No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Danilov was glad of the silence on the flight from Geneva, preferring to think rather than talk. He tried to work things out in the sequence in which they had to unfold, but as he fitted all the pieces together – guessing at the few still missing – his concentration increasingly focused upon the American. Cowley had saved him, in the beginning: unknowingly, a lot of the time, but by his mere presence Cowley had prevented his destruction. Would it be possible for him, in return, to block what was inevitable for Cowley? Danilov wanted to. He didn’t, at that stage, know how he could.

He was sure he knew what the official reaction would be to the evidence he already had and which would, he was also sure, be sufficient for a prosecution. And even more than sufficient for an unthinkable diplomatic disaster. Danilov determined, in the next few hours and the next few days, always to keep in mind how he might achieve the favour-for-favour balance, Russian style, to help Cowley. He did not consider discussing it with the American: there was virtually nothing to discuss.

With the importance of sequence – and protocol – in mind, Nikolai Smolin was the first person Danilov contacted upon arrival at Petrovka. He telephoned from the now unoccupied director’s suite, which he commandeered without authority. He didn’t suspect Galina Kanayev as much as he had her predecessor, but the move freed them from any eavesdropping and he wasn’t sure what he, Pavin and Cowley might have to discuss.

‘There’s enough for a case?’ demanded Smolin.

‘Probably several.’

‘Involving people presently in government?’

‘I think so.’

‘Do the Americans know?’

Always the same concern, Danilov recognised. ‘Yes.’

‘It has to be a full discussion?’

‘Definitely.’

Danilov briefed Pavin on what he wanted before the official encounter, not intending to consider anything that had been assembled in their absence until Pavin pointed out the intercept of Olga and Kosov’s outing the previous Saturday. There was a transcript, but Danilov insisted on hearing the actual tape.

Cowley shifted, awkwardly, at the disembodied conversation, but Danilov did not feel embarrassed nor angered at anything Olga said. His sole emotion was for Olga herself. She sounded so sadly hopeful, so pleased, at being spoiled and flattered: at being picked out for any sort of attention. His awareness of why she had been picked out, which Olga didn’t know, worsened the feeling, gouging deeper. He couldn’t remember ever having spoiled or flattered her, not even in the early days, when he’d thought he loved her and that she loved him. He’d never bought her a nonsense present, for no other reason except to do it: never thought of doing something totally unexpected – which he could have afforded, when he had accepted tributes. What had happened to their marriage had been his fault, Danilov decided, listening to the stilted, almost artificial exchange. Olga had stopped bothering because he had stopped bothering. Olga – poor, gauche, never-getting-it-quite-right Olga – sounded so desperately vulnerable; how lost – how vulnerable – would she be when he divorced her, leaving her quite alone? He wouldn’t leave her quite alone, Danilov determined, at that moment. He’d have to support her, and not just financially, but by being there for her, to help her and look after her: see she didn’t get into any real difficulty. Larissa would agree – he’d talk it through with her first, of course. Like he had to talk through so much else with her. Larissa had to know how difficult things might be for them, in the very near future.

He was vaguely aware of the discomfited Cowley addressing him.

‘It was naive of him to imagine you’d tell her anything on the telephone,’ said the American. ‘Tell her anything at all, for that matter.’

He hadn’t even called her from Italy, Danilov realised: even now, to tell her he was back in Moscow. His only concern had been to amass $250 for the Tatarovo apartment he and Larissa were going to take. ‘Perhaps more desperate than naive.’

They were both surprised by the quickness of Pavin’s return.

‘It was very easy,’ said Pavin. ‘Ilya Iosifovich Nishin was Deputy Chief Accountant at the Finance Ministry. He died in April, 1992.’

‘Kaplan?’ questioned Cowley.

‘Vladimir Aleksaivich Kaplan is the head of the American directorate at the Foreign Ministry,’ said Pavin. ‘He has been, for the past five years.’

To Cowley, Danilov said: ‘The Serovs would travel on diplomatic passports. Yasev, too. That would make it easier for your people to trace, wouldn’t it?’

‘I guess so,’ accepted Cowley. ‘Sure you’re not getting too conspiracy happy?’

‘I want it all!’ said Danilov determinedly.

Pavin’s files on the murder of Lena Zurov were predictably meticulous. She’d been found dead in her own apartment, on Hasek Street, near the zoological gardens. There was a range of sexual paraphernalia in the apartment: dildos of various sizes, some whips and handcuffs and some vibrators as well as a selection of pornographic photographs, in some of which she appeared. Danilov was aware of Cowley tensing, but Pavin continued without any pointed hesitation. Her birth certificate put her age at twenty-eight; there was no record of her ever having been married; there was evidence of sexual intercourse shortly before death. The forensic department at Petrovka was not equipped for DNA tracing, but vaginal swabs had been taken for the semen to be passed on to America. A total of $2,000 had been found in a locked drawer and a further $300 had been scattered over a bedside table, as if in hurried payment.

