Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

The other man was standing at the table, the photographs that had been taken from Rimyans’ living room laid out before him. He looked up at last, frowning. ‘I think we’re missing something,’ he declared seriously.

‘What?’ demanded Johannsen.

‘If I knew that we wouldn’t be missing it, asshole!’

The summons from the Interior Ministry had been made by telephone, and the two men had left the Bureau headquarters before the return of Danilov and Pavin.

‘The reaction is too quick!’ insisted Kabalin. He was driving because they wanted to talk out of the presence of a driver.

‘What was there to take any time?’ said Metkin. ‘The documents are unchallengeable.’

‘Why both of us?’

‘You were the officer in charge.’

‘Acting on your instructions.’

Metkin frowned at the man. ‘Don’t do or say anything foolish, will you, Vladimir Nikolaevich?’

It was Danilov’s first intention to say nothing about the missing Makarov, to allow time for a proper internal enquiry and search. Just as quickly he realised, like he realised a lot of other things, that the gun would never be found. And watching their initial frantic hunt and then insisting she had seen no-one open the safe was Ludmilla Radsic, who, if questioned by others which she undoubtedly would be, would provide the precise time he had discovered the gun had gone to prove he had withheld the information. The momentary concentration upon the woman prompted another thought and he almost asked her a quite different question, but stopped himself until he was sure.

‘What are we going to do?’ demanded Pavin. The normally unshakable man was white with bewilderment, moving around the room without direction, touching and shifting things as if he expected suddenly to find the missing evidence.

‘Go back to the ministry,’ said Danilov calmly.

‘But this means…’

‘… that everything’s collapsed.’ It was as much a remark for the woman’s benefit – and satisfaction – as to stop Pavin blurting out something Danilov didn’t want her to hear. Danilov was thinking even further ahead now, itemising what could be salvaged. A lot, he decided. Not everything – and not by far the most important thing – but a lot.

Pavin was still too confused fully to agree when Danilov tried to talk through the implications of the missing Makarov on their way back to the ministry. He wasn’t able to provide an answer to Danilov’s query about Ludmilla Radsic, either.

‘It’s all or nothing,’ Pavin complained.

‘It’s that anyway,’ Danilov said. ‘It always has been.’

‘It’s the system to accept, unquestionably, the word of the superior officer.’

Just survive. Lapinsk’s words, remembered Danilov. Now he was sure he could. He said: ‘That’s just it! That’s the way Metkin and Kabalin think: their mistake. That’s why we can win!’

‘Only if the others will hear you out.’

‘They’ll have to, whether they like it or not,’ insisted Danilov. ‘It can’t be kept internal; swept away. The Americans will have to be told the gun has vanished.’

‘It was in our custody,’ said Pavin miserably. ‘My custody.’

‘I can do it!’ Danilov said adamantly.

Despite its lavishness, Vorobie’s office was inadequate for the enlarged meeting. Metkin and Kabalin were waiting in a larger conference room, with the Federal Prosecutor and the two government officials.

‘I hope there’s good reason for keeping us waiting?’ demanded the Interior Ministry man.

‘There is,’ announced Danilov at once. ‘The Makarov found by the river, with Antipov’s fingerprints, has disappeared.’

Smolin’s mouth actually fell open and stayed like that for several moments: Vorobie turned to look at Oskin, as if he’d misheard and expected the other man to correct the misunderstanding. Kabalin frowned. Any facial movement from Metkin was lost in the already creased features.

‘What!’ managed Smolin, finally.

‘Major Pavin checked the evidence safe, while I was collecting this,’ said Danilov, gesturing with his true copy of the communications register. ‘The gun has gone.’

‘That can’t be!’ said Oskin weakly.

‘It is,’ said Danilov. He had to anticipate every move and counter-accusation likely to come from the other two Militia officers. He wanted them confused, making mistakes in their eagerness to make their charges.

‘The evidence exhibits are your responsibility,’ intruded Metkin at once.

Good, thought Danilov: from the fatuous exchanges on the day of their return from Washington, he knew the more Metkin tried to advance an unsound argument, the more he exposed his weakness: the man’s reasoning and manoeuvring was too deeply embedded in the past. ‘I accept that: as I accept the dossiers are entirely my responsibility.’

The apparently full admission caused the baffled curiosity Danilov wanted. This time Metkin’s frown was discernible.

‘You admit it?’ demanded Vorobie.

‘I want it understood,’ qualified Danilov. ‘Like I want it understood that is why the written records have been altered and the gun has disappeared. To discredit me and bring about my dismissal.’

‘I don’t know anything about records being altered,’ said Metkin. ‘Those records prove without question either incompetence or insubordinate refusal to follow others. I don’t need to describe to anyone here what the loss of the murder weapon means.’

‘Without the gun, Antipov can’t be charged: brought before a court,’ said the Federal Prosecutor anyway, as if he couldn’t believe what he was being forced to say. ‘The gun, with unarguable fingerprints, was the evidence.’

‘Which the Americans will have to be told,’ agreed Danilov. ‘It’s difficult to imagine their reaction to this. Proof, if any more were needed, of official complicity, to prevent a proper police enquiry…’ Time now to switch, to bury the bastards under the weight of their own misjudgements. ‘… The enquiry into the Ignatov killing was deliberately mishandled, at its outset. Since then every effort has been made by the Director of the Organised Crime Bureau flagrantly to obstruct it. There should be a thorough and complete enquiry into that determined attempt to disgrace and discredit the department, together with myself and Major Pavin.’ Had he left anything out? If he had, it was too late now. The abyss was yawning before him, bottomless. He wasn’t frightened. He supposed he should be.

This time the reponse was splintered. The higher officials lapsed into further head-turning bemusement, seeking an inquisitor. Metkin had to speak, although not as the inquisitor, more the prosecutor, the role Danilov was sure the man had rehearsed. Come on, thought Danilov: over-extend yourself. Make the most important mistake of all.

The Director rose, making what he was going to say formal and official, a declaration. ‘I refute utterly these outrageous accusations, which are totally without foundation, the ramblings of a desperate man. The horrendous shortcomings and the even more horrendous failures are those of Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov, who should be removed at once from an enquiry he has so bungled, from its inception, it cannot now continue…’

It would once have worked, Danilov accepted: as little as four years ago, any attempted defence would have been ignored and higher authority would have sided with higher authority, obeying the Communist favour-for-favour principle, and he would have been as good as dead. Now…

Metkin turned, sure of himself, confronting Danilov face-to-face. ‘The responsibility for picking up what is left of this miserably failed investigation will be mine. And that of senior Colonel Investigator Vladimir Kabalin…’ He went back to the assembled, tight-faced officials. ‘The decision upon the failings of Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov and his assistant must be yours. My official recommendation is that the enquiry be an internal, criminal one, for gross dereliction of duties, which is provided for under the Militia statute…’