No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

There was concerted and government-encouraged publicity, from the moment the manacled mobsters were photographed being led from helicopters at an army base near the capital: there were more photographs as they were led, still manacled, into the high-security Rebibbia jail. In the media release the Italians called the seizures the most severe blow ever to international organised crime: the exaggerated account of Danilov saving the life of David Patton made it seem as if he had protected some of the Italian assault group, as well. It was heightened by the officially expressed gratitude from Washington, describing what he had done as an act of heroic bravery.

Danilov was unaware of any of this until his helicopter followed the Mafia arrival at the same army base: still wearing the borrowed army fatigues, he climbed out to be greeted by a burst of camera lights and jostled demands for him to take part in a hastily arranged press conference with a government minister and Colonel Melega. Danilov refused, careless of any annoyance, more anxious to assess the damage his identification might cause in Moscow: he’d hoped their part in the operation would remain unknown, so they could still manipulate Kosov to guide them beyond the three they now had in custody, to even more important men in the Chechen Family.

Danilov wanted to begin the interrogations at once, but Melega said there had to be official government conferences first. He did, however, agree the three Russians be held in separate cells and refused any contact with each other. Cowley said the bastards weren’t going anywhere and his prior concern was David Patton, undergoing emergency surgery.

Danilov finally presented himself at the Russian embassy, to a hostile reception from diplomats who obviously felt he should have registered with them earlier. He refused to be intimidated, demanding communication facilities to send a full account of the successful arrests to Moscow. He gave his part in the shoot-out in flat, factual detail: had he not known Moscow would demand it because of what was being officially released by the Italians and the Americans, he probably would not have included it at all.

That night, the Italian resentment at his refusal of the press conference had gone: Melega had clearly received high-level congratulations. And Cowley and Smith returned from the hospital with the assurance that although his condition was still serious, Patton was going to survive, although it had been necessary to amputate even more of his arm during the operation. The Liccio clan member wounded during the battle had died.

There was easy agreement to divide the following day’s interrogation practically between nationalities, Melega to head the Italian team questioning the three surviving Sicilians, Smith to confront Palma, and Danilov and Cowley to examine the Russians.

Maksim Zimin was a fat, bespectacled man who tried the sort of swaggering unconcern Antipov had carried off more successfully in Moscow. He shrugged aside the guards’ prodding towards the interview table, lounging back in his chair. It was hot, but not sufficiently so to cause the perspiration shining the man’s face, which was dirty from the siege. Cowley, who’d had one psychology assessment confirmed by Quantico, although it had failed in practice, thought he recognised the profile and was pleased. A bully, Cowley guessed: maybe an instigator of violence, but if he were it would always be others who imposed the pain, because men like Zimin were secretly frightened of suffering themselves.

Cowley spoke hurriedly, ahead of Danilov, wanting to dominate the questioning to test his assessment. ‘You’re going to be in jail for the rest of your life.’

Zimin gave a dismissive wave. ‘I didn’t shoot at anyone. Didn’t have a gun.’ He didn’t show any surprise at being addressed in Russian by an American.

‘What were you doing, in that village?’ asked Cowley.

‘Minding my own business.’

‘With the Sicilian and American Mafia?’ said Danilov.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Why did you come to Italy?’ said Cowley.

‘Holiday,’ said Zimin. He smirked, looking directly at Cowley. ‘I was going to take lots of holiday photographs. You going to have any souvenir photographs from Moscow?’

Danilov didn’t understand the remark. The American’s face was rigidly impassive. Forcing himself on, waveringly close to being knocked off psychological balance himself by the obvious inference, Cowley said: ‘You were forming links between the Chechen in Moscow, the Genovese in New York and the Liccio here in Sicily.’

Zimin studiously examined his fingernails, not bothering to answer. Danilov was reminded of the encounter with Anripov, not realising how much more fragile Zimin’s attitude was. ‘Tell us why Ivan Ignatsevich Ignatov was murdered? Shot in the mouth.’

‘I don’t know anyone named Ivan Ignatsevich Ignatov.’

Cowley wished Danilov had not intruded. ‘Tell me about the Chechen.’ He anticipated the rejection, expecting nothing that day. But the interview wasn’t wasted. He was studying the man, deciding the pressures.

‘I don’t know who or what the Chechen is.’

Through the frustration, Danilov thought that at least this bastard wouldn’t escape justice, like Antipov.

