No Time for Heroes cad-3

by Brian Freemantle

  The two Mafia chieftains remained motionless, but Danilov detected the now familiar redness coming to Gusovsky’s face: he abruptly realised he was clutching the briefcase to him, like the nervous lawyer during the brief trip to Switzerland, and hurriedly put it beside him.

  ‘Complete, wouldn’t you think? But I don’t think it is, you see. It would certainly seem so, on the surface: they’re all properly recorded confessions and you’re personally named, over and over again. But where’s the proof! It’s their word overwhelmingly against yours, but it could be argued against. And I do know how powerful you are. I believe you’ve got other people in ministries whose names I don’t know: people you could force or bribe to help in some way. The judiciary, too, so you might be able to influence the judges: even get those who’ve got to do what you tell them ruling on the admissibility of evidence. And I know you could get people killed, even in jail. I’d certainly have a hard job introducing the confessions of dead witnesses, wouldn’t I…?’ Danilov’s confidence was growing. Not by much, but the hollowness was lessening: he actually managed to smile. ‘I know you’d do all those things. In your position, you’d be mad not to. So you’re not in so much danger, after all…’

  ‘Which makes me think you are,’ intruded Gusovsky. He was very red, as always resenting being treated as the inferior.

  Danilov held up a halting hand, intentionally overbearing. ‘I’m going to open the briefcase,’ he warned, more for his protection than theirs. ‘You know what it is I am going to show you, but I want you to understand the position it puts you in…’ Very slowly, he unclipped the case and extracted the photocopy of the replacement Founder’s Certificate for the anstalt, announcing what it was for Yerin’s benefit as he handed it beyond the blind man, to the standing Gusovsky. ‘ This is proof! You know we have the original. It carries both your names and both your signatures… I guess you were guided to the place where you had to sign, Aleksandr Dorovich, but the signature is still provably yours. I now hold irrefutable documentary proof of your attempt to gain control of a government fortune. But not held here, in Moscow. Evidence can disappear in Moscow, can’t it? The original is already back in Washington, sealed, in Cowley’s name. You can’t get it or interfere with it…’

  Once more it was the rational Yerin who spoke. ‘You said, at the beginning, you were going to deal.’

  ‘I know and Cowley knows you kept copies of the photographs,’ said Danilov. ‘It was always inconceivable you’d part with something as useful: you must have thought us very naive, unable to think beyond the amount of money you were talking about. But the deal I offered then still stands, exactly as I set it out. I will ensure no prosecution against you. And you will never use those photographs. If you do, Cowley will in turn produce the original Swiss document, and no influence you think you’ve got could keep you out of jail…’ He paused, not wanting to show the fear but knowing how he had to finish, for his own safety. ‘And that is why I am going to walk out of here today, without any interference. Why I’m not in any personal danger. You’d agree about that, wouldn’t you? Understand now why Cowley isn’t here…?’

  Gusovsky’s face blazed, and he had to grip the back of the other man’s chair to keep his control. Yerin said: ‘A standoff, this time. What about next time?’

  ‘I shall investigate as hard and as properly as I can. And bring whatever prosecution I can. And if you tried to fight me off by using the photographs, then I’d have a second prosecution with the Swiss case, wouldn’t I? Cowley would have to resign, but we’ve already gone through that. Like we’ve talked of how I’d respond to the pictures of Olga being released.’ The future was the weakest part of the whole bluff. And not just with future investigations into one of the major crime Families in Moscow: there was always the outside possibility the Justice Ministry and the Federal Prosecutor might change their minds, later, about bringing against these men precisely the prosecution they’d decided not to pursue. There was, he accepted philosophically, always going to be a nagging uncertainty. It was just another, to go with all the rest: he wasn’t sure in which order.

  ‘You were silly,’ insisted Yerin. ‘Of course we kept copies of the pictures. But I don’t think we would ever have used them. You would have been far too valuable. Worth the money and everything else we would have given you.’

