Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘Review the failure of the case so far,’ qualified Smolin. ‘That’s how it would be interpreted.’

‘That’s how I want it to be interpreted,’ seized Danilov. ‘It has failed: is failing. I very much want the people we’re trying to find to believe that.’

‘By publicly humiliating ourselves!’

‘There’s no choice about that: it’s got to happen, sooner or later. And there wouldn’t be any humiliation in the end, if we made it clear we allowed the impression, to create a trap.’

Smolin’s head moved, in further acceptance. ‘Vorobie and Oskin will have to know the truth, if there is going to be a public declaration.’

‘But no-one necessarily beyond them. A return to Washington can be the explanation throughout the lower levels of the ministries.’

‘It’s a convoluted scheme,’ protested the prosecutor, although not forcefully.

‘Which could work,’ asserted Danilov.

‘If it doesn’t, we could be made to look even more foolish.’

Me most of all, thought Danilov.

‘What in the name of Christ is going on over there!’ exclaimed the Secretary of State.

‘Not enough. Or maybe too much,’ said Leonard Ross. ‘I’ve spent most of the day back and forth with Cowley, trying to make sense of it.’ The FBI Director decided lateafternoon meetings at the State Department were preferable to breakfast sessions: Happy Hour bourbon was an improvement on coffee and eggs.

‘We’re to co-ordinate our statement with that from Russia, regretting the release of a suspect and agreeing the need for consultations?’ clarified Henry Hartz. ‘The two of them are seen publicly to fly in, to make it look kosher, then take off from another airport to Italy. All because every goddamned policeman and official in Moscow is crooked! Sure these two guys aren’t just building up their air miles?’

‘Cowley’s sure of the intercept: he’s bringing a lot of stuff back for the experts at Quantico. But he thinks what they’ve got already is good enough to move on, and I’m backing him. He’s an experienced agent and wouldn’t go off half cocked. I’ve already alerted my guys in Rome to get organised with the anti-Mafia people in Italy.’

‘It’s the worst of what we didn’t want to hear, Mafia worldwide,’ recalled Hartz soberly.

‘Precisely the reason to go with it,’ said Ross. ‘If we’ve got a chance in a million to bust something before it becomes established, I want to take it.’

‘I’ll cable the Moscow ambassador to release our matching statement as close to the Russians’ as possible,’ agreed Hartz. ‘We can duplicate from here as soon as we hear.’

‘You can buy things I want!’ said Olga, happily, offering the re-written list.

‘I’ll try,’ said Danilov. Would he be able to pad his expenses sufficiently to amass the $250 bribe for the Tatarovo apartment? Where was his much-vaunted integrity now? He waited until Olga went to the kitchen to make supper, before calling Kosov.

‘There’s going to be an official statement. It’s a disaster.’

They landed in Washington in the literal glare of orchestrated publicity following the announcement of Mikhail Antipov’s release, and the inevitable speculation that the investigation was soured from inter-nation rivalry and Russian inefficiency. Cowley and Danilov forced their way stone-faced through the press melee at Dulles airport to the waiting FBI limousine, ignoring the shouted questions. The expression wasn’t difficult for Cowley: as the car swept off the Beltway on to Memorial Parkway he thought how different his homecoming would be next time. There wouldn’t be a blaze of cameras then, and certainly not the convenience of a waiting limousine.

There was a straggle of photographers and one television unit at the vehicle entrance to the FBI headquarters, but the tightly restricted inner courtyard guaranteed an unrecorded arrival. That facility was why Henry Hartz, also unnoticed, travelled in from the more open State Department where the subterfuge could not have been maintained.

Cowley had brought all the tapes, but selected only the one referring to Sicily to play to the Director and the Secretary of State. Hartz did not attempt to hide his scepticism when it finished. ‘We’re way out on a limb with this.’

‘Which we’re doing without public awareness,’ pointed out Ross. ‘Any recriminations will bejust between us and the Italians.’ He indicated the other tapes and said to Cowley: ‘Why didn’t we get these earlier?’

‘They’re evidence of a crooked cop: didn’t become part of our case until this…’ He in turn gestured to the tape they had just played. ‘… I want Quantico to go through all the earlier stuff, for voiceprint comparison and sound and quality enhancement. I also want them to try to get a number, from the dialling, for us to work backwards to locate an address. Snow’s going to ship tapes back daily, from now on.’

Ross remained looking at his agent, as if he were going to continue the criticism. Instead, to Danilov, he said: ‘This crooked cop a friend of yours?’

‘He succeeded me, on promotion,’ said Danilov guardedly. He’d expected some sort of conference, but not to be in the presence of the FBI Director and Secretary of State: he wasn’t overawed, but frighteningly aware of being out of his depth. If it was ever discovered in Moscow what he was doing, nothing could save him: he hardly deserved to be saved.

‘Why target him? You know he was dirty?’

‘He made an obvious approach to me.’

Hartz waved generally around the office and the city beyond. ‘You think he’ll go for all this?’

‘There was another meeting, not on tape. He hasn’t named a Family but it’s obvious who he’s talking about. He wants to introduce me. Just before I left Moscow we spoke on the telephone. I said I might like to take up his offer when I get back. He said his friends would be very pleased, and that they would help me any way I wanted.’

‘You record that, with a prior explanation to protect yourself?’ demanded the former judge.

‘No,’ admitted Danilov.

‘Let’s hope he didn’t: if he did, you’re dead.’

After today – this encounter – he could be anyway, Danilov thought.

Cowley and Danilov left the FBI building by freight elevator and flew to Italy from the totally secure Andrews Air Force base on a loaned CIA plane equipped like no other Danilov had ever seen or imagined possible. The entire fuselage was divided between a lounge, actually fitted with satellite-transmitted in-flight television as well as the predictable movies, and a minuscule but functional bar which adjoined a dining area with full-sized chairs set at a full-sized, white clothed table at which they were served steak and California chardonnay from a closed-off galley. Beyond that were three divided sleeping sections, each with a full length bed, bordering closets and bathroom annexes. They both got six hours’ sleep.

Their arrival at the closed-off military section of Rome’s Fiumicino airport was frenzied, swarming with uniformed and plainclothes police. It was not until they were halfway towards the city, wedged in the middle of a horn-blaring cavalcade, that they became properly aware with whom they were travelling. The FBI station chief re-introduced himself as Barclay Smith: it was Smith, who was a thin, immaculately dressed man given to languid hand and arm movements, who introduced the plainclothed Italian in the front seat as Guiseppe Melega, the investigating colonel of the Interior Ministry’s anti-Mafia division. As he did so Smith said: ‘Don’t imagine all these outriders are for you: Colonel Melega is currently number one on the Mafia hit list.’