Metkin’s reaction was exactly what Danilov had hoped. ‘Absolutely inevitable. That’s why I suggested it.’
Keep on being over-eager, thought Danilov.
‘There’s been a request to speak to Serov’s wife,’ said Vorobie. ‘The Americans also want access to the embassy and to the man’s home, to which we cannot agree.’
‘Clearly not,’ agreed Metkin, trying to convey an opinion by following one already expressed.
Idiot, thought Danilov: it was the time and opportunity to illustrate the professional gulf between himself and the other man. Danilov said: ‘Apart from the access difficulty, are we going to take up the American approach?’
‘Yes,’ announced Smolin, entering the discussion. ‘There are several practical advantages, apart from the obvious.’
‘Aid being the most important,’ said Vorobie. ‘We can’t risk the financial assistance from Washington. This is, indeed, an ideal opportunity to demonstrate full collaboration, like we did when the American politician’s relation was murdered here.’
‘Can we afford to do that?’ asked Danilov quietly.
The question had precisely the effect he intended. All three officials frowned in bewilderment: Metkin’s head moved like a spectator at a tennis match. Danilov continued: ‘The published reports say Serov was killed American Mafia-style. The Swiss financier too. Was there any official connection between the two?’
There was a brief silence. Vorobie said: ‘We have a positive assurance from the ambassador that there was no official knowledge of any meeting. Or reason for one.’
To the Interior Ministry man Danilov said: ‘Was there any security reason for or knowledge of such an encounter?’
‘None,’ said Oskin at once.
‘So our contribution can be quite open?’ he persisted. Irrespective of any part he might or might not play, this was the moment when the rules were made.
‘The method of killing is peculiar,’ intruded Smolin. ‘I think that question is one that can only be answered as the enquiry proceeds.’
‘I agree,’ said Vorobie. He was a plump but neat man, his face partitioned by a moustache almost too heavy for his features. A diplomat of the new order, he had the habit of hesitating before any sentence, thinking ahead about what he was going to say.
‘It was an important point to raise,’ conceded Oskin.
‘We thought so,’ said Metkin, anxious to contribute.
If he hadn’t known Metkin’s intention to drive him from the Bureau, Danilov might have felt some pity for the inadequate man. The conversation was between him and the officials, Metkin coming close to being ignored. Determined to keep it that way, Danilov said: ‘Have the Americans been officially informed of our agreement?’
‘Later today,’ said Vorobie. ‘After the ambassador has delivered our Note, we will issue a press statement.’
‘There will be liaison between the two Bureaux in the first place,’ decided Oskin. ‘Close consultation between yourselves and the three of us. Priority will naturally be given to any facilities you may require.’
‘Vladimir Kabalin is the newly appointed senior colonel in charge of investigation,’ burst in Metkin. ‘He’s the officer to be assigned.’
‘What!’ said Oskin, face twisted beyond a frown in his surprise. Both Vorobie and the Federal Prosecutor looked similarly taken aback.
Metkin repeated Kabalin’s name but hesitantly, discerning the reaction.
‘Kabalin has no experience of joint international detective work, has he?’ asked Smolin.
‘No,’ admitted Metkin.
‘Does he speak English?’ demanded Vorobie.
‘I don’t think so,’ said the Bureau Director, lamely.
There were more frowning looks between the three men before Smolin said: ‘There’s no question who should lead this enquiry.’
‘None,’ agreed Oskin, decisively. ‘It will be Dimitri Ivanovich.’ He looked directly at Danilov. ‘Your other duties and responsibilities can be rearranged or reassigned, can’t they?’
‘Quite easily,’ assured Danilov. Despite his depression at Lapinsk’s death, there was still excitement.
‘Then it is decided!’ declared the man.
‘I am to liaise direct with the ministry?’ questioned Danilov, teetering on the edge of insubordination but not really caring.
‘That’s what we want,’ said Oskin.
But far more importantly, what Danilov wanted.
And that was what Vasili Oskin got, throughout the remainder of that first day.
Back at Petrovka Danilov filled in the time until the Russian response had formally been delivered in Washington by dictating to all departments in the building a flurry of copies-to-the-Ministry memoranda, redirecting for the personal attention of the Director the stifling administrative bureaucracy he had created. The first and most important note asked Metkin to circularise every department informing them of his secondment to the American enquiry and ordering his unquestioned right to any assistance he might demand. The second instructed Yuri Pavin to report to the top floor, on permanent assignment. He was to move in all the evidence-collecting material for a major crime, including a secure storage safe the combination of which would be restricted: there would be no difficulty getting one from the supply manager. Separately, by telephone to avoid a traceable record, Danilov asked Pavin for all details of Lapinsk’s death.
In mid-afternoon Metkin used the excuse of personally handing over duplicates of every authorisation Danilov had sought to call Danilov to his office.
‘You regard this as a victory?’ demanded the Director.
‘I don’t believe myself to be in any kind of contest,’ lied Danilov.
Metkin’s wrinkled face was crimson. ‘I was aware of everything going on back there this morning. Don’t think I wasn’t.’
Danilov said nothing: the petulance didn’t deserve a response. But like much else that day there was something to learn from it: from Metkin’s attitude, he was now quite sure none of the three men that morning were his protectors.
‘When this is over you’ll lose your special status,’ threatened Metkin. ‘You will be back under my unquestioned jurisdiction!’
There was the usual delay in the Moscow international exchange, and when it extended into the early evening Danilov was afraid he might have missed the man he wanted because of the time difference between Russia and the United States. But Cowley was still in his Washington office when the connection was finally made.
‘We pressed for it to be you,’ admitted Cowley.
‘I’m glad you did,’ said Danilov sincerely.
That night Cowley went for another walk to Crystal City. The barman recognised him and said it was good to see him again and Cowley said it was good to be back. He began with beer, as before, going on to Wild Turkey after a while. There really was cause to celebrate: it would be good, working with the Russian again. Would he still have the complex about losing his hair? Cowley hoped this time there wouldn’t be the run-arounds they’d had before, neither at first trusting the other, each trying to outdo the other just that little bit. On the third drink he determined, positively, not to try any smart-ass stuff himself. At least, nothing that wasn’t essential.
Because it was a celebration Cowley debated one whiskey more than the previous occasion, but in the end didn’t order it, leaving the bar once again pleased at his self-control.
Whatever, he reflected as he made his way back to Arlington, his enjoyment of booze was not as bad as Pauline had insisted when they were together. Maybe he’d call her. He wasn’t sure he’d know what to say, but he still thought he might try.
The official report into Leonid Lapinsk’s death was unequivocal. The former Director had placed the Makarov against the roof of his mouth and pressed the trigger with his thumb, the print of which was on the trigger. His other fingerprints were on the butt and the barrel. There was no note or anything to indicate why he had done it. His wife, who had been in the apartment at the time and run to the bedroom at the sound of the shot, said her husband had been depressed in recent weeks. She believed it was because of his retirement from the Bureau.