No Time for Heroes

by Brian Freemantle

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Yevgennie Kosov agreed it was a pity Larissa couldn’t alter her shifts but they were short-staffed at the Druzhba: it meant, of course, they’d have to eat out. Olga said she hoped Larissa wouldn’t mind and Kosov wondered why she should. Olga said no reason at all. It was flirtatious and fun but not awkward: two old friends playing social games.

  He refused to say where they were going but warned it would be dressy, which worried her because it was inevitable he would compare her to Larissa, who always looked like a model who’d stepped from the pages of a Western magazine. Olga laid out what she considered her better outfits and mixed and matched for the best effect. Everything looked faded and old and out of date: during one free-fall dip of despair she almost rang Kosov back to cancel. In the end she chose her black dress with the matching bolero, which was also her newest, and was extremely careful to iron it without making the material shine. She booked for her hair to be tinted but when she got to the hairdresser they’d run out of the deep auburn they’d used before and there was no way of telling when they might get any more. She accepted dark titian, which took unevenly, and didn’t believe the girl’s assurance that it looked like variable highlights.

  Kosov was precisely on time. He was totally sober, immaculate in a blue suit that had a sheen, like silk, and presented her with another box of Belgian chocolates. Overlooking the fact that such luxuries had not been available in Moscow until very recently – and could still only be found if a person had contacts or knew the right free enterprise shops – it reminded Olga that Dimitri had never bought her special gifts like this, not even when they had been walking out. She hoped he’d remember to bring back from America all the things she’d asked for.

  Kosov chastely kissed her, surveyed her at arm’s length, and declared she looked wonderful: Olga allowed herself to believe it. There was still some vodka from the Kosovs’ previous visit but he refused it, saying they had a lot to do.

  The car dumbfounded Olga. In the darkness she didn’t recognise its shape as one she’d ever seen on the streets of Moscow before. The door clicked shut behind her, as if it were closing itself, and she couldn’t hear the sound of the engine. The dashboard was a technicolour of different lights and dials, and there was a smell of polished newness.

  ‘This isn’t an official police car!’

  Kosov laughed. ‘It’s German. A BMW. A new model.’ He touched a dial and music filled the vehicle, from several speakers.

  It was a Western tape, a romantic song: Olga didn’t recognise the female singer. ‘You own it?’

  ‘Brought it in last week. Like it?’

  ‘It’s fantastic!’ The soft warmth of the heater enclosed her.

  ‘At least you’ve got the Volga now. When Dimitri’s home, that is.’

  Olga understood. ‘Larissa can drive this car?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Kosov drove towards the centre of Moscow until the ring road, which he joined but then quickly left to sweep up towards the renamed Tverskaya Street.

  ‘A hotel?’ she guessed.

  ‘Which one?’

  Because of where they were she said: ‘Intourist.’

  ‘That whorehouse!’ said Kosov disdainfully, unaware of Olga’s visible wince at her mistake. ‘We’re going to a proper place.’

  She thought she knew when Kosov went around the square to drive past the Bolshoi, but didn’t suggest it to avoid being wrong again.

  ‘The Metropole!’ he announced. He hurried around to open the door for her and took her arm to guide her inside, halting curiously when she hesitated. ‘What?’

  ‘You haven’t taken the wipers off.’

  For the second time that evening, Kosov laughed in genuine amusement. ‘That’s my car. And it’s known. Already. Professional thieves know better, and Militia patrols protect it from amateurs. Nobody touches my car!’

  Olga had never been inside the Metropole, not even before its refurbishment, nor been enclosed in so much unrestrained luxury. There were chandeliers everywhere, each with a million diamond-bright droplets scattering light in all directions: white and grey and black marble patterned the floors and walls: huge velvet drapes, curtains more enormous than she had imagined curtains could possibly be, covered windows and partitions; the carpets and floor coverings were grander and more extensive than the drapes, stretching away from her in every direction, like inviting fields to be walked through.

  Kosov broke into Olga’s daydreaming vision. ‘Which bar do you prefer?’

  Olga blinked. ‘You choose.’

