Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘Antipov will have to be killed before any trial,’ said Gusovsky conversationally. ‘We obviously can’t take the chance of his staying alive. Danilov will have to organise that, the moment he’s taken the money and committed himself: he’ll have to arrange for the bastard to be held where we can most easily get to him.’

‘Let’s hope the Liccio people can get to Zimin, like they say.’

‘That would make it complete, wouldn’t it?’

‘More than complete,’ agreed Yerin. ‘We’ll have won absolutely.’

‘There’s no-one in the world who can’t be bought,’ said Gusovsky, wistfully.

‘Let’s hope there never is,’ said Yerin.

‘You think they want to gloat, having me personally accept photographs of my dick in a whore’s mouth?’

‘Probably,’ accepted Danilov.

‘I’ve never met Mafia dons. Punks, yes. But never dons.’

‘You want to know something?’ said Danilov rhetorically. ‘They frighten the shit out of me.’

‘So what’s it going to be like, later?’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Danilov, still honest. ‘There’s not much they can do.’

‘You don’t know that.’

‘There’s only one way I can go now.’

‘Kosov going to be with us tomorrow?’

Danilov shook his head. ‘He almost wet himself with relief, on the way back. But it was a great recovery. Before we got here, he was making plans for what it was going to be like when he’s transferred and we’re a team.’

‘You any idea until today he was on the sort of deal they talked about with you?’

‘There was the car,’ said Danilov. ‘But no, not really.’

‘It occur to you we could handle this another way?’ asked Cowley, solemn-faced. ‘That we could accept the money?’

‘From the moment it was offered,’ replied Danilov, just as seriously.

‘The Medal of Valour!’ exclaimed Rafferty, reading the FBI internal bulletin. ‘A Russian’s going to get the Medal of Valour. What about us guys who stayed at home and did all the mix-and-match stuff!’

Johannsen grimaced at the apparent resentment. ‘Stayed at home, safe and warm,’ he pointed out. ‘Not sat on our asses in the Sicilian dirt and got shot at with wolf guns.’

Rafferty pulled down the corners of his mouth, apologetically. ‘Just talking, that’s all. Just talking.’

The notification of the award was duplicated to Cowley, who reached Danilov at Petrovka slightly ahead of the official advice from the Foreign Ministry, to which it had been formally communicated by Washington. Cowley made the congratulations light, saying if Danilov kept thinking the way they’d both been doing before they’d parted the previous night, he could be the richest honorary FBI agent in history. The Foreign Ministry message was signed personally by Sergei Vorobie, who along with his congratulations called it an honour of which they were all proud: the information was being released to the press. Danilov telephoned Larissa before Olga with the news. Larissa said it was wonderful and could she tell everyone: Olga asked if it was just a medal or whether a cash award went with it.

During the morning, while he was arranging the following day’s trip to Switzerland with Raisa Serova, congratulatory notes arrived from the Deputy Minister and the Federal Prosecutor. Nikolai Smolin repeated the praise when they spoke, for Danilov to learn that a Foreign Ministry lawyer would accompany him, carrying the Russian documentation in support of the official American release of the Svahbodniy corporation. When Danilov telephoned, Heinrich Bloch said that as well as Cowley, the American side was going to be represented by a legal team from the US embassy in Bern: the small luncheon party he had arranged, prior to the formalities, could now be extended into a small celebration for the American recognition of bravery, of which he’d just heard. He added his congratulations, too.

Despite the interruptions, Danilov still reached the Savoy in time for a drink with the American before they had to go to Glovin Bol’soj. They talked generally about the forthcoming encounter but agreed there was no purpose in the advance preparation that had gone into their interrogations in Rome and Moscow: the last thing they could appear to be doing that day was interrogating anyone. As a worried afterthought, Danilov asked Cowley if he’d fitted himself with any recording apparatus. Cowley said he hadn’t.

On their way to the Mafia restaurant Cowley disclosed Washington were pressing for a return date; he’d vaguely indicated another fortnight, but guessed it could probably be sooner. Danilov had grown so accustomed to spending most of the day and many evenings with the American it was difficult to imagine their not being together much longer. The thought seemed to be with the American, too. He said he looked forward to their meeting in Rome for the eventual trial there, although he guessed the restrictive security under which they would have to live would become a pain in the ass after a while. It reminded him to pass on that David Patton was on day release from hospital: the story was he’d a DEA headquarter’s job when he was fully recovered. Patton had also sent a message of congratulation about the medal, through the embassy. Of them all, it was the one Danilov appreciated most.

Their reception at Glovin Bol’soj was extreme, the courtesy and smiles stopping just inches short of patronage. Cowley decided they did want to gloat, and that all the men who nodded and grinned broadly at him, as he walked through the restaurant to the private rear room, probably had seen the photographs of him with his dick in a whore’s mouth. Lena Zurov had died because of him, Cowley thought, in familiar recrimination. She hadn’t been a whore, despite her profession: she’d been a chosen victim, like he’d been a chosen victim. He was sure he was going to enjoy – savour – what was going to come.

They were ushered into the private salon without the attempted body search of which Danilov had warned the American. A small bar had been installed – which Danilov decided was to provide at least one minder, acting as bartender – and there were elaborate flower arrangements which both investigators thought funereal. There were generous introductions and effusive handshakes. Yerin, sufficiently at home to move around without hint of blindness, offered champagne but announced for Cowley’s benefit there was every American liquor: all Cowley had to do was name it. The American asked for Chivas Regal, not to be awkward but from preference. There were numerous toasts to health and lasting association.

There was sufficient food for a banquet for a starving African nation: a starving Russian nation, for that matter. Beluga caviare formed the centrepiece of the zakuski. There was smoked sturgeon, separate selections of dumplings and mushrooms in sour cream, basturma cured meats, meat-stuffed Siberian pelmini – the Russian ravioli – and chicken and pork shashlik. Again to impress Cowley – and themselves – there was a selection of Californian wines to go with other choices from France and Georgia. Cowley had limited himself to one whisky and took only one glass of wine: toadying to their posturing, he chose Napa Valley chardonnay.

That posturing stopped very positively halfway through the meal: so, too, did most of the eating, both sides impatient with the pretence. Gusovsky called themselves businessmen, and thought there were going to be a lot of business opportunities in the future. From now on each would be mutually dependent upon the other: Cowley was not to imagine his involvement limited to this one occasion. Despite the setback of Italy, links would be formed with American organisations, so what was being established today would be a continuing situation when Cowley returned to America.