Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

A trestle table was bowed under the weight of gallon jugs of PX hard liquor, all of which Cowley refused. Instead he made a beer last while he renewed old acquaintances and made new ones, determinedly vague about the reason he was back there, talking generally about an enquiry connected with something that had happened back home. Without exception, everyone with whom he talked asked at some time how long he’d have to stay in Moscow.

Cowley excused himself early and got a cab within minutes by using the street-wise advice of his previous visit, flagging down passing vehicles with a packet of Marlboro cigarettes displayed in his cupped hand. The driver tried for ten dollars in American currency but accepted five without argument.

Having got there, Cowley wondered why he had been in such a hurry to get back to the hotel: at least at the embassy there had been other Americans to talk to, even if he had found them dull. There seemed nothing better to do than go to the bar.

He was on his fourth Chivas Regal when, for the first time, he properly noticed three or four professional girls dotted around the side tables. One smiled openly at him, but he did not respond. Once it would have been different, but he wasn’t bothered any more.

‘This is unexpected! Dangerous!’ Vladimir Kabalin was a tall, long-necked man upon whom shirt collars didn’t properly settle. The sleeves of his jacket were too short, increasing the giraffe-like awkwardness.

‘It’s a bonus!’ argued Metkin.

‘It will make the rest more difficult. We should demand a meeting.’

‘ Demand? ’ queried Metkin.

‘Ask,’ corrected Kabalin.

‘It’s only one man,’ said Metkin.

‘Two,’ insisted Kabalin. ‘And it’s the American who’s the problem.’

‘Soon there won’t be any problem at all,’ said Metkin. He considered Danilov had beaten him once. The man wouldn’t do it again.

The suggestion came from Wilkes, the black detective who thought at street level, but was initially rejected by Hank Slowen, who said you didn’t uphold the law by breaking it. Wes Bradley asked since when: a forest blaze could be put out by burning a firebreak in its path and no-one got pissed at the firemen. How many more Russian Mafia murders did Slowen want? At the end of the week the impatience was obvious from Washington and Slowen floated the thought past the two Washington homicide detectives with whom he kept in daily contact. Both thought it was a great idea.

The choice was left to Wilkes.

The hooker was dull-eyed but painted professionally to attract attention with glistening make-up that hadn’t had time to smudge. She wore long boots that came up over her knees but were still far short of the micro skirt that only reached her crotch. The long-sleeved T shirt was short-waisted to expose a lot of bare stomach and tight for the nipples of her heavy tits to bulge through. Carla Roberts was one of several names she used: in blue movies she was known as Pouter Pet. When Wilkes announced that alias to the waiting detectives Carla grinned and said they all better believe it. The print-out showed fifteen previous prostitution convictions; there were also sentences for larceny and receiving.

‘What the fuck’s going on?’ she challenged, immediately aware of the change from a normal vice arrest when she was led past the charge room cages into an interview room.

Bradley indicated a chair. Hesitantly she sat down but pushed it away from the table. Bradley picked up her sheet from it. ‘Ten arrests in the past year, Carla. You training to fuck for America when it becomes an Olympic sport?’

‘Average,’ said the girl, professionally. She crossed her legs, professionally again, not tightly, so her see-through underwear stretched over her crotch.

Bradley said: ‘Nice!’

Slowen, against the wall, thought how glad he was he’d chosen the Bureau and not the police force. He knew the arrest record gave the girl’s age as twenty-three: he would have given her another ten years.

Carla smiled at Slowen, embarrassing him. ‘You guys got something special in mind? A little party, maybe? I quote rates.’

‘Maybe,’ said Bradley. ‘You know, with a record like yours a concerned, Christian-minded prosecutor could recommend a custodial sentence. Care and rehabilitation. Show what a caring society we are. And you’d be with an awful lot of dykes, so that pussy you’re flashing at me wouldn’t heal up. Wouldn’t get paid for it, though. Still, you could be saved…’

‘What the…?’ Carla uncrossed her legs, putting both feet firmly on to the ground. ‘Why don’t you stop jerking me around and tell me what this bullshit is all about!’

‘It’s about co-operation, Carla,’ said Bradley. He reached across to where she was sitting, grabbing her left arm before she could stop him and yanking the sleeve up above the elbow. There was a line of track marks along the vein in the crook of her arm: one was scabbed and looked septic. ‘Old hits. You finding difficulty scoring recently?’

The girl snatched her arm away and dragged her sleeve down to cover the evidence of her heroin addiction. ‘Why don’t you fuck off!’

‘That’s what we’re offering to do,’ said Wilkes.

‘Providing the exchange is right,’ said Bradley.

‘You help us, we help you,’ agreed Wilkes.

Slowen thought it was like a double act, the sort of routine comedians used. He didn’t consider this version funny.

‘We could make a case for rehab, putting you before a court. And get it,’ insisted Bradley. ‘Shitsville, with smoke-stacks. And there’ll be the dykes, of course.’

‘… Or you could learn to love us,’ came in Wilkes, on cue. He took something Slowen didn’t immediately identify from his jerkin and dropped it on the table.

Carla’s eyes locked on to it. A nerve twitched, by her mouth and Slowen thought her hand moved, instinctively, to reach out.

‘Lotta happiness in that baggie, Carla,’ promised Bradley. ‘It’s good stuff. Could be eighty percent pure, not like the cut-down crap. Enough there for a month, unless you binge…’

‘… And we know there ain’t nothing out there on the streets ‘cos we’ve stopped all the traffic lights at red,’ said Wilkes. ‘Which is how they’re going to stay. Seems to me you’re still pretty much together, so I guess you had a little stash going for you. Sensible girl. But it’s going to run out soon. Then what you gonna do, Carla? You ever been really strung out? Screaming for it but there’s nowhere to go get some? That’s what it’s going to be like for you, in a day or two. Screaming. Hurting…’

‘… Or this,’ said Bradley, pushing the heroin closer to where she sat. ‘Feel it, Carla. Feel the weight of it. Imagine how good it would be…’

‘… All you gotta do is tell us where we can find Viktor Chebrakin or Yuri Chestnoy or any other of these connected Russian guys,’ took up Wilkes. ‘You do that you walk with our grateful thanks and that little present there, all to yourself…’

‘… Or we gotta tell the courts about the dealing,’ said Bradley.

‘What fucking dealing…?’

‘That baggie there,’ said Bradley. ‘That’s what Detective Wilkes found on you, after arresting you for soliciting, Carla. I know he did. He’s already told me.’

‘MOTHERFUCKER!’ screamed the girl.

Slowen felt sickened. But the Bureau had done enough entrapments and deals in the past. And would in the future.

‘So what do you say, Carla?’ invited Wilkes.

For several moments the hooker sat staring at the generous sack of heroin, hypnotised by it. The twitch became more pronounced and she swallowed a lot, tongue coming out over her tight-together lips. ‘I don’t know where those people are! If I did, I couldn’t tell you.’