‘If the Chechen hadn’t tried to expand internationally as quickly as they did – and had a treaty not existed between Switzerland and America under which the account could be sealed – it would have all worked,’ said Cowley. He pinched his thumb and forefinger together. ‘That close!’
Directly addressing the woman, Danilov said: ‘You didn’t want the Chechen to get it wrong, did you? You even provided a picture of Petr Aleksandrovich, so the killer would know what he looked like.’ Danilov detected a stir of movement from the window behind him, from Cowley.
‘You’re talking nonsense!’
‘Dolya’s confessed.’ He was opening the way to lie later, to Cowley, he realised.
‘I did not identify my husband to anyone!’
Yasev’s warning hand reached sideways again. ‘Fantasy,’ he repeated. ‘It’s all utterly without foundation. Any of it.’
‘Why have you a visa to travel out of the country?’ demanded Danilov, of Yasev.
‘We told you at Leninskaya, I was trying to find an acceptable way to return the money. If I could devise something, I was going to travel to Switzerland with Raisa Ilyavich, to help arrange for the transfer back here, to Russia.’ The man told the blatant lie staring unblinkingly across the desk at the two investigators.
‘But you hadn’t found an acceptable way?’ said Cowley, close to mockery.
‘I no longer had to, after our last meeting. The anstalt was officially known about, along with Ilya Nishin’s part in it: he couldn’t be protected any more. It became a simple matter of repatriating assets I didn’t have to concern myself with.’
It was Yasev and Raisa Serova who were really mocking them, Danilov decided: Yasev had certainly recognised the inconsistencies weren’t sufficient for any prosecution. So what had they achieved, arranging this confrontation? The satisfaction of letting the couple know it hadn’t, after all, been a foolproof scheme, he thought again. It seemed a doubtful victory now, no more than a sop to his own pride.
‘No,’ he agreed, stressing the sarcasm. ‘It isn’t something you’ve got to concern yourself with any more…’ Turning to the woman, he said: ‘And you are going to get your wish to give the money back. Every cent of it. That will please you, won’t it?’
‘Yes,’ she said tightly.
Still not much of a victory, decided Danilov. ‘Upon the authority of the Federal Prosecutor, you are both now being formally arrested, pending further enquiries.’
Yasev tried to bluster, demanding access to the Foreign Ministry and then a lawyer. Raisa’s face closed like a mask and she said nothing. Yasev’s parting words, as he was led away, came in a shout. ‘You have no proof!’
‘He’s right,’ said the American, from the window.
‘And he knows it,’ agreed Danilov. ‘At least where they’re going to be held now won’t be as comfortable as the last two or three days.’
Cowley put himself directly opposite, on the other side of the desk. ‘Dolya confessed?’ he echoed.
‘It was…’ started Danilov, then stopped. He wouldn’t do it! He could claim the confession was made to someone else – to an official in the Interior or Security Ministries – but he wouldn’t do it. ‘There had to be some way a Russian pistol got to America. Airport security is too tight for it simply to be carried on and off planes.’
‘Redin, the Washington security man?’ Cowley’s voice was dull, not outraged. He should have thought of it himself: might have done, if he hadn’t been awash with alcohol and remorse.
Recognising the cliche before he uttered it, Danilov said: ‘He was obeying orders. Dolya was, too. From the Chechen, not from the government. He told me about the gun and he told me about the identification.’
‘Redin’s back, out of American jurisdiction?’ said Cowley, in further dull acceptance.
‘Overnight,’ confirmed Danilov. ‘He would probably have been beyond your jurisdiction, under diplomatic immunity, anyway.’
‘What made you realise?’
‘Italy,’ admitted Danilov. ‘Just before we went into Villalba, and Melega realised neither you nor I were armed. I started thinking how we couldn’t have been, unless we’d got special dispensation from the airlines. Our embassies were the only other way.’
‘Another guess that turned out right,’ said Cowley.
‘We agreed at the beginning there might have to be a limit on the co-operation, for obvious reasons,’ reminded the Russian. ‘This was one of them.’
‘I know.’
Danilov had expected more disappointment from the other man. ‘And there’s no way Washington need ever find out how it really happened: the recall could have been unknown to either of us.’
‘I know that, too.’ He’d have done it himself, Cowley acknowledged: had done things very similar during the serial-killing investigation the Russians were now using for diplomatic blackmail.
‘No hard feelings?’ pressed Danilov hopefully.
‘No hard feelings,’ assured Cowley. Objectively, he said: ‘We’re too close to the end for it to become a problem again.’
They realised just how close when Stephen Snow telephoned Cowley from the embassy: there was a positive DNA comparison, and forensic had also made a provable match with clothing fibre from the grey Ford. The evidence was on its way, in the following morning’s diplomatic pouch.
‘Which takes care of your two murders,’ Danilov said. More pointedly, he added: ‘And that of Lena Zurov.’
‘How the hell can it ever be separated, for any effective cover-up?’ asked Cowley.
‘I don’t know,’ admitted Danilov honestly. ‘But it will be. It’s called the art of diplomacy.’
The shotgun scars were completely healed, although there was a vague tenderness when Larissa traced them on his arm and shoulder, as she was doing now. Olga seemed to have forgotten about the injury, after the first night.
‘It’ll seem strange, not doing this any more,’ she said. They were in bed, in one of the conveniently empty rooms at the Druzhba.
‘I’ll be glad,’ said Danilov. He was uncomfortable at the giggled recognition whenever he arrived at the hotel now.
‘Thanks!’ she said, in feigned offence.
‘You know what I mean.’
‘So the case is almost over?’
‘There are still one or two things to sort out.’ Which included a decision about officially prosecuting her husband.
‘So we can settle things?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want to do it the way I said. The four of us. At the same time. Sensibly.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Danilov again. Would it be easier, all together? Or more difficult? Not easy either way. He supposed if they were together he wouldn’t have to prepare all the words to ease Olga’s feelings. The priority was to let her know she wasn’t being abandoned.
‘We need some furniture in our flat, first,’ said Larissa decisively. ‘Do you have any friends?’
‘No,’ admitted Danilov, knowing what she meant.
He detected a tiny sigh of disappointment. ‘It’ll be ridiculous trying to get anything from a State shop. We’ll need to go on the open market. It would be useful to have dollars.’
‘It’ll have to be roubles.’ Danilov was uncomfortable how quickly the temptation to fall into the old, compromising ways came to mind. His thoughts ran on logically. After tomorrow there would have to be another meeting with the Chechen. It was the one risk of the mistiming of which Cowley was frightened. Danilov was, too.
‘You’re not doing what you’ve been told,’ said Gusovsky. ‘Do you really think we’ll wait on his convenience! This is all down to you, Yevgennie Grigorevich. You told us he wanted to talk about friendship and all he did was sneer. We’re not going to be treated like this. And you’re very stupid not to have realised it.’
‘We’re making you personally responsible,’ said Yerin. ‘You know what I mean, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ accepted Kosov, thin voiced. It shouldn’t have been like this! It should have been simple, everyone making comfortable arrangements. Why the hell was Danilov behaving like this?