No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

They were surprised, although they shouldn’t have been, that the recording started from the moment Danilov attached the microphones on their way to the U Pirosmani, making the initial intercept that of themselves, as well. Everyone sounded drunk after the nightclub, although Danilov and Cowley certainly hadn’t been. There was a lot of Olga’s nervous, please-agree-with-me laughter. Within minutes of Larissa and Kosov being alone, on their way home, Larissa described Olga as dumpy, with hopeless dress sense, and wondered why Danilov stayed with her, which Danilov despised her for saying. Kosov insisted Danilov and Cowley had hopelessly mishandled the murder investigation from the beginning, so that it was now a lost case: that was obvious from the way the American looked, like shit. Danilov smiled: Cowley didn’t.

The clarity of the recording was good that night – Cowley thought it might have been because it was at night – but deteriorated afterwards. It was frustratingly intermittent the following day, when Kosov was alone, but almost at once encouraging. The initial deafening American jazz prevented their hearing the beginning: by the time Kosov turned the music system off, the car-phone exchange had begun. Even then things were lost, entire sentences broken or too faded, even when they wound the tape back and tried again with the volume at maximum.

Kosov began the exchange, from which they assumed he had initiated the call. If there had been any greeting, it was lost in the few seconds before the music was turned off. There was no identification.

‘… thought you’d be interested.’

‘… have been dangerous,’ responded the fainter voice. ‘ You tell him? ’

‘ Made it clear,’ said Kosov.

There was a rumble of static. The only audible word was understood ; the tone made it a question.

‘ Course he understood,’ assured Kosov. It was cocky, I’m-on-top-of-everything talk.

The static recurred, losing at least an entire sentence from whomever Kosov was talking to. The next voice was Kosov’s. ‘ Other ways? ’

‘… shouldn’t interfere…’ came from the other end, with abrupt clarity.

‘… It’s their job! ’ Kosov’s remark was greeted with guffawed laughter from both ends.

‘… want… wrong…’

‘ Nothing will go wrong,’ came Kosov’s voice, enabling the demand to which he was responding to be inferred. It was an eager-to-please assurance, like Olga’s pitter patter laughter, earlier.

The reception was suddenly so good they had to turn the volume down. ‘ You sure you can get there? ’

‘ Quite sure.’

Danilov moved to speak but Cowley shook his head against the interruption.

‘ How’s the car? ’

‘ Fantastic.’

‘ We want it to work. And I don’t mean the car.’

‘ I’ve told you it will! ’

‘ Think of the car: the sort of gratitude there’ll be.’

‘ Don’t need to think. I know.’

‘ We’re relying on you. Yevgennie Grigorevich.’

Danilov nodded to Cowley, at the introduction of an identifiable name.

‘ I wouldn’t have thought you needed confirmation by now.’

‘ We always want confirmation. Three people are dead because we wanted confirmation.’

The silence was so long both Cowley and Danilov thought there had been a complete break. Then Kosov said: ‘ You didn’t need to say that .’

‘ Don’t take it personally.’

‘ What other way is there to take it? ’

‘ You’re being melodramatic.’

‘ I told you it’s all going to work! ’ Kosov’s voice was subdued.

‘ I heard you.’

‘ We’ll go on using this line.’

‘ If that’s what you think is best.’

‘ Safest,’ said Kosov, finding a better word. ‘ Anything else for us to talk about? ’

‘ Just do what you’ve got to.’

‘ What about the rest of it? ’

‘ All covered,’ guaranteed the other man, the strength of the signal fluctuating again. ‘ Not your concern.’

‘ I need to know! ’ The protest was still subdued.

‘ You will, when it’s necessary.’ The contempt leaked over the telephone link.

‘ What, until then? ’

‘ Stay in touch.’

The reply was lost. So was any farewell. There was a high-pitched whine, ‘ That’s right ’ from Kosov, and then the deafening music again: Billie Holliday singing ‘Melancholy Baby’.

‘We’re right there, in his office!’ declared the American. Flat voiced, he quoted: ‘“We’ll go on using this line.” How else is he going to do business but from the guaranteed security of his car phone!’

Danilov found it hard to believe how easy it had suddenly become. ‘Not anyone official.’ It was essential to analyse.

‘Definitely not,’ agreed the American. In further, belated agreement he added: ‘It could have been about the discussion you and Kosov had.’

