Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘Does he speak English?’ demanded Vorobie.

‘I don’t think so,’ said the Bureau Director, lamely.

There were more frowning looks between the three men before Smolin said: ‘There’s no question who should lead this enquiry.’

‘None,’ agreed Oskin, decisively. ‘It will be Dimitri Ivanovich.’ He looked directly at Danilov. ‘Your other duties and responsibilities can be rearranged or reassigned, can’t they?’

‘Quite easily,’ assured Danilov. Despite his depression at Lapinsk’s death, there was still excitement.

‘Then it is decided!’ declared the man.

‘I am to liaise direct with the ministry?’ questioned Danilov, teetering on the edge of insubordination but not really caring.

‘That’s what we want,’ said Oskin.

But far more importantly, what Danilov wanted.

And that was what Vasili Oskin got, throughout the remainder of that first day.

Back at Petrovka Danilov filled in the time until the Russian response had formally been delivered in Washington by dictating to all departments in the building a flurry of copies-to-the-Ministry memoranda, redirecting for the personal attention of the Director the stifling administrative bureaucracy he had created. The first and most important note asked Metkin to circularise every department informing them of his secondment to the American enquiry and ordering his unquestioned right to any assistance he might demand. The second instructed Yuri Pavin to report to the top floor, on permanent assignment. He was to move in all the evidence-collecting material for a major crime, including a secure storage safe the combination of which would be restricted: there would be no difficulty getting one from the supply manager. Separately, by telephone to avoid a traceable record, Danilov asked Pavin for all details of Lapinsk’s death.

In mid-afternoon Metkin used the excuse of personally handing over duplicates of every authorisation Danilov had sought to call Danilov to his office.

‘You regard this as a victory?’ demanded the Director.

‘I don’t believe myself to be in any kind of contest,’ lied Danilov.

Metkin’s wrinkled face was crimson. ‘I was aware of everything going on back there this morning. Don’t think I wasn’t.’

Danilov said nothing: the petulance didn’t deserve a response. But like much else that day there was something to learn from it: from Metkin’s attitude, he was now quite sure none of the three men that morning were his protectors.

‘When this is over you’ll lose your special status,’ threatened Metkin. ‘You will be back under my unquestioned jurisdiction!’

There was the usual delay in the Moscow international exchange, and when it extended into the early evening Danilov was afraid he might have missed the man he wanted because of the time difference between Russia and the United States. But Cowley was still in his Washington office when the connection was finally made.

‘We pressed for it to be you,’ admitted Cowley.

‘I’m glad you did,’ said Danilov sincerely.

That night Cowley went for another walk to Crystal City. The barman recognised him and said it was good to see him again and Cowley said it was good to be back. He began with beer, as before, going on to Wild Turkey after a while. There really was cause to celebrate: it would be good, working with the Russian again. Would he still have the complex about losing his hair? Cowley hoped this time there wouldn’t be the run-arounds they’d had before, neither at first trusting the other, each trying to outdo the other just that little bit. On the third drink he determined, positively, not to try any smart-ass stuff himself. At least, nothing that wasn’t essential.

Because it was a celebration Cowley debated one whiskey more than the previous occasion, but in the end didn’t order it, leaving the bar once again pleased at his self-control.

Whatever, he reflected as he made his way back to Arlington, his enjoyment of booze was not as bad as Pauline had insisted when they were together. Maybe he’d call her. He wasn’t sure he’d know what to say, but he still thought he might try.

The official report into Leonid Lapinsk’s death was unequivocal. The former Director had placed the Makarov against the roof of his mouth and pressed the trigger with his thumb, the print of which was on the trigger. His other fingerprints were on the butt and the barrel. There was no note or anything to indicate why he had done it. His wife, who had been in the apartment at the time and run to the bedroom at the sound of the shot, said her husband had been depressed in recent weeks. She believed it was because of his retirement from the Bureau.

Danilov was equally sure that wasn’t the reason.

The news came in a hurried telephone call from the Petrovka headquarters of the Organised Crime Bureau, just as they were about to eat at the restaurant on Glivin Bol’soj. They impatiently sent the whores they’d chosen for that night outside the private salon, so they could talk.

‘I don’t like it!’ protested Gusovsky.

‘Metkin is still Director,’ placated Yerin. ‘We’ll still know everything that happens.’

‘There could be things we won’t know!’

‘Who’s there to talk?’ asked Yerin rhetorically. ‘Any investigation will be a waste of their time.’

‘What about the old fool’s suicide?’ asked Zimin.

‘He didn’t leave any stupid letters,’ said Yerin. ‘And what would have happened if he had? Nothing.’

Gusovsky nodded in agreement. Lighting another forbidden cigar, he said to Zimin: ‘Call the girls back.’

Zimin hesitated, but only momentarily, then did what he was told.

Using the authority of Sergei Vorobie’s name, which gained him immediate access to whomever he wanted at the Foreign Ministry, Danilov demanded the complete personnel file on Petr Aleksandrovich Serov. Through the ministry he also ordered the man’s office at the Washington embassy to be sealed and to remain untouched until he arrived; he gave the same order for the apartment on Massachusetts Avenue. Knowing there would be a security service presence in the embassy, Danilov repeated the instructions about the office and the flat through the Interior Ministry for relay to Washington, well aware that in the past the old KGB, from which the new organisation had been formed, had regarded itself as beyond edicts from any but their own controllers. And sometimes not even them.

Throughout the telephone conversations Danilov was conscious of the scribbling interest of Ludmilla Radsic at the far end of the room, so when he finished he made it easy for her by dictating records of everything he’d done to create the beginning of Pavin’s meticulous dossier and Metkin’s spy file. Danilov decided the Director would by now be hating Moscow’s direct telephone dialling system, knowing his calls would have been monitored through a general switchboard. From her strained but blank-faced attention during the previous night’s conversation with Cowley, he knew Ludmilla did not understand English. While the woman was preparing the Ministry memoranda, Danilov quietly made his own flight arrangements to Washington and typed his own advisory note to Sergei Vorobie, requesting a final briefing. He did not send a copy to Metkin.

Again because of the attentive secretary, it was not until they were in the car on their way to Leninskaya that Danilov was able to speak openly to Pavin.

‘This has confused everybody,’ said the man, who was driving. ‘People aren’t sure just how strong Metkin’s position is: you caused a lot of upset with all those instructions and changes.’

‘Have you been asked to inform on me?’ demanded Danilov, with subjective cynicism.