Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘We’ll wait for Moscow’s ruling,’ refused Redin, stubbornly.

Danilov recognised the name and the location of the cafe from his re-reading of the file, and was curious whose idea it had been to eat at the same place as Serov and the financier the night they’d been murdered. They weren’t at the section served by Mary Ann Bell but Rafferty called over the girl who had made the positive connection between the two dead men and introduced her. Mary Ann, shy and still plump with adolescence, said she recognised Cowley and Danilov from the media coverage, and despite her awkwardness Danilov knew she enjoyed the moment in front of everyone else with whom she worked. He thought Rafferty was enjoying some fame by association, too, which surprised him. Both DC detectives were cautious at the beginning, listening and watching more than talking, making their judgments. What they did say was usually cynically hard-edged. Danilov wasn’t uncomfortable under their examination. Were Rafferty and Johannsen on the take from someone, like most of the detectives at Petrovka? It would be interesting to see if a proper bill were offered and settled at the end of the evening. He wasn’t sure how to offer his contribution – or if he were expected to. Cowley adopted the role of host, distributing menus and ordering drinks. Danilov noted Cowley only drank club soda and refused wine when it was passed around, and decided he’d made a mistake about smelling alcohol on the man’s breath when he’d arrived at Dulles.

As they ate, Cowley told the two detectives they might have a lead to other times Paulac and Serov met, making it clear the information came from Danilov’s enquiries at the embassy.

‘Your people co-operating, towards one of their own?’ demanded Johannsen.

‘Not really.’ Danilov welcomed the conversation. He didn’t think he would have any difficulty being honest with the two detectives and wanted it to register with Cowley after the earlier disagreement.

‘You know what I think?’ said Rafferty. ‘I think your guy was dirty.’

Danilov frowned at the expression, not understanding.

‘Crooked,’ helped Cowley.

‘Probably,’ accepted Danilov.

The easy admission surprised the detectives. Rafferty said: ‘So what are we going to do if we prove he is?’

Now Danilov appeared surprised. ‘I’m not sure of the technicalities of your system, but what I’d do is submit the evidence to the prosecutor. What would you do?’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Rafferty. ‘I’m talking cover-up.’

‘I investigate. I don’t cover up,’ insisted Danilov. He’d had to go along with a compromise over the serial murders, after the FBI man had been found mentally incapable of standing trial. But that had not been his decision or even his wish. It had been political, Russia agreeing to American pressure to avoid the embarrassment of a law enforcement officer revealed as a multiple killer. Just as any compromise this time would be political, not of his making.

‘What you’re saying is, you’re going to level with us on this?’ pressed Johannsen.

‘That’s exactly what I’m saying.’ Danilov addressed the reply to Cowley.

Cowley smiled, returning the look, understanding the Russian’s performance. ‘Dimitri and I have already decided the ground rules.’

The two murders were the only subject of conversation, which was what Danilov wanted anyway. He didn’t learn anything he’d missed or had been omitted from the American file, but it fleshed out what he did know, giving him a perspective against which to set his own eventual judgment. He wasn’t sure how long that would be: a long time, judging from the progress so far. Rafferty and Johannsen relaxed as the evening and the drinking went on. Danilov, did, too, although he stopped drinking, still vaguely bothered by jetlag.

When her shift ended, Mary Ann Bell came over to say goodbye and that it had been nice meeting them, and when Rafferty, slightly befuddled, proposed a toast to their success Cowley finally allowed himself a glass of wine. Because they were so close to where Petr Serov’s body had been found, it was agreed they’d detour that way running Danilov back to Massachusetts Avenue, for the Russian to get the location and the surroundings fixed in his mind.

But they never did.

Danilov was leading when they stepped out on to M Street, because the other three politely stood back for him, which was unfortunate because Cowley was following immediately behind so the waiting photographers caught both of them, side by side, in the doorway of the restaurant linked to both victims.

Behind them Rafferty said: ‘Holy shit!’ and barged past, ineffectually waving his arms – which he shouldn’t have done, because the photographed protest was construed as trying to hide something important about the murders which had not so far been released. There were at least three reporters, as well as photographers, shouting questions that weren’t answered and impeding their progress to Cowley’s car, which they had left in a parking lot where vehicles are manoeuvred up and down on hydraulically elevated frames. All they could do was stand and wait, despite Rafferty and Johannsen’s shouts to the attendant to move his ass, so by the time they got into the car the cameramen had enough photographs to stage an exhibition. Cowley and Danilov’s refusal to respond to any questions practically became a farce.

There was no dissent when Cowley announced they’d miss the murder scene, because the photographers would follow them.

‘Sorry about that,’ apologised Cowley generally, turning on to Wisconsin Avenue.

‘Who the fuck told them!’ exploded Rafferty.

‘The cafe, I guess,’ said Johannsen. ‘Maybe Mary Ann.’

‘It’s not really important, is it?’ said Danilov. It didn’t contravene his instructions against making any unauthorised statement.

‘You haven’t seen what our media can do with two cents’ worth of fuck all!’ said Rafferty.

They parted outside the Russian compound, Danilov agreeing to see Cowley at Pennsylvania Avenue the following day. On their return downtown, Johannsen said: ‘Seemed quite a nice guy, for a Lieutenant General.’

‘And a Russian,’ completed Rafferty.

Back in the embassy compound, Danilov was unsure if it really had been someone from the cafe who had set up the media ambush. Rafferty had been very quick to hurry forward when the flash-bulbs exploded: almost as if he had expected it to happen.

Yevgennie Kosov agreed it was a pity Larissa couldn’t alter her shifts but they were short-staffed at the Druzhba: it meant, of course, they’d have to eat out. Olga said she hoped Larissa wouldn’t mind and Kosov wondered why she should. Olga said no reason at all. It was flirtatious and fun but not awkward: two old friends playing social games.

He refused to say where they were going but warned it would be dressy, which worried her because it was inevitable he would compare her to Larissa, who always looked like a model who’d stepped from the pages of a Western magazine. Olga laid out what she considered her better outfits and mixed and matched for the best effect. Everything looked faded and old and out of date: during one free-fall dip of despair she almost rang Kosov back to cancel. In the end she chose her black dress with the matching bolero, which was also her newest, and was extremely careful to iron it without making the material shine. She booked for her hair to be tinted but when she got to the hairdresser they’d run out of the deep auburn they’d used before and there was no way of telling when they might get any more. She accepted dark titian, which took unevenly, and didn’t believe the girl’s assurance that it looked like variable highlights.