No Time for Heroes (35 page)

‘This is a surprise?' invited Danilov, still seeking guidance.

‘I wanted the American to come, but he wasn't at the hotel when Yevgennie telephoned,' said Larissa.

Cowley wouldn't have been included if this were going to be honest declaration time! Danilov began to relax.

Kosov went into his usual performance with French champagne, flustering them, glasses in hand, into chairs and saying it really was like old times and they should do things on the spur of the moment more often. Olga said she thought so, too. Danilov let the small talk swirl around him. He and Larissa managed uninterrupted looks several times.

Danilov expected Kosov very quickly to raise the subject of the investigation, but he didn't, not immediately. Instead, showing a depth of argument that surprised Danilov, he started discussing the increasing strength of the resurgent local-level Communist cadres, demanding Danilov's opinion on whether it was an unstable reaction to the failure of supposed democracy, or whether Danilov believed it would be enough to reverse the fragile reforms and still uncertain changes. Danilov replied that the dismantling of the former order had gone too far to be turned back, and that it was unthinkable any of the newly independent republics would now consider anything more than the loosest of trade links. He added he was worried about the political frailty of Russia itself, which he was.

Both women became bored by the conversation – Danilov wondered if that hadn't been Kosov's intention – and started to gossip between themselves, and when Larissa talked of preparing the meal Olga volunteered to help. Kosov sent them off with refilled champagne glasses, switching to whisky himself.

‘I think the old ways are too ingrained,' declared Kosov, resuming their debate. ‘I agree there will be changes at the political top but it will all be cosmetic, to impress foreign financiers.
Real
things aren't going to alter. There are too many people who don't
know
any other way: don't want to know any other way.'

Danilov recognised the familiar favour-for-favour argument. ‘It would change – not quickly but eventually and inevitably – if people demanded it.'

‘But they
don't
,' insisted Kosov. ‘People only know the one way things work … understand it. That's how they want it to go on …'

It was a bigoted, fallacious opinion, decided Danilov. ‘Work for some people. Not for all: not enough. Which was, after all, what the revolution was supposed to be all about.'

‘Starry-eyed ideology,' sneered Kosov.

The man personified all that had been wrong in the past, Danilov thought: and now, in the present. Kosov had even joined the Communist Party to get this apartment and whatever other privileges were available to members, not from any political persuasion. ‘It'll come, in time.' He wished the women would come back, no matter how inconsequential their conversation.

‘Too late for me to benefit. Or you. Not that you benefit enough: not like you once did.'

Danilov now bitterly regretted following the inviolable rules in his uniformed days. It put him at a disadvantage with the other man: let Kosov know that despite his new-found and despised honesty, he'd operated like everyone else in the past. Was stained like they were stained: the same as them, which he didn't want to be, ever again. ‘What's that mean?' he demanded directly.

‘Just a remark,' shrugged Kosov. He topped up Danilov's glass, adding whisky to his own.

‘It sounded as if you were making a point,' pressed Danilov. He wasn't drinking any more.

Kosov came back to him, smiling. ‘You're missing out on a lot. I don't have to tell you that.'

‘So why
are
you telling me?'

This time there were no words with the shrug. Kosov sat, seeming to find something of interest in the glass he cupped in both hands, swirling the drink around and around. He wasn't actually drinking, either.

‘Is it
you
telling me?' Danilov persisted. ‘Or are you expressing the views of other people you think I should take seriously?' He was being approached! By whom? For what?

The shrug came again, like the automatic reflex of a boxer warding off a clumsy blow, but with no proper answer. Instead there was a question. ‘You really think you're going to solve your famous crimes?'

‘Yes,' Danilov exaggerated. How to keep the man talking? That's ail he had to do, keep him talking.

Kosov shook his head. ‘Don't be so naive, Dimitri Ivanovich! I'm your friend! Trust me!'

‘Perhaps I would, if I could understand what you're saying.'

