He’d been a coward, Lapinsk accepted. A coward when he’d been appointed to the Bureau – perhaps because the manipulators recognised him as weak – and a coward during his directorship and finally, most craven of all, a coward holding back from Dimitri Ivanovich whom he’d groomed to do what he had never had the courage to do. And who would not be able to do it, not now.
Absolutely to accept – without any excuse or mitigation – that you are a coward is possibly the worst thing a man can be called upon to confront.
In Russia those who ultimately control Families, their boards of directors, are called komitet, which means committee; it is the equivalent of the Italian Mafia cupola. For this gathering at Arkadi Gusovsky’s home, the indulgently fat and perfumed Zimin had been included, because he’d had to be: he spoke Italian and English, both of which were important for the coming weeks.
‘According to the lawyers, the Swiss formalities will take some time,’ announced Gusovsky.
‘Why don’t we postpone the Italian meeting?’ suggested Zimin, the appointed delegate.
‘Because we’d lose face: show we’re not ready,’ dismissed Yerin, irritably. ‘We’re not going to do that.’
‘We’re sure of getting control,’ said Gusovsky. ‘We’ll go ahead with the meeting: it’ll take several weeks, to settle everything. But then there’ll be no problem. Everything will be ours.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
The media manipulation was perfectly orchestrated. The State Department leaks stopped short of giving a reason for the meeting between the Russian ambassador and Henry Hartz, which built up speculation. The suggestion of Moscow being invited to join the investigation was given to selected journalists by the publicity-conscious mayor, Elliott Jones, after a detailed briefing from Hartz. The campaign got the name and photograph of Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov in every newspaper and news agency report and on every television screen. The State Department and FBI both refused to comment, but after letting the stories develop their own momentum the Bureau promised a press conference in which William Cowley would take part.
There was a totally unexpected fillip to the manipulation from the Russians themselves. The day before the Washington conference, the Interior Ministry in Moscow made an ideally low-key statement that the ambassador’s summons to the State Department had been to discuss the murder of Petr Aleksandrovich Serov. What had been discussed was being considered.
That night Cowley considered going for another walk to Crystal City, but didn’t. He hadn’t suffered from a hangover after the previous occasion – one of the problems of the past was that no matter how much he’d drunk, he’d never felt ill the following day – but he thought it was better not to drink at all. The ease of the decision pleased him, as further proof he had everything under total control.
Cowley travelled to the State Department, where the conference was to be staged, in the Director’s car: to achieve maximum effect they got out at the main entrance, picking their way through a white dazzle of camera lights. In an anteroom Elliott Jones was being powdered down by a make-up girl to prevent skin shine.
The FBI Director led the way into the conference room, the mayor following. Lights burst on and the noise began and Cowley had a feeling of an event re-creating itself: it was practically a mirror image of the murder press conference in Moscow, insisted upon by Senator Burden. Cowley had detested it then, and he was detesting it today. He felt his skin flush in the heat of the lights and thought maybe he should have had make-up after all.
Ross gestured for quiet, which he got almost at once. He talked in measured, even tones: Cowley decided the man must have been an impressive judge. Until that moment, the make of the murder weapon and the fact that the bullets had been of Russian manufacture had not been released. Ross made the prepared announcement, to guarantee the headlines, waving down the eruption of questions that followed. Once again he quickly regained command. Because the crime appeared to have those Russian links as well as to involve a Russian diplomat, it had been decided to invite Russian representation, just as Russia had invited the FBI involvement in an earlier case with which they were all familiar. As the Director of the FBI, he sincerely hoped Moscow would accept the offer. There were essential enquiries to be made in Moscow, but a Russian investigator would also be welcome in the United States and shown every assistance, just as William Cowley had been given all possible help when he had gone to Moscow.
The snowstorm of questions ranged over every possible theory, speculation and rumour, to hardly any of which they provided positive answers. The most concerted query revolved, in every conceivable way and manner, around the Mafia. Ross acknowledged there was a Mafia, even by that title, in Russia, but refused to postulate any connection yet with organised crime in either America or Sicily. They did not yet know why a Swiss financier had travelled from Geneva to meet a Russian attaché: that was one of the questions a Russian investigation might answer.
When his turn came to be questioned, Cowley accepted the circumstances were coincidental to the earlier Moscow case. He had enjoyed working there, and was sure the level and extent of the co-operation he’d known then could be repeated in this case were he to be reunited with Dimitri Danilov. Here Cowley looked sideways, to Ross, and said he had officially praised the Russian’s ability in written reports to the Director, at the conclusion of the earlier murder enquiry. If there were no Russian participation the case might be impossible to solve. He was sure the Russian authorities did not wish the investigation to fail and would do whatever they could to prevent that happening.
Cowley’s only potential awkwardness came with a series of persistent questions about whether he thought an accredited diplomat at a foreign embassy was involved in criminal activities. Cowley’s only reply, which echoed hollowly when he gave it, was that he had no reason to connect Petr Serov with any crime. The Director repeated it, for emphasis. That denial sounded hollow, too.
