No Time for Heroes cad-3

by Brian Freemantle

  The blind man appeared surprised. ‘Everyone does what we tell them to do. They have to.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Danilov was aware of the two men following as he entered the room. He turned, stopping them before they were fully inside. Remaining in their path, Danilov said: ‘Thank you.’

  ‘There may be something that needs explaining,’ said Pavlenko.

  ‘If there is, I’ll ask,’ said Danilov.

  ‘I am the senior security officer,’ said Redin. ‘I will assist you.’

  ‘I don’t need help,’ refused Danilov. He couldn’t have staged such an open confrontation in the old omnipotent days of the KGB. He wasn’t sure he could do it now. But Redin flushed, as he had in the car, twitching a look towards the cultural attache, and Danilov knew he had won. ‘Thank you,’ he repeated, closing the door upon them as they retreated into the outer office.

  Danilov turned, his back to the door, looking once more into what, under closer examination, scarcely qualified as an office at all. It was a cubicle created by hardboard screening from a corner of the huge, open room beyond, and so small it would have been almost absurdly overcrowded with three in it, particularly if one were carrying out any sort of search. So why had they tried to pack in behind him? Was it simply for a diplomat and a security officer to watch him, the intrusive outsider, at all times? Serov’s workplace had obviously been searched. Had they wanted to watch him do it again because they’d found nothing and were anxious to see if he would do better? Redin was a professional intelligence officer, whose training included the craft of room scrutiny.

  At once Danilov questioned his own thought. The training and expertise of a trained intelligence officer was different in one very important respect from that of a trained and experienced investigator. He would instinctively look to detect and to connect: Redin’s search, he guessed, would have been more to locate the obvious.

  Apart from the immaculate desk, there was a filing cabinet recessed between the windows and a half-glazed bookcase just inside the door. A padded office chair was neatly slotted into the leg space beneath the desk; a more basic visitor’s seat fronted it. A polystyrene cup stood beneath the air-conditioning unit to prevent the drips staining the thin, brown cordweave carpet. On the windowsill there was a vase of atrophied tulips, their petals scattered on the sill and the floor below. After all the trouble sanitising the room, Danilov was surprised: rather than make the room appear untouched, the flower debris accentuated the fact that it had been examined.

  Danilov began with the bookcase. The visible, glass-fronted part contained a selection of textbooks on American culture, although the very bottom shelf held tomes on Russian history and art. All were large, with a lot of coloured illustration. Guessing Redin would have done the same, Danilov held each by their spine, to shake free anything concealed between the leaves, and additionally rifled through the pages to double-check. There was nothing. The enclosed lower half of the bookcase was serried with shelves upon which were arranged, as neatly as everything laid out on the desk, carefully indexed records of Washington cultural events from the beginning of Petr Serov’s posting. Danilov went through them as intently as he had the better bound books above, not wanting to dislodge any genuine but unattached document. He realised as he worked that the folders were further indexed with events Serov had attended, as opposed to those he had not, and in addition were marked to indicate those to which his wife had accompanied him. Each attendance, either separately or with Raisa, was also marked with names and sometimes telephone numbers or addresses of possible cultural contacts.

  It took Danilov an hour to go superficially through the dossiers; he finished wishing he was accompanied by the painstaking Major Pavin, to whom he could have delegated the proper page-by-page task. There was nothing immediately to help the investigation but there was something to learn, nevertheless. Danilov didn’t doubt the faultless perfection of the desk was the work of Pavlenko or Redin or both. But the folders before which Danilov now squatted did confirm that Serov was an obsessively methodical keeper of detailed records. And that being so, it was a more than reasonable assumption he would somewhere have kept records of an association with a Swiss financier named Michel Paulac.

  But where?

  Danilov rose and went finally to the desk, sitting in the chair in which Serov had sat, looking from closed drawer to closed drawer, unsure where to begin. The moment he did, there was fresh evidence of Serov’s fastidiousness. The top right-hand drawer contained invitations accepted, the left those rejected, often because of a clash of dates. The right-hand drawer also contained an address book, which Danilov scoured avidly, trying every combination of letters to locate a listing for, or reference to, Michel Paulac. There was nothing apart from official diplomatic numbers. Danilov slumped back, accepting it had probably been too much to hope for but disappointed just the same.

  The official appointments diary was desk size, too big to be carried except in a briefcase. Serov’s handwriting was precise and legible, every word easy to read. Danilov went at once to the day of the murder. The only notation was a lunchtime reception for an exhibition of Native American art at the Smithsonian, marked as having been attended. Hunched forward over the desk, Danilov worked his way through every entry from the beginning of the year, forcing himself on until he reached the murder date again even though it quickly became obvious that it was an appointments diary, recording nothing else.

  He put the diary aside and went just as intently through everything else in the desk. It was entirely devoted to the man’s function and position at the embassy: there was nothing personal, not even a photograph of Raisa. There was a Xeroxed form of Russian embassy events, the diplomatic list of Russian embassy personnel, six official diplomatic year books of European legations each marked at their cultural sections, a bulldog-clipped collection of bills and dockets on top of empty expense claim forms, and two drawers devoted to embassy stationery.

