No Time for Heroes (53 page)

‘You are sure there is going to be an attempted transfer?' queried the official.

‘Positive.'

‘I hope you fully understand what the regulations require.'

‘Absolutely,' assured the Russian.

‘And they will be accompanied by the necessary legal release from Washington?' persisted Bloch, a man for whom everything had to have a written authority. He directed the question at Cowley.

‘Yes,' promised the American.

‘And with supporting Russian representation,' said Danilov.

‘You any idea what could happen if anything – just one thing – gets mistimed!' demanded Cowley, over dinner that night at their hotel. He was allowing himself wine.

‘The money isn't at risk,' reminded Danilov. The legal requirements precluded that particular débâcle, but he wasn't so sure about other potential disasters.

‘You think they'll collapse and confess?' demanded the American.

‘We'll be lucky if they do,' admitted Danilov.

‘It's still supposition.'

‘I'm right,' insisted Danilov. He was going to test another guess when they got back to Moscow the following day: one he was intentionally not sharing with Cowley. The deception worried Danilov. If he were wrong, it was something the American need never know. If he were right, Cowley would learn about it, at some time. Danilov thought he could still explain it away to convince the American he hadn't risked their personal understanding. Or could he? What sort of man would Vasili Dolya be? He'd know soon enough. Unless Dolya tried some futile defence, it shouldn't take long. Danilov was surprised, now they were reaching what he believed to be the conclusion of everything, how little time it was taking to slot the final pieces of the jigsaw into place. Not one jigsaw, Danilov reminded himself: several. ‘You'll advise Washington, ahead of whatever my Foreign Ministry ask?'

‘They're going to be one very pissed off group of people,' predicted Cowley.

‘They'll be happy enough in the end,' insisted Danilov.

The guess about Vasili Dolya did prove to be right.

There was almost an hour's delay on the return from Geneva to Moscow, and Danilov feared at one stage he would have to postpone the encounter, but they made up time during the flight, and Pavin was still waiting patiently at Sheremet'yevo. On the way into the city, he said there was a note waiting from the Justice Ministry, saying that Raisa Serova and Oleg Yasev had formally sought release from protective custody. They were being put off – as Danilov had requested – by the insistence there were arrests still to be made. Stephen Snow had relayed a message from Washington that the forensic examination on the Mikhail Antipov material would be completed within forty-eight hours.

The chairman of what had formerly been the KGB division responsible for foreign espionage entered the Petrovka office trying to maintain what would once have been inherent superiority like a piece of familiar clothing, despite the disorientation of solitary confinement. He was a small, pinch-faced man of contrasting mannerisms: his eyes flickered constantly, absorbing every detail, but his voice and movements were measured, every word reflected upon before being uttered, every gesture considered: Danilov didn't think the man would have ever done anything spontaneous or unpremeditated in his life. Then he remembered the reason for the interview. The failed 1991 coup had been a hastily conceived, disorganised shambles from confused beginning to quickly capitulating end.

Dolya wore civilian clothes – a grey suit, white shirt and muted patterned tie – but there was an Order of Lenin ribbon in his lapel. Danilov realised, for the first time, they both held the same rank of lieutenant general. His was an acting promotion, he remembered; he supposed that gave Dolya a slight supremacy, and he was glad he had retained, still without permission, the vacant director's suite. Yuri Pavin sat so unobtrusively in a far corner that Danilov wondered, despite the moving eyes, whether Dolya registered there was an official notetaker.

‘Why have I been arrested? I demand an explanation!' said the man at once. The voice was high-pitched – although not yet from obvious nervousness, which Danilov hoped would come soon.

In their halcyon past the KGB had disdained any Militia authority. Probably, thought Danilov cynically, with every justification. He had to stop it becoming a game of verbal gymnastics. ‘You have been shown the signed authority for your arrest?'

‘Yes.'

