Danilov took the question further, not able to provide an answer. ‘It was a threat to Kosov. The three who died had their mouths blown away. So Yevgennie Grigorevich knows what it’s all about: he could tell us!’
‘Not until we’re a greater threat,’ stressed Cowley. ‘Nobody’s frightened enough of us yet, either here or in America.’
‘And they’re hardly likely to be,’ said Danilov, cynically.
Cowley said: ‘I won’t pass any of this on to Washington, not yet. It might have meaning for us. For anyone else it just raises more questions than it answers.’
‘Maybe we won’t have to wait much longer,’ said Danilov.
They didn’t.
Over the succeeding days they eavesdropped on Yevgennie Kosov’s car adequately enough to understand approximately eighty-five percent of every conversation. Sometimes they listened to activities inside it, too.
There were a lot of command briefings to Kosov’s subordinates in his Militia division, usually bullying and demanding. There were outings with Larissa, during one of which she protested she didn’t like the people they were going to meet and Kosov told her to shut up and be pleasant because they were the providers of a lot of the ‘good things’ they enjoyed. Danilov and Cowley played that tape several times, to extract every nuance, and listened intently to the homeward journey in the hope of hearing a name, which they didn’t. There was a telephone conversation with someone named Eduard, with a peremptory insistence upon a wine and Western spirit delivery within a week, upon which Danilov particularly concentrated because an Eduard Agayans was a black marketeer to whom he’d introduced Kosov: Danilov was unable to decide if it was the same man from the faintness of the intercepted voice. There was an incoming call, probably the most difficult to decipher, which they decided was an instruction to Kosov to guarantee the unimpeded passage through his district of a fleet of six trucks, coming up from the south. Throughout the exchange Kosov showed the respect of the first overheard recording, but the reception this time was too bad to be certain if it was the same man: Cowley said if they turned the tapes over to the technicians at Quantico, a positive voiceprint could be made. There was no indication during the conversation what the lorries contained.
That afternoon Kosov dialled someone they were sure was the man of the first day. It was an extremely brief exchange, Kosov asking if there was anything he should be told, which there wasn’t, and the man asking the same in return and receiving the same reply. Cowley thought it possible when they made the tape available to Washington, other Quantico specialists would be able to extract a number – from which in turn they could get an address – from the electronic variations in the dialling. There were two clumsy, sexually intimate conversations with women, quite soon after one of which a girl audibly entered the car. Fifty American dollars was agreed, for fellatio, which was performed to a lot of grunted pleasure from Kosov.
There were recordings of three other passengers in the car, all male, one obviously another Militia officer. That journey was the day after Kosov received his instructions about the lorry convoy, which he passed on in specific detail to the unnamed policeman: three days later there was a call of thanks from the man who had sought an unhindered journey. Another passenger was a fence, paying a bribe of $500 for the right to operate on Kosov’s territory. They were not sure about the third. The man said very little and what he did say was spoken in a quiet voice, so not everything was picked up, even though he was sitting literally on top of one of the microphones. A lot of it was also intentionally ambiguous. It was not until Kosov talked openly of a ministry – although without stipulating which one – that Danilov guessed at a government official. They prepared a written transcript of the entire encounter, paring away the double meanings finally to agree Kosov was establishing himself as the man’s supplier – ‘anything you want, all you’ve got to do is ask, you know that,’ Kosov said at one point.
And on the eighth day they heard – not completely, but far more than they had dared hope – what they had been listening for.
‘ Gusovsky,’ announced a rasping voice, maybe that of a heavy smoker, the moment the receiver was lifted.
‘ Arkadi Pavlovich! ’ greeted Kosov.
‘Chechen,’ identified Danilov at once.
‘Pavin called him a leader,’ remembered Cowley. He smiled, half disbelievingly, at the Russian.
‘… gone quiet? ’ asked the caller.
‘… told you they were getting nowhere,’ came Kosov’s stronger voice.
‘ I need to be absolutely sure: we’re ready to go.’
‘ You can be. Dimitri Ivanovich is my friend.’
‘Me?’ queried Danilov.
‘Who else?’ agreed Cowley.
Static snowed the line, blotting out Gusovsky’s response and the beginning of whatever Kosov said.
‘… waiting to hear from you, before I spoke to him again.’
‘… want a definite assurance,’ said Gusovsky.
‘ I can get it.’
‘… worth his while.’
‘ I’ll tell him.’
‘ What about you? ’
‘… suggested it.’
There was more interference. All they caught of what Gusovsky said was: ‘… going personally.’
‘ Who? ’ asked Kosov.
There was a gap, which they later decided had been a pause of uncertainty. The reply was broken, when it came.
‘… Zimin… Zavorin…’
‘ Rome or Sicily? ’
‘ Sicily… all arranged…’
‘ When? ’
‘… soon.’
‘… not going to be any more trouble? ’
‘… got the message. They know they’ve lost it.’
‘ Any more killing would attract too much attention,’ suggested Kosov.
‘ There won’t be, if there doesn’t have to be.’
The line blurred, the sort of interference that had come from their road tests when they drove through an underpass. ‘Shit!’ said Cowley vehemently.
‘… no problem with the other one,’ returned Gusovsky’s voice.
‘ Are you sure? ’ asked Kosov.
‘… whenever we want to. And he knows.’
Danilov was curious at the way Cowley shifted beside him, as if he were uncomfortable. The American did not answer his look.
‘ So what do you want me to do? ’
‘ Speak to him again. They won’t go until I’m sure.’
‘ They couldn’t have found out: haven’t found out.’
‘ I won’t take the risk, not this close.’
‘ Shall I call you? ’
‘ This number.’
The line abruptly went dead, the intercept filled at once by the Billie Holliday tape. Cowley snapped off the machine, looking expectantly at Danilov.
‘We needed luck,’ said the Russian quietly, as disbelieving as the American. ‘We’ve got it!’
‘It has to be about the conversation he had with you,’ said Cowley, beginning their analysis. Mentally continuing it, he thought, No problem with the other one… and he knows. Soon, Cowley supposed: very soon. It was like slowly bleeding to death.
‘It’ll be proved definitely, if he makes another approach.’
‘For an assurance,’ reminded Cowley. Rhetorically he said: ‘What does Gusovsky want an assurance about?’
‘That we’re no further forward,’ said Danilov, answering it anyway. ‘Which until five minutes ago we weren’t.’
‘But now we are,’ said Cowley. ‘Here’s how I read it. The Chechen are sending two men, Zimin and Zavorin, to Sicily: all arranged, Gusovsky said. But they’re not going until he’s sure.’
Danilov nodded, agreeing with the assessment. ‘We can manipulate it, if Kosov comes to me again!’
‘ When he comes to you again,’ said Cowley, without any doubt.
More subdued, Danilov took the analysis on. ‘A Russian Mafia group is linking with the established Mafia, in Sicily…’ Repeating the phrase the American had already echoed, Danilov added: ‘Maybe it already has: all arranged, like Gusovsky said. So what the hell has been arranged? It’s as frightening as you thought it could be.’
‘Worse,’ warned Cowley. ‘We know the Italian and American Mafia are partners: always have been. Now we’ve got the global connection: Worldwide Mafia Incorporated. You any idea what that means?’