No Time for Heroes (33 page)

Danilov regarded that as a cover-up, to remove a problem but prevent a public government humiliation, and Cowley agreed with him. Their disillusionment worsened when the questioning of Antipov re-started.

Although directorship of the Bureau remained with Oskin, the day-to-day supervision was passed to Smolin, who conducted the session as he'd undertaken. Antipov still swaggered, lolling sideways with one arm lodged over the chair back: by now he virtually had a full beard and he smelled badly, from not washing. When Smolin identified himself Antipov laughed in Danilov's direction and said: ‘He so bad you've got to do his job for him?'

Smolin was too experienced a lawyer ever to feel irritation. ‘It's all gone wrong,' he said. ‘They were caught, trying to get rid of the gun.
That's
why I'm here: this is official. We've still got the gun and it's going to put you in front of a firing squad. And we have their confessions, too.'

‘Congratulations!'

‘It's everyone for himself now. That's all they're interested in, saving themselves. As you should be.'

‘Who's they?' demanded Antipov.

‘You tell me,' said the prosecutor, possibly his only mistake.

‘No!' refused Antipov. ‘
You
tell
me
!'

‘Metkin. Kabalin.'

The Mafia man pulled a face, turning down both corners of his mouth. ‘Never heard of them. Like I never heard of anyone named Ivan Ignatov. Or something or someone called Chechen or Ostankino.'

That was the moment Danilov and Cowley – and Smolin – knew they'd lost. The Federal Prosecutor persisted for almost a further hour, until the repetition risked becoming farcical.

‘Metkin and Kabalin weren't his only protectors!' decided Danilov in the conference that followed, careless in his frustration at making the accusation to a government minister in the presence of the American.

There was no disapproval from Smolin. ‘Which would have to mean someone within the Interior Ministry.'

‘Or the judiciary,' added Danilov.

‘Which might also account for the decision not to proceed with criminal charges against Metkin or Kabalin!' suggested Cowley, emboldened by Smolin's easy acceptance of what Danilov had said.

‘That was taken on my advice,' corrected the Federal Prosecutor, although still with no resentment. ‘There wasn't enough, legally, to proceed.'

‘When
will
there be?'

‘When there is a mistake that can't be covered up,' insisted Smolin.

Danilov hoped there was still the possibility of finding one, but didn't tell Smolin. He'd insisted upon a replacement secretary. She was a hopefully smiling woman named Galina Kanayev, who had a dumpling face on a dumpling body and whose first job, under Pavin's guidance, had been to correct the falsified communications dossier. She welcomed the relief of typing Danilov's official request to the Foreign Ministry for a re-examination of all Petr Serov's material returned from Washington. Prompted by being told of the comparison he was going to have to make, Pavin said the three names Lapinsk had provided had not shown up in any criminal record: he was about to begin on the records of government personnel.

Danilov told Cowley that night, in the Savoy bar, he had finally initiated the search. ‘It's a possibility,' accepted the American doubtfully.

‘Any other suggestions?'

‘What about surveillance on Antipov, when he's released?'

‘We'll try,' agreed the Russian. ‘He'll expect it, though.'

‘What about bugging his apartment, before you release him?'

‘I'll suggest it,' said Danilov.

Cowley remained in the bar after Danilov's departure. By now he had an accustomed place in the corner furthest from the door. He saw, the moment she entered, the darkly attractive, short-haired girl who'd established an equally accustomed place at a side table, just inside the entrance, for over a week now. He guessed she was a professional, because there were a few of them regularly around, but he'd seen her reject quite a few approaches, so obviously she was extremely particular. He smiled almost without thinking, in the way of bar regulars, and she smiled back: worriedly he wondered if she might have misunderstood and make an approach, but she didn't. He smiled at the girl as he finally left the bar and she shifted slightly, smiling up expectantly. But he carried on alone to his room.

‘The man was head of the Organised Crime Bureau!' protested Maksim Zimin. ‘We knew how the investigation was going! Now we don't! It was a totally unnecessary mistake!'

