‘I’d like written authorization, please, Mr President.’
Within an hour, Police Colonel Pudovkin had gathered his men together. Present with him were his two lieutenants: Police Majors Kuprin and Ustinov. This time they were on the pavement of Bolshaya Dmitrovka Ulitsa, right in the heart of institutional Moscow. After confirming the orders he had already issued inside Moscow Police HQ, Pudovkin led his men into their next task.
His posse strode as a group towards the main entrance of the building. Without impediment, they made their way up through the office block. Within two minutes the police colonel was entering the same room he had visited numerous times during the preparation for the trial.
‘Léon Andreiovich Gazdanov,’ he declared, ‘I am arresting you on the orders of the president of Russia. I have here the necessary papers and warrant for your arrest.’
After such a high-profile act of service in the name of the president, Pudovkin felt slightly deflated returning to his investigation into finding those responsible for the Brandeis car bomb. But his fear of antagonizing Kondratiev prompted him to concentrate. Once back at his desk, he fired up his iPad.
There were several emails from both his Police Majors. Major Ustinov had visited Straker's hotel, barged his way into the dead man's suite and managed to recover items that he hoped would hold some of his DNA.
I found a comb, a wet-shave razor and a toothbrush. All three items have been sent to the RFCFS forensic laboratories, hopefully to be matched with the blood found at the blast site on the bridge.
Pudovkin was pleased.
Next, there were a couple of emails from his other police major, Major Kuprin; he, too, seemed to have delivered. He was sending through information he had discovered about the City Hall employee who had been photographed clandestinely escorting Sandy McMahon and Colonel Straker out of the building after their meeting with the mayor.
The person in the pictures has been identified. I have had this confirmed by another source. She is Natalia Brassova, the mayor's PR director. Hope that helps?
Pudovkin shook his head and shrugged. ‘What the hell use is that?’ he asked his empty office.
Then there were two emails from Professor Sorokin. The first reported that the Federal Forensic Science laboratories had managed to recover good DNA samples from Straker's wet-shave razor and that, yes, there was a perfect match with the blood recovered from the road at the bomb site. It was Colonel Matt Straker's, all right. There were two other blood samples found on the bridge, but they had no match for those. One of them, though, was definitely a female.
The second – much longer – email from the professor laid out his findings on the explosive residue found at the bomb site. Pudovkin opened the attachment and eagerly read the forensic report. Right up front it stated that the RFCFS had been easily able to identify the types of explosive that had been used. They didn’t mean anything to Pudovkin. As further detail was given, Sorokin had gone to considerable lengths to remark on the unusual inclusion of polyisobutylene and di(2-ethylhexyl)sebacate, identified in turn as the binding agent and plasticizer – whatever the hell that meant. Given the obvious sophistication involved, though, Pudovkin began to get a feeling.
Finally, the professor had got round to naming the manufacturer.
The answer was completely unexpected.
How could that be? It didn’t make any sense …
Except Professor Sorokin seemed unequivocal – emphatic in his findings.
Pudovkin tried to think past the shock. How could that be right? After thinking about it for ten minutes, though, he thought he saw how it could just be.
Before too long, it was all Pudovkin could do to remain calm.
Maybe it was a reaction to the tension of the trial, the stress of dealing with Gazdanov, and the adrenalin rush of the last few days. But after trying to cope with his reaction to Sorokin's report for a quarter of an hour, Pudovkin finally capitulated.
He had no choice.
He had to let go.
Staff on the open-plan floor all around him – those who could see the police colonel clearly through the glass panels of his office – were astonished to see the normally upright and stern police officer appearing to crack up.
He was howling out loud.
Uncontrollably.
With laughter.
SEVENTY-FOUR
Andy Backhouse had had no prior warning of the Notice of Discontinuance when he turned up to attend the trial in the Supreme Court that morning. The moment he realized which way it was all going, though, he went straight into action – immediately calling a car to Malaya Molchanovka Ulitsa, the smaller road running down the back of the Supreme Court building.
Backhouse was anxious on two levels. Sabatino and Nazar may have been released by the court, but they could still be mobbed – even attacked – when leaving the trial if the public disagreed with the judges. His other concern was a change of mind somewhere in this twisted government, which on past behaviour seemed disturbingly possible. What if the Russians revoked their freedom to leave – putting out an order to re-arrest them?
Backhouse was notified by phone the moment the car had pulled up in the side street. He shepherded the two Ptarmigan personnel as far as the outer doors of the building. Sticking his head out to check up and down both ways, Backhouse opened the door. Nazar and Backhouse – wheeling Sabatino – made a dash across the narrow pavement to the open door of the people carrier.
Raised voices could be heard from the mob crowding around the entrance to the rear courtyard, over to their left.
Terrified of being spotted and set upon, Backhouse and Nazar hurried. They lifted Sabatino from the wheelchair and into the car. Backhouse closed the door on her. At the run, he wheeled the chair back through the doors and pushed it into the Supreme Court building.
Backhouse had stipulated that the car was to have blacked-out windows; the moment the doors were closed, he heaved a sigh of relief. The Ptarmigan “Two” could not now be spotted from the outside.
Pulling straight off, with Backhouse looking over his shoulder and then into the passenger door mirror, the vehicle headed on down the narrow street to reach the T-junction with Bolshoy Rzhevskiy Pereulok. Turning right, they made their way up the second side street edging the Supreme Court complex to reach “Embassy Row”.
Backhouse's anxiety rose again as they waited to cross over.
A short distance to their right they could see and hear another crowd agitating outside the front of the building.
Not a moment too soon – for Backhouse – they pulled forwards through a gap in the traffic, turning left before turning immediately right into Malyy Rzhevskiy Pereulok.
Finally, they were out of sight of the mob.
The people carrier accelerated down this one-way street. Several hundred yards later they reached the more arterial road of Bolshaya Nikitskaya Ulitsa. There, turning left, they made to go north-west – away from the centre of Moscow.
Backhouse remained concerned.
