Danilov was equally sure that wasn’t the reason.
The news came in a hurried telephone call from the Petrovka headquarters of the Organised Crime Bureau, just as they were about to eat at the restaurant on Glivin Bol’soj. They impatiently sent the whores they’d chosen for that night outside the private salon, so they could talk.
‘I don’t like it!’ protested Gusovsky.
‘Metkin is still Director,’ placated Yerin. ‘We’ll still know everything that happens.’
‘There could be things we won’t know!’
‘Who’s there to talk?’ asked Yerin rhetorically. ‘Any investigation will be a waste of their time.’
‘What about the old fool’s suicide?’ asked Zimin.
‘He didn’t leave any stupid letters,’ said Yerin. ‘And what would have happened if he had? Nothing.’
Gusovsky nodded in agreement. Lighting another forbidden cigar, he said to Zimin: ‘Call the girls back.’
Zimin hesitated, but only momentarily, then did what he was told.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Using the authority of Sergei Vorobie’s name, which gained him immediate access to whomever he wanted at the Foreign Ministry, Danilov demanded the complete personnel file on Petr Aleksandrovich Serov. Through the ministry he also ordered the man’s office at the Washington embassy to be sealed and to remain untouched until he arrived; he gave the same order for the apartment on Massachusetts Avenue. Knowing there would be a security service presence in the embassy, Danilov repeated the instructions about the office and the flat through the Interior Ministry for relay to Washington, well aware that in the past the old KGB, from which the new organisation had been formed, had regarded itself as beyond edicts from any but their own controllers. And sometimes not even them.
Throughout the telephone conversations Danilov was conscious of the scribbling interest of Ludmilla Radsic at the far end of the room, so when he finished he made it easy for her by dictating records of everything he’d done to create the beginning of Pavin’s meticulous dossier and Metkin’s spy file. Danilov decided the Director would by now be hating Moscow’s direct telephone dialling system, knowing his calls would have been monitored through a general switchboard. From her strained but blank-faced attention during the previous night’s conversation with Cowley, he knew Ludmilla did not understand English. While the woman was preparing the Ministry memoranda, Danilov quietly made his own flight arrangements to Washington and typed his own advisory note to Sergei Vorobie, requesting a final briefing. He did not send a copy to Metkin.
Again because of the attentive secretary, it was not until they were in the car on their way to Leninskaya that Danilov was able to speak openly to Pavin.
‘This has confused everybody,’ said the man, who was driving. ‘People aren’t sure just how strong Metkin’s position is: you caused a lot of upset with all those instructions and changes.’
‘Have you been asked to inform on me?’ demanded Danilov, with subjective cynicism.
‘Kabalin was very friendly after yesterday’s announcement: I’m expecting it to come. When are you going to Washington?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘How long?’
‘I don’t know. I’ll be liaising with the ministries but I’ll come through you, as well, to maintain the records.’
‘Metkin will demand them.’
‘There’ll be nothing he can’t see.’
The Serovs’ Moscow apartment was close to the Gagarin monument, in one of the last ornate and still exclusive blocks built for members of the disbanded Communist Party. The flat was on the top floor, with one of the best views over the city. The elevator worked and was clean. There was no graffiti.
Raisa Serova opened the door and regarded them curiously, someone whose inherent assurance was subdued: a new widow. She was an extremely attractive, even beautiful woman, heavy busted but slim, sheathed in a fitted dark blue wool dress. The patterned gold necklace matched the bracelet on her left wrist. Her deeply black hair was bobbed short and the lipstick matched the dark crimson of her nails. There was the suggestion of redness around her eyes, a hint she might have been weeping, but Danilov wasn’t sure. Danilov guessed she was in her late thirties: it would probably be recorded on Serov’s Foreign Ministry file.
The woman showed no surprise when they identified themselves, nor any reluctance to receive them. She seated them in an expansive living room, with a view of the obelisk-like tower commemorating the first Russian astronaut. She offered tea, which they refused.
‘When is Petr Aleksandrovich’s body being returned?’ she demanded at once.
‘We don’t know,’ said Danilov.
‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’
‘We’re assisting the American authorities in their investigation.’
Her attitude changed slightly, into uncertainty. ‘You think I can help?’
‘Can you?’
‘How?’
She moved to a low couch, directly in front of the window, and took a cigarette from a black malacca box on the side table, carefully fitting it into a stubby holder. Danilov saw the cigarette was American, like so much else in the room. The television and an extensive stereo system were imported, linked to the fluctuating Moscow electricity supply by heavy transformers: Danilov guessed the furnishings, the curtains, the rugs, and maybe even the suite and the tables, came from America as well.
‘Your husband was murdered.’
‘I know that. Shot.’ There was the slightest tremor in the hand holding the cigarette, a hint of distress, but her voice was even.
‘So was a Swiss financier. Petr Aleksandrovich dined with him, the night they were both killed.’
‘I read that, in the newspapers.’
‘Did you know your husband was meeting a man named Michel Paulac, on the 19th?’
‘I have been here in Moscow for three weeks.’
‘So you did not know of the appointment?’ persisted Danilov.
‘No.’
Beside Danilov, Pavin was recording every word: Danilov had always been intrigued by the quick neatness of the note-taking from such a large man. ‘Did you know Michel Paulac?’
‘No.’
‘Your husband never spoke of him?’
‘No.’
‘Were you aware your husband associated with criminals?’
‘What?’ The woman’s voice was angrily loud.
Danilov repeated the question.
‘That’s an absurd thing to ask me!’
‘There are peculiarities about the killing.’
Raisa Serova stubbed out her cigarette but lit another immediately. Not looking at either of them, she said: ‘Petr Aleksandrovich was a diplomat, performing a duty for his country. He was a respectable, honest man. My husband did not know criminals. Nor associate with criminals. I resent the question and I am offended by it. I shall complain to the Ministry about your impudence! Get out!’
Neither Danilov nor Pavin moved.
‘I have come here with the knowledge of both the Foreign and Interior Ministries,’ said Danilov. ‘You can obviously appreciate the international implications of what has happened. It is not my intention to offend or distress you: I am merely asking questions that have to be asked… asked in the hope of arresting whoever killed Petr Aleksandrovich.’
Raisa Serova said nothing. Danilov sat, waiting, still making no move to leave. The impasse was broken by a muffled call from somewhere within the apartment. Without speaking, the woman left the room. Danilov and Pavin remained where they were, also silent.
When she came back she said: ‘My mother is unwell. Terminally.’ She wasn’t outraged any more.
‘Petr Aleksandrovich had been in Washington a long time?’
‘Yes.’
‘How did those extensions of duty come about?’