No Time for Heroes

by Brian Freemantle

  As they made their way through the restricted and monitored floors to the executive level, Danilov compared the gulf-like difference between the carpeted and comfortably upholstered modernity of FBI headquarters with the concrete-floored, plastic-buckled Petrovka block, space age against stone age. It was difficult to conceive it had actually been Russia which started the space era. Danilov continued his accommodation contrast inside Cowley’s room, estimating his own office would have fitted inside it at least three times, with more space than they occupied already left over for Ludmilla Radsic and Yuri Pavin.

  For several moments after sitting down, the two men remained looking at each other, smiling but not speaking, a reunion finally achieved. Then Cowley conceded: ‘If the break’s going to come, it’ll have to be from your side. We’re nowhere.’

  ‘It isn’t going to be easy,’ warned Danilov. It had taken them much longer to get to this degree of openness before: he hoped it was an omen. Who’d be the first to renege? He might have to and accepted, realistically, that it might be forced upon Cowley as well. He hoped the testing time didn’t last too long.

  ‘We’ve been officially assured, Foreign Ministry to State Department, that your people didn’t know what Serov was doing?’ opened Cowley. How long would it take to gauge what Danilov could and could not do? It wouldn’t be easy for the Russian: Serov had obviously had his hand deep in someone’s cookie jar, so Danilov would have had the restrictions very firmly imposed.

  ‘I was told the same.’

  ‘True or false?’ There was, of course, no hangover from the previous night but Cowley wished there hadn’t been the sour taste in his mouth. He thought Danilov looked very good, although the hair was definitely thinner: he avoided an obvious examination, knowing the Russian’s sensitivity.

  Cowley was exploring, Danilov realised, unoffended: he’d done the same himself in Moscow, when the embarrassment was tilted more to America’s disadvantage, and was doing it again now. ‘Someone, somewhere, must know what was going on. Raisa Serova insists she did not know Michel Paulac, or of her husband’s association with him. What is there from Switzerland?’ If he was right about what he’d found in the diaries, Cowley was already holding back.

  The American slid a folder across his desk towards Danilov. ‘Your copy of all we know, so far,’ he said. ‘Paulac was a bachelor, thirty-eight, headed an investment group which, according to the Swiss, is highly successful. So he lived well. Rolls Royce as well as a Mercedes, apartment close to the lake. They’ve interviewed the two other majority partners in the firm. Both say they knew nothing about any association with Petr Serov and that there are no company records linking Paulac with Serov. That’s possible, apparently: although they’re partners they worked independently, each running their own portfolios.’

  ‘What was found on Paulac’s body?’ One thing in particular that had to be there, Danilov thought.

  ‘Keys, credit cards, $400 in cash, American, $300 in Swiss francs. There was a pocket diary with no entry referring to any meeting with Serov the day they both died. It’s blank. So are the preceding days that we know, from the airline booking and the car rental, he was in this country.’ He wondered if Danilov would pick up on what was missed out.

  ‘That all?’

  ‘A briefcase, inside the car. There were some company papers, pro-forma advertising stuff setting out the tax benefits of investing in Switzerland. There was a business address book but no listing for Serov. No note of any American number, in fact. A personal cheque book, three cheques missing, counterfoils showing total withdrawals of $2,500 but all the transactions were in Switzerland, before he arrived here. He rented the car on an American Express card. From the Amex records we know he stayed at the Mayflower Hotel: the date of his arrival tallies with the day he booked in. We’ve shown photographs of Serov to all the staff. No-one can remember him ever coming to the hotel. There were two other credit card counterfoils, for restaurants. Again, a blank on any connection with Serov. One was a Chinese restaurant downtown, near the old Post Office: a waiter insists Paulac ate alone.’

  Danilov sat silently for several moments. ‘You haven’t mentioned the passport,’ he challenged.

  ‘It was found,’ Cowley confirmed.

  ‘How many times had Paulac been here?’

  ‘So you found something at the embassy?’ smiled Cowley, challenging in return.

