Brian Freemantle: No Time for Heroes

Again the conversation was split between the two Chechen leaders. Directly to the American, Yerin repeated, with chilling casualness, the threats against anyone who talked openly in any court, and insisted Cowley made it clear during any pre-trial interviews in the future, with anyone involved. With businesslike practicality, he demanded how and where Cowley wanted his money paid. It was one part of the encounter Cowley and Danilov had rehearsed: Cowley said he thought he’d keep it in Switzerland, as Danilov intended to, and would let them know the bank details when they were fixed. He responded well aware the posturing was beginning again: they were going to make him and Danilov plead for the photographs.

‘Part of our arrangement is to begin today?’ he said. He didn’t resent appearing to beg: he was going to get more enjoyment out of the game than they were, although they didn’t know it yet.

‘For both of us,’ came in Danilov, accepting like the American they were expected to demean themselves, despite the business-together shit. He was as unoffended as Cowley, sure now the final victory was theirs.

From the guessed-at recess beneath the table where they always sat Gusovsky took two sealed manila folders, one thicker than the other: he pushed the thicker towards Cowley, saying: ‘You’ll want to ensure every negative corresponds with a print?’

‘No,’ said Danilov. ‘We trust each other, don’t we?’

Picking up on their own double act, Cowley said: ‘We’re partners now.’

Gusovsky said: ‘This is forgotten by us: we regret it. We hope it is forgotten by you.’

‘Entirely,’ said Danilov. No, he thought.

‘Completely,’ said Cowley. No, he thought.

‘The sort of misunderstanding that arises sometimes in business,’ said Yerin. the false apologies all part of the affectation.

Cowley thought there was a lot adopted from Hollywood: except that in Hollywood the players were acting. These two – one who appeared to be dying from some wasting disease, the other a white-eyed blind man – weren’t acting but were, literally, deadly serious: they could still have stepped from the screen of any Mafia movie he’d ever seen. Or any parody of one.

Hands came out and were shaken. Gusovsky’s grasp was cold, like lifeless people were cold: Yerin’s hold was warm, cloying.

‘I’m worried about the money,’ said Danilov.

‘You’ve no need to be,’ said Yerin.

‘I meant getting control, from Switzerland. It’s got to be exactly right.’

‘It’s already being done.’

‘Don’t let us down,’ said Danilov.

‘Don’t let you down!’ said Gusovsky.

‘Don’t let either of us let anybody down,’ said Cowley. ‘We’re just anxious to make everything work out as it should.’

‘The replacement Founder’s Certificate will be presented at the opening of trading tomorrow,’ assured Gusovsky.

‘That’s perfect,’ said Danilov, for the satisfaction of Cowley and himself.

‘A week from now you’ll be rich!’ said Yerin.

‘A week from now we’ll all be rich,’ said Cowley. ‘And getting richer in the future.’

Danilov took a meandering route when they left, at first with no direction at all, in the first few moments actually checking to see if they would be followed from Glovin Bol’soj. He didn’t detect any shadowing cars.

‘Well?’ Danilov demanded of the slumped American beside him. ‘You’ve met your first dons.’

‘Yes.’

Danilov frowned sideways. ‘Well?’ he insisted again.

‘They’re real!’ said Cowley, as if the discovery surprised him.

‘Of course they are,’ accepted Danilov.

‘They’ll kill you,’ said Cowley. There’s no way they won’t kill you. They’ll have to.’

‘They won’t be able to,’ said Danilov. ‘You won’t be with me next time. But you were today. So you can identify them. Know what it’s all about. And you’ll hold all the proof.’

‘That won’t be enough, you crazy bastard!’

‘Yes it will.’

Danilov became aware of where they were when he drove past the Botanickeskiy Sad metro and at once took the side road to the Botanical Gardens. Each had travelled with their sealed envelope in their lap. Danilov opened his, looking down with renewed sadness at the woman he was about to abandon. The photograph Gusovsky had produced as a threat was the best, but there were two other shots taken from slightly different angles: she appeared bemused but very happy in each. There were two sets, as well as the negatives.

Cowley, beside him, hadn’t opened his package.

‘Shouldn’t you look?’ prompted Danilov.

‘I’ve seen them.’

‘Not the negatives.’

Almost uninterestedly, Cowley eased the flap open. He didn’t extract what was inside, merely parting the contents with his fingers. ‘They’re here.’

‘There’s rubbish bins in the park,’ said Danilov.

The American followed Danilov inside the gardens and watched while he made a bonfire in an empty metal basket of the photographs of Olga in the Nightflight club. Just before the fire died, Cowley extracted the contents of his own envelope and fed them one by one to the flames. The negatives were last, causing the biggest flare. Towards the end several people stopped on the pathways to look curiously at them.

‘How many copies do you think they will have kept?’ said Cowley, as they walked back to the Volga.

‘A set or two,’ accepted Danilov. ‘They might have kept a negative back, from the prints they supplied to you in the first place.’

‘They will kill you,’ insisted Cowley.

‘You’re my guarantee,’ repeated Danilov, just as insistently.

‘What if they release the photographs out of sheer revenge?’

‘Then we both die,’ said Danilov, with courage he didn’t feel. ‘Just in different ways.’

The government lawyer, Vladimir Olenev, was a small, bespectacled man thrust into unusual circumstances and made nervous by them. He was waiting in the foyer of the Foreign Ministry with a briefcase held before him in both arms, and after he got into the Volga with Danilov and Raisa Serova he remained with it clutched in his lap. The lawyer looked intently at Raisa, knowing what she had almost succeeded in doing: she stared back at him until Olenev became embarrassed and looked away.

The woman had still not been formally released from custody, but as always looked as if she was about to step out on to a model’s catwalk. Danilov wondered how she had managed to get her change of clothes and kept it uncreased. Her immediate demand, when he had collected her from the women’s detention centre on Ulitza Bucher, had been about Yasev. Danilov, who hadn’t seen the man since their last interview, said Yasev was all right, as far as he knew. Politely, no longer arrogant, she asked if she could be allowed to see him. Danilov, who supposed her detention would end after she had completed the surrender of the anstalt that day, said he thought it would be possible.

There was even less room in the car when they picked up Cowley from the embassy. Olenev’s uncertainty worsened in the presence of the American. There was nothing for any of them to talk about and they travelled out to Sheremet’yevo in virtual silence. Danilov supposed he was officially Raisa’s escort, so he sat beside her on the flight. She refused anything to eat or drink and spoke only once, asking when a decision was going to be made about herself and Yasev. Danilov said very soon, once the Swiss-held money was returned.

The smiling Paul Jackson was waiting for them at Geneva airport, fortunately in a larger embassy car than the Volga. The local FBI man at once congratulated Danilov on the valour award and made a remark about his being one of them now: Raisa frowned questioningly, but didn’t ask.