No Time for Heroes

by Brian Freemantle

  The Chechen, on the other hand, promised to make him very rich, even paying him in dollars. He had initially been excited about the Swiss assignment, because it was precisely the financial environment in which he wanted to become involved. He decided he needed to exaggerate the problems he’d encountered in Geneva, to preserve his professional mystique and also because he was frightened of this man to whom he was reporting and wanted to impress.

  ‘I’ve found a lawyer who will act for us,’ he said, which was true. ‘But not as long as there are police enquiries into the American murder of Michel Paulac.’

  ‘The police have discovered the corporation?’ demanded Yerin.

  ‘They won’t,’ assured Stupar, also exaggerating his knowledge of international law and, more particularly, country-to-country treaty agreements. ‘Switzerland is a complete bank secrecy country. But the Swiss are cautious. The lawyer won’t move immediately.’

  ‘How quickly could there be a transfer?’ asked Gusovsky. He was unsure about excluding Zimin from this encounter.

  ‘All it needs is a replacement Founder’s Certificate and a nomination of new directors.’

  ‘So we can go ahead,’ said Gusovsky, to Yerin. ‘We don’t need formal control before the meeting. We know we can take over whenever we like.’

  ‘It’s important to keep to the schedule,’ agreed the blind man.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The previous investigation had been in the winter, everything wrapped in a half-light of smothering greyness, sometimes fog, and Cowley had thought of it as a city with a blanket pulled over its head. In summer the greyness was still everywhere, unbroken by the faded green of the river-bordering trees. The streets were grey and the river was grey – except where the dredger was working, where it was black with churned mud – and the unsmiling people all around were grey. The uniforms of the street Militia were even officially grey.

  And the murder scene was beyond professional belief.

  Until that moment – based upon the police photographs – Cowley had imagined the alarm raised from above, from street level over an unbroken river wall. But the wall was broken, with steps leading to a concrete base beyond which floated a slat-board pontoon for passengers to board cruise boats and ferries: from where the dredger was working, he assumed the body had jammed on a mud-bank directly against one edge of the jetty, where it abutted the wall.

  There was no taped-off cordon keeping the street clear for forensic examination, as there would have been in America. Onlookers were shoulder-to-shoulder along the wall on both sides of the entry to the river, littering fingerprints everywhere and foot-shuffling into oblivion any possible evidence. The pontoon steps were crowded with more milling, evidence-trampling sightseers and police and officials connected with the dredging operation.

  ‘For Christ’s sake let’s clear these people away!’ Cowley exclaimed. ‘This is a goddamned shambles!’

  ‘Too late,’ said Danilov, as angry as the American. He still had Pavin locate the uniformed Militia major to clear the pontoon and the immediate street above.

  ‘I can’t believe this!’ said Cowley, quiet-voiced in fury. ‘I simply can’t believe it! I’ll have to tell Washington! And not to save my ass. They should know.’

  ‘I think you should,’ agreed Danilov again. What about his ass? Safe, he decided. Pavin’s? There’d be efforts to side-step the responsibility. But a general, which Metkin was, or the senior investigating colonel, which Kabalin was, couldn’t dump it on someone of Pavin’s rank. Abruptly, a far more sinister realisation came to him. His safety had nothing at all to do with his being 5,000 miles away when Ivan Ignatov had been found. If Cowley had not returned to Moscow with him – which no-one had expected – all this staggering ineptitude and inefficiency would have been blamed upon him. Danilov hoped at least the Makarov had stayed in place and not been passed around between any interested hands before they’d got there.

  It was difficult for the dredger to operate so close to the landing stage jutting sideways to the swirling current. The engine roared constantly between forward and reverse to keep it steady. Its bow-mounted scoop lifted and received mud so fine it looked like black, oily slime. It stank, of sewage and rot and filth, so badly that the three crewmen wore bandanas across their mouths and noses. Cowley thought it wasn’t quite as bad as the hire car at National Airport, although he would have welcomed some mentholated salve beneath his nose.

