‘Not personally assigned. Allocated from the car pool, and only when operational requirements permit.’
Which they never would, Danilov accepted. ‘How do you see this new role being fulfilled?’
Metkin went at last to his reminder notes. ‘Your function is to be administrative from now on. You will be responsible for all operational rotas and rosters. You will supervise and be answerable for all supplies and facilities throughout the building. You will control and administer all financial matters and prepare accounts and forward budgets, for presentation to the Finance Ministry. You will also liaise, where necessary, with uniformed Militia offices throughout the city.’
Danilov sat silent for several minutes, content to let Metkin believe he was overwhelmed by the catalogue of duties. Which were administrative, despite what Lapinsk had said, and would be overwhelming, if he ever tried to perform them properly, because they were the work of at least four men. But Metkin was failing to realise how the role he had just announced could be selectively manipulated. Hoping he was maintaining a look of shocked bewilderment, Danilov said: ‘Have you officially notified every relevant department here at Petrovka?’
‘The second thing I did after taking office.’
That would be an essential part of the ridicule, accepted Danilov. Which was the only aspect from which the idiot would have considered it. ‘And the Ministry?’
‘The first thing I did,’ said Metkin. ‘Both our own and Finance.’
He’d answered one of his earlier questions, Danilov decided. Metkin wasn’t clever at all. The man was really remarkably stupid. Danilov was sure he could make Metkin look even more stupid. He was going to enjoy doing it.
It was regular commuters on the New York and Boston shuttles from National who became daily more offended by the smell from the anonymous grey Ford. Two noted the Hertz bumper sticker and complained to the airport office, on the third day.
The service attendant began retching when he was ten yards from the vehicle and backed off, believing he recognised the smell, although he wasn’t sure. He was definitely sure he was paid to jockey cars and fix minor faults, not examine decomposing bodies. That was a job for the police.
The Hertz supervisor agreed, and dialled the 911 emergency number.
‘Zimin was entrusted with briefing Antipov because he controls the bulls,’ insisted Yerin. ‘He should have gone to America himself, to see it went right: he likes seeing people hurt.’
Gusovsky had agreed to Zimin being excluded from the meeting at his house in Kutbysevskiy. They were alone in the study, the bodyguards relegated to the outer rooms.
‘We didn’t suggest he went,’ reminded Gusovsky, lighting one of the thin cigars the doctors had prohibited when the shadow on his lung was first detected.
‘He should have suggested it himself.’
‘There’s the other obvious way.’
‘Who goes to Switzerland?’
‘Stupar. The Swiss won’t recognise his qualifications, though: he’ll have to work through a local lawyer.’
‘I think we should start limiting knowledge only to what people have to know. It’s safer.’
‘I agree,’ said Gusovsky.
‘And that should include Zimin from now on. He’s only good at controlling thugs.’
Gusovsky didn’t respond. If Zimin proved a liability, he’d have to be eliminated. Gusovsky decided against reaching a decision too soon: when it happened – if it had to happen – he’d make it an example throughout the Family, to prove no-one was safe, no matter how high in the organisation. A public execution, in fact.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Cowley supposed his identification was inevitable (‘Hey, don’t I recognise you?’) once the Georgetown photographs were compared in the newspaper picture libraries. Just as it was inevitable the media would fill in the lack of real information with long references to his having been the first American investigator officially to work in Moscow. He still regretted the exposure. He’d missed the initial coverage, on the previous evening’s TV news, but it was repeated on every morning channel and all the newspapers carried his picture at the scene the previous day and from the Moscow affair: some even had shots and lengthy accounts of the case. There was, of course, no identification of Pauline’s second husband as the killer: according to the carefully concocted official records, the murderer was the mentally deranged Moscow labourer they had first – wrongly – arrested.
There were already three enquiries from FBI Public Affairs for interviews by the time Cowley got to his office. There was also a message from the State Department that the Russians were providing more up to date photographs of Serov. The embassy had also formally requested the return of the body. Cowley rejected the interviews, and telephoned the Director’s office for a meeting that afternoon.
A list of what had been found on the body was already on his desk and Cowley at first skimmed it hopefully, remembering Johannsen’s remark about a pocket diary. There wasn’t one. In addition to the DC driving licence that had provided the original identification, there were locally billed MasterCharge and American Express cards, four house keys, $76 in cash, a pair of spectacles, in their case, American manufactured ballpoint and fountain pens, and a clean pad of reminder notes marked as undergoing forensic testing for previous page indentations. There had been a plain band of Russian-origin gold on the man’s wedding finger, and a tie clasp and matching cuff-links of American make.
Cowley had just finished going through the list when Rafferty and Johannsen arrived. Even before he sat down Rafferty said: ‘We didn’t know we were with a celebrity! Do we give autographs when we’re asked or not?’
There wasn’t the earlier resentful edge of cynicism, and Cowley was glad. ‘What about the house-to-house?’
‘Zilch,’ dismissed Rafferty.
‘The captain wants to know if you need the scene to remain sealed. All your guys have gone,’ said Johannsen.
‘I’m seeing our scientific co-ordinator this morning. I’ll check if it can be released. And there is something from the scene: a shell casing from a Russian gun.’
Both homicide detectives straightened slightly in their chairs, discarding the professional casualness. ‘You think maybe he was killed by one of his own people?’ queried Johannsen. ‘That it is the Russian Mafia!’
‘Could be a set-up, to make it look like that,’ cautioned Rafferty.
‘Let’s wait for the evidence,’ warned Cowley. He’d already made up his own mind what it proved, and he wasn’t happy with the conclusion.
‘If this is an in-house Russian affair we’re not going to get diddly squat, judging from the co-operation of those two embassy guys yesterday,’ said Johannsen.
‘Maybe there’ll be something we can pick up from the memo pad?’ suggested Rafferty, studying the list Cowley handed him.
‘The MasterCharge and American Express billing is local,’ pointed out Cowley. ‘Check with both: get the charge sheets, particularly if there were any on the night of the murder.’
‘There would have been a counterfoil on him, if he’d picked up a tab,’ argued Johannsen.
‘Not necessarily, if he didn’t want to put it against an expense account,’ said Rafferty.
‘Let’s get the accounts,’ insisted Cowley. ‘If there’s nothing for the night in question, they might still isolate a favourite restaurant. And restaurants are going to be today’s enquiry. There are photographs of Serov coming through State, from the embassy.’
‘It’ll need to be done at night,’ argued Johannsen. ‘That’s when he ate.’
‘Done twice,’ corrected Cowley. ‘Some lunchtime shifts run over, into early evening. We could miss whoever served him if we leave it too late.’
Rafferty breathed out noisily but didn’t protest. ‘It’ll need a squad again.’