It was the first time that one of Alexandr Yerin's intricate proposals had collapsed so badly, and he didn't like the failure or the criticism. ‘They weren't our only source, close to what's going on.'

‘They were the best! Kosov doesn't have any
inside
access,' persisted Zimin. ‘And we can't intercept what's going to Oskin!' He thought this more than balanced the Washington error.

‘There's no benefit in looking back,' intervened Gusovsky, although he agreed with Zimin. ‘The link-up is far more important. We are going to get the company details legally assigned soon now.'

‘We're not going to delay the meeting?' queried Zimin, the delegate, hoping his reluctance didn't show. He was uneasy operating outside the guaranteed safety and protection of Moscow.

‘Definitely not,' insisted Yerin. ‘We've got to maintain their confidence.'

‘There's no way we can be blocked, getting the money. You can make all the agreements: they won't expect you to be carrying it with you,' said Gusovsky.

‘We won't have the investigation monitored!' said Zimin, not wanting to relax the pressure on the blind man.

‘Kosov will have to work that much harder,' said Gusovsky.

‘What about Metkin and Kabalin?'

Yerin gave a waving gesture, like someone disturbing an irritating insect. ‘They're no further use to us.'

‘They
know
!' insisted Zimin.

‘And if they talk they go to jail for the rest of their lives! They know that, too. Stop pissing your pants!'

‘I need to know everything about Switzerland,' said Zimin.

‘Just make the contact and convince them we can set up the deal,' said Yerin.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The funeral, at Novodevichy cemetery, of Petr Aleksandrovich Serov provided the news-starved media with the first public event since the activity around the scenes of the American murders: what little there had been at the Moscow river bank had ended before the Ignatov killing had been leaked by the Washington mayor. The swarm of international journalists, cameramen and TV crews hugely outnumbered the tiny group of mourners.

Danilov and Cowley did not attempt to join it. Instead, glad of the tight-together clutter of gravestones and portrait-adorned vaults, they remained initially unrecognised outside the mêlée. That, in turn, hid the Militia photographer. It had been Cowley's idea to get police pictures, which Danilov had acted on without reference to Smolin. It had been a mistake proposing the electronic eavesdropping on Mikhail Antipov's apartment on Ulitza Fadajeva. The prosecutor had said there was insufficient time for the installation before the man was released. Smolin had seemed uninterested in any surveillance in depth, which had unsettled Danilov.

It was an overcast day of low, scudding clouds, the few trees rusting with approaching autumn. It was cold, too, although Raisa Serova did not wear a coat: her suit was an appropriate mourning black, without any visible jewellery. Twice, while they watched, she spoke sideways to Oleg Yasev. Danilov had not expected her to be accompanied by the Foreign Ministry official, but Raisa kept her hand linked through the elbow-cupped arm of the fair-haired Yasev, while being constantly attentive to Serov's elderly parents, on her other side. The old lady, bowed as much by arthritis as sorrow, was crying, needing her husband's arm around her shoulders as well as Raisa's help to get to the graveside. There were only three other mourners, all men. Danilov didn't recognise them, but got the impression they were officials from their dress and demeanour.

It was an American television cameraman, panning to follow Raisa Serova from the grave to her car, who recognised Danilov and Cowley from the earlier publicity. Raisa became aware of the sudden switch of attention and glared, particularly at Danilov. There was another headtogether exchange with Yasev, who appeared to nod in agreement with what she said, as Danilov and Cowley were engulfed by the pack, like they had been outside the restaurant in Georgetown.

Now, as then, they refused every question, shouted in Russian and English: Danilov used the American's bulk, following in the man's wake as Cowley shouldered his way towards the waiting Volga. The press determination to get some comment matched that of Cowley and Danilov not to give it. A solid barrier formed between them and the car, refusing to give way, and Pavin, who had remained in the driving seat, had literally to add his weight from the rear to complete the path Cowley was trying to form. Someone got his hand trapped in the door, yelling with pain as Danilov slammed it closed. For no obvious benefit, apart from still more photographs, the pack remained thronged all around the car. Pavin had to edge forward inches at a time to reach the cemetery gates.