  There were two uniformed Militiamen and three river officials remaining on the pontoon. The policemen, near the river wall, reacted curiously when Cowley, obviously not a Russian but someone who could speak the language, asked if boats and passengers had gone on using the pontoon after Ignatov’s body was found. When the older of the two, seemingly the more surprised by the question, said of course, Cowley physically had to turn to stare downriver, his mouth clamped shut against an outburst. He did not turn back until the arrival of the Militiaman who had found the gun.

  The man was extremely young, the uniform still stiff with newness, the boots not yet scuffed. He seemed unsure what to do when he confronted Danilov. He half raised his arm to make a salute, but did not complete it. There was a suggestion of a blush.

  ‘Udalov,’ he announced, rigidly to attention. ‘Aleksandr Vasilevich. Militia Post 22.’

  One of the lucky army conscripts who’d managed to get into the police service after the dismantling of the Russian military, guessed Danilov: how long before the kid got involved in side-street kickbacks and compromises? Danilov said: ‘You found a gun?’

  Udalov pointed to where the two other Militiamen were standing. ‘We were told to leave it where it was. There.’

  The pistol was on a ledge less than a metre above the waterline and perhaps a metre from the furthest edge of the pontoon. Turning back to the young man, Danilov started to shout: ‘Did you …?’ but then stopped, completing the turn to the river officials. Gesturing to the bellowing dredger, he said: ‘Can you close that down?’

  ‘Police orders were to dredge the area,’ insisted an official.

  ‘These are new police orders,’ said Danilov. ‘Take it out into the river until we’ve finished.’ It was several minutes before the fat-bellied ship reversed away.

  ‘Did you touch it?’ Danilov resumed.

  ‘No sir!’

  ‘Our message said it was a Makarov,’ came in Cowley. ‘How did you know that if you didn’t examine it? It’s not very distinct that far away on the ledge.’

  ‘I was in the Army until nine months ago,’ confirmed the man. ‘The Makarov was the gun I was trained to use.’

  ‘It hasn’t been touched or moved?’ persisted Danilov.

  ‘I didn’t touch it,’ said Udalov.

  Both investigators recognised the qualification. ‘Who did?’

  ‘I do not know that anyone did.’

  ‘Get the major down here,’ Danilov said sideways, to Pavin. When the officer in charge arrived, Danilov pointed along the ledge and said: ‘I want to know if anyone touched that gun. I either want an admission right now, or I will have everyone in your squad – you first – fingerprinted for elimination. Which will be an irritating waste of time, about which I will complain directly to Deputy Interior Minister Oskin …’ He allowed time for the threat to settle. ‘So, did anyone take that gun from the ledge?’

  ‘I did,’ admitted the major. ‘We didn’t know it was a proper gun until we looked.’ He was a pock-faced man, ragged voiced with uncertainty.

  Cowley felt the anger spread through him again. ‘What part did you touch?’

  ‘The top, near the hammer. That was the part nearest.’

  ‘Nowhere else?’

  ‘No.’

  As frustrated as the American beside him, Danilov said to Pavin: ‘Fingerprint him.’ He looked suspiciously at the two men guarding the Makarov. ‘Fingerprint them all!’ Pointing to Udalov, ‘Him last; I want to talk to him. And find out why a photographer and forensic aren’t here yet.’ Both departmen
ts had been ordered out before he’d left Petrovka.

  Cowley leaned forward from the edge of the jetty. Over his shoulder he said: ‘There could still be something on it: the watermark doesn’t get that high.’

  To the remaining Militiaman, Danilov said: ‘Was there any rain in Moscow since the body was found?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Udalov doubtfully.

  ‘No,’ came the positive assurance from someone in the group supervising the dredging, who were now their audience.

  Still to the young man, Danilov said: ‘Tell us how you found it?’

