No Time for Heroes

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘Fifteen minutes, at the end of every week. I can’t see either Ministry finding fault with that.’

  For the first time Metkin appeared to see everything was endorsed for distribution to the Interior and Finance Ministries. ‘Don’t send these!’

  ‘They’ve already gone.’ Danilov hesitated, wanting to enjoy twisting the knife. ‘And I have never once tried to usurp your authority. It’s made quite clear it’s on your orders …’

  Metkin looked steadily at him. His mouth moved very slightly, as if he were practising a challenge, but he did not finally make it. Instead he said: ‘You have been extremely busy.’

  ‘We’ve already agreed that I am going to be, with all the responsibilities you have given me.’

  ‘Which you are taking extremely seriously.’

  That afternoon a gaunt, sharp-faced woman who introduced herself as Ludmilla Markovina Radsic came unsmilingly into his office. ‘I was told to report here as your secretary.’

  ‘Temporarily?’

  ‘Permanently.’

  Danilov wished Metkin had at least imposed an attractive informant.

  Olga shopped lavishly at the open market for the celebration supper with Yevgennie and Larissa Kosov. There was sufficient steak, vegetables both fresh and marinated, and cheese and fresh fruit to have thrown a banquet for four times their number. Because Danilov had no access to dollars she had had to pay in roubles: it had cost what was officially a whole month’s salary. Danilov refused to compete, which he acknowledged to be a kind of inverted snobbery: the vodka and brandy and champagne and the flat wine were all Russian. When they went to Yevgennie and Larissa’s apartment the Scotch was from Scotland – always Chivas Regal – and the champagne and brandy and the burgundy was from France.

  ‘You could have got something else,’ complained Olga, when she saw him setting the bottles out.

  Danilov did not, in fact, believe he could have done. ‘I’m happy with this.’

  ‘I’m not. Neither will Larissa or Yevgennie be.’

  ‘It’ll be a new experience for them.’

  ‘You told me you were superior to Yevgennie now.’

  ‘I am,’ confirmed Danilov. In empty rank but certainly not in authority or power, he admitted to himself.

  ‘They won’t think so, when they see the sort of drink you’re serving.’

  ‘Who cares what they think?’

  ‘I do.’

  The Kosovs arrived precisely on time, almost curiously. Larissa looked spectacular – and knew it – in a clinging black angora dress, topped by a white, three-quarter-length real leather coat which had clearly not been fashioned in Russia. Neither had the matching crocodile handbag and shoes. Danilov had not seen any of it during their hotel or tucked-away-restaurant assignations, and guessed she’d dressed for him. Because it was virtually unavailable in Moscow, Kosov usually dressed in cashmere. The jacket tonight was blue, over tan trousers; his shoes were crocodile too. Danilov had not seen the heavy gold watch before: there were jewels – diamonds maybe – instead of numerals. His own had stopped again that night. It was supposed to be a Cartier but he knew it wasn’t: the ‘gold’ surround had flaked a long time ago.

  There were effusive, both-cheek kisses, and Kosov presented Olga with Belgian chocolates: when Danilov kissed Larissa, she positioned herself so he would detect she was not wearing a bra, smiling at him as they parted. Kosov looked pointedly at the Russian label when Danilov poured the champagne, but didn’t comment. Danilov knew Kosov would have done, if he had been drinking before he left their own apartment, as he normally did, and wondered why the man had abstained that evening.

  ‘A toast!’ Kosov declared, as usual moving to dominate. ‘To Dimitri Ivanovich and his well deserved and well earned promotion!’

  Danilov stood feeling foolish as the other three drank. He sipped his own wine, at the end. It was sharp. ‘It doesn’t mean a great deal,’ he said, in gross understatement.

  ‘Nonsense,’ said Larissa. ‘You’re a star!’

  ‘Of which we’ve been reminded,’ said Kosov. ‘See you were mentioned in the newspapers today.’

  ‘History,’ dismissed Danilov.

  ‘Don’t be modest,’ chided Larissa. ‘Aren’t you proud of him, Olga?’

  The idea seemed to surprise Olga. ‘Of course,’ she said, hurriedly. Her tan dress had a stain on the left sleeve and the shoes did not co-ordinate; she looked dowdy in comparison to the other woman.

