Brian Freemantle - In the Name of a Killer

It was during the discussion about the press conference that Danilov suggested Kosov should be included. The General was clearly surprised at the idea of sharing the credit. Finding no discomfort in perpetuating the prepared account, Danilov pointed out that it had been Kosov’s officers who had apprehended Petr Yezhov, although the criminal investigation branch had already isolated the man as a potential suspect: it was right that the participation of a uniformed division should be acknowledged. Lapinsk, prepared to concede anything in his relief that the matter was practically over, said he didn’t have any objection. He added that he thought Danilov was extremely generous.

Danilov drove personally and alone to the Militia station, taking the chance of Kosov being there by not telephoning in advance. Kosov was there. He kept Danilov waiting over thirty minutes, which Danilov did patiently, and finally had him make his own way up to the third-floor office, which again Danilov did without offence.

Kosov was in his shirt-sleeves, collar unbuttoned. There was a glass on his desk, generously filled with what could have been either cognac or whisky. He drank pointedly from it as Danilov entered, but didn’t offer anything to Danilov.

‘You wanted to see me?’

The hostility would have been a useful barrier to use, to avoid the still postponed evening with Kosov and Larissa, Danilov reflected. He located his own chair, just inside the door, and brought it further into the room. ‘We’re still waiting for positive forensic evidence but circumstantially it looks as if he’s the right man.’

‘I didn’t doubt that he was.’

‘No one seems to be doubting it. There’s going to be another press conference.’ The office was unrecognizable as the room he had once occupied. There was thick, wall-to-wall carpeting, colour-coordinated with the curtains. The desk was of a heavy, dark wood with a leather inlaid top. A matching, glass-fronted bureau occupied most of one side of the room and the chair in which Kosov sat was dark wood, too, although the upholstery was button-backed red leather. It all reminded Danilov of Gugin’s office, at the Lubyanka. There was a photograph of Larissa on Kosov’s desk. She looked very beautiful.

‘I heard.’ Kosov sipped from his drink.

‘I hardly think it would be fair for all that you did to go unrecorded,’ flattered Danilov. ‘I’ve spoken to the General. He agrees you should appear at the conference.’

Kosov’s demeanour softened almost visibly: he actually began to smile before remembering his anger at the way the other man had treated him at his own Militia station and quickly clearing the expression. ‘Appearing with whom?’

‘Myself and the American. The General. Smolin, the Federal Prosecutor. I don’t know if there’s going to be anyone else. I suppose there could be someone from one of the Ministries.’

Kosov was finding it difficult not to smile. ‘It will be a big affair then?’

‘Certainly as big as the first one. International, of course. All the American media. World media, in fact. I hope you’ll be able to make it. You — your station here — deserve the recognition. It’s entirely a matter for you, of course.’

‘There should be recognition, of what my officers did,’ said Kosov, appearing to believe the tidied-up version himself.

‘That’s what I feel.’

‘I could probably get there.’

‘General Lapinsk will be very pleased.’

Kosov held up his glass. ‘It’s whisky. From Scotland. Would you like some?’

‘Please,’ Danilov accepted, although he didn’t particularly like whisky.

The liquor was in the bottom of the bureau, where the glass finished and cupboards began. There was an expansive array of bottles. Kosov carried the whisky back to his desk and poured from there. ‘What, exactly, would I have to do?’

‘Appear, with the rest of us. Explain how the arrest came about. Say how you and your officers had been on the look-out, after my request for assistance.’

Kosov nodded. ‘That’s all true,’ he said, easily.

‘It’s agreed then?’

‘Absolutely.’

Danilov gestured around the office. ‘Quite a few changes.’

‘Just made it more comfortable. Personal touches.’

‘I met an old friend the other day.’

‘Old friend?’

‘Someone I introduced you to, before I left. Eduard Agayans.’

Kosov frowned, and Danilov believed that briefly the other man genuinely had difficulty in recalling the name. Then the frown cleared and Kosov said: ‘I didn’t keep in touch, after a while.’

‘He’s encountering difficulties, with his business.’

‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘He says some organized syndicates are crowding him out: not letting him operate although there’s business enough for everyone.’

‘I would have thought your division would have known all about organized syndicates,’ said Kosov. He got up from behind his desk and waddled forward, topping Danilov’s glass.

‘We do,’ declared Danilov. The other man could not have volunteered a better opening.

Kosov resumed his seat, serious-faced. ‘You mean there’s an official investigation being started?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet?’

Danilov shrugged. ‘It’s a question of degree, I suppose. If a problem becomes too flagrant, something has to be done about it. Things are very public in Russia now, because of the freedoms. There’s public debate, in newspapers and magazines, about a lot of things that never used to be openly discussed. You’ve seen that for yourself, surely?’

Kosov nodded, remaining serious. ‘How comprehensive would any investigation be?’

‘I would imagine that if one is initiated it will be fairly extensive,’ Danilov suggested. ‘I get the feeling quite a lot of attention is being concentrated on it: there’s already open talk within the Serious Crime Squads. Some reluctance, I think. Some people have special friends they don’t want upset.’

‘Has any particular syndicate been named?’

‘Not that I’ve heard.’

‘Was Agayans a particular friend of yours?’

‘We had an understanding. I liked him.’

‘It’s unfortunate, when one’s friends get inconvenienced.’

‘I couldn’t agree more.’

‘It was some of my friends who got Yezhov.’

‘I know. I’ll always be grateful.’

‘I would appreciate knowing a name — or names — if you hear anything.’

‘Of course. I’d like to ensure things aren’t made difficult for Agayans, of course. It seems he’s suffered enough.’

‘Maybe I could speak to some of my friends: see if they know anything about Agayans’s problems.’

‘I’m sure he’d appreciate that.’

‘And you will let me know, about any names?’

‘I guarantee it.’

‘I suppose I should wear my uniform for the press conference?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’m looking forward to it.’

‘I was sure you would.’

Cowley’s feeling was not of anticlimax, but there seemed an emptiness about the days, a hiatus between the satisfaction of making an arrest and the finality of a positive conclusion. With time to analyse all that had happened, he realistically accepted that in an American court the circumstantial evidence would almost certainly be dismissed as insufficient to bring charges against Petr Yezhov, irrespective of any ruling about the man’s mental condition. And from Danilov he knew the psychiatrist’s opinion that the mental condition almost definitely precluded any clinching confession. Which put the proof of guilt, however the case was going to be closed, entirely upon forensic findings either from here or from Washington: he’d expected the American results sooner, although he knew from the daily discussion with Pennsylvania Avenue that what had gone back was being examined virtually fibre by fibre. At least he’d been promised preliminary guidance before the press conference he had been authorized to attend.