No Time for Heroes

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

The notification of the award was duplicated to Cowley, who reached Danilov at Petrovka slightly ahead of the official advice from the Foreign Ministry, to which it had been formally communicated by Washington. Cowley made the congratulations light, saying if Danilov kept thinking the way they’d both been doing before they’d parted the previous night, he could be the richest honorary FBI agent in history. The Foreign Ministry message was signed personally by Sergei Vorobie, who along with his congratulations called it an honour of which they were all proud: the information was being released to the press. Danilov telephoned Larissa before Olga with the news. Larissa said it was wonderful and could she tell everyone: Olga asked if it was just a medal or whether a cash award went with it.

During the morning, while he was arranging the following day’s trip to Switzerland with Raisa Serova, congratulatory notes arrived from the Deputy Minister and the Federal Prosecutor. Nikolai Smolin repeated the praise when they spoke, for Danilov to learn that a Foreign Ministry lawyer would accompany him, carrying the Russian documentation in support of the official American release of the Svahbodniy corporation. When Danilov telephoned, Heinrich Bloch said that as well as Cowley, the American side was going to be represented by a legal team from the US embassy in Bern: the small luncheon party he had arranged, prior to the formalities, could now be extended into a small celebration for the American recognition of bravery, of which he’d just heard. He added his congratulations, too.

Despite the interruptions, Danilov still reached the Savoy in time for a drink with the American before they had to go to Glovin Bol’soj. They talked generally about the forthcoming encounter but agreed there was no purpose in the advance preparation that had gone into their interrogations in Rome and Moscow: the last thing they could appear to be doing that day was interrogating anyone. As a worried afterthought, Danilov asked Cowley if he’d fitted himself with any recording apparatus. Cowley said he hadn’t.

On their way to the Mafia restaurant Cowley disclosed Washington were pressing for a return date; he’d vaguely indicated another fortnight, but guessed it could probably be sooner. Danilov had grown so accustomed to spending most of the day and many evenings with the American it was difficult to imagine their not being together much longer. The thought seemed to be with the American, too. He said he looked forward to their meeting in Rome for the eventual trial there, although he guessed the restrictive security under which they would have to live would become a pain in the ass after a while. It reminded him to pass on that David Patton was on day release from hospital: the story was he’d a DEA headquarter’s job when he was fully recovered. Patton had also sent a message of congratulation about the medal, through the embassy. Of them all, it was the one Danilov appreciated most.

Their reception at Glovin Bol’soj was extreme, the courtesy and smiles stopping just inches short of patronage. Cowley decided they did want to gloat, and that all the men who nodded and grinned broadly at him, as he walked through the restaurant to the private rear room, probably had seen the photographs of him with his dick in a whore’s mouth. Lena Zurov had died because of him, Cowley thought, in familiar recrimination. She hadn’t been a whore, despite her profession: she’d been a chosen victim, like he’d been a chosen victim. He was sure he was going to enjoy – savour – what was going to come.

They were ushered into the private salon without the attempted body search of which Danilov had warned the American. A small bar had been installed – which Danilov decided was to provide at least one minder, acting as bartender – and there were elaborate flower arrangements which both investigators thought funereal. There were generous introductions and effusive handshakes. Yerin, sufficiently at home to move around without hint of blindness, offered champagne but announced for Cowley’s benefit there was every American liquor: all Cowley had to do was name it. The American asked for Chivas Regal, not to be awkward but from preference. There were numerous toasts to health and lasting association.

There was sufficient food for a banquet for a starving African nation: a starving Russian nation, for that matter. Beluga caviare formed the centrepiece of the zakuski. There was smoked sturgeon, separate selections of dumplings and mushrooms in sour cream, basturma cured meats, meat-stuffed Siberian pelmini – the Russian ravioli – and chicken and pork shashlik. Again to impress Cowley – and themselves – there was a selection of Californian wines to go with other choices from France and Georgia. Cowley had limited himself to one whisky and took only one glass of wine: toadying to their posturing, he chose Napa Valley chardonnay.

That posturing stopped very positively halfway through the meal: so, too, did most of the eating, both sides impatient with the pretence. Gusovsky called themselves businessmen, and thought there were going to be a lot of business opportunities in the future. From now on each would be mutually dependent upon the other: Cowley was not to imagine his involvement limited to this one occasion. Despite the setback of Italy, links would be formed with American organisations, so what was being established today would be a continuing situation when Cowley returned to America.