‘You frightened, Maksim?’ said Cowley. ‘I’d be, if I were you. Frightened as hell.’

The Russian didn’t reply.

‘I’m right, you know. About going to jail. You any idea what it’ll be like, in a cage for the rest of your life?’

Zimin stayed silent.

So, too, did Danilov. He guessed the American was using a trained approach, and determined against interfering until he realised what it was.

‘You won’t do well in jail,’ persisted Cowley. ‘Look at you! Soft! Flabby! They’ll make you into a girl in jail. Fuck you, when they like, how they like. Think about that, Maksim! Think what it’s going to be like being held down while everyone takes their turn. No-one to protect you any more.’

There was a nearly imperceptible twitch to the man’s face, and a hot smell came across the table from him. ‘Stop bothering.’

‘I’m not the one who’s going to be bothered,’ Cowley went on. ‘You’re not looking forward to being a jail whore, are you? You’ll become infected, of course. Venereal disease if you don’t get AIDs. Cancer develops from anal venereal disease. Did you know that?’ According to the Quantico lectures there had to be the fear of physical violence or assault. Maybe the thought of homosexual rape would not be enough, if the man were gay. How did he know about the photographs? He would have to be fairly high ranking within the Chechen. Which followed, Cowley reasoned: nobody un important would have come to set up this operation. Could Zimin be the don that Italian rumours had suggested?

Danilov thought he guessed the approach. ‘If you talked to us – told us all we want to know – we’d try to help.’ Could they cut a deal? The idea of making any arrangement with someone like Zimin offended him, but it would bejustified if it solved everything else. Edging towards another compromise, he thought.

Zimin came forward in his chair, hands fisted hard before him, his face wet. ‘I’m not going to jail! I didn’t take part in any killing.’

‘Of course you’re going to jail,’ insisted Danilov. ‘I’m personally going to see that you do. You talk to us sensibly and I’ll intercede for you. But go on being stupid and you’re going to be locked away forever.’

Zimin strove for bravado. ‘You seem very interested in my ass. So I’ll do you a favour. I’ll let you kiss it. How about that? You like to kiss my ass? It’s yours.’

Danilov grinned at the man. ‘No, I don’t want to kiss your ass. But you’re going to be kissing mine, before we’re through: before we’re through you’re going to be grovelling on the ground, begging me to help you. You and Zavorin and Amasov.’

None of them did, not that day.

After Zimin, they tried to question Ivan Zavorin, a thin, neat, clerk-like man with fidgeting eyes and a stutter, neither of which emerged as nervousness they could break. The attitude was different from Boris Amasov, but the refusal was the same. Instead of offering supercilious rejection or ignorance of what had been going on, the fat-bellied, hugeshouldered man with a knife scar down the right side of his face was mulishly stubborn, remaining mute, not responding to anything he was asked.

They had arranged nightly conferences. Everyone assembled depressed in Melega’s room. Melega had had the only minor success: the oldest of the three Sicilians had been identified as Antonio Liccio, the son of the man who had given his name to the Mafia clan and who was on the ‘most wanted’ list of twelve Mafia dons. The other two were brothers, Victor and Umberto Chiara. There were outstanding indictments against all three, the majority for organised crime offences: it meant they could be held for as long as the Italians chose, without any of the current charges having to be proffered until their eventual questioning by the examining magistrate was completed. Liccio had openly challenged Melega to produce a judge brave enough to hear a case against them.

Barclay Smith’s only contribution was that Palma spoke Italian as well as he did English, but wouldn’t volunteer anything in either language: he had replied to each attempted question by demanding access to a lawyer. His only remark apart from that had been to insist he had been unarmed and taken no part in the shooting. Reminded, Danilov asked Melega about the weapons in the farmhouse. All that had been recovered were the traditional Mafia wolf-hunting shotguns: all bore the fingerprints of the Sicilians, none of the others.

‘So Palma and the Russians do have a defence that they didn’t take part in the shoot-out!’

‘Under our law they are equally guilty,’ insisted Melega.

‘But a plea for a reduced sentence could be entered in mitigation?’ pressed Cowley.

‘It’s possible,’ conceded the Italian.

Danilov had an abrupt but vivid recollection of a shuddering man leaking blood all over him, and became hot with anger at the thought of any of them escaping with legal tricks. It was worse for not knowing how he could prevent it.