  Danilov didn’t smile back. ‘Why were you keeping it back?’

  Cowley did not answer directly. ‘We checked out every restaurant against which there was a credit card slip. There wasn’t one single identification of Paulac with Serov. Only this last time. Paulac always stayed at the Mayflower, Serov never showed there.’

  ‘So you didn’t consider it significant?’

  Cowley, discomfited, said: ‘What sort of limitations have your people put upon you?’

  ‘I’d guess about the same you worked under in Moscow. I intend operating properly, as best I can. And if I don’t think I can, I’ll tell you. I’m sorry you don’t feel like doing the same.’ He had little room for genuine anger, Danilov accepted.

  ‘There was no sighting of him with Serov on the previous occasions!’ repeated Cowley. He guessed he was visibly flushing. He nodded to the file still unopened in front of Danilov. ‘The other entry dates are set out there. You’d have seen them when you read it!’

  ‘I only had the one visit with which to confront Raisa Serova in Moscow. It could have been useful to have them all.’

  It was a valid point, conceded Cowley. But he hadn’t recognised how it might have helped the Russian. Which was an absurd oversight. Worrying, too. ‘My mistake,’ he admitted.

  ‘There was no sensible reason!’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  Danilov supposed he could send Pavin to see the woman again, but guessed she would swamp the man with her arrogance. He took the paper from his pocket, dictating the four other dates in the earlier months on which the misspelled words appeared in Serov’s diary both in the office and the man’s home.

  ‘Paulac was here on every occasion,’ confirmed Cowley, checking them off against his own copy of the dossier. He was still burning with embarrassment at Danilov’s rebuke. It had been stupid, doing what he’d done: or been made to appear stupid, the way Danilov had caught him out. Worse, it had meant the man going ill-prepared into the interview with the wife.

  He’d won the exchange, Danilov decided: there was nothing to be achieved maintaining an offended attitude. ‘Serov never mentioned Paulac by name,’ Danilov disclosed. ‘He used a simple but quite effective code. On each day he also records attending an event in a public place – the Smithsonian, that sort of thing – where anyone could go.’

  ‘You think he might have met Paulac at those places?’

  ‘I think it’s worth taking the photographs to the organisers and staff to check.’

  ‘So do I,’ agreed Cowley. ‘What was the code?’

  ‘Misspelling an English word with a Cyrillic letter.’

  ‘That the only time he used it?’

  Danilov hesitated. Practically all of the two-hour delay in coming to Pennsylvania Avenue had been spent trying to understand the purpose or function of the other misspelled words in the apartment diary, which was resting now in the inside pocket of his jacket. And which he had failed to do. Just as he failed to understand the purpose of the same code which Serov appeared to have used over the preceding years in a lot of the papers and files – although never the official embassy diary – in the shelved bottom cabinet of the office bookcase, which Danilov had specifically checked before leaving the embassy for the FBI building. A computer was a million times faster than the human brain, he thought. ‘There were a lot of other occasions. But I don’t think it connects with Michel Paulac.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘The duplication isn’t in the office diary, which the Paulac meetings are. The letters appear in the diary he kept at Massachusetts Avenue, and link with the logs and
archives of what he did over the most recent years he was here: he was a fanatical keeper of records. And in this case the letters aren’t duplications, either.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ frowned Cowley.

  ‘It’s just a collection of separate letters. Could your scientific people programme a computer to play Cyrillic crossword puzzles? But without the clues to guide them?’

  ‘I think they’ve been doing it for years,’ smiled Cowley, glad that Danilov smiled back.

  Danilov finally opened his dossier and held up the much enlarged photograph taken from the financier’s passport. ‘This Paulac?’

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Cowley.

  ‘I’ve collected some photographs from the apartment, of Serov with another man. This isn’t him.’

  ‘We’re not going to get that lucky!’ said Cowley.

  Danilov continued looking through the file. After a few moments he looked up and said: ‘The briefcase was inside the car, not the boot?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Locked or unlocked?’