Again the conversation was split between the two Chechen leaders. Directly to the American, Yerin repeated, with chilling casualness, the threats against anyone who talked openly in any court, and insisted Cowley made it clear during any pre-trial interviews in the future, with anyone involved. With businesslike practicality, he demanded how and where Cowley wanted his money paid. It was one part of the encounter Cowley and Danilov had rehearsed: Cowley said he thought he’d keep it in Switzerland, as Danilov intended to, and would let them know the bank details when they were fixed. He responded well aware the posturing was beginning again: they were going to make him and Danilov plead for the photographs.

‘Part of our arrangement is to begin today?’ he said. He didn’t resent appearing to beg: he was going to get more enjoyment out of the game than they were, although they didn’t know it yet.

‘For both of us,’ came in Danilov, accepting like the American they were expected to demean themselves, despite the business-together shit. He was as unoffended as Cowley, sure now the final victory was theirs.

From the guessed-at recess beneath the table where they always sat Gusovsky took two sealed manila folders, one thicker than the other: he pushed the thicker towards Cowley, saying: ‘You’ll want to ensure every negative corresponds with a print?’

‘No,’ said Danilov. ‘We trust each other, don’t we?’

Picking up on their own double act, Cowley said: ‘We’re partners now.’

Gusovsky said: ‘This is forgotten by us: we regret it. We hope it is forgotten by you.’

‘Entirely,’ said Danilov. No, he thought.

‘Completely,’ said Cowley. No, he thought.

‘The sort of misunderstanding that arises sometimes in business,’ said Yerin. the false apologies all part of the affectation.

Cowley thought there was a lot adopted from Hollywood: except that in Hollywood the players were acting. These two – one who appeared to be dying from some wasting disease, the other a white-eyed blind man – weren’t acting but were, literally, deadly serious: they could still have stepped from the screen of any Mafia movie he’d ever seen. Or any parody of one.

Hands came out and were shaken. Gusovsky’s grasp was cold, like lifeless people were cold: Yerin’s hold was warm, cloying.

‘I’m worried about the money,’ said Danilov.

‘You’ve no need to be,’ said Yerin.

‘I meant getting control, from Switzerland. It’s got to be exactly right.’

‘It’s already being done.’

‘Don’t let us down,’ said Danilov.

‘Don’t let you down!’ said Gusovsky.

‘Don’t let either of us let anybody down,’ said Cowley. ‘We’re just anxious to make everything work out as it should.’

‘The replacement Founder’s Certificate will be presented at the opening of trading tomorrow,’ assured Gusovsky.

‘That’s perfect,’ said Danilov, for the satisfaction of Cowley and himself.

‘A week from now you’ll be rich!’ said Yerin.

‘A week from now we’ll all be rich,’ said Cowley. ‘And getting richer in the future.’

Danilov took a meandering route when they left, at first with no direction at all, in the first few moments actually checking to see if they would be followed from Glovin Bol’soj. He didn’t detect any shadowing cars.

‘Well?’ Danilov demanded of the slumped American beside him. ‘You’ve met your first dons.’

‘Yes.’

Danilov frowned sideways. ‘Well?’ he insisted again.

‘They’re real!’ said Cowley, as if the discovery surprised him.

‘Of course they are,’ accepted Danilov.

‘They’ll kill you,’ said Cowley. There’s no way they won’t kill you. They’ll have to.’

‘They won’t be able to,’ said Danilov. ‘You won’t be with me next time. But you were today. So you can identify them. Know what it’s all about. And you’ll hold all the proof.’

‘That won’t be enough, you crazy bastard!’

‘Yes it will.’

Danilov became aware of where they were when he drove past the Botanickeskiy Sad metro and at once took the side road to the Botanical Gardens. Each had travelled with their sealed envelope in their lap. Danilov opened his, looking down with renewed sadness at the woman he was about to abandon. The photograph Gusovsky had produced as a threat was the best, but there were two other shots taken from slightly different angles: she appeared bemused but very happy in each. There were two sets, as well as the negatives.

Cowley, beside him, hadn’t opened his package.

‘Shouldn’t you look?’ prompted Danilov.

‘I’ve seen them.’

‘Not the negatives.’

Almost uninterestedly, Cowley eased the flap open. He didn’t extract what was inside, merely parting the contents with his fingers. ‘They’re here.’

‘There’s rubbish bins in the park,’ said Danilov.