‘I can break Zimin,’ declared Cowley quietly. ‘I’m sure I can break him.’

There were doubtful looks from everyone else in the room.

Initially the doubt seemed justified.

Day followed day and separate interrogation followed separate interrogation without anyone in the Mafia groups collapsing. Cowley discussed his approach with Danilov, who always let the American lead the encounters with Zimin with the ridicule and threats of jail violence. Several times they both thought the man was going to break, but always he seemed to pull himself back from the very edge. At their nightly review, at the end of the fifth day, Melega said that although there was no concern about the Sicilians, because of the already existing charges, the Italian prosecutors were becoming unsettled at the delay in formal accusations being put against Palma and the Russians: it could be a defence that they had been unfairly subjected to duress, with legal representation withheld.

‘I want to do something,’ declared Cowley. He’d endured each day’s questioning with foreboding of further jibes about souvenir photographs, which hadn’t come. It had, he supposed, been naive to expect them. The first remark had been a warning, of a bargaining demand yet to come. It could be soon, if the Italian agreed to what he wanted.

When he explained, Melega said: ‘It’s a trick.’

‘It’ll work,’ insisted Cowley. I hope, he thought.

It was far worse than any jail pit into which they had ever descended, which surprised Danilov because he’d thought nothing could be as bad as Russian penitentiaries.

The noise was first, hardly recognisable as human sounds: a muttering, growling hum like a beehive where the insects crawl one over the other. And then there was the smell. It was a stomach-souring, retching stink of every conceivable body odour and stench.

They had made Zimin shower and given him cologne, which he had applied, with no way of knowing. The noise came close to a roar – the automatic reaction to authority entering the Rebibbia dungeons – but then Zimin was picked out between them, manacled to identify him from Cowley and Danilov and the guards, and the cacophony began, the shouts and the calls, distorted faces at cell bars and metal – screened windows. There were a lot of arms reaching out, with grasping fingers. They made Zimin walk the entire length of the cell block, slowly, controlling his pace by the tethering chain. The Russian began to shake before he reached the end, trying to pull himself among them, for protection or to hide.

‘This is where you’ll be,’ said Cowley.

‘No! Please no!’

A cell had been cleared, at the very end, although it hadn’t been cleaned. When he realised he was being led towards it Zimin tried to fight and finally fell, crying, to the ground. He’d won, Cowley knew. The bastard was too terrified even to remember the photographs. He would, though.

The girl, who was freshly bathed and who had already begun her careful, unobtrusive make-up, reacted at once to the telephone because it was the time the telephone started to ring, the start of her working day. She said of course she was free: she could fit in with whatever arrangement. She’d be waiting for him, she promised.

‘A full night?’ It was always important to establish things at the very beginning. He’d been very demanding last time.

‘All evening, all night. That a problem?’

‘Not at all. I just didn’t want to commit myself elsewhere.’

‘Don’t do that. Dollars, like last time?’

She hesitated, wondering whether to bargain, but decided against it. ‘That’ll be fine.’

‘Two hours?’

‘I’ll be there.’

The girl’s name was Lena Zurov. She was twenty-eight years old, and a professional and extremely successful prostitute operating in a very select Moscow circle.

Five thousand miles away, Michael Rafferty grinned up from the latest package to arrive from Geneva and said to his partner: ‘They may be getting all the glory and all the shit in Rome, but you know who’s going to put this baby to bed? The good old Swiss police! And us, because we’ve made the connection.’ He flicked the photograph across the desk to Johannsen. ‘Look at that!’

The forbidden cigar-smoking had increased in the past weeks, so that Gusovsky was sometimes racked by paroxysms of coughing; it happened now, stopping the conversation. No-one – not even Yerin – risked reminding the man of the medical ban. The smoke had further fogged the rear room of the Pecatnikov club, already thick with that of his henchmen’s Marlboros. Antipov waited with the rest for the spasm to be over.

‘It went well?’ gasped the Mafia head.

‘Wonderfully,’ smiled the hitman, a remark as much for his own amusement as an answer to the question. She always had been one of the best.

‘You didn’t make any mistakes?’ demanded Yerin, remembering Washington.

‘None,’ insisted Antipov.

‘Kosov has some explaining to do,’ said Gusovsky, quite recovered. ‘He said everything was safe and it wasn’t. Get him here, to talk to me. Don’t hurt him. Just get him here.’