  ‘Thought you might have got the Directorship,’ said Kosov. It was a question more than an opinion, a remark inviting a reply.

  Danilov met the other man’s look. ‘It’s an enlargement of the Bureau.’ He wished he hadn’t had to fall back upon Anatoli Metkin’s empty insistence in the corridor the day Lapinsk had retired.

  ‘A division of authority?’ asked Kosov.

  ‘Yes.’ Danilov was curious at Kosov’s interest.

  ‘You’ll go on heading the investigative side of things?’

  Danilov didn’t think this was polite interest. It sounded like someone trying to pin down rumours – which would, among other things, account for Kosov’s sobriety. ‘It’s interesting you should mention the newspaper references,’ he evaded easily. ‘I’m liaising with the Foreign Ministry about this business in Washington.’

  ‘You’re going to investigate that!’ said Larissa excitedly.

  Danilov decided she was very brave – or very confident – wearing a black wool dress: Larissa moved her head a lot but there was no stray blonde hair on her shoulders. ‘We need to know all we can,’ Danilov avoided again. He hurried around with the champagne: neither Larissa nor her husband had drunk very much.

  ‘You get on well with Metkin?’ persisted Kosov.

  ‘There’s a professional relationship,’ said Danilov.

  ‘Wasn’t he junior to you, when Lapinsk was Director?’

  Danilov saw both Olga and Larissa look at Kosov, then to him. Danilov said: ‘We held equal rank.’

  ‘Why didn’t you get the Directorship, with Metkin as your deputy?’ demanded Olga. ‘You should have done, shouldn’t you!’

  Bastards, thought Danilov. Metkin was a bastard and those above him in the Interior Ministry were bastards and those who sneered in the squad room were bastards and Kosov, who’d clearly heard rumours if he’d not been openly told, was a bastard for making this scene in the middle of his living room. ‘If I had been made Director I would have been removed from any investigative role. This way I’m not.’

  ‘So you will continue as an investigator!’ said Larissa.

  ‘In certain, particular circumstances,’ said Danilov, uncaring of his lie, wanting only to close off the inquisition.

  Which it appeared to do. Olga bustled into the kitchen, taking Larissa with her, and Kosov switched to vodka and began to catch up on his alcohol intake. He made half-hearted attempts to get back to discussing Danilov’s new role, but Danilov always managed to deflect him. Danilov had been unable to reach the commander of the Militia district covering Kirovskaya to get protection for the Volga, and had intended asking Kosov to fix it: now, that would be quite the wrong thing to do.

  The steaks were excellent and the wine, which actually wasn’t Russian but Georgian, was as good as any Danilov had been served by Kosov.

  It was over coffee and brandy that Larissa whispered to Danilov she was working afternoon split-shift, with access to rooms throughout the week. He whispered back he would try. Larissa, in turn, insisted they had their future to talk about: he’d asked her to wait until he was promoted, which he’d now been.

  After they left, Olga said: ‘I thought Yevgennie kept on at you, at the begining of the evening.’

  ‘I didn’t notice,’ lied Danilov. How much longer could he go on dodging the personal situation? Larissa had been right, of course; they had a lot to talk about. Danilov acknowledged, abruptly, that he was frightened: he was frightened of abandoning Olga, and he was frightened of trying to look after Larissa after
the luxuries heaped upon her by Kosov, and now he didn’t have the protective directorship he was frightened the uniformed colonel would try to use his past to cause as much harm as possible when Larissa announced whom she was leaving him for.

  ‘Do you like Larissa?’ asked Olga innocently.

  ‘Of course I do. She’s a friend.’

  ‘I think she likes you. I saw the way she was looking at you tonight.’

  Danilov had removed the wipers from the Volga. The following morning both wing mirrors had been stolen.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Leonard Ross was an independently wealthy man and therefore completely sure of himself both publicly and privately, with no need constantly to play centre stage, so he was quite happy for Cowley, the Bureau expert, to present their suspicions. The Secretary of State stared throughout from the window of his seventh-floor office over the park and the very tip of the Washington monument.

  ‘It’s still speculation,’ Hartz insisted, when Cowley finished. The hope was obvious in the man’s voice.