‘You survived at the Bureau, when you weren't supposed to: won, even. The directorship could unquestionably be yours, like it should have been the first time, if people were sure of you.'

That reply didn't help Danilov. Who was Kosov speaking for? One of the Mafia Families, or someone within the government operating in collusion with organised crime? The Ministry confrontation and the tribunal enquiry hadn't been disclosed, yet Kosov was showing knowledge far beyond rumour. That awareness didn't help answer the question either. But it suddenly made Kosov a very important person, although not for the reasons the man would have welcomed. ‘So I'm getting a message?' Come on! thought Danilov, anxiously.

‘A personal opinion.'

Bollocks, thought Danilov: wrong to try too soon for specifics. He had to keep the conversation general and try to find the path to follow, ‘I can't compromise on this. There's the American involvement: the need to satisfy outsiders.'

‘Cowley follows where you lead: he doesn't
direct
the investigation. What can't be solved can't be solved.'

What had there been so far positively to understand? He hadn't been expected to survive Metkin's attack. But he had. So now they – whoever
they
were – were worried: seeking that special sort of Russian agreement to prevent the inquiry into Ivan Ignatov's murder reaching a legal conclusion. Why this approach so quickly? Had he or Cowley or Pavin missed something? Was there evidence they'd overlooked demanding to be recognised? What more? Kosov himself. Danilov knew the man had taken the favour-for-favour lifestyle of a Militia district commander far beyond the hand-over introductions he himself had made: at the level of those introductions there weren't horse-choking wads of dollars, cocktail cabinets full of imported liquor and brand new BMWs with neons of dashboard lights. But he'd never imagined Kosov ascending to this echelon, speaking on behalf of the Mafia or high officials in government or both. Remembering Kosov's enjoyment of flattery, Danilov said, without too much hyperbole: ‘I am impressed, Yevgennie Grigorevich.'

Kosov gave a self-satisfied smile, sipping his whisky at last. ‘It's important, to have influential friends. Like I said, it's the system everyone knows how to use.'

‘So you were asked to make an approach?' suggested Danilov, risking directness again.

Another shrug. ‘The friendship between you and me is known.'

Danilov shifted, momentarily uncomfortable. What about his friendship with Larissa? ‘You know you can trust me, Yevgennie Grigorevich? That this conversation won't be repeated to anyone.'

‘What conversation?'

‘Quite so,' accepted Danilov. Trying to keep his tone conversational, he said: ‘Tell me about thern: about the Chechen and the Ostankino? About all the Families.'

There was an immediate frown, and Danilov angrily recognised he'd gone too far. Kosov shook his head, either in denial or refusal, and said: ‘You
could
be director, you know.'

‘I haven't thought about it,' Danilov encouraged. ‘Too much has been happening.'

‘With certain additions, at the top,' said Kosov.

Danilov believed he knew what the other man was implying, but the proposition was so preposterous he refused to assume it, wanting Kosov to say the words. ‘Additions at the top?'

‘Don't you think we'd make a great team?' invited Kosov.

It
was
preposterous. An absurd, ridiculous, preposterous joke! Danilov could not think of anyone with whom he would less like to be linked, professionally. At once came a sobering realisation. Was it so absurdly ridiculous? If Kosov had the government influence suggested by this conversation, couldn't the man be
imposed
upon the Bureau: become its director, even! He said: ‘It's never occurred to me.'

‘I think it's time I moved on,' insisted Kosov, his voice matter-of-fact, as if the decision had already been reached. ‘I've been in charge of a district a long time.'

With Kosov at Petrovka, the Bureau would become entirely organised
for
crime. ‘Have you discussed it, with anyone else?'

The head shake came once more. ‘All this business has to be resolved …' Heavily, Kosov added: ‘Resolved
properly
. Time enough to talk about other things after that.'

