Chapter Nineteen
Danilov hadn’t expected the Security Service’s Colonel to agree to an immediate meeting, but Gugin had insisted he was free, so Danilov had obviously accepted. The monolithic, yellow-washed headquarters of the disgraced and much reduced State Security Service formed before him as Danilov drove up the hill from the direction of the Kremlin. Of all the changes to Moscow squares and streets and boulevards, supposedly to erase the discredited legacies of communism, Danilov found the renaming of Dzerzhinsky Square the most illogical. Although Lubyanka was the pre-revolutionary original, Danilov considered the word far more emotive and reminiscent of past horror: Lubyanka, the prison which the KGB had grown to absorb, was infamous as one of the centres of Stalin’s slaughter, the title indelible in every Russian’s mind.
He had to stop, for the circulating traffic flow, so he had a complete view of the building occupying one entire side of the square. Above ground, in his obvious view, the building at its highest reached eight storeys. But Danilov knew that below ground it was more than twice that size, a vast underground city of separate buildings and offices and streets and command and communication centres, complete with its own underground train system constructed deeper than the publicly known metro, linked directly to the Kremlin. So what he could see was the tip of the iceberg. Which was fittingly accurate. Apart from the reduction in control upon the ordinary people of the country the new security organisation hadn’t changed dramatically, despite the supposed divisional and staff purges. It had adapted to the changes, like a chameleon adjusting quickly to changing surroundings, colouring itself to conform. For once, Danilov found himself hoping that even the internal surveillance had not diminished too profoundly.
Danilov edged into the traffic swirl and drove to the side of the building, as Gugin had directed. Danilov’s name was listed at the checkpoint. An escort got into the car to guide him to a parking area and then took him through two separate admission procedures at which his credentials were checked and listed.
Gugin was sitting, waiting, when Danilov was finally ushered into his office, a small man behind a large desk. He was in uniform, the left of which was marked with more decoration ribbons than Danilov would have expected. The man was too young for any of the obvious wars, and Danilov wondered how the man had achieved the decorations. Perhaps in other wars, the sort that no one knew about. Despite the honours, Gugin’s office was at the rear of the building, overlooking the original prison exercise yard. Not just the exercise yard, Danilov remembered. The conveyor belt executions had been carried out against those grey walls. Would the concrete slabs and blocks still be pitted by the bullets? It would probably be the sort of obscene monument the KGB would want, for their never really interrupted posterity: pockmarked macho. What Gugin’s room lacked in outlook it compensated for in fitments. Danilov realized the huge desk comprised part of a furniture set, all heavy and ornately carved, a towering, close-fronted bureau, a ceiling-to-floor bookcase and a side-desk with a roll-top covering, which was pulled down. If it was opened, would Stalin emerge, moustached and glowering, wanting to stand at the window for the bullet-spattered display down in the courtyard?
‘So?’ demanded Gugin and smiled, because this meeting was precisely what he had wanted. He was sure the benefits would be considerable: the stupid policeman wouldn’t realize the manipulation.
Danilov realized he should have been surprised by the quickness of the appointment. Gugin doubtless saw it as confirmation of the old KGB belief in Militia inefficiency, a cap-in-hand visit for help that could be laughed over later in some services’ club. Danilov smiled back, hoping the grimace didn’t appear as false as it was. ‘Our investigation is progressing extremely well,’ he lied.
Gugin’s smile remained, a disbelieving expression. ‘No problem with the American?’
Eager to show the security service’s awareness of everything, gauged Danilov. His mind ran on, worryingly. He’d known from the beginning that the investigation had the self-protective interest of the former KGB. So how closely were they monitoring him, personally? There wasn’t any real reason for him to be concerned at their discovering his affair with Larissa, but she was the wife of another Militia officer. It would give them an advantage over him if ever they needed one. ‘None that has arisen so far. Everything seems to be going quite well.’
‘Sure you can trust him?’
Was that an instinctive question? Or did Gugin have some private information? ‘Can he trust me?’ That was wrong, too: pretentious.
‘You tell me,’ demanded Gugin, enjoying himself. ‘I have no idea what’s going on.’ The policeman was stupid: it was going to be easy.
‘When it’s convenient.’ Pretentious again. But quite truthful.
‘I would have thought trust was necessary,’ said Gugin.
Was there a point in this discussion? ‘Nothing has occurred so far to make me mistrust,’ Danilov lied. It was why he was here at security headquarters.
‘There is going to be an arrest, soon?’ It was more of a smirk than a smile.
‘As soon as possible,’ said Danilov, regretting the emptiness.
Gugin picked up on it at once. ‘I’m sorry it’s not going better.’
There was nothing to be gained by creating an argument. ‘I appreciated the assistance you gave, with the photographs. And the telephone log.’
‘Now there is something else?’
‘Not exactly something else,’ said Danilov. ‘Something to complete it.’
It was like operating puppet strings, thought Gugin. ‘Complete what?’
‘The telephone lists,’ said Danilov. ‘More than telephone numbers were recorded, weren’t they?’
‘You only asked for numbers.’ He had to play for a while, to avoid the Militia Colonel guessing the manoeuvre which had already brought congratulations from the chairman himself.
‘I am extending that request,’ persisted Danilov. Continuing formally, in the way of Russian bureaucracy, he added: ‘I repeat the same understanding as before — I will have it reinforced by the Director if you wish — that at no time will there be any disclosure of the source of the information.’
‘There wouldn’t have to be a disclosure. The source would be obvious to a child of five!’
‘I need to know.’ Danilov supposed that first by the telephone call and then by agreeing so quickly to come to see the man he had shown his desperation. Contradicting the earlier assurance, he admitted: ‘I think we are being lied to, by the American.’
‘We?’ queried Gugin.
‘I am being lied to,’ Danilov further conceded. ‘I need the information to compete! To win!’
For several moments the small, bubble-fat man regarded Danilov over the expanse of table, like a mole emerging from the far side of a field to find the cause of heavy footsteps overhead. ‘If I continue to refuse, would you try through your Director? Go as high as you could?’
Danilov was unsure what answer the man wanted, guessing the wrong reply would terminate the negotiation. ‘Yes. And the argument would be that I didn’t want the American FBI coming to Moscow and resolving right under our noses a murder inquiry that I could have probably solved ahead of them, had necessary information not been withheld from me.’
There was a further silence, of continued examination across the desk. Eventually Gugin smiled again, a vaguely admiring expression this time. ‘That’s good!’ he congratulated. ‘That really is very, very good.’ It was almost time for the apparent concession.