‘You looked terrified when you arrived!’
‘I thought you’d said something.’
‘I’m going to, soon.’
‘We both are,’ promised Danilov.
‘I’m working split shifts next week. Free every afternoon.’
‘What about evenings?’
Larissa frowned. ‘Not until the very end of the week. Why?’
‘We were supposed to be doing something with Cowley again.’ He had already thought of a possible way to use Kosov: ironically, it was prompted by what he hadn’t been allowed to do earlier.
‘I was thinking about the two of us!’ said Larissa, offended.
‘I was thinking about seeing you twice,’ escaped Danilov.
Danilov suggested going out with Cowley again when they were all around the table. Kosov agreed at once and Olga said she’d like it, too. Pointedly, she added this time perhaps they’d go to a nightclub, and Kosov agreed to that, as well.
On their way back to Kirovskaya Olga said: ‘It was a good evening, wasn’t it?’
‘One of the best I can remember,’ said Danilov.
Cowley had not slept at all. For a long time, not until nearly dawn, he didn’t even undress, repelled by getting into the bed featured in the photographs. Which he finally accepted as infantile, eventually lying down to rest at least. By that time his mind had stretched to the outer reaches of every emotion, from astonishment at how easily he had been trapped, through abject shame, to the inevitable, unavoidable consequence. He was destroyed. His only course now, to leave the splintered investigation with any sort of integrity, was to give Washington the fullest humiliating account, pouch the compromising photographs personally to Leonard Ross, and tender his immediate resignation before the blackmail demand was made.
That remained his intention for several hours, until the word sacrifice began to recur in his mind. He would, of course, have to resign. But if he did it at once whoever had set him up – which had, obviously, to be a group or a person fearful of everything being solved – had won, probably destroying not just him but the whole two-nation enquiry.
He wouldn’t let that happen.
The determination burned through Cowley, the most fervent vow he ever made. He would destroy them as they destroyed him: bring them down with him. He’d make himself the knowing bait, pressing on with the investigation, getting closer and closer until they became worried enough to make their demand. He could do it: had to do it. He’d supervised three blackmail cases during his career, before specialising in Russian affairs, and got convictions in every one. He knew the bargaining and the ploys, when to force the strong arguments and when to appear to capitulate. And he would always have an advantage. They would believe themselves superior, dealing with a man terrified of exposure and losing his career. Which he had already decided was lost anyway. It would be a final if pyrrhic victory.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Danilov telephoned Pavin from Kirovskaya that he was making an enquiry on his way in, impatient to get to Cowley’s hotel. His enthusiasm faltered at the sight of the American, who was grey-faced; the skin sagged under his eyes, which were vague, without focus. He looked distracted, exhausted.
‘You don’t look well.’
‘I slept badly.’ Cowley knew exactly how shitty he looked and didn’t need to be told.
‘You sure that’s all it is?’
‘You said you had something important,’ urged the American.
Danilov’s excitement took over. He bustled Cowley into the Volga, picking up the inner ring road but without any destination. Danilov tried to keep the account coherent, interspersing the actual conversation of the previous night with his impressions, but several times the American had to intrude with a question, fully to comprehend. Towards the end Cowley forced aside the eroding depression and the aching fatigue, recognising this possibly to be the biggest break so far, and one they certainly needed.
‘It was obvious Kosov was on the take,’ Cowley agreed.
‘But not to this extent,’ qualified Danilov. He hadn’t admitted that at uniform level he’d also been a willing player. He didn’t intend to, if he could avoid it: he very much wanted the American’s professional respect.
‘What’s your guess?’
‘I don’t want to guess. I want to find out, definitely. And I want you to help me.’
‘How?’
‘You broke a New York Family with some impressive bugging, particularly in cars. That car is Kosov’s status symbol. He’ll do business from it: maybe enough for us to go further forward.’
‘You still don’t intend telling everyone officially?’
‘More determined than ever not to.’
‘It’s your neck.’ Cowley slightly lowered the window, for air.
‘You said that already.’
‘We had a hell of a Task Force, on the New York operation. With local police back-up. We couldn’t create an organisation like that here. Definitely not if we’re working virtually solo. Which we are.’
‘We could do the car, surely?’ insisted Danilov.
Cowley nodded, but doubtfully. ‘We couldn’t guarantee the reception unless we established a permanently close tail. Which we can’t. So the strength of the signal will vary enormously. We wouldn’t get everything.’
‘I don’t want everything: just enough!’
‘We could connect the transmitter to a receiver in the embassy,’ suggested Cowley. Deciding their co-operation was sufficient, he added: ‘There’s a man there who could monitor.’ It would provide something more practical for Stephen Snow to do than relaying messages.
‘I’ve already suggested another evening. Kosov’s bound to insist we use the BMW.’
‘We’ll be fucked if he doesn’t.’
‘We’ll keep on until he does,’ said Danilov, refusing to be put off.
‘The Bureau have a hell of a range of equipment,’ offered the American. ‘If I ask for it today we should get it by tomorrow’s pouch: allow an extra day, just in case there’s a difficulty. So fix the evening any time after that.’ If the eavesdropping had any practical success, whoever had the photographs would hit on him with the blackmail. How long before the ignominious disgrace? A week? A fortnight? As long as a month? To whom would the pictures be released? The embassy was an obvious guess; the Bureau in Washington, as a long shot. Either would be contained internally, certainly after his instant resignation. What about a public leak, to newspapers? There were enough permanent American bureaux in Moscow, all listed in the telephone book. And the censor-free Muscovite press. Cowley didn’t think any of the pictures could be published, but they wouldn’t have to be: they could be described in print in sufficient detail and innuendo. So he would become a public as well as a private laughing stock. Pauline would hear or read what had happened: know he hadn’t changed in any way. He hated the idea of Pauline knowing most of all. He’d been drunk and tricked by a whore and was going to be destroyed by it. And it was no-one’s fault but his own.
‘How about Friday?’ suggested Danilov. ‘We’ll need to familiarise ourselves.’
‘Friday’s good,’ agreed Cowley. He was silent as Danilov made the connecting loop, to return them along the peripheral road. Then he said: ‘Kosov’s your friend. Larissa, too?’
Danilov darted a quick look across the car. ‘He replaced me, when I got out of uniform. Things kind of grew from there.’ Only because of Larissa, he thought.
‘It’s never easy, turning in a dirty cop. Particularly if he’s your friend.’ Why had the Russian jumped like that?
‘No,’ agreed Danilov. He hadn’t thought yet of the personal implications, but he started now.
‘Maybe something could be worked out. If he’s not definitely involved – just a conduit – maybe it could be dealt with discreetly? A quiet retirement.’ Which was the best he could hope for, realised Cowley. He was thinking more about himself than about a corrupt Militiaman.