Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

Kosov gave a self-satisfied smile, sipping his whisky at last. ‘It’s important, to have influential friends. Like I said, it’s the system everyone knows how to use.’

‘So you were asked to make an approach?’ suggested Danilov, risking directness again.

Another shrug. ‘The friendship between you and me is known.’

Danilov shifted, momentarily uncomfortable. What about his friendship with Larissa? ‘You know you can trust me, Yevgennie Grigorevich? That this conversation won’t be repeated to anyone.’

‘What conversation?’

‘Quite so,’ accepted Danilov. Trying to keep his tone conversational, he said: ‘Tell me about thern: about the Chechen and the Ostankino? About all the Families.’

There was an immediate frown, and Danilov angrily recognised he’d gone too far. Kosov shook his head, either in denial or refusal, and said: ‘You could be director, you know.’

‘I haven’t thought about it,’ Danilov encouraged. ‘Too much has been happening.’

‘With certain additions, at the top,’ said Kosov.

Danilov believed he knew what the other man was implying, but the proposition was so preposterous he refused to assume it, wanting Kosov to say the words. ‘Additions at the top?’

‘Don’t you think we’d make a great team?’ invited Kosov.

It was preposterous. An absurd, ridiculous, preposterous joke! Danilov could not think of anyone with whom he would less like to be linked, professionally. At once came a sobering realisation. Was it so absurdly ridiculous? If Kosov had the government influence suggested by this conversation, couldn’t the man be imposed upon the Bureau: become its director, even! He said: ‘It’s never occurred to me.’

‘I think it’s time I moved on,’ insisted Kosov, his voice matter-of-fact, as if the decision had already been reached. ‘I’ve been in charge of a district a long time.’

With Kosov at Petrovka, the Bureau would become entirely organised for crime. ‘Have you discussed it, with anyone else?’

The head shake came once more. ‘All this business has to be resolved…’ Heavily, Kosov added: ‘Resolved properly. Time enough to talk about other things after that.’

Danilov was abruptly seized by a fierce anger, concerned it would show in his face. What right had this fucking man – this arrogant, bombastic, crooked man – to sit and patronise him like this, virtually telling him what to do, practically with a fingersnap! Almost at once, objective man that he was, Danilov brought in the balancing thought. They’d made a mistake, like putting the buried-in-the-past, inefficient Metkin in charge of the Bureau. But this time it was a much more serious error. They’d declared themselves, through Kosov, given him and Cowley the opening for which they had been looking. He’d have to cultivate Kosov, like the rarest plant in the greenhouse. Honestly, Danilov said: ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about.’

‘I’m glad.’

Any further discussion was prevented by the women’s return, for which Danilov was grateful, because he could not think of anything more to say at that stage. Larissa got him into the kitchen on the pretext of carrying something in while Olga was setting the table and Kosov was opening wine.

‘You looked terrified when you arrived!’

‘I thought you’d said something.’

‘I’m going to, soon.’

‘We both are,’ promised Danilov.

‘I’m working split shifts next week. Free every afternoon.’

‘What about evenings?’

Larissa frowned. ‘Not until the very end of the week. Why?’

‘We were supposed to be doing something with Cowley again.’ He had already thought of a possible way to use Kosov: ironically, it was prompted by what he hadn’t been allowed to do earlier.

‘I was thinking about the two of us!’ said Larissa, offended.

‘I was thinking about seeing you twice,’ escaped Danilov.

Danilov suggested going out with Cowley again when they were all around the table. Kosov agreed at once and Olga said she’d like it, too. Pointedly, she added this time perhaps they’d go to a nightclub, and Kosov agreed to that, as well.

On their way back to Kirovskaya Olga said: ‘It was a good evening, wasn’t it?’

‘One of the best I can remember,’ said Danilov.

Cowley had not slept at all. For a long time, not until nearly dawn, he didn’t even undress, repelled by getting into the bed featured in the photographs. Which he finally accepted as infantile, eventually lying down to rest at least. By that time his mind had stretched to the outer reaches of every emotion, from astonishment at how easily he had been trapped, through abject shame, to the inevitable, unavoidable consequence. He was destroyed. His only course now, to leave the splintered investigation with any sort of integrity, was to give Washington the fullest humiliating account, pouch the compromising photographs personally to Leonard Ross, and tender his immediate resignation before the blackmail demand was made.

That remained his intention for several hours, until the word sacrifice began to recur in his mind. He would, of course, have to resign. But if he did it at once whoever had set him up – which had, obviously, to be a group or a person fearful of everything being solved – had won, probably destroying not just him but the whole two-nation enquiry.

He wouldn’t let that happen.

The determination burned through Cowley, the most fervent vow he ever made. He would destroy them as they destroyed him: bring them down with him. He’d make himself the knowing bait, pressing on with the investigation, getting closer and closer until they became worried enough to make their demand. He could do it: had to do it. He’d supervised three blackmail cases during his career, before specialising in Russian affairs, and got convictions in every one. He knew the bargaining and the ploys, when to force the strong arguments and when to appear to capitulate. And he would always have an advantage. They would believe themselves superior, dealing with a man terrified of exposure and losing his career. Which he had already decided was lost anyway. It would be a final if pyrrhic victory.

Danilov telephoned Pavin from Kirovskaya that he was making an enquiry on his way in, impatient to get to Cowley’s hotel. His enthusiasm faltered at the sight of the American, who was grey-faced; the skin sagged under his eyes, which were vague, without focus. He looked distracted, exhausted.

‘You don’t look well.’

‘I slept badly.’ Cowley knew exactly how shitty he looked and didn’t need to be told.

‘You sure that’s all it is?’

‘You said you had something important,’ urged the American.

Danilov’s excitement took over. He bustled Cowley into the Volga, picking up the inner ring road but without any destination. Danilov tried to keep the account coherent, interspersing the actual conversation of the previous night with his impressions, but several times the American had to intrude with a question, fully to comprehend. Towards the end Cowley forced aside the eroding depression and the aching fatigue, recognising this possibly to be the biggest break so far, and one they certainly needed.

‘It was obvious Kosov was on the take,’ Cowley agreed.

‘But not to this extent,’ qualified Danilov. He hadn’t admitted that at uniform level he’d also been a willing player. He didn’t intend to, if he could avoid it: he very much wanted the American’s professional respect.

‘What’s your guess?’

‘I don’t want to guess. I want to find out, definitely. And I want you to help me.’

‘How?’

‘You broke a New York Family with some impressive bugging, particularly in cars. That car is Kosov’s status symbol. He’ll do business from it: maybe enough for us to go further forward.’