‘So let's stop wasting our time.' He put Raisa Serova's statement on the expansive desk between them, not needing it as a reminder, and took Dolya through every part that implicated him, from the university friendship with Ilya Nishin to the identities of the former KGB officers who were now part of the Ostankino and Chechen Families. As he talked Danilov realised it would still be possible for the former intelligence chief to deny the accusations, but towards the end Dolya discernibly began to wilt and Danilov suspected, relieved, the confidence was more fragile than it appeared on the surface.

Dolya's instant response made the attitude understandable. ‘I was obeying orders, from a superior office,' he declared.

It was confirmation, but not of what Danilov wanted confirmed. More bluff, he acknowledged, before continuing: not as dangerous but perhaps more desperate than the confrontation with the Chechen leadership. ‘Whose orders, about the gun that killed Michel Paulac and Petr Serov?'

The eye shudder now
was
fear. The man's head moved, too, looking rapidly around the office, and Danilov reckoned it was the first time the man saw they were not alone and that the conversation was being recorded.

‘I don't know what you're asking me.'

‘Of course you do,' said Danilov, bullying. ‘You know, because there's been enough publicity about it, that I've been to Washington. Carried out a very full investigation at the embassy there …' Openly lying but knowing there was no way Dolya could challenge him, Danilov went on: ‘It's odd that you should say you were obeying orders. That is what Nikolai Fedorovich Redin told me.'

‘The bastard said …' blurted Dolya, no longer thinking before he spoke, trying too late to bite the words back.

Danilov let the virtual admission hang in the air between them for several moments. ‘He lied. So whose order was it? Gusovsky? Yerin? Zimin?'

The awareness of the names further disoriented the man. ‘A message, through Visco.' mumbled Dolya.

‘Your former KGB officer?'

Dolya nodded without replying, so Danilov repeated the question, making him say ‘Yes' for the record. Having spoken, Dolya hurried on: ‘I didn't know what it was for. I was just told to send it to Redin, at the embassy. That it would be collected.'

Danilov was thankful he'd excluded Cowley. Nikolai Redin, the still-serving security officer in Washington, had to be got out before his link in the murders was known by the FBI. Danilov accepted the most important part of the confession was yet to come. ‘Who
did
collect it?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Don't be stupid,' said Danilov loudly. ‘You expect us to believe your officer was simply going to hand over a gun to a complete stranger, without any identification?'

‘Someone from the Chechen,' said Dolya, still trying to avoid an answer.

‘
Who
, from the Chechen? I want a name!'

‘Antipov,' said the man, mumbling again. ‘Mikhail Pavlovich Antipov.'

‘How?' persisted Danilov remorselessly.

‘They met, somewhere near the embassy. A park.'

‘Lafayette Park?'

‘Yes.'

Danilov knew he could take any risk now. ‘And Redin had to show Antipov a photograph, didn't he?'

‘Yes.'

‘Of whom?'

‘Petr Aleksandrovich Serov.'

He'd got it! There was a sweep of lightheadedness, at the final success, but Danilov's satisfaction was at once tempered by reality. Cowley would have to know he had been cheated, which could damage their relationship. And although they could bring Redin home from Washington to avoid an immediate diplomatic confrontation, Danilov didn't see how Dolya – or Redin, for that matter – could be kept out of any eventual prosecution against Antipov, which in turn would be necessary legally to resolve a double murder committed on American soil. So the inevitable government embarrassment was merely being postponed, not avoided. Not my concern, Danilov told himself. Then – sneering at his own irony – he thought, I am only obeying orders.

The Federal Prosecutor accepted his call without Danilov having to persuade aides it was a matter of priority.

‘We'll bring Redin out tonight,' agreed Smolin instantly, not needing to consult the other ministers. ‘You're detaining Dolya?'

‘Pending any decision you and the Justice Minister make.'

‘What about Switzerland?'

‘There's a comparatively easy way to get the money back,' disclosed Danilov. He gave a brief explanation, promising a fuller written report overnight.

‘Raisa Serova will need to be properly detained now.'

‘I've already issued the order,' disclosed Danilov. ‘Against Yasev, too.'

