Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

They devoted a substantial part of the Friday, in advance of that evening’s outing, testing everything as realistically as possible. They tried the bugs out in various positions in the Volga and drove throughout Moscow to assess the standard of reception and learn what sort of conditions risked the worst interference. They did a lot of the experimentation in and around Kosov’s Militia district. Only then did Danilov realise the area Kosov commanded – and of which he himself had once been in charge – was convenient to two of the city’s four airports, the operating territory of the Chechen Family. It should have occurred to him before.

Body pressure and movement overlaid conversation if a microphone was attached to the fabric of a seat. Aware of the impressive tape and radio deck in the BMW, they both worried that the music would drown anything less than a shouted exchange, reassuring themselves that if Kosov had the sort of discussion they hoped, he was unlikely to play music. Bridges and underpasses – even the tunnel quite close to the American embassy, where the receiving equipment was installed – made talk inaudible.

By mid-afternoon they had decided to plant two microphones, both in the front of the BMW on the logical assumption Kosov would always be driving: neither could recall sufficient detail about the interior layout to choose a precise location. They agreed to arrange themselves as before, giving Danilov the front passenger seat and the responsibility for fixing the devices.

‘Let’s hope it’ll work,’ said Danilov. He was disappointed there wasn’t better clarity on the tape, which they’d further agreed should be voice activated and therefore live at all times of day and night.

‘Let’s hope,’ echoed Cowley, with anything but hope in his voice, although Danilov missed it. The reluctance was introspective. A week or a fortnight or a month? he wondered again.

Cowley’s entry into the Savoy bar, leading the rest of them, was his first since his entrapment, although he’d looked in from the lobby every night in the desperately empty hope of locating Lena, all the time knowing she would not be there. He forlornly searched for her that night, at last deciding he should stop making himself look stupid in his own eyes if not those of everyone else in the hotel.

Kosov quickly tried to impose himself – waving away Cowley’s intention to reciprocate Danilov’s earlier hospitality – and Danilov and Cowley made only a token protest, content to let him play the grandiose host any way he wanted.

Everything worked to choreographed perfection, with an additional advantage they hadn’t expected. Danilov’s making directly to the front of the BMW ensured the intended seating arrangements, and as he settled Kosov apologised for the restricted leg-room caused by the car phone, intentionally to draw attention to the new addition to the vehicle. Danilov allowed himself to be overly impressed, unclipping the instrument from its dashboard holder to examine it. He fumbled replacing it.

Kosov had clearly put a lot of thought and effort into the evening, even taking account of Cowley’s stated preference for ethnic restaurants. They went to the traditionally Georgian U Pirosmani, with its spectacular view from Novodevichy Proyezd of the sixteenth-century convent on the other side of the river. There were violin music and Georgian specialities, but not as many questions from Kosov about the investigation as either Danilov or Cowley had expected. They were careful to be as vague as they’d always been about those he did ask, because it would have been a mistake to have responded differently.

Larissa manoeuvred herself next to Danilov and separate from the others as they walked from the restaurant to the car. ‘We’re going to need somewhere to live, aren’t we?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘One of the receptionists knows of an apartment that’s becoming vacant soon, out in Tatarovo: her sister’s getting married. Shall we look at it?’

Danilov felt a sink of uncertainty at making a positive commitment. ‘If you like.’

‘What would you like? You don’t sound very enthusiastic!’

‘We’ll look at it,’ he said, more positively.

‘We’ll need to bribe, because we’re not on the housing list,’ said Larissa, matter-of-factly. ‘I’ll ask my friend how much she thinks it will cost.’

Danilov guessed from her familiar entry that the Nightflight had been the club to which Kosov had taken Olga, while he was in Washington: Kosov was greeted with the recognition he enjoyed and allocated a table at once. Because Olga did not dance there was no problem about the number of times he did, with Larissa. She was excited about the apartment, which was large by Russian standards, with two bedrooms as well as a lounge: Danilov thought it sounded expensive. Olga believed she saw some of Kosov’s friends from the earlier visit but they made no greeting and he said nothing, so she decided she was mistaken. Cowley danced twice, for politeness, with Larissa, but spent some time circulating around the club more than was really necessary, looking at a lot of girls. Lena was not among them. There were a lot of men in suits that shone, smoking Marlboros: as they probably owned the Mercedes and BMWs outside, they wouldn’t need to keep the packs to attract a cab. They ended the evening with renewed promises to go out again soon: Danilov initiated the discussion.

He had to wait until Olga went to bed back at Kirovskaya before he could telephone Cowley, as they had arranged.

‘Where?’ asked the American.

‘The smaller one, with the magnetic base, behind the telephone mounting on the dashboard. The other on the seat strut.’

‘Now it all depends on American electronic technology,’ said Cowley.

‘And Kosov talking a lot,’ added Danilov.

He did.

They were surprised, although they shouldn’t have been, that the recording started from the moment Danilov attached the microphones on their way to the U Pirosmani, making the initial intercept that of themselves, as well. Everyone sounded drunk after the nightclub, although Danilov and Cowley certainly hadn’t been. There was a lot of Olga’s nervous, please-agree-with-me laughter. Within minutes of Larissa and Kosov being alone, on their way home, Larissa described Olga as dumpy, with hopeless dress sense, and wondered why Danilov stayed with her, which Danilov despised her for saying. Kosov insisted Danilov and Cowley had hopelessly mishandled the murder investigation from the beginning, so that it was now a lost case: that was obvious from the way the American looked, like shit. Danilov smiled: Cowley didn’t.

The clarity of the recording was good that night – Cowley thought it might have been because it was at night – but deteriorated afterwards. It was frustratingly intermittent the following day, when Kosov was alone, but almost at once encouraging. The initial deafening American jazz prevented their hearing the beginning: by the time Kosov turned the music system off, the car-phone exchange had begun. Even then things were lost, entire sentences broken or too faded, even when they wound the tape back and tried again with the volume at maximum.

Kosov began the exchange, from which they assumed he had initiated the call. If there had been any greeting, it was lost in the few seconds before the music was turned off. There was no identification.

‘… thought you’d be interested.’

‘… have been dangerous,’ responded the fainter voice. ‘ You tell him? ’

‘ Made it clear,’ said Kosov.

There was a rumble of static. The only audible word was understood ; the tone made it a question.

‘ Course he understood,’ assured Kosov. It was cocky, I’m-on-top-of-everything talk.