  ‘I’m more comfortable this way,’ said Danilov, recognising the closeness to pomposity. ‘You know why it was so easy to trick you? You can’t imagine anyone being honest, can you? That’s what the director before Metkin said: that everyone in Russia is still too entrenched in the old ways…’

  ‘Leonid Andreevich Lapinsk certainly knew how to work the old ways in the old system,’ agreed Yerin. ‘We lost a good and grateful friend with his retirement. He managed to block your succession, but Metkin was never good enough to be the sort of director we wanted. He was far too stupid and far too greedy.’

  Gusovsky’s control went completely after Danilov’s unopposed departure, the man’s fury fuelled by his impotency to orchestrate a situation of which he’d imagined themselves in charge. Yerin, no less furious but contemptuous of timewasting performances, said in rare impatience to the other man: ‘Stop it! It’s not achieving anything.’

  ‘I want him!’ insisted Gusovsky. ‘No-one treats me – no-one treats either of us! – like that!’

  ‘He’s got us, so that’s exactly what he can do,’ accepted Yerin. ‘He’s got protection, with the American, that we can’t touch. You know it and I know it but most importantly, he knows it. He’s fucked us. Absolutely.’

  ‘He can’t!’

  ‘He has,’ said Yerin flatly. ‘But he has to be reminded how vulnerable he’ll always be.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  It should have been pleasant – an enjoyable culmination, the farewell party – but it wasn’t. He’d achieved everything and more than he’d ever imagined possible. But too much was soured for Danilov to think of enjoyment. Leonid Lapinsk was the biggest disappointment: Lapinsk, whose admired protege he’d always imagined himself to be, and to whom he’d disclosed the progress of every case upon which he’d ever been engaged for Lapinsk to decide against whom to proceed and whom to protect, depending upon the bribe being offered: to realise – totally and for the first time – the real reason for Lapinsk’s head-down attitude that take-over day at Petrovka, when Metkin had been performing not to humiliate Lapinsk but to amuse the old man – to amuse everyone – at his expense. He tried telling himself Lapinsk had committed suicide from remorse and actually sent a letter of apology, but the cynicism was now so bomb-proof Danilov suspected the regret was probably more that he would eventually discover Lapinsk’s crookedness than belated penitence. Danilov was surprised Pavin hadn’t known, to warn him. Perhaps Pavin had known, all along. Perhaps, Danilov decided, he was everyone’s fool.

  Another distraction was having not Larissa but Olga beside him for the ceremony. Not because he felt embarrassed by Olga and would have been prouder of Larissa, although the sweater Olga wore with the Swiss-bought skirt and shoes showed a moth-hole neither had noticed until too late, beneath the left arm. He wanted Larissa because it was all too cruel to Olga: she was moving around the American embassy dazed, smiling and nodding but not speaking because she was frightened, believing herself in surroundings to which she had still to become accustomed and in which she must learn how to behave in the future. And in just over twenty-four hours, when the confrontation was finally to be staged, Olga was to learn she was being discarded: that she was never again going to be in such a situation, never again have to worry about how to cope.

  Danilov accepted he was moving around smiling and nodding and near dazed, like Olga, because he had never expected to receive the FBI’s Medal of Valour like this. He’d thought it would simply arrive: in the post even, a wrapped package – although if it had been delivered that way, with an American postmark, it would have been stolen. He certainly hadn’t expected a formal presentation ceremony in th
e American embassy, before a phalanx of Russian and American cameramen (which made him glad he’d taken the precaution of a short haircut) and with Sergei Vorobie and Vasli Oskin and Nikolai Smolin as invited guests, which was to prompt later comment in the media of both countries on the continuing investigative rapprochement between Moscow and Washington such an invitation indicated. There were legal restrictions about what could be said, so the press conference and television interviews were limited. Cowley participated in both but apart from that remained determinedly in the background, letting it be Danilov’s day: they had their own farewell plans for later.

  The American ambassador made a speech of platitudes, the only highlight another relayed message from David Patton, and Danilov delivered a matching set of cliches. The objects of the toasts became confused, after four, and Danilov kept raising and lowering his glass automatically, although he was drinking very little. There was still the parting meeting with Cowley to come and after that the final arrangements for the following day to be made with Larissa, who was expecting him at the end of a split-shift duty at the Druzhba.

  The event over-ran, although it still ended by mid-afternoon. When she realised Danilov was driving her back to Kirovskaya, Olga said: ‘I thought we might have gone on somewhere! Had a party.’