‘“You sure you can get there?”’ echoed Danilov. ‘That could refer to Kosov thinking he can transfer to the Organised Crime Bureau.’

‘We shouldn’t over-interpret,’ warned Cowley. ‘The conversation can be made to fit, but I don’t think we should be too positive yet.’ Was the reluctance professional objectivity, or personal unwillingness to accept the inevitable?

‘I’d liked to have heard more about “other ways”,’ said Danilov. ‘I can’t guess what that meant.’

Cowley had isolated the remark, too, linking it with what followed about interference, Which had caused both speakers so much amusement. ‘There can’t be any doubt about the three people who died to provide confirmation. But confirmation of what?’

Danilov took the question further, not able to provide an answer. ‘It was a threat to Kosov. The three who died had their mouths blown away. So Yevgennie Grigorevich knows what it’s all about: he could tell us!’

‘Not until we’re a greater threat,’ stressed Cowley. ‘Nobody’s frightened enough of us yet, either here or in America.’

‘And they’re hardly likely to be,’ said Danilov, cynically.

Cowley said: ‘I won’t pass any of this on to Washington, not yet. It might have meaning for us. For anyone else it just raises more questions than it answers.’

‘Maybe we won’t have to wait much longer,’ said Danilov.

They didn’t.

Over the succeeding days they eavesdropped on Yevgennie Kosov’s car adequately enough to understand approximately eighty-five percent of every conversation. Sometimes they listened to activities inside it, too.

There were a lot of command briefings to Kosov’s subordinates in his Militia division, usually bullying and demanding. There were outings with Larissa, during one of which she protested she didn’t like the people they were going to meet and Kosov told her to shut up and be pleasant because they were the providers of a lot of the ‘good things’ they enjoyed. Danilov and Cowley played that tape several times, to extract every nuance, and listened intently to the homeward journey in the hope of hearing a name, which they didn’t. There was a telephone conversation with someone named Eduard, with a peremptory insistence upon a wine and Western spirit delivery within a week, upon which Danilov particularly concentrated because an Eduard Agayans was a black marketeer to whom he’d introduced Kosov: Danilov was unable to decide if it was the same man from the faintness of the intercepted voice. There was an incoming call, probably the most difficult to decipher, which they decided was an instruction to Kosov to guarantee the unimpeded passage through his district of a fleet of six trucks, coming up from the south. Throughout the exchange Kosov showed the respect of the first overheard recording, but the reception this time was too bad to be certain if it was the same man: Cowley said if they turned the tapes over to the technicians at Quantico, a positive voiceprint could be made. There was no indication during the conversation what the lorries contained.

That afternoon Kosov dialled someone they were sure was the man of the first day. It was an extremely brief exchange, Kosov asking if there was anything he should be told, which there wasn’t, and the man asking the same in return and receiving the same reply. Cowley thought it possible when they made the tape available to Washington, other Quantico specialists would be able to extract a number – from which in turn they could get an address – from the electronic variations in the dialling. There were two clumsy, sexually intimate conversations with women, quite soon after one of which a girl audibly entered the car. Fifty American dollars was agreed, for fellatio, which was performed to a lot of grunted pleasure from Kosov.

There were recordings of three other passengers in the car, all male, one obviously another Militia officer. That journey was the day after Kosov received his instructions about the lorry convoy, which he passed on in specific detail to the unnamed policeman: three days later there was a call of thanks from the man who had sought an unhindered journey. Another passenger was a fence, paying a bribe of $500 for the right to operate on Kosov’s territory. They were not sure about the third. The man said very little and what he did say was spoken in a quiet voice, so not everything was picked up, even though he was sitting literally on top of one of the microphones. A lot of it was also intentionally ambiguous. It was not until Kosov talked openly of a ministry – although without stipulating which one – that Danilov guessed at a government official. They prepared a written transcript of the entire encounter, paring away the double meanings finally to agree Kosov was establishing himself as the man’s supplier – ‘anything you want, all you’ve got to do is ask, you know that,’ Kosov said at one point.

And on the eighth day they heard – not completely, but far more than they had dared hope – what they had been listening for.

‘ Gusovsky,’ announced a rasping voice, maybe that of a heavy smoker, the moment the receiver was lifted.

‘ Arkadi Pavlovich! ’ greeted Kosov.

‘Chechen,’ identified Danilov at once.

‘Pavin called him a leader,’ remembered Cowley. He smiled, half disbelievingly, at the Russian.

‘… gone quiet? ’ asked the caller.

‘… told you they were getting nowhere,’ came Kosov’s stronger voice.

‘ I need to be absolutely sure: we’re ready to go.’

‘ You can be. Dimitri Ivanovich is my friend.’

‘Me?’ queried Danilov.

‘Who else?’ agreed Cowley.

Static snowed the line, blotting out Gusovsky’s response and the beginning of whatever Kosov said.

‘… waiting to hear from you, before I spoke to him again.’

‘… want a definite assurance,’ said Gusovsky.

‘ I can get it.’

‘… worth his while.’

‘ I’ll tell him.’

‘ What about you? ’

‘… suggested it.’

There was more interference. All they caught of what Gusovsky said was: ‘… going personally.’

‘ Who? ’ asked Kosov.

There was a gap, which they later decided had been a pause of uncertainty. The reply was broken, when it came.

‘… Zimin… Zavorin…’

‘ Rome or Sicily? ’

‘ Sicily… all arranged…’

‘ When? ’

‘… soon.’

‘… not going to be any more trouble? ’

‘… got the message. They know they’ve lost it.’

‘ Any more killing would attract too much attention,’ suggested Kosov.

‘ There won’t be, if there doesn’t have to be.’

The line blurred, the sort of interference that had come from their road tests when they drove through an underpass. ‘Shit!’ said Cowley vehemently.

‘… no problem with the other one,’ returned Gusovsky’s voice.

‘ Are you sure? ’ asked Kosov.

‘… whenever we want to. And he knows.’

Danilov was curious at the way Cowley shifted beside him, as if he were uncomfortable. The American did not answer his look.

‘ So what do you want me to do? ’

‘ Speak to him again. They won’t go until I’m sure.’

‘ They couldn’t have found out: haven’t found out.’

‘ I won’t take the risk, not this close.’

‘ Shall I call you? ’

‘ This number.’

The line abruptly went dead, the intercept filled at once by the Billie Holliday tape. Cowley snapped off the machine, looking expectantly at Danilov.

‘We needed luck,’ said the Russian quietly, as disbelieving as the American. ‘We’ve got it!’

‘It has to be about the conversation he had with you,’ said Cowley, beginning their analysis. Mentally continuing it, he thought, No problem with the other one… and he knows. Soon, Cowley supposed: very soon. It was like slowly bleeding to death.

‘It’ll be proved definitely, if he makes another approach.’

‘For an assurance,’ reminded Cowley. Rhetorically he said: ‘What does Gusovsky want an assurance about?’

‘That we’re no further forward,’ said Danilov, answering it anyway. ‘Which until five minutes ago we weren’t.’

‘But now we are,’ said Cowley. ‘Here’s how I read it. The Chechen are sending two men, Zimin and Zavorin, to Sicily: all arranged, Gusovsky said. But they’re not going until he’s sure.’

Danilov nodded, agreeing with the assessment. ‘We can manipulate it, if Kosov comes to me again!’

‘ When he comes to you again,’ said Cowley, without any doubt.

More subdued, Danilov took the analysis on. ‘A Russian Mafia group is linking with the established Mafia, in Sicily…’ Repeating the phrase the American had already echoed, Danilov added: ‘Maybe it already has: all arranged, like Gusovsky said. So what the hell has been arranged? It’s as frightening as you thought it could be.’

‘Worse,’ warned Cowley. ‘We know the Italian and American Mafia are partners: always have been. Now we’ve got the global connection: Worldwide Mafia Incorporated. You any idea what that means?’

‘No,’ replied Danilov honestly. ‘At the moment I don’t think I have.’

‘We can do a lot of damage,’ insisted Cowley, a promise as much to himself as a suggestion to the Russian. ‘We can manipulate it, if we’re reading it correctly. If we can catch these two guys in Sicily we can not only sweat them about the murders: we can bust their deal. Maybe break a Sicilian ring, too.’

Danilov felt a sharp and surprising inadequacy, at the enormity of what they were discussing. ‘I can’t get to Sicily without authority… which means admitting the listening devices…’

For several moments they sat unspeaking, each trying to assess the loss. The car bug – and Kosov – was their only lead, Cowley acknowledged. There was no way to prevent his destruction. So why didn’t he take all the responsibility?

