‘I told you, I don’t know anything about mobs or titles.’
‘Maybe you’re telling the truth,’ said Cowley. ‘A lokhi, too small time to know anything… a punk. Means you’re shit. That’s you, isn’t it? Shit.’
‘How long you going to keep this up?’ said the man, holding the anger.
‘As long as it suits us,’ said Danilov. ‘You’re ours now. We can hold you as long as we like, how we like, where we like…’ He snapped his fingers. ‘We do that and you jump.’
‘Go fuck yourself,’ said the mafioso again.
It was looking increasingly as if that was exactly what they were going to have to do, decided the American. He couldn’t at the moment think of an approach that might have been more successful with the man, but their supercilious performance certainly hadn’t succeeded. ‘You know what that double fuck was you had last night?’ said Cowley, knowing the circumstances of the man’s arrest from Kabalin’s already prepared report. ‘The last ever. Sure hope it was good for you.’
That failed like the rest. Antipov feigned masturbation. ‘It was fantastic. You want their address? They’re very expensive but worth every dollar…’ He turned more fully, to Cowley. ‘You could probably afford it. You’ll have the money, being an American…’ He nodded between Cowley and Danilov. ‘Why not do him a favour, treat him to the fuck of the century?’
Thank God they could hold him as long as they needed, thought Danilov: it was going to be a long haul to break this bastard. ‘You read newspapers? Watch television?’
‘Sometimes,’ shrugged Antipov.
‘Two men were killed in Washington, just like Ignatov: shot in the mouth. One was a Russian diplomat.’
‘Didn’t hear about it,’ said Antipov. ‘I’m a businessman! What do I know about crime?’
‘What sort of business?’ pounced Cowley.
‘Import-export.’
‘What do you import and export?’
‘Whatever I can. Nothing special.’
‘Where are your offices?’
‘I don’t need offices. I buy one place and sell another. I’m a middleman.’
‘You’re a little thug,’ said Danilov. He reached down by his side again, bringing up the old and new fingerprint sheets. He held out the first and said: ‘The file that goes with these has two convictions for violence… two more for theft…’
‘… It’s a risky business…’ broke in the man. ‘Have to protect myself sometimes.’
Danilov paused beyond the interruption, suddenly thinking Antipov was actually enjoying the fruitless interrogation. Holding out the second sheet, he said: ‘These came from the butt of the gun. That’ll convict you. Put you before a firing squad…’
‘… Wouldn’t it make sense to try to help yourself?’ pressed Cowley.
‘How?’
The simple question, free at last of any arrogance, encouraged both investigators. Danilov said: ‘With the evidence we’ve got, a death sentence is automatic. Co-operate, and I’ll intervene with the Federal Prosecutor. See he doesn’t demand the death sentence at your trial…’
‘We’re offering you life!’ urged Cowley.
‘Wish I knew what it was you wanted,’ sniggered Antipov.
Cowley only just suppressed the exasperation, glad he was able to deny the cocky bastard the pleasure of knowing how deeply he was getting under their skins. He saw Danilov looking at him over Antipov’s head and lifted his shoulders, helplessly.
‘Don’t be a fool,’ said Danilov, standing but leaning across the table. ‘You haven’t got a defence. And we can do what we like with you. We’ll talk tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. For as long as it takes. Think of the choices. You going to choose to die? Course you’re not! Only a fool would do that…’ He nodded to the waiting detention guards.
Antipov took as much time standing as he had seating himself. ‘Some things were taken from me, when I got here this morning. Rings. A watch. A gold identity bracelet. You’ll see they don’t get stolen, won’t you? I don’t trust the Militia, uniformed or otherwise. No-one does.’
No-one spoke for the first few minutes after Antipov was escorted from the room. Cowley crossed to take the interrogation chair at the table. Danilov gestured for the tape to be stopped.
‘He should have snapped, being ridiculed,’ insisted Cowley, sure of the psychology. ‘That was the way to do it.’
‘He hasn’t had time to think it through,’ suggested Pavin. ‘It will be different when he realises he is going to die.’
Cowley shook his head, not completely convinced. ‘He’s got a long way to go before he becomes a frightened man.’
‘But no real choice in the end,’ insisted Danilov, confidently.
By the time they got back to Petrovka, the decision had been made to issue a press statement announcing the arrest. Vladimir Kabalin was named as the arresting officer: the point was emphasised that it had been an entirely Russian operation, although American participation was continuing with the ongoing investigation. A photograph of Mikhail Antipov was released.
The Jackson address was openly recorded in the housing register and in Post Office computers as being that of Igor Rimyans and his wife Irena. It was a clapboard, two-storey house with an attached garage and a well tended garden. There was a child’s bicycle discarded by the verandah swing seat. The lace curtains were cross-looped, corner to corner, a woman’s decoration. It looked deserted from the moment of their arrival, and there was no obvious movement throughout the afternoon. They put a van with two-way observation glass on Mill, and an hourly-changed car squad much further back along Elmhurst Manor. Quite close, on Junction Boulevard, a supposed sewer maintenance squad set up home beneath a canvas tent. The house remained in darkness throughout the first night.
The following day, Slowen was authorised to put a tap on the telephone. No-one called. He obtained the telephone records and had a headquarters team go back through every outgoing number dialled for the preceding four months: none led to anyone named in Petr Aleksandrovich Serov’s documents. Slowen followed up the telephone tap with a search warrant, and a locksmith opened the door to Rimyans’ house. It wasn’t double locked.
It showed little sign of a hurried departure, apart from the bicycle in the garden. All the beds were made. A cot in a child’s bedroom was burdened with toys. The closets in the master bedroom were still full of men’s and women’s clothing. The refrigerator was well stocked, the milk not soured. The bureau in the den contained neatly itemised bills and some correspondence in what Slowen guessed to be Russian; he took it all, for translation in Washington, and made a random selection of the photographs on display, for comparison against the pictures assembled as part of the case records. From the Rimyans’ prints, they discovered the child to be a girl, aged about thirteen. Nowhere, in any address book or on any paperwork, did any of the names in which they were interested appear. The garage was empty, apart from a chest freezer as extensively stocked as that in the kitchen. From some of the paid bills in the den, vehicle service receipts, Slowen knew the car was a 1991 Ford, and its registration number, so he issued a search-and-find bulletin: conscious of his oversight in not extending their original Brighton Beach enquiry to surrounding districts, Slowen over-compensated, marking the circulation of the car alert nationwide. Sniffer dogs were taken in to go through the house from loft to basement, out into the garage and throughout the garden. No trace of drugs was found.
The house-to-house enquiries spread along both sides of Junction Boulevard and Elmhurst Manor, and into three adjoining streets. The Rimyans were a quiet, unostentatious couple. No-one quite knew what he did, but the consensus was it had something to do with the airports. The child, Marina, sang in the school choir. They did not invite neighbours into their home, nor accept invitations to visit.
‘What now?’ demanded Bradley.
‘We scale down the surveillance, but keep it in place,’ decided Slowen. ‘Likewise the telephone tap. And we go back to Brighton Beach and start all over again. We widen the public records search for our names, throughout the entire borough of Queens and Brooklyn. Make a Social Security check, too.’