  Danilov replaced the contents of each drawer as he had found it before extending the search in the way he guessed Redin would have done. He extracted each drawer completely from its slot, running his hands inside the cavity for anything secured or taped to the desk frame. He repeated the examination around every edge and the bottom of each drawer before replacing it. He got down on his hands and knees, probing the knee space for any concealed item, and at the end had found absolutely nothing.

  The filing cabinet was as unproductive as everything else. There were brochures of events, both past and for the immediate future, all inserted according to date. Two drawers contained material and documents for the not-yet-assembled records that would have joined the rest of Serov’s career history on the shelves of the bookcase opposite. Two more contained correspondence stretching back over two years, annotated alphabetically. Recognising his own naivety, particularly after the failed attempt with the address book, he looked up P for Paulac and M for Michel before going on to F for finance and S for Switzerland. He even switched the combinations, in case Serov had filed European names under the designation of the Russian Cyrillic alphabet.

  It had been naive to expect to find anything in an office that had clearly been cleansed as antiseptically as this. As naive as looking up initial letters in address books and filing cabinets, or imagining himself better trained in his art than Redin was in his. He’d given way to pride, Danilov accepted: he’d enjoyed the publicity too much, and too easily believed the media descriptions of his supposed ability. So he’d wanted to find within hours of his arrival in Washington the key that would unlock the entire mystery, like the English fictional detective who played a violin and wore a strange hat and solved crime in minutes, about whom a series was currently being shown on Moscow television. But he wasn’t operating in a fictional setting. He was operating in real life, in hard reality, and his entire future depended upon his behaving like a proper detective.

  Wherever that elusive somewhere was in which Petr Aleksandrovich might have left the secret
of his association with Michel Paulac, it definitely wasn’t here, indexed under letter heading.

  Danilov slumped head forward against his chest, the momentarily unfocused appointments diary open before him, embarrassed with himself for expecting it to be so easy, pushing the personal discomfort aside by concentrating yet again upon the murder date. He saw the grouping of the words but he wasn’t consciously trying to read them: seeing more the pattern than the construction of the spelling. Which was probably why the oddness abruptly and sharply registered: that and the fact that he had juggled with the script of two languages with different alphabets while looking at the address book and through the cabinet.

  Danilov had read English at Moscow University, and learned it so well that his first intention, before joining the Militia, had been to become a translator and interpreter. He didn’t need his expertise or fluency to be curious at what he was staring down at now.

  Everything about what he had seen and read in this office told him Petr Aleksandrovich was a man of consummate attention to infinite accuracy. Yet the entry at which he was looking was inaccurate. The entry for the murder day read: Exhibition of Native American Art. Smithsonian. Noon. Attend. And Serov had written it in English. But the two ‘R’s in the phrase were written with the Cyrillic ‘p’ and the ‘n’ of ‘exhibition’ was printed with the Cyrillic ‘h’.

  Serov would not have made that sort of mistake. Danilov’s conviction grew as he read the diary entries once more from the beginning, coming again and again upon the correct use of both letters. But there were exceptions: he found four dates, one in each of the preceding four months, when Cyrillic again intruded.

  Carefully Danilov noted each date, stretching back into the chair as the fatigue finally washed over him. He was sure it was significant. Hopefully there was a way to find out what that significance was. It would also create a test, to see if Cowley really intended full co-operation. Danilov was uncomfortable at doubting the American, but supposed there would have to be such a test. He wondered if Cowley would attempt one with him.

  ‘You’ve been in there a very long time,’ said Redin, close to complaint, when Danilov emerged.

  ‘I wasn’t aware of a time limit,’ said Danilov.

  ‘Anything?’ demanded Pavlenko, who was also waiting.

  ‘After only four hours?’ mocked Danilov, extending his rejection of the security man’s remark.

  ‘You haven’t finished?’ frowned Redin.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Danilov. Could there be a way for Pavin to dissect Serov’s work files with his usual thoroughness? It would be something to consider tomorrow.

  Danilov remained as vague when he telephoned William Cowley from the surprisingly spacious apartment allocated to him in the Russian compound on Massachusetts Avenue.

  ‘When can we meet?’ demanded the American.

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon, after I’ve looked at Serov’s home,’ promised Danilov. ‘I’ll telephone.’

  ‘How’s it looking?’

  ‘Too soon to say.’ Unlike the telephone system in Moscow, calls here were routed through a central switch-board and he guessed the conversation, like any he had over the following days, would be monitored. It would be unsafe to initiate any discussion he did not want overheard from any Russian facility.

  He collapsed gratefully into bed, curious whether he would find any more oddly spelled words in Serov’s apartment the following day. And then discover what they meant, in the way he thought he could.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  There were wrongly spelled words. And on the same dates as those in the cumbersome office desk diary, although this time in a more convenient pocket version which matched the one produced by Raisa Serova in Moscow and which Danilov found in a bureau in the Serov apartment.