  He took her arm solicitously again, guiding her towards the one off the central vestibule. It was a vault of a room, with more glittering chandeliers and with the upholstery of the chairs and banquettes toned to the carpeting. Kosov was recognised at once – Olga only just detected the identifying green of the dollar note exchanged during the effusive greeting handshake – and they were offered the choice of several banquettes. Kosov chose the most secluded, furthest from the main entrance.

  The champagne, in its frosted ice bucket, arrived unordered. The glasses were crystal. ‘French,’ pointed out Kosov unnecessarily, as the bottle was poured. He touched her glass with his and wished her good health, and she said the same back. She felt light-headed before she drank anything.

  ‘What’s Dimitri Ivanovich think of it here?’

  Olga hoped she was not blushing too much. ‘I haven’t been here before. He hasn’t either.’

  ‘What?’ Kosov sounded disbelieving.

  ‘He’s been very busy,’ she tried desperately. Using the only defence she had, Olga added: ‘And now he’s in America, of course.’

  ‘Larissa and I come here quite a lot. We should do it together when Dimitri Ivanovich gets back.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Have you heard from him?’

  ‘I haven’t expected to, not this soon.’

  ‘How’s the investigation going?’

  ‘He doesn’t talk about work.’

  ‘He must say something!’ Kosov topped up the glasses.

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘This assignment must be very important for his career.’

  ‘I suppose it must be.’

  ‘I would have expected him to say something.’

  ‘He hasn’t.’ Olga thought all the women around her looked like models, as Larissa always did, and was glad the subdued lighting concealed the Russian cut of her dress and the colour differences in her hair. Most of the women glittered, she guessed from diamonds in their jewellery. Everyone seemed confident, sure of their surroundings and themselves. Once the jacket of a man at an adjoining table gaped, exposing what she thought was the butt of a handgun: it excited her, whether it had been a real gun or not.

  ‘I really was very surprised he didn’t get the Directorship.’

  ‘He thought he would,’ disclosed Olga.

  Kosov made a show of pouring more wine, and looked expansively and obviously around the plush room. ‘Ever regret Dimitri coming out of uniform? He seems to have changed a lot since becoming an investigator.’

  ‘Things were different,’ conceded Olga nostalgically. The Kosovs were their oldest friends, so she supposed it was obvious to them Dimitri didn’t accept favours any more: all they had to do was spend thirty minutes in Kirovskaya, or compare the clothes they wore.

  ‘You sorry about that?’ persisted the man.

  ‘Of course I am!’ There was no reason to conceal the bitterness from a friend. She thought, nostalgic still, that perhaps their marriage would not have become the sham it was if Dimitri had stayed in uniform: but perhaps more importantly, had stayed on a payroll other than that of the State. ‘Wouldn’t you be? Wouldn’t Larissa?’

  ‘No doubt about it,’ agreed Kosov sympathetically. ‘I’ll never understand why he changed. It was Dimitri who introduced me, in the beginning …’ He looked conspiratorially around the adjoining booths, coming closer. ‘It was one of them who got the BMW for
me.’

  ‘I don’t understand it either.’

  ‘Haven’t you talked to him about it?’

  ‘I’ve tried. He just says he feels better this way.’

  Kosov covered her hand with his. ‘You don’t mind me talking like this?’

  ‘No.’ She didn’t object to the hand-holding, either. The cologne he wore smelled pleasant; expensive.

  ‘I just wish there was something I could do. Help, I mean.’

  ‘So do I.’

  He withdrew his hand, smiling broadly. ‘At least you can enjoy tonight.’

  They ate in the hotel. There was more instant recognition in the restaurant and another exchanging handshake. She thought several men in suits that shone, their tables well stocked with champagne bottles and Western cigarette packs, gave signs of recognising Kosov. Olga took Kosov’s recommendation and had beef, which was imported and excellent, and agreed the French Volnay was far better than Georgian wine. He was a good dinner companion, constantly making her laugh with stories of police enquiries that had gone wrong and anecdotes she hadn’t heard about government leaders and politicians.

