No Time for Heroes

by Brian Freemantle

  ‘This is a surprise?’ invited Danilov, still seeking guidance.

  ‘I wanted the American to come, but he wasn’t at the hotel when Yevgennie telephoned,’ said Larissa.

  Cowley wouldn’t have been included if this were going to be honest declaration time! Danilov began to relax.

  Kosov went into his usual performance with French champagne, flustering them, glasses in hand, into chairs and saying it really was like old times and they should do things on the spur of the moment more often. Olga said she thought so, too. Danilov let the small talk swirl around him. He and Larissa managed uninterrupted looks several times.

  Danilov expected Kosov very quickly to raise the subject of the investigation, but he didn’t, not immediately. Instead, showing a depth of argument that surprised Danilov, he started discussing the increasing strength of the resurgent local-level Communist cadres, demanding Danilov’s opinion on whether it was an unstable reaction to the failure of supposed democracy, or whether Danilov believed it would be enough to reverse the fragile reforms and still uncertain changes. Danilov replied that the dismantling of the former order had gone too far to be turned back, and that it was unthinkable any of the newly independent republics would now consider anything more than the loosest of trade links. He added he was worried about the political frailty of Russia itself, which he was.

  Both women became bored by the conversation – Danilov wondered if that hadn’t been Kosov’s intention – and started to gossip between themselves, and when Larissa talked of preparing the meal Olga volunteered to help. Kosov sent them off with refilled champagne glasses, switching to whisky himself.

  ‘I think the old ways are too ingrained,’ declared Kosov, resuming their debate. ‘I agree there will be changes at the political top but it will all be cosmetic, to impress foreign financiers. Real things aren’t going to alter. There are too many people who don’t know any other way: don’t want to know any other way.’

  Danilov recognised the familiar favour-for-favour argument. ‘It would change – not quickly but eventually and inevitably – if people demanded it.’

  ‘But they don’t,’ insisted Kosov. ‘People only know the one way things work … understand it. That’s how they want it to go on …’

  It was a bigoted, fallacious opinion, decided Danilov. ‘Work for some people. Not for all: not enough. Which was, after all, what the revolution was supposed to be all about.’

  ‘Starry-eyed ideology,’ sneered Kosov.

  The man personified all that had been wrong in the past, Danilov thought: and now, in the present. Kosov had even joined the Communist Party to get this apartment and whatever other privileges were available to members, not from any political persuasion. ‘It’ll come, in time.’ He wished the women would come back, no matter how inconsequential their conversation.

  ‘Too late for me to benefit. Or you. Not that you benefit enough: not like you once did.’

  Danilov now bitterly regretted following the inviolable rules in his uniformed days. It put him at a disadvantage with the other man: let Kosov know that despite his new-found and despised honesty, he’d operated like everyone else in the past. Was stained like they were stained: the same as them, which he didn’t want to be, ever again. ‘What’s that mean?’ he demanded directly.

  ‘Just a remark,’ shrugged Kosov. He topped up Danilov’s glass, adding whisky to his own.

  ‘It sounded as if you were making a point,’ pressed Danilov. He wasn’t drinking any more.

  Kosov came back to him, smiling. ‘You’re missing out on a lot. I don’t have to tell you that.’

  ‘So why are you telling me?’

  This time there were no words with the shrug. Kosov sat, seeming to find something of interest in the glass he cupped in both hands, swirling the drink around and around. He wasn’t actually drinking, either.

  ‘Is it you telling me?’ Danilov persisted. ‘Or are you expressing the views of other people you think I should take seriously?’ He was being approached! By whom? For what?

  The shrug came again, like the automatic reflex of a boxer warding off a clumsy blow, but with no proper answer. Instead there was a question. ‘You really think you’re going to solve your famous crimes?’

  ‘Yes,’ Danilov exaggerated. How to keep the man talking? That’s ail he had to do, keep him talking.

  Kosov shook his head. ‘Don’t be so naive, Dimitri Ivanovich! I’m your friend! Trust me!’

  ‘Perhaps I would, if I could understand what you’re saying.’

