‘No,’ replied Danilov honestly. ‘At the moment I don’t think I have.’
‘We can do a lot of damage,’ insisted Cowley, a promise as much to himself as a suggestion to the Russian. ‘We can manipulate it, if we’re reading it correctly. If we can catch these two guys in Sicily we can not only sweat them about the murders: we can bust their deal. Maybe break a Sicilian ring, too.’
Danilov felt a sharp and surprising inadequacy, at the enormity of what they were discussing. ‘I can’t get to Sicily without authority… which means admitting the listening devices…’
For several moments they sat unspeaking, each trying to assess the loss. The car bug – and Kosov – was their only lead, Cowley acknowledged. There was no way to prevent his destruction. So why didn’t he take all the responsibility?
Cowley said: ‘The eavesdropping equipment is American: nobody here knows anything about it. And they can’t ever. I’ve travelled in Kosov’s car. I could have planted it. Be working independently of you, after all the fuck-ups.’
Danilov iooked back at the American, head curiously to one side. ‘So I don’t know you’re doing it…?’ he groped.
‘All you know is what you’re told, by an American. Which could have come from America.’
‘And the bugs stay in the car!’ acknowledged Danilov.
‘Unbeknown to anyone except those who need to know,’ said Cowley. ‘How’s that sound?’
‘Just fine,’ accepted the Russian.
The call came from Kosov two days later, to Petrovka, not to the apartment; an invitation for lunch the following day – ‘just the two of us, like old times.’ Danilov couldn’t remember any such old times, but said he’d look forward to it. He fixed an appointment with Smolin afterwards: Cowley spent most of that afternoon sending messages to Washington and replying to the flurry of questions they prompted from the FBI Director.
Kosov was already seated when Danilov arrived at the Dom na Tverskoi, and for once did not attempt the arm-waving flamboyance of champagne and permanently attentive waiters: he actually shook his head against the interruption of one man who began to approach, pouring the red wine himself. They touched glasses and toasted each other’s health, and Kosov said at once: ‘So it’s getting nowhere?’
‘We’ve had to release Antipov,’ disclosed Danilov, alert to the reaction.
Kosov nodded. ‘I know,’ he boasted. ‘What now?’
The knowledge could still have been either Mafia or government, decided Danilov. ‘Bill’s under a lot of pressure from Washington. They’re talking of withdrawing him. After all the problems they think he’s wasting his time. He seems to think so, too.’
‘Which would leave it to you?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘And there’s no way forward?’
‘Not that I can see. Maybe I’ll get lucky.’
Kosov added to their glasses. ‘You thought any more of what else we spoke about?’
‘Like what?’ Danilov was glad he was not in the car, where he would have known everything was being overheard: self-consciousness might have been obvious.
‘Like missing the old days.’
‘I don’t think I said I missed them.’
‘Just some of the benefits.’
‘Olga certainly misses them.’ He didn’t like bringing Olga into the conversation, but it fitted.
‘Women like nice things. Larissa wouldn’t know how to live any other way.’
For a few brief seconds Danilov wondered if there were some hidden meaning in the remark, before deciding there couldn’t be. Larissa was going to have to learn. ‘It’s too late for me now.’
‘It doesn’t have to be.’
‘I’ve lost contact.’
‘You introduced me, once. I could re-introduce you.’
‘People will have changed, surely?’
‘I’ve made other friends: important friends. It’s much better than it was in your day: better organised.’
‘The work I do now is a lot different from a uniformed division. It wouldn’t be as easy to co-operate, like it was before.’
‘Things can always be worked out. Don’t forget I want a transfer. I could be there, ensuring things run smoothly.’
One team replaced by another, recognised Danilov. A lot of careful thought had gone into this approach. ‘I need to think about it.’
‘You do need to think about it. I’m your friend, so I think I can talk honestly: you’ve been stupid, for far too long.’
Not as stupid as you’re going to be proven to be, thought Danilov. ‘Perhaps you’re right.’
‘You know I’m right! I can introduce you to the proper people,’ persisted Kosov. ‘Fix everything.’
Danilov nodded, wondering how far he might be able to utilise that boast. ‘Let’s keep in touch.’
‘ Close touch,’ insisted Kosov. ‘Friends should help friends.’
‘You’re right,’ said Danilov. ‘They should.’ He still had time to meet Larissa, before the Federal Prosecutor. He didn’t feelat all hypocritical.
The Tatarovo apartment had two full-sized bedrooms, as well as a separate living room with a dining annexe, and kitchen fittings better even than Larissa’s existing flat. It was on the eighth floor, and from the balcony there was a view of the river.
‘It’s fabulous!’ declared Larissa. ‘I want it!’
‘How much is it?’ asked Danilov.
‘Four hundred and fifty roubles a month if you’re paying in Russian; three hundred if you give the concierge twenty dollars a week for himself. And the bribe to jump the list is two hundred and fifty dollars.’
‘I don’t have two hundred and fifty dollars.’
Larissa looked at him uncertainly. ‘We need it, to get the flat,’ she said simply.
Larissa wouldn’t know how to live any other way, he remembered. ‘I’ll have to try to get it.’
‘Yes darling, you will,’ Larissa agreed. ‘Why don’t you ask Bill?’
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Danilov went to Pushkinskaya unsure if it would be as easy to convince a trained lawyer as it had been to deceive Kosov. He still believed he was correctly pursuing the investigation by holding things back from Nikolai Smolin, so strongly did he believe the man would make any ultimate decision about the case thinking of government sensitivity first and the law second. But until now it had been nothing more than delaying the information, until he was sure. What he was attempting that afternoon was going further: it was deception, even if the eventual outcome might be justified. And if it didn’t turn out to be justified, he’d be open to the sort of tribunal that had condemned Anatoli Metkin.
‘What’s the development?’ prompted Smolin. He had a notepad open, ready, in front of him.
‘Not here,’ warned Danilov, edging out on to creaking ice. ‘The Americans have decided it’s sufficiently sound for Cowley to examine. I think we should consider my going, too.’
‘Going where?’
‘Sicily,’ announced Danilov. ‘The information came from America: specifically Brighton Beach,’ he elaborated. ‘The rumour, confirmed from several different sources, was of a forthcoming meeting between Russian and Italian Mafia. The American authorities are already liaising with the Italians.’
‘What has it got to do with the investigation here?’
‘The people named in the Serov documents are thought to be involved,’ said Danilov, lying openly.
‘It’s vague,’ complained the Federal Prosecutor.
‘I can only pass on what I have been told.’ It wasn’t as easy confronting a legal mind.
‘Why didn’t Cowley come with you this afternoon?’ frowned Smolin.
A mistake: it would have been more convincing for an American to have talked about a development supposed to have come from America. ‘He’s been ordered to leave, as soon as he gets the final go-ahead from Washington,’ improvised Danilov. The earlier rehearsal with Cowley provided the escape. ‘And there are implications about it I felt best only discussed between the two of us.’
‘What implications?’