Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

Among that would be money he’d paid her, Cowley knew: traceably numbered bills he’d drawn from the embassy treasury. In an American investigation, a check on banknote numbers would have been automatic: Cowley did not suggest it here.

It took a supreme effort of will for Cowley to look at the murder photographs. Lena Zurov was sprawled openlegged and naked, half forced off the blood-soaked bed by the impact of the bullets. As in every one of the symbolic murders, there were two body hits, both fatal. The mouth shot, inflicted after death, had taken away half the girl’s face.

‘The only difference from the others is the gun,’ concluded Pavin. ‘It wasn’t in the apartment. The bullets were cushioned by being fired into the mattress: forensic have some very definite barrel markings. If we recover the weapon, we could make a positive match.’

Where would they find it, wondered Danilov. Or far more likely, where would it be planted? He was sure the danger would occur to Cowley – now if not later – but he made a mental note to warn the man. It was becoming difficult to keep in mind everything they had to guard against and the order in which they had to move. But the conference with the government ministers was very definitely the first priority. He called Yevgennie Kosov before going to it. Reserve matched reserve, but Danilov was held by an ice-hard anger.

The three men remained unmoving while Danilov talked. Several times he offered the documentary evidence he had brought with him, but every time Nikolai Smolin shook his head, almost with impatience. Danilov got the impression there had been another conference, preceding this.

‘The American knows: will have told Washington?’ repeated Smolin, uttering what appeared to be his only preoccupation.

‘Yes,’ confirmed Danilov. The lack of response worried him. He didn’t think he could openly ask, if he didn’t get the guidance he wanted.

‘The money is still in this corporation?’ queried Sergei Vorobie.

‘Yes.’

‘Would it be possible to get it back?’ asked Vasili Oskin.

The information was in the documents they’d refused: at worse, he could only later be criticised for an oversight. He wasn’t going to have to ask, to get his question answered.

‘I am not sure about that. Or that a legal conviction is possible, upon the evidence of Maksim Zimin alone,’ said Smolin. The opinion wasn’t addressed to Danilov.

‘America will expect something,’ pointed out the Deputy Interior Minister.

There had been a prior conference, Danilov decided: they were virtually continuing it now, talking as if he weren’t in the room. He wouldn’t tell them how he intended going on with the enquiries: it would be easier to have the sort of interview he wanted with Raisa Serova without the intrusion of Oleg Yasev.

The other three men looked among themselves, as if seeking a spokesman. Vorobie said: ‘There has been very detailed discussion, after what happened in Italy. And there will have to be more, as a result of what you’ve added today. But every effort is to be made to avoid this becoming the diplomatic scandal about which we spoke at the very beginning. You are to make no approach to any of the named government officials. Are you clear about that?’

‘Completely,’ said Danilov. And more, he thought. There was definitely going to be a cover-up.

Danilov was an hour later than he’d promised, getting back to Kirovskaya, but Olga was not annoyed. She kissed him, seeming not to notice his half-hearted response as she flustered around the apartment constantly talking, never waiting for him to reply, which after a while he stopped bothering to do. She said the silk scarf he’d bought – again on the plane – from Geneva was beautiful, and showed him all the Moscow newspaper cuttings of his part in the Sicilian gun battle and said how proud she was of him.

It was, in fact, the first time he had seen the complete Russian coverage: there’d only been three clippings from the embassy in Rome. He was surprised how much space he had been given. He thought he looked ridiculous coming out of the helicopter in army fatigues.

Olga made him tell her about it in minute detail, constantly interrupting with small questions when he tried to hurry, and he indulged her, not irritated as he sometimes was. She kept repeating how proud she was. That night she initiated the love-making and he found it easier to respond than he’d thought he would, but afterwards he remained awake long after she had drifted off into a snuffling sleep.

He was soon going to have to find the words to tell her it was all over. What were the words? He didn’t know yet, but he had to have them exactly right when the moment came, to cause as little hurt as possible. Definitely reassure her that he intended to look after her. Would Larissa have worked out what she was going to say to Kosov? They’d have to talk it through first: get it right between them.

He’d have to call Larissa tomorrow: she’d probably heard from Kosov he was back. Danilov couldn’t work out precisely what it had been when he’d spoken to the man, to arrange their meeting. There had been more than simply fury. Fear, Danilov hoped. Would he be able to achieve what he wanted, the following day? He thought so: the Italians appeared to be keeping their word, not releasing anything of the interrogation success. So Kosov’s friends would be frantic to know what had been discovered. It pleased Danilov, imagining them frantic. He hoped Kosov was the most worried of all. Not just frightened. Truly terrified. The bastard deserved to be.

Kosov had decreed the Metropole bar, which Danilov thought entirely predictable, but the man intercepted him as he entered the foyer, announcing that it was too crowded and they would talk in the car instead. Danilov allowed himself to be shepherded back outside, curious at the abrupt change. Distrust, at something he might have set up in the hotel after his misguidance about the investigation? Or was Kosov merely being theatrical, which was also predictable? It didn’t matter. Kosov was now compromising himself by insisting on the eavesdropped BMW.

Kosov made no attempt to start the car once they were seated. Instead he gripped the wheel, staring directly ahead for several moments before saying: ‘You’ve made things very difficult for me, Dimitri Ivanovich. Could even have put me in danger. I don’t like that.’

It was a poor attempt to sound threatening. ‘How did I do that?’ Danilov had no difficulty over the conversation being simultaneously overheard by Cowley at the American embassy. But he had to forget the tape, not perform to it.

‘By giving me the impression you did!’ complained Kosov, loud voiced, turning to Danilov at last. ‘I thought we had an understanding. You told me you were getting nowhere. I told other people!’

The suit was blue, a shiny material like silk that Danilov had not seen the other man wear before. The cologne was overpowering in the confined space. ‘I’m not running this investigation alone! You knew that!’

‘You told me it was getting nowhere!’ insisted Kosov.

‘Which it wasn’t, when we talked!’ said Danilov, the explanation fully prepared. ‘It wasn’t until we got to Washington we heard what was going to happen in Sicily.’

Kosov’s attitude softened, very slightly. ‘That’s where it came from! From an American source!’

‘Where else?’

‘My friends will be relieved.’

‘Why?’ asked Danilov, wanting the reply recorded.

‘They wanted reassurance about security, here in Moscow.’ Kosov started the car as he spoke and Danilov hoped the firing of the engine hadn’t blurred the words.

‘You talked about an introduction,’ encouraged Danilov.