Cowley said: ‘The eavesdropping equipment is American: nobody here knows anything about it. And they can’t ever. I’ve travelled in Kosov’s car. I could have planted it. Be working independently of you, after all the fuck-ups.’

Danilov iooked back at the American, head curiously to one side. ‘So I don’t know you’re doing it…?’ he groped.

‘All you know is what you’re told, by an American. Which could have come from America.’

‘And the bugs stay in the car!’ acknowledged Danilov.

‘Unbeknown to anyone except those who need to know,’ said Cowley. ‘How’s that sound?’

‘Just fine,’ accepted the Russian.

The call came from Kosov two days later, to Petrovka, not to the apartment; an invitation for lunch the following day – ‘just the two of us, like old times.’ Danilov couldn’t remember any such old times, but said he’d look forward to it. He fixed an appointment with Smolin afterwards: Cowley spent most of that afternoon sending messages to Washington and replying to the flurry of questions they prompted from the FBI Director.

Kosov was already seated when Danilov arrived at the Dom na Tverskoi, and for once did not attempt the arm-waving flamboyance of champagne and permanently attentive waiters: he actually shook his head against the interruption of one man who began to approach, pouring the red wine himself. They touched glasses and toasted each other’s health, and Kosov said at once: ‘So it’s getting nowhere?’

‘We’ve had to release Antipov,’ disclosed Danilov, alert to the reaction.

Kosov nodded. ‘I know,’ he boasted. ‘What now?’

The knowledge could still have been either Mafia or government, decided Danilov. ‘Bill’s under a lot of pressure from Washington. They’re talking of withdrawing him. After all the problems they think he’s wasting his time. He seems to think so, too.’

‘Which would leave it to you?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And there’s no way forward?’

‘Not that I can see. Maybe I’ll get lucky.’

Kosov added to their glasses. ‘You thought any more of what else we spoke about?’

‘Like what?’ Danilov was glad he was not in the car, where he would have known everything was being overheard: self-consciousness might have been obvious.

‘Like missing the old days.’

‘I don’t think I said I missed them.’

‘Just some of the benefits.’

‘Olga certainly misses them.’ He didn’t like bringing Olga into the conversation, but it fitted.

‘Women like nice things. Larissa wouldn’t know how to live any other way.’

For a few brief seconds Danilov wondered if there were some hidden meaning in the remark, before deciding there couldn’t be. Larissa was going to have to learn. ‘It’s too late for me now.’

‘It doesn’t have to be.’

‘I’ve lost contact.’

‘You introduced me, once. I could re-introduce you.’

‘People will have changed, surely?’

‘I’ve made other friends: important friends. It’s much better than it was in your day: better organised.’

‘The work I do now is a lot different from a uniformed division. It wouldn’t be as easy to co-operate, like it was before.’

‘Things can always be worked out. Don’t forget I want a transfer. I could be there, ensuring things run smoothly.’

One team replaced by another, recognised Danilov. A lot of careful thought had gone into this approach. ‘I need to think about it.’

‘You do need to think about it. I’m your friend, so I think I can talk honestly: you’ve been stupid, for far too long.’

Not as stupid as you’re going to be proven to be, thought Danilov. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’

‘You know I’m right! I can introduce you to the proper people,’ persisted Kosov. ‘Fix everything.’

Danilov nodded, wondering how far he might be able to utilise that boast. ‘Let’s keep in touch.’

‘ Close touch,’ insisted Kosov. ‘Friends should help friends.’

‘You’re right,’ said Danilov. ‘They should.’ He still had time to meet Larissa, before the Federal Prosecutor. He didn’t feelat all hypocritical.

The Tatarovo apartment had two full-sized bedrooms, as well as a separate living room with a dining annexe, and kitchen fittings better even than Larissa’s existing flat. It was on the eighth floor, and from the balcony there was a view of the river.

‘It’s fabulous!’ declared Larissa. ‘I want it!’

‘How much is it?’ asked Danilov.

‘Four hundred and fifty roubles a month if you’re paying in Russian; three hundred if you give the concierge twenty dollars a week for himself. And the bribe to jump the list is two hundred and fifty dollars.’

‘I don’t have two hundred and fifty dollars.’

Larissa looked at him uncertainly. ‘We need it, to get the flat,’ she said simply.

Larissa wouldn’t know how to live any other way, he remembered. ‘I’ll have to try to get it.’

‘Yes darling, you will,’ Larissa agreed. ‘Why don’t you ask Bill?’