Back in the anteroom, afterwards, Rafferty said: ‘The only way left to get Danilov here if that fails is to send in a SWAT team to kidnap him!’
‘If they do respond but send a stooge, I guess we’ve got part of our answer, about collusion,’ said Ross, reflectively.
‘Then where are we?’ asked Cowley.
‘The same place as we are at the moment,’ said the Director. ‘Nowhere.’
The media coverage in Moscow was restricted in comparison to Washington only by the limitations of television channels and newspapers. The television at the Kirovskaya apartment faded halfway through the item, with Danilov’s face filling the screen, sending Olga into a screaming rage. The following morning Danilov stopped and bought all the papers, as he had when the murder of Serov occurred; on this occasion he was featured on all the front pages. He stored them in the boot, for Olga to read that night. When he got to Petrovka there were no mockery-intended copies on his cluttered desk. He’d been there an hour when the summons came from Metkin.
‘You have been ordered to the Interior Ministry,’ announced the Director. ‘We both have.’ The man stopped, rehearsing what he had to say. ‘Leonid Lapinsk committed suicide last night. Shot himself with his service revolver, which he hadn’t surrendered.’ Another pause. ‘Through the mouth: blew his head off.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Danilov recognised the Federal Prosecutor, Nikolai Smolin, from previous encounters, but needed introductions to Vasili Oskin, the Deputy Interior Minister in whose office they convened, and to Sergei Vorobie, the Deputy Foreign Minister. He was refusing to anticipate anything about the summons or to believe any of the newspaper speculation.
It was difficult anyway to focus fully in these initial moments, after the intentional brutality of Metkin’s announcement. Danilov’s instant reaction had been pity, for a sad, totally disillusioned old man who’d despised himself as a failure. But just as quickly the doubt came, the doubt of a trained investigator. Had Lapinsk really been sad and disillusioned, deserving pity? Or was there some other reason for taking
his own life – if indeed he had taken his own life? He wouldn’t be able to answer that sort of question until he’d at least read the full report. The preliminary, which Metkin had contemptuously shown him, had talked of clear-cut suicide. But there had been nothing to suggest a reason. He had to know why, before he could decide between pity and condemnation.
Danilov forced himself to concentrate. Lapinsk was dead, for whatever reason. He was alive, and without warning possibly propelled over the heads of his enemies. He had to take each and every advantage he could. An immediate impression was that Metkin’s attitude was too effusively respectful for any of these three officials to be the man’s unknown protector.
‘We have to discuss the murder in Washington,’ announced Oskin, a thin, balding, soft-voiced man. He looked briefly to the Foreign Ministry man before adding: ‘It has been escalated into a political matter that has to be properly handled.’
‘There’s been a formal diplomatic invitation – a request, in fact – for us to assist,’ said Vorobie. Danilov belatedly recognised him as one of the Russian ministers who had publicly denounced the 1991 coup from the steps of the Russian White House.
Oskin smiled briefly, towards Danilov. ‘Your earlier communication showed sensible foresight.’
Danilov ducked his head at the praise, wondering what Metkin would later say to whoever had put the newspapers in his office, if it had not been his own idea. Turning the head movement towards Metkin, he said adroitly: ‘We thought it was inevitably something which would extend to here.’
Metkin’s reaction was exactly what Danilov had hoped. ‘Absolutely inevitable. That’s why I suggested it.’
Keep on being over-eager, thought Danilov.
‘There’s been a request to speak to Serov’s wife,’ said Vorobie. ‘The Americans also want access to the embassy and to the man’s home, to which we cannot agree.’
‘Clearly not,’ agreed Metkin, trying to convey an opinion by following one already expressed.
Idiot, thought Danilov: it was the time and opportunity to illustrate the professional gulf between himself and the other man. Danilov said: ‘Apart from the access difficulty, are we going to take up the American approach?’
‘Yes,’ announced Smolin, entering the discussion. ‘There are several practical advantages, apart from the obvious.’
‘Aid being the most important,’ said Vorobie. ‘We can’t risk the financial assistance from Washington. This is, indeed, an ideal opportunity to demonstrate full collaboration, like we did when the American politician’s relation was murdered here.’
‘Can we afford to do that?’ asked Danilov quietly.
The question had precisely the effect he intended. All three officials frowned in bewilderment: Metkin’s head moved like a spectator at a tennis match. Danilov continued: ‘The published reports say Serov was killed American Mafia-style. The Swiss financier too. Was there any official connection between the two?’
There was a brief silence. Vorobie said: ‘We have a positive assurance from the ambassador that there was no official knowledge of any meeting. Or reason for one.’
To the Interior Ministry man Danilov said: ‘Was there any security reason for or knowledge of such an encounter?’
‘None,’ said Oskin at once.
‘So our contribution can be quite open?’ he persisted. Irrespective of any part he might or might not play, this was the moment when the rules were made.
‘The method of killing is peculiar,’ intruded Smolin. ‘I think that question is one that can only be answered as the enquiry proceeds.’
‘I agree,’ said Vorobie. He was a plump but neat man, his face partitioned by a moustache almost too heavy for his features. A diplomat of the new order, he had the habit of hesitating before any sentence, thinking ahead about what he was going to say.