  ‘It was just there,’ said Udalov simply. ‘We all had to assemble this morning, a lot of us from different Militia stations, to search along this section. For anything that looked odd. I was told to come down here to see if anything came up in the dredger …’ He smiled, shy but gaining confidence. ‘It wasn’t very interesting. And the smell was bad. After about an hour I looked along the inside of the river wall. And there it was, on the ledge!’

  ‘You knew immediately it was a pistol?’ said Cowley.

  The man shook his head. ‘I thought it was, but I wasn’t sure. I was at the far end of the jetty when I first saw it. I was sure, when I came to where we’re standing now.’

  ‘Is it now exactly where it was when you first saw it? Or was it lying differently?’ pressed Danilov.

  Udalov stared along the ledge. ‘That was how it was, the hammer the closest part to us: that’s why the major got hold of it there.’

  ‘As near to the edge as it now is? Or further in, nearer the wall?’ demanded Cowley.

  ‘Maybe a little closer to the wall. But only a millimetre or two.’

  There was the clatter of descending footsteps as the scientific team clumped down the walkway.

  Cowley said: ‘It was good of them to come.’ Even more pointedly, quoting the uniformed policeman, he went on: ‘“We all had to assemble this morning, a lot of us from different Militia stations, to search along this section. For anything that looked odd.”’

  ‘What have I said wrong?’ pleaded Udalov, recognising the words. ‘I’ve told the truth!’

  ‘You haven’t said anything wrong,’ assured Cowley. ‘It’s other people who haven’t been telling us the truth.’

  ‘It’s beyond incompetence,’ said Danilov. ‘It’s intentional obstruction.’ He was convinced now that was exactly what it had been.

  There was a silence between the two men, for several moments. Then Cowley, in English, said: ‘I can’t tell you how pissed off I am!’

  In English, too, Danilov said: ‘How do you think I feel? This was supposed to reflect upon me! Maybe it still will.’

  Cowley shook his head but didn’t say anything.

  Danilov directed the nervously bewildered Udalov to be fingerprinted and for several minutes afterwards stood beside Cowley in matching silence, studying the gun and the ledge and the pontoon, positioning everything in his mind before stepping back for the technical experts. He decided the uncertainty with which the photographer assembled his camera and lights was quite understandable if he were the same man who had taken the earlier, totally inadequate sequence which had misrepresented the scene.

  The far end of the jetty, to which they had to withdraw for the technicians to work, seemed to catch more of the smell from the disturbed river bed.

  ‘He went into the water here,’ suggested Danilov, starting a professional to professional discussion.

  ‘And the gun with him,’ agreed Cowley.

  Cowley walked part way back to where the forensic team was working. ‘No blood anywhere on the pontoon.’

  ‘Or up on the street, which there would have been if he’d been killed there.’ Now Danilov paused, longer than the other man. ‘Bloodstaining that would still be evident, even after people walking all over it, from the sort of wounds Ignatov suffered.’

  ‘Too much for them to walk over,’ accepted Cowley. ‘The blood itself would have caused an alarm, even before the body was found.’

  ‘So he was killed elsewhere?’

  ‘And thrown from street level, over the parapet: not brought down here and tossed in,’ expanded Cowley. ‘If the body was dumped from this pontoon, the gun would have been tossed in, too. And gone in the water. It’s on the ledge because it was dropped from above.’

  ‘According to the notice at the top of the steps the last ferry uses this pontoon at eight at night,’ said Danilov. ‘There would still be a lot of people on the streets after that, though. According to the pathology report, Ignatov had only been in the water a matter of hours. I think we can assume he came over the wall, already dead, around midnight the day before his body was found. And the gun right after him.’

  ‘Careless,’ judged Cowley. ‘Why not dispose of the murder weapon miles away? It’s a hit, obviously. But it’s not a very professional one.’

  ‘Careless?’ echoed Danilov questioningly. ‘Or conceited? People – or a person – so sure of themselves they didn’t imagine they had anything to worry about if the gun was found?’

  There was movement near the wall as a forensic man finally scooped the Makarov off the ledge with what looked like a small fishing net and transferred it, without any finger contact, into a plastic exhibit bag. For the first time they both saw Pavin had returned to the jetty and was supervising the technical examination. Pavin personally took possession of the plastic-enclosed pistol.