The American followed Danilov inside the gardens and watched while he made a bonfire in an empty metal basket of the photographs of Olga in the Nightflight club. Just before the fire died, Cowley extracted the contents of his own envelope and fed them one by one to the flames. The negatives were last, causing the biggest flare. Towards the end several people stopped on the pathways to look curiously at them.

‘How many copies do you think they will have kept?’ said Cowley, as they walked back to the Volga.

‘A set or two,’ accepted Danilov. ‘They might have kept a negative back, from the prints they supplied to you in the first place.’

‘They will kill you,’ insisted Cowley.

‘You’re my guarantee,’ repeated Danilov, just as insistently.

‘What if they release the photographs out of sheer revenge?’

‘Then we both die,’ said Danilov, with courage he didn’t feel. ‘Just in different ways.’

The government lawyer, Vladimir Olenev, was a small, bespectacled man thrust into unusual circumstances and made nervous by them. He was waiting in the foyer of the Foreign Ministry with a briefcase held before him in both arms, and after he got into the Volga with Danilov and Raisa Serova he remained with it clutched in his lap. The lawyer looked intently at Raisa, knowing what she had almost succeeded in doing: she stared back at him until Olenev became embarrassed and looked away.

The woman had still not been formally released from custody, but as always looked as if she was about to step out on to a model’s catwalk. Danilov wondered how she had managed to get her change of clothes and kept it uncreased. Her immediate demand, when he had collected her from the women’s detention centre on Ulitza Bucher, had been about Yasev. Danilov, who hadn’t seen the man since their last interview, said Yasev was all right, as far as he knew. Politely, no longer arrogant, she asked if she could be allowed to see him. Danilov, who supposed her detention would end after she had completed the surrender of the anstalt that day, said he thought it would be possible.

There was even less room in the car when they picked up Cowley from the embassy. Olenev’s uncertainty worsened in the presence of the American. There was nothing for any of them to talk about and they travelled out to Sheremet’yevo in virtual silence. Danilov supposed he was officially Raisa’s escort, so he sat beside her on the flight. She refused anything to eat or drink and spoke only once, asking when a decision was going to be made about herself and Yasev. Danilov said very soon, once the Swiss-held money was returned.

The smiling Paul Jackson was waiting for them at Geneva airport, fortunately in a larger embassy car than the Volga. The local FBI man at once congratulated Danilov on the valour award and made a remark about his being one of them now: Raisa frowned questioningly, but didn’t ask.

The lunch was a courteous attempt at diplomatic hospitality by Heinrich Bloch, but it didn’t really work. Raisa was even more the object of curiosity from the American party, which she treated with the same defiance as she had faced down the Russian lawyer. She seemed surprised when two of the Americans expressed sympathy at the death of her husband. Danilov wondered how fully they had been briefed, from all that Cowley had sent back to Washington. Olenev’s English was limited and Danilov frequently had to translate. Once or twice, to amuse herself, Raisa actually contributed. Despite the stilted difficulties, both Danilov and Cowley allowed themselves to relax, Danilov gesturing a silent toast to the Americans: Bloch’s first remark, when they met, was to confirm the presentation of a replacement Founder’s Certificate, naming Arkadi Pavlovich Gusovsky the new controller of the Svahbodniy corporation.

The hand-over formalities were more time consuming than Danilov expected. Bloch didactically insisted upon the procedures being explained in Russian, English and Schweitzer-Deutsch, with each set of lawyers signing documents of understanding. Raisa looked bored when her part in the proceedings came, and bemused when she was handed copies of every document recording her surrender of the anstalt. Olenev obviously approved the preciseness of the ceremony and queried whether he was not the proper recipient of the inoperative replacement certificate; Danilov guessed he might have persisted had not Cowley joined in his own insistence that it was rightfully theirs, as criminal evidence, and nothing to do with the return of the $30,000,000 to the current Russian government.

It was too late by the time they left Bloch’s office for Danilov to buy the intended gifts for Olga, but shops were still open at the airport. He left Raisa Serova in the charge of Cowley and the lawyer and bought a beige skirt and matching shoes, using the measurements he had copied from clothes in her closet before leaving Moscow. He didn’t have sufficient money left for the blouse to complete the outfit.

It was past nine before they got back to Moscow and Danilov was able to try the Kutbysevskij number, but Gusovsky was there.

‘We need to talk,’ announced Danilov.

When he got home to Kirovskaya, Olga said she would have preferred the skirt in a darker colour and she wished he had bought a blouse to finish it all off.