  ‘On known facts,’ argued Ross. Somehow he’d rumpled the pure white hair and a part of it, near his forehead, stuck up like a surrender flag.

  ‘Very few facts,’ disputed the Secretary of State. ‘Little more than that it’s a Russian pistol and ammunition.’

  At Ross’s gestured invitation, Cowley said: ‘We know in the Eighties the former KGB used world pressure for Jewish emigration from the old Soviet Union to infiltrate into this country a large number of professional criminals, to put as big a burden as possible upon our law enforcement. We even know where they predominantly settled, in Brighton Beach …’

  ‘… And since the collapse of Communism, organised crime has literally exploded in Russia,’ broke in Ross. ‘It’s taken the name of the role model it’s copied from here – the Mafia.’

  ‘I know about Brighton Beach! And the Moscow Mafia!’ said the Secretary of State. ‘What I want to know is the link with the Russian embassy!’

  ‘We don’t know that, not yet,’ admitted Ross. ‘Any more than we know why a Swiss financier was involved. And we’re not going to find out by approaching the Russian embassy ourselves. They’re blocking us, solidly.’

  ‘What do the Swiss say?’ asked Hartz.

  Again the FBI Director deferred to Cowley.

  ‘Not a lot, as yet,’ conceded the Russian specialist. ‘We’ve got to assume there was some financial involvement between Serov and Paulac. We’re going to be blocked here, again, by the bank secrecy regulations, which we can’t break into. Paulac was a bachelor. Thirty-eight years old, head of an international investment company, unknown to the police until now. No reason for thinking he’s not quite respectable. As well as the office in Geneva there’s an offshoot in Vaduz, Liechtenstein. It’s the way these guys work, shuttling money between one bank secrecy country to another and back again, until it gets lost.’

  ‘Often the profits from organised crime,’ chipped in Ross. ‘They rarely ask the source: that way their integrity isn’t compromised.’ He seemed to become aware of the dishevelled hair, smoothing it down. Cowley liked the improvement: Ross wasn’t the surrendering type.

  ‘The Swiss say they’ll respond as best they can to any enquiry we make,’ said Cowley. ‘Problem is, we don’t know the questions to ask.’

  ‘You sure the Russians won’t help?’ queried Hartz, the long-ago accent sounding in his voice.

  ‘Definitely not if the collusion is official,’ said Cowley. ‘Or, from their response so far, even if it’s not. We’re stymied, either way.’

  Hartz shook his head, doubtfully. ‘Could we have the Russian Mafia linking with the Cosa Nostra here?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the FBI Director brutally.

  Without turning from the window, Hartz said: ‘OK, we could invite Russian participation: we established the precedent with the senator’s niece. But if there is official collusion, we’d get a programmed stooge, even if they agreed to come in on it.’

  ‘It’s a risk,’ accepted Ross. ‘And if that happens we’re back to square one, and likely to stay there. So we need to do all we can to get the guy Bill worked with before and trusts: Danilov.’

  ‘How could we do that?’ demanded Hartz.

  ‘You could feed the idea to the ambassador,’ suggested the Bureau Director. ‘Present it as a formal invitation for them to participate fully, in recognition of their allowing us into Moscow like they did. Make it clear Cowley is our man again, which would suggest Danilov as the obvious partner. Press the point about how well it worked last time. And there’s Danilov’s ability to speak English, which I wouldn’t think a lot of their Militia investigators can.’

  ‘It’s tenuous,’ argued Hartz.

  ‘There’s also a practical argument about their being officially involved,’ pointed out Cowley. ‘There is an obvious need to talk to Serov’s wife, in Moscow: we could reinforce the co-operation idea by asking for that to be done.’

  ‘There’s a lot of pressure for a press conference,’ continued Ross. ‘Let’s organise one right after your meeting with the ambassador …’ He motioned sideways. ‘Put Cowley on, with whoever else you want to include. And announce the offer publicly. We could plant a few suggestions in advance, to guarantee the media speculate about the guy we want.’

  ‘It seems a lot of trouble, for one man,’ observed Hartz.

  ‘A professionally honest one,’ Cowley insisted. ‘If we don’t get that we might as well admit failure right now.’

