No Time for Heroes (45 page)

‘No deal!' refused the American, loudly. ‘I did it! I was drunk, which isn't an excuse, and I was stupid. They set me up and I fell for it, like a jerk. So they won. That time. What we now know is too big – far too big and far too important – for any deal. Which I wouldn't consider, even if it weren't. So in the end, I'm going to win.
We're
going to win. We're getting it now. And we're going to get more. I'll hang in, for as long as I can: as long, I guess, as they'll let me. Which is a pretty shitty thing for an FBI man to have to admit about a bunch of punks! But when I go down, they go down!'

Danilov's admiration for Cowley soared. He wasn't shocked or offended by the pictures – none showed anything he and Larissa didn't do most times they were together – and he was tempted to argue they were not as professionally compromising as Cowley was making out. But deep down he recognised that they were, so to say that would be patronising. Danilov's mind ran on, to a thought that had come to him during that morning's questioning. ‘I want to use Zimin: he might even see it as a deal.'

Cowley frowned again. ‘How?'

‘He knows about the Ignatov killing: that Antipov did it,' insisted Danilov. ‘I'm sure he does! About Metkin and Kabalin, too. All of it. He's got to be sentenced here to satisfy Italian justice, but if it could be arranged he serves his sentence in Russia, he could give evidence against all of them.'

‘That might not delay the exposure. It won't be Zimin's decision, whether or not to publish them.'

‘They don't know what we're getting. Melega's agreed no publicity.'

Cowley smiled faintly. ‘
Would
Zimin give evidence against them?'

‘Depends how frightened we keep him.'

‘What about special treatment?'

‘Maybe a reduction of sentence,' suggested Danilov. ‘It would be worth it to get the other convictions.'

It wouldn't do anything to close the Washington files on Michel Paulac or Petr Serov, but it might just delay his humiliation. Should he feel any different – slightly relieved, perhaps – now he'd shared the personal disaster with someone else, someone who'd accepted it without any critical judgment, professional or moral? If there was going to be any such relief, it hadn't come yet. His only feeling was surprise at how little there had been to discuss about the entrapment. It was practically an anti-climax. Objectively he knew the hostile enquiries and detailed reports – and the scouring criticism – would come later.

Believing there was nothing more to talk about, Cowley said: ‘There were things waiting for me at the embassy. We've got the number Kosov was talking to, so we can get an address. And we know who Ilya Nishin is. He's the same guy in the photograph you took from Serov's apartment in Washington …!'

‘Whom Raisa Serova identified as her father!'

‘For the moment we can forget pornographic pictures and blackmail. Get this investigation completely buttoned down!'

‘I'm not sure we can forget it, not entirely,' cautioned Danilov. ‘The whore in the photographs? Did she have a name?'

Apprehension began to stir through Cowley. ‘Lena. That.'s all. Just Lena.'

‘I had a message waiting for me at the embassy, too. There's been another killing in Moscow, with a mouth shot: a high-class prostitute named Lena Zurov.'

‘She was killed because of me. It's as if I killed her.' Cowley's voice was distant, cracked.

‘It wasn't a Makarov,' completed Danilov. ‘The bullet was from a Smith and Wesson. An American gun.'

Yevgennie Kosov waited for Olga to ask, which she did when she realised they were driving through the outskirts of Moscow. ‘Ilyinskoye village. The Izba. You'll love it.' He was having to make it a social occasion, a casual Saturday outing, but it was difficult because he was terrified. She
had
to know something.

‘Larissa on duty again today?'

‘I don't know why she insists on working. It's not as if she needs the money: she can have as much as she likes.' He shouldn't rush it but it was difficult not to.

‘I asked her the same thing,' offered Olga. ‘She said she would get bored in the apartment by herself all day.'

‘Maybe she's having an affair,' said Kosov. ‘Working in an hotel would be convenient, wouldn't it?'

Olga looked sharply across the car. ‘Who with?'

They cleared the city and Kosov stamped on the accelerator, taking out his impatience in physical speed, ‘I just said maybe.'

‘Would it worry you, if she was?'

