No Time for Heroes cad-3 Page 3

  He never wanted to lose, Danilov accepted: so he wouldn’t.

  ‘He could have lied to you!’ Arkadi Gusovsky had a sick man’s pallor and when he became red with annoyance, as now, he looked clown-like, contrasting red and white. The ornate, heavily brocaded, smoky back room of the restaurant on Glovin Bol’soj was full, because the Chechen leaders liked the protection of bodyguards, but no-one would have dared show any reaction to Gusovsky’s strange appearance. Very early after assuming control Gusovsky had made everyone look on while he personally beat to death with a metal stave a man he’d imagined was smiling mockingly at him. It had happened in this same room. Gusovsky had insisted the body remain where it was while he ate rare steak.

  ‘I made him watch what I did to Serov,’ insisted Mikhail Antipov, nervously. ‘He didn’t lie.’

  ‘He might not have understood Russian. The family was Ukrainian.’

  ‘I asked him in both.’ It was Antipov’s knowledge of both languages that had made him ideal for the job.

  Gusovsky, who was also unnaturally thin, threw the papers that had been taken from Michel Paulac’s briefcase too hard on to the table between them; some fell off. ‘You should have brought everything! These aren’t anything to do with it. We need the original, to see the names that need changing.’

  ‘You made a mess of it, didn’t you?’ Aleksandr Yerin had adjusted so completely to his blindness he was always able to appear to be looking at the person to whom he was talking. He asked the question of Zimin, the third member of the Chechen ruling heirarchy; there was no reply Zimin could find.

  ‘I don’t want anyone else making any more mistakes,’ said Gusovsky generally.

  Once more, no-one spoke.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Cowley and Johannsen went to the mortuary an hour before the time set for the official identification: the enthusiastic Brierly hurried from behind his desk, hand outstretched, and when Cowley introduced himself said he presumed Cowley was taking over the investigation. Cowley wished he hadn’t, in front of the DC detectives.

  The detailed autopsy did not take anything much further than the preliminary report. Either body shot would have proved fatal: the heart had been shattered by one. There were no indications of a struggle and no skin particles or hair beneath Serov’s fingernails to indicate he had tried to fight off his attacker: he’d bitten his nails anyway, so the chances of finding anything had been remote. There was an old abdominal scar, possibly from a hernia or an appendicectomy. He had eaten just prior to his death; the stomach contained undigested fish and what had obviously been an entree salad, plus traces of alcohol. The massive damage to both the back of the body and the head by the exiting of the flattened bullets made it difficult for Brierly to be absolutely sure, but he’d found no evidence of any organic disease or illness. There was no sign of torture, either.

  ‘Will the Bureau want its own autopsy, for DNA and stuff like that?’ asked the young examiner.

  Cowley nodded. ‘But we’re going to need more than science and technology to catch whoever did this.’

  ‘I’ve packaged all the clothes up. I guessed you’d want them?’

  ‘All part of the system,’ confirmed Cowley. ‘What about time of death?’

  ‘Nine,’ said Brierly. ‘Maybe half an hour earlier.’

  ‘How long before that had he eaten?’ asked Johannsen.

  ‘Perhaps an hour,’ said Brierly.

  ‘And Georgetown is full of restaurants,’ reflected Cowley.

  ‘He could have eaten at home and left immediately afterwards,’ disputed Johannsen.

  ‘Entree salads aren’t a Russian way of eating,’ said Cowley. ‘It’s American restaurant style.’

  ‘This investigation is going to wear out a lot of shoe leather,’ complained Johannsen.

  ‘Investigations do,’ said Cowley.

  Warning of the Russians’ arrival came from the downstairs reception, which Cowley, Johannsen and Brierly reached as the foreigners entered. There were two men, only one of whom identified himself: his visiting card described Valery Pavlenko as a member of the cultural section of the embassy. Cowley, who over the previous five years, as Director of the Russian division, had supervised the assembly of the FBI files on Russian diplomats in the United States, recognised the second Russian as Nikolai Fedorovich Redin, supposedly in the embassy’s trade section. He was, in fact, a member of the Russian external security service: when the man had been posted to Washington, four years earlier, it had still been called the KGB. A year after his arrival Redin had been positively identified trying to buy export-controlled computer base plates; Cowley had had the Department of Commerce ban the export, but argued against expelling Redin on the well established grounds that it was better to retain a spy they knew than discover who his successor might be.