  It was the last deceit Danilov would have considered, letting her imagine there was anything to celebrate. ‘I’ve still got a lot to tidy up. Cowley’s going the day after tomorrow: there are things to do. I’ll be late home tonight.’ For the last time, he thought.

  Olga was hardly listening, still held by what had happened at the American embassy. ‘I was photographed ten times: I counted! Four times by myself.’

  And once at a nightclub with a murdered hooker that doesn’t count any more, thought Danilov. ‘You’ll probably be in the papers tomorrow.’

  ‘I want you to buy every one. And I might be on television tonight.’

  ‘Make sure to watch.’

  ‘You going to wear the medal?’

  It had been ceremoniously pinned on to his lapel – worrying him it might puncture the cloth of his Italian jacket – but he’d taken it off before leaving the embassy. ‘It’s not that sort of medal.’

  ‘I thought you looked very handsome today!’ she said.

  ‘I thought you looked very attractive,’ he said, dutifully.

  ‘Let’s get together with Yevgennie and Larissa soon! I want to show your medal off to them!’

  ‘I’ve arranged something tomorrow night,’ said Danilov. Committed! he thought.

  ‘ You called them?’ frowned Olga.

  ‘I telephoned Yevgennie,’ Danilov lied. ‘He wasn’t there but Larissa was. I invited them over.’ He was making the decision on how it was to be done without consulting Larissa. Now she’d have to agree.

  ‘You want to eat in?’ protested Olga.

  ‘No!’ said Danilov. ‘Drinks. Then we’ll decide what to do.’ She’d hate him for this conversation, later.

  ‘Will Bill come, too? He told me today he wants us to go and stay with him in Washington: said I’d like it.’

  ‘We’ll see,’ avoided Danilov.

  ‘I’m so happy!’ said Olga. ‘Aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Danilov, thick-voiced.

  Danilov thought it was a considerate gesture for Cowley to have invited Yuri Pavin, as well. And there was the additional benefit, as far as Danilov was concerned, that Pavin’s presence prevented the American repeating yet again he didn’t know how to thank Danilov for what he’d done about the photographs. The American had said it twice, in the bar while they were waiting for Pavin, and Danilov now thought there’d been enough gratitude.

  Because Danilov said he had an appointment later, they ate early in the ornate dining room of the Savoy, at a discreet table quite near the street entrance. Each agreed it was difficult to imagine it finally over, and Pavin pointed out that it wasn’t really, because Cowley would undoubtedly have to return for the Antipov trial and there would also be the reunion in Italy, for the Mafia hearing.

  Cowley said all the eavesdropped tapes from Kosov’s BMW – a total of 56 – had been returned from America and were waiting, together with the transcripts, at the embassy. ‘Taking up quite a lot of space,’ he added.

  Danilov hadn’t thought of where to store them, until he made his professional move against Kosov: one step at a time, he thought. He supposed they could be conveniently lost among his now established chaos in the Petrovka office he did not actually occupy any more.

  ‘And there’s still the bugs, in the car,’ reminded Cowley. ‘Our technical people are dismantling the recording and listening apparatus in the next few days, but at the moment it’s all still live and hearing everything Kosov says or does. I guess you’ll be able to get them out easily enough, on some trip or other?’

  He wouldn’t, Danilov realised. After tomorrow night he’d hardly be a welcome guest in the ostentatious vehicle. And he wouldn’t be in it before then. ‘What happens if I can’t?’

  Cowley shrugged. ‘They stop functioning when we disconnect at our end, I suppose. And I guess the magnetism of the fixings will give out, sooner or later. So they’ll fall off in the car. When he finds them he’ll know what’s happened.’

  He’d know that anyway, recognised Danilov. He’d just let the microphones stay where they were. To Pavin, Danilov said: ‘We’ll collect everything tomorrow.’

  Cowley said: ‘You want what’s still coming in? There’s been nothing much since you went to Kutbysevskij. Quiet, in fact.’

  ‘We’ll take it all,’ decided Danilov. If evidence was available he wanted it, even if he didn’t know its worth at that stage.

  ‘It was quite a bunfight at the embassy today,’ smiled Cowley.

  ‘My one and only medal!’