Danilov was abruptly seized by a fierce anger, concerned it would show in his face. What right had this fucking man – this arrogant, bombastic, crooked man – to sit and patronise him like this, virtually telling him what to do, practically with a fingersnap! Almost at once, objective man that he was, Danilov brought in the balancing thought. They'd made a mistake, like putting the buried-in-the-past, inefficient Metkin in charge of the Bureau. But this time it was a much more serious error. They'd declared themselves, through Kosov, given him and Cowley the opening for which they had been looking. He'd have to cultivate Kosov, like the rarest plant in the greenhouse. Honestly, Danilov said: ‘You've given me a lot to think about.'

‘I'm glad.'

Any further discussion was prevented by the women's return, for which Danilov was grateful, because he could not think of anything more to say at that stage. Larissa got him into the kitchen on the pretext of carrying something in while Olga was setting the table and Kosov was opening wine.

‘You looked terrified when you arrived!'

‘I thought you'd said something.'

‘I'm going to, soon.'

‘We both are,' promised Danilov.

‘I'm working split shifts next week. Free every afternoon.'

‘What about evenings?'

Larissa frowned. ‘Not until the very end of the week. Why?'

‘We were supposed to be doing something with Cowley again.' He had already thought of a possible way to use Kosov: ironically, it was prompted by what he hadn't been allowed to do earlier.

‘I was thinking about the two of us!' said Larissa, offended.

‘I was thinking about seeing you twice,' escaped Danilov.

Danilov suggested going out with Cowley again when they were all around the table. Kosov agreed at once and Olga said she'd like it, too. Pointedly, she added this time perhaps they'd go to a nightclub, and Kosov agreed to that, as well.

On their way back to Kirovskaya Olga said: ‘It was a good evening, wasn't it?'

‘One of the best I can remember,' said Danilov.

Cowley had not slept at all. For a long time, not until nearly dawn, he didn't even undress, repelled by getting into the bed featured in the photographs. Which he finally accepted as infantile, eventually lying down to rest at least. By that time his mind had stretched to the outer reaches of every emotion, from astonishment at how easily he had been trapped, through abject shame, to the inevitable, unavoidable consequence. He was destroyed. His only course now, to leave the splintered investigation with any sort of integrity, was to give Washington the fullest humiliating account, pouch the compromising photographs personally to Leonard Ross, and tender his immediate resignation before the blackmail demand was made.

That remained his intention for several hours, until the word sacrifice began to recur in his mind. He would, of course, have to resign. But if he did it at once whoever had set him up – which had, obviously, to be a group or a person fearful of everything being solved – had won, probably destroying not just him but the whole two-nation enquiry.

He wouldn't let that happen.

The determination burned through Cowley, the most fervent vow he ever made. He would destroy them as they destroyed him: bring them down with him. He'd make himself the knowing bait, pressing on with the investigation, getting closer and closer until they became worried enough to make their demand. He could do it:
had
to do it. He'd supervised three blackmail cases during his career, before specialising in Russian affairs, and got convictions in every one. He knew the bargaining and the ploys, when to force the strong arguments and when to appear to capitulate. And he would always have an advantage. They would believe themselves superior, dealing with a man terrified of exposure and losing his career. Which he had already decided was lost anyway. It would be a final if pyrrhic victory.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Danilov telephoned Pavin from Kirovskaya that he was making an enquiry on his way in, impatient to get to Cowley's hotel. His enthusiasm faltered at the sight of the American, who was grey-faced; the skin sagged under his eyes, which were vague, without focus. He looked distracted, exhausted.

‘You don't look well.'

‘I slept badly.' Cowley knew exactly how shitty he looked and didn't need to be told.

‘You sure that's all it is?'

‘You said you had something important,' urged the American.

Danilov's excitement took over. He bustled Cowley into the Volga, picking up the inner ring road but without any destination. Danilov tried to keep the account coherent, interspersing the actual conversation of the previous night with his impressions, but several times the American had to intrude with a question, fully to comprehend. Towards the end Cowley forced aside the eroding depression and the aching fatigue, recognising this possibly to be the biggest break so far, and one they certainly needed.