The man who’d checked him at the gate said something Danilov didn’t hear. Danilov just nodded back, following across a wide gravelled forecourt which divided the two halves of the garden. In the middle of the forecourt was a cherubed fountain from which no water spouted. There were three more BMWs to the left, with men around each: two were vaguely polishing the vehicles but others either sat inside or lounged against the bonnets and boots. They all watched him: someone must have made a remark, because abruptly the two on the closest car laughed. Danilov was surprised no-one attempted to search his briefcase. I’m a trusted, bought policeman, he thought.
The house was pre-revolutionary, and the baroque and rococo of the period had been intricately restored in the carved woodwork and the ornate plaster cupolas of the high ceilings. The hallway was marble-floored and escorting the full climb of a huge, encircling staircase was a flight of cherubs from the same flock as those on the fountain outside, sculpted here from the solid stone walls. Heavy brocade tapestries which couldn’t have been genuine but which appeared old hung from other sections of the walls.
Arkadi Gusovsky and Aleksandr Yerin were waiting for him in a wood-panelled study on the far side of the hallway. Like everything else about the house, the room was enormous, two walls dominated by bookshelves, another hung with more tapestry. There was a wide, leather-inlaid desk in front of leaded windows, but Gusovsky was in a deep leather armchair to one side of a stone fireplace big enough for a man to have stood upright beneath the mantel. Most of the other chairs and couches were also leather, but Yerin sat on a more upright, brocaded chair. For the first time the man’s disability was covered by shaded glasses.
Gusovsky rose at Danilov’s entry, going towards a regiment of bottles on a side table, asking what Danilov wanted as he walked. He looked fully at the investigator for the first time when Danilov said he didn’t want anything, the cadaverous smile uncertain. It was Yerin, a man who used his ears for the eyes he did not have, who cocked his head to one side and said: ‘You’re by yourself. Where’s the American?’
‘This only needed me,’ said Danilov. He hoped the perspiration wasn’t obvious on his face. He could feel it wet on his back.
Gusovsky came away from the liquor table without pouring anything. ‘There is a problem?’
‘Not now,’ said Danilov. He went further into the room, towards the two men. All the convenient seats and couches were low: having listened to everything Cowley had ever said about psychology, Danilov decided it would be better if he remained standing.
‘What is it?’ demanded Yerin.
‘I am going to reach an agreement with you, but nothing like you imagined,’ announced Danilov. ‘I’m not taking any payment from you, now or in the future. Nor coming on your payroll. Ever. Neither is Cowley.’
Gusovsky didn’t sit either, but came up to stand behind his partner’s chair: there was the slightest turn when Yerin realised the presence behind him. Yerin, the quicker thinker, said: ‘What has happened to the money in Switzerland?’
‘It has all been returned to its rightful owner, the Russian government. You haven’t got it. I never intended you should.’
Gusovsky felt forward, lightly touching Yerin’s shoulder. Silence filled the room. Coldness, too, although sweat still glued Danilov’s shirt to his back.
Gusovsky said: ‘Oh, you silly man. You very silly little man.’
‘Maybe,’ agreed Danilov, finding the calmness difficult. ‘It was an enormous temptation: we even talked about it.’
‘Do you know what’s going to happen to you?’ said Gusovsky. He sounded very calm, too, his normally resonant voice soft, as if he were savouring something.
‘I could guess a lot you’d like to do,’ said Danilov. ‘Particularly here, which is practically as secure as the Kremlin and with all your people around you. But you’re not going to do anything. Now, or later. You can’t afford to.’
Yerin reached up, touching the other man’s hand warningly. ‘You tell us why you’re so sure about that?’
‘That’s what I’ve come to do,’ said Danilov. He considered moving closer to the fireplace but weighed the psychology again and didn’t: he would have looked small in comparison to the huge surround. ‘I didn’t tell you all the evidence I could bring against you. I didn’t tell you about the KGB deputy’s confession, about the gun that killed Petr Serov. And why we had to bring the security man out of the embassy in Washington. Or even a quarter of what Antipov has told us, about what he did for you. Which I could put to Zimin in Italy and get even more, if I wanted to. So I’ll tell you now…’ Which he did, not needing any prompting from the copied material he carried in his briefcase and which he was still unsure whether to show them, in the evidence form in which it was assembled.
The two Mafia chieftains remained motionless, but Danilov detected the now familiar redness coming to Gusovsky’s face: he abruptly realised he was clutching the briefcase to him, like the nervous lawyer during the brief trip to Switzerland, and hurriedly put it beside him.
‘Complete, wouldn’t you think? But I don’t think it is, you see. It would certainly seem so, on the surface: they’re all properly recorded confessions and you’re personally named, over and over again. But where’s the proof! It’s their word overwhelmingly against yours, but it could be argued against. And I do know how powerful you are. I believe you’ve got other people in ministries whose names I don’t know: people you could force or bribe to help in some way. The judiciary, too, so you might be able to influence the judges: even get those who’ve got to do what you tell them ruling on the admissibility of evidence. And I know you could get people killed, even in jail. I’d certainly have a hard job introducing the confessions of dead witnesses, wouldn’t I…?’ Danilov’s confidence was growing. Not by much, but the hollowness was lessening: he actually managed to smile. ‘I know you’d do all those things. In your position, you’d be mad not to. So you’re not in so much danger, after all…’
‘Which makes me think you are,’ intruded Gusovsky. He was very red, as always resenting being treated as the inferior.
Danilov held up a halting hand, intentionally overbearing. ‘I’m going to open the briefcase,’ he warned, more for his protection than theirs. ‘You know what it is I am going to show you, but I want you to understand the position it puts you in…’ Very slowly, he unclipped the case and extracted the photocopy of the replacement Founder’s Certificate for the anstalt, announcing what it was for Yerin’s benefit as he handed it beyond the blind man, to the standing Gusovsky. ‘ This is proof! You know we have the original. It carries both your names and both your signatures… I guess you were guided to the place where you had to sign, Aleksandr Dorovich, but the signature is still provably yours. I now hold irrefutable documentary proof of your attempt to gain control of a government fortune. But not held here, in Moscow. Evidence can disappear in Moscow, can’t it? The original is already back in Washington, sealed, in Cowley’s name. You can’t get it or interfere with it…’