Brian Freemantle: No Time for Heroes

‘You any idea of the pressure you put me under?’ demanded Kosov.

‘You told me several times.’ The man was becoming more coherent, although repetitive.

‘What’s Antipov said?’

‘There’ve been a lot of interviews.’

‘That isn’t an answer! I can’t work with you like this! I need to know!’

‘He’s talked about a lot of things. It comes down to what is presented to the authorities and what isn’t.’ Danilov liked the sound of it, believing it would be as good when he repeated it later. From the surroundings, he recognised they were coming into the district regarded as the Chechen slice of Moscow. He hoped the journey would soon end.

‘So he’s named names?’

They’d undoubtedly question Kosov independently. So there was benefit at this stage in the man believing he knew just how serious it could be for his paymasters. ‘He’s named everyone he knows.’

The only initial sound was a wheezing intake of breath. ‘This is terrible!’

‘Didn’t I tell you everything was taking a lot of planning?’

‘Did he name me? Had he heard of my connection?’

‘No,’ said Danilov, which was the truth.

This time there was a relieved sigh. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘Not panic,’ insisted Danilov. ‘There’s a way.’

‘What way?’

‘I need to talk it through, with the others.’

‘Tell me! Aren’t we working on this as partners?’

No, thought Danilov: nor would they work as partners on anything, ever. ‘I’ve got to judge their attitude before deciding what is possible and what isn’t.’

The hitherto unseen monitoring cars swept by, light flashing, and Danilov recognised they had arrived. He recognised where, too. The cafe was hidden in an unexpected loop off Glovin Bol’soj, little more than an indentation in the line of houses, and was not as secure as the club to which he had been first taken. The only similarity was that it was in a basement, with a receptionist behind a small desk, this one not revealing as much cleavage.

The same gold-bedecked man was at a table just inside the actual restaurant. He began to rise when he saw Danilov, who shook his head in warning refusal: the bull finished getting to his feet, but didn’t approach for a body search. A sign of concern, judged Danilov: they were letting him play his independence game. He was still glad he’d again refused the urging of Pavin and Cowley to wear a body microphone, which apart from risking everything would have picked up any reference to incriminating photographs.

The guard slotted in directly behind as Danilov passed, following him through the restaurant. It was a long, corridor-style room: Danilov guessed the doors to the kitchens, creating a break halfway along, formed the division between genuine customers intentionally positioned in the front and Chechen people in the booths at the rear. A group of intruders could not, unopposed, make the sort of still unsolved firebomb attack mounted in the last week or so on the suspected Ostankino restaurant in Ulitza Moskina: innocent people, unwittingly forming a human barrier, would be hurt or maimed, but the Chechen could escape through either the kitchens or the rear, with minimal casualties.

In the booth closest to the doors to the private dining facilities, Danilov recognised two of the men who had sat guard at the separate table at Pecatnikov. He smiled at them. They ignored him. Before he reached them, one disappeared through a central door, re-emerging almost at once and holding it open for Danilov to enter. Danilov didn’t turn to check, but he had no impression of Kosov entering behind him.

Apart from Gusovsky and Yerin the room, set with four other tables, was empty. Again there was no evidence of any food before either man, although there was a wine bottle and two already filled glasses. As Danilov sat, Gusovsky poured wine into the third.

‘We’ve been trying to make contact,’ announced Gusovsky. The overlarge dentures were displayed in a supposed smile.

‘I’ve been busy,’ said Danilov. There really wasn’t a lot to say, but they had to be too frightened at the end even to begin thinking clearly. He knew they would be.

‘We know,’ said Yerin. ‘Why was Mikhail Antipov arrested?’

‘Because you used a careless man,’ said Danilov. ‘Which I warned you about. Antipov made mistakes: dropped clues that couldn’t be missed. He had to be arrested.’

‘We didn’t begin well last time,’ said Gusovsky. ‘We want to establish our relationship properly tonight. That’s what we’re meeting for, isn’t it?’

‘I hope so,’ said Danilov. The humility must have taken a supreme effort of will from the emaciated man.

‘We’re concerned about the mistakes Antipov has made,’ conceded Yerin, in his carefully enunciated tones. ‘Not just before but after his arrest.’

‘You should be.’

‘Please don’t be so aggressive,’ said the blind man.

‘I want you to understand how serious it is, for you…’ Danilov hesitated. ‘… Personally serious.’

Gusovsky topped up Danilov’s glass. ‘That’s precisely what we want to understand.’

‘He’s named you: both of you. Zimin too, obviously. Told me everything he knows, in fact. Hierarchy, structure, at least twenty other names. All your locations of which he’s aware. Rackets. What the operations are. Identified hits you’ve ordered. With his evidence – and what could come out in Italy – the Chechen won’t exist any more. You two – and a lot of others – could go to jail for life. You’d be finished.’ Danilov supposed he was in the Federal Prosecutor’s position, the previous day: looking at the truth through the turned-around telescope. And it was the truth: in his panic to mitigate what might happen to him, Antipov had talked of every one of those things, in as much detail as he knew. Knowing he had to swamp them with a lot of that detail to satisfy them he did know, Danilov gave examples, selecting three murders – of other Mafia members – at random and itemising airport heists and hotels where they ran the prostitutes, taking particular care to include Lena Zurov to let them know their photographic blackmail had been further reduced.

They were swamped. So completely that, when Danilov finished, Gusovsky turned speechless for response to the blind Yerin, seeming to have forgotten the sightless man could not see the gesture.

It was Yerin who did speak, recovering first. ‘You’ve come here.’

‘Yes.’

‘“Told me,”’ echoed Yerin, verbatim, having identified another qualification in what Danilov had said.

‘Yes,’ agreed Danilov. The blind man was very definitely the cleverer of the two Mafia chiefs.

‘“ Could go to jail for life,”’ continued to isolate the other man.

‘Yes,’ said Danilov, for the third time.

‘So it could all be avoided?’ said Yerin.

‘I think so,’ declared Danilov simply.

Tension eased from both men, as if the too-taut wires supporting them had been slightly relaxed. ‘You’d better tell us how,’ said Gusovsky. The resonant voice was still hoarse, from the shock of all he had been told.

‘It wasn’t possible for Antipov to tell us all he did, at one session,’ said Danilov, embarking on the unchallengeable lies. ‘It took a long time: one of the many reasons I couldn’t come any sooner. I was careful, how the interviews were conducted. It would be extremely easy to prepare Antipov’s final confession in a selective way.’

Gusovsky smiled in understanding. ‘How selective?’

‘He has to go before a court. There has to be public satisfaction in America that the murders there have been solved and the killer convicted. But neither of you need personally be mentioned. We could cut out a lot of the other names, too. And most of the detail. It was the Ostankino who were involved with Serov and Paulac, not you. That Family could be substituted, a lot of the time…’