Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

To check the four particular dates without giving any indication to Firsov of his discovery in the embassy office, Danilov just rifled through the pages of the second diary initially, finding the confirmation he needed with the same double spelling on the same days. He felt an even greater jump of satisfaction than the previous day, knowing now the dates were significant.

Had he not been a diligent detective he might have discarded the diary at once, believing he’d learned all there was to find. But following the principle that crime was more often solved by dogged police work than by inspiration, he patiently went to the beginning of the year to read every entry, page by page. And was practically at once glad he did. There were far more frequent spelling variations here than in the office record, too many to copy and digest in front of an intrusive observer.

‘I’ll take this, too,’ declared Danilov.

‘A list should be kept of articles you’re retaining.’

‘It always is,’ said Danilov patiently.

It took him until midday to complete his search. Afterwards, with Firsov close beside him, which he regretted, Danilov numbered the photographs on a duplicated list, one for himself and the other for the counsellor, and identified the diary by itemising its date.

‘What do you intend telling Moscow?’ demanded the man.

Danilov looked at him, surprised. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘So what are you going to do now?’

‘Meet with the Americans.’

‘Nikolai Fedorovich will accompany you,’ announced Firsov.

Danilov felt the anger stir at the return of the patronising attitude. ‘Nikolai Fedorovich Redin is not a member of the Militia.’

‘He is officially accredited as a diplomat on the staff of the Russian embassy. It is essential you have a member of the embassy with you at all times.’

‘You have such instructions from Moscow?’

Firsov’s face began to colour. ‘An instruction is not necessary.’

‘I think it is.’

‘Are you defying me?’

‘I am personally answerable to the Foreign and Interior Ministries. As you have been officially advised. I don’t need assistance, nor to be accompanied in my dealings with American investigators. Which I shall tell Moscow, if called upon to do so.’ Danilov paused. Then, heavily, he said: ‘I am a professional detective. How would you suggest we describe Nikolai Fedorovich to justify his part in an investigation?’

Firsov’s colour deepened. ‘You are insubordinate!’

‘I am fulfilling the function I was sent here to perform and in which I will not be obstructed.’ He’d probably gone too far, but it was too late to retreat now.

For several moments the two men remained staring at each other, Danilov expressionless, Firsov glowering. Impatient at the impasse, Danilov said: I need the names of everyone who knew Petr Aleksandrovich: someone must have known he was meeting Michel Paulac.’

‘No-one did,’ insisted the diplomat.

‘You’ve already questioned people?’

‘Upon the ambassador’s instructions.’

‘I would like to see your interview notes and your report to the Foreign Ministry.’

‘I will seek authority from Moscow. And from the ambassador.’

‘Why don’t you do that!’ said Danilov, exasperated.

There was a delay of two hours before Danilov telephoned Cowley, because he had a lot to do in the seclusion of his own quarters at Massachusetts Avenue. ‘Where shall we meet?’ he asked the American.

‘Any objection to your coming here?’

‘Suits me,’ said Danilov. He guessed it would suit a lot of other people. Conscious of the open switchboard, he wondered how long it would take to report back to Moscow that he was about to enter the headquarters of America’s Federal Bureau of Investigation.

Cowley personally signed him through the admission procedure at the FBI building. Clipping the identity badge to his lapel, Danilov was aware of being an object of curiosity. He presumed, unconcerned, a record would be made of his presence, probably on film.

As they made their way through the restricted and monitored floors to the executive level, Danilov compared the gulf-like difference between the carpeted and comfortably upholstered modernity of FBI headquarters with the concrete-floored, plastic-buckled Petrovka block, space age against stone age. It was difficult to conceive it had actually been Russia which started the space era. Danilov continued his accommodation contrast inside Cowley’s room, estimating his own office would have fitted inside it at least three times, with more space than they occupied already left over for Ludmilla Radsic and Yuri Pavin.

For several moments after sitting down, the two men remained looking at each other, smiling but not speaking, a reunion finally achieved. Then Cowley conceded: ‘If the break’s going to come, it’ll have to be from your side. We’re nowhere.’

‘It isn’t going to be easy,’ warned Danilov. It had taken them much longer to get to this degree of openness before: he hoped it was an omen. Who’d be the first to renege? He might have to and accepted, realistically, that it might be forced upon Cowley as well. He hoped the testing time didn’t last too long.

‘We’ve been officially assured, Foreign Ministry to State Department, that your people didn’t know what Serov was doing?’ opened Cowley. How long would it take to gauge what Danilov could and could not do? It wouldn’t be easy for the Russian: Serov had obviously had his hand deep in someone’s cookie jar, so Danilov would have had the restrictions very firmly imposed.

‘I was told the same.’

‘True or false?’ There was, of course, no hangover from the previous night but Cowley wished there hadn’t been the sour taste in his mouth. He thought Danilov looked very good, although the hair was definitely thinner: he avoided an obvious examination, knowing the Russian’s sensitivity.

Cowley was exploring, Danilov realised, unoffended: he’d done the same himself in Moscow, when the embarrassment was tilted more to America’s disadvantage, and was doing it again now. ‘Someone, somewhere, must know what was going on. Raisa Serova insists she did not know Michel Paulac, or of her husband’s association with him. What is there from Switzerland?’ If he was right about what he’d found in the diaries, Cowley was already holding back.

The American slid a folder across his desk towards Danilov. ‘Your copy of all we know, so far,’ he said. ‘Paulac was a bachelor, thirty-eight, headed an investment group which, according to the Swiss, is highly successful. So he lived well. Rolls Royce as well as a Mercedes, apartment close to the lake. They’ve interviewed the two other majority partners in the firm. Both say they knew nothing about any association with Petr Serov and that there are no company records linking Paulac with Serov. That’s possible, apparently: although they’re partners they worked independently, each running their own portfolios.’

‘What was found on Paulac’s body?’ One thing in particular that had to be there, Danilov thought.

‘Keys, credit cards, $400 in cash, American, $300 in Swiss francs. There was a pocket diary with no entry referring to any meeting with Serov the day they both died. It’s blank. So are the preceding days that we know, from the airline booking and the car rental, he was in this country.’ He wondered if Danilov would pick up on what was missed out.

‘That all?’

‘A briefcase, inside the car. There were some company papers, pro-forma advertising stuff setting out the tax benefits of investing in Switzerland. There was a business address book but no listing for Serov. No note of any American number, in fact. A personal cheque book, three cheques missing, counterfoils showing total withdrawals of $2,500 but all the transactions were in Switzerland, before he arrived here. He rented the car on an American Express card. From the Amex records we know he stayed at the Mayflower Hotel: the date of his arrival tallies with the day he booked in. We’ve shown photographs of Serov to all the staff. No-one can remember him ever coming to the hotel. There were two other credit card counterfoils, for restaurants. Again, a blank on any connection with Serov. One was a Chinese restaurant downtown, near the old Post Office: a waiter insists Paulac ate alone.’