Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘Why don’t you tell us about Russian crime?’ invited Danilov.

Antipov spread his hands innocently, palms upwards. ‘What do I know about Russian crime?’

‘It wasn’t from a movie you got the idea of shooting Ignatov in the mouth, was it?’ said Cowley. ‘That was intended to mean something

…’

‘… What did it mean?’ completed Danilov.

Antipov yawned again, more artificially than before.

Danilov held the exhibit bag up again. ‘It’s an automatic conviction. Which means the death penalty. You want to die, shot like you shot Ignatov?’

‘I’ve never seen that gun before. Don’t know anything about a man called Ignatov.’

‘Don’t be stupid!’ sneered Danilov. ‘He was an Ostankino bull. And you killed him.’

‘Is there a gang war going, between the Ostankino and the Chechen?’ demanded Cowley. ‘They’re your main rivals, aren’t they?’

‘I don’t know what Ostankino or Chechen means.’

‘What’s your rank, in the Chechen?’ said Danilov, setting the Makarov on the table in front of the man, where he could constantly see it. ‘You a bull?’

‘Or just a lokhi?’ queried Cowley, taking up the sneer, trying to penetrate the veneer.

Antipov shook his head in contempt, not denial.

‘Probably a lokhi,’ jeered Cowley. ‘In America the worst soldier wouldn’t dump his weapon with the body.’ Arrogant men often cracked under ridicule.

‘What was Ignatov going to say about the Chechen?’ resumed Danilov. ‘That’s what the mouthshot is for, isn’t it? A warning to stool-pigeons? You’ve copied that from America, like a lot else.’

‘Why ask me?’ There was a heavy shrug.

‘Or do the Moscow mobs have different rules?’ said Cowley, in growing desperation. ‘You have different titles, after all.’

‘I told you, I don’t know anything about mobs or titles.’

‘Maybe you’re telling the truth,’ said Cowley. ‘A lokhi, too small time to know anything… a punk. Means you’re shit. That’s you, isn’t it? Shit.’

‘How long you going to keep this up?’ said the man, holding the anger.

‘As long as it suits us,’ said Danilov. ‘You’re ours now. We can hold you as long as we like, how we like, where we like…’ He snapped his fingers. ‘We do that and you jump.’

‘Go fuck yourself,’ said the mafioso again.

It was looking increasingly as if that was exactly what they were going to have to do, decided the American. He couldn’t at the moment think of an approach that might have been more successful with the man, but their supercilious performance certainly hadn’t succeeded. ‘You know what that double fuck was you had last night?’ said Cowley, knowing the circumstances of the man’s arrest from Kabalin’s already prepared report. ‘The last ever. Sure hope it was good for you.’

That failed like the rest. Antipov feigned masturbation. ‘It was fantastic. You want their address? They’re very expensive but worth every dollar…’ He turned more fully, to Cowley. ‘You could probably afford it. You’ll have the money, being an American…’ He nodded between Cowley and Danilov. ‘Why not do him a favour, treat him to the fuck of the century?’

Thank God they could hold him as long as they needed, thought Danilov: it was going to be a long haul to break this bastard. ‘You read newspapers? Watch television?’

‘Sometimes,’ shrugged Antipov.

‘Two men were killed in Washington, just like Ignatov: shot in the mouth. One was a Russian diplomat.’

‘Didn’t hear about it,’ said Antipov. ‘I’m a businessman! What do I know about crime?’

‘What sort of business?’ pounced Cowley.

‘Import-export.’

‘What do you import and export?’

‘Whatever I can. Nothing special.’

‘Where are your offices?’

‘I don’t need offices. I buy one place and sell another. I’m a middleman.’

‘You’re a little thug,’ said Danilov. He reached down by his side again, bringing up the old and new fingerprint sheets. He held out the first and said: ‘The file that goes with these has two convictions for violence… two more for theft…’

‘… It’s a risky business…’ broke in the man. ‘Have to protect myself sometimes.’

Danilov paused beyond the interruption, suddenly thinking Antipov was actually enjoying the fruitless interrogation. Holding out the second sheet, he said: ‘These came from the butt of the gun. That’ll convict you. Put you before a firing squad…’

‘… Wouldn’t it make sense to try to help yourself?’ pressed Cowley.

‘How?’

The simple question, free at last of any arrogance, encouraged both investigators. Danilov said: ‘With the evidence we’ve got, a death sentence is automatic. Co-operate, and I’ll intervene with the Federal Prosecutor. See he doesn’t demand the death sentence at your trial…’

‘We’re offering you life!’ urged Cowley.

‘Wish I knew what it was you wanted,’ sniggered Antipov.

Cowley only just suppressed the exasperation, glad he was able to deny the cocky bastard the pleasure of knowing how deeply he was getting under their skins. He saw Danilov looking at him over Antipov’s head and lifted his shoulders, helplessly.

‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Danilov, standing but leaning across the table. ‘You haven’t got a defence. And we can do what we like with you. We’ll talk tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. For as long as it takes. Think of the choices. You going to choose to die? Course you’re not! Only a fool would do that…’ He nodded to the waiting detention guards.

Antipov took as much time standing as he had seating himself. ‘Some things were taken from me, when I got here this morning. Rings. A watch. A gold identity bracelet. You’ll see they don’t get stolen, won’t you? I don’t trust the Militia, uniformed or otherwise. No-one does.’

No-one spoke for the first few minutes after Antipov was escorted from the room. Cowley crossed to take the interrogation chair at the table. Danilov gestured for the tape to be stopped.

‘He should have snapped, being ridiculed,’ insisted Cowley, sure of the psychology. ‘That was the way to do it.’

‘He hasn’t had time to think it through,’ suggested Pavin. ‘It will be different when he realises he is going to die.’

Cowley shook his head, not completely convinced. ‘He’s got a long way to go before he becomes a frightened man.’

‘But no real choice in the end,’ insisted Danilov, confidently.

By the time they got back to Petrovka, the decision had been made to issue a press statement announcing the arrest. Vladimir Kabalin was named as the arresting officer: the point was emphasised that it had been an entirely Russian operation, although American participation was continuing with the ongoing investigation. A photograph of Mikhail Antipov was released.

The Jackson address was openly recorded in the housing register and in Post Office computers as being that of Igor Rimyans and his wife Irena. It was a clapboard, two-storey house with an attached garage and a well tended garden. There was a child’s bicycle discarded by the verandah swing seat. The lace curtains were cross-looped, corner to corner, a woman’s decoration. It looked deserted from the moment of their arrival, and there was no obvious movement throughout the afternoon. They put a van with two-way observation glass on Mill, and an hourly-changed car squad much further back along Elmhurst Manor. Quite close, on Junction Boulevard, a supposed sewer maintenance squad set up home beneath a canvas tent. The house remained in darkness throughout the first night.

The following day, Slowen was authorised to put a tap on the telephone. No-one called. He obtained the telephone records and had a headquarters team go back through every outgoing number dialled for the preceding four months: none led to anyone named in Petr Aleksandrovich Serov’s documents. Slowen followed up the telephone tap with a search warrant, and a locksmith opened the door to Rimyans’ house. It wasn’t double locked.