  It wasn’t an easy search. Oleg Firsov, the resentful counsellor, had insisted on accompanying him to the murdered diplomat’s home, and Danilov had decided he couldn’t oppose, as he had at the embassy. With Firsov constantly at his elbow, Danilov moved through the flat appearing to ignore a lot but missing nothing. He was sure it had been searched like Serov’s office, but those before him had tried hard not to replace things too tidily, to maintain a lived-in impression. Danilov might not have realised the mistaken effort if he had not earlier been in the Serovs’ sterile Leninskaya penthouse. It should have been the same here, despite Raisa’s absence, because someone of Petr Aleksandrovich’s neatness would not have allowed the indented seat cushions and dishevelled magazines and partially opened closet doors and drawers.

  There were fewer personal or family photographs than he’d expected. There were four of Serov and Raisa by themselves in Russia or America and six of them with other people, four with the same elderly couple and two of Serov with a man. He overrode Firsov’s protests against taking some away, packing them neatly in his briefcase.

  ‘They’re personal!’ insisted the diplomat.

  ‘So’s being shot in the mouth.’

  ‘I shall report this to Moscow!’

  The only personal correspondence in the bureau was to Raisa Serova, always in the same wavering handwriting of an elderly mother bemoaning ill health. There were other complaints as well. Lawlessness had increased on the streets of Moscow since the collapse of communism. Economic reform and market economies had failed. Raisa was lucky to be out of it.

  Bills were clipped together, as they had been in Serov’s desk. There was a detailed accounts ledger, completed up to the day before Serov’s death: in a pouch in the back, again clipped together and in numerical order, were statements from the Narodny bank. The joint account was ten thousand roubles in credit. Every listed transaction was doubly recorded in the accounts book, but here with a fuller explanation of income and expenditure. The income never varied, in any of the statements, neither did the source, in the audit book. Every deposit was listed as salary. Raisa was not shown to have any income.

  To check the four particular dates without giving any indication to Firsov of his discovery in the embassy office, Danilov just rifled through the pages of the second diary initially, finding the confirmation he needed with the same double spelling on the same days. He felt an even greater jump of satisfaction than the previous day, knowing now the dates were significant.

  Had he not been a diligent detective he might have discarded the diary at once, believing he’d learned all there was to find. But following the principle that crime was more often solved by dogged police work than by inspiration, he patiently went to the beginning of the year to read every entry, page by page. And was practically at once glad he did. There were far more frequent spelling variations here than in the office record, too many to copy and digest in front of an intrusive observer.

  ‘I’ll take this, too,’ declared Danilov.

  ‘A list should be kept of articles you’re retaining.’

  ‘It always is,’ said Danilov patiently.

  It took him until midday to complete his search. Afterwards, with Firsov close beside him, which he regretted, Danilov numbered the photographs on a duplicated list, one for himself and the other for the counsellor, and identified the diary by itemising its date.

  ‘What do you intend telling Moscow?’ demanded the man.

  Danilov looked at him, surprised. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘So what are you going to do now?’

  ‘Meet with the Americans.’

  ‘Nikolai Fedorovich will accompany you,’ announced Firsov.

  Danilov felt the anger stir at the return of the patronising attitude. ‘Nikolai Fedorovich Redin is not a member of the Militia.’

  ‘He is officially accredited as a diplomat on the staff of the Russian embassy. It is essential you have a member of the embassy with you at all times.’

  ‘You have such instructions from Moscow?’

  Firsov’s face began to colour. ‘An instruction is not necessary.’

  ‘I think it is.’

  ‘Are you defying me?’


  ‘I am personally answerable to the Foreign and Interior Ministries. As you have been officially advised. I don’t need assistance, nor to be accompanied in my dealings with American investigators. Which I shall tell Moscow, if called upon to do so.’ Danilov paused. Then, heavily, he said: ‘I am a professional detective. How would you suggest we describe Nikolai Fedorovich to justify his part in an investigation?’

  Firsov’s colour deepened. ‘You are insubordinate!’

  ‘I am fulfilling the function I was sent here to perform and in which I will not be obstructed.’ He’d probably gone too far, but it was too late to retreat now.

  For several moments the two men remained staring at each other, Danilov expressionless, Firsov glowering. Impatient at the impasse, Danilov said: I need the names of everyone who knew Petr Aleksandrovich: someone must have known he was meeting Michel Paulac.’

  ‘No-one did,’ insisted the diplomat.

  ‘You’ve already questioned people?’

  ‘Upon the ambassador’s instructions.’

  ‘I would like to see your interview notes and your report to the Foreign Ministry.’

  ‘I will seek authority from Moscow. And from the ambassador.’

  ‘Why don’t you do that!’ said Danilov, exasperated.

  There was a delay of two hours before Danilov telephoned Cowley, because he had a lot to do in the seclusion of his own quarters at Massachusetts Avenue. ‘Where shall we meet?’ he asked the American.

  ‘Any objection to your coming here?’

  ‘Suits me,’ said Danilov. He guessed it would suit a lot of other people. Conscious of the open switchboard, he wondered how long it would take to report back to Moscow that he was about to enter the headquarters of America’s Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN