The following day, Slowen was authorised to put a tap on the telephone. No-one called. He obtained the telephone records and had a headquarters team go back through every outgoing number dialled for the preceding four months: none led to anyone named in Petr Aleksandrovich Serov’s documents. Slowen followed up the telephone tap with a search warrant, and a locksmith opened the door to Rimyans’ house. It wasn’t double locked.
It showed little sign of a hurried departure, apart from the bicycle in the garden. All the beds were made. A cot in a child’s bedroom was burdened with toys. The closets in the master bedroom were still full of men’s and women’s clothing. The refrigerator was well stocked, the milk not soured. The bureau in the den contained neatly itemised bills and some correspondence in what Slowen guessed to be Russian; he took it all, for translation in Washington, and made a random selection of the photographs on display, for comparison against the pictures assembled as part of the case records. From the Rimyans’ prints, they discovered the child to be a girl, aged about thirteen. Nowhere, in any address book or on any paperwork, did any of the names in which they were interested appear. The garage was empty, apart from a chest freezer as extensively stocked as that in the kitchen. From some of the paid bills in the den, vehicle service receipts, Slowen knew the car was a 1991 Ford, and its registration number, so he issued a search-and-find bulletin: conscious of his oversight in not extending their original Brighton Beach enquiry to surrounding districts, Slowen over-compensated, marking the circulation of the car alert nationwide. Sniffer dogs were taken in to go through the house from loft to basement, out into the garage and throughout the garden. No trace of drugs was found.
The house-to-house enquiries spread along both sides of Junction Boulevard and Elmhurst Manor, and into three adjoining streets. The Rimyans were a quiet, unostentatious couple. No-one quite knew what he did, but the consensus was it had something to do with the airports. The child, Marina, sang in the school choir. They did not invite neighbours into their home, nor accept invitations to visit.
‘What now?’ demanded Bradley.
‘We scale down the surveillance, but keep it in place,’ decided Slowen. ‘Likewise the telephone tap. And we go back to Brighton Beach and start all over again. We widen the public records search for our names, throughout the entire borough of Queens and Brooklyn. Make a Social Security check, too.’
‘We ain’t going to get diddly squat,’ guessed Wilkes. ‘And the Rimyans ain’t ever going to come back to their comfortable little nest here. I’ve never known the word go out more definitely than it has over this thing: nor be obeyed so completely.’
One unproductive interrogation followed another, to the impatience of Washington and the respective ministries in Moscow. On the fifth day, Danilov received the curt summons to postpone the following morning’s session with Antipov: a further enquiry into the inefficiency criticism had greater priority.
That was the day arranged for Cowley, in the evening, to go out with Danilov and Olga and Yevgennie and Larissa Kosov. Cowley had rigidly limited his drinking to three whiskies for several nights now.
It was also the day Rafferty and Johannsen sent the Geneva photographs to Cowley in Moscow, with a note that they hadn’t matched with anything in the FBI picture files. The package went off in the diplomatic bag to Moscow before the arrival of everything taken from Igor Rimyans’ house in the New York borough of Queens.
Which was unfortunate.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The dispute with Olga began with Danilov insisting upon taking Cowley to an authentic Russian restaurant instead of the Metropole hotel, although he agreed to a drink there first. It continued over his two initially suggested restaurants, so he didn’t bother to discuss the third. Her usual tint was still unavailable at the hairdressers; the substitute took badly again and she blamed him for the uneven colouring, which he thought was irrational and said so. She couldn’t find anything new to wear and turned her annoyance on Danilov, complaining he hadn’t given her sufficient money to buy what she wanted. Danilov gave her more. Olga bought the first suit she’d tried but rejected as too small, which it was, so she had to alter the buttons on the skirt which made it hang awkwardly. He tried to maintain peace by telling her it looked fine when she showed him, and she accused him of lying. He lost his temper in the quarrel that ensued and agreed Larissa would probably look better than her because Larissa usually did, which he bitterly regretted the moment he spoke. It did at least make him think before he spoke again, so when Olga said she was unhappy and thought they had a shitty marriage Danilov didn’t reply. They drove in hostile silence to Cowley’s hotel.
The American was waiting in the bar, as arranged. The whisky in front of him was the first, and he’d decided not to have more than two after that. Danilov chose Scotch as well, and hoped his surprise didn’t show when Olga ordered a martini, which as far as he knew she’d never drunk before. Cowley wondered why Danilov looked uneasy.
Kosov’s new BMW was parked very obviously outside the Metropole when they got there. Olga led familiarly into the hotel, going at once towards the chandeliered bar, where Kosov and Larissa sat in one of the better lighted booths. After the newspaper and television publicity Danilov was aware of several identifying looks, and guessed Kosov had intentionally chosen the most prominent banquette. He decided he was right from the exuberance with which Kosov greeted the American, as if they were old friends. They’d only met briefly during Cowley’s first investigation in Moscow: the Russian had been wrongly arrested in Kosov’s division. Kosov had enjoyed the brief notoriety: and because of the cover-up he had never known about the mistake. There was a bottle of French champagne already open in a pedestal cooler beside the table, and before the greetings were completed Kosov made a performance of pouring, ahead of the hurriedly approaching waiter.
