludmilla Radsic, either.

‘It’s all or nothing,’ Pavin complained.

‘It’s that anyway,’ Danilov said. ‘It always has been.’

‘It’s the system to accept, unquestionably, the word of the superior officer.’

Just survive. Lapinsk’s words, remembered Danilov. Now he was sure he could. He said: ‘That’s just it! That’s the way Metkin and Kabalin think: their mistake. That’s why we can win!’

‘Only if the others will hear you out.’

‘They’ll have to, whether they like it or not,’ insisted Danilov. ‘It can’t be kept internal; swept away. The Americans will have to be told the gun has vanished.’

‘It was in our custody,’ said Pavin miserably. ‘My custody.’

‘I can do it!’ Danilov said adamantly.

Despite its lavishness, Vorobie’s office was inadequate for the enlarged meeting. Metkin and Kabalin were waiting in a larger conference room, with the Federal Prosecutor and the two government officials.

‘I hope there’s good reason for keeping us waiting?’ demanded the Interior Ministry man.

‘There is,’ announced Danilov at once. ‘The Makarov found by the river, with Antipov’s fingerprints, has disappeared.’

Smolin’s mouth actually fell open and stayed like that for several moments: Vorobie turned to look at Oskin, as if he’d misheard and expected the other man to correct the misunderstanding. Kabalin frowned. Any facial movement from Metkin was lost in the already creased features.

‘What!’ managed Smolin, finally.

‘Major Pavin checked the evidence safe, while I was collecting this,’ said Danilov, gesturing with his true copy of the communications register. ‘The gun has gone.’

‘That can’t be!’ said Oskin weakly.

‘It is,’ said Danilov. He had to anticipate every move and counter-accusation likely to come from the other two Militia officers. He wanted them confused, making mistakes in their eagerness to make their charges.

‘The evidence exhibits are your responsibility,’ intruded Metkin at once.

Good, thought Danilov: from the fatuous exchanges on the day of their return from Washington, he knew the more Metkin tried to advance an unsound argument, the more he exposed his weakness: the man’s reasoning and manoeuvring was too deeply embedded in the past. ‘I accept that: as I accept the dossiers are entirely my responsibility.’

The apparently full admission caused the baffled curiosity Danilov wanted. This time Metkin’s frown was discernible.

‘You admit it?’ demanded Vorobie.

‘I want it understood,’ qualified Danilov. ‘Like I want it understood that is why the written records have been altered and the gun has disappeared. To discredit me and bring about my dismissal.’

‘I don’t know anything about records being altered,’ said Metkin. ‘Those records prove without question either incompetence or insubordinate refusal to follow others. I don’t need to describe to anyone here what the loss of the murder weapon means.’

‘Without the gun, Antipov can’t be charged: brought before a court,’ said the Federal Prosecutor anyway, as if he couldn’t believe what he was being forced to say. ‘The gun, with unarguable fingerprints, was the evidence.’

‘Which the Americans will have to be told,’ agreed Danilov. ‘It’s difficult to imagine their reaction to this. Proof, if any more were needed, of official complicity, to prevent a proper police enquiry…’ Time now to switch, to bury the bastards under the weight of their own misjudgements. ‘… The enquiry into the Ignatov killing was deliberately mishandled, at its outset. Since then every effort has been made by the Director of the Organised Crime Bureau flagrantly to obstruct it. There should be a thorough and complete enquiry into that determined attempt to disgrace and discredit the department, together with myself and Major Pavin.’ Had he left anything out? If he had, it was too late now. The abyss was yawning before him, bottomless. He wasn’t frightened. He supposed he should be.

This time the reponse was splintered. The higher officials lapsed into further head-turning bemusement, seeking an inquisitor. Metkin had to speak, although not as the inquisitor, more the prosecutor, the role Danilov was sure the man had rehearsed. Come on, thought Danilov: over-extend yourself. Make the most important mistake of all.

The Director rose, making what he was going to say formal and official, a declaration. ‘I refute utterly these outrageous accusations, which are totally without foundation, the ramblings of a desperate man. The horrendous shortcomings and the even more horrendous failures are those of Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov, who should be removed at once from an enquiry he has so bungled, from its inception, it cannot now continue…’

It would once have worked, Danilov accepted: as little as four years ago, any attempted defence would have been ignored and higher authority would have sided with higher authority, obeying the Communist favour-for-favour principle, and he would have been as good as dead. Now…