  Cowley smiled again, acknowledging the professionalism. ‘Open. It’s a combination lock that gave our forensic people a hell of a job: the two sets of numerals are separately programmed but only mesh when they’re operated in unison.’

  Danilov nodded, as if he were receiving confirmation of something. ‘A Swiss financier whose entire professional life is governed by secrecy doesn’t leave open in a car a briefcase he’s taken the trouble to have fitted with an especially difficult lock.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Cowley. ‘I’d give a lot to know what was taken out.’

  ‘Any indication Paulac was forced to give up the combination?’

  Cowley gestured to the file in Danilov’s lap. ‘Look at the photographs! How could you tell, from that!’

  Cowley saved Danilov the chore of copying the American dossier by offering a second set, which gave the Russian one for the Interior Ministry and one for Pavin. They agreed there was little purpose in setting the computer task for the Bureau’s cryptology division with an incomplete selection of letters; Danilov thought he could get them all from Serov’s folders the following morning. He gratefully accepted Cowley’s invitation to dinner that night with the two local homicide detectives, and put Firsov and Redin out of their misery by announcing the outing as soon as he returned to the embassy on 16th Street.

  Accepting he had to comply to some degree with Moscow’s instructions, Danilov offered a briefing on his visit to the FBI. Firsov and Pavlenko blanched at the photographs of the decomposed body of Michel Paulac; Redin remained unmoved. Intent upon any give-away reaction from any of the three, Danilov disclosed it was probable the financier and Serov had met on other occasions, without mentioning the connection between the marked diary dates and the entry stamps on Paulac’s passport. None of them showed any apprehension at the enquiry deepening the involvement of the embassy. Danilov then took Pavlenko through the earlier dates: the cultural official pedantically compared his own diary to the office version before insisting he’d known nothing of Serov’s movements. Danilov thought he could spot a liar under questioning and decided Pavlenko was telling the truth.

  ‘I will send this to Moscow tonight,’ announced Danilov, with the file in his hand. He spoke looking at the security officer.

  ‘Yes?’ said Redin, curiously.

  ‘I’d like to see the report you made to the Interior Ministry, after you examined Petr Aleksandrovich’s office.’

  Redin blinked. ‘I’m not sure of your right to do that.’

  ‘Then I’ll ask for a ruling from Moscow,’ declared Danilov briskly. Trying to guard against any alteration or editing, he said: ‘My assistant can collect it from the Ministry, if there’s any problem in your finding the original.’

  ‘We’ll wait for Moscow’s ruling,’ refused Redin, stubbornly.

  Danilov recognised the name and the location of the cafe from his re-reading of the file, and was curious whose idea it had been to eat at the same place as Serov and the financier the night they’d been murdered. They weren’t at the section served by Mary Ann Bell but Rafferty called over the girl who had made the positive connection between the two dead men and introduced her. Mary Ann, shy and still plump with adolescence, said she recognised Cowley and Danilov from the media coverage, and despite her awkwardness Danilov knew she enjoyed the moment in front of everyone else with whom she worked. He thought Rafferty was enjoying some fame by association, too, which surprised him. Both DC detectives were cautious at the beginning, listening and watching more than talking, making their judgments. What they did say was usually cynically hard-edged. Danilov wasn’t uncomfortable under their examination. Were Rafferty and Johannsen on the take from someone, like most of the detectives at Petrovka? It would be interesting to see if a proper bill were offered and settled at the end of the evening. He wasn’t sure how to offer his contribution – or if he were expected to. Cowley adopted the role of host, distributing menus and ordering drinks. Danilov noted Cowley only drank club soda and refused wine when it was passed around, and decided he’d made a mistake about smelling alcohol on the man’s breath when he’d arrived at Dulles.

  As they ate, Cowley told the two detectives they might have a lead to other times Paulac and Serov met, making it clear the information came from Danilov’s enquiries at the embassy.

  ‘Your people co-operating, towards one of their own?’ demanded Johannsen.

