‘I don’t need reminding of the problems,’ said Cowley.
CHAPTER TEN
Danilov had caught a segment about the murder of Petr Serov on the previous evening’s television news and seen – with difficulty, because the set was old and faulty and beyond effective repair – a brief shot of William Cowley emerging from a plastic scene-of-crime tent and walking, unspeaking, through a swarm of questioning journalists. There was no reference on Russian TV to Cowley’s previous involvement in Moscow, or to Danilov, but there was, extensively, in the following day’s newspapers. On his way to Petrovka, Danilov stopped the car and bought the papers, reading the near-matching accounts and briefly indulging himself in memories. On an inside page there was a group photograph taken at the time, of Danilov and Lapinsk and Cowley and the Federal Prosecutor. One headline described the investigation as a triumph of co-operation between Russia and the United States; another used the word ‘brilliant’. Danilov carefully discarded the newspapers in a rubbish bin, not wanting to invite mockery by arriving at Militia headquarters carrying accounts of himself publicly described as the leading investigator in an Organised Crime Bureau from which he’d been deposed. But when he entered his office, every newspaper was on his desk, folded uppermost to demonstrate his previous importance. Games to play, Danilov decided.
Two fingered, he typed a memorandum to the Director asking what action he was expected to take upon the newspaper accounts of the killing of Petr Aleksandrovich Serov so obviously deposited in his office. Additionally he sent a note to the Foreign Ministry, asking to be informed what was happening in America, and made a copy for Anatoli Metkin with a covering slip assuming it was the sort of action Metkin would wish. He sent his communication to the Foreign Ministry at once, but to prevent it being interrupted he held back the message to Metkin.
By the time the creased-faced Director burst into his room, Danilov had typed invitations to the supervisors of the car pool and supply division, proposing meetings to decide their future working relationship, and written for display on the squad room noticeboard the news that he had been made responsible, on the specific orders of Anatoli Metkin, for all future work rosters, and also for the finance of the Bureau. Accordingly, he would in future need, in writing, each assignment of each investigator with itemised details of overtime being claimed; without such details, no payments would be authorised. He’d despatched copies of the roster arrangements to the Interior and Finance Ministries minutes before Metkin’s arrival.
‘What the hell are these!’ demanded Metkin, waving Danilov’s messages.
Danilov looked up, blank-faced: Metkin was very red. ‘A request for guidance,’ he said ingenuously.
‘I don’t know anything about any damned newspaper stories!’
‘I assumed it was upon your orders. What reason would there be for anyone in the squad room to come all the way up here to leave them?’
Metkin made tiny, ineffectual flapping gestures with his hands. ‘I don’t want anything going to the Foreign Ministry.’
‘I’m afraid it’s gone. About two hours ago.’
‘ What? ’
‘I don’t see the problem,’ said Danilov. ‘I might have misunderstood the newspapers, but shouldn’t we be interested in the murder of a Russian diplomat?’
‘Any request for information should have come…’ Metkin stopped before completing the sentence, so Danilov did it for him.
‘It will appear to have your authority, won’t it…?’ He let Metkin stand there, nonplussed. ‘Like these.’ Danilov offered the other man copies marked for his attention but not yet sent, of the notes about work rosters and overtime payments.
Metkin’s hands began to shake in fury. ‘This is preposterous!’
‘Why?’ asked Danilov. It was Metkin’s reaction that was preposterous: there couldn’t be any logical argument against the proposed overtime supervision.
‘I… It won’t… Investigators will be spending all their time writing explanatory notes when they should be out investigating crime!’
‘Fifteen minutes, at the end of every week. I can’t see either Ministry finding fault with that.’
For the first time Metkin appeared to see everything was endorsed for distribution to the Interior and Finance Ministries. ‘Don’t send these!’
‘They’ve already gone.’ Danilov hesitated, wanting to enjoy twisting the knife. ‘And I have never once tried to usurp your authority. It’s made quite clear it’s on your orders…’
Metkin looked steadily at him. His mouth moved very slightly, as if he were practising a challenge, but he did not finally make it. Instead he said: ‘You have been extremely busy.’
‘We’ve already agreed that I am going to be, with all the responsibilities you have given me.’
‘Which you are taking extremely seriously.’
That afternoon a gaunt, sharp-faced woman who introduced herself as Ludmilla Markovina Radsic came unsmilingly into his office. ‘I was told to report here as your secretary.’
‘Temporarily?’
‘Permanently.’
Danilov wished Metkin had at least imposed an attractive informant.
Olga shopped lavishly at the open market for the celebration supper with Yevgennie and Larissa Kosov. There was sufficient steak, vegetables both fresh and marinated, and cheese and fresh fruit to have thrown a banquet for four times their number. Because Danilov had no access to dollars she had had to pay in roubles: it had cost what was officially a whole month’s salary. Danilov refused to compete, which he acknowledged to be a kind of inverted snobbery: the vodka and brandy and champagne and the flat wine were all Russian. When they went to Yevgennie and Larissa’s apartment the Scotch was from Scotland – always Chivas Regal – and the champagne and brandy and the burgundy was from France.
‘You could have got something else,’ complained Olga, when she saw him setting the bottles out.
Danilov did not, in fact, believe he could have done. ‘I’m happy with this.’
‘I’m not. Neither will Larissa or Yevgennie be.’
‘It’ll be a new experience for them.’
‘You told me you were superior to Yevgennie now.’
‘I am,’ confirmed Danilov. In empty rank but certainly not in authority or power, he admitted to himself.
‘They won’t think so, when they see the sort of drink you’re serving.’
‘Who cares what they think?’
‘I do.’
The Kosovs arrived precisely on time, almost curiously. Larissa looked spectacular – and knew it – in a clinging black angora dress, topped by a white, three-quarter-length real leather coat which had clearly not been fashioned in Russia. Neither had the matching crocodile handbag and shoes. Danilov had not seen any of it during their hotel or tucked-away-restaurant assignations, and guessed she’d dressed for him. Because it was virtually unavailable in Moscow, Kosov usually dressed in cashmere. The jacket tonight was blue, over tan trousers; his shoes were crocodile too. Danilov had not seen the heavy gold watch before: there were jewels – diamonds maybe – instead of numerals. His own had stopped again that night. It was supposed to be a Cartier but he knew it wasn’t: the ‘gold’ surround had flaked a long time ago.
There were effusive, both-cheek kisses, and Kosov presented Olga with Belgian chocolates: when Danilov kissed Larissa, she positioned herself so he would detect she was not wearing a bra, smiling at him as they parted. Kosov looked pointedly at the Russian label when Danilov poured the champagne, but didn’t comment. Danilov knew Kosov would have done, if he had been drinking before he left their own apartment, as he normally did, and wondered why the man had abstained that evening.
‘A toast!’ Kosov declared, as usual moving to dominate. ‘To Dimitri Ivanovich and his well deserved and well earned promotion!’
Danilov stood feeling foolish as the other three drank. He sipped his own wine, at the end. It was sharp. ‘It doesn’t mean a great deal,’ he said, in gross understatement.