‘I think the old ways are too ingrained,’ declared Kosov, resuming their debate. ‘I agree there will be changes at the political top but it will all be cosmetic, to impress foreign financiers. Real things aren’t going to alter. There are too many people who don’t know any other way: don’t want to know any other way.’
Danilov recognised the familiar favour-for-favour argument. ‘It would change – not quickly but eventually and inevitably – if people demanded it.’
‘But they don’t,’ insisted Kosov. ‘People only know the one way things work… understand it. That’s how they want it to go on…’
It was a bigoted, fallacious opinion, decided Danilov. ‘Work for some people. Not for alclass="underline" not enough. Which was, after all, what the revolution was supposed to be all about.’
‘Starry-eyed ideology,’ sneered Kosov.
The man personified all that had been wrong in the past, Danilov thought: and now, in the present. Kosov had even joined the Communist Party to get this apartment and whatever other privileges were available to members, not from any political persuasion. ‘It’ll come, in time.’ He wished the women would come back, no matter how inconsequential their conversation.
‘Too late for me to benefit. Or you. Not that you benefit enough: not like you once did.’
Danilov now bitterly regretted following the inviolable rules in his uniformed days. It put him at a disadvantage with the other man: let Kosov know that despite his new-found and despised honesty, he’d operated like everyone else in the past. Was stained like they were stained: the same as them, which he didn’t want to be, ever again. ‘What’s that mean?’ he demanded directly.
‘Just a remark,’ shrugged Kosov. He topped up Danilov’s glass, adding whisky to his own.
‘It sounded as if you were making a point,’ pressed Danilov. He wasn’t drinking any more.
Kosov came back to him, smiling. ‘You’re missing out on a lot. I don’t have to tell you that.’
‘So why are you telling me?’
This time there were no words with the shrug. Kosov sat, seeming to find something of interest in the glass he cupped in both hands, swirling the drink around and around. He wasn’t actually drinking, either.
‘Is it you telling me?’ Danilov persisted. ‘Or are you expressing the views of other people you think I should take seriously?’ He was being approached! By whom? For what?
The shrug came again, like the automatic reflex of a boxer warding off a clumsy blow, but with no proper answer. Instead there was a question. ‘You really think you’re going to solve your famous crimes?’
‘Yes,’ Danilov exaggerated. How to keep the man talking? That’s ail he had to do, keep him talking.
Kosov shook his head. ‘Don’t be so naive, Dimitri Ivanovich! I’m your friend! Trust me!’
‘Perhaps I would, if I could understand what you’re saying.’
‘You survived at the Bureau, when you weren’t supposed to: won, even. The directorship could unquestionably be yours, like it should have been the first time, if people were sure of you.’
That reply didn’t help Danilov. Who was Kosov speaking for? One of the Mafia Families, or someone within the government operating in collusion with organised crime? The Ministry confrontation and the tribunal enquiry hadn’t been disclosed, yet Kosov was showing knowledge far beyond rumour. That awareness didn’t help answer the question either. But it suddenly made Kosov a very important person, although not for the reasons the man would have welcomed. ‘So I’m getting a message?’ Come on! thought Danilov, anxiously.
‘A personal opinion.’
Bollocks, thought Danilov: wrong to try too soon for specifics. He had to keep the conversation general and try to find the path to follow, ‘I can’t compromise on this. There’s the American involvement: the need to satisfy outsiders.’
‘Cowley follows where you lead: he doesn’t direct the investigation. What can’t be solved can’t be solved.’
What had there been so far positively to understand? He hadn’t been expected to survive Metkin’s attack. But he had. So now they – whoever they were – were worried: seeking that special sort of Russian agreement to prevent the inquiry into Ivan Ignatov’s murder reaching a legal conclusion. Why this approach so quickly? Had he or Cowley or Pavin missed something? Was there evidence they’d overlooked demanding to be recognised? What more? Kosov himself. Danilov knew the man had taken the favour-for-favour lifestyle of a Militia district commander far beyond the hand-over introductions he himself had made: at the level of those introductions there weren’t horse-choking wads of dollars, cocktail cabinets full of imported liquor and brand new BMWs with neons of dashboard lights. But he’d never imagined Kosov ascending to this echelon, speaking on behalf of the Mafia or high officials in government or both. Remembering Kosov’s enjoyment of flattery, Danilov said, without too much hyperbole: ‘I am impressed, Yevgennie Grigorevich.’
Kosov gave a self-satisfied smile, sipping his whisky at last. ‘It’s important, to have influential friends. Like I said, it’s the system everyone knows how to use.’
‘So you were asked to make an approach?’ suggested Danilov, risking directness again.
Another shrug. ‘The friendship between you and me is known.’
Danilov shifted, momentarily uncomfortable. What about his friendship with Larissa? ‘You know you can trust me, Yevgennie Grigorevich? That this conversation won’t be repeated to anyone.’
‘What conversation?’
‘Quite so,’ accepted Danilov. Trying to keep his tone conversational, he said: ‘Tell me about thern: about the Chechen and the Ostankino? About all the Families.’
There was an immediate frown, and Danilov angrily recognised he’d gone too far. Kosov shook his head, either in denial or refusal, and said: ‘You could be director, you know.’
‘I haven’t thought about it,’ Danilov encouraged. ‘Too much has been happening.’
‘With certain additions, at the top,’ said Kosov.
Danilov believed he knew what the other man was implying, but the proposition was so preposterous he refused to assume it, wanting Kosov to say the words. ‘Additions at the top?’
‘Don’t you think we’d make a great team?’ invited Kosov.
It was preposterous. An absurd, ridiculous, preposterous joke! Danilov could not think of anyone with whom he would less like to be linked, professionally. At once came a sobering realisation. Was it so absurdly ridiculous? If Kosov had the government influence suggested by this conversation, couldn’t the man be imposed upon the Bureau: become its director, even! He said: ‘It’s never occurred to me.’
‘I think it’s time I moved on,’ insisted Kosov, his voice matter-of-fact, as if the decision had already been reached. ‘I’ve been in charge of a district a long time.’
With Kosov at Petrovka, the Bureau would become entirely organised for crime. ‘Have you discussed it, with anyone else?’
The head shake came once more. ‘All this business has to be resolved…’ Heavily, Kosov added: ‘Resolved properly. Time enough to talk about other things after that.’
Danilov was abruptly seized by a fierce anger, concerned it would show in his face. What right had this fucking man – this arrogant, bombastic, crooked man – to sit and patronise him like this, virtually telling him what to do, practically with a fingersnap! Almost at once, objective man that he was, Danilov brought in the balancing thought. They’d made a mistake, like putting the buried-in-the-past, inefficient Metkin in charge of the Bureau. But this time it was a much more serious error. They’d declared themselves, through Kosov, given him and Cowley the opening for which they had been looking. He’d have to cultivate Kosov, like the rarest plant in the greenhouse. Honestly, Danilov said: ‘You’ve given me a lot to think about.’
‘I’m glad.’
Any further discussion was prevented by the women’s return, for which Danilov was grateful, because he could not think of anything more to say at that stage. Larissa got him into the kitchen on the pretext of carrying something in while Olga was setting the table and Kosov was opening wine.