‘The entire responsibility is no longer ours?’ anticipated Danilov.
‘Exactly!’
Neither would a successful conviction be entirely his, either. Another balance was quick to settle. Nor would a dismal failure. There was very definitely an advantage, political or otherwise. ‘How is this liaison going to work?’
Once again Lapinsk stared intently across the intervening desk, using the silence to make a point. ‘Absolutely,’ the Director insisted. ‘I want the attitudes of the past, whatever the causes, forgotten. I am ordering you — because I have been ordered myself to see that it happens — to cooperate completely. Everything shared: nothing withheld.’
‘Which includes Suzlev?’
‘Of course it includes Suzlev.’
‘Nothing like this has ever happened before,’ said Danilov, more to himself than the other man.
‘Never,’ agreed Lapinsk. ‘A successful investigation will be the most visible example yet of the bond between ourselves and the United States of America.’
Danilov was momentarily silenced by the brutal cynicism. Ann Harris was no longer a pretty girl made ugly, the victim of a maniac. She’d become a political pawn, to be shifted around an international chessboard: roll up, roll up, here’s Ann Harris, snarling-in-death example of Russian/American cooperation. He said: ‘Yes.’ It was all he could manage for the moment.
‘It’s our protection,’ insisted the nervously coughing man. ‘I never thought we’d be this lucky.’
‘Yes,’ repeated Danilov. Stirring himself, he said: ‘Do we have a name: know who the liaison is going to be?’
‘Not yet. Just that he’s coming from Washington.’
Danilov fully recognized, belatedly, that he has survived. And still had the opportunity to gain all the professional benefits and advantages he’d hoped to achieve. If the investigation trapped a killer. ‘I’ll do nothing to create problems,’ he assured his superior. He probably wouldn’t get a further chance.
‘One more problem,’ warned Lapinsk, in immediate confirmation of the unspoken thought. ‘That’s all it will take. One more mistake and it will be taken away from you. Everything. You might be allowed to remain in the department but effectively your career will be over. I won’t protect you any more: couldn’t risk protecting you any more.’
Danilov decided he was a prepared and trussed sacrifice for any future difficulty or disaster. His mind stayed with one word — trussed — momentarily unable to recall where he had encountered it recently. And then he remembered. It had been the word used by Ann Harris’s economist friend in Washington, to describe what it was like to be the victim of bondage. Danilov decided he didn’t feel quite that helpless, not yet. Close, though.
Larissa was annoyed and determined to show it, irritably shrugging off his first attempt to kiss her, slumping in the narrow hotel room chair that enclosed her like a protective cast so that the only way he could make any effective contact was to kneel at her feet, which he guessed was what she wanted. When he stretched up to kiss her from the ungainly kneeling position she again turned her head away from him.
‘I got here as soon as I could.’ He should really have gone back to his office to study the pathologist’s report. He hoped it would not be incomplete, forcing further contact with the childishly obstructive man.
‘I felt like a whore, hanging around the lobby!’
She would have been in competition with a few other genuine professionals: Danilov had positively isolated three in the reception area, fifteen minutes earlier. ‘I’ve said I’m sorry. I warned you it was going to be a problem for me, these next few weeks.’
She smiled down at him, with feigned reluctance, the beginning of forgiveness. ‘It’s cut down the time we’ve got together: they want the room back in an hour.’
Two other hotel receptionists as well as Larissa were involved in affairs and had evolved the system for assignations in a city where there was no such thing as casual accommodation. One used a room awaiting occupation while the others ensured there was no interruption or premature registration by a genuine guest. With Novikov’s material to digest Danilov was glad there was a short time limit. He wondered, idly, who the bona fide occupants would be in an hour’s time. And what their reaction would have been to knowing what the room had been used for, immediately prior. Larissa allowed herself to be kissed properly at last, twisting in the chair to put her arms around his neck to pull him to her. His knees were beginning to hurt.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she said.
‘I’ve missed you, too.’
‘How’s Olga?’
He shrugged. ‘Like she always is.’ Larissa wasn’t neglected and untidy, like his wife. The receptionist’s suit was still crisp, with no stains anywhere, and the white shirt didn’t look as if it had been worn all day. She smelt fresh and perfumed and Danilov guessed she had prepared herself for him: her soft red lipstick was fresh and the eye-line was newly applied. On impulse he took one of her hands. The varnish matched the lipstick. He took off one of her shoes. Her toe-nails were painted, too, a slightly harsher colour than Ann Harris had used.
‘What are you doing?’ she frowned, artificially.
‘Nothing.’ He stayed with her foot cupped in his hand. What reason — what fetish — made the killer put the shoes neatly beside the shorn head?
‘I hate Yevgennie!’ she announced, with sudden vehemence. ‘I can’t bear him touching me any more.’
‘Does he touch you?’ Danilov felt a vague stir of jealousy, which was ridiculously hypocritical. Yevgennie was her husband: he had the right.
‘Sometimes. He wanted to last night but he was too drunk.’ She came forward on the chair, parting her legs around him as much as the tight skirt would allow. ‘He was boasting about knowing the Dolgoprudnaya, trying to impress me.’
Organized crime was an unadmitted development of perestroika: the Dolgoprudnaya was the most powerful group, openly referred to as the Mafia family controlling northwest Moscow. There had been nothing like it in Danilov’s Militia days. ‘Your husband’s a greedy fool.’
‘You could officially report him, if you wanted to.’
‘I don’t want to.’ Danilov had introduced Kosov to all his grateful black economy contacts before passing over control of the Militia district: it was the way the system worked. Eduard Agayans, the ebullient Armenian, had been the first. They’d drunk the brandy, as they always did. Agayans had winked and told everyone not to worry: he’d look after the newcomer. Kosov had smiled back, telling Agayans not to worry, either: that he’d continue the care he knew Danilov had shown in the past.
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t be silly, Larissa. You know why not.’
‘You could never be incriminated, not after all this time.’
Danilov couldn’t remember telling her of his activities: he guessed her husband had. He said: ‘Nothing would happen: he’d pay off the investigation.’ It was a valid objection; there were probably more corrupt than honest policemen in Moscow.
Larissa eased fully off the chair but stood very close to where he knelt, undressing for his enjoyment. ‘It would be so much better for us, if Yevgennie weren’t around.’
‘I don’t want to talk about Yevgennie,’ said Danilov, thickly. Larissa was naked, her black wedge only inches from his face. She’d oiled herself there, planning what she wanted him to do.
‘So much better,’ she repeated, thrusting the scented feast for him to eat, which he did. It was good, which sex always was with Larissa. She made love with complete abandon and in every way, with no inhibitions, anxious to exchange every pleasure, arching beneath him when she finally climaxed in time with him. Danilov grimaced at the pain of her nails driving into his back, fearing she had marked him. He’d have to be careful, later. Danilov moved off her, propping himself on his side. Her look-at-me breasts sprouted proudly upright, demanding approval. Seeing him look Larissa said: ‘They’re yours.’