  There was a puff of white condensation at the temperature change in the examination room when Brierly withdrew the drawer. Some cosmetic effort had been made to pad a sheet around what remained of the head, and the face had been cleaned of blood; the same disguising sheet was arranged to cover the chest wounds. The coldness of the preservation drawer had whitened Serov’s face, heightening the blackness of the bruising and powder burns to the mouth. Rigor had frozen it wide open, as if the man had died screaming. The eyes were closed. The identity label was tied to the big toe of the left foot, like a price tag.

  ‘That is Petr Aleksandrovich,’ said Pavlenko evenly. There was no facial reaction from either Russian at Serov’s disfigurement.

  ‘We’d like to talk,’ said Cowley, not wanting to lose the opportunity with a Russian away from the confines of the embassy.

  The pathologist led them back along the corridor to a small room opposite the reception desk. As Cowley sat, Redin leaned close to Pavlenko and spoke: the grating of his chair prevented Cowley hearing what was said.

  ‘We regret this incident very much indeed,’ began Cowley. He’d served in overseas embassies, in Rome and in London when he had been a full-time field agent, and knew the need for diplomatic niceties.

  ‘You are police?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cowley didn’t intend openly identifying himself as FBI in front of Redin.

  ‘You know who did this?’

  ‘There’s been no arrest yet.’

  ‘Why was he shot like that, in the mouth? It is bestial.’

  ‘We don’t know,’ admitted Cowley. He did not yet intend getting into a Mafia discussion, either.

  There was another head-bent, whispered exchange between the two Russians. Again Cowley didn’t hear what was said.

  ‘Was he robbed?’ asked Pavlenko.

  ‘There is no obvious indication of that.’

  ‘We would like his belongings,’ announced Pavlenko. ‘And the return of the body.’

  ‘We are still making enquiries,’ said Cowley, held by the sensation of deja vu. The Russians had initially refused to release the body of the senator’s niece or her effects, after the Moscow murder that had taken him to Russia the previous year. It had been one of several early disputes.

  ‘What have your enquiries got to do with returning the body and the contents of Petr Aleksandrovich’s pockets!’ demanded Pavlenko.

  ‘The investigation has only been under way a very short time,’ pointed out Cowley. ‘Everything will be released as soon as possible.’

  Pavlenko was a thin-faced man. His features hardened now, in anger. ‘We do not want this to become even more difficult than it is. A Russian national has been murdered!’

  ‘And we’re trying to find out who did it,’ said Johannsen, close to rudeness. ‘And why.’

  Quickly interceding, Cowley said: ‘Where did Petr Aleksandrovich live?’

  Pavlenko hesitated. ‘The Russian compound.’

  ‘We need to learn his movements last night. We would like to interview Mrs Serova.’ He instantly regretted demonstrating his knowledge of the language by his correct feminisation of the name, but the Russians appeared to miss it.

/>   ‘She returned to Moscow on compassionate leave two weeks ago,’ disclosed the diplomat. ‘She has an elderly mother who is ill.’

  ‘So Serov was living alone?’ said Johannsen.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Does anyone at the embassy know what he was doing last night?’

  Pavlenko shrugged. ‘I have not asked.’

  ‘We would like to be allowed to visit the embassy, to talk particularly to people in the cultural division, to discover if he had an appointment or an arrangement to meet anyone,’ said Cowley.

  ‘He said nothing to me,’ replied Pavlenko.

  ‘He might have talked to someone else,’ persisted Johannsen.

  ‘I do not think so,’ insisted the Russian.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I was Petr Aleksandrovich’s immediate deputy. The conversations were between the two of us.’

  ‘He must have spoken to other people as well!’ challenged Johannsen, and Cowley thought he detected the beginning of a policeman’s belligerence at being given the runaround.

