Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘I am.’

‘But you haven’t tried to understand how or why he should have been meeting this man?’

‘There is no way I can undersand. It’s a mystery.’

‘Please don’t misconstrue this question,’ warned Danilov in advance. ‘But did your husband have friends or acquaintances you did not know about?’

‘He must have done, mustn’t he? I did not know of this man.’

‘I meant others.’

‘Do you mean women?’

Was he expressing himself badly, or was she making it difficult? ‘I mean do you think, this having happened, that Petr Aleksandrovich knew and met people, male or female, whose acquaintance he kept from you?’

‘It’s possible. If I didn’t know I wouldn’t know, would I? There were things that happened at the embassy which would have involved people I had no right to know about.’

This was becoming a perpetual circle, decided Danilov. ‘Will you be returning to Washington?’

She looked uncertain. ‘I haven’t thought about it. I suppose I shall have to, to close up the apartment.’

Which had been the point of his question: he wanted the chance to get into Massachusetts Avenue before Raisa Serova did. There had been outrage and protests from the Americans at his entering the Moscow apartment of the politician’s niece before them. The angriest outburst had been from the FBI man they’d eventually identified as the killer: they would never have proved it if the man had got there ahead of him. ‘You haven’t made any arrangements?’

‘I thought the funeral would have been first.’ There was a pause before she said: ‘Have you had any contact with American investigators about this?’

‘Very briefly.’

‘What do they say? What do they think?’

‘They don’t have any theories.’

‘The newspapers said you’ve worked with the Americans before?’

‘Yes?’ said Danilov, curiously.

‘Are they good? This man they named, Cowley, is he good?’

‘They have some extremely sophisticated methods of investigation, scientifically. Cowley is a very clever detective.’

Raisa Serova nodded, as if she were receiving confirmation of something she already knew. ‘So they will find the killer?’

‘I would expect so.’

‘Will he die? Be executed, I mean.’

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Danilov. ‘The laws are different, from state to state.’ And the District of Columbia wasn’t a state anyway: he didn’t feel it was necessary to qualify.

Appearing to retreat inside herself, the woman said: ‘I loved him. Now I don’t have him any more.’

The abrupt outburst surprised him. Danilov could not think of anything to say.

‘Maybe, if I had been in Washington, he wouldn’t have had the meeting that night? Wouldn’t have died.’

Danilov was familiar with the ‘what if’ speculation of the bereaved. ‘It happened,’ he said, gently. ‘He’s dead.’

‘Yes.’

Danilov handed her a card: he’d already handwritten on the back the direct number into his new office. ‘If you think of anything, call me.’

Raisa Serova stared down at the card, then up at Danilov. ‘There won’t be anything.’

The Foreign Ministry personnel file on Petr Aleksandrovich Serov was waiting when Danilov returned to Petrovka. It was far more detailed than Danilov had expected. It confirmed, with the years listed consecutively, the postings to Caracas and Paris prior to the Washington appointment. He had married Raisa on 3 June, 1980, in Moscow’s Hall of Weddings. From the dates of birth, Serov was nine years older than his wife: he had been born in 1948, she in 1957. The extensions of Serov’s Washington service were noted, like the dates of the other overseas postings, but no reason recorded for keeping the man so long in America, although the four attached confidential assessments each praised Serov’s work and performance. Three used the word exemplary. There were also two confidential assessments on Raisa. Exemplary was the word used again.

Danilov was still reading when the telephone rang. He let Pavin take the call, which was quite brief. Instead of announcing it from his own desk, Pavin crossed the room, so the exchange would be unheard by the secretary.

‘You’re to go to the Foreign Ministry,’ said Pavin. ‘Raisa Serova has complained.’

The chandelierd elegance was far grander than that at the Interior Ministry and Sergei Vorobie clearly considered himself very much in charge, at home in his own territory. Vasili Oskin was already there. Danilov at once registered the absence of the Federal Prosecutor, the one official Lapinsk had categorically named as an honest man. He supposed Oskin represented the law.

‘There are things that have to be understood very clearly,’ announced the Deputy Foreign Minister. ‘And remembered at all times.’

The political lecture, supposed Danilov. ‘I asked for this meeting to get guidance.’

‘Did you become particularly friendly with this man Cowley on the earlier occasion you worked together?’ demanded Oskin.

Danilov detected a difference in attitude from the previous day. ‘I respected him, professionally.’

‘The Americans exercised particular pressure for you to be the investigating officer,’ said Oskin. ‘How would you explain that?’

Danilov raised and lowered his shoulders. ‘They knew me, from before.’ This was definitely a different type of meeting.

‘Reason enough for making it a personal request?’ pressed Oskin.

‘I can’t offer any other suggestion,’ said Danilov. Surely he hadn’t escaped one oppressive situation immediately to encounter another?

‘At all times your first priority must be the honour of Russia,’ insisted Vorobie, close to pomposity.

‘I have no intention of being manipulated!’ said Danilov, wanting the irritation to show. Couldn’t they manipulate him?

There was a momentary silence. Unabashed, Vorobie said: ‘That is exactly what must not occur. We do not understand what’s happened: we do not want – will not have – any embarrassment.’

‘I thought that was made clear yesterday.’ What had changed in twenty-four hours?

‘It needs to be reinforced,’ said Oskin.

‘This is an American investigation, being conducted in America. I will have no authority or jurisdiction there,’ pointed out Danilov.

‘You will within the embassy: we’ve ordered it,’ corrected Oskin. ‘I want the closest liaison with us here about whatever you learn there…’ He paused, for emphasis. ‘In advance of any discussion with the Americans.’

Before Danilov could respond, Vorobie said: ‘General Metkin is not with you?’

Momentarily the question off-balanced Danilov. Hurriedly he said: ‘I assumed you would have summoned him, if you wanted him to attend.’

‘Quite so,’ agreed Vorobie.

‘The liaison is to be direct between yourself and me at the Interior Ministry,’ declared Oskin.

Did these two men know more about Metkin or about what Serov had been doing in Washington? And want the investigation strictly controlled: neutered even? That could explain why the Federal Prosecutor, the man who had formally to recommend a trial, had been excluded. Whatever, there was an opportunity to be seized. ‘I have been ordered by General Metkin to channel all information through him.’

‘I am countermanding that instruction,’ announced Oskin. ‘Metkin can receive copies. I want the initial information sent direct and immediately to me.’

Danilov recognised another victory but it didn’t matter: he would, eventually, have to return to Petrovka, under Metkin’s control. ‘If the General is not officially informed it might appear I deliberately disobeyed an order.’