No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER FOUR

‘Looks like you’re back on the road again,’ greeted the Director. He was lounged behind his desk on the fifth floor office of the FBI building on Pennsylvania Avenue, gazing up towards the Capitol building, his jacket off, tie loosened.

‘With a lot of differences,’ said Cowley. The last time he had worked mostly in Moscow with Dimitri Danilov, investigating the murder of the niece of an American senator by a serial killer. It had never been publicly disclosed that the killer had been the resident FBI man at the American embassy there, now permanently detained in a prison for the criminally insane in North Carolina. Or, by the most bizarre of all circumstances, that the man had been married to Cowley’s ex-wife.

Ross didn’t pick up upon the obvious remark. ‘There’ll be protocols to be observed, official and otherwise. The Secretary is making all the formal requests; you’ll handle all the embassy enquiries. You can have as much manpower as you need: the two DC homicide officers, naturally, are seconded to us. Everything the local forensic people collected has already been handed over. The area’s still sealed: our own people are carrying out an independent examination.’

‘What about the mouth shot?’ queried Cowley directly. He was a bull-chested, towering man only just preventing the muscle of college football years from running to fat. It would soon, he knew, as it had begun to go when he was drinking, which he wasn’t any more. Cowley wasn’t embarrassed about his size: sometimes he even intimidated people with it to gain an advantage.

‘The main concern, politically and otherwise, is a Russian Mafia connection right in their embassy,’ conceded Ross. ‘You got anything on Serov that isn’t in the record?’

Cowley shook his head. ‘I put a marker on him, after the second visa extension. Came out squeaky clean. He was popular, on the party circuit. Spoke excellent English. Had a reasonable sense of humour: used to make jokes about his wife’s name being Raisa, like Gorbachev’s.’

Ross turned to look directly at his agent. ‘You met him?’

‘Once, at a reception for Yeltsin up on the Hill. For about five minutes.’

‘Traditionalist or an advocate of the new order?’

‘He was a professional diplomat,’ said Cowley. ‘Who knows?’

‘We need to dampen the sensationalism as much as possible,’ warned Ross. ‘Information is being strictly limited, from the Bureau or through State. No leaks to friends in the media.’

‘I don’t have any friends in the media.’

‘Good.’

‘Who’s in charge of the scientific stuff?’

‘Robertson, here. There’s a lot gone down to Quantico. Medical examiner is a man named Brierly.’

‘Formal identification?’

‘Someone from the embassy. No name yet. Take a DC detective with you to all the obvious things: I don’t want any friction.’

‘Who makes the collar?’ asked Cowley.

‘Let’s find one first,’ said Ross.

The preliminary report had come with the forensic material, and Cowley read it before the two homicide detectives arrived. As a division head Cowley had a suite, with a secretary in an outer office, and Rafferty entered exchanging how-the-rich-and-famous-live glances with his partner. Johannsen returned a mocking smile. Both shook their heads to coffee; they sat with exaggerated casualness.

‘I hope we’re going to work well together,’ opened Cowley.

‘You’re the boss,’ said Rafferty. It was a challenge.

‘That a problem for you?’ asked Cowley.

‘Should it be?’ Johannsen came in quickly.

‘No,’ said Cowley.

‘Just point and whistle,’ said Rafferty.

Cowley sighed, indicating their report on the desk. ‘Fill me in on that.’

‘Good place to kill anyone. Mostly offices all around. There’s a jazz club, but there was a big band gig. No-one heard any shots. Same in the only bar that fronts on to the street.’

‘How’d he get there?’

‘No car that we can link to him so far.’

‘The main Russian compound is at 1500 Massachusetts Avenue. Let’s check all the cab companies for a pick up from there to Georgetown. Cover the embassy on 16th Street, too.’

‘Yes, sir!’ said Rafferty.

Cowley ignored it. ‘Wisconsin Avenue runs right down to the river: how far from the end was the body?’

‘About ten yards along, in the direction of the boat club.’