‘It was an important point to raise,’ conceded Oskin.
‘We thought so,’ said Metkin, anxious to contribute.
If he hadn’t known Metkin’s intention to drive him from the Bureau, Danilov might have felt some pity for the inadequate man. The conversation was between him and the officials, Metkin coming close to being ignored. Determined to keep it that way, Danilov said: ‘Have the Americans been officially informed of our agreement?’
‘Later today,’ said Vorobie. ‘After the ambassador has delivered our Note, we will issue a press statement.’
‘There will be liaison between the two Bureaux in the first place,’ decided Oskin. ‘Close consultation between yourselves and the three of us. Priority will naturally be given to any facilities you may require.’
‘Vladimir Kabalin is the newly appointed senior colonel in charge of investigation,’ burst in Metkin. ‘He’s the officer to be assigned.’
‘What!’ said Oskin, face twisted beyond a frown in his surprise. Both Vorobie and the Federal Prosecutor looked similarly taken aback.
Metkin repeated Kabalin’s name but hesitantly, discerning the reaction.
‘Kabalin has no experience of joint international detective work, has he?’ asked Smolin.
‘No,’ admitted Metkin.
‘Does he speak English?’ demanded Vorobie.
‘I don’t think so,’ said the Bureau Director, lamely.
There were more frowning looks between the three men before Smolin said: ‘There’s no question who should lead this enquiry.’
‘None,’ agreed Oskin, decisively. ‘It will be Dimitri Ivanovich.’ He looked directly at Danilov. ‘Your other duties and responsibilities can be rearranged or reassigned, can’t they?’
‘Quite easily,’ assured Danilov. Despite his depression at Lapinsk’s death, there was still excitement.
‘Then it is decided!’ declared the man.
‘I am to liaise direct with the ministry?’ questioned Danilov, teetering on the edge of insubordination but not really caring.
‘That’s what we want,’ said Oskin.
But far more importantly, what Danilov wanted.
And that was what Vasili Oskin got, throughout the remainder of that first day.
Back at Petrovka Danilov filled in the time until the Russian response had formally been delivered in Washington by dictating to all departments in the building a flurry of copies-to-the-Ministry memoranda, redirecting for the personal attention of the Director the stifling administrative bureaucracy he had created. The first and most important note asked Metkin to circularise every department informing them of his secondment to the American enquiry and ordering his unquestioned right to any assistance he might demand. The second instructed Yuri Pavin to report to the top floor, on permanent assignment. He was to move in all the evidence-collecting material for a major crime, including a secure storage safe the combination of which would be restricted: there would be no difficulty getting one from the supply manager. Separately, by telephone to avoid a traceable record, Danilov asked Pavin for all details of Lapinsk’s death.
In mid-afternoon Metkin used the excuse of personally handing over duplicates of every authorisation Danilov had sought to call Danilov to his office.
‘You regard this as a victory?’ demanded the Director.
‘I don’t believe myself to be in any kind of contest,’ lied Danilov.
Metkin’s wrinkled face was crimson. ‘I was aware of everything going on back there this morning. Don’t think I wasn’t.’
Danilov said nothing: the petulance didn’t deserve a response. But like much else that day there was something to learn from it: from Metkin’s attitude, he was now quite sure none of the three men that morning were his protectors.
‘When this is over you’ll lose your special status,’ threatened Metkin. ‘You will be back under my unquestioned jurisdiction!’
There was the usual delay in the Moscow international exchange, and when it extended into the early evening Danilov was afraid he might have missed the man he wanted because of the time difference between Russia and the United States. But Cowley was still in his Washington offic
e when the connection was finally made.
‘We pressed for it to be you,’ admitted Cowley.
‘I’m glad you did,’ said Danilov sincerely.
That night Cowley went for another walk to Crystal City. The barman recognised him and said it was good to see him again and Cowley said it was good to be back. He began with beer, as before, going on to Wild Turkey after a while. There really was cause to celebrate: it would be good, working with the Russian again. Would he still have the complex about losing his hair? Cowley hoped this time there wouldn’t be the run-arounds they’d had before, neither at first trusting the other, each trying to outdo the other just that little bit. On the third drink he determined, positively, not to try any smart-ass stuff himself. At least, nothing that wasn’t essential.
Because it was a celebration Cowley debated one whiskey more than the previous occasion, but in the end didn’t order it, leaving the bar once again pleased at his self-control.
Whatever, he reflected as he made his way back to Arlington, his enjoyment of booze was not as bad as Pauline had insisted when they were together. Maybe he’d call her. He wasn’t sure he’d know what to say, but he still thought he might try.
The official report into Leonid Lapinsk’s death was unequivocal. The former Director had placed the Makarov against the roof of his mouth and pressed the trigger with his thumb, the print of which was on the trigger. His other fingerprints were on the butt and the barrel. There was no note or anything to indicate why he had done it. His wife, who had been in the apartment at the time and run to the bedroom at the sound of the shot, said her husband had been depressed in recent weeks. She believed it was because of his retirement from the Bureau.
Danilov was equally sure that wasn’t the reason.
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