  Cowley appeared briefly uncomfortable. ‘But not the final presentation.’ He reached into his inside pocket, bringing out two gift-wrapped packages. ‘You weren’t the only guy shopping at Geneva airport.’

  Danilov’s gift was a heavily calibrated chronometer, with three time-measuring dials in addition to the second hand. Pavin’s was a tortoiseshell-bodied fountain pen.

  ‘You always seemed to have difficulty with the time,’ grinned Cowley, to Danilov. ‘… and you sure as hell do a lot of notetaking,’ the American completed, to Pavin.

  Both Russians were embarrassed, Danilov more so, because it hadn’t occurred to him to buy anything for Cowley, and although there would be time before the American finally left Moscow Danilov couldn’t think of anything to buy, in the meagrely stocked shops. Perhaps Larissa would have an idea. Both Danilov and Pavin stumbled their thanks and Cowley said pointedly he had more to be grateful for to them than they had to him.

  The American, who was drinking but not excessively, lifted his glass towards Danilov and said: ‘Here’s to the final recognition! Your directorship!’

  It had once seemed very important to him, remembered Danilov. Lately it hadn’t crossed his mind, not even when he’d taken over the controller’s suite.

  He was only a few minutes late arriving at the Druzhba but Larissa was already waiting, almost impatiently, in the foyer. ‘A surprise!’ she announced.

  Danilov allowed himself to be bustled into the car and obediently drove out to the Tatarovo apartment. She led excitedly from the elevator, opened the door ahead of him and then stood back, inviting his inspection.

  There was a table and chairs already arranged in the dining annexe and a couch, with matching chairs, in the living room. There were flowers – deep red blooms the name of which he didn’t know – in a vase on a side table, and a television on a stand. In the main bedroom – the only one furnished – was a made-up bed, covered with a deep blue duvet, with a matching dressing table opposite the built-in clothes closet. Both the living room and the bedroom had scatter rugs over the wood block flooring. There were a cooker and refrigerator in the kitchen, with pots and pans and a rack of knives neatly arranged. Ever
ywhere smelled fresh and new.

  ‘You had to use Yevgennie’s friends, to get all this!’ he said, immediately alarmed.

  ‘No,’ Larissa said, pleased with herself. ‘One of the girls who shares our old arrangement is the ordering manager for the hotel. We’re refurnishing two of the top floors. So we told the suppliers what was necessary for them to get the order…’ She twirled, encompassing everything. ‘And this was what was necessary!’ With a final flourish she opened the already stocked refrigerator. ‘Champagne, for tomorrow night’s celebration!’

  ‘You’re wonderful!’ he said. Favour-for-favour, he thought.

  ‘I’m going to be, for you.’

  ‘I’ve decided where we’re going to tell them,’ he announced. ‘Not a neutral place, like we discussed. I want it to be at Kirovskaya. Tell Yevgennie I’ve a particular reason to want to see him.’

  ‘Why Kirovskaya?’ she frowned.

  ‘It’s Olga’s home. I want her to realise she’s being left with something she knows; something she recognises. I think it’s important.’ More psychology, he thought.

  ‘If you think so,’ said Larissa.

  ‘It’s not going to be easy, is it?’

  ‘But worth it,’ she insisted. She looked towards the prepared bed. ‘There’s no real reason to wait, until tomorrow night.’

  ‘Yes there is,’ refused Danilov. ‘Tomorrow night it will be right.’ He didn’t want to make love to her before that: it wouldn’t have been right.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  It was the beginning of the trial-preparation period, a concluding stage he normally enjoyed for the opportunity to examine the entire enquiry in detail. There was no pleasure this time. Danilov went through a lot of the preliminary routine almost automatically, his mind more occupied by the approaching evening. He repeatedly tried to arrange the words, in advance, on the occasions when neither Pavin nor Galina were in the room actually muttering the attempts, until he realised the foolishness of it. Nothing sounded right anyway. All the words and phrases he could think of were stiff and unnatural, as if he were reading from a printed speech. Tonight wasn’t something he could practise, something he could make easier. It was going to be… be what? Tearful? Obviously. Any love between them might have gone long ago but Olga would still be shocked, bewildered, by the upheaval. She’d certainly cry.