‘You’re not hearing me right, Carla,’ said Bradley.
‘Fuck you!’
Wilkes, the man who knew his way in dark alleys, said: ‘It’s as bad as that, is it?’
‘Don’t know what you’re saying.’
‘They couldn’t get you, if they were inside.’
‘I don’t know! And it’s not just one or two names, is it? It’s groups. Organised.’
The girl shook her head. Slowen noticed for the first time the sheen of perspiration making her face even shinier, threatening the sharp lipstick and mascara lines.
‘We’d make it look right,’ promised Wilkes. ‘Bring more girls in, run them through the courts so you couldn’t be singled out. Make a dealer bust, too. Lotta guys, so no one person would stick out as someone you’d fingered…’ He picked up the bag, tossing it up and down in his hand. ‘I bet you never had this much stuff at any one time in your entire life.’
‘Promise?’ mumbled the girl.
‘Our word,’ assured Bradley.
‘I get the bag?’
‘And less heat from now on,’ guaranteed Wilkes. ‘Just enough to convince them you’re not a special friend.’
‘Peter,’ she said, a mumble again.
‘Peter who?’ seized Wilkes.
‘Peter the Pole. Don’t know any other name.’
‘ Is he Polack?’
‘How the fuck do I know! Speaks English like he’s got a rock in his throat.’
‘Where do we find Peter the Pole?’ asked Bradley.
Carla shrugged. ‘Around.’
Bradley put an enclosing hand over the heroin. ‘Better, Carla.’
‘He usually uses the Adam and Eve bar, on Columbus. But not now the heat’s on.’
‘Where’s he live?’ asked Wilkes.
‘I’m not sure.’
‘We take guesses.’
‘There are rooms over the amusement arcade on Atlantic.’
‘We want you to look at some mugshots, see if you can pick out Peter the Pole for us, OK?’
‘I get the bag?’ Carla persisted.
‘You got the bag,’ assured Bradley.
As the girl left the room with Wilkes, Slowen said: ‘That wasn’t very pretty.’
Bradley said: ‘What’s pretty got to do with it?’
Leonard Ross had lunch served in his private dining room, Maryland chowder followed by New England lamb.
‘We’ve got to accept we’ve caught the Russians running a criminal enterprise from their embassy,’ insisted the Secretary of State. ‘There can’t be any other reason for the way the investigation is being handled in Moscow.’
‘Cowley doesn’t go that far,’ reminded the FBI Director.
‘But he expects us to protest officially?’
‘I asked specifically. He says yes.’
‘You got any thoughts about withdrawing him?’
‘None,’ said Ross. ‘I’ve got two murders to solve. Cowley stays until we understand the connection.’
‘I’ve summoned their ambassador for an explanation,’ disclosed Henry Hartz. ‘I’m damned if we’re going to have a Mafia office on 16th Street!’
‘Seems like one’s already there,’ warned the Director.
The doubtful Yerin had again persuaded Gusovsky to meet the two Organised Crime officers without the third member of the komitet. Gusovsky had agreed to Zimin’s exclusion because he still trusted the blind man’s judgment in all things, but he would have liked to feel more confident about Yerin’s entrapment idea. The meeting had been in the Glovin Bol’soy restaurant, in a private rear salon where the policemen had eaten discreetly while they finalised the move against Danilov and Cowley.
‘I liked the confidence Metkin showed,’ remarked Gusovsky, after the two other men had left, both with their dollar bonuses safely pocketed.
‘No reason why he shouldn’t be confident,’ insisted Yerin.
‘There’ll be an enquiry at the highest level. There’ll have to be, to make it look right officially.’
‘We’ve got all the influence we need.’
‘I hope we won’t be called upon to use it,’ said Gusovsky.
Yerin had a blind’s man sensitivity to nuance. ‘You nervous?’
‘I’d like more guaranteed control.’
Yerin closed his hand in a grasping gesture. ‘We’ve got the Organised Crime Bureau, the Interior Ministry and the judiciary! It would be hard to have more control!’
‘That should be enough,’ conceded Gusovsky, annoyed now he’d let the uncertainty show.
‘All Antipov’s got to do is laugh.’
Danilov and Cowley laughed initially, though. But wrongly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Danilov did it first, aloud, within minutes of Yuri Pavin entering the Petrovka office. Even the normally dour man was smiling. He held the plastic-enclosed Makarov in front of him like a trophy.
‘A positive fingerprint match!’ announced Pavin. ‘Mikhail Pavlovich Antipov. One of the names on a Mafia list. The Chechen Family!’
‘Ballistics?’ demanded Danilov, just before laughing aloud.
‘The bullets recovered from Ignatov’s body definitely came from this gun,’ assured Pavin, completing his announcement.
Cowley laughed as well, when Danilov reached the American at the hotel, although very shortly. Pain was banded around his head, so that he had to squint against the light. He’d never had a proper hangover before. ‘This is how it happens sometimes. Let’s hope all the rest starts falling into place! I’ll be with you as soon as possible.’
Danilov was too preoccupied to detect the sluggishness in the American’s voice, thinking ahead: he was reluctant to tell Anatoli Metkin, although he knew he had no alternative. But Metkin received the news far more calmly than Danilov had anticipated, doing little more than nod, and making no reference to the earlier warnings of the American complaints. He agreed every available investigator in the Bureau should be seconded to the hunt for Antipov, and that uniformed Militia be brought in if necessary. When Danilov said Cowley was on his way to Petrovka, Metkin invited the American to attend the general briefing which he, as Director, would obviously give.
Cowley made no comment when Danilov passed on the invitation. Danilov thought the American’s face was puffy, and there seemed to be a lot of redness in his eyes.
They were the last to enter the squad room. There was a stir at the appearance of Cowley, who smiled and nodded generally: Vladimir Kabalin, lounged in a chair in the forefront, responded to the smile, extending it to Danilov. Beside him Aleksai Raina, who had acted as Kabalin’s scene-of-crime man and whose direct responsibility it would have been to seal the river area, didn’t make any greeting. He appeared quite relaxed but then, reasoned Danilov, he might not yet know of the criticism.
Everyone stood politely when Metkin came into the room. He waved them down with a gracious hand. Although it was unnecessary he formally introduced Cowley, who was acknowledged with more nods.
Metkin’s briefing continued to be formal. He outlined the irrefutable scientific evidence linking the Chechen gangster with the Ignatov killing and said the man’s criminal record was being run off, for every detective to receive a copy. There was no known address for the man. An arrest was urgent, so uniformed Militia as well as airport police would be alerted, to be on standby if necessary. First news of an arrest had to be given, day or night, to Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov, who was heading the investigation and would co-ordinate all information.
‘What brought about that transformation?’ demanded Cowley, back in Danilov’s office.
‘Your presence, most probably.’
‘There’s quite a flap in Washington. I was asked if I wanted it to be official. I said yes.’ The American had followed Danilov’s lead and was speaking English. At the far end of the room, Ludmilla Radsic was frowning, unable to understand.
‘I’ve been summoned to the Foreign Ministry.’ Before which he could see Larissa, if she was working the day shift at the Druzhba: there was insufficient time before the afternoon appointment to do anything practical in the investigation.
‘If Antipov gets picked up it’ll take all the heat out of any protest,’ Cowley pointed out.