Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

That night, the Italian resentment at his refusal of the press conference had gone: Melega had clearly received high-level congratulations. And Cowley and Smith returned from the hospital with the assurance that although his condition was still serious, Patton was going to survive, although it had been necessary to amputate even more of his arm during the operation. The Liccio clan member wounded during the battle had died.

There was easy agreement to divide the following day’s interrogation practically between nationalities, Melega to head the Italian team questioning the three surviving Sicilians, Smith to confront Palma, and Danilov and Cowley to examine the Russians.

Maksim Zimin was a fat, bespectacled man who tried the sort of swaggering unconcern Antipov had carried off more successfully in Moscow. He shrugged aside the guards’ prodding towards the interview table, lounging back in his chair. It was hot, but not sufficiently so to cause the perspiration shining the man’s face, which was dirty from the siege. Cowley, who’d had one psychology assessment confirmed by Quantico, although it had failed in practice, thought he recognised the profile and was pleased. A bully, Cowley guessed: maybe an instigator of violence, but if he were it would always be others who imposed the pain, because men like Zimin were secretly frightened of suffering themselves.

Cowley spoke hurriedly, ahead of Danilov, wanting to dominate the questioning to test his assessment. ‘You’re going to be in jail for the rest of your life.’

Zimin gave a dismissive wave. ‘I didn’t shoot at anyone. Didn’t have a gun.’ He didn’t show any surprise at being addressed in Russian by an American.

‘What were you doing, in that village?’ asked Cowley.

‘Minding my own business.’

‘With the Sicilian and American Mafia?’ said Danilov.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘Why did you come to Italy?’ said Cowley.

‘Holiday,’ said Zimin. He smirked, looking directly at Cowley. ‘I was going to take lots of holiday photographs. You going to have any souvenir photographs from Moscow?’

Danilov didn’t understand the remark. The American’s face was rigidly impassive. Forcing himself on, waveringly close to being knocked off psychological balance himself by the obvious inference, Cowley said: ‘You were forming links between the Chechen in Moscow, the Genovese in New York and the Liccio here in Sicily.’

Zimin studiously examined his fingernails, not bothering to answer. Danilov was reminded of the encounter with Anripov, not realising how much more fragile Zimin’s attitude was. ‘Tell us why Ivan Ignatsevich Ignatov was murdered? Shot in the mouth.’

‘I don’t know anyone named Ivan Ignatsevich Ignatov.’

Cowley wished Danilov had not intruded. ‘Tell me about the Chechen.’ He anticipated the rejection, expecting nothing that day. But the interview wasn’t wasted. He was studying the man, deciding the pressures.

‘I don’t know who or what the Chechen is.’

Through the frustration, Danilov thought that at least this bastard wouldn’t escape justice, like Antipov.

‘You frightened, Maksim?’ said Cowley. ‘I’d be, if I were you. Frightened as hell.’

The Russian didn’t reply.

‘I’m right, you know. About going to jail. You any idea what it’ll be like, in a cage for the rest of your life?’

Zimin stayed silent.

So, too, did Danilov. He guessed the American was using a trained approach, and determined against interfering until he realised what it was.

‘You won’t do well in jail,’ persisted Cowley. ‘Look at you! Soft! Flabby! They’ll make you into a girl in jail. Fuck you, when they like, how they like. Think about that, Maksim! Think what it’s going to be like being held down while everyone takes their turn. No-one to protect you any more.’

There was a nearly imperceptible twitch to the man’s face, and a hot smell came across the table from him. ‘Stop bothering.’

‘I’m not the one who’s going to be bothered,’ Cowley went on. ‘You’re not looking forward to being a jail whore, are you? You’ll become infected, of course. Venereal disease if you don’t get AIDs. Cancer develops from anal venereal disease. Did you know that?’ According to the Quantico lectures there had to be the fear of physical violence or assault. Maybe the thought of homosexual rape would not be enough, if the man were gay. How did he know about the photographs? He would have to be fairly high ranking within the Chechen. Which followed, Cowley reasoned: nobody un important would have come to set up this operation. Could Zimin be the don that Italian rumours had suggested?

Danilov thought he guessed the approach. ‘If you talked to us – told us all we want to know – we’d try to help.’ Could they cut a deal? The idea of making any arrangement with someone like Zimin offended him, but it would bejustified if it solved everything else. Edging towards another compromise, he thought.

Zimin came forward in his chair, hands fisted hard before him, his face wet. ‘I’m not going to jail! I didn’t take part in any killing.’

‘Of course you’re going to jail,’ insisted Danilov. ‘I’m personally going to see that you do. You talk to us sensibly and I’ll intercede for you. But go on being stupid and you’re going to be locked away forever.’

Zimin strove for bravado. ‘You seem very interested in my ass. So I’ll do you a favour. I’ll let you kiss it. How about that? You like to kiss my ass? It’s yours.’

Danilov grinned at the man. ‘No, I don’t want to kiss your ass. But you’re going to be kissing mine, before we’re through: before we’re through you’re going to be grovelling on the ground, begging me to help you. You and Zavorin and Amasov.’

None of them did, not that day.

After Zimin, they tried to question Ivan Zavorin, a thin, neat, clerk-like man with fidgeting eyes and a stutter, neither of which emerged as nervousness they could break. The attitude was different from Boris Amasov, but the refusal was the same. Instead of offering supercilious rejection or ignorance of what had been going on, the fat-bellied, hugeshouldered man with a knife scar down the right side of his face was mulishly stubborn, remaining mute, not responding to anything he was asked.

They had arranged nightly conferences. Everyone assembled depressed in Melega’s room. Melega had had the only minor success: the oldest of the three Sicilians had been identified as Antonio Liccio, the son of the man who had given his name to the Mafia clan and who was on the ‘most wanted’ list of twelve Mafia dons. The other two were brothers, Victor and Umberto Chiara. There were outstanding indictments against all three, the majority for organised crime offences: it meant they could be held for as long as the Italians chose, without any of the current charges having to be proffered until their eventual questioning by the examining magistrate was completed. Liccio had openly challenged Melega to produce a judge brave enough to hear a case against them.

Barclay Smith’s only contribution was that Palma spoke Italian as well as he did English, but wouldn’t volunteer anything in either language: he had replied to each attempted question by demanding access to a lawyer. His only remark apart from that had been to insist he had been unarmed and taken no part in the shooting. Reminded, Danilov asked Melega about the weapons in the farmhouse. All that had been recovered were the traditional Mafia wolf-hunting shotguns: all bore the fingerprints of the Sicilians, none of the others.

‘So Palma and the Russians do have a defence that they didn’t take part in the shoot-out!’

‘Under our law they are equally guilty,’ insisted Melega.