Chapter Twenty-Five
There wasn’t a clean shirt. Olga complained the machine was broken again. She didn’t know when it might be fixed. Until it was, he should take extra care to keep his cuffs and collar clean. Driving to Petrovka in the unmarked car, Danilov was waved down on the corner of Serova by a felt-booted, uniformed Militia man. There was a smell of stale sweat when the officer leaned through the window: Danilov wondered how often he changed his shirt. The man insisted Danilov had been exceeding the speed limit, for which there was a statutory fine if an on-the-spot summons were issued. He supposed it was difficult, keeping to a speed limit in a nice car like this; it had to have cost a lot and be expensive to run. He smiled in contented anticipation of the bribe when Danilov reached into his jacket. He stayed smiling when Danilov produced the Militia identification, shrugging in resignation as he stepped back, his time briefly wasted. Danilov was curious at the amount the officer made during an average week by such extortion.
Pavin was already in the office when Danilov reached Militia headquarters. That morning’s briefing meeting with the Director had been postponed for an hour: Lapinsk had been summoned to the Foreign Ministry. There was nothing from any of the ongoing routine inquiries, but Yevgennie Kosov had called personally, wanting to speak as soon as possible. When Danilov returned the call, Larissa’s husband said it was to do with the murders but he didn’t want to discuss it over the telephone. Why didn’t they meet for lunch: he’d already made a reservation at the hard-currency room at Kropotkinskaya 36. Danilov frowned, both at the prospect and crackle-crackle dialogue: more imported American films on the impressive video, he guessed. He said lunch was a good idea, interested to see what the restaurant would be like: he’d heard about it but never eaten there. He wished he’d had a clean shirt. While he waited for Lapinsk, Danilov made arrangements with the hospital to revisit Lydia Orlenko.
He was kept waiting more than an hour. When he finally entered Lapinsk’s top-floor office Danilov knew from the coughing, like a misfiring engine, that the old man had emerged from a bad meeting at the Ministry.
‘There’s a lot of annoyance at the complaints the Senator has made,’ Lapinsk announced. ‘There were Interior Ministry people at the meeting today, as well as Foreign. Nikolai Smolin, too.’
‘What about the security agency?’
The Director nodded. ‘Gugin attended.’
‘Are they taking over?’ He would have expected Lapinsk to be happier, if that decision had already been reached.
‘Not yet. Gugin made it seem there was already a great deal of cooperation: that it was virtually a joint investigation.’
‘So they’re still trying to avoid it?’ Mixed with Danilov’s satisfaction was the awareness that he was being left in charge by default, not from any expression of confidence.
‘Yes.’
‘But that could change?’ guessed Danilov.
‘We’ve got to make available to Gugin everything we get from America, through our liaison with the FBI.’
‘To prepare them completely if they are ordered to take over?’
‘That’s the obvious surmise.’ There was no reluctance in the admission. Lapinsk’s face relaxed for the first time at the prospect of being spared a problem from which he was eager to escape.
Danilov supposed it was only a matter of time before he was discarded, as a failed investigator, an embarrassment. And unless he could bring about a quick pre-emptive breakthrough — which he already knew he couldn’t, because there wasn’t a single avenue left to follow — then the time would be measured simply by how long the former KGB managed to evade the ultimate, inevitable responsibility. Why the hurt resentment, the anger at Lapinsk for the obvious acquiescence? Pride, he supposed. But what place did pride have for Dimitri Ivanovich Danilov? It certainly hadn’t had much importance when he’d headed a Militia district. And realistically had been little more than an affectation after the transfer to Petrovka, with his attempt to sever his manipulative ties to the past. What, practically, had it achieved? Had it made him a better detective? Made it easier to solve cases? Impressed and influenced his police colleagues? Certainly not the latter. The reverse. His pride — or rather his facile attempt to achieve it, refusing to compromise, refusing to be introduced by others in the initial friendly welcome to the sort of smiling entrepreneurs necessary at every level of Russian life — had marked him as a suspicious oddity, someone to be avoided until higher-echelon common sense prevailed and he was shunted sideways into the obscurity from which he had emerged. The excuse for which could come from the transfer to the Lubyanka of this investigation. Where would he be shunted? He didn’t know of anyone being sent back to a district, from Militia headquarters, although he supposed it must have happened. He doubted, if it had happened, that the move had been to a command position, which he had abandoned to come here. There were other, uniformed divisions, of course. Maybe there’d be a place for him there. Not a relegation quite so ignominious as street duty; but perhaps something within the chain where he could benefit from the kickbacks from smirking Militia men ambushing motorists on street corners. Danilov blocked the self-pity, surprised how easily it had come. In needless justification, he said: ‘We held back from any public warning to make it easier if the killer had been the American!’
‘There hasn’t been anything official from Washington,’ said Lapinsk. ‘How could there be, for that very reason! It’s only the press and television reaction to what the Senator said. The Foreign Minister is calling in the American ambassador, for consultation. The media are demanding more information: more press conferences and access to the woman who survived.’
‘Are we going to give it? Any of it?’
‘I don’t want to take part in any more conferences. Neither does Smolin.’
‘Does that mean I have to do it?’ asked Danilov, directly.
‘Not by yourself. That way we’d be accepting full accountability for delaying as we did,’ the Militia Director reassured him. ‘You’ll only do it with the American. And only then after it’s made clear to the American ambassador that we no longer see any reason why we shouldn’t disclose why we held back.’
‘That would put Paul Hughes — and the US embassy — under siege,’ predicted Danilov.
‘Which everyone at this morning’s meeting would prefer to us being under siege.’
Danilov recognized that privately the pressure was being neatly shifted back to America, although publicly — having been identified at the first press conference as the joint investigating officer — he would still be connected to the sensation created by the American politician, which really wasn’t a sensation at all. Reminded of the press conference, Danilov recalled the query he’d raised with Pavin and still wanted answered. ‘Maybe Cowley will bring back some guidance, in addition to whatever the ambassador will say.’
Lapinsk shrugged, almost indifferent, and Danilov guessed the old man already considered the irritation removed from him. He certainly didn’t appear greatly interested in the rest of the conversation about the routine inquiries continuing at psychiatric institutions and throughout the Militia districts in the area of the killings and the attack.
Danilov reached the hospital earlier than he expected, ahead of the arranged appointment. Lydia Orlenko was still alone in her closet-sized ward but lying more on her back than before, although still not completely allowing her weight to press down. She was bundled in bandages, made bolster-busted by them. Danilov thought he recognized the stains on the bed linen from his earlier visit. He was glad the American was not with him; bed linen was probably changed every day in American clinics. Danilov perched on the small chair but leaned forward towards her, as he had done before. Lydia smiled in hesitant half-recognition. She still wore the mob-cap, covering her shorn head, and referred to it at once. ‘You didn’t tell me what had happened to my hair. You should have told me.’