‘Thank you, Mr Baryshnikov. Now, each Formula One car has on it a form of data recorder – a sort of black box – does it not?’
Baryshnikov nodded.
‘Answer verbally, if you would, please, Mr Baryshnikov.’
‘Yes.’
‘Does that go for the Ptarmigan cars, too, Mr Baryshnikov?’
‘Yes.’
‘And have you had a chance to examine the data recorder recovered from the wreckage of Ms Sabatino's car?’
Pudovkin watched Baryshnikov's expression intently. He saw the driver swivel his head and look across at the cage again. A whole gamut of emotions seemed to cross his face.
Baryshnikov turned back towards Gazdanov.
Pudovkin could see the prosecutor general was now leaning forward slightly, as if in anticipation – as if going in for the kill.
Gazdanov prompted: ‘Mr Baryshnikov … ’
Pudovkin did not know what occurred next.
Or how.
But he knew instantly that something had happened.
SIXTY-SEVEN
There was an instantaneous change in Baryshnikov's demeanour.
Baryshnikov boomed: ‘Data recorders – or “black boxes” as you call them – can only be read by the FIA, the governing body of Formula One. You, Mr Gazdanov, have denied the FIA access to the “black boxes”. So, no, I don’t know what's in them – and neither can you.’
Gazdanov jolted upright.
Pudovkin looked up at Baryshnikov.
What on earth was going on?
Pudovkin scanned the faces of the Supreme Court justices. Each judge looked as if he had just been slapped.
Looking across at Brogan, Pudovkin saw that he was equally surprised.
‘More to the point,’ said Baryshnikov – now projecting powerfully across the room – ‘when I said I would not have attempted an overtake at Turn Eleven, what I meant was that I would not have attempted an overtake there – because I am not brave enough. What Remy – Ms Sabatino – did on that corner was quite outstanding: the mark of an intuitive driver. Ms Sabatino is in a completely different league to me.’
The courtroom burst into chatter.
Pudovkin stared into the face of the witness, trying to understand his astonishing volte-face. What was he doing? Then Pudovkin turned to look round.
He scanned the rest of the room.
Suddenly it came to him.
He realized what had happened. In an instant.
All the pieces fell into place.
There, standing at the back of the courtroom – just inside the main door – was a man wearing the bright turquoise of a Ptarmigan Formula One team jacket. Pudovkin didn’t recognize him. This man, though, had his arm round the shoulders of an elderly lady, a lady with short dark hair and striking dark eyes. Another man, also dressed in the same turquoise livery, stood on the other side of this woman, also with his arm across her shoulders.
Tatiana Baryshnikov, the Formula One driver's mother, was standing there, quite clearly, under the protective wing of the Ptarmigan Formula One team. It was an unequivocal signal to Yegor Baryshnikov that the police no longer had possession of his mother.
A gavel banging down hard rang out across the grand courtroom. The senior judge also called for quiet.
‘Silence, silence!’ he called.
‘Yegor Valentinovich,’ said the middle judge severely when the noise finally abated, ‘I do not understand. What you have just said is in direct contradiction – not only of your witness statements, but of everything you have told this court this morning. Kindly explain yourself.’
Pudovkin looked over at the prosecutor general; Gazdanov looked like he had been winded, kicked in the stomach – perhaps even somewhere more painful.
Yegor Baryshnikov said firmly: ‘I am able to speak the truth now, Mr Justices – because I am no longer being held to ransom.’
The senior judge said: ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mr Justice, on the twenty-first of July the police kidnapped and have since held my mother hostage at her house in Barvikha.’
No one heard the end of Baryshnikov's sentence as the reactions to this shock announcement flowed back from the front of the courtroom.
Further smacks of the gavel thundered out, but they had minimal effect.
