Cowley smiled expectantly at the receptionist, the expression becoming a frown when she handed him the package with his key. It was a stiff-backed manila envelope, about 10? by 8?, made thick by its contents. The only marking was his name, scrolled with the stiff difficulty by someone unaccustomed to forming Roman lettering.
He made no attempt to open the envelope in the lobby. Instead, with the proper caution of a trained investigator handling a Mafia enquiry, he carried it to his room to examine and feel it minutely, fingering for anything solid, squinting from every angle for any detonating wire or thread. He still opened it from the bottom, gently pulling against the glue to ease the flap open.
The contents were as explosive as any bomb could have been.
There were twelve prints, all professionally lighted, all professionally sharp, all perfectly developed. Every one completely identified him, apparently taking part in every sort of sexual act. His closed-eyed semi-consciousness when Lena had performed fellatio looked like an expression of ecstasy. So it did with her vagina at his mouth for the feigned cunnilingus. Lena had put herself into three different positions of supposed sexual intercourse. There were two photographs of him completely naked, her hand on his limp genitals. In both he was smiling drunkenly, a tilted champagne glass in his hand, the FBI shield they had taken from his jacket open in its wallet on the bedside table.
Cowley swallowed against the bile, gripping the shake away from the hands that held the photographs. He went through them several times, turning each one to look for any inscription. There wasn’t one, on any. He looked carefully back inside the envelope for a message, It was empty.
For a few brief moments he remained uncertainly by the bed – the bed so clearly shown in the pictures now laid out upon it – striving to think rationally, coherently. He finally assembled the photographs and put them back into their envelope, which in turn he put inside his briefcase: never once did it occur to him to destroy them, which would have been pointless because they were prints, not negatives from which as many other prints as were wanted could be developed.
Aware in advance his next action would be equally pointless, he still descended the four flights to the bar, halting directly inside the door. The barman nodded the nightly greeting, starting to pour the Scotch unbidden. Two of the regular girls smiled up, hopefully. Lena, of course, was not there. There wouldn’t, he knew, be any purpose in asking where she was.
Cowley turned, going back to his room. He retrieved the photographs, going carefully through them once more, gaining nothing from the renewed examination. He finally replaced them in the briefcase before sitting down, staring between the case and the telephone.
How would it come? he wondered. With what demand? And what would he do, whatever that demand was?
The despair finally engulfed him. ‘Dear God,’ he said, aloud. ‘Dear God, help me.’
The location came from Yevgennie Kosov, a restaurant on Ulitza Moskina, quite close to the Kunstler Theatre, from which it drew a lot of its clientele; like the Western counterparts they copied so assiduously, the Moscow Mafia enjoyed a show business ambience. It was an established Ostankino haunt.
Zimin took six bulls with him. They saw the Ostankino group go in and allowed half an hour for them to settle, unsuspecting, before bursting in. The surprise was absolute. Only one Ostankino bull had time to try any effective defence but his Stetchkin shot wide, embedding its bullet harmlessly in the wall. The Chechen had guns but did not use them. They carried wooden and metal staves and crowbars with which they broke arms and legs and in two cases fractured skulls, matching identically the Ostankino attack on the Domodedovo convoy. Completing the mocking comparison, they torched the restaurant as they left.
Zimin supervised the attack but took no personal part in it. He liked watching. It was better for him than sex.
FORTY
There’d been no warning from either Olga or Larissa, and Danilov stalled because their evenings were nearly always arranged in advance. His thoughts see-sawed. Larissa had talked of announcing their decision together. But Kosov wouldn’t be as friendly as this. He would if he didn’t know what was coming. Larissa wouldn’t do something like this without telling him.
‘Just as you are,’ urged Kosov. ‘A few drinks, some cold meats. Just sitting around, chatting about things.’
Olga fussed for an hour, undecided between two dresses, eventually choosing the first she’d selected. He tried to reassure himself, while he waited. There had been unplanned occasions before – he’d initiated a few himself in the first flush of his affair with Larissa – but not for a long time: certainly not since he’d been at the Organised Crime Bureau. Larissa wouldn’t try to force his hand like this, impatient though she might be: he knew she wouldn’t. If he called back to make an excuse, Larissa would think he wasn’t sure. Which he was.
‘How do I look?’ asked Olga, parading.
‘Very pretty.’ He’d have to find a way of telling her about all the different colours in her hair: it looked as if she had an old rug on her head.
Danilov looked with curious apprehension at Larissa when they arrived: unseen by anyone but Danilov, she raised her eyebrows in an expression he didn’t understand but hoped was matching curiosity at the unexpected invitation. She wore Armani jeans that Olga could not have risked, and the sweater was inevitably cashmere. He hadn’t seen her wear either before: she looked sensational, and he decided he was as anxious as she to get some permanence into their relationship. He didn’t want to go away tonight, leaving her with someone like Kosov.
‘This is a surprise?’ invited Danilov, still seeking guidance.
‘I wanted the American to come, but he wasn’t at the hotel when Yevgennie telephoned,’ said Larissa.
Cowley wouldn’t have been included if this were going to be honest declaration time! Danilov began to relax.
Kosov went into his usual performance with French champagne, flustering them, glasses in hand, into chairs and saying it really was like old times and they should do things on the spur of the moment more often. Olga said she thought so, too. Danilov let the small talk swirl around him. He and Larissa managed uninterrupted looks several times.
Danilov expected Kosov very quickly to raise the subject of the investigation, but he didn’t, not immediately. Instead, showing a depth of argument that surprised Danilov, he started discussing the increasing strength of the resurgent local-level Communist cadres, demanding Danilov’s opinion on whether it was an unstable reaction to the failure of supposed democracy, or whether Danilov believed it would be enough to reverse the fragile reforms and still uncertain changes. Danilov replied that the dismantling of the former order had gone too far to be turned back, and that it was unthinkable any of the newly independent republics would now consider anything more than the loosest of trade links. He added he was worried about the political frailty of Russia itself, which he was.
Both women became bored by the conversation – Danilov wondered if that hadn’t been Kosov’s intention – and started to gossip between themselves, and when Larissa talked of preparing the meal Olga volunteered to help. Kosov sent them off with refilled champagne glasses, switching to whisky himself.