‘Jesus!' said Cowley, as the vehicle reached the main highway.

‘I should have had some uniformed officers.' Would Smolin have vetoed that, too?

‘Those three guys mean anything to you?' Cowley had marked the three unknown mourners as officials, too.

‘We can ask Yasev.'

‘I'd already decided to ask him.'

‘Surprised he was there?'

‘I suppose it was understandable.'

The police photographs were printed at once, to maximum enlargements, and compared to every picture so far gathered on the three cases. There was no match. Danilov had just finished dictating the official request to Oleg Yasev for their identities when the call came from Smolin that the widow had already complained, through Yasev, about the media presence at the funeral. She blamed the Russian investigator personally for releasing the time and location to the press. Today's protest had also repeated the demand that her husband's still-retained diary be returned. Smolin saw no reason why that should not be done.

The rebuke finally made Danilov's mind up how to operate in the future, which was not, he didn't think, the way Nikolai Smolin intended. Danilov concluded he had been freed from the restrictive interference of a corrupt director to have it replaced by the restrictive interference of a group of government officials more interested in satisfying diplomatic than legal requirements. And then, he further qualified, only if the replacement group
were
honest.

Danilov shared every message with the American. Cowley said: ‘He know about going through Serov's stuff from the embassy again?'

‘No,' said Danilov. ‘And he isn't going to.' He was going to have to rely greatly upon the American, if they ever found a way in Russia to move the enquiry on.

Cowley's seat in the corner of the bar, near the television set showing CNN for the benefit of the Western tourists, was waiting for him: before he reached it the barman was pouring the Scotch.

She arrived an hour and two drinks later, smiling across at him from her established seat near the foyer. There had been two other regulars setting up positions ahead of her and they'd smiled, too, but he hadn't responded. This time he did. There was obviously an arrangement between the bar staff and the girls, who often sat without drinks unless they were bought by prospective clients.

Cowley intercepted the enquiring look between the barman and the girl, and said: ‘On my tab.' The girl chose crême de menthe and smiled at him again, more openly this time, edging the second chair slightly away from her table, in invitation. Why not? What was wrong with just talking? He hadn't talked with or been in the company of a woman since the night out with Danilov's wife and Larissa. He carried his own drink from the small bar. As he approached she pushed the chair out further.

‘I am Lena,' she said. Her voice was surprising deep, almost mannish. It was the only thing that was. The check wool dress was too well cut to be Russian, tight enough – but not too tight – to accentuate a perfect, ample-breasted body. The dark hair was short, the make-up discreet, certainly not so garish as the other girls in the bar.

‘Bill,' he said.

‘I wasn't sure it would ever happen.' Her English was good, not hurried, which was a usual Russian mistake.

‘Nothing has, yet.'

‘I think it's might, don't you?'

‘We don't have to use English. I speak Russian.'

‘I want to practise.' There was no
double entendre
in the remark.

‘English then,' he agreed.

‘You've seemed lonely.'

That was practically a stock phrase, but Cowley didn't take it as such. He
was
lonely. Cowley had been with quite a few hookers, certainly before his marriage to Pauline and occasionally afterwards, when he'd been away or abroad on protracted trips and still hadn't sobered up, in all ways. His immediate impression was that Lena would be one of the better ones. If he became a client, that is: he still didn't have that intention, despite her confidence. Her appearance wasn't surface thin, as it all too often was. Her nails were perfectly manicured, her hands well kept, and the smell was of perfumed freshness, not artificial fragrance of the previous day's scent. In the West she would have been sophisticated enough to have worked through a discreet, high-class agency, not ply openly in hotels. Been a model, even.

Lena did not overdo the sexual innuendoes, and easily followed in whatever direction he led the small talk. She did not even attempt to hustle drinks, usually a requirement of establishments allowing a hooker to operate, but on two occasions even refused when he beckoned for more.