‘There are a lot of apartment blocks below M Street,’ Cowley pointed out. ‘People would have been in, at night. They been checked?’

‘No,’ conceded Rafferty, wearily.

‘According to this report’ – Cowley tapped it – ‘death could have been somewhere around seven or eight. Let’s do every apartment, around that time tonight. And the garages beneath, for a car that might be Serov’s.’

‘Just the two of us!’ protested Rafferty.

‘We’ll draw men from the Bureau’s Washington office and you can call for additional help from your division…’ Cowley looked to Rafferty. ‘I’d like you to do the briefing. Anyone seconded, you included, goes on the Bureau budget.’ He turned to Johannsen. ‘I want you at the mortuary with me, for the formal identification.’ Cowley spread his hands, towards them. ‘Anything I’ve missed out?’

Rafferty looked at his partner before both shook their heads.

‘You saw the body,’ said Cowley. ‘Was it a professional hit?’

‘No doubt about it,’ said Rafferty positively.

‘Shit!’ said Cowley.

‘You said you were going to be made Director: I told people!’ Olga’s accusing voice was muffled, and Danilov guessed she had her hand over the mouthpiece: there was noise in the background. Olga was a general typist at the Ministry of Agriculture.

‘It’s internal politics.’ Danilov wished he hadn’t undertaken to telephone her. But when he’d promised he had expected to get the job.

‘But there’s a car?’

‘Yes.’

‘And more money?’

‘Yes.’

‘Will there be official functions to go to?’

‘Probably.’ The charade was continuing. What about the joint divorce, so that he and Larissa could marry, now there wasn’t the protective power of the directorship!

Ironically, Olga said: ‘Is the rank of deputy director higher than Kosov’s?’

‘Of course it is.’ He hadn’t known Olga was jealous of Kosov: even his previous investigative rank had been superior to that of a Militia division commander.

‘That’s something.’ There were further muffled words, away from the telephone. ‘I’ve got to go.’

Danilov had to wait several minutes for Larissa to be found, when he rang the Druzhba Hotel on Prospekt Vernadskovo, where Larissa was one of assistant reception managers. ‘I didn’t get it.’

‘There’s a room we could use, until seven o’clock.’

‘That’s not what I called for.’

‘Just to talk. You need to talk.’

‘I’ve lost,’ Danilov said, hating the admission.

‘Only if you allow yourself to lose. Fight!’

He never wanted to lose, Danilov accepted: so he wouldn’t.

‘He could have lied to you!’ Arkadi Gusovsky had a sick man’s pallor and when he became red with annoyance, as now, he looked clown-like, contrasting red and white. The ornate, heavily brocaded, smoky back room of the restaurant on Glovin Bol’soj was full, because the Chechen leaders liked the protection of bodyguards, but no-one would have dared show any reaction to Gusovsky’s strange appearance. Very early after assuming control Gusovsky had made everyone look on while he personally beat to death with a metal stave a man he’d imagined was smiling mockingly at him. It had happened in this same room. Gusovsky had insisted the body remain where it was while he ate rare steak.

‘I made him watch what I did to Serov,’ insisted Mikhail Antipov, nervously. ‘He didn’t lie.’

‘He might not have understood Russian. The family was Ukrainian.’

‘I asked him in both.’ It was Antipov’s knowledge of both languages that had made him ideal for the job.

Gusovsky, who was also unnaturally thin, threw the papers that had been taken from Michel Paulac’s briefcase too hard on to the table between them; some fell off. ‘You should have brought everything! These aren’t anything to do with it. We need the original, to see the names that need changing.’

‘You made a mess of it, didn’t you?’ Aleksandr Yerin had adjusted so completely to his blindness he was always able to appear to be looking at the person to whom he was talking. He asked the question of Zimin, the third member of the Chechen ruling heirarchy; there was no reply Zimin could find.

‘I don’t want anyone else making any more mistakes,’ said Gusovsky generally.

Once more, no-one spoke.