  ‘Not really.’ Danilov welcomed the conversation. He didn’t think he would have any difficulty being honest with the two detectives and wanted it to register with Cowley after the earlier disagreement.

  ‘You know what I think?’ said Rafferty. ‘I think your guy was dirty.’

  Danilov frowned at the expression, not understanding.

  ‘Crooked,’ helped Cowley.

  ‘Probably,’ accepted Danilov.

  The easy admission surprised the detectives. Rafferty said: ‘So what are we going to do if we prove he is?’

  Now Danilov appeared surprised. ‘I’m not sure of the technicalities of your system, but what I’d do is submit the evidence to the prosecutor. What would you do?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Rafferty. ‘I’m talking cover-up.’

  ‘I investigate. I don’t cover up,’ insisted Danilov. He’d had to go along with a compromise over the serial murders, after the FBI man had been found mentally incapable of standing trial. But that had not been his decision or even his wish. It had been political, Russia agreeing to American pressure to avoid the embarrassment of a law enforcement officer revealed as a multiple killer. Just as any compromise this time would be political, not of his making.

  ‘What you’re saying is, you’re going to level with us on this?’ pressed Johannsen.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’ Danilov addressed the reply to Cowley.

  Cowley smiled, returning the look, understanding the Russian’s performance. ‘Dimitri and I have already decided the ground rules.’

  The two murders were the only subject of conversation, which was what Danilov wanted anyway. He didn’t learn anything he’d missed or had been omitted from the American file, but it fleshed out what he did know, giving him a perspective against which to set his own eventual judgment. He wasn’t sure how long that would be: a long time, judging from the progress so far. Rafferty and Johannsen relaxed as the evening and the drinking went on. Danilov, did, too, although he stopped drinking, still vaguely bothered by jetlag.

  When her shift ended, Mary Ann Bell came over to say goodbye and that it had been nice meeting them, and when Rafferty, slightly befuddled, proposed a toast to their success Cowley finally allowed himself a glass of wine. Because they were so close to where Petr Serov’s body had been found, it was agreed they’d detour that way running Danilov back to Massachusetts Avenue, for the Russian to get the location and the surroundings fixed in his mind.

  But they never did.

  Danilov was leading when they stepp
ed out on to M Street, because the other three politely stood back for him, which was unfortunate because Cowley was following immediately behind so the waiting photographers caught both of them, side by side, in the doorway of the restaurant linked to both victims.

  Behind them Rafferty said: ‘Holy shit!’ and barged past, ineffectually waving his arms – which he shouldn’t have done, because the photographed protest was construed as trying to hide something important about the murders which had not so far been released. There were at least three reporters, as well as photographers, shouting questions that weren’t answered and impeding their progress to Cowley’s car, which they had left in a parking lot where vehicles are manoeuvred up and down on hydraulically elevated frames. All they could do was stand and wait, despite Rafferty and Johannsen’s shouts to the attendant to move his ass, so by the time they got into the car the cameramen had enough photographs to stage an exhibition. Cowley and Danilov’s refusal to respond to any questions practically became a farce.

  There was no dissent when Cowley announced they’d miss the murder scene, because the photographers would follow them.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ apologised Cowley generally, turning on to Wisconsin Avenue.

  ‘Who the fuck told them!’ exploded Rafferty.

  ‘The cafe, I guess,’ said Johannsen. ‘Maybe Mary Ann.’

  ‘It’s not really important, is it?’ said Danilov. It didn’t contravene his instructions against making any unauthorised statement.

  ‘You haven’t seen what our media can do with two cents’ worth of fuck all!’ said Rafferty.

  They parted outside the Russian compound, Danilov agreeing to see Cowley at Pennsylvania Avenue the following day. On their return downtown, Johannsen said: ‘Seemed quite a nice guy, for a Lieutenant General.’

  ‘And a Russian,’ completed Rafferty.

  Back in the embassy compound, Danilov was unsure if it really had been someone from the cafe who had set up the media ambush. Rafferty had been very quick to hurry forward when the flash-bulbs exploded: almost as if he had expected it to happen.