Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘But you know which way to go? Where to look?’ persisted the division commander. ‘Are there going to be any more arrests here in Moscow?’

‘I always keep an open mind until the very end,’ said Cowley.

Kosov looked genuinely surprised when he was told they were not eating at the hotel, insisting the Metropole diningrooms were the best in the city: Danilov half expected the man to add that they were also the most expensive, but he didn’t. Cowley helped by saying he’d prefer a Russian restaurant: Danilov looked at Olga, who ignored him. Kosov paid for the champagne from a thick wad of dollar bills he ostentatiously counted out on the table top, adding a ten-dollar tip.

Outside the hotel Kosov said it was unnecessary to take two cars, bustling the American towards the BMW. Larissa appeared almost as possessive as her husband, hurrying Cowley into the back and putting Olga and herself on either side. Danilov got into the front. When Danilov announced they were eating at the Skazka, Kosov sighed in unspoken disdain. He put a Tina Turner cassette into the tape deck, which was tuned too loudly. As he drove off, Kosov waved his arm around the vehicle and said to Danilov: ‘What do you think?’

‘Very nice,’ said Danilov. Olga had been right about the array of dashboard illumination.

‘One of the newest: hardly any like it in Moscow.’

Danilov was tempted to ask the uniformed colonel how he could afford it, but didn’t bother.

In the rear of the car Cowley was making polite conversation, telling Olga to persuade Danilov to bring her to Washington for a vacation so he could show them around. With no alternative – and hoping the idea would never be taken up by them – Cowley said of course he and Larissa were included in the invitation when Kosov asked.

It was easier than Danilov expected to park on the Tovarishchevsky Pereulok. He was clearly not known there so Kosov did not attempt one of his favoured-customer entrances, which increased the effect of what happened when they did go in.

Danilov had made the reservation days before – necessary, as he intended paying in roubles – and had called in earlier that day to confirm the table was being kept for him. The first indication the manager recognised him from the publicity of the case came when the man asked if he would be bringing the American detective. It was the only occasion Danilov had experienced the benefit of fame and he enjoyed it: it was much easier than the usual Russian necessity to guarantee service, suggesting favour for favour. And seemed to work better. Their table was waiting, already set with zakuski – hors d’oeuvres – that included smoked salmon, sturgeon, caviar and individual salads. The manager greeted Danilov like a regular customer, shaking his hand and saying it was good to see him again, and gained the hoped-for introduction to Cowley in front of everyone else in the restaurant.

The candlelight against the dark wood gave the Skazka a genuine Russian ambience, heightened by the gypsy musicians. They ate bliny, filling each pancake themselves with caviar, and pelmeni, dumplings floating in sour cream. There was pork served two ways, in a mushroom sauce and roasted with plums, and lamb shashlik. Danilov ordered both red and white Georgian wine.

Cowley enjoyed the evening. He made everyone laugh with anecdotes of investigation mistakes that were legendary and most likely apocryphal in the FBI, which encouraged matching stories from the other two policemen: Danilov told his tales better than Kosov, who was showing signs of getting drunk. Olga’s words, when she tried to speak which wasn’t often, were slurring by now, too. Even Larissa attempted a contribution, telling of bedroom mix-ups and unusual assignations at the hotel. Cowley was conscious of her seeming to address Danilov when she told them, as if he would be more interested than the rest of them. Kosov made two more attempts to talk about the investigation, both of which were easily evaded.

It was Olga, over Armenian brandy, who eagerly suggested they all go on to a nightclub, looking expectantly at Kosov. But the man didn’t respond as she anticipated: he didn’t give any reaction at all, in fact, and she was about to repeat the idea, imagining he hadn’t heard, when Cowley said maybe another time.

Kosov insisted it was no trouble to drop the American off at his hotel: at the Savoy Cowley invited them in for a nightcap, allowing himself a final brandy, but still didn’t take up the nightclub idea. They parted noisily with promises to get together again sometime.

In the Volga, going home, Danilov decided the evening had been saved, socially, by the Skazka. And that Kosov had been blatantly over-interested, even for a policeman, in the Mafia murders. He’d known Kosov to be dirty, he thought, calling up the new English word: but not this dirty. Which was not part of his current problem. Or was it?

‘Why didn’t you kiss Larissa goodnight?’ Olga demanded, breaking into his reflections.

‘Forgot.’ Danilov thought he’d almost gone too far in the other direction, ignoring Larissa as he had, although it was how they’d agreed to behave when they’d spoken by telephone that afternoon. She’d practically been too obvious ignoring him, as well.

‘She looked beautiful tonight, didn’t she?’

‘I didn’t notice.’ He’d have to stop lying soon.

It was not raining that night, so it was not until the following day – when it was – that he discovered the windscreen wipers on the Volga had been stolen while it was parked near the Metropole.

The ministry summons was extremely specific, almost legally detailed. Danilov was ordered to bring with him the complete and interlocking master file on all three cases and to be accompanied by Yuri Pavin, whose assistance would have been necessary anyway because there was so much to transport. Expanded by the Washington and Geneva material referenced and indexed to the Moscow murder, the files occupied five bulging dossier boxes. A special table had to be brought to the Deputy Foreign Minister’s chamber to accommodate it all.

Everyone had assembled in advance of their arrival: Danilov’s impression was that a conference had been held between the two ministers and the Federal Prosecutor in advance. Chairs were set for him and Pavin at a small table, already in place, and Danilov’s further impression, from the first question, was of hostility towards them.

It came from Vasili Oskin, who rose to go to where all the dossiers lay but selected only one, the master record. ‘Who is responsible for this comprehensive file?’

‘As the officer in charge of the investigation, I am,’ accepted Danilov. It was a tribunal. But why!

‘You are aware of its full contents?’ demanded Nikolai Smolin.

‘I have read what it contains,’ said Danilov. ‘Quite obviously, with the volume there now is, I need to remind myself of individual items from the index or referencing.’

Vorobie looked at Pavin. ‘Formulated by you?’

Pavin, who had recognised an inquisition as quickly as Danilov, stumbled the start of his reply and had to begin again. At his second attempt Pavin said: ‘It’s the system I customarily use, on all serious crime investigations.’

Smolin replaced Oskin at the table during the exchange. No-one spoke while he flicked through the master dossier, and Danilov guessed some rehearsal had gone into this encounter. The Federal Prosecutor looked up and said to Pavin: ‘It is arranged chronologically in order of date and discovery?’

‘In this case – these cases – the file begins with the American murders, in dated sequence,’ agreed Pavin. ‘The Ignatov killing has a separate dossier, annotated where there are provable links with those in America: the names of known criminals in Serov’s papers is the obvious illustration. Those annotations are picked up by cross-referencing, one dossier to another, and additionally held in the full index. That way, by daily maintaining the system, it is possible to move in sequential order through each separate file it controls. The master also contains all ministry and interdepartmental communications.’