‘We've got a pretty loose marriage,' admitted Kosov. He didn't want to talk about Larissa or marriage! He wanted to talk about her bastard husband, cheating him in Italy.

Was the approach she'd worried about on their first outing going to come now? Why had she
been
worried? She wasn't now. She wasn't sure what she would do, if he made a pass, but she wasn't frightened. Remind him they were friends, probably: say something about not wanting to spoil it. What would it be like, to have an affair? A tiny tremor of excitement flickered through her at the thought. A lot of women had affairs: some women she worked with. It was hardly as if she would be seriously deceiving Dimitri. He didn't have any physical interest in her any more. They only made love when she practically demanded it, which was rare because she didn't have a great deal of physical interest in him any more. The marriage had gone beyond that. She wasn't sure where the marriage had gone
to
. Perhaps nowhere. Perhaps it had just gone. ‘What would you do, if you found out she was involved with another man?'

‘She'd be very silly, if she was. I've got a lot of friends who could help me.' Who at the moment were probably planning to kill him, if he didn't find out what they wanted to know! He needed to break the inane conversation. He reached across the car, covering her hand. Olga opened her fingers to receive his, returning the pressure. ‘Why do you work?'

‘Same reason as Larissa, I suppose. And I like having my own money.'

The right direction, he thought. ‘Dimitri Ivanovich doesn't keep you short, surely!'

Olga hesitated. ‘We have to live on his salary.'

‘That can't be easy.'

‘It isn't.'

‘We had a talk, just before he went away.'

‘You're going to help him meet people!'

‘I've offered.'

Olga squeezed his hand. ‘That would be wonderful. You're a good friend.'

‘From what the newspapers and television say, he seems to have been fantastically brave in Sicily.'

‘Yes.'

‘What's he said about it to you?'

‘He hasn't called.'

It couldn't be! thought Kosov, anguished. ‘Not at all?'

‘I suppose he's been busy. I actually thought he was in Washington.'

He was wasting his time with this fat, stupid, ugly woman! ‘So did we all. So you don't know how the investigation is going?'

‘Only what I read in the papers. It must be going well if they've made all those arrests.'

At the Risskaya Izba they had smoked fish, with mutton to follow, which was too heavy so she left a lot; when she went to the rest-room to comb her hair and repair her make-up she saw, dismayed, there was a grease spot on the lapel of her cream jacket. Trying to wash it off made it worse.

Kosov, made persistent by fear, suggested walking by the river after lunch. Again he took her hand. ‘You do trust me, don't you?'

Olga felt the tremor again. She had to prepare her answer. ‘Of course. Why did you ask that?'

The gesture of dismissal came close to being overdone, but Olga didn't see it as that. ‘It occurred to me that Dimitri Ivanovich and I talk work a lot: police work. I didn't want to bore you, asking about it today.' He still wasn't sure the bitch wasn't holding back: it didn't seem possible there hadn't been
one
call from Italy, after all the Superman heroics.

‘You don't bore me, Yevgennie Grigorevich.' Olga felt warm, heavy-eyed and lethargic from the wine. She was sure he was going to make a pass.

‘I don't think Dimitri Ivanovich treats you well enough.'

Olga wished he wouldn't keep reminding her of her husband. ‘People get too used to each other.'

‘He should have called you from Italy. Any wife would have been worried, after all those stories!'

‘He
should
, shouldn't he!' she agreed, in half-drunken belligerence.

‘But he didn't?' pressed Kosov, hopefully.

‘What?' she asked, confused.

‘He didn't call?'

‘I told you he didn't: not since the day he left.'

Shit! thought Kosov. ‘I'd really like to hear, if he does. I am a policeman, don't forget …' He allowed the necessary lapse. ‘Did he tell you we'll be working together, soon? That I'll be going to the Organised Crime Bureau?'

Olga wished he would stop talking about boring police business. ‘No.'

‘We will. Let me know if he calls, won't you? I'd like to hear what's happening. Now that we're going to be partners.'

‘If you like,' she said, uninterested.

What could he tell Gusovsky and Yerin, to convince them he was useful, stop them doing anything? ‘There should be a celebration when he comes back. You'll tell me, won't you?'

