Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

There were two groups waiting for them outside on the concourse. Anatoli Metkin, in his full general’s uniform, was with Pavin, who looked visibly uncomfortable: one of the three men in the American embassy group held a photograph from which to identify Cowley. There was a confusion of introductions, and a momentary impasse over which car Cowley would occupy driving into Moscow. The American solved it by announcing he wanted to be briefed as soon as possible: he would travel in the embassy vehicle but in convoy to Petrovka, for an immediate arrival conference.

‘What is there from America to bring me up to date?’ demanded Metkin the moment Danilov entered their limousine. It was Metkin’s official Volga, with his personal driver. Pavin rode next to the man in the front seat, Metkin in the rear, alongside Danilov.

‘There’s nothing you haven’t already been told.’

‘What co-operation was there?’

Danilov was determined to retain the independence granted him by the Deputy Interior Minister. Which made it inevitable he would antagonise Metkin. ‘You’ll obviously get a copy of my report to the ministries, like you’ve seen everything else.’

Metkin’s lined face tightened into a mask. ‘I asked you a question!’ He spoke with exaggerated quietness, trying to intimidate.

In front of him Danilov saw Pavin staring rigidly ahead. He supposed the driver would gossip, although it was hardly a confrontation. In fact, Danilov decided, it had been a mistake to oppose Metkin so quickly and upon something so inconsequential. ‘They were extremely co-operative.’ Metkin would regard it as capitulation.

‘What about our own embassy?’

That was very much a matter for the Foreign Ministry, not Metkin. ‘I was able to work satisfactorily.’

‘Where did you obtain the names?’

Ahead, Danilov could just make out the still shrouded skyline of the city, and wished it was closer, sparing him this inquisition. ‘From among Serov’s belongings. I explained that from Washington.’

‘What about other names?’

Not an inconsequential question, decided Danilov. ‘I did not discover any more.’

‘What has happened to Serov’s belongings?’

‘They are being shipped back to the Foreign Ministry.’

Metkin turned directly across the car. ‘Why the Ministry? It is a Militia enquiry. Police evidence.’

‘They are technically Foreign Ministry documents. I have separated those that contain the names, for easy identification if we have to call for them as evidence. I can’t, at the moment, see we will need them. I’ve also asked that they are all kept available for us to examine further.’ Danilov was curious to know if Metkin were a good enough investigator to guess or realise why he was returning the Serov dossiers this way. He hoped he hadn’t wasted his time: it had taken him the entire afternoon at the embassy, after discussing the killing of Ignatov with Cowley.

Metkin nodded towards Pavin, in the front of the vehicle. ‘I have read the duplicates you sent back: all that was sent to the ministries.’

‘It was intended that you should,’ said Danilov cautiously.

‘What about the rest?’

Danilov frowned sideways. ‘Rest?’

‘Did you have any communication with either ministry of which I am unaware?’

‘None whatsoever,’ insisted Danilov.

‘I have your absolute assurance of that?’

‘You asked me a question,’ said Danilov. ‘I have answered it.’ He’d never been there – and didn’t want to go – but Danilov guessed the chill inside the car was roughly comparable to Siberia in deep winter.

At Petrovka there was more brief confusion as Cowley told the Americans he would make his own way to the hotel and the embassy. Metkin’s head darted back and forth during the exchanges, which were in English. As the embassy officials got back into their car, Metkin, speaking slowly and enunciating each word, asked if Cowley were comfortable in Russian; the American, unaware of the tension between Metkin and Danilov, said he was but if a problem arose Danilov could always translate. Metkin’s face closed, and he stumped into the Militia building without speaking further.

The gathering was in Metkin’s office, which Danilov accepted to be an improvement over that adapted for him, but it was still far short of the comfort in which FBI executives worked. There had been some changes since Danilov’s last visit. There was a glass-fronted bureau displaying neat racks of books that hadn’t been there before, and a more extensive range of telephones on a new, separate side table. Metkin busied himself as the host, seating Cowley in a ready-placed chair before going to yet another new range of low cupboards near the window to disclose an array of bottles. He appeared disappointed when the American refused the offer, which was not extended to either Danilov or Pavin. Danilov’s dismissal by his Director became even more obvious the moment the discussion began: Metkin’s concentration was entirely upon Cowley, with no attempt to include the other two men. Danilov forgot the irritation that had begun in the car, more interested than offended. He had expected Metkin immediately to bring them – or Cowley, at least – up to date about the murder of Ivan Ignatov. Instead Metkin persisted with questions about the Washington killings, so much so that at one stage Cowley actually looked away from the Militia Director to frown curiously at Danilov.

It was thirty minutes before they got around to the shooting of the Russian gangster. As he talked, Metkin produced photographs of where Ignatov had been found, both including and excluding the body, and some mortuary pictures of the dead man. Cowley studied each one before pointedly handing it sideways to Danilov.

The Russian spent more time looking at the mortuary shots than those of the river, then leaned sideways, quietly asking Pavin a question while Metkin talked. At once, the Director stopped and said: ‘What was that!’

‘I was asking if the autopsy confirmed the sequence of the wounds,’ said Danilov. And stopped. He decided Metkin was making himself look foolish, as he had at the ministry encounter.

‘Why?’ demanded the man.

‘I would have thought it significant, wouldn’t you?’

Metkin blinked, appearing to realise he was exposed in front of an American he was trying to impress. ‘In what way?’ he was forced to ask.

‘Why there was a mouth shot, if that wasn’t what killed him,’ said Danilov, with forced patience. ‘We know Ignatov belonged to one of the Moscow Mafia Families: why the copying of the American or Italian trademark, unless it was for a boastful reason?’

The Director looked confused.

‘It could show a link between our organised crime groups in America and yours here, in Russia,’ offered Cowley helpfully. ‘We’ll be very worried if it does.’

‘Quite so,’ agreed Metkin hurriedly.

‘The pathologist thought it was the final shot, when he was already dead,’ said Pavin.

‘Like ours,’ said Cowley, talking more to Danilov than the Director. ‘They want it to be understood.’

‘By us?’ asked Metkin, anxious to keep up.

Cowley frowned again. ‘Our experience in America is that the Mafia send messages to each other, not the enforcement agencies.’

‘I understand,’ said Metkin.

Danilov wasn’t at all sure Metkin did understand. He was witnessing the Director’s performance with growing astonishment. ‘What do we know about Ignatov’s movements, prior to his being killed?’ Danilov spoke generally, although he meant the question for Pavin. When the major didn’t reply, Danilov looked directly at him: Pavin, in turn, was staring at the Director.

‘We’re making enquiries,’ insisted Metkin, but badly, weak-voiced.