‘Anything?' asked Cowley, when Danilov telephoned.

‘Nothing,' said Danilov. All the other lies, to trick people into admissions and confessions, had been easy. This one stuck in his throat, close to being a physical discomfort.

‘Sons of bitches!' exclaimed Henry Hartz. He'd summoned the FBI Director directly after the departure of the Russian ambassador, who had requested the meeting to talk of the wrongly-detained Russian mental patient showing signs of recovery.

‘He make the threat openly?' queried Leonard Ross. He'd already alerted the Secretary of State to the possibility of the approach, after Cowley's warning. Hartz had said he wouldn't believe it until it was formally made. Now he did believe it.

‘He didn't need to, did he!' said the outraged Secretary of State. ‘Said his government felt they should bring it to our notice and that they would welcome our views.'

‘There's going to be another request, shortly,' said Ross, who had two hours earlier received Cowley's account of the Swiss conference.

‘Does that give us anything to bargain with?' wondered Hartz, when Ross explained.

‘We could be difficult about it, I suppose: give them a bad time,' said Ross. ‘But it ends with the same decision for us: can we have it made public that an insane Bureau agent was a serial killer, with a senator's niece as one of his victims? And that we did a deal to cover it up from everyone, including the senator?'

‘Of course we can't!' accepted Hartz, exasperated. ‘And they damn well know it. How about the killings here, in the current investigation?'

‘Forensic are doing what they can.'

‘I'm not going to do anything about getting their thirty million back until we get an acceptable prosecution!' insisted Hartz.

‘At the moment there's no way of knowing we're going to get that,' warned Ross realistically.

‘So we'll have to deal, in the end?'

‘Yes,' said Ross bluntly. A fair-minded man, he added: ‘But they did it the last time. And we'd do exactly the same as the Russians, if we were in their position.'

‘I like
making
the demands,' said Hartz, in matching honesty. ‘Not having demands imposed upon me.'

The photographic surveillance of Wernadski Prospekt revealed a large house partially hidden behind a protective wall. There always appeared to be a large number of Mercedes parked around it. A total of twelve men were repeatedly pictured, who were assumed to be staff or bodyguards. Women came and went; none were thought to live there permanently. The written reports, linked to the photographs, talked of a very definite attitude of respect towards one particular man, a thickset, hunched figure who always appeared to move head down, sure a path would be cleared ahead of him.

‘Yuri Yermolovich Ryzhikev?' queried Danilov.

‘There's no comparison picture in our records,' said Pavin.

‘There's bugger all in our records!' reminded Danilov.

CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

The protective custody had necessarily meant their separation in male and female facilities, and Raisa Serova's first interest on entering Danilov's self-appointed director's suite was in Yasev, as his was in her. She came through the door a few moments after the man, who at once felt for her hand, smiling. Neither showed any awkwardness about the open affection, but then they hadn't at the moment of discovery, at Leninskaya. Raisa, as always, was immaculate, perfectly made-up, perfectly coiffured, despite having spent the past three days in near-jail conditions. They both appeared relaxed and confident. It wouldn't last, after he announced their formal detention, but Danilov guessed they would eventually be released, because of the government decision already made, and their sanitised version would be the one officially accepted. There should be some satisfaction, he supposed, in telling them they'd failed.

As Yasev helped Raisa into her chair the man noticed Pavin, waiting in his notetaking corner of the room and frowned, although only slightly. The same look encompassed Cowley, close to the window. Danilov looked, too, nervous of what was likely to emerge during the questioning: should he lie to the American, to preserve their relationship? Or retain his integrity and tell the truth?

‘You've arrested them?' demanded Raisa at once. ‘Is it all over?'

‘It's all over,' said Danilov, which was not an answer to her question.

Yasev smiled at her again, more widely this time. ‘So it's safe for us to leave?'

‘You're no longer in danger, you mean?' came in Cowley, from the window.

Yasev looked uncertain. ‘That was the point of our agreeing to come into custody, wasn't it? For protection?'