  ‘You survived at the Bureau, when you weren’t supposed to: won, even. The directorship could unquestionably be yours, like it should have been the first time, if people were sure of you.’

  That reply didn’t help Danilov. Who was Kosov speaking for? One of the Mafia Families, or someone within the government operating in collusion with organised crime? The Ministry confrontation and the tribunal enquiry hadn’t been disclosed, yet Kosov was showing knowledge far beyond rumour. That awareness didn’t help answer the question either. But it suddenly made Kosov a very important person, although not for the reasons the man would have welcomed. ‘So I’m getting a message?’ Come on! thought Danilov, anxiously.

  ‘A personal opinion.’

  Bollocks, thought Danilov: wrong to try too soon for specifics. He had to keep the conversation general and try to find the path to follow, ‘I can’t compromise on this. There’s the American involvement: the need to satisfy outsiders.’

  ‘Cowley follows where you lead: he doesn’t direct the investigation. What can’t be solved can’t be solved.’

  What had there been so far positively to understand? He hadn’t been expected to survive Metkin’s attack. But he had. So now they – whoever they were – were worried: seeking that special sort of Russian agreement to prevent the inquiry into Ivan Ignatov’s murder reaching a legal conclusion. Why this approach so quickly? Had he or Cowley or Pavin missed something? Was there evidence they’d overlooked demanding to be recognised? What more? Kosov himself. Danilov knew the man had taken the favour-for-favour lifestyle of a Militia district commander far beyond the hand-over introductions he himself had made: at the level of those introductions there weren’t horse-choking wads of dollars, cocktail cabinets full of imported liquor and brand new BMWs with neons of dashboard lights. But he’d never imagined Kosov ascending to this echelon, speaking on behalf of the Mafia or high officials in government or both. Remembering Kosov’s enjoyment of flattery, Danilov said, without too much hyperbole: ‘I am impressed, Yevgennie Grigorevich.’

  Kosov gave a self-satisfied smile, sipping his whisky at last. ‘It’s important, to have influential friends. Like I said, it’s the system everyone knows how to use.’

  ‘So you were asked to make an approach?’ suggested Danilov, risking directness again.

  Another shrug. ‘The friendship between you and me is known.’

  Danilov shifted, momentarily uncomfortable. What about his friendship with Larissa? ‘You know you can trust me, Yevgennie Grigorevich? That this conversation won’t be repeated to anyone.’

  ‘What conversation?’

  ‘Quite so,’ accepted Danilov. Trying to keep his tone conversational, he said: ‘Tell me about thern: about the Chechen and the Ostankino? About all the Families.’

  There was an immediate frown, and Danilov angrily recognised he’d gone too far. Kosov shook his head, either in denial or refusal, and said: ‘You could be director, you know.’

  ‘I haven’t thought about it,’ Danilov encouraged. ‘Too much has been happening.’

  ‘With certain additions, at the top,’ said Kosov.

  Danilov believed he knew what the other man was implying, but the proposition was so preposterous he refused to assume it, wanting Kosov to say the words. ‘Additions at the top?’

  ‘Don’t you think we’d make a great team?’ invited Kosov.

  It was preposterous. An absurd, ridiculous, preposterous joke! Danilov could not think of anyo
ne with whom he would less like to be linked, professionally. At once came a sobering realisation. Was it so absurdly ridiculous? If Kosov had the government influence suggested by this conversation, couldn’t the man be imposed upon the Bureau: become its director, even! He said: ‘It’s never occurred to me.’

  ‘I think it’s time I moved on,’ insisted Kosov, his voice matter-of-fact, as if the decision had already been reached. ‘I’ve been in charge of a district a long time.’

  With Kosov at Petrovka, the Bureau would become entirely organised for crime. ‘Have you discussed it, with anyone else?’

  The head shake came once more. ‘All this business has to be resolved …’ Heavily, Kosov added: ‘Resolved properly. Time enough to talk about other things after that.’