Metkin turned, sure of himself, confronting Danilov face-to-face. ‘The responsibility for picking up what is left of this miserably failed investigation will be mine. And that of senior Colonel Investigator Vladimir Kabalin…’ He went back to the assembled, tight-faced officials. ‘The decision upon the failings of Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov and his assistant must be yours. My official recommendation is that the enquiry be an internal, criminal one, for gross dereliction of duties, which is provided for under the Militia statute…’

Got you! thought Danilov triumphantly: old ways, old reasoning. Just like they’d miscalculated how to – or not to – set up the Ignatov case. Beside him Pavin came close to a physically separating movement, which didn’t offend Danilov. The repeated cough was to attract attention more than to clear his throat and he stood, matching Metkin’s stance. ‘The suggestion there should be an official enquiry was mine,’ he reminded. ‘And its sentence upon anyone found guilty of negligence or misconduct should be as severe as possible, under both the law and internal regulations…’ The pause was entirely self-indulgent, Danilov savouring the moment. ‘But it can’t be internal, within the Militia. This is a joint investigation, between America and Russia. And now we can’t proceed with a murder prosecution. Which we have to announce not just privately to the Americans but publicly, because of the international publicity that has been generated. To satisfy the Americans and the public in general of our official integrity and professional ability, any enquiry must be entirely independent of the Militia…’ Danilov caught the look Kabalin attempted to exchange with Metkin, who refused to respond. Abruptly another idea came to him, which gave a gap for Oskin to break in.

‘I don’t think there is any doubt of the need for a fuller hearing,’ began the Deputy Interior Minister briskly. ‘I propose this meeting be adjourned for more detailed consideration of all the points that have been raised…’

‘Not all the points have been raised!’ interrupted Danilov, annoyed at himself for allowing the intrusion. ‘This meeting has already been adjourned once today: I have not yet been able to answer the accusation I was brought here to explain…’ It had broken the sequence he was trying to present, making his case more disjointed than Metkin’s. Talking directly to the deputy, Danilov said: ‘The independence of a very necessary enquiry will have to be under the aegis of the Interior Ministry, at least. With officials of other ministries co-opted…’ He chanced the slightest of pauses, thinking of another bombshell he could lob, unreal though he knew the concept to be. ‘Possibly, even, including American participation: full exchange of evidence and findings at least…’

Metkin did answer Kabalin’s look at last: the colour was beginning to seep into the Director’s face.

He’d risked insubordination, thought Danilov: could he get away with arrogance as well? ‘An essential remit of any enquiry must be the attitude of Mikhail Antipov…’ They weren’t going to cut him off: they were frowning, but in interest, not irritation any longer. ‘… You have all seen the transcripts of the interrogations of this man: entirely pointless, unproductive questioning… Why? Why has a man – a man arrested by senior Colonel Kabalin – remained contemptuous and patronising, knowing, because I told him at the first interview, that his fingerprints were on the murder weapon: knowing a conviction that carries the death penalty was inevitable? That’s inexplicable, even for a hardened criminal like Mikhail Pavlovich Antipov…’

‘… This is unfair!’ erupted Kabalin at last. ‘… I am not being given an opportunity to explain…’

Danilov could hardly believe the interruption. More quickly than anyone else, he said: ‘Explain, then!’

Kabalin was even appearing awkward. He’d half risen, but not completed the movement; now he was neither sitting nor standing but at a crouch, as if he were about to run. Danilov guessed the other man would have probably liked to do just that.

Kabalin said: ‘There is a clear inference being made, entirely unsubstantiated by any fact. I reject it!’

This time Smolin got in first. ‘What inference?’

‘That in some way Antipov learned from me the gun would never be produced.’

‘Did he?’ asked Oskin directly.

‘No!’

‘Something that may be possible to prove, either way,’ reentered Danilov, abandoning any reservation on how far he might go. ‘Antipov was due to be questioned again today, although long before now. That interview, like all the others, will be fully recorded. He would suspect something if I wasn’t the person who accompanied the American. How much would his attitude change if I told him his protectors – his protectors, not naming anyone – had failed to dispose of the gun…’

‘This is preposterous!’ exploded Metkin. ‘I am being accused -!’

‘You’ve already been accused, by me!’ Danilov shot back. To the three men sitting in judgement, he said: ‘Let me be accompanied by a ministry official, to authenticate everything that occurs: everything that will also be authenticated quite separately by the tape recording.’

‘The entire thing could be twisted!’ persisted Metkin.

‘Like other things have already been twisted,’ scored Danilov.

‘It would not be independent!’ said Kabalin.

‘Would you accept my independent integrity?’ demanded Smolin.

‘You!’ blinked Metkin.

‘If I were the official present at today’s interview? And I conducted it, and were the person to announce to the man that the gun hadn’t been disposed of?’