Cowley thought he recognised Kosov as the sort of policeman he’d occasionally encountered, usually in small, Southern-State towns they believed they owned and probably did, although perhaps they were not quite so obvious as the Russian. Their earlier meetings had been entirely on an official level, and Kosov hadn’t behaved like he was behaving now. Cowley would not have expected a friendship between such a man and Danilov, which he at once acknowledged to be none of his business.
It was fortunate the two women were seated on opposite sides of the table. The jacket of Olga’s suit was strained too tightly into creases from bust to hip and the overhead light wasn’t kind to her patchy hair; she shouldn’t have worn the amber bead necklace so close to the blue stone lapel brooch, either. Larissa looked stunning. Her blonde hair was perfectly looped just short of her shoulders, shown off against the bright red dress with which she wore only a single-strand necklace of irregular black coral.
Kosov worked hard to dominate the conversation, going into elaborate reminiscences of their earlier encounter, insisting Cowley agree the serial killing investigation had been one of the most difficult he’d ever conducted. Cowley did agree because it had been, although Kosov would never know why.
‘I never thought you’d come back like this!’
‘Neither did I,’ said Cowley.
‘And now you’ve got your man again!’
‘Looks like it.’
‘You must have a massive confession by now!’
‘This is supposed to be a social evening, Yevgennie,’ said Danilov. It was a gentle rebuke, which he felt he should make, but he was intent upon the interest Kosov was showing in the murders.
‘The sort of work we do is interesting to everyone, isn’t that so?’ demanded Kosov, speaking to both women.
Olga nodded.
‘I’m fascinated,’ agreed Larissa.
Determinedly vague, Cowley said: ‘Investigations take their course. This one’s doing that.’ There’d been another protest from Washington that evening at the failure of the interrogation.
‘But you know which way to go? Where to look?’ persisted the division commander. ‘Are there go
ing to be any more arrests here in Moscow?’
‘I always keep an open mind until the very end,’ said Cowley.
Kosov looked genuinely surprised when he was told they were not eating at the hotel, insisting the Metropole diningrooms were the best in the city: Danilov half expected the man to add that they were also the most expensive, but he didn’t. Cowley helped by saying he’d prefer a Russian restaurant: Danilov looked at Olga, who ignored him. Kosov paid for the champagne from a thick wad of dollar bills he ostentatiously counted out on the table top, adding a ten-dollar tip.
Outside the hotel Kosov said it was unnecessary to take two cars, bustling the American towards the BMW. Larissa appeared almost as possessive as her husband, hurrying Cowley into the back and putting Olga and herself on either side. Danilov got into the front. When Danilov announced they were eating at the Skazka, Kosov sighed in unspoken disdain. He put a Tina Turner cassette into the tape deck, which was tuned too loudly. As he drove off, Kosov waved his arm around the vehicle and said to Danilov: ‘What do you think?’
‘Very nice,’ said Danilov. Olga had been right about the array of dashboard illumination.
‘One of the newest: hardly any like it in Moscow.’
Danilov was tempted to ask the uniformed colonel how he could afford it, but didn’t bother.
In the rear of the car Cowley was making polite conversation, telling Olga to persuade Danilov to bring her to Washington for a vacation so he could show them around. With no alternative – and hoping the idea would never be taken up by them – Cowley said of course he and Larissa were included in the invitation when Kosov asked.
It was easier than Danilov expected to park on the Tovarishchevsky Pereulok. He was clearly not known there so Kosov did not attempt one of his favoured-customer entrances, which increased the effect of what happened when they did go in.
Danilov had made the reservation days before – necessary, as he intended paying in roubles – and had called in earlier that day to confirm the table was being kept for him. The first indication the manager recognised him from the publicity of the case came when the man asked if he would be bringing the American detective. It was the only occasion Danilov had experienced the benefit of fame and he enjoyed it: it was much easier than the usual Russian necessity to guarantee service, suggesting favour for favour. And seemed to work better. Their table was waiting, already set with zakuski – hors d’oeuvres – that included smoked salmon, sturgeon, caviar and individual salads. The manager greeted Danilov like a regular customer, shaking his hand and saying it was good to see him again, and gained the hoped-for introduction to Cowley in front of everyone else in the restaurant.
The candlelight against the dark wood gave the Skazka a genuine Russian ambience, heightened by the gypsy musicians. They ate bliny, filling each pancake themselves with caviar, and pelmeni, dumplings floating in sour cream. There was pork served two ways, in a mushroom sauce and roasted with plums, and lamb shashlik. Danilov ordered both red and white Georgian wine.
Cowley enjoyed the evening. He made everyone laugh with anecdotes of investigation mistakes that were legendary and most likely apocryphal in the FBI, which encouraged matching stories from the other two policemen: Danilov told his tales better than Kosov, who was showing signs of getting drunk. Olga’s words, when she tried to speak which wasn’t often, were slurring by now, too. Even Larissa attempted a contribution, telling of bedroom mix-ups and unusual assignations at the hotel. Cowley was conscious of her seeming to address Danilov when she told them, as if he would be more interested than the rest of them. Kosov made two more attempts to talk about the investigation, both of which were easily evaded.
