Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

Zubko was scratching himself more vigorously, the shaking was worsening, and there was a patina of sweat on his face. ‘Why you do this?’

‘Tell us about Viktor Chebrakin,’ demanded Bradley.

‘And Yuri Chestnoy.’

The man brought his shivering hands up to his face, as if physically to stop himself talking.

Wilkes said: ‘We’re not hearing you, Peter.’

‘How about Igor Rimyans?’ persisted Bradley. ‘He’s pretty big on the drugs scene in Brighton Beach, isn’t he?’

Zubko remained with his hands to his face, hunched over the table.

Wilkes said: ‘We’re still not hearing you!’

‘Don’t know these men.’

‘That’s a lie,’ said Bradley.

‘I’ll tell the court what you did to me. Put heroin in my place.’

‘Who do you think they’re going to believe? Us? Or you? Think about it,’ urged Wilkes.

‘What you want?’

‘Where would I find Viktor Chebrakin or Yuri Chestnoy or Igor Rimyans…?’ said Bradley.

‘… Or Valentin Yashev?’ completed Wilkes.

The lowered head shook, in refusal.

‘Twenty-five years,’ said Wilkes.

‘No parole,’ said Bradley.

‘There’s a warning,’ mumbled the man.

‘We know,’ said Bradley.

‘We do deal?’

‘We want addresses. Right addresses,’ said Bradley.

‘Then you not lie, about the heroin?’

‘Names. Addresses,’ insisted Wilkes.

‘Rimyans,’ mumbled the man.

‘OK. Rimyans,’ accepted Bradley.

‘Queens,’ said the man, voice scarcely above a whisper, still refusing to look up. ‘The corner house at Junction Boulevard and Elmhurst Manor.’

‘The Jackson district!’ identified Wilkes, the man with local knowledge. ‘We’re a long way from Brighton Beach.’

‘Airport,’ said Zubko, simply.

‘Supply points,’ breathed Bradley. ‘A spit from La Guardia, not much further from Kennedy.’

‘You never tell it was me?’

‘Of course we wouldn’t.’

‘And you not lie about the heroin?’

‘Let’s see who we find in Jackson,’ avoided Bradley.

‘I tell truth.’

‘We’re going to be very upset if you aren’t,’ warned Wilkes.

They held an immediate conference in Bradley’s office, accepting the Washington edict that Slowen remain as supervising controller of the investigation spreading wider and wider throughout the New York boroughs. Before driving out to Queens Slowen had a long telephone conversation with the precinct captain in the Jackson district, who wasn’t offended at the suggestion that Bradley and Wilkes, with their knowledge and involvement of the case, accompany him. Wilkes drove.

‘You going to do a deal with Zubko if the address he’s given us is kosher?’ asked the FBI man.

Slowen was aware of Wilkes’ expression of astonishment reflected in the rear-view mirror. Wilkes said: ‘Deal with a motherfucker like him?’

Bradley said: ‘He kills people. Kids.’

‘You know where he trades?’ demanded Wilkes. ‘Schoolyards. Gives kids little samples without payment, like a supermarket loss leader, until they’re hooked. Catching up with Zubko is the first positive benefit that’s come out of this whole goddamned thing!’

‘So the answer to your question, Mr Slowen, is no; we are not going to deal, whatever we come up with at Jackson.’

‘With more than a kilo – and the two guns – it probably will be a long sentence,’ said Slowen.

‘The longer the better,’ said Wilkes.

Cowley was waiting when Danilov got to his office after the encounter with the Director. So was Pavin. The scene-of-crime officer was subdued instead of being excited, which Danilov found strange.

The American wasn’t. ‘This looks like it at last!’ greeted Cowley. He’d held himself to three whiskies the previous night, refused wine at dinner, and felt fine.

‘It could be,’ agreed Danilov. He saw there were duplicate photographs of those he had seen in Metkin’s office and several obviously new folders banked up on the exhibit table. Some had overflowed to rest on top of the closed safe.

Seeing Danilov’s look, Pavin said: ‘Everything’s complete, including the statements of those involved in the arrest. It’s immaculate.’

Was Pavin jealous of someone else being able to correlate evidence as meticulously as him? It was difficult to believe, but it could be a logical explanation for the other man’s attitude. Danilov told him: ‘We’ll need the gun. And the fingerprint sheets.’

While Pavin was unlocking the safe, Cowley said: ‘You want the interrogation any special way?’

‘Let’s play it according to how he reacts,’ suggested Danilov.

‘I’ll follow your lead,’ accepted Cowley.

Danilov looked to Pavin. ‘Let’s make an audio recording, as well as a written note.’

‘Already arranged,’ assured the exhibit officer.

For a few seconds after entering the interview room, until he saw the earphoned technician, Cowley stared at the archaic recording apparatus in genuine curiosity, unsure what it was. A separate table had been brought in for Pavin’s additional note-taking. There was only one chair on either side of the other table, for a one-to-one confrontation: another chair stood by the door, put there because whoever had arranged the room hadn’t been sure where else to leave it. Cowley was content with its position: with Danilov settled facing him across the table, Antipov would constantly have to switch from one interrogator to the other to answer their questions. It would form a psychologically disorienting triangle, to their advantage.

Cowley and Danilov, professionals both, instantly recognised another professional from the other side of the divide when Antipov swaggered into the room. He wore the chamois jacket slung around his shoulders, the sleeves hanging loose; it made look bigger shoulders that didn’t need enlarging. His hair was greying and crew cut, although to create a rugged-man style, not for the disguising reasons Danilov wore his that way. It reminded Danilov he still had to get his cut. Antipov’s face was tight skinned, stretched over angular cheekbones and jaw, stubbled from lack of a shave. He wasn’t manacled, and the two uniformed warders stood back for the man to come through the door. Cowley’s impression was more of their being courteous escorts than watchful guards to a shoulder-rolling mafioso.

Antipov stopped short of the table, hands nonchalantly in his pockets, exaggeratedly surveying the room. He halted at Danilov. ‘Who are you?’

‘Sit down,’ Danilov ordered, dismissively waving towards the chair opposite.

Antipov took his time: he kept his hands in his pockets, extending his legs fully in front of him.

‘I am charging you that on or about the fourteenth of this month you murdered Ivan Ignatsevich Ignatov,’ announced Danilov. He nodded to the recording apparatus and to Pavin, alongside. ‘Whatever you say will be taken down, for presentation at your trial.’

Antipov snorted a laugh. ‘Why don’t you fuck off?’ He turned towards Pavin. ‘Make sure you get that.’

‘We’ve got the gun we can scientifically prove fired the bullets that killed Ignatov. It’s got your fingerprints on it.’ Danilov held it up, in the protective exhibit bag.

Having tried a laugh, the gangster yawned, hugely. ‘Didn’t get a lot of sleep last night, with one thing and another.’

Danilov said contemptuously: ‘We’ve all seen the American movies. You’re not doing it very well.’

Choosing his moment, Cowley said: ‘No good as an actor and no good as a thug.’

Antipov had to turn, as Cowley had known he would: for the first time there was interest on the man’s face. ‘Russian crime so serious they’ve got to import help?’