Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

Danilov told Cowley that night, in the Savoy bar, he had finally initiated the search. ‘It’s a possibility,’ accepted the American doubtfully.

‘Any other suggestions?’

‘What about surveillance on Antipov, when he’s released?’

‘We’ll try,’ agreed the Russian. ‘He’ll expect it, though.’

‘What about bugging his apartment, before you release him?’

‘I’ll suggest it,’ said Danilov.

Cowley remained in the bar after Danilov’s departure. By now he had an accustomed place in the corner furthest from the door. He saw, the moment she entered, the darkly attractive, short-haired girl who’d established an equally accustomed place at a side table, just inside the entrance, for over a week now. He guessed she was a professional, because there were a few of them regularly around, but he’d seen her reject quite a few approaches, so obviously she was extremely particular. He smiled almost without thinking, in the way of bar regulars, and she smiled back: worriedly he wondered if she might have misunderstood and make an approach, but she didn’t. He smiled at the girl as he finally left the bar and she shifted slightly, smiling up expectantly. But he carried on alone to his room.

‘The man was head of the Organised Crime Bureau!’ protested Maksim Zimin. ‘We knew how the investigation was going! Now we don’t! It was a totally unnecessary mistake!’

It was the first time that one of Alexandr Yerin’s intricate proposals had collapsed so badly, and he didn’t like the failure or the criticism. ‘They weren’t our only source, close to what’s going on.’

‘They were the best! Kosov doesn’t have any inside access,’ persisted Zimin. ‘And we can’t intercept what’s going to Oskin!’ He thought this more than balanced the Washington error.

‘There’s no benefit in looking back,’ intervened Gusovsky, although he agreed with Zimin. ‘The link-up is far more important. We are going to get the company details legally assigned soon now.’

‘We’re not going to delay the meeting?’ queried Zimin, the delegate, hoping his reluctance didn’t show. He was uneasy operating outside the guaranteed safety and protection of Moscow.

‘Definitely not,’ insisted Yerin. ‘We’ve got to maintain their confidence.’

‘There’s no way we can be blocked, getting the money. You can make all the agreements: they won’t expect you to be carrying it with you,’ said Gusovsky.

‘We won’t have the investigation monitored!’ said Zimin, not wanting to relax the pressure on the blind man.

‘Kosov will have to work that much harder,’ said Gusovsky.

‘What about Metkin and Kabalin?’

Yerin gave a waving gesture, like someone disturbing an irritating insect. ‘They’re no further use to us.’

‘They know!’ insisted Zimin.

‘And if they talk they go to jail for the rest of their lives! They know that, too. Stop pissing your pants!’

‘I need to know everything about Switzerland,’ said Zimin.

‘Just make the contact and convince them we can set up the deal,’ said Yerin.

The funeral, at Novodevichy cemetery, of Petr Aleksandrovich Serov provided the news-starved media with the first public event since the activity around the scenes of the American murders: what little there had been at the Moscow river bank had ended before the Ignatov killing had been leaked by the Washington mayor. The swarm of international journalists, cameramen and TV crews hugely outnumbered the tiny group of mourners.

Danilov and Cowley did not attempt to join it. Instead, glad of the tight-together clutter of gravestones and portrait-adorned vaults, they remained initially unrecognised outside the melee. That, in turn, hid the Militia photographer. It had been Cowley’s idea to get police pictures, which Danilov had acted on without reference to Smolin. It had been a mistake proposing the electronic eavesdropping on Mikhail Antipov’s apartment on Ulitza Fadajeva. The prosecutor had said there was insufficient time for the installation before the man was released. Smolin had seemed uninterested in any surveillance in depth, which had unsettled Danilov.

It was an overcast day of low, scudding clouds, the few trees rusting with approaching autumn. It was cold, too, although Raisa Serova did not wear a coat: her suit was an appropriate mourning black, without any visible jewellery. Twice, while they watched, she spoke sideways to Oleg Yasev. Danilov had not expected her to be accompanied by the Foreign Ministry official, but Raisa kept her hand linked through the elbow-cupped arm of the fair-haired Yasev, while being constantly attentive to Serov’s elderly parents, on her other side. The old lady, bowed as much by arthritis as sorrow, was crying, needing her husband’s arm around her shoulders as well as Raisa’s help to get to the graveside. There were only three other mourners, all men. Danilov didn’t recognise them, but got the impression they were officials from their dress and demeanour.

It was an American television cameraman, panning to follow Raisa Serova from the grave to her car, who recognised Danilov and Cowley from the earlier publicity. Raisa became aware of the sudden switch of attention and glared, particularly at Danilov. There was another headtogether exchange with Yasev, who appeared to nod in agreement with what she said, as Danilov and Cowley were engulfed by the pack, like they had been outside the restaurant in Georgetown.

Now, as then, they refused every question, shouted in Russian and English: Danilov used the American’s bulk, following in the man’s wake as Cowley shouldered his way towards the waiting Volga. The press determination to get some comment matched that of Cowley and Danilov not to give it. A solid barrier formed between them and the car, refusing to give way, and Pavin, who had remained in the driving seat, had literally to add his weight from the rear to complete the path Cowley was trying to form. Someone got his hand trapped in the door, yelling with pain as Danilov slammed it closed. For no obvious benefit, apart from still more photographs, the pack remained thronged all around the car. Pavin had to edge forward inches at a time to reach the cemetery gates.

‘Jesus!’ said Cowley, as the vehicle reached the main highway.

‘I should have had some uniformed officers.’ Would Smolin have vetoed that, too?

‘Those three guys mean anything to you?’ Cowley had marked the three unknown mourners as officials, too.

‘We can ask Yasev.’

‘I’d already decided to ask him.’

‘Surprised he was there?’

‘I suppose it was understandable.’

The police photographs were printed at once, to maximum enlargements, and compared to every picture so far gathered on the three cases. There was no match. Danilov had just finished dictating the official request to Oleg Yasev for their identities when the call came from Smolin that the widow had already complained, through Yasev, about the media presence at the funeral. She blamed the Russian investigator personally for releasing the time and location to the press. Today’s protest had also repeated the demand that her husband’s still-retained diary be returned. Smolin saw no reason why that should not be done.

The rebuke finally made Danilov’s mind up how to operate in the future, which was not, he didn’t think, the way Nikolai Smolin intended. Danilov concluded he had been freed from the restrictive interference of a corrupt director to have it replaced by the restrictive interference of a group of government officials more interested in satisfying diplomatic than legal requirements. And then, he further qualified, only if the replacement group were honest.

Danilov shared every message with the American. Cowley said: ‘He know about going through Serov’s stuff from the embassy again?’