It was Olga, over Armenian brandy, who eagerly suggested they all go on to a nightclub, looking expectantly at Kosov. But the man didn’t respond as she anticipated: he didn’t give any reaction at all, in fact, and she was about to repeat the idea, imagining he hadn’t heard, when Cowley said maybe another time.
Kosov insisted it was no trouble to drop the American off at his hotel: at the Savoy Cowley invited them in for a nightcap, allowing himself a final brandy, but still didn’t take up the nightclub idea. They parted noisily with promises to get together again sometime.
In the Volga, going home, Danilov decided the evening had been saved, socially, by the Skazka. And that Kosov had been blatantly over-interested, even for a policeman, in the Mafia murders. He’d known Kosov to be dirty, he thought, calling up the new English word: but not this dirty. Which was not part of his current problem. Or was it?
‘Why didn’t you kiss Larissa goodnight?’ Olga demanded, breaking into his reflections.
‘Forgot.’ Danilov thought he’d almost gone too far in the other direction, ignoring Larissa as he had, although it was how they’d agreed to behave when they’d spoken by telephone that afternoon. She’d practically been too obvious ignoring him, as well.
‘She looked beautiful tonight, didn’t she?’
‘I didn’t notice.’ He’d have to stop lying soon.
It was not raining that night, so it was not until the following day – when it was – that he discovered the windscreen wipers on the Volga had been stolen while it was parked near the Metropole.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The ministry summons was extremely specific, almost legally detailed. Danilov was ordered to bring with him the complete and interlocking master file on all three cases and to be accompanied by Yuri Pavin, whose assistance would have been necessary anyway because there was so much to transport. Expanded by the Washington and Geneva material referenced and indexed to the Moscow murder, the files occupied five bulging dossier boxes. A special table had to be brought to the Deputy Foreign Minister’s chamber to accommodate it all.
Everyone had assembled in advance of their arrival: Danilov’s impression was that a conference had been held between the two ministers and the Federal Prosecutor in advance. Chairs were set for him and Pavin at a small table, already in place, and Danilov’s further impression, from the first question, was of hostility towards them.
It came from Vasili Oskin, who rose to go to where all the dossiers lay but selected only one, the master record. ‘Who is responsible for this comprehensive file?’
‘As the officer in charge of the investigation, I am,’ accepted Danilov. It was a tribunal. But why!
‘You are aware of its full contents?’ demanded Nikolai Smolin.
‘I have read what it contains,’ said Danilov. ‘Quite obviously, with the volume there now is, I need to remind myself of individual items from the index or referencing.’
Vorobie looked at Pavin. ‘Formulated by you?’
Pavin, who had recognised an inquisition as quickly as Danilov, stumbled the start of his reply and had to begin again. At his second attempt Pavin said: ‘It’s the system I customarily use, on all serious crime investigations.’
Smolin replaced Oskin at the table during the exchange. No-one spoke while he flicked through the master dossier, and Danilov guessed some rehearsal had gone into this encounter. The Federal Prosecutor looked up and said to Pavin: ‘It is arranged chronologically in order of date and discovery?’
‘In this case – these cases – the file begins with the American murders, in dated sequence,’ agreed Pavin. ‘The Ignatov killing has a separate dossier, annotated where there are provable links with those in America: the names of known criminals in Serov’s papers is the obvious illustration. Those annotations are picked up by cross-referencing, one dossier to another, and additionally held in the full index. That way, by daily maintaining the system, it is possible to move in sequential order through each separate file it controls. The master also contains all ministry and interdepartmental communications.’
The two government officials appeared to have withdrawn, leaving the questioning to the trained lawyer. Danilov was uneasy at the prosecutorial questioning. Why? he thought again. He had the sudden fear Pavin was being edged towards a concession, but couldn’t think what th
ere was to concede.
Smolin went briefly back to where he had first been sitting, picked up several sheets of paper, and carried them back to Danilov and Pavin. ‘These will be indexed, like everything else?’
Danilov had never seen any of them before.
The sheets were all dated on the fifteenth of the month, the day Ignatov’s body was found in the river. The first was a memorandum from Vladimir Kabalin, acknowledging his appointment as senior investigator into the murder of Ivan Ignatsevich Ignatov and suggesting to the Director that because of the man’s existing knowledge and involvement, Major Yuri Pavin be seconded as operational scene-of-crime officer at the river bank, in addition to Aleksai Raina, to organise all the necessary and essential routine. There was a reply, signed by Metkin, agreeing. A third sheet, from Kabalin to Pavin, contained detailed instructions that the entire area be sealed for scientific examination.
Danilov felt satisfaction, the first of a switchback of emotions he was to experience that day, sweep over him. He’d taken just the right precautions, without knowing why, to expose this whole charade as the evidence tampering it was. He remained utterly impassive, handing page after page to Pavin in the order in which he’d read them. Danilov knew Pavin was apprehensively respectful of authority, and would be awed in the presence of ranked officialdom, being questioned by the Federal Prosecutor; he ached for a way to let the man know there was no danger.
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