  ‘That’ll have to go through our laboratories first,’ said Danilov. ‘Afterwards I think it should go through yours, as well.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Cowley. ‘The sooner the better.’ He turned to look fully at the Russian. ‘I wasn’t making any threats, to you personally, when I said I’d have to tell Washington what’s happened here. There’s no way you can be blamed.’

  As it was intended I should be, Danilov thought. ‘I know it wasn’t personal … won’t be.’

  ‘You positive there won’t be any fall-out to affect you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ Because I intend to see there isn’t, determined the Russian.

  ‘So you want to use me?’ guessed Cowley.

  ‘Not in any way to cause you problems. Or difficulties.’

  ‘But still using me, Dimitri Ivanovich?’

  ‘If you’re offended, I’m sorry.’

  ‘So it’s big internal problems?’

  ‘I’m not really sure how big.’

  ‘Can you win?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Danilov honestly. ‘I hope so.’

  The American seemed to be making a decision. ‘Use me – and my presence here – as much as you want. Just warn me first.’

  ‘Make the protest as strong and as official as you can.’

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Dimitri Ivanovich.’

  ‘So do I,’ said Danilov.

  Apart from taking the second series of photographs and retrieving the Makarov pistol, there was little for the Russian scientists to do, so their examination was soon over. The shipping officials told Danilov the dredger had already collected two containers of detritus. Danilov ordered them to collect a third before switching to the other side of the pontoon, hopefully to bring up anything that might have been carried downstream, away from the body, after it went into the river. They dropped Cowley off at the American embassy on their way back to Petrovka.

  ‘As strong and as official as you like,’ reminded Danilov.

  He ignored his waiting messages, wanting to despatch his own first. They were very brief and, as required, were jointly addressed to both deputy ministers, with courtesy copies to Metkin. The FBI official was appalled, Danilov warned, at the incompetence of the Russian investigation. William Cowley intended formally complaining to Washington, who would obviously pass the criticism on to the State Department. Incalculable evidence had been lost by the failure to secure the area where Ignatov’s body had been found or properly to search it. And what technical material had been produced, particularly photographs, had been enti
rely misleading: part of the American’s report to Washington would doubt the standard and ability of Russian criminal science investigation. Danilov concluded by suggesting the complaints were precisely the type of embarrassment that had been discussed on the eve of his departure to Washington.

  When he finished dictating Danilov expected Ludmilla Radsic to leave the office to fulfil her true function before typing the memoranda, but she didn’t. She went immediately afterwards.

  By then Danilov had read his messages. The first summoned him to the Foreign Ministry for a conference with both Sergei Vorobie and Vasili Oskin. Vorobie added that Oleg Yasev, a senior Foreign Ministry official, would attend the intended interview with Raisa Serova. The second note, from Anatoli Metkin, approved the attachment of Kabalin and his assistant to the murder squad: any further, additional manpower was available.

  Danilov made his private, protective record of everything.

  Elliott Jones shook hands with the Metropolitan Editor of the Washington Post with a politician’s hearty enthusiasm, and said he was glad the man had been able to make lunch at the Four Seasons: it was his favourite restaurant. It was the mayor’s invitation and he had decreed the discreet table. The editor said it was his favourite, too. Both further agreed they were glad they’d finally been able to get together again. For most of the meal the conversation was about politics, with the editor agreeing how helpful the Post could be if Jones ran for higher office. Not until the coffee did the talk get around to the Mafia-type murders. When the editor said he couldn’t understand the virtual news blackout, Jones suggested maybe the story wasn’t in Washington any more and maybe William Cowley and Dimitri Danilov weren’t either. When the journalist wondered what would be important enough to take the investigators out of town, Jones asked if the Post’s resident correspondent in Moscow had reported the stool-pigeon type killing of a known member of the Moscow Mafia. The editor said he didn’t think so.