Among that would be money he’d paid her, Cowley knew: traceably numbered bills he’d drawn from the embassy treasury. In an American investigation, a check on banknote numbers would have been automatic: Cowley did not suggest it here.

It took a supreme effort of will for Cowley to look at the murder photographs. Lena Zurov was sprawled openlegged and naked, half forced off the blood-soaked bed by the impact of the bullets. As in every one of the symbolic murders, there were two body hits, both fatal. The mouth shot, inflicted after death, had taken away half the girl’s face.

‘The only difference from the others is the gun,’ concluded Pavin. ‘It wasn’t in the apartment. The bullets were cushioned by being fired into the mattress: forensic have some very definite barrel markings. If we recover the weapon, we could make a positive match.’

Where would they find it, wondered Danilov. Or far more likely, where would it be planted? He was sure the danger would occur to Cowley – now if not later – but he made a mental note to warn the man. It was becoming difficult to keep in mind everything they had to guard against and the order in which they had to move. But the conference with the government ministers was very definitely the first priority. He called Yevgennie Kosov before going to it. Reserve matched reserve, but Danilov was held by an ice-hard anger.

The three men remained unmoving while Danilov talked. Several times he offered the documentary evidence he had brought with him, but every time Nikolai Smolin shook his head, almost with impatience. Danilov got the impression there had been another conference, preceding this.

‘The American knows: will have told Washington?’ repeated Smolin, uttering what appeared to be his only preoccupation.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Danilov. The lack of response worried him. He didn’t think he could openly ask, if he didn’t get the guidance he wanted.

‘The money is still in this corporation?’ queried Sergei Vorobie.

‘Yes.’

‘Would it be possible to get it back?’ asked Vasili Oskin.

The information was in the documents they’d refused: at worse, he could only later be criticised for an oversight. He wasn’t going to have to ask, to get his question answered.

‘I am not sure about that. Or that a legal conviction is possible, upon the evidence of Maksim Zimin alone,’ said Smolin. The opinion wasn’t addressed to Danilov.

‘America will expect something,’ pointed out the Deputy Interior Minister.

There had been a prior conference, Danilov decided: they were virtually continuing it now, talking as if he weren’t in the room. He wouldn’t tell them how he intended going on with the enquiries: it would be easier to have the sort of interview he wanted with Raisa Serova without the intrusion of Oleg Yasev.

The other three men looked among themselves, as if seeking a spokesman. Vorobie said: ‘There has been very detailed discussion, after what happened in Italy. And there will have to be more, as a result of what you’ve added today. But every effort is to be made to avoid this becoming the diplomatic scandal about which we spoke at the very beginning. You are to make no approach to any of the named government officials. Are you clear about that?’

‘Completely,’ said Danilov. And more, he thought. There was definitely going to be a cover-up.

Danilov was an hour later than he’d promised, getting back to Kirovskaya, but Olga was not annoyed. She kissed him, seeming not to notice his half-hearted response as she flustered around the apartment constantly talking, never waiting for him to reply, which after a while he stopped bothering to do. She said the silk scarf he’d bought – again on the plane – from Geneva was beautiful, and showed him all the Moscow newspaper cuttings of his part in the Sicilian gun battle and said how proud she was of him.

It was, in fact, the first time he had seen the complete Russian coverage: there’d only been three clippings from the embassy in Rome. He was surprised how much space he had been given. He thought he looked ridiculous coming out of the helicopter in army fatigues.

Olga made him tell her about it in minute detail, constantly interrupting with small questions when he tried to hurry, and he indulged her, not irritated as he sometimes was. She kept repeating how proud she was. That night she initiated the love-making and he found it easier to respond than he’d thought he would, but afterwards he remained awake long after she had drifted off into a snuffling sleep.

He was soon going to have to find the words to tell her it was all over. What were the words? He didn’t know yet, but he had to have them exactly right when the moment came, to cause as little hurt as possible. Definitely reassure her that he intended to look after her. Would Larissa have worked out what she was going to say to Kosov? They’d have to talk it through first: get it right between them.

He’d have to call Larissa tomorrow: she’d probably heard from Kosov he was back. Danilov couldn’t work out precisely what it had been when he’d spoken to the man, to arrange their meeting. There had been more than simply fury. Fear, Danilov hoped. Would he be able to achieve what he wanted, the following day? He thought so: the Italians appeared to be keeping their word, not releasing anything of the interrogation success. So Kosov’s friends would be frantic to know what had been discovered. It pleased Danilov, imagining them frantic. He hoped Kosov was the most worried of all. Not just frightened. Truly terrified. The bastard deserved to be.