Brian Freemantle - No Time for Heroes

‘This is fantasy,’ broke in Yasev. ‘Total and utter fantasy…’

‘But so logical,’ took up Cowley. ‘Paulac knew how violent these Moscow gangs are: you told us how he warned you. Called them killers. But you weren’t frightened of the Chechen takeover. It was perfect for you. You could get rid of an unwanted husband and the financier close enough to have interfered. And you knew the money was safe because it remained yours until you’d legally sworn the necessary Swiss authority, quite irrespective of any transfer document you might sign here, supposedly giving everything to the Chechen. But they wouldn’t know that: probably still don’t…’

‘… Who was there to stop you?’ resumed Danilov. ‘No-one connected with the 1991 coup could complain if the money disappeared. They would have incriminated themselves. And by the time the Chechen learned how you’d cheated them, you would have cleaned out the anstalt and been living as far away from Russia as you could. A thirty-million-dollar fortune was worth the risk of their trying to find you, wasn’t it? And with that amount of money you could have easily got new identities, couldn’t you?’

‘If the Chechen hadn’t tried to expand internationally as quickly as they did – and had a treaty not existed between Switzerland and America under which the account could be sealed – it would have all worked,’ said Cowley. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘That close!’

Directly addressing the woman, Danilov said: ‘You didn’t want the Chechen to get it wrong, did you? You even provided a picture of Petr Aleksandrovich, so the killer would know what he looked like.’ Danilov detected a stir of movement from the window behind him, from Cowley.

‘You’re talking nonsense!’

‘Dolya’s confessed.’ He was opening the way to lie later, to Cowley, he realised.

‘I did not identify my husband to anyone!’

Yasev’s warning hand reached sideways again. ‘Fantasy,’ he repeated. ‘It’s all utterly without foundation. Any of it.’

‘Why have you a visa to travel out of the country?’ demanded Danilov, of Yasev.

‘We told you at Leninskaya, I was trying to find an acceptable way to return the money. If I could devise something, I was going to travel to Switzerland with Raisa Ilyavich, to help arrange for the transfer back here, to Russia.’ The man told the blatant lie staring unblinkingly across the desk at the two investigators.

‘But you hadn’t found an acceptable way?’ said Cowley, close to mockery.

‘I no longer had to, after our last meeting. The anstalt was officially known about, along with Ilya Nishin’s part in it: he couldn’t be protected any more. It became a simple matter of repatriating assets I didn’t have to concern myself with.’

It was Yasev and Raisa Serova who were really mocking them, Danilov decided: Yasev had certainly recognised the inconsistencies weren’t sufficient for any prosecution. So what had they achieved, arranging this confrontation? The satisfaction of letting the couple know it hadn’t, after all, been a foolproof scheme, he thought again. It seemed a doubtful victory now, no more than a sop to his own pride.

‘No,’ he agreed, stressing the sarcasm. ‘It isn’t something you’ve got to concern yourself with any more…’ Turning to the woman, he said: ‘And you are going to get your wish to give the money back. Every cent of it. That will please you, won’t it?’

‘Yes,’ she said tightly.

Still not much of a victory, decided Danilov. ‘Upon the authority of the Federal Prosecutor, you are both now being formally arrested, pending further enquiries.’

Yasev tried to bluster, demanding access to the Foreign Ministry and then a lawyer. Raisa’s face closed like a mask and she said nothing. Yasev’s parting words, as he was led away, came in a shout. ‘You have no proof!’

‘He’s right,’ said the American, from the window.

‘And he knows it,’ agreed Danilov. ‘At least where they’re going to be held now won’t be as comfortable as the last two or three days.’

Cowley put himself directly opposite, on the other side of the desk. ‘Dolya confessed?’ he echoed.

‘It was…’ started Danilov, then stopped. He wouldn’t do it! He could claim the confession was made to someone else – to an official in the Interior or Security Ministries – but he wouldn’t do it. ‘There had to be some way a Russian pistol got to America. Airport security is too tight for it simply to be carried on and off planes.’

‘Redin, the Washington security man?’ Cowley’s voice was dull, not outraged. He should have thought of it himself: might have done, if he hadn’t been awash with alcohol and remorse.

Recognising the cliche before he uttered it, Danilov said: ‘He was obeying orders. Dolya was, too. From the Chechen, not from the government. He told me about the gun and he told me about the identification.’

‘Redin’s back, out of American jurisdiction?’ said Cowley, in further dull acceptance.

‘Overnight,’ confirmed Danilov. ‘He would probably have been beyond your jurisdiction, under diplomatic immunity, anyway.’

‘What made you realise?’

‘Italy,’ admitted Danilov. ‘Just before we went into Villalba, and Melega realised neither you nor I were armed. I started thinking how we couldn’t have been, unless we’d got special dispensation from the airlines. Our embassies were the only other way.’

‘Another guess that turned out right,’ said Cowley.

‘We agreed at the beginning there might have to be a limit on the co-operation, for obvious reasons,’ reminded the Russian. ‘This was one of them.’

‘I know.’

Danilov had expected more disappointment from the other man. ‘And there’s no way Washington need ever find out how it really happened: the recall could have been unknown to either of us.’

‘I know that, too.’ He’d have done it himself, Cowley acknowledged: had done things very similar during the serial-killing investigation the Russians were now using for diplomatic blackmail.

‘No hard feelings?’ pressed Danilov hopefully.

‘No hard feelings,’ assured Cowley. Objectively, he said: ‘We’re too close to the end for it to become a problem again.’

They realised just how close when Stephen Snow telephoned Cowley from the embassy: there was a positive DNA comparison, and forensic had also made a provable match with clothing fibre from the grey Ford. The evidence was on its way, in the following morning’s diplomatic pouch.

‘Which takes care of your two murders,’ Danilov said. More pointedly, he added: ‘And that of Lena Zurov.’

‘How the hell can it ever be separated, for any effective cover-up?’ asked Cowley.

‘I don’t know,’ admitted Danilov honestly. ‘But it will be. It’s called the art of diplomacy.’

The shotgun scars were completely healed, although there was a vague tenderness when Larissa traced them on his arm and shoulder, as she was doing now. Olga seemed to have forgotten about the injury, after the first night.

‘It’ll seem strange, not doing this any more,’ she said. They were in bed, in one of the conveniently empty rooms at the Druzhba.

‘I’ll be glad,’ said Danilov. He was uncomfortable at the giggled recognition whenever he arrived at the hotel now.

‘Thanks!’ she said, in feigned offence.

‘You know what I mean.’

‘So the case is almost over?’

‘There are still one or two things to sort out.’ Which included a decision about officially prosecuting her husband.

‘So we can settle things?’

‘Yes.’

‘I want to do it the way I said. The four of us. At the same time. Sensibly.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Danilov again. Would it be easier, all together? Or more difficult? Not easy either way. He supposed if they were together he wouldn’t have to prepare all the words to ease Olga’s feelings. The priority was to let her know she wasn’t being abandoned.