The two men turned to go.
Just as Pudovkin neared the door, though, he was to be hit with another surprise.
The president said: ‘Oh, Colonel Pudovkin, I want an immediate investigation into the deaths of this lawyer and Colonel Straker. You are to find out who was responsible. Liaise directly with my chief of staff. Have something to tell me within twenty-four hours.’
SIXTY-NINE
The prosecutor general had clearly tried to shaft him during the meeting with the president – nevertheless Pudovkin fully expected Gazdanov to savage him for having challenged the integrity of the trial. As they left, Pudovkin braced himself, ready for Gazdanov to throw a fit, even to fire him on the spot.
Disconcertingly, the prosecutor general said nothing as they were escorted back down through the Senate building to their car.
Gazdanov strode on ahead.
Climbed straight in.
And drove off.
He ended up saying nothing to Pudovkin.
The bemused policeman was left standing in the Kremlin car park. He might have been worried by Gazdanov's silence, were it not for his new assignment – delegated by the president himself, no less – to investigate the deaths of Straker and McMahon. Maybe the magnitude of that commission had been enough to spare Pudovkin the prosecutor's wrath.
The trial wasn’t due to resume until nine o’clock the following morning, so Pudovkin set about heading back to Police HQ in Petrovka 38 – to make an immediate start on his new and unexpected task. He walked out of the Kremlin – through the gate under the Spasskaya Tower – into Red Square, emerging directly opposite St Basil's Cathedral.
As he thought about it, Pudovkin realized the irony of the situation. He was now being asked to avenge the deaths of Matt Straker and Sandy McMahon – the very people who had recently caused him so much embarrassment. Except that, now, he felt he might be pursuing their killers for reasons more to do with politics than justice.
Back in his offices, Pudovkin primed himself with a triple espresso, shut the door of his room, and settled in behind his desk.
Where the hell did he begin?
He considered what he might have to go on. He quickly concluded it wasn’t promising. He kept reminding himself, though, that even a thousand-mile journey started with a single step.
So what could possibly be his first step?
Pudovkin began jotting down anything he could think of: the nature of the bomb blast, how it might have been orchestrated, what happened to the car and the people in it. He was aware that forensics worked with the smallest traces these days; maybe there was something in the wreckage that could be examined? Pudovkin then thought about the footage he had seen on television in the various news bulletins before the State had censored them.
He quickly realized he was going to need help; he put out a call to the two detachment commanders he had deployed during the earlier elements of the Grand Prix case.
Police Majors Ustinov and Kuprin joined him within ten minutes.
Pudovkin asked for his office door to be shut. ‘There's a shit storm brewing over the Grand Prix trial,’ he told them.
Ustinov looked sheepish, particularly after the breach of Mrs Baryshnikov's house arrest.
‘The president has put me in charge of finding out who killed Colonel Straker and the Brandeis lawyer, Sandy McMahon.’
Their expressions changed in an instant.
‘We don’t have much to go on,’ Pudovkin stated. ‘Major Ustinov, I want you to liaise with the scene of crime officer at the bomb site – the duty officer's desk here in Police HQ should be able to tell you who was involved. Tose at the scene must have retrieved whatever was left of the car and its occupants. Requisition it all. We need to have everything analyzed.’
‘Right, sir. Where do you want it brought?’
‘I’ll let you know. Major Kuprin? The footage of the bomb blast: there were clips shown in the early news bulletins that looked like CCTV footage. I want that tracked down, and any other coverage. Bring it all in.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘Right, then. Let's get on with it. We have an opportunity here to rectify our standing, which has been damaged by the problems with this mission so far. Don’t let's waste it.’
As his energized lieutenants walked out with their latest assignments, Pudovkin reached into his desk drawer and rooted for a small address book. He turned to “F” for Forensics. Leaning over to his desk phone, he punched out the number for Professor Igor Sorokin at the Russian Federal Centre of Forensic Science of the Ministry of Justice.
The call was answered.
Pudovkin re-introduced himself and explained the case he was working on, specifcally stating on whose authority he was now acting. He got the director's attention. ‘I saw the footage of that explosion on the TV news,’ said Sorokin.
‘Professor, can you help me with something? How much explosive would be needed to kill the three people in that car – if there was one in the front and two in the back?’
‘Nothing like the amount used in that blast.’
‘That's what I had kind of thought. Can you give me a sense of scale, though? How much should have been needed?’
‘It depends entirely, I’m afraid, on the materials used,’ said the professor. ‘It would, almost invariably, have been RDX-based, otherwise known as hexogen – dubbed “plastic” explosive in everyday speak. That sort of material can be used with a large number of variables: it can be mixed with other explosives, such as PETN. There are further variables involved in the composition, such as which oils are used, et cetera. All of these can have a bearing on the power of the bomb. But, to answer your question: in practice, half a kilo of explosive, at most, would easily kill the occupants.’
‘And what would that do to the car?’
‘Make a mess of it. There’d be no windows, no soft remains, it would certainly catch fire.’
‘But what would be left of it?’
‘A fair amount: there’d be a frame and chassis – wheels, probably – everything, though, would be damaged.’
