The chairman of what had formerly been the KGB division responsible for foreign espionage entered the Petrovka office trying to maintain what would once have been inherent superiority like a piece of familiar clothing, despite the disorientation of solitary confinement. He was a small, pinch-faced man of contrasting mannerisms: his eyes flickered constantly, absorbing every detail, but his voice and movements were measured, every word reflected upon before being uttered, every gesture considered: Danilov didn’t think the man would have ever done anything spontaneous or unpremeditated in his life. Then he remembered the reason for the interview. The failed 1991 coup had been a hastily conceived, disorganised shambles from confused beginning to quickly capitulating end.
Dolya wore civilian clothes – a grey suit, white shirt and muted patterned tie – but there was an Order of Lenin ribbon in his lapel. Danilov realised, for the first time, they both held the same rank of lieutenant general. His was an acting promotion, he remembered; he supposed that gave Dolya a slight supremacy, and he was glad he had retained, still without permission, the vacant director’s suite. Yuri Pavin sat so unobtrusively in a far corner that Danilov wondered, despite the moving eyes, whether Dolya registered there was an official notetaker.
‘Why have I been arrested? I demand an explanation!’ said the man at once. The voice was high-pitched – although not yet from obvious nervousness, which Danilov hoped would come soon.
In their halcyon past the KGB had disdained any Militia authority. Probably, thought Danilov cynically, with every justification. He had to stop it becoming a game of verbal gymnastics. ‘You have been shown the signed authority for your arrest?’
‘Yes.’
‘So let’s stop wasting our time.’ He put Raisa Serova’s statement on the expansive desk between them, not needing it as a reminder, and took Dolya through every part that implicated him, from the university friendship with Ilya Nishin to the identities of the former KGB officers who were now part of the Ostankino and Chechen Families. As he talked Danilov realised it would still be possible for the former intelligence chief to deny the accusations, but towards the end Dolya discernibly began to wilt and Danilov suspected, relieved, the confidence was more fragile than it appeared on the surface.
Dolya’s instant response made the attitude understandable. ‘I was obeying orders, from a superior office,’ he declared.
It was confirmation, but not of what Danilov wanted confirmed. More bluff, he acknowledged, before continuing: not as dangerous but perhaps more desperate than the confrontation with the Chechen leadership. ‘Whose orders, about the gun that killed Michel Paulac and Petr Serov?’
The eye shudder now was fear. The man’s head moved, too, looking rapidly around the office, and Danilov reckoned it was the first time the man saw they were not alone and that the conversation was being recorded.
‘I don’t know what you’re asking me.’
‘Of course you do,’ said Danilov, bullying. ‘You know, because there’s been enough publicity about it, that I’ve been to Washington. Carried out a very full investigation at the embassy there…’ Openly lying but knowing there was no way Dolya could challenge him, Danilov went on: ‘It’s odd that you should say you were obeying orders. That is what Nikolai Fedorovich Redin told me.’
‘The bastard said…’ blurted Dolya, no longer thinking before he spoke, trying too late to bite the words back.
Danilov let the virtual admission hang in the air between them for several moments. ‘He lied. So whose order was it? Gusovsky? Yerin? Zimin?’
The awareness of the names further disoriented the man. ‘A message, through Visco.’ mumbled Dolya.
‘Your former KGB officer?’
Dolya nodded without replying, so Danilov repeated the question, making him say ‘Yes’ for the record. Having spoken, Dolya hurried on: ‘I didn’t know what it was for. I was just told to send it to Redin, at the embassy. That it would be collected.’
Danilov was thankful he’d excluded Cowley. Nikolai Redin, the still-serving security officer in Washington, had to be got out before his link in the murders was known by the FBI. Danilov accepted the most important part of the confession was yet to come. ‘Who did collect it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Danilov loudly. ‘You expect us to believe your officer was simply going to hand over a gun to a complete stranger, without any identification?’
‘Someone from the Chechen,’ said Dolya, still trying to avoid an answer.
‘ Who, from the Chechen? I want a name!’
‘Antipov,’ said the man, mumbling again. ‘Mikhail Pavlovich Antipov.’
‘How?’ persisted Danilov remorselessly.
‘They met, somewhere near the embassy. A park.’
‘Lafayette Park?’
‘Yes.’
Danilov knew he could take any risk now. ‘And Redin had to show Antipov a photograph, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Of whom?’
‘Petr Aleksandrovich Serov.’
He’d got it! There was a sweep of lightheadedness, at the final success, but Danilov’s satisfaction was at once tempered by reality. Cowley would have to know he had been cheated, which could damage their relationship. And although they could bring Redin home from Washington to avoid an immediate diplomatic confrontation, Danilov didn’t see how Dolya – or Redin, for that matter – could be kept out of any eventual prosecution against Antipov, which in turn would be necessary legally to resolve a double murder committed on American soil. So the inevitable government embarrassment was merely being postponed, not avoided. Not my concern, Danilov told himself. Then – sneering at his own irony – he thought, I am only obeying orders.
The Federal Prosecutor accepted his call without Danilov having to persuade aides it was a matter of priority.
‘We’ll bring Redin out tonight,’ agreed Smolin instantly, not needing to consult the other ministers. ‘You’re detaining Dolya?’
‘Pending any decision you and the Justice Minister make.’
‘What about Switzerland?’
‘There’s a comparatively easy way to get the money back,’ disclosed Danilov. He gave a brief explanation, promising a fuller written report overnight.
‘Raisa Serova will need to be properly detained now.’
‘I’ve already issued the order,’ disclosed Danilov. ‘Against Yasev, too.’
‘Anything?’ asked Cowley, when Danilov telephoned.
‘Nothing,’ said Danilov. All the other lies, to trick people into admissions and confessions, had been easy. This one stuck in his throat, close to being a physical discomfort.
‘Sons of bitches!’ exclaimed Henry Hartz. He’d summoned the FBI Director directly after the departure of the Russian ambassador, who had requested the meeting to talk of the wrongly-detained Russian mental patient showing signs of recovery.
‘He make the threat openly?’ queried Leonard Ross. He’d already alerted the Secretary of State to the possibility of the approach, after Cowley’s warning. Hartz had said he wouldn’t believe it until it was formally made. Now he did believe it.
‘He didn’t need to, did he!’ said the outraged Secretary of State. ‘Said his government felt they should bring it to our notice and that they would welcome our views.’
‘There’s going to be another request, shortly,’ said Ross, who had two hours earlier received Cowley’s account of the Swiss conference.
‘Does that give us anything to bargain with?’ wondered Hartz, when Ross explained.
‘We could be difficult about it, I suppose: give them a bad time,’ said Ross. ‘But it ends with the same decision for us: can we have it made public that an insane Bureau agent was a serial killer, with a senator’s niece as one of his victims? And that we did a deal to cover it up from everyone, including the senator?’