  ‘Not yesterday. There were only secretaries in the office, apart from Petr Aleksandrovich and myself. He would not have talked about any social event with them.’

  ‘Were you social friends as well as work colleagues?’

  Pavlenko hesitated again. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So you would talk about social things?’ said Johannsen.

  ‘Not yesterday,’ refuted the Russian.

  ‘Would you have known if he was on an official engagement?’ The homicide detective was still polite, but only just.

  ‘There was nothing last night.’ There was the faintest sheen of perspiration on Pavlenko’s face.

  Once again Cowley failed to hear all that passed between the two Russians, but he thought he caught Redin say neel’z’ah and wondered what it was Pavlenko had been warned he couldn’t or shouldn’t say.

  ‘So there is an appointments diary?’ pressed Johannsen. ‘We’d like to see that.’

  Pavlenko stopped just before the angry rejection, breathing deeply. ‘It is unthinkable for you to examine official documentation belonging to the Russian embassy. I have told you there was no official function last night.’

  ‘We would also like to examine the apartment at Massachusetts Avenue,’ bulldozed Johannsen. ‘There could be some indication there of where he went.’

  ‘That’s equally ridiculous!’ refused Pavlenko.

  Delicately, choosing each word, Cowley said: ‘You have Russian staff responsible for the security of your embassy facilities, just as we have marines at our embassy in Moscow. Would it be possible for us to provide a list of questions to which we need answers – like, for instance, any diary entry or note at the Massachusetts Avenue apartment – for your own officials to answer for us?’

  Pavlenko hesitated, glancing sideways at the other Russian, but without any muffled conversation said: ‘No. I do not think so.’

  ‘There are many routine enquiries for us to make,’ said Cowley. ‘Particularly around the Georgetown district in which he was found. It would help if you could supply a reasonably up-to-date photograph to be duplicated and carried by officers conducting street enquiries.’

  ‘I am not sure any are available,’ said Pavlenko.

  Cowley sighed, careless of the frustration showing, no longer concerned at Johannsen’s aggression. Pavlenko was being openly obstructive: standard Russian suspicion, or something more?

  ‘A photograph was officially supplied for Petr Aleksandrovich’s visa application,’ he said. ‘If there is none more current we will use that.’

  Pavlenko’s face twitched at losing the exchange. ‘I will enquire of our personnel division.’

  ‘There will be need for us to speak again.’

  ‘Tomorrow,’ insisted Pavlenko, trying to turn the demand against the American. ‘To agree the release of the body and effects.’

  ‘To discuss further co-operation between us,’ corrected Cowley. The vaguest suggestion of an idea came to him. Just as quickly, he dismissed it. He was letting himself fall into nostalgia.

  ‘Jesus!’ exploded Johannsen, within seconds of the door closing behind the Russians. ‘If they’re all as awkward as that bastard, maybe we aren’t dealing with a Mafia killing at all. Maybe whoever popped Serov just got fed up waiting for the son-of-a-bitch to say something that made sense! I thought we were all supposed to be on the same side now!’

  ‘Some don’t believe it as much as others,’ said Cowley. ‘I want you to do something. I’ll get State to run a check on every diplomatic affair the night of the killing…’

  ‘… So we can check every one to see if Petr Aleksandrovich Serov attended,’ cut in Johannsen, in a groan.

  ‘Right. And we’ll trawl wider. He was the senior cultural attache: there’d be invitations to all sorts of exhibitions and art events that wouldn’t be on any State Department sheet. They’ll all need to be checked out. According to our files, he enjoyed the party scene.’ He could probably shorten the search by going over the Bureau monitoring log, even though Serov wasn’t on any Watch rota: it was still automatic to flag the attendance of a Russian if one were identified.

  ‘Why bother!’ demanded Johannsen. ‘Those guys don’t give a shit about catching whoever did it. Why should we bust our asses?’

  ‘I don’t envy you guys,’ said Brierly.

  ‘I don’t envy us either,’ said Johannsen, with feeling.

