Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

Over French brandy he said: ‘Have you heard of Night-flight?’

Olga stared back at him without comprehension.

Kosov gestured generally beyond the hotel. ‘It’s the newest nightclub in town: on Tverskaya, just before Pushkin Square.’

Olga, growing heavy-eyed from the wine, had imagined he would take her home at the end of the meal, but she was determined not to miss anything, believing she had missed too much already. ‘I’d like to go there.’

The BMW was untouched, as Kosov had predicted, and the nightclub so close they could have walked: Olga wished they had, to clear her head.

She had only seen clubs like Nightflight in the Western movies of which she was a devotee. The gloom, which again hid her faded dress and hair colouring, was pierced by strobe lights twisting and bouncing off revolving, many-faceted orbs suspended from ceilings, making her blink. There was a reflective, glass-backed bar, far to her left. In front, to music that throbbed like a heart-beat, a dance floor heaved with gyrating people. Olga felt a sharp twist of panic at the idea of Kosov asking her to dance, which she couldn’t, but instead he guided her upstairs to a gallery, where it was quieter and where people sat clustered around tables. The lighting was stronger here, but still not enough to worry her.

They went along the balconied area towards a large, already occupied table: when they reached it Olga realised, surprised, that they appeared to be expected. The four men already there rose at their approach with unusual politeness, each reaching out to shake her hand and introduce her in turn to their female companions. All the girls were younger than Olga, but they were unreservedly friendly and she did not feel ill at ease, although their clothes and jewellery were far better than hers.

The first time she didn’t properly get any of the names: which weren’t complete anyway, just given names, sometimes not even the patronymic. As she was absorbed into the group, she picked up from conversations swirling around her that the most friendly brunette, to her immediate right, was Lena and the smiling woman opposite was called Ivietta. The man directly across from her, a fat, easily-laughing man who wore the same cologne as Kosov, was definitely Maksim. She was sure, too, the other man on the opposite side of the table was Mikhail.

There was champagne again, although Olga only took a token glass and scarcely touched it, because it was tasting sharply acidic. Maksim danced with Lena and another girl whose name Olga never identified and briefly, again, Olga feared he was going to ask her as well, but he didn’t. An extremely thin man named Arkadi, who from his appearance was the oldest in the party and to whom everyone was very respectful, told her he didn’t dance either but enjoyed seeing other people do it, and Olga said she was the same.

Kosov was everyone’s friend and everywhere showing himself to be so. He moved from chair to chair around their own table and kissed all the girls – always in a companiable way, never lasciviously – and several times went to other tables nearby, where he was received with equal friendliness. Arkadi saw Olga watching Kosov’s tour and remarked that Kosov was a good man, and Olga said she thought so, too; she waited for him – for anyone – to ask about Larissa, but no-one did. There appeared to be no curiosity about her relationship with Kosov and she was glad: there was nothing to explain, so she did not want to bother.

It was Kosov who returned with the club photographer, talking loudly of souvenirs. There were token protests from the women, Olga among them, that they weren’t prepared, but eventually the pictures were taken, the men assembling around the seated females, the poses struck. Much later food was ordered – the best Beluga caviare, smoked and dried fish and hot meat, boar and venison – but Olga could not eat anything, after the dinner at the Metropole.

She was astonished, when Kosov finally suggested they leave, to realise it was three o’clock in the morning. There were handshakes and farewell kisses from the men as well as the women; everyone said they hoped to meet her again. Outside, the BMW remained untouched.

‘You have a lot of friends. They were very nice to me.’ Olga had known, obviously, the Metropole existed but had never imagined it being like it was. And Nightflight had been beyond any imagination. She knew no-one would believe her at work the following morning. This morning, she qualified. Maybe she wouldn’t say anything. At once she knew she would: she wanted people to know. To be impressed.

‘They’re the sort of friends Dimitri Ivanovich should have,’ said the man.

Olga had guessed what they were, but the confirmation still brought a flicker of surprise: excitement, too. ‘It’s not me you have to tell.’

‘He’s a fool.’

The criticism didn’t offend Olga but it unsettled her: she still did not understand why Kosov had covered her hand as he had in the hotel. She said: ‘I really think I should call Larissa tomorrow.’

‘You worried I’m going to make a pass at you?’ he challenged directly.

‘Of course not!’ Olga said, wishing the denial had sounded stronger.

He didn’t speak for several moments. ‘It wouldn’t be right. Not considering our friendship.’

Olga did not know what to say: the warmth from the heater was making her feel very tired.

‘I wouldn’t have been surprised if one of the others had tonight,’ continued Kosov. ‘You’re a very attractive woman, Olga. Beautiful.’

‘You’re embarrassing me!’ she protested weakly.

‘You think Dimitri Ivanovich would object to our going out?’ demanded Kosov, as if the idea had suddenly occurred to him.

‘Of course not.’

‘He might not like your being with my friends.’

‘Maybe not.’

‘I don’t think he’s treating you like he should, Olga. I think he’s being selfish.’

At Kirovskaya Kosov helped her from the car, escorted her to the door of the apartment and kissed her on the cheek as lightly as the other men in the nightclub had.

It took him thirty minutes to cross Moscow again, to get to his own apartment off the inner ring road. Larissa, who had not been working at the Druzhba that night, stirred but didn’t properly wake as he entered the bedroom. He waited to see if she would say anything but she didn’t, so he didn’t speak either. They slept in separate beds so he did not disturb her when he settled down.

‘She seemed a remarkably simple woman,’ said Arkadi Gusovsky. ‘Stupid, even.’

‘For which we should be grateful,’ suggested Maksim Zimin.

‘Honest investigators should choose women with common sense.’

‘Perhaps she’s got qualities we didn’t realise,’ giggled Zimin.

‘A woman that dull wouldn’t be any good in bed,’ judged Gusovsky.

Lingering jetlag woke Danilov early, so he was one of the first arrivals at 16th Street, in the cultural section ahead of Valery Pavlenko. Danilov emptied the bottom of the bookcase in the order in which it had been stored, but worked backwards from the most recent folders to the earliest. Knowing now what he was looking for, he was able to do the job quickly, scanning the words for the wrong letters without reading the context: he’d gone back through all that year and ten months into the preceding one before Pavlenko came through the door. Predictably, Redin was behind.

The desk was strewn with papers and files and documents, making it impossible for them to understand what he was doing: he said cursorily he was continuing the examination of Serov’s office, deflecting them by demanding if the security man had been told by Moscow to make his earlier report available. From the expression on Redin’s face, Danilov knew the man had and didn’t like it. When Redin nodded, curtly, Danilov said he’d collect it that afternoon, when he re-interviewed everyone Firsov had already questioned. He told them both he still didn’t need any help, pointedly waiting until they retreated from the room.