  Danilov was abruptly seized by a fierce anger, concerned it would show in his face. What right had this fucking man – this arrogant, bombastic, crooked man – to sit and patronise him like this, virtually telling him what to do, practically with a fingersnap! Almost at once, objective man that he was, Danilov brought in the balancing thought. They’d made a mistake, like putting the buried-in-the-past, inefficient Metkin in charge of the Bureau. But this time it was a much more serious error. They’d declared themselves, through Kosov, given him and Cowley the opening for which they had been looking. He’d have to cultivate Kosov, like the rarest plant in the greenhouse. Honestly, Danilov said: ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about.’

  ‘I’m glad.’

  Any further discussion was prevented by the women’s return, for which Danilov was grateful, because he could not think of anything more to say at that stage. Larissa got him into the kitchen on the pretext of carrying something in while Olga was setting the table and Kosov was opening wine.

  ‘You looked terrified when you arrived!’

  ‘I thought you’d said something.’

  ‘I’m going to, soon.’

  ‘We both are,’ promised Danilov.

  ‘I’m working split shifts next week. Free every afternoon.’

  ‘What about evenings?’

  Larissa frowned. ‘Not until the very end of the week. Why?’

  ‘We were supposed to be doing something with Cowley again.’ He had already thought of a possible way to use Kosov: ironically, it was prompted by what he hadn’t been allowed to do earlier.

  ‘I was thinking about the two of us!’ said Larissa, offended.

  ‘I was thinking about seeing you twice,’ escaped Danilov.

  Danilov suggested going out with Cowley again when they were all around the table. Kosov agreed at once and Olga said she’d like it, too. Pointedly, she added this time perhaps they’d go to a nightclub, and Kosov agreed to that, as well.

  On their way back to Kirovskaya Olga said: ‘It was a good evening, wasn’t it?’

  ‘One of the best I can remember,’ said Danilov.

  Cowley had not slept at all. For a long time, not until nearly dawn, he didn’t even undress, repelled by getting into the bed featured in the photographs. Which he finally accepted as infantile, eventually lying down to rest at least. By that time his mind had stretched to the outer reaches of every emotion, from astonishment at how easily he had been trapped, through abject shame, to the inevitable, unavoidable consequence. He was destroyed. His only course now, to leave the splintered investigation with any sort of integrity, was to give Washington the fullest humiliating account, pouch the compromising photographs personally to Leonard Ross, and tender his immediate resignation before the blackmail demand was made.

  That remained his intention for several hours, until the word sacrifice began to recur in his mind. He would, of course, have to resign. But if he did it at once whoever had set him up – which had, obviously, to be a group or a person fearful of everything being solved – had won, probably destroying not just him but the whole two-nation enquiry.

  He wouldn’t let that happen.

  The determination burned through Cowley, the most fervent vow he ever made. He would destroy them as they destroyed him: bring them down with him. He’d make himself the knowing bait, pressing on with the investigation, getting closer and closer until they became worried enough to make their demand. He could do it: had to do it. He’d supervised three blackmail cases during his career, before specialising in Russian affairs, and got convictions in every one. He knew the bargaining and the ploys, when to force the strong arguments and when to appear to capitulate. And he would always have an advantage. They would believe themselves superior, dealing with a man terrified of exposure and losing his career. Which he had already decided was lost anyway. It would be a final if pyrrhic victory.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Danilov telephoned Pavin from Kirovskaya that he was making an enquiry on his way in, impatient to get to Cowley’s hotel. His enthusiasm faltered at the sight of the American, who was grey-faced; the skin sagged under his eyes, which were vague, without focus. He looked distracted, exhausted.

  ‘You don’t look well.’

  ‘I slept badly.’ Cowley knew exactly how shitty he looked and didn’t need to be told.

  ‘You sure that’s all it is?’

  ‘You said you had something important,’ urged the American.

  Danilov’s excitement took over. He bustled Cowley into the Volga, picking up the inner ring road but without any destination. Danilov tried to keep the account coherent, interspersing the actual conversation of the previous night with his impressions, but several times the American had to intrude with a question, fully to comprehend. Towards the end Cowley forced aside the eroding depression and the aching fatigue, recognising this possibly to be the biggest break so far, and one they certainly needed.