Olga brightened. ‘The moment I hear from him.' She was vaguely disappointed when he led her back to the car. Not that she wanted to make love to the man: not as quickly as this. She wouldn't have objected if he'd tried to kiss her, though.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

It was far more difficult to resume the following day. Cowley, remorseful for letting himself be trapped in the first place, was now swamped by the conviction, which Danilov could not argue him out of, that he was responsible for Lena Zurov's murder. And when Maksim Zimin was brought before them the Mafia man was, initially, less frightened.

The second problem was easier for Danilov to handle than the first. He let the resumed interview run for less than five minutes before snapping off the recording machine, calling the other Russian a fool and ordering him to be returned to the life-sentence wing. Zimin obviously did not think he was serious until the guards began to manacle him again. He began to scream, as he must have screamed most of the one night he'd spent there, and fell baby-like on to the floor. Danilov let it go on for quite a long time before calling the guards off.

‘Don't fuck with us!' he warned, taking over Cowley's command of the previous day. ‘I've seen the photographs. You don't have any pressure, not from here, where you are. We can do with you exactly what we like. I
am
prepared to talk a deal, although not for the pictures you don't anyway control. You do what we want, you won't ever be put in the pit downstairs. Try to be stupid – just once – and I'll guarantee that's precisely where you'll go, after your trial here …'

‘… What do you want?' broke in Zimin.

Danilov told him, without any authority to make the promise, the tape still turned off to prevent a record of the bargaining: it wasn't
possible
for a detective to be completely honest, ever, Danilov thought, in faint justification.

‘I want to be back in Russia, before I agree,' said Zimin, in weak desperation. ‘Want it discussed, with my own lawyer present. Get the guarantees.'

Danilov was about to press further but Cowley forced himself into the interview, straining his professionalism to the utmost. ‘You've got more to tell us here, though: prove your co-operation here and you get the rest.
Our
guarantee.' All the arrangements were going Danilov's way: he still had two murders in Washington he now understood but was no closer to solving. He wanted something, too.

Another unrehearsed intrusion, thought Danilov, irritated. He'd have to let it go. He was later to be eternally glad that he did.

‘What?' demanded Zimin again.

‘Details of the Swiss account. How it worked. What Paulac did and who he did it with, in America.'

‘I don't know any of that.'

‘How could you negotiate a ten million dollar deal with Sicilian and American Mafia
without
knowing the details?' challenged Danilov.

‘The Swiss part was handled by Gusovsky and Yerin.'

‘What about Zavorin?' demanded Cowley. ‘You called him the money man.'

‘He was to discuss and agree the financial arrangements, if we got to that here: the contracts. But we didn't get to it.'

They could sweat Zimin again in the pit, but Danilov was impatient now. ‘Zavorin knows you're on the
komitet
?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then you're going to tell him –
order
him – to tell us everything he knows. Now! Otherwise it's back downstairs.'

Ivan Zavorin did not need the theatre of dungeon cells to persuade him to talk: they'd broken Zimin, and so it had been the correct, American-led strategy to concentrate upon him, but Danilov thought they would have got something, in time, from this man, too. Zavorin's stutter was more pronounced, after the time he had spent in custody, and he seemed almost pathetically grateful when he was brought into the interview room and told by Zimin to disclose all he knew about the Swiss arrangement.

It wasn't as much as either investigator had hoped, but what he did disclose was enough for Cowley later to admit they should have pressed the accountant harder and sooner. Zavorin's understanding was that the embezzled Communist Party funds were not in a secretly numbered account, as they had wrongly assumed, but held by an
anstalt
, an even more secret trust corporation that could be untraceably manipulated by its founders. He didn't have the directors' names, nor that of the corporation. His role, Zavorin insisted, had been limited to financing the drugpurchasing with accountants to whom the Liccio clan and John Palma had been supposed to introduce him, after the initial meeting at which they had been seized. He did not, personally, have access to the
anstalt
; when they'd left Moscow, that was being negotiated by his lawyer-accountant partner, Sergei Mikolaivich Stupar.