‘Of course,’ mumbled Metkin, with no choice.

Smolin had been identified as an honest man by Lapinsk, remembered Danilov.

‘Then it is settled,’ said Oskin.

Not yet, thought Danilov urgently. ‘There are other factors to be considered. Apart from myself and Major Pavin, only three other people were authorised to know the combination of the evidence safe. One, obviously, was the Director. The second was senior Colonel Kabalin. The third was his scene-of-crime officer, Major Aleksei Raina…’

‘This is intolerable!’ tried Metkin again. The man was extremely red-faced now, seemingly finding it difficult to remain still. Beside him Kabalin remained ashen, looking nervously from speaker to speaker.

‘It is a factor to be considered,’ judged Vorobie.

The communications register, remembered Danilov. ‘It is possible someone else might be able to help in the enquiry. There is still the matter of falsified documents.’

‘What falsified documents?’ demanded Metkin.

Uninvited, Danilov crossed to the table where the forgotten dossiers lay, allowing himself the briefest of checks before smiling up, satisfied, at the signature he wanted to find. He picked the register up and carried it to where the three men sat, putting it open at the relevant pages in front of them. Alongside, he set his nightly maintained photocopies. ‘The duplicates are the true record. The memorandum ordering Major Pavin to seal the scene of the crime, and those between the Director and Colonel Kabalin, have been added subsequently and the entire numbering sequence, referencing and indexing also changed, to cover their attempt to discredit…’

‘… Ridiculous!’ blustered Metkin, aware for the first time there was an accurate record. Groping desperately, he said: ‘Why should he have made a copy, other than to protect himself from the justifiable charge that he and his assistant failed to obey my orders!’

Danilov let the other man’s question hang in the air. ‘If I intended altering the communications register, why would I have made copies showing the message as not on file but let the originals remain? That just doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t I have removed them and had the dossier falsified my way to erase all traces?’

‘You knew I’d have my secretarial copy!’ said Metkin, unthinking now in his panic. ‘That’s how I’ve exposed you!’

‘Then there would have been no purpose in my trying to change anything in the first place, would there?’ deflated Danilov. He was supremely sure of himself at last, confident he was beyond any further attack. He returned to the officials, ‘It’s the system that any document received and put into any record is signed for, as a receipt. You’ll see the signature on all the disputed slips is that of my secretary, Ludmilla Radsic. I would suggest her evidence, of how – and when – they came to be in the register would form an important part of whatever enquiry is set up.’

Oskin gave the verdict. ‘Pending that enquiry, supervision of the Organised Crime Bureau will be transferred to my personal directorship at the Interior Ministry.’

Metkin, thick-voiced, said: ‘What does that mean for my position?’

‘It is suspended,’ declared Oskin.

A good homicide detective with a hunch like a burr under a saddle blanket knows when the time for cosy relaxation is over. Rafferty was a very good homicide detective. And Johannsen respected his partner’s hunches.

They went through everything assembled in America and everything shipped from Moscow and Geneva, and crosschecked each other’s re-examination. When that blanked out they tried to refine the scrutiny to the stages of the investigation, working backwards instead of forwards, from the first moment of Rafferty’s intuitive feeling. Which had been directly after they’d received the shipment from the New York Task Force of the items taken from the abandoned home of Igor Rimyans.

‘Got it!’ announced Johannsen triumphantly. He held up one of the photographs taken from the Rimyans’ home, waving it like a flag, then offered it to Rafferty. ‘Look in the background, beyond the group being snapped! See the guy, almost out of the frame?’

‘What about him?’ asked Rafferty, staring down but seeing nothing of significance.

‘There he is again!’ declared Johannsen, proffering a second print. ‘Third from the left in one of the pictures the Swiss police sent us: pictures of Russian guys who’d been entertained in Geneva by our late lamented Michel Paulac!’

‘Eric, my son, I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. One day you’re going to make a great detective. And on that day your country is going to be as proud of you as I am.’

‘And my life will be fulfilled,’ said Johannsen.

The blind man took the call, because the attempted entrapment had been his idea. He talked Metkin down, impatient with the incoherent babble. ‘Who knows about the gun?’

‘Me. Kabalin.’

‘So nothing can be proved, providing you both insist you know nothing about it.’

‘Kabalin is shaky.’

‘Tell him if he tries to do a deal – causes us any problems – we will kill him. Make sure he understands. But we’ll kill his wife and his children first. One by one. Make sure he understands we mean it. Because we do.’

‘It hasn’t gone right, has it?’ gloated Zimin. ‘In fact, it’s gone very wrong.’