  ‘It was obvious Kosov was on the take,’ Cowley agreed.

  ‘But not to this extent,’ qualified Danilov. He hadn’t admitted that at uniform level he’d also been a willing player. He didn’t intend to, if he could avoid it: he very much wanted the American’s professional respect.

  ‘What’s your guess?’

  ‘I don’t want to guess. I want to find out, definitely. And I want you to help me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You broke a New York Family with some impressive bugging, particularly in cars. That car is Kosov’s status symbol. He’ll do business from it: maybe enough for us to go further forward.’

  ‘You still don’t intend telling everyone officially?’

  ‘More determined than ever not to.’

  ‘It’s your neck.’ Cowley slightly lowered the window, for air.

  ‘You said that already.’

  ‘We had a hell of a Task Force, on the New York operation. With local police back-up. We couldn’t create an organisation like that here. Definitely not if we’re working virtually solo. Which we are.’

  ‘We could do the car, surely?’ insisted Danilov.

  Cowley nodded, but doubtfully. ‘We couldn’t guarantee the reception unless we established a permanently close tail. Which we can’t. So the strength of the signal will vary enormously. We wouldn’t get everything.’

  ‘I don’t want everything: just enough!’

  ‘We could connect the transmitter to a receiver in the embassy,’ suggested Cowley. Deciding their co-operation was sufficient, he added: ‘There’s a man there who could monitor.’ It would provide something more practical for Stephen Snow to do than relaying messages.

  ‘I’ve already suggested another evening. Kosov’s bound to insist we use the BMW.’

  ‘We’ll be fucked if he doesn’t.’

  ‘We’ll keep on until he does,’ said Danilov, refusing to be put off.

  ‘The Bureau have a hell of a range of equipment,’ offered the American. ‘If I ask for it today we should get it by tomorrow’s pouch: allow an extra day, just in case there’s a difficulty. So fix the evening any time after that.’ If the eavesdropping had any practical success, whoever had the photographs would hit on him with the blackmail. How long before the ignominious disgrace? A week? A fortn
ight? As long as a month? To whom would the pictures be released? The embassy was an obvious guess; the Bureau in Washington, as a long shot. Either would be contained internally, certainly after his instant resignation. What about a public leak, to newspapers? There were enough permanent American bureaux in Moscow, all listed in the telephone book. And the censor-free Muscovite press. Cowley didn’t think any of the pictures could be published, but they wouldn’t have to be: they could be described in print in sufficient detail and innuendo. So he would become a public as well as a private laughing stock. Pauline would hear or read what had happened: know he hadn’t changed in any way. He hated the idea of Pauline knowing most of all. He’d been drunk and tricked by a whore and was going to be destroyed by it. And it was no-one’s fault but his own.

  ‘How about Friday?’ suggested Danilov. ‘We’ll need to familiarise ourselves.’

  ‘Friday’s good,’ agreed Cowley. He was silent as Danilov made the connecting loop, to return them along the peripheral road. Then he said: ‘Kosov’s your friend. Larissa, too?’

  Danilov darted a quick look across the car. ‘He replaced me, when I got out of uniform. Things kind of grew from there.’ Only because of Larissa, he thought.

  ‘It’s never easy, turning in a dirty cop. Particularly if he’s your friend.’ Why had the Russian jumped like that?

  ‘No,’ agreed Danilov. He hadn’t thought yet of the personal implications, but he started now.

  ‘Maybe something could be worked out. If he’s not definitely involved – just a conduit – maybe it could be dealt with discreetly? A quiet retirement.’ Which was the best he could hope for, realised Cowley. He was thinking more about himself than about a corrupt Militiaman.

  Everyone goes for compromise, accepted Danilov. ‘He’s more than a conduit: messengers don’t drive brand new German cars. At the least, he might be withholding information about a murder.’ So Kosov would have to be arrested and charged, unless it were stopped by higher authority. Wasn’t it obvious Kosov would try to bargain with accusations about his own past? And it wasn’t just the criminal investigation. What would Kosov do when he and Larissa made their announcement? The euphoria Danilov had felt began to leak away.