  Over French brandy he said: ‘Have you heard of Night-flight?’

  Olga stared back at him without comprehension.

  Kosov gestured generally beyond the hotel. ‘It’s the newest nightclub in town: on Tverskaya, just before Pushkin Square.’

  Olga, growing heavy-eyed from the wine, had imagined he would take her home at the end of the meal, but she was determined not to miss anything, believing she had missed too much already. ‘I’d like to go there.’

  The BMW was untouched, as Kosov had predicted, and the nightclub so close they could have walked: Olga wished they had, to clear her head.

  She had only seen clubs like Nightflight in the Western movies of which she was a devotee. The gloom, which again hid her faded dress and hair colouring, was pierced by strobe lights twisting and bouncing off revolving, many-faceted orbs suspended from ceilings, making her blink. There was a reflective, glass-backed bar, far to her left. In front, to music that throbbed like a heart-beat, a dance floor heaved with gyrating people. Olga felt a sharp twist of panic at the idea of Kosov asking her to dance, which she couldn’t, but instead he guided her upstairs to a gallery, where it was quieter and where people sat clustered around tables. The lighting was stronger here, but still not enough to worry her.

  They went along the balconied area towards a large, already occupied table: when they reached it Olga realised, surprised, that they appeared to be expected. The four men already there rose at their approach with unusual politeness, each reaching out to shake her hand and introduce her in turn to their female companions. All the girls were younger than Olga, but they were unreservedly friendly and she did not feel ill at ease, although their clothes and jewellery were far better than hers.

  The first time she didn’t properly get any of the names: which weren’t complete anyway, just given names, sometimes not even the patronymic. As she was absorbed into the group, she picked up from conversations swirling around her that the most friendly brunette, to her immediate right, was Lena and the smiling woman opposite was called Ivietta. The man directly across from her, a fat, easily-laughing man who wore the same cologne as Kosov, was definitely Maksim. She was sure, too, the other man on the opposite side of the table was Mikhail.

  There was champagne again, although Olga only took a token glass and scarcely touched it, because it was tasting sharply acidic. Maksim danced with Lena and another girl whose name Olga never identified and briefly, again, Olga feared he was going to ask her as well, but he didn’t. An extremely thin man named Arkadi, who from his appearance was the oldest in the party and to whom everyone was very respectful, told her he didn’t dance either but enjoyed seeing other people do it, and Olga said she was the same.

  Kosov was everyone’s friend and everywhere showing himself to be so. He moved from chair to chair around their own table and kissed all the girls – always in a companiable way, never lasciviously – and several times went to other tables nearby, where he was received with equal friendliness. Arkadi saw Olga watching Kosov’s tour and remarked that Kosov was a good man, and Olga said she thought so, too; she waited for him – for anyone – to ask about Larissa, but no-one did. There appeared to be no curiosity about her relationship with Kosov and she was glad: there was nothing to explain, so she did not want to bother.

  It was Kosov who returned with the club photographer, talking loudly of souvenirs. There were token protests from the women, Olga among them, that they weren’t prepared, but eventually the pictures were taken, the men assembling around the seated females, the poses struck. Much later food was ordered – the best Beluga caviare, smoked and dried fish and hot meat, boar and venison – but Olga could not eat anything, after the dinner at the Metropole.

  She was astonished, when Kosov finally suggested they leave, to realise it was three o’clock in the morning. There were handshakes and farewell kisses from the men as well as the women; everyone said they hoped to meet her again. Outside, the BMW remained untouched.

  ‘You have a lot of friends. They were very nice to me.’ Olga had known, obviously, the Metropole existed but had never imagined it being like it was. And Nightflight had been beyond any imagination. She knew no-one would believe her at work the following morning. This morning, she qualified. Maybe she wouldn’t say anything. At once she knew she would: she wanted people to know. To be impressed.

  ‘They’re the sort of friends Dimitri Ivanovich should have,’ said the man.

  Olga had guessed what they were, but the confirmation still brought a flicker of surprise: excitement, too. ‘It’s not me you have to tell.’

  ‘He’s a fool.’

