No Time for Heroes (46 page)

‘You don't
have
access yet?' demanded Cowley, confused.

‘There was a transfer going through. I don't know any more than that.'

Only Cowley realised at once there was now a paper trail to follow, because only Cowley knew there was a legal treaty between Washington and Bern under which the traditional bank secrecy laws of Switzerland could be abrogated if there was evidence money involved was intended
for
, or the proceeds
of
, drug trafficking. Which Zimin's confession provided. The only thing of which they couldn't be sure was that Ilya Nishin – Raisa's father – and Serov himself would be directors whose names could guide them to the corporation itself.

Both family names
were
there. In less than thirty-six hours, there came confirmation from the Swiss capital that a corporation named
Svahbodniy
existed, with a Geneva registration address: because of the proof of its drug intention, any trading activities of the corporation had been frozen. Neither Cowley nor Danilov commented that
svahbodniy
was Russian for ‘free'.

During those thirty-six hours there were two more sessions with Zimin. The man provided a lot more Mafia identities and two addresses – a restaurant on Glovin Bol'soj, and Gusovsky's house on Kutbysevskij Prospekt – which were virtually Chechen headquarters. When Danilov challenged the other Russian that he knew more, Zimin nervously admitted that he might, but that he wanted to be back in Russia before disclosing it. Anxious to get to Switzerland, they decided it wasn't worth pressing him further.

On the eve of their departure, a prominent anti-Mafia judge and three of his bodyguards died in Palermo when their car was blown up. Melega insisted it was a retribution attack for the Villalba arrests. He also said the three Sicilians continued to refuse to talk about Villalba, even though they had been taken point by point through Zimin's admission: so did John Palma. The only reaction to the Russian confession had been Umberto Chiara's soft-spoken insistence that Zimin would be killed in whatever jail he was sentenced to, anywhere in Italy. Danilov thought it would probably be difficult keeping the man alive in any penitentiary in Russia, as well.

That night Melega hosted a farewell dinner in a restaurant near the Spanish Steps, which had an eerie unreality because it had to be cleared of all other diners and surrounded by armed carabinieri. There were toasts to future anti-Mafia successes and assurances of lasting friendships and reunion plans for their return to give evidence at the eventual Italian trial. Throughout, Cowley sat rigid-faced and unresponsive. The only toast for which he showed any enthusiasm – or even properly drank – was to David Patton, who had recovered sufficiently to be flown back to America.

The Geneva meetings were little more than formalities, which Danilov thought they could have completed without an overnight stay, but the reservations had been made. Escorted and chauffeured by the embassy-attached FBI agent, an eager, fast-blinking man named Paul Jackson, they went first to meet Henri Charas, the police inspector handling all the Washington enquiries. It only took an hour to go through the file: there was no doubt the Swiss photograph of Ilya Nishin showed the same man as the print Danilov had taken from the Massachusetts Avenue apartment and which Raisa Serova had been so anxious to recover.

Charas drove with them to the irregularities department of the Finance Ministry, in Bern. Heinrich Bloch, the director, was a pedantic, stick-dry accountant who had their encounter recorded verbatim by a corseted secretary, and insisted upon giving details of the access treaty, which they didn't want, before getting to the
Svahbodniy
corporation, which they did. The incorporation documents had already been translated into English and Russian, from the original French, for their benefit.

An
anstalt
was a corporation which did not issue shares for the benefit either of the founder or of others. Instead the founder – or holder of the Founder's Certificate, which was a bearer instrument showing all the ownership rights – had power to amend the articles of incorporation, appoint or remove directors and name beneficiaries.

It need not necessarily be profit-making, nor operate as a business: it could be a holding company, which seemed to be the case with
Svahbodniy
. It had been founded with an initial deposit of $30,000,000, in June, 1991: Ilya losifovich Nishin was recorded as the founder, and the other directors were Yuri Yermolovich Ryzhikev, Vladimir Aleksai Piotrovsky, Vladimir Alekseivich Kaplan and Michel Paulac – who was protectively identified both by his adopted Swiss name of Paulac and also as Mikhail Panzhevsky.

The change in the board and control of the
anstalt
had come, under the beneficiary clause, in April, 1992, upon the death of Ilya Nishin. None of the $30,000,000 appeared to have been used for any transaction: commission payments, which had been drawn in cash in the name of Michel Paulac, had been met by interest earned upon the original deposits.

In the records of the corporation there was an enquiry by a lawyer acting for Yuri Ryzhikev, concerning the status of the corporation after Nishin's death. Another, separate approach had been made since the freezing of the account under the Bern/Washington agreement.

‘We've been lied to,' said Danilov.

‘But very well,' agreed Cowley.

‘How widely is this drug treaty known about?'

‘If it was public knowledge, we wouldn't be able to trace the bad guys, would we?' said Cowley.

‘The Swiss are extremely good at keeping secrets,' said Bloch.

‘Good,' smiled Danilov.

CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

Danilov was glad of the silence on the flight from Geneva, preferring to think rather than talk. He tried to work things out in the sequence in which they had to unfold, but as he fitted all the pieces together – guessing at the few still missing – his concentration increasingly focused upon the American. Cowley
had
saved him, in the beginning: unknowingly, a lot of the time, but by his mere presence Cowley had prevented his destruction. Would it be possible for him, in return, to block what was inevitable for Cowley? Danilov wanted to. He didn't, at that stage, know how he could.

He was sure he knew what the official reaction would be to the evidence he already had and which would, he was also sure, be sufficient for a prosecution. And even more than sufficient for an unthinkable diplomatic disaster. Danilov determined, in the next few hours and the next few days, always to keep in mind how he might achieve the favour-for-favour balance, Russian style, to help Cowley. He did not consider discussing it with the American: there was virtually nothing to discuss.

With the importance of sequence – and protocol – in mind, Nikolai Smolin was the first person Danilov contacted upon arrival at Petrovka. He telephoned from the now unoccupied director's suite, which he commandeered without authority. He didn't suspect Galina Kanayev as much as he had her predecessor, but the move freed them from any eavesdropping and he wasn't sure what he, Pavin and Cowley might have to discuss.

‘There's enough for a case?' demanded Smolin.

‘Probably several.'

‘Involving people presently in government?'

‘I think so.'

‘Do the Americans know?'

Always the same concern, Danilov recognised. ‘Yes.'

‘It has to be a full discussion?'

‘Definitely.'

Danilov briefed Pavin on what he wanted before the official encounter, not intending to consider anything that had been assembled in their absence until Pavin pointed out the intercept of Olga and Kosov's outing the previous Saturday. There was a transcript, but Danilov insisted on hearing the actual tape.

Cowley shifted, awkwardly, at the disembodied conversation, but Danilov did not feel embarrassed nor angered at anything Olga said. His sole emotion was for Olga herself. She sounded so sadly hopeful, so pleased, at being spoiled and flattered: at being picked out for any sort of attention. His awareness of
why
she had been picked out, which Olga didn't know, worsened the feeling, gouging deeper. He couldn't remember ever having spoiled or flattered her, not even in the early days, when he'd thought he loved her and that she loved him. He'd never bought her a nonsense present, for no other reason except to
do
it: never thought of doing something totally unexpected – which he could have afforded, when he had accepted tributes. What had happened to their marriage had been his fault, Danilov decided, listening to the stilted, almost artificial exchange. Olga had stopped bothering because he had stopped bothering. Olga – poor, gauche, never-getting-it-quite-right Olga – sounded so desperately vulnerable; how lost – how vulnerable – would she be when he divorced her, leaving her quite alone? He wouldn't leave her quite alone, Danilov determined, at that moment. He'd have to support her, and not just financially, but by being there for her, to help her and look after her: see she didn't get into any real difficulty. Larissa would agree – he'd talk it through with her first, of course. Like he had to talk through so much else with her. Larissa had to know how difficult things might be for them, in the very near future.

He was vaguely aware of the discomfited Cowley addressing him.

‘It was naive of him to imagine you'd tell her anything on the telephone,' said the American. ‘Tell her anything at all, for that matter.'

He hadn't even called her from Italy, Danilov realised: even now, to tell her he was back in Moscow. His only concern had been to amass $250 for the Tatarovo apartment he and Larissa were going to take. ‘Perhaps more desperate than naive.'

They were both surprised by the quickness of Pavin's return.

‘It was very easy,' said Pavin. ‘Ilya Iosifovich Nishin was Deputy Chief Accountant at the Finance Ministry. He died in April, 1992.'

‘Kaplan?' questioned Cowley.

‘Vladimir Aleksaivich Kaplan is the head of the American directorate at the Foreign Ministry,' said Pavin. ‘He has been, for the past five years.'

To Cowley, Danilov said: ‘The Serovs would travel on diplomatic passports. Yasev, too. That would make it easier for your people to trace, wouldn't it?'

‘I guess so,' accepted Cowley. ‘Sure you're not getting
too
conspiracy happy?'

‘I want it all!' said Danilov determinedly.

Pavin's files on the murder of Lena Zurov were predictably meticulous. She'd been found dead in her own apartment, on Hasek Street, near the zoological gardens. There was a range of sexual paraphernalia in the apartment: dildos of various sizes, some whips and handcuffs and some vibrators as well as a selection of pornographic photographs, in some of which she appeared. Danilov was aware of Cowley tensing, but Pavin continued without any pointed hesitation. Her birth certificate put her age at twenty-eight; there was no record of her ever having been married; there
was
evidence of sexual intercourse shortly before death. The forensic department at Petrovka was not equipped for DNA tracing, but vaginal swabs had been taken for the semen to be passed on to America. A total of $2,000 had been found in a locked drawer and a further $300 had been scattered over a bedside table, as if in hurried payment.

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.