‘The whole thing has been a shambles,’ said Smolin.
‘It has not been a shambles!’ protested Danilov. ‘I was not responsible for the American protest.’
No-one knew for several moments how to continue. Then Oskin said: ‘We must get Antipov! And quickly. Why don’t we bring in the Security Ministry, too?’
‘A manhunt that wide would leak,’ cautioned Danilov, careless of the obvious inference of corruption throughout enforcement agencies. ‘If Antipov learns of it he’ll cross into any one of the former Soviet republics and be safe. I can’t pursue him there, not any more.’
There was another brief silence, broken again by Oskin. ‘If we don’t get him quickly – a week at the outside – the Security Ministry will be brought in.’
‘Definitely no more than a week,’ endorsed Vorobie.
Smolin’s nod made the suggestion unanimous.
Danilov decided he had not emerged well from the encounter.
‘Let’s hope there’s nothing else to harm relations between us and Washington before we get him,’ said Oskin.
It was a forlorn hope.
The following day’s story given by the mayor to the Washington Post detailed everything down to the Mafia identities being found in Serov’s papers, and named Ignatov as the third victim. But to protect Elliott Jones as the source it carried a Moscow dateline, giving the impression the news came from a Russian informant.
The media circus everyone had wanted to avoid cranked into gear.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The man who opened the door to Raisa Serova’s apartment was tall and straw-haired, aged about forty. Surprisingly deep black eyes were shielded behind rimless, medically tinted spectacles. The suit was well cut, conservative grey. When Danilov introduced Cowley, Oleg Yasev said: ‘I was not told an American was to be present!’
‘There was no reason for you to be told,’ said Danilov. He hoped the autocratic attitude was not going to set the tone of the encounter, but feared it would.
For a brief moment Yasev remained in the doorway, barring their entry, but then he stood aside.
Raisa Serova was on the same couch she’d occupied during Danilov’s previous visit, legs elegantly crossed. She wore a black dress cut more for its style than to indicate mourning. The heavy linked bracelet matched the single-strand gold necklace at her throat. Everything was as neatly sterile as before. Raisa frowned at Cowley, too, recognising him as a foreigner. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Your husband was murdered in America: it’s an American investigation,’ said Cowley. This wasn’t going to be easy, he guessed.
The woman looked questioningly at Yasev, who shrugged. Raisa gestured towards the man and said to Danilov: ‘I am told you entered my apartment in Washington? You had no right!’
‘I had every right. I was accompanied by an official from the embassy. A list was made of everything I took as possible evidence.’ Who was supposed to be interviewing whom?
‘You took!’ Raisa uncrossed her legs, coming more upright in her seat. ‘What did you take?’
Pavin was carrying everything in his briefcase, so she’d see soon enough. ‘A diary. Some photographs.’
‘I want everything returned! Immediately!’
‘Mrs Serova,’ intruded Cowley, as professionally calm as Danilov. ‘How long had your husband known and associated with gangsters?’
Her arrogance slipped. She began: ‘I don’t…’ but Yasev cut across her. ‘I really don’t consider that is a proper question to ask!’
Danilov turned fully to face the man. ‘You are not here to decide what is or is not proper. You are here in support of Mrs Serova, nothing more. If you interfere or in any way obstruct this interview I will contact your ministry and have you removed…’
‘… and I will have an official protest made from Washington,’ endorsed Cowley. He must remember later to tell Danilov it was an empty threat, just made to get this asshole off their backs.
Yasev’s face flamed beneath the yellow hair. ‘My instructions are to protect Mrs Serova.’
‘What does Mrs Serova need protection from?’ seized Danilov.
‘Protect her interests,’ added Yasev.
Danilov jerked his head towards the telephone near the entrance to the living room. ‘Call your ministry,’ he ordered, intentionally demeaning.
Yasev stared at him tight-lipped, hands clenched by his sides in frustration. He shook his head, retreating slightly behind Raisa, as if physically standing guard.
Acknowledging their victory, Cowley said: ‘I asked you a question, Mrs Serova.’
‘Which was preposterous. My husband knew no criminals.’
‘Not a man named Viktor Chebrakin?’ took up Danilov, intent upon the slightest reaction. He was aware of Cowley, beside him, concentrating just as strongly.
‘No.’
‘Or Yuri Chestnoy?’
‘No.’
‘Igor Rimyans?’
‘No.’
‘Valentine Yashev?’
‘No.’ Throughout Raisa showed no facial response whatsoever to any of the names.
‘They were listed in your husband’s handwriting, with others, in documents in your husband’s office,’ said Danilov.
‘I know nothing of it: I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true.’
Danilov had told Pavin before their arrival how he wanted things produced. He reached sideways for the diary he had taken from the Massachusetts Avenue apartment. The pages containing Serov’s coded records of Michel Paulac’s Washington visits were tagged with yellow paper slips. ‘Is this your husband’s?’
‘You know it is.’
Danilov crossed to where Raisa was sitting, flicking through the marked entries. ‘He misspelled words, to identify the dates of Michel Paulac’s trips to America.’
‘That’s ridiculous! And I told you I don’t know anyone named Michel Paulac.’
‘Were you and your husband very close?’ took up Cowley.
Yasev shifted slightly. Danilov looked at him warningly. The man said nothing.
‘That is an impertinent question!’ protested the woman.
‘What’s the answer to it?’ persisted Cowley.
‘Of course we were! Why?’
‘He kept a very great deal from you, didn’t he?’
Yasev went from foot to foot.
‘That remark does not deserve a reply,’ dismissed Raisa.
‘When we met last time you showed me your diary,’ reminded Danilov.
‘Yes?’
‘Can I see it again?’
‘Why?’
‘I want to compare the Paulac entries in your husband’s diary against yours,’ admitted Danilov openly.
‘This is not right…’ started Yasev, but in front of him Raisa raised an imperious hand, stopping the protest. She got up, left the room but was back within minutes, dismissively handing Danilov the black-bound book.
Danilov took his time. He checked entry against entry and prolonged the examination by passing both diaries sideways to Cowley. There was no tally between the two.
‘Satisfied?’ she demanded.
It was Cowley who answered. ‘Your husband was murdered. Horribly.’
‘Yes?’
‘We are trying to find his killer. Or killers.’
‘Yes?’ she questioned again.
‘Why are you so resistant, Mrs Serova? Don’t you want the murderer caught?’
Raisa Serova stared up at Cowley for several moments: briefly her impassive face twisted, close to an expression of anguish. ‘All you have done – every question you have asked – makes out Petr Aleksandrovich was a criminal!’
‘Wasn’t he?’ demanded Cowley remorselessly.
‘No! He was a kind, loving man dedicated to the job he did! He cried for joy when Communism ended here! And again when the coup against Gorbachov failed!’
‘He knew criminals!’ insisted Danilov.
‘I DON’T KNOW THEM! OR ABOUT THEM!’ The screaming, near-hysterical outburst startled them alclass="underline" Pavin, less prepared than anyone because he was head-bent over the notebook, actually gasped in astonishment, jerking up towards the woman.
‘This is disgusting! Disgraceful!’ protested Yasev. ‘I insist it stops!’