  The criticism didn’t offend Olga but it unsettled her: she still did not understand why Kosov had covered her hand as he had in the hotel. She said: ‘I really think I should call Larissa tomorrow.’

  ‘You worried I’m going to make a pass at you?’ he challenged directly.

  ‘Of course not!’ Olga said, wishing the denial had sounded stronger.

  He didn’t speak for several moments. ‘It wouldn’t be right. Not considering our friendship.’

  Olga did not know what to say: the warmth from the heater was making her feel very tired.

  ‘I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of the others had tonight,’ continued Kosov. ‘You’re a very attractive woman, Olga. Beautiful.’

  ‘You’re embarrassing me!’ she protested weakly.

  ‘You think Dimitri Ivanovich would object to our going out?’ demanded Kosov, as if the idea had suddenly occurred to him.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘He might not like your being with my friends.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s treating you like he should, Olga. I think he’s being selfish.’

  At Kirovskaya Kosov helped her from the car, escorted her to the door of the apartment and kissed her on the cheek as lightly as the other men in the nightclub had.

  It took him thirty minutes to cross Moscow again, to get to his own apartment off the inner ring road. Larissa, who had not been working at the Druzhba that night, stirred but didn’t properly wake as he entered the bedroom. He waited to see if she would say anything but she didn’t, so he didn’t speak either. They slept in separate beds so he did not disturb her when he settled down.

  ‘She seemed a remarkably simple woman,’ said Arkadi Gusovsky. ‘Stupid, even.’

  ‘For which we should be grateful,’ suggested Maksim Zimin.

  ‘Honest investigators should choose women with common sense.’

  ‘Perhaps she’s got qualities we didn’t realise,’ giggled Zimin.

  ‘A woman that dull wouldn’t be any good in bed,’ judged Gusovsky.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lingering jetlag woke Danilov early, so he was one of the first arrivals at 16th Street, in the cultural section ahead of Valery Pavlenko. Danilov em
ptied the bottom of the bookcase in the order in which it had been stored, but worked backwards from the most recent folders to the earliest. Knowing now what he was looking for, he was able to do the job quickly, scanning the words for the wrong letters without reading the context: he’d gone back through all that year and ten months into the preceding one before Pavlenko came through the door. Predictably, Redin was behind.

  The desk was strewn with papers and files and documents, making it impossible for them to understand what he was doing: he said cursorily he was continuing the examination of Serov’s office, deflecting them by demanding if the security man had been told by Moscow to make his earlier report available. From the expression on Redin’s face, Danilov knew the man had and didn’t like it. When Redin nodded, curtly, Danilov said he’d collect it that afternoon, when he re-interviewed everyone Firsov had already questioned. He told them both he still didn’t need any help, pointedly waiting until they retreated from the room.

  It was another hour before Danilov completed the search, but longer before he accepted it had ended. He reached the beginning of 1991 before acknowledging there had been no misspelled words over several months. He relocated the last entry, just past the middle of the year, and read more carefully through to January to confirm he had missed nothing.

  He had numbered the odd letters as he isolated them: the count came to sixty-three. As he had the previous day, with the diary notes, Danilov tried to fit the characters into patterns or groups, switching back and forth from Cyrillic to Roman spelling, but they remained meaningless. On impulse he juggled further in a series of numbered sequences calculated from the dates and months and years of the entries in the Western calendar in which they appeared, against how they would have appeared in the Russian Gregorian chronology. They still didn’t make sense, and Danilov conceded a computer was the only practical way to understand what they represented. It would have been good to have worked it out by himself.

  Cowley once more escorted Danilov through the admission procedure. In his office the American made a token study of the letters, shook his head in defeat and said the cryptology division were programming a computer in readiness: there was no reason for Danilov to know that despite all the changes and relaxations, of which their working together was a visibly prime example, the Bureau division monitoring Russian nationals temporarily residing in the United States maintained a bank of permanently adjusted machines operated by Russian-speaking specialists. Cowley knew, from CIA liaison, the Russian security service worked the same system in Lubyanka Square.