  ‘And it’s not a lot of trouble if it gets us towards understanding all this,’ asserted Ross. ‘What if there is a nation-to-nation Mafia incorporation! You want to think about that? I don’t!’

  Still reluctant to acknowledge what he was being told, Hartz looked at Ross. ‘The CIA are adamant they weren’t running anything with Serov?’

  ‘Emphatic.’

  ‘What about the body?’

  ‘It can be released as far as we’re concerned,’ agreed the Director. ‘It’ll be our gesture of co-operation. But I don’t want to let go of the effects, not yet. Something still might come up that makes them material, although at the moment nothing’s obvious.’

  Silence enclosed the office once more. Hartz swung around from West Potomac Park and the unseen Lincoln Memorial. At last he said: ‘I’m frightened this is going to unravel into one great, big goddamned mess.’

  ‘I’m frightened it already has,’ said Ross.

  The lovemaking was incredible, like it always was with Larissa: it was one of her days to fantasise and she’d wanted to be a whore, even making him pay her. Danilov thought she would have made a very good whore, far better than the blank-eyed professionals outside in the hotel foyer.

  ‘Satisfied?’ She was sprawled over him, leaking his wetness.

  ‘Completely.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘I won’t be able to.’

  ‘Yes you will.’ She raised herself slightly off him, moving back and forth so that her nipples caressed his. ‘Yevgennie says you’ve been stitched up!’

  ‘What makes him say that?’ asked Danilov, immediately alert.

  Larissa shrugged, making her breasts wobble over him. ‘I don’t know. It’s just what he said. Have you?’

  ‘Not as tightly as they’d like me to be.’ He hadn’t yet devised a way to use the spying secretary against them.

  ‘What’s it all about?’

  ‘I won’t do the deals.’

  ‘Yevgennie says you’re stupid not to do that, too. He says you did when you were in uniform.’

  Danilov frowned. ‘That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Why make life difficult for yourself?’

  ‘I want to work as I do now.’

  ‘I don’t want to go on being your whore. This is only a game.’

  ‘I don’t want it either.’

  ‘You promised me we’d do something after the promotion.’

  ‘It wasn’t the right one.’

  ‘What’
s that got to do with it!’

  ‘What if Yevgennie files for an official enquiry into what I did in the past?’

  ‘With what he’s doing now? How can he?’

  ‘He could feel cheated enough, by both of us, not to care. Things are going to be difficult enough for you as it is – we could end up trying to live on your salary!’

  Larissa smiled at him, saddened by his reluctance. ‘I’d be happy enough. I love you. Don’t you love me enough?’

  ‘I love you too much,’ said Danilov. Which he did. He felt complete with Larissa: fulfilled. If Larissa was prepared to risk whatever needed to be risked, why wasn’t he?

  Cowley told himself he was just going out for a walk, although he knew of course that he wasn’t: even walking was part of it, a reason for leaving the car behind. He’d isolated the bar on his way home, on the edge of Crystal City, but hadn’t realised how long it would take to get there on foot. He stopped twice, the second time half turning back. But he didn’t complete the movement.

  There weren’t very many customers. The barman shifted, impatiently, at Cowley’s uncertainty over his order. He chose beer: people didn’t get drunk on beer. Not unless they drank a lot, and he didn’t intend drinking a lot. Just stopped off for one, while he was out for a walk: the sort of thing people did, out walking.

  It tasted good: damned good. Cowley sipped, enjoying the taste and the ambience: enjoying everything. The beer didn’t affect him. Hadn’t expected it to. No reason why he shouldn’t have another.

  Cowley made the third into a chaser, for a Wild Turkey on the side, feeling the mellowness move through him. But still not drunk. He could handle it now. Learned how to do it. Just too late, that’s all: too late to convince Pauline. Wished it hadn’t been too late: wished to hell she’d give it one more shot. Just friendship. That’s all. Couldn’t expect anything else.

  One more whiskey, with a beer back. Then he’d quit. Still in control. Clear headed. Coherent. Not a problem any more. Wouldn’t be, ever again.

  Cowley did stop, after that drink. The barman said he’d see him again maybe and Cowley agreed maybe. He felt good, not just from the booze but because he knew he wasn’t drunk. Proved he could do it. That he was OK now. Just a pleasant way of spending a pleasant couple of hours.