  They drove directly from the mortuary to the scene of the murder. As they turned off M Street on to Wisconsin, towards the river, Johannsen began identifying the unmarked cars of the detectives carrying out the house-to-house enquiries.

  ‘Are they going to be pissed off, having to wait around long into the evening!’

  ‘I wish there was another way,’ said Cowley, meaning it.

  Because the bottom of Wisconsin Avenue was sealed off, he parked against the tape and the stripped trestles. Cowley showed his shield and Johannsen automatically attached his badge to the top pocket of his jacket. There was a hard core of onlookers with a new street entertainment and some waiting-just-in-case journalists and photographers and two television crews. Cowley and Johannsen were through the barriers before they were spotted: they ignored the yells to attract their attention, and the one TV light that flared on.

  An area about twelve square yards around where the body had been found was completely enclosed in protective polythene, creating a tent that concealed them from the media, occupied by about ten technicians, either in white or in light blue protective cover-alls. Two were manhandling a huge, generator-powered vacuum machine, sucking everything from the ground behind a squad carrying out an inch by inch visual search ahead of them. After the vacuum, more men were designating the area already scoured with rectangles of tape, like an archaeological dig. Cowley supposed in many ways it was. The chalked outline showing the position in which Serov’s body had been found was unnecessary: a good half of the shape of the torso was marked with thick gouts of blood.

  To one technician who appeared temporarily to be doing nothing Cowley said: ‘Anything?’

  The man indicated the vacuum. ‘It’ll take days to go through that. But we did find a shell casing, quite early this morning. That’s already back at headquarters; Harry Robertson took it himself. You know him?’

  Cowley nodded. ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘DC forensic retrieved a slug last night, under what was left of the poor bastard’s head. Flat as a dime was the word.’

  ‘Any tyre marks?’

  The man gestured generally. ‘Take your pick. At night this place is a goddamned parking lot. We’ve got more casts than General Motors.’

  At the entrance to the makeshift tent Cowley hesitated, looking back to where the body had been, relating it to the nearest buildings. Overhead there was the constant thunder of cars along the freeway. A lot of detectives were going to waste their time long into the night, trying to locate anyone who might have heard anything.

 
; A media reception committee was waiting immediately beyond the barrier. There were flashgun bursts and television lights and a babble of questions, to all of which Cowley and Johannsen shook their heads as they waded through. One reporter said to Cowley: ‘Hey, don’t I recognise you?’ Cowley shook his head to that, as well.

  It was awkward for Cowley to back and turn the car the way he had parked, and there were a lot more photographs before he could regain M Street. Before they reached the traffic lights Johannsen said: ‘What about a drink? We’ve been six hours on the go and missed lunch, for Christ’s sake!’

  Johannsen’s hostility had practically disappeared, and Cowley did not want to resurrect it. The decision was made for him as he turned right on to M Street and saw the vacant meter; they crossed back to Nathans before the lights changed.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ invited Johannsen.

  ‘Club soda. Lime wedge,’ said Cowley.

  Johannsen frowned. ‘You don’t drink?’

  ‘Wrong metabolism,’ evaded Cowley. There’d been a couple of slips since he’d gone dry, but it was rarely a problem any more. Oddly, it was now. He practically salivated at the thought of the taste, the taste of anything, beer or whisky, whatever would give that hit, that warm, comfortable, relaxing feeling spreading up from his stomach. He moved as far away from the bar as he could, to the ledge fronting out on to the street. The lime soured the soda Johannsen handed to him.

  ‘You know something that surprised me?’ demanded Johannsen. He was drinking Jack Daniels, straight, over ice: Cowley could smell it further along the ledge.

  ‘What?’

  ‘There weren’t any questions from the Russians about it being a hit. Not serious questions. Pavlenko used the word murder and said it was bestial, but he didn’t press when you said you didn’t know why Serov was shot in the mouth. He just let it go.’

  ‘The mouth wound doesn’t have the significance in Russia that it has here.’

  ‘They were being told the significance from dawn, on every radio station! And every television station. And every newspaper. Wouldn’t you have expected them to be a damned sight more curious?’